CHAMPIONS OF CYRODIIL
CHAMPION OF BLOOD
1
The shadows were lengthening across the streets of the Imperial City's Temple District as the Bosmer Hagaer made his way home for dinner. He'd spent the day at the Arcane University, though he didn't serve the Mage's Guild as an actual spellcaster; rather, he was an academic and scholar who spent his days engaged in study and discourse with other like-minded individuals.
A six o'clock dinner followed by a few hours of personal time, mostly spent reading from his extensive library, and in bed by ten o'clock was his usual routine during the week, and this Morndas was no exception. Hagaer reached his door, unlocked it with his house key, and disappeared inside for the evening, the door locking behind him.
As the skies continued to darken, candles were lit in the upstairs windows that indicated Hagaer's presence in his lavish study. The city had been blanketed in darkness for several hours when the lights in the upstairs windows finally went out.
It was an hour later before the shadow detached from the darkened corner of the next block and made its way towards Hagaer's home. The shadow had been there when Hagaer came home, just as it had been for the last two weeks. It had been there, in the corner, unnoticed, watching Hagaer, following him from a distance as he went about his daily routines, completely unaware of the predator's gaze on him.
Two weeks of hard research had led to this moment. Over the course of his life, the shadow had learned to be patient, and finally the end was in sight; what had two more weeks been? His whole life had been building to this moment. As the figure detached from the shadows, its form became apparent; it was a Khajiit, a feline native of Elsweyr, dressed in leather armour, a simple steel knife sheathed at his belt. The Khajiit was also hideously ugly, with a sunken, skeletal face, and dark red fur, a colour not unlike that of blood. He wore no helmet, but a dirty bandanna was wrapped around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes, which were a pale, sickly yellow.
There would not be a guard coming by on patrol for another two minutes. Plenty of time. Quickly, the Khajiit pulled from his belt a lockpick and began to work. Three tumblers. The first one he tapped into place easily. The second tumbler took a cautionary tap of the pick to test the waters before he snapped it into place with the pick. The third...these ones were trickier. The Khajiit paused, shutting his eyes, his breathing slow and controlled. He willed his hands to stay still as he tested the third tumbler. It snapped up too fast, and he resisted the urge to try and lock it into place. He tapped again. Still faster than he'd like. Meanwhile, his mind was keeping a running tally of the seconds he had left before the next patrol rounded the corner of the Temple of the One and caught him trying to pick the lock. He still had just under a minute to get the door unlocked, and got inside. He gave the third tumbler a final, slow tap. He felt the tumbler slide into place and...his eyes opened, and he locked it into place. With a satisfying click, the door unlocked, and in one smooth motion, the Khajiit had pushed it open, slipped inside, and quietly shut the door behind him. He waited just inside the entry way of the darkened house, his breath caught in his throat. The seconds ticked by. Just outside, he could hear the footsteps on the cobblestones outside of the guard approaching the house...then start to drift away into the distance. The Khajiit finally let out a sigh of relief; he'd done it.
He was in.
But now came the most difficult part. The part that no amount of training could prepare him for. For you see, the Khajiit was not a thief. He had not come to the Temple District to rob Hagaer.
The Khajiit had come here to kill him.
Hagaer did not deserve to die. He was not involved in any kind of illicit activities, had no criminal connections. He led an honest, if boring and routine life. And of course, that was the point. The death of someone who truly deserved it would not get the attention he sought. It had to be an innocent.
The Khajiit moved towards the nearest staircase, slowly, quietly. Daylight was still hours away, and Hagaer didn't rouse himself until six. He had plenty of time. He moved up the stairs and reached the door to the second floor, pushing it open; it wasn't locked. It opened up into the Bosmer's extensive study; one whole wall was given up to Hagaer's collection of books, books he had spent a lifetime accumulating. To the right person, these books would catch a pretty penny, but the Khajiit was not here for that. He moved past the shelves, past the large dining room table piled with food, even though the Khajiit had never witnessed Hagaer entertain any visitors. Beyond the study was a hallway that led to the living quarters. The Khajiit passed by the first door; it was a little-used guest room. The next room, however, was where Hagaer slept. The door was locked, but it was not a good quality lock; obviously, Hagaer did not expect anyone to ever try to break into his personal quarters. In short order, it was open, and the Khajiit stepped into the room. A desk, a wine rack, a few personal chests, and the bed where Hagaer lay, fast asleep.
The Khajiit pulled the dagger from his belt. The room was dark, and full of shadows, not that it made much difference to the feline Khajiit's eyes. He just hoped the shadows were watching. He needed them to see this. He slowly approached the bed, his breath still slow and controlled, but now ragged, his hands shaking. He had never taken a life. The Bosmer's fate was in his hands.
The Khajiit stood over the bed, tilting his head to look at the sleeping Wood Elf. He wanted to engrave Hagaer's face into his memory. He could do this. He had to do this. If he could do just this one simple thing, he'd have everything he'd always wanted. Tonight an innocent had to die.
Once again the Khajiit closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the hilt of the dagger. Enough stalling. It was now or never. His eyes snapped open and with a sudden motion his free hand clamped down on Hagaer's mouth, causing the Bosmer scholar to wake with a start. His eyes stared up at the Khajiit, widening in horror. His hands started to come up, but it was too late. The Khajiit's dagger was already at his throat, slicing deep across it. Blood spurted into the air, splashing the Khajiit, who did not look away from Hagaer's eyes. The Wood Elf jerked violently, more blood seeping from between the Khajiit's fingers, down onto the sheets. Then his eyes rolled up, and his hands dropped from trying to claw the Khajiit's hands away from him, and Hagaer breathed his last.
The Khajiit pulled his hand away, and stepped back from the dead Bosmer. He'd done it. Hagaer had died. He'd murdered an innocent.
"I...I did it!" He whispered hoarsely, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. "I did it!" Suddenly, his legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the floor, and began to cry with joy.
The shadows watched.
It was later when the Khajiit woke with a start. He was in his room at the Merchant's Inn, and the room was dark. He wasn't sure what time it was; very early, he suspected. And it was cold, in the room. Bitter, bitter cold, and the Khajiit pulled the covers up to his bare chest to try and stay warm.
"You sleep soundly for a murderer." A voice said in the darkness, and as the Khajiit's vision cleared, he saw clearly through the darkness. Seated in a chair across from the bed was a figure in a black, hooded robe. He was human, and he was watching the Khajiit. "That is good, for what I am about to propose."
The Khajiit didn't know what to say. They had been watching. He merely stared back at the stranger, who gave a small smile. "You prefer silence? As do I. For what is silence but the symphony of Sithis himself?" The man asked. "But to the point. You have attracted the attention of the Night Mother, and I have come on her behalf. I am Lucien Lachance, Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. You are...familiar with us." It was not a question. The Khajiit merely nodded.
"I see I have your rapt attention." Lachance chuckled, sinisterly. "Your murder of the Bosmer scholar was well done. You researched your target, learned every aspect of his life. You show great promise, which is why I am here to offer you the chance to join our Family."
Yes...yes, that was what he wanted. More than anything. He merely nodded again, strained.
"This is merely a formal initiation into the Brotherhood, one every new family member must undergo." Lachance carried on, then saw the startled look in the Khajiit's eyes. "Do not fret. This task will not require the extensive amount of research that went into the murderer of Hagaer. It is merely to make things...official?" He assured the Khajiit. "South of here along the Green Road towards Bravil is a small inn called the Inn of Ill Omen. It is a fitting name, for there is a target there you must kill. His name is Rufio, a Breton of advanced age. The Night Mother has been asked to send his soul to Sithis, and Rufio believes he has escaped Her notice by hiding at the Inn. He has not. Go to the Inn, and find Rufio. He is old and sleeps most of the day away. Killing him should not be difficult. Do this, and I will find you again, and make you an official member of our Family."
The Khajiit nodded once more and Lachance rose, and approached the bed. Suddenly, in his hand was a dagger, a gleaming black blade with a hilt trimmed with gold. "Take this. Use it to kill Rufio." The Khajiit took the dagger from Lachance's hand. "Go, with the blessing of the Night Mother...Ra'Lesh."
Lachance stepped back, and vanished. Even with eyes that could penetrate the deepest shadows, the Khajiit could not see where the assassin had gone; he had just disappeared.
Then he looked down at the dagger in his hand. He ran a finger along the blade. It was ice-cold. He then fell back onto the bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Outside, the chirping of birds suggested dawn was not far off.
"Ra'Lesh." He muttered to himself. "My name...is Ra'Lesh. Ra'Lesh." The name felt good to say. It felt...right. Like he'd found something he had been searching for, for a very long time.
He threw the covers aside and rose, and began to put on his armour. Tonight, he would have his supper at the Inn of Ill Omen.
Filthy, ugly creature they had called him, and kicked him. He had never had a name apart from the insults his family had hurled at him. His brother had been the worst, the handsome, smart, witty brother to whom he was always inferior. The brother had beaten him, laughed at him, jeered that he had the love of their parents, something that the ugly child would never have. He had been born deformed, and stunted, and was thus unwanted.
He was not allowed to leave the cellar, lest someone see his ugliness and cause great shame to his family. For many years he knew nothing of the world outside that cellar, save for some old dusty texts he found forgotten in the corner. He learned words from them, and they provided his only means of escape from the dark cellar. Until the handsome brother found him reading them, and they were taken, and he was beaten, and went without supper that night.
Then one day the brother came for the final time. He told the ugly child that he was leaving, going to be part of something greater, to do important work. But the ugly child...the ugly child would stay where he was, forever. It was what he deserved for being born so hideous, for shaming their family so. They would never meet again, the handsome brother said, and so...he would make this a visit the ugly child would never forget.
When he could finally move without feeling intense pain, a day had passed and the handsome brother was gone. His parents had not come to check on him. They had left him down there, in the dark cellar, alone and unloved. How he desperately wanted to be loved. He had never known what it was to be loved, or to love himself. The books he had once had talked about love, and its power. His handsome brother had never wanted for love, it had been given unconditionally by their parents. His parents who had never even bothered to give the ugly child a name.
That was when he realized that these people...the handsome brother, and the parents who showered adoration on him, were not his family. A family loved, and they had no love for the ugly child. And with this realization, came the end of any connection he felt to them, withered and faint though it may have been. He resolved to finally leave the cellar, to go out into the wide world he had read about, and find the family he sought. Find people who would accept him for what he was, ugliness and all, who would love him, and he would love them in return.
When the handsome child's father came into the cellar to deliver the meal of the day; a handful of dried crusts and a mouthful of water, the ugly child was waiting in the shadows. Before the false-father had noticed him, the ugly child was upon him with a scream of hate, claws tearing, his teeth biting deep into the false-father's skin. He clawed and he clawed, until the false-father slipped into unconsciousness, and the ugly child raced up the stairs and for the first time stepped out of the cellar. The false mother was cowering in the corner, screaming insults at the ugly child, but he heard only a snippet of them as he raced out of the kitchen, out of the door, out into the wide world.
The first few days on the street were the worst. He was not insulted, not as much, and no one kicked him, but he was a street urchin, beneath even the most common level of respect. No one tried to help him, and he rummaged in back-alleys for scraps of food and drank from puddles so that he died not die of thirst. He feared the false-parents would try to bring him back to the cellar, would come after him, but as the days stretched into weeks, no one came for him, and the ugly child realized that by escaping, he might have done his false-parents a favour. He was no longer their problem.
Then the gang found him. Cut-purses, thugs, and vandals, other strays unwanted by civilized society. They took him in, but only so he could be another hand in someone's pocket, another distraction for the guards. They trained him, but they did not love him, and they beat him savagely when he failed in his duties. He still did not have a name.
It was years later, when he was old enough to walk into taverns and had been sent to one to steal what he could from the drunken patrons. It was there that he first heard the rumours of the Brotherhood. They were killers, who would take any life for a price, but they called themselves a Family. The patrons called it a sick parody, that they were nothing more than murderers who would kill each other if the price was right, but to the nameless thief...he realized he'd found what he had been looking for.
He disappeared from Rimmen, the city that had birthed him that night. He traveled aimlessly, hoping to find some method of finding this Brotherhood and the family it promised. Along the road he continued to practice the skills the gang had taught him, and that was how he survived while he wandered aimlessly. It was not until his feet had brought him to Cyrodiil, capital of the Empire that he found the rest of the pieces he was looking for, in a discarded newspaper he found by the side of the road.
The Dark Brotherhood were murderers, and as such, a prospective member had to commit a murder to gain the attention of the Night Mother who ruled the Brotherhood, or so the rumours went, said the paper. A would-be murderer had been caught attempting to take the life of 'an innocent', someone who did not deserve death. And then the nameless wanderer knew what he had to do.
Several days later, he arrived at the gates of the Imperial City, and eventually, his feet led him to the side of the Wood Elf Hagaer's bed.