Entrenched deep within the thickest swamp in the bowels of Black Marsh, an old and gnarled Hist tree stood high and proud. It had many long arms branching out, and many leaves casting a shade onto everything. A sudden disturbance discharged from the Hist tree into the life going on around it. The steady buzz of insects and all natural existence was suddenly cut off, muted. Then it came back to life a second later, as if nothing was amiss.
Dense fog wrapped around Dezerac as he pulled himself out of the thick roots of the ancient Hist tree, his unusual amber-colored eyes blinked torpidly at glimpses of the full moon through the Hist's foliage. His ebony scales glinted off of the moon's random rays, his blood red facial scales gleaming like rubies in the dark, patterned along his face.
Finally accustoming to the murkiness with his eyes, Dezerac let them pan his surroundings, his thin tongue slithering out between his needle fangs to taste the air. Inhaling the marsh air and exhaling it out, he trudged back inside the hollow from which he sprung forth out of the Hist. Within the gloom was his sheepskin rucksack he groped for, containing his neatly folded Dark Brotherhood armor that he quickly put on. He slipped into the tight but comfortable black and purple leather suit, familiarizing his body with it. Pulling over his hood, he sifted through the bag and pulled out all his treasures: an enchanted silver ring which he slipped onto his finger, a yellowed letter, a bag of septims, and a wicked dagger with crimson zigzagging across the blade. These were objects from another life, a different era Dezerac had lived.
With those items in his rucksack, he slung the bag across his shoulder and quipped the dagger to his belt. Dezerac made his way out of the hollow of the tree- when he heard a voice. He crouched low and slowly sank into the putrid swamp, careful not to create tremors in the water.
The voice didn't sound close, but wasn't far enough to where he couldn't make out what it was saying.
"-About two days from the Cyrodiil boundary, but you're guess is good as mine; I can't make out how dark or light it is with all these damn trees everywhere!" clamored a low, feminine voice somewhere to Dezerac's left. "Yeah," chimed in a second voice, this one obviously male. "Why are there so many trees here? They just started appearing 'bout a half mile back, and these trees give me the odd jitters…"
"It's just your imagination Philian," said the first voice in response. "Although I have to admit, they are rather ominous."
"So it's not just my imagination working up," said Philian. "I have to give it to you for bein' brave, this is like the first since what? That last time…"
Dezerac slowly rose up and peered around twisted trees to sight the two people. There were definitely just two people; one was an Imperial, a blonde clad in full Imperial chain-link armor with a sword strapped to her side. Her companion was another Imperial like her, but didn't seem to have ties with the Legion; he wore only plain leather armor and carried a pack. The duo trekked on through the swamp, with the male being heard more often than the female. Keeping the two always within his sight, Dezerac oozed his way through the tepid water in their direction. He needed a trail to follow to get him to some civilization, and possibly catch up with the news.
Dezerac gathered from their conversations that they had escaped from Leyawiin back in Cyrodiil for an unstated reason and are trying to reach Skyrim. Why anyone would want to escape to Skyrim seemed bizarre to Dezerac. Even more peculiar was the fact that the two travelers are going through Black Marsh and Morrowind instead of straight north, past the Jerall Mountains. Last time Dezerac heard Skyrim was in a state of turmoil and not exactly the best place for a refuge. Then he wondered for how long he had stayed, thinking back on the letter being white before he settled in the Hist. He might as well have been there for a century and nothing would be different about him, or it could've just been a few years. Black Marsh does that to people.
Other than the occasional complaint of the insects, the duo was fine until they suddenly stopped in their tracks, drawing their weapons. Dezerac froze, slightly concealed by an uprooted root. He glanced around, trying to catch the problem.
In the distance a slight indentation appeared in the muck, catching the duo's attention. Without warning a projectile took flight from the waters at the male, Philian, impaling itself in his shoulder. He let out a strangled cry of pain, dropping to the swamp water.
The female rushed forward, slashing her sword in the water where she saw the spear came from. A hiss sounded from below, and a sword made of bone deflected her sword. Then the assailant himself rose from the swamp depths, or it, as it was difficult to tell what gender the Naga was, or any Naga.
The Naga was easily eight feet tall, one of the largest specimens of its kind that Dezerac had seen. The swamp muck covering it slid off of the Naga's black, shiny scales, retreating back into the waters. It bared its numerous needle teeth in its jaws, all dripping a vile liquid from out of its mouth. It loosed a terrible hiss at the Imperial.
Dezerac crept close enough to the fight that he could see the Imperial's hazel eyes, both round in surprise and fear. Her limbs were trembling a bit, but the Imperial and the Naga both held their ground, staring into each other's eyes.
With a shout the Imperial charged at the Naga the same time it slithered towards her with surprising speed. Their blades caught in the air from their attacks. The Imperial spun around and brought the blade towards it from the other side, which the Naga blocked with a swing of its tail. The Naga lashed out with his sword at the Imperial, but she was quick enough to evade it. She jumped right back into the fray, her sword dancing wildly to and fro, trying to find an opening in the Naga's defense. But the Naga's guard was too good, parrying every slash and stab the Imperial threw at it.
A groan escaped from Philian's mouth as his debilitated form tugged at the spear protruding from his shoulder. With the duel going on, Dezerac watched in fascination as Philian gritted his teeth in pain as he wrenched out the spear, inch by inch, till it was out and blood poured freely from his wound.
Wielding the spear, Philian limped into the fight. With the Naga's back turned to him, Philian thrust the spear through the Naga's midriff. The Naga screamed in agony as his eyes took in the sight of its own spear jutting out of its stomach, dropping to its knees. The Imperial took this opportunity to end the Naga's life, bringing her sword down upon his scaly neck and decapitating it. There was a ker-plunk! as the head landed in the bog with its still menacing eyes peering up.
"Damn lizards," huffed the Imperial. "I don't get why with all these killer lizards everywhere the Empire would ever want to claim Black Marsh, gods...! Now lets take a look at that shoulder, shall we?"
"Yeah, how about that," weakly agreed Philian, perching himself upon an upraised tree root as a chair.
The Imperial wiped the blood off her sword and quickly sheathed it, making her way to her companion. The wound in his shoulder was seeping with darker than normal blood into the swamp. The man has been poisoned, noted Dezerac. If he doesn't die, that blood will draw almost every creature within a mile here.
The Imperial began inspecting the wound, prodding and squeezing it, much to Philian's extreme discomfort. "Gah!" he yelled. "That hurts like blazes, by Azura!"
"Hush Philian," purred the Imperial. Her voice sounded soothing, like a mother taking care of her child. "If you keep yelling you're going to draw every living thing towards us. Don't want to face this bad boy's whole family, right?"
"Yeah, but it hu-urts-"
"You fought well today," cut in the Imperial, silencing Philian. "If you weren't here I would be the one with a missing head, so good job Philian. This might sting a bit, but it'll heal your wound." She took out a small bottle from out of Philian's bag, its glossy red contents swirling within. She uncorked the bottle and handed it to Philian, who drank most of the amount and then dabbed the rest of the potion onto his wound. His face grimaced, but he held in what pain he received as the healing potion seemed to have done its work, slightly patching up his wound.
"Thanks Elaide," appreciated Philian, noticeably more relieved. He tossed the empty bottle into the swamp, which was swallowed up in seconds.
Finally, a name for the Imperial, thought Dezerac as he slouched behind thickets of gnarled trees.
"It's no problem," answered Elaide, tying the pack around her waist. "I'll take the bag till your wound heals. We must move out now; we'll make camp in a few hours after traveling north. Come on."
And the duo trudged onwards into the depths of trees and swampland, never knowing of the assassin silently trailing behind them.