Y'all know the drill. I don't own Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, or any of its characters, but I do own Hainin Marshal.

Blood sparkled on the snow as the assassin drew his weapon from his most recent kill. He wiped the dagger on the ground to rid it of the red liquid that shrouded the black blade. He lifted it from the ground and slid it into the black leather scabbard at his hip before standing. He gazed down at the dead man's face, seeing nothing but the eyes. The gray eyes, empty of life and full of death. There was no denying that this man was in the Void.

The assassin squatted down to search his kill. The man had been leaning against a tree, whimpering for mercy, whether from the wound he already had on his leg that was oozing pus even as the assassin searched him, or from the assassin himself, whom had loomed over the soldier with his dagger drawn. The assassin found a note hidden behind the Stormcloak soldier's breastplate, and he unfolded it to see what it said.

Ralof,

Know that what I write now, I write as I am working my way back to Windhelm and King Ulfric. I have neither abandoned my king nor my brothers and sisters in arms; I was merely waylaid on my journey home. I hope to the Divines that no one thinks I have left you all for dead, mainly because I was beginning to think Ulfric was starting to like me, and I don't aim for him to see me as a deserter.

All I wanted was to see my wife one last time. That's all it was. I knew that the battle of Whiterun would be my last, and I did not want to have left my lady on the note I did. You'll be pleased to know she refused my apology, but by now I suppose it doesn't matter, mainly because the battle is over.

At least we won, though I don't think I have the right to say "we". I wasn't there, after all, and I don't have any glory in the victory. The only songs that will be sung with my name in them will be the one telling of the lovesick soldier who deserted his brothers and sisters for his wife.

Won't that make for a lovely tune?

I hope to be back in Windhelm, soon. Keep some ale on hand for me, brother. I'm sure I'll need it.

Larroi Stone-Fist

Hainin Marshal crumbled the note in his fist and dropped it beside the dead Stormcloak. "You won neither wife nor battle, sir," he said, almost feeling sorry for the soldier. "But I suppose there's nothing to be done about it now."

Without another word, Hainin turned away from the man and started towards Shadowmere, whom he had left by the road he had been traveling on. Coming back to Dawnstar from a target in Windhelm was never a good trip; it was always snowing up on the mountain road, and the lower road was always clogged with vile creatures of some sort. Hainin had decided to brave the lower path, and found several packs of wolves, a sabre cat, some snow, and a dying Stormcloak.

At least he had something to tell the rest of the Family when he returned to the Sanctuary.

Hainin climbed up into Shadowmere's saddle and clicked his tongue at the horse. "C'mon, boy," he murmured, "let's go home."

Shadowmere whickered and started a fast trot down the cobblestone road. Hainin gripped the reins tightly in his gloved hands as he thought about the Stormcloak. I wonder how he would have felt if he'd known that he wasn't anywhere near to Windhelm's gates.

The note had said his name was Larroi Stone-Fist. Hainin had a recollection of killing another Larroi a while ago, though he couldn't say exactly how long. It had certainly been before he had joined the Dark Brotherhood. It had probably been a kill just to keep his blade sharp, and for no real purpose other than to kill.

He'd been like that for a while, killing senselessly because he had nothing else to do. The old hag that had gotten him into the Brotherhood had actually been one of those kills; he hadn't appreciated the way she had been talking to the orphans. Astrid hadn't been kidding when she'd said the bitch had deserved it.

Astrid… Hainin let out a breath, and realized that his fingers were turning numb from holding onto the reins so tightly. He relaxed his grip, flexing his fingers. Astrid had given him a home, and even though she'd tried to have him killed, and gotten the Family killed in the process, he would forever be grateful to her. She was surely getting what she deserved down in the Void, but in the back of his mind, Hainin hoped it wasn't too harsh of a punishment.

And the whole Family wasn't killed, Hainin reflected. There was still Babette, the vampire child. Cicero was alive as well, thanks to Hainin's own self-realization that if he killed Cicero, he'd be killing off the last person who understood what the real Dark Brotherhood was. And Nazir.

A faint grin crossed over Hainin's face that he quickly got rid of. For whatever reason, he couldn't forget what had happened between himself and the Redguard assassin. He'd tried to pass it off as a drunken act of stupidity, but there was still something about it that he couldn't… get over.

Hainin's lips tingled, and he wiped at them with the back of his gloved hand before reaching behind him to pull up his hood. His fingers reached for the red fabric that covered his mouth, and he adjusted it so that it covered his nose as well. Even on the lower roads, it was still bloody cold.

He thought back to his previous idea of traveling towards Riften until the snow passed, but decided against it. For whatever reason, he couldn't say; the others were certainly more than capable of taking care of themselves while he was away, even though he was the one who was supposed to give out contracts to the rest of the assassins. He was the only one who could hear the Night Mother, and he needed to be there to listen. As the Listener, it was his duty.

"So you're a listener? I like that."

He shook his head to get Astrid's words out of it. She hadn't liked it at all, if her actions were any indication. Babette and Nazir had forgiven her, at least, and the jester had seemed to forget all about her once he learned the Night Mother was in charge again.

Hainin wondered briefly if his Family knew the Stormcloaks had won the Battle of Whiterun. The news had reached him as he was entering Windhelm a few days before. The soldiers left in the city were whooping and cheering in excitement. Hainin had been able to draw what they were so happy about from a drunk in Candlehearth Hall. "The true sons and daughters of Skyrim have done it!" the drunk had slurred. "They showed those idiotic Imperials what's what!"

Hainin had let the mark about 'idiotic Imperials' slide; what did he care of other people thinking about his race? He was an assassin; as far as he knew, he could be a Redguard like Nazir. He'd certainly been in Skyrim long enough to be a Nord. By Sithis, he could even be an Orc!

That thought made him chuckle a bit. He wouldn't be a pretty Orc; no Orcs were pretty, ever. He'd once made the mistake of trying to get an Orcish maid into his bed, just to see what it was like. The attempted seduction had gotten him a broken lip and an ugly bruise on his eye. He hadn't tried to seduce an Orc since, and he wouldn't be any time soon.

Hainin sighed and relaxed in the saddle, reaching forward to pat Shadowmere on the neck. "All night ride and we're home, pal," he told the black stallion.

Shadowmere tossed his head in response. Hainin agreed with him entirely; he didn't know if he wanted to travel through the night, either. If he was correct, they'd make it too Morthal by nightfall, and then it was north to Dawnstar from there.

Traveling north at night was never safe; Hainin was brave, but he didn't want to risk Shadowmere slipping on some snow and breaking a leg or something. He would hate to lose his horse, and not just because riding was quicker than walking. He loved Shadowmere dearly.

Hainin glanced up at the sky. It was hard to tell where the sun was, since the sky was covered in heavy gray clouds. He let out a breath and brought his head down again. They would just keep riding until they reached Morthal, no matter what time it was when they got there.

He squeezed Shadowmere's sides gently with his thighs to urge him forward. The horse picked up his pace to a slow canter, and Hainin scratched his ears. "Good boy."

Shadowmere nickered in response. Hainin relaxed into the saddle and leaned back. It won't be much longer, he thought to himself. And when we get there, warm food and a warm bed await for me, as well as a warm stable for Shadowmere.

That wasn't what waited for him at all. Instead, he found a city darkened by nightfall and by mourning, as well as a city that did not have a stable.

"How do you not have a stable?" the assassin exclaimed as he glared at one of the city guards.

The guard lifted his armored shoulders. "The house that was next to it caught fire and sent the stable burning to the ground." When Hainin only continued to glare, the guard held out his hands. "It was a big fire. Sorry, citizen, but there's no stable for your horse."

Hainin huffed and took Shadowmere's reins in his hand. "Thanks for nothing, I suppose," he growled to the guard before he turned and led the stallion away. Gazing around Morthal, it didn't surprise him they didn't have a stable. The whole town was built on the edge of the lake, some of the buildings even above the lake, held up by wooden docks.

He sighed and glanced at Shadowmere. "Sorry," he said, "but it looks like you'll be spending the night outside."

Shadowmere snorted, and Hainin led him past the city limits to a grassy clearing nearby. He studied the grass, determining if Shadowmere would be able to eat it. It seemed normal enough, so he nodded to it. "See, there's your dinner, since they don't have any hay." He reached into the saddle bag and produced several carrots. He held one out to the horse, and Shadowmere took it between his teeth. It crunched a few times, and Shadowmere reached for another.

Hainin fed him the rest of the carrots before patting his neck. "You'll stay here, right? Won't run away?" Shadowmere nuzzled his shoulder, and Hainin scratched his nose. "I'll see you in the morning."

He stalked back over the frosted grass to Morthal again, his booted feet crunching against the thick dew as he did so. The sun had gone down completely, and Hainin was beginning to get cold. He shivered and tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he shuffled towards the Moorside Inn.

He pushed his way inside and was greeted by a large fire. Hainin breathed out a sigh and sank down into an empty chair as the innkeep called to him: "Just take a seat, and I'll be over to see you in a moment!"

Hainin merely waved his hand. He didn't want to talk to anyone in this stinking city, especially since they didn't have a stable for Shadowmere to sleep in where he would be warm and comfortable throughout the cold night. It was only likely that it was going to get colder, and he didn't want Shadowmere catching a cold. If the horse did, they would be stuck in this Gods forsaken town until it passed, and Hainin was not looking forward to having to do that.

The innkeep approached him. She was an aging Redguard; he could tell that much by the gray shade of her hair. However, her face was free of wrinkles, and he had to admit her bust was still perky, as little a bust as it was.

She smiled down at him. "Welcome to the Moorside Inn. What can I be getting ya?"

"Anything hot," he answered almost instantly. She nodded, and he pulled a small coin purse from his belt pouch. "I'll be needing a room for the night, too," he told her.

She took the purse, shook it, and then nodded again. "Very good, sir. I'll bring you your stew right away." She eyed his armor briefly before turning swiftly and heading back towards the counter. Hainin rubbed at his eyes and stood himself, preferring to eat at the counter than in the chair.

As he sank down on one of the bar stools, he remembered the guard mentioning a house having caught fire and burning down the stable with it. He inclined his head towards the innkeep, who had turned to set his bowl of ladled stew down in front of him.

"What's the story about the burned house?"

Immediately, the Redguard's face softened. "The poor family," she murmured. "The wife and daughter both, burned to death in their beds. The husband, he made it out." She lifted her eyebrow and spat, "I bet he was the one who set the fire in the first place."

Well, Hainin thought to himself, that's a little over the top. "Why would he do that?" he asked aloud.

The innkeep raised her shoulders and reached for a rag to rub down the bar. "All I can say is the day right after, he found someone to replace his wife. What kind of man does that?"

"Hmm," mused Hainin. He reached for the spoon that was resting against the side of the bowl and scooped some stew up into it. After he had swallowed it, the heat searing his throat, he glanced at the Redguard once more and said, "What's the name of the Jarl that runs this place?"

The innkeep's face grew even harder. "Ever since those blasted Stormcloaks won their stupid battle, Jarl Sorli has been making her home in Highmoon Hall. That dirty Argonian housecarl of hers can't seem to get out of my inn most of the time. I wouldn't care, normally, but he always leaves a stink behind him." She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, turning away from Hainin.

The assassin abandoned the spoon and picked up the bowl in both hands, taking a long swallow of the scorching hot soup. He barely felt the burn as it went down his throat. He hated to admit it, but he was more than a little interested in learning why the man had burned down his house.

The only thing he could decide upon was that this new love was more attractive than his previous woman, but to kill a child as well?

Hainin shook his head in disgust. Poorly plotted, he decided with a click of his tongue. If he'd wanted his wife killed, all he had to do was contact the Brotherhood; Hainin would've sent Babette to take care of it. The woman would have followed the vampire child willingly onto the moors.

He finished his stew and gestured to the rooms on either side of the inn. "Which one is mine?" he asked.

"Any," answered the Redguard woman. "They're all empty."

Hainin nodded appreciatively and stood. He sauntered past each room before he selected the one closest to the door of the inn. He figured that if he couldn't take this place any longer, it would be easiest to leave in the middle of the night if he was close to his escape route.

He unclasped his black cloak trimmed with red silk; the clasp was a silver dagger, encrusted with little rubies along the hilt. Nazir had had it made for him.

Hainin smiled at the thought of the Redguard assassin as he lay the cloak across the small table in the corner of the room. Surely he would be wondering why he had not returned yet. Then again, because of the war, crossing into different provinces had become much more difficult. His Royal Nord had placed a thick layer of guards across each line in the provinces he had control of to make sure everyone who was crossing was legal.

Hainin shook his head and plopped down on the bed, not bothering to remove his armor. He was bound to be stiff in the morning anyway, since he had been riding Shadowmere all day.

He curled up into a ball underneath the green blanket and let out a slow breath. "Alright, Listener," he urged himself. "The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you're out of this place."

He closed his eyes. Just as he was beginning to drift off into a slumber, he heard a screech coming from somewhere outside of the inn. Hainin jumped out of the bed immediately. He grabbed his sword belt and sprinted out of the inn, buckling it as he went. Without stopping, he ran until he'd reached the clearing where he had left Shadowmere.

He skidded to a stop when he saw something stuck beneath his stallion's hooves. Slowly, he approached the black horse. Shadowmere blinked glowing red eyes at him as he stepped closer, and whickered quietly at him.

Hainin sucked in a breath before crouching down to see what Shadowmere had done. He shoved against the horse's knee to make it buckle, and Shadowmere snorted before trotting a distance away. Hainin inhaled sharply at what he saw once Shadowmere was gone.

A human, its head cracked in like it had been crushed with a mace, lay oozing brain and skull fragments. Her fingernails were long and sharpened to tips, and Hainin saw the glint of fangs coming from inside the woman's gaping mouth.

He turned and retched up the stew he had eaten for dinner. Shadowmere had killed a vampire by crushing it's skull beneath his hooves.

Hainin wiped at his mouth and stood again, letting out a breath each time he moved. "Shadowmere," he croaked. The horse responded and approached him. Hainin felt his soft nose against his hand, and he leaned his forehead against the horse's velvety face. Shadowmere's warm breath reassured him, and Hainin reached around to rub his neck.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said at last. He cast a glance over his shoulder at the dead vampire on the ground. Shuddering at the sight of brain again, he turned forward once more and walked to Shadowmere's side. He stuck a foot in one stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle.

Clicking his tongue, he directed Shadowmere to turn with the reins. The stallion picked up speed as soon as they were away from the clearing, and Hainin allowed himself to look behind them once again. Torches could be seen in the distance, and voices were shouting indistinct things to one another.

The assassin turned forward in the saddle and urged Shadowmere onward. "Come on, boy," he said. "Let's get home."

Shadowmere increased his speed to a run, and Hainin rolled his shoulders, his eyes drooping. It wasn't until the sun was rising again in the Far East reaches of Hjalmarch that he realized he'd left his cloak behind at the inn.

Whoo-hoo! After... several years, this masterpiece has finally been completed! Everybody welcome Hainin Marshal back to the world of FanFiction inspired by game play.

I missed this guy.