Disclaimer I forgot the last time: I own nothing but Tiberia and the people/places you don't recognize. Everything you do is the wonderful work of Bethesda.

-)

The Riften marketplace was just as busy as I remembered, with all the stall owners shouting the superiority of their wares, beggars pleading for Septims, and the rumble of the blacksmith's forge in usage. I almost had to smile at that; Balimund, the Riften smith, was a good man. One of the few who, in my Dovahkiin days, hadn't leered down his nose at me for being a woman, not to mention a Dark Elf.

"Can I interest you in some fine goods from Morrowind?" called a familiar accent.

I turned, seemingly surprised at the familiarity. "Can you still get decent goods from Morrowind?"

The owner of the stall blinked in surprise. "Greetings, Sister Elf! I didn't realize you were an Elf in all that armor…"

I snorted, and leaned against the side of his market stall. "Greetings, Brother Elf. And I get that a lot."

He laughed, and nodded. "I'm Brand-Shei…" He trailed off, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"

"I don't think so," I lied. "I'm sure I'd remember a Dunmer with such an odd name." Truth is, I had met Brand-Shei before, back when I was running around killing dragons with the Blades. "I'm Tiberia."

"Nice to meet you," he laughed. "I'm a Dunmer by birth, but raised Argonian. The Dovahkiin actually helped me discover my lineage a few years back… I wonder how that woman is doing? I haven't seen her in years…"

My brow furrowed in puzzlement. "What in Oblivion is a… What did you say?"

His eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline (quite a feat, for a Dark Elf). "What's a Dovahkiin…? Blimey, you must be new to Skyrim."

I shrugged. "Not so fresh of the road as you'd think, but I haven't gotten well acquainted with the Nords yet…"

He shook his head. "The Dovahkiin, or the Dragonborn… how is it the Nords describe it?" He glanced about, looking for a true Nord, but Madesi (an Argonian), and Grelka (a Breton) were shaking their heads, no help at all.

"The Dragonborn is someone born with the blood and soul of a dragon, but the body of a mortal," answered a lilting voice from behind me. "He—well, she, actually—can intrinsically learn and use the dragon language as Thu'ums—Shouts. They're rare, though. Supposedly only come about once an Era."

I turned to get a decent look at the speaker who knew so much about Dovahkiin lore (and whose Draconic was atrocious. The plural of Thu'um is Thu'umme, thank you very much). He was clearly a Nord, with red hair to his shoulders and a goatee to match, not to mention the strong Nordic build and jawline. A large, ragged scar ran from cheekbone to chin on the left side of his face, and I couldn't help but wonder where he'd gotten it. He was dressed in everyday merchant's clothes, yet had a dagger slung through his belt (looked Orcish to me, but I couldn't tell). He carried himself with the same sort of charismatic confidence I'd seen in men like Ulfric Stormcloak and Kodlak Whitemane, and yet his seemed to come from a darker, more shadowy place. His eyes were a vivid emerald green, which I found odd, since most Nords I'd met had dark eyes. But eh, speaking as a Dunmer, anything other than red just looks strange.

"Thank you, Brynjolf," Brand-Shei said in earnest, dipping his head in a shallow Dunmeri bow of respect. "I've never had a head for Nordic legends."

"What was that other thing you called it?" I asked, testing the waters. "Not Dragonborn, but…"

"Dovahkiin," Brynjolf, the red-headed Nord, supplied, now making his way over to Brand-Shei's stall to impart Nordic wisdom on the lot of us. "It's a translation from the dragon tongue that our Dragonborn is so famous for. I think it just means 'Dragonborn,' actually, but what do I know? I don't speak it."

I studied him a moment, trying to get a decent read on the man. But his face gave away nothing, but more unnerving than that, neither did his eyes. "You know an awful lot about this," I commented, sounding for all the world like a Dunmer in over her head.

Brynjolf laughed at that. "This is our sacred tradition—Nordic, that is; I'm a born-and-bred Son of Snow. I was taught it all as a child, forgot it by adulthood like most people, then suddenly remembered when the Dragonborn turned out to be a real person."

"The Dragonborn is alive?" I asked, sounding appropriately shocked and awed.

Brynjolf and Brand-Shei both nodded. "Aye, a Dunmeri woman by the name of Morwyn," Brynjolf added. "She killed Alduin, the World-Eater, a few years ago, and has been helping the Stormcloaks since."

Brand-Shei started off on something, but I tuned him out, listening hard to the world around me. Something was wrong, here. So very wrong. I listened harder, and then, just like that, I heard the twang of a bowstring being released.

I immediately jumped into action, knocking Brynjolf to the floor and vaulting over Brand-Shei's market stall to knock him down as well. The arrow—ebony, no less—crashed into Brand-Shei's stall with a loud thunk. Had I still been standing there, it would have gone straight through my heart. I turned to find the aggressor as I scurried out from behind the stall. My heart skipped a beat upon realization, and I instantly wished I could just shout the bastard into Oblivion. I recognized that armor, alright.

The Dark Brotherhood is trying to kill me.

I sent sparks arcing across the marketplace, but the would-be assassin took off running. I vaulted over the low wall surrounding the place, hot on his heels. I was too slow in this blasted heavy armor; by the Nine, I missed my Glass armor. The assassin tore up the steps to the nearest building, and drew an evil-looking dagger from his belt upon reaching the summit. He whipped around to face me as I tore up the stairs, drawing my own swords from my belt.

The resulting fight was short and vicious. This assassin clearly knew what he was doing, as he parried both my blades with his dagger until he had an opening enough to draw his own sword (a scimitar). I could hear the shouts from the Riften guards from behind me, as well as whichever citizens happened to be passing by. The assassin was glancing around hurriedly, clearly not wanting to be caught. That's when I disarmed him.

His sword and dagger went flying down the steps, and I wasted no time grabbing his throat with one gnarled hand. "I will shock you into Oblivion," I threatened.

The assassin glared at me but said nothing.

"Who sent you?" I hissed, squeezing tighter around his throat. "Who was your mark?"

"The Dragonborn," he hissed. "I was sent to kill you, Morwyn."

I cast the spell of sparks without letting go of his throat and his shriek proved his death. I let go of him as the guards reached the top of the stairs, along with a horrified priestess of Mara. "You've defiled the temple!" the high priestess, a Dunmer named Dinya Balu if memory served, shouted. "Oh, Mara, forgive this transgression!"

I stood up, fully intending to walk away and argue with any guard accusing me of murder, but Dinya grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and dragged me into the temple. She flung me to my knees before the main altar and ordered, "Pray. Beg Lady Mara for her forgiveness."

I let out a sigh. This day just kept getting better and better. "I'm not a devout of the Nine Divines," I said quietly.

Nothing but silence in the cool, sparsely-lit temple for at least a solid minute.

More gently than she'd treated me previously, Dinya knelt on the floor next to me and took my hand. "Lady Mara, forgive this wandering soul before you," she murmured. "Forgive the wandering soul whose death has so offended you. For you are the Light of the World in this dark time…"

I felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing out of the ordinary. I have issues with the Nine Divines, so being the Dovahkiin, one favored by the gods, left me in a strange place. Supposedly, I was related to Akatosh himself, like the Dragonborn emperors of eld, the Septim bloodline. Following that train of thought, I was also related to Alduin the World-Eater, the Nord god of Destruction—something of little sister, of sorts. Mal Briinah, Paarthurnax and Odahviing call me. Yet despite my status, I could not find it in me to worship the Nine. The Daedra were real; I had seen them, summoned them, completed quests for them. The Divines… I had not seen, only felt their presences. That just wasn't enough for me.

After what seemed like an eternity, Dinya stood once again, and helped me to my feet. "Lady Mara says she will forgive you," she said, "but only because you saved others by killing this Dark Brotherhood agent. She wishes you to drop your false religion, and come home."

My temper instantly flared. "Do not try to convert me, priestess."

Dinya held up both hands, a gesture of surrender and submission. "I do not mean to offend, Sister Elf. I have merely seen the light, and wish to show you as well."

Ah, she was harmless. Not one of those priests who'd chop my head off for Daedra worship. Or worse, one of the Vigilants of Stendarr. "I appreciate the sentiment but I have found my way in life."

She bowed her head solemnly. "Maybe one day you will find another."

I smirked. "We'll see."

I departed from the temple and was surprised to find the body still there. Glancing about to make sure no one was watching, I rummaged through the pockets of the now-dead Dark Brotherhood assassin. Funny, I didn't notice until now that he was a Redguard. Upon finding what I was looking for, I unfolded the letter.

Nazir—

Your Contract is to kill the Dragonborn, Morwyn. She should arrive in Riften within the week, make yourself scarce until then. She is a Dark Elf—red eyes, peculiar shade of blue, pointed ears—and usually is wearing some sort of Elfish armor—Daedric, Glass, Elven, etc. It is also known that she favors swords over any other weapon.

The woman is armed and dangerous, a Spellsword of the highest order. I wouldn't send someone who couldn't handle it, but do not take this Contract lightly. I have no wish to see you dead.

The client clearly wants this poor fool dead; we have already been paid for this Contract. Failure is not an option.

Astrid