/Thank you, everyone, for your staggering amounts of support! I did not expect so many to take a liking to my story so quickly!

PartySpaz and T-B-R: Thank you! I'm sorry to say that, while I would like nothing more than to delve into the story with gusto, real life has a tendency of putting things on hold for at least a little bit. I'll do my best to remain consistent, but I'd like to try putting out short and regular chapters. Hope you'll enjoy it either way!

Danish Existence: I understand where you're coming from! It takes a lot of imagination and effort to translate a button push in the game to what a living, breathing person does in reality. I dwell on that stuff far too much :) It's the only thing keeping me sane.

SgtGinger: Praise the Divines for the arrow-in-the-knee jokes! I always murder the guard who says that, then bribe the other with 500 gold, Thieve's Guild rate. I like to think I double-check my work before publishing it, but sometimes even that's not enough. It shouldn't be anything story-breaking though, unless I go really blind.

lurker: May I call you lurker? Or would you prefer something more stylish, with more flair? I digress. THANK YOU. You do not know how completely my day was made when I saw your review. Fear not, the muse is still there, and should reside for an extended period of time. I would say I value quality over quantity and frequency, but that would be a bit tongue-in-cheek. I know I'd like to write more often.

But enough about me, back to the story!/

"Fan out! Watch the doorways!" Lokil barked, his sight swinging every which way. The muscles in his right arm twitched as he tightened his grip on the steel mace in his hand, his mind already abuzz with the notion of bludgeoning whoever it was that shot his lieutenant clean between the eyes.

His thralls complied soundlessly, save for the feral snarls between their lips when their eyes met once again the prone form of Lokil's right hand, a tall, hardy Nord with an arrow protruding from just above his nose, staring lifelessly at the roof of the cavern. One of them growled under his breath, the flames at his hands flaring dangerously.

Save your magic for when you can see him, whelp. Lokil almost shouted. Simpletons, all of them.

Lokil caught the scent of a human in their midst, mundane and weak, hiding in some obscure corner of the cavern. He lifted his voice in challenge.

"I can taste your fear, human! It won't be long before we find you! Come out, and I'll grant you a quick death." He shouted at no one in particular, fighting off a smile as he savoured the deceit dripping from the words he had spoken. He'll enjoy it even more when he had the human at his feet, begging for mercy, when he could take him back to the castle and drain him of his life, drop by delicious drop. The thought of blood sent strength surging through him, and he continued his search with renewed fervor.

The twang of a bowstring, imperceptible save to the keenest of listeners, sounded to his right. Lokil whirled round, shielding himself with his mace.

One of the light-giving torches fell to the ground, fizzling out as the water at Lokil's feet doused it. The cavern darkened, and Lokil found himself grinning from ear to ear.

"Is that the best you could do, mortal?" He taunted.

There came another twang, this time from his left. The torch directly across from him fell and went out.

Lokil laughed. "I suggest you end this foolish game and beg for mercy now, mortal. Darkness is no stranger to us!"

Two additional pinpricks of sound, rapid in succession, were heard. The remaining torches fell, sputtered, and winked out.

Dimhollow Crpyt, untouched by sun nor moon, was plunged into complete darkness, and Lokil had to squint to make out the pillars, walls and the faint, moving silhouettes of his thralls, still obstinately guarding the entrances. One of them, a sprightly Breton named Lea, had the good sense of conjuring a werelight. The arcane light source hovered just above her, illuminating sections of the cave previous untouched by torchlight.

"Lea," Lokil called to her, "check there." He gestured at where he thought he heard the shots come from – a nook carved in the rocks between the two entrances that the torches did not reach.

He watched, suddenly tense, as the short Breton vampire made her way towards the hiding spot, step by cautious step. She was careful, more mindful. Lokil liked that about her.

With a flash of motion, Lea conjured another bright sphere of light, although she did not hold it by her side. Lokil watched, unmoving, as the gleaming sphere rocketed towards the cavern wall and planted itself firmly on it, the magicka thrown behind the spell giving off enough light to beggar comparison to the sun itself. Lokil squinted; he couldn't imagine how powerful the sudden blast of luminescence would be to the hapless human hiding behind the rocks.

He half-expected Lea to raise the dagger in her hand or use her fangs, but when he saw her turn away from the nook with doubtful eyes, he felt the slightest twinge of unease in his chest.

That was a split second before he spotted the dark shadow behind Lea. He called out to her, but he was too late.

There came a muffled scream as a black glove closed around Lea's mouth, silencing her while her back arched, much like what Lokil had seen her do the night before, when his feeding brought out a different, more base, urge of his.

This time, however, he saw all too clearly the crimson staining the front of Lea's robes and the telltale gleam of black steel protruding from her chest. He heard all too clearly the wet squelch of blood as her ambusher unsheathed his blade from her body, discarding her without so much as a flinch.

He saw, all too clearly, the haughty gleam in the ink-black cloaked figure's piercing blue eyes, and the moon-and-nightbird brooch on his chest, before Lea's light went out and the cavern was wreathed in darkness once again.

He roared with fury and heard his comrades echo his call. He hefted his mace and threw it with all his might, aiming at last where he saw his enemy.

A clear thud told him the mace had missed its mark, and now he was unarmed. He retreated towards his thralls, ducking when he heard the twin plucking of bowstrings, weaving a melody of death as the Nord and Imperial vampires he had not bothered to acquaint himself with cried out and gurgled. The arrows snapped when they fell, faces down, their tips still embedded within flesh.

A crimson veil descended over Lokil's sight. Adrenaline, prompted by the immediate danger he found himself in and tempered by the rage coursing through his veins, sharpened his senses. He saw the beginnings of movement amidst the sea of darkness, but it was not enough. He may be a vampire, but he still needed a source of light, however small, to augment his sight.

"I know what you are, Nightingale!" Lokil shouted, clenching his fists powerlessly. "Stop hiding behind your mistress's skirts and face me! Or are you too much of a coward, thief?"

For a moment, silence reigned in Dimhollow Crypt. For Lokil, it was almost unbearable.

A sinister chuckle crept from the shadows.

"Very well."

A shadow of a man materialised not two feet from Lokil. His stature matched his memory of Lea's killer perfectly.

Lokil dug his heels into the ground and leapt forward, baring his fangs in a ferocious snarl. His hands, more talons than fingers, closed in on the shadow's throat. He allowed himself a brief moment of savage glee; he almost felt his fingers sinking into his flesh, and he would not stop until he was rent from top to bottom, his blood drained to slake his thirst.

The Nightingale's figure distorted before his eyes, as if seen through disturbed waters.

His fingers closed and gripped nothing but air.

Lokil barely had time to brace himself as his intangible prey left him off-balance and falling. He felt his breath being knocked from his lungs, but it was not enough to deter him. He rolled round to face his enemy...

But the Nightingale was already gone.

Indeed, in place of where he stood, only still, blank darkness remained. Lokil snarled in frustration and got to his feet, never taking his eyes off of the spot where his devious adversary once stood lest he reemerge from the shadows.

He heard a whisper of air behind him shortly before an icy chill erupted from his spine. It was painless, almost without feeling save for the cold. He spun round, fighting his body's reaction to the cold while lashing out with his talon-like fingers.

He caught the glimpse of a lean, hooded woman directly behind him, her barely recognisable arm burying a dagger in his back. His swiping upper arm came into contact with the spot where her head should be, passing through skin, flesh and bone without resistance.

His eyes widened in disbelief as her head exploded, soundlessly, into a cloud of black smoke, blending in with the shadows. Moments later, darkness came forward and claimed her headless body as well.

The dagger was gone, but the pain remained.

Lokil gasped as an implosion of cold took hold of his body, wrenching what little warmth remaining in his limbs from him and clenching his muscles. Even the pain it should have caused was taken from him, numbed by the unnatural chill besetting him from within, growing stronger and freezing more of him with every heartbeat.

Still, he refused to relent.

He bared his fangs and roared his challenge with what breath he had left, making the spacious cavern ring with his final act of defiance. The air rippled, the shadows blown back, and Lokil felt pride melt away the ice in his veins, burning away the ethereal dagger's wound.

The shadows writhed once more, assuming the shape of the Nightingale that had slain his men and jeopardised his mission. He held a sleek Elven bow, painted black, in his hands, an Elven shaft fit to string.

Lokil felt the fire inside him burn all the brighter. He saw through his facade; he'll just have to cut every last one of these apparitions down until the Nightingale could not conjure any more. "I have no fear of your tricks, Nightingale! Your arrows cannot harm me!" He started towards him with wide, sure steps, certain that the arrows would pass right through him, leaving behind a cold mark he could easily ignore.

He heard the apparition chuckle.

They never made any sound.

"Think again."

The arrow slammed into him, the shallow, sharp whistle it made while arcing through the air belying its force as it struck him dead center, putting him to a dead halt.

He felt the familiar stench of blood fill his nostrils as the shaft pierced his heart, painting his crude leather armor a deep crimson within seconds. He fell to his knees, suddenly bereft of strength to remain standing. Darkness encroached upon the corners of his vision, and he saw the shadows writhe, warp and shift before his eyes.

He barely acknowledged the Nightingale as he approached him with calm, purposeful steps, fit another arrow to string, and took aim with its tip less than an inch away from his skull.

His head snapped back. Darkness took over. He felt nothing at all.