Evening crept slowly over the plains of Whiterun. Jonah spared a moment to peer at the black outline of Dragonsreach that dominated the skyline. Night, his time, was approaching. He'd spent most of the day sleeping under a tree to the south-west, still filled with satisfaction from the massacre he'd enacted as he came over the border. His superiors back in Summerset would not be pleased with his digressions, he knew, but that was the price they had to pay for someone of his talents.
Too long he'd spent in the prison of the Imperial City, all thanks to the conniving plots of the traitorous Antario. His prized equipment had been taken away from him—all his current gear had been scavenged on his way north. Jonah was a large Redguard man; his muscles bulged beneath mismatched iron armour, dwarven boots, and steel gauntlets. He carried a bloodstained mace of orcish make and wore no helmet, leaving his battered features open for all to see. His hair, brown on its way to grey, came down to his shoulders, complemented by a messy short beard. But his eyes, sunk deep in his face, were his most striking feature. A vicious scar ran vertically over the left, an incident that had turned it milky white. The right was intensely bloodshot, and pulsed with a mad fury that had stared down foes across nations.
Stretching his limbs, he strode towards a nearby farm. He did not need any fancy equipment to engage in another little murder; his power pulsed within his blood. Jonah increased his pace, hurdled the fence that bordered the farm, and threw himself through at the wooden door. It came clean off its hinges and he was inside without breaking a sweat. A small Nord man in simple clothes leaped up from his seat by the fire.
"What in the . . ." was all he managed to get out before Jonah's mace crushed his skull.
Joy surged through him and he felt alive again. In that instant, the moment of another's death, he felt pure ecstasy. But as the body crumpled to the ground, it faded, leaving him hollow and emotionless once more. Another death must be sought.
A scream came from behind him. A wood-elf woman had emerged from the bedroom at the noise. Before Jonah could react, she'd sprinted out the doorway. Shouting curses, he ran after her. He usually didn't mind witnesses, but it wouldn't do to be arrested again, just as he'd regained Antario's trail.
He was distracted, however, by a figure leaping the same fence he'd hurdled only moments before. The wood-elf was well on her way to raising the guard, but more important matters had Jonah's attention. The figure, a slim Argonian, wore the armour of the Dark Brotherhood. It was only a matter of time, thought Jonah. All the people he'd killed, one of them was bound to have family who wanted revenge. Finally, a change from pitiful farmers and incompetent bandits. Finally, a challenge. The puny assassin's moment of death would be all the sweeter for it.
The lizard already had his weapons drawn, a pair of identical steel swords. He leapt at Jonah, his blades approaching with deadly speed. But Jonah could move faster than his size would have one believe. He darted to the right, the tips of the assassin's blades skewering only air. The two circled each other warily.
"Who was it?" asked Jonah. "That alchemist in Bruma?" He cackled but was careful not to throw his head back. "The bard with the flute? The bandit chief with the big hammer?"
"The merchants at the border," said the Argonian. "I think you'd remember a massacre like that."
"There have been so many," said Jonah, "they all start to blur. I'm sure you know what I mean, lizard."
But the assassin displayed no reaction to the insult. Jonah added the Dark Brotherhood to his mental list; those who had wronged him, dared to attack him, sent others to kill him, or simply those who had escaped his wrath. All would face their ends at his hands. Even his superiors featured, towards the end. For now, he could use them.
He grew tired of the circling and hurled himself forward. He delivered a crunching blow to the lizard's side, and managed to deflect one of the two return blows. The second, however, cut into his left wrist. He growled and stepped back, seeing no doubt in his foe's eyes. This was a professional, a true killer with no compunctions, who always came prepared. Jonah felt something that, in another person, would have been called respect.
The assassin was backing away, blades slightly lowered, something patient on his face. Jonah was frowning at this when his vision started blurring in time with his heartbeat. Each thump send a spasm across his field of view, shaking the world into a new angle. Poison. But his limbs still had their strength, and his blood was strong enough to withstand this pitiful concoction.
The Argonian came in for the kill. Jonah easily deflected the first strike, even through the now swimming chaos of his sight. But the second cut deep into his left arm, just below his shoulder. Jonah roared, the primal sound echoing across the plains. He swung his mace hard, and the lizard dropped their free sword to grasp the handle of the mace, bringing the blow to a halt. The lizard twisted the sword in Jonah's arm.
He roared again. In the distance he could hear the yells of the town guards approaching. The blood he'd given his life for dripped to the dirt. The assassin, with both hands now, struggled to hold back the mace. Jonah raised a boot and kicked away his foe. They did not go sprawling, but did a light flip and came back on their feet, bladeless—until they pulled a dagger from somewhere.
They came on again, hurriedly. Jonah rushed the assassin, slamming his mace into them and pinning them beneath him. Dagger thrusts came into his left side. He let go his mace and managed to drop his left forearm across that scaled throat. He then used his right hand to withdraw the sword from his left shoulder. He almost blacked out from the pain, and dribbled blood on the struggling assassin as he reversed his grip on the sword and drove it through the assassin's left eye socket. Their struggles ceased.
He rolled off the body, his own blood now resting on top of another's. He pulled the sword from the corpse as the shouts grew closer. He couldn't move his left arm at all now. Somewhere in the haze he could see the flicker of torches. Guards were approaching, lots of them, no doubt lured by that wood-elf—she too would be on his list.
He felt himself tumbling into unconsciousness and told that desire to go to Oblivion. He rose, bloody blade in hand, half-blind and essentially one-armed.
The first guard attempted to deliver the usual line, a line Jonah had heard in countless variations, countless times before.
"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and . . ."
Jonah lunged, the failed assassin's sword opening the guard's throat. The others rushed forward as a group.
"Take him alive!" one of them shouted. "The Commander wants him alive!"
He swung wildly in every direction, lurching whenever he could muster it. He felt the impact of the blade hit several targets before it was wrenched away from him. He fought with his free fist, tried to swing his useless arm, tried to bite at their faces. Then, a yellow circle appeared in front of him. It grew closer and closer until it filled his field of vision. There was a sharp pain to his head, then darkness swamped Jonah.