The two moons shone down softly on the sedate canals of Vivec. Most of the gondola drivers had retired to their apartments in the nearby cantons or had trudged home over the western bridge of the Hlaalu canton to whatever homesteads they claimed. Ordinators patrolled the walkways, their high crested helms reflecting the moonlight with a slightly golden hue. The nights in Vivec could be very quiet at times.
Feruren Oran stepped out into the midlevel walkway of the Hlaalu canton, his nerves slightly on edge. He'd spent the better part of the evening the Elven Nations cornerclub, drinking and gossiping, hoping he could drum up a little business. As a spellsword, his talents with both steel and sorcery made him attractive for all kinds of work, legal or otherwise. Tonight, though, the Altmer left somewhat early. Rumors had started to circulate that Oran had cheated a Redoran nobleman and a Hlaluu retainer, pulling the same scam on both of them by leading them in turn to an abandoned ebony mine, one that had been played out years earlier. Oran would never admit to such activities, of course. He remembered getting a challenge from the Redoran a few months back, a simple note penned in a stark hand demanding satisfaction in the Arena. Of the Hlaluu retainer, he'd heard nothing. And that might be why he was nervous. House Redoran, hard and ruthless though they might be, operated with a sense of responsibility. If anybody was going to kill for the House, it would be the House that did it, direct violent confrontation that was sure to end with a dead body. But House Hlaluu had a shady quality to them. Despite their continued protestations of innocence and claims of being "the bridge uniting Morrowind to all of Tamriel," their connections to unsavory individuals and potentially criminal organizations made it hard to say whether you would see a Hlaluu combatant or feel the knife in your back first.
Still, whether it was Hlaluu or Redoran, Feruren felt he could handle almost anything. He had plenty of spells at his disposal, plenty of magicka flowing through his body, and a good sharp dai-katana strapped to his back when his magic finally failed. Yes, he was prepared for anything.
A massive hand closed around Oran's throat from behind, forcing him against an equally massive body. He felt himself being lifted up a foot in the air, then caught a glimpse of a wickedly sharp Argonian-style tanto plunging towards his chest. The blade cracked the top of the Altmer's sternum as it sank in, then began to split the bone as the massive hand dragged it down the centerline of Oran's body. The pain was exquisite, but Oran could only manage a faint choked screech. The blade slipped out, then sank back in as his attacker drew it crossways, spilling the Altmer's entrails onto the paved walkway. The hand let go of Oran's throat, letting the Altmer drop briefly, then seized his hair. The last thing Feruren Oran saw before his throat was cut was his guts laying in a pile, his own feet bracketed by a pair of much larger feet wearing soft soled leather boots.
The assassin let the body fall to the ground and wiped the blade clean on his sleeve before sheathing it. A bystander had run off screaming his head off, but strangely, this didn't bother him. He could hear the Ordinators coming, but he felt no fear, no concern. He almost wanted to welcome them. He knew this was coming and he was prepared for it. Less than a minute later, half a dozen Ordinators surrounded him, their blades drawn, all them certainly hoping he'd give them a reason to run him through. Behind his shrouding, the assassin allowed himself a grin. They were just going to have to get used to disappointment.
"You have murdered a man in cold blood, on the streets of holy Vivec no less," growled one of the Ordinators, doubtlessly the squad leader. "You will be taken to the Ministry of Truth, where you will be held until your punishment is decided."
"No, captain," the assassin rumbled, "you will not be taking me to the Ministry of Truth, nor will you be executing me here on this spot." He held one hand up, a thin scroll with a blood red seal sticking out of his fist. The lead Ordinator reached up and took the scroll, then broke the seal and read the contents by torchlight. After reading it twice, the Ordinator sheathed his sword, then ordered his comrades to do the same.
"We shall present this to our superiors, along with the body. You are free to go."
The assassin bowed, then casually walked away. One of the newer Ordinators came up to his leader, pulling his helm off to show his displeasure. "He just butchered this man!" snarled the Ordinator. "And you let him walk away? Why in the name of blessed Almsivi would you do that?!"
The lead Ordinator also removed his helmet and passed the scroll over to his subordinate. "Read it. And if you still don't understand, that is something we will discuss later." Even after reading it a half dozen times, the younger Ordinator still didn't understand.
Once inside the safety of the enclave, Kharag removed the shrouding from his face, the slightly porcine features of his orcish heritage making the grin of satisfaction on his face seem a bit vicious to the casual bystander. He walked with ease, his large frame graceful and efficient in its carriage, gliding past others in the halls without even coming close to touching them. As he walked, others nodded or smiled at him. They knew what he'd gone through, and they showed him that he had earned their respect. Since most of his comrades were Dunmer, their respect was especially important to him. Orcs and Dunmer had, for millenia, been bitter enemies. Even the Daedra Lords Malacath and Azura pitted the two races against each other, or had in the past. Kharag just hoped that his master would be pleased that he'd successfully completed his mission, and his initiation.
Stepping into the dormitory area, Kharag moved over towards his master's chamber and smacked the wall twice with the palm of his hand, the closest thing to knocking since there were no doors, only curtains. A middle-aged Dunmer poked his head through the curtain.
"You've returned. And in record time, as well. Is it done?"
"Yes, my master," rumbled Kharag with a grin.
"Come inside, and we shall talk." The Dunmer parted the curtain and gestured for Kharag to take a seat inside. Kharag settled himself, idly noting that neither seat sat with its back to the doorway. Hlaalu reached into a pocket of his robe and withdrew a simple black headband.
"Having carried your orders with perfection, and having apprenticed to me for a period of five years, it is my unequalled pleasure to recognize you as a member of the Morag Tong and servant of Mephala's will." He proferred the headband to Kharag, who took it and wrapped it firmly around his head. "Now, Kharag, we must talk about your place in the Tong, and what must be done for our future." Here, Hlaalu paused to pour two cups of hot tea. As Kharag lifted the cup to his lips, he smelled the aroma of comberry and bittergreen leaf. The berry's acidity would neutralize the bittergreen's alkaloid poisons quite effectively. This he'd learned the hard way, as was proper.
Hlaalu looked at the orc with a mixture of pride and concern. All of his cousins had come to despise him, even though he led a force that had survived since before the coming of the Tribunal. But to apprentice an orc, to consider him as a son, that was almost blasphemy, and his cousin Orvas Dren had often said as much. But then again, Eno and Orvas had been grinding against each other for the better part of fifty years, so it didn't look like they'd be calling a truce anytime soon.
"Kharag, while it pleases me that you are now a full fledged operative, I only wish that it had happened at a better time. We walk in uncertain times. The ash storms from Red Mountain are getting stronger and reaching farther. There are rumors that there is trouble back in the Imperial City. More and more Buoyant Armigers make the trek to Ghostgate and are not heard from again." Hlaalu sighed softly. "Most disturbingly of all, there are indications that the Ghostfence is beginning to fail, that corprus-bearing beasts are finding holes and escaping through them. The Ordinators would have my head for speaking that in public, but here, we may speak safely. Though we must still speak softly."
"I understand, master. But I do not understand why the dealings of Imperials back in their capital has any effect on us. Nor do I understand why dead Buoyant Armigers and dying animals are in any way related to us."
"Because all of us serve our gods. Uriel Septim is distantly descended from their god Tiber Septim. The Buoyant Armigers serve Lord Vivec. And we, of course, serve Black Hands herself. Of those three, I think we stand the best chance of survival, but not before we receive Mephala's favor."
Kharag's great left eyebrow lifted slightly. "But do we not incur Her favor when we perform our duties to Her?"
"We do, my son, we do. But that favor is brief. It is fleeting. No, Kharag, if we are to weather the storm I believe is coming for us, we must gain the sort of favor that will keep us in Her fickle heart for a very long time. We must show we are Her most devoted children, and there are only two things that I can think of that will gain such favor. One is the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood, which would greatly please the bloodlust of Black Hands. The other is more subtle and its effects less obvious, as is befitting our patron Mephala.
"According to legend, the Daedra Lord Sanguine created for Mephala an array of wondrous items, each with their own unique properties. Collectively, these items were known as the Threads of the Webspinner. Mephala, for her own reasons, gifted these items to us. For many centuries, we took good care of these items, and many were slain with their assistance. During the Age of Chaos in the Second Era, virtually all of these items were lost in battle or stolen by our enemies. To the Dark Brotherhood, these items are merely interesting, perhaps thought of as charmed or lucky. Yet it is also possible that there may be a few among the Brotherhood who recognize the true nature of the artifacts, and if they do, then there is nothing to stop them from attempting to gather up all the Threads and turn them against us. That is why we must stop them."
"And we will stop them, my master," Kharag stated in a flat tone.
"No, my son. You will stop them. While you are still a member of our order, and you must still perform your duties to Mephala, I am charging you with the task of recovering the Threads of the Webspinner from our enemies, so that we may rededicate them to Black Hands and earn her unending favor." Eno Hlaalu leaned over and locked his eyes on Kharag. "I cannot give this task to anyone else, Kharag, for there is no one else that I trust to carry it out. In ages past, assassins have tipped the scales in a war. Now, it is we who are in the war, a war among assassins, and in order to tip the balance, we must have a warrior. That is where you will serve us best. Your cover identity in the Fighter's Guild serves you well, and your time in the Deathshead Legion has been most useful." Hlaalu's voice dropped slightly. "My son, I must impress upon you the great danger I am putting you in by giving you this task. Because there are no writs or bounties on any of the members of the Dark Brotherhood, to slay them is to be branded a murderer by the constabulary. You must call upon your skills as an assassin to avoid capture. And you must call upon your skills as a warrior to avoid defeat. Accomplish this, and your place in the Sanctuary will be assured."
Kharag lowered his head slightly, pondering what he'd just been told. Surely, this would be the most challenging assignment that any member of the Morag Tong had ever been given. And the most important that he could recall. By the word of the Grandmaster, if Kharag succeeded he would have a place on the Sanctuary Isle, a place far to the east of Akavir, where members of the Morag Tong who had grown too high profile were sent to live out the rest of their days in blissful retirement. What else could he say?
"I will succeed, father."
"Very good. Now, I suggest you take a few days to lay low. Then begin your preparations. I will see if I cannot discover a lead for you to begin your search with." Hlaalu stood up and smiled at Kharag. "I am very proud of you, my son. Now, go forth, and bring honor to yourself and the Morag Tong."
Kharag stood and gave Hlaalu a gentle bearhug, then bowed and took his leave. As he headed towards the exit of the enclave, he felt a light touch on his arm. Glancing to his left, Kharag saw the masked visage of the Tong's oldest living operative, Taros Dral.
If one believed the stories, Taros Dral had slain well over a thousand men and women in Mephala's name, and there was not a single living being in the world that had seen his face. Some whispered he'd even killed his own parents at one point or another just to cover his tracks. But for whatever reason, Taros was considered to be the very best the Morag Tong could field, and a zealous follower of Mephala. Around the enclave, he was the closest thing to a priest that could be found, as he always held some nugget of wisdom that he'd gleaned from his service to the goddess. Perhaps the old assassin had come to gift Kharag with one last nugget before he left.
"Kharag, I understand that you have been fully initiated into the Morag Tong this night."
"That is correct, Taros."
Taros leaned in slightly. "How would you like to earn a bit more of Mephala's favor than the average novice?"
"What do you mean?"
"There is a sensitive matter that has reached my ears from the lips of Black Hands Herself, and I feel that it is something you are eminently suited towards. But I will speak no more of it here. Not unless you are willing to undertake the matter."
Furrowing his brow, Kharag thought hard. He was supposed to be laying low. Doing any work in the name of Mephala meant blood was going to be shed somewhere. Still, given the nature of his quest, it certainly could not hurt to try and gain minor favor with the goddess now in preparation for the greater favor to come.
"I am willing to undertake the matter. What is it that Mephala wills?"
"It's quite simple, actually. Mephala does not ask much of Her followers. She simply asks that we perform our executions with honor and that we do so according to Her tenets, which have been set down since before the First Age. There is, in Balmora, an operative named Balyn Omarel. He does not execute with honor. He has abandoned the tenets. He openly flaunts his position as an assassin. And it is Mephala's will that this embarassment be removed in precisely the manner that the fool should have been operating under the entire time. Mephala feels that Balyn Omarel must be taught, as all children are taught, the hard way. You will execute him with all of the silence and subtlety befitting a true assassin of the Morag Tong." Taros pressed a small leather pouch into Kharag's great hand. "Inside this pouch are bittergreen petals that have been treated with a special toxin. It activates when exposed to great heat, greater than the heat of your hand or mine. Raw flame will create a vapor that is odorless, but vapors dissipate quickly. It would be better to slip it into some sort of food or drink, a stew perhaps, or a cup of tea. You have only to introduce the poisoned leaves successfully and return to me. Mephala will tell me whether you have succeeded in slaying Omarel or not. If Omarel is dead by the time you return, Mephala will have a great reward prepared, and you will be marked forever as one who holds a special place in Her fickle heart."
"I will succeed," Kharag stated simply.
