The misty floodlands of Hjaalmarch are unforgiving. The mud and grime of the Drajkmyr marsh hide dangers just beneath the stagnant surface, from mudcrabs and slaughterfish to other, more supernatural horrors. Deathbell flowers sprout up from in between patches of thigh-high grass, often rumoured to grow at the scenes of unfortunate deaths or to lure unsuspecting travellers to their demise. The bloated, decaying remains of those who walked into the Drajkmyr and never returned are not uncommon and yet, despite all this, the hardy people of Skyrim have within themselves the constitution and grit to carve out a corner of this part of the world, and call it their home. When night falls on the floodplains, the city of Morthal glows with life, humble and tenacious like the Nords who founded it.

Masser and Secunda hang in the sky like the great watchful eyes of the gods as exhausted workers wearily tread along the wooden paths erected over the water back to their homes. However, tonight, the usual symphony of heavy footsteps is accompanied to one more pair of boots, a guest to this town. The people ogled and muttered amongst themselves as this shadow-swathed stranger walks by. Morthal is not unfamiliar with the occasional sellsword or vampire hunter passing through, but never someone so distinct in appearance and demeanour. The Stranger, followed by the suspicious gaze of the retiring workers, made his way up the rickety stairs of the Moorside Inn and pushed himself through the seldom-used door, leading to a dimly lit rustic interior with a crackling fire pit in the centre of the room. A stocky Orc stood by the flames, strumming on a lute and croaking out whatever tune he was planning on subjecting his next audience to.

"Ignore the Orc. He pays, so I let him stay."

A voice called out from the counter, one too tired to mask her weariness. Must be the bartender. The Stranger walked up to her, silent as a wraith, and removed his cowl from over his helm. It was a simple design, rounded and polished with a T-shaped visor and sleek indentations along the cheeks, specifically made to not stand out. However, where the visor would usually show some area of the wearer's face, this helm completely concealed its wearer's features behind a layer of wafer-thin ebony metal. This one detail seemed to unnerve the bartender.

"What can I get you? A drink, maybe?"

"Information."

A low voice came rasping out of the helm. The bartender raised a bemused eyebrow at this stranger's curt response.

"Okay well, what is it you need? You've frightened poor Lurbuk so you'd better get on with it before he starts crying."

The Stranger turned and looked towards the Orc, now sitting in the corner, drink in hand and silently observing the man at the counter with the eyes of a freshly kicked mutt. Then, with another look to the bartender, he rustled around in his weather-worn cloak and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment, showing it to the now thoroughly confused lady in front of him. As she read, her expression slipped from bemused confusion to dreadful realisation.

"Mister, I don't know who you are but I can assure you, he ain't that type. Can't you overlook this and walk away? We can pay you more than that reward, we can make it worth your while."

Her pleas fell on deaf ears as he walked away to where Lurbuk sat petrified.

"We're a quiet town, we don't want no trouble! Who do you think you are to walk in one night and disturb our peace?"

Still, her cries went ignored. Looming above Lurbuk the Orc-bard, the Stranger held the parchment up to his shivering eyes:

Wanted: dead or alive!

By order of Maven Black-Briar, a reward of 500 septims shall be offered to whoever brings the infamous skooma-dealer Lurbuk to justice. Last seen in Morthal.

The stranger, loudly crunching the parchment in his hands, issued his ultimatum.

"I can bring you in warm…"

He drew his dagger meaningfully, the freshly sharpened blade glinting cruelly against the fire.

"...or I can bring you in cold."

The sight of the dagger broke Lurbuk and he burst into tears, sobbing and babbling pitiful pleas for mercy as the bartender stood helplessly with her hand over her mouth, trying to comprehend what was taking place in her usually peaceful tavern. The Stranger pulled the defeated Lurbuk out of his chair and shoved him towards the door, holding onto him by the back of his tunic. However, where he was expecting to meet an empty night sky and an even emptier street, he was instead greeted by a small group of men bearing torches and work-tools, each sporting a look of grim anger at the audacity of this traveller to cause such alarm at such a late hour.

"Where do you think you're taking old Lurbuk?"

A moment of tense silence hung in the air.

"To Riften."

"And you think you can come barging into our homes and start kidnapping our folk? I don't think so. I knew you were nothing but trouble the moment I saw you by the pier!"

Shouts of agreement followed as one man stepped forward, slightly larger than the others. From the calls in the crowd, the Stranger deduced that his name was Jorgen, the de facto leader of the mob.

"Listen, stranger, we're not barbarians so I'll give you a simple choice: let go of the Orc and be on your way, or get sent straight to Oblivion by -"

"Get out of my way."

Another curt response came from under the intruder's dark helm, enraging the mob. Insults were hurled and torches were brandished as it became evident that blood would be spilled in Morthal tonight.

"He thinks he can do what he wants! This is our town and we have you five to one, outsider!"

"I like those odds."

Lurbuk was shoved to the side by the Stranger as he shrugged off his cloak, revealing a full bandolier of throwing knives and a sword & dagger at his hip. His silver armour was modestly designed but obviously protective, and the mob had enough veterans who knew that someone so clad in weaponry had experience enough to fight. Jorgen was not phased as he drew his iron sword and charged forward with a booming cry, thrusting the tip of the sword straight at the stranger's midriff. With one deft movement, the stranger redirected the attack with the back of his gauntlet and stepped aside, plunging his own dagger into the back of Jorgen's leg, piercing the artery and bringing him down. Seeing their friend crumble before the stranger, the rest of the mob was spurred into action and charged with murderous intent, one of whom was felled immediately as a throwing knife whistled through the air, meeting his throat. Confronting the three attackers, the stranger drew his sword from its sheath with a sinister hiss and blocked an axe-head that vied for his head, pushing it aside before sending an armoured fist towards the attacker's jaw, knocking him out cold. Another man clobbered the back of his helmet with a torch, sending him reeling for a moment before he regained his senses, just in time to dodge under another axe to the face and return the blow with his own weapon, slicing open the attacker's gut. As he turned to meet the final mob member, he saw the man drop his weapon and take off with a terrified yelp. As soon as the battle had begun, it ended in a gruesome crescendo.

This bounty hunter won't be welcome here for a while, he thought to himself as he observed his handiwork: two dead, one unconscious, one more most likely dying later from blood loss. But where was the man of the hour in the midst of all the chaos? The blood-spattered warrior looked to where he left his target, only to find it deserted and a flailing silhouette running off into the distant mist, now glowing in the dawn. Best to leave the scene anyway, before the rest of the town sees him next to a pile of bodies. With that thought and an exasperated sigh, the Stranger showed mercy on the city he had terrorised for a night and gave chase after his paycheck.

[Thanks for reading! I hope this was entertaining enough to want more, or even just as a one-shot. This is my very first story so I would appreciate any and all advice/constructive criticism. Hopefully see you soon (if life doesn't bog me down too much)!]