Blood and silver flow through Markarth.

They were some of the first words Emrik heard upon entering the infamous city of stone.

Said to have been built by the dwarves, Markarth was home to many of Skyrim's toughest soldiers. The city had seen much blood and much conflict and the scars of the Civil War were still present in the citizens of Markarth and the city itself.

It was apparent to Emrik upon arriving that Markarth were wary of visitors. He'd been harassed at the main gate and forced to prove that he wasn't working with the Forsworn. One of the city guard had demanded he remove his sword, a request Emrik forcefully denied. Two minutes later Emrik had bested the guard in a brawl and was henceforth allowed to wear his sword in the city.

Upon entering the city Emrik made a beeline straight for the inn, where he ordered a tankard of ale and drank willingly.

"The war was harsh here," Emrik stated.

The barkeep nodded. "Aye, it was. Now we make a living at a poor cost."

"What cost is that?"

"Blood and silver, friend. Blood and silver flow through Markarth."

With that thought in his mind, Emrik ordered another drink and sat, waiting.

Ti'laan had told him that a contact within the city would meet him, though he knew not who that was or how Ti'laan knew him.

Of course, he has ties to the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild, Emrik thought, and Divines know how long he's been walking this earth.

The question of Ti'laan's age had always interested Emrik, though he knew never to ask. The King was intelligent and cunning, and his way of handling situations were - while undeniably violent - planned and executed with finesse and ease. That kind of expertise suggested that the King had been alive for possible over a hundred years.

The sound of another soul entering the inn disturbed Emrik's thoughts. The door lingered open for a suspiciously long time before closing. The sound of footsteps echoed as they struck the floor, deliberately slowly. The barkeep became tense.

"I have to go and fill out some paperwork," he muttered, before hurrying off.

The rest of the bar looked on curiously at the newcomer.

With practiced skill Emrik casually took a sip from his drink, all the while being ready to spring into action.

The newcomer took a seat beside Emrik. A dark hood covered their features, but from their physique Emrik could tell they were male. Two daggers were strapped to the mans belt, and the bulge under his tunic suggested he had a weapon hidden. A quiver of bolts hung at the mans side and a crossbow was slung over his back.

Slowly, Emrik drew his sword slightly, letting the metal hiss against the leather.

"I wouldn't," the man said gruffly, his voice tinted with an accent that suggested he was from High Rock.

Emrik swallowed. "I would."

He lashed out, kicking the newcomers stool from beneath him. The newcomer saw the play coming however, and was already on their feet before Emrik had struck the seat. Standing, Emrik drew his blade and took a half-step backwards, sinking into an offensive position. The newcomer drew both of his daggers and lunged, slashing at Emrik with grace, a dance of steel and death. Emrik parried the blows, but some made it through, scratching his skin, causing him to bleed. He made a desperate swing and knocked one of the daggers from his opponents hand. He then stomped on the mans foot and shoved him back, causing him to drop the second dagger.

Emrik held out a flat palm and focused. In seconds a torrent of fire erupted from his hand, engulfing the man and burning him. Emrik began to sweat as his magicka reserves depleted.

At last the fire sputtered and died, leaving Emrik panting and sweating.

His opponent was huddled on the floor where he had been knocked, but apart from being singed was relatively unharmed. Before Emrim could react the man took his crossbow from his back and fired.

The bolt whizzed through the air and slammed into Emrik's shoulder, and he cried out in pain, cursing as his other hand went up to staunch the blood that was beginning to run from wound. His opponent made to reload his crossbow, but Emrik summoned his strength and hurled a nearby stool at the man.

The woodwork shattered on impact, stunning the man, giving Emrik enough time to bounce over and press his sword against the mans throat.

The man raised his hands slowly.

"Get rid of the weapon," Emrik said through heavy breaths.

The man tossed the crossbow away.

"And the other one."

The man slowly reached into his tunic and produced an iron mace, which he also threw out of arms reach.

"So I see our King sent someone competent to do his dirty work," the man said. "That's a relief."

"Who are you?" Emrik asked.

"I'm your contact, your rendezvous," the man said. "And I would personally feel more comfortable if you took this sword from my throat."

Emrik hesitated, but sheathed the sword. His hand went up to press his wound, and he winced.

"Sorry about that," the man said, picking himself up and dusting himself off. "I'll have you fixed before your task."

He removed his hood to reveal a Breton of all accounts. He had a face of perfect complexion and white teeth, green eyes and brown hair.

"You may call me Stern," the Breton said.

"Is that your real name?"

"Of course not," Stern said. "In our business it always helps to be a little cautious though. Come. Follow me. I'll get that bolt wound of yours fixed -"

"You mean the one that you gave me," Emrik winced.

"No hard feelings about that, right? It was part of the deal. I did it on our Kings command."

"Ti'laan told you to do this?" Emrik was almost shocked. Almost...

"Why of course!" Stern said, holding his arms out as if it were as obvious as the sun in the sky. "He needed to test your mettle. So did I. For the sake of the cause."

"And what is the sake of the cause?"

"Expansion, my good man. Expansion," Stern said. "As I said, follow me. We have a lot of details to discuss and, uh... Healing to attend to."

"Speak without riddles," Emrik said shortly. "Just tell me exactly what I have to do."

"Your King didn't say?" Stern said, amusement all too evident in his tone. "Why, you're going to have to get arrested."


At a house built into the rock face in Markarth's higher districts, Emrik drank a health potion gingerly as Stern ironed out the foundation of the plan. It was a plan Emrik was less than amused with, but for the sake of the kingdom it had to be done, he was assured.

Now Emrik stood in the centre of Markarth's markets, ready to execute the first stage of the plan.

He recalled what he had been told.

"Remember to look as if you don't want to get caught," Stern had told him. "It's important that the guards catch you without them thinking you're out to get arrested."

"Won't my behaviour be questioned?"

"Absolutely. That's why I recommend buying some food from one of the venders. Eat it, look sick, go crazy. They'll pin it to food poisoning."

"It's scary how much you've thought you've put into this."

"I didn't come up with this. Ti'laan did."

Emrik looked down to the venison and cheese pastry in his hand, and thinking nothing of it, ate it.

It's the last meal you'll get in a while, he thought. Enjoy it.

Emrik made sure he was fully visible to the guards as he ate the pastry. He chewed it for some time before keeling over and retching, coughing deliberately to get their attention.

He stood and shivered, trying to act as if possessed. With a shout Emrik drew his sword and plunged it into the person who was unlucky enough to be walking by at the time. That person happened to be the husband of the woman who had sold him the pastry.

In moments guards swarmed him as onlookers cried out in alarm and tried to assist the bleeding man on the stones.

Emrik injured some of their number before he was overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. He made a point to make jerking, wild swings with his blade, so as to keep with the act.

At last, Emrik's weapon was knocked from his hand and he fell to his knees.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. What say you in your defence?" One guard said.

"I submit. Take me to jail," Emrik said suspiciously quickly.

Although he couldn't see behind the helmet, he practically felt the guards cruel smile.

"Then it's off to Cidhna Mine with you."