Prologue

Months had slipped into a year, each day duller than the last, The Summerset Isles was idyllic, beautiful beyond compare, yet it bored Haerendil, it drained him, to even consider wasting away his life on a pampered cushion, being served drinks by 'lesser races' and having nothing but political smalltalk to preoccupy him..The very thought was revolting. Unfortunately, and even he had to admit it, he needed to rest, he needed to fade away into time and forget the pain that had happened to him in the cold winter months in Skyrim last year.

His father of course, had taken explicit glee in his return coupled with a quiet wish that he thought would never come. Haerendil too, agreed, wondering what strange reality that he was in, that it happened. The day he had explicitly stated, asked and demanded that he join the Thalmor..

The Thalmor were a political force, the mere government of the Altmer, yet they wrought such harsh fear and exercised such severe control, they were respectable, powerful and above all in complete control of what lived, breathed and walked in the Aldmeri Dominion territories and rumoured even beyond. Yet, Haerendil had never seen them as anything more than a group of power hungry mer, who sought to drip dry the blood of those who defied them. Despicable cowards.

Yet here he was, Alinor long behind him, garbed in a Thalmor uniform, Oblivion bound to Skyrim. Again. He had spent many years in Skyrim in the past, it was fun, adventurous for a young high elven adult, who thirsted for a life beyond silk pillows. Snow was delightful, rain was something to laugh off, yet he found himself dreading the cold land of the nords now. Frigid discomfort spread like ice crystals in his stomach, his single eye observing the dark blue water and the mist that hung over, the pristine craftsmanship of the altmeri vessel a stark contrast to the sea of Skyrim. 'Fellow' Thalmor had tried to be chummy on the journey, though Haerendil had accepted none of it, he could hardly relate to the notion of elven supremacy when flaws stretched across all races. Yet. one thing did attract his eye, no he obsessed over it.

Power, unquestioned, murderous permission. The very concept that he would be able enact vengeance by his own hands without legal issue was enticing beyond belief to him in these times. The assignment he had been given already set off a dark, hateful fire in his being to sow havoc into Stormcloak ranks, against them..And against that cursed half orc…

Chapter 1

In times past, the Rift had been his favourite region, with a seemingly permanent autumn air, the buzz of bees and other harmless insects, the flurry of flowers and the soft rich scent of earth and clean mountain water. However, coming back the region only tore a sore hole in his chest, aching miserably as he forced his gilt lined black boots across the ground. Memories of times gone and soiled, bore into his mind, forcing a scowl on golden scarred features, gloved fingers fussing with his braided blonde hair as he insured it was neatly out of the way. His heart craved blood and suffering of a particular group, and this assignment would grant him that-even if briefly.

Garbed in a deep black cloak, nimble robe and a fine leather eyepatch that obscured the main morbid remnant of his lost eyeball, he approached the city gates, a scowl one could only describe as deadset hate on his gaunt features as he moved to enter, suddenly feeling a rough steel hand collide to halt him from entering.

"Oi! Elf, pay the tax!" Came the strong accent of a nord, and Haerendil's golden eye darted to him, brows furrowing in barely quelled fury as he resisted stabbing the man there and now. He could not afford to enact lowly vengeance on men who had little but racial resemblance to the foes he hunted.

"Tax? To get into this rundown dump of corruption? You've got to be joking." The (now) Thalmor Assassin jabbed rigidly, a hand on his sheathed weapon behind his cape, seeing as their faces were obscured he could not tell how they took his words, but brawny arms were folded and snorts were shared by the two guards that stood at the gates.

"Fine, keep it quiet then, smart elf, but someone will catch you." Was the response, as the uneasy creak of the old wooden doors began to reel, an unfriendly pat was attempted to be granted on the altmer's back, but was narrowly missed for preference of personal space. The familiar town of Riften greeted his sights and senses, though Haerendil was sadly in no mood to reminisce or even consider taking the day slow and meeting up with old friends. They would hardly recognise what in Oblivion he had become with a missing eye, scars that reached from his forehead to his jaw, nevermind his personality, whatever was left.

Waiting for the night to come was achingly dull, as perhaps stereotypical of any high elf, he abstained from consuming anything aside from light nibbles like bread and dried fruit while in this state of anguished hate, claiming unrest and unwellness to avoid being egged on by the overly friendly argonians to eat more. Later, he bid them good bye with a false a forced smile.

But now it was later, and Haerendil's taut stomach growled for nourishment, his organs offended by his vengeful fasting. Still he paid no mind, he had rather...crucial business to take care of, having left the inn through a window and leaving the rest of his tracks through muffle and invisibility, he made his way to the Jarl's hall. He did not care to memorize the name, only the map and where to put the key.

Nimble steps climbed up walls, opened gates without a sound and stepped with silence, the journey was painful, for the guards were numerous and in clumps, meaning any silent kills on them to assist later escapes were a pain. At the moment however, the altmer's head was a cloud, solely focused on the murder he would be committing tonight, the shed of blood. Haerendil had only killed bandits and criminals in the past, never had he intentionally murdered someone for any reason other than crime. Tonight that would change.

In a small room he clambered up the wooden rafters, taking a moment to adjust his breath, as he pulled his hood and mask up, adjusting the patch on his missing eye as it began to itch. The altmer took a moment to refresh the muffle spell as he adjusted the knife on his hip, an imperial blade.. The assignment was to let stir the stormcloak sentiment in the Rift a little more, make them bite more fiercely against the Empire and thus continue their silly war. Now, Haerendil thought it cruel to deliberately manipulate a country into civil war for the purpose of weakening an already broken enemy, but any chance to stab stormcloaks and let them rot and wither and enforce more murder among their ranks was an opportunity he snatched with murderous greed.

Actually using the dull, stocky imperial dagger was not in his perogative however, he would be using his own elven blade, specifically forged and enchanted for this occasion and many more. The creak of the door in the furred floor room caught the altmer's attention, pointed ears snapping to attention as invisibility covered his body. In walked two nords, arguing..or debating rather aimlessly about the rebellion, one in support and one indifferent. The familiarity of their voices irked him. Oh...Vagnar. THe altmer silently cursed as he recognized the stormcloak fellow, having shared a mead and many jokes not two years ago. He shook his head, forcing his heart to harden, this was different now, after what the stormcloaks did to him, Trinimac knows how he loathed them.

Twenty minutes of aching waiting passed before at long last, the other man left the room, leaving Vagn-the stormcloak officer alone, quietly the nord dutifully poured a glass of mead into a mug, however he was sorely interrupted when a blade was suddenly driven in his back with such ferocity that the glass was dropped with a sudden shatter.

"Shit.." Haerendil swore as he guided the nord to the ground, indifferent to the blood that spilled onto his gloves as adrenaline rushed through his lean body. The nord gave a few chokes, attempting to grab at his murderer before eyes widened with recognition.

"Haerendil?!" Vagnar exclaimed in a low choking voice, which took the high elf by surprise, urging him to slap the hands away and rush to get the imperial blade.

"Dammit, Haer.. Thought ye' were above all this.. Thalmor prattle." He spoke- it struck the altmer, how sad the man sounded, though he did not let him finish as he forced himself to thrust the next blade straight into his chest, grimacing at the sound of the dagger embedding into the man's skin and body, forcing the life out of him before he spoke more.

The altmer foolishly stood, stunned and unmoving, thoughts racing incoherently as he stared at his bleeding fingers, taking a breath, anger rushed through him too as he tried to sooth his doubt with vengeful intentions and detachment. This one was like the rest.. He was nothing, he was nothing..

"Haerendil?! Good gods, what happened to you?! What are you doing!" Came an all too familiar, voice and Haerendil could have sworn he had hallucinated it before he felt an iron grip on his shoulder, harshly pulling him up, a rigid gasp was given shaking him from his thoughts, the man who held him froze his heart to ice and set alight panic in his stomach like a wild storm.

The Thalmor assassin wasted no time in getting ran, he ran with invisibility barely clinging to his shoulders as he fled, legs pounding on the soil and pavement. How did this happen, how was that cursed Half orc there?!

Chapter 2 (coming soon)