From Shadow to Mist

The air in Narsis, Deshaan was thick with the scent of wet stone and burning resin, the evening torches casting elongated shadows along the alleyways. Ab’ir moved like a soft breeze, unseen and unheard, his footsteps fading into the murmur of the city. He had come here to investigate the Llodos Plague, a task given to him by Varon Davel, an advisor for Councilor Ralden of House Hlaalu. Varon suspected something more than chance behind the disease’s spread. Ab’ir hoped it would help him find leads into the Tong underworld. Investigate with prejudice, Varon said. He could do that.

He traced the movements of a Dunmer merchant named Evis Marys, whose name had surfaced in exchanges in the Outlaws Refuge beneath the city. The man was elusive, disappearing into Varlas House with the paranoia of someone who knew he was being watched. It made him an excellent lead.

Ab’ir waited until night and walked around the perimeter of the house, looking for exits. Finding none, he pressed his ear up against a window in the back and listened intently to agitated voices. Back around to the front, a deftly picked lock—and he was inside. He crept around the firepit in the center of the floor and crouched at the top of the curved stairs which led into the basement. The voices rose up through the stairwell.

"Please! I told you everything I know!"

Ab’ir crouched just low enough to peer into the basement. It was filled with crates and the stench of aged parchment and mildew. At the far end sat a Dunmer, tied to a chair. A lithe figure wearing dark leather armor bent over him.

"One more lie, and I'll make you stop talking. Permanently. Understand?"

The way she moved—fluid, confident. The tone of her voice, controlled. The cloth over her face, a mark of a professional assassin.

Ab’ir exhaled slowly and crouched, lowering his profile even further. He had not expected this.

She drew a dagger and let its edge trail against the Dunmer’s arm. "We can do this slow, or slower. But either way, you will talk."

The Dunmer whimpered. "I told you, I was paid to move the shipments, I didn’t ask questions!"

The assassin tilted her head, as if considering. "Hmm. Not the answer I was looking for." The dagger bit into flesh. A sharp inhale. "Try again."

Then, suddenly, she went still. Ab’ir leaned back out of sight and froze. Long moments passed.

"You’re good," she murmured.

Ab’ir held his breath.

"Too good to be a common sellsword."

Ab’ir knew he had been made.

He rose and padded quietly down the stairs, hands on his daggers. His expression was unreadable, his stance wary. "Or maybe just lucky,” he said.

Her eyes flicked over him, analyzing every detail. "No," she said, finally. "Not lucky. Skilled. And something else." She sheathed her dagger. "Tell me, what does a Khajiit Nightblade want in my city?"

Ab’ir hesitated. "This one seeks work.”

“Who sent you?”

He paused and played it safe. “Councilor Ralden.”

She cocked her head. “Oh, did he now? Ralden is investigating the Plague, yes, but it is his advisor Davel who hires investigators.”

Drawing close she looked into Ab’ir’s eyes and noticed a flicker of recognition.

“So you’ve met Varon then. You could have said so straight away.” She glanced at his hands and the way he positioned himself. 

“Relax. We work for the same man.”

Ab’ir stood back at ease, bowing slightly. “This one is named Ab’ir.”

“Naryu Virian.” She studied him carefully. “The organization I belong to does two things: finds targets and eliminates targets. My target—and yours, apparently—happens to be connected to the Llodos plague. It’s not uncommon for Davel to send recruits on existing missions to see how it’s done.”

He blinked at her.

“Yes. Welcome to the Morag Tong, Ab’ir.”

Ab’ir adapted readily to the ancient guild of assassins. He learned much about the mechanics and tactics of assassination from them. He learned about the ancient writ system of legalized killings as a way to keep balance among the Morrowind Houses. He learned of their natural Dunmer affiliation and worship of the Good Daedra, especially Mephala. And thus, despite the money, he knew that he could never truly become one of them.

In their ranks, there was frequent discontent that a Khajiit was allowed amongst them. He was tolerated because he was good and becoming great. The quiet steps of a Dark Elf were outmatched by the stealth of a Khajiit combined with his skills as a Nightblade. He had been trained from his childhood in Ziz Kurah, the Whispering Claw, at which he excelled during the Claw-Dances at the Temple.

Soft as a whisper, quick as a shout

Shadows consume curiosity, time, and interest

distance is greater than any weapon.

command the space to move through it unseen.

the claw that passes a whisper is the mark of the master

—The Five Fingers of the Whispering Claw

One day Naryu passed along a writ to him. “Congratulations. This target is one of our highest-ranking nobles in recent years.”

Ab’ir took the scroll, scanning the details. The name. The location. He frowned slightly. “That’s all that’s written?”

She paused. "Someone wants them dead, Ab’ir. That’s all that matters. Our clients provide the details, the Morag Tong writes the official document.” She turned and walked away.

Ab’ir tracked his target for days, deciding on the best location for the hit. The nobleman seemed to be most active at night, and was often seen entering the basement of his house.

“Seems straightforward enough,” thought Ab’ir, and decided upon the basement. 

He went there ahead of him one night and waited. When the target came downstairs Ab’ir immediately knew something was wrong. The well-dressed nobleman somehow spotted Ab’ir in the dark corner and lunged at him with unnatural speed, his lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing white teeth. The Khajiit suddenly found himself in a fight for his life. But his twin daggers were out and ready, and as the Elf slammed into him with the weight of a hunting Senche-Cat, he plunged them deep into his chest, driving them toward the heart. 

Ab’ir stood and looked at the flailing figure lying before him, already beginning to stir. He inhaled sharply. He should have been warned. The writ should have said it. Treachery.

This wouldn’t be an ordinary kill. Decapitation would be needed. He exhaled, bracing himself to finish the job. Then he noticed a sting. A dull, insistent ache creeping up his wrist. He frowned, rubbing at the spot absently. His fingers came away damp. Blood. His breath caught. Not the noble’s. His own.

Slowly, he turned his arm over, and there—two perfect punctures, the skin blackening around them like a brand. “Hahl fajh'na!” he cried out, and sank back in despair.

It took days for what happened to sink in, months for him to begin accepting his new life. He disappeared into the underground, knowing what he was becoming. He sat alone under Jone and Jode on many nights, thinking and meditating. He remembered his foster father, Sahndar, the Keeper of Balance. It is not for the moons to tell us who we are, but for us to learn by walking their path.

Even so, there was a gnawing question which wouldn’t leave him: the look of hesitation on Naryu Virian’s face when she gave him the writ.

Virian assumed him dead until the night she realized she was being hunted.

She led her stalker into a cave and sat with her back against the cold stone, waiting with her blades in her hands. It was almost completely dark but her Dunmer eyes saw well enough. And so she was shocked when a blade pressed up against her neck before she even saw the mist take shape beside her. 

She exhaled slowly. "I had a feeling you weren’t dead."

"Did you know?” His voice was too calm.

Naryu hesitated.

“The Tong wanted Ab’ir out, didn’t they?” He exhaled sharply. “But you gave this one something worse than a death sentence.”

The knife bit into her skin, and she knew he wasn’t bluffing. 

"Who gave you the writ?" Ab’ir growled, his voice dark and terrifying.

Naryu remained still. "You know I can’t tell you that."

The knife began to draw blood.

"And you know what comes next. Or maybe I’ll bite you, instead. Who gave you the writ?"

A long moment stretched out between them.

"Laerael," she murmured.

Ab’ir started. "Who?"

"Laerael Duskstone."

He stepped back, the knife vanishing into the folds of his cloak. For a moment he lingered—silent, unreadable. Then the mist took him.