Elder Scroll series 1. Chapter 1

_Run! You hear me Anderson? Run!_

_If those blasted Nords catch you, then your fun, and your life, ends._

_Run!_

He kept mentally chastising himself. The cold winds of the Skyrim mountains whipped all around him, an intense blizzard was brewing up. It was so cold, he could feel it through the thick armour he had created for himself. A mixture of various pelts, cruedly sewn to old leather, with several pieces of iron scattered along the coat, for added protection. He even put a fluffy hood up to protect his face from the vile mountain winds.

He could hear the blabbering of those Nord morons behind him, despite the intensity of the storm. "Damn it! Can any of you see that Imperial pig?". One of his allies responded quickly "Bjorn I can hardly see past my own nose with this damn storm. Maybe we should turn back?". The leader, Bjorn, responded "No way! We don't turn back 'till that monster is either dead, or out of Skyrim!". The three other men nodded, and pressed on through the oncoming storm.

Anderson, meanwhile, was running ragged. These cretins had been chasing him up this mountain range for hours now. But he couldn't stop. Not when he was so close to the summit. So close to Cyrodiil. So close to freedom.

"Ongar, can you get a clear shot at him?" Bjorn asked to the bowman beside him. The bowman nodded hesitantly "Yes. I think I see him". He pulled his bowstring back, dwarven arrow aimed at the dark blob that was fading into the blizzard ahead "Ysmir, let my arrow hit my mark" he whispered, letting the arrow fly.

_*THUNK*_

Hearing that sound, and the muffled grunt that followed, Ongar smiled in satisfaction. Anderson, however, was far less satisfied. The arrow struck his right shoulder, through all the layers he was wearing. The hit slowed him down, but he couldn't stop. The edge was just a few steps away. Suddenly, he was struck by another arrow, this one hit him just above the hip, and knocked him off balance, causing him to tumble down the mountain benath him.

The four Nords stopped just at the summit, watching the famed murderer, who had terrorised Skyrim the past few months, tumble down the mountains to his likely death, until he faded from sight. Bjorn snorted "Even if he survived, he's Cyrodiil's problem now. Let's get back to the town, before this blizzard gets any worse...". and so they left, praying that this problem was gone for good. Or at least, gone from Skyrim for good.

_*Several minutes later, and several metres downward* _

Anderson eyes opened weakly. Apparantly, a small ridge had broken his fall. And most of his ribs. "Well Anderson...Luck's on your side again. Now to just get up and...*Hng*...Damn" he mumbled, barely conscious. Azura knows how many injuries he had just taken, all he knew was that he was mere inches from death. He'd need to act quickly to get out of this.

Anderson weakly raised one arm up, and started patting around at the various pouches on his belt, and paused at the one on his left-hand side. Opening the pouch, he pulled out a small purple bottle, miraculously intact from the fall. He slowly unscrewed the cap on the bottle, and swallowed the strange glowing liquid inside. "Ah...healing potion, work your magic" he groaned, rolling onto his back.

Slowly but surely, the potion began to heal most of Andersons broken bones, and his bruises. His stamina was also returning to him. He now felt strong enough to make his descent down the mountain. Thankfully, the blizzard winds were also dying down. There certainly wouldn't be any problems now. Maybe. Hopefully. It could hardly get much worse.

Anderson slowly stood up on the ridge, and continued, slowly clambering down the mountain. Hard to say the least, when you were just hit by two arrows and sent tumbling down a mountain to your doom. But Anderson was determined. Metre by metre, he descended, his strength slowly returning with every passing moment thanks to that stopped, reaching another ridge jutting out, with a tent stuck up and a fire burning, both being blown by the freezing wind. Anderson paused to check his map of Cyrodiil, curious about this area "Dive Rock?" he muttered to himself, examinging the map of the Jerall's closely.

He paused. Where had he heard about Dive Rock before? Something about a monster. It didn't matter, it was just a stupid sto-

_*CRACK*_

Anderson was knocked out of his thoughts by a massive fist, knocking him several feet away. Anderson looked around quickly. He couldn't see hide nor hair of his attacker.

_*CRACK*_

Another blow, staggering Anderson. He could hear the screeches of a troll. Now he remembered the legend of Dive Rock. A giant invisble troll was supposed to live around here. Anderson reached for the large sword on his back: A great big cleaver, the length of his arm, and half as wide as his torso. It wasn't graceful, or light, but it was a killing tool and that was all that was required of it. He had no time to check where the beast was, he was too weak to waste time like that. Anderson swung his cleaver wildy in fron of him, and through sheer luck, he managed to cut the troll straight across the chest, blood splattering across the snow. Funny, it's innards weren't invisible.

Now, with a large gash on it's chest, the beast was far easier to see. That didn't detract from it's lethal nature of course. The troll flailed it's invisible arm out, smashing Anderson in the jaw, almost breaking it. Anderson retaliated, swinging his cleaver in an upward arc. There was a dull thud. One of the beasts limbs had been cleaved off. It screeched in anguish, swinging it's remaining arm out, knocking Anderson to the ground. As Anderson's consciousness faded, the last thing he heard was the troll fleeing into the snow, and the sound of human footsteps.


	2. Back from the dead

_"Fighting the Uderfrykte Matron in the middle of a blizzard? You are either very brave or very foolish"_

That was the first thing Anderson heard. A calming elven females voice, from the person who was carrying him down the mountain. He could not see however. His vision was blurring, and he was fading in and out of consciousness. This woman was just a solid mass of black as far as he could see. Though he could tell that she was an Altmer. Evident from her height. She began speaking again

_"The Night Mother has watched you for many years now, Gerich Anderson"_

Anderson's eyes widened slightly. Nobody had ever called him by his first name in over ten years. He found it more respectful to be called by his last name, and only his last name. He mumbled "How'd you know my name...?". Of course, his semi-conscious manner made it sound like sleepy gibberish, so she simply ignored it.

_"Of course, you were constantly being chased by the law, so she could never get an agent close to you. But now that you're in Cyrodiil, things are different. By the time you wake, a new destiny will await you"_

As the elf ended her sentence, Anderson drifted off again into the darkness.

_*The next day*_

Andersons eyes opened slowly, and his vision swam in and out of focus. He raised an eyebrow, seeing thatching on the ceiling above him. He looked around slowly, and was surprised at just how stiff his movements were. How long had he been out? His armour was neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and his cleaver was propped up against one of the wooden walls. He slowly sat up, grunting in discomfort. He was sore and stiff, but certainly alot better then he was while he was being carried by that elf.

The question was, where had he been carried too? This was clearly a bedroom, most likely an inn room, but he still had no idea where this inn was. He stood up off the bed, dressing himself in his armour, which was looking worse for wear in all honesty. He grabbed his cleaver and strapped it onto his back and headed for the door. He paused, checking his face in the room's mirror. He looked alright. Same short brown hair, same two scars arcing around his right eye. Didn't seem like he had any lasting injuries from his fall or his fight with that giant troll.

He turned the brass door handle, and stepped out, into a short wooden corridor, with another bedroom not to far from Anderson's own. The hallway lead into a large tavern, with about three Nords sitting around. Was he still in Skyrim? No, that'd be impossible, he would have been killed on sight if this were Skyrim, not given a room for the night. But still, he couldn't be too careful. He took a few slow steos into the tavern, approaching an aged Nord dressed in a green shirt and light brown pants.

The Nord seemed surprised to see Anderson walking around, and stood up to greet him "Ah you're awake, that's good. The Altmer that brought you in here asked me to give you this note when you awoke". He held out an envelope, sealed with a strange red stamp. Anderson took the envelope from the aged Nord, giving off a quiet 'thank you' as he did so. Anderson sat on one of the old wooden chairs, opening up the envelope, and looking over the letter.

_Gerich_

_I apologise for not being able to give you this message in person, but there were many urgent matters I needed to atttend to, and I simply couldn't waste time waiting on you. I'm sure you have many questions right now, but I will only answer a few in this note._

_Before I left you in the Tap and Tack's guest room, I gave you several healing potions, hoping they would have you healed when you woke. You were in pretty rough shape when I carried you here, so it might have taken about a day for your body to fully heal. You may also be wondering why I saved you in the first place. The reason is simple. You are a perfect candidate to join the Dark Brotherhood. _

_The Night Mother has watched over you for many years, from when you stood over your fathers bleeding corpse, knife in hand. However, you have been on the run for many years, and she has never been able to get an agent close to you. Now however, you are believed dead. You have a clean slate, and an opportunity for a new home. You must complete one task. Simple, given your previous qualifications._

_On the silver road from Bruma to the Imperial City, there is a small log cabin tucked away at the roadside. Inside, you will find Gaspar the huntsman. Gaspar's arrogance has earned him several enemies in the past. One of them wants him dead, and they have employed the Dark Brotherhood to perform this task. Be warned however, that Gaspar is skilled with his axe, and will fight to the death if given the chance. _

_If you perform this task, then I will meet with you the next time you sleep in an area I deem secure._

_~Arquen_

Anderson narrowed his eyes. This 'night mother' knew much about him. Perhaps too much for his liking.

He rubbed his chin, deep in thought. Working with the Brotherhood would give him a safe haven if thing ever got too hot. And there is nothing better then getting paid to do what you love. Anderson, stuffed the note into his trouser pocket, his mind made up. He gave a quiet thanks to the Inn-keeper, and opened the door to Bruma. The cold mountain air of the Nordic town hit him like a slap in the face, removing what little sleep was left in his system. He took a quick look around at the quaint Nord town, with it's wooden houses and snow-capped rooftops. Didn't feel like he had left Skyrim at all.

He grumbled something vaguely racial about Nords under his breath, and continued on his way.

_*Two hours of walking later*_

The further Anderson got from Bruma, the warmer it got, and Anderson was glad of it. He had spent too long out in the cold, and was glad to be in a warmer climate. He paused a moment, spotting smoke on the horizon, most likely from a chimney judging by the size of the smoke cloud. Anderson raised an eyebrow. Could this be the cabin he was searching for? All the animal pelts strung up along it's walls certainly made it seem like it.

Anderson neared the cabin, and forced open the well-built wooden door. No point wasting time on his targets. He looked over the cabins occupant, a rather tall Breton, built like an ox. He was clad in a red iron chest plate, dark blacksmiths pants, and a pair of fur gauntlets. His hair wasblack and well looked after, and there was not a single scratch on his face. He looked like a priss. "Hail, lowly traveller!" he boomed.

"What can I, the great Gaspar, do for you?" he asked, his voice grating on Anderson's nerves. Anderson narrowed his eyes "You can bleed" he hissed, drawing his cleaver. Gaspar barely had a moment to react before Anderson swung his ckeaver down on the huntsman. The mighty blade missed Gaspar, cleaving into the table behind him The huntsman now had his wits about him, and grabbed his iron battle-axe. No lunatic would take his life.

The huntsman dove forward, and traded blows with the assasin, cutting into his fur and leather armour. Anderson managed to deflect most of the huntsman's attacks, and gave several deep gashes into Gaspars cuirass. Anderson rolled backward, dodging a strike from Gaspar. He swung his cleaver outward, cutting through the large Breton's right knee like wet paper. The once formindable huntsman fell to the ground, screaming in agony, fighting back tears in his eyes.

"YOU CUT OFF MY LEG!" He screamed, as Anderson circled around him, chuckling lightly. "Yes. Yes I did. And now I'm going to do the same to your head" The assasin raised his cleaver up, and the last thing Gaspar the huntsman ever saw was Anderson's cleaver flying downward.


	3. What is the colour of night?

Anderson grumbled in his sleep

_"You worthless waste of flesh..."_

He was doubtful anbody would come this far into the woods to check on the now dead hunter. As such, his bed would be 'safe' enough for his strange savious to visit. For now however, he was busy sleeping. Dreaming of his childhood days in Morrowind. He didn't like Morrowind. It's Dunmer people looked down upon him for being an Imperial. They had no right. The Empire ruled those damn dirty elves.

He turned on his side, his breathing getting heavier. In his dream, his father stood over him, fists bloody. Anderson was barely in his teens at that time in his life. But that would never stop his father. That madman would throw a bag of babies into a lake of slaughterfish, if he felt they were 'acting up'.

Suddenly, he was shaken from his dream/nightmare. The air had grown cold, a shadow was eclipsing him. He looked up, seeing a female Altmer clade in all-black robes standing over him "Arquen, I presume?" he asked sitting up. The female smiled warmly in response "Indeed, I am. You have served the Night Mother well by delivering this arrogant fool to the dread father of Sithis. Shewants you to have these, as thanks". She reached into the long sleeves in her robes, pulling a pair of thin, elbow length blades out. "An assasin must be swift and graceful, yet also undoubtedly deadly..." she began, handing Anderson the blades.

She looked over at the large cleaver propped against the cabin wall "Not slow and clumsy. You will find the enchantments most useful too. The blade in your right hand will absorb the health and strength from those they cut, while the one in your left hand will erode the armour of whoever they strike". Anderson looked over the blades, smirking as he did so. They were certainly lighter then the old cleaver, and far deadlier. "Well, you can tell the Night Mother I said thanks...So, what do we do next?" he asked, putting his armour back on. Arquen smiled, opening the cabin door casually "You follow me".

And they set off, heading toward Cheydinhal. Surprisingly, they did not go into Chedinhal, they walked straight past the town, heading instead into the mountains. Anderson groaned. He had seen enough of mountains to last him a thousand lifetimes. They walked for hours, all the while Arquen filled him in on the rules, or 'tennets', of the Dark Brotherhood, the Black Hand and finally the Sanctuary Anderson would be working at. "Little over 2 years ago, the Valus mountain sanctuary was the home of an Orcish noble, know as Lord Rugdumph". Surprisingly, Arquen giggled like a schoolgirl saying the name aloud, though Anderson couldn't help but laugh too. Arquen cleared her throat and continued.

"The manor was plagued by a little Ogre problem. It got so bad that the lord and his daughter fled, finding a home in Cheydinhal. Their loss was the Brotherhood's gain. We had no problem clearing the Ogres from the area, and set about creating a new sanctuary in the old manor. Shortly before that time, the Dark Brotherhood had suffered a crippling blow in Cyrodiil. A traitor in the order ended up tricking an unsuspecting Silencer into killing off most of the Black Hand. But, soon the traitor was reveaed and slain by that Silencer, who was named as the new Listener by the Night Mother herself. She soon set about repairing the damage the traitor had caused, creating many new sanctuaries in Cyrodiil, and recruiting many new members".

She came to a halt, just in front of the crumbling abandoned manor. Anderson's jaw dropped "I have to live HERE?". His surprise was warranted. The windows were cracked, part of the roof was caved-in, the bricks were worn and cracked. It certainly didn't look like a nobleman's home. Arquen chuckled in response "When you go in there head over to the fireplace, and put your hand on the mantle. You will be asked a question. Your response, will be "Sanguine, my brother". Then Arquen simply faded from sight dissapearing with the frozen mountain winds. Anderson blinked repeatedly in surprise. He would need to learn that trick.

Deciding to continue on his mission, he forced open the door. It's hinges were rusted, making the task a little difficult. He took a look around. It certainly din't look any better on the inside. The paint was chipping, the stairs were collapsing, and several statues were smashed and toppled over. He grumbled heading for the fireplace. He took Arquen's advice, putting his hand on the fireplace. Suddenly, a ghostly voice rang through the room, and for a moment, Anderson thought there was a ghost in the mansion.

_"What...Is the colour...Of night?"_

The ethereal voice wheezed. Anderson swallowed deep, answering the spirit "S-Sanguine, my brother".

There was sudden rumbling behind Anderson, He turned quickly, seeing a large chunk of the scenery opening up like a stone trap-door. Anderson peered down, seeing a rickety old ladder leading down into darkness. Anderson sighed deeply, mentally preparing himself for whatever might lay ahead. He grabbed the first the top of the ladder and slowly began climbin down into the dark embrace of the sanctuary, only hearing one thing as he made his descent.

_"Welcome...home..."_


End file.

Elder Scroll series, Crime, Fantasy