Author's Note: A small short story I wrote a long time ago as a fanfiction for The Elder Scrolls Universe. I now plan on adding more chapters as I have time to do so every once in a while. Please leave any and all feedback and I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible!

Darker Intentions

I will never forget that day. The day that I slew my first man, finished my first contract. The day that marked the beginnings of my long and blood-smeared career underneath the cold gaze of the Night Mother, and in turn her master, the Dark Lord Sithis.

A cold chill crept through my body, seeping into my bones as I awaited my prey. My target was Mal'thren, a Khajiit caravaneer, and I did not know the motive to this murder, nor was I required to care. All I knew was one thing: If I failed this contract, I failed initiation, and no one survived a failed initiation. I drew my knife eagerly, in anticipation of the coming events, the blood to be spilled. Although proven dangerous, I could not help myself from smiling at the task that had been put before me. No contract this difficult had been given to an initiate in almost 200 years, though this did not cause me to falter. If my masters felt me ready for such a job, then I would do my best to complete it.

What I had not, however, been told, was that this Mal'thren had been an ex-Blade member - a personal guard for the Emperor of Tamriel himself - and if a Khajiit had been allowed to join the ranks of the near Imperial-only brotherhood, then he had to have been extremely well versed in the arts of the sword. However, I myself had also proved to have a deft hand at swordplay, proven when I overpowered, interrogated and systematically slew Mal'threns battle-hardened caravan crew. Still, not only had my attempts on his life been thwarted, but I myself had found myself in life threatening danger on two separate occasions, courtesy of this Khajiit swordmaster.

On my first attempt at his life, my shield arm lay crippled and useless for nearly a week, and on my second, I was left coughing and spluttering blood into the Whiterun river for nearly an hour. I knew that I had been extremely lucky that Mal'thren had a small shred of honour left, for I had been at his mercy completely.

Only by the grace of the Nine Divines had I survived thus far. But today, this Morndas evening, I knew that Mal'thren would fall to my blade, and my fate with the Dark Brotherhood would be sealed. Deep within the forests surrounding Falkreath, I lay in wait along the well travelled road that Mal'thren had been reported to take every second week of the month, though normally he would have been with his own crew. With his crew slain, however, it was up to Mal'thren to deliver his goods to the highest bidder.

He would not escape me again.

As I gazed out onto the moonlit path before me, a deep fog unravelled from the far side of the foliage, and began enshrouding my vision. Just as I had felt hope of finding Mal'thren on this path retreated from my heart, I caught sight of the tawny orange fur that had given him the nickname of "Red Fury".

This is my chance! I thought to myself, and I slowly slinked forward towards my target. No more shall I hide behind another, as self-proclaimed "Greater Men" put forth their own heroic deeds. No more, for I had become the silent hunter, the watcher in the night, the stalker of the shadows.

Mal'threns ears perked up as I followed closely behind in the mist, but as he did not turn around I thought myself safe. However, as I raised my blade above his head, the Khajiit whipped around and carved a jagged line across my barely protected mid section.

Blood poured from my wound, but now was not the time to serve myself, but instead, to serve the Night Mother. Mal'thren had time to do little more then open his mouth in surprise, and widen his eyes in alarm, as my knife blade buried itself deep through his collarbone and pierced his heart. With a choking gasp, he fell to the ground, and let out a deep sigh as he died. The tight grip on his blade slackened, and with a soft clang fell to the ground. I had done it. I had completed my task, though with some difficulty, and my enemy now lay slain before me.

The Night Mother must surely have been pleased.

As I stepped down to examine Mal'threns body, I once again became aware of a sharp pain in my stomach. I glanced down for a moment, and my head span as I remembered the sword stroke I had received only moments before. Blood was forming in a pool around my feet, and still more poured from my deep gash. I hastily rummaged through his pack, desperately searching for something that I could use to staunch the river of blood that still yet flowed.

Aha! I thought to myself, as I pulled a small vial of red liquid from his pack. I gulped down the mixture, and immediately felt a wave of warm relief rush through my body. My wound began reparing itself with the help of the magic healing elixir I had drunken, and the pain slowly subsided into a aggravating annoyance, until finally, except for the mass of blood covering both my clothes and the ground around me, it seemed I had not suffered any injury whatsoever.

Loss of blood, however, was a completely different matter altogether. I slowly felt consciousness slip away from my grasp, and as I lay onto the cold ground of the forest path, I fell into a dreamless sleep.

And so began one Dark Elf's journey from wayward farmer to cold blooded murderer. My name is Morkarion. And this, is my story.