The New Faces of Skyrim

Chapter One - Mynil

"Thank you, Kleppr. A delicious meal as always." Mynil slid his septims across the counter to the innkeeper, assuring him to keep any extra.

Kleppr swept the gold from the counter to his hand, nodding. "It's worth it to splurge on cheese every once in awhile isn't it?"

Mynil grinned at him. "You convinced me. I'll be back soon for some more of that, you hear?"

The innkeeper gave him a pleased nod in reply, turning to help another customer. Mynil chuckled softly to himself and began to make his way to the door. He faltered briefly when someone spat at his feet, a shudder working up his back at the sight of the frothy puddle resting on his shoe. "Filthy gray-skin daedra worshipper."

Biting his cheek, Mynil continued on. That was one thing he hated about being in public; some Nord always went out of their way to make a snide comment about his race. Or spit at his feet. Both happened with a regularity he wished -- from the very bottom of his daedra-worshipping heart -- would stop. With a twitch of his lip, he reminded himself that at least he didn't live in Windhelm anymore. Markarth took much of the Nord's racist edge away. Perhaps the closer they get to Ulfric, the more the idea spread and festered. Whatever the fact, Mynil wasn't willing to test that theory again. Not with the scars he carried.

The night outside tickled his face with odd warmth. Not a trace of the city's usual howling wind blew through the streets. It seemed those cold gusts had briefly succumbed to the light touch of spring heat. The moons had even risen to above the cliffs that sheltered the city, the full scope of Masser and the half light of Secunda lighting the streets in white glow. Despite the eerie feeling of moonlight, Mynil made a split-second decision to take a walk. He'd been considering it for a while, yet always with the touch of fear that comes with past bad experiences. Markarth made him feel safer, somehow. Maybe it was the house he could lock at night. Maybe it was the spells he worked hard to perfect during the journey from Windhelm to here.

He was still on edge, despite whatever assurances he could give himself. The words for the flames spell stayed on the tip of his tongue at all times. He'd caught himself repeating some of it at surprise conversations instead of a simple "hello, how are you doing?" or "the weather is nice, today."

One of the guards gave him a polite nod at the gates. The other stared straight ahead, the shift of weight the only sign that he wasn't carved of stone. Mynil made sure to still murmur a quiet hello as he pushed his way through the heavy doors and out beyond the walls of Markarth. Outside he met perfect silence. The only movement came from one of the horses tethered in the stables, everyone else had retreated indoors for the night to the warmth of their beds and meals.

Gravel crunched beneath the Dunmer's feet as he padded along the path, basking in the warm breeze that began to stir new grass into gentle waves. He stopped near a flat boulder and leaned his shoulder against it to watch the curtains of light flicker above him. It took him much too long to realize the gravel hadn't stopped crunching.

In his fleeting thoughts, he wanted to believe that another shared his idea of a nighttime walk. But, in his chest, tied to his heart in a suicidal plunge, was his sudden lack of hope. It couldn't be someone friendly. Never in his twenty-five years was how that worked, so why would it stop now?

Spinning, Mynil felt his blood run cold, chilling him from the inside out. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck rose in kind. Slowing to a stop, just behind him, stood a massive black stallion. 

His monstrous shoulder rose above Mynil's head, and his swinging, snorting head even further. The eyes, however, unnerved Mynil the most. They glowed bright red in the night, and the rapid swing of his head left tiny, glowing trails.

On his back sat a woman in black armor, accented by blood red. Her hood and mask covered most of her face, revealing only bright orange eyes. More alarming then those focused eyes was the jaggedly shaped bow she gripped in tight hands, one of those holding the bowstring to her cheek, knocked with an arrow that matched the strange shape of its partner. Mynil's gaze fell to the arrowhead, suddenly hoping that if that... thing hit him, it would kill him. He did not want to dig it out if worse came to worse.

He took in the armor again, the horse, the bow. He remembered the books and the stories, and felt his heart sink into dull acceptance. So this was it. Some Nord actually had the gall to get rid of Mynil once and forever.

The Dark Brotherhood? Really? He couldn't have done it himself? Mynil thought bitterly.

"Speak. Qa'shan would enjoy hearing the undead talk."

Undead? Mynil glanced briefly at his raised arms of surrender. They weren't made of bone. They weren't the mummified flesh of a draugr. In fact, his skin was very much alive and well. There was really only one thing this woman -- a Khajiit by the sounds of it -- could possibly mistake him for.

Mynil swallowed and made a shaky remark. "Uhh... I'm not a vampire."

The bow and its fearsome-looking arrow did not waver. "Do you think Qa'shan stupid? This one has been hunting you for weeks. Many in Markarth pointed her to you."

"W-wait! Please. I can prove it," Mynil cried, seeing new light. "Just put down your bow, please."

Qa'shan glared at him. Slowly, she released the bowstring and gave the Dunmer an expectant look. "Go on."

"Who are you looking for? What's his name?"

"Brandr."

"There! See? My name is Mynil. Mynil Fire-Hands."

Qa'shan didn't look convinced. Though what did he know? He could only see her eyes and her tail twitching behind her. "So?"

She punctuated her curt word with a snort. Unconvinced seemed a safe bet.

Desperate, he pulled at his top lip. "No sharp teeth!"

Another snort. "Whatever you say, Fire-Hands." Her bow lifted again, her gloved hands working with quick precision. So quick he could barely send a prayer to Azura.

A soft twang sung through the air.