To Kill a Nightingale

Monsters

Rarely had a detail of history been as telling as the struggle of the Orsimer—long regarded as no better than monsters by other races—for their own sovereign kingdom. Time and time again Orsinium had risen in the mountains of northwestern Tamriel, and time and time again it had been torn down, long-standing sovereignty ever but an ephemeral dream. Today, the latest incarnation of Orsinium stood in the mountains separating Hammerfell and Skyrim, falling within the territory of the latter. Perhaps the Orsimer had hopes that the Redguard of post-war Hammerfell would feel enough sympathy for the pariah elves to respect their long struggle for independence. Or perhaps, more realistically, it was simply that they hoped that the dire political position of the province, being under constant threat of fresh aggression from the Aldmeri Dominion, would be enough to deter them from unnecessary cage rattling.

Whatever the case, the two races admittedly did share certain qualities. For one, they were both markedly martial societies; both believed in instilling the art of warfare into their people virtually from infancy, and thus each hosted some of the most fearsome warriors in Tamriel. However, while this had led to Hammerfell keeping any invading force from breaching their borders, the Orsimer boasted a decidedly less successful track record. Each in their way was also an outsider in Tamriel. Not that there weren't stark differences regarding this as well. The Redguard, hailing from the continent of Yokudan, arrived in Tamriel in the First Era and occupied Hammerfell—driving out the Orsimer, as it happened—and immediately took their place as though it had been rightfully reserved for them since the dawn of time—and had ever since portrayed such unwavering confidence in their innate superiority to their fairer-skinned conspecifics that the latter seemed to be of half a mind to believe it as well. This was a stark contrast, of course, to the Orsimer—despised by even the Dunmer!

Although perhaps this in its way was precisely how the Orsimer wanted to be seen: the way they saw themselves.

The third quality the two races shared was of course that many of them distrusted magic. But this was where Bashnag found he had to cease his meditations.

Magic. Yes, beyond doubt: he loathed it! And yet . . .

He grunted. Truly, how different was he from his brethren?

Suddenly once more engulfed within the dark cloud of his thoughts, he wondered what it was that had sparked these reveries. Yes, of course . . . the Alik'r warriors. A peculiar bunch, traditional to a fault even among their own people. They had not troubled Bashnag in the least as he'd ridden through their encampment, only stood there wordlessly staring at him. Those undecipherable looks, they had greatly bothered him, for they might have contained the deepest of contempt as much as some modicum of respect, and in either case he would have never known.

Be that as it may, the desert folk were well behind him now. They must have been the ones that the Nightingale had discussed with Queen Elisif. What business did they have in Skyrim?

Whatever it was, I can be reasonably sure it has nothing to do with me . . . and that's all I care to know.

Bashnag's perfidious heart leapt when he spied the dark-clad figure ahead—standing by the road all alone, exuding utter lack of concern for virtually miles around. But the Orsimer couldn't tell whether it was gladness or dread which moved him. Most likely, as usual, it was a bit of both.

The Nightingale gave a tender smile as he saw, or at least when he decided to acknowledge, Bashnag's arrival. "Bashnag!" he said. "Punctual as ever, I see. Glad to see you, old friend."

Bashnag replied with a curt nod. "Boss." The horse came to a stop without prompting, parking itself by the Nightingale. Bashnag dismounted, glad to feel the ground underneath his feet again.