Chapter Text
The pattern of red threads dispersed into a thousandfold of branches as he watched it unfurl in the dark water, disturbed whenever drops of water fell from his hands into the basin. The beating of his heart was as loud in Lorvyn’s ears as the knock on the door had been mere moments ago.
He needed to tear his eyes away from these dark red ripples, dry his hands, unbraid his hair and put on a set of freshly washed robes, but there was something in the water that seemed like an untapped hidden meaning that would only ever reveal itself to him. Once the pattern dissolved into nothingness, he knew that there wasn’t.
The crimson robe he put on over his linen shirt smelled faintly of bittergreen, he noticed with bewilderment, but there was no time to wonder if someone had spilled spiced tea on it while he had been away. He fastened his dagger and his shortsword to his belt, straightened the hems of his robe, and ran his hand through his hair again in an attempt to look presentable. He wasn’t sure if it was worth it at all, given that there were still bruises across his jaw, only barely hidden by his stubble. For a Housemer, it was inacceptable. For the assassin, however, it felt as though he was carrying a trophy in his arms. His target had resisted, but the fight had been brief, perfect in its execution. A glint of confidence sparked in his heart, casting away the anxiety for just a moment, but the uncertainty reappeared the moment he opened the door to the lamplit hallway.
In the large room at the end of the hallway, his uncle was waiting for him already, his back to the door as he looked out of the window to the grassy fields surrounding Norvayn Bay, red lanterns by the road swaying in the nocturnal wind. No other light illuminated his gaunt figure, and he didn’t move when Lorvyn entered the room.
“I was summoned,” Lorvyn said curtly, bowing his head deeply.
Eldram Velador shifted his head to the side, paused in his movement for a moment, and then turned around to his nephew with a faint smile, something Lorvyn hadn’t seen often. It felt forced, but not out of lack of sincere emotion.
“Nephew. You have not forsaken your duties.”
Lorvyn nodded, smiling as he went further into the room. Of course he hadn’t forsaken them. His duties lay within an intricate web that couldn’t be disturbed.
“Very well. Of course, word of Ather Redoran’s demise has already reached me. What my eyes and ears told me speaks of clean work. As was to be expected of my apprentice.”
It almost seemed as if pride glowed in his uncle’s dark eyes. Lorvyn felt himself draw a deeper breath than he had intended, and hoped it wouldn’t give away what joy this hint of pride made him feel.
“You have proven the professionality with which you are able to fulfil even such complicated writs. I did not give you any information on the target or their whereabouts, withheld any knowledge I had on the traps hidden in the cupboards and under the windowsills of this outcast Housemer’s well-guarded manor. I kept my ideas on which strategy one might utilise to dispatch the target to myself. And within a mere day, you had gathered all the information necessary to find and kill the target. The only blood that remained on your hands was that of your victim. Well done.” The quaint, inscrutable smile still on his face, Eldram bowed his head to his apprentice. Lorvyn could hide his gratification no longer, and the smile on his face broadened. “Since this writ was fulfilled to the guild’s utmost satisfaction, you have advanced to the rank of Knower. I will still remain your mentor for any and all questions you might have, but your writs will from now on come from the hands of the Grandmaster herself.”
Lorvyn folded his hands in front of his chest as he fell to one knee and lowered his eyes, his hair a veil that almost reached down to the coarse carpet. “I am most honoured. I will do all that I can so that I shall not be a disappointment to the Grandmaster.”
“Good. That is for your best as well as mine.” He gestured at Lorvyn to rise again. “Come.”
Without batting an eye, Lorvyn did as he was told, and approached his uncle. He was only a hair’s breadth taller than him, but there were few similarities between the two aside from that. Eldram looked almost like a twin to Lorvyn’s father, but a little less clean, a little less spruced, with grey stubble while his father was always cleanly shaven, and straight, dark hair falling in loose, barely kempt strands down to his shoulders, while his father kept his hair trimmed to his chin at all times. Today, even he was dressed in grey, and not in red. The bluish-grey silken band he wore around his neck, the ends of it hanging down in front of his chest, was painted with the chains that represented their House.
From somewhere between the folds of his robe, he took out an envelope bearing the seal of the Morag Tong. “This writ was issued not by any of the Masters or Exalted Masters, but by Grandmaster Ra’athim herself. Fulfil it, and report back to Balmora. There is no immediate need to hurry, but I advise you not to keep the Grandmaster waiting for long.”
Lorvyn accepted the envelope with a nod. “I will,” he merely said, but when he looked back from the envelope to his uncle, he noticed that a faint frown had appeared in his mentor’s pointed face. “Is there a problem?” he asked immediately, but with a distanced calm. An indifferent tone in his voice, he wanted to make it obvious he was only referring to the contents of the writ - he would not dare ask about the mental wellbeing of his mentor in such a crudely direct fashion.
“These writs will differ from the ones you have received from me and other Masters. If you found that your tasks thus far were easy, you might not run into difficulties. But these targets are far more dangerous than what you have encountered in the past, and if they aren’t, you can be certain they will have guards and traps doing this work for them. Think of Telvanni magisters whose enchantments will steal your life force from you. Imperial statesmen with poisoned door knobs that will make your fingers shrivel to dust. Retired master combatants who will hear you approach before you have even set a foot into their house. Or…” he paused in the middle of his breath, “well, whatever might be waiting for you within this envelope.”
Lorvyn was ready to simply open it and find out, but before he could move a muscle, Eldram stopped him.
“Don’t open it here. Return to your quarters and make sure your equipment is in its best order. Eat and drink. Take as much time as you need,” his uncle instructed him.
Lorvyn gave an uncertain nod in response. “I will. Thank you.” He bowed his head deeply again, then, when his uncle said no more, left the room.
Somehow, his uncle’s behaviour had felt different than it usually was - less collected, less reserved. It made him impatient, almost worried him, and as soon as he was by himself, he sat down on his bed and tore open the seal of the writ. But as he did so, he noticed that his uncle had given him an additional piece of paper of similar size. Confused, he decided on opening the envelope first. The honourable writ of execution was issued for a personage by the name of Terwalanwe, which didn’t ring a bell with him, though he assumed it was an Altmer, judging by the name. No other information was given, so he looked at the other piece of paper, which read, in a familiar hand:
‘Lorvyn,
note that I risk punishment for giving you this piece of information, but I would have done so regardless of our relation by blood. This writ may not seem dangerous to you at first, but it’s very different from what you’re usually asked to do, and much more perilous. I give you this information in the hopes that it will return you to the safehouse alive, and not as ashes I would have to return to Tear. The target is no mere mortal: they are undead, and hide out in the unholy shrine of Tusenend. You know me well enough to be aware that I would never urge anyone to pray, but: praying may just be the only thing saving you from a terrible fate there.’
Lorvyn turned the piece of paper around, but there was nothing else following this sentence. The letter was not signed, but there was little doubt his uncle had written it. Tusenend was not even a day’s worth of travelling from the safehouse. Undead? Lorvyn would have to gather what information he could receive from the locale and its inhabitants, and be on his way as soon as he could.
Had his uncle lost his mind? Never in all the years that he had been his apprentice had his mentor risked his rank by deliberately disobeying the guild’s rules. He stashed away both pieces of paper, but he was sure he would need neither of them anymore. The information was already ingrained in his mind, and what could try to stop him from killing an undead creature in a Daedric shrine? Lorvyn scoffed. Certainly there was nothing that would prove itself an issue for him. Still, he would light the candles at Mephala’s shrine in the parlour before he would go to sleep tonight.