Author's note: Hi all. The two short sections that follow are intended to serve as the earliest origins of the main character of a fanfic I have been working on for a long time. It is also my humble attempt to expand the lore of the Morag Tong and explore unseen regions of Morrowind in an original way. I hope you like it.

Sun's Dusk, 3E 402

The Docks, Imperial City Waterfront, Cyrodiil.

Lamplight bathed the cobbles of the deserted docks in it's warm light, but it brought no relief from the cold air, and brought no comfort to the heavy hearts of the man and woman stood before the ship that would take their young son to the other side of Tamriel—his uncle's farm, in Morrowind. A bell rung ominously in the lighthouse across the dark water, and the steady creeking of many masts in the gentle wind were all sounds that seemed much more noticeable. Every second was precious.

“It's time, sir, ma'am. It'll be dawn soon,” came the gruff voice of the Nordic Captain, a muscular white haired man in a stitched shirt.

Tear's streamed down the face of the mother, and the father held her tightly in a weak attempt to comfort her.

The Captain's hairy arm gently pulled the child from their loving grip.

“Ashtus...” Her son's name was the only word the mother could manage in her grief. The father gave a stiff nod instead, trying to transfer encouragment and strength to the boy who meant everything to him, when he had none to give.

“My son...”

Ashtus turned and looked back forlornly, tears filling his young blue eyes, but the Captain turned him away and guided him into the gloom of the cabin.

“Don't worry, sir,” said a chainmail clad Redguard who emerged from the shadows behind the parents and stepped onto the ship. The family sellsword, Lukas, had agreed to accompany the child to Morrowind. “No harm will come to him on my watch. You have my word.”

Ashtus watched in horror as everything happened all around him. It was all too fast. He had no control, no say. Still on the docks, his parents slowly raised their hands in farewell. He tried to raise his own, but the old wooden door closed in his face, blocking them away forever. He fought desperately to get to the door, to wrestle from the Captain's grip, to see his parent's one last time, but he sensed that the ship was moving. When he finally managed to reach a grimy window some minutes later, his parents were gone, and the lamp-lit docks shrunk with every second.

He fell to his knees and sobbed. Lukas' reassuring hand brought no comfort, and the Captain simply looked at him with cold, grey eyes.

Morning Star, 3E 403

Coastline east of Necrom, Morrowind.

The white towers of Necrom gleamed like a glowing beacon in the grey distance. Gulls soared overhead, white specks in the bleak sky, as frothing waves lashed against the steep cliffs that watched over the eastern sea like great rocky guardians. As if in testamant to the harsh nature of this treacherous region, a vicious pack of cliffracers glided over the spiky ridges, scattering the birds and picking off the stragglers in a hideous chorus of screeches and shrill cries.

Meanwhile far below, along a narrow spit of sandy beach unclaimed by the swelling tide, two travel wary figures trudged along the shoreline, their dark netch leather armours stained with blood and their limbs heavy. With a crunch, a swift chitin arrow punctured the knobbly shell of an attacking mudcrab, and the creature crumpled in the sand, looking once again like nothing more than a rock.

A day before, the Morag Tong assassins-in-training had together successfully completed a writ of execution in Necrom, and were returning to their hidden stronghold in the dangerous Mephalain Wastes to claim their reward. They could almost feel the weight of their reward in gold in their pockets. But more importantly, Mephala had been appeased, and the honour and respect they knew their success would bring was a prize no money could buy. They were one step closer to becoming fully trained Morag Tong agents.

“Indeed your swordplay turned the tide of battle, Murvys,” said Salur Velas in admiration, the bloody scene in his mind not at all faded by the hours of travel behind them. Were it not for his guild brother's swift shortsword, the outcome could have been very different, and their now dead target may have remained very much alive. “I doubt the Faithful themselves could have foreseen it—six Imperial mercenaries guarding his bedchambers, and still we were victorious! Truly the Hlaalu was correct to fear Mephala's justice! Hiding in Indoril lands was a foolish hope.”

“Hmmph! A Great House Dunmer hiding behind foreign mercenaries,” Murvys rasped with House Redoran pride, the frustration still raw. He crouched beside the sea and dipped his blade into the water, allowing the dried, blackened blood to wash away with the ebb and flow. “Westerners do not understand our writs, they are ignorant of the Great Game. The execution should have been cleaner.”

“But it was a worthy test of our skills, and the Ordinators respected our intervention. In any case, I would hate to claim all the credit for such an excellent kill on your part, brother,” Salur said modestly, warily removing the sinister goggled and masked helm from his face to reveal a head of long, black hair that hung down beside his quiver. “Still, we should have foreseen the complications. The Hlaalus do have strong connections with the Empire, afterall.” He retrieved a small bottle from his heavily pocketed belt, and took a swig of the magical draught within. “Come, we should hurry back. Mephala's Faithful will be awaiting our return, and it is unwise to keep them waiting.”

With a tired grunt Murvys stood up straight and followed. It was unwise to keep them waiting. Mephala's Faithful—proud veterans who had left their retirement on the hidden isle of Vounoura to oversee the training of the worthy in Rootwood Hollow: the fabled and secretive training facility of the Morag Tong, where only a select few were permitted access. Being trained there was an honour like no other.

Though fatigued, the acrobatic skill of the two assassins was evident as they lithely ascended a high wall of jagged rocks. Their sheltered cove was at an end, and before them the sea once again lashed against naked cliffs. Many spiked rocks and jagged boulders emerged from the frothing swell.

“Look,” Salur said, pointing down below. “Another ship has been claimed by the coast.”

Sure enough, there it was. Mangled amidst the spikes, with a gaping hole in its hull. But this was unlike any of the other Dunmeri ships and fishing boats whose remains dotted the treacherous landscape.

“That's an Imperial vessel,” Murvys stated with confidence, having seen similar ships many times before at the great docks in Firewatch.

The ship was not a galleon, like the ships used to transport Imperial Legion soldiers and officials from Cyrodiil that Murvys knew. It was smaller and less well made. Probably a merchant vessel. A sense of curiosity overcame Salur almost at once.

“There's a way down, there, along the rocks,” he said excitedly. “The wreck looks very recent, probably from last night's storm. Come on, we should investigate.”

“There is no honour to be had looting from the dead, brother,” Murvys replied sternly, but Salur was already moving.

“But there may be survivors.” His raspy voice muffled by the sea, Salur was already half way down the rocks, hopping from one to the other with trained agility and no fear.

With a sigh of annoyance, Murvys followed.

The filthy white sails of the ship were ripped and riddled with holes, flapping crazily in the salty wind, and water gushed in and out of the hole in the barnacle encrusted hull. When both assassins had climbed onto what remained of the deck, the situation became much clearer. The corpses of three Imperials were sprawled along the splintered and smashed wood, nearby the bloody body of a white haired Nord, crushed beneath the broken mast. A cliffracer was ripping at the Nord's back, plucking free a chunk of flesh with each peck of its sharp beak. It screeched furiously as Murvys slashed at it's wing, pecking and hissing and flailing it's barbed tail. As the wounded beast clumsily tried to take off, Salur's arrow whistled into it's chest, toppling it from the sky and into the swirling sea.

The assassins sheathed their weapons.

“So much for surviv...” Murvys was suddenly cut short. In disbelief he stepped lightly towards the broken door of the modest cabin, once again sliding his shortsword from it's leathery scabbard at his side, this time slowly. Had the magical enchantment on his Morag Tong helm momentarily betrayed him? Or did he really just detect a tiny flicker of life?

“What is it?”

Murvys said nothing as he eased the wooden door aside with his grey skinned hand, and Salur came up softly behind him. Broken and toppled western furniture littered the floor, along with many glass bottles, pieces of cutlery, and the soggy remnants of an old map that had been torn from the wall. Slumped on the floor, propped against an old chest, was a dead Redguard, whose chainmail armour had not stood up to the sharp piece of wood that protruded several feet from his stomach.

The hardened assassins felt little in the way of digust, only pity. They had seen, and contributed to, scenes much more gruesome than this in Mephala's name.

“Over here!” Murvys had detected a life force amidst the carnage, and faint, muffled whimpers came from beneath a small table that had some how remained standing.

Salur crouched down beside it. As his red eyes peered below the rim, they widened upon beholding a small Imperial boy with a head of messy brown hair cowering beneath. No more than perhaps six years of age, the terrified child he was dressed in western garb, wet and filthy, and gazed frightfully at the two Dunmer with teary blue eyes.

“We're not going to hurt you,” Salur said, as gently as he could for a killer, but the child showed little sign of being comforted. He refused Salur's leather gloved hand, instead cowering further against the wall. “Come, child, you can't stay here. What's your name?”

A faint mumble was the only reply as the boy rubbed his eyes.

“We're going to take you somewhere safe.”

Murvys grabbed Salur's arm in irritation. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“Saving his life.”

“A noble deed, I'm sure, but we dont have to save him. We can send word to one of the...”

“He's a starving child, you fool,” retorted Salur angrily. “He won't survive the wait, and we can't just leave him here. There's only one thing we can do.”

“You can't mean...” Murvys shook his head furiously and turned his back, muttering and cursing under his breath.

“Necrom is a day away, and the nearest village is yet further. The edges of Rootwood are not far from here. We must take him to the Hollow, and seek the council of Mephala's Faithful.”

“An outsider! An Imperial no less! Rootwood Hollow is sacred ground to our order, maintained by the Morag Tong since the First Era, a means for producing trained assassins, not damned child minders! Such things are the duty of the Temple.”

The poor boy glanced fearfully between the two Dunmer before him, tightly squeezing his knees.

“You speak of honour, yet you would leave a defenseless boy to die?” Salur spat in disgust. “There is no other option but to take him to the Hollow. Now help me or get out of my way!”