Author's note: Just a little short story I had floating around in my head for a while. Someday (if I ever finish Blood and Trust!), I might expand this into a longer story.

Obviously, I don't own Morrowind and make no money off this or any other stories.

--

This is not a night for anyone to be out and about, Orram Rasshibael thought sourly, trudging along the riverbank through lashing rain. He bit off a curse as his foot slipped in the mud, bringing him to his knees. Orram rarely swore, reckoning that only an uneducated man resorted to vulgarity to express himself... but on this night, soaked through, weary, footsore, and now muddy, he was short on patience. When a flash of lightning lit a brief glimpse of Suran's rooftops ahead, he was profoundly relieved.

As he passed through the city gates, though, his hopes of a quiet evening in a warm, dry inn room were crushed. "Excuse me," he called to a gate guard over the roar of rainfall. "Where can I get a meal and a bed in town?"

The guard, an average-sized Orc - which is to say, towering head and shoulders above Orram - gave a wide grin, as if the mere thought cheered him. "If it's a bed you want, yer only choice is Desele's place - but don't try the food. Cookin' is not one o' her talents, you catch my meaning?" he said, winking.

"Indeed I do," the Dunmer replied, disappointed. "Thank you." He left the guard to his miserable wet post and went reluctantly in search of Desele's place. He was not at all surprised to find that his destination was the only building lit by a red lantern. Pushing sodden brown hair out of his eyes, he squinted at the sign through the rain.

"Desele's House of Earthly Delights," he muttered under his breath. "Lovely." There was likely to be trouble in such a place; he checked that his sword and dagger were still ready, his throwing knives within easy reach.

Despite his misgivings, he was relieved to step into the warm common room - it was loud, and hazy with smoke, but he was out of the rain. He stood, dripping, just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust. Dim though the lights were, they were uncomfortably bright after being outdoors in the dark.

The common room was overcrowded, he could tell even before his eyes adjusted. Raucous laughter, whistles and a shout here and there, punctuated by faint snatches of drunken song, filled the room - as did the odor of men who drank too much and bathed too little. An inebriated Imperial stumbled by, clapping Orram companionably on the shoulder. The Dunmer stiffened, reaching for his dagger, but the other man moved on, shouting something so slurred that Orram could not understand a word. Outlanders never can hold their liquor, he thought with contempt, and shouldered his way into the crowd, making for the bar.

A Khajit female, half-naked, for all the good it did her disgustingly furry body, stood behind the counter. She gave him an animal sort of smile. Grimacing in distaste, Orram ignored her and turned to the better of two bad choices, a Breton woman in a similar state of undress.

"I beg your pardon," he began politely, hoping the courtesy would be returned. She turned dark, skooma-addled eyes on him and smiled slowly.

"Well, aren't you the handsome one?" she cooed, leaning forward, elbows on the bar. Orram resolutely kept his eyes on her face. "You must be Sera Desele?" he ventured.

Her smile widened. "You can call me Helviane," she said, and reached up to trace the tattoos under his eyes with a fingertip. "These are lovely. What do they mean?"

Fighting back another grimace, Orram gently took her hand away from his face. He didn't tell her that they were the mark of an Ashlander criminal, a murderer. She might kick him out, back into the rain... or, for all he knew, she might want him to share her bed. Women were funny that way.

"You are too kind," he said, forcing himself to smile. "Please, I have traveled all day, and am very tired. Do you have a room available to rent, and a hot meal?"

Helviane Desele gave a throaty laugh. "Our beds are not for sleeping, ser," she said. "And I'm afraid that all we have to eat is moon sugar. But if you'd like a drink...?"

"A bottle of schein, please," he said, resigned, and went to find a seat. He was lucky enough to find an empty table; the first good thing to happen to him that day. He sat with his back to the wall and watched the common room with distaste as he waited for his drink.

It was a disgusting sight - drunken men laughing uproariously, cheering a sudden brawl in a corner, leering at the nearly-nude dancers across the room. And the dancers themselves... Orram was much more well-traveled than most of his people, but the display still seemed obscene to his eyes. Certainly Dunmer were known for their promiscuity, and with good reason. But this Outlander idea of naked dancers was too much. And that is why no Dunmer girls are up there, he thought to himself, and further noticed that he was the only Dark Elf in the entire room. The realization made him even more uncomfortable.

A soft, breathy voice broke into his thoughts. "You ordered some schein, ser?" He looked up to see a young Bosmer girl nearby. Thankfully, she was fully dressed, though her dress clung to her curves and suggested just as much of her body as it covered. She was blessed with the rare, burgundy-colored hair that appeared in some Wood Elf families; it fell in tiny braids to her shoulders.

"Yes," he said, and blinked in surprise as she drew closer; her eyes were not the dark shade typical of a Wood Elf, but a pale, almost luminous, light green. She was a half-breed, then. Probably Nord blood in her - he had never heard of any other race with eyes like that.

She set his drink on the table. "Is there anything else you desire, ser?" She asked. He waved her away, shaking his head... but his eyes followed her through the crowd, despite himself. She moved with a hip-swaying grace that suggested she knew how to dance, even if she was not one of the outlanders who put herself on display. She disappeared into the drunken crowd, and he took a deep drought of his schein, putting her out of his mind.

The common room grew more noisy and raucous by the hour. Orram had endured quite a bit, and his clothes had nearly dried, before he decided he'd had enough. Leaving his drink - it was his fourth one, anyways - he went in search of a quiet corner where he might be able to rest his eyes without much fear of pickpockets.

His luck, fickle as it was, favored him this time. At the top of a staircase behind the bar (past a door or two that Orram thought better of opening) he found a dimly lit chamber containing several chairs and a small, raised dais; the room was obviously meant for more private entertainment than downstairs. Thankfully, it was empty; he dropped into a chair at the far end of the room. He stretched his legs out in front of him and closed his eyes, grateful for the chance to rest.

A soft creak on the stairs made him crack open one eye, peering through his eyelashes. It was the half-breed serving girl. She eyed him for a moment, apparently decided he was asleep, and began straightening up the room. He kept his eye half-lidded and watched her move about gracefully, gathering empty mugs into a wooden tray and righting overturned chairs. Neither delicate Wood Elves nor brazen Nords were the sort of women he preferred, but this girl was neither. She exhibited some intriguing mix of both, and the longer he watched her surreptitiously, the more fascinating he found her.

She moved to the dais, arranging the instruments that were left there. She picked up a lute, and glanced at him sideways. "Shall I play for you, ser?" she asked softly.

He let the silence stretch between them, waiting for her to decide that he truly was asleep, and leave... but then he changed his mind. "Why?" he replied, without moving.

"Because you seem like the sort of gentleman who would actually appreciate a soloist's adaptation of Lacianna's Lament, unlike most of the louts I'm usually forced to play for."

It had been a long time since he'd been treated to a musical performance. He waved a hand, feigning disinterest. "Play what you like," he said. "Like as not I'll fall asleep before too long, in any case."

Through half-closed eyes, he saw her smile and sit on the dais, settling the lute in her lap. As the first notes sounded in the quiet room, he knew he had underestimated her. His luck was definitely turning around, if he could manage to find a musician of this caliber in such a disagreeable tavern... He relaxed into his chair, closing his eyes fully, and let the song wash over him. Lacianna's Lament was composed for an ensemble, of course, but she was skilled enough at the lute that the classical tune sounded intricate and detailed at her hands. He found himself more and more intrigued by this mysteriously beautiful, mysteriously talented girl. As the last notes faded into blissful silence, he opened his eyes to find the lovely half-breed standing before him.

"You play beautifully," he told her. She smiled, and as if his words were an invitation, she closed the distance between them.

"I always perform better when I know I'm appreciated," she said in a low murmur. She brought up a hand to stroke his cheek. He let her get away with it for a moment, then snatched her wrist, holding it immobile.

"You presume much," he said, more mildly than he'd intended. He tightened his grip on her slender wrist to make up for it.

If he hurt her, she showed no sign. The corners of her exotic sea-green eyes crinkled as she smiled. "I'm about to presume a good deal more," she breathed. She promptly ensconced herself on his lap and kissed him, hard.

The low-level desire he'd been keeping in check suddenly roared to life. He inhaled sharply, and instead of pushing her away, his free hand fisted in her hair, taking over the kiss. She tasted of schein and smelled of heather. The two of them dissolved into a confusion of hands and hips and wine-colored braids, until she made a soft sound in her throat and Orram broke away to catch his breath.

The girl said nothing, seeming content to trace the tip of his ear with her fingertips. He let go his handful of braids and ran two fingertips along the low neck of her bodice, watching her shiver. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

The half-breed laughed softly. "Most men don't need our names here... and even those who ask are too drunk to remember," she breathed, her hand sliding down his chest, and lower. "Why do you ask?"

It took a great deal of effort for Orram to keep his voice steady. "Am I most men?"

"Certainly not," she scoffed. "Why do you think I'm here? But you haven't answered my question..."

Orram's fingers stopped at the center of her shirt's neckline. For a moment he considered ripping it off... but the empty inn room was hardly private. Someone could walk up the stairs at any moment... Instead, he moved to cup her breast in his hand, and was rewarded with a low moan. "Everyone knows," he murmured, enjoying their banter, "that to know one's true name is to control them." His hand on her wrist clenched tighter; he imagined it might snap. He saw her wince a little this time. Her eyes opened, clear sea-green, and she glanced pointedly at her wrist.

"You wish to control me, ser?" she asked, with a smile that challenged. It was not until that moment that he gave in, and rose to his feet, spilling her off his lap and kissing her roughly. "Not here," he whispered.

She gave him another wicked smile and drew away. "Come," she bade him, and led him to a room that he had passed earlier.

It was scarcely more than a closet, so small that both sides of the bed touched the walls. Orram kicked the door shut and pulled the girl with him as he sat on the foot of the bed. She straddled him easily, hitching her skirt up past her knees to do it. "In answer to your question," she breathed, "I am called Nyleh."

He had forgotten that he'd asked. She smiled, moving her hips in slow, rhythmic motions that made Orram bite back a groan. Something clicked, metallically. Probably one of his knives was loose; he was beyond caring. "And you," she continued, "are Orram Rasshibael."

He froze, staring. "What-" A sharp pain brushed against his chest.

"-And there is a very large writ on your Ashlander head," she added, letting her hands fall away from his chest. He saw the tiny blade she'd hidden in her palm, through the haze that clouded his vision as the poison began its swift work.

The assassin smiled, a cool, hungry curve of her lips, waiting for him to die. Orram Rasshibael drew in a last breath, and swore.