Somewhere in Blackwood..

[Aeric Ecrai]

Venn breathed in the cool night air. A small storm had passed over him an hour earlier, and the edge seemed to be just above him now. He could feel the light rain falling on his hood and hear it hitting the leaves of the trees that were far above him. Looking for forts to loot was a good idea; there were many abandoned ruins of the once noble strongholds in Blackwood. At the moment, though, the only thing on his mind was rest. He found rain relaxing, especially at night. His bow was propped against a large trunk of a tree beside him, the quiver of twenty arrows laying beside it. He sometimes wondered if twenty arrows were enough, that he might run out, but he never seemed to run into enough trouble to deplete all the arrows fast enough. His shots would fly out of nowhere and most certainly found their mark the majority of the time. He was glad he had learned archery, the skill provided him with food as well as a means of combat. Not to say he wasn't proficient with daggers though, every theif was.
A theif. He sometimes wondered if that's what he is. He certainly stole things, but he didn't kill. A good thief, then. A noble one. Of course, he wasn't without information; he had worked with other theives in the past.
Shaking his thoughts away from what he did, he sat back and listened to the rain. The rain was light enough not to soak him, but strong enough to create small mists of water that blew through the air. The tree's branches were swaying in the cool wind that accompanied the rain. He liked that, too. He wasn't going to go to sleep, though. That was rule number one of rangers and theives alike: never let your guard down. He sincerely doubted that a bear or bandit would come upon him as he slept, the area had seemed secure during his entry, but one never knew.
Laying his head against the trunk of the tree he was leaning on, he let his thoughts begin to drift. He was wealthy, but not incredibly so, like the rich people in Skingrad. He was revered as one of the best shots with a bow in the theives guild, although he did few contracts for them. He worked with a few of their members, though. The strange thing was that every member seemed to speak of the same two people when asked who the greatest theives of all time were. Dameus Exavior and Zeth Gurido, they said. Venn didn't know how they knew this, those two names were never recorded in the theives guild, but fame spread the same. One didn't have to be in the guild to be a thief, after all.
Listening to the rain was making him tired. He was sure there was no danger near, so he lay his head back and went to sleep, the cool rain continuing to fall as he slept.

[Aeric Ecrai]

* * *

It was morning, Venn realised. And, much to his enjoyment, still raining. Rain was common in Blackwood. He moved his arm over to his quiver, and, grabbing one of the leather straps, slung it over his shoulder. Picking up his bow and putting it around his other shoulder, he began to walk. Knowing that there were bandits and various dangerous creatures in Blackwood, he had made sure to pack enchanted arrows in quantities of five, putting his quiver at a reassuring thirty arrows. He had pakced five flamebolt arrows, their tips glowing a dull red and steaming at the occasional raindrop that hit them, as well as five frostcrag arrows, which tips glowed a cool blue and hissed whenever rain hit them, freezing the liquid onto the tips. Oddly enough, the wildlife was ignoring him, and he hadn't sighted any bandits, either. This was odd for Blackwood, but not too odd; he had eliminated at least two forts of bandits and mercenaries in his travels, perhaps word had got around to avoid him.
And I made a few hundred Septims, too Venn thought, fingering the gold in the pounch that hung from his leather belt.
Maybe I should buy a new bow...
Venn immediatley dismissed the thought; his bow had served him well over the years and he didn't intend to just get a new one on a whim. Plus, there was always something different about his bow, something that made it stand out from others. He couldn't tell what it was, though. All he knew was that he had found it abandoned on a ruined temple in the Jerall mountains, covered in at least enough dust to fill a large farming trough. It had taken forever to clean away all the dust, and he still hadn't returned the bow to its formal glory. It was a bronze-ish color, with an incredibly strong string and tips. It seemed to be metal and wood, but the detail was so fine and the color of the wood so unique, one could not see where the wood ended and the metal - bronze, he presumed - began. It fired true; he had never missed a shot that he could remember besides the occasion or two that he had bumped into something or been bumped to re-direct his aim. The rain persisted, the drops falling lightly on the leaves and branches that spanned far overhead. It was a refreshing sound, that of rain. It soothed him, made him calm. He was glad that he hadn't been attacked yet, he was in a peaceful mood.
Snap.
Venn's head turned in the direction of the noise, only fast enough to catch a glimpse of a boot, leather by make, running through the forest.
Trying to ambush me, eh? Well then, let's see how you like my arrows...
Venn put his had on the fletchings of an arrow, nocked it in the bow and pulled back, ready to fire when necessary. He knew it wasn't a bandit, they generally weren't sneaky enough to even attack a mudcrab without it knowing. They trampled through the forest in their heavy gear, stepping on limps, crushing plants, and whatever else you would expect from and uneducated thug. This wasn't a bandit bowman either; they weren't this sneaky. He could have sworn the boot was a dark black, too. Suddenly, Venn heard the noise he was so accustomed to: the silent snap of a bowstring and the whizzing of an arrow. Not a split second later, he felt something fly by his leg, ripping a small gash in his pants and making a thin line of red appear on his leg.
Ah! He's good, whoever he is. Well, we'll see how he likes getting into a bow fig- But before he could finish the thought, he felt pain explode in his other leg, and he fell to the ground, trained too well to scream in pain. He felt something hard hit the back of his head with a sickly dull thump. Seconds before he passed out, he noticed a man in a black hood and leather armor step around into his vision and bend down to tie his hands. The handprint on his shoulder guard was unmistakable: the blood red, palm-forward print of the Dark Brotherhood. The assassin laughed and kicked him in the skull, sending him into the black oblivion of unconciousness.