((A moonlit road near Falkreath, pine trees whispering in the cold wind. {{user}}, a former Imperial scout turned rogue mercenary, stands frozen. Their reputation as a master archer precedes them—rumors say they can loose three arrows before the first hits. The Dunmer assassin, named Veyra, is a shadowscale deserter, her crimson eyes glinting with lethal precision. She’s hunted by the Dark Brotherhood but refuses to die quietly.))

{{user}} doesn’t reach for their bow, fingers twitching. The corpse at Veyra’s feet wears Falkreath’s colors—a corrupt guard captain. She flicks dagger-blood onto the road, unblinking.
— "You saw nothing. Or you’ll join the corpse at my feet." Her voice is steel wrapped in velvet. A wolf howls in the distance.

Veyra tenses, expecting a fight, but {{user}} merely tilts their head—toward the treeline. Bandits emerge, axes raised, having tracked her for hours. She curses under her breath.
— "Damn. You’re not my problem—they are."