Southeast of Mournhold, Morrowind

In Morrowind there was a tiny village several miles from Mournhold called Tares. It was far from any major road or caravan line and too far from Mournhold to get any attention from foreigners or visitors of any kind. Any visitors they received were tolerated but since they never stayed for long, most of the inhabitants didn't even bother with them.

Like most small villages, everyone knew one another and stuck together in a close knit band. Everyone watched each others backs. There were very few secrets among them. Very few.

Except one. One dark secret that tainted the small village like a plague. For some unknown reason, not a single inhabitant of Tares did anything about it. It was as if some inner shame kept them from doing anything about it. The dark secret, the shame of Tares, was Modorin.

He had once been a widely acclaimed warrior, but some disgrace had shunned him to this small lonely village. He had brought his remaining wife and small son with him, but it was common knowledge that he considered the boy to be too small to be worth anything and largely ignored him. Modorin never forgot the fame and comfort he had left behind and drowned his sorrows over it every night, and most of the day for that matter, in drink.

It didn't matter the drink; ale, mead, beer or wine or something from a local distillery, he drank it all and in vast quantities. For some, being drunk made them tranquil. They sat in a corner with a drunken grin on their face and stayed there until they passed out. For others the drink gave them false bravado and did very stupid things. For the rest, it made them violent.

Modorin was one of these drunks. Every evening (the time depending on when he started to drink) he would be in a drunken rage. Having no other outlet, he would turn his rage on his wife and sometimes his son. Somehow, everyone else in the village managed to turn a deaf ear to the wife's screaming, the son's crying and Modorin's shouting. They also somehow managed to ignore the dark bruises on the female Dunmer's face when she ventured outdoors and the swollen lip on the small boy's face. Maybe they were afraid of him. But still it went on.

It was one wet day that it happened. It had been raining for several weeks now, turning Tares into a mud hole. It was getting colder as summer gave up its hold to fall so the weather was being particularly miserable. As the day darkened to evening, everyone locked their doors. The nightly ritual of screaming and crying was about to begin.

Once again the powerful Dark Elf warrior began his drunken tirade on his helpless wife. He had drunk even more than usual that day, making him even more violent. Behind him, his son watched in helpless terror, wanting to help his mother, but too afraid of attracting his father's attention.

Something must have because Modorin suddenly turned around and began to beat on him. As the blows rained down on him something snapped within the boy. He couldn't take this any longer. A dull knife lay on the crude table behind him and as he backed into it, his hand closed around the handle. With his own bellow of rage, he lunged forward and buried the knife into his father's neck, right by the shoulder.

The boy didn't hear the sound of Modorin hitting the floor, a slightly surprised look on his face. He didn't hear his mother's horrified gasp or the drip of blood from his hand to the floor. All he heard was a horrible silence. He looked up at his mother, more terrified now than he ever had been. She reached for him, but he backed away and ran out the door as fast as he could.

He heard her call after him, saw the other people looking out their doors at the sudden silence and a few try to chase him. None were fast enough to catch the boy, born on by the power of fear. Rain soaked his frayed and worn clothes, plastering his dark hair to his face and neck. His breath gasped in his throat, lungs screaming for air and his throat burning. His legs begged for him to stop but he couldn't…not here, not now.

His body allowed his mind to take him another few miles before it rebelled against him. He collapsed not far from the walls of Mournhold and crawled to the scant shelter of a rock shelf hanging over a dirt patch, now filled with mud. He lay in the mud, sucking in air greedily as the rain fell around him, his tears mingling with the water that streamed from his face.

He was alone now. He had killed his father, run away from his mother and his home. He could never go back now. Not ever. He did not want to join any assassin guild, though he knew they would be looking for him. He was a killer now, no mistake.

He jerked at the thought. A killer. He was only slightly mortified to realize that he held no remorse in him for what he had done. In fact, he had rather enjoyed seeing the blood of that drunken miscreant spurt from the wound, staining his hand and weapon crimson. While killing those of innocent blood repulsed him, he had no problem killing the guilty. Something burned in his chest. Though he resolved to make himself the exact opposite of his father, he wanted to be a warrior. One that defended the weak and innocent and spilled the blood of the evil. Lying under that miserable rock, he made his decision.


(5 years later)

The same boy, now a sturdy young man, made his way down the road to the city of Chorrol. He had trained hard in Morrowind but had always desired to see the great cities of Cyrodiil. He had heard so much about them and had seen the shiny armor of the Imperial soldiers in Morrowind, that his heart had been filled with longing. Then he heard one of them talk to another about something called the Fighter's Guild.

Never had the young man been so excited in his whole life. A guild devoted entirely to fighting! He had left for Cyrodiil not long after.

Now he went casually along the road, his mace gently bumping his leg as he went along, enjoying the surrounding forests. He was almost sorry when he reached the gates to Chorrol…almost. He was far too excited about getting to the Fighter's Guild.

It was relatively easy to find; a large wooden sign hanging in front of the building said so, but he couldn't read Cyrodiilian yet. He was used to the strange symbols adorning a lot of Morrowind's smaller towns and villages. In fact, most of his education was at a bare minimum at best. Fortunately, the sign also had a picture of weapons that he recognized. A little nervously he went in.


Razconza, the current Champion of the Fighter's Guild, sat at the chipped table in the front room. For a brand new guild, things were going fairly nicely; they had members and plenty of contracts and brand new guild buildings under construction in Skingrad, Anvil and Bruma. He looked up when he heard the door open and tensed just a little as a young Dunmer entered slowly.

Razconza had dealt enough with the Dark Elves to know that they were a manipulative people, easily twisting things to get what they wanted. Damn good warriors though, but totally untrustworthy. Something about this particular Dark Elf struck him though.

He was tall and muscular, good for the guild should he ask to apply, and obviously suited for blunt weapons as he had a mace strapped to his side. His skin was dark with a slight greenish tinge to it, which seemed familiar to Razconza, and his dark hair shaved up into a Mohawk, a Dunmer warrior cut. His face, strong and angular, also struck Razconza as familiar but he didn't say anything.

"You here to apply, darky?" He asked. If the young male was offended by the insult he didn't show it.

"Is this the Fighter's Guild?" He asked, a little hesitant.

"That's what the sign said, didn't it?" Razconza spat, "You want to apply or not?"

"Yes, yes I do." The young male's eyes widened slightly in excitement. He kept still but his body leaned forward every so slightly with his eagerness.

"All right. First, what's your name, darky?" Razconza asked, knowing that the answer would confirm or deny his suspicions.

The young Dark Elf seemed a little taken aback, probably because no one had ever asked his name before, and seemed a little ill at ease. Finally, after a little fidgeting, he reluctantly gave the old Redguard his name.

"Moderyn Oreyn." He said quietly.

Now it all made sense. Razconza thought the young one seemed familiar; he was the whelp of a particularly dodgy Dunmer warrior called Modorin. Razconza had fought him several years ago in Morrowind and had humiliated him. He had heard that he was disgraced not to long afterward. Now his son stood before him. Yet, he seemed unhappy with his name.

"You wouldn't happen to be that braggart Modorin's son, would you?" Razconza asked casually.

A pair of red eyes glared back at him.

"He's dead. Doesn't matter if I'm his son or not. I am not him." Came the heated answer.

"Dead? How?"

"Doesn't matter. Just be happy he's gone."

"Fine, fine. You ready to start?" The anger left Moderyn's eyes and eagerness replaced it. He was more than ready to begin.

Author's note: I didn't think there were enough Fighters Guild stories and I like Moderyn so I got this crazy idea. Don't worry; I'm still working on my other story. I can multi-task pretty well. Read and review; tell me what you think!!!