Born to a mother and father, both members of the Dark Brotherhood, he was raised to be an elite assassin, the perfect killer. The dark faction honed his body and his mind into an instrument of death... But his heart was untouchable. An inner war between his morality and his existence came to a dramatic conclusion when he was given his first contract: The warranted death of a child. His heart held his blade. Knowing that his life as well as the child became forfeit by his decision to spare her life, he took the child and left Cyrodiil, to the land of Valenwood.
Days turned to months with no sign of pursuit. Eventually, he and the child found shelter in the town called Haven, on the second floor of a 'hole-in-the-wall' tavern. But the dark faction were unforgiving. In the brotherhood's poetic darkness, it was Fyrisi's mother and father that tracked him down. Thinking their lives safe, Fyrisi left the child alone in their upstairs room, for just a moment, to purchase some bread and salted pork. On his departure, he plucked a single hair from head and wedged it between the door and the frame. As he passed through the tavern, he could feel extra eyes on his crossing. Something was off. As he reached the threshold of his door, he stopped and searched for any sign of disturbance.

The hair strand was still intact.

Time slowed as he entered the room. The view of his mother standing before him, blade placed upon the crying child’s throat, left him frozen in place. Though his senses were numbed for just a moment, it was a moment that gave his father the chance he needed to slip his own blade under the throat of Fyrisi.

“Hair in the door?” his father whispered in his ear. “Who do you think trained you, boy?”

A grim smile crossed his father’s face as he glanced from Fyrisi to his wife. The infectious smile found its way to his mother’s face. In Stunning revelation, Fyrisi screamed his denial of the coming actions. Without a second thought, his mother’s blade cut deep into the child’s throat, ending her cries forever. Tears fled his eyes as Fyrisi watched the last of the child’s life blood flow away from her body. His mother gazed upon her son with a feigned expression of sadness.

“Oh my dear, dear child,” she said as she walked towards Fyrisi, “To watch this poor child lay before must pain you so.”

She stopped only inches away from his face and caressed his cheek softly. As she leaned forward to kiss his forehead, she wiped away the tears flowing from his eyes. She pulled back and gazed directly into his tear-filled eyes.

“Let me take this wretched sight from your eyes my son.”

A smile spread across her face as Fyrisi’s father tightened his grip on him. With the same blood stained blade she killed the child with, she dug dip into Fyrisi’s eye socket and twisted slowly. Waves of pain ran through his body, but he showed no expression beyond his body tensing in response. No. He would not submit to the pain he felt. His thought fell inward. Perhaps he deserved such a fate as this… But not the child.

A simmering rage burned within Fyrisi Llerayn, that has never been felt before. His father loosened his grip at the heat he felt seething from his son’s body. His mother stopped her blade’s approach to his other eye for the same reasoning. Both his parent’s stepped away from Fyrisi at the heat they now felt upon their own skin. They looked to each other once more, but no infectious smile could be found. Blood poured from the wound that was once his eye. With his remaining eye, he gazed upon the fallen child's body one last time before his vision faded into red. At that defining moment, Fyrisi roared out in furious defiance a word he knew not, sending his mother and father through the splintered walls of the second floor room, above the tavern. His parents' bodies fell dead before they hit the ground. Fyrisi, with the loss of blood and expulsion of energy, fell unconscious to the ground.
Fyrisi awoke to find himself in the company of an elderly Bosmer. Consciousness faded to and fro with scattered visions of the elderly Wood-elf performing healing rituals over his broken eye. He felt his missing eye tingle with new sensations of life. His blind eye held vision in a new ability. He could see out of it, but not in the sense of vision he was accustomed to. This old Wood elf had done something to him that he could not explain. Nor could he explain why this Bosmer had helped him in the first place. Confusion painted Fyrisi’s face, obvious enough for the Bosmer to reply.

“She was my granddaughter. The child. I heard what happened,” he sighed, “You tried Fyrisi, and for that much I cannot thank you enough.”

He peered into Fyrisi’s ‘new’ eye.

“Your vision was beyond repair, I’m afraid,” he continued, “At least the only form of vision you’ve ever known.”

He paused to let Fyrisi catch up with what his words.

“What you see, how you see the world, is through your mind’s eye,” he continued, “Everyone has a ‘mind’s eye,’ Fyrisi, but not everyone understands how to use it, or what the abilities are. This is the gift I’ve given you. The only gift I can give you.”

The days turned to weeks as Fyrisi learned to cope with his new eye and his new abilities. His elderly host granted him the time he needed and even taught him how to turn his ‘mind’s eye’ off if needed. Fyrisi came to learn that this old Bosmer was once a renowned Ranger, but as age took his body, he became an acclaimed Shaman.

Feeling stronger than he had before, Fyrisi understood that it was time to move on. He had one more end to tie up. His inherited vengeance was far from quenched. He returned to the place he once called home, he returned to the people that taught him everything he knew; the Dark Brotherhood. Death came to his native branch of the dark faction.

In his studies as a pupil, Fyrisi was taught that in all the regions of Tamriel, there was none more primative than the lands of Skyrim. It was there, Fyrisi would seek refuge from the shadow of the Dark Brotherhood. As he crossed into the freezing borders of Skyrim, Fyrisi felt something tingle inside him. A tingle that sparked the memory of his parents demise. He never fully understood what took place that day, but at that moment, something told him that he would find his answers soon.

Imprisoned!

In the dark of night, Fyrisi crossed into the frozen borders of Skyrim. Seeking shelter from the cold, he happened across a lit campfire. Unsure of the men that surrounded the encampment, he circled the troupe hoping to gain a better understanding. Without too much examining, Fyrisi could tell the men were soldiers of Nordic decent. Weighing out his options Fyrisi, concluded that he was unsure of their intent, but was certain that if he didn't find warmth soon, he would surely die. As he slowly made his way towards the campsite, Fyrisi took note that the amount of tents displayed outnumbered the number of men surrounding the fire. Before he could react, four well armed soldiers surrounded him. He immediately scolded himself for such a simple oversight. Though Fyrisi was nothing more than a lonely traveller, the men viewed him as a spy- a well known profession for his race. He gave no resistance as the men took him as their prisoner. No words were spoken to him and no explanation was asked of him. He was a spy, there was nothing more to say- Death awaited him now.

In game: He seeks refuge in the wilderness, hiding from both the Dark Brotherhood and his own guilt. Once a promising assassin, now he uses his skills to guide his life through nature, becoming a Ranger.

After Story: Fyrisi was a Ranger before the foretold events happened, and he's a Ranger afterwards. The only difference now: before, he was forced, out of necessity, to go into the cities/villages, now he welcomes the oppurtunity. He is still hunted by the Dark Brotherhood. But now they hold no fear in his heart.

Skyrim was a land he never knew, though his blood knew it as his native home. His mother died during his birth. His father (a Ranger), broken by the loss of his love, bore his child south; to lands and tongues foreign to their own. They became nomads, travelling from land to land, from town to town. When it came time to gather up and travel to the next destination, his father would simply explain their direction with a single word, whether it be territory, town, or country. His father, finding work of all trades, some jobs less desirable than others and a few he could never speak of without hanging his head. But he loved his son and desired to give him only the best. With the money he made, he spent on lessons for his son that few people, and fewer Nords, received. Though he educated by great scholars in every tongue spoken in Tamriel, trained by some of the most esteemed fighters and rogues in all the lands, Kalibor's most valued lessons came from his father's own words of wisdom. He was taught the ways of a good man, to be true to his own heart. As Kalibor grew to be a man, he noticed that from time to time, his father would look at him with saddened eyes. He could tell that his father desired to tell him what pain laid buried beneath... But he never did and Kalibor never pushed the point.
One day, Kalibor awoke to find his father was missing. Stepping out of the room his father and he shared, he made his way up the stairs into the tavern above. Upon entering, he found his father wrapping up a conversation with a fellow Nord. He turned from the stranger and locked eyes with his son. The look on his father's pale face was wrought with stress and fear.
"I must talk with you this night," his father exhaled, "but for now, I must make a small trip North, to the border and you WILL stay here." The stern tone of his father's voice at the end of the sentence told Kalibor not to argue otherwise. It was late in the night and his father still had not returned. Kalibor grew concerned to the point where he cared not for his father's subtle threat and gathered some belongings. Just as he turned to leave their room, the door burst open, with his father pale as a ghost, clutching his chest. Kalibor caught him as he fell to the ground. His father's breathing came with labor. As he gazed upon the man he grew to know as 'larger than life,' he knew, with weeping eyes, that his father was dying. His father's eyes beckoned him to come closer. In a final breath, his father whispered a single word that gave Kalibor the direction of his next destination: "Skyrim."

Crossing into Skyrim, he is immediately seized and considered a traitor for reasons he knows not. He would see this through, knowing full-well that his father knew of greater plans for Kalibor, and trusted in the spirit of his father that he would make it out of this alive.

In game: Unsure of his place in the happenings of Skyrim or what his next step should be, Kalibor makes his way to the first village he finds. He accidentally lands himself in a simple life. A job he is satisfied with, a roof over his head, and even a woman to love him. During a trip to a nearby city he and his wife were making to sell goods for profit, they were attacked a dragon. His wife did not survive the encounter, but he did... barely. This is the catalyst that sets Kalibor in the direction the prophecy set for him, the direction his father set for him. Kalibor is Dovahkiin.

After Story: Kalibor, fulfilling his part in the prophecy- seeks a simpler life once more. But as long as there are dragons there will be the Dovahkiin.

NATURE VS. NURTURE

He was born in a housing project in Leyawiin, to a dysfunctional family of mixed Imperial and Nordic descent. His father, Olic Rock-Heart, an alcoholic who frequently abused his wife and children. His mother, Moriaia Rock-Heart, was also abusive to Cero, hitting him with broom handles and other household objects to stop him from stealing. He also had two other siblings as well. His older brother, Creedic Rock-Heart, who was convicted of [censored] and murdering a 12-year-old girl. When asked about his brother Creedic's crimes, he replied: "We come from the same father.” He also had a younger brother, Florian Rock-Heart, but eventually, Olic's beatings resulted in the death of him. In the aftermath, the family lied to the guards, saying that Florian had fallen down a flight of steps. Cero spent the remainder of his childhood fantasizing about murdering his father.

By the age of 10, Cero was filled with rage and began acting out against the priests at the Great Chapel of Zenithar that he attended.

FIRST MURDER

At the age of 14, Cero ambushed and beat Lucius Vedrisi, the leader of a small gang of teenagers known as "The Project Boys," who had bullied him for some time. Following a particularly bad beating Richard sought revenge, attacking Lucius with a thick wooden club, eventually beating him to death, although he denied wanting to kill Lucius. Cero then dumped Lucius's body off a bridge into the Niben River after setting him on fire in an effort to prevent identification of the body. He then went on to beat and nearly murder the remaining six boys in Lucius's gang. Cero later joked that, "Giving is better than receiving." The harshness of life did more than just destroy his capacity for compassion and love. It did more than teach him how to hate. The world Cero grew up in, the only life he knew, taught him to ignore his recognition of emotions. In Cero’s eyes emotions were for the weak.

INITIATION

The Dark Brotherhood took notice of the incident. Cero would be a promising candidate. Cero, 16 years old, abandoned his abusive parents to their ways and found refuge in the streets of the Imperial City. One early morning, Cero awoke to the sense that something wasn’t quite right. He felt his right pocket noticing the slight weight difference from the night before. Inside; a folded note with a black hand printed on the front of it. He knew the symbol all too well and he knew what it all meant. Mechanically, he left the city and travelled through the night to the city of Cheydinhal. In the streets, knowledge of the Dark Brotherhood was bleak, but Cero had pulled from every direction. He knew of the abandoned house. That very evening, a Silencer by the name of Sodril took him out onto the streets of Cheydinhal. From shadow to shadow, rooftop to rooftop, they lurked. Sodril was testing him, Cero knew. Finally, they found their selves just on the outskirts of the city. They had been stalking a man walking his dog, nothing more than a simple farmer.

“Kill him.” Sodril ordered.

Without hesitation, Cero simply walked up to the man, looked him in the eye and drove a dagger into his throat. Something about this disturbed Sodril. It wasn’t Cero’s choice in execution. It wasn’t the lack of resentment in Cero’s actions. It was the lack of satisfaction that perplexed him. Not a single hint of emotion crossed Cero’s face. As if the killing never took place. Most killers would have shown a sign of enjoyment in the act. At that moment, Sodril knew that Cero would rise quickly in the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood.

YEARS OF BLOODSHED

The years rolled by and the body count rose. Vedrisi was the last name Cero took for himself- To remember his first kill. Cero indeed rose in the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood, but settled into the rank of Assassin by his own choice, stating that he cares nothing for status, power, or pleasing their precious Night Mother. Regardless of his status in the Dark Brotherhood, Cero only took his orders from the Listener; the highest rank in the Dark Brotherhood. With his emotionless balance and expert training, Cero became the Dark Brotherhood’s most dangerous weapon. Sense and muscle honed to precision, he became a something more than a man. But he aged no differently. As he became older, he became wiser to his station in life. Cero couldn’t say when he started to become disgusted with his existence, as far as he was concerned- it was the moment he was born. But he understood that the life he led was a miserable excuse of living. He acknowledged as well that his choice of profession was just as disgusting. He just couldn’t care enough to accept another option. This was his lot in life and he did it well. In Cero’s eyes, his only escape was his one true weakness; to drink. There was a pain deep in his gut that he could not shake and so he drank it away when he felt he earned the right.

ONE LAST CONTRACT

Reaching the crest of his prime, Cero could feel the changes in his body. To the outside world, and to the others in his Brotherhood, there was no sign of weakness. He was still as deadly as ever before in their eyes. But Cero could feel it within himself. It was time for him to quit. He understood that the Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t simply just let him walk away. He accepted the idea that they would probably make an attempt at his life. They would probably succeed, but not without massive losses. He wouldn’t go alone, this much Cero did know. But he promised himself one last contract.

It was an Argonian male from the Marsh by the name of Charuul. The only information he was given was his mark’s last known position; on the border of Skyrim. He felt something within himself stir at the notion of travelling to Skyrim. That very day he set out for the border of Skyrim, seeking information about his target along the way, stopping at Bruma to find out that he was only a day or so behind his mark.

A few days later, in the gloom of night, Cero stepped into an unremarkable tavern to find his mark, an Argonian just as unremarkable as his current residence, sitting by the open fire sipping from a mug. Casually, Cero bought himself a mug and walked over to Charuul. He sat down quietly next to him without looking his way.

“Skyrim is a cold place for an Argonian from the Marsh,” Cero breathed.

Charuul paused to take notice of Cero; sizing him up, in a sense, to gain a greater understanding of Cero’s purpose. Something about Cero’s presence shook the man to his very core. He, all of the sudden, felt a chill colder than Skyrim. But it was Cero’s next statement that illuminated this dread he now felt.

“I’ve been sent to kill you,” he paused to look the man right in the eyes, “I think you know who sent me.”

It was Cero’s boldness in openly declaring his intent that sent Charuul into an inner panic. He didn’t get up. He didn’t run or scream. Because of Cero’s blatant confession, the man knew beyond a doubt that he would not live to see the sunrise. He couldn’t speak, he could barely breathe. He just sat there, hands shaking, attempting to drink from his mug.

Cero took note of the rising fear and sighed.

“I grow tired. I can feel it in my body. I am bored with what I’ve become. I’ve never had a purpose to kill beyond the necessity of living.” He paused once more to make eye contact with the man. “I find no pleasure in killing, you should know this.”

Cero took a sip from his mug, stood up and walked out of the tavern.

The Argonian could hardly believe what had transpired. Charuul wasn’t sure what to feel. He had escaped death, this much he did know. They sent a tired, aging assassin and it was his good fortune. He took a bigger drink from his mug to calm his nerves and ordered three more mugs. Charuul felt it was a moment of celebration, a new beginning to his life. This night would forever remain with Charuul for as long as he lived.

Finishing his final mug, Charuul rose from his chair and made his way out of the tavern. The night was cold, but the alcohol running through his blood kept him warm. On his way to his cabin, he noticed a glimmer on the ground. Three gold coins.

“This is indeed my lucky night,” Charuul jested.

Scooping up the coins, he bent back up and paused. His eyes locked in horror. The warmth he once felt inside his body was not felt running down the back of his tunic. He felt the sharp pressure of something being driven into his body and the embrace of a hand around his mouth. He felt the hot breath of someone close to his ear. The last words Charuul would ever hear were;

“I never said I wasn’t going to kill you.”

ACCEPTANCE

As Cero slid his blade back out of the man, a patrol of guards turned the corner of one of the surrounding buildings. He looked at the troupe and nodded. Perhaps this is the better way he thought to himself. With complete acceptance of whatever fate laid before him, Cero through his dagger and blade into the cold, snowy streets and fell to his knees. The guards surrounded him and took note of the body displayed before them. As the guards carried him away, Cero felt an expression cross his face that had been lost to him for as long as he could remember. He felt a smile spread across his face.

In game story: After escaping, he finds himself travelling aimlessly, ending his nights in a mug of mead. Somewhere deep within, Cero desired a new beginning. He could live a simple life, find work as a blacksmith, or mining ore... But like a moth to the open flame, he found his way into the waiting arms of Skyrim's Dark Brotherhood. After all, killing was the only thing we was truly good at. The only difference is; he finally accepts the idea of ranking up through the Dark Brotherhood.

The Main Quest: The main quest will be our Cero's grudging attempt to make up for the worthless life he's led. If there was anything good to say about his life, it would be this. Every progression through the main quest will be taken reluctantly.

After Story: After the main quest, Cero will return to the Dark Brotherhood and kill everyone in it. After that, he will let life take him where it will, not caring either way what happens to him.