The Mask - A Face Forgotten
Truan didn’t wear a mask when he first joined the Dark Brotherhood. Back then, he had a name, a reputation, and a face the other assassins swore was “too pretty for this line of work.” But beauty doesn’t last long in a life painted with blood.
The mask came after a mission gone wrong.
It was meant to be simple, eliminate a corrupt Imperial who’d fled into the snowy wilderness near Dawnstar. Truan knew something was wrong the moment he reached the snowline.
The trees stood too still. No birdsong. No tracks. Just silence and cold creeping down his spine like a warning. He hesitated only once, fingers brushing the hilt of his blade.
But failure wasn’t something the Brotherhood forgave.
Something in his mind felt like the contract was simple, too simple. It was the kind of job they handed to novices. That should’ve been the first clue. But Truan didn’t ask questions. He never had. He listened, he obeyed.
And he killed clean without question.
He crested a hill where the wind had carved the snow into glass, and that’s where the arrow flew, missing him by inches, burying itself in the tree behind.
He turned slowly. A wave of disappointment and betrayal washed over him.
Rolen, a Wood Elf who was also a member of the faction stood around twenty feet away, bow already drawn for another shot. Eyes locked. Face twisted with something that wasn’t anger, but something older. Deeper.
“You always had the luck.” Rolen said, pointing at the white rabbits foot charm that hung from Truans belt. His voice flat and windburned. “The attention. The contracts. The respect. What did you do to earn it?
Truan didn’t answer. His blade slid free, slow and steady.
Rolen scoffed. “Of course. Nothing to say. Always so damn quiet.”
The next arrow never reached him.
Truan was already moving.
Snow exploded beneath his boots. Rolen fired again, missed again and barely raised his dagger in time as steel met steel.
The clash was fast. Brutal. They stumbled through snow and broken branches, Rolen gritting his teeth, striking hard, reckless. Truan moved like a shadow slipping through wind. Not graceful. Just fast. Efficient.
This was desperation crashing into discipline.
Rolen’s breathing grew tired. He overstepped, lost footing - Truan’s blade cut low, slicing through skin and muscle. He pushed his blade in, twisting slightly as Rolen fell to his knees, gasping, red blooming beneath him like a wound in the earth.
“I just wanted to be seen..” he whispered. Tears streaming down his face. Truan could tell he tried his hardest but his desperation grew the better of Rolen.
Truan looked down at him, his expression softened slightly.
"I see you, Rolan." Truan said softly, a part of him was hurt and disappointed it turned out this way.
Then silence fell across the snowy fields.
By nightfall, he stood before the Sanctuary doors with blood frozen on his gloves and Rolen’s head wrapped in oilcloth.
They were waiting for him inside. All of them.
No one spoke as he passed, some in awe, others in quiet fear. Truan walked the hall with steady steps, straight to the Listener’s chamber.
He dropped the head onto the cold stone floor.
The Listener looked up slowly. There were deep lines in his face now. Worry carved into bone.
“Truan...” he said, as if saying the name might break something.
“I didn’t think you’d come back.”
“I wasn’t sure I would. ” Truan answered. His voice was deep and emotionless.
The Listener stood, shame in the way he stood.
“He deceived us. Deceived me. I should have seen it.”
“You weren’t looking.” Truan said. Not bitter. Just honest. The room fell still.
“I never meant to lose you. ” the Listener murmured.
"You didnt." Truan said bluntly.
The Listeners gaze fell to the floor, looking at the young Wood elfs head. He had so much potential.. i guess the Listener only realised that now. There was nothing more to be said.
Truan turned to leave. But something in his posture had changed. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t anything.
Days after, the Sanctuary moved around him like wind around stone. He didn’t speak unless spoken to. He didn’t train. He didn’t sleep. The events of what happened played on his mind constantly. Seeing if he missed anything before this encounter.
Two weeks passed before the Listener called him again.
This time, there was no contract.
On the table beside him lay a mask, dark brown, wood-like in texture, shaped with reverence, not fear. At the center of the brow sat a polished stone of obsidian, like a third eye watching all.
“The blacksmith finished it this morning.” the Listener said softly. “It’s not to hide you. It’s to honor you. For what you endured. For what no one else would’ve survived.”
Truan stepped forward, fingers brushing the smooth grain of the mask. It was heavier than it looked. Real. Permanent. His reflection stared back from the obsidian stone - tired, thinner, older.
The Listener met his gaze. “You were right. We trusted the wrong one. And we nearly paid for it with the right one.”
Truan took the mask without a word. But something in his eyes shifted. Not forgiveness, but understanding. A contract fulfilled, a debt repaid.
When he wore the mask into his next kill, no one called him by name.
They called him the White Rabbit. The one who got away.
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