Moraelyn? What did Vorialmo die off, in the end?
Happenstance. The casual, inevitable cruelty of urban Cyrodiil. Irony, if you would choose to be more reflective; he was married to a mer who, unbeknown to him, had murdered dozens if not hundreds, yet even so that mer did not protect him when it mattered…
A thief. It was a thief, to answer what you ask of me. He was cut down in the street by a common thief, a cutpurse with a clumsy hand and a sharp blade. Someone desperate and cowardly enough to rob a baker laden with the day’s takings, which were never much. The wretch slit my husband from groin to thigh, in the alleyway between the marketplace and the bookstore. Vorialmo bled away onto the stones in moments, for whatever small and bitter mercy that may be. It is no mercy to me.
The guards were not swift enough to catch the thief, nor sharp-eyed enough to give more than a cursory description, though that, at least, they gave me. Once I had buried my husband beneath his favored oak, I took what I knew and left Chorrol to do what it was that I did best.
I hunted.
My hunt took me across Cyrodiil a dozen times over, even to the very doors of the Thieves’ Guild, which many assured me didn’t exist.
But that is a story for another time. I became something… Different, in those years. Something darker. You would not like me to speak more on it, I imagine; it is unsettling enough for me to think on alone, to know what these hands have done in the name of love and vengeance.