The life of Shamoun began shortly after the Aldmeri Dominion invaded the Imperial provinces within Hammerfell. Unbeknownst to him, the financial success of his parents tied directly to the outsiders, though quietly. Little more than a babe, he enjoyed more luxury as a toddler than ever since. When the tides of war showed favour on Hammerfell, an anxiety built in the home. Rumours spread of the possibility of a treaty, and for his safety, the boy Shamoun was spirited away by a trusted merchant. By the time he arrived to Skyrim, The Second Treaty of Stros M'kai was signed.

Shamoun arrived in Skyrim with a modest array of belongings and a trust in the merchant he inherited from his mother. Just past the border the boy and the merchant met a small group of bandits. There was an exchange of words, then belongings, and the boy. When it became clear the bandits meant to kill the merchant regardless, there was a struggle. A weak flame shot from the merchant's hands and the fight started. The boy escaped into the forests during the fray. Shamoun wandered into Falkreath before nightfall where he met with great kindness.

Fifteen years embedded him deep within the community. The boy worked the stables first, then assisted the carriage driver, and when none might deny his manhood, he offered security for the carriage. Bandits tried their luck attacking carriage from time to time, but turned tail when one or two fell. Shamoun trained with the Falkreath Guard when home, and when away with the carriage picked the brains of the local warriors at each stop. The work was satisfying and felt akin to that of an adventurer. One trip seemed especially daring when the customer had no precise destination in mind. He described a place somewhere in the wood around town, and when the driver warned the land may not be kind, they did not care. Shamoun sat beside the driver with an iron sword splayed across his lap. Despite a watchful eye, a dark cloud gathered amidst the branches of the forest. They felt a mist, saw flashes in the strangely low cloud, and then the lightning struck. Both horses collapsed, then the driver, then Shamoun. His body seized and jerked as he fell off the carriage and into a ditch. In a haze, he watched shadowed figures emerge from the trees. The customer met a black dagger to the gut and a fear grew deep within the young man's chest. When a figure approached him, Shamoun felt tears running along his cheeks. His body would not respond, instead just twitching, helpless. The figure held a vial to his nose. Spices, some mix of herbs, whatever it was, it made the world go dark.

Shamoun awoke two days later in an abandoned shack far in northern Skyrim. Old blood painted the walls, chains hung from the rafters, but he found himself on a modest bed of hay. He found a bit of paper beside him with a hand-print and brief message, "Be thee silent, for the Night Mother offers no quarter, and her mercy comes and goes like a winter's storm." The words would remain with the young man for days. He layered himself with the tattered robes within the shack and made his way to Morthal. Rather than return to Falkreath and face an onslaught of questions, and perhaps for fear of the cryptic warning, Shamoun decided to travel. On his journey he collected herbs and other ingredients, comparing them to the scent used on him in the attack. He questioned warriors, bards, and wizards about what he described as a 'vision from a dream'. The obsession inspired him to dabble in alchemy in order to recreate the strange mix. Days turned to weeks, yet despite the passing of season into the next Shamoun persisted.

After five years of searching, Shamoun had learned much. Besides coming across the shadow's name, he uncovered bits of lore to do with the Dark Brotherhood. The stories fuelled Shamoun's obsession and as well as his impatience. He had pieces of a legend that seemed to reach back through the eras. Stories of ruthless killers, deft archers, and brilliant alchemists who gave their skills to this Brotherhood. Yet, despite the years of dedicated, Shamoun had doubt. He obscured his search, yes, but after five years he wondered if the great stories mere pomp. When the doubts came to a head, Shamoun crafted a poison as described in information he'd uncovered. He picked an inn at random. Labourers drinking off their troubles sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar and near the fire, but the Pilgrim saw only one. Amidst the relatively well mannered bunch, a particularly brutish man sat belching and grabbing at every passing female. Shamoun approached the counter and with a feigned smile ordered a Nordic Mead. When the stein came, Shamoun took a swig, then added a red liquid from a vial. He lingered a while before setting it beside the brute, explaining much too fast the origin of the drink. The brute pushed Shamoun back with a monstrous hand and began draining the stein. Shamoun had disappeared back into the crowd when the brute's moronic barking turned to violent, thick coughs. When the brute collapsed, foam and vomit dribbling down his cheek, Shamoun ordered a wine both in celebration and shock. He rented a room and drank himself into a deep sleep.

Shamoun awoke in a homely cavern tied to a padded post, standing. A dark, yet familiarly garbed figure introduced himself as Nazir, before identifying the 'bit of wood and string in his hands' as 'his friend Bow'. Nazir told his hostage of a story that mirrored Shamoun's five year investigation, but broke off all too soon with a poisoned dagger. A poison, Nazir told him, which Shamoun had imitated the night before -- if poorly. When the story took a threatening edge, Shamoun found himself both fearful and complimented. Eventually, Nazir made an offer. Continue learning about the Brotherhood as a member, or, take this moment to congratulate himself for finding them before his death. The lore Shamoun had uncovered illustrated an image of the Dark Brotherhood that, even half true, was more than he could pass up. How could he turn away from a group beyond social pressure and the corrosive passing of time? Shamoun accepted without hesitation.

The Dark Brotherhood of Skyrim stood uniquely amongst the stories. For weeks at a time Shamoun assisted each member of the guild, offering extra hands, while learning what he could. Festus Krex told stories of great battles fought only with magic. Targets slain by strange spectral blades, summoned phantoms, and small storms made by his hands. The mage eyed the young Redguard when telling the last, mostly keeping away thereafter. This suited Shamoun, as like most Redguard, he kept away from magical arts beyond simple attempts at self-healing. Unlike the old man, Babette welcomed his company. Whether she enjoyed his honest curiosity in alchemy or thought him a potential snack, the supposed-youth took him under her wing. Shamoun assisted her with potions, poisons, and gathering difficult ingredients in order to supply the team. Their connection continued as Shamoun trained with Nazir and Veezara. The duo came like an icy gust. Under their tutelage, the young Redguard began his official duties for the Brotherhood. With the help of Nazir, Shamoun not only absorbed a deeper comfort in his own body, but crafted robes tailoured to their work and culture. Veezara accompanied Shamoun on his first missions, otherwise, shadowing the young man without his knowledge. Each job collected information on behalf of Astrid, their respected leader. Shamoun quickly fell into the routine. Astrid approached him in the company of Nazir and offered an overview for a job. Sometimes it would mean basic scouting, other times establishing contacts, or generally keeping a finger on Skyrim's pulse. Each mission offered an inch more rope, and every inch climbed, he felt the acceptance of his comrades grow. For nearly a year Shamoun served in this way, a mere initiate, until there came a special job. As Nazir executed another contract, Astrid approached Shamoun personally. This could be his opportunity to be validated as a true Assassin of the Dark Brotherhood, she said, or else his first and last failure. The Redguard was not deterred.

A month later Shamoun found himself stalking a caravan in the mountains near Windhelm. He'd sent a letter to the Brotherhood by courier two weeks prior, but received no word. When the caravan took lodging in Windhelm, Shamoun sought the local courier to no avail. He knew the guild had endured wars, politicians, and loose lip, yet somehow he could not escape the gnawing discomfort stuck in his core. Shamoun visited the local inn for relief. Not two cups into his spiced wine, there came whispered rumour. Fires near Falkreath, the voices murmured, and a cavern-turned-funeral pyre for the Dark Bastards. Alcohol eased his blood to a boil, but the Redguard restrained himself. Shamoun ventured about the city only to find variations of the same horror -- they were dead. Most agreed the Imperials had a hand in the massacre. Even if Shamoun killed every soldier involved, they would only send ten for each he dispatched. He was too far to make a difference now. Too new to piece together some intricate plot for revenge. With a heavy heart, Shamoun packed his things and wandered once more. Before he could make any moves the tension would need to calm. The Imperials must think every member of the Child of Sithis dead.

The return to Hammerfell was simpler than expected. Shamoun had not thought of his family since leaving early in his childhood. He felt no love for them after his guardian's betrayal. Knowing the Brotherhood, the group which he dedicated five years of long nights and venturing to discover, had fallen shook him. The realization that his dreams would not be realized left a pit and the looming sense of failure. Shamoun served in no notable way while with the Brotherhood, merely training, collecting information, and joining the more experienced assassins as support. He had no rumours following close behind. So when he crossed the border into Hammerfell, Shamoun came without the confidence to lead, yet with all the freedom of a man without ties. Distraught and aimless, he wandered the lands, mindless of his dark tattered clothes from the Brotherhood.

Some weeks into his wandering a monk approached and invited him to find purpose with their order. Shamoun followed without question. Meditation honed his body while their unique style of swordsmanship adapted his skills. Two years into his training the Auroras became fixed. When followers began to disappear, the elders accounted it to weakness of the body and spirit. Somehow, despite, another year with the monastery, the Redguard never questioned what he was told. He felt drawn to his elders, who in turn honoured the Emperor, and just knowing that filled him with a strange satisfaction. After a total of four years Shamoun emerged from the monastery. He felt a growing compulsion to better serve the Emperor and subsequently took on work for a substantial House. Politicians mostly, the House involved itself deeply with foreign affairs, and always to the benefit of the Imperials. In his work with the Brotherhood, Shamoun had always enjoyed standing outside the control of the rich and the powerful. Yet, somehow, he found himself a sword entrusted to those very people. After a year in the service of the House, the Auroras disappeared. Shamoun found himself embedded into a system he had long worked to avoid. He hadn't the chance for self pity, however, as with the passing of the spell above so emerged the Siege of Storms. Like him, many felt hungry to break away and yet the pressure to maintain order. Riots broke out surrounding the House, to which Shamoun was tasked with pacifying. The Redguard defended himself and his employers with a hardened heart, enduring only by promising himself some future escape. While Hammerfell did not exist under the Empire, when the new Emperor Tactus Mede began his campaign for peace, they too felt the ensuing calm. Shamoun took the change as a sign. At once, the Redguard began to plan for the future of his dreams.

When Hammerfell and Rovgir promised mutual support, Shamoun volunteered himself within the bargain. His positioning was an attempt to leave the region without suspicion or seemingly bold action. However, when the Dwemer emerged, the decision nearly ended the Redguard. Shamoun held back during the initial outbreaks of fighting. Coldly, he observed the situation to gather what insights he could. Confident in what he had learned, Shamoun rode into combat alongside others sworn to his House. What ensued walked the line between battle and massacre. The Dwemer tore men and mer apart, all too often literally, and by fortune alone only left Shamoun for dead. When the invaders moved on, the Redguard came to and escaped the field of battle. He met with other survivors and deserters. In time, the battered lot threw in with a group of insurgents fighting for Hammerfell.