Chapter Text
It's always so cold here. The weather, the food, the rain, even the sun couldn't pierce through it. The snow never melted, the ice never thawed. Even the people were cold. So it was no surprise when the country was plunged into war. Petty men, scrambling for power where they could reach it. And only a few months later had the man who murdered the High King Torygg been brought to Helgen for his execution. Caught in a scrimish, pathetic honestly.
Berrian hadn't even paid the cart that rolled in any mind. 4 prisoners, 4 people to be executed. He was there to keep watch really. What good was a Thalmor Justiciar in this area? This was the Imperial soldier's expertise. He should be back home, or at the Embassy. He should be drinking something expensive that’ll knock him off his ass and clear his head. But instead, he's here. Objectively the most boring city in Skyrim, Helgen. He's supposed to be scouting out contracts while he's out on duty, but Astrid can wait. There's nothing happening here, but it is entertaining when a prisoner jumps off the cart only to be shot down.
He doesn't bother to see the rest. Loud roars can be heard in the distance, and he doesn't feel like watching the executions. They're all quite boring, and entirely too quick for his liking. If you're going to kill someone you should do it right. Feel the blood on your hands, soaking into your very soul… soothing something that scratches to get out.
He's tall. Towering over every human he meets. But average height among his fellow Mer. His long brown hair is tied back under his uniform hood, out of his eyes. A bright green, cat-like and piercing. His skin has gotten darker over the years, leaving him a caramel tone, still kissed by the Cyrodiil sun he left behind years ago. It just wasn't the same in Skyrim. Nothing was. It snowed up north near Bruma, sure, but never this badly. This sort of cold, you felt it in your bones. It seeped into every orifice and pore. Through layers and layers of furs and skin. Not even fire could chase it away for long, as it just crept right back in. It was miserable really.
Even more so was what happened during the executions. One in and a dragon was swooping down from the mountains, raising the town. People ducking for cover, and heading inside buildings. Stones falling from the sky and debris flying in every direction, crashing into towers and dirt alike. Buildings crumbled around him as he ran for the keep, meeting a few soldiers inside, not a problem. A few Stormcloaks attacked, but they were poorly armed and no match for magic. Really the only thing that worried him was the bear under the keep. She didn't deserve to die, so a muffle spell was the best way to go.
He could still hear the dragon while on the road to Riverwood. He had no obligation to help anyone in Helgen, but does feel a little bad about leaving so soon. Not everyone there deserved to die, and he can only hope that a few were smart enough to get out the way he did.
The sun was still blazing, and his two comrades didn't follow. A shame really. Good Thalmor soldiers are becoming harder and harder to come by. Maybe Rulindil will have a new assignment squad for him? The last two clearly weren't cut from the same cloth he was. Berrian wouldn't be here if he had accepted the Justiciar role at the College of Winterhold, but he couldn't. The Dark Brotherhood only has so many members, and is supposed to be receiving a new (technically old, Astrid didn't elaborate past this) member soon. Berrian wasn't pleased about having to move from his room in the chapel. He shared it with Gabriella and Babette. Nazir, Festus, and Veezara shared the initiates quarters, while Astrid and Arnbjorn shared the room up front. Now, everyone except the two, were crammed into the initiates room, which suddenly felt entirely too small.
Regardless of the room issue, he couldn't leave. They needed him on the field in a Thalmor position to receive word of contracts. He hated to return empty handed, but there were no black sacraments. Not even the remains of one. The usual places like the abandoned house outside of Whiterun, the busted Talos Shrine, the basement of the brewery, nothing. He even went into town to look for gossip. Not in his Thalmor robes of course, that was a no no. Instead, he posed as an adventurer in his black leather armor. Snug, with plenty of straps, and burgundy stitching. Not a damn thing! Whiterun was always boring. But the shopping stalls had decent products, so Berrian bought a few large cuts of meat to take back to Falkreath. Rabbit, elk, cow, just a few things for Nazir to work with. It was the least he could do if he wasn't bringing home a contract. He did have his Helgen story, and the trouble that might raise, and he'll have to write a report on the incident since he was on duty for the Embassy, but that can wait.
He didn't wait for nightfall to head home. He could go days without sleep without becoming strained. Vampirism had it's perks occasionally. It was difficult to explain his month-long absence to both the Brotherhood and the Dominion, but he had been assigned to that damn tomb, and Serana needed his help. He hadn't meant for it to go this far, but it had. And now Harkon is thankfully dead, the Dawnguard occasionally tailing Berrian, and he has a new diet. Keeping in touch with Serana and her mother is hard, especially because they rarely leave Volkihar, but they write to each other a few times a moon. Serana doesn't know about the Brotherhood. Berrian didn't have the heart to tell her. Serana wouldn't have minded, that much was clear, but he was sworn to secrecy. He knew the importance of that at least.
The road back was cold at nighttime, and he was getting hungry.
“Wasn't there a farm up here?” Berrian hoped his knowledge served him correctly.
The Loreius Farm. Small, but having a mill contributed to the area's economy. So both the farmer and his wife were off limits to feed on. “Damn…” Berrian was starting to wish he bought a horse. But, there was a wagon in front of the farm. Possibly a visitor he could dispatch and feed from?
"Agh! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest, but too still!” The voice is shrill and frustrated. A short Imperial man dressed in a stained red and purple jester motley stands next to the wagon, carrying a large wooden crate. The wheel has cracked under the weight and fallen off the axle of the wagon.
The man is clearly out of his head. He's tugging at his hair and shuffling around the wagon frantically, muttering to himself in a sharp, hushed tone.
“Are you alright?” It flows out of Berrian’s mouth before he can stop it. The man stops in his tracks at the sound of the thick Altmeri accent.
“Does Cicero look alright to you?!” He resumes his pacing, flailing his hands as he quickly speaks. “Cicero's mother is stuck! STUCK! Well, not her. Her corpse, she's quite dead, but poor Cicero can't help her if his wagon stays like this! It's no good, and the stupid farmer won't help him! He refuses! How is Cicero to bring mother to her new crypt if she stays in the road?!” He points dramatically to the farm.
“Maybe the kindly stranger will have better luck…” Cicero's eyes take in the leather armor, and the sharp glass blade on Berrian's hip. “...convincing Lorieus to help? Go to the farm, the Loreius Farm. Just over there, off the road. Talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!” His voice grates on Berrian's ears. If he wasn't shouting, perhaps it would be nice, but right now all Berrian wants is for him to stop talking.
“Fine.” He had to admit, his pockets are feeling light after spending his money on the food stock for the sanctuary.
“I'll talk to him, if only to get you on your way. But stop shouting like a fool, the guard up the road keeps looking over here and if you get arrested you won't get to take your mother to her burial site.” It was a bit of a strange encounter. And who knows, maybe he had war supplies in the box, maybe it was drugs, that would explain his behavior. But it was too risky not to help him. Too many things lined up. “Crypt, mother, home, corpse” it's not every day you move a relative from their burial site, and certainly not to Skyrim. Merry-men were a Cyrodiilic tradition. Maybe this man was the new arrival Astrid was talking about? If he is, Berrian can't leave it to chance by leaving the man on the road. Afterall, he was on the road to Falkreath.
The path up to the farmhouse is annoyingly overgrown. There's lanterns on the porch, and light coming through the windows. Berrian knocks on the door with a little more force than necessary, just in case the occupants are asleep.
There's shuffling and footsteps from inside, and an older man opens the door in his night clothes. “For the love of Mara, what now?”
Berrian is slightly amused by the man's frustration, relishing in the fact that he caused it. “Something wrong?” There's a smile in his voice as he leans against the porch frame with a relaxed posture, about two heads taller than the farmer.
“Is something wrong’, ‘Is something wrong’ he asks. Yes, something is bloody well wrong! Or maybe you missed the demented little man in the jester's garb, down by the road?” Lorieus runs his hand over his face, massaging his temples. “Goes by the name of Cicero? Crazy fool's asked me to fix his broken wagon wheel five times. He won't take no for an answer. Why can't he just leave us alone?” The man is exasperated, and clearly tired.
“Well why can't you help him?” Berrian cocks a brow up, questioning the other man. It doesn't make sense to leave the clown by the road. “I'm sure he'll pay you.
"Pay me? You think this is about money? Have you seen the man? He's completely out of his head. A jester? Here, in Skyrim? Ain't been a merryman in these parts for a hundred years. And he's transporting some giant box. Says it's a coffin, and he's going to bury his mother. Mother my eye. He could have anything in there! I'm not getting involved in all of that.” Loreius had the same train of thought as the man in front of him, but Berrian had information that the farmer didn't.
There's an easy way to do this, and there's a hard way. Persuasion first. “Hes a stranger who needs assistance, do the right thing?” Berrian put a soothing tone on, softening his posture and face, hoping to get this over with and get paid.
"What? And just who in Mara's name are you, anyway? Hmm? Come here, telling me my business. And for what? To help a... a... a fool!”
“Hard way it is” Berrian thinks. In just two steps he's standing in the doorway, hulking in the frame, blocking the way out. Polite mask falling away, there's a darkness to his eyes, and it portrays just how hungry he really is. He opens his mouth to speak, his fangs popping as he does so.
“Listen old man. If you think the clown is a potential threat, I, am a very, very real one. So you can either help him, and we'll both be on our way, or I can bleed you out infront of your wife and give him the tools to fix the damn wagon himself.” His voice is an even whisper, with a dangerous promise lurking behind it.
“I-I- alright. Alright I'll help him just put whatever that is away!” Lorieus turns around back inside, closing (and locking) the door, and Berrian walks back down the road, making sure the guard didn't see that interaction.
“Poor mother... Her new home seems so very far…” Cicero is leaning against the wagon, hugging it endearing.
“Quit moping. The farmer will arrive soon to help you. I got through to him. And hopefully…” Berrian eyes the man, dressed in red. “he'll get our mother home soon in Falkreath.”
Cicero's eyes light up at that, his mood doing a complete 180.
"Oh stranger! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more! Even more! My mother, OUR mother thanks you! Here, here. For your troubles! Shiny, clinky gold! A few coins for a kind deed! And thank you! Thank you again.” His voice isn't any less grating than before. Berrian simply weight the pouch in his hands before putting it in his bag.
“If he doesn't help, just kill him and use the tools. The guard heads back town in about…” Berrian looks up at Macer and Secunda, connected to them through his vampiric blood, acutely aware of the time. “...an hour” he takes a deep breath in, feeling the cold of the night settle into his armor, even with the fur padding. “Make it home safe. It's by the pond, you'll find it.” Berrian doesnt bother waiting for a response, wanting to get out of the cold.
He tugs on a black fur cloak lined with fire magic, and sighs into the warm leather. Like a balm on his undead skin. It's about 8 hours of walking from Whiterun to Falkreath, so he should be home by sunrise. Hopefully he didn't just make a complete fool out of himself by thinking Cicero was a member of the Dark Brotherhood. He had to be. He'll find out soon enough. Or he can grill Astrid when he gets back. Hopefully Babette hasn't rummaged through his alchemy supplies. Sharing a small room will take some getting used to.