Chapter Text
[YouTube Credits: In This Moment]
“I am the Maiden,
the Mother,
and the Crone.”
― Winter's Maiden #1
[[Markarth, Skyrim — Fourth Era, 201st Year]]
[::-Silver-Blood Inn — Middas, 6:56 PM - Night-::]
Ice-cold rain pours down from the celestial skies, soaking into the porous stone that makes up the city of Markarth, carved into the side of the Druadach Mountains. The droplets are coming down with enough bruising force to be confused with hail stones, and thus instead of going out and making merry, most folk have retired to their homes for the night, except for a few desperate and lonely souls that've chosen to brave the storm and have a drink at the Silver-Blood Inn.
Even with the storm raging on, there's still a lot of people visiting the inn, tonight. If you had to guess, you'd suppose that Cicero is currently in the main den, more than likely telling jokes to some poor drunken confused soul sitting by the fire. That, or he's dancing around the room to whatever music the inn's bard happens to be playing— either way, he's probably having much more fun than you are, no doubt.
It's been a very, very long day. You've spent most of the day on-your-feet, and after visiting the local women's bathhouse, you're just about ready to retire for the night. When you walk through the inn's doors, you get briefly checked out by Kleppr, one of the building's innkeepers. Thankfully, Kleppr's wife, Frabbi, is close by and very quick to smack him across the back of the head the minute she catches him looking. When she glances back to check on you, you make sure to appreciatively nod in her direction.
You shiver. Damn, it's freezing— and if that rain comes down any harder, it just might shatter the inn windows.
Approaching the bar, you reach for the coin-purse strapped to your belt. "How much for a bottle of Argonian Bloodwine?"
Frabbi looks you up-and-down. "50 septim."
You arch an eyebrow. Argonian Bloodwine, being sold at half-price?
Fuck, maybe life doesn't completely suck, after all.
"I'll take two, and that sweet-roll sitting on the counter, right there." You inform her, pointing to the pastry with a sharp nod.
Once you've deposited 102 septims onto the counter, Frabbi passes you the items in a basket, before shooting a sour frown in her husband's direction when he walks by. He tries to sweeten her up by caressing her hip, but she simply pushes him off, before cursing at him in her native Nordic tongue. Then, she takes the little hand-towel tucked into the belt of her apron, rolls it up, and then pops him on the backside with it, effectively chasing him off without much added effort.
You quietly turn away from the bar, chin tucked against your chest to hide the amused smirk on your face.
By Sithis, that woman must really hate her husband.
Once you've gotten everything that you need, you head upstairs to the room that you've rented for the night. Upon your arrival, you find Cicero, lounging on the stony bed with a book in his hands. When he notices the dwemer-metal door opening, he looks over, and then smiles from cheek-to-cheek when you enter the room. Snapping the book shut, he sits up in bed and then turns, allowing his legs to lazily hang over the side of the stony bedframe.
He bends a knee and flattens his foot against the stony bed-top, just to prop an elbow against his knee and hold the weight of his head in his hand. From there, he watches as you shed all of the heavy layers that you'd worn to protect you from the harsh elements, while leaving on the light-weight cloak hiding underneath it all. Following that, you remove the satchel belt around hanging from your hips and hang it on the coat rack's hooks, right next to Cicero's backpack.
The smile on Cicero's face softens the longer that he looks at you, becoming intimate and warm. "Hello, little flower. How was your bath?"
You sigh softly. "It was good. I feel.. better. Having clean skin definitely makes me feel a little more human."
Cicero giggles, before humming dreamily. "Mmm, Cicero must say that the little flower smells just divine!"
Your companion's honesty makes you blush. "Thank you. I- um.. I brought you a sweet-roll. I heard you talking about wanting one earlier, so I thought I'd buy you one. Would you like it right now?"
Cicero looks down at the basket of goodies by your feet.
His entire face lights up when he sees the frosting-covered treat.
"Ooh, yes please!" He declares with an excited clap-clap-clap, before leaping from the bed and rushing over to get it.
Removing the pastry from the basket, you hold it out to Cicero, who appreciatively bows his head before taking the sweet from your hands. Then, without breaking eye-contact, he sticks out his tongue and licks-up some of the warm, drippy frosting as it drip-drip-dribbles down the side of the pastry. Mesmerized, you watch the entire process, trying the carve the image of his long tongue protruding from his mouth into your memory. But when your stomach squeezes at the sound of Cicero's satisfied sigh, you force yourself to look away and roughly clear your throat.
"Do you like it?" You ask, speaking slow and steady to prevent your voice from cracking.
"Oh, it's just utterly delicious! So very decadent!" He moans. The sound punches you right in the gut.
Clearing your throat once more, you nod your head, eyes averted to the floor. "Good. I'm- glad you liked it. What were you reading when I came in?"
Cicero looks over at you mid-bite and hums to acknowledge that he heard you, taking the time to chew thoroughly before he speaks. "Mm- Cicero was reading the book of Sithis! It's important to read, keeps the brain young, hm? It also pleases the Dread Father— he does love a well-read devotee, yes, yes, yes!"
Your lips curl into a half-smile. "Ah, well. If I were unfamiliar with the book, I'd ask how well it is written, but I've probably read the book of Sithis from front-to-back over dozens of times."
Cicero cocks his head to the side, before taking another small bite from his sweet-roll. "Oh? Do tell!"
"Yes, it was part of my study curriculum, growing up." You reply, while restlessly shifting your weight from foot-to-foot. "My mother was very strict when it came to my studies... she always insisted that even the best of Cyrodiil's colleges wouldn't teach me all that I needed to know. I'm pretty sure I grew up having thrice as much homework as any of my classmates."
"Hmm... That sounds like quite a lot of work for one so.. young. Did you, at the very least, have a happy childhood?" Cicero softly hums, watching with soft eyes as you stalk over to a wooden chair resting next to a window that overlooks the wet streets of Markarth.
"Yes, I did. My family's library was my safe haven. Secret spell-books, ancient forbidden texts, old incantations; I happily studied them all. I was sad when we had to burn the library down— we couldn't afford to let the Imperial government get their hands on anything." You murmur quietly while sitting down in the chair, before reaching into the folds of your cloak and pulling out a hand-carved smoking pipe with an elaborate, ornate design carved into the sides of the wooden pipe. The bowl is already packed with some sort of fluffy purplish-green herb, which is sticky to the touch.
Cicero frowns with a suck of his teeth. "Oh, dear! Were you at least able to save anything?"
"Only two things— my mother's personal grimoire that she read to me every single night when I was a child, and a copy of the Book of Sithis. It's an original, and it's been in my family for many, many generations." You quietly hum, before pursing your lips and blowing a little fire into the pipe's bowl, lighting the herbs. As they begin to burn and smolder, you puff on the pipe, drawing smoke into your lungs through the long, skinny stem.
Then you turn your head, and confidently look Cicero up-and-down.
"You're welcome to help yourself to some of that." You say, expelling the smoke from your lungs while using your pipe to gesture towards the basket-of-booze by his feet. "It's argonian bloodwine; just be careful, it'll get you drunk fairly quick if you're not careful. The sweet-gum and sugarcane both do well at hiding the taste of the alcohol."
After finishing the pastry, Cicero hums and licks his fingers clean, before stooping down to swipe a bottle from the basket. Then, with his fingers squeezing around the neck of the bottle, he inspects the wicker-basket weaved over the round bottom-half of the bottle, before popping off the cork and taking a swig. As soon as the alcohol hits his tongue, he hums and nods his head approvingly at the taste.
"Cicero can definitely see what the little flower meant." He huffs with eyebrows raised in surprise, before "kissing" the bottle's mouth and taking another (much larger) sip. But when he goes to swallow, Cicero covers his mouth, squeezes his little eyes shut, and then rattles his head back-and-forth. "Hoo!"
You chuckle at the funny face that Cicero makes, forcing little puffs of smoke from your lungs with every little laugh. Shaking your head, you quietly laugh under-your-breath, and then sigh; "You're a funny little man, Cicero. I'm glad to have you as a friend. You tend to.. make my days feel a little brighter."
Cicero's entire face lights up with joy. "Cicero is glad to have you, too! In fact, I'd say that you're the best friend I've had since... well, ever! Ha ha!"
The two of you continue to maintain pleasant eye contact with each other until, there's a knock at your door. Quieting down, the both of you try to ignore the knocking, until someone, presumably a letter courier, calls out your name from the other side. Annoyed by the interruption, Cicero sighs and toddles over to the door, before unlocking it, opening it, and peering through the crack, finding that it, indeed, a letter courier. With an overly cheerful hiss of "yesss, thank you, go away!", Cicero snatches the letter right out of their hand and then slams the door shut in their face.
Turning away from the door with a hiss, Cicero rolls his eyes and walks over to you, handing you the letter with a huff.
"I thought we paid extra for privacy!" Cicero angrily huffs while glaring over his shoulder— clearly, he's upset with the courier, not you.
"I suppose letter couriers are exempt from the privacy rule." You chuckle while ripping the envelope open, before digging through its inner contents. Upon retrieving the letter hiding inside, you unfold it, not sure what to expect. But your face pales when you notice the unmistakable wax seal of the Dark Brotherhood at the bottom of the letter. "It's from Astrid."
Cicero raises his eyebrows and looks back at you. "Oh, joy."
You admonish his sarcasm with a soft tsk, before looking back down at the letter and reading its contents. "..Mm, I see. She's received word that Muiri wasn't the only woman in Markarth that preformed the black sacrament. Unfortunately, by the time that she'd learned of this news, we'd already left for Markarth. This letter was sent a day after our departure. She's given me an address and has asked that I see-to that the woman is taken care of."
Turning your eyes from the paper, you look at Cicero.
"Care to join me?" You inquire, while briefly looking him up-and-down.
Cicero thoughtfully taps his chin. "Hmm.. well, typically, the keeper is not supposed to participate in the execution of a contract given by the Night Mother.. but then again, Astrid is not the Night Mother, nor is she the Listener... so, Cicero supposes that, technically, he could participate, yes!"
Your smile turns devilish. "Fantastic."
[[Markarth, Skyrim — Fourth Era, 201st Year]]
[::-Vlindrel Hall — Middas, 7:32 PM - Night-::]
Cicero pulls on the edge of his hood, before briefly glancing over his shoulder to ensure that the two of you weren't followed. Paranoia gnaws at his insides, causing his stomach to clench painfully tight as the two of you walk through the slick streets of Markarth's ancient stone city. The guards that'd previously been on shift have all headed back to the keep to exchange posts with the night watch, giving you and Cicero the chance to walk through the city, unseen.
The sky is a dark shade of grey, completely blanketed in black storm clouds that rumble and roar. With only the pale blue light of a magelight to guide your way through the streets, you and Cicero scuttle along, hurrying to Vlindrel Hall, where your next client is said to reside. Rain pours down from the heavens by the bucketful, flooding the roads with ankle-deep water that sloshes around with every footstep. Cicero shudders as he's chilled to the bone, and curses the cold weather just as you arrive at the door.
After knock-knock-knocking on the door, you hear a quiet "one moment!" called out from the other side.
You look over at Cicero, frowning behind the mouth-cover of your hooded shroud. "Are you alright?"
Cicero shakes his head back-and-forth, chattering his teeth. "No! No, Cicero is cold! So very cold!"
Worried for Cicero's health, you look around to ensure that no one is watching, before reaching over to wrap an arm around his waist and pull him closer. With one quiet little whisper of "yol", you send a rush of fiery heat through your body, warming it up. In turn, Cicero curses appreciatively under his breath and huddles close to your side, leeching the heat from your skin to warm himself up. The door opens a moment later.
Peeking from behind the protection of the brass-colored dwemer metal door is a woman— her big blue eyes are full of fright and worry when she sees the two of you standing there, dressed in dark black cloaks that hide your faces from view. Her own face is covered in bruises, with deep, overly-pronounced eyebags that are so purple, they could almost be mistaken for a black eye. She's dressed in a simple linen dress with an apron tied around her waist— judging by the damp rag she's using to dry off her hands, she must've been in the middle of washing up after dinner.
"Oh, err.. How may I he-hel-help you?" She asks, while glancing back-and-forth between the two of you.
"I think that's a question we should be asking you, Miss Liravelle." You softly hum, while eyeing the deep hand-shaped bruise on her forearm.
Liravelle's eyes swell. "Oh! Oh, you must be-"
"Shhhh, not out here. These corridors echo, even in the rain." You whisper, while Cicero glances around to ensure that there isn't a guard nearby.
"Oh, right, of course. Come in, come in,— just be quiet, please, my little ones are in their beds." Liravelle says with a nervous nod, eyes averted to the floor, rushing to step aside and allow you passage into her home.
Without a word, you and Cicero make your way into the stone house, heads hung low as you stalk further into the room. Liravelle quickly peeks outside to ensure that the two of you weren't followed, before shutting the door and locking it tight. She folds her hands and nervously writhes them together, leading you further and further into the house. Then, she takes a left and ushers you into the kitchen-and-alchemy room. Hoping to warm yourselves up, you and Cicero stand near the burning fireplace, while Liravelle hovers near the doorway.
"So, yo-you're with.." Liravelle mutters with hesitation, while nervously rubbing her shoulders in an attempt to soothe herself. "Them?"
You nod your head and quietly looking her up and down. "Yes."
Liravelle lets out a shaky little breath, and briefly averts her teary eyes to the floor. "It worked.."
Realizing that the woman needs a moment to gather herself, you quietly avert your eyes downward, watching as Liravelle wrings her apron tightly in her veiny little hands. Tears trickle down the length of her cheeks as she moves to cover her mouth, muffling the little sobs that manage to escape. Without so much as a word, you cautiously step towards the client. Frightened, she scuttles away, using her handfuls of apron to cover her face. You pause, briefly.
"I'm not going to hurt you." You murmur, quietly. "I just want to take a look at some of those bruises."
Liravelle's wet eyes bounce back-and-forth between you and Cicero, who hovers in the background.
"Don't mind the little flower! She means well, honest!" Cicero cheerfully insists.
Although your counterparts enthusiasm is a little off-putting, Liravelle decides to put her faith in his words, and submissively bows her head at you. Quietly, you slowly close the distance between you and Liravelle, giving her plenty of time to change her mind. Gently, you take her by the hands and gently pull them into the light. Her hands show signs of hard labor, like cuts and callouses, but the most alarming marks are the deep black-and-blue bruises that wrap around the entirety of her wrists.
You suck your teeth, while gently shaking your head in a disapproving fashion. "Those are handprints. Cicero— come take a look at these."
Cicero trots over and peers around your shoulder, just to recoil with a sympathetic hiss. "Ooh, those are nnnnasty!"
Liravelle shamefully hangs her head. "Forgive my unsightly appearance. That would be my, err.. husband's handiwork.."
You lift your eyes, staring into Liravelle's deep sea-green ones. "..Husband? Forgive me, I could've sworn you just said husband. You mean to tell me that your husband did this to you?"
Her face hardens as tears drip down her cheeks. "Yes. Can you believe it? His name is Asvaar. The man who swore in the sanctity of Mara's temple to always protect me is the reason that I look like— this. My ribs are completely bruised; it hurts to talk, to breathe. By the nines, my head has been rattled around so much, it's a wonder how it's still attached! Oh, my da would be so upset if he were alive-and-well to see what has become of the man he married me off to!"
Tears continue to fall down her face, flowing like rivers as she wheezes with agony.
"It was as if he'd taken off a mask once we'd gotten married. He began to go out, and.. cheat on me, regularly. When I first confronted him, the beating began. But even in spite of his debauchery and his violence, I tried so very hard to make this house a home." She whimpers, while dabbing the corner of her wet mouth with a little handful of her apron. "I bore him children, as he'd always wanted, but that didn't bring him back to me. He's- He's!- He's bedded almost every woman in town, and hasn't slept by my side in many moons!"
"Am I to assume that he's the target?" You ask with a slow, bird-like tilt of your head.
"Yes." She softly whispers before dropping a hand down to her belly, where she proceeds to cup the loose folds of her dress around her semi-swollen stomach. "I'm with child, you see. I already have two beautiful boys, but.. we tried for a third child, and.. during one of my husband's fits, he beat me so badly, I lost the baby. I don't want that to happen again. "
"Perfectly understandable." You hum, briefly flickering your eyes down to Liravelle's stomach. "Do you know the baby's gender yet?"
Despite the bruises on her face, Liravelle looks so pretty when she smiles. "Yes, a little girl."
Your eyes soften. "Ah, I see. So, that's why you made the decision to contact us. You fear that your daughter might grow up to suffer the same fate as you, do you not?"
"Yes. My husband has never laid a hand on my boys, but I fear to think about what he could do to my little girl. He's always going on and on about how "inferior" women are, I'd hate for my daughter to grow up around that kind of talk." She whimpers, eyes swelling with tears. "All of my children deserve to grow up in a safe, loving home, and my husband, he's just not safe to be around, he's-"
"Mama?"
The sound of an innocent little voice emanating from behind Liravelle causes the poor woman to nearly jump right out of her skin— and when she turns and finds both of her little boys up-and-out-of-bed, staring up at her with their bright ocean-blue eyes, she covers her mouth in horror. Both of boys are young, no younger than six and no older than eight or nine, with bright blonde that seems to glow in the light of the fire. When Liravelle looks back at you, her eyes are wide and pleading, as if she were silently begging you to spare their lives and their innocence.
Your eyes turn down to her little ones. Liravelle's entire body tenses up.
"Boys, go back to bed." Liravelle orders them, as sternly as a frightened mother could. "Just go back to bed, and-"
"It's okay." You whisper softly, before gently pulling away from Liravelle and kneeling down to her children's level.
Without saying a word, you reach for the edge of your shroud's hood and gently remove it. When you raise your hand and give them a little wave, both boys smile shyly and then wave back. Moving slowly so as not to startle anyone, you dip two fingers into the mouth-cover and pull it down, revealing the entirety of your face to Liravelle and her children. Then, you offer your hands to the little ones.
"I'm a friend of your mothers. I'm here to help her fix a problem that she's been having." You whisper softly, trying your best not to frighten the poor, confused little things. "Do you think you two could help me, and answer some questions? Just so that I have all the facts?"
Both of the boys eagerly nod their little heads.
"Children are always much more observant that what we give them credit for. Their innate curiosity allows them to see things that we don't necessarily take account for." You quietly hum, before tucking your chin against your chest and looking back-and-forth between the two boys. "You two have probably seen some things, haven't you? Do you think you could tell me anything strange or scary that you might've seen? Anything at all? Any monsters under your bed, or bumps-in-the-night?"
The youngest nods his head, while the oldest answers: "Daddy isn't very nice to mommy. He hurts her, sometimes."
Liravelle covers her mouth in shock. She'd been under the impression that she'd managed to spare their innocence.
Your eyes repeatedly bounce back-and-forth between the two. "This is important, so I need you to answer me honestly; has he ever tried to hurt you?"
Liravelle holds her breath.
"No." answers the youngest. "He's- He's yelled a couple times, but he's never tried to hurt me."
The eldest hesitates. "..He's threatened to hurt me, once. I caught him kissing a lady in the market once, and I got upset because they weren't mommy. He told me to be quiet, or he'd hurt me like he hurts mama."
"Oh, my poor boy!" Liravelle sniffles. "Oh, Soren, I'm so sorry! I thought I'd managed to spare you from seeing your father's cruel side, I'm- I'm so sorry!"
"It's not your fault that daddy is a bad man, mama." The eldest says, trying his best to reassure her. All it does is make Liravelle cry even harder.
You immediately force a smile onto your face. "Okay, I think I know all that I need to know. Thank you for being honest and answering my questions, you've both been a very big help. Now, you two should go back to bed, hm? When you wake up, everything will be better. It'll be like waking up from a really bad dream that's been going on for a really long time."
"Are you going to help our mama?" The eldest asks, hopefully.
Your eyes soften. "Yes, I am going to try."
Then, you take them by their tiny little hands, and give them a gentle squeeze.
"Listen; your father has done some things that just.. can't be forgiven." You carefully explain to them, trying your very best to choose your words carefully. "As a favor to your mama, I'm going to help make him go away, for good. That way, you two can live happily-ever-after with your mama without ever having to worry about her getting hurt, ever again. You just can't tell anybody that my friend and I were here. Okay? Can you two do that for me and for your mama?"
The eldest seems to let out a little sigh of relief, while the youngest asks; "Does this mean he won't be able to turn mama's skin purple no mores?"
You gently shake your head back-and-forth. "He'll never be able to yell or lay a hand on anybody, ever again. Not your mother, not you, not your unborn baby sister, not anybody. You'll be safe. You'll be happy. There'll be no more screaming, no more arguments. No more hiding under-the-bed when you hear your dad come home. Everything is going to get better from here."
When her children's eyes swell with tears of relief, they reach for Liravelle and start to cry. Sniffling softly, she coos at both of her boys and rushes to comfort them, kneeling down to their level just so that they can rush over to her and collapse in her arms. Gently, she hushes them, before scooping them into her arms and carrying them off, presumably back to bed. In the meantime, you turn back to Cicero and re-adorn your head with your hooded shroud, looking less-than-pleased after learning all of the information that you just did.
Cicero giggles angrily and curls his hands into tight little fists, which tremble with unbridled rage. "Hoo, Cicero wants to stab something!"
"Don't worry, dear friend, you'll certainly get the chance." You quietly hum as you pull up your mask, while slowly panning your eyes around the room. "Once Liravelle has put the little ones to bed, we should try to get a location from her."
Cicero vigorously nods his head in agreement. "Mmm, yessss... Cicero would definitely like to have a hand in this one."
When Liravelle returns after she finishes tucking her little ones in, she walks into the room with her chin held high, looking as if a very heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Using a handful of her apron to clean her face, she sniffles and wipes the remainder of her tears away, before smoothing down the skirt of her dress with a quiet breath. Then, she gently pushes past you and Cicero, making her way over to the alchemy table in the back of the room.
"He never brings his play-things home, because he doesn't want them to now that he's married. My friend, Muiri, told me that he often tells his women that he's a single father, so they'll pity-fuck him." She tells you, sadly. Then, her tone suddenly changes, as does her face, growing stern and angry. "I want him to ache. I want him to suffer. I want him to feel every last ounce of painful agony that I've ever felt! He'll die, crying out not for the comfort of his whores, but for me, the mother of his children!"
You bow your head, chin pointed towards your chest. "It shall be done."
"He's currently at the men's bathhouse, likely getting cleaned up to go spend the night with his mistress. I want you to find him, and make an example out of him." She says, sneering. "The children and I can live comfortably on his inheritance, but the only way that we can acquire that inheritance is if he dies. Divorce isn't an option— I'd get nothing in the settlement."
You gently nod your head. "Yes, I see... we will make an example out of him, and.. I know you just put the children back to bed, but you'd do well to make sure that you're seen in public within the hour. Perhaps, you could go to the inn and make a deal with Frabbi? She's easily persuaded with a little bit of gossip, or coin."
Liravelle's eyes light up. "The Silver-Blood Inn.. yes, I.. I could take the children and rent a room there for the night, and— well, looking the way that I currently do, I could always tell her that my husband has been beating me and that I fear for the lives of my children. She's a mother. She'd understand my worry."
Your eyes soften. "Certainly. You'd also be in the presence of your friend, Muiri, who's currently at the inn. Surely, if nothing else, she'd give you and your children sanctuary?"
Liravelle nods. "Yes. She would."
"Good." You reply with a curt nod. "Wherever you decide to go, you'd be wise to ensure that you are seen in public as soon as possible. When my companion and I depart from your home, we'll be making our way towards the men's bath house. Cicero? Is there anything you feel is necessary to add-in or ask, before we tie things up?"
Cicero steps forth with a wicked little smile. "Is there something specific you'd like for us to do when disposing of your soon-to-be ex-husband? Any special conditions that you'd like for us to keep in mind?"
Liravelle's jaw hardens. "Yes. I'd like you to castrate him, and then put the appendage on display somewhere near his corpse."
Cicero raises his brows, and then looks at you with a wide-eyed grin. "Hoo! Don't you worry, I'll take care of that part for you, hm? Men are disgusting creatures, wouldn't want your pretty little hands to get infected with whatever disease might be crawling all over his skin, heh heh!"
You shudder in disgust. "Thank you for sparing me from such a cruel fate, Cicero."
Cicero cheerfully smiles. "Cicero is always happy to help! Even happier to serve you however I can, little flower!"
The delicate folds of crinkled skin around your eyes soften. "What of his other women, m'lady? Would you like me to leave a message for them?"
Liravelle arches her brow. "No, I believe whatever humiliating spectacle you choose to make out of of my ex-husband's corpse will be more than enough. Just make sure that he's ousted as the lying, cheating bastard that he truly is."
You bow your head. "Then, by the Dread Father's will, it shall be done. We'll meet with you at the Silver-Blood Inn once the job has been accomplished. Cicero? It is time for us to get to work, my dear friend."
[[Markarth, Skyrim — Fourth Era, 201st Year]]
[::- The streets of Markarth — Middas, 8:04 PM - Night-::]
While the women's bathhouse is located within the Temple of Dibella and maintained by its priestesses, the men's bathhouse can be found within the walls of Understone Keep, where it is cleaned-and-maintained round-the-clock by Jarl Igmund's personal staff. As such, you and Cicero have to cut across the city of Markarth and make your way into the heart of the keep. However, there's a bit of a problem; the city guards have finished changing posts.
You and Cicero desperately need to get inside the keep without drawing too much attention to yourselves. With Markarth's night watch already patrolling the streets of the city, stopping to cast a couple of spells is simply far too risky, even for the quietest of spell-casters. To preserve your magicka, you've have resorted to using invisibility potions, and thankfully, all it took was a little bit of vampire dust and the wings of a Luna Moth to create a couple of bottles.
But, you can't use them just yet. Using the potions right now to get yourselves inside would be an unwise choice and quite the waste of rare-and-expensive ingredients— you'd get much better use out of them in the heart of Understone keep, where the concentration of guards is the highest. Unfortunately, this means you have to rely on your good ol' stealth skills to get inside.
Thankfully, the texture of your black cloaks blend in quite well with the shadowy walls of the stone keep, allowing you to vanish within the blink of an eye if the situation happens to call for it. In fact, one of the city's guards fails to notice you and Cicero hiding in the shadow of a stone pillar, solely due to the texture of your cloak and the low visibility caused by the guard's chainmail face-guard. The pellets of rain hitting the metal-roof of his helmet mask the sound of your footsteps as you scuttle by.
You briefly take a look at your map.
[The City of Markarth]
There are a number of routes that you could take to the keep. Of course, you could always risk jumping into the stream that cuts through the city and use it as a sort of "highway" to get there, but you'd reckon that the splashes would create a lot of racket, and so would casting a couple of water-walking spells on Cicero and yourself, so that's out. Taking to the city rooftops would normally be an option, but Markarth's guards are known to patrol the rooftops and the bridges connecting all of the different buildings together.
Looks like you've just got to creep through the streets and hope you don't turn the corner and run into a guard. Fuck. Well, you suppose that you could take the long-way around and head down to the riverside, and then use the various docks-and-bridges to get up to The Hag's Cure, and.. just make your way to the keep from there. That would work, right? You hope so, because it's kind of your only option.
Thunder rolls in the distance as you and Cicero make your way through the marketplace, scampering through the dark like a couple of wet skeevers. The vendor-stalls provide much-needed cover from the watchful eye of Markarth's night guards, although you cannot afford to linger in one place for too long. Sticking to the shadows, you try to sneak past the gate guard towers, but have to double-back at the last second when a pair of guards on patrol come walking out.
However, Cicero isn't as quick as you are.
It's been so long since Cicero has seen any type of assassin-related action, so his sneaking skills are a little.. rusty. This wouldn't be a problem if it weren't currently storming so severely, but with all of the rain coming down as hard as it is, the stone streets are quite slick, causing him to trip. You manage to catch him at the last second and pull him behind a locked-up vendor stall. There, Cicero falls back against your chest, panting heavily in an effort to catch his breath. Then, he briefly glances back at you, while appreciatively rubbing the hand you've placed on his chest to hold him steady.
"Thank you." Cicero whispers breathlessly, still rubbing your hand.
"-Hey, I think I saw something by Hogni's stall. Should we go look?"
"-Are you kidding? No way. I'd sooner lick a troll's ass than go anywhere near that stall."
"-Tsk. What are you, a coward?"
"-M'not a coward, I just know better than to trifle with that man's belongings."
"-Fine, I'll go take a look, myself... skeever ass-faced bastard."
"-Up yours, you fat ol' horker-fucker!"
Cicero looks back at you with wide, bulging eyes full of fear, before frantically turning around in your arms to fully face you. He tries to stand until you reach over and press a finger to his lips, soundlessly shushing him while shaking your head back-and-forth. Wanting to protect your friend from harm, you cradle Cicero against your chest in an borderline smothering fashion, and then, with his forehead resting in the valley that lies between your neck and your right shoulder, you cup a hand around your mouth and whisper three words; "Zul! Mey! Gut!"
Both guards stop in their tracks when they hear a voice call out to them from behind. Turning on their heels, they stand there in shock when all they find is an empty street, baffled by the sound of your thrown-voice. Confused, they exchange glances before rushing off in the other direction to investigate, giving you and Cicero the opportunity to make a mad dash for better cover. The two of you just narrowly manage to avoid getting spotted.
You briefly collapse against the cool sturdy stone wall to catch your breaths, before marching on and continuing onward. Sneaking through the streets with your heads hung low, you repeatedly scan your surroundings for any signs of movement, jumping at every little shadow that moves. When you spot a shapeless figure shift along the edge of your peripherals, you have barely any time to react before Cicero grabs you by the arm and pulls you into a little alley, where he proceeds to pin you in-between himself and the wall.
"Shhh—" He whispers softly with a finger held to your lips, before leaning onto his toes in order peer around the corner. "We mustn't make too much noise, little flower! Mustn't be seen, no!"
You quietly pant. "Right. Not unless we want to attract the attention of every guard within a fifty foot radius."
Cicero vigorously nods his little head, causing the 'ears' of his jester hat to bounce right along with it. "Yes, they are quite the shrieky bunch, hoo hoo! Especially those guards that we saw back there, hm? Heh, they don't seem to get along very well!"
Still panting, you tilt your head back and rest it against the cold stone wall, allowing the rain to drip down the length of your neck. Your skin is hot and sticky underneath the leather catsuit of your shrouded assassin's armor, tightly stretched over your body like a sort of second skin— so when a few water droplets manage to slip beneath the collar of your armor, the relief that the cool rain brings is minor, but that doesn't stop you from relishing in it anyway.
"We cannot afford to linger in one place for long. Let's get moving." You huff while pushing yourself off the wall, chest still heaving with every greedy, desperate lungful of air.
Cicero steps aside and then bows in an overly-polite manner. "After you, pretty little one!"
After bowing your head and taking Cicero by the hand, you run around the corner and stealthily creep through the darkness. You dart across a stone bridge and make it over to the riverside of Markarth, where you're forced to navigate a miniature labyrinth of stone bridges and riverside docks, just to eventually find yourself at the doorstep of The Hag's Cure.
You and Cicero briefly pause on the doorstep of the locked-up alchemy shop to catch your breaths, half-hunched over with your hands on your knees. Then, once the way is clear, you sprint the rest of the way to Understone keep, whilst trying your best to avoid stepping into puddles deeper than the treads of your boots. Once you make it to the keep's golden doors, you and Cicero dig through the folds of your cloaks, searching for the invisibility potions hidden within a secret pocket sewn into the inner lining.
Cicero manages to locate his invisibility potion first, and immediately drinks it all.
"Wait, dammit!" You whisper-hiss at him, before cursing under your breath when you realize that he's already downed the entire bottle.
After rolling your eyes and huffing in mild annoyance, you rush to catch up with Cicero. Once you've managed to pop-off the cork plugging your invisibility potion bottle shut, you suck down the entirety of the potion's contents, and then tuck the empty bottle back into your cloak. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, your body begins to disappear— and once the potion has taken full effect, you blindly reach out for Cicero and manage to grab ahold of a little handful of his cloak. When you give it a little tug, Cicero's hand quickly finds yours.
He intertwines his fingers with your own and then gives them a little squeeze, silently letting you know that he's ready.
Once inside, all it takes to dry the both of you off is a quiet incantation. With the invisibility potion's effect providing a temporary sense of security, all you and Cicero need to do is find the men's bathhouse, quickly-and-quietly. Having already used the men's bathhouse during your stay in Markarth, Cicero takes the lead, and guides you through the dark, torch-lit corridors of Markarth's Understone keep. He's extra mindful of the weight of his individual footsteps, ever-careful in his efforts to avoid making any noise.
Due to the potion's effect, none of the guards seem to take notice of you and Cicero. However, there is a moment where you briefly come across a small squad of Thalmor trailing after particularly tall high-elf by the name of Ondolemar. He is the leader of the Thalmor troops residing in Markarth, and from what you understand, head of the Thalmor Justiciars residing within Skyrim's borders. Being a high-elf, he has a natural affinity for magic— this means that if you get too close to him, you run the risk of getting caught, as he can sense the magicka running through your veins.
You and Cicero both start sweating bullets when Ondolemar comes to a sudden stop.
Suspiciously looking around, the tall, golden-skinned man softly hums. "Mmm, something doesn't feel right."
"Oh no, we can't have that." Cicero utters under his breath, before dipping a hand into the folds of cloak and digging through them.
Moments later, Cicero pulls out a throwing knife. With his fingertips pinching it by the blade, he tosses the knife across the keep, sailing it through the air. It flies almost as if it were being piloted, only to be embedded deep into the temporal lobe of a Thalmor Justiciar trailing after Ondolemar. When the female high-elf slumps over and drops to the ground, the sound of her deadweight hitting the floor startles her companions. Cicero giggles mischievously as the entirety of the Thalmor's squad rushes to her aid, only to discover that it's already far too late when blood begins to pool around her skull.
"Curses!" Ondolemar spits, before glaring angrily at the other squad members. "Why are you three idiots just standing there?! I want the bastard who did this caught, hanged, drawn and quartered! Go! Go find them, you bloody imbeciles!"
The Thalmor disperse through the keep, intent on combing over every last square inch of Understone keep. Hoping to outrun the pointy-eared bastards, Cicero grabs you by the hand and takes off like a speedy serpent, weaving and winding his way through the long, seemingly endless corridors of the keep. Eventually, you manage to outrun your elvish pursuers and finally make it to the men's bathhouse, where you remain hidden under the cover of darkness.
Exhausted and out of breath, you and Cicero collapse against the double-doors, where the icy bite of the cold metal of the dwarven metal provides a little bit of relief, cooling your hot skin as you slip inside without ever uttering a whisper. Cicero lets go of your hand, and if you strain your ears, you can hear the treads of his boots scratching against bits of broken stone and pebbles scattered across the floor as he creeps deeper into the bathhouse.
The structure of the bathhouse is simple, consisting of a single long corridor, with a large stone doorway that lies at the very end of the hall, located on the left. The decorative arched doorway is dressed with sheer curtains, which are gently pulled to the side when Cicero creeps his way further into the bathhouse, knife in hand. Inside, he finds a lone man, sitting in the far right corner of the large circular stone pool, powered-and-purified by a dwemer drainage system. The jester grins, eyes locking onto target.
The man in question is no doubt of Nordic descent, as evident by his particularly tall, muscular physique-and-build. He's fully reclined back against the wall of the stone pool, with his broad shoulders are rolled back and his arms hanging limply over the edge of the tub. Sighing with satisfaction, he allows himself to sink a little further into the hot water, before shutting his eyes and tilting his head back.
The sweet scent of perfume, bath oils, and incense permeate through the air as you make your way inside. Liravelle's husband is so busy indulging himself in the hot bath, he doesn't even realize that he's got company— not until he feels a pair of hands roughly grab him by the shoulders and then shove him further down into the water, badly disorienting him. Unable to tell which way is up, Asvaar violently thrashes around, hoping to shake his aggressor off of him.
Once Asvaar has successfully shaken his assailant off, he surfaces, and immediately has a coughing fit. Spitting up dirty bathwater is unpleasant and almost causes him to vomit, but with a few deep breaths, the swill swirling around in his stomach settles. Angered, Asvaar tries to look around, squinting into the steam in hopes of getting a glimpse of his attacker— but there's nobody there.
"Where are you?" Asvaar angrily bellows. "Show yourself, you bloody coward!"
All Asvaar can hear is are the soft tranquil sounds of rippling bathwater.
Asvaar manages to convince himself that he must've slipped and just was too drunk to realize it. He tries to recline against the edge of the pool, until once more, Asvaar is then roughly grabbed by the shoulders and violently forced back down into the water. He tries once to struggle free again, only this time, he cannot seem to shake his assailant off no matter how hard he tries. He angrily curses whilst trying his best to hold onto the edge of the pool, but the stone is just too slippery from all the water that he's splashing around. He cannot get a good grip.
Then comes a hellish burning, causing Asvaar to throw his head back and scream in agony.
It's only when he looks down that he realizes what's happened; his penis has been cut off.
Upon seeing his own cock bobbing along on the water's surface, Asvaar doesn't stop screaming— not until his aggressor grabs the appendage and then shoves it directly into Asvaar's mouth, cockhead first. Now choking on his own dismembered dick, Asvaar violently thrashes around like a fish out of water, desperate to get away. But even still, he's too weak and too disoriented to fight back, especially when he can't even see who is even attacking him.
Asvaar finally sees you standing in the doorway of the bathhouse. You don't speak a word, not one, when approaching the edge of the tub, arms raised and bent at the elbows. With all of the steam and tears blurring his vision, Asvaar could almost mistake you for a Dibella priestess due to the way that your cloak clings to your feminine figure, if only it weren't for the burning fireballs resting in the palms of your hands.
You take another step towards the pool. Asvaar panics when he realizes what you're about to do.
The effects of Cicero's super-charged invisibility potion finally wear off, allowing Asvaar to get a look at the little man that's managed to overpower him. When he looks up, Cicero is already looking back down at him, grinning wickedly from ear-to-ear as Asvaar struggles against his grip. But as soon as you begin to move again, Cicero lifts his head to watch as you calmly kneel down beside the pool, peering down into the blood-tinted waters below.
Briefly, you lock eyes with him.
"Go on. Do it!" Cicero encourages you with an evil grin.
You look down at Asvaar before slowly lowering your hands into the bloody water, which starts to heat up at an alarmingly fast rate. Then the water begins to simmer; then, it begins to boil. Asvaar tries to spit out his own dick in order to scream for help, but Cicero is quick to cover his mouth, forcing Asvaar to choke it back down. Watching jovially, Cicero can only cackle as Asvaar violently thrashes around in his tight grip while screaming in utter agony he's slowly boiled alive.
Then, you suddenly stop, ripping your hands out of the water.
Eventually, Cicero lets go of Asvaar, who tries to stand up and leap out of the boiling water— only to panic when he realizes that he can't move the lower-half of his body. Terrified, Asvaar softly whimpers around the bloody dismembered appendage in his mouth and tries to wriggle in place, but lets out a pained cry when the movement proves to be direly painful. He looks down and starts to hyperventilate when he discovers that the flesh on his legs is sloughing off in large chunks.
But worst of all? The skin on his back has melted, and is now adhered to the stone wall of the bath tub.
He can't move.
After shrugging off his cloak, Cicero begins to dig through his pockets, while you make your way towards the piping system located in the back of the bathhouse's main room. There, you fiddle with the knobs, turning them until the bloody water begins to drain from the pool. Once the pool has been emptied, Cicero climbs into it and begin to make his way towards Asvaar. Kneeling at the Nord's feet, Cicero procures a needle and thread, which he uses to messily stitch Asvaar's mouth shut with the man's cock still resting inside of his mouth.
Asvaar trembles the entire time, screaming with each pierce-and-pull of Cicero's needle.
Eventually, the jester gets frustrated and grabs him by the chin.
"This would be a lot easier if you didn't move." Cicero softly growls, staring at Asvaar with a wild-eyed, crazy look.
Frightened into obedience, Asvaar remains as still as he possibly can, allowing Cicero to finish stitching his mouth. Humming a soft, cheery tune, Cicero finishes his work, tying off any loose ends before rising to his feet. Once he's managed to tuck the thread-and-needle back into his pocket, he promptly turns back to Asvaar and brutally backhands the bastard across the face. Then he does it again, slapping him a few more times for good measure.
Cicero giggles and bounces on the tips of his toes, before turning around to look at you with a big grin. "Hoo hoo hoo, that felt good!"
You softly hum and then tilt your chin down. "Wonderful execution, Cicero. You did well. Go wash your hands."
Still grinning, Cicero makes his way towards the dwemer piping system to wash his hands and gloves, while you kneel down in front of Asvaar with your elbows resting atop your knee-caps. You wordlessly look him up and down before reaching over and not-so-delicately grabbing him by the chin. Using a bruising amount of force, you turn his head from side-to-side, inspecting the face of the womanizing man that's caused your client so much trouble.
"You're rather ugly." You quietly mutter, speaking nonchalantly as if your opinion were fact. "But considering you're currently choking on 5 flaccid inches, I suppose your ogre-ish beauty isn't why the fair ladies of Markarth always seem to find themselves in bed with you, hm?"
Asvaar snarls at you through the stitches, before violently choking and gagging on his own dick.
"Oh, I must've struck a nerve." You quietly chuckle before reaching for your belt and unsheathing Mehrunes Razor, just to bring the blade up and caress Asvaar's sweaty cheek with the pointed tip. "Mmm, it's a good thing your children look more like their mother, aside from the blonde hair. Any more of your blood and they would've come out looking uglier than a hagraven's ass."
Asvaar growls.
You tilt your head to the left, humming softly. "Cicero, how goes that hand washing?"
Cicero briefly looks over at you, smiles, and then goes back to washing his hands. "Almost done, dearie!"
"Good, then we can proceed with the bloodletting and the scalping." You mutter, staring into Asvaar's eyes unnervingly calm. "His wife will be satisfied with our work, I'm sure."
Asvaar's entire face drops. His eyes widen.
"Yes, your wife. None of this would be happening if you'd just remained faithful to her, you know." You quietly hum, before twirling your blade around in your hand just to drive the pointed end into Asvaar's chest. When he screams, you punch him in the jaw to shut him up, causing him to violently gag and choke in the process. Then, you proceed to carve out the word cheater in his flesh.
"Shut up. By Sithis, you whine like a bitch." You softly grunt, while using a little extra force to carve out the stem of the letter "r". Asvaar screams, and then gags.
Once finished, you lean back on your knees to get a better look at your own handiwork. Cicero walks up behind you.
"Well done, little flower." Cicero purrs while gently patting your shoulder, eyes tracing the edges of the jagged words carved into Asvaar's flesh.
You reply, before sharply jerking your chin at the top of Asvaar's head. "Grab him by the roots of his hair."
Cicero wickedly grins and affectionately squeezes your arm, while slowly walking past you. Chuckling darkly under his breath, he reaches for the dagger strapped to his hip and shows off the dexterity of his fingers by flipping and twirling the blade around in his hand. Asvaar nervously whimpers as Cicero disappears beyond his line-of-sight, before letting out a frightful yelp when he's roughly grabbed by the roots of his hair.
Cicero forces Asvaar to tilt his head back and bare his own neck, opening it up just for your viewing pleasure. Asvaar is helplessly hyperaware of the bloodied blade of Mehrunes Razor being gently dragged across his adam's apple, nervously bobbing underneath the cold metal of the dagger. The blood coating the blade feels uncomfortably warm as the weapon traces the surface of his sweat-soaked skin, lightly so that it doesn't cut into his flesh. Then, much to his own horror, Asvaar begins to feel the effects of blood loss. He can barely keep his eyes open.
You tuck your chin close to your chest, peering down at him. "Oh, damn. Is he dying already? Hmph."
Asvaar can only just barely feel the sensation of your slender fingers wrapping around his throat. Then, just as the last of his lifeforce begins to slip away, a sudden rush of holy light floods his body, bringing him back from the brink. When he opens his eyes, he finds you looking back down at him with a cruel smile, as warm, golden light radiates from your fingers and encompasses his neck.
"Well, that was rude of you, nearly dying on me like that." You sweetly coo while tightening your fingers, until they're nearly crushing his throat.
Asvaar whines. It almost sounds like he's begging for mercy.
"Cicero?" You call out sweetly to the jester, who giggles in response. "You may proceed with the scalping. Do put on a good show for me, won't you, sweetheart?"
"Oh, with pleasure, little flower." The jester purrs.
Asvaar's eyes roll back in their sockets in order to look up at Cicero, whose wicked grins begins to stretch from ear-to-ear. Dark, husky laughter spills from Cicero's lips as he flips his dagger around in his hand, before tightening his fingers around a handful of Asvaar's hair and proceeding to cut off the Nord's scalp. Asvaar screams and writhes around like a helpless worm, pulling at the tendrils of melted flesh adhering him to the wall of the empty stone pool, while Cicero laughs maniacally at the sound of his victim's cries of pain as the blade saws through his flesh.
"♫♪ Cheaters-and-beaters-get-no-sympathy! Now-you-have-got-to-deal-with-me! ♫♪" Cicero cheerfully hums, before ripping Asvaar's scalp off and then violently stabbing him through the back of the skull, cracking the bone protecting his cranium. Giggling madly, Cicero uses his knife to "stir" Asvaar's brains, churning them until they're the same consistency as pea soup. Then, he rips out the knife, stands back, strikes a dramatic pose with the bloody knife resting over his heart, and then theatrically bows before you with a cheerful declaration of "ta-da!"
You applaud Cicero, while smiling behind the cover of your mask. "Well done, Cicero, well done. That was very entertaining."
Your comedic companion proudly grins and strikes a confident pose, while buffing his nails against his chest. "Anything to make the little flower smile!"
Grinning still, you curiously arch an eyebrow. "But Cicero, my face is nearly completely covered. How could you possibly tell that I'm smiling?"
After ripping out his knife and putting it away, Cicero grins and bows his head with a quiet laugh, keeping his chin tucked close to his chest in order to hide the ever-growing grin on his face. With his hands politely folded-together behind his back, the jester confidently struts around the side of Asvaar's bloody corpse, stepping over-and-around it with graceful ease. He walks with his head bowed until he gets roughly within 3 feet of you before finally re-lifting his head, just to lock eyes with you and continue to maintain the pleasant eye-contact until he's directly in front of you.
He seems to insist on standing especially close.
"Actually, Cicero happens to really like the flower's pretty little smile, hm? Oh, yes! He's even committed it to his memory, right up there along with all of his keeperly-duties." He softly whispers with a wide, pearly-white smile, before boldly reaching over to caress the curve of your cheek with a tender touch. "The secret is all in your eyes, you know. Whenever you smile, your eyes have a tendency to sparkle, like little stars. They're quite beautiful! Cicero would even daresay that they're dazzling!"
Cicero retracts his hand, but does so with great hesitance— as if he really didn't want to let go.
Like a cat playing with its food, you can't help but playfully test the limitations of his boundaries.
"Perhaps you'd like to take a closer look, so that you can memorize them?" You ask rather playfully, eyes twinkling with the promise of mischief.
Cicero arches a pointy eyebrow at you, before slowly unfurling his lips to reveal a wicked grin. Intrigued by the suggestive nature of your words, the jester draws in a quiet breath and then ever-so-slightly shuffles closer to you, as if he were about to lean down and whisper a secret against the swell of your lips. Unfortunately, the two of you are interrupted before things can manage to progress any farther.
Beyond the walls of the bathhouse, two off-duty city guards make their way towards the building, caught-up in the midst of a friendly conversation. They pay little mind to the world around them as they walk up the small stone steps leading up to the bathhouse, before shouldering the heavy metal doors out of the way and making their way inside. They continue to talk as they make their way down the long corridor, but stop just-short of entering the room when the smell of death hits them in the face.
Gagging, the pair of men look at each other with the same cautious, wide-eyed expression, before slowly panning their heads around to look at the decorative archway. Steeling themselves for the worst, both guards draw their swords and stand shoulder-to-shoulder before entering the room. But upon finally making their way inside, both of the guards are met with the most grisly sight.
Sitting in the far-right corner of the empty dwarven pool is Asvaar's naked, mutilated corpse. Horrified but unable to get themselves to look away, the guards stare at Asvaar's corpse for two or three more passing heartbeats, before one of them gets too queasy and is forced to turn away to vomit. Lifting his heavy helmet, the guard violently spews his guts all over the floor, while the other drops his sword and then runs off to go get help.
Once he's finished purging the contents of his stomach, the sickly guard briefly looks around the bathhouse, feeling disoriented and confused. Collapsing against the wall for support, he stops to catch his breath, and with shaky hands, tries to slip his helmet back over his head. But his fingers cramp in the process, causing him to drop the helmet, which noisily clatters to the ground and then rolls across the floor. Trailing after it on trembly legs, the guard bends down to pick up his helmet once more, only to trip and fall face-first into the empty pool.
His cranium noisily cracks against the floor, causing him to let out a painful hiss. Despite that his head is still spinning, the lone guard forces himself back up onto his feet and blindly stumbles around, before eventually stopping to lean against the edge of the pool for support. Once his stomach has settled, he lifts his head, only to find himself face-to-face with Asvaar's bloody body. The guard stumbles back in horror, stomach twisting up into little knots at the sight of Asvaar's scalpless head and mutilated groin.
The guard notices the stitches lining the victim mouth, and leans in to get a closer look.
But when he realizes what is hiding behind the stitches, he violently jerks away in disgust.
Falling to his knees, the guard vomits once more, spilling stomach bile all over the floor. After wiping his mouth, he staggers to his feet with a grunt and then slowly exits the pool, stumbling over his own feet the whole time. Leaning against the edge of the pool for support, he looks at the decorative arched doorway, hoping to find his partner standing in the doorway. Instead, he notices something dark at the edge of his vision, but when he goes to look, he immediately wishes that he hadn't.
Written above the archway in big bloody letters is; "Dead men don't cheat. Dead men don't lie. Dead men don't beat."
There's a second line. It reads; "All hail the Dread Father. All hail Sithis. All hail the Dark Brotherhood."
The guard curses. So much for Markarth being the safest city in all of Skyrim.
[[Markarth, Skyrim — Fourth Era, 201st Year]]
[::-Silver-Blood Inn — Middas, 10:36 PM - Night-::]
Within the comforting walls of the Silver-Blood Inn, Liravelle and her two children can be found by the fireplace. The battered woman watches over her children with bruised, blackened eyes, while conversating softly with her dear friend, Muiri. Thankfully, the inn is so loud and so lively, very little folk pay Liravelle's black-and-blue appearance any mind, too interested in drinking-and-downing as much ale and mead that they can afford. Frabbi can be found by the bar, praising her two children while simultaneously cursing-and-shaming her lazy husband in the same breath.
Just another night at the inn, it seems.
When a drunken patron exits the inn, likely going back home to the Warrens for the night, they happen swing the door harder than intended, causing it to fly back farther than intended. This allows you and Cicero to slip inside without much fuss or drawing too much attention to yourselves. Swaddled in your cloaks, neither Muiri nor Liravelle take notice of you, not until you're practically already standing over them. Muiri is the first to notice you, her youthful face falling when she sees you looming over her.
You stare at her expectantly. "Move."
With a forced smile, Muiri nervously excuses herself, and then runs off to the bar to go get herself a drink. But instead of sitting down in her seat and taking it for yourself, you turn back to Cicero and motion for him to sit. Exhausted after running around all day, the jester makes himself comfortable in the chair, sitting down with a tired groan. Meanwhile, you walk around his chair and make your way over to Liravelle, who's already looking back at you.
Her brow is unfurrowed, her lips are pursed, neither frowning nor smiling, and yet her overall expression looks-and-feels oddly tranquil. You wordlessly kneel at her feet and gently pull the folds of your cloak to the side, revealing the bloodied dagger strapped to your hip. Only then does she smile, and what a pretty smile it is, as she goes to reach for a fat coin-purse strapped to her hip.
"I trust the skeever-problem has been taken care of?" She blinks at you. Is he dead?
"Exterminated, madam." You answer, quickly picking-up on what she means. Deader than dead.
"How many did you find?" She asks. Was he alone?
"Just the one." You reply with a slow nod. He was alone.
She hums, and then silently stares at you for several passing heartbeats. "..Did you make it hurt?"
"I revived the damn thing just so I could kill it twice." You answer with a sickly-sweet smile, before dropping it altogether and holding out your hand expectantly. "The payment?"
Liravelle gives the fat coin purse a little jingle, before depositing it into the palm of your hand. "There. 1000 septims."
Degaine, one of the nosiest beggars in all of Markarth, stops mid-stride when passing by, just to scratch the back of his head in drunken confusion after accidently eavesdropping on part of your conversation with Liravelle. "1000 septims? Mrs- *hiccup* Miss Liravelle, you coulda juss- juss ass meee to get the skeever.. I woulda done it forrr.. 10 sep-tumsss.."
After rising to your feet, you wander over to Degaine and rest a gentle hand on his shoulder. "'Fraid not, friend. It was, uh.. it was a really big skeever. Tell you what though, buddy: here. Take those fifteen septim that I just gave you and go get yourself another drink. Then as soon as you're done drinking it, go straight home and get some rest, okay?"
Degaine drunkenly nods his head, as if that made all-the-difference. "Oh! Oh-kay, th-thuh-thankshhh!"
With nosy Degaine taken care of, you turn your attention over to briefly admire Liravelle's two children, innocently playing on the floor by the fireplace. Neither of them have truly any idea just how different their lives are going to be, but you believe that they'll eventually adapt to their newfound freedom. With how strong and enduring of a woman that their sweet mother is, those little ones are going to be just fine, you're almost certain of it.
"Good luck, little mother." You whisper to Liravelle, before looking at Cicero and jerking your head towards your rented room. "Shall we?"
Although the last thing that Cicero wants to do is move, the little man hangs his head in defeat, before slowly nodding as he forces himself to his feet. With an obnoxiously noisy yawn, Cicero trails after you, following closely in your footsteps as you cut across the inn. Once you've returned to the sanctity of your room, Cicero flings off his cloak, throws his knife to the ground, toddles over to the bed, and then collapses on top of it. Meanwhile you lock the door, and then prepare to get settled for the night by taking off your cloaks, belts, and weapons.
By the time that you're done stripping everything off, Cicero is already fast asleep, curled up into a fetal position with his back turned towards you. You drop your chin, chuckling softly under your breath as you make your way over to him. With a sleepy, dreamy sort of sigh, you slowly stroll over to the bed and then sit down beside Cicero, who barely even stirs when you decide to climb the rest of the way into bed. Now laying down, you slip-up behind Cicero and then wrap your arms around him, spooning him from the back. He sinks into your arms with a sleepy sigh, and then goes right back to snoring.
You shake your head with a quiet laugh. "Goodnight, funny little man."