Rain beat the wooden walls of the building - Breezehome – assaulting the structures with all the force of nature's fury. The sound of such a beating was horrifically loud, seemingly threatening and almost…intimidating. In the fire pit, the roaring flame rivalled the noise of the weather – the light sending shadows of the room's furniture dancing across the walls like fragile demons.

A young woman, twisting and writhing in her sleep with every noise, stayed awake despite every attempt to block out the wrath of the Gods. Ever so recent memories circled around her mind – her only distraction in the horrid night.

She recalled her hunt. Her kill. Her need for blood. Her need for death. She recalled the moment her blade collided with ripe flesh. The moment the corpse dropped to the floor. The moment she fled with rippling laughter as she escaped the scene before the guards noticed-

{ C R AS H }

The heavy rain morphed violently into a thunderstorm – the awful sound echoing with immense volume throughout Breezehome. It was as though the Nine Divines were determined to keep the young woman awake, though in her circumstances, it may have been for the best.

Thunder clapped with all the rage of an ancient dragon – threatening to wake the entire population of the Whiterun hold. The young woman growled to herself, her eyes snapping open to reveal her pale blue eyes.

Her name was Darlayah – Darlayah Dawn-Bringer. A Breton she was, a race from the lands of High Rock – at the ripe age of twenty eight, she had become rather settled down in Skyrim. She was a feared assassin – a respected member of the dying Dark Brotherhood - and held many associations with guilds and deities, including the scorned Daedra. Yet even so, nobody could put this persona to her face. She was unrecognisable. To the land of Skyrim, Darlayah was just another face in the crowd.

{ C R AC K }

More thunder. More lightning. It was like a never-ending stream of the stuff of nightmares – yet it was this that kept the true nightmares at bay. Darlayah had never been a good sleeper, for her mind was constantly plagued by a memory so horrific that even an assassin could wake up with a cry.

With a defeated sigh, the Breton rose from her bed with a half-hearted jolt. She trudged wearily past her housecarl Lydia's room, before storming down the stairs to the table in the corner of her living room. She flung herself onto the seat like a prisoner's corpse – her head hitting the table's surface with a thump. She groaned as the pain hit her, before a sudden crack of thunder startled her. She wondered if there was something to disperse the storm – perhaps a Shout?

"A Shout?" You may ask, but we do not speak of the mere screech of an angry mortal. Shouts as in Thu'um – the legendary voice of the Dovah, the dragons. It is a power rarely seen and a power used by few. She was no master, but Darlayah had experience with the mythical ability, for she was acquainted with the Masters themselves – the Greybeards. It is a long, complicated tale of their meeting – one which can wait until another day.

As Darlayah slowly raised her head, a thin sliver of golden light beneath the front door captured her attention. The thunder claps had now stopped, and the rain was dying down to a gentle trickle. She had been awake all night. Whether Lydia had done the same was something Darlayah had no interest in finding out. She had more pressing matters on her mind – for example, her growling stomach. The eruption of thunder had drowned out the sounds of hunger, and so she didn't truly notice until now.

Reaching for a sweet roll in a nearby bread-sack, Darlayah munched away with a frustrated expression. A yawn was audible from upstairs, a signal that Lydia had awoken or at least decided that sleep was unattainable.

"Morning, my Thane." Lydia called downstairs, before she herself came down to sit beside Darlayah. The Breton merely grunted in response, before finishing her rather lazy breakfast. "How did you sleep, my Thane?" Lydia pressed on, and Darlayah forced a smile onto her face before turning to face her housecarl.

"I slept alright – the storm kept me up for a bit though." Darlayah lied half-heartedly, idly tracing the lines in the wood of the table. Lydia seemed to either ignore the lie or actually believe it.

Suddenly, Darlayah perked up and reached into the pocket of her tunic, and pulled out a scrap of paper with a memo written on it. Lydia raised a brow.

"Lydia, I've got some work to do." Darlayah drawled, a grin slowly creeping across her face as Lydia realised just what job Darlayah had to go and do.

She knew everything about Darlayah – her affiliations, her guilds, her…jobs – everything. It was usually Lydia who helped ensure Darlayah was always thought to be innocent within the Whiterun hold. By spreading rumours of good deeds and destroying tales of wrongdoings, Lydia usually helped Darlayah maintain a decent image. Elsewhere was a different story. Sometimes, Lydia felt rather fearful of the Breton – staying in the same building as an assassin was hardly a comforting thing.

"I'll be gone a while – hopefully no more than a few days. I'll probably be staying in the Sanctuary after." Darlayah mumbled as she stuffed the note back in her tunic. "Now – I better get ready."

Wandering tiredly back up the stairs with the remains of a sweet roll stuffed into her jaws, Darlayah decided to wear her classic attire – black and red mage robes. Not only did they feel comfortable, they also looked rather sinister. The perfect choice for a stylish killer.

It took moments to throw on the simple clothing, and as she considered her task ahead, she decided an amulet would help her. Her hand wandered to her bedside table, and opening the drawer, her eyes darted from necklace to ring to circlet in search of the perfect one. There were fire resistance necklaces, rings to aid the one handed skill, circlets that improved magical skill, and various amulets from the deities. Her dull blue eyes lingered upon the amulet of Mara, the goddess of love, and with an amused grin across her face she decided to wear it – just out of mere curiosity to see if any would notice.

It was customary in Tamriel to wear such an amulet if one were single and available – however, being so busy with murder, Darlayah couldn't ever find time (or the actual desire) to be with anyone at all. And so she used the amulet for entertainment – finding the awfully cheesy pickup lines of many a man and woman rather hilarious.

Throwing a leather satchel across her shoulder, the Breton then began to eye her weapons. Of course, she ignored the gifts of cheap iron weapons and the 'I forgot to bring a dagger so I bought the cheapest one' weapons and went straight to her prized possession – a pair of stolen Daedric daggers. They were her pride and joy, and she rarely used anything else.

Last of all, she added the finishing touch – dark red paint. She quickly grabbed a tub of the stuff from her drawer, and smeared it downwards across her eyes to make her face appear differently shaped. It was always good to conceal her identity whenever she went out on 'hunts' – any decent assassin is always careful to remain concealed!

With her disguise on, she peered out of her window and saw the emptiness in the streets. Perfect. The horrific storm had also passed entirely at this point. Now only the faintest mist of rain danced upon the stone paths, and even that rain looked as though it would disperse soon.

It took only a few minutes to leave and reach the stables just outside the city, and there, Darlayah found her gaze frozen upon the horizon. The mountains in the distance were surrounded by an eery steel grey mist, and the clouds just covered their peaks. The fields and meadows surrounding Whiterun were blooming with flowers, and the tall grasses seemed to glitter in the rain. The skies were painted beautiful hues of pink and gold as the sun began its slow ascent, and the faintest glimmer of the last stars could be seen above.

Quickly shaking her head and turning to face the stables, Darlayah quickly noted her palomino stallion – Dagur. He was absolutely covered in mud, and upon seeing his Breton rider, began to trot around the small fenced off stable in excitement. Rolling her eyes with a grin, Darlayah went to find a wooden bucket and some water. This old horse needed a rather big rinse.

After rinsing off her horse and mounting, Darlayah had quickly referred to her note to see where she would be headed. Dawnstar - it was a small northern town that was very rarely heard of, for nothing interested usually occurred. Perhaps my task will give them something to talk about, Darlayah thought to herself, grinning.

Darlayah found herself humming as she rode at a steady pace along the snowy paths. She had been riding for an hour, and so she was beginning to grow both bored and impatient. Since humming was offering very little entertainment, she decided to develop the tune into a song.

"I have died every day, just

Waiting for you to come home.

Lying on my bed, all alone,

And you still haven't come home.

It's been a long, cold year,

And my heart grows restless,

Waiting for you to come home.

The stone floors are cracking,

And you still haven't come home.

And the bird's song is a crow call-

A sharp rap on the door.

And the crow's call is a bird's song –

The dagger ends all."

The bitterly cold wind had no effect upon her clear, sweet voice – yet the winds dimmed the volume and offered only howling as a response to her song. Snowflakes began to gather upon Darlayah's garments, the black slowly becoming an icy, glittering white, and her red paint dripped like thick blood as the snow melted upon her cheeks. As the wind howled louder and the snow pricked her skin like ice-cold needles, the Breton retreated from a song to a hum, and soon, was forced into silence by the ever continuing onslaught from the skies.

Dawnstar. It was unusually quiet today. The winds had finally died down and snow no longer fell from the dark clouds hovering above – offering Darlayah some relief. Dismounting her horse, she strode with a false air of confidence, another addition to her disguise.

She quickly recalled the details on the note she had been given, and soon, she was scouting out the address. The building was hardly difficult to find, in fact, it was only a few metres from where she dismounted. A grin spread across her face as she wandered over with heavy strides.

The door was unlocked, oddly, and so Darlayah was able to enter immediately. Only silence was there to greet her. Shutting the door, she eyed the area around her, noting the unusual abundance of raw meat dripping with blood. It was everywhere – on plates, by the fireplace, in sacks stained with blood – and this made the assassin rather suspicious.

She then noted the single bed in the corner – this would mean only one person should be here. Yet the home was empty. Either they were out, or the target was-

{ C L AN G }

A sharp metallic sound suddenly sounded from beneath Darlayah's feet – as if coming from under the floor. Her nose wrinkled as she realised there was a hidden cellar, and quickly, she set to work finding the entrance. Under the bed, behind the fireplace, triggered by a candle – the options for triggering the door to the cellar beneath were endless.

She started to become frustrated, and soon realised there was indeed someone – or something – underneath the house. It could only be the target! Thinking fast, Darlayah noted the empty wardrobe near the bed. She ran towards it, her thick boot suddenly thrusting into the wood and sending it flying back into a descending staircase. A screech was heard from the room below, and Darlayah furrowed her brows. That was no human.

Suddenly, a beast with flesh greyer than stone erupted from the doorway and threw the Breton across the room. Thick, beastly arms ending with inch long talons lifted her with ease, holding her with a crushing grip. The piercing acid yellow gaze was locked upon its target as it squeezed, causing the Breton to cry out in absolute pain. Darlayah could feel she was breaking, and knew she had to do something.

And so, she Shouted.

"YOL!" she cried, sending a burst of amber flames rocketing at the face of the monstrous Gargoyle, causing it to throw Darlayah down to the floor. It desperately tried to extinguish the flames upon it's skull, and thinking fast, the assassin used this to her advantage.

Pulling out her two daggers, Darlayah thrust the blades into the abdomen of the writhing beast, before twisting them both with tremendous effort. The gargoyle screeched, before erupting into violet ashes. Gasping for air, Darlayah knelt down for a moment, completely in shock as to what had just happened.

Nazir, the Redguard who gave her this contract and the note with the details, never mentioned anything about a Gargoyle. Or even anything about someone who could conjure such powerful beasts. She was lucky to have been able to Shout – without that ability, she would have perished.

Getting to her feet – now extremely irritated – Darlayah noted the cupboard. Where there were conjured beasts, there would be a conjurer. Crinkling up her nose in fury, she bolted down the stairway – blades glistening with the thick, grey blood of the Gargoyle – to find something rather amusing.

The conjurer was lying in a corner, curled up and whimpering like a frightened mutt. Grinning madly, Darlayah did her best dramatic entrance – swinging her blades in each palm before stepping forwards. Slowly. Menacingly. Loudly. The conjurer cried out.

"Please! P-please don't hurt me – I beg you!" he whined, but Darlayah could only laugh at his pathetic attempts. "I didn't k-know it wouldn't work! He said it w-would work!"

Darlayah stopped laughing. He? Who was 'he'? Was this a set up?

"Who the fuck are you on about?" she hissed, increasing her pace and pressing her boot down upon the hand of the conjurer, crushing the bones of his fingers. He cried out in pain and terror, but still didn't talk. "I said – who is 'he'?!" she lashed out again, her boot releasing his hand and coming crashing into the nose of the conjurer. He simply sat and whined once more. "Pathetic." With that, a blade sank deep into the throat of the man, before twisting free and leaving his head barely attached to his leaking neck. Blood spattered violently, coating his dark purple robes with a sinister crimson shine.

Now, the priority was getting out unseen. The gargoyle had made a lot of noise, and Darlayah's Shout was hardly silent either. She even had blood spattered on her clothes now – and her blades weren't exactly clean too. Growling to herself, she wiped her blades on the conjurer's already bloody robes and quickly rushed upstairs to find some clothes she could steal.

Luckily, the conjurer had a load of old tunics stashed in a drawer beside his bed – and most seemed fairly small. Perfect for a little assassin.

She found some black mage robes with a massive grey skull inked on the front – they were a tolerable fit, and so she folded her blood covered robes and hid them in her leather satchel. It was bulging and looked odd, but she didn't care – there was no reason for Darlayah to stay in Dawnstar, so nobody should notice so long as she leaves quick.

She hastily sheathed her daggers and left the house with a very casual demeanour – luckily, the streets were still quiet, so her escape was slick and easy.

As she rode from the town, she couldn't help but hiss to herself. She could have died here today - just because some idiot couldn't give full details of her target. It's hardy difficult to tell if someone was a conjurer – the robes are a rather big giveaway.

Nazir would hear about this – and she hoped that she'd be given the permission to end the miserable life of whoever tried to kill her.

"AHHHH! BOTHER AND BEFUDDLE!" As the two came past the north of Whiterun, a shrill male voice pierced the air and Dagur reared, sending Darlayah's torso flying back as she scrambled to hold on.

She quickly calmed her horse, before dismounting and leading him instead – however, the male voice continued to freak the stallion.

"STUCK. STUUUUUCK!"

Now feeling extremely frustrated, Darlayah led her horse with anger to where a wagon was clearly damaged and some man was leaping about as if in fury.

He looked like some sort of Imperial jester – he had the hat, the boots, the gloves and the clothes, so it kind of seemed he was here for his work. He seemed frustrated, so Darlayah approached cautiously – letting go of Dagur's halter so he would not be spooked again.

"Uh, sir? Is there a problem?" She asked, her fake confidence masking her tones. The jester turned, his furious facial expression calming somewhat. Darlayah kept her distance still, unsure what the man would be like.

"Ooohh! Poor Cicero is stuck, can't you see?" He answered in exasperation, throwing his arms up dramatically. Darlayah raised a brow – this guy was weird. "I was transporting my dear, sweet Mother, you see! Well, not her – her corpse. She's quite dead. Heh." He chuckled, before sighing.

Darlayah shot a brief glance at the wagon, and noted the front wheel had come clean off. On the back of the wagon, a massive wooden crate lay – it was a bit too large to be a coffin, Darlayah noted. Unless this mother of his was rich – some Imperials could afford ridiculously large coffins. When she looked back at Cicero, he had a very hopeful look in his eyes.

"So…do you need help?" Darlayah instantly regret asking as the man leapt up with joy.

"Yesssss! The kind stranger can certainly help!" He cried, his golden eyes wide with happiness.

Eying Cicero cautiously, Darlayah stepped over to the wheel, noting it really only needed a few simple tools to get back on the road. Yet she didn't have any tools at all.

She suddenly jumped – Cicero had poked her shoulder and she really wasn't expecting it. Darlayah quickly resumed her confident persona and stood to face the jester.

"Go to the farm!" He exclaimed, pointing wildly at the farm nearby. Darlayah had forgotten about old Lorieus and his farm – that man was hardly friendly. "Convince the old farmer to fix poor Cicero's wheel!" He begged, and Darlayah couldn't help but roll her eyes at his mock pout.

"Okay, fine. Wait here. Don't do anything stupid." She growled, yet the jester simply danced about in joy.

Lorieus was leaning against a stone wall watching as his wife tended to their crops, yet he immediately looked annoyed when he noticed Darlayah coming up his steps.

"Hey, there's some guy here with a broken wheel, and we were just wondering if you could lend us-" Darlayah was cut off immeditately, and Lorieus's wife quickly ran indoors.

"No, no and no!" Lorieus hissed, grabbing the shovel next to him and swinging it menacingly. "That little mad-man has asked me seven times already! Seven!" He growled, but soon, his furious expression switched to that of absolute terror.

Darlayah unsheathed her blades and held them both to his throat. "Sorry, was that a 'no' I heard?" She whispered, and Lorieus shook his head.

"I-I'll get my tools…" He mumbled before stumbling backwards and hastily finding his equipment. Darlayah grinned.

Entertainment was so easy to find nowadays.

She turned and headed back to Cicero, who was chuckling rather menacingly.

"Oohh, you are one of those, hmm? So dangerous, so sinister!" He grinned darkly, and Darlayah couldn't help but shrug, a grin forming on her own lips.

"Just couldn't help myself." Darlayah drawled, before turning to head back to Dagur.

Cicero suddenly grabbed her shoulder, turning her around and flinging a small coin purse into her hand. "Hail Sithis." He hissed in low tones.

Darlayah was shocked, to say the least – yet she couldn't dwell on the odd little man now, she had work to do. With a confused expression on her face, Darlayah mounted her horse, and continued to her destination – the Falkreath Sanctuary.

A few hours later.

Dagur halted. He knew exactly where they were, and he wasn't exactly fond of the place. His ears flipped backwards, and Darlayah comforted him with gentle words and neck strokes. As she leapt off her horse, she threw her hood back, allowing her entire face to be seen and her hair to escape and fall down upon her breast.

She approached the Sanctuary door, and waited for it to speak.

"What…is the music…of life…" It drawled in whispering tones, and Darlayah gave the response.

"Silence, my brother."

"Welcome…home…"

The door swung open, and Darlayah strode inside. As the door slammed shut with a groan and a crack, the Breton noticed Astrid – the leader of the Sanctuary – was not anywhere to be seen. Curious, Darlayah wandered further in, and saw the members of the Brotherhood moving about various kinds of furniture. It was rather amusing to see the various assassins handling the beds and cabinets, so Darlayah decided to help them…or not.

"Hey, Veezara." She called out to the Argonian, who eyed Darlayah with his reptilian gaze. He had a massive bedside table in his arms, and he looked rather irritated. Darlayah grinned.

"Greetings, Dee. I see you are busy?" He muttered, however Darlayah could tell he was forcing back a grin.

"Yeah, I was just gonna go lie down. I'd loooove a good rest right now." She chuckled, and Veezara shook his head as he smiled. "I'll help you with that – where's it gonna go?"

"Oh, in the spare room." Veezara replied, looking rather relieved as Darlayah took the drawers into her arms.

"Right – I'll dump this there then."

"Thank you."

Darlayah trudged slowly to the spare room, a little confused as to why this isolated little room was suddenly being renovated. All the other assassins had a shared area for sleeping, and there were still empty beds so it couldn't be because there was a new recruit.

Inside the spare room, Astrid greeted Darlayah.

"Oh, there you are. Just dump that down here, please." Darlayah obeyed, and turned to face her leader.

"So…what's going on?" She asked, still really confused.

"The Keeper is arriving soon, and we are preparing his room. It's almost done – just a few more finishing touches are needed and it will be ready."

Darlayah thought for a moment, before realising she had known about this from a while ago.

The Keeper was the member of the Brotherhood who kept the corpse of the Night Mother intact. The Night Mother herself was the very being who controls the Brotherhood – so they say. It is said she 'speaks' to one individual called the Listener and gives them contracts – and it is the Keeper who can identify such a person. However, there hadn't been a Listener in a very long time. So having a Keeper was something that could turn the Brotherhood around and bring it back to power – if only they could find the Listener.

Shaking her head free from her thoughts, she left the room, and headed back to her own bed where she decided to rest. Yet just as she began to quietly read upon her bed, she suddenly heard a lot of commotion from the main part of the Sanctuary. Confused and also somewhat unsure, Darlayah got up and cautiously made her way to what seemed to be a group forming around somebody.

"But the Night Mother is mother to all! It is her voice we follow! Her will!" A shrill voice cried out, and Darlayah instantly recognised it. "Would you dare risk disobedience? And surely…punishment?"

Darlayah pushed through the group of the gathered assassins, and sure enough, Cicero and his massive crate stood there before them. The jester turned to see the Breton, and he grinned darkly.

"So Cicero was correct, hmm?" He drawled, before taking a step towards Darlayah. She felt uncertain, yet pulled her mask of false confidence over herself again.

"Fancy seeing you here." She muttered, facial expression blank.

"Oh! Cicero never forgets a face – but you never had a name! Poor Cicero was never given a name!" He said dramatically, causing Darlayah to roll her eyes.

"Darlayah. Darlayah Dawn-Bringer. You can just call me Dee, I guess." She said, yet her uncertainty must have shown through for Cicero's smile faltered subtly.

"Darlayah! I've been waiting for you." Nazir's voice called out from behind.

"Oh, yeah – I need a word with you." Darlayah replied sternly, turning her back to the jester and heading towards the Redguard.

They both headed to the dining room, where they sat at opposite sides of the table. Darlayah pulled her right sleeve up, revealing massive red splotches where she had been badly bruised from the attempted constriction.

"You never said I had a conjurer on my hands. His gargoyle nearly killed me." Nazir looked shocked at her words, before furrowing his brows. "The conjurer said something about someone else – it sounded to me like someone told him to use a gargoyle. He was waiting for me. What's going on?"

Nazir paused. He obviously had no idea. After a moment of silence, his gaze turned stone cold. "I shall return soon. I clearly need to have a 'talk' with someone." He got up and left, patting the sheath where he kept his sword upon his hip. Darlayah grinned.

"Ho ho ho, he he he, break that lute across my knee-" Cicero's irritating chant was cut off from a sharp rap on the table by Astrid. Cicero mumbled to himself, now seemingly annoyed.

Dinner at the Sanctuary was rather awkward this night. Without Nazir's cooking expertise and irritatingly amusing jokes, it was quiet and the food was hardly fresh nor delicious. Darlayah simply played with her food, a little uncomfortable since she was sat directly next to Cicero. The jester kept making attempts to warm up to everyone at the table, yet Astrid still constantly shut him up.

"Oh, just give him a break Astrid. It must have been a long journey for him from Cyrodiil." Veezara piped up, causing Astrid to get up and leave. Veezara followed suit, quickly apologising. Darlayah felt sorry for the reptile – he was always so careful to please the leader.

Wait.

Cyrodiil?

Darlayah furrowed her brows for a moment. Cyrodiil was south of Skyrim. Yet the Breton found Cicero right up near Whiterun. The Falkreath Sanctuary was down at the southernmost part of Skyrim, so why did the jester go all the way up to Whiterun and then south again? Did he get lost? Darlayah glanced briefly at the Imperial, who actually now had a rather subtle look of sadness in his eyes. The Breton started feeling rather sorry for him – if he truly did get lost, he must have had a horridly long journey. And the stress of a broken wagon probably didn't help. Knowing this, Darlayah mustered up her strength – applying her shield of confidence once more – and decided to talk to him.

"So, did Lorieus fix your wheel? Was there any trouble?" She asked, picking apart her dinner once more in an attempt to decipher which parts were actually edible. Cicero looked at her, his usual goofy grin returning to his face.

"Oh no, no trouble! Cicero had his wheel fixed in no time! Oh yes, the Night Mother was heading home in no time!" He exclaimed merrily, "Alllll thanks to you!"

Darlayah blushed, not exactly used to such friendliness. "You're welcome, Cicero." Was all she said, before she excused herself from the table and put away her still very full plate.

As the evening drew to a close, Darlayah found herself growing tired. She didn't want to sleep though, for her mind would carve out nightmares for her – something she did not need after a near-death experience.

And so, the Breton lay in her bed and reached into her personal bedside cabinet. There, she pulled out a journal and an inkwell, as well as a soft quill. Writing in her journal was a calming method that usually helped her sleep, but it didn't always work. However, she was always willing to take risks.

Fredas 17, Second Seed, 4E 201

It has been quite the odd day today. First, a contract nearly went horribly wrong – I was confronted by a conjurer's gargoyle. I still feel immense pain where it tried to crush me. Second, the strange man I helped on the way to the Sanctuary turned out to be the Keeper – I should have suspected something considering he did whisper 'Hail Sithis' earlier.

Her writing was cut short as she heard a ton of yelling from the floor beneath. It sounded like Cicero and…Astrid. It was no surprise to the Breton, who simply rolled her eyes and continued to write.

Yet she was too tired, and soon, the horrid, grasping talons of slumber reached towards her and forced her into the spiralling embrace of darkness.

"Darlayah? Darlayah!" Gabriella, the Dark Elf, quickly shook the Breton awake with hurried movements.

She shot up, her forehead dotted with beads of sweat and her lungs working harder than usual. Darlayah looked up at Gabriella with realisation printed all over her face, before she fell back down into her pillow. "Not again." She hissed, covering her face with her hands.

"It's fine, we just got worried." Gabriella said, her tone cold but her eyes warm.

"'We'?" Darlayah repeated, moving her hands.

"Cicero heard you. You must have been loud." Gabriella replied, and pointed to the door that left the shared room. Sure enough, the jester was standing in the door way, looking rather awkward.

"Ugh, this needs to stop." Darlayah moaned. Gabriella thought for a moment.

"You should see the Priests of Mara. You seem well acquainted with them – they should be able to help you become more peaceful or something. Not that I believe in that sort of thing." She mumbled, but Darlayah smiled.

"Since I'm up, I may as well go now. Thanks for waking me." The Breton replied, her false air of confidence fading slightly.

"You should thank that jester too. He may be too exhuberant for my liking, but he at least has the mental capacity to know when something is wrong." With that, she left. Darlayah looked to the doorway, but the jester was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, the Breton decided to clean herself up and change into less intimidating attire – she had somewhere to be.

Later that day.

The ride to Riften was an arduous one. Feeling too tired to ride her own horse, Darlayah had paid a carriage driver to take her to the city – yet even so she still felt the heavy weight of fatigue upon her back when she reached her destination.

As she left the carriage and approached the city gates, a cold expression plastered onto her face as she went. As she reached the massive walls of Riften, she was approached by a guard.

"Halt. You were on a toll road. You will have to pay…fifty septims to pass." Darlayah eyed him with a vicious gaze, before sending her knee flying into the guard's stomach and her fist up into his jaw. The guard's helmet flew off completely and he fell to the floor, groaning and clutching his stomach.

"Oh, uh – D-Dee. Didn't k-know it was you." The 'guard' said. Darlayah knew exactly who he was, and knew that he was a Thieves Guild member. They had…history.

"Shut the fuck up, Galdur." She hissed, before grinning. "Now – may I enter the city? Pretty please?" Her voice sounded as though it were dripping with venom, so Galdur got to his feet and pushed open the gates for her. "Thank you." She added coldly, before quickly smashing her heel down on his foot and walking into the city.

Riften wasn't exactly the nicest city in the lands. It was dirty, dreary and almost constantly raining. Not to mention there were homeless people everywhere and thugs roamed the streets and mugged and burgled in broad daylight. Luckily, Darlayah had no need for a bag and she also had a small iron dagger strapped to her thigh where it was hidden. She was always prepared for a walk in Riften.

As she walked, however, she noticed something seemed amiss. The streets were unusually quiet, and any person who was out had a rather fearful expression. Darlayah quickly wondered if it was her, but nobody should recognise her – she was dressed like a civilian and her warpaint was off. She even made the effort to braid her hair.

As she reached the Temple of Mara, her suspicions were intensified even more. The massive torches outside the temple were dim and dying – yet the priests were always ensuring the fires were burning. Nothing was wet, so it wasn't due to rain. Her heart began to drop as she got even closer.

"Halt. Do not come closer." A guard snapped, holding the handle of his sheathed sword threateningly. Darlayah furrowed her brows.

"I'm not here to cause harm. What's going on?" She asked, trying to hide her anxiousness. She was just so confused – what in the name of Sithis was going on?

The guard sighed, releasing his sword handle and shaking his head grimly.

"The priests of Mara have been murdered."