It was his final contract, for the remainder of his existence. He had been sitting in the living quarters, enjoying a small sweetroll, when Rasha sat next to him, wordlessly. He had not been used to such close contact from the Khajiit. Usually, the feline race tended to keep their distance from other entities, unless they were feeling particularly affectionate. He knew that the catkin was not one for nuzzling, so the closeness with which Rasha presented himself made Cicero feel awkward.
He had experienced quite a substantial amount of activity within the Dark Brotherhood since he was recruited. Not only had they lost their Listener, and invaluable leader, but there had been destruction in all corners of Cyrodiil as it seemed they were being hunted. The assassins weren't looked at fondly in the Imperial province.
Before joining the Black Hand, Cicero was simply another troubled, angst-ridden young adult, filled with an unquenchable thirst for death and destruction brought by his own hand. Becoming an assassin was easy for him, and his new family accepted him instantly. He was a quiet man, and kept mostly to himself. He had had a few lovers in his time, but no one long-term or important. He preferred a life of solitude and darkness, and would often become agitated within large groups of people, especially if he was the center of attention. For those reasons, he loved the tight-knit family in which he was placed and raised.
He took contract after contract happily, never refusing any, and always carrying them out to the best of his abilities. He preferred a short-range mode of attack, usually with a dagger, mostly because he loved the simplicity of seeing life leave the eyes of his prey. It was exhilarating, to watch the glisten of one's eye simply fade as the soul left the body to become one with the Void. Sometimes, he could even feel the life force within the fleshy confines of the individual, like a warm, pulsating life, become detached from the physical body, and float, like fire, over the flesh, only to be lapped up by the Void, until the warmth was completely drained. He would then sigh heavily, thank Sithis and the Mother, and leave the empty shell to rot and become one with the earth from whence it came.
Rasha obviously had intentions. Of this, Cicero was sure. What surprised the red-headed Imperial, was what exactly these intentions were. The Khajiit cleared his throat and turned to face the Imperial, with a small, cat-like grin on his face.
"Rasha has something he would like to offer you, Cicero," he said. "It is up to the rest of the Family to decide for sure, but we are offering it to you."
The Khajiit's sly accent and hissing-like voice made the offer already seem too good to be true, even though he hadn't even actually asked the question yet. Cicero didn't turn to look at the catkin beside him, rather he stared directly at his sweetroll, waiting for him to continue. He knew Rasha well, perhaps even more so than any of his other sisters and brothers. When he insisted on helping defend the Unholy Matron after the statue of the Lucky Old Lady had been destroyed, Rasha wouldn't have it. It was as though, from the very beginning, he had high intentions for the Imperial.
When Garnag returned with the stone coffin of the beloved Night Mother, Rasha seemed intent on Cicero spending as much time with her as he could. Cicero had only assumed it was because of the distinct lack of Listener, and there was no one who could take care of the Mother's body. At first, the alone time with the Mother was eerie and displeasing, and made Cicero sincerely feel uncomfortable. But after a while, he grew to like it – he even found it peaceful. Like he was a small child, sitting at the feet of his mother, who smiled warmly down at him, and held him in her comfortable, though dead, arms.
Cicero seemed to be leaving the Night Mother less and less as the days went by. The remaining members of the Dark Brotherhood took to the streets in order to hear the pleas of the Mother's children, since they could no longer hear Her voice, and therefore would never know of any Black Sacraments performed. They seemed to make do as much as they could, but already, the dread that the mere mention of the Dark Brotherhood seemed to bring to others was beginning to fade, and the Dark Brotherhood seemed to become a band of common cutthroats, rather than the feared assassins they once were.
"Without a Listener, and with the need to protect the Night Mother at all costs, Rasha is reviving an old position," the Khajiit told Cicero. "The position of Keeper."
At those words, Cicero finally turned his head. His honey-coloured eyes flashed with excitement at the mention of such an esteemed position being offered to him. He never truly amounted to much in his life, so the thought of being offered something as huge as this was a great reward for all he had done, and a sort of acknowledgement he had never experienced.
"Why me?" Cicero asked.
The Imperial was a small man, lean, though stocky in build. His voice was never as deep as those he knew, especially in comparison to those Nords from the province of Skyrim that he so often saw migrating into Cyrodiil, and even sounded somewhat squeaky. He was always attractive, especially in his youth, due to his bright red hair, and creamy, caramel eyes. His lips were thin, but pursed sensually, and dipped into light laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. His nose was somewhat large, though pointy, and his teeth were perfect, and straight. His hair was deep red, like the colour of smeared blood, accented with copper tones, and he often kept it long, and in a loose braid or ponytail down his back. His skin was pale and was dusted upon his nose, under his eyes, and slightly upon his shoulders, with light freckles. He took an amount of pride in his appearance, and often kept his Dark Brotherhood clothing clean and tidy, especially if he was wearing it on a kill.
"Because you seem to show the most interest in our Unholy Matron," Rasha insisted.
"I am… Honoured," Cicero replied, a small smile befalling his lips. He rarely smiled, let alone laughed, but sometimes, there were moments which called for a devilish grin, or a polite smile, both of which he was more than capable of mustering.
"Don't thank Rasha yet," the catkin stopped him. "It comes at a price."
Cicero dreaded this. He knew what was coming, and he was underprepared for what the Khajiit was about to say.
"You will be unable to take contracts for as long as you are Keeper, which should be until you greet Sithis in the Void," Rasha explained.
Cicero frowned, not making eye contact with the feline. His entire existence seemed to revolve around the fact that he was an assassin – a killer. He prided himself in that fact. And not being able to ever kill again was a devastating thought. However, if the Dark Brotherhood believed that that was where he was meant to be, then he could not deny it. He did love the Mother, as he was raised from recruiting to be, and being the one closest, physically, to her, was a great honour.
"If you wish to accept this, I will offer you the Keeping Tomes," Rasha explained. "They are a set of books we retrieved from the destruction in Bravil, that the Keeper of the Night Mother requires in order to take care of her. No one has read them, but apparently they contain key information about how to carry out certain ceremonies, and oils which are required to be used on the Night Mother to keep her preserved. If you wish to take this position, I will speak to the others about it, to see if they agree with my proposition. If so, you will be appointed Keeper."
Cicero sighed for a moment, contemplating this. It was a lot to take in for one moment. The thought of never being able to sink his beloved, Ebony Blade into the warm flesh of its next victim, made him uneasy. Being an assassin was all he knew how to do well. However, knowing that these tomes could teach him all he needed to know about being a Keeper took some weight off of his shoulders. Plus, what kind of Black Hand would he be if he was to deny his Mother's needs?
"Alright," Cicero agreed. "I'll do it."
Rasha had spoken with Garnag and Pontius, who both agreed with Rasha's position. The next day, Cicero was told the good news. He was both greatly honoured, and deeply saddened. He made a comment, during the celebration for his "promotion", about the fact that if he had known that his last contract was going to be his last contract, he would have savoured it more. Rasha, feeling a pang of guilt for mentioning it at such short notice, rushed over to a desk in the main room, on which sat a stack of papers, all of which were contracts meant to be distributed amongst the remaining Black Hands. Rasha returned with one, and passed it over to Cicero, who looked down at it, confused.
"I can't take any more contracts," Cicero remarked, looking to the Khajiit.
"I want you to take this last one," Rasha explained. "Savour it. Take your time with it. Enjoy it like it is your last, since it is. Rasha insists."
Cicero smiled slightly in spite of himself, and took the contract. He looked down at it, and examined the details. Already, he could feel his sheathed dagger screaming in excitement at his hip.
"Hm," he said to himself. "A jester. How interesting. I haven't seen jesters in these parts for years."
"Well someone wants the poor fool dead," Rasha commented. "No pun intended."
Cicero nodded, and left the Khajiit, who watched after him, eyes glistening. Cicero couldn't see the small smirk which played with the catkin's swollen, feline lips, or the twitch of his whiskers, as the assassin walked away, eyes upon the paper. Cicero took the contract to his chambers, a shared room with several wardrobes and chests in which they could all place their things. He fished out his usual black and red armour, eyes still upon the paper. A jester… there was something uneasy about that, to him. He felt as though completing his contract would change him… Take a part of him away from himself…
He shrugged, assuming it would simply be because he would no longer be the same assassin he once was – he was becoming Keeper. A much higher honour, and responsibility.
He proceeded to change into his assassin garb from his usual casual Dark Brotherhood robes. He packed a few things, bread, cheese, some healing potions that Garnag had put together for him, and spare dagger, just in case. The trip wasn't far from Cheydinhal to Imperial City, the Talos Plaza district, where the jester seemed to spend most of his time, gallivanting about the statue in the centre. Apparently he had become quite irritating to some individuals in the city, but, to Cicero, that didn't seem like enough to want a man dead. Again, he shrugged it off, and continued to prepare for his trip.
He said his goodbyes to his fellow siblings, receiving more traditional "kill well" salutes, before heading out. He had a rather knobby, dappled gray gelding on which he rode. It did not like too much baggage to carry, so the small pack which he took was plenty. He mounted the steed, who nickered lazily, and took off towards Imperial City.
The ride seemed like a fair distance, and they rode through the entire day, only reaching the magnificent city in the evening. It was somewhat dead at that time, as all the children had gone in to their homes and shops were closing. He stopped his horse outside of the city walls, shrouded within a darkened forest, and quickly draped a robe over himself to hide the Dark Brotherhood armour. He took the horse's reins, and led him to the stables, where he handed the steed off to a rather jolly-looking Imperial. He said nothing and made no expression as he tipped the stable hand, and entered the city.
It smelt of dinner throughout the entire city. Homes were cooking supper and inns were preparing dinners for guests. His stomach turned slightly, and he began chewing a small loaf of bread he had packed. His eyes swept over the streets, looking for anyone who could give him any information on where to find this Jester. They had already contacted the person who requested the contract, though he wished to remain anonymous, and now all that was left to do, was to kill the fool.
Reluctantly, Cicero entered an inn filled with people drinking. There was an unusually large number of Nords sitting at tables today, probably tourists from the Northern province of Skyrim. He approached the woman behind the front desk, who smiled at him politely. She had long, blonde hair and a brilliantly white smile, dressed in the usual clothes which represented wealth, but that fitted to her thin figure well. He removed the hood of the robes and smiled politely to the woman.
"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked, her voice pleasant and jovial. "Room? Food?"
"I'm actually wondering if you have some information for me," he said. He leaned forward towards her, grinning slightly. "I'm looking for a certain Jester that everyone's been having trouble with. He's the son of an old family friend. They're asking me to take him back to Cheydinhal. Do you know anything about him?"
She took a step back and scowled. "Yeah… He's revolting," she said. "All he does all day, is dance about in the courtyards and in people's backyards. And there's all kinds of rumors about him… About him raping women and practising sodomy. He's a disgusting perverted pig. Apparently he's lured women, and men, into alleys and raped them!"
Cicero widened his eyes. He hadn't been told the entire story, clearly. He wondered if Rasha knew and withheld the information. Or perhaps no one knew at all. He nodded and stood back up. She leaned back forward, and from that perspective, he could quite clearly see the rather large flood of cleavage which spewed from beneath her shirt. His eyes caught it, before wandering back to her visage. Her lips were spread into a broad grin as she watched him watch her.
"Are you sure you didn't want a room?" she asked, seductively.
The next morning, Cicero awoke quickly, and rubbed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, before swinging his legs out of the bed, and sitting up. He heard the groaning of the naked blonde beside him, and rolled his eyes, standing from the bed. He pulled on his own clothing, laughing to himself at how the idiot blonde didn't even notice his Dark Brotherhood armour, and threw the robe back on over it. He left the inn, leaving a tip for the inn keeper, before heading back outside. It was colder today, and the streets were busier. It would be far easier to target the Jester in the morning, due to the vast amount of people who could provide cover for him as he made a daring escape. The ebony dagger sat at his hip in its convenient holster, prepared for quick usage. He headed into the courtyard where the inn keeper assured him he would find his target, and held his head low as his deep amber eyes examined the surroundings.
A rather large circle of people formed around the sound of loud singing and rhyming. He followed the sound and entered into the group, blending well with the surrounding people. Cicero was a rather short man, which made for seeing over heads a difficult task, since the majority of them were the Nords form the night before (the Imperial City natives merely scowled and walked by). He sighed as it donned on him that there was no way he could hill the fool as long as there was a crowd watching him. He tapped a Nord's shoulder, who grunted and turned, glaring down at the tiny Imperial.
Cicero offered a polite, though incredibly artificial, smile. "Hello, my name is Leo," he said. "I'm part of the travel agency between Skyrim and Cyrodiil. I was just wondering how long you folks were planning on staying in Imperial City, so I may tell my managers to be prepared if you choose to visit any other cities in lovely Cyrodiil."
The Nord raised an eyebrow, and for a split moment, Cicero thought he was done for. However, he looked to a friend, exchanged a few words, before glancing back to Cicero and shrugging. "We're planning on leaving next week, Imperial," the Nord said.
Cicero nodded politely, before moving away from him. If they were leaving next week, then chances were that they would most likely be filling the streets and watching the jester dance most likely every day, leaving a rather small time slot for him to manage to assassinate the fool. As he thought of a different plan, he managed to squeeze through two rather large Nords, in order to get a closer look at his target.
It was strange. The jester was quite similar to Cicero himself. He was rather small-built, lean, though not in the same way as Cicero – lankier or undernourished (a key sign of insanity). His hair was shorter than Cicero's own, just under his shoulders, and pulled back. He wore a very strange uniform. A jester motley. Black and red with large, gold buckles and an assortment of spike-shaped flaps at his shoulders hanging down to his chest, everything elaborately trimmed with gold thread. The jacket hung just past his knees, and was tied together with corset-like threads, also gold, at his neck, and down his chest. It looked rather clean, as though he took good care of it, but not himself. His hat had two points which hung down behind him, and bobbed as he danced. He wore black gloves and boots, both embroidered with gold thread, all very well taken care of.
He danced about, rather expertly, standing on his head, doing an assortment of flips, backwards and forwards, a blur of movement, rhyming and singing about nonsense. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. Perhaps he had worked as a jester before, elsewhere, for someone very important in social status, but lost his job, and now resorted to this. He didn't seem like the sort of person to molest civilians, Cicero thought.
Then he saw his eyes.
They locked with Cicero's for only a moment, and chills ran up and down his spine. There wasn't much Cicero was afraid of. Nothing gave him the creeps or even worried him, until he saw those eyes. They were… Yellow. Not dark amber, like Cicero's were, but yellow. Gold, almost, and shone inhumanly. His pupils were tiny, like black pin pricks in the middle of his eyes, and they looked… devilish. Evil. Insane… Absolutely insane. Cicero was forced to break the gaze first, and he quickly looked away. Those eyes never left his sight, however, even when he closed his eyes, as though his mind projected the sight onto the back of his eyelids. He rubbed his eyes, before turning away and leaving the crowd. That man was terrifying. Dangerous. And completely mad.
As he walked away, he heard a laughing. No, a cackling. A squeaky, maddening laugh. And, for some reason, Cicero felt as though the jester was laughing at him.