Technical stuff: Cla'nee is mine, The world of Oblivion and all its people belong to Bethesda. Just to get that all out of the way. I doubt that they'd bother to sue me over this, but you never know.

Rating: The rating is for violence, mostly. This is a Dark Brotherhood story, after all. Possible "adult themes" later on.

Other Important Info: This fanfic only sticks to the in-game plot for a short time. Many of the characters will be the same, but I'm planning a much, much (hopefully) different plot. In other words, I'm working really, really loosely with the official quest line.

Hang on to your hats, boys and girls - this is going to be a bumpy ride.

--Dark Devotion--
-Chapter One-

It was one of those rare days in the Imperial City where the sky clouded over and fat flakes of snow fell to the ground. Usually, we were far enough south to miss most of the wintery weather, but sometimes the temperature dropped just enough. I loved the snow. Still do, really. I always promised myself if I made enough money, I'd move up to Bruma, where it seemed to snow year round. Granted, I'd have to live surrounded by Nords, but there were worse fates, I'm sure.

I peeked out the window whenever I had a chance, which wasn't very often, wishing that I could go outside. Even just on the doorstop, under the eves of the building. Anywhere, as long as it involved cold air, and no customers.

You see, I worked in a brothel on the Waterfront. No, it's not what you're thinking…most of the time. My talents ran more towards entertainment - dancing, singing, and playing music. I usually worked in the main area, keeping clients interested if there were no free rooms. As I was today, with two ships into port and a lot of lonely sailors.

The rooms of the brothel themselves, such as they were, were little more than a bed with two flimsy walls on either side of it, one customer to a room. They had doors, which I guess was a good thing, but if you were claustrophobic, you were in trouble. Although, as far as the customers were concerned, the rooms could be stacked like bolts of cloth, and they still wouldn't care. The folks who frequented this particular place weren't known for being particularly picky.

The main area was at least a little bigger, which was also good, and draped with incredibly tacky wall hangings, which wasn't quite so good. So, you see, my lot wasn't as bad as most, but I still hated the place. It was hot, steamy, and smelled of things I'd rather not think about.

It wasn't my idea to work there, mind you. My parents sold me to the brothel when I was only fourteen. They needed the money and decided that they really didn't want an eldest daughter, anyway. Then they had the gall to go off and get themselves killed somehow.

It didn't bother me that much - the whole dying thing, at least. We're poor, we live in the Waterfront District, people die. Besides, you can't blame me for not being terribly attached to them.

The problem was that my contract, the one that said that I was free to leave when I hit eighteen, went with them. Along with any way I had of proving that I was eighteen in the first place. And so, here I am, twenty years old, an indentured servant with no way to get un-indentured. Also known as a slave.

As I said, I managed to avoid most of the things that the other girls and boys had to deal with. But I'd gotten my fair share of that as well. Occasionally, there would be a high-paying customer, and, well…I guess as the hostess, I was considered "elite," or something equally stupid.

The main reason that I was kept off of the main track, though, was my skill as a mage, or more to the point, as a healer. The Madam was too cheap to get a real one, and people tended to end up with bruises and…er… diseases. I had some training in Alchemy and the School of Restoration - and I could read and write - so I was drafted, you might say.

As a result, I was looked upon as sort of a mother figure, even though I was one of the youngest. I thought that it was kind of touching. Annoying, sometimes, but touching.

There was one last reason why I usually didn't deal with the customers. It's kind of embarrassing, though. You see, before I was sold to the brothel, I was part of the Thieves Guild. And, well, let's just say old habits are hard to break. Really, what did that Altmer expect, keeping his gold in his shorts like that? I told the Madam that if he was really expecting thieves to go after that, I was just making him feel better by proving him right.

Anyway, I had just made up my mind to sneak outdoors for a moment, when I heard a shriek from one of the rooms. I was…um…well versed in the different kinds of shrieks, and this one was definitely an "excruciating pain" kind of one.

Instinctively, I grabbed for the staff that was at my side. (Not one of those magical ones that real mages use. No, this was a good, old-fashioned, sturdy hunk of wood, far more suited to cracking skulls than casting spells. It was for extra protection, you see. I had my knife too, but I felt the staff made me more intimidating. Hey, when you're five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking-wet, you take what you can get.) And sprinted to the back.

It wasn't too hard to find out who had yelled. Doors were flying open every which way, with scared-looking faces peeping out. In fact, the only door that wasn't open was the one that now had a sobbing girl behind it.

Oh, someone was going to pay.

I tried the knob. Locked, of course. And only the Madam had the keys.

I shrugged. Oh well. That's what my picks were for. It's not like they were even difficult locks. Of course not. Difficult locks cost money. Besides, no one gets past me without a partner, and who's going to peek into a closed door in a brothel, anyway? Honestly. Just get yourself a spyglass and a lonely tower if that's what you want. Don't bother me in an attempt to satisfy your voyeuristic tendencies. Seriously. Go away.

Ahem. Sorry about that. Got a little carried away. Where was I?

Oh, yes. I got the lock open in mere seconds, (It being cheap and all. No, I am not bitter), and threw open the door. Inside, I saw a huge, hulking Nord standing over Eria, a cute little Redguard. She was curled up in the corner, cradling her arm against her chest. He, on the other hand, was busy swaying drunkenly.
I cursed. Normally, I can spot the drunken ones and throw them out before they do something like this. But I had been so distracted by the snow and...other things, that I'd completely missed him. I muttered a couple more curses, this time in Argonian, and then raised my tiny, Breton voice to a shout.

About as impressive as a kitten hissing at a timber wolf, I know.

"Hey, you! Nord! Get away from her! You have until I count to ten to grab your clothes and leave!"

Yes, I realize that I was talking to him like he was five. Sadly, this was the tried and true method of dealing with unruly customers. Don't ask me why it worked. It just did.

Only…this time, it didn't. The Nord whirled around and glared at me with blood-shot eyes. Ew. Giant naked Nord. He towered nearly two feet above my five, and probably outweighed me by at least two hundred pounds. Despite that - and the fact that his breath was nearly a solid object - I had the advantage. You know how?

Simple. I had the knife, and he was naked. And damned if I wasn't going to make sure that he had no reason to visit a brothel ever again.

He growled at me. Here's a question. Why do they always growl or grunt? Some kind of musky, male, muscle-bound, mating ritual? Does it make them seem bigger?

I rolled my eyes. "You have five seconds left before I make you a very, very sad man."

He grunted, (of course) and charged at me, intent on snapping my neck like a twig.

Now, here's the thing about drunken Nords. They're a little like bulls. They have tons of momentum, but can't see anything more than a blur. This is a trait easily used to one's advantage in a bar fight. Or when you're tiny and pretending to be a bouncer.

I stepped to the side and let him barrel past me. The girl in the room across the hall gave a little scream and slammed her door shut, just in time to give the Nord a permanent doorknob-shaped-dent in his lower abdomen.

Okay, a little lower than his lower abdomen. You get the idea.

He staggered back from his collision with the wall, grabbing at himself and making pathetic, little whimpering noises. I stepped up behind him, and clonked him a good one across the back of the head. He went down like a ton of bricks.

I poked the pile of Nord with my toe a couple of times, and when I got no response, I turned back to Eria. "Stay here for just a sec, okay, sweetie? I'll check on you once this guy is gone." She nodded, tearfully, and I went back to the matter at hand…er…foot.