Rumor was that the Aretino boy was up to dark mischief. Word on the street claimed he was calling for the Dark Brotherhood. Whispers murmured that the place was haunted. P'sharra didn't care; she only cared for herself, and for money.
And murder meant money.
She slipped through Windhelm silently, the deep, cloudless, moonless night allowing her copper fur to blend with the shadows. She froze as a voice drifted through the night, a boy-child, speaking with his nanny.
They were speaking of the Aretino, the nanny acknowledging the rumors as truth, and leading the boy away.
P'sharra waited till they turned the far corner, then slid from her shadowy hiding place. The door was locked, but the tumblers gave way easily under ministrations. She slipped inside.
The place was dark, and dusty. A muffled voice chanted from overhead. P'sharra's irises widened, and the room slid into sharp relief as she ascended the stairs.
She turned the corner and froze at the odd sight: a boy, kneeling over a manikin made of human flesh and bone. "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me," he chanted, his voice breaking, "For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear... Oh, why isn't it working?" he wailed softly, turning to a book that lay hidden in the boy's shadow.
He flicked through the pages almost feverishly. "The effigy made from real human parts, got that... Ring of candles, check... nightshade petals rubbed on the blade, it's all done perfectly! Why won't the assassin come?" he looked on the verge of tears, then jolted as he caught the movement of P'sharra stepping closer out of the corner of his eye.
"Who- you- you've come! You've finally come! The Black Sacrament worked!" The boy- Aventus Aretino- leapt to his feet, a wide smile on his face. "Finally, an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood! You'll accept my contract!"
"Yes..." P'sharra murmured, "The Brotherhood... the Sacrament..." She purred as she stepped into the candlelight, crouching to look the boy in the eye. "So, Aventus... What contract do you have for me?"
"Well, my mother, she... she died," Aventus murmured, "I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that- that terrible orphanage. In Riften. Honorhall."
P'sharra growled low in her throat; she knew what it w'as to be orphaned and unwanted.
"The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman," Aventus' face hardened. "They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's horrible. to all of us."
His face brightened like clouds uncovering the moons. "So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament." He grinned widely. "Now you're here. And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"
P'sharra murmured her acceptance of the offered contract, and slipped out of the house.
It was pouring rain when P'sharra arrived in Riften. Her ears were flat against her skull and a low growl rumbled out from her chest continuously. She hated the rain, with a deep and burning passion.
She tugged the hood of the monks robes that she wore up, protecting her head from the falling water. It had been noon when she arrived, and the rain promised to continue well into the night.
P'sharra slipped through the marketplace, ignoring shopkeepers and customers alike, her gleaming eyes focused on the building just across the canal. Reaching the doorway just as another deluge poured down, she slipped inside.
Whipping her tail vigorously dry out her fur, she slipped deeper into the room, her sensitive ears perking at the sound of a harsh voice.
"Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating," the voice snarled. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, Grelod." A chorus of fearful voices rose in unison as P'sharra peaked 'round the corner.
"And one more thing!" A cruel smile quirked the cornes lips. "I will hear no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff are getting adopted. Ever!" The children winced. "Nobody needs you," Grelod drawled as she paced before the children, "nobody wants you."
She stopped and turned back to the group. "That, my darlings," she sneered, "is why you're here. Why you will always be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world."
The cruel smile crossed her lips again. "Now, what do you all say?"
"We love you, Grelod," The children droned, with the tone of having done so a thousand times before. "Thank you for your kindness."
"That's better," Grelod barked. "Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."
The children began to mill about, as another woman moved forward to corral them. P'sharra approached her, first.
"You really shouldn't be here," the woman murmured as she noticed the khajiit, "Grelod doesn't care for visitors..."
"Is she always like that?" P'sharra questioned, gesturing to the wicked old crone.
The woman sighed deeply. "Sadly, yes. Even the townsfolk have taken to calling her' Grelod the Kind.' Her very existance is a sort of a running joke." She ran her fingers through her hair.
"She seems to hate children," P'sharra murmured, "so why is she even here?"
"Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life." She fidgeted with her ear. "These children need love, and comfort. I try, but..."
"What is your name?" P'sharra interrupted.
"Constance," She replied without thinking. then she blinked. I'm sorry, you should be going." She glanced towards a set of double doors Grelod had gone through. The children aren't up for adoption, and it's cruel to get their hopes up. Besides, Grelod-"
"Hates visitors," P'sharra finished for her. "I'll be on my way soon. I have some... business with Grelod to attend to, first."
Constance frowned in confusion. "Are you with the temple of Mara?" she asked, taking in the khajiit's robes.
"Yes," P'sharra lied smoothly, "I intend to try and sway Grelod from her cruel ways."
"I wish you luck with that," Constance sighed. "You wouldn't be the first to try."
"Believe me, child," P'sharra purred. "When I have finished, this orphanage will know only love and kindness."
It was child's play to pick the lock on Grelod's door. Constance had taken the children outside for some fresh air, despite the rain, offering P'sharra the opportunity to work uninterrupted.
She slid silently into the dim room. Grelod sat at a table, facing away from the doors, cackling over a great pile of gold. "Those brats," she chortled, "bring in a fine bit of gold for me from running odd jobs." She swept the gold into a coinpurse.
P'sharra snuck close behind her. Quick as lightning, she clamped a hand over the crones mouth. "Aventus says hello," she hissed into Grelod's ear, earning a muffled cry of surprise. "And so does the Void."
P'sharra dragged her prized glass dagger across the wretch's throat, and ruby drops showered the table and wall, staining both. Grelod thrashed in her death throes, gurgling as she drowned in her own blood.
P'sharra stood, wiping her blade clean on her robes. The sound of a door banging open startled her, and she turned to find her face to face with the orphans. One of them stared down at the corpse and P'sharra's feet.
"She's dead," the girl whispered in awe, "Grelod the Kind is dead!"
"He did it," A boy cried, "Aventus did it!"
A cheer rose, and the children rejoiced. Constance caught sight of Grelod and screamed, cowering away from the sight.
"Be still, foolish girl!" P'sharra hissed. "I've no quarrel with you. Aventus called for her death, and I answered. Besides," she purred as Constance tried to control her trembling, "now you can give these poor children the love and care they deserve."
"Why?" Constance faltered. "Why spare me? Or the children?"
P'sharra paused at the door. "Because," she whispered after a moment, "I know what it's like to live in their shoes." With that, the khajiit slipped from the orphanage.
The Bannered Mare was loud, between the bards and the drunken louts trying to sing. P'sharra sat in the back corner, nursing a tankard.
The Aretino boy had been ecstatic at the knowledge that Grelod was dead. He'd given P'sharra a platter, claiming that it was a family heirloom. "This should fetch you a nice price," he'd promised.
"Certainly. A nice price. If you're poor," the khajiit grumbled. "Fifty drakes, bah. Last time I help anyone..."
She glanced up as the door opened. A young man entered, and P'sharra ignored him. Until he made a beeline for her. She realized it was a courier.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," he murmured gently, "But are you P'sharra?"
"I am," she replied carefully.
The courier sighed in audible relief. "I've been looking forr you, you're a hard woman to find." he dug into his bag. "I've a letter I'm supposed to deliver- your hands only." He drew a folded bit of paper and handed it to her.
"Who is this from?" P'sharra questioned.
"Don't know," he replied. "Creepy fella, black robe. Couldn't see his face." He shuddered. "Paid me a pretty sum to get that into your hands, though."
P'sharra sent him on his way, then rented a room from the innkeeper. Safely locked inside, she opened the note.
It bore two words, and a hand print. P'sharra dismissed it as a joke and tossed it on the table. She readied for bed and slipped beneath the covers. As she slipped into slumber, a moonbeam pierced through the windo, illuminating the note.
We know.