I.
Invitation
Bruma, Cyrodiil
Middas, 3E 432, 12th of Last Seed
Bruma's imposing circular fortress stood tall atop the serpentine pass as it bid the assassin welcome from his long, harsh journey. He reflexively shivered forward into his horse's mane, drawing his hood closer as gusts of freezing air gnashed around his bare skin. Despite the nearly intolerable conditions, this occasion demanded Lucien feel extremely grateful for the city's unforgiving weather. He estimated it was about 1 or 2 in the morning— right on schedule; and who could resist a charming wanderer, straying in from the cold so late in the night? Nord hospitality would never permit them to turn away such a case- nor would their greed resist the coin profited from a stranger's room and board, if need be. Contracts in Bruma were simple, since they merely required some careful planning beforehand. Lucien almost yawned out of boredom as he imagined the unsatisfying kill awaiting him, until another piercing wind jolted him from such thoughts.
As the stables appeared just around the hilltops, Lucien brought the horse's trot to a halt. He steadily dismounted, grabbing hold of the reins once more as he straightened his robes. He led Shadowmere a few steps farther, then turned to gently stroke her face.
"This is where we part, dear friend. I will return to you swiftly."
Shadowmere lowered her head dutifully, blinking at her master to signify she understood. Lucien passed the reins to the stable hand and made his way toward the city gates, nodding as he flashed a mischievous smile at the stationed guard.
"What brings you to Bruma, friend?"
"I'm here on…business." Lucien replied casually.
"At this time of night?"
"Indeed...sadly, my organization's most esteemed benefactor has fallen ill. I've journeyed here with his remedies. It was no easy task getting here, I assure you." Lucien parted the lower half of his robe, revealing two small purses attached to his belt. The guard leaned forward to squint at the bags, grumbling as he turned to unlock the gate.
"Sorry to hear that. Hope he feels better."
Lucien felt his body igniting with the desire to end the ignorant buffoon's life; but with all of the restraint he could muster, reluctantly mumbled 'thank you' and continued onto the city's cobblestone streets.
Lucien picked the entry door's lock with ease, surveying the front room as he slipped into the house. He cringed as the old wood moaned under his weight, his eyes immediately darting across the length of the moonlit rooms. Nothing against the rotting walls stood out to him, except for a sparsely decorated dining area along with a single, empty bookcase. A peculiar chill marked the interior of the house, and not even the embers of a recently lit fire glowed in the hearth pit. Lucien sniffed at the air, and suddenly that all-too-familiar metallic smell reached his nostrils— "Blood!" he thought, his mind racing as he imagined what sort of events may have transpired in the house prior to his arrival. He quickly collected himself, gliding over the worn floor as he cautiously stepped towards the staircase. A darkened hallway gaped before him once he reached the landing, the outline of a door barely visible at the opposite end of the corridor. Lucien assumed the most recent "visitor" must have left the door ajar, the flickering of candlelight just discernible from beyond the threshold. He quieted his breaths, paced his steps one at a time, and rested his hand on his blade as he lingered just beside the door. The wind rattled against the decaying structure but with a little effort he strained to listen, waiting patiently for a sound that never came.
He took a silent inhale, and in one swift movement drew his blade and thrust the door open. He stood prepared to attack; his eyes rapidly assessing the room until his gaze fell upon a bloody heap sprawled across the bed. He pulled his gaze from the deformity in front of him, scouring the room for any sign of the individual responsible for the loss of his contract. A single window illuminated the room from the opposite corner, and he cautiously approached it to check if the murderer was still near the premises. He tugged up at the pane, still drawn tightly down into the sill, and noted the unbroken glass. His eyes scanned for another door or hatch in the floor, but he discovered no other means of escape. Confident the assailant had long since fled the scene, he sheathed his blade and frowned at the corpse. "Forgive me, Mother…I was too late. Now I must know- who has been so foolish as to interfere with our affairs?"
Upon closer inspection, he found a small note at the side of the body. He snatched it up with frustration and walked over to the window. The moon illuminated the shaky, inconsistent scrawl embedded on the page:
I trust by now I've your full, undivided attention. I can bet you are quite enraged with my untimely…interruption. I imagine your incredulity as you read this note, and that you can barely concentrate on one word because you are shaking so violently at the thought of strangling me with your own two hands.
Believe me- I would ask for nothing more.
Meet me at Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath, Skyrim.
I eagerly await your arrival.
Lucien crumpled the note in his hand, and pressed on the bridge of his nose with the other. He lowered both his hands in anger and cast a ferocious gaze onto the snow-caked rooftops below. "Insolent, meddling little twat! Ah, but I will soon grant your 'wish'…I will have your soul in Sithis' clutches before you even feel my blade across your neck!" he proclaimed silently, before drawing a deep inhale and removing one of his gloves. He stepped towards the candle, watching as the wax dripped into a puddle near the corpse's side. He wet his fingers and absent-mindedly extinguished the flame, his thoughts soon shifting in a new direction. "Still...this is quite suspicious. To steal a contract from the Dark Brotherhood, in exchange for their own life? Of course this was premeditated, but one must question such...unorthodox measures." He shoved the note into his sleeve and hastily exited the house, already planning his course to Falkreath before his boots hit the snow-covered streets.