Silence Falls When Darkness Dies
Polytheist
Disclaimer: all copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners
Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother send your child unto me,
For the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear.
With Enemies Like These
Windhelm held a rather stubborn reputation of being one of the coldest cities in Skyrim.
Standing proud on the northern bank of the White River it was in the perfect spot to receive the blessing of the harsh winds that carried the biting chill from the Sea of Ghosts. The results were nigh permanent hoarfrost on the streets and alarming occurrences of blizzards that battered the ancient walls, leaving deposits of snow that climbed up the corners of alleyways and buildings.
Candlehearth Hall stood like a beacon within the icy city; its radiance of warmth drawing in weary travellers like a wisp, albeit to a more benevolent embrace.
Elda Early-Dawn bustled behind the bar, busily clearing away the detritus from the day's business while Rolff Stone-Fist lounged nearby.
"I'm telling ya Elda," he slurred, "those Gray-Skins are nothing but troublemakers."
Elda nodded; thankful he had already emptied his mug, given its erratic movements when he gestured as he spoke.
"They'll take over the city if we aren't careful."
Rolff stared drunkenly at her, as though her words were some ancient riddle he was struggling to decipher. Moments later he smiled and nodded when her agreement penetrated his mead fuelled mind.
"Ya right, by Talos, ya right!" He thundered, "I should go and let those Gray-Skins know what I think of them and their stink!"
With a great flourish Rolff lifted his mug to his lips, only to stare at it mournfully when he realised it was empty.
"One more for the cold I think," He declared as he fumbled with his coin purse for about ten seconds before somehow managing to throw some coins onto the bar; not seeing that he had thrown double what was needed.
Elda scooped up the coins before handing over a bottle of mead; she gave a wave to Rolff's back as he exited the inn, bellowing the 'Age of Oppression' into the night sky, before securing the coins in her strongbox.
A blast of cold air heralded the arrival of another patron.
Elda turned towards the door and frowned at the newcomer.
He was short and that was really all she could tell given that a black hooded cloak did a pretty good job at masking his identity.
Elda eyed the man wearily as he approached the bar; melting snow dripping from his cloak.
"One room."
Elda's frowned deepened; that wasn't a Nordic accent. Her eyes narrowed as she tried to peer at his face, but the light from the torches behind him made that near impossible.
"Fifty Septims," There was no attempt to hide the coldness in her tone, on the chance he was one of those Dark Elves.
There was no argument at the extortionate fee as he produced a coin purse and handed over the gold.
"First door on the left," she pointed down the hall, "Don't break nothin'."
The man seemed to bow slightly before heading towards his room.
When she heard the door close Elda release the breath she didn't realise she was holding.
Corbin sighed as he closed the door, muting the steady drumbeats that the Candlehearth's bard thought was music. He hated coming to Windhelm, where everywhere he looked there seemed to be a hateful or mistrustful glare; surely it wasn't healthy for a populace to be so paranoid.
He removed his hood, shaking free his black hair, before unfastening the cloak and hanging it in the provided wardrobe.
Moving over to the bed, he removed the satchel from his shoulder and placed it on top of the sleeping furs. With deft gloved hands he unfastened the buckle and careful removed the plate from its leather folds.
The Aretino Family heirloom was of stellar craftsmanship, worked from the finest silver and proudly bearing a maker's make that should make it worth a considerable price.
As Corbin checked the polished for any scuffs or scratches a distorted image of a Bosmer stared back at him. Straining his eyes to see past his reflection, Corbin's vision suddenly shifted red and, for a moment, he was back in Honorhall; rivulets of crimson sin staining the wooden floor.
Corbin shook his head, throwing the metal plate on the bed.
With a shuddering breath he poured himself some water from a jug laid out on the provided dresser; a large gulp of the cool liquid doing wonders to slow his heart.
Corbin frowned. There was a strange aftertaste to the water.
His eyes widened with realisation as the goblet fell from his lifeless fingers and crashed to the floor; his last conscious thought identifying the taste.
Nightshade
He ran. He ran until his legs burned and his heart felt like it was going to explode. He ran faster than he had ever ran before. But he still wasn't fast enough.
Everywhere the blackened skeletons of the trees scratched at his face and pulled at his clothing.
Everywhere the maniac laughter echoed in the darkness.
The ground before him cracked asunder, causing him to stumbling into the gaping chasm.
How long he fell in that darkness he could not say.
The moment he slammed into the floor a wizened handed burst through the mud, showering him in dirt.
He could not move, only stare in horror as the emaciated body of Grelod the Kind pulled herself free of the earth's embrace.
She stumbled towards him, her arms outstretched. With each step her body decayed before his eyes; her dress rotted and turn into a burial shroud, bound with fraying rope.
The laughter increased.
He stood paralysed as her cold hands gripped his shoulders; tendrils of her shroud wrapping themselves around his limbs.
Her mouth opened and inside was nothing.
Nothing but a void.
Silence will fall.
And then Corbin jerked awake.
Astrid smiled beneath her mask as she watched the black haired Wood Elf rouse himself from his poison induced slumber.
This was her favourite part; watching the daze and confusion give way to realisation. It was telling; the first reaction revealed a great deal about the person.
Festus, for example, let off a great torrent of destructive magicka that killed her guests before her planned spiel. The shack, and her armour, still bore the scorch marks.
As she watched the Wood Elf, Corbin if her associates had done their reconnaissance correctly, attempt to shake off the effects of the tonic she idly wondered if she should have Babette dilute the mixture.
But then, she thought as his bleary eyes attempted to focus on her, where was the fun in that?
"Well now," She purred, "You're finally awake. Sleep well?"
Corbin blinked several times, running his tongue over his parched lips.
"What?" His voice was thick with drowsiness, "Who?"
"Does it matter?" Astrid tutted, "You're alive, for now. The same cannot be said for old Grelod the Kind now can it?"
The Wood Elf swallowed.
"How?"
"Come now, you didn't expect something like that to stay quiet did you? An event like an old crone getting butchered in her own orphanage tends to get people talking; I suspect half of Skyrim knows by now," Astrid stretched before dropping gracefully to the floor; smirking behind her mask when Corbin took a step backwards, "Oh, but don't misunderstand; I'm not criticizing, it was a good kill. However there is a slight, shall we say, problem."
Silence met those words, yet there was no fear in the Wood Elf's eyes. Interesting.
"You see that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood; for me and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that you stole; a kill you must repay."
"A life for a life. Who?"
"How eager," Astrid smiled, "Let me introduce you to my guests."
She slipped past Corbin.
By the far wall, bound with their heads covered with burlap, knelt three individuals; a man in scale armour, a woman in a lower class dress and a Khajiit in upper class clothing.
Astrid moved to stand behind the warrior, placing a hand on his shoulder; the man let out a small whimper.
"I've collected them from," she let out a small laugh, "Well that not really important. What matters is that there's a contract out on one of them and that person can't leave this room alive," the man let out another whimper, "Oh, but which one? Go on see if you can figure it out."
Astrid moved back to the other wall, trailing a finger down the man's armour; causing him to visibly shake. With the grace akin to a cat she returned to her position, lounging on top of the shelves.
"Make your choice, make your kill. I just want to observe. And admire. Repayment of your debt is but a knife thrust away."
When Corbin didn't move Astrid let out a quiet chuckle.
"But you don't have a knife do you. It's still lodged in old Grelod's heart."
Astrid removed a dagger from her waist. With a deft flip she presented it, handle first, to Corbin.
"The Blade of Woe has tasted many lives in its life. What is one more?"
Corbin blinked several times, whatever potion he had ingested was severely blurring his vision; the pounding in his head didn't help matters one bit.
The Blade of Woe felt strange in his hand. He couldn't quite identify the metal it had been forged from, but the wicked blade looked sharper than ebony. He believed the Dark Brotherhood assassin when she claimed it had killed many people; if he concentrated he would swear that he could sense a slight malevolent aura coming off the blade, separate from whatever baleful enchantment it possessed.
Corbin turned to face the assassin's proclaimed 'guests.'
One of them had to die; a life for a life.
But then, why just one?
The assassin wouldn't round them all up just for sport; the Dark Brotherhood didn't kill without a contract. If there was only one and he pick wrong, then the Brotherhood would have forfeited on their agreement.
No, it didn't make sense that only one of them was marked for death. All must die.
Gripping the Blade of Woe Corbin took a step towards the captives, stopping when his head swam. Shaking away the after-effects of the potion he raised the Blade to strike at the Khajiit.
Fus...ro DAH!
Corbin turned towards the door, only to be thrown back in a shower of splinters as the door was shattered open.
He crashed through the bed, his head rebounded of the wooden barrels and the Blade of Woe fell from his listless fingers as he landed in a heap among the fragments of wood.
Darkness descended on his sight.
Sounds of combat echoed throughout the shack followed by a body falling heavily on the floor.
"Well it's about damn time," a harsh woman's voice scorned.
"Thank you Dragonborn, I'll never speak of this to anyone, I promise!" a male Nord blubbered.
"Vasha wishes to thank you. Vasha knows of an inn with comfy beds," there was the sound of flesh being struck, "Hehe, feisty, just how Vasha likes them."
"Uthgerd," another Nordic male voice, this one deeper, admonished with a hint of humour, "Try not to rough him up too much."
"I don't know why we bothered Hjalmar. We do not know how long Thorald has."
Corbin couldn't hear the reply as the voices drifted away.
Slowly his strength returned, as did his vision after several blinks.
Grasping the Blade of Woe, Corbin stood shakily to his feet and surveyed the carnage in the shack.
The captives were gone and the Dark Brotherhood assassin lay dead; felled by multiple blows from a large sword and axe, judging by the wounds.
Anger burned in Corbin's heart as his gripped tightened on the Blade.
To be swept aside, not even worth their effort to be killed. The insult!
Hjalmar the Dragonborn; his new target.
He stepped towards the opening that was once the door, stopping as his gaze returned to the fallen assassin.
Revenge could wait for now; he had unfinished business to attend to.
A life for a life.
He had a debt to repay.