Oh, hello there. This is my first ever attempt to write an actual, full story, let alone publish it. It has been a while in my head, born after an AU of my RP OC muse on Tumblr. Thanks to some well thought prompts of a certain mun, and the urging of another wonderful writing partner, I decided to finally go through with actually writing the fic; just give it a go and see how the story unfolds. Weeeeeeeeellp. Guess I'll stop my rambling here.

Standard disclaimers apply, I do not own Skyrim and all the NPCs involved.

I only own the poor unfortunate soul that is my muse.

On with the story \o/

(trigger warning: implication of rape at the beginning)

CHAPTER 1

Bastard:

The small Imperial caravan moved slowly across the path; carriages still half filled with all kinds of goods, from intricate household wares to rich textiles and a few delicacies and delectable wines. Traders. They'd made fairly good deals considering the shortness of their trip and the need for a hasty return; the cold and biting climate of the Nords' homeland didn't bode that well with them.

Having just passed Riften that morning, they deemed there was enough time to make it past the borders before night fell upon them. So they'd press on as much as possible, looking to finally make camp once they were back into Imperial lands.

Nobody expected to be ambushed in bright daylight though. Bandits. No matter how haphazard and unruly of an attack, their numbers and weapons where still enough to overwhelm the mostly unprepared traders. No matter the attempts of the males of the caravan, most where slayed in cold blood; the few guard-escorts picked down like flies with a few well shot arrows, before the rest of the savage brawn came to finish off the remaining few that stayed between them and their loot.

Only few were spared. And those few would soon wish they hadn't. Because what awaited them would haunt some till the end of their days.

Such was the fate of Caecilia. Young, fair Caecilia, maiden of seventeen summers old. Oh how she'd begged her father to take her along with him in that trip, to see the harsh beauty of Skyrim herself, beyond the books and stories she'd heard from other traders. And oh, had she known. Had she known that what she'd experience was far more than she bargained for; dragged like cattle along with a few other female survivors, she suffered the untold.

Dignity stolen, clothes tattered and bloody, the shaken girl managed to crawl her way out of that hole of oblivion once the bandits were passed out drunk after they had their way and fun. Dizzy and disoriented she couldn't manage to make it too far, stumbling and tripping through shrubbery and rocks. A slither of luck returned to her, though, it seemed, when a patrol found her just as darkness clouded her sight and she lost consciousness.

She awoke finally, hours? Days later? She couldn't know. The first face she'd opened her eyes at was one of kindness and warmth; Maramal. The priest wouldn't ask for her story, wouldn't prompt her to talk, for the sheer terror he saw in those dark brown eyes for a split moment, before he attempted to calm her down, told him everything he needed to know.

And in the mother goddess' home shelter was offered, naturally, till the girl's health was restored. Though poor Caecilia's turmoils were not yet over. Her flesh wounds might've healed, superficial as they might've been, but she was left with something far more haunting, far more deep than anything else. A child.

Those next few months passed in silence on her part. The young Imperial having closed up to herself, merely helping around the temple as much as she could; and as much as they allowed her after a certain point in time, what with her fragile state.

And with the help and guidance of the priest she finally delivered a healthy baby; a girl. Hair and eyes as dark as hers. But she couldn't bare as much as to even look at that squirming bundle as Maramal placed it in her arms; for it was a living reminder of that torment she wished she never remembered. Distant, expressionless and cold she lay there.

Just a few days later, as soon as her condition allowed it, she rose early, before the break of dawn even. She packed her few, scarce belongings, and, after scribbling a note, thanking the priest for everything, she left. And she never looked back as she got onto the first carriage to Bruma.

Orphan:

Maramal had awoken to the cries of the newborn, calling out in vain for its mother, only to come across the letter once he'd finally calmed the child down. Passing the infant onto the arms of a fellow priest, the Breton's heart fell, for he knew the meaning of it before he even opened the parchment. Despite all his attempts and Mara's blessings, some wounds were almost impossible to heal.

With a heavy heart, he had taken the child, bundled it up snugly and made his way down the steps of the temple and off to where he thought he ought to . For no matter the love and care the priests and the goddess might offer, a child still needed a home, a father and a mother to raise it properly into this world. So, with that hopeful thought of adoption in his mind, he handed the newborn off to Honorhall.

Eighteen years. Eighteen long years of what could only be compared to imprisonment. Imprisonment, because Grelod's ways were of strict and harsh discipline, no matter the appearances she might've given off for the rest of the outside world.

Just like the other kids she'd learned the hard way to comply and act according to the rules. Their eyes lacked the carefree twinkle and joyful sparkle of other children their age. For what had been planted into their little heads was that nobody wanted them. They were nothing but a burden. That was why they were in there. Nobody was going to take them home. And in that rare, such rare, occasion that one might visit the hall and end up adopting one of them, the rest remained back with an even more hollow feeling. Of not being enough.

And such was the way that those years passed for young Gianna as well. (The name was given without much thought, its origin merely a matter of the hailing of her parentage; of what was known at least.) Little had she gathered about her little story of how she got there; rumors mostly. But all ended up on the same conclusion. She wasn't wanted.

A quiet one she was, mostly. When the old hag wasn't looking, that was. She'd learned early on how to walk quietly, as to not disturb; how to make herself occupy the least of space; how to draw the least attention. Because that was the only way to grow around the hag that was Grelod. Those few times that the hall had people visit, those rare occasions, something shiny might catch her eye; intrigue her little curious brain. And that one time she'd acted on her little impulse, trying to sneak an intricate, little melodically chiming pouch off the belt of a wealthy man looking to adopt, she'd immediately been caught in the act. The man and Grelod might've laughed it off at the moment. But as soon as the doors had closed behind him, the laughing and jesting was cut off short as is by a sharp knife. Deadly silence was spread among the children as the subsequent lashing for that embarrassing disobedience followed. The one that shook the child in its core, along with that harsh, cruel sermon about how nobody would adopt a bastard like her.

Thief:

On her eighteenth winter, just like all those orphans before her, Gianna was kicked out. She was deemed old enough then, not a child anymore. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, the hag had said. And thus, with only the clothes on her back and a little satchel of bare essentials, she had the main door of the hall slam behind her back.

Overwhelmed. The young woman, still a child in so many ways, was so overwhelmed. For it was essentially the first time to take a step into the outside world, out of the confines of the orphanage and away from Grelod's 'care'. Just like a fawn taking its first wobbly steps, Gianna made her way gingerly around the city. Wide, curious brown eyes darting around, taking everything in. From the marketplace with its merchants, to the docks and the fishermen's boats, the front steps of the imposing Mistveil Keep, and the serenity that emanated from Mara's temple, she wandered the city till nightfall.

The sounds of merriment and the warm light emanating from the windows had drawn her eventually in the Bee and Barb. Sitting at a corner, an unconscious habit, she'd observed with amused awe at the various scenes unfolding, for a while. But harsh reality would strike soon, once she was addressed by the innkeeper; for, when she asked for a room to stay, and presented the very few septims she'd had on her, the dismissing response took her aback.

Not knowing what else to do, she lingered there for some time longer, taking her leave when a couple of staggering men had come proposing certain things. Uncomfortable and distressed, she'd rushed out, her frantic steps bringing her back to the docks, where she found a quiet spot to sit down at. There, staring at Masser and Secunda's reflection on the undisturbed lake's surface, harsh reality dawned upon her. How she essentially had no idea of what to do. What could she really, without skills, or anything. She'd been taught nothing of use, nothing that would help her keep afloat into that wide world out there.

And that one thing that had been suggested, it had really triggered her to a certain degree. She didn't know how or why, but the mere thought of that implication had irked her to no end. Because, deep inside, her dignity, the only thing of value she carried. Instinctually it was the one thing she'd latch onto, teeth and claw; and, thus, would be the only thing she'd never give up.

Nothing but a wandering mess she was, a small part in her keeping from asking for help; a little voice of pride she didn't know she had, maybe. Stubbornly she went on like that, pilfering a piece of bread when no one looked here and there to quell her rumbling stomach, once, maybe twice. A beggar in appearance, more or less, yet not really; for she still refused to accept herself as such, and hold her arm out for a spare septim.

Just a couple of days later, in her starving, sleepless and still wandering, stupor, she mixed in with the crowd in the marketplace. It was now or never. Unnoticed as she went, a habit grown within the hall, she attempted to pickpocket a man that was chatting idly with someone at the nearest stall. Little did she know she was stupidly trying to pilfer from member of the Thieves Guild.

The Breton, the one she'd later on come to know as the infamous ol' Delvin Mallory, had snatched the girl's wrist before her hand could even come near his pocket. Frozen as she stood, caught in the act, once again, she could only stare wide-eyed, waiting for that inadvertent lashing out and the guards scurrying to take her.

With furrowed brows and a hard expression he'd turned around to see who had dared to even go as far as thinking of setting a hand on a member of their faction. But at the sight of the shadow of a person that the girl was, the thief only guffawed in a hearty laugh, finally releasing her hand. "Oh, I'll be damned- this'll make a good joke in the Flaggon- a pipsqueak tried to pickpocket me."

Gianna's eyes narrowed, brows furrowing at the taunting comment, a part of her feeling insulted by the demeaning lilt those words held, despite the predicament she'd found herself in. And her expression only managed to draw more amused laughter from the Breton. It finally subsided though, to a low, pondering hum as he brought his arms up to cross over his chest, his keen sharp eyes leveling on the girl's. He could see some potential; squinting maybe, but still. That spark in her dark eyes was surely unmistakeable. 'Hm, yeh… e.'

He'd gone on to reach out and grab for her hand again- not like the first time, merely to guide her away from the crowd and off to a quieter spot- only to withdraw it, though, upon noting how she stiffened and shrunk off to herself again. Without many unnecessary introductions and babbling he'd explained her how their whole 'business' worked. Leaving the invitation open and vague, he'd concluded thus, making a mention that if she had any more questions, those would be welcomed in the guild's very special and exclusive tavern. For which she'd have to navigate on her own through the ratways; that being the Guild's tradition of initiation, in a way- though he left that part per se unspoken. Finally, vaguely pointing her off towards the lower level of the city, he was off, giving the girl a small pat on the shoulder as he sauntered away as inconspicuously as possible.

She had opted for the shadows. Unseen, unheard- unnoticed. Just like she had tried doing back at the orphanage, to avoid the old hag's lashing, if anything; trying to shrink herself as much as possible, figuratively, more or less, so that she went unnoticed. That was how she slinked through the ratway. Holding her breath at every corner, ears straining and heart jumping at the slightest of sounds as knuckles turned white from clutching the small knife she'd stumbled upon within the first few minutes; she would've missed it hadn't she stepped into that small puddle of stagnant water, where it had been laying blunt with rust.

And some long hours later, after dead ends and a few close calls of ending up nose to nose with questionable figures lingering in the maze-like sewer tunnels, she found herself facing at some weird establishment settled on a ramp over a body of water- a lake? More stagnant water, probably. 'Could this be the Ragged Flaggon that man had talked to her about?' Her steps barely made sound on the creaking boards as she approached to the dimly lit area, slowly still; carefully.

Her frame was shaking ever so slightly. And, no. It was not only from the sharp cold from lingering in those damp tunnels that was stinging her form through the worn clothes. Those few close calls? Those had shaken the girl up to no end. Reasonably enough. Because that blade she held onto, as if for dear life, would offer little to no help- for she had no experience with defending herself. No one showed or taught her ever, no one

"Blimey- pipsqueak made it; glad I dinnae make a bet for 'at. " The Breton slapped his knee in slight jovial manner, casually gesturing her close. But the appearance of another, grim looking man from the far back had her stopping in her tracks. "How in the- Mara's temple for charity is the opposite way, last I checked." Mercer had growled disdainfully, as he sauntered in the tavern, holding a stack of papers. Jobs or blueprints, by the looks of it. "Now, now, I though' the Guild could always use some new blood, Frey." Delvin had countered, his tone still light despite the look and tone of the other thief. Though his joviality was cut short soon as the Guildmaster called for him, taking him off to the side and having a brief conversation with him, heated as it seemed to be by the sounds of some sharp, harsh, not so tactful and discreet whispers.

'We're no damn charity house, we make business here. Serious business.' That was repeated not a few times. Delvin had ended up taking it up on himself; promised he'd make sure that the girl would show results and that she wouldn't be dead weight, or a liability of any kind. Or else he'd make sure to give her boot himself. The stubborn Breton would make sure to prove the Guildmaster wrong, though.

Three years passed. Three years that seemed to fly by after the first few hard months of learning the ropes. Nothing came easy, close calls had been more of a certainty than a slim possibility at the beginning; yet ol' Delvin never gave up on her. Until she came to hold herself up pretty decently. Thus, earning her place in the Guild, there she sat now; twisting a septim idly between her nimble fingers, Gianna, shortened to Gia along the way (for it rolled better on the tongue some had said), was lounging at what had come to be her usual spot in the tavern, the very far stool at the corner of the bar.

It was clear that the once scared little girl was gone. This woman held an air of certainty and, one might note, smugness. What came along of being a member of this dysfunctional little family; no matter how dysfunctional and odd, it had grown on her, the camaraderie coming along with this notoriously thieving bunch.

Delvin Mallory had grown to be some sort of an uncle to her; the pervy yet well-meaned joking and teasing kind, though strict and serious whenever needed. He'd partially taken it up on himself to train her at first. Seeing how, once proper food was in her system and her skin got a healthy glow, she wan't really easily overlooked ; full lips, big, do- like, eyes, long, ebony hair and pale skin. And thus, relying to those features would help her fare well in their life of larceny and deceit. But only partially. More skills were to be honed as well, if she were to actually do well; lock-picking, sneaking, and a substantial amount of blade and bow wielding.

Con-woman. She had grown to be able to slip a man's wedding band from under his nose while he kissed her hand- or so they said. (They as in Delvin, boasting like a proud parent uncle.) Brynjolf had taken up the reigns of training on that part, since it was his field of expertise, so to say, seeing the potential himself. An assistant in one or two con jobs of his and the lass had taken it all in as a sponge. 'A natural' he'd admit at some point. Mercer himself had stopped doubting after a certain point, since the girl had actually started contributing in the guild's funds. His general sour attitude never changed however. One could blame it on starting on the wrong foot, maybe.

Balancing on the hind legs of her chair, Gia rocked slightly, humming a random tune under her breath. She'd been waiting on Tonilia to ask her for a certain replacement of a part of her vest, after a particular job- a misfortune of having it tear from catching at the sharp edge of a rock as she was climbing her way out with her satchel full.

"Oy, pipsqueak- still here?" Delvin called out- that nickname had stuck after all since that first meeting. And it aggravated her to this day; deep inside though she still found it somewhat endearing, not that she'd ever admit that.

"If you mean to say I have yet to go out for the job-" She scoffed lightly, that slight quirk on her lips never faltering as she soon reached off to the side, grabbing for the satchel hanging across the back of her seat, throwing it deftly at him. "Done and done, old man. The early bird catches the worm- who was it that told me, I can't rememberrr." She trailed, tapping on her chin in mock-thought, finally flashing him that signature lop-sided grin of hers.

The cheeky banter that followed held the air of ease and habit. Soon she'd get another job after the Breton would've shoved her off towards Vex's direction, giving her a mock-serious warning of 'not botching it up'. After a long while, it seemed life had taken a steady course, that of sneaking, purloining, fencing, and illegal endeavors of the sort- not to forget the merriment and comfortable ease with folks cut of her own cloth.

Murderer:

She'd been passing in front of the Hall all this time. Never lingering, never letting her gaze stray too long. She could sometimes hear the quiet chirping of the kids, soon cut sharp by the hoarse croaks of the hag, trying 'discipline'.

She didn't know what it was that compelled her to stop in her tracks that day. Eyes fixing on that door she'd been kicked out a few years back, left to fend for herself because 'nobody wanted her'. Without much thought she diverted from her original path, hesitating only for a moment, before she finally pushed the door to Honorhall open.

She was greeted by the awful, hoarse yells of Grelod, bringing such horrible memories back to the surface. By the sounds of it some poor child had accidentally broken something, apparently. And now she was lashing out at it, verbally for starters. Brows furrowed, she took silent steps further inside, rounding the corner to finally see the main area, catching a hunched Grelod having cornered a toddler (the tiny, trembling, thing couldn't have seen more than three winters) hand raised and ready to strike—all for a broken plate, by the looks of its shattered remains on the floor. Just a wretched plate, by Mara's grace.

It all happened so fast she didn't even realize what she was doing. Seeing red by what she was witnessing, mixed with flashbacks of her own, it was as if her legs moved on their own as she crossed the room in a few, swift strides. Her gurgle, barely reached her ears, muffled by her hammering pulse; that was all that escaped the old hag, the sound coming out surprised in a way, as her apron got swiftly stained with rich crimson. And none of the kids had made a sound, the poor little souls too traumatized as it were, trying to process the sight in front of them.

And just like that, barely registering what she'd done, she snapped out of it, barely getting to slip out the back and bolting, as Constance, the hag's newest assistant, was crossing the main entrance. As she climbed through the back walls of the city, she could faintly make out the screams and yells, alerting the guards.

It wasn't long after the 'incident' that she was approached by the Brotherhood. No matter how hard she had tried taking as many jobs for the Guild as possible, focusing on getting things done and bringing gold in the vault; drinking herself into a stupor and sleeping around as she wished. Any and all things to try and shove that small reminding voice in the back of her head. You've changed. So much for the no spilling blood policy- shut up. They found her. And they brought that little voice in the foreground; louder and louder. Till it strengthened and kept pointing out that change; and how another turn in her path was made. Who she'd grown into.

She left the Cictern without a word, merely leaving the impression that she was going out for another job. No one had to know—not Brynjolf, not Delvin, no one. She'd forgone that one rule. And there was no turning back. She simply had to move on.

Gianna had withdrawn back to herself for a short period. A fall back due to all things new- she needed her adapting period, one might say. The laid-back nature she'd had back at the Guild had vanished almost. In its place, grew a cold, almost expressionless, façade; save for that light, barely perceptible curve of a single corner of her lips, a sign of rare amusement. It was as if she was mostly always on the edge, in a way. And laconic. So much so that she never spoke unless spoken to. Keeping to herself and her books mostly.

The one she'd warmed up eventually had been the Redguard, Nazir. His curved sword was the thing that had drawn her attention to him initially, for she'd seen nothing alike before. And it was when he'd called her out, as she'd slipped to one of her mindless staring towards its direction, for the umpteenth time, followed by a clever quip of his, that finally set a base of conversation for the two; further than the typical, short and needed chitchats, that was.

Still, things worked like a family there as well. It was after all called a Brotherhood, wasn't it. A different kind of family alltogether- to think the Thieves were dysfunctional. No, this was a whole other definition of it. It still worked as such though. Everyone living under the same roof- well, cave, if we want to be accurate. Collaborating in their dark and bloody ways to supply souls to the Dread Lord.

Jobs came and went. Contracts to be exact. And each was assigned accordingly, depending on whoever had a skill-set fit for it. And thus her con-woman past and experience had somehow came back into play and to the foreground- only in a whole new aspect. No one could even think that a fair maiden as such, with that alabaster skin and those rosy, inviting lips, was capable of the bloodshed she was. In a way, she competed with the unchild, Babette, in that department; deceiving with appearances.

Even if she was deemed of needing someone along at her first few contracted kills- making sure she wouldn't botch the job up, get herself caught or expose the Brotherhood in her attempt of escaping, that was- she delivered. Messily at first, granted; but one had to start somehow, hm? Gradually her technique was honed, her work getting more precise, neater one might say.

And she always followed through each and every one. And she was content with it, following Sithis' bidding, and living as harmoniously as possible with her new dysfunctional family. Growing used to it and gradually developing a new sense of belonging, when she'd thought she'd left that part behind. This was her life now, no matter how soaked in blood she was; never questioning, never doubting her family and what they stood for. Except one time. That one time that ended up cutting another turn in her path.

"No, Astrid, there is no way-"

"Are you going against the tenets, ?" That last word, that otherwise, in another setting and context, would hold an endearing tone, was uttered by Astrid with such austerity- a warning undertone lurking to it, hard to miss really.

Gia's lips were pursed to a thin line, jaw set firmly as she held the blonde's stare, refusing to look down or away. One might say there was an underlying challenging hint to the whole exchange, the tension palpable between the women.

"I am not murdering a child." She drew out the words, her tone low and barely audible—though the message was loud and clear.

"The Sacrament has been made- who do you think you are to deny a soul to Sithis?" The other hadn't raised her tone to the slightest either; maybe even lowered it a bit too, more menacing than any yell or harsh word would've been. Her form had even leaned forth a tad, palms still set firmly against the table, as her striking blues pinned the brunette to her spot, daring her silently to say one more thing.

Fists curled up firmly against her sides as she remained rooted to her spot. You could've cut her arm right there and blood wouldn't have flowed out what with the tension that had grown in the room. " .not.murdering.a child." She repeated, trying to keep her tone steady. Cutting their staring match short with that final declaration, she turned on her heel.

She would have never even thought of challenging the matriarch in such way. But this job- this contract- it was crossing the lines. Her lines. Yes, she still had some lines, even in their 'line of work'. Because, all those murders she'd executed flawlessly, they were people who could've otherwise defended themselves people who had lived a portion of their lives, experienced certain things that one should come to experience while walking this land; at least that's the way she had tried justifying it to herself, all those sleepless, white nights she rolled around in her bed.

Murdering a child was her line. Innocent little life, the absence of which would benefit someone-how exactly? She couldn't wrap her mind around it. There were no words, no excuses, that could justify an act as such, and there was no way she could be convinced to go through with a job like that, none at all.

A few swift steps had brought her out of Astrid's office, down the hall, through the main area and off to her little corner where she'd hastily moved to pack her things- those few she owned. At those who didn't know, she merely seemed to be preparing for another contract-as hasty as she always was to leave that damp place and breathe the clear, crisp air.

Without a word, she was off, storming from the main entrance in her bewilderment, never looking back, as she brushed past a returning Arnbjorn, as he entered the Sanctuary. And soon she'd find out that it was futile and foolish to even think she could walk out like that. No one ever left the Brotherhood that way. You lived and breathed it, until the last bit of air left your lungs and your soul found its way to the dark halls of the Dread Lord.

She'd hopped onto the mare, the one she'd recently opted to acquire, in search of making her trips swifter and smoother. Digging her heels on her sides, she bolted off, opting to go off the main trails and roads and off into the thick Falkreath woods. Eyes, watering as the wind hit her face, barely focused ahead, her mind being a jumbled mess- what am I doing; where in oblivion am I going… what, where, how.

It wasn't long before she felt her stomach churning weirdly, getting an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, the one that made the hairs on the nape of her neck rise. It felt off. She was used to being the predator; the one stalking, waiting to strike, not the prey. Never the prey. So this is what it feels like. Oh, how the tables had turned- Gods and Daedra were surely having a laugh. Of course. Astrid had sent her loyal, shifting, spouse after her.

Her steering got choppy in her need to keep an uneven pattern, weaving around the trees hastily. Barely avoiding branches at this point, yet not really paying heed to the dull stinging of cuts on the skin still visible from her mask, her knuckles turned white as she clutched onto the reigns tightly, muttering unintelligibly under her breath. Soon enough the mare didn't need more spurring to rush forth, to keep that hard pace. For those heavy paws stomping on the undergrowth sounded as if they were counting down to the end of that chase. Mocking her almost. Were did you think you were going, little girl?

Just when the trees started thinning out in her path, giving way to the sight of the waters of Ilinalta pouring into the White River, a fleeting thought passed through her mind- what if I just… But she never got to finish it, as she felt the wind getting knocked out of her and a sharp pain searing across her side. She'd been knocked off her mare by the mutt, even though the brawn of the strike was mostly suffered by the poor horse, in her last attempt at a sharp steer. She could hear its pained whinnies, a muffled sound, as she rolled off onto the forest ground, eventually falling off the steep lakeside and hitting the water hard. She was almost sure she'd gone deaf by the sound of raging water, her mind swarming with a cacophony of sensory hyperactivity ; her pulse hammered in her ears, her whole side burned, courtesy of Arnbjorn's claws, the sharp sting intensified by the cold water. Barely managing to surface, she sputtered water, gulping greedily for air, in the midst of a cough frenzy. In the corner of her eye she could make out a blurry image of a white mass stalking along the riverside while she got carried away by the surging water. Until she got drawn below water once again from the undercurrents, and everything went black as she hit her head on a rock; her limp form finally being left to drift off down the winding and rushing path of the river.