The church bells rang ominously, almost as if the Gods were attempting to warn the family of their sudden incoming demise. However, whatever message they intended to send was lost. The mother continued chopping up tomatoes, ignorant of all the signs of death around her. The small round fruit crunched and sprayed her hands with red, and she scooped up each diced square and tossed it into the bowl beside her. Behind her, a small child mumbled joyfully to himself as he tapped a tiny wooden soldier on the table.
Down the hall, around the corner, and into the next room, the lock on the front door was jammed and broken open by the scratched iron lockpick held by steady, gloved black hands. The door squeaked as it was slowly pressed open, but the sound was lost to the ears of the mother and her child in the kitchen. One foot after another passed into the doorway before carefully treading down the hall. The church bells outside continued to toll, the clang seeming louder than it ever had before.
The mother looked down to find her hands shaking, her heart straining against her chest. She set the knife down, wiping her stained hands on the towel. She picked up a pitcher and poured a goblet of water, unsure of why her body was reacting the way it was, unaware of the man watching her from the shadows, but she did sense that something dreadful was about to occur.
Only now did the child realize his mother's odd behavior and gazed at her with enormous muddy-brown eyes. The little toy soldier dropped from his sticky hands, thumping against the table in tune with the banging of the church bells outside. "Mommy?"
With one last stride forward, the man emerged from the shadows and into the faint light of the candles, his face contorted in the golden glow. The only sound that followed was the metallic cling of the goblet as it dropped from the woman's hands onto the wood floor below.
Her eyes widened, brimmed with tears. An inaudible noise escaped her lips, followed by a shuddering whimper. She merely shook her head from side to side, backing up so her back was to the table, while the little boy clung to her skirts. Outside, the bells stopped ringing and the air was filled with a thick and heavy silence.
The man merely laughed, low and guttural. "I'm afraid I have not met your acquaintance, my dear Lady. I am Lucien Lachance, a servant of the Dread Lord." He paused, a menacing smile passing over his face before gazing at the woman's figure, his eyes travelling languidly over her form. His silhouette advanced forward, seeming to float over the ground as if enchanted by some ethereal force. Lucien reached out two gloved hands and expertly popped the buttons on her dress free before stroking his fingers down her alabaster flesh, kneading her soft breasts beneath his fingertips. "It is very unfortunate to meet on such terms. I would have enjoyed seeing what you look like beneath all of these constraining clothes."
She shuddered and cried, her body quivering with intense force. Lucien placed his hand under her chin and lifted her face up. "Do you know why I have come, why the Dread Lord requires you at his feet?"His eyes scanned hers for a moment before he frowned.
"No? That's too bad, then." He let his hand fall away from her and stepped backwards, gazing over at the kitchen knife lying on the cutting board.
The woman did not speak, instead gripping the table with white knuckles. Lucien lifted the kitchen knife and held it in his palm before turning his head to smile menacingly at her. "So you prefer silence then? As do I, my dear lady. Although I must say, I have never met a woman who would willingly allow her son to watch her death." He merely shook his head. "I expected better of you, Lady Montabell."
Gazing down at the child cowering in the chair, he lowered his voice to a growl. "Why don't you go to your room, little one? This is no place for a child." The little boy looked up at his mother, who gave a short nod, her face drained of blood. Hurriedly, the child slid to the floor and rushed past, his little footsteps echoing down the hall.
Once he was out of earshot, Lucien turned to the woman and wrapped his hand around her neck before shoving onto her back on the table, her hands gripping his wrist as she cried and attempted to pry him off of her. He released her, but his hand quickly came to rest on her chest, pressing her back down.
He leaned in close to her face, the metal of the knife glinting in the candlelight beside him. "Fighting me will only prolong your pain, my dear." Struggling, she attempted to squirm away from him, resulting in a stinging slap across her face. Tears pricked at her eyes, and finally she found the will to speak.
"No, no! Please! I'll do anything!" Her cry caught in her throat as his gloved hand raised the knife high in the air, flashing. With one final swing, Lucien brought it down on her throat, spraying himself and the table with her blood as he sliced through her neck. It was not a clean cut, and she jerked and gargled as the blood bubbled through her mouth and neck, streaming over her face and dripping to the floor below, flowering over the surface in a darkened stain.
Lucien set the knife on the table and dug his fingers into her wound. She strained and choked as he gripped her neck with two hands. He gave one last burst of pressure and broke her spine with a sickening snap, the sound filling him with a delighted warm sensation. He picked his weapon off the table and brought the knife down again, tearing through the remains of her skin and severing her head from her body before tossing the knife into the pool of blood below.
Lucien lifted the dripping, bloodied head of Lady Montabell and strode down the hall, entering the young boy's room where the child huddled under the bed. His little terrified face peeked out from beneath the bed sheets at Lucien.
With a grim smile, Lucien tossed the head of his mother to the floor, where it rolled to the foot of the bed before gazing back at the child with lifeless, cold eyes. Almost immediately, the child screamed and broke into sobs.
Lucien merely laughed. "Thank the Dread Father for his mercy." With one last smirk, he swirled his robes and disappeared, leaving the little boy and the headless mother behind.
Zarissis sighed and blew a strand of red hair from her eyes before grunting unwillingly. She was never really certain what women found attractive about binding their bodies with corsets, yet here she was, arms splayed outwards as her mother viciously tore at the laces on the death-trap, her ribs threatening to burst.
The only valid reason she had for wearing the damn thing was because oh dear Tristeran was coming to visit. More specifically, he was taking her out to dinner. This was the man her mother had painstakingly picked out for her to marry. "You'll bring honor on the family," she had said.
Honor. Yeah, right. Zarissis could hardly imagine how much honor she'd bring married to a man who couldn't lift a spoon to his mouth without spilling the entire contents of his bowl over his shirt and lap, not to mention that he was simply the dullest human being she ever had the discomfort of being in the same room with. If he wasn't talking about ale and drinking, he was boasting over his father's income and the recent profit his father made as a blacksmith. Smithing in itself is an honorable trade, and one Zarissis respected greatly; however, Tristeran did not have the talents nor the interests of a smith, and instead chose to boast only over money and expensive furnishings. Zarissis wasn't certain if he even possessed any talents.
Perhaps the most frustrating aspect of the whole situation was that her marriage was arranged, yet Zarissis's mother had married for love. In fact, she loved the man so much she dishonored her family and married several classes below herself, from a noblewoman to a simple merchant's wife. Her family had disowned her, but Zarissis supposed the price must have been worth it, given that she was here. Yet somehow, Zarissis sometimes doubted her mother's love for her father. Occasionally, the woman scowled at him like he was the most despicable human being she'd ever seen, only to be replaced with a friendly and loving gaze a few moments later. It had puzzled the girl most of her life.
Though it was possible that the woman did not marry for love. Rather than bearing her father's family name, Zarissis was given her mother's family name. She had assumed that she was born out of wedlock, her mother giving birth before the two were married, although the older she got the more she began to question whether he was truly even her father. His hair was platinum blonde, her mother's a dingy brown, yet Zarissis had hair the color of a roaring fire, regularly kept in a long and unusually thick braid that dangled over her shoulder. Maybe Zarissis was actually the bastard child to another man, and her mother's marriage to her father was merely an act to cover up her sin.
She frowned. Even if that was the case, Zarissis resented that she was expected to accept an arranged marriage. She doubted she even wanted to be a wife and mother at all. There was so much of the world to see, so many adventures to experience. Perhaps she wanted to be a mage and study at the Arcane University – she was a Breton, magic was in her blood – or perhaps she wished to join the Fighter's Guild and be a fearsome warrior, maybe even try her hand at Arena. She had read in a book about the Bloodworks beneath the Arena and how men's blood had flowed for so long down its floors that the area was permanently stained red. An illustration had accompanied the description, and the gore had horrified Zarissis so much that she had to close it. However, curiosity overcame her, and every night for a week she turned back to that page to gaze over the scene. It made her pulse quicken to imagine herself there, among the carnage, the fantasy far more entertaining than she expected. Afterwards, her face would burn with shame knowing that the idea excited her. It was wrong and immoral to delight in bloodlust – thus was as Zarissis had been taught.
But had not men killed for love, for joy, for anger, and for the thrill of the chase for centuries? If it was so wrong, then why did so many succumb to it? Why did men go to war for their countries, and why was Arena such a widely accepted and treasured sport?
Zarissis frowned as her mother tightened the last of the laces on her corset. It would never be her place to know or understand the meaning of war and death – her place in society was set. She was to marry a man of her class, bear children, and raise them to be good little daughters and sons.
She slipped her arms into the dull green dress as her mother pulled it over her head, clasping the buttons together in the front. It was dirty and worn, being one of the only nice dresses she owned.
"There, don't you just look darling?" Her mother smoothed her hair down and stepped aside to give Zarissis a view of the mirror.
"I look the same as I always look," she deadpanned, "only wearing a dirty green dress waiting to have dinner with an idiot."
The woman slapped her arm, a menacing glare spreading over her face. "Zarissis, I have gone through all the trouble to find the right husband for you! You scared the last three suitors off; you will behave yourself this time."
Zarissis felt the last three were less despicable than the current.
"My daughter, my only daughter is twenty years old and still unmarried! Most women your age are already wives with children!" She threw her hands in the air while she railed, walking over to the other side of the bedroom to grab a ribbon for her daughter's hair. "Soon you'll be old and fat and no man will want you then. What will you do then, huh?" Her spindly hands seized the braid, resulting in a pained cry from Zarissis. Her fingers deftly laced the green ribbon around the braid in a crisscross pattern before tying it in a perfect bow.
The little redhead merely sighed under her breath, not willing to prolong the rant. The quicker the day could end, the better. She would really prefer nothing more than to curl up in bed with a book and put aside all this meaningless nonsense with suitors for another time.
From the other room, someone banged on the front door with a heavy fist. Her mother's head perked up, eyes glittering, before darting off to let the man in. That would certainly be Tristeran, and despite the fact that Zarissis relished the opportunities to be taken to eat with food that wasn't burnt by her mother, she wasn't too happy to see the man her mother intended her to be with.
It was going to be a very long night.
Vicente dipped the quill into the inkwell before scrawling his initials on the bottom of the contract in elegant, artistically-formed letters. Several centuries earlier, he would have scoffed at the idea of an assassin's guild having paperwork, yet after resigning his position as Speaker a couple decades earlier it seemed to require a majority of his time.
He scooped a pinch of sand from a bowl and tossed it onto the wet ink before lifting the parchment off the table and blowing the dust to the floor. He reached for the next contract when his hand stilled mid-air and a small smile crept onto his face.
A contract addressed to him lay on the top of the pile, Lucien's handwriting requesting him personally to complete it. A Khajiit residing in Leyawiin had apparently bested at least three other assassins from various Sanctuaries, and Lucien felt Vicente could handle the challenge.
Khajiit have an acute sense of hearing and smell that makes them dangerous, but also alerts them to the presence of others. Vicente's vampiric nature would lend him the element of surprise, up until the moment he sinks his teeth into her soft, velvet neck. Khajiit blood was not as sweet as Bretons or even Altmer, but the overwhelming amount of Moonsugar they consumed tinted it with a tangy flavor.
It had been a while since he fed, and he certainly ached to taste blood. The thirst was not merely a burning on his tongue, but an ailment that affected his whole body. Apart from the overwhelming desire to sink his teeth into the pliable flesh of the living, he was also filled with a carnal need to sate sexual appetite, to feel the wet warmth of a woman around his waist and straddling his hips…
Vicente snapped his eyes shut, nostrils flaring. He had spent the past three hundred years attempting to control his nature, and the last thing he needed was to lose it and fuck the next thing that walked through his chamber door – most likely Lucien, and he doubted the Speaker would be amused if found himself tossed onto a table with his robes around his waist, being taken from behind by the resident vampire. Oh no, undead reflexes or not, Vicente was sure that would end with a silver dagger jammed into his heart.
In all honestly, accidentally taking the Speaker was one of the least of his concerns. A member of the Dark Brotherhood had been murdered only a few weeks ago, her corpse mutilated almost beyond recognition. The slices had been made by a deft and clever hand, one that understood the anatomy of a body better than any typical person, and the assassin's target certainly did not possess the skill to kill someone so artistically. The craftsmanship was like unto Lucien Lachance himself and some of the best assassins the organization possessed, and nobody other than the Dark Brotherhood knew where she would be heading. That meant that a traitor was on the loose, and Lucien had been out all night trying to get to the bottom of it. Vicente didn't have high hopes for what he'd discover, though. His gut told him that this was only the beginning of a very dark time.
Zarissis released a silent groan. It took all of her willpower not to cover her face with her hands and sink down into her chair in shame. Tristeran was perhaps somewhat drunk, and was now talking at a tone level that Zarissis was certain would not qualify as an 'indoor-voice', not to mention that she still didn't want to be there in her current situation. It was her mother's guess that he'd likely propose to her during the night, and Zarissis was expected to say yes. If she said no, she'd likely be kicked out onto the streets before dawn. Her mother was at her wit's end and was not going to put up with any more of Zarissis's behavior.
Tristeran had taken her to the Five Claws Inn, the only of the two places within Leyawiin that was cheap enough for what meager money he made helping his father. She did appreciate the gesture, as courting a woman could be costly, but given that it was against her will, it was still just as unpleasant. Of course, the poor sod didn't even know that this wasn't her choice. He genuinely believed she wanted to marry him, given the rumors and lies her mother had fed him.
She glanced around the worn building, the different patrons only casting a few glances toward them before looking away. Tristeran launched into an animated rant on the choice of upholstery for the furniture in the Imperial Palace, and Zarissis's mind instantly zoned him out, only paying enough attention to nod in all the right places. She caught the eye of the Argonian innkeeper across the room and made a pained expression. The woman merely smiled sympathetically back – an action which was not entirely reassuring due to the rows of sharp teeth in her mouth.
Tristeran waved his hand in front of her face, making the girl jump before straightening herself and giving him her attention. "Zarissis," he began, confidence seeping into the tone of his voice, "We haven't known each other for very long, but I've grown fond of you these past few months." His eyes genuinely glimmered as he said this, although Zarissis was confused as to how a man could love someone who never spoke and only nodded when spoken to.
Tristeran reached across the table and took her hands in his. "I have decided that it is time we take things…farther in our relationship." He smiled gently at her, caressing the back of her palm. "Zarissis, I want to marry you. I've spoken with your parents and earned their blessing. Now all that there is left to do are the minor details, and we can be together."
This certainly wasn't what Zarissis wanted, not one bit. Her mind raced, not knowing what conclusion to come to or what words to say. "Tristeran, I–"
"Wonderful!" She was cut off as he belted joyfully and stood up, knocking his goblet on the wine to the floor in the process. He pushed out his chair and walked around the table before pulling the tiny red-head into a hug and kissing the top of her head.
She didn't know what to say, and the words wouldn't come to her mouth. Zarissis simply stood there and faked a smile as Tristeran announced their engagement to the inn, hugging and kissing her forehead the entire time. The patrons stood up and shook hands with both of them, and more wine was brought out. Zarissis kept up her false face as the inn celebrated, although her mind was a mixture of confusion and turmoil.
Her life had been sold away, a slave to the system of marriage. She was to be bound by children and her husband, wearing a golden ring instead of chains. Whatever dreams and hopes she may have had were no more.
Panic began to seize the little red-head's mind. An overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia began to cloud her vision and her mind went numb. She blinked slowly and tried to take slow breaths to calm herself, but her skin began to moisten with heat and sweat.
Zarissis tugged on Tristeran's sleeve, who turned to look at her expectantly. "I – I'm…" Her words caught in her throat as she began speaking. Carefully, she focused on her next sentence. "I'm hot and feeling faint…I need to step outside for a moment."
Tristeran frowned. "Are you alright? Do you need me to come with you?"
She merely shook her head and pulled away, pressing open the door to the inn and letting the cold breeze outside bite her skin. The door shut behind her, muffling the noise from within.
Outside in the night, Zarissis's head began to clear. She gazed up at the bright full moon in the sky, the moonbeams kissing her rosy cheeks and illuminating the fiery hue of her hair. She inhaled deeply through her mouth and closed her eyes, attempting to reorganize her thoughts. She didn't want to linger around the inn anymore and she certainly didn't want to see Tristeran's face again. All she really desired was to curl up and sleep in her bed.
Perhaps forever, she decided. Death didn't scare her, but immortality did. To live forever, day after day, in a life that she didn't even have control over would be her own personal Oblivion. Maybe if there was someone to love, who loved me back. Unfortunately, she didn't really know how that felt. How could anyone love someone so much they would give their life for them…to them? No, she announced in her head, I'd rather die.
Zarissis stepped off the porch off the inn and left the party behind her, with home as her destination. She had left her coat back with Tristeran, so she clutched her bare arms as goose bumps rose on her skin. The wind caught her dress and ruffled it, and soon enough she was frozen to the bone, but Zarissis couldn't bear to turn back and set eyes on her fiancé again.
Taking a path through the alleys would be the quickest way back to her home. Cutting down one, she rushed into the darkness, the buildings blocking the direct light from the moon. Just as she was about to re-enter the street on the other side, someone grabbed her by her dress from behind and swiveled her around, grabbing her by the wrists and pushing her into the side of the building, shrouding both of them in the shadows.
She was turned to face a man with greasy, unwashed blonde hair who pressed a knife to her throat. "Why 'ello there beautiful, why is such a love'y creature comin' through my alley?" His free hand reached up and fondled her breast before resting on the buttons of her dress. "If you don't scream, I promise to be quick, and I won't cut yer throat." He leaned in and pressed a dirty kiss to her chin.
Zarissis was paralyzed with fear and shock, merely standing there while the man hiked her skirts up around her waist. She tried to make her mind work, but all that returned was a blank emptiness. In her state of confusion while her eyes were locked with the man before her, she never saw the shadow begin to descend on the pair of them before gripping the man's neck with one pallid, lithe hand.
Oh, Vicente had found the trip to Leyawiin frightfully boring. Not a single person along the road to snack on, and then the Leyawiin guards didn't even question why a cloaked stranger entered the city at nightfall.
He was just returning from finishing his contract. Vicente had been able to sneak up on the Khajiit woman, but as soon as he narrowed in for the kill, the damn cat turned around and lashed at him with poison-coated claws. Luckily, vampires are naturally immune to poison, or Vicente would have felt the effects of paralysis and the she-devil would have staked him through the heart. Instead, he broke both of her wrists and tied her to a table before tearing out each of her claws, one by one. Torture was usually preferred by Lucien over himself, but Vicente felt he owed it to the other brothers and sisters who had failed the contract. While she howled and begged him for mercy, Vicente decided it necessary to crunch each of her ribs as well. Finally she had succumbed to the pain and blacked out, after which Vicente leaned into her neck and drank her blood until her skin shriveled. Not only was it refreshing, but it restored some human qualities to his face, filling his cheeks in, as well as healing the scratches left by the target.
Vicente had left her in her home for friends or family to find, and broke out into the moonlight, relishing the beauty of the night. He didn't get out often, sadly, but when he did he was always amazed by how graceful the night was. As he turned his head up to gaze at the moon, his ears picked up someone's voice from the back road nearby.
It was a man threatening a woman. He was certainly planning to rape and kill her, by the sounds of it. This was not an unusual situation, and Vicente admitted to having done just that to several people in the past, but something compelled him to walk over. As he neared the alley and gazed around the corner, he saw a young Breton girl with her eyes focused on the man in front of her while he lifted her skirt, her poor little heart pounding with terror. With his excellent night vision, Vicente could see the gentle youthfulness of her face and her wide green eyes. There were freckles brushed over her nose and cheeks, and the criminal in front of her tore her hair from its braid, releasing orange messy locks to drape over her shoulders and breasts.
She couldn't have been more than a child. Vicente was tempted to allow the filthy Imperial to have his way with her just to allow his eyes to linger on her for a bit longer, but he knew the man would slice her neck when he was done. It was a pity to waste such young beauty, and frankly, the vampire felt he didn't deserve the satisfaction. Although Vicente could admit to having committed sins worse than his, he was an assassin, a master of the art of stealth and killing. To attack a woman in an alley was a disgrace. Had it been him, he would have seduced her with charm before ending her with a bit more dignity.
He sighed, his mind made up. Dropping into a crouch, Vicente stalked and launched himself at the rapist, his hand pulling the man back and choking him. The little red-head's eyes widened, suddenly realizing what was occurring just as Vicente put his hands on both sides of the Imperial's head and twisted, the man's neck snapping in one smooth action.
She cowered against the wall, gazing at him with large, horror-struck eyes. Vicente pushed the man's body out of the way and slowly reached out a hand like one would to a wild animal.
"Don't panic, my dear. He won't hurt you now." He spoke to her in a soft voice, and after a moment she reached out and slipped her palm into his. He carefully guided her out into the light where she'd feel more comfortable. Her eyes darted over his figure and squinted slightly as she attempted to see his face beneath the hood.
"Th…Thank you," she stammered, her hand shaking lightly in his. "You saved my life." A small, tiny smile grazed over her lips, and she looked at him with a newfound admiration despite that he just ended a life before her.
Oh, she was darling, but the poor thing was in such a state of calamity that she didn't think to be afraid of him. She should have been – any man who can kill another by breaking his neck in one simple move is someone to be afraid of, but instead the tiny little thing merely gaped at him in adoration.
"Aren't you a little flower?" Vicente chirped, an unseen grin passing over his face. It was really not often that he was looked upon in such a way without magical influences such as a charm spell or enthrallment – usually they were screaming in terror otherwise. He was incredibly flattered and patted her hand gently. "You should run along now. There are worse nightmares in the dark than the man you just met." He grinned at himself, running his tongue along his fangs while his face was still obscured by shadow. He released her and turned away, but her small hand reached out and tugged on his cloak.
"Wait! I'm desirous to know my hero's name, please?"
Vicente merely laughed and turned around, his bark causing her to furrow her brow. "Ah, a hero I am not, I'm afraid. My name is Vicente." He figured that perhaps she might remember his name in the future, and the next time he visited Leyawiin he might be able to drop in on her and discover if her blood was as sweet as she was. "And your name, my lady?"
"Zarissis, although I prefer Zaris."
"Zaris is a very exotic name for a Breton." Oh, how she looked at him like she was about to wilt! The older vampire may have been a cold-blooded killer, but he considered himself a gentleman to some degree, and it seemed that the child might collapse in the street should he leave her presence. Very well, Vicente certainly was not going to complain about being able to spend a few more minutes in the presence of his admirer.
"Shall I walk you home, little songbird?"
At the playful pet name, Zaris's cheeks flushed to a lovely pink color, and Vicente could hear the fluttering of her heart in response. He felt himself overcome with delight by the way her body responded so willingly to him. He would definitely have to return to Leyawiin again another time to exploit this discovery.
The little bird nodded and looped her hand over his arm, which he held out to her. She pointed out where her house was and the two walked slowly down the street. Zarissis kept sneaking glances up at him, still trying to decipher his face through the darkness of his hood.
"I take it you don't live around here?" Her voice was tinged with disappointment.
"I'm afraid not. I'm only in Leyawiin for business."
She didn't respond, merely falling into a quiet sadness. After a moment, she glanced back up at him. "I wish I knew what you looked like beneath your hood."
Vicente hummed in response. "If you saw my face, dear lady, I'm afraid I'd have to kill you too." It'd be such a shame to waste such a wonderfully smitten girl.
Her heart fluttered with shock, and Vicente smiled almost menacingly as her eyes widened yet again. He could hear her pulse change dramatically as several thoughts crossed her mind. She opened her mouth as if to say something and promptly shut it again, turning her face back toward the road, casting confused glances his way.
Her house came into view, and Vicente felt a pang of disappointment. He wanted to linger in her presence just a few minutes longer and see how else he could manipulate her heart to beat erratically while he watched her look at him like a tiny, fragile bird, but it was getting late for Vicente and he needed to head back to Cheydinhal.
Vicente walked her to the door before releasing her arm. He leaned on one knee, took her hand, and planted a gentle kiss on it.
"Until next time, dear child." With that, he stood up and departed, leaving the confused red-headed Breton behind to contemplate the day's events.