WARNING: Violence, gore, brief language.

A/N: I wrote this mostly for a good friend some time ago, and only recently returned to it at his request. There is no Dragonborn in this fic. It revolves around OC's and the Dark Brotherhood. I don't expect many people to fancy this story. I'm posting it only because I spent so much time on it, I might as well throw it somewhere. Enjoy.


The boards creaked and bowed slightly, voicing their age and wear under the light steps that tread up them. Dampened, dried; soaked, dried; drenched, dried again. It wouldn't be long before they would start to crumble. The heavy wood and iron door eased shut with a dull groan behind the small traveler, a wisp of frigid night air sneaking a flurry of snow through the shrinking crack. A voice called to her from somewhere nearby. The inn keeper, likely. She didn't care to acknowledge them. Instead, she climbed the remaining weathered steps to the second floor, where the flickering glow and crackle of firelight beckoned her achy and cold bones like a moth to a flame.

Another cramping pain, one of too many to count, commanded her to order food before she passed out. That too, was ignored. Warmth, she craved more than anything in the world. Well, other than solid, stable ground, but that wish had already been granted. Food would come eventually, when she could get it for free by sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night. As hungry as she was, the thought of eating was ironically nauseating, anyway. Once her stomach realized it was no longer being tortured by the swaying of angry waves, everything would be better.

Tiny flecks of white glistened in the dancing light as the snowflakes melted into the dark cloak draped around her. She picked a chair closest to the fire, and collapsed. Mindless of the mead-stained armrests, and the strange looks she was receiving from the other inhabitants of the inn. Nords that looked and sounded as weathered as the steps she climbed. Dark eyes that normally cast an intelligent, obsidian gaze, were a little too bloodshot, and a little too glazed as they lost themselves in the hypnotizing flames. The licking trails of gold and orange washed out what little color she possessed, bleaching her icy skin into white, and revealing the damp, rich strands of purple hair hiding beneath her hood. Her facial structure gave away her race easily, but she seemed not to care, or perhaps to be entirely ignorant, of the mild tension that her presence had stirred around her. Scathing whispers of something called the Gray Quarter, while the bard bellowed above the mumbling a tune that involved Ulfric being the high king. None of it reached her. It should have...but she was too tired, too sore, and too distracted at the moment.

Eventually, her lids would fall shut, and she leaned forward with her elbows on the leather of her knees. They said it would be cold here. She believed them. But they could have emphasized that fact a little more than they did. The flimsy cloth cloak of hers would simply not do. She would have to find a better glorified blanket to nuzzle into before she continued her journey. One with a fur lining, preferably. New boots, too. New everything, it seemed. If only she had packed more... But no. There was no time for that, and it was far easier to flee unnoticed without a chest full of supplies and clothes weighing her down. All she possessed now was physically attached to her person. Leather and cloth, a bag of septims worth more than it looked, some hidden weapons, some jewelry, and not much else. The rest was gone. Nothing but a labyrinth of memories, good and bad, beautiful and horrifying. All the riches, all the connections, the influence, friends, family of Morrowind...snuffed into darkness. And yet, her only regret was not casting it all away sooner. If she had, there would have been less casualties. She had been arrogant. Stubborn. As difficult as it was to admit, she had underestimated them. Perhaps even—

"You llllosst, Graysshkin?" A voice, as rough and unforgiving as it was drunk, slurred down at her with a rancid and accusing breath that instantly heightened the nausea she was slowly overcoming. Ripped from her thoughts, she opened her eyes to stare up at the man standing uncomfortably close to her shoulder. A tall, middle-aged Nord with greasy, shit-colored hair with some braids tied back into a short ponytail. She cursed inwardly, in no mood for entertainment, but she chose not to move. Chose not to arm herself with the blades secured beneath the curtain that hung from her shoulders. It wasn't worth it. Inebriated as the foul-smelling man was, she ventured even she could knock him over with an appropriately timed nudge. So what if he was twice her size.

Lethargy and apathy kept her quiet, and she reverted her unamused, half-lidded stare to the firelight before her. The locals shoving their faces with stew and mead were largely beyond her field of vision, but she could feel them. Feel the pairs of eyes aiming at them as she tried in vain to ignore the bastard next to her. She knew better, really. He wasn't going to just leave so easily. Not without a reaction from her. But she tried anyway. So tired... So hungry... So—

"Hey! I'm talkin' to you, girl!" Another waft of unhygienic breath billowed down into her face, and the pale silver of her jaw visibly clenched as her eyes hardened. Sharpening into daggers as lethal as the poisoned ones sheathed in her leather. She wouldn't attempt a diplomatic approach. Talking her way out of things never seemed to work for her in the past. Too honest and too blunt for her own good. That's partly what got her into this mess in the first place, if she had to be honest. Charisma, even with all the classes her affluent parents forced her to take shoving etiquette into her ear—and right out the other—had never been, and never would be, one of her finer skills.

A hand, one she could swear hadn't been washed once in at least a week, reached for her. A fluid dip and twirl evaded him effortlessly, and the Nord stumbled forward slightly as she made her way calmly toward the stairs she only too-recently ascended. Screw it. She could submerge herself in a nest of blankets once she paid for a room. Blankets that were about as sanitary as that man behind her, no less, but it would be better than nothing. Might not be as effective as a fire, but getting harassed like this wasn't on her agenda. All she wanted was some peace and quiet so she could collect her thoughts and figure out her next step, while chasing away the ice that was infecting her very soul. Apparently that was too much to ask.

A quick shuffle and heavy slap of a hand fell down on her shoulder as the drunk persisted, and the Dunmer paused mid-step. Feet anchoring to the floorboards in a widened stance as a current of electric malice infiltrated her chest, tightening her muscles and sending a trickle of adrenaline into her veins. One of them was about to have a very bad night, and she wasn't prepared for it to be her, exhausted or not. Even if it meant getting her ass thrown out into the street, at this point. There had to be another inn somewhere in Windhelm. Or she could break into someone's house and find a place to snooze out of sight, but that was a last resort.

His angry snarl contorted into startled agony when in the next moment his clumsy, intrusive hand was caught in her own, and two of his fingers were bent farther than he thought they were capable of reaching without snapping. The burning sting of tearing muscle and tendon alighting a path through them. There were no words to waste on him, and she feared that if she were to engage him any closer than she was now, his stench would cause her to expel what little bile remained in her bruised gut from that wretched ship she crawled off of earlier that evening.

Showing a fierce stubbornness that rivaled her own, the man lunged for her, ready to snatch at her throat with his free hand, but to his great fortune, he froze suddenly. She watched his eyes jerk to something behind her, and the anger and pain that glitter over them melted into a wondrous haze that was tainted vaguely with fear.

A chill washed over her back, likely from the entrance downstairs beyond them. Reminding her of the frozen hell she would be forced to return to if she didn't plan her next moves as carefully as her overworked and impatient mind would allow. She could feel the strain of his trapped fingers. Feel them beginning to tear even further...and yet he seemed not to feel a thing now. She was almost tempted to glance over her shoulder, but she dared not remove her attention from him. Not yet.

"Why don't you sit down, before things get out of hand." A deep, calm voice rumbled close to her, just out of sight. Another cold chill swirled down her spine, more intense than the last. Pale, chapped lips flapped sluggishly in front of her, as if the drunk had been smashed over the back of the head with a pint, and was struggling to reorganize his sparse braincells. "Y-...Yeah...I should...sit down." He muttered quietly, and then quickly cast his worried and confused gaze down while stumbling backwards. She freed his captive fingers as he moved, and studied him a little more closely as he seemed to lose awareness of her presence altogether.

The stranger drifted past her before she could turn to face him, a swath of cloth ghosting along her own as he passed behind her. When she did turn, it was a beast of a man that she found. A height that towered over the retreating drunk with broad shoulders that might have trouble fitting through the narrow doorways in her homeland. He didn't acknowledge her, which she found slightly peculiar. Not that she particularly wanted him to. She wasn't in the right frame of mind for any company, especially since she didn't plan on staying in this frozen wasteland longer than she had to. A southern city would be nice. As far south as she could find. Nevertheless, as her hands submerged into the concealing cloak that revealed only her visage and part of the boots that reached mid-calf when she stood still, she watched him with veiled curiosity as he took a seat at an empty table against the cold stone wall by the frosted glass windows. So far from the fire, it was as if he was trying to avoid it. A cloak of dull, steely blue-gray covered him, hiding most of the pale golden locks of his hair that peeked underneath. The tiny snowflakes that clung to him did not melt. The hem was frayed and dirtied. Looking a little ragged, he struck her as lower-class. Someone used to hard, manual labor, who didn't tolerate nonsense or unnecessary trouble. That was a mere assumption based on the quick once-over she gave him, however.

Just as she was about to turn and continue down the stairs, he looked up at her. A casual glance, and only natural, as she'd been staring at him rather pointedly for a moment. The distance between them spanned almost half the length of the inn itself now, but she instantly understood the reaction of that drunkard.

Those eyes... They pierced through her like the fangs of a serpent. Sinking in and injecting an infectious venom that momentarily paralyzed her in place. A split-second later, it was gone. A flash of intensity that dissipated so quickly, she wondered if she only imagined it. After the recent events fate had wrestled her through so unsympathetically, and the grueling boat ride she endured, it wasn't so farfetched to think. Maybe she was even starting to hallucinate a little, but she could have sworn those eyes were brighter than they should be. Like small candle flames glinting through the shadows at her. No... That was just the reflection of the fire. A strange trick of the light at the right angle.

Reluctantly, she gave him a light twitch of a nod. The closest thing this stranger would receive to a proper thank you. He merely stared for a second longer, without a hint of emotion of his face, before looking away.

"I need a room." A heavy thump on the counter startled the inn keeper from her shameless flirting with a man leaning next to her, and the young woman jumped slightly. Looking down at the bulky wad of leather sitting in front of her, jingling quietly as the hidden coins slid into place, she forced a polite smile at the Dunmer. No one would argue with gold. "I have a room available down the hall. I'll show—"

"Thank you." The elf cut her off, counting the coins and dropping them on the wood for her to collect so she could be on her way. The girl scoffed to herself, once she thought her weary patron was out of ear's reach.

The hall was pleasantly quiet as she moved. The faint melody of the bard's flute sifting through the floorboards above her head. Each step closer and closer to her waiting bed grew weighted in anticipation of face-planting into something that was, with any luck, soft and warm. To her surprise, the vacant room she found was directly across from the kitchen. She had to stop and peer through the open doorway, eyeballing the pots steaming over the burning embers inside, and the dried herbs and fresh game hanging from hooks. How perfect. She reached for one of the handles, pulling the door shut behind her with a small smirk. When most everyone sauntered off to bed, and there was no further need for a cook, she would scavenge like the sneaky, ravenous mouse that she was.

That was the plan, anyway. Plans don't always come to fruition, however. Lately, they seemed to only blow up in her face. For the moment she eased down onto the pile of fur and hay, reality vanished. There would be no waiting for the staff to scurry off and the inn to darken. The deerskin met her chest with a soft nudge, and it was more than enough to knock her consciousness into the abyss. No time to think, to plan, and no dreams greeted her when her eyes snapped closed. Pure, blissful nothingness consumed her.

So pervasive was her coma, that when she next awoke, she couldn't tell if it had been five minutes, or five days. Her body said five minutes, and yet somehow she felt it had been longer than that, though not nearly long enough. The room was a wash of inky, swirling shadows, with only a single candle sputtering its final rays of light in a pool of melted wax in a lantern on the dresser. Yet it's insignificant pinpoint blinded her when she was foolish enough to glance at it.

There was a reason she awoke now, though. The sudden alertness that bolted her from a dead sleep never happened without a cause. Even as she struggled to regain her equilibrium and try to make sense of her surroundings, she could feel it. A change, of some sort. Or perhaps it was simply the waves of goosebumps knotting over her skin, telling her she should have gotten under the damn blankets instead of pass out on top of them. The chill was back.

Curse this place. Why was it so cold? There wasn't even a window in her cubbyhole of a room, and yet she might as well have been standing outside under a pelting of snowfall. Sluggish limbs fought weakly to pull the heated layers out from beneath her, and toss it over the length of her fully clothed form. She rolled onto her back, rustling some of the hay onto the floor with her boot. Submerged now in a bath of warmth, her mind melted into a drowsy calm once more, and the darkness enveloped her, sinking her back into its sleepy depths.

This time, fleeting images and memories sparked through her dazed mind. The sounds of clinking utensils and the chatter of diplomats; wardrobes of rich colors and textures flaunted like the feathers of exotic birds; a training dummy full of slits and punctures, draining its shredded stuffing on the floor; the sound of a child laughing and running down a hall while a voice chided after them in vain to slow down; a glint of gold as a delicate chain clasped at the back of her neck; a brush of ice as something grazed her throat, and slid a lock of dark hair out of the way with a tickle, while a chilling gust drew what little heat she possessed from her skin...

A limb flung itself haphazardly in an arch, and crashed down on the night stand next to the bed as she was jerked to life like a puppet on taut strings. The cocoon of fur and hay tore open as she flipped onto her side, and nearly fell off the bed itself. A foot caught on the floor, steadying her enough to push herself into a hunched position on the edge of the bed. The elf kept one hand braced warily on the night stand she had just assaulted. An empty lantern lay on its side below her, while the other across the room continued to sputter and sway with its dying light. She groaned softly, rubbing her hands over her face in exhaustion and irritation at her own jumpiness.

It had been so real, though. The sensation of something drifting over her. Intangible, yet clear in its presence. A feathery, yet cold touch had ripped her from her shallow snooze, like the brush of a curious spirit. It was too real to be part of her dream, she was certain. Then it was gone. The room was empty. Every one of her senses reassured her that she was alone, and was in fact, possibely going insane...because that part was most certainly reassuring.

An obnoxiously loud, moaning gurgle churned through her gut, and she peeked through the fingers that pressed over her brow to stare vacantly into the shapeless room before her. Judging by the complete lack of sound above and around her, it was safe to assume now would be a good time to alleviate the inn of some of its edibles. Maybe then she would sleep better, and stop imagining things.

The chandeliers of hollowed horns glowed dimly down the empty hall, masking the half-asleep, uncoordinated body into a mere blur of movement along the wall as she slipped into the kitchen. Creaks and groans whispered through the building, enlivened by the harsh northern wind outside beating into what cracks and crevices it could reach. The steaming pots were long gone, though the embers pulsed a deep red in the long stone pit that spanned the back wall. It still managed to heat the room to a bearable temperature. Her head was pounding as she searched the cupboards and drawers, uncaring of what she found, so long as she was capable of digesting it. Everything she tried to eat on the ride over to this inhospitable land was lost overboard, into the bobbing waves of saltwater and ice chunks. The next haul of salmon was bound to be more plump than usual, thanks to her.

She could feel the weak spasms dance through her arms, hands twitching with light tremors as they collected a small bounty of stale, leftover bread, cheese, pieces of salted meat from an unknown source, and a small apple. Good enough to silence the hunger pains until morning, and hopefully restore some control to her untrustworthy limbs. At any moment now she feared her knees would give out, and she would submit to sleeping wherever she landed, with a bloated belly and flecks of crumbs stuck on her face. It might even be worth the earful she would receive from the cook later.

The shoulder that leaned into the door frame was still mildly damp from the snow it collected outside, but as soon as a piece of torn bread and cheese touched her tongue, she knew nothing but euphoria. It was a little hard, and a little tasteless, but the cheese gave it an undeserved explosion of flavor that could have won awards, in her deluded opinion. In reality, it really wasn't that impressive at all. Just a testament to how hungry she was. She retreated within herself, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply in long-awaited satisfaction while she chewed. Sooner or later, she would have to remember to stumble the rest of the way into her own room, and collapse back down onto her bed. With any luck, it would still retain some of her body heat from earlier.

A faint click to her left caught her attention, soft and metallic, and nothing like the rest of the haunting sounds the inn was creating. She jerked her head to find a shadow standing a few feet away. Formidably tall and featureless, with a hand resting on the iron door handle of the room parallel to the kitchen. The details were difficult to make out in the waning light, but the large build was enough to spark some recognition. This was the same man she had met upstairs. Not the greasy, racist drunk, but the grizzly bear in a cloak the color of the ocean under a blanket of clouds. His hood was pulled far enough his time that she could glimpse only the pale smear of his nose and mouth, darkened ever so faintly with a canvas of stubble. Yet, even with his eyes hidden, she could feel him watching her.

Both of them had frozen. He with the door to his room pulled open a crack, and she with an armful of delicious loot she was about to gorge on like an insatiable troll, staring one another down expectantly. Damn. She was better than this, normally. Always the stealthy one, with eyes on the back of her head. Few things slipped past her, and even fewer things gave herself away, when she wanted to go unnoticed. A natural thief since she was old enough to totter around and snatch things with her stubby elven fingers, and perhaps even a natural assassin, if she so desired...though that was not a trade she ever meant to toil with. Of course, that didn't mean she wasn't prepared to take a life, but she would never make a career out of murder. She preferred her gold free of crimson and guilt. However, her current state was anything but normal. Both physically and emotionally drained, even a trained sneak was bound to slip up now and then. These were trying circumstances. The fact that this man managed to walk down the length of the hall without alerting her was more than a little unnerving, however. Someone with his build should not be so stealthy.

The loud clunk of her apple slipping free and falling to the floor resounded much louder than she wanted it to, drawing her focus down as it rolled along the edge of the woven rug. Of course, it would stop only once it nudged into the unmoving man's foot, and the Dunmer bit gently into her tongue in frustration. In the very least, this was embarrassing. At most, she would be bribing him to keep his mouth shut. Either way, she was annoyed.

Skeptically, she watched him sink slowly to the floor and pluck the red and yellow gem from the dusty boards. His steps, which should have been heavy like distant rumbles of thunder, were curiously light and quiet. The build of a bear, with the agility of a sabre cat. Enough to impress her, if not leave her feeling a bit wary. The silence was stifling as he paused a couple paces from her. Shrouding her in a massive silhouette.

Unlike him, she was lacking her hood now. Hair a bit stringy, and in need of a good scrub, it hung free in long, dark strands down her shoulders and back, parted by the pointed tips of her silver ears. Black eyes considered him stoically, trying to decipher his intent through what minimal body language he displayed. A soft noise of friction as a calloused thumb stroked over the skin of her stolen fruit distracted her briefly, and made her shift her weight, as if she were ready to dart around him. She didn't like feeling cornered, and he was taking too long to speak. It was then that she noticed the clustered polka dots over his head, shoulders, and part of his chest. Snowflakes that had never melted from earlier that evening. Or, perhaps he had gone outside again.

"No mead...?" His rough voice finally reached her, grumbling from deep within his throat, and in the next moment, the apple popped up into the air in front of her. A quick toss aimed for her folded arms, stuffed with food. It fell into place between the loaf of bread and chunk of cheese. He didn't wait for a response, instead turning and shuffling away with a hint of a smirk on his lips.

Her feet were still until he disappeared into his room, and she heard the sound of a lock turning. Then, they ushered her out of the hall in a streak of shadow, cloak fanning behind her in the quick movement. Well, that panned out a lot nicer than she thought it would. It was too bad she couldn't have met him in a warmer city. He might turn out to be a worthy contact, but she would never know now.