Fortune's Favorite
The Hooded Man
Since she came back from the Shivering Isles, Felicienne Sauveterre sought shelter in The Lonely Suitor Lodge to ponder the weight of the situation she found herself in. She cursed her bad luck and poor sense of direction, as well as her her pride, since it kept her from asking directions when she first felt the prickle of unease as she strayed off from her original course towards Chorrol. Instead, she was determined to make her own way, despite the niggling at the back of her mind that Chorrol was really only a few days away by foot and it should not be taking near a week and a half to get there. But, she argued with herself, she was from High Rock, and she didn't really know for sure. She could be going the right way. Her Cyrodilic not being the best, she still struggled to properly read the signs and, ergo, missed her rather easy mark.
Too late, she found herself tired and hungry, and all the way in run-down, balmy Bravil just as the hottest season of the year was winding down, giving way to what promised to be a crisp Heartfire, with the Amulet of Kings still heavy in her pocket and no Brother Jauffre to be found. Cursing herself again, she had planted herself in Silver Home on the Water and overheard the publican mention something about a strange door that opened in the Niben Bay. Count Terentius had sent out a small group of men to investigate it, but they came back, half of them raving mad, and the count decided merely to post someone out there to warn any would-be adventurer against entering. Her pride still bruised, she persuaded one of the merchants who frequented the inn if they would be so kind to take her out that way, as she didn't fancy going for a swim after her already too-long and unplanned trip to Bravil. It probably helped that she threw in thirty septims and assured him that he did not have to leave his boat. She just wanted to be dropped off.
Her passaged secured, she headed out the first thing the following morning and, after a month or two of discourteous dark elf sorceresses, Gatekeepers, Saints and Seducers, Knights of Order, quirky locals and men who wanted to die but didn't want to put the work into it themselves, and recreating the Staff of Sheogorath, she found herself sitting on the Throne of Madness while Jyggalag roamed the waters of Oblivion free of his curse and Sheogorath.
She had only wanted to deliver this damn Amulet. Now she had no idea what she would be facing when she finally made it to Jauffre in Chorrol. Truthfully, though, it didn't appear as if too much had happened while she was away.
But what was she going to do about the Isles? Jyggalag mentioned that she might even grow into her station. Haskill would keep things running smoothly for her, but…
What was she going to do? She couldn't even find her way around Cyrodiil, how could she run a whole realm as a Daedric Prince? Was she even a Daedric Prince? What would happen when she dies? Will she die? Would Jyggalag try to take the realm over again, when she was out of the way?
Her dark brows knit together as she leaned back against the wall behind her bedroll. It was still early and she had no plans to sleep yet, in spite of her exhaustion. Not that she could anyway, her thoughts driving any sense of relaxation from her body. And poor Hirrus Clutumnus. She hated killing him, but she hated the look he had in his eyes more, and his begging her for death. In the end, it seemed easy: just a gentle nudge of the ledge leading to New Sheoth Palace and his dying murmur of "Thank you" that still haunted her dreams a month later. She couldn't bring herself yet to wear the ring he left her in his jewelry box, still wrapped in the letter he left behind in her satchel.
She looked out the window and saw the sun hanging low in the sky, just above the distant mountains. Felicienne shrugged out of her amber cuirass and greaves, relieved at the air being able to hit her skin through the green cotton garments she wore underneath. Taking the trousers off as well, she relished the freedom that came with her current state of undress. She almost forgot what it was like to not have to wear armor every day. She missed her old life in Jehanna: Chapel twice a week, help mother with the household chores, keep up on her magical studies and her dismal healing spells, try to get the handsome shopkeep's attention when they were in town to purchase goods. Normal things. A normal schedule, and normal home. All ripped away in the matter of hours, forcing her to flee to Cyrodiil.
Looking back now, she probably would have picked Skyrim instead. Her Nordic reading skills were stronger, and someone else could deal with this emperor-Amulet-missing son scenario. Maybe even find a burly Nord to make sure no necromancers messed with her, though she remembered the Nords in High Rock as being somewhat xenophobic. So perhaps not.
Her thoughts now well and truly melancholy, she slipped under the covers of her bedroll. She briefly considered reading one of the books in the room, to practice if nothing else, but decided against it, determined to get some sleep now that her mind was free of the spores that floated around the Shivering Isles. Though restless, she allowed herself to see images in the ceiling of the room, the wood grain making dancing patterns, seeing faces in the knotholes of the panelling, and thought back to her now-burnt out bedroom in her family's home, and how the scent of pine and lavender hung in the air no matter what time of year it was.
Masser and Secunda were shrouded in darkness and Bravil followed suit with only the faint glow of a few street lamps illuminating the city. Besides the diminutive guard shift patrolling the streets, all was still and silent save for a faint ripple, barely perceptible-except to only the most keen of eyes-traveled to the Lonely Suitor Lodge and made its way inside and up the two flights of stairs leading to the girl that slept inside, ignorant of what would soon transpire.
Dropping his Chameleon spell, Lucien Lachance observed the Breton for a moment. She was a pretty, young thing, not terribly so, not enough that people would think it's tragic she fell into the wrong sort. Maybe just a waste of a life with so much more potential. As if there was a better purpose than serving the Dread Father. Ungolim said there was something different about this one; she had been hidden from the Night Mother's gaze when she killed her victim, making her something of an anomaly from the usual recruits. Besides some minor background information, like a brief stint in the Imperial City prison for docking illegally from Hammerfell around the time the emperor was murdered, there was little about her that was available. Almost as if she had winked into existence. Still, Lucien didn't see anything terribly extraordinary about her as he tracked her in town. She was friendly, if appearing tired, and polite. She had even apologized when he bumped into her in a crowd while in his plainclothes. She looked soft, despite her crime. Soft face, soft skin, soft manners. Softness had little place in the Brotherhood, though the appearance of it may have its advantages.
Still, the Listener made it clear that the Night Mother wanted her recruited, and Lucien faithfully served her and Sithis above all else. He would talk to the girl.
She was quite pretty, after all.
He watched her, for some time, a sense of morbid curiosity provoking him. Her chest rose and fell with each breath she took, the material of the sleeping clothes rustling as she shifted in sleep. The shape of her bony shoulders was noticeable even through the cloth and her skin fairly glowed in what little light made its way through the window.
He stepped on a loose floorboard and the creak of wood jostled the girl into consciousness. Her blue eyes snapped open and she pressed herself against the wall behind her. She grappled with the covers and shot to her feet, the cloth of her shirt skimming the tops of her coltish legs, and he relished in the brief thrill that ran through him at the sight of her terror.
"You sleep rather soundly, for a murderer."
"How in Oblivion did you get in here?" she tried to shout, her voice cracking near the end of her question. How sweet. Her eyes fell to the other corner of the room, where her satchel, and weapon, lay. The corners of his lips quirked; she would have to get past him to grab them. She would never make it.
"That is not important," he continued, ignoring her outburst, as he made his way over in front of her package, and blocked her path. "What is important, is that you pay attention to what I am about to propose."
She gaped at him, eyes wide and her hands clenched her shirt, but otherwise she stayed silent, tracking any perceptible movement on his part and considering her spellcasting options. She paid particular attention to the dagger that was strapped to his hip.
"I'm not a murderer," she stated, confused and more than a tad frightened. She met his gaze and set her jaw, refusing to be intimidated by some stranger who broke into her room in the middle of the night. One did not become the champion of a Daedric Prince without having something of a backbone.
He raised his brows, mocking her with his stare. "No?" he asked, "the Night Mother certainly thinks so. You've taken a life, and the Night Mother has requested you, by name, I might add. I've been sent here to offer you a home with our little family."
"Who are you, exactly?" Felicienne asked, a pit forming in her stomach. The Night Mother, he said. The only Night Mother she ever heard about involved the Dark Brotherhood, but beyond that, it wasn't ever anything she looked any deeper into. She didn't want to know. It wasn't like she had ever planned on meeting them.
"I am Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood," he answered. She thought it a rather simple answer for what was rapidly becoming an exceedingly complicated evening. "As I stated before, you've caught the attention of the Night Mother, and she wants to bring you into our fold."
"And I told you I don't murder people," she bit out. The hooded man advanced on
her and she could begin to make out his facial features. He was an older man, with an aquiline nose and a somewhat heavy brow. Other than that, she couldn't make out many discernable features, except for his eyes, sharp and dark, as they looked into her. She regretted backing herself against the wall.
"Regardless of what you tell yourself, we don't make mistakes." He paused and grasped her face under her small chin, forcing her to look back up when she shrunk away, gloved fingers pressing deeply into the soft flesh of her jaw. Yes, she was soft. He breathed in and smelled the mead she must have been drinking earlier. The sweetness fit her person well. They would see how she would do. After a moment, he lowered his arm and reached into his robes, pulling out an ebony dagger. She jolted at the sight. "If you change your mind, go the the Inn of Ill Omen, along the Green Road. There, you will find a man named Rufio. Kill him. Then, your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete." He held the knife out to the girl and almost laughed at the panicked look she gave him. "Accept this gift," he added. "It is a virgin blade and thirsts for blood. Consider it an advance on a job well done."
She cautiously reached out and grabbed the offered blade, her breath coming rapidly, and clutched it to her chest. He stepped back from her, grinning widely. "Your path is clear," he stated, "kill Rufio and the Dark Brotherhood will embrace you as family." Then, he winked out of existence, without even the sound of faint footfalls as evidence of his visit.
Felicienne remained standing, her eyes darted around the room for any indication she may not be alone yet. When Lachance failed to reappear, she finally sunk down to the ground with her knees tucked under her chin. She tried the calm the pounding of her heart and settle her breathing, but to no avail. Unbidden, Hirrus Clutumnus came to her mind and her body ran cold. Surely that could not have been what that man was talking about. Hirrus had wanted to die; she was keeping him from falling victim to the Hill of Suicides. Still, she reminded herself that he was the only person she did not fell in combat. Perhaps the Night Mother did not draw distinction between murder and mercy-killing. Perhaps it was because she accepted payment. If that were so, she cursed herself again for picking that ring up. She should have left it. She never should have been tempted by the promise of reward, no matter how desperate her circumstances had been.
She slept little that night, nodding off only to jerk herself awake, convinced she heard the smooth, low tones of the hooded man's voice.
The girl left early the next morning, just as the sky began to turn a faint grey with the rising of Magnus and before the air grew sticky and damp with heat. She crept out of the inn like a spider, avoiding any attention she might draw so that she could slip out unquestioned and unmolested. The events of the previous evening niggled at the back of her mind and she became hyper-aware of anything that moved out of her direct field of vision. Her hand never strayed far from the blade that Lachance gave her, gripping it occasionally when she became startled by a random noise on the road, convinced she could feel those dark eyes burning into her back.
After a time, she realized she neared the location he told her about. She bit her lip and contemplated just passing the inn, and leaving the mess for someone else. However, her weariness, a combination of her lack of food for this stretch and her inability to fall back to sleep the night before coupled with the bright sun that hung overhead proved too much and ducked inside the unassuming building.
She would stop in for a pint and maybe some bread, nothing else.
With this sentiment firmly in place, she walked up to the counter where the publican stood and calmly requested some cheap ale and a small loaf of bread. Something hard that she could wrap and take with her. Manheim Maulhand, she learned he called himself, was overjoyed at having another customer, and he continued to tell her that his only consistent customers were a Redguard named Minerva and an "old codger" named Rufio. At the mention of Rufio's name, Felicienne lost her appetite. Manheim continued to speak, unminding of his patron's ashen face, about how he thought the man was running from something, but what did he care since he paid his tab on time every week.
"On the run?" she asked, interest piqued.
He stopped wiping down the countertop and nodded. "Yeah," he exhaled. "Showed up a few weeks ago, a little after the emperor's murder. Tossed a bag of gold at me and asked me if I had anywhere 'private' that he could stay. I told him he could rent the downstairs suite for 30 gold a week," he said, a thoughtful expression flittered across his face, "I kind of wish I'd told him a higher price, since he seems to be able to pay that no problem every week. But oh well, he's more than paid for his stay, and it barely costs anything to keep him at all. Hardly asks for anything. I think he's trying not to draw attention to himself. Whatever he got himself caught up in, it must be bad."
Felicienne snorted into her drink. "Sounds like it," she added, when she caught him looking at her strangely. She sat for a few moments longer, downing her ale in four long gulps. She still couldn't get into Cyrodilic beer, not after having Nordic brew so nearby in her old hometown. And the mead in the heartland was awful. She then asked if he had another room available, and proceeded to rent it out for the rest of the day.
As she lay on her bedroll, she considered what Manheim told her. He was on the run, but from what. This question kept circling her mind and refused to leave her alone. She let out a huff of frustration; her curiosity had gotten her into enough trouble already. She didn't need any more. She briefly wondered what would happen if she refused the "assignment" altogether. After all, she wasn't really a part of the Brotherhood, nor did she actually tell Lachance she would do it. He just...left her there, with a dagger and directions. But why would someone want this man dead? Did it really matter? Combat was one thing, Hirrus Clutumnus was an exception, but flat-out murder...it didn't sit well with her. What could this man have possibly done that would warrant the Dark Brotherhood coming after him? Who would go to the lengths of performing the Black Sacrament to get rid of him? Her fists clenched at her sides and she squirmed on top of the covers. It began to grow dark, and a part of her wondered if that man would show up again this night. Was he watching her?
In an attempt to settle her thoughts, she left her room, stepping softly as she walked down the hall and stairs. Glancing at her surroundings, she noted that Manheim and the Redguard woman, likely the Minerva he'd mentioned earlier, speaking to each other in low voices, laughing every once in awhile, and quite absorbed with one another, leaving her free to go into the basement unnoticed. When she reached the room she assumed was Rufio's, she found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over and appearing weary. She pushed the door open further and his head snapped up. He demanded to know who she was, though she had no answer prepared for him.
"I said who are you? What are you doing here? I ain't done nothing," he spat as he began to stand up.
She crossed her arms before she replied. Fixing him with a cool stare, in contrast to her pounding heart, she stated, "I think we both know that's not exactly true, is it?"
A look of panic crossed his face, and he stammered, "No! Please! I didn't mean to do it, you understand me? She struggled! I... I told her to just stay still, but she wouldn't listen! I had no choice!"
Felicienne's stomach felt hollow and losing whatever meager meal she ate before became a realistic possibility. Hot coals coiled in her midsection, strangling her heart and filled her mouth with bitter ashes and venom. "You told her to stay still? It was all her fault, then," she snarled. "Did she cry, too? Or did you just try to get everything over with as quickly as you could?"
He made to bolt past her, but he was old and frail, and she had sharper reflexes and the added benefit of liquid fire lubricating her joints. She punched him once in the throat, winding him and knocking him down before she grabbed her dagger and sank it deep into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed off to the side in two, three, four great bursts, staining her hands, before slowing to a intermittent trickle and puddled around his limp form. She felt the warm blood that covered her hands and the scent of heavy copper that clouded the room and swallowed the bile that rose up her esophagus. She stared at his still-open eyes as the light fled from them. His chalky skin glowed in the lamplight.
A washing bowl caught her eye in the corner of the room, and she used it to first clean her soiled hands, then the room as best as she could. With any luck, Manheim would not notice anything amiss until he came to collect the rent and she would be long, long gone.
She looked around at the gory scene and felt a weight settle over her shoulders, its fingers clawing into her bones and leaving their icy tendrils dripping down her skin.
She left, after waiting for the publican to settle in for the night and after she made sure she appeared as presentable as possible, in case she ran into an Imperial Guard patrolling the roads. If memory served her correctly, which would be a miracle at this moment, there was another inn not too far away from Ill Omen. Something that started with an F.
When she entered Faregyl Inn, she dispensed with pleasantries and asked the Khajiit woman running the desk if she had a room for rent. Seeming irritated, she responded affirmatively and Felicienne fished out another ten gold as payment, with another five as a tip. She hurried up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to strip down out of her day clothes and grateful for finally having a room with a real bed. Not that she thought she would be sleeping any time soon. She wasn't sure how long it would take Lachance to show, but that was why she left Ill Omen so soon; perhaps it would throw him off her trail.
Though, if she were honest with herself, she doubted it.
Her eyes grew heavy as the adrenaline of the evening wore off, leaving her wrung out and aching. Her slumber was interrupted by the creeping sensation at the base of her neck that made her flinch into wakefulness. There, the darkened figure of Lucien Lachance stood once again at the foot of her bed.
At least this time, she still had all of her clothing on.
"So the deed is done? You've changed your mind, have you?" he stated, lips twisted at the corners. Felicienne scowled at his glibness, either blind or uncaring of the turmoil she felt roiling inside of her.
"Have you been watching me?" she accused, arms crossed in front of her chest; a facsimile of a barrier.
"You'll soon find that we know a great many things, for you are now a part of our family,and the Night Mother keeps an eye on her beloved children."
"That didn't exactly answer my question," she huffed. "I think, if we're to be...family...that a certain level of trust should be established. I mean, I don't even know you. To me, you're some strange man who has broken into my room twice, now, and told me to kill someone."
"I did not obligate you to kill anyone, unless you wanted to. And you did. Your murder of Rufio was the signing of a covenant. The manner of execution, your signature. A contract between you, and the Dark Brotherhood. If you wished to cut ties with us, you needed only to ignore our meeting and carry on with your life as if we had never met. But you did not," he reminded her. Felicienne thought he sounded smug.
"Then...then now what?" she asked, hating how her voice still shook.
He smiled, warmer than previously, but still left her feeling wary. He told her to go to Cheydinhal, to an abandoned house in the eastern part of the town, and break into the basement where she would need to answer a question that the black door would pose to her. She nodded, her hair obscuring her face. "When you're inside," he continued, "you'll speak to an Argonian woman, Ocheeva. She can answer any other questions you might have. Now, we must part for now. You have much to do in the meantime, and I will be following your progress...closely." He stretched his hand towards her face, ignoring her small jump, and brushed a lock of dark hair away from her face. "Welcome to the family."
She shivered when his hand, accidentally, touched the flesh of her cheek, his glove catching softly on the skin. The smell of leather and smoke, and something metallic, wafted around her, clinging to her clothing and hair. In an instant, he was gone, leaving her again to wonder if he had ever really been there at all.
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