Chapter 1: A Chance Encounter


Lumen hates Skyrim.

She hates the icy winds that nip at her formerly sun-kissed skin. If it isn't snowing, it's raining; and if it isn't raining, it's overcast. Sometimes Lumen can enjoy a rare day of clear skies and sunshine, but there is always a chill on the breeze, promising a cold, bitter night.

Dragons. Oh, she hates the dragons too. Lumen can't swing a dead skeever without hitting a dragon, and her life has been turned upside down ever since she killed one and absorbed its soul. Now she is Dovahkiin, a legendary hero, a legendary dragon slayer–

It's a legendary pain in the ass.

Lumen doesn't hate the power of the Thu'um, it has proven to be a useful and amusing weapon at times. The problem is Delphine and her rampant paranoia. Not that Lumen has anything against paranoia; being paranoid has kept her alive. But Delphine has turned it into an art.

Delphine is currently in Riverwood, waiting for Lumen to arrive so they can discuss some half-cocked plan to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy. But Lumen has absolutely no desire to tangle with the Thalmor, they are as much a danger to her as they are to Delphine. There's no way Lumen is going to throw herself head-first into danger without a damn good reason, and assuaging Delphine's fears is not a good reason at all. Delphine can find someone else to do her dirty work. To the Void with Delphine and to the Void with the Thalmor.

To the Void with Skyrim.


Lumen travels down a winding dirt road, her black horse trotting along beside her. It's an unusually warm day in The Pale, and there is hardly a chill on the gentle breeze. Pleasure coils through her as the sun warms her skin. It almost feels like she's back home in Cyrodiil. Lumen knows there is no reason to indulge in idle fantasy, but she can't help herself. She presses her hand against the side of her horse for balance and she closes her eyes. The air smells of mountain flowers and wheat, and there a hint of lavender on the breeze-

-and she is home.

In her mind she can see it all so clearly; fields of rich, green grass, buzzing with insects and all manner of small game. Beyond the fields a lush forest with trees that grow tall and thick, with sunlight streaming through the canopy and dappling the forest floor with flecks of gold, and if she concentrates she can still hear the crunch of leaves underneath her soft, booted feet-

"Augh! Bother and befuddle. Stuck here! Stuck! My mother, my poor mother. Unmoving. At rest. But too still!"

Lumen stumbles to a stop, momentarily stunned by the shrill voice that pulls her from her reverie. The discordant shrieking has her horse nervously pawing at the ground, and Lumen pats the stallion's neck in an attempt to soothe him. It doesn't take long for Lumen to discover the source of the noise; standing in the middle of the road is a short Imperial dressed in a red and black jester motley. She has not seen a jester since she lived in Cyrodiil and she wonders what a jester would be doing in Skyrim. The stoic Nords don't seem like the type to laugh at a jester's antics.

Said jester is ranting and raving like a lunatic as he storms around a wagon with a large crate strapped to it. Kicking pebbles across the dirt road and muttering under his breath, before apologizing to the crate for his foul language and bad behavior. It is an interesting sight to say the least. Much too interesting to ignore.

As usual, Lumen's insatiable curiosity gets the better of her, and she cautiously approaches the jester. "Is there a problem here?" she asks, even though she can clearly see the man's wagon is broken. She doubts a broken wagon is the only problem the strange, little man has.

"Poor Cicero is stuck," he tells her, looking utterly dejected. "I was transporting my dear, sweet mother. Well– not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead– Been dead for a while, actually." He cackles, the harsh sound lashing through the air like a whip.

"Uh, why are you dragging your dead mother across Skyrim?" Lumen asks. Tactless, perhaps, but it seems like a valid question.

Cicero narrows his eyes at her, a flicker of annoyance behind his glare. "Because I'm taking my mother to a new home. A new crypt. A new Sanctuary. But–" Cicero's attention is drawn back to the broken wheel lying on the ground near the wagon. "The damn wagon wheel broke!"

"I see that…" she makes a show of inspecting the wagon wheel, even though she knows nothing about fixing wagons. "Is there anything I can do to help?" Lumen doesn't feel any genuine pity for Cicero's predicament, but if gold were to exchange hands, she would gladly help the man out. Despite his clothes being a little dirty, they are well made. Perhaps he'd been a successful jester and is wealthy as a result? Or maybe his dead mother left him an inheritance? Either way, if he's got the coin, then she's got the time.

"Oh." He seems surprised at her offer of help. "Oh yes! Yes, the kind Bosmer can certainly help! Go to that farm–" he makes a show of pointing to the farm, while he bounces on the balls of his feet.. "It's just over there, off the road. Do you see it? Do you?"

"Yes, I see it," she says irritably. "It's hard to miss. That windmill is pretty big."

"It is, isn't it? Perhaps the stupid, rude, unhelpful farmer is compensating for something?" Cicero cackles. "Anyway, go talk to Loreius. He has tools! He can help me! But he won't! He refuses! Convince him to fix my wheel and Cicero will reward you. With coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!"

Now those are the magic words. "How much coin are we talking about?" she asks.

"Would two hundred gold be enough to convince you to help poor Cicero?" he asks, rocking back-and-forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. He almost looks innocent aside from the sly grin upon his small, bow-shaped lips and the keen, predatory sharpness in his eyes.

"As a matter of fact, it would."

"Cicero will gladly pay the kindly stranger, but only after Loreius has fixed my wheel."

Lumen frowns. "But that could take days!"

"Poor Cicero has been here for days!" he whines.

Oh, well. It's not as if Lumen has anything better to do, and she could really use the money. "All right I-" her words falter at the bizarre sight before her. Within moments of her consent to help him, Cicero turns from her and practically bounces toward the broken wagon. Stranger still is the fact that he's speaking to the crate strapped upon it in soft, soothing tones as he gently caresses it, as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.

"Did you hear that, Mother? The kind Bosmer is going to convince Loreius to help us. We'll be on our way soon and you'll finally have a new home, and a new family."

"Right. I'll, uh, just go talk to the farmer now," Lumen stammers as she makes her way up the small hill towards the farm.

She is no stranger to oddities, and she indulges in some rather strange hobbies of her own, but she doesn't speak to dead bodies with such reverence. Not like Cicero does. Perhaps the man is Void-touched or on skooma... He is very strange. Not that Lumen is normal. She doesn't indulge in cannibalism as some Bosmer are known to do, but she does enjoy the thrill of hunting both mer and man. While Lumen is content to slay anyone who threatens her life or stands in her way, she savors killing Altmer.

She doesn't hate Altmer. Her need to kill them is stronger than hatred – it is an addiction. A need to relive a specific moment in time, a moment where she felt more powerful than she ever had before. A moment that granted her a feeling more intense than anything she had ever known. Killing a dragon and absorbing its soul didn't come close to the high that killing an Altmer gave her.

So when Lumen's gaze falls upon her – the farmer's lovely, Altmer wife – it feels as if all the air has been stolen from her lungs. She balls her hands into fists, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms as barely repressed fantasies crawl up from the darkest corners of her mind.

Oh, it has been so long.

Images of naked, honeyed flesh take over her thoughts. Wide, fearful eyes and torrents of blood cascading over golden skin. Cacophonies of remembered screams fill her ears, drowning out the sound of chirping birds and buzzing insects, inciting a hum of adrenaline just beneath her skin. The sensation was akin to drinking a seedy potion, or spending a night with a skilled lover, but it was a feeling that was better when it was relived rather than remembered.

"Miss? Miss, are you all right?"

Lumen's eyes snap open and the farmer's concerned face fills her vision, chasing away images of flesh and blood. She takes a deep, steadying breath, only now realizing that she is trembling.

"Forgive me, sir, I– I am very tired," she says, her voice wavering.

"Well now, is there anything I can help you with?" The farmer, Loreius, wipes the dirt from his hands, beckoning Lumen toward the farmhouse. "Why don't you come in and have a bite to eat? Curwe is an excellent cook and we always enjoy having company."

Lumen's empty stomach growls at the mention of food, and she is almost tempted to take him up on his offer, but the sight of Curwe standing on the porch stops her. "I can't! I mean– I need to be on my way shortly. But I came to speak with you on behalf of the, uh, little man with the wagon."

Loreius groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for the love of Mara. That crazy fool has been up here five times already, and now he's conned you into coming up here and harassing us," he scowls at Lumen, though it's hardly intimidating to someone like her. She doubts the man could kill a chicken without collapsing into a fit of tears. "I'll tell you the same thing I told him; leave us alone!"

"Oh, come on. I'm sure he'll pay you." Lumen steps to the side, turning her back to his wife. It's too difficult for her to concentrate on Loreius when there's an Altmer so close by.

"Do you really think this is about money? The man is clearly insane and I highly doubt he's transporting his mother in that giant box. It's probably weapons or skooma. There's no way I'm getting involved. It's hard enough being an Imperial with an Altmer wife in this country, and the last thing I need is for us to be accused of aiding and abetting a war criminal."

Lumen laughs at that. "If he's a war criminal then I'm Ulfric Stormcloak."

"This isn't a joking matter! He could be dangerous! I have to think of my wife's safety," Loreius snaps.

"If you help him he will leave. Or would you rather he stay down there on the road for days on end?" Despite her exasperation with the farmer, Lumen almost laughs at him. The jester- dangerous? What a ridiculous thought. Especially when the true danger to the famers wife is staring him right in the eyes.

"He'll just have to walk to Whiterun and get a new wagon," Loreius says, folding his arms. "He's not my problem."

"He'll be your problem if he's skulking around your farm while you and your wife are sleeping. If he's as dangerous as you say, then he'll have no qualms about killing you both in your sleep and stealing all you own," Lumen says, barely able to suppress a grin at the alarmed look on the farmer's face. "If you truly wish to keep your wife safe, then help the man and send him on his way."

"I– I didn't think about it like that," Loreius says. "Damn it. I'll go get my tools. Go tell him that I'll be down in just a few minutes, okay?"

Lumen wonders why the farmer had been unable to come to that conclusion on his own, but she supposes it does not matter. What does matter is Curwe. Lumen wants nothing more than to take– to kill–

Or to put as much space between Curwe and herself as she possibly can.

"I'll let him know," she says quickly, and she turns away from the farmer and strides down the hill. Moving quickly and purposefully away from Curwe. Lumen is surprisingly relieved when Cicero comes into view, at least his presence does not inspire violent fantasies.

"Poor Mother…" Cicero whimpers. "Her new home seems so very far away." His forehead is pressed against the crate and his eyes shut tight, looking like he might cry at any second.

Lumen watches him for a moment, not sure what to make of the strange, little man. One minute he's capering around and the next he's near tears. She is truly mystified by him. "Um, Cicero?" She taps his shoulder and the jester spins around so quickly he sends his hat askew.

"Yes? Did the kind elfie have any luck?" He adjusts his hat, a smile lighting up his formerly morose face.

Lumen frowns at the nickname. "Yeah, Loreius said he'd be down here in a few minutes."

"Oh thank you! You have made Cicero so happy! So jubilant and ecstatic! But more! Even more! My mother thanks you!"

"Ah–" Lumen's gaze slides from Cicero, who is so happy he's dancing, to the large crate that houses the corpse of Cicero's mother. A change of subject is definitely in order. Anything to pull the subject of conversation away from Cicero's dead mother. "My name is Lumen, by the way."

He ceases his cavorting and turns to face Lumen. "And I am Cicero, The Fool of Hearts!" He dips into a graceful bow; one foot sliding behind him and his arms spread wide. "Forgive this humble fool for not introducing himself previously. Cicero was very upset and he forgot his manners."

"Don't worry about it," Lumen says, unable to stop herself from smiling at his flamboyant manner. She looks up from Cicero's bowed form after catching a glimpse of movement at the top of the hill. "Hey, it looks like Loreius is finally on his way."

The jester stands up quickly, spinning on his heel and greeting the farmer as he nears the wagon. Lumen leans against the broken wagon, taking a moment to rest as the farmer contends with a very excited, and a very grateful Cicero. But her respite is short-lived when she notices Loreius' wife walking down the hill. Panic washes over her as she begins to tremble again. This is bad, and this is exactly what she gets for waiting so long between kills.

Lumen quickly crosses the dirt road and approaches a rocky outcrop jutting from the earth. She climbs on top of it, purposely facing away from the farmer and his wife. Distantly, she can hear the farmer apologizing to Cicero for making him wait so long. Desperate for a distraction, Lumen tries to focus on their conversation rather than Curwe and her beautiful, fragile neck...

"Mind if I join you?"

Lumen stiffens at the sound of that voice. She had been so wrapped up in ignoring Curwe she did not hear her approach. Slowly, she turns her head and glances down at the Altmer who is smiling up at her. Gods, she's lovely. Skin the color of molten gold, hair like a field of wheat on a sunny day, and those eyes. Altmer have the most beautiful eyes.

"Shit," Lumen thinks, and after staring at Curwe for a moment too long, she says, "N– not at all."

"My husband said you seem a bit road-weary," Curwe says as she pulls herself up on the rock and sits upon the edge. She places a linen-wrapped package and a full waterskin between them. "I know it isn't much, but I hope this helps."

"Oh, um, thank you. That's very kind of you," Lumen lowers her head so that her hair falls in front of her eyes. She does not want Curwe to notice how terribly nervous she is, and she doesn't want to look at her for fear of losing her self-control. Curwe's smile is so lovely, and her voice is so soft and sweet. Lumen wonders what it might take to make her scream-

"You're welcome," Curwe says. "So where are you traveling to?"

Lumen nervously tugs on a tuft of hair, twisting it tightly around her finger. "Windhelm."

The Altmer makes a soft, amused sound. "I have not been there, but I've heard rumor of how poorly the Dunmer are treated in Windhelm. I doubt a Bosmer can expect to be treated any better. You should watch yourself while you are there."

Lumen peers at Curwe. "I don't expect to be there long, but I thank you for the warning."

Curwe nods and gracefully descends the rock, her feet softly hitting the ground below. Lumen takes a deep, calming breath and buries her face in her hands. She tries to focus on the cool breeze twisting through her hair, and the songbirds singing overhead. Anything and everything but Curwe. Still, Lumen's thoughts keep wandering back to her. The need to kill is at the forefront of her mind, commanding all of her attention. She shifts uncomfortably, trying to think of anything but Altmer, blood, and death.

"Is something wrong? You're… fidgeting."

Lumen looks to Cicero. His arms are folded upon the rock, and his expression is one of suspicion more so than concern. Lumen is– well, she is annoyed. She didn't even hear him approach and she internally chastises herself for dropping her guard, not once, but twice! She really, really needs to kill someone... And soon. But in the meantime, she stares at Cicero. What is she supposed to say? That she is daydreaming about making that beautiful, kind, Altmer scream and beg for her life, and the thought is driving her mad?

She opens her mouth to respond – to lie – no one else could understand her needs, most certainly not a merryman. But the words die in her throat as a heady, intoxicating sensation settles over her. Warm tendrils of energy skim across her body, through her hair, and past her skin to embrace her mind. Time seems to slow as this unseen force commands her full attention.

"Be still, my child of darkness."

She senses, rather than hears, the hissing feminine voice, and a feeling of tranquility floods through her tired body, soothing her frayed nerves and slowing her racing heart. She can swear she hears another voice somewhere beyond her buzzing mind, but it is drowned out. Inaudible and unimportant amongst the thrumming of this strange feeling that has taken control of her.

And as quickly as the strange sensation came, it is gone, and only a feeling of calm remains.

"Lumen?" Cicero pushes himself up onto the rock, his brow furrowed as he stares into Lumen's eyes. "Are you still there?" He chuckles as he taps her forehead.

Lumen swats his hand away, too dazed from the blissful sensation to be annoyed with him. "What is it?"

"Cicero just wanted to give kind, helpful Lumen her payment! Two hundred gold, as promised." Cicero eyes her curiously, as if he suspects something is wrong. If he does, he does not say so. Instead, he drops a large purse of gold into Lumen's open hands.

Finally.


Lumen flops face-first onto her straw bed and groans as she rolls onto her side. Her body is sore after riding all night to Windhelm. She didn't bother to stop and set camp as the thought of shivering in front of a meager camp fire did not seem worth the trouble. So she pressed on, vowing not to rest until she had reached her destination. The journey had been cold and relatively uneventful. There were a few wolves and bandits along the road, but they were easily dispatched, and easily outran when she became too weary to fight.

Sleep comes easy for Lumen. Her bed at Candlehearth Hall is warm and soft, the mead in her belly and the lingering effects of that strange voice lull her into a deep slumber. But as her dreams come, they are of blood and death. The desire to kill can never be silenced for long, and it is only a matter of time before it dominates her thoughts.

Lumen will have to hunt soon.