At the far end of the stone bridge, an old house sat perched upon an archway, framing the entrance to Ulfric's courtyard. From the shadows of the corridor, a Khajiit held still as snowflakes fell across the worn city of Windhelm, turning to red slush on the ground. Glancing back to the elf beside him, he listened to the Dunmer woman and the young Nord boy on the snow-coated stone bridge.
"Child, you mustn't lurk these streets on your own," said the dark elf sternly, who wore the simple clothing of a household servant. "What would your father say if he found you here? These are dark times, and we must be careful."
The Khajiit followed the boy's eyes up to the darkened windows of the mysterious house ovelooking the bridge. "Then it's true, what everyone is saying?" said the young boy. "That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?"
Something flickered in the Dunmer woman's features, but she quickly regained her composure. "Grimvar, Grimvar," sighed the dark elf, gently resting a hand on his shoulder. "Where do you hear such wild stories?"
"Fine," said the boy, grinning. "If they're just stories, then I'll invite him out to play. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door!"
"No, child, wait!" cried the dark elf as Grimvar approached the house. She hurried after the boy, quickly moving between him and the Aretino family's front door. "This boy, this house... they're cursed! You must never go inside."
"Ha! Then I'm right, Idesa!" crowed Grimvar, crossing his arms, looking up at the Dunmer triumphantly. " I knew it. He's trying to have somebody killed!"
Strange emotions flickered in the dark elf's ruby eyes, fear and love. This was not her child, but pehaps she loved him as a mother would. "All right; I won't deny it, child," sighed Idesa. "What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin." She took his hand and slowly led him away from the house, gentle but firm. "Now. Enough. We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need..."
As the Dunmer and the boy walked off down the street, the Khajiit crept out from hiding and stared after them, a sly smile forming. Behind him approached a Bosmer wearing black-and-green garb, a hunting bow and brown quiver on his back. "This city gives me the creeps, Dar'raan," muttered the wood elf, moving behind the Khajiit. "Dark elves on the bottom and Nords on the top, closed in by old stone walls."
"Our kind have not traditionally gotten along, either, but we have managed," said the Khajiit lightly. "Wait here for a moment, Faendal. I want to check something out." Approaching the house's front door, Dar'raan glanced around the bridge to make sure that no one was watching. Then, he crouched in front of the entrance, took a lockpick and a dagger from his satchel, and set it to the keyhole.
Closing the door behind him, the Khajiit crept up the stairs into the house, eyes scanning for valuables. The house might once have been beautiful, but it had gon to seed; the barrel on the platform over the entrance was rotting away. Passing through another door frame, the thief chose his targets carefully: wine, cheese, a few scattered coins. Silently, slowly, he moved around the room, filling his pockets.
"Please? How much longer must I wait, Night Mother?" whispered a desperate voice from an open doorway on the right, sending chills down his spine. "Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear. Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear..."
Around the corner, a wild-eyed boy sat cross-legged in a ring of candles, a pentagram traced on the ground, his hands and fingers smeared with congealed blood, coated to his elbws and knees in gore. On the floor lay a skeleton with flesh bits still clinging to the bones. Chanting, the boy rhythmically stabbed a dagger between the ribs into the still-swollen heart and chanting. Shocked and repulsed, Dar'raan stared at the boy and his grisly ritual, one hand resting on a book in a nearby shelf. The blood smelled fresh.
"Die, Grelod, die!" cried the boy as he stabbed the skeleton, his face filthy with blood, soot, and dirt, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep. "Grelod, you old crone, you'll get what you deserve. The Dark Brotherhood will see to that... sweet mother, sweet mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be repaid in blood..."
His heart pouding, the thief glanced back to the stairs on the other side of the room. Time to leave. But then, as he took a step, his tail accidentally knocked against a nearby iron-cast pot on the stone hearth, knocking it into the cold, greasy fireplace. At once, Dar'raan froze- standing right in the boy's doorway.
Gasping, Aventus let go of the dagger and the corpse, turning to look up at Darren with a crazed smile. "It worked!" cried the boy, giving the shocked Khajiit a quick hug. "I knew you'd come, I just knew it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the..." He gestured back around the circle of candles, the bots of human flesh, the bloody dagger in the dead body's heart. "...the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."
The Dark Brotherhood? What was he talkng about? "I'm sorry, boy, but I'm not who you think I am," said Dar'raan, his heart pounding, shifting his body so that his right hand would be cast in shadow. Carefully, he replaced the book on the shelf, keeping his gaze away from his hand. "You were performing... the Black Sacrament?"
The filthy-faced boy grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. "No, I know exactly who you are," said Aventus proudly. "I even made sure to use the dead girls found on the street, because the dirt would still be soft, and the graves would be easy to dig up! I prayed and I prayed, and I waited for so very long..." His shoulders sagged; then he stood up straight "But you're here at last, and now you'll accept my contract."
Maybe he doesn't know the difference between the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, thought Dar'raan grimly. He would have reached for his dagger, if the boy was not so young. No, best to pretend that he was in the right place, and leave Windhelm with his fur intact. "Before we get to buisness, where are your parents?" asked the Khajiit, fingers curling around an inkwell.
Leaning back against the wall, the boy closed his eyes. "My mother, she... she died last winter," said Aventus weakly as Dar'raan slipped the gem into his pocket. He pointed to a letter laying on the floor nearby. "I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall."
Blinking, the Khajiit stared at the boy. Then, he reached for the letter on the floor, took it, and carefully opened it. The minutes passed in grim silence as Dar'raan read the letter, his eyes narrowing, the paper crinkling in his hands. "Ulfric Stormcloak sent you to Honorhall?" whispered the Khajiit as he stared up at Aventus, who nodded silently. "Tell more more about this... contract..."
Five minutes later, Dar'raan emerged from the Aretino house, a distant look in his eyes. "Good to see you back," said Faendal from the far end of the bridge, rising to his feet. Snowflakes coated the Bosmer's white hair and clothes, but he brushed them down and rubbed his hands together for warmth. "You need anything from me?"
The feline warrior was silent at first. "No, that will be fine," said Dar'raan slowly, stepping over to the bridge's edge and staring out past the crumbling walls of Windhelm, still clutching the letter from Ulfric's steward. Then, he blinked and shook his head. "My apologies. I... should not have asked you to come here."
Faendal frowned; a Khajiit was not usually so lax with his tongue or his emotions. "That's no issue," said the wood elf as they set off down the crumbling road toward the east gate, ignoring dirty looks from passing Nords. "I've been in Skyrim for years, you know." He glanced to Dar'raan as they crossed the main square; yes, something was different. "So... did you find anything in that house?"
"Yes and no," said the Khajiit, his hand tightening, scrunching the letter into a ball. They were approaching the east gate now; Dar'raan's eyes darted to a poor, shivering girl with a basket of flowers before looking away. "I'll share more, once we reach Whiterun..."