Christmas Caroling in Bruma
They trudge slowly from door to door, freezing, lips blue, as the wind cuts through them. They huddle together for warmth, wishing for scarves and heavy coats instead of the light, hooded robes they find themselves in.
No hats, no gloves. Assassins with their crew cuts and low brows and vague expressions, assassins with concealed weapons and poisons and knowledge on how to use these possessions. They might be brothers, the three of them but they are dark brothers. Hands under their robes only come out when they slip on the ice and try and steady themselves. One falls. The crack of coccyx on pavement would normally bring howls of laughter from the others. Instead they help him up, choose not to make fun of the silent tears that run down his face. Lucien LaChance has had easier missions.
They trudge on, more slowly than before.
From the outside the light shining from the window radiates warmth. It is the soft glow of a lamp, a candle on the mantelpiece and the orange warmth of the fire beneath. Inside the man sits with his book and his dog, who is twitching, dreaming in front of the blazing logs. Beside him a glass of 15 year old single malt, Cyrodilic brandy. Each sip sends a trickle of heat from his throat to his toes. He sips often.
They approach the door. The one who fell wipes away any trace of snow or sleet. Rattling with cold the leader, as there's always a leader, steps forward and knocks loudly three times. He moves back into the line up, they link arms to try and stave off the cold, and they wait.
Inside the man hears the knocking, the dog who normally bellows at the slightest sound outside is so deep in his slumber he barely twitches. The man sighs, gets up, goes out into the hall, which feels like walking into a freezer after moving away from the fire, and opens the door. They begin.
"We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you-"
"Fuck off lads", he says, closing the door.
They trudge away, disconsolate, until the leader comes back to the door, shaking with cold and rage. It is impotent though. There has been no prayer to the Night Mother for this man, there has been no contract issued. There is nothing he can say to express how he feels. So he picks up a stone and throws it through the sitting room window. This time the dog doesn't just twitch, he comes awake in a frenzy of startled barking.
The man sighs and thinks he might have handled the situation better when he first opened the door. He could have been nicer, perhaps. Or, he might just have brought the dog with him. He looks for the Bruma pages.
They leg it, scampering up the road, no longer feeling quite as cold.