So, finally, the second chapter is up. I'll be updating more frequently now, as the Christmas holidays are coming up! Hurrah! (Planning on writing a short fanfic for Christmas, set in Skyrim. Might happen, might not...)

Hope you enjoy this... surprisingly long chapter. I had originally intended to split it into two chapters, but decided to keep it as it is.

Have fun reading!

Cold Embrace

Chapter 2: The Stalker is Stalked

Cyra wasn't your average stuck-up noble, granted, but she was obnoxious enough to let any fool who approached her know of her upper-class status. It was certainly no surprise that just a few prayers to the Night Mother and a couple of words whispered from the Unholy Matron's very own deadly lips settled her fate.

The noblewoman started the day like she was supposed to – and of course, unbeknown to her, her weekly routine had been closely watched by a mysterious, morbid cult.

"Mistress Cyra, please, get up, Ancus will be at the meeting point already," urged Cyra's Bosmer maid, shaking her mistress awake.

"The matter may be urgent, Valadiil, but do not forget whom you are addressing," Cyra snapped half-heartedly, upon awakening in a groggy, foul mood.

Valadiil took a step back from her mistress's bed and bowed her head apologetically. "Yes, milady... but it'll be light outside soon... and I thought you wanted to meet the beggar with utmost discretion."

"That's no reason to waken me so... violently!"

A few weeks ago the Waterfront beggar, Puny Ancus, had been even more strapped for cash than usual and had attempted to pick-pocket the rich noblewoman – to Cyra's immediate reaction of yelping and slapping his hand away from her purse. The Imperial Watch hadn't seen, however, and she promised Ancus that she wouldn't report him, under the condition that he met her once a week in the secrecy of the early morning to give her three quarters of his earnings.

Ancus obliged – it was that or the Imperial Prison, and he was by no means ready yet to waste away in a cold, cruel cell underground. Unfortunately, this arrangement soon acted against Ancus, for he hardly had any money left to feed himself for a single day, let alone a whole week.

Eventually, he became in-debt to Cyra and ended up with no money at all.

The only way he knew of to squirm out of this situation was to have Cyra 'taken care of'.

Cyra hurried through the lamp-lit streets of the Imperial City, wearing the simplest, most worn cloak that she could possibly find in her expensive wardrobe, all the way to the meeting point – a small, colourful backyard in the Elven Gardens District.

There was indeed someone waiting for her there, but it wasn't Puny Ancus.

Pained screams and blood curdling shrieks awoke the nearest resident from their light slumber, causing them to rush to the yard to find and quieten the source of the horrifying noise. However, by the time they reached the yard, all there was to see was the mangled body of Cyra Silversmith, staring up into the dawning sky unblinkingly, blood spattered across her once beautiful face and the blue flower plantation coated with gore nearby.

At the funeral in Green Emperor Way, no one shed a tear except for Valadiil, and that was one of joy. No one noticed the black robed figure standing at the back of the crowd with a smug, Cheshire cat grin.

...

Silvio had prolonged the wench's suffering until he grew bored. Fortunately, for a handful of his victims, he grew bored easily. Unfortunately, for another set of victims, he found new, entertaining ways to torture their souls and send them violently to the Void – to deplete his boredom.

By nature, he was a bully – a murderously creative one at that, too. His targets died in different ways every single time, usually satisfying the contacts wishes and more.

There were two words that summed him up perfectly: dangerously insane – or used in reverse, as insanely dangerous. His extreme paranoia made him hard and calculating, a trait seen in many experienced assassins. His pleasure in killing and prowess with a blade also made him exactly right for his profession.

In life he'd started out as a middle-class boy, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. Despite his relatively comfortable dwellings, easy lifestyle, and the peaceful way in which his parents always tried to bring him up in, he enjoyed other people's pain. His constant paranoia set him apart from making friends with other children his age at the time.

Silvio's initiation mission into the Dark Brotherhood had been to kill his parents. He had fulfilled the task without hesitation. The Night Mother had chosen well.

The day he killed Cyra was probably the hundredth contract he had carried out successfully since joining the Brotherhood. Where others found it odd that a beggar wanted a noblewoman dead – a beggar that associated with the strict no-kill rule of the Thieves' Guild, no less – Silvio simply didn't care for the reasoning. Rather, he thought himself lucky that he was to be given the pleasure of yet another murder.

Maybe someone did see him at the funeral, because as he slithered through the Talos Plaza District, he had the significant feeling of eyes burning into his back, and it wasn't just his paranoia. He stepped into one of the alleyways and waited for his follower to go past, so that he could pull him into the alley and question him. Or kill him – either one... probably both.

The follower stepped past and Silvio lashed out, firstly delivering a stunningly solid blow to the jaw and a winding one to the stomach, then while the man was bent over and clutching his belly, the assassin punched into the back of his head, sending the person face first into the cobbles. The man lay there, panting, already defeated.

Silvio grabbed the collar of his worn sackcloth shirt and hauled him upright. He noted with bemusement that he was a lot taller than Silvio. Surprisingly, the man was young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen with piercing blue eyes that bored into the assassin's. Not even a man, a kid. His aquiline features gave him a brave, noble appearance – though the blood dribbling down his upper lip from his nose marred that slightly.

"Why are you following me?" That was Silvio – brutal and straight to the point.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the teenager immediately answered huffily.

"Answer the question or see your guts firsthand."

The young man evidently thought that it was an experience he didn't need. "Yes, fine. I was following you."

"Why?"

He raised his chin defiantly.

Silvio kneed him where it hurt and he doubled over. "Tell."

"I-I... I know who you are," the kid said shakily, "you're one of them assassins. Dark Brotherhood type. You're the one who killed Miss Silversmith."

The way Silvio stared at him, he knew he was going to die whether he told the assassin the truth or not.

"Please do continue," Silvio hissed, tightening his hold on his new victim's collar, "I haven't got all day."

"I was paid by a strange man," he continued nervously, "he gave me a thousand septims to follow you. It was hard, but I got used to your schedule in the last week. All you really did was watch that Silversmith lady."

"Be a little more specific. What did the man look like? Did he say why he wanted you to follow me?"

"I don't know what he looked like."

Silvio raised his hand threateningly. "Perhaps I can help you remember?"

"I swear! He was wearing this old cloak, couldn't see his face. But his eyes... they were red."

"A Dunmer or a vampire, then. That wasn't so hard, was it now?" Silvio seethed.

"N-no..."

"And why did he want you to follow me?"

"He didn't say... I mean, I wasn't exactly asking. He was putting a thousand septims on the table. I would've been a fool to refuse," the kid explained, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with the unpredictable assassin.

"Hmm. So what did he say?"

"He had this poster of you and he told me 'follow this man and I'll pay you a thousand septims'. He said you were a member of the Dark Brotherhood and that he was trying to bring you down."

"A poster!" Silvio exclaimed in outrage. "He had a poster of me? You're kidding."

"I'm serious! I swear!"

"You were foolish to take the money, kid," Silvio hissed, "you should've taken the hint when he said I was an assassin."

"A thousand septims," the teenager reminded Silvio weakly.

"To hell with you," Silvio muttered. "Where were you going to meet this man for your money?"

"Elven Gardens District tonight. Same garden where you killed that woman, actually."

Silvio glared accusingly at the kid. "You're going to run off and tell the city guard now, aren't you?"

"No..."

"Liar."

"I won't! I promise, honest. I'll pretend I never got offered that money if you'll just let me go," the young man pleaded with him.

"Perhaps," Silvio mused, "you could help me."

His hand moved from the kid's collar to his belt. He pulled out a piece of paper from it and unrolled it – indeed, it was the poster of him. It wasn't quite accurate, but still recognisable. Silvio couldn't quite believe it – he had never once been caught, never been seen. Or so he had thought, up until now. Someone had actually had the time to draw a portrait of him to put on a wanted poster?

The only people who could have the time to do that were in the Cheydinhal sanctuary, where his sleeping quarters were.

Silvio froze – a traitor. Was that possible? After all, they did have a few Dunmer at the Cheydinhal sanctuary, and a vampire. He had to warn the Listener.

...

"Silence."

The room fell quiet as soon as the Listener, who had remained incredibly calm, uttered the word. It wasn't even spoken loudly – she had the respect of her people, her Black Hand, even under the simplest of commands.

"Thank you. Now, Tsrazami, is there anything else you need to tell us?" she asked patiently.

Tsrazami's eyes darted about the room nervous, taking in the uncomfortable silence and glares coming from her audience. "That's all we know, Listener."

The Listener exhaled. She had faced a lot in her time on top of the Dark Brotherhood. She had seen her lover ripped apart by the people closest to him, a great betrayal resulting in the murder of her entire family... there wasn't much left for her to be surprised at. Even though she knew very little about them, an attack from the Morag Tong didn't exactly shock her. It had only been a matter of time – a bomb that would eventually go off, but no one knew when... and now it had happened. It had blown up right in their faces.

"So we don't know when they'll attack, where they'll attack and how they will attack," the Listener muttered under her breath.

"No, Listener," the Khajiit said apologetically, "Tsrazami is sorry."

"It's alright, it's not your fault," the Listener waved the apology away, "you've warned us of the coming danger." She turned to her Black Hand. "When you return to your Sanctuaries, make sure you tell the entire family. If there's a chance of an attack, everyone has to know."

A chorus of agreement sounded through the air and Tsrazami was beginning to feel a whole lot better about the whole situation – they would be prepared. She didn't have to go to any further ends – perfect. But she wasn't exactly looking forward to journeying immediately back to Morrowind after such a short meeting.

"Listener, may I be so bold to ask..."

"Yes, Tsrazami, you may stay the night – and please, call me Ravuna. That title is... tiring."

"Oh... oh, of course, Listener Ravuna." It was like the woman was a mind reader.

"Just Ravuna."

"Of course, Ravuna."

The Listener smiled. "Good, you've gotten the hang of treating me like a mortal." She then addressed the Black Hand once again. "Meeting dismissed. Next week we shall hold a ritual in Bravil in the name of the Night Mother for guidance."

There was a smattering of murmurs, and then the Black Hand stood and dispersed, slowly streaming out of the room in pairs and threes. Only Arquen, the Listener and Tsrazami were left.

"I shall take the Khajiit to her quarters, Listener," Arquen said. Tsrazami absently wondered if she had no emotions whatsoever. She wouldn't be surprised if she didn't.

"Thank you, Arquen," the Listener responded gently, smiled, and made her way back to the entrance of the Sanctuary.

"Follow me." Arquen waved her hand at the Khajiit and Tsrazami tagged along, until they stopped at the bottom of a step of stairs. There was a great iron door, which Arquen pushed open to reveal a stone slab of a bed and a table with dusty tomes piled upon it.

"No one has slept in here for a long time," the Altmer explained, "as we've been reserving it for special guests. Make yourself at home. There should be blankets in the cupboard."

Tsrazami bowed her head in gratitude as Arquen left, and settled down at the table. Not only were there dusty books, but dusty apples and carrots too. She found herself wondering just how long it had been since someone had inhabited this room. Maybe they died in here.

She shivered at the thought. She wished Ungolim was still here. The new Listener was nice enough, but there was something about her that Tsrazami didn't quite like. Was it her confidence? No, she respected that. Was it maybe the fact that she couldn't put a finger on whether she was a Dunmer or a Nord, two races that were very different? That might've been part of it.

There was a knock at the door, and Tsrazami jumped out of the chair. This place was surprising her no ends. "Enter," she called out shakily.

A smiling face popped out from behind the door. "Hello there," came its cheery greeting.

"Hello..."

"I was just wondering how you were getting on," the face continued, gradually becoming a full body as the newcomer entered the room. He was a Dunmer as anyone could tell by his skin, which had a slight hue of purple to it. The smile never vanished from his face as he walked in and spoke, which crinkled up his eyes, leaving Tsrazami only to assume that they were red, like any other Dunmer's.

The Khajiit eyed him warily. He seemed somewhat familiar, and she didn't know why. She'd never met him, but the way he kept smiling reminded her of someone back in Morrowind – yet she couldn't remember who.

"Not too warm in here, is it?" he continued when Tsrazami didn't reply. "You should probably get those blankets out."

"Who are you?" Tsrazami eventually asked.

"Oh, forgive me! How could I be so rude as to not introduce myself?" He gave a little bow, his hand curling in a grand gesture. "Knot Garom Uthenis, at your service. You can just call me Knot."

Tsrazami smiled at his enthusiasm. "Knot – that's an unusual name."

"Indeed," Knot agreed heartily, "I got it when I first joined the Dark Brotherhood. For my initiation I hung my target from the ceiling beam of his house."

"Uh... creative," commented Tsrazami blankly. She killed because it was the only thing she was good at, and she was getting paid for it. She didn't find it particularly fun, although she had friends back in Morrowind who definitely did.

"Ooh, I'm glad you think so! What's your name, Sister? I heard you came all the way from Vivec!"

"Tsrazami and, yes, I did."

"My father used to live there," he said wistfully, evidently recalling old memories, "under the first canton. Set up a stall there, too."

"Oh, you lived there?"

"No, I lived in Balmora. Nice place, that was. All the guildhalls you could imagine, right there in the centre." He laughed. "Except for the Dark Brotherhood."

Tsrazami smiled at him again. "You're quite cheery."

"I guess I am! Father always told me to be happy, and now here I am, being happy in what I do." He paused and his eyes widened. The Khajiit could finally see them. They were scarlet, as expected, but surprisingly round and childlike compared to his tall and trim body structure. "Oh, I said I'd meet some friends for target practice! Sorry, Tsrazami. It was nice meeting you!"

"Likewise... Knot," Tsrazami replied as he fled from the room. At least there were some nice people in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, even if they were a little eccentric.

Sighing, she fetched the blankets from the cupboard and laid them out on the stone slab, though she very much doubted their ability to make the 'bed' any more comfortable. Eventually, she fell into a restless sleep, though she was soon to be awoken by a visitor in the night.

Thanks for reading!

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