How did mistakes like that even happen? On the one hand, Suvanen – thoughtful, distractible scholar. On the other, his brother, living feral, gnawing on skeever bones in some gods-forsaken cave.

†††

The Black Door opened more quietly than any door that size had a right to. The corridor on the other side was warmly lit, but a glacial breeze struck Llathasa, biting through her sodden garments. But once over the threshold, she found that a chute in the stone channelled cold air outwards. The passage behind was incongruously cosy.

A flight of stairs ended in a landing with nothing but a simple stone bench – there was nothing sinister about the immediate view, and no sign of where the door's speech came from. Llathasa had half-expected soul gems of some kind, set up to store a spell, or at least a perch for an observer on the inside.

Instead, the interior could have been the inner tunnels of any fort in Skyrim. Or…not quite. Llathasa realized. There was something strange about the ambient noise – it wasn't. The Black Door completely deadened the sound of the rain, and even though she knew she was only a few paces from the ventilation shaft, she couldn't hear the draught.

"The music of life…" she mused, more than a little disconcerted. It was a manner of magic she hadn't encountered before.

When Llathasa rounded the corner, she saw a more obvious sign of her location. Red-edged banners emblazoned with a black handprint were everywhere.

The corridor opened to an office with two offshoots. In the right-hand doorway, Astrid stood at ease, not a hair out of place. Llathasa recognized her by her posture first, before connecting the pale eyes from the shack to Astrid's uncovered face.

"At last! I hope we weren't too hard to find," the sanctuary matriarch said. She was all sweet solicitation, but there was a twinkle in her eye that suggested she was enjoying the contrast between them. Llathasa was travel-stained and ragged, while Astrid had beat her there and looked immaculate.

She was blond, it turned out, and she wore her hair braided back from her temples, just like Llathasa's favourite aunt. Llathasa smiled, then shook her head. That was a dangerous thought. She reminded herself sharply that she didn't have relatives, for the moment.

Astrid was watching her; she raised her eyebrows quizzically.

"You reminded me of something, but I'm…just cold. And wet. It's been a long journey," Llathasa explained, gesturing at the puddle of water that was collecting beneath her.

"Poor dear," Astrid said inscrutably. "But you know, everyone is dying to meet you, I'd hate to keep them waiting."

"Please don't make me meet them like this," Llathasa blurted in surprise. In all her planning, she hadn't considered whether 'Llathasa' was vain. She was now.

Astrid studied her, then moved wordlessly across to one of the shelves that lined the walls. Once you noticed it, it was unnerving how silently these people could move.

"You are quaint. I'll make allowances for you this time," she said coolly. Llathasa suspected there was still some element of play in her conduct, but she definitely noticed the steel underneath.

"– However, bear in mind that I am the leader of this sanctuary. My word is law."

Llathasa nodded humbly, and Astrid's mock-stern face relaxed. Taking that as permission to take an interest in what the assassin had in her arms, Llathasa approached her.

"Here, put these on. Shrouded robes, they should fit you. If you feel like you need armour, we can adjust some for you in time – it's a little constricting, worn straight off the rack."

Llathasa took the folded robes – black and red, but a richer scarlet than the corresponding leather on Astrid's costume. There were also soft black shoes, red gloves, and –

She recoiled, nearly dropping the entire bundle. Astrid was holding a serrated dagger underneath and wore a wicked grin.

"You can, of course, go for the armour, but you strike me as a mage, not a fighter – particularly as you left this behind in Morthal." She twirled the blade deftly. "It doesn't suit you."

No it didn't. The dagger hadn't been made for Llathasa's hand.

"Let me guess – this belonged to the orc? Even though you were completely in the clear, it made you feel safer to have a knife with you?"

Llathasa blushed. Astrid gently laid the dagger atop the piled robes she was somehow still holding.

"Keep it for now, but we'll see that you are equipped with better soon. You are family, after all." Astrid jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the other doorway. "You can change in there, but don't get used to it. That room is mine, and you will keep out."

†††

Llathasa emerged cautiously, flexing her fingers as she took in the power of her new clothing. Each garment was enchanted, and the magical effects created a kind of a buzz in her soul-sense as the spells initially interfered with each other, then settled.

They were otherwise comfortable, though the muffled footwear was going to take a while to get used to. She kept stepping harder than she needed to, subconsciously trying to make her footsteps heard.

Astrid nodded approvingly but put a hand out as Llathasa passed by.

"Be careful of when you ask favours of here. You don't want to waste their goodwill on trivial matters. I don't mind today, but I do not play favourites."

She smiled as though she had just said something delightful and gestured for Llathasa to head down the stairs. The assassin's swings from sympathetic to serious were troubling, and likely intended that way.

The sanctuary was so quiet. Llathasa peeked out from beneath a voluminous black hood and entered the large chamber at the foot of the stairs.

There was a lot to take in at once, but the first was the suddenly-audible raucous laughter. The sight of a group of assassins clustered around…a child? gave Llathasa pause enough, but the hulking Nord was utterly in the grips of a deep belly laugh. Sound truly didn't carry here, she noted. The crowd was clustered around a pool which was fed by a too-quiet waterfall.

No doubt, at least some of them had already perceived of Llathasa's entrance, but they were preoccupied with a tale in progress.

It was the human girl who was commanding the audience.

"Oh you are such a sweet little thing," she said, in a cracked impression of a deeper voice. She too was struggling not to dissolve in giggles. "Would the sweetie care for a sweetie?"

"Oh please, kind sir, I'm so very hungry since my mama and papa left me all alone," she continued, reverting to her natural register. "I know a shortcut to the candy shop, through this alley."

"Lead the way, my dear. My, it is dark down here."

"Yes, but I'm not scared – I'm with you." The child turned a wide-eyed gaze upon the nearest assassin, reaching for his hand. The balding human wore the same robes as Llathasa, but he harrumphed and pulled out of reach.

"You killjoy, Festus," the girl complained. "Ahem. Oh, but you are soo beautiful. Such a lovely smile. But your teeth…your teeth, no! Aggghh!" Ah. There it was, as her captive audience guffawed – she was no child. The young-looking vampire turned a sly eye towards Llathasa and gave a subtle nod to suggest she should approach.

"Babette, you are wicked, but what of your latest, Arnbjorn. Something about a Khajiit?" a hooded woman asked. She was Dunmer too, judging by the voice. But more than that, Llathasa recognized the name she mentioned. Arnbjorn. A disgraced Companion, and the only member of the Brotherhood that the authorities knew by name, besides Astrid.

Llathasa also knew of several possibilities – mages missing from the College of Winterhold – but they were less certain. Mages disappeared for many different reasons. At opposite ends of the scale; the two most common reasons were that they had thought better of over-ambitious magic and retired, or that they emphatically had not.

Arnbjorn was obviously a werewolf. Llathasa knew the signs well, but she wouldn't have admitted to noticing them if it hadn't been so patent. His armour was cut off short above the elbow, and the ankle, making allowances for the abrupt increase in size when he transformed. His feet were bare. Also, the vampire referred to him thusly:

"Oh, a big doggy chasing a little kitty! How adorable!"

"I am not adorable," the werewolf grumbled, "and it was not funny. He was a Khajiit monk, a master of the Whispering Fang style. But now, he's dead, and I have a new loincloth." Babette held her hands up in surrender and darted between the assembly to Llathasa.

"What about you?" she said, looking up at her with beatific innocence. "Killed anyone interesting lately?"

Llathasa stammered, partly because she was on the spot, but partly to give herself the time to get her story straight. As Astrid said, it had been a good kill, so she ought to tell it right.

"An orc, but I promise he deserved it," she said shyly, but she allowed herself to warm up to the child's eager attention. "A mean one, big and ugly."

Actually – Llathasa paused to make sure there were no orcs present to overhear. There was a green-skinned Argonian, with his tail sticking through the seat of his armour; three humans, and the hooded elf. So;

"– he tried to extort money from an entire island, including me. He told me," Llathasa continued, pulling a scrunched expression of dumb, orcish thuggery, "– If you don't pay up, there will be blood. And death!"

"He was right," she concluded dramatically. No one said anything for long enough for the colour to rise in Llathasa's cheeks. Then the vampire smiled widely, bright canines bared, but in a friendly sort of way.

"Oh, you are going to fit in fine," she said, clapping her hands together. "You're the Solstheim recruit, aren't you? Astrid's told me all about you. Did she pull the "Choose your victim" gag with you? She must have kidnapped you, at the very least, that's classic. Has she told you 'my word is law,' yet? She's right, of course, but her delivery can be so overdramatic." The girl barely seemed to pause for breath, and Llathasa was struck by the grim thought that she probably didn't need to.

Babette seized her arm, all childish enthusiasm, except that her grip was iron.

"My name's Babette, I'm a vampire. That's Arnbjorn, he's a werewolf. And Gabriella. She's a b–"

"Thank you, Babette," The Dunmer woman interrupted silkily. She looked Llathasa up and down, ostensibly unimpressed.

"I meant to say 'witch'," Babette protested artfully.

Llathasa and Gabriella were near mirrors for each other, particularly with their hoods up. They were both Dunmer, both murderers and casters, and with that level of similarity they were either going to get along famously or hate one another's guts.

"Death is but the time to sleep forever, in the Void," Gabriella said reverently, and Llathasa was too slow to keep her instinctive thought of 'what a crock of –' from her face. Hate it was, then. The Dunmer assassin hrmmed noncommittally, and Babette dragged Llathasa away.

"Festus is our resident wizard, go to him if you need training. Veezara is a Shadowscale, which is to say, he was raised right. And Nazir is –"

"In charge," a tall Redguard finished firmly. "At least of entry-level contracts befitting the likes of you." The dark human was dressed exotically in high-waisted trousers, and a scarlet headwrap. His beard was neatly collected in a beaten silver ring, and a broad scimitar rested on his hip.

He didn't look stealthy, but he had the unconscious swagger of a well-honed warrior.

"Come with me, new-blood. We have some things to discuss, and then you can get settled in. But, on behalf of all of us, welcome to the Family."

"Bye for now," Babette said cheerfully.