First Seed 10, 3E433
Lucien's eyes did not narrow as he waited in the basement of Riverview; when he had been younger, he would have hated the prospect of waiting days for a mere Initiate to arrive. Hardened by the years, he was now one of the most experienced and deadly of the Dark Brotherhood. Lucien would have limited the time for completion to just one day, but the vampire was being soft on the girl. However, Vicente had offered to take his place as her stalker if the girl waited until tomorrow to carry out the contract.
The mark was in place. She was enjoying a quiet snack before the day began for the house's late-rising residents. She was an Orc, and Lucien was not surprised that someone would take issue with her being the cook of the house; prejudice against Orcish cooking was a common occurrence. Her name was Rogmesh gra-Coblug and she was going to die one way or another.
Lucien did not move at all when he heard the Initiate's poorly concealed footsteps. He was in a secure hiding spot and magically cloaked, but he made sure that she wouldn't suspect his presence. This was his experiment, and Lucien did not want his own presence to affect the results. He merely watched and waited.
He waited to see how she would carry out the assassination; he hadn't had an opportunity to oversee her previous two killings. Would she stay in the shadows, or would she kill out in the open? Would she use a dagger or an axe? Whenever there was a new recruit, he enjoyed sorting them into one of three categories.
Manipulators work as efficiently as possible and usually use a combination of weapons including a bow, a short blade, or magic. They tend to be more professional than the other categories. They also tend to use poison to improve the effectiveness of their weapons or as a weapon in itself, secreted into food or beverage. They think not of the victim; to them killing is merely a means to an end. They are more suited to infiltration and stealth, and are likely to survive longer because they take more care.
Hunters enjoy the act of killing above all else and can usually favour one weapon over all others. They are impulsive or addict killers who will find their own victims out of boredom if there are no current contracts. They enjoy seeing their victims terrified and in pain, and they prefer to stalk and torture their prey before killing them. They are more suited to public executions, and their life spans are usually shorter.
Zealots focus on the symbolic nature of killing in a religious sense and usually prefer lighter weapons and magic. They value the love of their family and the favour of their deities above all else. They are known to be the most loyal, but also the most easily deceived; they do not question orders and carry them out without hesitation. They carry out their contracts in a ritualistic manner.
Lucien sorted himself into the category of a 'manipulator', but he also possessed qualities from each of the other categories. He enjoyed the act of killing; the blood spray; the sensation of his dagger carving living flesh; the eyes of his victims changing from fear to emptiness. He justified his killings through the bonds of family that are forged. Despite his other qualities, Lucien's swift ascension through the ranks of the Brotherhood was as a result of his skill and professionalism alone.
The Bosmer hid in the shadows. She seemed to conceal her presence more effectively when stationary than when moving. The moment's hesitation when an assassin would remain in the shadows whilst deciding when to strike seemed to stretch longer and longer. Lucien stared at her; he was waiting for the suspense to be resolved, but it endured.
The girl lost concentration for the tiniest moment, but it was enough for her to give her position away. During that moment her weight shifted slightly, resulting in one of her feet audibly shifting across the ground. The mark heard the noise, and then turned her head to investigate. Not being able to see through the gloom, the mark took a candle from the table she was sitting at and illuminated the shadowy corner.
Upon seeing the elf, the Orc armed herself with a fork from the table. The elf did not react; she merely stood there in the shadows with a blank expression. The Orc stood and held the fork before her, pointing in the direction of the elf. Lucien watched a blood vessel on the Orc's neck pulse more powerfully and frequently, accelerating as adrenaline was pumped through her veins.
Obeying her instinctual response to danger, the Orc assumed a defensive stance. She froze, and meanwhile was weighing her odds at survival. An individual freezing in response to danger came from an obsolete primitive instinct to blend into the background and avoid detection. The decision for her next action was between fighting and fleeing; she decided to fight.
With unpractised clumsiness, the Orc approached the motionless elf. She thrust the fork in the Initiate's direction, but her attack only skimmed the black armour. The Orc stepped closer to the elf to a position that gave her more of a chance of hitting her target, but it also put her in more danger. She thrust the flimsy piece of pewter cutlery again.
The girl remained motionless, and didn't react as the pewter fork approached. She didn't even blink as it approached her face. It didn't hit her square on; it embedded itself in the loose flesh of one of the girl's cheeks. The Orc's hand continued, leaving the fork behind, and caught the Bosmer's hood by accident.
Lucien merely watched as the hood was drawn back, exposing the Bosmer's face. Her hair was almost black in the dim light, and her blank emerald eyes could have been dead. The Speaker was sure that she soon would be. The wound was not deep enough to damage anything important, but because it was near her heart a moderate amount of blood flowed out.
Let me die… just let me die, I thought.
The darkness flared furiously in response. As always, it thwarted my attempt of self-sacrifice. I was more than willing to give my life to save the people I would otherwise murder. I dearly hoped that there was a way of escaping the darkness whilst keeping my life.
Over the days since I first opened my eyes in the living quarters of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, my resistance to the darkness had weakened. I had done it without conscious planning, so the darkness hadn't been aware; it had thought that my will to resist was failing, and that I was giving in. I had only been aware of this when I had attempted to thwart the darkness, and had succeeded. As I had weakened my resistance to the darkness, the darkness had lowered its defences; it had not suspected that I was still capable of resisting.
When I moved into position to attack, I had put up blunt resistance against the darkness. There had been a battle of wills, rendering me motionless. During this time I had sent a sharp force of will against the part of my mind responsible for my left leg, which had been carelessly left unguarded by the darkness. The attack hadn't achieved much, but it had been enough to alert the Orc of my presence.
I knew that I was bleeding, but I was somehow unable to feel pain. I felt the blood seeping out through the hole in my face. The piece of pewter cutlery was still lodged in the wound. The battle of wills still raged, and I was winning by the mere fact that we were in stalemate The darkness was furious that I had tricked it; I had slipped past its defences.
The darkness still wouldn't admit defeat. It fought with a blanketing force, not leaving a single fragment of its territory undefended. It couldn't be overpowered, but neither could it gain ground. It then attempted a different method of fighting.
A few images flashed into the forefront of my mind. I saw Enthor, Hilwen, and Theredhel, my family. The darkness played the card that I had hoped it would never think of; it showed me a reason to live, and my will broke. How could I be beaten with something so simple?
The darkness stopped its assault after I stopped mine. The image of my family from Valenwood was still in centre stage. I would not be able to fight until I developed a resistance. The darkness readied itself for the assassination of the Orc woman named Rogmesh gra-Coblug.
Under control from the darkness, I stood up and faced the surprised Orc. I removed my ebony dagger from its sheath, and assumed an aggressive stance. I lunged, but Rogmesh managed to jump out of the way. She ran back to the table.
The darkness impulsively threw my dagger at Rogmesh, but missed. I heard a thud as the blade became embedded in a wooden crate. Rogmesh snarled and brandished another pewter fork. I lacked my only dagger, but I then remembered the makeshift weapon still implanted in my face.
Under my guidance, the darkness grasped the handle of the fork embedded in my cheek, and carefully pulled it out. So that the fork would not do me further damage, the fork was pulled out at the same angle it had been thrust in. I should have felt pain, but I did not. Grotesque-faced, I fought the Orc with the very weapon that had wounded me.
With my mind I located a target, and then the darkness struck it with blinding speed and remarkable accuracy. It was the wrist of her right hand, with which she held the fork before it slipped from her grip. Whilst she was momentarily incapacitated by the pain of her injured wrist, my grip on the fork changed to reverse. Next I directed the darkness towards Rogmesh's neck, and it stabbed.
The corpse gracefully slid to the floor as I released my grip on the fork. Blood flooded, quickly pooling over the stone floor of the basement. I stepped out of the way to prevent my feet from getting wet. I left the fork in the wound, adjusted my hood, and then retrieved my ebony dagger before disappearing into the shadows once more.
Lucien was surprised when the Bosmer girl managed to break out of her stupor. It was a sudden change, with no trigger that he could identify. She stood and faced her mark, with no symptoms of pain or light-headedness. She stood without effort, her balance no different to before she had been injured.
He watched as the Orc hesitated, and then evaded the Initiate's blade by the tiniest margin. Lucien was even more surprised when the girl threw her weapon at her opponent. It embedded itself in a crate not far from where he was hiding. The sound of the blade puncturing the wood was quite loud, indicating that it had been thrown with an impressive amount of force.
Lucien was impressed by the Initiate's uncharacteristic grace, speed and accuracy whilst she fought. He knew this was the same girl who he had found sobbing over the Nord's corpse, but she behaved like a completely different person. When she lost her weapon, the elf didn't hesitate to pull a metal implement out of her own face. She didn't even show any discomfort for her wound, even when she removed the fork herself; everything about the way she fought was unnatural.
The elf ended the life of her mark with a simple stab to the throat, but the weapon she used made it more significant. A fork is a clumsy weapon, and is difficult to aim. To kill by stabbing to the throat, one needs to sever several important connections between the head and the body, which requires either thoroughness or precision. The broader the weapon, the less precision that is needed; therefore a fork would require pinpoint accuracy in this method of killing.
After her mark was dead, she did not hesitate to leave. The Novice did not glance back at the corpse after it fell to the floor; the Orc's death seemed to be of no significance to her. She did not seem in any way relieved, pleased or euphoric as a result of the killing. Lucien's assessment of her was inconclusive, but she didn't seem to fit into the category of a zealot or a hunter.
She purposefully strode towards him. It was not unexpected - she needed to retrieve the ebony blade Lucien had given her - but it still made him edgy. He heard a rasping noise as she removed the Blade of Woe from the crate. Just before she turned to leave, he glimpsed those strange emerald eyes of hers; there was something familiar about them.
After descending beneath the basement of the abandoned house, I entered the sanctuary through the black door. I met no-one as I passed through the main hall and the corridor that led deeper into the depths of the Nirn. I stopped before the door to Vicente's quarters. I knocked three times before entering.
The vampire looked up from the book he was reading. His features morphed into concern.
"Sister!" he gasped.
He elegantly stood. He then approached and pulled back my hood. He touched the bloody skin below my wound. He subconsciously brought one of his bloodstained fingertips to his lips.
"You have been badly wounded, sister, and require the attention of a healer," the vampire diagnosed. He carefully guided me to a chair so that I could sit down.
Vicente swiftly left the room, the door powerfully swinging shut behind him. Moments later the vampire returned with the M'raaj-Dar. The Khajiit sniffed the air with distaste, and surveyed the room with his yellow eyes. He strolled over to my and examined the wound.
"Restoration isn't one of my strongest branches of magic, but healing this should be simple enough," he said in his rough, purring voice, then smirked. "First contract?"
My eyes narrowed.
"I can't imagine how you managed to return to the sanctuary without fainting from loss of blood," he grumbled.
I couldn't feel pain from the wound, so I was surprised it was as bad he described. With a strange blue light he first healed the skin at the surface of the wound. He then got me to drink a potion which he said would heal the damage beneath the skin. I returned to the living quarters and then changed out of my armour so that I could cleanse myself of blood.