Chapter 9 – Disappointments
Thanks a lot to Raven-Studio for awesome job she does as a Beta reader ! :D
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Lucien sprinted through the labyrinthine streets of Bravil, running like he had never run before. The muscles of his legs screamed and protested and his lungs seared, each breath like a knife, but did not care. He had to arrive on time, or else…
How could this have happened? In only a few days, his entire world had completely collapsed around him…First, the Purification of the Sanctuary – his Sanctuary – the empty, needless, useless deaths of people he considered his friends, and in some cases, as father and children... Then, J'Ghasta turned up murdered… butchered. After that, the situation completely disintegrated, spinning out of his control, if he'd ever had any over it, and exploding into total chaos.
Lucien felt bile roiling in his stomach, burning his throat as it rose at the thought. He could not let anguish and fear overcome him – he couldn't! Too many things at stake...there was still this one chance...
The bastard who had orchestrated all this knew too well where to strike to destabilise him, and the confusion the Speaker had experienced recently had already cost far too much time ... Precious time he could have used to work out how the traitor was using his Silencer against the Black Hand – and against him…the very thought hurt. More than it should.
Out of breath, Lucien finally arrived in the little square, in the middle of which the Statute of the Old Lucky Lady stood serene, surveying the scene. He froze.
She was there.
And few feet from her, the well known figure of a Bosmer layon the ground, an arrow stuck in his throat.
Too late…
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Lucien woke up panting in a cold sweat, enveloped in a suffocating a cloud of white feathers, his pupils dilated with terror.
Breathing hard, he blinked several times to let his eyes getting use with daylight, trying to calm the crazy almost painful pounding of his heart as the feathers of his ripped-apart pillow settled softly like Cheydinhal snow on his back and face. Glaring at the ceiling for a moment, he started scanning the room before looking sheepishly at what was left of the pillow he had torn apart while helpless in the grip and throes of his nightmare.
Where the Oblivion was he…?
A draft wafting in from the wide-open window raised goose pimples up and down his back, as well as on very sensitive parts of his anatomy. With a weary sigh, Lucien raised his head a bit to take look at the lower part of his body. He groaned at the sigh and his head fell back heavily on the mattress.
All right. Correction: where the Oblivion was he doing here completely naked? In his experience, waking up stark naked in a strange place - no matter how comfortable – rarely wound up being a good thing.
Yanking the sheet up to provide himself a little more cover, he tried to bully his mind, still fogged by sleep and by his terrifying dream, onto more important things. Focusing on an explanation for his presence in this bed and in this room, for instance…
His hands started to search and pat slowly, gently around the bed– just to make sure he was really alone – his fingers finally closing over something other than the bed sheets. He closed his fingers around it and dragged his hang before his eyes.
A yellow, green and red knit cap…
The sight immediately triggered something in Lucien's brain, a scattered, disjointed, disorienting series of images…An enthusiastic reunion with a lot of demonstration of joy… Far too many people he did not know slapping him the back, as if he had known them for years…And then, a big party with plenty of girls, Moon Sugar-based food – and a lot of Skooma too…
"No. Not a lot…" Lucien groaned inwardly, flopping back, facedown onto the mattress, as his brain started to throb. It was as if just thinking about alcohol was enough to revive the almost forgotten hangover. "Too much Skooma."
The Speaker was not incredibly familiar with Khajiiti customs, but apparently, the cat people's customs concerning welcoming back an old friend mainly consisted of consuming as much alcohol as possible before either collapsing head first on the table, in your plate – or worse, in somebody else's plate. Actually, now Lucien thought of it, it did not change much from the rest of the world which had relatively similar traditions regarding reunions: mead drinking binges in Skyrim, Imperial orgies, Breton blowouts…
While Lucien's mind busily enumerating all the kinds of parties he had taken part so far in his rather busy life, something flapped above his head, disappearing with a piercing scream somewhere in the region of his feet.
Lucien groaned inwardly. What…?
Swearing under his breath, he sat up, and, trying to ignore his growing head-ache, squinted at the thing perched on one of the posts of its bed. It was a bird. A bird with colourful feathers and a powerful hooked beak sat preening serenely…Lucien raised a sceptical eyebrow at it.
"Polly?" he ventured.
"Crrrackerrrrr?" the bird cheeped at him before returning attention to its plumage.
A blanked expression blossomed on Lucien's face before he burst out laughing and affectionately lobbed what was left of his pillow at the parrot. The latter avoided it easily and circled once overhead, coming to perch on Lucien's bare shoulder, while the white feathers of the pillow flew all across the room in a snowy ballet, something seemingly out of place in the sweltering atmosphere of Senchal.
"Would you mind telling me where you went? I was worried." Lucien chided affectionately, rubbing the underside of Polly's beak and chin with a finger.
The parrot obviously did not reply, but stared fixedly at Lucien, twisting its neck to look at the Imperial's face from every angle possible.
"And how did you manage find me? After all, Senchal is not exactly your basic village..." Lucien asked again, shifting to scratch the parrot gently behind its head. "J'Ghasta's right, you know…You are a weird creature." Speaking of J'Ghasta, Lucien smirked, he'd have to point out that Polly had not left, she had simply taken cover in a bad situation – a mark of intelligence, not a result of any deficiency in his own personality. It would come up eventually – these things always did, with J'Ghasta.
Polly nibbled the assassin's finger gently before leaving his shoulder to perch on the polished bronze mirror, standing on a small table made out of glossy ebony wood. The bird perched, perfectly still, looking at Lucien with small, black, beady eyes. The later took it as an invitation to drag himself out of his comfy bed, which he did with a groan and much-needed muscle-limbering stretch.
Yawning, the assassin continued stretching and flexing his sore muscles, massaging his face slowly with the tip of his fingers as he walked toward the small table on which, in addition of the mirror, lay a bowl, a jar full of fresh water and – wonder of the wonders – a razor. Lucien beamed at the sight.
The day before, he had benefited from a bath with soap, the help of several pleasant and cute female Khajiits to untangle his hair. Sadly, though – Lucien's hands ran along his hairy cheeks – he had been unable to find something to shave with, this activity having absolutely no reason to exist among people entirely covered in fur… Fog Marley had proposed he should use Sergeant Gugu's machete, but Lucien had declined the offer, arguing he was looking to shave, not to behead himself…
The assassin sighed and eyed himself in the mirror. Fog Marley's healers had done a great job. Apparently, there were no traces left on Lucien's body of his ordeal through Elsweyr's wild nature nor of the rather painful "reminders of the rules" from Sergeant Gugu yesterday…
Well, "apparently" only because, given the bushy beard which hid most of his face, it was actually a bit hard to say... Lucien winced. He did not like wearing a beard. Like this, he looked like his father, and the very thought put him ill-at-ease…
"Time to scalp all those ugly hairs, hey, Polly?" he asked, grimacing.
"Crrr!"
Lucien took the razor in his right hand and, frowning in concentration, he examined his chin from every angle, trying to determine where to attack first. This was tantamount to trying to clear Elsweyr's hostile landscape into well-regulated urban bliss, Lucien decided.
Shaving was an exercise which required all, or at least most of Lucien's concentration. Indeed, if for ninety percent of the males around the Multiverse(1), shaving simply consisted of clearing as many hairs as possible from their face while not nicking themselves unmercifully. Lucien's objective was to leave enough to obtain the effect of two days' stubble, just enough to give him a rather roguish air. Obviously, this required a lot of dexterity to manipulate the razor, but nothing beyond the reach of a skilled assassin like Lucien, for whom blades were just natural extensions of his hands.
Nevertheless, Lucien could not make any mistakes, because if he did, he could forget about his 'cool-roguish-look", would have to shave right down to the skin to avoid a patchy job, and would be forced to walk around with skin as soft as a baby's. Which, according to Vicente and J'Ghasta, made him look like "Mister-Perfect-Son-in-Law" – the last outrage for a ruthless killer…
While the blade of his razor ran softly against his cheeks, Lucien's thoughts centred back on his nightmare, more particularly toward the lonely, dark silhouette standing near Ungolim's corpse near the statute of the Old Lucky Lady…
In his dream, the assassin had not seen her face, but he did not need it, to know who she was…
Sigrid…
Lucien winced at the very thought, but got a grip on himself as the razor blade drifted dangerously close of his skin. Sigrid Trencavel… Since she had entered his very well organised and structured life, she had turned it into a bloody mess…and thinking about her while shaving was courting a shaving disaster, he reminded himself ineffectually.
To think that, when Ungolim had told him he had to recruit Sigrid, the grand-daughter of the infamous assassin Rivanone Trencavel who had trained J'Ghasta and Lucien himself, the Speaker had experienced a strange mix of excitement and apprehension! Excitement because meeting the descendant of his beloved mentor was an opportunity which had been always refused to denied him by none other than Rivanone herself, and then after her death, by Vicente. Apprehension, because Lucien was convinced Sigrid was as talented as her grand-mother and he was not sure his own talents could compete with hers…
The Speaker soon found himself both reassured and disenchanted, because if Sigrid had many common points with her grand-mother, from her physical appearance to her artistic and fighting talents, her undeniable aptitude at hurling around sarcastic and hurtful comments, there the comparison stopped.
Rivanone was a born killer who, between breakfast and lunch, had already left one or two corpses in her wake, while Sigrid had trouble to hold back her tears when she came to see Vicente and Ocheeva to get her reward after completing her contracts…
Lucien harboured private doubts about Sigrid's aptitude as an assassin right from the beginning, but from doubtful he quickly became appalled at the girl's lack of enthusiasm for sending souls to the Void. So much so, one day when the Sanctuary was almost empty, he decided to confide in his mentor, friend and resident Breton vampire, Vicente Valtieri.
"It's catastrophic, Vicente." The Speaker had whispered, collapsing on a chair near the vampire, who was reading as usual at his desk. "Trencavel has absolutely no talent as an assassin…. Worst! She even seems to dislike the job…!"
Impossible! Unheard-of! That the granddaughter of Rivanone Trencavel went into the Dark Brotherhood and was not cut out for it!
But neither this statement, nor Lucien's agitation, unsettled Vicente in the slightest. He had simply continued nonchalantly turning the pages of his "Vampire Weekly" newspaper.
"Well, she carries out her duty well enough for me." The Breton had replied, perfectly neutrally. "Nevertheless, even if she is not exactly enthusiastic at the prospect of spilling blood, I understand she likes 'hunting' her targets and…"
"But we both know it is not sufficient!" Lucien had interrupted him, banging his fist on Vicente's desk. To the Speaker's greatest annoyance, even the outburst and abuse of the furniture was not enough to make the vampire drag his eyes from the interesting article on the last fashionable coffins on the market. "We are a sect of professionalassassins, Vicente! What am I going to do with her if I have to tell her off to force her to do her duties?" He sighed heavily and observed Vicente closely before speaking again. "Tell me…Do you think the Night Mother made a mistake by making us recruiting Trencavel…?" Lucien asked quietly.
At this point, the Breton had finally closed his gazette and had shot the Imperial a bright smile full of fangs. "My dear Speaker and pupil, you are blaspheming…" the vampire had chuckled, deeply amused by the offended look on Lucien's face. "I am sure our Unholy Matron had extremely good reasons for making you recruit Trencavel. Besides, you should keep in mind that killing abilities are certainly not hereditary, otherwise, your job function as Speaker and recruiter for the Brotherhood would be completely moot." Then, Vicente's tone had become kinder, almost paternal. "You must understand Sigrid is not Rivanone, Lucien. So please stop assessing everything the girl does – or doesn't do – using her grandmother's achievements as the criterion…"
"Andyou're the one telling me that…?!" Lucien had replied in a sarcastic tone he had regretted immediately. "I'm sorry Vicente. I didn't mean to...you know…" Lucien waved vaguely.
The vampire had shrugged, but his very dark expression had shown Lucien that, despite the years which had passed since Rivanone's death, it was still a very sensitive spot.
"It is fine, Lucien." The Breton had replied composedly, with a sad smile. "And yes, I must admit I am not completely objective in Sigrid's case either… But don't worry. I am sure the Night Mother's choice is perfectly well-founded."
Soon indeed, the reasons behind Sigrid's recruitment became clear, and Lucien had done his best to assist her in the ordeals she had to face, being extremely patient and very nice – both to respect Rivanone's memory, but also because he had believed he could have had a… privileged relationship with someone who had been raised by Lady Rivanone Trencavel…
The Speaker gritted his teeth, pulling the razor back as he grimaced, so he wouldn't jeopardize a so-far perfect shave. What a moron he was! He had risked his life and J'Ghasta's to protect Trencavel from the hatred of her cousins, the Montforts, and even from the idiocy of her fool of Prince Charming who had rather unwisely condemned her to death by signing a letter he had not read! The fool. And in spite of all he had done for her, all the little pest had shown him in return was a profound scorn…!
Argh!
Lucien let out a series of swear words. This proved it, on Trencavel could ruin a perfect shave. The blade of his razor had swerved from its planned trajectory slashing into the soft skin under the hairs. Scared by his violent reaction, Polly flew away from the mirror, screaming her discontent loudly as she perched on the post of bed, her feathers ruffled in supreme indignation.
"Sorry Polly… I did not mean to scare you." Lucien muttered, looking around the room for something to soak the blood from the cut on his cheek. It was not deep, but facial wounds tended to bleed like they were fatal…
A bitter smile appeared on Lucien's face as he pressed a bit of his bed sheet against the cut. Last time he had received a facial wound, it was after J'Ghasta had gratified him with a clawed slap, indirectly because of Trencavel. The assassin's smile grew wider. He should really stop thinking about her if he did not want to end up completely disfigured…
Now he had no more reason to be particularly cautious about his shaving. Lucien finished quickly and, still stark naked, he poked about in the bedroom's many cupboards for something to wear.
"Blimey…" he grumbled as he rummaged about in one of the cupboards. "Do these guys were something else than colourful loincloths? I am not going to walk around mostly, or even half naked!"
Lucien was not especially prudish, but he really wanted to put as many things between his skin and Elsweyr's harsh climatic conditions, and the exuberant plethora of man-eating insects...He finally found what he was looking for, and dressed in short black pants with a dark green singlet and a pair of Imperial sandals. Nothing very fashionable, really, but that would do – for the moment.
"So, what do you think, Polly?" he asked the parrot, turning slowly for the bird to take a better look at him.
"Cracker!"
Lucien beamed. "Awesome." he replied, holding his forearm to the bird. The latter immediately perched on it. "And now, let's see where our dear kitty J'Ghasta's gone and put his nose…"
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Lost in the immensity of the Elsweyrian savannah, a small group took shelter under a tree.
Ashar insisted the group to make a "banana purée" break, and Sigrid had not protested much. It was the middle of the morning, and the heat was already almost unbearable. While the Virgin of Dagomey and her companions installed themselves a few feet from Sigrid.
Sigrid herself sagged against the trunk, enjoying the coolness of the shadow, Clairvoix lying at her feet, and Toad sleeping on the top of her head had, having left the shelter offered by the woman's cleavage. Or rather, trying to sleep, because Sigrid and Clairvoix were arguing yet again…
"Come on, Sigrid, stop pouting like that! I know it is quite a loss for you, but it could have been your life you lost out there!" the sword argued.
"Now you mention it, I wonder if I would have preferred dying over there…!" Sigrid spat bitterly.
"Stop talking nonsense! Your life is worth much than a trinket!" Clairvoix cried, sounding thoroughly appalled.
But despite Clairvoix' sensitive attempts at comforting her, the young woman remained inconsolable. The day before, she had suddenly realised she had lost the necklace engraved with belladonna, the same necklace Vicente offered Rivanone as a token of his love, before he finally offered it to Sigrid, after Rivanone's death. The badlands had echoed with her rage and despair when she had realised she probably lost it during the fight with Bombassa and his mercenaries.
"It was not a trinket! It was the only souvenir I had left from my grandmother and Vicente!" Sigrid cried, not caring anymore who heard her, trying to restrain her tears.
Clairvoix worried. This trip was wearing much harder on Sigrid than the girl had ever guessed it might, and not just physically… The crisis of despair she experienced after she realised she lost Rivanone's necklace seemed to have offered a permanent place to the unpleasant "thing" Clairvoix had felt in the girl's soul a few days ago. It was there, in her mind, standing still and making Clairvoix enrage because it remained out of the sword's reach…
"Well, not the only one…You still have me!" Clairvoix ventured, and if it had had a face, it would have been making puppy eyes. "After all, am I not Vicente's sword...? Hmm, all right, all right, forget about what I said…" it added quickly as Sigrid shot it a very dark look.
She sighed as she returned her attention on the landscape before her. Sliding down the trunk of the tree to land ungainly on the ground, her face contorted with pain and stress.
"I am seriously wondering if it was a good idea to come here…" she whispered, touching Clairvoix's hilt, shaking her head. "For the moment, I've lost far more than I have won…" Sigrid privately wondered, as the savannah shimmered and wavered in the heat, how much more she could lose, her hand moving instinctively to rest on her swollen abdomen. The sword did not seem to agree with her.
"It would have been quite unfortunate, really, because – apart from the crazy mercenaries of course – the place is nice! Look at that scenery!" Clairvoix encouraged, fizzling pleasantly, though whether the feeling was genuine or for her benefit, Sigrid didn't know.
"I am not here to play the tourist, Clairvoix…" Sigrid sighed, running a hand through her damp, sweaty hair.
But her sarcasm did not truly hide her amazement at the landscape before her eyes. Sigrid had never come this far south in Elsweyr – the travels with her father stayed limited to the northern part of the country which consisted mainly of desert – and she was regretting not having her pastels with her, because the landscapes of this part of the Cat People's territory were absolutely breathtaking…
Vast plains stretched out endlessly in front of her, in a mix of green and yellow grass, randomly punctuated by the ochre of the Elsweyrian ground. Here and there, herds of strange animals passed by and, on the banks of a small nearby lake, a dozen pink flamingos picked through the muddy waters in search of food while big animals Sigrid identified as 'hippopotamuses' bathed a bit further away.
The Breton felt a lump in her throat at the sight of them. It was Vicente who first had talked to her about those animals, on the battlefield of Bruma... It seemed that an eternity had passed since then…
She sighed and returned her attention on the massive silhouette in the background of the landscape.
Like a giant sentinel standing in the middle of nowhere, Mount Kilim'Djaro dominated the scenery with its impressive mass, its snow-capped and flat summit surrounded by a little crown of clouds. The permanent snow winked and shone brilliantly in the sun, and Sigrid understood now why the Khajiit population had nicknamed this rocky megalith the "Mountain of Splendours", which, according to Khajiits' belief, was the heart of all Elsweyr and – given the inherent ethnocentrism of any religious belief – the centre of Mundus.
In spite of the magnificence and the important religious symbolism of Kilim'Djaro, Sigrid forgot she had yet to climb the steep and covered-in-jungle sides of the mountain, if ever she wanted to reach the holy city of Corinth and its Oracle.
She felt the cramps in her legs and back worsen threateningly in protest at the very idea…
"I won't make it, Clairvoix." she moaned, her eyes still riveted on the Mounts. "It is too hard…" the words were involuntary, and her voice broke as she said them.
"Of course you'll make it." The sword replied heartily, happy to see that Sigrid had momentarily forgotten about the necklace. "You had made much worst in the past… Everything seems insurmountable to you now because your morale is way down in your socks. What you need is a small… tonic."
At the words, Sigrid felt a soft source of heat radiate against her chest. Clairvoix had activated the datadice, and the young woman's hands closed on the little cube hidden in one of the pockets of her bodice. She was about to take it out, but she suspended her move.
"No. I really don't feel like it at the moment..." she replied neutrally, releasing the pressure of her hand on the dice.
"What?" the sword exclaimed, its voice full of surprise. "But a few days ago, I had to fight to make you stop using it...!"
Sigrid shrugged listlessly. "I just don't feel like it anymore…" she replied, continuing to feign a perfectly casual tone.
Clairvoix was not fooled…
"Strangely, I find your sudden and rather unexpected lack of interest for the living narration of a mission which concerned your grandmother, Vicente, J'Ghasta as well as a short appearance very a very young Lucien quite hard to swallow…" the sword sniggered. "Why don't you simply admit you are afraid of facing again a version of Lucien which doesn't suit your perception of him?" Clairvoix asked sneakily.
Sigrid groaned inwardly, wondering why she thought she could fool Clairvoix, of all people. Clairvoix knew her far too well, having once lived in her head, and it abused from it without any remorse.
"Yeah, all right, maybe…!" she snarled back. "Anyway, who cares about what he was? As I said before, it is what he became that matters!"
"Oh really?" Clairvoix replied in a sarcastic voice, his aura darkening with something like melodrama. "Tell me one thing, then. Do you remember, a few months ago, you and Lucien went to Thoronir's shop…?" it asked softly.
Sigrid froze as the memory flashed in her head. A series of pictures she thought she had erased from her memory suddenly popped up in front of her eyes: Lucien's golden-brown eyes looking deep in hers, the contact of his callused hands against her cheeks, his lips getting closer…The Breton felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair, and she had to mobilise all her will to chase those dangerous, treacherous thoughts away.
"Nothing happened, all right?" she hissed between gritted teeth, breathing heavily and still very red in the face.
"Because Thoronir stepped in at the worst moment." Clairvoix smirked. "Answer me frankly, Sigrid… What would have happened if you two had kissed?"
"Nothing." Sigrid retorted staunchly.
"Liar."
"Nothing!" Anger was gradually building up in Sigrid's chest and she was curbing her urge to kick the sword to make it shut up. She didn't want him. If she did...If I did, I wouldn't be here, she asserted forcefully.
"Liar! You are attracted to him! Until the last moment, you hesitated between him and Martin! It was like watching a pendulum swing. I was there, you know." the sword pressed.
It was the last straw. Despite her heavy belly, the Breton jumped on her feet, pointing a menacing and shaking finger at the sword while Toad fell from her head on the ground where he stayed, four legs in the air, wondering how he had landed here…
"I was not!" Sigrid yelled so loudly that Ashar, U'baba and U'bhuti "Nothing could have happened between me and Lachance, nothing can, and nothing will, do you hear me?! No-thing!" she shouted, then bit her lip, chest heaving. She stopped, both because she was out of breath and because she had realised the three Khajiits were staring at her in awe.
"Berthe? Is everything all right?" Ashar asked, rather gently compared to her usual demeanor, frowning as she searched Sigrid's face, livid white with rage.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine!" the Breton muttered as she sat down, burnishing away straying locks of hair which escaped her ponytail.
Ashar made a little, unconvinced pout but reported her attention back on U'bhuti, who started to squeal because she had stopped feeding him.
"Well, if you are so sure that 'nothing could, can and will happen' – as you say – why are you so touchy on the subject? Why do you let yourself get so worked up?" Clairvoix asked calmly.
"Give it a rest, Clairvoix." Sigrid sighed, picking up the toad and starting to pet him in her lap.
Clairvoix decided not to give her any rest and attacked again. "Have you ever thought that, if you had kissed Lucien first, maybe now you would not be pregnant with Martin's child, but with our dear Speaker's…"
Lucien's baby… For some reason, the friendly face of Lachance as a child flashed in Sigrid's mind and she opened her eyes to chase them resolutely away.
"I refuse to discuss the matter further with you!" she growled to Clairvoix. "Your word-twisting is close to indecency! With such things as 'if' and 'maybe', I could make the Imperial City fit in a bottle! Martin was… is the man I love! Nothing or no one will ever replace him!" Sigrid hissed, remembering not to shout.
"Maybe…" the sword whispered mischievously. "But you are still afraid to use the datadice, aren't you?"
"I am not!" Sigrid snapped, feeling tears sting her eyes.
"Prove it then."
"All right!" she spat, retrieving the datadice and cursing herself for having let Clairvoix taking her in so easily. "All right! If it is the only way to make you shut the fuck up, I am going to use the damn cube! Happy?!"
Without waiting for the sword to answer, Sigrid took the datadice in between her hands, closed her eyes and whispered the ballad of Death's Servant until the datadice opened. She then tried to empty her head from all her feelings and thought – quite a challenge given her current state of mind – until the now familiar dark maelstrom sucked her up.
When Sigrid opened her eyes, she was contemplating a large hall full of well-dressed people, most of them conversing with their neighbours, most of them holding in their hands a cup of whine, a little toast, or, in some cases, both at the same time…
"A ball?" Sigrid wondered, her eyes lighting on the little details, one at a time.
"A reception, I would say…" Clairvoix informed her. "Do you remember? J'Ghasta mentioned it during our last visit in his thoughts…"
Sigrid nodded mentally. Yes, a reception… Or more precisely, the reception organised by Lord Saevus, the ruler of Howldeath, as shown by the overabundance of draperies at the colour of the city hanging from the ceiling, the huge braziers burning at the four corners of the place and the tables covered in overpriced, almost inedible 'delicacies'. One could feel that the lord of the manor wanted to put on a big show, but the result was clearly lacking a taste, and even had a "careerist" touch…
Sigrid decided to forget about her aesthetic considerations and directed her attention on the sensations experienced by her host, who was observing the room and its occupants carefully. He was letting his tongue running nonchalantly along his teeth among which were an unusual – to Sigrid's way of thinking - and rather impressive pair of fangs.
Sigrid smiled. This time, she was back in Vicente's mind…
The vampire was lazily leaning against one of the pillars of the reception room, sipping a cup of wine thanks to a straw he had introduced in the mouth opening of his mask of black ceramic – a present from Rivanone, who had made it her duty to make sure her beloved vampire had at his disposal a fashionable and useful accessory to conceal his face during the "public" moments of his missions as a Dark Brotherhood assassin.
Vicente shifted, readjusting his heavy velvet cloak. The temperature in the hall was stifling, and he was boiling under the many layers of clothes he wore. But someone who was supposed to have survived the Purple Plague was not supposed to wear less than the three layers of clothes Vicente was currently supporting. It was an inalienable element of the credibility of his part. Indeed, wasn't this terrible disease supposed, in the worst cases, make its victim's skin melt like wax, turning them into living and skinless parodies of what they once were, forced for the rest of their life to wear numerous layers of clothes impregnated with opium decoctions to protect their now-exposed muscles against the elements and the pain?
Of course, such an outfit restricted the vampire's movements more than he liked, and Vicente knew that, in case of trouble, he would have difficulty using his sword efficiently. Nevertheless, his role as an infirm survivor offered many advantages. People tended to see him as perfectly nonthreatening, and there was not exactly a huge crowd trying to see what exactly was hiding under the mask and the robes…
Vicente sighed, pushed the straw away with his tongue and resumed his careful examination of the guests… There was an individual who seemed to particularly attract his attention…
The baron Silvius Marcus Saevus, lord and master of Howldeath, standing in the middle of the hall, surrounded by a horde of courtiers. The former Legion officer was a good head taller than everyone in the room. Despite he was over fifty years old, he was still a redoubtable fighter, Vicente was sure.
Powerfully well-built, his impressive musculature barely weathered by the years showed through slightly under clothes and his hands, muscled by the prolonged handling of the sword, looked huge. He kept the regulation closed-cropped haircut of the Legion, but his chin was covered in a bushy black beard totally prohibited in the Imperial military forces.
"Saevus." Vicente thought, his eyes following the Baron across the room. "'Cruel', in Imperialin…"
Really, no name could have suited the lord of Howldeath better, as he exuded violence and death… Indeed, the ex-commander Silvius Saevus was well known in the military world for his propensity to use the decimatio, the much-dreaded martial sanction which consisted in executing one soldier in every ten, as well as for having organised the bloodiest civilian massacres in the rebellious regions of Skyrim.
Vicente knew this kind of man very well, as he had met many other "Lord Saevuses" during his long life… Field officers come up from the ranks but mediocre military commanders, who never achieved any brilliant action in their life, and who, in their impatience to show the world their courage, committed terrible mistakes which lead to the massacre of their troops…and it was always the troops who paid for those mistakes.
Lord Silvius Saevus was no exception to the rule. His desire to prove himself had pushed him to become reckless, and the massacre of his subordinates during a stupid engagement in the frosty forests of Skyrim lead to his definitive disgrace. Embittered and convinced he had been victim of a plot to keep him a low ranked officer despite his valour, he left the Legion.
He finally resolved himself to marry a rich heir, Lydia Agylica, baroness of Howldeath, gaining the wealth and honours refused him when he was a soldier. But even there, things did not go according to plan. Lord Saevus' wife died five years after their marriage – which was not displeasing to the Baron, who held no affection for his wife – and a few weeks ago, his beloved son Corvus had joined his mother, after drowning in the lake he used to swim with his friends.
And so there was Baron Saevus… A lonely and bitter tyrant, his rights over his lands contested by his Dunmer neighbours, hated and feared by his people, and ruling his household with the same kind of discipline he used in his entrenched camps in Skyrim.
Vicente was not fooled, not even for a second, for a heartbeat.
Despite the festive ambiance, Howldeath reeked of fear, and Lord Saevus' unstable temper was certainly no small factor to the deleterious atmosphere hovering over his property like a heavy shadow…
The hall suddenly echoed with the guttural laugh of the former legionnaire, guffawing at one of his courtiers' flash of wit. In the red lights of the braziers, Saevus looked more than ever like an ogre. Vicente shivered in disgust and preferred turning his attention back to a far more pleasant sight…
A few feet from him, Rivanone was practising one of her favourite pastimes: seduction.
As lady of a certain social status and a very much-in-demand bard, the Speaker was accustomed to those long and often daunting receptions, and she had learned a few techniques for staving off the inevitable boredom, to which she added her own personal touch. Vicente always took a great pleasure observing her in action…
Lady Trencavel's favourite trick consisted in following around the servants carrying the trays of food and drinks which allowed her to eat and drink as much as she felt like. But it was also the best way she had found to meet as many people as possible and to gather plenty of useful information…
Vicente's lips stretched in an amused smile as he watched her babbling excitedly about the last fashionable musical creations with a bunch of fat and old men who were sweating abundantly – not so much because of the heat in the room than because they had an unobstructed view afforded by Rivanone's ample bosom and low-cut bodice.
After all, those powerful, rich and often egocentric men were certainly extremely flattered by the attention a pretty lady like Rivanone might bestow upon them. What they most likely no please them was the fact that the pretty lady in question already knew everything concerning their lives and, according to the information gathered, had determined the best way to put an end to them.
A tray of drinks passed by, and, in a silky whirling of her robe, Rivanone followed it to join another groups of people.
Vicente sighed and slipped his straw back in the hole of the mask to drink more of his wine. To think he was once an adept at this kind of high-society party. He had had to forget about them after he received the Dark Gift. Now, fortunately for him, there was the young Janus Hassildor and his "guaranteed hundred percent vampire" parties…Vicente smiled.
"Excuse me, sir…?"
Vicente did not move his head, but his eyes slowly moved from Rivanone figure standing at the limit of his range of vision.
"We have not been introduced, I think." the voice continued, speaking Imperial with a slight accent, and Vicente was ready to bet his interlocutor was a member of the Dunmer delegation.
"Bingo." He thought as he finally turned to face the voice, a young-looking Dunmer – but in the case of Elves, it was always hard to determine their exact age – wearing the traditional outfit of his land, a long robe and a headband which hold his long and slightly curly black hair back his forehead. Vicente thought he was extremely handsome – even if a bit too "feminine" in his opinion.
"I am Master Araklos Drothan, lords Avoni Dren and Methas Hlaalu's personal advisor." The young Dark Elf continued in his lilting voice, gesturing toward two other Dark Elves who were following him. "We are sorry to accost you in such a cavalier way, but my companions and I were wondering if, by any chance, you would not be Master Valtieri, Lady Rivanone's musician…"
Vicente's eyes narrowed. Yes, this Dunmer put it he did not like to be accosted like that. Usually, people were avoiding any kind of contact with the plague victim he was, but apparently, these three Elves did not care.
"My lords." the vampire replied, a bit on the defensive, but hiding his trouble with a quick reverence. "I am indeed Vicente Valtieri, Lady Trencavel's personal musician. Meeting you is a great honour…"
"The honour is all ours, Master Valtieri." Lord Dren interrupted him with a nasal tone which immediately got on the vampire's nerves. "Meeting an artist of your class is the dream of any music lover!"
Vicente replied to the compliment with a short jerk of the head, and while the Dunmer continued to rave about Vicente's musical talent, the vampire's mind quickly reviewed all the records of the members of the Dunmer delegations Rivanone had given him in preparation for their mission. Of the three men he had just met, Lord Dren's was certainly the longest and the saucier…
Avoni Dren, from the House Telvanni, was a pure extract of vice – but what else to expect from the most extremist of the Telvannis, who, in their phobia of anything exogenous, had authorised breeding between close relatives? And if endogamy could lead to wonderful specimen like Master Drothan – physically speaking at least – its abusive practise could sometimes lead to decadent creatures like Dren…
Avoni Dren was once one of King Helseth of Morrowind's favourite courtiers, appreciated for his great political skills, but unfortunately, his excessive taste for young children, especially little boys, and the many relating scandals had forced Helseth to remove him from the centre of power. Nevertheless, the king of Morrowind still required Dren's services for occasional missions, and the latter was doing his best to polish up his image. But he had not succeeded yet in coming back into Helseth's favour…
But it was above all Dren's physical condition that impressed Vicente. He had never seen a fat Elf before, or any living creature with that number of double chins… The vampire stared at them, fascinated, as they trembled and wobbled as Dunmer kept extolling his love of music. Through the discourse, a strange thought crossed Vicente's mind… Maybe Lord Dren's double chins were like the rings in tree trunks, and counting them would give you his exact age…? Vicente chuckled inwardly at the inappropriateness of his thoughts. Aaah, Telvanni…! Quite a bunch of characters, really…
"… and this is what makes me say she is certainly the most talented person of her generation." Avoni Dren concluded with a satisfied little smile.
"Your lordship is a connoisseur." Vicente replied politely. His remark was perfectly lulling, but he could barely say something else given he had only paid attention to the last few words of the Dunmer's speech.
"I am." Lord Dren puffed himself up, his fat body quivering with pride. "I have myself composed a few odes..."
"Fascinating…" Vicente replied, bracing himself for a long and boring discussion on Lord Dren's so-called musical talents.
Fortunately, Methas Hlaalu – who apparently was not ecstatic at the prospect either – intervened. "Tell me, Master Valtieri. How long have you been collaborating with Lady Trencavel?"
"For a bit more than ten years now, I think." Vicente answered smoothly.
Hlaalu was about to reply, but Araklos Drothan interrupted him.
"You must know her quite well." the young Dunmer observed.
Vicente smiled and chuckled inwardly. If only he knew…
"Indeed, and I feel honoured to have remained her personal musician for all these years. It is not given to everyone to be able to work for such a long period of time with…"
Drothan's harmonious featured stretched in a smile Vicente found rather unpleasant.
"I was not talking of your professional relations with her, Master Valtieri…"
"Drothan…" Lord Hlaalu warned, frowning. It was clear he did not like the track the discussion was taking, contrary to Lord Dren who seemed to enjoy the show a lot.
"It is fine, your lordship." Vicente replied in a forced conciliatory voice. "Master Drothan has the right to be curious – and he is not the first one… No, my relationship with Lady Trencavel is strictly professional. And anyway, it could hardly be otherwise. Even if the Purple Plague has rather spared me compared to some other extreme cases, I doubt that anyone would find attractive what is hiding behind this mask…"
"Oh, but certain women would find your… state quite exotic, if I may say…" Araklos Drothan sniggered. Vicente was not sure what kind of game the Dark Elf was playing nor if he was really trying to blow the vampire's top, but he was certainly getting on the vampire's nerves.
"I think you should discuss the matter directly with Lady Trencavel, Master Drothan." the vampire replied coolly. "She would answer better than I, questions about her sexual preferences."
"Ah, Vicente! Here you are!"
Saved, Vicente smiled beneath his mask.
The four men turned as one in the direction of the voice. Rivanone Trencavel sailed towards them, radiant in her dark grey and night blue robe. At the sight, Vicente felt his inside melting, but he applied himself to recover his mind quickly. It was not the moment to swoon over the lady who held his heart – especially with that nosy s'wit Drothan around…
"I see you have met Lords Dren and Hlaalu as well as young Master Drothan!" Rivanone cooed in the affected tone she liked to use when in company. "And would you mind telling me what your four are plotting in your corner…?" she beamed coyly at them.
"We were saying to Master Valtieri here it was an incomparable shame such a lovely woman like you remains widowed." Lord Methas said, giving a gallant summary of Drothan's disgusting allusions.
"Ah, but I guess men are a bit weary to marry Lady Rivanone now, given the number of husbands she has buried…" Drothan purred.
Vicente resisted the urge to throw the contents of his cup of wine in the Dark Elf's face, before throwing the Dark Elf out a window. The latter had wanted his remark to be humorous, but again, his tone was full of insinuations and the little smile at the corner of his mouth irked the vampire to the extreme...Vicente tried to remember what he had read on this character account, but nothing he could remember was really worth any kind of attention - and that worrying him more.
However, Rivanone did not seem destabilised by the comment and she nudged the young Dunmer, giggling. "Ah, yes, of course. It's understandable. But don't worry, Master Drothan, I did make sure my late lamented husband was actually dead before they buried him!"
And the bard punctuated her flash of wit with one of her typical crystalline and totally confident laugh. The remark was so cheeky it took the three Dunmer completely aback, and, unable to reply anything, they simply stared at her, jaws dropped.
Vicente resisted the urge to palm his face. One day, he would give his companion and colleague a little lesson on the appropriate use of black humour… Rivanone was relying too much on thinking that nerve could clear up doubts, ignoring that sometimes it only reinforced them…
In this case, though, the moment of unease dissipated quickly when Drothan started to chuckle, then to laugh himself silly along with Rivanone as if she had just said the funniest thing in the world. He was quickly imitated by Lord Dren, and Vicente finally decided himself to join them. Only Lord Hlaalu remained rather unenthusiastic, contenting himself with a small forced smile while his eyes remained cold.
Vicente frowned behind his mask. Like for Drothan, none of the information the assassins had on Lord Methas Hlaalu were particularly interesting, but there was something in Lord Methas Hlaalu's attitude which set the vampire thinking he was more than a mere Dunmer lord on a diplomatic mission… The man standing in front of him was a hardened combatant, Vicente was ready to swear it.
"Could he be from the Morag Tong…?" the vampire thought, trying to stay impassive. After all, the possible infiltration of Morag Tong agents in the Dunmer delegation was the main reason of their presence at Howldeath summit. From what Rivanone had told him, Helseth was playing a double game, feigning good will when he accepted to discuss with the Imperials, but recruiting Morag Tong assassins to make sure the negotiations failed. To be honest, Vicente was not sure where the interest of the Brotherhood lay in making sure the Imperial and the Dunmer found a compromise, but after all, he was not paid to ask such questions. No, his main goal was to find the Morag Tong agents – and eliminate them if necessary…
"Strange bunch, those three…" Vicente thought as everybody recovered from their laughing fit. Indeed, what a Hlaalu lord was doing with two Telvanni, and one in a state of disgrace? He promised himself to talk about it to Rivanone later…
"Hey, isn't that Khajiit your servant?" Drothan suddenly asked, pointing at a silhouette trying to slip unnoticed in the hall – without success.
"You are well informed..." Rivanone hissed, her eyes narrowing in annoyance at the sight of J'Ghasta. "Yes, J'Ghasta is our servant, and he was not supposed to show his face here…!" Rivanone almost yelled the last part of her sentence to make sure she was heard across the room. Her voice echoed in the hall, and several guests turned toward her – among them J'Ghasta.
The Khajiit's eyes riveted on Vicente and Rivanone and his ears flattened on his head, making him looking like a puppy caught after having done something nasty on the carpet. He tried to smile and to make a little friendly gesture with his hand at his masters but he finally cowered under Rivanone's killing glance.
"Hard to find competent personnel, isn't it?" Dren chuckled as he observed J'Ghasta.
The Khajiit was desperately looking for a way to escape Rivanone's anger, and his salvation came in the form of a little boy arrived here the Gods knew how and who was gesturing frantically to attract J'Ghasta's attention. The Khajiit hesitated but finally followed him, disappearing in one of the perpendicular corridors.
"Is the child part of your staff also?" Dren asked again, sipping his wine with an affected coolness.
Rivanone shook her head.
"I've never seen him before."
"Shame…What a nice little boy!" the Dunmer chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something that strongly offended Vicente and Rivanone. Even the companions of the fat Dunmer looked somewhat embarrassed and tried not to look at each other.
"Yes…" Hlaalu said in a cough. "Oh, Lady Trencavel… You did not tell us if we would have the pleasure to listen to one of your recitals tonight…?"
"Oh no, not tonight, I am afraid!" Rivanone replied enthusiastically, to happy to change of subject. "Lord Saevus has planned a speech, so…"
Rivanone's voice suddenly got covered by someone else's and Sigrid reintegrated her body violently. She blinked and raised her head. Ashar was talking to her – or Sigrid supposed so, because the Khajiit's lips were moving – shaking her by the shoulder. She had packed all her things again and U'bhuti was glaring from Sigrid from the inside of the pack on Ashar's back.
"Whuuut?" Sigrid gargled, blinking and trying not to loose her balance.
"Sorry to interrupt your…" Ashar made a dubitative pout as she looked for the appropriate term. "… meditation, Berthe but we have to go. We can't stay here any longer..."
"Why?" Sigrid asked rather stupidly. A powerful roar coming from the distance answered her. "All right. What was that?" the Breton said in a little voice.
"A pack of Senches hunting…" Ashar explained, looking worried. "Now you understand why I don't want to stay here any longer…?"
"Yes and I approve totally!" Sigrid exclaimed as she clambered to her feet. She still felt extremely tired, drained, but the memory of the terrible big cats mounted by the mercenary was still vivid in her mind.
She did not want to face such monsters against any cost.
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Standing still on the terrace of his apartments, King Sha'ka contemplated the amazing landscape stretching before his eyes. His private balcony offered him an absolutely breath taking view on the city of Torval as well as its surroundings, and the Khajiit lord liked spending a bit of time here in the morning, just to relax...
The maze of Torval's streets meandered in front of him, before they stopped at the ramparts. In the distance, the cloud of dust produced by hundreds of slaves working at the building site rose into the air. The dark-furred Khajiit's eyes fixed upon it, and he let a preoccupied finger running along his lower jaw, his tail winding round his muscular calves nervously.
Raksada assured him the work was progressing well and that the Ultimate Resonator should be ready in less than two weeks. It was actually earlier than initially planned, but in the light of the recent developments, the king was wondering if it would be enough… There was no room for approximations in his plans, the arrival of the Empire emissaries added an uncertain variable in the course of the operations. And if there was something King Sha'ka did not like, it was uncertainty…
Indeed, a man – or rather, cat – of his calibre had not reached his position by leaving anything to chance, and his project of defeating the Empire had been carefully planned and organised for years.
Indeed, all Sha'ka had undertaken those last ten years had been one step on the road to achieving his ultimate objective: the transformation of the doleful army of the South into the fearful regiments they were now, the complete change of the military equipment of his troops –developing the use of large but light shields and short spears – but also of their training as well as of the military strategies – as the Imperial garrisons had found out to their cost.
Of course, such revolution in the Khajiiti concept of warfare had not happened without meeting some resistance…
The king sighed. Why people did not want to understand? Things could have gone smoothly since having to go through a civil war… If only this old fool of Bhek'Iziwe Nowalzi Thenj'Iwe had been a bit less stubborn…!
Sha'ka's thought were interrupted by a familiar metallic sound which brought a smile to his face. He did not need to turn around to know that his beloved concubine Naandi was standing behind him…
"You look preoccupied, O Incosi." she announced demurely. "Maybe a bit of company would cheer you up?"
Sha'ka turned around with a kind expression on his face, which would have surprised his detractors, who only saw him some kind of heartless killing machine.
"A king is always worried, Naandi." He said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her near him. "But no doubt Sha'ka is certainly going to enjoy your presence immensely." he added with a smile as he buried his face in her abundant and soft mane. "But I don't think you have come here only to enjoy my company, am I right?" the king continued as he pushed the Princess away gently to look at her face.
She smiled at him. "No indeed, O King of kings... I came because… I have a favour to ask you." Naandi hesitated.
"There is not much I can refuse you." Sha'ka encouraged her.
The Princess continued to look hesitant, until she finally took the plunge. "Well, I thought a lot during the last few days…Given your power has been recognised by all the ubasis around Elsweyr and that you are going to be crowned Incosi soon…" Naandi bit her lower lip, trying to find the proper words. "Well, I just wonder if you could spare his life now he is not a danger for you anymore…"
Naandi had not named explicitly the potential beneficiary of the favour, but the latter knew too well who she was talking about… Sha'ka's features hardened suddenly at the words and he turned his back to her, crossing his arms behind his back as he let his eyes scanning the landscape again.
"Of all the favours who could ask, this is the only one I can't satisfy…" he commented darkly.
"But…!"
"We discussed that already, Naandi, and my decision on the subject is irrevocable."
The princess's ears flattened on her head and she grabbed him the shoulder, forcing him to face her. "It is unfair, Sha'ka! He doesn't deserve to die! He is so…"
"I know, Naandi." the king interrupted her, freeing his shoulder as gently as possible from Naandi's grip. "But the redemption of Elsweyr requires him to…"
"Killing him won't change anything, O Incosi! Even if you do so, a new one will be born, and even if you kill this one too, there will be another one, things like this occur regularly, continue until the end of times!"
Sha'ka shook his head.
"You are wrong. Eighty lunar eclipses will pass before one of his kind see daylight again. In the meanwhile, many things can happen, and a society can change drastically…"
"Others tried before you, and they all failed!" Naandi protested forcefully.
"They failed because they were not well prepared." Sha'ka replied with, for the first time since the beginning of their argument, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "History will show I was right!"
"History…" Naandi sniggered. "You don't fear it to regard you as cruel because you are extremely clever, do you, Sha'ka?" Naandi commented with a hint of sadness in her voice, quickly replaced by bitterness as her eyes narrowed. "But believe me, Incosi, having brains will not avoid you being considered by future generations as heartless."
The king looked at the Princess with an undecipherable expression on his face, before he gave a weary shrug. "Who knows how I will be remembered, Naandi…" he started softly but firmly, his eyes lost in the distance again. "As you said, maybe I will be considered as a depraved ogre whose thirst for conquest knows no limits and who deluged his country with innocent blood, disregarding the most sacred ties of affection, turning father against son, son against brother, in a bloodbath that defies description…" The Khajiit made a pause and his chops curled up in a satisfied smile. "But I prefer to think that enlightened spirits will recognise in me a visionary who did not hesitate to get his hands dirty to lead his people out of the dark ages of superstitions and fear to the place where they belong to – that is to say at the head of the whole nations of Mundus."
"Not so long ago, you still believed hard in those 'superstitions' you now pretend to despise so much, Sha'ka…" Naandi declared softly.
"People change."
"And isn't there anything that can make you change your mind?" Naandi begged him.
"No."
The female Khajiit suddenly looked extremely tired and she slowly let her self collapsed on the ground at the king's feet. "How can you pretend to love me if you are ready to destroy everything which is important in my eyes…?" she whispered with tears in her eyes.
Sha'ka considered silently his pretty concubine with compassion, and with a sigh, helped her to her feet.
"You knew mixing your destiny with mine would require certain sacrifices, Naandi." he said in a low voice, taking her in his arms again. "I thought I had been clear on that…"
"All this is Raksada's fault…" the princess spat bitterly somewhere in Sha'ka's neck. "It's him he who crammed your head with all those nonsense!"
The king rolled his eyes.
"I know you irrevocably loath him, but whatever you may think of Raksada, I always found his advice quite useful. His decisions had never been motivated by personal gain, and…"
The princess looked stunned. How an individual as clever as Sha'ka could be that blind on the true nature of the Dark Elf? But astonishment was soon replaced by anger. She pushed the king from her a bit more roughly than necessary and pointed an angry forefinger at the building site.
"This project of Raksada's? Not motivated by personal gains?! What about the labour force for his project of constructing a weapon to defeat the Empire? He gains at the cost of every one of your victories over other tribes!" Naandi roared. "Khajiiti, working day and nights to satisfy his ambitions – as well as yours!" Her tail slashed the air angrily and she lowered her voice so much she was almost murmuring. "Tell me, Sha'ka… Since when do your plans concerning our people include turning them into slaves…?"
The king's face darkened and for a while, he looked he was about to slap his female companion. But however ruthless Sha'ka was, he was not the kind of men to beat women out of anger, and the female Khajiit raised a fair point.
"I trust Raksada, whether you like it or not." Sha'ka replied abruptly. "You have the right not to like him, but not the right to contest his decisions – nor mine…" he added in a threatening voice, but it did not seem enough to calm down the Princess.
"Raksada corrupts everything he touches!" Naandi yelled. "Even you! Look at yourself, Sha'ka…! He turned the great warrior you were into a common butcher!" She stopped, her shoulders moving up and down as she breathed heavily.
Sha'ka was as immobile as a statute, and Naandi realised she went too far.
"I refuse to discuss with you when you are in such a state." the king finally replied coolly. "Go back to calm down in your apartments." His eyes narrowed and a severe expression painted on his face. "And I strongly advise you not to come here again to make a scene. Despite my deep attachment to you, Naandi, there are limits to my patience…"
Naandi's pursued her lips, bitterly submitting to her lord's wish. She was clever enough to know when she had lost, and still shaking in anger, she turned on her heels and left the king's apartments. But she had not said her last word...
"If he refuses to listen to me," she thought, fighting her urge to burst out in angry tears, "I will find help somewhere else!"
(1) According to a survey conducted over three trillions E four individuals across the Multiverse. People with shaving habits similar to Lucien's represent one percent, and you really would not like to know about the habits of the left nine percents.
Source: Multiverse Corporation.