So sorry for the delay in writing! I've been super busy with work and d&d stuff. I promise to update more, so don't give up on me! 3 Also, this chapter gave me grief, and I'm not completely satisfied with it. That being said, if you find yourself hating it, never fear! The next chapter will be better, action packed even.
The Elder Scrolls and all NPCs belong to Bethesda. I make no money from writing.
Elisif hated the cold.
The Imperial City had been cold enough in the winter, but that season was short. Her fireplace was always well stoked and blankets piled high on the bed. Of course, she also had him to warm her bed and chase away the chill. Even when she had been taken, stolen away for all those years against her will, it had never been particularly cold in Morrowind. This, however...this was terrible.
She glanced down at the dagger he had given her, all encrusted with rubies at the hilt, inlaid with silver and enchanted with ice magick. This piece had been formed in Skyrim at a legendary forge, or so he had told her. It certainly was a fine weapon, as well as the only possession she still had from her youth. How it had stayed safely near her, tucked away in the vaults of her captors, she never knew, but it didn't matter. It was made for the cold, and she could almost imagine that it would sing in this frigid air were she ever to use it.
With a huff the Hero of Kvatch turned from the parapets of Cloud Ruler Temple, trudging back inside and settling down on an empty bedroll. She placed her gear in a chest at the head of the bedroll, cleaning the Akiviri katana as she placed it inside. A handsome weapon to be sure, and one she could use when a dagger simply wasn't enough. It was only that treasured little blade she kept out, stuck under her pillow as it had been for years. She smiled a little while thinking about it as she drifted off to sleep.
It had been a solid month that he'd been in Skyrim. That frozen province was everything an assassin could sink his teeth into: hard, unforgiving, merciless. Legendary forges, frozen cities, dwemer ruins filled to the gills with deadly mechanations protecting vast treasure, all of it wrapped in a jagged and cold landscape.
The time had arrived wherein he was on the last leg of this series of contracts. Riften was his final destination. A woman wanted her husband and his various mistresses killed, their heads placed in the Chapel of Mara as a symbol to all women who had been betrayed by lovers. The whole thing was poetic in a way.
Getting rid of the heads was very easy, and after considering the night sky and knowing that departure back home in the middle of the night was inconvenient if not downright foolhardy, Lucien Lachance turned to head towards the nearest inn. No sooner had he turned, however, than a young man bumped into him, shoving roughly against his shoulder.
He noticed immediately, of course; those trained in the arts of stealth surely know when someone is trying to be discreet, trying to hide their slight of hand. This dark haired young Nord was fast and quiet, but he had nothing on the seasoned Dark Brother. The Nord thought he had fooled the man, even turned to apologize before heading towards the city graveyard, and Lucien let him believe it. The Nordling walked off leisurely, unassumingly, and Lucien followed, truly stealthy and predatory.
The thief nearly made it to his destination, a somewhat sunken crypt, when leather clad hands siezed him. The hooded assassin smirked at the suddenly frightened Nord, shoved him against the stone wall and kept him pinned with the weight on his body. One arm was pressed roughly against the thief's neck, constricting the airflow, consticting his speech, while the other hand worked with a dagger.
"Such intriguing eyes. Yes. A fair exchange, I think." The grin that met the now terrified and struggling thief was one of pure joy, elation and cruelty.
It was many moments later, when the moons rode higher into the sky, when the assassin rode his mount at breakneck speed back to Cyrodiil, that the thief Gormir was found, a sobbing, hysterical mess clutching a fine leather coinpurse, blood puddled around the beautiful hazel eyes that once graced his now permanently marred face.
Elisif woke with a start, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looking around the room. Without a word she dressed quietly, arming herself with the katana and dagger and tossing a cloak over her shoulders. Though the room was filled with the snores of exhausted Blades, the rest of the complex was quiet and still. The courtyard was dark, several braziers being the only points of brightness on the moonless night. No one questioned her as she walked across the battlements, peering out into the frozen wilderness with a growing dread.
The Blades on duty more or less acted as though she did not exist, and only when she spoke first was she acknowledged at all. It was almost a shock to hear her own voice ask to be allowed through the gate.
"We will not unlock the place until morning. If you go out now, you will be on your own for several hours. Are you sure that's wise?" the Redguard questioned, and to that Elisif only shrugged and walked through the doors.
"I'll be at the Tap and Tack if anyone has need of me." The guards shook their heads and watched her sashay into the darkness.
It had been a long walk from the temple to the gates of Bruma. Bandits and wolves prowled the night, and her dagger indeed sang in the cold air, slicing through sinew and tendons as though they were butter. Still, the weary woman could not even entertain the notion of sleep when her mind turned so savagely.
The town of Bruma slept, but the taproom was full of business. Her first fence in the Theives Guild would knock back drinks there every night, but instead of talking to the world-weary man as was her custom, she slipped past him, ordering a pint and sipping it by the fire. Her hands were regaining feeling very slowly, but it was better than being stuck in the Temple on the hilltop.
Gradually the Hero's eyes became heavy, and she stood and stretched, nodding to Ongar as she went to purchase a room for the night. Even with her hood drawn the man recognized her, but instead of his usual discretion, her guildmate greeted her loudly.
"Greetings my friend!" Ongar answered, uncharacteristically energetic as he clapped Elisif on the back roughly, "Is it true what I heard? That you closed the Oblivion Gate at Kvatch?" at her hesitant nod he laughed, "You're a damn hero, Elisif!" The great nord man embraced her heartily, whispering that if she needed to fence and goods to come by later, then released her with a boisterous farewell.
After that little incident, anonymity was impossible. Everyone was buying drinks for the Hero of Kvatch, and when her hood was knocked off and a pair of fellow mages recognized her, they started congratulating her on making Arch-Mage. Another hour passed wherein alcohol was forced on the poor woman until eventually she had to stand and stagger over to Olav, requesting a room for the night and sashaying down the hall to collapse drunkenly on the bed.
Unfortunately for her, anonymity was not an option in Bruma, thanks to Ongar the World Weary Gossipmonger. Before passing out Elisif made the vague promise to herself that if this managed to get her in trouble, Ongar's would be the first ass she would kick. With that thought she drifted into blessedly dreamless sleep, completely unaware of the eyes that had watched her with barely veiled interest in the taproom.
