A/N: Events of Chapters 13 & 14 take place simultaneously

Chapter 14

Casair

Unlike the rest of her faction, Casair didn't restrict herself to Forsworn camps. Neither did she dress like most Forsworn bandits. She had learnt to accept the simple fact that until their kind received recognition, armed struggles would be futile. The Forsworn, as long as they remained true to their customs and traditions, would never be able to match up to the Nords.

Casair dressed like any normal Breton woman. She had always kept her dark-brown hair parted down the middle. That way, her bangs were pushed to the sides and curled neatly below her chin, sparing her the annoyance of having to constantly push hair away from in front of her eyeballs. She took care to avoid public confrontations with anybody, steering clear of potentially troublesome situations whenever she could. This allowed her to travel with impunity.

The incident with Grelod, however, had been an exception.

Casair had felt bad for the boy grovelling at her feet. He had mistaken her for a Dark Brotherhood assassin. She had found him by the Riften canal, trying to jump over the gates, and had decided to investigate the matter. From what the boy had told her, Grelod the Kind, matron of Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, used to beat the stuffing out of the children in a most brutal and humiliating fashion. Aventus, for that was the boy's name, had himself been subject to such beatings often enough. Not only that, Grelod often resorted to starving the children and selling them to slave traders and rapists. Indeed, Aventus had witnessed, on more than one occasion, the lifeless bodies of his former friends floating in the sewers. The guards turned a blind eye. There was a time when the deaths of pre-pubescent children were commonplace. Casair had been moved by the boy's tearful proclamations and had helped the boy escape to his family home in Windhelm..

She recalled the way she had covered Grelod's face with a pillow and plunged her short sword into her throat, through the pillow, and dragged it down to the sternum. The old crone had writhed in pain for a short while before ceasing her struggle. It was then that Casair had removed the pillow and witnessed firsthand the way Grelod's face had twisted in a paroxysm of agony. It was an expression no mortal eyes should ever have to witness. To rid the subsequent discoverer of the body of a recurring nightmare, she had shaved off the dead whore's face.

She sighed deeply as she occupied a seat at the Bee and Barb and ordered a late breakfast. A loaf of bread and some steak would do her good and revitalise her. She had taken few breaks during the long walk from the Reach to the Rift and was famished. The reason behind her visit to the Hold capital was to see for herself the effects of her actions… and to gain some information.

The culprit always returns to the scene of the crime, she thought and smiled grimly as she took a gulp of mead.

By Red Eagle's figurative feathers! This stuff was good! She had come to like the Nords' favorite drink and also appreciate why they liked it so, but this was her very first time trying out Black-Briar mead and she had to confess, this was without a doubt the best tasting mead she had ever had!

Perhaps she ought to buy some for Ailig? Nah. Knowing the guy and his hatred for all things Nordic, he would much rather feed it to the fucking goat. Casair frowned. She would rather die than become an accessory to the intoxication of a harmless, albeit annoyingly loud, animal.

"Can this one sit, nya? All other tables are occupied and this one only wants to have a meal in peace. Khajiit promises to not bother the Breton lady, nya."

Casair looked at the Khajiit who had approached her. He was clad in yellowish-orange robes, like those worn by the priests and priestesses of the Divines. The Khajiit had pulled his hood back, exposing his face. He had light orange-ish fur and green eyes. Two earrings adorned his right ear. As a rule, Casair didn't trust these cat people. They were known for being untrustworthy, notoriously so. How was she to know that this particular Khajiit had not murdered some helpless priest and was currently masquerading as one? Now that she thought about it, were cat people even allowed inside the city walls? She doubted it. But this was Riften and money talked here. On top of that, the Khajiit, if he was indeed a murderer, wouldn't try anything in a tavern filled with people. Right?

If the catman did indeed attempt something, Casair could always resort to retaliation and she was quite confident in her art of swordplay that she might be able to drive back the potential threat. Giving him a small sigh, she nodded to the Khajiit who responded with a grin of his own and sat across from her.

"Talen!" the Khajiit called out to the Argonian proprietor and placed his order. Casiar looked down at her plate and proceeded to sip her meal in silence, occasionally shooting furtive glances at her companion. The Khajiit was peacefully chewing on his fried fish and true to his word, had not uttered a word. He was a rather curious one, this Khajiit. Of course, Casair had never before seen a Khajiit up close before. She had come across their caravans on her travels, but to actually share a table with one was a completely new experience for her.

"This one is named Omiq."

That caught Casair off-guard. "Huh?"

"The girl has been glancing curiously at Omiq for a while now. So this one thought the girl would be interested in getting acquainted, nya," Omiq finished his fish and wrapped his fingers around a mead bottle. "Clearly Omiq was mistaken. This one offers his most sincere apologies, nya."

"D-Don't apologize!" Casair stammered. "I-It's just that I've never seen Khajiit inside city walls before…"

"And were curious, nya. It's only natural." Omiq smiled gently. "This one is a humble priest of Arkay. As such, this status allows Omiq to travel freely all over Tamriel."

Casair nodded, not believing a word. The Khajiit however, went on.

"This one came to Riften on a journey of enlightenment. However, Omiq digresses," he said and paused. "What is the Breton lady's name? If she does not mind divulging, nya."

"Casair."

"Hmm. Lovely name, that, nya. Not quite Bretonic, however," Omiq observed casually.

Casair swore inwardly. She knew she should have lied about the name. It betrayed her roots blatantly. Now if the cat had enough brains to figure it out and raise the alarm, she would be fucked. Imperially.

"Thank you," she forced out somehow. Omiq only smiled and continued eating. He did not say a word and Casair found it difficult to swallow her bread. She could only stare as Omiq slowly finished the last fish on his plate and drained his mead bottle of the liquid before leaning back into his chair and burping satisfactorily.

"The fish in these parts do you a power of good, nya. Definitely better than back in Solitude," the so-called priest of Arkay said with a shake of his head and rose to his feet, placing a small coin purse on the table. "It's been a pleasure meeting the lady, nya. Omiq wishes her a great day and a prosperous journey."

Casair could only nod in response. Why wasn't the cat raising the alarm?

Omiq walked past her towards her, but a coin purse fell from within his robes and the coins scattered all over the floor near her feet.

"Silly me," Omiq clicked his tongue and knelt on the floor and proceeded to pick up the coins and place them back in the purse. Casair was hesitant in lending a hand lest the Khajiit rat her out. But before she could step out of her chair, she heard him speak again.

"Don't be alarmed. I won't tell anybody," Omiq said in a whisper, still counting his Septims, "Skyrim is big enough for all of us… and our secrets. You have yours and I have mine."

The Forsworn girl was stumped.

"You have a Septim of mine under your boot."

"Oh!" she exclaimed and hurriedly lifted her foot, thoroughly embarrassed. Omiq retrieved his last coin and placed it inside his purse. Why had she frozen like that?

"Good day, nya," the Khajiit told her and strode out of the tavern. Casair found herself staring at the now closed double doors. The mysterious Khajiiti priest of Arkay had made a lasting impression on her.

"Yeah, from what I've heard from the townspeople, it was some two bit crook looking to make a quick Septim," the beggar, Edda, said animatedly. "I don't know why, but he just started screaming like all Oblivion had broken loose. I heard the Guards talking among themselves, too."

"And what did the Guards have to say?" Casair asked.

"I would love to tell you, but I can't remember," the old Imperial replied innocently. "My memory isn't what it used to be, you know?"

Casair scowled and placed another gold piece in the beggar's bowl. She knew that the best place to get information - cheap – would be from a beggar. Regular people disregarded their presence. They didn't even notice them and thus they talk would about things they would not normally discuss in front of anybody else. These disregarded beggars knew the comings and goings of every citizen in the city. However, there was only one way of refreshing their memory, as Casair had learned.

"Divines bless your kind heart!" Edda picked up the Septim and pressed it to her forehead, muttering a silent prayer. She then smiled brightly at the Forsworn girl. "My memory is much clearer now."

Casair tapped her foot impatiently, urging the old beggar to go on.

"The Guards, they whispered among themselves about the killer being a son of the Dread Father himself," Edda whispered and gave Casair a knowing look.

"Dread Father?" Casair asked, tilting her head to the side in her confusion. She had never been very big on religion and whatever little she knew about the Divines and the Daedra, she had come to know through her travels. This Dread Father character was something which she knew nothing about.

"Sithis, my child! The Void! He who is worshipped by the Dark Brotherhood!"

Now Casair understood and the result was a cold shiver which ran down her spine. "W-What exactly does that mean?" she asked again.

"It means that the Guards thought that the person they caught was a member of the Brotherhood."

Casair gulped. Had her actions led to the imprisonment of a member of the infamous guild of assassins? Things could not have gone any worse.

"So what became of him? This prisoner?"

"He was to be executed." Shit! "But he escaped on the day of his execution." Fuck!

Dazed, Casair dropped another Septim into the beggar's bowl and staggered on her way to the Temple of Mara. They always let people stay the night for free at any given Temple.

Once there, she silently occupied a corner and sat down against a wall and pulled her knees into her chest, wrapping her arms around them. It was only then that her predicament was finally sinking in.

She had helped the Aretino boy escape. He had said something about the Black Sacrament; a ritual to call the Dark Brotherhood. Casair hadn't paid much attention to it; after all, he was just a boy. Besides, the Imperials had wiped out the notorious guild of assassins. She had never stopped to consider that the Brotherhood might endure, and that the Aretino brat had made good on his promise.

The Brotherhood agent had been imprisoned, but he was not guilty of the crime. If he had been executed, someone from the family would have found her and killed her. But now that the agent himself had escaped, he would find her and kill her himself.

Casair rubbed her eyes tiredly with the back of her hands. She would have to tread very lightly so as to not leave a trail for anybody to pick up.

She would have to continuously look over her shoulder at every corner for a shadowy figure with a menacing hood and a big-ass sword, ready to cleave her in two for as long as she lived.

With a shudder, she realized that even if the assassin made no attempt to take her life, the fear and anticipation would break her eventually.

Josak

The crossbow was heavy. At least, for an eight year old it was.

He had no prior training with the weapon, but he had seen one of the assassins use the thing before and had learned through observation. He had borrowed it from the assassin- some Nord whose name he couldn't even pronounce. The Nord man was currently busy with a hearty meal. Josak had no problems while he snuck into the man's quarters and took the weapon.

The assassin lady had taken him with her to… somewhere. He did not know where in Oblivion he was; just that the woman had become his instructor or something. Every day, Astrid would put him through what she called training. It involved running four miles in the morning, followed by push-ups, sit-ups, squats, swimming, pull-ups, and whatever other pain inducing exercises she could come up with. The afternoons were dedicated to weapons training; mainly a dagger. The evenings would be set aside for lessons in magick from a man called Festus. Josak hated them all.

But he loathed Astrid the most. The woman had massacred his family; taken away his life so to speak.

It was only fair that he take away hers, right?

So it was that Josak was cradling a loaded crossbow in his arms, standing in the shadows outside Astrid's chambers. He peered inside and found the woman sitting on a chair, her left side to the door. She had her legs crossed and was intently reading a book of some sort. Josak clenched his jaw and curled his fingers around the lever.

He knew he had only one chance. All he had to do was point and shoot, after all. How hard could it be?

Sucking in a deep breath, the boy slid out of the shadows and stood at the doorway. With a semi-loud yell, Josak pointed the crossbow at Astrid's head and pulled the lever. What he had not anticipated was the recoil. The boy stumbled forwards and then backwards, tripped on his own feet and fell flat on his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the crossbow bolt had sailed a few feet over Astrid's head and embedded itself into the far wall with a sonorous thwack. The woman in question had not even looked up from her book.

Josak rolled over onto his front and placed his palms on the floor in order to push himself up. But before he could do that, he felt Astrid plant her boot over his left cheek and ear, pinning him to the ground.

"You're too hasty, kid," Astrid said lazily. "If you're uncertain about the kill, never aim for the target's head. It's too small a target and it's hard to aim at. Aim here instead," she said and pointed at her chest. "Even if you miss the heart, the injury can still be fatal."

Darn it!

Josak was almost at the verge of tears from his frustration. This was the woman who had slaughtered his family. She was the reason he no longer had a home. This person had taken away his future!

"Also, your arms needs strengthening," Astrid went on. "If you can't even withstand the recoil from a crossbow, then you can take your revenge and bury it."

Revenge? That's right.

That was the only reason Josak was going through with this. Vengeance was the only thing keeping him from ending himself. He had promised himself that he would kill Astrid with his own hands one day, and by the Gods, he would do it. If it meant he had to become like one of them, then so be it.

"I will kill you," Josak said and glared at the woman as best he could.

"Heh. Your will is strong. For a boy so young…" Astrid shook her head and chuckled. "I'll hold you to that promise, kid. Now go and return Arnbjorn's crossbow before he decides to eat you."

"Holfy fucking Oblivion!" Josak swore and jumped out of his bed as beads of cold water fell from his hair. Teeth chattering, he pulled off the leather tunic, which was also dripping wet, and hugged himself. "You tryna fuckin' make me shiver to death, you puny little bloodsucker?"

Babette, who still had the wooden bucket in her hand, merely shrugged. "You've been eating and sleeping for the past few days. I thought it was about time to get you back into the world."

"By giving me a fuckin' bed-bath?!"

"Whatever works," the vampire child said and turned on her heel. "Now dry yourself and get to work?"

"Work? What work?" Josak answered, still shivering uncontrollably. He started hopping to warm himself.

"I dunno. Go out there and kill somebody. Don't you have backlog?" Babette snapped and wheeled around again. "For starters, track down the person who stole our contract."

Oh. The whole Riften thing. Right. He would have to do something about that, wouldn't he?

His mind conjured up images of Grelod's dead body. So much blood everywhere! He felt warmth radiate throughout his body, causing him to stop shivering.

How he loved the sight of blood! It helped him do so many things!

He looked forlornly at his bed and pulled away the wet blanket and the mattress. He would have to put the darn things out to dry by the fireplace. For now, he had only breakfast on his mind.

After that, he would have to go collect some information.

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to PhantomX0990. She is a major reason and inspiration for me writing this story. For those who know, Phan has been out of action for a while but is back now. She's been sick - very sick - and I shan't go into details here. All I'll say is that if you have read and liked this story, go and read hers. Give her all the support you can. Get her to write an autobiography if you can.

Phan, I salute you for your iron will, man. There's a fire in you I haven't seen very often in others. You had my respect before, and even more so now. Seriously. I can't do much, but this bit I can do. Stay strong.