A running man dashed in the inn, trampling the person that stood on the side and making the one in front of him fall down. He tumbled and bellowed a scream. The roughly twenty people inside all looked at him stunned. Moments later came the sound of hushed treads from outside. A horse, probably. They disappeared quickly afterwards.

'Save yourself, folk!' he shrieked, loudly. 'The Daedra will destroy us!'

'What? Wasn't that howler enough?' scowled one of the guards, drinking at a table.

'What happened to him?' asked a woman, helping him to stand up.

'It's nothing,' groaned another man,' He just hasn't slept, like everybody in this blasted place.'

'A would not be so sure,' said Erandur, the Priest of Mara, coming out of his room. 'His eyes are wide open, and insomnia doesn't cause such harrowing hallucinations so quickly.' He walked towards the man, standing beside him. 'Can you talk, child?'

He tried to, but from his mouth came no sound. None whatsoever.

'Whatever he saw right before he came in gave him quite the scare,' muttered the innkeeper.

'I'd say so. He's speechless.'

'This is no consequence of the sleepless nights,' said Erandur, looking at the man. 'Give me just a moment.'

The Dark Elf priest kneeled down beside the man, and put his hands on his shoulder. From his palm came a weak and warm light, probably simple healing spell, the ones all followers of Mara know.

'Maybe it will do good for his mind,' joked a man behind him. 'A good scare can cure a lot of illnesses.'

'However, a medicine has the potential to become a poison, if assumed in doses too large,' said Erandur. 'Always remember that. It's a lesson many of us learn the hard way.'

'Th… Tha…' muttered Bjakvild. 'Thank you.'

'Easy, child,' replied Erandur, stepping back. 'What was it that scared you?'

'It was… A demon. A demon from Oblivion,' the Nord mumbled. 'If you had seen it, you would be in my same sorry state. It was terrifying, dreadful… Something born from darkness itself.'

Erandur narrowed his eyes, trying to identify the mysterious monster, but thus far could have been any of the creation of the Daedra. All would have looked dreadful and born of darkness, especially in the heart of night.

'Do you remember what it looked like?' asked the Priest.

'It was enormous, and had two pair of eyes; one at the height of my head and another pair way up, seven feet or more into the air. The first pair glowing red, like embers, and the second pair red as well, but darker, more intense. It galloped past on strong hooves, snorting like a horse, but it was too fast to be a horse from here… It also had arms, strong arms, and his torso was shining dark like ebony. I… No more, I'll not speak any longer.'

'What in Oblivion are you blabbering about?' groaned a man near him.

'A creature born of Oblivion! This night is cursed!'

'Has the world gone mad? First the howler, than this blasted monster with four eyes! What else? Another Oblivion Crisis is coming?'

Erandur did not listen to the afraid folk that talked and made up the most unreal theories, but instead though about what creature it could have been. He was a Dark Elf, and had some knowledge regarding the Daedric Princes, but nothing came to mind. Even the many years spent studying weren't helping him at the moment.

A weak Daedra couldn't look like that monster, he realized. It would have to be a powerful one, but why would his master unleash him here? There is nothing here that could attract them. Well, maybe aside from the Werewolf that run past earlier, but still is does not add up. Let's think, what could have that been? A Spider-Daedra? No, impossible. A Dremora in even more unlikely. No other looked like a horse and has more than two eyes, unless… Unless it was a humanoid horseman, riding a really powerful steed.


Erandur nailed it.

Arnbjorn thought the same thing as he saw the black, four-eyed figure approaching in the pitch black night. He immediately sighed with relief, knowing for certain he would not have bled to death. He had barely the strength to raise his head and scoff at the Dunmer:

'Should have figured Astrid would send you, but didn't guess she'd be giving you the evil girl.'

The Dark Elf dismounted and looked at him for a moment.

'Sit still, you're hurt,' he said.

'What gave it away?' the Werewolf replied, laughing tiredly afterwards. The Dunmer did not reply, as if he wasn't amused at all about his joke. Arnbjorn quickly felt the need to explain. 'Yeah… Got to admit that jester's pretty good with that butter-knife. But don't worry, I gave as good as I got…'

'Where is he?'

'In there, through the door… Some old Sanctuary by the looks of it. I would have followed him, but I don't know the phrase.'

'Good thing. You would have bled to death and Astrid would have killed me. I'll get Cicero, you go home.'

'All right… you convinced me. Doubt I'd be much good to you anyway. The little fop cut me pretty deep, but I slashed him good… Pretty sure I severed an artery. Don't know what you're going to find in there, but you can probably just follow the blood.'

'A trail… This is good,' whispered the Dunmer. 'First, take this.'

Arnbjorn looked at the Dark Elf handing him a small glass flask. It contained a strange fluid, but he could not see the colors in that dark. A strange pair of words came out of the Werewolf's mouth.

'Thank you.'

Arnbjorn looked at the Dark Elf as he walked towards the door, checking if the sword and the bow were at their place, fastened as usual to his belt and back respectively. He stood in front of the Door for a while, than, all of a sudden, he whispered something:

'Innocence, my Brother.'

The Door opened, and Azrael walked in. Only as he lost sight of him, the Werewolf uncorked the small flask and drank the fluid in it to the last drop. It tasted of something familiar, something that could be found even in some meads. It was wheat.


'Maybe it was just something from our nightmares…'

'The dreams are so real. They might be affecting reality as well! The nightmare are entering our world, and will destroy us!'

'Stop this nonsense!' cried a bald man near the entrance. 'It's gone, don't you see? Gone! Didn't slaughter us, didn't tear us to bloody pieces! The lad imagined it!'

'I didn't imagine anything!' the man protested. 'It was real, damn real I say! It even raised a cloud of dust that made me choke! How could a dream raise dust?'

'Divines' sake, people, just calm down! If you are so scared about this loud of lies just drink yourself stupid and be done with this! Next morning you'll remember nothing at all!'

Erandur shook his head slowly. The insomnia had driven the poor Nords completely nuts. They fought over nothing, screamed at each other for no reason and lamented all day long about not having slept very well or not having slept at all. They did not want to hear any reasoning.

The Dark Elf bent down, and looked at the tracks on the ground. They were likely the only evidence left by the four-eyed fiend.

A horse… Huge, but doesn't seem unnatural. he thought, but there was still something strange. Hmm, really shallow tracks. By the size, the animal should be heavy, but these haven't been left by a weighty animal, unless… Yeah, there are no clears marks. Maybe, just maybe, that horse did not have horseshoes. That would be strange, but would also explain a lot of things.

Erandur looked at the trail of tracks, which continued for the whole road. They were quite distant from each other, meaning two things: that the horse was truly big, and that was galloping quick as the wind.

Nothing we can do, beside praying Mara and hoping it wasn't actually some kind of daemon.


Meanwhile, a mile off or so, another Dunmer was inspecting his own track.

Arnbjorn didn't lie… Azrael thought, touching the blood on the ground, looking as it stuck to his fingertips. A few ours must have passed, and it hasn't dried out yet. The color's pretty light too, it's definitely an artery. Can't be very far now, or at least shouldn't have any more specters to unleash on me like that. The blood stains are getting less distant from each other, which means he slowed the his pace.

The Dark Elf walked ahead, moving slowly, firmly holding his sword, which was still covered by a strange layer of glowing ectoplasm: the remains of the specters that attacked him. The power that fueled those etherial apparitions was as ancient as the Sanctuary, its secrets probably lost to time. He had never heard of that type of magic. But that was neither the place nor the time to investigate rarities. He looked at the wall, and saw another thing that caught his attention.

A handprint… how much blood did he have on his hand when he rested against this wall? It looks almost like it's done with red dye. The fool must have touched his wound to check the blood loss, or just to laugh at his misery. Well, he's truly not far. No one could go on for long with such a wound. He might have even bled to death by now.

As if to correct him, the wailing voice of the Jester echoed in the small corridor once more.

'And now we come to the end of our play. The grand finale!'

Azrael went through the same room he saw at the beginning, the one barred by the metal pikes; the voice came from the room beside; it was small, rectangular, illumined by a big, burning and recently kindled brazier that stood near the wall. Lying on the ground was Cicero.

'You caught me! I surrender!' said the Jester, laughing hysterically afterwards.

Anyone may have very well been tricked by the suffering note in the clown's voice, but not Azrael. Those few months had taught him a lot, and left a burning mark on his soul. He now had the irritating but very convenient attitude of trusting no one. And this time it might have saved him.

He looked at the blood trail, and it ended a bit ahead of Cicero. The hand of the Jester was barely visible, but it was clear it was covered in blood. That went to explain the bloodied handprint on the wall, but Azrael had another problem.

First thing is that he should not be alive entirely. Second thing is that if he actually survived, his clothes would have to be soaked in blood, and there're not even a drop on the floor either. Something's not right here…

'Oh, you prefer to listen, eh? Of course… of course! The Listener listens! A joke, a funny joke! I get it,' Cicero laughed, looking at the Elf standing in front of him, his arms crossed, intent on analyzing the situation. He wasn't really listening, he was more absorbed in his reconstruction of the whole picture. 'Then listen to this: don't kill me!' the jester continued. 'Let poor Cicero live! I attacked the strumpet Astrid, I did! And I'd do it again! Anything for our mother! Return to the pretender, tell her I'm dead! Tell her you strangled me with my own intestines! But lie! Yes, lie! Lie, and let me live!'

He's faking an injury. I don't know if he is doing that expecting to receive pity or trying to stab me as soon as a I get close to finish him off, but either way I have to be careful.

The Dunmer stepped towards the Jester, without moving too fast. Cicero looked at him with interest. It was impossible for him to put together a clear trail of the thoughts that raced through Cicero's mind, and he reckoned it would be undoable for anyone. After all had transpired, he couldn't say if he hesitated, wondered what the Elf was doing… No one knows for certain. The only certain thing is that Azrael kneeled beside him and began talking, in hushed tones, almost whispering.

'You know Cicero, there's something I need to tell you,' he said. 'I know that the Dread Father does not wish you dead, but this is beyond us. You are suffering, that's the point. Every second you live, you choke on your regret and your envy, hiding it behind your laughter. Yes… your gift, your curse. Your medicine, and your poison. I don't care what happens, but the thing that will be told is that I liberated you.'

Everything happened so fast. That few seconds had been a battle of polar opposites: the cold and calm killing machine faced the utter irrational stream of thoughts of a madman. It that even fight, there is one thing that won Azrael the struggle: his ability to understand his enemy, and prevent him from doing the same.

This all became quite clear when the Dunmer's blade sank in the Jester's throat; blood flowed on the wound, and this time it wasn't fake. It had a strange smell. Azrael was no herbalist, but he knew how to make a standard potion to regenerate tissues or improve coagulation speed.

Blisterwort… Could have been enough to heal the wound.

Moments later another glowing, transparent figure appeared through the door of the room. But this one didn't attack the Dunmer.

'The Keeper is a sacred position within the Dark Brotherhood,' said the phantom, speaking with a deep voice. 'Did you ask yourself if you trusted our Lady?'

Azrael knew that the ghost of Lucien was not a completely sentient being, and that it was not possible to have a completely normal conversation with him; he would have not understood his answer, but he spoke nonetheless.

'This was not our Lady's concern. I put and end to her child's suffering, and that was my decision. As for me…' Azrael stood still, and then a guttural sound escaped his throat. Laughter. A strange laughter: grim, dark and imbued with a deep sorrow. It was not a madman's laugh, but rather the only breathing space of the exact opposite. 'As for me…' he repeated. 'I will take responsibility for this, but I'll not be ashamed of what I've done.'

As Erandur said, a medicine in doses too large can be a poison. As Cicero lied dead on the floor, his throat pierced and dripping blood, that became even more true. Laughter is a really powerful remedy, but too much can easily make you lose your sensibility; at times, your life.

Erandur said some learn this lesson the hard way.

Others don't have the time entirely.