(AN: One of the biggest problems with this story is that, since it is a prequel, any sense of suspense or danger is deflated by the fact that anyone who has read The Dragonborn and the Lioness or The Dragon and the Bear already knows that Crixus survives. The only payoff I can think of is that we get to see his adventures behind the scenes [though it won't be a "he helped Eirik defeat Alduin from behind the scenes" thing], as well as profound insight into his back-story and why he behaved the way he did in the other two stories.)

By Any Other Name

As the month of Second Seed came to Skyrim, the wheels of fate continued grinding along their charted course. The uneasy stand-off between the Empire and the Stormcloak rebellion carried on, with the city of Whiterun sitting directly in the center of the stalemate. Even in summer, which would arrive in the coming month, the snows in the Pale and Winterhold rarely subsided enough to make those holds viable for attack. To the south, an arm of mountains flung out from the south slope of the Throat of the World to the Jerall Mountains divided the Rift from Falkreath, rebels from loyalists.

Meanwhile, word began to travel across Skyrim as it always had in ages past. Tongues from the Silver-Blood inn in Markarth to the Candlehearth Hall and the New Gnisis Corner-club in Windhelm spoke of the return of the Thieves Guild. People in Riften were beginning to lock their doors again, after a string of robberies had made them an active threat in the south-east. The closing of the Honningbrew meadery in Whiterun had the markings of the Thieves Guild all over it, since shortly after its closing, the meadery became an adjunct of the Black-Briar family meadery. Many feared the influence of the Thieves Guild was starting to spread and it would only be a matter of time before someone's hand was found in the pocket of a poor man in Markarth or Windhelm.

And there were other rumors, darker rumors of a shadow moving through the night. A miner in Dawnstar had inexplicably died, followed by a woodsman west of Windhelm nine days later. Some blamed the Empire, though this was less credible after the death outside of Anga's Mill in Eastmarch. Others blamed the Dunmer, whom many believed were becoming restless and irritable. But there were some who feared an even greater menace, one which had, for the most part, been silent in Tamriel for many thousands of years. But now the silence was breaking and those who believed this murmured the name in fearful whispers across Skyrim: the Dark Brotherhood had returned.

On the ninth day of Second Seed, Servius Crixus found himself back in the Ragged Flagon in Riften. Evading the rebel patrols throughout the marshlands of Eastmarch was child's play for him: these Nords were stupid and he, after all, was an Imperial. Outsmarting them would have been easy for even the dullest Nibenay. Arriving in Riften in the afternoon, he made his way to the cemetery behind the temple of Mara and found the secret entrance Mercer Frey had told him about on his last voyage. As Mercer was busy at the moment, he went to the Flagon and found Vex and Brynjolf enjoying a drink together.

"Where's Delvin?" Crixus asked.

"He's on an assignment in Solstheim," Vex stated. "Did you really think you were the only one out there stealing in the name of the Thieves Guild while we all sat on ass around here, drinking beer and counting our coins?"

"From what I've seen of Skyrim," Crixus returned. "Yes, that's exactly what I thought."

"What, there's no Thieves Guild in Mournhold?" Brynjolf asked.

Crixus' face blanched as he looked at the red-haired Nord with keen distrust. "What did you say?"

"Calm down, friend," Brynjolf chuckled. "No reason to be all grim and severe. We have ears, that's all."

"In Mournhold?" Crixus asked.

"In Mournhold," Brynjolf nodded. "Besides, when the prefect in the last Imperial embassy in Morrowind goes missing for almost five months, people tend to talk. And also since Riften is next door to Morrowind, we hear what goes on. But come, there's no need to be upset. We won't tell the rebels who you are."

They shared a few drinks as Crixus listened to what was going on. While he had been away, the Thieves Guild was busy taking care of the people of Riften. Despite their most recent successes, there had still been quite a few missteps, failures, pickpockets discovered at the last moment.

"Sounds better than what I've been going through," Crixus stated. "You know, I'm glad I have you lot to come back to. From all the bullshite I get with the people I travel with, it's nice to come back to people who don't give a damn."

Vex chuckled. "Why are you b*tching about it to us if we don't give a damn?"

Crixus laughed. "That's what I like to hear. Some levity for once."

"I wish everything were sunshine and roses, though," Brynjolf stated. "Just last week, one of our guys was on duty in Solitude when he got picked up. Haven't heard from him since. It's quite possible he's dead."

"Who's the name?" Crixus asked. "Maybe I might run into him, seeing as how I'm in Solitude quite a bit these days."

"Etienne," Brynjolf replied. "A young Breton man."

"Who do you think picked him up?" Crixus asked.

Brynjolf chuckled. "Who wouldn't want to take a shot at the Thieves Guild? The Haafingar hold guards would take offense to anyone looting, robbing, pilfering or plundering on their watch. The Imperial Legion would likely cooperate with the local guards, so they'd be against us."

"What about the Thalmor?" Crixus asked.

Vex rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you're one of those idiots who believes the agents of the Aldmeri Dominion are hiding behind every rock, bush and barrel, do you?"

"Of course not," Crixus chuckled. "I mean, they're not that powerful. Of course they're not, the Empire would have realized someone was infiltrating them on every level. Being afraid of them is bullshite."

"Especially since Maven Black-Briar is friends with Elenwen, the Thalmor ambassador," Brynjolf added. "Some of our earnings go to her for protection from those who would seek to drive us out of business. Part of our agreement. She pays the Thalmor and they turn the other cheek when we're involved."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, how long is it going to take for me to speak to Mercer? I have urgent business abroad and my time is valuable."

"He'll call you in when he's ready," Vex stated. "So, did you find any more of those stones?"

"Actually I did," Crixus nodded, opening up his pouch and removing several more pink sapphires. "Oh, there's also this." He pulled out the list of candidates Asteria had stolen from Yngvar the Bard in Markarth.

"What's this?" Vex asked.

"A friend of mine needed to have her name put on this list of bard candidates to play before Jarl Igmund in Markarth," Crixus explained.

"Delvin is the one who handles the numbers jobs," Vex stated. "You'll have to wait for him to return if you want a professional forger."

Crixus nodded as Vex picked each individual pink sapphire and scrutinized them closely in the light of the candle at their table. While they were waiting, someone appeared from the tunnel leading to the Cistern and called out Crixus' name.

"The boss wants to see you," the voice of the Redguard Brynjolf had introduced as Tonilia sounded.

Crixus rose up and followed the dark-skinned woman back through the tunnel to the cistern, where running water echoed about in the large rounded stone chamber. Here Tonilia led Crixus to a desk along the edge of the room, where Mercer was sitting down, examining the golden queen bee Crixus had found at the Goldenglow Estate.

"There you are," Mercer grumbled. "It's been too long."

"Well, I do have other obligations," Crixus added. "And this is a rebel hold."

"Are you a man of excuses or a man of action?" Mercer asked. "Getting past Stormcloak scouting parties should be an easy task for one of us. Now, on to business. My sources tell me that the Black-Briars are now in charge of the Whiterun branch of what used to be Honningbrew meadery. I suppose I have you to thank for that: you didn't botch this job, so you're not completely useless. Now, did you find anything?"

Crixus removed from his weather-beaten and worn back-pack the golden decanter and two pieces of paper. One was the bill of sale of the Goldenglow Estate, and the other was the promissory note from the Honningbrew meadery. Mercer examined the parchments silently for a while.

"Hmm," he mused. "This symbol. It's the same one in both cases. It would appear our nameless adversary is trying to indirectly attack us by angering Maven Black-Briar. Very clever." He then looked up at Crixus for a moment. "Don't mistake my admiration for complacency. Whoever they are, they're well-funded and have evaded us for a long time. I'm impressed that they've made it this far..." He picked up the bill of sale, examined it again, and chuckled. "...but they're still going to pay in the end."

"Yes, sir," Crixus nodded. "And how will they do that?"

"This," Mercer stated, turning the bill around on the table and pointing to the line: 'Payment of the property has already been made in full by Gajul-Lei as an agent on behalf of the buyer.' "They've gotten sloppy and implicated someone we know."

"We do?" Crixus asked.

"Gajul-Lei is a false name," Mercer continued. "One used by one of our inside men in the East Empire Trading Company in Solitude. Usually in these cases, we don't use true names, since our business is thievery. Gajul-Lei is an Argonian named Gulum-Ei; slimy bastard. I bet he acted as a go-between for the sale of Goldenglow Estate. He can probably finger our buyer."

"So what do I do?" Crixus asked.

"Get your ass to Solitude," Mercer stated. "Find Gulum-Ei, shake him down and make him talk." Crixus nodded and began to rise, but Mercer pointed one finger at him. "Oh, and by the way, don't just go blindly rushing into this like some Nord barbarian. Gulum's smart, one of our own. Getting him to crack won't be easy: talk to Brynjolf before you leave, maybe he will be able to give you some pointers."

"Yes, sir," Crixus nodded.

Rising up, Crixus made his way back to the Ragged Flagon and found Brynjolf sitting at the bar, talking the hard-nosed curmudgeon Vekel the Man. Crixus, who was not in the mood for getting very wasted, passed on the drink and instead mentioned what he and Mercer had been talking about in the cistern.

"Gulum-Ei?" Brynjolf mused. "He works down at the docks in Solitude for the East Empire Company. Last I heard, a buyer of his was in the market for Firebrand Wine. Getting that, however, is another thing altogether."

"I see," Crixus nodded. "So, what about this list? Do you think you can hold onto it for me while I'm away? I'm carrying way too much shite as it is."

"Are you kidding?" Brynjolf chuckled. "We're the Thieves Guild. We take care of our own."

"Just like that?" Crixus asked.

"Whether Delvin will charge for this little service, I can't say," Brynjolf continued. "But for now, I'll keep this on me and remember when he returns."

"Are you sure you won't forget?" Crixus asked.

"Despite what you may believe," Brynjolf added. "I'm a cut above the usual rabble around here. I'll remember it."

I'll believe that, Crixus thought. When sloads fly.

The next day, after spending the night at the Bee and Barb inn, Crixus saddled up his horse and prepared for his journey. He had only one more stop to make, and that was in Ivarstead, a town on the far western edge of the Rift. Instead of taking off immediately, he spent some time reading the map in his room. There had to be an easier way of getting from Ivarstead to Falkreath to report on the success of his kills without going around and through Whiterun. Nothing in the maps showed anything that might be helpful.

With a sigh, he reached into his jacket pocket for the letters. Perhaps now would be a good time to read them? But then again, he had not read them in so long, and anything they said would be meaningless. The Maro family would never forgive him for not returning their letters, but did he want their forgiveness?

Just then, while he was holding the letters, one fell out. Not only had they been enchanted to be waterproof, they were bound so tightly that they would not have fallen out unless pulled out. Picking up the note, he found that it was not a letter at all, but a piece of thick parchment paper with several alchemical ingredients listed upon it: deathbell flowers, imp stools, troll fat, river betty, nightshade, human flesh and Jarrin root.

Stowing the list in his pocket, then folding up the map and placing it with his gear inside his back-pack and stowing away the letters, Crixus went downstairs and asked the landlord Talen-Jei about any alchemical stores in town. The green-scaled Argonian directed Crixus to Elgrim's Elixirs on the water-level near the north part of town. After leaving the Bee and Barb, Crixus made his way to the place directed and, climbing down a wooden stairway leading to the water-level, he found the shop just fine.

Inside, it was warmly lit by several candles upon the shelves, the counter and in several alcoves upon the stone walls. There were many shelves, both in front of and behind the desk, where jars, bags, sacks, vials and barrels of many different shapes and sizes filled them to the brim. Besides that, there were also several instruments sitting upon the table which were useful for the novice alchemist: a retort, a calcinator, a mortar and pestle and an alembic. The thick smell of the many ingredients was masked by a bundle of lavender tied above the door and near the counter.

While Crixus was examining the shop, a young woman in rich clothes walked out from behind a corner and began stacking shelves. Crixus cleared his throat and she turned around. She almost looked Colovian, what with her dark hair and soft frame: not like the fat, masculine, barbaric women of Skyrim which Crixus believed were the only kind that existed. Only her pale skin and blue eyes gave her away as being a Nord.

"Hello there," she greeted.

"Uh...Elgrim?" he asked.

She smiled. "No, I'm Ingun Black-Briar. The master and his wife are having breakfast."

"Oh," Crixus nodded, passing his hand up over his face to hide his blushing in embarrassment. "So, do you work here?"

"I'm an apprentice in Elgrim's shop," she continued. "Now, can I get you anything?"

"Oh, yes," he returned, removing the shopping list from his pocket and placing it upon the counter. Ingun picked up the list and read it, her face furrowing in thought for a moment. When she was done, she looked back up at Crixus, a knowing smile on her face.

"Planning on killing someone, are we?" she asked.

"That shouldn't surprise someone like you," Crixus added.

"Right," she returned. "Well, despite my name, I am not like my family. My mother has Riften wrapped around her finger, and for what? Money. My brother Hemming holds his position as heir to the family over our heads, acting as though he were our father. And for what? Money. But what do they do with that money? They squander it all away on meaningless pursuits." She then lowered her gaze.

"What?" Crixus asked.

"Oh, pardon me," she returned. "You want the ingredients, don't you?"

"I don't mind listening," Crixus stated, though he could never afterwards understand why he said so. Usually these things bothered him to no end. "Go on."

"Well, like I was saying," Ingun continued. "All they do with our family's wealth is waste it away on foolish ventures and political schemes. But not me. I always knew I was destined for something else."

"So you became an apprentice for Elgrim?" Crixus asked.

"It's so fascinating," she continued, rifling through the shelves behind her. "Watching the effects of a well-brewed potion on someone: dizziness, blindness, the eventual collapse of the heart, death and that sort. If you think about it, we're all made up of parts, like a Dwemer animunculus. The brain, the heart, the bowels, the stomach, the sinews and tendons which control the arms and legs: they all have different functions, but they all work together to keep us alive." She turned around to Crixus, her head tilted to one side.

"And if only a single part of our bodies fail, life fails. It's ironic, really: the very world that gives us life gives us the means with which to die."

Crixus chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you say this to everyone?" he asked. "I would be surprised if your master had any business if you greeted all of your customers like that."

Ingun did not smile or laugh; she merely held Crixus' gaze with the same fascinated expression she had on her face when she spoke of the failing of the body.

"You're so much different than anyone else who comes to the shop," she mused. "I can see it in your eyes: you share the same fascination with death as I do."

"Right," Crixus nodded. "So, about my ingredients?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, a smile bursting onto her face. "Forgive me, I was getting a little carried away. You just seemed interested in what I had to say. There wasn't any fear or discomfort in your eyes: I like that. But yes, your list." She held it up again.

"I'm afraid to say," she continued. "That we're all out of deathbells and nightshade. My fault, actually. I'm still a novice at this, despite what Elgrim says. I've made too many careless mistakes and ran the stores dry of some of our ingredients. But, fortunately for you, the rest of what you have here we still have in stock. Let me see here..." She reached down under the counter and pulled up a barrel with a glistening rune upon the top.

"A pound of flesh," she stated. "There's a spell of keeping upon it, protects it from spoiling too quickly." Next she brought up a glass jar filled with several dried mushrooms. "Here are the imp stools..." She then turned around and brought forward two more barrels.

"Troll fat and two river betties," she stated. "Unfortunately, nobody in Skyrim carries Jarrin root."

"Why is that?" Crixus asked.

"Because it can only be found in Black Marsh," Ingun stated. "And nobody goes there. From all that I've heard about that land, it's even more dangerous than people say Skyrim is: I'll wager the marshes and jungles over there are simply teeming with so many rare and exotic flora and fauna undiscovered by the alchemists of Skyrim, Cyrodiil or Morrowind. To think of the poisons they would make!"

"Who knows?" Crixus asked. "Maybe you might be part of the first human expedition to go there?"

"Maybe I would be," she mused. "But no, that's a foolish fantasy. I'd have to become much better with my potions to even think about cataloging all of the strange and wonderful potential alchemical ingredients of Black Marsh. Oh, speaking of which..."

"Yes?" Crixus asked.

"Well," she continued. "I noticed from your garb and your well-worn pack that you're one who's been around. Perhaps if you find some of the things Elgrim needs to restock the stores, I would be most appreciative. It would go a long way with my own experiments."

"What do you need?" Crixus asked.

"You know about deathbells and nightshade," Ingun continued. "They grow in the wild and are therefore easier to find for one who is on the road often. Nightshade can be found near graves or around barrows, anywhere where blood has been spilled. Deathbells grow in the marshes of Hjaalmarch to the north-west. The other thing I need is nirnroot. It's bright green and has long, toothed leaves and can be found growing around water. The plant also emits a soft ringing sound which lets you know that you're close. Get me about twenty flowers of deathbell, twenty flowers of nightshade and twenty leaves of nirnroot for the stores. Does this seem like something you'd be interested in, perhaps?"

"Sure," Crixus nodded. "Whenever I'm out, I'll see what I can find."

"Brilliant!" she exclaimed.

So it was that Crixus did not leave Riften until mid-day. After leaving Elgrim's Elixirs, he went over to the graveyard and found only three nightshade plants with flowers upon them. While he was looking for them, he was stopped by a guard who asked him why he was snooping around graves. When Crixus explained what was going on, the guard chuckled.

"So, you mix potions?" he asked. "Never could get the hang of that. Could you brew me up a good ale?"

"I'm just picking flowers," Crixus replied, shocked that those four words actually came out of his mouth.

"Them bluish flowers?" the guard asked, gesturing to the three in Crixus' hand. "There used to be tons of 'em 'round the cemetery, but then old Elgrim an' his wife Hafjorg came in and picked most of 'em. Can't see no reason why they'd need 'em: can't folk just leave the dead in peace?"

Crixus said nothing else, but stowed the flowers in his pocket, then made his way back to the stables. He had a long journey ahead of him.

From Riften, Crixus followed the north road, turning west out of town and following Lake Honrich for many miles. To his left he could see, in the middle of the lake, the isle upon which sat the Goldenglow Estate. But he carried on, since his mission was farther west. Along the northern shores of the lake the road snaked, until the western end of the lake narrowed out and branched northward. There was a stone bridge here, though, just opposite a mill, where Crixus forded and continued on his journey.

From the Heartwood Mill, which the workers told Crixus stood in the very center of the birch and aspen forests of the Rift, now glistening green in the balmy late spring afternoon, he took his journey straight, leaving the road which followed the river along its southern bank. After a while, he arrived at what appeared to be an old Nordic ruin, built into the hill out of blocks that looked too big for simple Nords with hand-tools to have possibly built. There was no way to continue going straight this way as an arm of the mountains blocked his path. Pausing here for a moment, Crixus found two more nightshade plants and picked the flowers from them before turning north-west.

To his fortune, though, the road was just a little ways off from this ruin to his north and it took little time to find it again. The road turned back north, the missing stones and overgrowth showing the age of this road or, perhaps, in his mind at least, the apathy the Nords had to their own roads. He carried on until there was a fork in the road: one branched north-east, back across the river, while the other turned south-west. According to the map, both roads would take him to Ivarstead, but he had to be quick about his choice. Already the sun had vanished behind the tallest mountain on the western horizon. The day was growing old and night would soon be upon him.

Evening was on its way while Crixus at last arrived in Ivarstead. The path he had taken led him to Ivarstead indeed, but while he was yet approaching the town from the south, he threw down his hood and covered his face with his veil. He was about to kill someone and he did not wish to be known. He made his way to the Vilemyr Inn, the only inn in the small town, and ordered himself a drink. Just one to tie himself over for the deed at hand. While he waited for his drink at the bar, he asked the barkeep, a Nord named Wilhelm, something he had been meaning to ask since Riften.

"Is there a way to reach Falkreath from the Rift?" he asked.

"Oh, that there is," Wilhelm nodded. "Though, personally, I picked you to be a pilgrim going up the Seven Thousand Steps to High Hrothgar. What with that hood and veil of yorn to keep out the cold."

"I was just up there," Crixus lied. "Now I'm returning to my home in the west. I am in haste and need to pass through to Falkreath immediately. Is there a way to reach Falkreath from..."

"I heard you the first time, stranger," Wilhelm replied. "And there just happens to be such a way. Won't find it on them maps, though. Not the official ones. The pathway through Haemar's Shame is dangerous these days, haunted by sell-swords, trolls and wolves and whatnot. Anyhow, if you have a mind to that way, travel down the south road out of town: when you hit the fork, keep going south. Eventually that path will lead up into the mountains. Stay on that path and don't get off for nothing and you should be in Helgen in a day, if no trouble befalls you."

At that moment, the doors of the inn were thrust open and a young woman came running into the inn, a panicked look on her face.

"Come quick!" she exclaimed. "There's horsemen riding up into town from the south road!"

"Are they Imperials?" asked Wilhelm.

"Nay, Wilhelm," the woman shook her head. "They look like elves."

Crixus slipped out of the inn with several others at the young woman's news. Sure enough, in the gathering darkness of the streets of Ivarstead, a group of horsemen clad in black rode up the south road into the town. As they entered the town, Crixus saw with dead certainty that these were high elves, the same people he had fought in the Great War and the conflict in Hammerfell leading up to the Red Dog Pass. But from their garb, these were no soldiers of the Dominion; these were Thalmor justicars. Behind them marched a line of soldiers that made Crixus' eyes swell in shock. They were Imperial Legionnaires.

"This can't be happening," Crixus muttered to himself, shaking his head.

"Town of Ivarstead," one of the black-robed Thalmor atop the horse announced. "It has been told us that there are those in this town who do not abide by the White-Gold Concordant. Therefore, under the terms provided us by the White-Gold Concordant, I am exercising our right to search your homes and take every man, woman and child believed to be worshiping the false god Talos into custody."

"Get outta here, goldie!" a balding Nord man said in a measured voice. "Your kind ain't welcome here."

"My kind?" laughed the Thalmor mockingly. "You forget your place, human scum. My kind are, by rights, the masters of all of Tamriel. Your kind are the verminous filth that do not belong."

"This land ain't yours, elf," a woman with large, muscular arms, retorted. "Skyrim belongs to the Nords!"

"I believe the reality is not in your favor," replied the elf. "Skyrim has always belonged to the elves. You white mongrels are only here as vagrants, ignorant squatters we only tolerate as long as you are useful. I will ask the town guard to stand down if you do not wish this to fall to violence: we will be more than happy to oblige if it does."

"Says you and what army, elf?" another asked.

"I have twenty justicars at my command," the elf retorted. "More besides, the Imperial Legion, who signed the White-Gold Concordant, have graciously volunteered to assist in bringing the local criminality to justice."

"This ain't Legion territory!" another retorted.

"You can't do this!"

"I can, and I am," smiled the elf.

"Ulfric will hear about this!" another shouted.

"Keep telling yourself that," the elf returned. "Maybe it will come true, but if you resist, you won't be alive long enough to appreciate it. Now stand aside! You men, search every house!"

As soon as Crixus saw crimson-clad Imperial troops walk into the streets, he quickly disappeared into the shadows behind the large mill. It was too much to believe: the Thalmor could not possibly have so much control that they were able to lead raids against people in the Rift, so far east from both the Summerset Isles and the embassy in Haafingar. Moreover, the Empire would never treat with the Thalmor, or even aid and abet them in their cause. Not that he cared about the people of Ivarstead: if they were violating the law by worshiping Talos, it was only just that they forfeit their lives for it. But the implications of the Empire and the Thalmor working together were what he feared the most.

But he shook his head and addressed himself to the task at hand. The note Nazir had left him told of where he could find Narfi the beggar: in a ruined shack on the western side of the river which snaked through Ivarstead. It was only fortune that caused the Thalmor to make their raid on Ivarstead on the same day that he arrived. Now the town guards would be preoccupied with them and not pay any attention to what he was doing, especially at night.

Crixus crossed the bridge without any difficulty, then slowly made his way into the ruined house. His feet creaked against the floorboards no matter how softly or gently he stepped. Furthermore, no matter where he moved, the boards continued to creak. He hoped that Narfi was deaf or slept like a stone, or else he would have heard him.

"Wha-?" a bemused voice asked. "Who's there?"

Crixus' blood turned cold. He had been discovered. Slowly he rose to his full height, eclipsing the light of the dull-red Masser. Even in the inky darkness, the old beggar could sense that someone was close. Crixus also could sense where his prey lingered: he could hear uneasy, ragged breath coming from just a few feet ahead of him. How he wished that he was back in Morrowind, where Nighteye potions were easy to purchase and he could see in the dark just like a Khajiit.

"Who are you?" the voice asked fearfully. "Why are you here?"

Slowly Crixus drew his knife. It had been only three days since he last killed a Nord and he was itching to spill their blood. If the people of Ivarstead would be smart enough to hold their tongues (secretly he doubted that would happen), at least he would end that night knowing that one person had died.

"Who are you?" Narfi asked again, his voice filled with fear.

"I am Sithis," Crixus hissed from behind his veil. "And I am here to do the work of Sithis."

Moving quickly, he pushed Narfi to the ground, feeling in the darkness for the beggar's mouth which he covered with his left hand. His right hand moved to his knife, which he prepared to bring down into the man's throat when suddenly he felt hard, gnarled teeth clench down upon his hand. He clenched tighter but the teeth bit down even tighter. A cry escaped his lips as he tried to punch the beggar into submission. His first punch hit wood, causing him to groan again as he swung a second time. This time struck, but instead of knocking him out, the beggar bit down harder into Crixus' glove. He was putting up quite a fight, it seemed. He then found the man had pushed his hand away from his mouth for a brief moment.

"Help!" he cried out. "Help, please! Murder!"

Crixus dove the dagger into the beggar's chest, but he let out a agonized cry. He had missed his mark. As Narfi flailed about in the dark, Crixus reached for his hair, seizing him from behind. Now that he knew where he was, he drove his dagger right into the beggar's throat. There was something all too satisfying in Crixus' mind about hearing the gurgling sound made by someone as they choked to death on their own life's blood. He released Narfi's greasy hair and let the beggar fall to the floor, choking to death.

"Assassin!" someone else cried out. "Over there! Kill him!"

Crixus suddenly realized that he had been spotted. There was no way to go south back to the road he had heard, not by way of the river. The other way would be to travel the mountain, which he knew there was no way back down, or to go back over the bridge. But as he was thus waiting, a horseman carrying a torch approached him.

"Well well," the haughty drawl of a high elven voice greeted. "What have we here?"

"None of your concern," Crixus returned. "I don't worship Talos."

The elf laughed. "Are you so naive to think that we're only in this god-forsaken land because of your false human god?"

"I'm warning you," Crixus stated. "There will be consequences."

"What?" mocked the elf. "Will your emperor slap my wrist for having you brought in chains to Northwatch Keep? Fool! He signed the White-Gold Concordant, he gave us permission to act as we see fit to uphold the terms of the treaty anywhere in our empire."

"Your empire?" Crixus asked.

"We let your weak emperor keep this land on lease," said the Thalmor haughtily. "But the day is coming soon when we will take back what is ours. And when that happens, all that is wrongfully yours shall return to us and your kind will cease to exist." Crixus said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the elf's slanted golden orbs. If he was going to die, he did not want to show any fear or disbelief. He had faced down death before during the Great War and in Llewynn Pass. He was not afraid to die.

"Or," the elf inquired knowingly. "Do you answer to a power even greater than Titus Mede?" He then threw back his head and laughed.

"For centuries your kind have been a thorn in the side of the Dominion," he stated. "And now, after so long, you choose to reappear?"

"You can't kill us all, elf," Crixus returned. "Something always survives."

"Not where the Dominion is concerned," the elf retorted. Behind him, two other justicars and a line of Imperial soldiers gathered around to back him up. There was no way that Crixus could escape this way.

"This man had better be brought back with us for questioning," the elf said to the others. "He's a Dark Brotherhood assassin."

"Yes, sir."

(AN: Before this chapter got out of hand, like the last one did, i thought i'd give us a cliff-hanger with a bit of fluff. This chapter also saw the formal appearance of Ingun Black-Briar. I wonder if anyone will find her character of any interest so far. Also, yes, the Thieves Guild quest is continuing along smoothly.)