I do not nor will I ever own the Elder Scrolls. This story is just for the lulz.

Hope you guys enjoy this! I feel like Lucien Lachance is mostly seen through Dark Brotherhood mission walkthroughs in fanfiction, which is fine! Sometimes though ya have to think of the things that characters do that they are passionate about. Well, I started doing that, and a chapter cropped up as a result. Well, actually much more than a chapter, but I"m at a loss on how to incorporate the other ideas I have right at this moment. Anyways! Enjoy, and drop me a review if ya want.

Sweat beaded on his brow as Lucien Lachance stirred a thick, sickly sweet concoction to perfection. The poisons had been distilled for hours on end, and the resulting cocktail was a most potent basting fluid for food, particularly apples. There was something about poisoned apples that never lost their charm. A lost romance perhaps, with the luscious red gleam of the skin beckoning all who witness to take a bite. With the Empire being so widespread, apples were almost always available, but he found that when they were in season in Cyrodiil itself they made the most luscious of treats. Such was the case with these beauties.

A cheery stack of red apples dispelled the gloom of Lucien's home, but only barely. Alchemy had always been a favorite pastime of his, and his mood was far improved because of it. The control of the alchemist over all elements of the recipes, as well as the gratification of watching potions mend broken flesh or poisons ravage an enemy, well, it was a heady thing. A quick plunge into the poison was all the apples needed, and then they were ready to go. Undetectable, elegant, and very quick.

The trip to Anvil was arduous due to rain, but Shadowmere was swift and her rider stubborn to a fault. With only one night's rest the pair arrived at the seaside city. It had also been a favorite of Lucien's for a long time. Anvil is for lovers, or so they say. The party he was to attend would not be for several hours, and so the assassin waited with ease, taking in the salt air and reminiscing.

15 years ago

The night air of Anvil hung heavy and humid, a briny, relaxing and warm scent that comforted the shaded assassin as he moved with grace and precision to his goal. The man with whom he had conversed, a Bellamont, had paid quite a bit of money to have his wife dispatched, and the Brotherhood was only too happy to comply.

It was too easy, slipping into the house, treading silently through halls and opening doors without a hitch. When had it gotten so easy? No matter, he had neared his prey, could taste the coming carnage on his tongue. A familiar tingle settled in his gut, a cold joy that preceded the kill, and he smiled.

Something unexpected; the mother was sitting in her room, speaking to a boy of maybe twelve summers, telling him to go to sleep, that she'd be there in the morning, and not to worry. How wrong she was. That cold smirk spread across his features as the details of the contract presented itself. The father had desired the son witness his mother's death, "witness the whore's beheading." How convenient that they were ensconced together. It would be easy, but first, a little noise to break the ice.

The slamming of glass against the wall startled the two, and the mother told her child in the softest of whispers to get under the bed and not to make a noise. This, followed by the clumsy shuffling of a child under the bed was his cue. Showtime.

"Please, take what you want, just leave us be!" the woman screeched, hands in front of her in defense. Her eyes widened as she took in the teenage assassin, his face so beautiful, so surprising in a sneak, as well as the formidable blade that came singing into the night, a melody of polished steel sliding against the scabbard. The assassin's grin stayed in place, and he stared as if deciding how best to devour her flesh. The frenzy was beginning, and how he longed to be sated. The hunger was overpowering, and it would be fed.

He hefted his short-sword as he neared the woman, placing a booted foot against her chest, forcing her flat against the headboard of the bed and swinging, slicing through flesh and sinew with one calculated her head toppled to the floor, a certain peace entered him, a satisfaction he felt from nothing else. He had honored his Father and Mother and knew them to be pleased. Anvil faded in the distance as he rode the high of the kill, still tasting blood in the air and smelling the leavings of fear, and the seductive silence that only death possessed pressing on his ears. The comfort of the Void was sweet indeed.

Present Day

The party was going full swing. A small, intimate thing with several of Anvil's elite businessmen all piled together in one house. The table was set with a roast pig in the middle, and roasted apples all around. So beautiful and tempting, and the smell rolling off of it all was indeed to die for.

At the great table there sat one man who was a bit unknown to the others, though he came very highly recommended: A merchant who sailed between Cyrodiil and the Summerset Isles, trading commodities, including these succulent apples. He had instructed the servants in their preparation.

"A very rare blend of spices, poached until just tender." the man said, "Best if eaten right away. The delicate flavors tend to become muddled after too long." If anyone suspected him of foul play, they certainly didn't let on. Indeed the man was quite the charmer with the other guests, a voice like honey and a beautiful face that might as well have "trust me" written across it. Well kept, cleanly dressed, neatly brushed hair pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Who wouldn't listen to this man's advice on anything, much less consumption of a meal? Certainly the women paid him plenty of attention, and several of the men as well.

The merchant smirked slyly at the lady that clung to his arm, lifting a piece of apple to her plum red lips, watching with a sensual interest as she took the bit of fruit into her mouth. The noises she made about it were indecent, but soon her racket joined the chorus of groans and choking gasps. The whole room seemed to be hunched over in pain, sweat welling up from pores and skin quickly turning sallow. The woman on his arm abruptly let go, her eyes staring up at Lucien in horror, lips moving in a silent plea for help that would never come.

Not long after that Lucien Lachance watched the last guest fall. It had been a thing of beauty, choreographed to near perfection, save one guest who he later had to track down and discreetly slay in the basement. The whole house lay silent as the Void.

With a smile Lucien finished pulling his robes back on over the dress clothes. It had been far too long since he had completed a contract on his own. Apples, poison, and salt air; yes, Anvil was still definitely a place for lovers.