Warning: Tiny bit o' sexual content/humor.

Chapter 3: Walking a Trapline

It is still dark when Dawnstar comes into view. A blanket of clouds is cast across the sky, obscuring the light of the moons. Sparse lanterns placed along the road are the only guiding lights, but assassins have little need of such things when Shadowmere is safely leading them home. It is a peaceful night in the Pale, but Cicero is alert. If being with the Dragonborn has prepared him for anything, it is always to expect the unexpected. The best-laid plans will often go tits-up at the most critical moment.

Despite his caution, he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of Shadowmere's steady gait and Lumen's warmth pressed against his back. Those first few moments before the sun bursts over the horizon are always his favorite. The night birds sing their songs to the waning darkness, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf calls to his brethren. For a moment, it truly seems as if nothing can go wrong.

Until it does.

A figure appears near the main entrance to Dawnstar. Lumen grips his arm, a signal that she is aware of the potential danger. They often encounter bandits and thieves when they travel, but this is no mere brigand, as he had hoped. This one is different in a way that sets his teeth on edge. In the dim lantern light, he can see the outline of a tight, leather suit accented with stitched filigree. A cloth mask covers the man's face, and he holds himself with the fluid grace only an assassin could possess.

Shadowmere slows to a stop, but he does not remain still. His tail flicks in irritation, and he paws at the ground. The Daedric steed is as eager to spill blood as his two riders. "Easy," Lumen murmurs, smoothing her hand down his neck before she addresses the man. "We don't want any trouble. Move aside and let us through."

"I will do no such thing." The man's thick Bosmeri accent is reminiscent of one who has spent little time outside of Valenwood and its surrounding lands. He has traveled far, that much is certain. "You and the Imperial are to die. Submit, and receive a quick, honorable death. Resist, and I will see to it that you suffer."

"What the fuck," Lumen hisses under her breath.

Eloquent as always, his darling Listener. "Stay back, sweet Lumen. This will not take long." He dismounts Shadowmere, his daggers already in his hands.

The wavering purple light of a bound sword appears in the assassin's hand, while a spark of lightning blooms in the other. Cicero bites back a curse. Battlemages are always annoying to fight; if the weapon doesn't get you, the spell certainly will. But he is quick, and he has more to lose here than just his life. If he falls, Lumen will fight for him, and he cannot risk her safety.

Cicero ducks when a stream of lightning arcs overhead, his hair rising as the scent of ozone fills his nose. He throws a dagger when he rights himself, and grins in satisfaction when the blade grazes the assassin's thigh before it punches into the ground. Not a perfect hit, but a hit nonetheless. With a hand free, Cicero calls for fire. It sputters to life in his palm, and he flings it toward the assassin. Magic is not his strength, but even a weak spell can be a useful distraction tactic.

The assassin reels backward, the fire scorching his leather armor and knocking him off balance. Sensing an opening, Cicero moves in for the kill. But then, in a heartbeat, everything stops.

He's not quite sure how the fight turns against him. He just knows what he sees; the bound sword vanishing into the aether, and a verdant smoke forming in the assassin's cupped hands. The cloud rushes forward, hitting him like a battering ram and sucking all the strength from his body. Behind him, he can hear Lumen's vicious curse and the sound of her feet hitting the ground. He wants to tell her to stay back, because this magic is new and vile and he doesn't know how to fight it off, let alone how to protect her from it.

"Tiid Klo Ul!"

Time remains very much the same for Cicero and the assassin, but Lumen whips around them in a streak of black shadow. It is a shame he cannot see the Bosmer's face. He always enjoys watching one's expression shift from surprised to horrified when Lumen is upon them in the mere blink of an eye. As it is, he will have to make due with the spray of crimson that gushes forth from the assassin's throat.

Once released from the grip of the assassin's spell, Cicero checks himself for injuries. "Thank you, sweet Lumen," he says, swallowing his pride. "Cicero was not expecting the wretch to use such a powerful spell. Er— Cicero is not sure what kind of spell that was."

Lumen doesn't respond, nor does she look away from the task of looting the assassin's corpse. Cicero watches, fascinated, as she yanks his mask off and parts his lips. The Bosmer's teeth are filed into sharp points that would tear flesh as brutally and efficiently as a serrated blade.

"He's a Valenwood native," she says, confirming Cicero's suspicions. "But this armor— I suspected he might be a Thalmor assassin, or maybe even from the Morag Tong, but this is— I don't know what this is. I find it hard to believe a Bosmer mercenary would travel all this way just to die."

Cicero barks a laugh. "He probably thought he would win!"

"Maybe," Lumen says, staring at a slip of parchment she pulled from the assassin's pack. "But I think whoever sent the assassin knew we would kill him."

"Well, of course! Cicero is excellent at killing! But it was not Cicero who killed him, was it?" He grins at her, hoping to get a smile out of her because her stunned expression is not comforting him in the slightest.

Lumen hands him the paper. "Tell me what you make of this."

The parchment is crisp. It has all the signs of a letter that had been folded once and never reopened, until now. All it holds are the words, "What now, Cicero?" written in a fancy, swirling script. What now, indeed.

"I have no idea what to make of this," he says, carefully folding the parchment. "I do not recognize this handwriting. I cannot think of anyone who would send assassins after me, either! All of Cicero's old enemies surely believe he is dead, or are dead themselves!"

"Think," she grits out, her voice wavering with fear. "Look at the armor. His face. Tell me there's something you might recognize."

Cicero's mouth flattens into a thin line as he stares down at the Bosmer. His armor is as unfamiliar as his face. There is no heraldry to link him back to an organization, and he carries nothing on his person save for the cryptic note. "I do not know him," he says. "And I have never seen armor like that before."

Lumen whispers a Shout. Even said beneath her breath, it is powerful enough to shake the ground beneath his feet and rattle the snow from the branches of nearby trees. A storm of dragon fire immolates the assassin's corpse, wiping away all evidence of the Bosmer who traveled so far to kill them.

"He was sent by someone who knew we would be here." Lumen chews on her lip before saying, "Someone is toying with us. Someone has been watching us."

The hair along the nape of his neck rises at the very thought. "They knew we would be traveling this road at this time. They knew we would return to Dawnstar."

Lumen nods. "Or somewhere close to it."

Cicero immediately flies into action, roughly patting Shadowmere on the haunch and ordering, "Stables, now." The Daedric horse complies, trotting down the road and turning into Dawnstar on his own.

"What are you—" her voice falters when he grabs her by the wrist and drags her into a nearby copse of trees.

He silences her with a look. "We must get to the secret entrance," he whispers. "But we cannot be seen."

Cicero can barely make out the rise and fall of her chest, but her panicked breathing slows into something more controlled when she lays her hand on his shoulder, a silent signal to proceed. He leads her through the trees, his mind whirling with questions. Is he the target, or is the entirety of the Dark Brotherhood in danger? He doesn't know, and he hates this uncertainty. But one thing is certain; he must protect the Listener at all costs.

A short while later, Cicero and Lumen stand near the hearth in the kitchen, warming their cold hands. The Listener is silent, her face unreadable. But Cicero knows she is mulling over the events of the night, just as he is.

"You two are back sooner than I expected," Arnbjorn says by way of greeting. He approaches them, but his smile quickly fades. "You two look like someone died, which is usually a good thing, but— what happened?"

Lumen doesn't look away from the fire when she says, "Show him."

"There was an assassin waiting for us on the road," Cicero explains as he hands Arnbjorn the letter the Bosmer had on him. "We found this on his corpse."

Arnbjorn stares at the parchment, his silver eyes studying every curve of the fancy script. He chuffs a laugh, his abnormally sharp canine teeth glinting in the firelight. "Who'd you piss off?"

"Cicero has no idea," he sighs. "I did not recognize the elf or his armor. But I suspect he was a Thalmor, even if he wasn't wearing the insignia. Cicero cannot think of anyone else who would send assassins after members the Dark Brotherhood."

"It's possible," the Listener says, finally turning away from the fire. "But I don't think Elenwen is involved. I know her. This isn't her style. She wouldn't taunt us."

The sound of approaching feet draws their attention, and they turn to see Cyril and Babette coming down the stairs. The vampires are usually silent. But they are doing them a kindness by announcing their arrival. They can probably smell the fear coming off of them.

"I couldn't help but overhear," Babette says unapologetically. "Did you say you were attacked? By a Thalmor?"

"We don't know who the assassin was working for— but yes, we were."

"Mistress." Cyril inclines his head. "I've been watching the Thalmor, just like you asked. I've not heard any whispers of an attack on the Dark Brotherhood. They seem to have their sights set on the Stormcloaks, and to a lesser extent, the Blades."

"That doesn't mean it's not the Thalmor," Babette says. "This could be the work of a sleeper agent."

Cicero huffs. "Maybe, but it is not as if Cicero runs around announcing himself."

"You kinda do," Arnbjorn quietly adds, but Cicero ignores him.

Babette turns her gaze to Cicero. "Regardless, you are memorable. If someone knew of you from Cyrodiil, it seems likely that they would recognize you by your description."

"Maybe so," Cicero says, his anxiety mounting. "But maybe not. I did not always wear this motley, you know. Did you think Cicero was born a jester? He just tumbled from his mother's womb with juggling balls in his hands?"

"Don't be silly," Babette says, exasperated. "But are you telling me you're not a trained jester?"

Cicero doesn't know what to say. He never paid any mind to what his family might make of him. But of course they would assume he was a jester-turned-assassin. They do not know about the jester, and they did not know Cicero in the days of his youth. "Um, well—" He heaves a frustrated sigh. "You see, I—" He shakes his head and turns his pleading eyes to Lumen.

"Cicero didn't wear the motley until quite recently." A simple and effective half-truth. Oh, he could hug the life out of her— his sweet, forgiving Listener who never uttered a word of what she read in his journals, who kept them safe and hidden from prying eyes until she could return them to Cicero.

Arnbjorn has been quietly taking all this in. His arms folded across his broad chest and his brow furrowed. "So what you're saying is no one from your past would know you from your current description?"

"It depends on how well Cicero is described. But probably not."

"We should have expected this. Our popularity is on the rise, thanks to you, Listener." Arnbjorn nods to Lumen, and she bites the inside of her cheek. He rarely refers to her by that title. "Word of our success will have traveled far and wide by now. Perhaps Babette's sleeper agent theory isn't too far off."

"It's possible that a handful of Malrian's leftover agents were activated upon hearing about us," she says. "But that doesn't explain why they targeted Cicero."

"Cicero is the last surviving member of the Cyrodiil Sanctuaries, and as we all know, an assassin's work isn't over until all targets are eliminated," Babette says as she picks a bit of lint from her dress. "Cicero might not be the only one in danger. Arnbjorn, Nazir and I have been with the Dark Brotherhood for a long time, as well."

"But you managed to survive the fall of the Dark Brotherhood," Lumen says, watching Babette carefully. "I thought Falkreath was safe."

"We were remote, and I believe that was all that saved us. The pine forest is treacherous to those that don't know it. But other members of the Brotherhood knew where we were." The little vampire smoothes the wrinkles from her skirt as she speaks. "The old Listener came to visit us once. She brought a handful of her closest companions from Cyrodiil, too."

"Ah, Cicero remembers hearing about that. There were rumors of a traitor."

"Yeah, this was before everything officially went to shit, though." Arnbjorn leans against the dining table. "Don't think that guy was Thalmor. He was involved in something else."

"In light of this new information, I think everyone here should exercise caution. No leaving the Sanctuary alone. If we take contracts, we do it in pairs." Lumen looks to her assassins, ready to argue with anyone who is unwilling to split their pay just for the sake of safety. "Things can go back to normal once we kill whoever is after us."

"It would help if we had a better idea about who might be after us," Babette sighs. "I prefer solid facts to conjecture."

"I tortured a Thalmor when I broke into their embassy," Lumen says without prompting, her expression grim. "He said the reason Malrian was able to bring the Brotherhood down was thanks to a traitor from within. An assassin was working for him. I assumed Malrian killed them when they outlived their usefulness, but perhaps that is not the case. Perhaps this traitor is the sleeper agent."

Cicero closes his eyes, reveling in the darkness there. He is so tired of traitors and deceivers rotting his family from within. He is tired of being forced to wade through his past. Old memories are coming back to him in waves, and it's hard to face them once more. He doesn't want to think about the fire that swept through Bruma's halls or the screams of his dying siblings. He doesn't want to remember the painful loneliness of Cheydinhal.

"Everyone Cicero knows from that time is dead." Cicero tucks his hat into his pocket and runs his fingers through his hair. "Bruma. Cheydinhal. They're all dead!"

"You don't know which Sanctuary this traitor came from," Arnbjorn says, his deep voice steady and soft, as if he is speaking to a wounded animal. "It's possible you two never met, and they only know you by name and reputation."

Cicero falls quiet. He is numb to his very core. Lumen comes to stand by his side, her hand resting gently on his shoulder as she speaks. "We'll continue this discussion in the morning. We've been traveling all night, and we could use a rest."

Her hand curls under his arm as their siblings murmur their agreement. Thoughts of the Dark Brotherhood's fall weigh heavy on them all. The violence brought about by the Penitus Oculatus is still fresh. So perhaps they can understand Cicero's pain. Falkreath was his third home, and it fell to ruin just like all the others.

"Come on, Cicero," she says softly. "Let's go."

Cicero gets to his feet when his Listener commands it, and he follows her through the Sanctuary. The hallways whip by in a mossy blur, and soon he is bathed in the golden firelight of the Listener's chambers. She guides him to sit in front of the waning fire, and she lays her hand upon his cheek. The tenderness in her touch threatens to shatter him.

"Cicero must apologize," he says, forcing the words out before they get stuck in his throat. "The Listener should not have to coddle the Keeper so. Dupre would have gelded Cicero for showing such weakness."

This is uncharted territory for them both. Cicero often buries his grief under layers of sarcasm and bad humor, and the Listener would sooner walk through Oblivion than deal with her issues. But here they are, up to their elbows in emotional muck, and they are forced to wade through it, lest they drown.

"You have nothing to apologize for," she says. "I understand your anger. We all do."

"Cicero will try to answer your questions if you have them."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It is— easier with you. Just you. With the others, it feels too much like an interrogation."

Lumen glances at his stack of worn, leather bound journals. "Can I—" she makes a noise of frustration. "Would you—"

"Lumen," he sighs. "Cicero is fine. This will not break him."

"Your journals," she begins slowly. "When did you start writing these?"

"When I was traveling to Cheydinhal. Bruma had fallen. Cicero was the only survivor."

A strange emotion passes behind her eyes, but he cannot name it. "How long were you at the Bruma Sanctuary?"

"Five years." He runs the pad of his thumb over a line of stitching in his armor. "May Cicero ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"How long have you had Cyril watching the Thalmor?"

"Since we took Northwatch Keep." She brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs. "Cyril's vampire abilities make him an excellent spy. I've had him watching the Blades, too."

"I am surprised you utilize him so much," Cicero says, a grin tugging his mouth. "With him being an Altmer and all."

"He's loyal to the Brotherhood," she says. "That's all that matters."

"Oh, Cicero doesn't know," he hums, grinning when she narrows her eyes at him. "Cicero thinks you might be growing rather fond of our undead brother. Should he be worried? Is he going to be replaced?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Cicero is quite serious," he continues, even though Lumen is muttering a soft curse and rolling her eyes. "Cicero thinks there's something about the sickly pallor of his skin that really gets you off."

He knows he's won this battle when she snorts out a startled laugh. "Quit being weird," she says, a grin curling her mouth.

"A tall order, but Cicero will do his best to honor it." He is giddy with anxiety— but also relief. Even after the events of the night, he can still bring a smile to his Listener's face. "You should rest, sweet Lumen. It has been a long night."

"That it has," she says, getting to her feet. "Are you coming with me?"

Cicero looks down at the journal in his hands. It is worn and frayed at the edges— just like him. "Not yet."

When dawn arrives, Cicero is still sitting on the floor of the room he shares with Lumen. He's been searching his journals for any mention of a notable enemy — or an old friend — who might wish him dead. But he's found nothing. These old journals were not for his private thoughts, but an account of his experiences within the Brotherhood. As such, they were no more detailed than they had to be, lest they fell into the wrong hands. His personal journals burned long ago. They were nothing more than lengthy tomes of prolix and prose that contained a lifetime of sorrow between the pages, and they served him best as kindling.

They have done their best to bury their pasts, and they do not often speak of them. Such things are rife with information that could get them killed. Every twist and turn, every relationship or friendship formed along the way could lead them to ruin. It is a small blessing Astrid never knew of Lumen's history with the Thalmor.

He never thought someone from his past would come back to haunt him. Could it have been someone from before his life with the Brotherhood? How many people has he killed? How many children has he left motherless? How many lives ruined because of his blades?

Exhaustion sinks deep into his bones, further compounding his frustration with his poor memory. Having spent so much time focusing on the present, he never realized how much he lost until now. All that time spent guarding the Night Mother and waiting for a sign— it all blurs together. Ten years and it's nothing more than a spotty, passing of time that was so unremarkable his mind couldn't be bothered to record it accurately.

"Are you still awake?" Lumen stretches and rolls onto her stomach, squinting her tired eyes at the multitude of candles surrounding him.

He closes the journal with a snap. "Did Cicero wake you?"

"No." It's a lie— but it's a lie for his benefit, so he'll let it slide. "Come to bed?"

"Cicero will not be able to sleep," he says, although he does go through the motions of undressing. Curling up with his Listener is not a terrible idea. He doesn't need sleep as long as he can spend a few hours alone with her. "Cicero does not mind being hunted. It is rather exciting. But he would prefer it if his Listener were not in immediate danger."

"I'm not scared," she says, pulling him into the cradle of her arms. "I have you. There's nothing to fear as long as you're with me."

He swallows thickly. "Your faith in Cicero might be misplaced," he says, sliding his hand inside her nightshirt and resting it on her stomach. It's a great effort not to cling to her.

"Is it?" Her fingers card through his hair. "We survived the fall of Falkreath together. We killed Malrian together. We killed a god together. My faith is hard-won, Cicero. But you have it. You always will."

He wonders if she is trying to break his heart. His Listener is not a woman inclined to gentle touches and sweet nothings, but here she is, putting her faith in a fool like him. Maybe it will be different this time, because there is a new Listener, and small — but fiercely loyal — Brotherhood at her beck and call. Maybe it will be different because dragon fire burns within her heart, and she is not just a mortal, but one who has been touched by the gods.

"Will you tell me a story?"

Her question startles a laugh out of him. "What kind of story?"

"Let's see," she murmurs, her fingers drifting across his shoulders and rubbing the tension from his tired muscles. "How about a contract?"

"Oh, very well." A weak smile forces its way across his lips. "Cicero will tell you about the first contract he took when he arrived at Cheydinhal…"

Cicero blew a strand of hair out of his eyes as he fidgeted with his clothing. He hoped Baroness Jania liked him. Things would be so much easier if she liked him. Rasha seemed to think she would as long as he kept quiet and played his role well. He never had to pose as a prostitute before, but it wasn't hard to get into character. It was an easy task, despite Rasha's poor advice. He told Cicero to look cute and to keep his mouth shut. Apparently, no one appreciated his wagging tongue. Although he was certain his lady friends — and some of his male friends — did appreciate it.

"So you're the one the agency sent?" came a haughty voice, and Cicero found himself looking up at the stern visage of the Baroness. "You're a pretty one. How old are you, boy?"

He regarded his mark. She was the wife of a baron who moved from High Rock to Cyrodiil for his health. He often gallivanted with the locals, while she spent his money as if gold was going out of style. It was a common enough scenario, and surprisingly, it was not her husband who wished her killed. She had a taste for young boys, and her sick perversions would prove to be her undoing.

"Seventeen, your grace," he said, which was a blatant lie. Cicero was halfway through his twenties! But his small stature and delicate features aided him in this ruse.

"A bit old for my liking," she tutted. "Very well, take off your shirt— and be quick about it."

Cicero obeyed, his deft fingers undoing the tiny, pearl buttons. It pained him to part with the velvet overcoat and silk shirt. They were the finest clothes he'd ever worn. But could always return for them when the Baroness was dead. It would be a shame to get blood on them, after all.

Her withered finger traced the line of his abdomen before she withdrew and said, "Show me your cock."

"What?" he blurted, forgetting himself.

"Take your cock out," she snapped. "Or you can return to your master and have him send me someone more biddable."

It was an effort not to laugh. "Yes, your grace. Forgive my insolence. It will not happen again." He unlaced his tight breeches and revealed himself. Rasha must be laughing his ass off by now. Surely he was aware of what the Baroness would ask Cicero to do. Not that he minded. Cicero had no hangups about the appearance of his privates, but he'd rather not show them to some withered harridan.

The Baroness eyed him appreciatively. "Follow me." She spun around, her skirts billowing behind her as Cicero followed her up a flight of stairs. "You are to pleasure me orally first," she said upon entering her private chambers. "If your service is to my satisfaction, we might move on to other things."

Cicero wondered if this was a ritual hazing. It was customary for some sanctuaries to put their new members through their paces. It was obvious no one wanted to degrade themselves with this contract, so they gave it to the new guy. He wondered if he'd ever live this down.

"Close the door behind you."

He pushed the door shut, and while his instincts told him to search for an emergency exit, he was woefully distracted by her bedroom. It was the gaudiest thing he'd ever seen. There was pink decorative paper on the walls, ribbons everywhere, and a rather extensive collection of ceramic cats. The room smelled of stale perfume and camphor. Not a terrible odor, just one he associated with sweet old ladies. Not— whatever this wretched woman was.

The Baroness seated herself upon a large pouf. "Come here, boy," she said in a voice that might have been sultry at one point in her life. She gathered her skirt in her lap and spread her legs. "I don't have all night. Get to it."

It took all of Cicero's self-control not to flinch— or scream, or gouge his eyes out, or set himself on fire. Oh, by all the Aedra and Daedra, and everything else in between. This was the worst contract he'd ever accepted. If he lived for a million years, he would never unsee this.

"I realize time is of the essence, but do we have to rush?" he asked as he approached the Baroness, comforted by the weight of the dagger hidden in his boot. "A true gentleman would never dream of rushing his lady's pleasure."

She smiled at him. "You're a sweet one, aren't you?" Her eyes followed his every movement, watching him with a lust that made him pity every boy that came before him. "I don't need any coaxing if that's what you're wondering." And just to add to his mounting horror, she slid her hand along her thigh, beneath her skirts, and moaned.

Oh, gods. His cock was dead. He just knew it. It would never stand at attention again.

His feet carried him closer to the wretched woman. But rather than kneeling between her legs as instructed, he stepped around her, trailing his fingers across her shoulders. "My lady, you are positively ravishing," he said, his voice calm even though he was shrieking internally. "I look forward to watching you in the throes of your little death— and your real one."

In less than a second, the dagger was in his hand, and the blade was kissing her throat. Blood cascaded down the front of her dress as she fell forward. She died face first upon the ground, with her arse in the air. A fitting end, for one such as her.

"I'm going to fucking strangle Rasha," Cicero grumbled as he cleaned the blade on her dress. He bore no true ill will toward the Khajiit. He welcomed Cicero into the fold with a warm hug and a list of chores. This contract was just another part of his initiation. At least it would give his brothers and sisters something to laugh about. Laughter was in short supply these days.

With the dagger back in his boot, he glanced around the room for anything worth pilfering. But he didn't see anything he liked, although he did consider taking a ceramic cat home to Rasha— just to be rude.

He sighed and pulled the hem of his trousers away from his waist. "I'm sorry, old friend," he said to his cock. "You will recover in time. Perhaps we will visit Skingrad sometime. Go to the inn and chat up the barmaid with the magnificent tits. After that, we can visit that guard with the affinity for swordplay. You would like that, wouldn't you?"

A sound drew his attention away from his suffering manhood, and he looked up to see a maid standing in the doorway. He'd been so distracted by the Baroness; he'd completely forgotten his instructions. "The house will be empty save for the Baroness and her handmaiden," Rasha had told him. "The contract is only for the Baroness, but you may kill the handmaiden if you wish. Your bonus will not be forfeit."

Cicero gave her a winning smile and said, "Hello."

The handmaiden gaped at the late Baroness, and then at the shirtless man who had been holding a conversation with his privates— and screamed.

"You'd better run, you stupid girl!" He laughed, reaching for the dagger in his boot. "Run!"

She was still screaming when she bolted through the door and down the hallway. Cicero was on her heels, laughing and taunting her as she turned a corner to rush down the stairs. But the dress was long, and she stepped on the hem, toppling head over heels down the staircase, and landing in the foyer with a sickening crack.

"Ooh." Cicero winced. "That looks painful."

He descended the stairs, rushing to get to his discarded clothes before the handmaiden had a chance to bleed on them. Skirting around her body, he snatched the shirt and jacket from the floor. He dressed quickly, eager to collect his payment and drink away all memory of this night.

Later, he would enter the Sanctuary to the hoots and hollers of his amused siblings. Rasha would clap him on the back and offer him a brandy, and after a night of raucous celebration, Cicero would eventually retire to his quarters to add a new entry in his journal:

1st of Rain's Hand, 4E 187

Completed the Baroness contract. She died well. Her handmaiden, less so.

Notes: I decided to write the flashbacks in past tense, as there are a lot of them in the story and I was hoping to make them stand out. I hope the switch isn't too jarring. :)