A/N: I wanted to try another Dark Brotherhood story but make it comedic. This is the end result of some very cursed Elder Scrolls thoughts and boredom. I hope you enjoy what we have.
Note: This does somewhat follow the Brotherhood of Old mod, which if you don't have it, install it. It makes the Brotherhood so much more interesting, adding elements and quest rewards from Oblivion to make yourself the ultimate assassin.
The new members you pick up are also hilarious.
A Rose Without Thorns
*Chapter 1*
Laurel was far too used to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Her father would say she had a knack for finding trouble, even when she went out of her way to try and stay out of it. Life in Tamriel was funny like that. And right now, she was in very big trouble. All I wanted was to go to Falkreath and hunt. How did this go so wrong? She regretted stopping by the tavern for an apple pie, which was flopping around in her stomach and threatening to come out the same way it went in. The pie itself was probably regretting not being in the stomach of someone with more backbone. Bile rose in her throat. She was in serious trouble.
She was also a woman standing over the dead body of an Imperial hunter, which really ought to have been the first thing she should worry about. It was hard to concentrate with her organs giving her the signals warning of imminent vomiting, so she felt like could be cut at least some slack. It isn't everyday a wood elf minding her own business in the woods is suddenly attacked by a rabid hunter. It was all a terrible accident. She had been stalking a deer when the man tackled her out of nowhere, sweeping her off her feet and tossing her to the forest floor. She remembered screaming, panicking, a lot of flailing in a desperate attempt to crawl away, and suddenly the man on top of her going limp. And blood. A lot of blood. Some of which had, unfortunately, landed in her mouth and was now traveling down to a stomach already on the urge of emptying itself.
Laurel gripped the bloody steel dagger and whimpered.
"Is this a bad time?" The altmer who asked the question was tall, blonde, and clad in tight black and red leather armor. The top half of her face was covered by a hood, leaving only her smile exposed. A black handprint adorned her chest and the previous forty years of Laurel's life flashed before her eyes when she approached. No weapon was drawn and the altmer wasn't fazed by the dead body, only tutting and rolling it over with her boot. The pool of blood it lay in had grown considerably since the initial stabbing. "Oh dear. You've made a right mess of this, you know that? You're always going to have trouble moving the body in one piece."
Laurel's brain stopped, rewound itself to process the words correctly, and pushed passed her queasiness to choke out a response. "W-what?"
"The best thing to do is to chop the body into six pieces and then pile it all together. Of course, you've still got the problem of actually getting rid of it. Fire is good if you're not worried about discretion, but the smoke can attract trouble and it's no good storing it amongst your venison and beef for your mother to find now, is it?"
"I'm sorry, but... who are you?"
"In terms of disposing of the corpse itself, I hear the easiest solution is to feed them to bristlebacks. You'll need to starve them for at least a day, then that uncooked pile of flesh will look like a prime slice of venison chop. They will cut through bone quicker than a man will finish his mead. You need about two bristlebacks to get rid of a body in a single sitting, and an hour of feeding will have their stomachs full and happy with no evidence for the guards to find. Hence the term, 'as greedy as a bristleback'."
Well. That was... enlightening? Terrifying? Psychopathic? "Uh, thank you?" Laurel's parents always raised her to be polite and thankful whenever someone offered such useful advice. Even when it was unwanted, disturbing, and the person giving said advice was casually murderous. Oh, and they also appeared to be someone who fed people to bristlebacks in their spare time. Just the kind of person Laurel wanted to be around alone and standing over a dead body. "But um, who exactly are you? Apart from someone who feeds other people to wild beasts."
"You may call me Nyra," the altmer introduced with a beaming smile, extending her hand. Freely given and probably an alias, but it would do. Despite her warm voice, there was an odd coldness to the tone and the smile showed off too many teeth. Laurel hesitated to take the gesture for what it was, if only because her instincts demanded she run for the border of Hammerfell as soon as possible. She was afraid. Is this what a rabbit feels when it's being chased by a wolf or sabre cat?
"Laurel. Are you going to kill me?" she blurted out.
"Kill you?" Nyra laughed. It was an eerie sound, the kind her father often warned her about and told her that meant she was in a terrible spot. That meant it was also crushingly familiar. "My dear, why would the sabre cat bother with the rabbit when the elk will feed it for days?" In other words, she wasn't worth killing. Laurel winced.
Okay, maybe this isn't so bad...
"But, ah, I'm afraid there is a slight problem."
There it was.
Laurel's father thought her tongue only decided to stop working when a handsome man winked in her direction. This was a false assumption. In reality, her tongue was a daedra with a burning hatred for its owner, and instead of words coming forth, she let out a stream of noises that might have passed for a wounded troll. In fairness, she was still standing over a dead body and alone in the woods with no one for company apart from a woman who fed people to bristlebacks.
Nyra had no such problems, and thankfully didn't call out Laurel's failure to properly communicate in a language recognized by Tamrielic society. "You see, the man you killed was a, how do I word this... a man of interest to me and my organization. To see him killed like this is... troublesome. There is only one option for you, I'm afraid. You must pay this debt back."
Laurel blinked. Bribery wasn't so bad. Nothing in life was free. She honestly expected so much worse, like her head rolling away from the rest of her body or being dragged along behind a carriage. "What do you want? Gold? Meat? Gemstones?"
Nyra shook her head and her feral smile grew wider. "You will work for me until it is settled."
"C-come again?"
"You will be under my employment," Nyra repeated, her smile not wavering. "I believe I was being clear. It's very simple, my sweet. If you desire to not have this unfortunate incident traced back to you." She inclined her head towards the corpse of the hunter. "Then you will do as I say. Please do not make me have to repeat myself."
Laurel burped, her cheeks turning an unhealthy shade of greenish yellow. The fear won and she hastily threw the bloody dagger away. It pinged off a tree and vanished out of sight and out of mind.
Nyra sighed and stepped to her left as the wood elf doubled over. The first few chunks sprayed out moments later.
Laurel was not strong of will. She was not a grizzled Nord who'd stare down a dragon with nothing on but a loincloth. A braver person might've been able to hold the contents of their stomach, but she never claimed to be brave. Her throat convulsed and another helping of stomach acid and partially eaten apple pie came out, spattering onto the forest floor. To her surprise, Nyra didn't wrinkle her nose in disgust or chastise her for showing such a moment of weakness. Instead, the altmer neatly stepped over the body and around the ugly mix of vomit and blood. Laurel heaved for a third time, and Nyra kindly took hold of her reddish-brown hair, pulling it back to keep it from being caught in the crossfire.
"There, there," she soothed. "This was the first human life you took, wasn't it?"
Laurel nodded. She wanted to say it was an accident, that she didn't mean to, but her stomach decided otherwise. The fourth stream splattered directly onto the dead man's face, adding more insult to injury. Thankfully he couldn't rise up and do anything about it, being dead and ever so slowly starting to decay. The stench was horrid and one that really didn't help matters. Corpses gave off a very specific odor; even the lowliest peasant knew the smell of death.
"Hmm." Nyra rubbed her shoulders. "It's more of a common reaction than you'd believe. Most aren't prepared to take the life of someone else, even when their own is in danger. Once the adrenaline wears off, the realization of their actions begins to settle, and they're sickened by what the emotions they felt during their struggle. The satisfaction that comes with being alive and the other dead and unable to do anything in return. Some lose their minds almost immediately and break down, becoming those sad men begging for death as they rot in the prisons.
"Others find relief in drink or drug, hoping that whatever substance they use will purge the memory from their minds. They find themselves dead within a matter of time, due to overdose or suicide. I admit, the first emotions I felt after I took my first life were more on the verge of satisfaction and to this day, I don't feel an ounce of guilt. Hard to feel sympathy for a man who defiled my sister and drove her to end her life prematurely."
Laurel wobbled and forced herself to stand upright. "I-I..." She burped and tried to slow her breathing. It had gotten uncomfortably hot and sweat was beginning to pour out. "I don't feel so good..."
Without warning, she toppled facefirst into the dirt.
Ah yes, the other reaction Nyra didn't have enough time to explain. The one where the person passed out from terror and wet themselves in the process. The altmer was more amused than annoyed, and she scooped the unconscious bosmer up into her arms. "Well, you being unable to break down to the guards does make our escape a tad easier."
The young mer mumbled something incomprehensible.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure it was very important." Nyra let out a soft whistle, and moments later the sound of hooves filled the air. Her faithful steed pushed through the thick bushes and undergrowth, coming to a stop in front of her. His glowing red eyes met her green, and the black steed snorted as Nyra set the corpse ablaze. What she wouldn't give to have a few bristlebacks take care of it instead. It was so much easier, and Shadowmere huffed as the wind carried the smoke towards him, clopping away from it and giving the body a solid kick for good measure.
Horses really were quite fascinating creatures. Not only were they incredibly sturdy and could handle almost any terrain thrown at them, but they were also intelligent creatures and could detect when a rider was afraid. Shadowmere was not a normal horse, and from one look at the unconscious wood elf in Nyra's arms, he also knew that the girl was a sodding idiot. The snort sounded suspiciously exasperated.
"Now, now," Nyra chided gently, shifting Laurel in her arms to reach and pet his snout. Shadowmere allowed it, if only because she was one of only three of his masters to never raise a hand against him - the others being Lucien Lachance and the old Listener of Cheydinhal. He huffed and the gusts of warm air from his nose were a welcome relief to her cold hands. Whoever designed the Dark Brotherhood's current iteration of armor had an eye for aesthetics, but completely neglected to factor in the fact that Skyrim was bloody cold and not everyone was so lucky as to be immune to it like the Nords. "You should be more open to the idea of travelling again. It must have been frustrating being kept in a pen like some kind of farm animal."
The previous 'leader' of the Dark Brotherhood - and she used the word lightly - did what Shadowmere considered to be the worst crime of them all. Kept him cooped up in the Pools of Black outside the Falkreath Sanctuary like a farm horse. He was meant to be ridden, assisting the Listener as they filled out the wishes of their Unholy Matron, not tied down to a mistress who didn't lead.
Nyra wasn't afraid to admit that the Dark Brotherhood, the organization that once struck terror into the hearts of even the mightiest kings, was at a crossroads. The Brotherhood succeeded in their grandest task yet, killing Emperor Tidus Mede II, but Astrid's betrayal was a devastating blow. The Brotherhood consisted of only herself, Nazir, Babette, and - to nearly everyone's exasperation - Cicero. Not exactly much of an order. Nazir had been able to find two young initiates, both of whom were eager to prove themselves, but the Brotherhood was lacking in numbers. The destruction of the Falkreath Sanctuary courtesy of Astrid's betrayal had left only the Dawnstar Sanctuary as the last remaining bastion of an organization that was once feared throughout the continent.
The Brotherhood had their Listener and their Unholy Matron, but the rot Astrid allowed to fester had infected the root. If we are to survive, then we must rebuild properly. We must bring back the old ways. It is the only way to ensure the Brotherhood will not die with a pathetic whimper. Killing the Emperor was a good start, but more work is needed.
The piles of gold their benefactor provided for the Brotherhood as a reward for killing the Emperor of Tamriel had gone mostly towards repairing the once-defunct Dawnstar Sanctuary. It wasn't enough to keep the organization afloat for long however, and Nyra would be the first to say they needed more if they were to restore the organization to its former glory.
No more shall we abandon our traditions. Nyra carefully laid Laurel onto Shadowmere's back, climbing up behind the bosmer and holding her so she wouldn't fall off on the journey. The girl slumped against the back of Shadowmere's neck, a thin line of drool ending up in his mane, and he tossed his head with a snort. He was never fond of passengers, especially weak-willed brats that made a mess of his mane and encumbered him.
Nyra's lips curved up into a small grin. "Don't fret, dear. I promise I shall give you a nice hot bath when we get back to Dawnstar. You won't mind a small detour, would you?"
Shadowmere lazily blinked back at her, scuffing the ground with his hooves.
"Well, there is a certain abandoned shack in the marsh around Morthal that I believe is one of our oldest yet most favorite little games." Nyra chuckled at the unbelievably flat stare the horse managed to give her. Times like these, she wondered if Shadowmere was one of the Brotherhood's most faithful members reincarnated. Most horses of Skyrim weren't quite as good at displaying human emotions.
"I'm sure there will be a nice watering hole nearby for you to get a drink while I deal with our... charge," she eventually settled. There wasn't really a lot of other words to describe the unconscious wood elf currently draped over Shadowmere's back. Idiot was one that did fit, but it felt cruel to label her as one when Laurel clearly didn't intend to kill the Brotherhood's target. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps if she decided to hunt in the fields of Whiterun, Nyra would be on her way home and happy with her dagger bloody and no thoughts about it, other than wondering what the Night Mother's next target for her would be. The Listener was rather tempted to send one of the initiates out in her place before deciding it was best to make sure the deed was done properly. The Brotherhood could ill-afford incompetence at a time where survival depended on making sure every contract went smoothly.
Nyra knew her place in the world. She was sent onto this earth to be the bringer of death to beggar or king, trained in the arts of murder and very comfortable with it. Especially when her targets happened to be high-ranking officials of the Aldmeri Dominion. Those altmer could take a long walk off the top of Adamantine Tower. However, her last few contracts had been rather dreary. Talk to whoever performed the Black Sacrament, accept their gold, and go off to kill whoever they wanted dead before returning home to the Sanctuary. Wash, rinse, repeat. The worst kind of cycle for an assassin of her talents to be stuck in.
One of perpetual boredom.
It may have been necessary work, but that didn't make it any less crushingly boring.
Life in Tamriel had a funny way of providing one with a dash of excitement. Normally, if someone had killed a target of the Brotherhood, Nyra would find herself being rather put out and immediately take their life as compensation. Sithis demanded a soul, and the Dread Father would be more than willing to accept another if he couldn't obtain the initially requested soul first. Balance and all that.
Today, however, she was amused. The Brotherhood's target had picked their victim well. The awkward and quiet wood elf made an easy target for a crazed madman to attack. A pity his madness didn't allow him to take note of the dagger the girl hid in her hide armor until it was too late. Nyra had the ambush for him all laid out, a daedric arrow coated in nightshade extract and ready to sink into his spine the moment he went out for one of his late-night hunts. A shame he happened to be bitten by a rabid animal and didn't get it treated before the disease took his mind. Killing someone with the recognition of a cabbage was no fun.
Laurel, as the girl called herself, was in a stressful position. The hold guards wouldn't take kindly to an elf killing someone even in self-defense. The animosity towards their kind had only grown in the years since the Great War, thanks to the Dominion's actions, and that meant some Nords would look for any excuse to toss an elf into the prisons and have them rot for however long it took for them to shuffle off the mortal plane. Elves had longer lifespans than the races of men, so Laurel would spend decades if not a century in a cell if she was taken in by the guards. Nordic prisons weren't a pleasant experience, and Sithis only knows what a deranged prisoner would do to a defenseless elven woman. That simply would not do.
The worst part was Nyra understood the resentment. The Dominion had tainted the view of all mer across Tamriel, perverting the values of their culture to the most extreme. Those who didn't bow to the Thalmor were exiled from their homes and many became social outcasts. It was distressing to see such a proud people become consumed by their own ambitions. Originally, the Thalmor was meant to be a defense force, to protect the Summerset Isles during the Oblivion Crisis. But with the daedra threat gone, the Thalmor became the very thing they swore to destroy. A force of oppression and tyranny, not caring for those it trampled underfoot.
No wonder Skyrim had declared independence and was looking to start a war with the Thalmor. You could only poke the sleeping bear so many times before it eventually snaps and decides to take your life away. Beating back a daedra invasion was fine and dandy, but actively searching attics and cellars for 'heretics' was how one ended up with enemies on every front. The Thalmor seemed to forget that the very people they were infuriating the most - the Nords - literally had a way to kill with a mere whisper.
The Nords were right about one other thing, too, besides Talos being a Divine. Nothing was funnier than Shouting a Thalmor battlemage off of a cliff to his doom. Or a snooty Redguard asking if she got to the Cloud District very often.
So many people had performed the Black Sacrament on Nazeem that Nyra had to pull a page out of Astrid's book and hold a lottery to determine the client. She didn't think that sweet lass Ysolda had it in her to wish a very painful demise on someone else. Just went to show that anyone could be pushed to malicious behavior when annoyed enough.
There's really only one option for you if you want to live, dear.
As if he could read his rider's thoughts, Shadowmere tossed his head with a snort. His shoulders rippled and he took a few strides before leaping over a downed tree in the way. Nyra grabbed onto Laurel to keep her from falling off like a sack of potatoes, the hapless bosmer flopping around like a slaughterfish out of water, and with a groan she hoisted the younger mer up and pulled her against her chest. "Ah, I see." With the mer now slumped against her, it wasn't hard to spot what had driven the normally calm steed into a bout of irritation.
There was a thin line of drool in Shadowmere's mane.
Waking up was not a pleasant experience for Laurel.
Instead of feeling refreshed and rested, her body was sore and felt like it had been involved in a carriage accident. Her back ached, her joints were stiff, and the bosmer winced as she groggily sat up, blinking sleep out of her eyes. The eerie quietness told her that she wasn't outside, and it was strangely warm despite the lack of any fire. Things became clearer, and she looked around, face rapidly draining of all color.
She was in a shack, one that hadn't been used for many long years. The floorboards were soft and rotting in places, the furniture dusty and covered with webs. No bed in sight, and she could've sworn she saw what appeared to be a baby skeever skittering around in the dark.
"Sleep well?" a soft voice behind her asked. Laurel screamed and whirled around, the high elf from before standing behind her with a smile. Nyra, if she remembered correctly. "I apologize for the lack of warm blankets and soft beds, but as you can tell, anything new I put in here would be worthless junk in a matter of days. Do you remember what happened before you so graciously assumed the position of a drunk?"
"I-I.." The bosmer swallowed, looking away as the memories came flashing back. The hand grabbing her by the throat, her panicked scream, more panicking as she struggled to break free, and suddenly her assailant dropping. She remembered the soft drip of blood from steel, the satisfaction of killing-
No, no! That wasn't right! She wasn't a murderer!
Laurel whimpered.
"I see. Do you remember what I said to you in the forest?" the altmer asked. "How you will have to work for me to settle this debt?"
Laurel mumbled something under her breath.
"Speak up, please. I'm not fluent in babble."
The bosmer's cheeks flushed and she sighed. "Yes... What is it that you want me to do?"
Nyra chuckled and reached out with one hand, making Laurel flinch and only relax when it became clear the gesture wasn't meant to be an act of intimidation or a threat. "Well, funny you should ask, dear. If you would be so kind as to turn around and greet our other guests? They're here to congratulate you on your newfound work opportunity."
Laurel turned around and her eyes widened, a strangled noise between a croak and a question leaving her lips. On the other side of the shack, lined side-by-side like it was an Imperial execution, three people with black hoods sat on their knees with their arms tied behind their backs. One of them was weeping, and the crying only got louder as Nyra made her way over to them with a saunter.
"While you were sleeping, I acquired our guests for the party," she said cheerfully, sending a shiver down Laurel's spine. The altmer made her way over to a cupboard behind the hostages, ignoring their pitiful whimpers and pleading. She rustled around in the top shelf before pulling out a dusty bottle of alto wine and a pair of silver goblets, beaming. "Aha! I wondered where I stashed this. It must have aged very well by now. Care for a taste test?" She held out the bottle with a friendly smile that really didn't fit the situation.
Laurel looked at the offered wine the same way she might regard a slaughterfish, expecting it to lash out and reveal something sharp to dig into her hand.
"Don't worry, dear. I don't make a habit of poisoning my employees." Nyra chuckled at her little joke. "I assure you; it is perfectly harmless." To demonstrate, she poured the wine into her own goblet and took a long drink. The goblet didn't fall from her hands, she didn't foam at the mouth or begin to suffocate as her throat swelled up. Nothing at all, though Nyra did appear to be happier despite the presence of three weeping hostages somewhat ruining the atmosphere. A faint dusting of pink rose onto her cheeks and she let out a content sigh, repeating her offer. "Drink?"
Well, if she was offering, it would be rude to refuse. Even if the one offering her a refreshing beverage was pointedly ignoring the fact that she kidnapped people and had them lined up for slaughter. With every instinct screaming at her to run for the nearest window and dive out, Laurel accepted the goblet with trembling hands. She nearly dropped it out of fear of making this already terrible situation even worse, but she caught it and shakily rose it up to her mouth. The swallow was painful and felt longer than it was, but she couldn't deny one thing.
Nyra had absolutely lovely taste in wine. Was that juniper berries? Delicious.
Refreshing, even.
Nyra smiled and tipped her goblet to her. "I always find it better to handle more sincere affairs with pleasurable company and good drink. Now, about that work I mentioned... I represent an organization that has plenty of opportunities for those with our... unique talents. An opportunity I now extend to you, my dear. You see our guests?" She waited for Laurel to nod before continuing. "They all share one thing in common, despite their differing appearances and choices in life. They all made one fatal mistake. Invoking the Wrath of Sithis."
What? Sithis...?
Nyra circled her, stopping behind her and resting her chin on her shoulder, the bosmer deathly still and very aware of the tension building up. A foul smell rose from one of the hostages, a stain rapidly forming on his trousers. He'd wet himself, and Laurel flinched as something warm and heavy was pushed into her hand. it was a dagger, but not one she had ever seen before. Made out of black metal with glowing red streaks, it had a curved handle and serrated blade shaped similarly to that of a scimitar, but smaller. It was warm to the touch, like all weapons that saw frequent use. It had slain men and beast alike.
Simple, but very deadly.
"The Dread Father is waiting for you to make your choice," Nyra purred, pointing at the hostage in the middle. "If I may make a suggestion, I personally recommend that one right there. Quite a foul witch, she was. Did you know she sold her own daughter to slavers?" The blonde altmer smiled coldly at Laurel's sickened expression. "Oh yes. No one in this shack is innocent, dear. They've all committed some crime against people in their own way, some crueler than others. That man beat a disabled beggar to death with his bare hands." She nodded to the man furthest left before turning her bright green gaze over to the last one on the right. "And this one was a bandit who made quite a few people unhappy. Murder, theft, banditry, assault, and lollygagging."
Wait, lollygagging was an actual crime? Laurel thought the hold guards just said that as a joke to keep unruly children from causing mischief or disrupting the markets.
"So, which one will it be?" Nyra asked sweetly. "The bandit, the beggar-beater, or the woman who sold her daughter?"
Laurel looked at the dagger in her hand, then back up at the hostages. Down towards the dagger, and back up again.
She wasn't a killer, and the bosmer stole a look over her shoulder at Nyra. The altmer merely smiled and raised an eyebrow, content to wait until Laurel made her choice. I want to go home. I want to go to bed and wake up from this nightmare.
Only problem was she wasn't dreaming. She was very much awake, and this was very much reality.
Caught in the saber cat's den with no escape.
Laurel shuffled forward, each step feeling like an eternity. The floorboards creaked underfoot, and she flinched as the woman Nyra said was a child trafficker turned in her direction. "P-please..."
Was killing her right? Would it solve anything?
"I recommend that artery," Nyra said, pointing to the woman's jugular. "The blood gushes out quickly and will guarantee she dies within minutes as opposed to long and prolonged suffering." The hostage broke down, babbling incoherent nonsense and the altmer rolled her eyes. "Oh, do stop with that. You signed your death warrant the moment you sold your child to be used as some bandit's plaything. Even my mother wouldn't have done such a thing."
Laurel stopped in front of the hostage, dagger gleaming with deadly promises. Her mind was a whirlwind, and she raised the dagger up high, clasped in two hands that refused to let go. I never wanted this...
It was drowned out by a much louder, more persuasive thought.
Do it.
She closed her eyes and thrust the blade down, cutting a terrified scream short.
Nyra smiled in satisfaction as she watched Laurel plunge a dagger into her victim's throat. The woman toppled forward, choking on her own blood, and Nyra took a particularly vicious pleasure in seeing the wretched bitch's life fade away. The woman laid in the center of a growing pool of crimson and didn't stir. Sithis had her soul now.
"Excellent work," the blonde praised, maintaining her smile as Laurel slowly turned around with a glassy expression on her face. Her dark eyes seemed to be glazed over, and Nyra would've said it was the wine if she knew she didn't give her enough to get her buzzed. It was like seeing a completely different person, a far cry from the frightened little girl who threw up at the sight of a body. Interesting. "Sithis is pleased."
"Bring her to the Sanctuary. This child shows promise."
Ah, so She was watching, too. As you wish, Sweet Mother.
Laurel stared blankly ahead, blood dripping from the dagger still tightly clasped in her fist.
Drip... drip... drip...
"Are you there?" Nyra asked.
The bosmer let out a soft rasp. "Yes..."
"Good!" Nyra gently pried the dagger out of her grasp, shaking the last few drops of blood off of the blade and sheathing it. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Laurel didn't answer.
Nyra kept smiling.
One of the hostages coughed.
"Oh, right. How silly of me. Would you like to get some fresh air while I attend to the mess here?" she asked. Laurel nodded hurriedly, reality's hard grip taking hold of her once more. Nyra reached for the key to the shack and gave it to her, giving one last call as the bosmer stumbled out like she was trapped in a trance. "Oh and mind the horse. He's not very fond of people, I'm afraid."
Laurel whispered something she couldn't hear, but Nyra didn't get a chance to ask what it was. The door was unlocked and she was gone, leaving Nyra alone with her other two victims.
"Now, where were we... ah, yes." The altmer's dagger spun into her hand and she skipped over to the two hostages. "Terribly sorry about all this, but ah, I have no further use for you." The captured bandit let out a weak cry of relief, unable to see and assuming she'd do the noble thing and set him free. Aw, how sweet. Moments like this made her heart flutter.
"Which, unfortunately for you, means your lives have come to an end. Please refrain from screaming too loudly; my ears are sensitive."
A/N: And that's the intro. So, what do you think? Tell me what you think down below. I'll try and keep this consistent, but you never know.