Thanks for the reviews guys! I really got inspired and I worked hard to get this chapter written and posted! I also try not to use game dialogue and tend to twist it around. It all says the same thing, I just don't copy it word for word.

I OWN NOTHING!

UPDATE: 5/10/2012 fixed Maela's description.

Maela stared incredulously at the crimson seeping through her fingers. The old dagger that she'd found in a trash heap was buried to the hilt in the Nord's ribcage. His blood was hot, spilling over her hands and thighs into the cold snow below. She could see steam rising off of it in clouds.

No, the steam wasn't from the blood, but from her own exhilarated panting. It looked beautiful, coating her alabaster skin and tainting the pure flakes a deep scarlet…

Maela gasped and leapt to her feet, hands still clutched tightly around the dagger's hilt. She had just killed this man! He was laying cold in the snow because of her, and all she could think of was how beautiful it all looked? She hadn't meant to kill him, she told herself, she saw the footprints in the snow, the shimmer of a chameleon spell, the Nord had hinted someone was after him after all! She had thought if she warned him, he wouldn't harm her.

Well, he certainly wasn't going to harm her now.

She nervously glanced around for witnesses. Luckily, the night was as dead as the man below her. Maela looked back at the corpse, gulping as she met his wide, accusing eyes. Her gaze trailed from his face, to the wound-still pumping out blood, she mused-then finally to his coin purse tied at his belt.

She felt guilty, but how does one steal from dead men? He didn't need the gold where he was. He would never know hunger or the freezing night air again, and Maela found she envied the man in that moment.

She untied the strings and clutched the purse tightly, relishing the heavy weight of gold inside. She thought to slip away but paused, why stop at a coin purse? How long had it been since she had a roof over her head? Maela patted the Nord's pockets until she found what she was looking for: a key. She knew the home he had been residing in, a middle classed home near the east gate. With a warm fire and undoubtedly stockpiled with food.

She nodded once at the feeling of her empty stomach. Just for tonight, then she'd move on, he didn't need food anymore anyway. Now came another matter.

Tempting as it was, she couldn't leave him in the middle of the street to rot. Gods forbid a child stumble upon him. Maela looked at her surroundings, debating on the perfect hiding spot. There was a nice nestle of trees there, or she could dump him in an alley…her eyes settled on a large bank of snow.

Maybe…

She tossed the old dagger aside, slipped the key into the Nord's coin purse and secured it at her waist. She scurried over to the snow and began to dig frantically, muttering a weak spell to keep her hands warmed to prevent frostbite. Once the cave was deep enough, she kicked the dagger into the hole, then she slipped her hands under the Nord's arms, grunting at his weight.

She'd used quite a bit of magic lately, keeping herself (mostly) undetected while she followed the Nord, healing a few lacerations from earlier in the day, the heat spell to keep her from freezing, she felt drained. But still, she tried to focus. Summoning any magicka she had left, she whispered a feather spell. It worked, barely, but it was better than nothing. She dragged the carcass into his makeshift grave and quickly worked to cover him. She wondered if she should pray for him, if murderers even prayed for their victims at all.

From snow we are born, to snow we return…

She remembered hearing a bard sing that stanza during a festival one year, she supposed it was poetic enough to be considered a eulogy. The line meant little to a Breton, but she supposed a Nord such as himself would appreciate it. Once he was good and buried, she turned to attention to the blood on the ground. It would raise an alarm if anyone saw it, she knew. Maela ripped a branch from a pine tree and swept the snow as one would sweep dust off a porch.

By the time there was no trace of it left, Maela was exhausted. She glanced to where she had last seen the footprints, long since covered by the snow. She wondered if whoever had been sneaking around was gone, or if they were watching her. Waiting.

She shuddered at the thought and walked away, trying to bring as little attention to herself as possible.

The fire was warm and welcoming, but Maela's stomach felt ice cold. The pantry was filled to the brim, but she couldn't bring herself to eat even a morsel. This wasn't her. She wasn't the type to kill a man and then invade his home, so what was she doing here? She curled up into the armchair and felt bile rise to the back of her throat. This house smelled like that man, but of course it would!

She didn't regret killing him. No, she had felt an excitement far more fulfilling than anything she had ever felt before. She regretted that she didn't regret it. She knew it was wrong, she knew it was immoral. Then why did she wish that moment had never had to end?

Maela brushed her tangled ebony locks over her shoulder and closed her steel-grey eyes. She would sleep, Divines willing, and when she woke up everything would be alright.

Divines, she hoped everything would be alright.

Years of sleeping on the streets had attuned her senses to any change in the area. When someone else entered the home of Heinrich Bear-Blood, Maela's eyes flew open and she tensed. A figure, shrouded in black, loomed over her. She felt more than heard the being speak.

"You sleep soundly…for a murderer," it was a deep baritone voice that seemed to echo inside her. It made her feel uneasy, surrounded, like a rabbit cornered by a hunting dog. The man-though such an imposing figure couldn't possibly be human!-raised his head slightly and she could see thin lips accented by dark stubble. Those lips twisted into a smirk, seemingly amused by her wide-eyed stare. "That's very good," he continued. "You'll need a clear head for my proposal."

Maela swallowed thickly, her entire body shaking with the desire to flee.

"Wh-who are you?" She hadn't the mind to berate herself for her trembling voice, she was terrified of this man and she wouldn't fool him with a steady tone.

"A friend, child." He assured her, his demeanor softened. "Though not one that comes without a price."

Maela stared, dumbfounded. She had heard stories as a child, terrible tales of a specter that appeared to murderers to spirit them away to serve his dark master. She had never believed them to be true. He was a terrible presence indeed, but he didn't seem to be a ghost.

"That man you murdered was marked for death by the hands of another," he explained, "he was meant to die by my hand tonight, but you took that duty away from me."

"I didn't mean-"

"Silence."

Maela's throat constricted, as though this man could control her with such a simple command.

"You killed my target: a soul meant for the void," His hood masked his eyes but she could feel them burning into her, "a soul meant for Sithis."

That was a name unfamiliar to her. Was it a Deadra? Her brow furrowed but she didn't dare voice her question. He had demanded silence of her, and she feared what disobedience would bring.

"I see the confusion in your eyes, so I will make this simple for you, my dear child." He crooned as though speaking to a lover, his gloved fingertips caressed her cheek, sending a shock of apprehension down her spine despite how her eyelids fluttered closed. "Far in the South, on the road to Bravil, lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There is a man named Rufio, he's made a dangerous enemy, one that is willing to pay for his extinction." The man gently stroked her tangled hair, soothing the panic that had been welling up inside her. He placed an ebony blade on her lap and smirked. "Kill him with this dagger. Kill for me. Grant me a soul to replace the one you have stolen, and my family will welcome you with open arms. Serve Sithis with your life," he gripped her hair roughly and yanked her head back. Maela couldn't stop the shout that ripped from her throat. His voice suddenly became harsh, hissing like a venomous snake ready to strike, "or you shall serve him in death."

Maela peered up at him through tear-blurred vision, she could see his chestnut eyes under the hood, narrowed into a glare. His gaze seemed enough to set her aflame, should he will it.

"You have until the week is out," he warned, "whether you have killed the man, or not, I will be seeing you again. Be it to welcome you home, or send you to your grave."

He was gone in an instant, leaving Maela to blink back tears and stare at where the man had once stood. Could she do it? She wondered, how many people would readily admit that they'd kill an innocent stranger to save their own life? She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and rubbed the sore spot on her head. The dagger shimmered in the dying firelight, nestled on her lap as though that's where it belonged.

She ran her fingers along the hilt and blade, feeling that sick sensation of pleasure in the pit of her stomach

Be it to welcome you home…

He had said those words, hadn't he? Mentioned joining his family? Maela looked into the hearth, clutching the hilt of the dagger tightly to her chest.

As far back as she could remember, she'd had nothing to live for. No family, no friends, no home, no purpose. But now, this specter had appeared before her, offering her an ultimatum that, not matter which way you looked at it, ended in death.

Deep down, she knew the choice shouldn't have been so easy to make.