Please excuse this chapter everyone. I had a horrible headache for three days and then had writer's block, but I wanted to get this posted. If it seems a bit incoherent, I apologize. I read it over and fixed it as best I could.
Lucien left Bruma swiftly, stealing under the cover of night and finding Shadowmere impatiently stomping her hooves in the snow. Her blood-red eyes glared at him accusingly and he felt slightly guilty that he couldn't have left her in the stables. A horse such as her would merit too much attention, unfortunately.
He gently pat her nose and mounted her, smirking at the aggressive nicker she sent his way. It was his only admonishment before Shadowmere obediently began to gallop down the freezing mountain.
His thoughts were rampant, running from the botched job, the Breton, and his hasty proposition. He was sure the Night Mother could forgive his rash action, he had personally seen her kill and though he'd had no formal order to recruit her, he was certain she would be a nice addition. And, if she wasn't, she wouldn't be a problem for long.
Lucien shuddered at the thought. That would be a beautiful death indeed. The Breton herself wasn't "beautiful," covered in dirt as she was, but her eyes! He thrilled at the thought of those expressive steel eyes, bright and teeming with life growing dark and vacant as the blood spilled out of her, her cracked, dry lips gasping with unspoken curses.
It was quite possibly the unresolved blood lust he felt at losing his kill, but a part of him hoped she refused his proposal. The other was desperate to see her kill again.
Pulling the reins, he coaxed Shadowmere to a slow trot. Why should he wait for news to reach him via gossip? He'd seen her kill on accident and that stoked a fire in his veins which he hadn't felt in Sithis knew how long. What would it be like to see her take a life with purpose? Lucien licked his drying lips.
Rufio had to die. If she didn't show up he'd just have to do it himself and then kill her soon after for not heeding his warning. If she did show, he'd bear witness to what was sure to be the most satisfying assassination he'd ever seen. His blood pounding in his veins at the mere thought promised him as much.
He would ride straight past the Blue Road, he decided, forsaking Fort Farragut for more southern scenery.
One must watch their investments carefully, after all.
Maela submerged herself into the steaming water. How her heart had leapt when she discovered the tub! She'd wasted no time filling the basin with water, using a flame spell to heat the bath to a comfortable temperature. With a sigh of relief, the Breton scrubbed the dirt and blood from her body and hair. The thought to remain in the house forever crossed her mind, but she knew Heinrich had kin that would come looking for him eventually.
And then there's that…
Maela looked at the pile of rags on the floor, the ebony dagger resting easily on top, as though it were enjoying her leisure time as much as she was. Maela leaned out of the tub, her fingers danced languidly along the blade, assuring herself that her late-night visitor hadn't been a dream conjured up by a guilty conscience.
She scoffed bitterly at the thought. The blind could see she harbored no guilt in her soul. Confliction, yes. She knew she should feel something, she killed a man and invaded his home on the very same night. While she felt strange, it was more like awkwardness, as though she were at a party and didn't know any of the other guests. She just knew she didn't belong.
She had thoughts running through her mind like ants she just couldn't squish. What if she should go through with it? She would be accepted into the specter's "family" and live happily ever after? Somehow, it didn't seem so easy. What if she decided later on that she didn't want to do it anymore? She sincerely doubted they'd let her walk off with a "come visit some time!" and let her be on her merry way.
But, if she refused she was a dead woman outright. That organization really left options open, didn't they? Maela sighed and stepped out of the tub, shivering at the loss of heat. She scurried into the bedroom, desperate to find some clothes that would fit her small form.
At length, she found a light blue dress of Imperial design—The Nord must've been a real lady-killer—in the guest room wardrobe, and while she had to tighten the laces as much as possible, it wasn't a bad fit. She turned her attention to the looking glass, a faint smile tugging at her pink lips. With all the dirt and mud scrubbed off her face, she actually looked 17 for once. Her skin was pale as the moons, smooth and soft from the soaps she'd found on the shelf. Her ebony black hair was damp, but beginning to curl at the ends as it dried. Maela combed her fingers through the locks with determination, not satisfied until it lay straight on her head.
After she finished, she traveled to the larder, nibbling on a loaf of bread as she filled a sack with provisions for her upcoming journey.
She would travel to the Inn of Ill Omen. It would take her days, almost the entire week she was allowed. During that time, she'd be sure to think about her decision. It wouldn't be too late if she decided to decline. She could end her escapade at the Imperial City or continue south to Bravil or Leyawiin. The dagger she had received was well-made and would probably fetch a pretty price if she sold it to the right vendor.
Maela shook her head and pulled one of Heinrich's fur cloaks around her, slipping her bag of food over her shoulder. She opened the front door and stepped out into the frigid morning air, looking back into the house with a forlorn sigh.
Pulling the hood over her head, she slipped out of the east gate. She made to begin her descent when her eyes danced over to the stables.
A horse would make this easier.
She glanced around, rolled her shoulders and opened the gate. The stable hands were no doubt still asleep, if she was quick she'd get out of this unscathed.
The paint horse eyed her warily as she approached, its tail swishing in agitation.
"Come on," Maela cooed, reaching into her bag to fetch a bright, crisp apple. "Hungry?"
The horse sniffed once. Twice. Its grey eyes watched the fruit as Maela waved it around. It took a step forward and Maela stepped back, leading the horse out of the stables and away from prying eyes.
"If I give this to you, you have to promise you won't throw me off your back."
The horse snorted and she took that as confirmation, allowing it to eat the apple from her hand.
Once there was nothing but the core, the sun slowly began to rise in the east. Maela promptly mounted the animal, bunching her skirt up in order to sit comfortably.
"I think I'll call you…Pascal."
Pascal nickered in distaste and Maela smiled in amusement.
"Alright, let's go."
Pascal didn't move.
"Let's go," Maela repeated. Again, the horse refused to budge. "Come on, I fed you!" Pascal's ear twitched and he looked around, seemingly more interested in the scenery than the Breton on his back. With an annoyed huff, Maela jabbed her heels into the horse's sides.
Pascal grunted in aggravation, but reluctantly began to trot down the trail.
"Finally!"
Six days. Lucien grimaced, fingers impatiently tapping on the wooden table. He tried to busy himself with spinning his spoon in the food the innkeeper had so generously supplied him with.
"A week's stay?" The nord (he had excitedly told Lucien his name, but who had time for such nonsense?) had asked incredulously. "Welcome to the Inn of Ill Omen, friend! Consider yourself welcome anytime! Now, can I get you a drink? On the house, for my favorite customer!"
Lucien took a look inside the bowl. It was a stew of some sort, but that was the most he could decipher out of the strange dish. It was lumpy, grey, and smelled faintly of rat piss.
Perhaps the fool should be brought in as a poison expert, he thought wryly, this food would surely kill any who ingested it.
Lucien had taken to traveling down the road to the Faregyl Inn when he required sustenance. While the atmosphere wasn't so attuned to his tastes, the food was edible and the ale fresh. But, he hadn't come south for a pleasure trip.
His eyes glanced at the door and he frowned. It was a pity, really. He'd honestly believed the girl had some sense, but her week was almost up and she had yet to show.
Come midnight, Rufio would die by his own hands. Then, the hunt for her would begin. He shuddered, the chase was one of his favorite parts. The perfect build up to an earth-shatteringly satisfying kill. There was nothing like the pump of adrenaline, running after the prey, out-smarting them at every turn. Being seemingly everywhere at once until the target grew too disorientated to notice he stood right in front of them. Then, the eyes would widen in realization as his dagger pierced their chest, painting the ground with a delicious crimson.
Just six more hours…
Maela stared at the inn and swallowed thickly. It was now or never. She turned her eyes up to the dark sky. She could make it to Bravil in no time if she just continued straight on, but she feared what she might find on the road. She'd heard rumors of minotaur and trolls patrolling in the shadows and didn't feel too confident with nothing but the small dagger and a handful of novice spells to defend herself with.
She tightened her hold on the reins. She could do this.
No I can't…
It was easy to pretend to be confident during the journey, but when she was finally faced with the task at hand, Maela found her usual meek demeanor returning.
She remembered the cloaked figure towering over her, his gloved hand caressing her as though she were something rare and valuable. Too quickly had that gentle stroking become a grip that promised nothing but pain should she refuse him.
No, she couldn't run away. She could hear his voice, coaxing her along. It filled her with courage and apprehension. She would kill a man and she'd be doing it for a complete stranger. Maela dismounted and lead Pascal to the broken down fence on the side of the inn, tying his reins to the post in order to keep him from wandering off. She smoothed out her skirt and lightly touched the dagger at her waist.
She could hear it singing.
Maela shook her head frantically and pulled the fur cloak off of Pascal's saddle (she had taken it off once the air became too humid) holding it under her arm to drape over the dagger glinting in the moonlight. She pushed open the door, the wood swollen from the damp air. It creaked and groaned. A bitter aroma wafted into her nostrils as she stepped over the threshold.
The inn looked even smaller on the inside and she grimaced. If she needed a quick escape, it would not come easy. The innkeeper was asleep behind his bar and she sighed in relief. At least he wouldn't know she was there should imperial guards come sniffing around. As quietly as she could, Maela tip-toed past the bar and up the rotting steps, they creaked under her weight but the Nord didn't stir from his slumber.
There were only two rooms on the top floor. The knowledge that Rufio was behind one of them, waiting, made her palms sweat. She wiped her hands on her skirt, dropping the fur cloak to the ground to unsheathe the dagger. She'd be quick, not even give him a chance to scream.
That's what assassins did, right?
Maela took a deep breath and put her right hand on the door, clutching the dagger tightly in her left. She threw the door open and charged in, ready to strike…nothing.
The room was empty. Only a pile of clothes neatly folded at the edge of the bedroll betrayed the occupant's existence on Nirn. Maela frowned, adrenaline already pumping through her veins. Next door then, he would be next door. She closed the door of the first room and darted into the second. It too was empty.
It didn't make sense, she had been told to go to the "Inn of Ill Omen" hadn't she? Maela looked at the blade in her hand.
"Oh, shut up you," she growled at its laughter. Then she paused, eyed the dagger warily and sheathed it. Maela snuck back down the steps and looked around the lobby for any clues. The snoring of the inn keeper was getting on her nerves and she grit her teeth. She obviously heard the man wrong and soon he would be after her. She hurried to the door and froze, a sharp shout echoing in her ears. She whirled around, eyes landing on a trapdoor behind the stairs.
There!
She wasted no more time, pulling the hatch open and climbing down the ladder. At the end of the narrow hallway, she saw an open door. Light from candles spilled out into the hall and she saw the shadow of a man trying to crawl away.
Maela ran for the bedroom, unsheathing the dagger once more when she saw a shadow looming over her target. There was one final scream when she rushed in. Blood spilled over the hem of her dress and soaked into the doeskin shoes she wore on her feet.
The man from Bruma stood over the body, blood dripping from his dagger and soaking the cloth of his robes. A crazed grin looked like it'd split his face in two and his eyes glistened in the flickering flames. He looked euphoric, as though he were alive for the first time.
His eyes flickered over to Maela, focusing on the ebony dagger she had clutched in her hands. Her skin lacked all color as she watched the blood gush along the wooden floor like a river in the middle of a storm.
Divines save her. She was too late.
Again, please excuse this chapter. I can promise the next one will be 9,000,000 times better.