Author's Note: n_n Thank you for the nice review! I shall keep that in mind – it's a huge part of Lyssi's character, after all, what she is, and how she thinks most people would treat her if they knew.

I base part of my perception on how a starving vampire would behave on the World of Darkness – shameless theft, I know – and part of it on the fact that I use a mod that makes almost all of your attributes go down when you hit stage four vampirism. It always bothered me that not feeding made you stronger. So, mod. Amusingly, having all your attributes at a minimum after fast-traveling someplace rather distant is a strong impetus for finding someone to eat ASAP. Especially if dawn is coming – there's kinda a panicky "AUGH I'M 'ONNA DIE AND I DIDN'T SAVE RECENTLY" reaction. Blood becomes the player character's primary motivation – everything else kinda falls by the wayside.

For a little guide, though I'd hope it was obvious enough without – the italic paragraphs are not happening in the present.

IODH: If you recognize it from the game, it's probably not mine.

Nobody Important

Chapter Five: Memory

You came for the humor, now stay for the … ANGST. (Wait, what?)

By: N3k0

The twisty maze of passages and grates didn't trouble her at all. She'd grown up little more than a street rat, scrabbling to survive. Sometimes, when she'd stolen things as a youth, she would duck into the sewers to evade the guards. Not precisely these sewers, perhaps, but really, they were all very similar. Rats, goblins, mudcrabs, slaughterfish ....

Twisty little passages that went nowhere and took some small flash of genius to unlock, pools of water whose only purpose was to house giant blades designed to mangle the unwary ....

In her past life, she'd tucked herself into such a world only out of necessity. She had feared it, and with good reason. Now, the dark held no terror. Now, even the many predators were nothing more than competition. This place brought back memories, but she could hold them at bay, at least for a while.

She rounded a corner, clinging to the darkness, the sword held at her side, lightly – out of the thin, filtered light, mustn't alert the goblin to her presence. Quite an infestation had sprung up down here.

She rounded a corner, clinging to the darkness, holding the loaf of bread in her small, grubby hands – out of sight of any thieves who might steal from her. She was a small thing, and so fragile …

Her sword plunged into the goblin's stomach, her hand over his mouth muffling his scream. His weapon and shield fell to the ground, noisily, but down here, the sound would not be noticed. She twisted the blade, then pulled it out, leaving the goblin to slump to the ground, shrill its agony, and die.

His fangs plunged into the tiny Bosmer's throat, and she made barely a squeak of protest. The bread fell to the ground, unnoticed. The man dropped her, and she slumped to her knees, leaning against the wall, so tired … so tired. He walked off, and she could barely hear his boots. She was going to die.

She grunted with the effort, turning the heavy wheel and hoping it didn't snap under her persistent turning. Everything was worn, down here – even the metal seemed tired. There was a distant, echoing, creak, and a door slowly slid open. Wonderful.

She grunted with the effort, sliding the heavy lid of the coffin off. She wasn't really sure how she'd managed to pick herself off the ground, what possessed her to follow the thing to his resting place. There was a heavy thud as the wooden slab hit the ground. She hadn't really thought this through …

She looked down at the Amulet in her hand, unsure what to do with it, really. She couldn't put it around her neck – she'd tried that, and it didn't work; the chain obstinately slid off and away. Perhaps if she went back and drank some of the Emperor's blood, she could carry it that way for a time … no, the entire idea was abhorrent. She refused to slip the Amulet into her pouch of ill-gotten goods, but she had to figure out a more efficient way to proceed. She had a mission to accomplish, after all. If she could just figure this out.

She looked down at the knife in her hand, unsure how to proceed. She could stab him in the heart – she'd heard that would work? Or did you have to cut the heart out completely? Did the weapon have to be out of wood? She was so tired, she didn't know if she could manage any of it on her own. The man was sleeping soundly, unaware that his leftovers had come back to haunt him. She'd give him an awful case of indigestion … if she could only figure out how.

Finally, she settled on a solution. She wrapped the chain around her wrist, and, to her surprise, when she fastened it together, it stayed. Whatever charms it had on it seemed designed to prevent someone wearing it the proper way, but she could handle it well enough. It tingled against her palm, and she squeezed it tightly, keeping it close. This way, she felt, she could better keep track of it. No bumbling pickpocket would stumble upon this treasure, and she only needed one hand for her sword.

Finally, she settled on a solution: she would pierce his heart with a wooden stake. That was how it was done in stories, after all. A wooden stake, and the head removed from the neck. She didn't know where to get a wooden stake, exactly, but there was a broken table, and she figured a leg would do well enough. She had to hope removing his head from his shoulders wasn't actually required; she didn't have the strength. She shaved the tip into a point, with trembling fingers and her belt knife. It was sickeningly easy, holding the weapon in both hands – she hadn't thought it would work, didn't believe she possessed the strength. The thing's chest crunched as she pressed with all her weight. His eyes flew open; he woke long enough to see the face of the one who killed him. She felt like she was going to be ill.

She walked out, into the dim light of pre-dawn, and paused. She'd wasted so much time in the underground, trying to make good her escape. Now, instead of relishing her freedom, she had no choice but to wait out the day. She could endure some sunlight, for a short time … but attempting to travel so far, under the beating sun, would be suicide. With a groan, she trudged back in the tunnel she'd barely left. It would be shelter enough from the sun, and if she understood correctly, this was a secret exit; she wouldn't be disturbed. She locked the heavy grate behind her anyway, and waited for the night. Resting her head against the grimy wall, she let memory fully overtake her.

She woke up to the sound of light clapping, jerking awake all at once. Her neck throbbed – her whole body throbbed, and she could barely move. There was someone there, waiting for her to wake. With a groan, she opened her eyes, and fell backward, startled – she'd passed out at the side of the coffin, her fatigue catching up with her. What remained … ashes and clothing, and the faint, desiccated outline of bones.

She felt overwhelming fear, terror – the panic of a small animal captured in the gaze of a fierce predator. He was there, looking at her, standing beside her, and she felt so insignificant before him. His applause was quiet, the kind of congratulatory sound that was anything but.

"You sleep rather soundly. For a murderer." He sat on the edge of the coffin and looked down into it, before continuing. "I had assumed the death I had come to observe … " A long pause, he regarded her idly. "You look so fragile. So young. I had assumed that you would die tonight. I had almost believed you dead already … I was waiting for him to wake, but who should interrupt my business, except the victim herself."

He knelt, slowly. Maybe he knew that sudden movements would startle her into flight.

Did she really think she could outrun him if she tried?

"You surprised me little one … but I suspect the Night Mother knew this would be the final result. She must have had her eye on you." He put his fingers under her chin, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. He tilted her head to the side, and she felt herself shaking. "Hm. This infection … And the wound that caused it. You will carry the disease in your veins, now, I think."

She shot him a look of horror. Disease? She'd be a … like the thing that attacked her? A vampire?

"Yes. Your life will likely end soon." He seemed to be watching her with his predator's gaze, gauging her reaction to that simple comment. He didn't care. His voice, his actions, said it all. She was nothing to him, except an unforeseen, unpredicted end to someone else's life. Someone's life that, he thought, had more value than her own, though that wasn't really saying much. What could he want with her? Was he just here to taunt her, before the end? "And it will begin anew. As I understand it, the pain of becoming a vampire often drives common people mad."

Her mind raced. She'd be a monster, a horrific thing from fairy stories. She'd be an ugly beast that stole children, feasted upon women, and killed good men.

But … the stories weren't true. The man wasn't fearsome, not really; he'd been almost pretty. Not so much anymore, but he had been. And the eyes, for the handful of seconds she'd gotten a look at them, had been hypnotic. They lost that in death, though … but then, he all but disintegrated in death.

"And so the wheels turn. I come to you with an offer."

Like what? He'd kill her before the disease could? Would that even work, or would it merely hasten the process?

She peered up at him, inspecting the hard, hawk-like features beneath that hood. His expression was unreadable, but then the only one she, herself, was good at reading was anger.

"You have here a unique opportunity. Not only has this fool bestowed upon you his curse – your blessing – but you killed, in cold blood, after his attack upon you was long finished. If you can repeat the gesture once, only once, you will find acceptance and a Family such as you have never known in your short life."

She said nothing. What was there to say?

"So, I have your rapt attention. Splendid. Assuming you survive the curse you now bear, you will go to the Inn of Ill Omen. It lies on the Green Road, to the north of Bravil. There, you will find a man named Rufio. He is old, and sleeps his days away … you could kill him before he woke, if you so chose. However you choose to dispatch of him, once he is dead, your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Prove yourself worthy of the Night Mother, prove you can kill, not only in revenge, but in cold blood as well. Do this, and the next time you sleep in a location I deem secure, I will reveal myself once more, bearing the love of your new family."

The world was going black around the edges, she remembered feeling dizzy. She probably wouldn't have woken again, at all, if he hadn't chosen to reveal himself.

"Take this." He held out a weapon to her – hilt first, so she restrained herself from … doing … something. "It is a virgin blade, and thirsts for blood. May it serve you well … as does your silence."

The dream shifted then. She knew there were things she had done, between Lachance's visit and the third day … she could not remember them. She couldn't remember if she'd eaten anything, or how she'd come to be resting in a bed. She remembered thrashing, though. Her limbs twisting, contorting into inhuman shapes.

She remembered curling in on herself, a tiny, fetal ball, and she remembered screaming until her throat was hoarse, until no sound would escape her but a quiet mewling.

Mostly, she remembered pain. Pain … and the blood-soaked dreams. She remembered people lying in pieces, in her nightmares, her hands stained with their blood as she ripped them to pieces, limb from limb, heads falling free of bodies, and drinking from opened throats. She remembered the dreams best. The all-consuming hunger, the agony of her death ….

And the quiet, feminine voice that urged her to wake, return to the world of the living.

Her task was not yet complete.