Distractions

"Oh listener, my listener! Did you hide Cicero's sweet rolls? A jest, you say! All for me? Well, I'm honored. Heh heh heh heh… sigh… if only Cicero were so lucky." The madman mumbles near-incoherently from a random corner of Mr Teatime's lair.

What a strange dimension this is… The listener ruminates. No longer a blade for the Assassins' Guild, Teatime finds himself in Nirn… a world completely and uniquely unlike his own.

Over two years ago, Death threw him from the world of Hogswatch and banished him to this alien realm. After a run in with a band of wild vampires, he'd been infected with something foul. The sickness slowly began to change him… anointing him with the strangest of abilities.

His eyes didn't change all that much, though their contrasts grew with intensity. As his blue iris changed, his glass eye gained something as well. Brightest blue, and darkest pitch… each became a unique boon of sight in the other's blindness.

Throughout his journeys Mr Teatime gained many titles… vampire, dragonborn regrettably, & listener… the last of which he finds to be the most valuable as of late. It was only the natural choice for him, of course… to become the leader of Skyrim's most elusive and dangerous assassins guild. And from it, he earned a prize far greater than the rarest jewels or oldest thrones.

The vampire's precise, fine-tuned hearing closes in on Cicero's murmuring… distracting him from the complex enchantments he's attempting to cast on a pair of elven daggers.

"...Ho ho ho, and hee hee hee, break that lute across my knee... and if the bard should choose to fight, why then I'll set his clothes alight! Hue hue hue hue…"

"Hahaha. Well, well. A pity I didn't get to see it for myself." The assassin giggles in that shrill tone of his, reveling in the familiarity of this ancient crypt. The smell of leather books and alchemical ingredients hangs in the air. Only now, his lair feels much more complete. Every so often, its candle-lit corridors are filled with a delicious litany of his jester's most unhinged thoughts.

Having such a wildcard by his side has been nothing less than tantalizing. The unpredictable danger of it haunts his dreams, Cicero's quavering voice always lingering in the back of his mind. Teatime daydreams incessantly at times, imagining the man's vivid past. He'd read all of his scattered journals, just before their confrontation.

It was this fascinating tale that intrigued Mr. Teatime—the story of the simple entertainer who joined the Dark Brotherhood, embraced his murderous passion, then one day killed the jester who would change him forever.

Cicero was troubled by the fool's torturous laughter. This madness infected Cicero. It became a tool. It's distinct from his desire to kill, yet shapes his actions all the same.

Teatime often finds the man's brazen loyalty and unpredictable nature quite off-putting. It often feels like his control is slipping, somehow. Still, he really wouldn't have it any other way. To have Cicero as a loyal blade is such a treat… like fresh blood upon cold lips.

"Oh, listener, can't you see? Hardly the fool, though I'm painted with glee! Does humble Cicero really impress? Or is it all just a lie… a lie, a lie, a lie…"

Teatime smirks to himself wickedly, turning the blades in his hands as runes begin to appear on its surface. Enthralled might be a better word… or seduced. Damned Jester. He thinks to himself idly, though he's absolutely terrified to admit such a thing.

He's still unsure what it means. Never in his life has he felt this way for anyone. The fanatical man really is his perfect equal, even as different as he is. His cunning intellect is often lost in an ocean of madness. A paradoxical madness, it seems.

Mr Teatime has become something of a believer in recent years. More accurately, he believes in Cicero and his unfaltering dedication to the night mother. He's talked about her before, and with such reverence. In this way, he's earned the listener's trust. Astrid turned out to be the lunatic in the end, having betrayed everything the true covenant ever stood for.

It's true, the man really is an embodiment of the dark brotherhood… driven by the constancy of two wolves. One, who lusts for blood… and the other, who lives to play. This is all that mother ever wanted for him, anyway. That's all she ever wanted for any of them.

"That's enough eavesdropping, for now." He mumbles to himself. Teatime hardly wants to cause the jester any accidental indignity, knowing he's likely muttering to himself in confidence. The assassin just shakes his head, trying to continue his work.

The jesters' unkempt words continue to flitter about the lair like a flock of restless bats. He must be bothered by something. All this talking is a bit out of the ordinary, even for him. "Crazy? Cicero? … Heh… heh… heh. That's madness. Not nearly as crazy as him. What kind of man can hear our mother's thoughts, what sort of listener is he, really? How is his devotion any greater than mine? Uhg! This is all so confusing!"

Teatime narrows his eyes. He can't tell if that's doubt or jealousy in his comrade's voice. Even if it was the former, he couldn't rightly blame him for it. What else could he think? Another bloodthirsty assassin arrives in your precious sanctuary, becomes the listener, and takes control of the situation.

The enigma even spared the keeper… allowing an unspoken appreciation to grow between the two of them. Together, they worked to cleanse the dark brotherhood of doubt and restored it to its former glory.

Despite this, his uncertainty just doesn't sit right with Teatime. Perhaps there is jealousy within that doubt. "Can't have that now, can we?" Teatime murmurs to himself, setting down a single dagger. He grips the other in his hand fiercely. Cicero's a timid fellow… in some ways. If Teatime allows this air of uncertainty to transpire for much longer, he may soon find himself with a painfully quiet… and empty lair.-