It had been several days since the battle in Windhelm. The city was still healing, and so were they. The group had stayed close to the outskirts, tending wounds and gathering supplies while waiting for word from Delphine—or anyone, really. There'd been no sign of dragons since the last attack, but no one believed the danger was gone.
They'd finally set camp near the edge of the forests north of the city. A place quiet enough to think, but close enough to civilization that it didn't feel like exile. Recovery came slowly. Some wounds were physical. Others... weren't.
The fire crackled softly beneath a night sky brushed with stars. The wind had quieted, leaving only the occasional creak of a pine branch or the soft crunch of snow shifting beneath their boots. Eradros leaned back against a rock, his arms folded behind his head, gazing upward with half-lidded eyes. He was all bandaged up around the ribs, and moving from that spot was the last thing he wanted to do. Gavhelus hunched by the flames, poking at the embers with a stick, while Taviiah tended to a small pot of something that claimed to be stew. Kin sat cross-legged nearby, cloak covering his half-arm, listening to the others speak.
Paasha sat a little off to the side, silent, her hood pulled low and her horns just barely catching the firelight. For once, she hadn't slinked off into the darkness or vanished the moment no one was looking. She sat among them, still and watchful, like a wolf who'd finally decided to be with her pack.
"So," Gavhelus finally muttered, tossing a charred log into the fire. "Now that the city's not falling apart and the dead aren't crawling up our asses… what's next?"
"I…dont really know," Kin said quietly. "we only managed to halt the war…for now anyway."
Taviiah glanced toward the pot. "Whatever's next, I hope it doesn't involve serial killers of any kind. I'm still sore from the last run-in."
"Join the club lass," Gavhelus muttered. "We're all pretty banged up."
She glanced around the camp briefly. "Devines help us–we all look like shit."
Kin chuckled a bit but said nothing.
Everyone paused.
Eradros cracked one eye open. Gavhelus raised a brow. Taviiah snorted.
Then, Gavhelus turned his eyes toward the cloaked figure on the edge of the firelight.
"…Hey, speaking of serial killers," he said slowly, turning completely to Passha. "I'm sorry love, but I never got your name?"
The others looked to as well. Taviiah blinked, then smirked. Kin stayed silent.
Eradros sat up. "Now that you mention it… I don't think I've ever asked. Just assumed she was another addition to the gang."
Minevi folded her arms. "I appreciate that you helped out my comrades, but I think it's time to address the elephant in the room."
"Who are you?" Eradros asked, narrowing his eyes.
Paasha didn't answer immediately. She lifted her head slightly, the firelight bouncing off of her eyes.
"I am the Listener," she said softly. Then she gestured to her attire. "Of the Dark Brotherhood, obviously."
A heavy pause fell over the group.
"The Night Mother speaks to me," Paasha continued, voice disturbingly calm. "Whatever her will speaks…is done by my hand."
More silence.
Gavhelus snapped his fingers. "Ah…hence, the listener."
Minevi glanced over at Kin. "…You knew about this?"
"She told me," Kin replied. "But we never got around to what that meant."
Taviiah covered her mouth, hiding a smile.
Eradros exhaled slowly. The amount of questions that sprouted from her answer had made him immediately exhausted. "Right. Listener. Hand of the Night Mother. Got it."
Gavhelus blinked. "We're all gonna die in our sleep, aren't we."
Paasha tilted her head with small grin. "My only job is to ensure the Dragonborn succeeds in his mission. It would prove difficult for the brotherhood to continue its work if dragons run rampant."
They all stared at her with silent expectation—like there was something else they were waiting for her to say.
She raised an eyebrow, then awkwardly coughed into her fist. "You all have nothing to fear from me. At least…for as long as the Night Mother wishes it so."
Before anyone could respond, they hear footsteps approaching. Then a sharp voice broke the night.
"Got something for ya."
They all turned. A courier stood at the edge of the camp, breath misting in the cold air, holding a sealed letter.
"Important message. Your hands only."
Gavhelus groaned. "Why do they always say that?"
Kin stood and accepted the letter. The seal had already been cracked—typical of the Blades. He unfolded it carefully and began to read aloud.
'Kin,
I may finally have a lead that could help us. There's a man I need you to find. A Khajiit. He's
rumored to have worked closely with the Blades years ago, who dealt in old magic and
machinery. A tinkerer. Brilliant but unstable. He disappeared after the Blades were disbanded,
but some records suggest he was last seen near Markarth.
If he's alive, he may be the only one who can help us understand what the dragons truly are…
and how to stop them.
—Delphine'
Kin looked up, scanning their faces.
"Markarth huh?" Eradros muttered. "That city's a crypt built into a cliff."
Gavhelus stood. "Great. Nothing like a Forsworn-infested deathtrap to brighten the month."
Taviiah smirked. "At least it won't be as cold there. Right?"
Paasha didn't move. She didn't really care where they had to go. It could've been to the gates of oblivion. Her only concern was protecting Kin.
Kin folded Into his cloak. "Well…it's the only lead we've got so far."
Gavhelus propped up his leg and slung his elbow over it. "That settles it then—to Markarth it is."
The fire popped.
They all sat in the quiet, letting the moment settle.
Whatever came next—it would begin in Markarth.
Deep within the Markarth prison—
Cold stone walls. Echoing boots. The clank of steel doors.
Two guards dragged a limp, bound Khajiit down a corridor deep beneath the city. Their armor glinted faintly in the dim torchlight, faces twisted in annoyance.
"How in Oblivion did this lunatic even get in the museum," one grumbled.
"Blew half the exhibits apart. Nearly crushed that old priest under a spinning Dwemer orb."
"Tried to feed moon sugar to the animunculi."
The Khajiit in question had long, dark grey hair that trailed along the ground as the pulled him along. His robes were singed, his wrists bound, his boots gone. He laughed like someone far removed from the reality—soft at first, then erupting into a full cackle that echoed down the stone halls.
"Keep it up," one guard snapped, shaking him. "I'm sure the Forsworn love loud guests."
The Khajiit went limp, still giggling.
"He's high as Sovngarde," the other muttered. "Why am I not surprised?"
They threw open the cell door and tossed him in like a sack of flour. He hit the floor with a grunt and kept laughing.
"Damned addict," the guard spat. "You're never getting out of here. Good luck with the withdrawals"
The door slammed shut.
For a while, he lay still—chest rising and falling, bound hands twitching. He blinked up at the ceiling.
Confusion.
Blink.
Dread.
Blink.
A crooked grin.
"You can stop hiding now, little friend," he purred. "The guards are all gone now."
From the shadows beneath the bench, a small Dwemer spider clinked softly into the light. It skittered forward, one leg broken, another repaired with string and a fork. From its underbelly, it extended a thin metallic limb—holding a rusted key.
The Khajiit playfully opened his mouth like a child at the dentist. The spider dropped the key into it.
He grinned, tucking it under his tongue.
"Mmm. This one loves the taste of metal…so electric."
He smile for a moment, then his face shifted to a look of worry. He rolled his head toward the spider again. "But this one is still all tied up."
The spider hesitated, then extended a blade-like appendage.
He giggled as it neared his ropes.
"Don't be upset, Spindle. They are only serving their purpose…as all things are meant to. Even your brothers and sisters locked away in that stuffy museum."
He chuckled louder while Spindle went to work on the ropes.
The blade gleamed as it sliced through the first strand.
The old cat may have been lost in the clouds, but there was no mistaking it—his mind, warped as it was, still danced circles around the world that tried to cage him.
End—