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Chapter Text

"Hey, you!
"You're finally awake!"

He comes to with a vengeance. Head pounding, he gives the nord a dead eyed stare.

The Stormcloak in question shifts uneasily.
Quite frankly, he couldn't care less.

The nord continues, a little more subdued.
His headache protests anyway.

"You walked right into that imperial ambush, right? Same as us, and that horse thief back there ."

He moves to give a cursory glance over at said horse thief, before stilling entirely.

Ulfric Stormcloak meets his gaze head on, not flinching even slightly. Impressive, really. He finds himself reluctantly respectful of the whole reason he's here.
He could escape easily of course, and has, in fact, already loosened the ropes around his wrists. But the fact of the matter is, he doesn't particularly want to cross country his way around Skyrim until the army forgets about him again, and he certainly doesn't want to do so in the middle of the day.
On the plus side, he's identified the cause of his headache.

The horse thief doesn't take his eyes off of his fellow captive the whole time he's talking. Fair enough, really.

His companions are waffling on, and he tunes them out in favour of closing his eyes and planning his next job. Because, really, what can they do to him that hasn't already been tried a thousand times before?

He has the distinctly unwelcome feeling that it isn't going to be the one that got him in this cart in the first place. He cracks an eye open to give Jarl Ulfric a glance of professional irritation, because, really? Would it be too much to ask that the man stay still for three minutes, so a fella can kill him?
Apparently not. The nord eyes him back blandly, in a manner that suggests that he knows precisely what he was doing there, and that he isn't impressed.

He makes a valiant effort, and successfully doesn't flip the self-proclamed 'king' off. It's a close one.

The others are clambering out of the wagon in a deeply painful manner. He, however, was not raised in a barn, and hops to the ground fluidly. The dead inside capitain eyes him wearily, completely done with the world. The lad next to her helpfully points out that he isn't on the list. She clearly doesn't give a damn.

"Name?" She asks, in a bland tone that Ulfric Stormcloak could learn from.

He bears his teeth and grins, politely ignoring the way they both recoil. He's confident in the knowledge that this far north, in this day and age? His first name won't raise any eyebrows.

"Lucien." He offers calmly. The executioner looks rightfully doubtful.
The capitain sights deeply, offers the executioner a bullshit explanation that she clearly pulled out of her ass, of, "Punishment for illegal border crossings is decapitation. No-one specified that they have to stay decapitated."

He saunters over to the chopping block, cackling at the capitains technicallity, and giving Jarl Ulfric an excellent view of his teeth as he does.

And then the dragon turns up. Wonderful. Great. Fire breathing lizard. Just what he's always wanted. Thanks, Father

........

He doesn't mean that. He's sorry if he insulted his Father. Please don't send him home.

Point is, there is a dragon, and he is a vampire.
Lucien Lachlance and fire breathing lizards don't mix well, alright?

Chapter Text

He's raiding the corpses when the pair burst in. The uneasy Stormcloak from the cart, and their driver, the helpful Imperial.
They both appear horrified at his actions. Really, some people.

The Stormcloak starts forward angrily, but the Imperial stops him with a look. They have bigger, fire breathing problems, to deal with, first.

Lucien eyes the pair with unconcealed amusement, and continues to raid the corpse's pockets.
"Who were you, again?" The Stormcloak asks brusquely. Lucien, sore and tired, smiles. It isn't a nice smile.
The Imperial, stupidity, bravery, or both, scoffs lightly and offers a hand. Lucien eyes the offered hand hungrily. The Imperial, in a suprising display of self preservation, promptly removes it from biting range, before offering their names. Ralof and Hadvar, apparently.

The newly identified Ralof is poking at the locked door impatiently, before reporting back.
Of course the locked door is locked. That's why its locked, no?
Lucien rolls his eyes before long sufferingly stalking over to the door. Locked door promptly unlocked, with Ralof and Hadvar badly hiding their suspicion as to the the legalities of his usual work, they descend into the inner-bowels of the keep.

One light detour later, and they come across the Imperial tourturor. Hadvar asks about a way out, and the Imperial directs then to a side corridor.
Lucien takes the opportunity to eat, professional pride and hunger both aching. Torture for information is one thing, enjoyment is an entirely different Uncle.

They make it out eventually, and head down to Riften, Ralof and Hadvar bickering all the way. Lucien can't help but eye the ruin in the distance with interest. Hadvar notices his gaze, and starts to tell him about the place as they make their way to the blacksmith. Lucien has no quarms with dumping a small stash of 30 weapons on the blacksmiths workbench and comandeering the man's grindstone as he looks on in dismay.
Various assorted daggers back in their sheaths, and the sun nearly set, Lucien heads inside to steadily demolish the family's cheese wheels, and be strongarmed into talking to Jarl Balgruf on the towns behalf.
With the sun set, Lucien heads to the inn, mostly to ask about any interesting happenings whilst he's been otherwise occupied. There's a jester transporting his mother's coffin north of Whiterun, and some shop keepers have lost their relic. He makes a mental note to head that way some time.

He makes a detour to Bleak Falls Barrow before anything else. The ruin is interesting, and Lucien hates being bored.
There are a pair of bandits asleep in the first cave. Lucien grabs a snack, dispatching them handily as he does.

He makes his way further inward, nordic dark guardians and spiders alike falling easily enough to his knives.
There's a dark elf trapped in a web, shifty as anything. Lucien isn't exactly one to judge, but even he can accept that this is suspicious as all void.

He successfully pickpockets the shopkeepers relic from the elf, who takes offence to that. He successfully shanks the elf, who also takes offence to that, while he's at it. He continues inward, not about to stop now, and eventually comes across what must be the inner chamber of the place. He pokes around the chests for a bit before the wall behind him catches his eye.

It isn't Dwemer make, but neither is it of Nordic quality either. It all but sings with power, and Lucien finds himself drawn into the patterns until he too is practically resonating with the thing. He comes back to himself with a gasp, darting to the side just moments before a great sword crashes into the floor where he was standing. He grabs a pair of daggers, already hacking at the nordic dark guardian as he turns.
The guardian snarls an incantation, and Lucien slides backwards with the force of it. He shakes his head and reorients himself quickly, but he's on the backfoot now, and they both know it. He launches himself at the wall and throws himself off of it so he lands behind the guardian, in a manner reminiscent of the days when people cared about their athleticism. The only way he will win this fight now is if he cheats. Thankfully, cheating is his whole thing.

The guardian is slow to turn. This proves to be it's undoing. Lucien crouches where he lands, throwing a few daggers at the thing's unprotected back as he does. He can retrieve them later. By the time the long dead nord has turned around, Lucien is nowhere to be seen, having called upon the power of his star sign in a way he hasn't really had to do since he was a mere Slayer. He creeps around to it's back, and sticks a dagger in its eye socket, and the thing finally falls.

He takes the great sword, and giving it a few swings, finding that it's enchanted to set people on fire. Not really his style, but he could get a pretty penny for it from the Thieves Guild. He also takes the tablet that the guardian held, likely the source of it's incantation. He'll see if the Whiterun court wizard wants to poke at it before he sells it to the Guild.

He pokes his head outside before recoiling. He really needs to invest in a hood or five.
Nightfall comes, and finds Lucien wandering towards Whiterun, when he comes across the rumoured jester, sat on top of a coffin, with a broken cart.

Oh, He thinks in dismayed resignation, hello Mother.

Chapter Text

He is dreaming, he knows. This is somewhat surprising, considering that he, generally, doesn't dream.
This is not one of the usual dreams. Those he knows, though never in the moment. This is a dream.
This is not his dream.

This is a dream. This is not his dream, though he plays a role in it. He turns at some unheard cue, and is not terribly shocked to find his mother stood before him.
She is not as she is now, all cruel shadows and sharp edges, nor as she was in life, vicious smile and dead eyes. This is the lady, she who once stood watch over Cyrodiil in centuries long since lost to time. He sits at her side and waits, ever the dutiful child.
This is not his dream.

She does not move her lips, and she does not make a sound.
She tells him all the same of an orphan, and an orphanage. Of a plea, and an offering. Of a sacrament, and an answer.
She gives nothing more, and he sits with his mother a while longer.

He opens his eyes to the underside of a cart, having helped the keeper of the coffin move it off the road the night before. The sun has set once more, he knows, and so he rolls out from underneath it with grace.
He nods in parting to his companion, who sits, stoking a fire. This brother, this poor, maddened Keeper, who raises a hand in a cheerful farewell, and then Lucien is stalking off towards Windhelm, resolutely ignoring the near silently hissed commentary in his head, and any promotion that it might entail. He is merely a Speaker, and his Listener is long since dead.

He reaches Windhelm early the next morning, having walked through the night, and is deeply thankful that he thought to invest in some hooded cloaks. Well. Invest is a strong word.
Point is that he isn't being burned alive, so he's content.

He ends up a little turned around by the meandering streets, finally arriving at the correct house at around midday. He darts forward into the shade provided by the balcony, something wild easing in his chest as he gets out from the sun. His cloak is perfectly adequate, but this time of the day makes him deeply uneasy.
He waits patiently, and then less patiently, for the family to vacate the area, and then he gets through the lock. He's not quite sure why it was locked in the first place, really.
He creeps through the house on silent feet, until he comes across a child, pacing and muttering to himself. The kid hasn't seen him yet, and so Lucien takes the opportunity to lean against the doorframe like the dramatic little shit he is.

"You're in need of our services?" He asks, voice silky smooth, in that way that brought so many siblings to their door, and so many targets to their knees. He sniggers as the kid squeaks, and whirls around in startled suprise.
"You're a member of the Dark Brotherhood?" The kid demands, doubt clear in his tone. Lucien raises an unimpressed eyebrow, and stares in deathly silence. The lad squeaks again, before coughing, and clearly attempting to sound mature and put together begins what is obviously a rehearsed speech. Lucien let's the kid finish, before asking the important questions.
"How old are you?" He begins steadily.
"Eleven...?" Aventus asks, clearly unsure where Lucien is going with this.
"Right. You're eleven," he makes sure that Aventus is looking him in the eyes, "and you're legal guardian will be dead. What then?" He continues evenly.
Aventus clearly hasn't thought that far ahead. Lucien closes his eyes in despair. Why is he like this?
He gets down to be eye level with Aventus, and begins his sales pitch. "You clearly admire this family of mine a great deal," he starts, "and I have trained siblings before. I would be more than happy to train you, and bring you in to our little family, if that's something that you'd want?"
He needn't have bothered asking, Aventus' answer is obvious enough. The kid's practically bouncing up and down in glee.
He holds Aventus' gaze a little longer, "Aventus? This is incredibly important," his tone clearly conveys that he means it, and Aventus is clearly hanging on to his every word, "you cannot come with me today. On other jobs, eventually, but this one? Not a chance. You are going to stay here, and I am going to kill Grelod." He waits until Aventus is nodding empathetically, and decides that that's good enough. If Aventus really wants to traumatize himself, then that's his problem. Lucien's done with this responsible adult bullshit for the day.

He walks through the orphanage on shadowed feet, and into the woman's bedroom, promptly locating a bookshelf and lounging on top of it in the Dark Brotherhood's tried and tested look at us we're so cool and intimidating way. He settles in to wait.

He opens his eyes to find Grelod closing the door to her room, and, silently, Lucien draws a dagger. He calmly drops down on top of her, all of his weight on the knife, all of that weight in her neck. She doesn't get the chance to scream. Lucien leaves just as silently as he entered, slipping out through the window and back to Aventus.

"Well," the kid demands as Lucien steps through the door, "did you do it?"
Lucien scoffs lightly, "What do you take me for? A plain old Murderer? Of course I did it."
Lucien just manages to not stab the kid as he launches at him with a hug, but it's a close call. Aventus draws back quickly, darting to the table to hand him a plate.
It's old, clearly a family heirloom, and expensive. Lucien smiles faintly as Aventus offers it to him, and in the same breath demands to know who they're killing and where they're going next.
Lucien laughs, teeth flashing, "I don't know. But, we'll hang around Riften a little while, probably. You need a hot meal and a decent bed, and I need to go be ripped off by the Thieves Guild." He explains with a grin. Aventus looks fascinated by his fangs, and utterly baffled that Lucien would willingly let himself be ripped off like that.
Lucien isn't quite convinced that he explains the mutual professional respect and personal contempt that the Dark Brotherhood and the Thieves Guild operate under very well.

Chapter Text

He stares, blandly, at this anonymous cousin. His cousin stares back, just as bland. It is rather unfortunate, in times like these, that they are all of similar stock. Luckily, Lucien has his Father on his side. His cousin blinks first.
Having successfully asserted his dominance, Lucien places his haul on the table. His cousin raises a reluctantly impressed eyebrow.
Gesturing at Aventus to tuck into his meal before it grows cold, Lucien settles in for the long and harrowing experience that is bartering.

Coin purse significantly heavier, and pockets significantly lighter, Lucien and Aventus hunker down in the only inn in Riften for the night.

He traipses downstairs when morning comes, Aventus at his heels.
He is not thinking about the dream. There was no dream. And if there was, then it was only his overworked mind, making things out of other things. Never mind that his brain does not work to be overworked. It is nothing. It is nothing because it cannot be something because if it is something then they are dead they have been dead for centuries this is nothing it means nothing they are dead they are dead they are dead this means nothing.
There has not been a Listener for two-hundred years. This means nothing.

He is pulled out of his thoughts, which were certainly not spiraling, by the arrival of their food.
There is a note. The courier came during the night.

He does not bother to open it. He knows what it will say. He very firmly instructs Aventus to hang around the Ragged Flagon until he returns, offering the lad one of his best daggers so he can be certain that Lucian will return for that, if nothing else.
And then he goes to take a nap.

He comes to in ebbs and flows. He is lying on the floor, gazing at the wall of a building that is too bloody to be anything but a party venue.
"There is a perfectly serviceable bed right there," he grumbles in irritation.
His sister laughs in feigned amusement. He eyes her stance with despair, noting absently just how easy it would be to pull her off that shelf and slit her throat before she knew what was happening.
He has killed her in 17 seperate ways by the time he realises she is talking. Something about how he stole what was their rightful contract.

Lucien Lachance goes very, very still. They don't know him to be a brother already. There is an opportunity here.
A reputation is one thing. Lucien can handle a reputation.
A legend is another set of expectations entirely.

Lucien Lachance is undeniably a legend. They haven't had a listener in 200 years. He remembers that day like it was yesterday.

He picks a party goer at random. He knows full well how this works.
It will be so much easier to create a reputation than to fail to live up to a legend.
It will also be infinitely more entertaining to watch his siblings world views upend themselves when he gets bored of the game.

Chapter Text

Lucien Lachance is nothing if not a product of his time. Considering that his time involved being dragged all across Cyrodiil and being bullied into helping his Listener close the very gates of Oblivion themselves, it's perhaps not that suprising that he's a bit of a traditionalist.

He smiles pleasantly at this sister. She is no Speaker. A fellow vampire, or even a particularly observant sibling, would see this threat for what it is.
Astrid just smiles back at him.

Lucien very politely does not commit violence.
It's a near thing, he must admit.

All of this to say, he firmly believes that the reason that your family is so small, Astrid, might have something to do with the fact that you've thrown the Tenants out of the blood-stained window.
Perhaps. Ever so slightly.

Lucien stalks past his sister, Aventus trailing behind him excitedly, and goes to hunt down this Nazir.
Honestly, as long as Aventus doesn't lose it in the intervening years a la Mathieu, and as long as Lucien gets to go and play at a party as his dear Listener did so long ago, he'll be happy.

He walks in on a family catch-up, and finds himself observing these siblings curiously. He contemplates them all for a moment, before wandering over to the wall behind them. He leans against it menacingly, taking great delight in the way that the storytelling sister stares at him, incredibly unimpressed with his life choices.
He waves at her mockingly. She finishes her tale before baring her teeth at him in a despairing hello-welcome-home-missed-you-why-are-you-like-this-brother. Lucien throws his head back and cackles at his sister, who hisses at him warningly.

He tilts his head in invitation, and she stalks over to his shadowy little corner, where the rest of their siblings can politely pretend that the Sanctuary doesn't echo.
He shifts uneasily at the look in her eyes. She is angry. At him.
He shoos Aventus over to the shadow-scale, who nods to him in greeting, and starts explaining to Aventus the best places to poke people with sharp objects until they stop moving. It's a surprisingly complicated thing to learn. You have to know your Orcs from your Elves from your Khajiit from your Humans from your Argonians.
Lucien smiles winningly at Babette. She doesn't break her stride. The Redguard laughs at him in sympathetic amusement. He should catch the man's name when Babette's finished eviscerating him.

"Pellani oculatus ('Outsiders eyes'; an Old Cyrodiilic insult; long since fallen out of use, alongside most Old Cyrodiilic), brother!" Babette snaps at him, Old Cyrodiilic falling off her tounge as though it had never left. She continues in that same, long dead language of their humanity. "What is your plan here? Just... waltz on in to Astrid's family and hope she doesn't notice how much you despise her and her refusal to follow the Tenants?"
"You say that like I wanted to be here," he retorts in the same language, hurt coiling in his chest where his heart used to beat.
"Then why are you here?" His sister demands shrilly.
"Because our damned Mother told me to be!" He screams at her, pain and sorrow and something he doesn't want to name crawling under his skin.

Babette inhales sharply in pained understanding, and they stand there for a long moment in silence. He grits his teeth and eyes her warningly, because if she even thinks about pitying him, he will be forced to stab her.
"She.... spoke to you?" She prompts gently. He nods, warily, because clearly his sister is about to impart some wisdom he didn't ask for.
"And you... Listened?" She continues, hesitantly. Cautiously.
Lucien Lachance goes very, very still. He walks past her without a word, without acknowledging that she ever said anything at all. There is nothing she would have said, because there is nothing to speak about.

There is nothing to speak about.

If there was, which there isn't. But if there was. He would tell her this:
They have not had a Listener in 200 years.
They do not need one now.

Chapter Text

He grits his teeth and heads over to where the rest of the Family are carefully not eavesdropping. They're not doing a very good job at it.
At least it's incredibly unlikely that they understand Old Cyrodiilic, the common language having changed heavily in the intervening years.

"Festus Krex, pleasure, I'm sure," The wizard eyes him suspiciously, before continuing brusquely, "how do you know our very own Babette, then?"
Lucien stares at the old man evenly, before simply smiling at him. With teeth.
To the man's credit, he merely flinches, the hindbrain reaction of pray meeting predator.
"You'll be wanting to talk to Nazir about your contracts while Astrid sets us up with a big one," and here he nods to the Redguard from earlier, who waves, amicably enough. The wizard pauses, shifting on his feet slightly, before curiosity gets the better of him, the rest of his siblings listening in eagerly, "what's your name, anyhow, brother?"

He doesn't even have to look at his sister to know that Babette has closed her eyes in pre-emptive despair. He sniggers at her, quietly enough that only she can hear, before replying to the eagerly awaiting siblings with a flourish.

"Lucien," he starts, amused by the way that Astrid raises her brow in clear scepticism, "Lachance." He finishes, and isn't disappointed.

There is shocked, insulted silence for a moment before anyone says anything.
"And I suppose you think your funny?" Babette asks, long-sufferingly deadpan. Most of their siblings clearly assume she means his obviously assumed name.

"Well...", he pauses, pretending to think.
"Kind of, yes." He bares his teeth in what would translate to a but-look-at-their-faces-sister! between their kind, and Babette rolls her eyes at him. He debates flipping her off.

There is a lot of insulted shouting, and Lucien sighs deeply as everyone starts talking over the others. He notes in amused relief that Nazir is chatting quietly with Babette, and he shamelessly eavesdrops on them, tuning everyone else out.

"You know each other, right?" Nazir is asking, and Babette is nodding before he's even finished. He snorts, before clarifying, "And your three-hundred-years old?"
Babette considers, clearly backtracking her age via various and sundry historical incidents. She nods slowly, replying easily enough, "There abouts, yeah. Why?" She asks curiously, because clearly Nizar has a point he's after.
"And..." He pauses, thinking, "Lucien Lachance was a Speaker around... Two-hundred-years ago, I know that much.
"So," Nizar continues, triumphantly, "you probably met him back then, which means that you know if he's lying through his pointy teeth."
Babette sniggers, and nods her agreement, and Lucien considers joining his only siblings with the sense that Julianos gave a rock, but alas, he is being roundly sworn at.
"So? Is he lying through his pointy teeth the way everyone else appears to be assuming?" Nazir asks with a grin.
Babette laughs, bright and delighted, "Father, no! He'd have picked something much more believable if that were the case." She breaks down into laughter at that, and Nazir smiles in triumph. His job here is done.

He catches Lucien Lachance's eye (and he can have a historian's freak out about that later right now he's practicing his cool and aloof look, dammit) and gestures to the dining room, where he'll be once these idiots have finished squawking. The man nods in understanding, before the idiots draw his attention back to them.

It takes far longer than it should for a family of trained killers to disperse and find something else to do. Lucien suffers through every moment.

He finally escapes to the kitchen, where Babette and Nizar are chilling, chatting quietly about not much of anything.
He drops in the chair between them, staring his sister dead in the eyes as he steals the salmon off her plate. She flips him off.

"I imagine you're after a few contracts?" Nazir asks with a warm smile that immediately puts Lucien on edge. He nods slowly at the man around a mouthful of salmon, eyeing him suspiciously. Nizar's smile grows wider, and Lucien realises that this is his new best friends shit eating grin.
"Well, as a new member of our Family, you get all the jobs left over." Nizar finishes, eyes dancing in amusement. Lucien's shoulders slump in defeat, because he had brought this on himself, after all.

It's about then that Aventus bounds in, chatting away.
"Lucien! Lucien! Veezara was telling me all about where to stab people! And-And-And! He said that he'd be happy to let me practice, but that I have to ask you first!"
Lucien laughs softly, considering the lad, before offering, "Only with dull knives. And, at some point, I want you to nag Babette here into teaching you all about plants." Aventus nods eagerly, before tilting his head.
"What'll you be doing?" He asks. It's a reasonable question.
Lucien gestures towards Nizar, who slides him the information he'll need, "This is Nizar, he handles the low-level contracts, and, as a rule, is the guy you go to when you want something to do. Astrid comes to you."
Aventus nods in understanding, so Lucien continues, "I'll be working on some contracts while your doing this, I shouldn't be any more than 2 weeks." Aventus nods rapidly, before, apparently reaching the limits of his 11-year-old patience, he darts off again.

He sets off as the sun does. There's not really any need to, what with his cloak, but it eases that tightness in his chest.

He heads to Dawnstar first, walking through both night and day. He stays of the main paths.
His next stop is Ivarstead, and from there, the outskirts of Windhelm. And then it's back home.
It's less the work he finds tedious, and more the travelling.

What I wouldn't give for a horse, he thinks to himself as he traipses through the mud. Sure, keeping off the beaten track means that there are less chances he'll be ambushed by bandits, but is it really worth it? He isn't convinced.

Chapter Text

When Lucien returns to the Sanctuary after an unwelcome hike through the woods, he intends to corner Nazir about a horse. Truly, he does.
And then he walks into the living room to find that poor, maddened Keeper and his Mother.

He settles in by the wall next to Nazir and Babette, flashes a grin at Aventus, and raises a reluctantly impressed eyebrow as Astrid all but tells the man who's very role hinges on the fact, that their Mother is not the most important person in the room.

His Listener would have stabbed the woman for the mere sentiment, in days gone by.
His Listener is dead. Has been, for two hundred years.
And Lucien Lachance is merely a Speaker.

No matter what his Mother may quietly insist.

Astrid gives him a short nod, "When you're done in here, I'll be in the map room."

Lucien and Nazir migrate to the dining room once again, Nazir in front and Lucien following sedately behind. He has eyes, dammit.
Judging by the slight swagger in the man's step, Nazir doesn't particularly mind anyhow.

Going by the hissed commentary between Aventus and Babette, however, they do.

"No complications, I trust?" Nazir muses whilst flipping through his paperwork.

Lucien snorts, flashing the man a grin as they walk, "I am very good at what I do," he assures the other.
"Are you one for the art, or do you stick with the nitty-gritty of the paperwork?" He wonders, faux casually.

Nazir glances over to him.
"I have been known to be persuaded to dip my toes into the art," he allows.
"Astrid wants you for a job," he adds, "but after that, I'm sure I'll have something for you."

He drums his fingers against the table they've settled at for a moment.
"I might even be persuaded to take in the art alongside you," Nazir offers, studiously avoiding Lucien's eye.

Lucien slips out of the room with a grin as Nazir focuses on his paperwork in a clear dismissal.

Aventus is affronted by the realisation that Lucien might have anything approaching a love life, while Babette appears insulted that Lucien's terrible attempt at flirting actually worked.

Lucien meanders over to Aventus to ruffle the kid's hair and check up on his progress. He hums, eying the way Cicero has slumped, slightly dejectedly, against their Mother's coffin.
"You haven't learnt much Family history, have you yet, kid?" Aventus shakes his head in the negative.
"Cicero seems like he'd be delighted to tell you all about our Mother, and from the sound of it, Festus would be more than willing to elaborate on the Tenants."

Aventus nods determinedly, darting off to give Cicero something to do. Babette eyes him in mild judgment, before following Aventus out of curiosity.

Lucien finally makes his way over to the map room.
It is not, it turns out, a party.

If Lucien grumbles all the way to Markarth then that's between him, the cart driver, and his Mother.
When he arrives to the city, someone nearly gets stabbed. His kind of town.

He also receives a tantalising message. Some kind of conspiracy, most likely. Never let it be said that Lucien Lachance is not a professional. He glances at the note, shoves it in his pocket, and goes to find his client.
He can get himself involved in a conspiracy after he finishes his contract.

Don't give him that look, Mother, he can!
Totally!
He'll just... check it isn't time sensitive, first.

He instead makes his way to the meeting point to find a man by the name of Eltrys, who asks him to look into a series of attacks by the Foresworn that have been going on for years.
"If this has been going on for years," Lucien considers, "then this isn't all that time sensitive."

"I'm in the city on business," he adds, at Eltrys mildly affronted look, "I'll see to that, and get back to you about those murders."

"I- really?" The man checks, "I'll be honest, I was expecting to have to convince you."

"Consider it professional pride," he explains, without explaining anything at all, before he leaves to finally hunt down his client.

Curiousity sated, he makes his way to the Silver-Blood Inn, where Muiri rests her head. He waits at the bar with a bread roll while she wakes up for the day.
He learns, in between his roll, that she wants a bandit leader dead, along with a former friend, if he can manage it.

Lucien Lachance has, once or twice, heard of the concept of morals. He threw them out the blood-stained window centuries ago. What does he care that she'll probably come to regret her bonus target's death?

He's being paid to kill people, not to consider his client's mental state after the deed is done.

He makes his way, first, to Windhelm. Always better to take out a bonus target first. Also, it's easier for him to get to.

Ignoring the rousing display of racism, Lucien follows his target to the Hall of the Dead. Fitting, Lucien decides, as he runs his tongue over his teeth, waiting impatiently for nightfall. He's hungry.

Lucien, tired and impatient and hungry, waits until his target is alone with the dead, before, with all the smooth grace of a predator, looking her in the eyes.
She's in his thrall all but instantly.
Lucien drinks deeply, that night, before slitting her throat with a professional skill.

He makes his way out of Windhelm with ease, knowing full well that this will simply become another one of the Butcher's murders, rather than being known as the Brotherhood's own work. That's alright. They have time.

There is something, he considers, as he trapses up yet another fucking mountain, that he was intending to do.

Wait, no, dammit.
He forgot to ask about the possibility of a horse!

He swears violently at an Ice Wraith that appears to have made it it's life mission to kill him. He hates this fucking country.
Lucien bolts, deciding that, in this case, discretion is the better part of valour.

Just about escaping with his life, such as it is, Lucien finds himself near the bandit's camp at Raldbthar.
Rapidly dealing with the pair of guards outside, Lucien liberates a bow and their arrows from their corpses. The fact that he had none before, was, he can admit, a bit of an oversight.

Lucien, entering the ruins, eyes the flaming Dwemer contraption in disgust. He would like a refund, please.

He makes his way, instead, around the thing.
Lucien dispatches bandits as he goes, before coming across the whole reason he's here. He could of course, do the bandit leader the honour of sticking a knife in his back - very concerned about honour, these Nords - but inevitably leading to a full on fight with his compatriots, or he could dip an arrow into the poison provided for this very task, and snipe the man instead.
One of these things sounds much more fun than the other.

He sniggers, snagging the man's magical warhammer as he goes, before making his way out of the ruins as quietly as he came. His cousin's will pay a pretty penny for a piece like this.

He moseys on down to Markarth to collect his payment.
Admin out of the way, Lucien can now throw himself into a conspiracy. He loves himself a conspiracy. Except for when it's focused on him, mind you.

His stomach aches. He can still feel the way they pulled him apart. The anguished gaze of his dear Listener, too little, too late.

While at the Silver-Blood Inn, he runs across Margret, the woman who was attacked. It turns out she's an Imperial agent, and believes that the family she is investigating is behind the attack.
Because politics is exactly what he was after this fine, fine evening.

Exiting the Inn, Lucien finds himself being badly threatened by a city guard. How quaint! The gentleman didn't even specify what would happen if Lucien kept poking around!
That was quick, he considers. Perhaps the middle of a crowded Inn wasn't the best place to go asking questions.
He also gets some mail.

Lucien shrugs, makes his way to Weylin's room, finds it locked, does some light breaking and entering, and then some professional snooping.
Oh how he hates anonymous notes.

It's hardly his dear protégé's fault, he knows. Anonymous notes telling people to kill other people was always going to end terribly, he's certain.
It's probably the part where his insides are on his outside that's put him off the whole idea, truth be told. And that fever-
Lucien Lachance has not been having a fun week, he has to admit.

He pockets the note as evidence, mentally adding an N to the list of people he needs to find.

Exiting the Warren's, he intends to leave the mystery of N alone for a small while, truly he does.
It is then, however, that a thug is sent after him. Honestly, who employs thug's, in this day and age?
Lucien shrugs internally, before engaging in that ancient tradition of hitting someone until they tell you what you want to know.

Such as having been sent by someone named Nepos.
He considers following up on that new lead, but settles instead on working out what flavour of corrupt Thonar surely is.

Lucien, poking around the Treasury House, finds that exploitation and blackmail appears to be the man's poison.
Fun.

He makes his way now to Nepos' house, in order to figure what's happening there.
Rich appears to be what's happening there, which, Lucien thinks, sourly, explains quite a bit.

After a chat, Lucien amends his views on the man. Rich and deluded.

One quick skirmish later, and Lucien is rifling through a dead man's books, skimming a copy of The Third-Era Timeline, smiling in amusement at the fear and the pain and the horror of that year, so long ago, being reduced to three sentences, before pocketing the book.

He makes his way back to Eltrys to see what the other makes of these revelations, eying the city guard's near where the man was going to be in deep suspicion.
That suspicion is proven correct when they corner him, Eltrys on the ground behind them. He cannot tell if the man is dead from this distance or not.

Well shit. Lucien simply isn't prepared to get into a fight with three members of the city guard.

He scowls, but allows them to throw him in jail. He should probably get this King of Rags' side of the tale anyways.

Lucien Lachance is no stranger to prison life. Less so in recent decades, to be sure, but he and his Listener were a pair to be reckoned with, once upon a time.
Lucien gets himself the lay of the land, before promptly stealing the King of Rags' guard's key and walking right on through the door.

The King, Madanach, is a grouchy old man. Lucien, feeling rather put upon, stalks off to fulfil the man's banal requests.
For all he likes a good conspiracy, he can take or leave a rebellion.
Seems he's rather involved himself in this one in his efforts to get out of here, however.

They make their way out through the tunnel as one, Lucien bowing out as they reach the surface. It's at about this point that he remembers that he has people to report to.
Cut him some slack, Mother, he hasn't had to do that for two hundred years!

He makes his way home to finally present his report to Astrid.
She, begrudgingly, requests his help in a personal matter. His lip curls in disgust at what she suggests. Not the spying, he couldn't care less about the spying, it's the sort of thing that could have kept a man's insides inside in days long gone, but rather the method.
He could call on the power of his star sign, certainly, but not nearly for long enough to keep an eye on a meeting. And the chamber is too well lit to stick to the shadows in. Which really does leave only one option.

He could simply refuse, but. Well.
Fear for the safety of the Family is really what got him here in the first place, is it not?

His Mother, if she has any objections, keeps them to herself.

"Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener"

His Mother's voice is clearer than it has ever been.

"Oh, but I will speak."

No.

"I will speak to you."

No.

"For you are the one."

She does not get. To do this to him.

"Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones."

This. Isn't. Fair.

"I give you this task."

His. Listener. Is. Dead.

They do not need another one.

Chapter Text

Lucien is not panicking. He is not. Astrid turns up, while he is resolutely not panicking.
Demands to know what happened. All he can offer her is silence.

She decides she needs time to think about this. Frankly, so does he.

He stumbles his way, somehow, over to that corner that he and Babette had their shouting match in. He's never noticed the wall before. It's pretty. The same type as was in Bleak Falls Barrow, which is interesting.

Nazir finds him.
"What's going on?" The other asks, softly, as though he fears to break the silence.

"I-" He shakes his head. "Can we go stab some people?"

Nazir eyes him in concern for a long moment, before visibly letting it go, for now. "We've got two contracts right now; one vampire, technically, but realistically two; and a bard half the country wants dead."

Seeing as the vampires are closer, they see to them first.
Along the way, they come across North Shriekwind Bastion, and to cut a long story short, Lucien finds himself tracing the markings on yet another ancient wall, while Nazir pokes around the place curiously.
Someone was busy, these walls are all over the place.

Eventually, they reach Half-Moon Mill, Lucien sliding a blade neatly into the contracted vampire's back, while Nazir takes out his partner, inside the house.
When they reconvene, Nazir is splattered with blood and more alive than Lucien has ever seen him.

The man grins, wild and sharp, "I should work on my art more often, this was fun."
Lucien sniggers, having, somewhat despite himself, fallen into a good mood while they were walking.

"I should probably get going before Astrid hunts me down herself," he adds, considering Lucien carefully.
He waves the Redguard off cheerfully. The man pauses for a moment, before pulling him in for a quick kiss.
"And when you get back, you'll tell me what's bothering you, yes?" He all but demands.

"I- Sure." Lucien agrees, slightly blankly.

After a long moment or two of blank contemplation, Lucien comes back to himself for long enough to start the bodies burning. He sticks around only for long enough to ensure that they've caught, before stumbling off in the direction of Morthal, cursing, not for the first time, Falkreath's lack of a stable.

They are running. They've stuck around too long, become too noticeable.
They've brought out the mobs. They've brought out the fire.

Lucien arrives in Morthal in good time, waiting for night to fall before he makes his move.
He makes sure to drink his fill before slitting the man's throat.
It's so routine it's hardly worth mentioning.

Pockets feeling rather heavy, he makes his way to his cousin's place to play at bargaining.

All in all, it's going rather well when he spies the dragonstone, nestled in the bottom of his bag.

"Ah." he recalls, belatedly.
"I intended to see if the court mage of Whiterun wanted this piece," he informs his curious cousin. He could swear there was something else-

"Oh shit I needed to talk to the Jarl about the fucking lizard-" he remembers suddenly. Mostly though, he just doesn't want to talk to Nazir about his promotion. He couldn't care less about the fire breathing lizard as long as it isn't eating him.

He makes his way to Windhelm as quickly as the carriage will take him.
He still needs a fucking horse.

The Jarl is supremely unimpressed with his visit.

The man is less unimpressed when he mentions the dragon squatting in his lands.
He mentions a project his court wizard is undertaking, regarding dragons. Lucien shrugs, wanders over to the man, exchanges verbal barbs with him, and then gives him his stone. His work here is done.

And then Irileth runs in, going on about dragons, and for some baffling reason, Lucien is dragged into this impromptu war meeting.
He just wants to hand in the contracts to Nazir and avoid thinking about his promotion, is that so much to ask?

Lucien, somewhat grumpily, makes his way to the watchtower. Apparently, he's involved in this now.
Yay.

The dragon deigns to show up eventually. Mirmulnir, something ancient and scaled in him knows, in the same way that he knows the writing on the walls when he stops to think about it.

They pelt it with arrows. Undignified, perhaps, but effective.

When the beast is dead, Lucien goes to poke at it, and maybe grab a couple of scales and the like. No siblings has ever before killed a dragon, after all. It's surely a tale worth telling.
He's busy prying off a few scales when the dragon begins to burn up and something in it makes it's home in him.

That ancient, scaled thing purrs in satisfaction as the guard names it.
Dragonborn.

Lucien Lachance is quite certain he is not, in fact, half dragon, but what does he know. He can eat dragon souls now.

He hums in time with that ancient, scaled thing, power crawling up his throat and into a shout.
Fus, that ancient thing knows, meaning force.

Lucien, makes his way to Dragonsreach, to report to the Jarl, who informs him of the Greybeards, a group of old men who live on top of a mountain and want to speak to him.

Frankly, Lucien has enough trouble in his existence already. He really, really cannot be bothered to deal with them. After the family've remade a name for themselves, perhaps. He's got the time, after all.

He's been named Thane of the city and been appointed a housecarl. He has no idea what to do with a housecarl, so he mostly leaves Lydia to do her own thing.

Still reeling slightly from the revelation that he can eat dragon's souls, Lucien heads home.

When he gets there, Astrid accosts him. He raises an eyebrow silently, and waits for her to speak.
She tells him to seek out their client, as though he was ever going to ignore his Mother's word.

He makes his way to Nazir and Babette, breaking their staring contest with a faux cheerful, "Killed a dragon. Then I ate it's soul."

Their stunned silence is incredibly vindicative.

Nazir, clearly putting aside that particular revelation for a later date, asks him, gently, "And how is this whole," he gestures slightly aimlessly, "thing, treating you?"

Lucien grimaces, but he had agreed, and so, while pressing himself against the man's side slightly hesitantly, he offers, "We don't need a new Listener," the air in his lungs leaves him with a woosh. "But we certainly appear to have one, so," he trails off with an unhappy shrug. He doesn't like it, but it is certainly his role.

They stay like that for a long time, Aventus joining them quietly, before Lucien figures he should probably go and see the client at some point.

Chapter Text

He makes his way to Whiterun, and from there he wanders his way - because once again, he forgot to find himself a horse - towards the meeting place.

Along the way, he wanders near a mammoth gravesite, a recently dead beastie lying there with two people milling about. He squints at them in vague suspicion, but wanders closer anyway. All this countryside is very open - if he can see them, they can see him.
His suspicions are proven correct when they immediately try to kill him. Because of course they do.
He sniffs, vaguely insulted by the ease with which he dispatched them, and unceremoniously relieves them of their gold.

The place he's meeting this client at is, it turns out, another of those ruins.
What is it with the amount of ruins in this country? Do these people not know how basic upkeep of a building works?

He steps inside, one hand on his dagger, and almost immediately stumbles across a dead body.
Because Lucien Lachance is a nosy bitch, he rifles through the notes the poor sod left behind.
The family have no use for ceremonial weapons, but their cousins certainly do.

No, Lucien. Mother's work first. Then you can poke around for loot.
He eyes the evidence that the dead do, in fact, care about keeping people out of this place with vague irritation. The hand on his dagger does not waver.
Lucien confidently almost walks into what is surely an ambush by Nordic Dark Guardians, before pivoting on his heel and making for the other corridor.

The client is, in a phrase, a smarmy git. But, he's a smarmy git Mother pointed him to, so he leans against the wall and listens to the guy's pitch.
The pitch is...

Well.
"No one's killed an Emperor since the Third Age," Lucien Lachance breathes in sheer delight. "And this time, we get to claim it as our work."

"Yes. Well." The smarmy git who's name he's already forgotten tells him. "First, we need to set up a few dominoes."

"If you'll give these to your, uh, superior," the smarmy git says, as though Lucien did not by rights outrank the entire family save perhaps Babette even before Mother gave him his promotion.

Lucien unceremoniously unseals the letter right in front of the man who wrote it.
Partly because by rights he outranks all but the Black Hand, and there are no Speakers left of the Skyrim branch.
But mostly because he's a nosy bitch.

His snooping is immediately rewarded with the knowledge that he finally gets to go to a party, as his dear Listener did so many years before.
His crowing in success is as internal as befits a member of the family.
But it is definitely crowing.

He makes to leave the damn ruins before he remembers the existence of the ceremonial weapon things. His cousins will pay a pretty price for them. He also needs to get rid of this axe that the Jarl of Whiterun gave him. He has never, once in his life or unlife, lowered himself to using a two handed axe.

He wanders into a room, and starts snickering to himself as he takes pot shots at the dead, whose eyesight is so terrible and concept of things coming from a particular direction so nonexistent, that they cannot see him from across the room.
He so very nearly manages to take out the magic wielding maniac of a dead man the same way. Not quite, but nearly.
He also nearly dies but that's not the important part here.

He wanders past an honoured ancestor, reconsiders, and starts hacking at the dead Norse.
The ease with which he takes out the dead guarding the sword is... honestly insulting, after the damned magical menace.

He makes his way towards the definite ambush by the dead.
He is proven correct.
He then, because he is nothing if not a survivor, proceeds to snipe the very scary looking Dark Guardians from behind a wall.

He pauses, snags the elven shield lying on the table, and proceeds to warily place the ceremonial weapons in their places.
He makes his way into the cave and-

For fucks sake is that a ghost. Does he have to figure out how to kill a ghost, now?

Ghosts, it turns out, dislike being hit with pointy things just as much as the next undead.
He snags the things sword and axe, fully intending to fork those over to his cousins - replicas are all well and good, but who doesn't prefer the original piece?

On his way out, he stumbles across another one of those walls.
It's as mesmerising as the others. That scaled thing in him perks up, and this time, he recognises the taste of that shout he learnt, stood over the body of a dead dragon.

And isn't that interesting, hm?
Who built them? And why?
He resolves to, at some point, actually talk to the old men on their mountain. Perhaps they could shed some light on the matter.

He stops by a family friend's, to foist off his various weapons and trinkets.
He also snag a quick nibble. Sue him, he's hungry!

He then makes his way home, to give Astrid the delightful news.
Astrid waxes poetic about the most recent assassination of an Emperor. He leans against the table and stare at her flatly. It was two hundred years ago, he recalls, yes.

She then directs him to meet up with a contact of hers within their cousin's family. He rolls his eyes, but agrees to do so anyway.
Why he can't just wander up to any random cousin and hand them the amulet, he has no idea.

Chapter Text

He makes his way once more to Whiterun Stables, because he's terrible at remembering to ask after a horse, and from there he buys passage to Riften.
When he gets there, there's a dragon.

You know, Father? Sometimes, he'd like to go somewhere without it turning into an event.
Just a suggestion.

Apparently, his Father is looking out for him - the beastie elects to fly around menacingly for a bit before fucking off.

Some enterprising cousin has set up a shakedown at the gate.
It'd be more enterprising if he wasn't the one being shook down, mind, but he has more than enough coin to pay.

Another, equally enterprising cousin attempts to rope him into a scheme.
He clearly hasn't clocked Lucien's attire as anything other than a fashion choice.
It makes sense, but all the same...

He goes along with it, mostly for his own amusement.
Oh, relax, Mother! He's not going to run off to join Aunt Ur-Dra! He's just going to... help them out. Like a good cousin.

It's genuinely ridiculous, how simple it is to plant the ring. Brynjolf could have done this without breaking a sweat. Which means he wants someone new.
When his cousin asks if he'd like to make this a partnership, he perches on the wall and drawls, "I mean... The money's nice, but I just don't know."

He is summarily invited to the Ragged Flagon.
Lucien keeps his amusement to himself, agrees to think about it, and then promptly wanders off to the tavern in question.
He cannot wait to see Brynjolf's reaction when he sees him embroiled in Mother's business.

His expression is delightfully poleaxed.
He snorts, and slips out the door with a grin and a jaunty salute. "Pleasure doing business, Mallory, I'll give Astrid your regards," he calls, mostly to see that poleaxed expression get worse. He won't tell Astrid shit, but the family has always put up a united front.

Except for the time they didn't.

He makes his way back home cheerily.
Gives Astrid her letter of credit. Pokes his head in to say hey to Aventus. The kids taken to hanging around Veezra.
Good. Nothing like hanging with a Shadowscale to inspire loyalty to the family.

He knows he and Nazir should have a conversation. Y'know. Like adults.
Knows he's been avoiding Aventus, too.
He just-

Would it have changed anything? If he'd spent more time with Mathieu?
Or would it simply have made the whole thing so much worse?

He doesn't know.
He doesn't want to know.

He makes his way to Solitude, not nearly as excited at the prospect of a party as he'd thought he'd be.

He feels sick to his stomach.
Would it have changed anything?

He hopes not.
Easier to pretend that he couldn't have done anything.

He makes his way onto the roof. Pushes the loose gargoyle onto the woman. Silently makes his way out of the city.
Tells himself he's having fun.
Tells himself he's fine.
Tells himself he'll talk to Nazir later.
Tells himself he'll get Babette to bully him into not fucking up this kid, too.

And then he gets home. And all his plans go flying out the window.
Because Astrid teaches him a spell. A sibling, still in service to their Father, poor sod. He shrugs. Casts it.

Finds himself staring at the face of his dear Listener, as charred as the day they died.