Welcome all to my first ESO Fanfiction! I wanted to do something with the Dark Brotherhood DLC, so be warned, there are spoilers for the quest line! If all goes well, I should post a new chapter every week or so. It's a work in progress, so reviews help me address any inconsistencies in my writing and are very appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my character, Thérèse.

The stone walls rose on all sides, threatening to choke her—to fall in on top of her head. How long had it been since she had seen those stones, those careless, useless bulwarks? Not long enough, it seemed.

But then, why had she returned here? The letter? No, she knew it wasn't just the letter. She was curious about her old life, and the woman she could have been. Not to mention the more recent past that was chasing her. It would be good to get away for awhile, and let the Covenant survive without the Vestige.

The long alley-shadows shivered with anticipation. They hadn't really changed, but they certainly looked different when they weren't soaked with rain. She sighed and pursed her lips, feeling a memory cast terror along her spine. She tried not to focus on the chill in her bones, but it crept up her back like a wraith. With a slight shake of her head, she banished the thoughts. It was a warm summer's day, and nothing could touch her here. Of course, the day was ending, and dusk was looming, but she was not as afraid of the dark anymore, and for good reason.

She thought over what Amelie had said. The Dark Brotherhood was recruiting, hmm? Of course, it explained her letter, and the small black hand that had been inked in under the words. She hadn't expected her reputation to pervade this long time, and she had changed her name…it was truly intriguing how the Brotherhood had found her.

She had an anger, a righteous fury, and it rattled and trembled to be free. Lately, with so much undead to slaughter, it had been channeled to a holier cause. But, somewhere deep inside her, in a place she had long forgotten, she missed the smell of blood, of salt and iron. Her demons struggled even harder here, against the chains of a fake life. They longed to return her to the visceral memories she had suppressed, and she didn't much care for fighting them.

Perhaps it would not be too bad to embrace the Brotherhood. Long ago, she had almost accepted the invitation, but she wasn't ready then. Truly, there were plenty of people who deserved the Black Sacrament. Glenumbra had taught her that.

But if she chose to invite the Dark Brotherhood, she would have to kill an innocent, and she didn't know if she wanted to stalk the streets of Anvil like a senche-tiger. Hmph, innocent was a very objective word. You didn't have to be a criminal to be guilty. Her dark lips twitched. It was a lesson she had learned early. Something nudged her arm and she turned her head with a frown. Oh, it was just her clannefer. She'd almost forgotten she hadn't dispelled it. It nudged her again, then looked very intently in one direction.

It was a small alley in between two pubs, and it was almost as dark as night. She reached a hand out and touched her daedra, and he disintegrated into mist.

She tilted her head to the side and listened. Nothing, just the wind and her breathing. Still, she dropped into a crouch and pressed up against one of the buildings. Then, she heard it. A muffled whine, like someone's hand was over another's mouth. Her heart started beating faster, and a sharp frown appeared on her face. Following her ears, the sorceress peered around the corner.

He had a hand over her mouth, and was leaning in towards the poor girl, pressing her to the wall. "Just relax sweetheart." He said, his voice a dark parody of kind words. He laughed. It was a sickly, perverted laugh that reeked of too much gold and selfish power.

She felt the slow, smoking rage warm its coals in her heart. It wasn't a flash fire, it wasn't a fuse snapping. No, it was a lumbering malice, stretching itself awake from it's slumber. She knew some dark fate had led her to this.

Thérèse glanced down to her hand to see that a dagger had already been summoned there, still smoking with Oblivion.

This was ridiculous. Not minutes before she had been contemplating murder, and now this? Sithis was the god of the Brotherhood, wasn't he? Well, he must be laughing in whatever realm he commanded, because this…this was just twisted fate. Gods it was almost the same alley—A new, fresh whimper came from the shadows, and her jaw clenched. It didn't matter who's ethereal hand shaped the events transpiring, she wasn't going to stand here, and she wasn't going to keep watching. Every Divine in heaven knew that. Sithis knew that. She stepped forward, and her inky black homespun clothes let her melt into the darkness. Quickly, as if she'd done it a thousand times, she reached forward, covered his mouth, and snaked her blade-heavy arm around him. His throat was slit ear to ear in a practiced instant. She angled the blood away from the poor girl, and let the body drop, like a dead weight.

A hollow gasp came from the young thing's mouth. If she had more air, she probably would have screamed. The dagger blew away in the wind, and Thérèse turned, covering the girl's mouth. Her struggles were faint—she was probably tired from trying to get away from the corpse at their feet. "Listen carefully. I don't want to hurt you. I was just stopping him from hurting you." Her eyes were starting to adjust to the dark, and she could see that the girl had light hair and light eyes, most likely blonde and blue. She was young, probably around sixteen. "Now I'm going to let you go. Please, don't scream, alright?" Through her terror, the girl nodded minutely.

Thérèse's shoulder's sagged as she finally relaxed, letting her hand slip away from the girl's mouth. "Go then, and don't tell the guards."

The girl nodded again, then looked down at the body. "T-Thank you." She breathed out. It was more of a choking breath, really. Then, without looking her savior in the eye, she rushed away.

The sorceress sighed. Was Anvil made of molesters? She set her jaw and shook her head. That girl had been fortunate.

After a moment lost in memory, Thérèse turned to go back to the docks. That had been eventful, to say the least, and if anyone was going to appreciate what she had just done, it was going to be Amelie.

When she emerged on the docks, the smell of salt and iron barraged her once more, and she quickly glanced down at her black attire. No blood, at least that you could see. Well, that was good. She walked down the wooden ramps, subconsciously taking some small delight at the sound of her footfalls on the wood.

When Amelie wasn't where she should have been, Thérèse froze. Her forehead held the barest of frowns as the woman turned to survey the length of the dock before her.

"Hey, you there!" She jumped and her fingers sparked on instinct, turning to the noise. Scenarios rushed to her head. Had the guards found her? Did someone recognize her? A man was standing at the top of the ramp, but he looked common enough. Thérèse sighed and let her arms fall to her sides, but the shiver in her spine remained. That was one thing about murder she didn't really miss—the unstable hand of adrenaline.

The man jogged down the ramp. "I have something for you, a letter. Confidential, secret, for your eyes only." He patted his pockets. "Ah! Here it is." He frowned when he read the slip of paper attached to it. "Funny, I'm supposed to extend a…verbal invitation to the lighthouse along with the letter. Strange, you think they'd just, write that in there." He shrugged. "The lighthouse is just right over there." He pointed to the building across from the bay. It was tall and impressive, like all lighthouses were. It was strange, that the invitation was verbal. "I'm just glad I found you." The courier interrupted her thoughts. "After looking for that woman with the eye patch all day, I figured I was in for a late night."

Thérèse blinked. "An eye patch? Where did she go?" Did she get the same letter? Were they both invitations to the Dark Brotherhood?

The courier looked confused. "Amelie Crowe. Do you know her?" He shrugged it off. "I gave her a letter too, she looked excited to receive it. She read it and just hurried away. Well, I have to go, lots more deliveries to do before I can rest for the day." He waved a large hand as a goodbye and turned away.

Did he know what sort of letters he was carrying? Likely not. She smiled a little to herself. She cast her brown eyes around the bay before slipping a thumb beneath the folds of the paper. The wax broke with a crisp snap. When she unfolded it, one chestnut eyebrow rose sharply. It was…a hand. A black hand.

She exhaled and burned the paper to ash in a fireball. Naturally, her gaze drifted up towards the lighthouse. Well, what was she waiting for? It certainly wasn't too long of a walk.

The sun here certainly beat down with more force than it did in Glenumbra. It was warm here, and heat radiated from every stone and every grain of sand, even after the sun had set. Though she wasn't used to it, she didn't mind it. The day was holding on with the barest of threads when she finally stepped up to the door of the lighthouse.

She raised her hand to knock, but then shook her head. What fool assassin knocks? Instead, she opened the door and slipped in, just as night seemed to finally take its hold over Anvil. The sound of firecracks lent a warm feeling to the room, and she stepped further into the glow involuntarily. That was when she saw him.

He was robed in darkness, it seemed, and he lounged against the back of the armchair. Steely, focused eyes stared into the flames, and one hand flipped a gold coin endlessly around its nimble fingers.

She saw her, too. Just the edge of her head, slumping at an odd angle out of the chair that had its back to her. A limp hand extended to the floor.

The soft sound of a coin brushing cloth brought her gaze up from the pale corpse, and her eyes once again fixed on the endless, elegant rotation of that single gold coin.

"Come closer, and let me look into your eyes." His voice was softer than she'd expected, and tinged with shadow. The cultured, measured tone further instilled in her the sense that the Brotherhood really was a business—a business unlike any other.

Her feet carried her in, and the full view of the corpse didn't seem to bother her. Death was a companion of hers, and he seldom kept her lonely. A dagger stuck out of the woman's still chest, and blood soaked her silk gown.

Thérèse cut off the light of the fire as she stepped up to him, and a shadow was cast over his face. His eyes somehow remained bright, and he looked right into her. He nodded to himself. "No remorse, no mercy. Yes, you do have the eyes of a killer." He paused. What was it that people saw in her eyes that told of murder? It was nothing she could see in a mirror. "How many lives ended looking into those eyes?" He seemed to dismiss his own question, continuing in pace, "Enough that the Night Mother noticed, obviously, which brings us both to this place and time." His eyes, which had previously drifted past her, returned to her face. Even though she was standing above him, she felt smaller, somehow. What was it about those eyes…she was no poet, and she wasn't one to pontificate endlessly over 'deep pools' or 'shining orbs' when it came to attraction…but his eyes stood out to her. They reminded her of…something. Memory tugged at her robes, and she shook it away.

There was a crate a little behind her and to the side, with an open book spread across it. She swiftly closed it and set it on her lap, taking a seat not too far from him. His face was now in the light in full. "Who are you?" She asked, voice kept calm and reserved. She felt no fear, no regret, and no unease.

He continued to regard her, and she knew that he could probably kill her easily. Those eyes had already sized her up tidily. All that was left for her to do was to be civil.

"I am Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. I speak with the voice of the Night Mother. We have been watching you." Those eyes came back up to hers for a long moment before glancing down into the flames once more. "You can deal death, but you lack purpose. We can change that…if you are willing."

If she was willing. Just like that. A family, a guild, a safe haven, and a…purpose. Heaven knows she'd been struggling with that. Fresh out of hell with no soul to show for it, she was an empty shell banished to a life of defeating Mannimarco's treachery wherever it appeared. Only, it appeared everywhere, and she was tired of being used like a tool. The Prophet told her that her purpose was to save Tamriel, but his words were vague and veiled in Aetherial prophecy. And still, he hadn't called her to the Harborage in two months. Was Sai hidden so completely that the Prophet could not even scry him?

"Such conflict in your eyes." Mused the Speaker, his voice a tenebrous and alluring thing. "Has life twisted you so far from the bloodlust in your heart?"

Thérèse blinked and looked up, brought back to the current predicament by his on point observation. This time she paid further attention to his eyes. They were silver, like polished steel, and though they were so bright, they still seemed to fit in with his overall dark demenor. Learned eyes, like hers, she supposed. He had seen much of humanity. Perhaps that was what made them both murderers. She finally looked away, into the fire, lip quirking into a reserved smile. "Well, undead don't seem to shed much blood."

The Speaker shifted slightly in his seat, observing the coin that was once again flicking through his fingers. "Ah, yes, the defeat of Angof. Such a noble deed for such a dark soul, wouldn't you agree?"

Something about the mention of her soul made her clench her jaw in minor irritation. "I don't have a soul." Her voice was much sterner than she had thought it would be, and it clashed with the shadows they had been talking in.

The coin stopped. "The girl you saved today would disagree." The gold piece disappeared into his clenched fist. "The weak deserve their proportioned award."

Her eyes fell dull and her softer features seemed to harden, though she made no motion whatsoever. "I was weak once."

His eyes snapped to her face, and a satisfied crook appeared on his lips. "Now there is the murderer, emerging from her slumber." He waved a hand at her. "It matters not who you saved, but who you silenced. You take lives easily, and we know that you can kill. If you want to join us, show me that you can obey."

She blinked and looked down at her hands, which were folded neatly together. All this talk really was just talk. They both knew what choice she would make, what choice she had to make.

She was not a 'good' person. She knew that in her heart. The anger, hate, and spite she felt for mankind was always there, lurking inside. A seed left there long ago by the cruelty of a man and the selfishness of her parents. She did what she could to help the world. After all, she was a part of it. But spilling blood was her business, and she did it well. Why be alone in that?

"I will…consider your offer." She supplied, looking back up.

"Splendid!" The coin flipped in midair and was caught with a little bit of jaunt. "We shall see how well you marry business with death. But first, allow me to present you with a gift." He focused more on her, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "I shall teach you how to call upon a particular tool of our trade."

She frowned. "What sort of tool?" She had always made due with the tools she had.

He smiled a dark smile. "A tool for dealing death, of course. One forged by unseen hands." A hand extended out, and curling tendrils of shadow coalesced to form an ebony blade. It was slightly longer than a dagger, but shorter than a short-sword, and standing out from the black were lines of gold filigree. He tossed it into the air and caught it by the blade, offering the hilt out to her. "The Blade of Woe."

She extended a hand and grasped the metal hilt. It sent a shiver through her arm and through her spine. It was colder than mortal metal ought to be.

"Wield it from the shadows and its edge shall deliver your prey to Sithis in the Void."

As the cold settled into her hand and her bones, it grew comforting and solid. She smiled. "I accept your gift, Speaker."

He nodded, satisfied, and the blade fell away into darkness. It left a strange feeling in her heart, like she wasn't completely whole. "In return, I expect only unwavering loyalty and ruthless efficiency. Now, let us discuss the task before you. A killing that shall form a covenant between us, signed in blood." He rose and walked to the mantlepiece, grasping a dark bottle by the neck. It was already uncorked. Two glasses were right next to it, and he snatched those too. With a calm and measured hand, he set the glasses on the table in between the armchairs and filled them half full. The bottom of the bottle hit the wooden table with a dull thud as it was set down heavily. "To the Night Mother."

It was with hesitation that Thérèse received the glass. It wasn't a normal practice of hers to drink wine given to her by an assassin. She supposed, however, that she wasn't a threat to the Brotherhood, only an asset. They had no reason to poison her. This was probably a test, though she didn't know of what. Her wit, maybe? Perhaps her resolve…Would she drink the wine, or refuse it? The problem was, if it was a test, she didn't know which side was favored.

The wine was a deep red, almost like blood. She would have thought it was, if not for the aroma. She caught the smell and raised a brow. Cherry wine, a vintage. Her favorite. "To the Night Mother." She smiled with reservation and sipped the wine.

He regarded her silently for what must have been half a minute, eyes sharp as ever and mouth somewhat upturned. He seemed to remind himself of the task at hand and took a breath.

"The Imperial noble, Lord Quintus Jarol, has been marked for death by the Black Sacrament. Your task is simple. Find Jarol and kill him."

A noble. That meant lots of guards and a large house. She took another measured sip of her wine, plans of infiltration already entering her mind. "Why has he been marked for death." She asked, looking up from her glass.

The Speaker leaned towards her somewhat, and the action struck Thérèse as odd. She couldn't quite put a finger on why… "That isn't a question we ask. Suffice it to say, he offended someone enough to get them to preform the Black Sacrament. The Night Mother heard their prayer, and now Jarol must die. This is the task I have set before you." His free hand swept across the air, palm up.

Thérèse swirled the wine absently in her glass. It was just like mercenary work, but quieter, and with less death for the lackeys. She nodded to him. "I'll kill Quintus Jarol, but I have questions I want answers for first."

He looked at her sideways, then gave a nod. "Very well. The noble's estate can be found northwest of Anvil, along the Gold Road." His empty wine glass hit the wooden table softly, like a shadowed kiss. "How you perform the execution is up to you. Just make sure Lord Quintus Jarol dies by your hand. Then your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete." A hand gestured to her. "But you have more questions."

She took a delicate sip, savoring the dark wine on her lips, absently noting the slight frustration in his voice. "You mentioned the Night Mother. Who is she, exactly? I've read about Sithis in books, but not her."

He smiled into the fire. "You ask a question with many answers. To put it simply, the Night Mother is the one true bride of Sithis. She is our Unholy Matron, and we are her children, forever wrapped in her cold, loving embrace."

She'd never known there was another deity in Dark Brotherhood lore. The Night Mother sounded different, though, as if she were almost…alive? "Is she your leader then?"

The Speaker chuckled, and it was a sound altogether…strange, on his lips. Too…normal, too earthlike. "There will be time enough for existential talk later, and I'd be happy to discuss the truth of our Matron, but the time is not now. Just know that she watches you. She loves you, like she loves all of her children. Be careful not to disappoint her." His voice, normally so dark, turned soft and reverent as he spoke of the Night Mother. Something that elicited such tenderness from the shrouded man that sat before her was something she truly wished to explore. But, as he said, another time would probably be best. She fished around for the other question that had been rattling around in her skull.

"And the Black Sacrament? What is that?"

He quelled his irritation visibly at her questioning, and for some reason, it made her lips twitch in amusement. "The Black Sacrament is the ritual by which a client procures the Dark Brotherhood's services. Using an effigy of the intended victim, the client pleads for the Night Mother to send an assassin to end the specified life." His steely eyes locked onto hers. "With no remorse, no regret."

She wasn't affected by his gaze, she only nodded with interest at the impromptu cultural lesson. "So the Brotherhood, in part, is a group of paid assassins?"

He nodded, fingering his gold coin. "To put it simply, yes. The lives of the innocent and the guilty alike are ours for the taking. And every soul goes to Sithis, as long as the price is paid. Death is our craft, our religion, and our trade." His mouth split into a sinister grin, so otherworldly, yet so…familiar. "And business, as always, is good."

So the Brotherhood was a mix of business and spirituality. Quite like the religion around here, it seemed. Only, from where she stood, the Brotherhood seemed to be the more honest entity. "Well, I'm assuming Jarol has a large country estate, with high walls and paid protection. Any advice on the surrounding terrain?" She was expecting him to brush her off, but it was always good to ask, especially if someone knew more than you, which he did.

He straightened up and regarded her casually, all irritation at her questions gone. "The wise traveler asks for directions before the path diverges. Never hesitate to rely on your fellow Brotherhood members once you complete your initiation. Killing requires few special skills, but reaching your target? That's the real task, isn't it? There is another way to reach the estate grounds, if you're interested."

Well, diligence had its rewards, it seemed. Thérèse smiled, realizing suddenly how relaxed she was, in the dark, fire-lit room. "I am interested."

He smiled slyly. "I thought you might be. A series of smuggler tunnels runs beneath the Withered Rose and leads directly to the estate's courtyard. That's the route I would take. And don't forget to bring lockpicks. Jarol is a cautious man. He never leaves a door unlocked behind him." She hid her distaste at the mention of lockpicks by taking a poised sip of her wine.

"And the Withered Rose is…?"

"A small hostel outside the city." He paused, and looked at her. His eyes looked…intense, yet they held a hint of…no, it couldn't be pity. Whatever it was, it made his features soften slightly. "A lovely mother and daughter own the place, but they've had trouble making ends meet. The smuggler tunnels provide them with an alternate source of income. And they're perfect for your needs." The sorceress nodded, glancing down with a hint of remorse at the bottom of her empty cup. "Now," he sighed, "do you have any more questions?"

Her lip twitched. "Actually, yes." When she glanced up, she had to hold back a smile at the look of restrained frustration in his eyes. "Is it hard to wash the paint off of your hand?"

He blinked and held her eyes for a moment, before he sighed. "No harder than it is to wash off blood."

She pushed down her smile and set her empty cup on the crate beside her, rising. "Thank you for the wine, Speaker." She crossed in front of him as she walked to the door.

Just as her hand met the doorknob, she heard his voice behind her. "An old Breton vintage."

Something about those words gave her pause. The cant of them felt practiced, like old leather. Familiar and new at the same time. Her head tilted to the side and she frowned slightly. Not being able to place the feeling, she stepped out the door.

The brisk sea air greeted her, warm with water and wet with night. The frown deepened, sending crevices along her fair skin. She was missing something. Something important had transpired, hidden in the bottom of a wine glass, cast in the shadows of the fire, and the feeling of familiarity clutched at her robes like a beggar.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she banished the thoughts to the breeze. She would need all her wits for the task set before her.

As she went, she wasn't aware of the eyes that were watching her go.