A/N Hi. I'm back.

For those wondering about my vanishing act, I just had some really important life stuff to figure out. My best friend essentially dumping me, having to work twice as hard to catch up in my classes, it's been a rough time. I haven't disappeared completely from the internet, but I just needed to get away from FFN and Tumblr for a while. I may remake my tumblr later. So yeah. Real life came back with a vengeance and socked me in the jaw.

So, now that my life has been mostly figured out, I'm rewriting Unlikely Heroes. I've been tweaking my writing style (a lot,) so this should be better. Or horribly worse, I don't know.

I do not own Oblivion in any way.

The Twelfth of Last Seed, 3E433

They found the Breton in the crypt with blood on her hands.

She was sitting in the corner, staring at her crimson-stained palms, sobbing uncontrollably. A few feet away was a body, broken and bloody and mangled to the point where it was almost unrecognizable. When they asked her who it was that died, she didn't answer, not for a long time. She didn't even move for several minutes. But eventually, got to her feet, stumbled weakly over to the nearest guard, and held out her hands. "I killed him," she murmured. "Look. The blood's on my hands. I killed him."

They questioned her words at first. Why wouldn't they? She had confessed way too quickly, been way too eager - if that was the right word to describe her hysterical sobs - to let herself be taken to prison. It was only natural to assume that she was protecting someone. So they brought in a mage to charm the woman. If she was charmed, she couldn't lie to the charmer.

When the mage arrived, he recognized the woman on sight. She was Rosemonde Rousseau. She was a former member of the Mage's Guild, a mystic, and had been banned from it due to reasons he refused to elaborate on. "I do find it hard to believe that she would kill a man, though," he said, kneeling next to the woman. She didn't look at him.

He cast a charm spell on her, and she confessed. She had been telling the truth. She had killed the man. Violently.

So they took her away. She didn't complain, or struggle. In fact, she followed them to her prison cell like an obedient puppy.

The guards were a little disturbed. She was so small, so slight. How could she have managed to overpower a man so much larger than her and kill him so violently?

What confused them most, though, was Rosemonde's answer when she was asked why she killed him.

Her eyes had widened, she had pulled away slightly, pressing herself further against the wall. Her voice was quiet as she answered. "He wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to follow me. I told him not to follow me." She started to sob again. "The magic... it just got away from me... I wasn't strong enough to control it... he wasn't supposed to follow me."

She didn't say another word.

The Twenty-Sixth of Last Seed, 3E433

Ivar Llandovery knew about the grudge that most of the Market District held against Thoronir. He had drawn away most of their business, selling valuable items for prices far below their true worth. How he managed to stay in business, Ivar couldn't say. He reasoned that stolen goods were involved, though.

The Bosmer made his way through the streets, his footsteps as light as air. He knew about the grudge, all right, but he hadn't expected someone to want Thoronir dead badly enough to contact the Dark Brotherhood. Not that Ivar was complaining, mind. He was getting paid for this, after all. And he always enjoyed the pleasure of taking another being's life. Striking a mark down with a single arrow, sinking his dagger into their flesh... He smirked a the mere thought.

Guided by the dim light of the stars, he made a beeline for Thoronir's shop. The Copious Coinpurse. Ivar grinned. It wouldn't be quite so copious when he slit Thoronir's throat and took every valuable possession in his house. He hadn't been able to do that last time, when he had taken out Baelin. Vicente had wanted it to look strictly like an accident, and an empty jewelry box would have compromised that.

Ivar knelt next to the door, examining the lock with a careful eye. A simple five-tumbler lock. Too easy, especially when one had the tools that he did. He pulled a small lockpick the color of ebony out of the pouch on his belt and inserted it into the lock.

As soon as as it went in, the lock started glowing and vibrating, a low hum reverberating through the lock and spreading across the door. There was a loud click. Ivar didn't need to test to know what that meant. The door was open. He pulled out the lock and reached for the door's handle, standing up as he did. He would have to thank Nocturnal for her kind gift later, when time wasn't of the essence.

Something sharp brushed at the back of his neck. Ivar's ear twitched in irritation, and he silently cursed every god and Daedric Prince he could think of before slowly turning around. His gaze locked with that of the Imperial guardsmen who was currently pointing a sword at him. "Good evening, sir," he said, forcing his best smile. "Has your evening been particularly pleasant?"

"Silence, criminal scum," the guard growled.

"'Scum?'" Ivar repeated, faking incredulity. "That's a little harsh, isn't it? All I did was pick a lock."

The guard glanced down at Ivar's night-black leather armor. "You've done more than that, assassin."

Ivar sighed. Shit. "I suppose begging for mercy is out of the question, then."

A/N - Reviews and constructive criticism are much appreciated.