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From: (Anonymous)

##00##00##
(Author's Note: This part includes mention of rape and torture. I know these are major squicks for a lot of people, so I wanted to give fair warning.)
##00##00##

Ondelamar gaped at the Ambassador for the Aldmeri Dominion, realizing just how mad the woman before him was. “You arrested the Dragonborn?” He rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows that suddenly throbbed. She was going to get every Altmer in Tamriel slaughtered—not to mention destroy any influence the Dominion had left with the Empire. “The woman who killed the World Eater and ended the Civil War? You do realize that she is a Legate in the Imperial Army.”

Elenwen sipped her wine, slanting a pleased glance at her subordinate. “She and her Housecarl were easy to capture. I’m only sorry you missed out on the festivities.” Setting her wineglass down, she took a bite of the pheasant. Pleasure bloomed in her eyes at the savory tastes. Her cook had outdone himself. “The Empire will never do anything about this. She’s expendable.”

“Not a trait I would assign the Dragonborn,” he countered. “She’s shown herself to be resourceful and willing to work with whomever she must to get things done.” Ondolemar shook his head, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat. He pushed away the plate of food that had been set before him, certain that if he ate anything at this moment he would be ill. “She also lacks the implicit hatred against the Altmer that many of her fellows do.”

Elenwen sneered at the trace of respect in Ondolemar’s voice. “Don’t tell me she spread her thighs for you, Ondolemar, and corrupted you. I thought better of you.” Shaking her head, she took another drink of her wine. “She’s in the cells below if you wish to have a reunion fuck. I’m sure that she might even welcome you—my men tell me that she is truly excellent.”

Ondolemar’s eyes widened as the reality of what his superior was telling him sank in. “I would see her if I may.” His voice was strangled and he kept his gaze fixed on the tabletop, afraid of what Elenwen would see if she looked closely at her fellow Altmer.

Elenwen sighed dramatically. “Very well.” She drew the key to the cells from her pocket and tossed it to Ondolemar. “Oh, and you might need this,” she added, dangling a potion to cure disease. “Wouldn’t want you developing whatever rot that bitch might be carrying.”

Ondolemar nodded tightly, tucking both the key and the potion into his pocket and descending through the embassy to the cells beneath. He passed the guards silently and stepped into the cells, the smells immediately assailing him. Blood and sex. Closing the door behind himself, he lit a lantern and stepped further into the cells. Just as he recalled, there was a desk set against one of the largest cells, its iron bars pressing against the wood. A book rested on the tabletop and he flipped it open, amber-hued eyes scanning the words written in Elenwen’s recognizable hand.

The bile he’d tamped down before rose again and he swallowed reflexively as the words sank in. The woman would get them all slaughtered if any of this came out. Picking up the book, he tucked it into one of the many pockets of his voluminous robes. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it, but he knew that he had to do something. Better to remain in the rocky wasteland that was Markarth for eternity than to allow Elenwen’s clear derangement to destroy the Thalmor and the Dominion.

“Ondie?” came the barely heard whisper. “What are you doing here?”

Ondolemar lifted his head, following the sound of the Dragonborn. He had thought himself prepared, given his past experience with Elenwen, for anything. He wasn’t prepared to see the Dragonborn dangling from shackles against the wall. “Gods.”

A rattling cough was the Dragonborn’s answer and she shook her head. “Don’t think they’re answering anymore,” she croaked. “Can I have a drink?”

From: (Anonymous)

(Author's Note again: Same warning as in part 1c...mentions of rape and torture.)

Ondolemar nodded quickly, turning away from the woman he had first met in Markarth, his mind having trouble reconciling the charming creature she had been with the broken woman shackled against the wall. Pouring water from a pitcher into a goblet, he stepped back to her, raising the rim to her lips and watching as she swallowed the water greedily. “What happened?” he questioned, his tone urgent.

Katrin shook her head. “Nothing good, Ondie. She sent you down to have a turn?”

Ondolemar shook his head, revulsion filling his eyes. “No. How long—“

Katrin shook her head again. “Not sure. She’s going to kill me, Ondie. I’ve accepted this.” Her voice was quiet, her eyes watching a point behind Ondolemar’s head somewhere on the stone wall. “Just get a message to my husband. Tell him I loved him.”

Ondolemar swallowed and turned back to put the goblet on the table. “She wouldn’t kill you. Our superiors would never forgive her.” His fingers gripped the table’s edge, knuckles whitening with the force. Even he had to admit that was an empty statement--Elenwen was determined to destroy the Dragonborn.

A dry, cracked laugh made him turn back. “Ondie, I don’t think she has anything to worry about. No one will miss one Breton whore, as she put it.” A spurt of coughing interrupted her. “Dragonslayers aren’t much use once the dragons are gone.”

Ondolemar turned back, arms crossed over his chest. “The woman I met in Markarth would never have given up so easily. Where’s your fight, Katrin?”

Her one good eye burned with a rage he remembered. “Think it got fucked out of me by Elenwen’s guards, Ondie. Fight does me no good when I have no weapons to help me. No Thuum. No magicka. Not even a bloody axe or bow. So you tell me!” Her battered body vibrated with emotion and she drew a ragged breath. “When I can’t even save the woman who stood by me longer than anyone else in Skyrim from being murdered in front of me—you tell me where my fight is.”

Ondolemar stepped to within a breath of the Dragonborn, towering over the Breton. “It’s still there,” he promised. He took a breath, making a decision. He pulled a vial from his pockets—the potion to cure disease that Elenwen had tossed him in fact. “Drink.” He watched as she obediently swallowed the contents, though she made a face at the flavor. “I’m going to poison you,” he offered, pulling a vial with a purple liquid inside from his other pocket. “It will put you in a death state, Katrin. You understand what that means.”

Katrin offered a wan smile at the Altmer. “Promise me that you’ll tell my husband and children that I loved them, Ondie.”

Ondolemar nodded tightly and pressed the vial to her lips, watching as she swallowed it down, her eyes shut and tears slipping from beneath her lashes. Stepping back, he watched as the woman who had faced dragons and Stormcloaks thrashed against the stones, the poison spreading through her body.

Finally, the thrashing ended and Ondolemar stepped to the door, pulling it open. “The prisoner is dead. Put her in my carriage. I will personally dispose of her,” he ordered the guard, who nodded to his fellow and went to follow the Thalmor’s orders.

From: (Anonymous)

OP here: Oh YES! Go Ondolemar, I knew you would make the right decision and save the Dragonborn!
Oh my god A!A, I am just feeling so much for Katrin - poor woman, despite the acts of torture and rape she is still going strong despite her negative thinking!
Ooh I'm sensing a serious man-hunt party, no, ARMY here - can't wait to see Elenwen getting what she and her lap dog minions deserve~

From: (Anonymous)

Ondolemar folded the last parchment and handed it to the courier, the message joining the other two already in the man’s hands. “The first message is for Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood in Dawnstar. Into his hands only. The second message is for Delvin Mallory of Riften of the Thieves’ Guild. Into his hands only. This third is for Legate Rikke of the Imperial Army in Solitude. Again, into her hands only. Do not fail me. Now go.” Rising from his chair, secure in the knowledge that the courier would do as he was bidden, Ondolemar headed back towards his charge. He shook his head at the irony that he, a Thalmor, was doing everything in his power to keep the Dragonborn alive. Then again, he shouldn’t be that surprised. The Thalmor had been cleaning up messes after Elenwen for some time—it was bound to bite him in the ass at some point.

The safehouse would, of course, have to be abandoned after this. It was one of a network of houses that he had set up over the years—secure locations known only to himself. The priestess in the next room would be made to forget. But there were others, people who would have seen something and remember it, that could not be dealt with. So, the house would be abandoned. A shame, really, since he rather liked this house.

“M’lord, the poison has been flushed from her system.”

Ondolemar nodded absently at the priestess, arms crossed over his chest. “And?”

The priestess sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Her wounds are many. She is asleep now—whether she will ever awaken is not something I can say. Her body could not—I’m sorry, but the baby could not be saved.” The priestess glanced behind herself at the doorway through which the Dragonborn rested. “If she survives she may yet have more children but—the trauma, you see.”

Ondolemar winced, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. So she’d been pregnant again. What would that have made this one—her third babe by that thief she’d married? He wondered if she had known when Elenwen had been torturing her, if she’d asked for mercy for her unborn child. “I see. Thank you. The donation to the temple has been made, as promised.” He nodded towards his servant, who stepped towards the priestess at his signal. “We will see you home now.”

The priestess nodded, following the servant and leaving Ondolemar alone with his thoughts. His time was limited, he knew. Elenwen would be in a rage that her plaything had been taken from her and, insane as she might be, she still was his superior. It wouldn’t take long for the courier to find Rikke, and even less for the Legate to come. Stepping through the doorway of the bedchamber of the Dragonborn, he stared down at her. Her skin, usually pale, was practically as white as the sheets she lay upon. Her hair was spread over the pillow, not in her usual twin braids that hung over her shoulders. “Katrin, I’m so sorry.” He leaned down, pressing his lips against her forehead, her skin cool to the touch.

Turning, he strode out of the bedchamber and down the steps to the doorway. Stepping onto the street, he pulled his hood over his head and strode away. The darkness swallowed the Thalmor as he disappeared into the night.

From: (Anonymous)

Damn, this is exciting to read.

"xx

From: (Anonymous)

If there was anyone who badly, BADLY needs to die for this, it's these bastards. Not only for the horrendous torture of our DB here (which I'm glad she's out of now so that she can make a proper recovery), but also for killing one of my favorite characters, who I put up with despite all of her snark about carrying my burdens, right in front of her.

Make them bleed, guys. Make. Them. Fucking. BLEED.

From: (Anonymous)

A!A here: They will. Oh, they will. And there will be blood. Lots of blood. Don't want to give away too much because I'm still writing but--yeah...this is not a happy sweet story. This is very dark, at least for me.

From: (Anonymous)

This is fantastic!! I am holding my breath until the next installment!

From: (Anonymous)

Rikke swung down off the bay mare, her eyes narrowing at the building before her. According to the courier that had skidded through the snowbanks outside Solitude to find her at the Temple of Meridia, the Dragonborn lay within. Drawing her blade, she nodded to the soldiers she had taken with her. She’d left the bulk of her force in the snow and ridden for speed with just a few soldiers. Even if the Dragonborn lay within, it was still Rikke’s responsibility to find out what had happened to Lydia and the Dragonborn and, more importantly, make them pay.

“Do you think she’s within?” asked one of the soldiers, his Cyrodillic accent thick. If she recalled correctly, he’d been one of the Legionairres that the Dragonborn had rescued from a Stormcloak fort before the final battle.

Rikke stepped up to the front door and tested the door. Locked. Stepping back, she slammed the sole of her boot against the door, splintering it from the frame and forcing it to swing wide open. “We’ll soon find out,” she replied, stepping through the broken door to start her search. The house was what she would expect of Solitude—lots of stairs and small rooms filled with expensive things. Nothing to give away the identity of any person who stayed or owned the house. “Fan out. We search every room. If she’s here, we find her now.” Rikke watched the men scatter to search the rooms and continued on down the hallway. There was a room at the end, its door cracked slightly enough to allow only a sliver of light to escape. Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped in. “Talos preserve us.”

##00##00##

Nazir stared at the courier, the young man before him clearly unnerved by the Redguard assassin. “What do you mean, you have a message for me?” It was sheer insanity—who would send a letter to the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood? Taking the folded parchment, he cracked the seal and scanned the contents. Then reread them. Looking up, he met the gaze of the courier with fierce black eyes. “You were never here. If I ever hear tell of you speaking of this or what you have seen, I will ensure that you never see another sunrise.”

The courier nodded, all but skidding out of the Sanctuary and past a slender man in a jester’s costume. Cicero turned curious eyes on the departing courier and then glanced back at Nazir. “Mother misses the Listener. Is that from the Listener?” he asked, hope glistening on each word as he danced from one foot to the other.

He hadn’t liked Cicero—not when he’d first brought the Night Mother to their Sanctuary nor when he’d learned the Listener had spared the Keeper. But the maddened jester had, over the years, grown on the Redguard. He figured it must have had something to do with Cicero’s journals being “accidentally” left by the Listener for Nazir to read. Or the fact that the Listener treated the mad jester like a long-lost homicidal little brother. But no matter—Cicero would understand what Nazir was feeling. Nazir ground his teeth for a moment. He had not felt this kind of rage since the Penitus Oculatus had attacked their motley family. It was a clean kind of rage—one that burned white hot and wouldn’t be extinguished until it was spent on the bodies of those who hurt his own. “No, Cicero. Someone has hurt the Listener.”

“WHAT!” roared Cicero, bounding meters in the span of time it took to take a breath, fingers gripping the Speaker’s tunic as he growled at his fellow Dark Brotherhood member. The madman snarled, dark hazel eyes wild before they calmed, his expression smoothing dangerously. “Who would dare hurt our Listener?” he purred, undercurrents of rage and jealousy swirling beneath his words. If anyone was going to be hurting the Listener, it should after all be one of her own. Strangers had no right to the Listener.

Nazir grinned at the smaller man, his own expression feral. “Cicero, I want you to sharpen your blades. We have an embassy to cleanse.”

From: (Anonymous)

All. Of. My. Yes. This is so exciting!

From: (Anonymous)

You know, when I first read the prompt in question, my thoughts turned immediately to our favorite ax-crazy jester (who I spared on my assassin playthrough) and how he would just go fucking BALLISTIC upon receiving the news that the Listener was hurt like that. Because Cicero has a scary kind of loyalty towards any Listener who spares him, and his wrath toward the Listener's tormentors would be truly frightening to behold. Sithis have mercy on them.

From: (Anonymous)

Keep them coming!

From: (Anonymous)

OP here - Oh my god Anon, this is so brilliant and thrilling!
I was over the two moons when you've included Cicero and how Nazir said " Sharpen your blades. We have an embassy to cleanse."
Please keep it coming, sweet Anon~
DEATH TO THE THALMOR!!!

From: (Anonymous)

Damn, I need to search for my rifle...
*hurries off*

"xx

From: (Anonymous)

OOOO here comes trouble! (Evil Grin).

From: (Anonymous)

Cicero crept down the hallway, the blood dripping from his blade and through his fingers to plink against the floor. Such a pretty trail of crimson, he thought, slinking through the darkness. It had been too long since he’d been allowed to kill and he had missed it. But tonight he was allowed to slake his hunger for vengeance—the Speaker had said so. Tonight there would be death and he would be the mad jester who would creep through bloody shadows to deliver it.

It was only he and Nazir inside. Babette was outside, her dark eyes watching for any who would interrupt the festivities. She had wanted to come in, wanted to help rend the bodies of the Thalmor who hurt the Listener, but Nazir had put his foot down. Which left the un-child to pout and stomp through the snow, the thirst to bury her fangs in an Altmer neck unquenched.

The guards had been pathetically easy. Not even a challenge, really. Cicero flashed back to his leading the Listener through the Dawnstar Sancutary that first time—how the Listener’s whisper quiet footsteps had pursued him with a relentlessness that had actually frightened him. Now he carried that same ruthlessness as he stalked his prey. The first guard never even made a sound, their throat slit clean through. As did the second. Pathetic, really. And without any guards, it had been simple to breach the Embassy.

Nazir and he moved down the hallway, their eyes accustomed to the darkness as they hunted their quarry. They slunk through doorways, the occupants never aware of the danger they were in as they lay comfortable in soft beds. Snick went a razor and a bloody smile appeared on a neck, eyes springing open as the Altmer clutched futilely at the rent flesh. Cicero had to hold back the cackle that wanted to spill from his lips, his teeth clamping down ruthlessly on his tongue until he tasted the coppery tang in his mouth. Tonight was silence.

Over and over their blades slithered across throats as they rose higher and higher through the Embassy. By dawn, Sithis would have many new playmates and servants.

Soon they came to their final destination. Nazir slipped the lock and slithered inside, Cicero following noiselessly behind. She lay in the bed, a pretty young girl snuggled against her side. Not their target, thought Nazir, nodding to Cicero. The girl who had the misfortune to be Elenwen’s bedmate met the same end as the Altmer before her, eyes springing open comically as she tried to draw the broken edges of her flesh back together. A soft gurgle, then no more.

Elenwen slowly opened her eyes, amber orbs widening at the sight of red and black hovering over her, the pale maniacal face of Cicero grinning down at her. She startled, trying to sit up only to find her hands covered in blood. “Guards!”

Nazir stood over the Altmer, a sneer on his lips. “All dead. Bring her, Cicero. We are done here,” he added, turning towards the door and leaving the manhandling of the Altmer ambassador to the mad jester.

The ride home would be quite entertaining.

From: (Anonymous)

OP here: AAAHHHHHH, THIS IS FREAKING AMAZING ANON!!!
GO CICERO, NAZIR AND BABETTE - TORTURE THAT THALMOR BITCH!

From: (Anonymous)

As odd as it sounds, I can't wait to see Brynjolf's reaction to this.
this is great and I hope you continue soon :)

From: (Anonymous)

Delvin glanced up at the courier, the young man clearly unnerved at being surrounded by thieves and cutpurses. But who else would be at the Ragged Flagon? “You ‘ave a message for me?” He leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his mead, offering a grin at the courier. “Let’s ‘ave it, then.”

The courier nodded, handing the folded parchment to Delvin.

Delvin took a moment to inspect the seal—it wasn’t one he was familiar with but he would find out everything about it in short order. The parchment was heavy and had a velvety quality—high class, this was. Cracking the seal, he began to read. Slowly he rose from his chair, disbelief washing over his face. Disbelief that morphed into a dark rage. “Lock it down,” he ordered, still staring at the parchment. “Lock everything down. Tonilia, get over to Honeyside. Vekel, go with her. You two keep Bryn’s kids safe.” His hands were shaking as he spoke and his skin had gone a sickly white, spots of red in his cheeks standing out in stark contrast. “Dirge, no one gets in or out of ‘ere who ain’t Guild.”

“Del?” called Vex, starting towards the Breton thief. “What’s happened?” She had never seen Delvin act like this, not even when Mercer Frey had robbed the Guild blind. “You’re scaring me,” she admitted quietly, taking the parchment from his numb fingers. Her pale eyes scanned the words, her expression filling with horror as her hand came to cover her mouth. “No…Bryn—where’s Bryn?”

Delvin nodded towards the Cistern, turning on his heel to head there. “I’m gonna need you with me, Vex.” Barely controlled emotion roiled beneath his voice. “We have to go talk to Brynjolf. Now.” The walk through the winding tunnels to the Cistern was in silence, the two thieves comforted only slightly by each other’s presence. Stepping out into the Cistern, they spotted Brynjolf at the desk formerly occupied by Mercer Frey. The red-haired thief was busy going over the ledger and planning jobs.

Brynjolf grinned as he looked up from the ledger. “Come to make me eat?” he joked, leaning back in his chair. The years since Mercer’s death had been kind to the thief—only a little silver at his temples and a few more crinkles at the corners of his eyes marked the passing of time. More than once his wife had chided him for forgetting to eat at least one meal—but the work needed to be done and he was good at organizing the Guild jobs. His grin slowly faded at the grim looks on Vex’s and Delvin’s faces. “What? What’s happened? Is it the children?” he demanded, standing quickly from the chair as sudden panic hit him.

Delvin shook his head, his hand coming to rest on Brynjolf’s shoulder. “Sit. The children are fine. Tonilia and Vekel are watching them.” He perched on the desk, gazing down at Brynjolf. “Something happened in Solitude.”

Brynjolf swallowed, looking between Vex and Delvin. “What? We don’t have anyone doing any jobs in Solitude this week. And Katrin was—,“ he trailed off, realization dawning in his green eyes. “What happened to Kat?” he asked, his voice low, a growl edging his words.

Delvin swallowed, handing the parchment to the second-in-command of the Thieves' Guild. His eyes stayed on the ground, not wanting to see the horror bloom over Brynjolf's face as he read the carefully worded letter. "She's alive, Bryn. That's something."

Brynjolf stood, his expression stony. "We shut down every Thalmor starting now. Every single one of those bastards is fair game with a bounty to be paid by the Guild until we say otherwise," he announced. His green eyes swept the Cistern, picking out certain members. "Etienne! Thrynn! Sapphire! Rune! Cyrnic! We're traveling. Grab your gear." Turning to Vex and Delvin, he nodded tightly as he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of enchanted Dragonbone daggers, their scabbards gleaming darkly. "I'll bring her home," he promised, already starting towards the ladder out of the Cistern. "And I'll bury anyone standing in my way."

From: (Anonymous)

OP here: Oh gods, I was dreading but anticipated Brynjolf's reaction; geezo, it was more heartbreaking when Delvin and Vex had to break it to him while he was blissfully unaware.

Brilliant work as always Anon! ^^

From: (Anonymous)

A!A here, OP, and I'm glad that I didn't disappoint with how Bryn found out about what happened to Katrin. I fully admit that this part gave me more than a few fits--nothing seemed to ring true. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

From: (Anonymous)

Actually, this passerby anon thinks you did an extremely good job with part 2, especially with 2d. Delvin's voice/accent is spot on :) And I really like the way that each of the factions are being summoned.

From: (Anonymous)

Etienne shot a look of confusion at Thrynn. They’d ridden hard from Riften, Brynjolf leading their motley assembly. Still none of them had been told why they were on the road and they had just reached Whiterun.

Brynjolf glanced at the thieves behind him and sighed. “We’ll stop here tonight. Come—let’s get the horses bedded down at the stables.” Knees guiding his gelding forward, he loped towards the stables. Soon the stablemaster was near a hundred septims richer for the promise of caring for the horses and Brynjolf led the thieves up the hill. Glancing over his shoulder, he shot a quick glare at the thieves. “On your best behavior, lads. And you too, Sapphire. Keep your blades clean,” he warned.

“Milord,” called one of the guards in surprise, nodding towards Brynjolf. “Welcome back to Whiterun.” He glanced behind Brynjolf, puzzlement filling his face. “Is the Dragonborn not with you?”

Brynjolf shook his head, hearing the intakes of breath behind him. “Not this time. We’re on our way to see her in Solitude.”

The gate guard grinned through his open-faced helmet. “Ah. Well, the Jarl will be glad to hear that his Thane’s husband is in residence. Stay safe, milord.”

Brynjolf could feel the questions burbling within the thieves at his back as he led them the short way from the main gate to Breezeholme. The key felt heavy in his palm as he turned it in the lock, opening the door to Katrin’s first home in Skyrim. Even all these years later they agreed that keeping the house made sense—if nothing else than as a place to bed down on long trips. “Inside, all of you,” he ordered, watching as the thieves filed into the timber-framed house. He threw home the bolt and turned to face the thieves, all of whom were looking at him expectantly. “You have questions.”

“You could say that,” muttered Sapphire, brow arched as she crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s going on, Bryn?”

Brynjolf sighed, wiping his hand down his face. He felt like he’d aged a decade since this afternoon—all he wanted was to climb into bed with his wife and never leave her. “Sit. All of you,” he ordered, motioning to the chairs scattered around the main floor. Moving to the fireplace, he got a blaze going in the hearth, staring into the flames as he gathered his thoughts. “There are things that you don’t know about Katrin. Things that none of you have known—but perhaps you suspected.” Glancing over his shoulder, he allowed his green gaze to meet each thief in turn. “You all have known her longest—are the closest to her among the guild other than Vex, Delvin and myself. She trusted you and she’ll need you all. But what I tell you goes no further.”

The thieves frowned amongst themselves but slowly each nodded. They owed that much to the woman who had turned the Guild around.

“Alright, now what’s the mystery?” asked Etienne, leaning forward in the chair he had claimed.

Brynjolf stared back at the flames for a moment, gathering himself. Secrets—they were what kept his Katrin safe. She’d said that once not long before they’d married—said that if others knew of everything she had done that the ones she loved would be at risk. But some of those secrets needed to be shared, he decided. Turning to face the thieves, his body thrown into sharp shadow against the fire, he drew a deep breath. “Some of what I’m going to tell you is not a surprise. Katrin’s role as Guild Master of the Thieves’ Guild is only one of her titles. She holds the rank of Legate in the Imperial Army. She also is the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood,” he admitted, hearing Cynric’s sharp intake of breath. He pressed on. “She also has ties to the Companions here in Whiterun. I’ll be visiting both the Jarl and the Companions in the morning—I need to speak with them before we continue on to Solitude.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, taking in the confused expressions on his fellow thieves. “And she’s the Dragonborn.”

A moment of stunned silence passed over the assembled thieves.

Brynjolf nodded. “Now, you have asked why I brought you here. We are going to Solitude to get Katrin.”

From: (Anonymous)

Niruin raised a brow. “Brynjolf, why are we going to get Katrin? Isn’t she on her way home?”

Brynjolf shook his head, his eyes sinking to the floor. “No. She’s not. She’s—she was—the Thalmor attacked her. Nearly killed her. Killed her housecarl Lydia. I don’t know if she’s going to survive, not after what those bastards…” he trailed off, turning back towards the fireplace, his hands gripping the mantle until his knuckles whitened. “She was pregnant. We’ll be bringing my son home for burial as well,” he whispered, still staring at the stones that made up the mantle. “It's what she would have wanted. None of this is for the rest of the guild to know,” he warned, turning blazing green eyes on his fellow thieves.

“What can we do?” asked Sapphire, leaning against Rune.

Brynjolf shook his head, swallowing down the burning in his throat. He wanted to scream and sob and rail against the fates but he had to stay strong. Had to get to his wife. Then he would allow himself to fall apart, he promised himself. But only once they were safe back in Riften. “Sapphire, she’s going to need you. I don’t—she—my touching her might cause more harm than good. The rest of you—I don’t want anyone getting within ten paces of her. Now, find a place to bed down. We leave in the morning.”

From: (Anonymous)

Oh, the intensity just keeps on rising!! I look forward to the next part!

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(Anonymous) - Re: Any - Avenging the Dragonborn/etc. "Mostly Dead" (1c/?) F!DB/Others

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Skyrim Page 5 - "NAKED! Naked naked naked "

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