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>When posting prompts, always remember to add kinks you're both looking for and wanting to avoid in a potential fill.
>When filling, please remember to add your story tags: characters, relationship types, kinks, series and universe (ie: skyrim)
>Our character limit here at LJ is 4300.
>If you have any other questions about posting, visit the HOW TO KINK MEME THREAD, under the Page Summary on your left.
Re: Any; General; The Black Sacrament is Performed on Maven "Sacrament" 1/?
Date: 2014-04-06 02:50 pm (UTC)Tugging her cowl over her dark auburn curls, she dropped noiselessly to the cobbled floor of the Ratway—the warren of interconnecting tunnels and dead-ends having that same smell of wet decay that she remembered. If she was lucky, she would be able to chat up the “bitter son” described by the Night Mother, find out who the “bitter son” wanted dead, and get home in time to tuck Gabriella and Gallus into their beds.
Cicero was lurking somewhere behind her, his wishes for sweetrolls or carrots echoing eerily off the wet stones. She had tried to get him to stay behind at the Ragged Flagon but her jester refused. Ever since the Thalmor had taken and hurt her nearly a year before, she’d found that both the Thieves’ Guild and the Brotherhood had developed an annoying if understandable tendency to hover over her. And she was not even going to mention anything about the Companions in Whiterun. In the case of Cicero it meant that he accompanied her on every contract, whether she wanted him to or not.
While she appreciated the insane Jester’s company—he really had become her little brother, even if he was almost a decade her senior—it sometimes did make her jobs a little odd. Like when he advocated the benefits of “stabby, stab, stab.”
Pausing at the junction deep within the Ratway’s Warrens, she listened hard. Down one branch she could hear the scrape of a boot. Expensive, by the sound of it. Just the kind of boot a bitter son might wear. Casting a glance behind her, she turned towards the sound, her Dragonbone daggers palmed as she crept forward. It didn’t take many steps to reach the source, though she nearly swallowed her tongue when she spotted the “bitter son.”
Sibbi Black-Briar glanced up from the dagger he was spinning on a wooden table, the years barely affecting his handsomeness. He still kept his dark hair shorn close and his dark eyes still held an intelligence that most ignored. “Ah. You’ve come.” He motioned carelessly at the Black Sacrament that he’d laid out—the candles still burning.
Katrin frowned, glad that she’d worn her cowl instead of just her hood. “The Dark Mother has heard your prayer. We have come to hear your contract.” This had to be good, she thought. And it couldn’t be about that idiot girl all those years ago—Katrin had taken care of her personally as a favor to the man before her.
Sibbi nodded, slipping his dagger back into its sheath, his arms crossing over his chest. “Nice to know all of that works,” he offered, again glancing at the Black Sacrament. “Now, down to business.”
Katrin nodded. Good, she was one conversation closer to finally being able to go home. And not having to be around the sociopathic Black-Briar any longer than necessary was an added benefit. “Yes.”
Sibbi chuckled. “This has been a long time coming, I’m afraid. The person I want you to kill is our current Jarl. My mother, Maven Black-Briar. Can you do this?”
Katrin gaped at Sibbi Blackbriar, not really believing that she was hearing the words coming from his mouth. Wishing that he would take the words back. But the rasping whisper of the Night Mother had sent her to him, sent her to listen to his prayer for a murder in the skeever-infested warrens beneath the city. Katrin felt nausea rise in her belly, wanting to say no. Saying yes meant dooming the Thieves’ Guild. Saying no meant disobeying the Night Mother. What was it that they said about a slave serving two masters?
“Well?”
Katrin swallowed, ignoring the blood rushing in her ears. “It will be done.”
A contract on Maven Blackbriar.
She was so fucked.