LALORIA—“Dark Times”

i.

When I was younger, I once read a book about the legendary creatures called “Daedra.” These divines had no inherent gender and could assume nearly any form they wished. Azura and Nocturnal, both Daedric Princes, drew me in with an unhealthy fascination. Nocturnal was of the darkness and of the night, and Azura of the dusk and of the dawn. Azura was fabled to be beautiful, and Nocturnal to be so ugly that she had once worn a cowl to cover her face until it was stolen by a daring mortal man. Azura held my respect for her great intelligence; Nocturnal held my respect for her power and deception.

I was not well-read back then. Daedra were but a myth in my young eyes. As I grew older, I quickly learned that Daedra were very real, and that there were others with even greater power than they. My Breton birth name, Aurane Liric, was quickly tossed aside for something else. Its original meaning, or so I was told, was “of the night.” I changed it a little to suit my Breton heritage. And so, satisfied, I wore it out of respect for Nocturnal, the Daedra Lord.

I wear it still—out of respect for the Night Mother.

“I have been watching you.” A figure composed of shadow lurked just beyond the foot of the bed. He stood alone, dark and solemn and discreet. If he hadn’t spoken, he never would have been noticed, and now his foreboding presence loomed. “Your sleep was sound and undisturbed as if such an act were committed by routine. No tossing, no turning, no phrases muttered that would express guilt… That pleases us greatly. If you should care, the proposition I am about to offer will alter your life.”

A shaky breath came from the young woman. Then, a small, affirming nod. She didn’t speak.

Smiling, he continued onward, for he understood. “Very well. Your admittance into our family will begin with the signing of a contract. No, no parchment or quills for this. It would be a waste. Flesh is our parchment; blades are our quills; blood is our ink. You will slay a man by the name of Rufio, who sleeps his days away in the Inn of Ill Omen along the Green Road. Find him, kill him, and everything will be complete.” The man reached inside the breast of his black robes and took out an ebony dagger. Carelessly, he tossed it upon the bed. It made a soft thump as it landed. “This… will be your quill. Sign well, my dear.” And then he disappeared, vanishing into the musty air of the Wawnet Inn. The door creaked open, but no footsteps were heard.

It was a dream. Surely it was. Nothing had been so surreal, nothing, not since she had followed the Emperor himself out of the Imperial Prison. Nearly trembling with fear, she let her hand slowly reach out to touch the grip of the sheathed dagger.

It was still warm from being held so close.