"Too weak to join the Legion, they said. Too cowardly to join the Companions, they said. Too bat-pl*** crazy to join the Thieves Guild, they said. So where oh where is my lot in life?" the figure in the darkness lamented.
"You say I'm weak, I say I'm quick on my feet! You say I'm cowardly, I say choose your battles wisely! You say I'm crazy, well you may be right..." the figure giggled maniacally, running the stumps of his fingers over his scarred face.
"So where does one with talents such as mine fit in? Acrobat. Tight-rope walker. Knife-thrower? Why as a travelling performer of course.... the guise of the simple fool, hiding the darkness within. Oh the fun we will have!" the figure tugged at the cuff of his motley pants, adjusting the set of daggers strapped to his boot, dropping down from his upside down perch behind Belethor's General Goods store.
"Fun, fun, fun! We need a name... a good name," the figure took a seat, leaning against the door.
"Yeah, just take that stuff out back," came a muffled voice from inside Belethor's.
"Right away, sir," replied a second, younger sounding voice. The figure held his ground as someone tried to open the door. "What the?" said the young man's voice. The young man pushed against the door with more and more force until finally it opened as the dark figure leapt back to the darkness above. The young man, Sigurd, came tumbling out of the entrance spilling the crate of garbage he was carrying landing awkwardly amongst the rotten fish and spoiled carrots.
The dark figure safely up in his darkened perch, remained invisible to the confused man just below him. The figure stifled a laugh and withdrew a wicked serrated dagger from his boot. The young man got up to his knees and started picking up the spilled trash, throwing it angrily back into the crate.
"Gods damn whatever trickster was behind this," Sigurd said angrily, seeing nobody in the darkness.
The figure brought the wicked blade to his lips, running its jagged edge across his tongue. The motleyed man in the shadows braced himself, ready to pounce.
"Hey no lollygagging Sigurd, best you get inside," exclaimed a voice. Peering over, the dark figure recognized the ugliness that was Commander Caius, a torch near his face, the figure resumed his position in the perch, invisible to all.
"Yes sir, sorry was just removing Belethor's trash."
"Save it for the morning. I don't give a damn about the stinking fish heads, tell Belethor if he has a problem with the stench of his business, take it up with the Jarl. With dragons about, the curfew is in effect. No exceptions."
Sigurd cleaned up best he could under the watchful gaze of the Commander of the Guard and returned through the backdoor of Belethor's. The twitch in the dark figure's eye returned, unable to satiate his bloodlust, the madness within grew stronger. Again, alone in the quiet, the dark figure inhaled deeply and did his best to calm his demons, "Ah yes, a name, we needed a name.... a good name, a trusting name.... but first, a change of venue should be in order."
The dark figure checked his pockets, enough gold for a carriage ride to any destination in Skyrim, perfect. But where to go? A disfigured face such as his was well known within the walls of Whiterun. The figure rummaged through his satchel producing a small lute. He always did his best thinking whilst upside down, so that's how he positioned himself, hanging from the rooftop at Belethor's, a man-sized bat, eyes-closed but ever alert, a shadow even in the darkness.
The figure brought the lute to his lips and started playing his favorite dirge. The tone was mournful, haunting, but all too familiar to him. A window from Belethor's second floor flung open, the shopkeeper leaning dangerously forward.
"WILL YOU SHUT THE f***f UP?!" cursed Belethor at the darkness.
The dark figure allowed himself a smirk as he halted mid-note. He observed Belethor squinting at the darkness. It would be so easy to simply pull himself up there and yank that stupid weasel of a man out and break his neck on the street below. Belethor, satisfied in the belief that he intimidated the lute player to silence, slammed his window shut, the wooden shutters echoing around the marketplace. The twitch returned to the dark figure's eye, again the bloodlust went unrequited. He needed a new beginning.
The figure removed a needle thin dagger from his boot and pinned his map to Belethor's door. The figure quietly dropped from his roost and stepped back 25 paces, spun and whipped another dagger at the map, its pointed blade landing firmly in the lower right quadrant.
"Riffff-ten."
