Day 148: Bloody work

It has been a long day. I have been providing hospitality to Dark Brotherhood assassins returning to their headquarters and have added another twelve sets of their black chainmail to my collection. The crates in the high cave overlooking the main cavern are nearly full. Even the wealth of the smiths and traders here in Mournhold, who are generally much more prosperous than those in Vvardenfell, will likely not be enough to buy it all. Hopefully they will at least buy enough that I will be able to carry the rest. I used a teleportation spell to get above ground and visited a few merchants and smiths. Some refused, but after my previous round selling the armor there was more than enough interest. Many of them will meet me on the temple steps tomorrow.

The ancient manor house offered up some secrets and treasures of its own. The courtyard, though badly marred by fallen stone and sealed from above by a dome of slag, is still beautiful. A mighty fountain flows in the center, towering nearly to the top of the chamber. I can only imagine it in better days, outlined against the sky. I climbed the many ledges and waterfalls, and the flowing water was cleansing. Stripping the armor from the numerous bodies was gory work, and the falls would briefly flow red, but the great volume of water would soon be restored to freshness. The assassins brought their fate upon themselves, and I do not mourn them, but I have done so much killing. Somehow seeing the fountain restore itself as the blood washed away made a difference.

In my exploration of its many ledges I found that I was not the first to be deeply moved by the fountain. In some ancient time a scorned suitor chose to die on the lofty heights. I'm sure the young lady of the manor could not have helped being moved by his final words, but apparently his timing was bad. The destruction of the city must have claimed the residents of the manor before they even noticed his emotional end. His note lay unrecovered. As I gathered the adamantium armor he left on the ledge before his final leap I wondered at the irony. Had he waited on the ledge a while longer he may have survived the cataclysm that destroyed so much of the old city. In the wake of such fortune would the young man have leapt to his death? With his love lost to death rather than the arms of another would he have still chosen to die for her? If he had known that his dramatic exit would only be noticed by a passing wizard sick of killing, and then only after millennia had passed, would he have opted for life?

I cannot dwell on the deaths of others. My own life hangs too precariously in the balance. The Dark Brotherhood is smashed, but the patron who contracted my death will likely not be put off. I expect a respite, but not a reprieve.