Skyrim’s two moons shone down brightly on the forests surrounding Falkreath, a small town. It was the quiet and gloomy centerpiece of southern Skyrim. Here, danger, existed beneath a mundane veil. Mist hung thickly on every leaf and blade of grass, trapping within it a crisp chill. Hearthfire month was drawing to a close. In the deep woods surrounding that small town, cast off from the main road, a steep hill shielded a pitch-black pond and an ominous door set into the earth. Leaning against a tree nearby, Cicero guarded this; the underground lair of the Dark Brotherhood.

The jester lurked in the shadows, muttering to himself while toying with his dagger in his gloved hands. Even he needed some time out of the hideout. The skull of the Black Door seemed to stare at him without emotion. It was a relief to him. Almost everyone living inside the sanctuary would look at him with too much disdain or pity; he was nothing more than a mad fool in their eyes. That’s why he was out here by himself, because no one could walk with him in this life. No one except for the Listener... if only he had them. They occupied his thoughts as a phantom. They eluded him, but he knew that one day, that would change. He would find that dream figure if it killed him. He’d unite them with his dear Night Mother. He would bring his Listener home.