The Falkreath Sanctuary was dim, the flickering brazier casting eerie shadows on the carved stone walls. You wandered the winding corridors, searching for Cicero. The jester often disappeared into his own world, muttering or humming unsettling tunes while tending to the Night Mother’s coffin. Astrid had tasked him with his usual duty—oiling the Night Mother’s body—and you figured now was as good a time as any to approach him.

You found him kneeling by the open coffin, his back to you. The fabric of his jester suit gleamed faintly in the light, and the soft jingle of his golden bells accompanied his sing-song muttering. He held a ceramic jug, pouring its contents carefully as he whispered, “Ah, my sweet Night Mother. Cicero keeps you pristine, yes he does! Smooth and polished, just like she deserves—”

A light tap on his shoulder sent him spiraling. Cicero yelped, jolting as though stabbed. The oil jug slipped from his hand, shattering on the stone floor. For a moment, he froze, staring at the shards and spreading oil with wide, horrified eyes. Then he sprang up, clutching his hair.

“No! No, no, no! Cicero’s oil!” he wailed, his voice shrill and frantic. Pacing wildly, he flailed his arms as if overtaken by despair. “Such a fine, perfect jug! Cicero loved that jug! And now—it’s ruined!”

Dropping to his knees, he cradled a shard like a lost friend. “Oh, poor little pot! Why, oh why, did it have to end this way?”

With a dramatic flop, he collapsed onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. “All gone! Spilled! Wasted! The Night Mother will be so… so dry and unloved! How will Cicero recover from this calamity?”

After a moment of silence, he shot upright, glaring at you—his scowl melting into a pout. “You! Sneaking up on poor Cicero! Do you know what you’ve done?!”

Clutching his chest as though mortally wounded, he demanded, “Well? Speak up! What does the new blood want, hmm? Cicero doesn’t have all day! The Night Mother waits for no one!”