Author's Note:

Let me preface: I am no expert with this game. I find it fun, but I haven't actually progressed very far into it and my fickle state of mind keeps me making new accounts typically before I can finish anything. While playing, I did become enamored with the Dark Brotherhood plot line (as many of us seem to do) while simultaneously becoming frustrated with Lucien Lachance's character (although I was and am, I admit, jealous of his initials: alteration that can strike fear, as opposed to my L.J. which rather strikes a sense of a sea of emo blogs with a few gems interspersed). I was not so much put out by the concept as I was the lack of information--which, I realize, really cannot be had into maintain a coherent story uninterrupted by fluff, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it. Craving it. And I figured I could at least slap a band aid on the hunger, and so I wrote something, and then I proceeded to scrap and rewrite it into the version seen here (it was originally third person; I figured if my aim was to slap some creatively-licensed in depth characterization onto this man's strong and rugged jaw, then first person was the best way to do it after all. Get his voice down first. Voice voice voice. Then play a little in third).

Oooh. I am long winded. Ho-ly, this is nearly just as long as the fic. I excuse myself for just trying to get his voice down.

-Lo


Granted, it may be a little much to know that Arianna Janssen's limp body smelled notably of urine, of excrement, and of a thick, musty perfume once she slipped off into death, but what do we possess if not honesty? Once she died she was empty--both figuratively and literally. Weightless. Ready to dissolve herself into the air. Her husband, as I hear it, had her cremated and her ashes floated lightly away from the earth, no longer attached--chained--to the muck and the slime of this life: the putrid atmosphere that is too easily inhaled, the bustling and bumping against other swine and livestock who are so breathlessly embraced, kissed, loved, married, mourned. The epidemic is the state of being that Arianna, and others, walk and live in. As a pig: vulgar. Wallowing happily and ignorantly in the mud.

I've come to expect an overwhelming defeat of the finer points of life. Deep down we are all keen enough to be aware of the curling and crunching of art under the crushing weight of the crude and vulgar boot. But I do not move to condemn all walks of life. How narrow and poorly judged such an assessment would be. For every one hundred or so pigs I've seen, I've found light. For every piece of swine I've crushed under my boot, there is salvation. Which is why, my dears, when I killed Arianna Janssen with a slip of poison upon her bottom lip I had every ounce of good intention.

I possess a talented memory, ladies and gentlemen. It is however difficult to forget a face like Miss Janssen's to begin with, whose prettiness was a deeper sort, rooted in a childlike innocence and trust. When she died, that beauty only blossomed more in her state of pristine cleanliness. She had expelled the vile aspects from her body and all that remained was the light, cradled by a helpful shadow who dimmed and smoothed her features. Kissed her forehead, and ran its hands over her face, arms, and willed her blemishes away. With the banishment of her more brutish qualities, she and I cut the string that kept her as livestock her whole life--from the first time her parents slobbered on her cheek to the day that I blessed it. She separated herself from swine. Dissolved her marriage and promises to a hog--a Mr. Janssen--and severed all ties with her beastly heritage and progeny. She rose out of the muck. She became, instead, something light that floats on air. And all this from a cruel and misplaced insult on her part.

And thus the sin brings forth the salvation, dear audience.


I am quite pleased with this first run after all. It's awfully short and his voice is not perfect, but it is a good start to mimic romantic self-delusion and deceit? It's kind of rough, and I do mourn a little because realism is my only true lover. I digress though. I do not know how dedicated I shall be to keeping this project/interest up. But should I write anymore (and I probably should because four paragraphs is rather pathetic on me and my muse's part) methinks I shall probably store elsewhere like on fanfiction.net because I sense I shall only get worse (more realistic writing and therefore inappropriate, as history has shown for me) with the coming of my third person.

Despite the short length (which I suppose isn't that much of a problem) this is actually very well written. I usually don't like first-person tales, but I wouldn't mind seeing more.

Oh, and in the words of the Grass Man: RUBRUBREERUBRUBRUBREERUBRUBRUB

Eh. Yeah. I don't really like the limit that first person kinda kicks you in the shins with. Here though, while I think I do eh OK with the first it employs a lot of censorship and euphemisms that I don't really lenjoy. I'm much more blunt in my personal approach. But, I do think first shows his character better, and with third I'd probably have to take a cheap shot and tell it. So I got this aching to continue, but I'm not entirely sure how to at this point. First, or third or... I'm considering being a sell out and taking both to my advantage though I'm worried it may... Disorient readers. Unorganized, unlevel bursts of third and first in different POVs and different timeframes sounds like it could walk the line between pleasantly strange and flat out confusing. Why am I rambling?

Hi.

:D

Well, you could always use the FP-view as an intro for each individual part. Put it above the main bit (likely third-person I''m guessing), center then italicise it. Add a Done of the 4th of BLANK - L. Lachance.

Essentially, use FP as journal entries showing Lucien's actual feelings about it, then write the situation out, longer, in third-person.

At least I think this is what I was trying to say. I think. Maybe.

Oooh. I really like that idea--especially because then it would contrast what he says he thinks (first person) with what is and what he really thinks (third, since I can be a lot more honest with that birds eye view). That'd work really well for something like I just did because it's short. Although I doubt I will always write short (when I begin something I can never tell how long it'll be) even in first person. Ffff I am a rambler and sometimes a hit and run.

I'm going to start blaming my inability to write coherent, organized stories on Sesame Street. Reading me is like a variety show. Uneven bursts. Kind of ADHD-ish in some ways.

Mmm I will read, and write, and see where it takes me. I will roll with the punches on this one. If it comes out appropriate, I'll follow it up here on this post.

I don't think I can remember the last time I posted in a fan fic in recent but this actually isn't bad.

Ah, thanks babe. I'm sorry it took me a while to get to that, but I wanted to have something semi-substantial the next time I spammed with my name (which makes me nervous to do).



So! That said! I made a rough outline of this strange... Study. Dividing L.L.'s life into three basic parts and then identifying conflicts within each era. I wrote a couple more pieces and decided the reason it's so darn weird in formatting is because a) the last book I finished was The Unbearable Lightness of Being and before that a string of postmodern lit, and b.) I see this dude as seriously deranged and the narrative reflects how I view his craziness. I don't know how true that last bit is but it sounds good, doesn't it? Anyway, here are bits and pieces that I wrote and that are... Actually appropriate. I added a character (among others) for that boy to bounce off of named Shep Ambler who is... Not appropriate. Fun, and I do have something focused on her written, but I don't think I can slap it here. xD Anyway, I admit there's not much plot here either but my stories are largely character driven and I'm trying to lay groundwork for characters first.


Chapter Two: How to kill a pig

This is how Lucien kills:

Offense against the door is the last act of foreplay in a long romance that Lucien and a person embark upon together, and so it is a small but key moment in the last weeks of that person’s life. The locks of the house are picked and clicked dry and dead and drained of all resistance during the violation of their metal temples. The rattling in the keyhole’s tomb is meticulous, slow, and drawn out to convey the proper sense of respect. Then the door creaks open and he and the next act is ushered in.

The inside of the house is often individualistic, but for Lucien it is always the same: disturbingly unkempt until after the crescendo, at which point it becomes pristine. In the darkness it might be easier to pass as such. Meanwhile however it remains, in a reality untouched by our deranged friend (we’ll try to keep the adjective on the down low, but how impacting the insult would even be coming from pigs like us remains to be seen), typically an average household that does not alter its hygiene magically when it senses that its owner has kicked the bucket down that long stretch of violation and victimization. It possesses the necessities of life: food, utilities, a bed, clothes that need to be washed, little hints of hidden pleasures, a funk unique to our homeowner, or sometimes dishes better left until the next morning. (We might point out that the latter is, uncharacteristically of procrastination, a good move. Most can agree that having to scrub scum off plates and forks would be adding insult to injury if you were just to die that night anyway, the last thought on your mind forever “well hell, why’d I even bother with that?” It never helps much in the end.)

Lucien always persists to take very good care of the person—cradle and coddle them—all the way up until the croak and gurgle, and even beyond. After the foreplay—the hours of stalking, the defilement of the lock—and after inching up the stairs and imagining yourself as a deliverer, while actually looking like a loon, he watches them sleep. Preferably, they’re sleeping. Preferably, they stay asleep. Lucien has very little taste for assaults on awake persons. He might say that the most pure and serene moments of a person’s life are in their sleeping hours. We might comment on how utterly creepy that is. Shep Ambler might just crush the claim entirely, because Shep knows better than anyone, probably, that people are not pure; least of all when they’re asleep.

Therefore, we might assume that the real reason Lucien waits until sleep is beyond his euphemismed-up answer; his characteristic response jacked up with pretty words and phrases, and spoken slowly in a low tone of voices that touches you in all the right places. It could be on account of cowardice, or laziness, or a need for certain qualities of the dying process that only come when a person is assaulted in their dreams. It might come from a little bit everything. Or it could be that people are most pure and serene in their hours of slumber. But really, who cares? The end result, we can agree, is the same. The person ends up dead, “their vileness expelled” Lucien might observe while we might just snort and retch at the oppressive odor and turn our head at the various stains on the bedspread, blood among them.

But this is how Lucien makes those stains: for the men, typically (unless instructed otherwise) some very aggressive stabbing and if he’s in the mood some follow-up guy-time with mutilation. For the ladies, anything focused on the throat is perfect. If he is so inclined, some similar romance afterward (we’ve heard tell of decapitation). The best moments are in the aftermath: a cold, shivering thrill that courses and pumps through him and out of him and all around the room, and immediately after all the snoring and creeping and struggles—silence.











A minute or two dosage, before he gets up and leaves.

This is what Lucien sees: Very little. It’s dark. He might perceive a more romantic image of ascension. If nothing else, then Olvyne Moren lays sprawled on the bed—her dark skin stroked by the heavy sunlight illuminating her and him, and calling her spirit out through the window. Her red eyes rattled around until they’re unattractively upward. Her buck teeth staring at him, and glinting light.

This is what Lucien feels: Just about everything he can. It’s dark. And though he knows the way back down the stairs and out the door—although he knows where everything is--he touches the wall anyway, and the railing, and her bed, and if he touches her that’s a mistake in the dark.

This is what Lucien tastes: He had some cheese and an apple before he came, and a glass of weak wine. The fermented stab is gone by this point, but there is some cheese left in the grooves of his molars, and a sliver of an apple peel in between a pair of his top teeth. It’s bothering him. The air tastes a little putrid now, and that bothers him too.

This is what Lucien smells: He tries not to. The smell offends him. He begins to expound upon how they are saved, and how their living, vile qualities are expelled to excuse the stench.

This is what Lucien hears: There was bleating outside the cottage where Olvyne Moren lay dead. There was badly played music wafting upstairs and dancing over to him and Lemma. There were sheep at the farmhouse where Shep and he met, and grunting and rooting of pigs outside the window her house. There were his footsteps in any case. There were birds chirping outside. There was a cold winter wind blowing down from the mountains. There was screaming. There was Shep belching loudly. Before all that there was silence.

I never was that good at commenting on fanfictions but here it goes,

So far I'm loving it, personally I always found first person difficult to work with but they can often help the reader connect on a deeper level with the character

Even though its a short short fiction I hope you keep writing and maybe you will add something else to Luciens character, He is a very mysterious character and so very easy to work with when you make a back story.
Was he born in Cyrodiil? High Rock? Does he have an addiction to a unique wine that is made on in Valenwood?

I wish you luck on your story