The dutiful and ever reliable Lamnar Kast poured over the last few records of recent economical stabilities with the temple of Mara. The local tax collector had no particular desire to upset any god no matter their dogma, but as one of the best able men of his trade he silently agreed with himself that the Goddess of Love & Mortal Compassion would see his current matter eye-to-eye with him. A portion of the donations should surely go to the treasury - for the betterment of infastructure, safeguarding of the realm, and the ever increasing festivities that had infested High Rock recently. Why, the High King's alliance with the redguards and orcs could only bring prosperity to the kingdoms.
Oh, but he loved his job. Not to plague the lower classes of society, but rather out of a sadistic wish to see certain noble taxpayers squirm when they saw him turning up on their door. Oh yes, especially Oltan and...
Something caught his ear and he intently locked his gaze on the bookshelf to his right. He could have sworn that the priests had allowed him the privacy of his work by locking the door and giving him the only key not held by the high priest. His thoughts briefly drifted towards the notion that a cat belonging to one of the healers had snuck in, but then he remembered the rather strict rules in the Benevolence of Mara; a memory which served to increase his interest and alertness.
For some reason he closed the book as quietly as possible, even if he knew that his observer no doubt watched his every move.
The room kept him waiting for a good score of moments.
"In the name of the King, identify yourself immediately!"
This time he was answered by a gurgling feeling welling up in his throat. He clashed to the stone floor, clasping a hand to his throat, finding a velvet-handled dagger protruding from where an unblemished skin once held dominance. Velvet? His assailant was no member of the Dark Brotherhood, so that could only mean that a noble had hired bullyblades to silence him.
Door locked, he dug his hand feverishly into his pocket to reach for the tiny flask of healing liquid there. He had to-
Another train of thoughts was crushed when an iron-strengthend leather boot rammed into his ribs, knocking the last bit of air from his lungs and filling the small library with a wordless scream.
"Take your due rest, loyal Lamnar of the Crown."