Aventus Aretino strolled casually throug Riften’s front gates, clad up in armor and gear that seemed unbecoming of the kid that had left so many moons ago. The guards didn’t recognize him. Not with that oversized iron helmet that looked like it had been pried out of a dragon’s stomach.
But surely, the Guards at the gate reasoned, this kid couldn’t possibly be the weak little kid who had sneaked out of Honorhall. A boy who could barely swing a sword, let alone the blade sheathed firmly to his side with leather grips that… One guard stared, was that the rumored Sword of Mephala? The one that the New Thane of Whiterun had supposedly won off of the Jarl in a game of chance??
No. Surely it couldn’t be.
And so they let him walk straight up into the Orphanage.
Grelod the Kind didn’t recognize him, and in fact even called him a “Shorty Bosmer” thinking that there was no way that the crude little boy who had run away would ever return.
“Miss Grelod?” But his voice echoed like a frozen tundra- all of the kids who were busy mopping the floor up of some suspicious red liquids turned to stare at the armored up child.
“No…it is you isn’t it!?” Grelod’s face twisted into anger. “WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF!?”
“Just a few words,” Aventus took off his helmet, and took a deep breath as he looked his tormentor of so long ago in the eyes.
~”KRII YOL FO!”~
And then Grelod the Kind was embraced by fire and ice, and died a heartbeat later, never knowing what hit her until she was floating in the void serving Sithis.
And for show and good measure, Aventus unsheathed the Whispering Lady’s granted sword, and lodged it into the old crone’s frost burnt heart.