“There is a time to fight, and a time to die. This is neither.” Marassa replied, her back leaning against the stone wall of the basement that they were being held in, arm draped over a raised knee. “None of us have our weapons, and you’re the only one who knows offensive magic. Whatever is happening outside isn’t a rescue, since no one knows where we are. Besides, if they wanted us dead, they would have done so already. It’s easier to take coin from a corpse.” She looked towards the Nord, offering a rare grin. “However, I am not one to ignore opportunity.” The khajiit rose from the dirty floor and walked to the step-ladder stairs to the hatch above. She pounded on it with a fist and shouted. “What’s going on out there?” 

It was fully her intention to grab and bash whomever was dumb enough to open the hatch’s head against the stone lip of the hole, but nobody answered. Curious, Marassa placed her ear against the hatch and listened. She could not hear a single person in the level above. She stepped down and turned to the others. “It seems that whatever is happening out there has drawn off our guards. This is an old lock, I’m certain I can open it with an Alteration spell.” She said, looking back at the door. “First thing is first. We locate our weapons, pocket any coin we can find, and then see if it’s worth it to make a break for it or join swords. If I find the bastard who took my sword, I will beat him within an inch of his life.” She growled, scaling the ladder once more and placing her hand by the lock, keeping a visualization of it open in her mind as she cast the spell. Suddenly, as if someone on the other side had slid the bar free, the lock moved open and Marassa was able to lift the floor hatch, peering out into the room around her. She climbed out and kept low and near walls while she waited for Hralvar and Cub to emerge, giving her enough time to reflect on the personal importance of the Skyforge Steel greatsword. It was a gift to her from her Master, something he put her money she had paid for her lessons towards without saying a word. It was a weapon of the utmost quality and sentimental value, one of the very few things she absolutely prized. Khajiit weren’t supposed to put a pride on personal possessions, but that sword was more than a weapon, it was a part of her identity. She would kill whoever had it.

The trio was still unable to identify what was happening, but it was clear that the three of them were the least of the bandits’ worries. Marassa was willing to bet it was the dwemer, whom she was none too eager to get caught up in a fight with unarmed. She turned to the others. “Do not fight unless you must. Grab what you can, and we leave. If we get split up, head North. I will send up a single Magelight at dusk. Keep heading towards it until we all meet again.” She steeled herself before continuing. “Of course, if that happens, there’s a chance none of us will see one another again. So don’t get lost.” With that, she moved to the door, inhaled deeply and then opened the door into the chaos beyond. 

The bandit camp was a veritable warzone, with several dozen men and women of various races fending off their assailants, whom to her surprise were not the dwemer, but rather what appeared to be well-equipped mercenaries, some of which seemed to be more intent on capturing than killing. Many, however, carried dwemer weapons and appeared to have arrived on the encampment with what appeared to be dwemer-designed horseless carriages of much larger scale. Marassa hurried out into the sun and heat and took a surveillance of the battle, spotting several tents, another farmhouse with stables, and hastily made fortifications like sharpened logs and barriers. But still, no sign of her sword.

Almost as if arriving to answer a question, a man leapt the small stone wall she had taken shelter behind and landed nearly on top of her, surprising both parties. Marassa was quicker to recover and soon had the man pinned against the ground, claws drawn and at his throat. She soon recognized him as one of the bandits who captured her and the others. “Tell us where our belongings are, and you keep your throat. Do not keep me waiting.” She snarled.

The understandably alarmed man, a bosmer of all things, had his gloved hands raised in surrender. “Easy there, khajiit. Most of your stuff is in Marion’s personal tent, although your weapons got handed out to the troops.” His eyes darted towards where the battled was taking place. “Although, the way it’s looking, there’s a chance whoever took them are dead or captured.”

“My sword, then. Skyforge Steel. Rather unforgettable. Who took it?” 

“Grolash-Bar Dun, big orc. Last I saw him, he was organizing the defenses to the South-side of the camp.” The bosmer replied, surprisingly composed all considered.

“Take me to where you saw him last.” The khajiit ordered, only taking the pressure off of the bosmer when he nodded agreement.

“Fine. I’d rather take my chances with you getting your weapon back than getting my throat ripped apart. Just, think about helping us, okay? I know it’s a lot to ask, considering, but most of us are trying to do good.” He said, preparing to vault the wall, short sword in hand. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He muttered. 

Soon, the bosmer was up and out of sight. Marassa was right at his heels, not paying heed to what her companions were doing. This wasn’t the first time Marassa ran straight into danger completely unprepared. She cared not; her only concern was obtaining her sword. The rest of it could be damned.