[i]creak...[/i] Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of leather-bound footsteps softly padding through the alley. Helgathe’s denizens had surfaced, if not to ply their dastardly trade, then to feed their dark desires in places covered in moon-shadow. By the sounds of detriment pushed about, the rattle of crates and barrels wobbling below cat-like movements, it seemed the Dagger sat on a prominent private highway. Sheathed in a twitching lattice of fingers, the heft of her axe lay firm against her belly, moving in a tide affected by the pull of restless vigilance. She anchored it with a grip cast in steel, lest it took flight after the nearest insect again. Shortly after retiring, she had heard a small rapping noise at the windowsill and threw her axe, thinking a thief had decided to come in and die horribly. Its course went uninterrupted and flung the shutter outwards with a mighty slam, rusted pintles biting down for dear life. Ole Madira kicked the door off its hinges, wielding a broom like wooden claymore bound for Thyra’s room invader. In the midst of their confusion, a dainty luna moth floated away with added flourish to salt the opened wound. [i]creeeak….[/i] As penalty for her brazen act, the feeble complaints of an abused door kept her teetering on the edge between realms, namely those of Vaermina and Sheogorath. Her eyes bulged and popped at the soft touch of a predawn haze spilling in from the torn curtain. Blue notes warmed the air until it glowed, so distinct it could be seen through sleepy eyes, but not enough to be considered true light. She rose with a yawn, stretched tall, and cracked the joints in each shoulder, concluding the symphony with a loud tweak of her neck. Mashad wasn’t expecting them for another two hours, enough time to fit in a liquid breakfast. She helped herself to an olive green kurta from the dresser, tucked a pair of dark cotton pants into her old boots and made her descent. [i]creeeek…..[/i] Six doors lay at the end of the hallway, half of them above the bar, and the others above the kitchen. On her end, there were only four, built over the large mess hall and hearth. The view from her corner room revealed the back-ends of adjacent buildings, some without windows, some without walls, but all with a balcony of some sort jutting over the murky alley. Downstairs, the walls left and right were pocked with slim openings. Salomei had begun clipping back their deep crimson drapes to let in the freshening air. Thyra ordered two cups of strong ale and, at Madira’s insistence, half a loaf of bread. Only after finishing did she realise the three figures seated at the far side of the bar. They had a strong bearing to match their size, each man towering at least a metre over the counter, perched on stools that were spaced apart to accommodate their girth. Madira shuffled over to the Nord staring in their direction. “Just arrived,” she whispered discreetly. “Men from the Alik’r.” They wore the loose-fitting garb associated with desert dwellers, and thick scarves over their heads, save the one sitting closest to her. His hair was shaved down to a short wedge through the middle, showing off the raised imprint of a scar stretching from his temple to the top of his ear. Thyra tilted her head to snatch a glance below, and saw the cruel grin of a blade hanging at his side. [i]Curved. Swords.[/i] She grinned, remembering the tales that circulated around Skyrim. When she pulled back, the man was looking at her, dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. A tense minute passed. His onyx glare challenging her glacial stare. To break first would be to concede, and being as defiant as she was, Thyra damned the unfavourable odds by refusing to. She propped a fist on the curve of her hip, tilting her body towards him, and sliding back the cape folds to reveal the weapon it hid. By raising her chin, the intention to use it if need be was made clear. The man blinked once, and slowly, as a sly expression bent the firm line of his full lips. A series of deep, halting breaths shook the great breadth of his chest, and he turned towards the bar, shaking his head. She chuckled with him, finished her meal, and took leave without a word. Their eyes never touched a second time, but she could feel his following after her, the same way he could feel hers looking back from the door. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t understand what his companions were saying. The warrior’s code had its own universal language. ------------------------------------------- The faces that blurred past soon came together like walls of blood, shedding tears with open mouths, thinning out towards the source of their terror. Thyra was forced to rely on signals from the figures above for direction. They skipped along the rooftops as if their footsteps were light as air, seemingly unaware of the distance leapt between buildings, and the weight of their cargo. She and the three men from the Dagger were like fumbling brutes in comparison. They speared through the retreating crowd like a ship through packs of ice, using the breadth of their shoulders to fend off what their hands couldn’t grasp and push. The men from the Alik’r were among the first faces she recognised upon her return to the Mosque, though she would have looked more Worshipper than civilian, half-dressed in steel. To keep up the appearance of a faceless loner, she made an effort to avoid their inquisitive gazes, but as it turned out, their intervention was a part of Kyne’s divine foresight. They were invaluable in dispatching the guards that caught her setting fire to their outposts. And, again without words, they chose to follow when she made swiftly towards the main conflict. They arrived at the square moments before the next wave was due, heavy footsteps splashing through the aftermath of what came before. The survivors were talking battle formations and strategy, their voices finding resonance in the metallic clang of weaponry delivered from above, reinforcing their will to fight. With renewed vigour, they cordoned off the blood-soaked square, seeking vantage points and sealing formations as best as they could in anticipation for the next round. From beneath her ragged disguise, Thyra pulled a shield from her hump, and an axe from the side of her body that once limped with feigned agony. The only part of her cloak to remain in place was its hood, leaning over her brow like a hawk’s beak. Archers sought vantage points atop shade cloths, the upturned prison cart, low roofs, anything that elevated them above their mace-, sword- and axe-wielding brethren. Thyra sought out a flank dominated by blunt specialists, noting one lad who seemed unsure of the warhammer he held, but took a ready stance, nonetheless. Three sets of footsteps came up behind her, sealing the rear, and she smiled. She’d need to learn Yokudan so she can ask the mohawked man for his name. Among them, the Nord resembled a snowflake in the desert, but the intentions that powered their fierce expressions were all the same. A roar echoed in the distance, announcing the coming of Redguard and Dwemer. As she lay in wait, Thyra thought back to the man she saw, standing in the middle of the chaos, set apart by his strong bearing and the armour he wore. It was his voice the hooded ones followed, his actions they read, in coordinating shaken survivors and newcomers into the solid flanks that now barricaded every street. An eye on the horizon, axe held ready, shield hoisted, knee to shoulder, she waited and listened for that same voice to sound again.