“Do you still want to do this?” Hassan asked, unsheathing his bone-and-brass hilted, thin-bladed scimitar with the same practiced precision and ritualism he always had. The very act commanded Francis’s attention and he heard Vendel mutter an impressed [i]huh[/i] at the display from behind him.

“You make it sound as if I’ll die, friend.” Francis laughed.

“Your pride might.” Hassan smirked, twirling his steel in the sun, creating a dazzling array of sparkles as the light glinted off of the blade at many spinning angles.

“What will the fighting be with? Sword and buckler, one-handed without shields? Are you going to let me use my bastard sword?” Francis asked, leaning on his sword in the scabbard.

“Sword and buckler,” Hassan pulled the ornately designed Reguard buckler from his belt, throwing it to Francis, “Hopefully you are skilled enough in this style. I’d hate to be bored.” Hassan smiled. Francis nodded to Vendel’s sword and the Nord unsheathed the blade, handing it over to Francis. Francis took a few practice swings with the long one-hander and got an appreciation of its weight and balance. All of the length of his bastard sword but the blade tapered to a point in such a way that the balance was more akin to an arming sword.

“Do you have an extra buckler, by chance?” Francis asked wondering why Hassan threw him his own. Hassan smiled, ”My friend chose to fight without a shield, I will too.” Hassan saluted and began to circle Francis. Unlike the Breton ways, where Francis stood strong, holding the sword out in front of him in the forward guard while the buckler protected his sword hand, Hassan danced in front of him, spilling his center of gravity from left to right and bringing his sword to different guards, keeping Francis’s mind busy with the possibility of the direction of any attack.

Francis caught on quick enough to bring his buckler up to block a strike coming towards his head, responding with a swing of his own towards Hassan’s shoulder. The Redguard moved with extreme quickness, stepping to the side and bringing his forearm under Francis’s elbow before the full arc of the chop and bringing his blade to rest against the midsection of Francis’s cloth shirt. That was one yield in favor of Hassan. One more and Francis would have to admit defeat.

The two opponents stepped back from each other, resuming their circle. Hassan’s blade danced around him and in a flurry of moves he was close to Francis. Francis was only quick enough to block the strike coming for midsection before sand was thrown into his face. He grunted and moved away quickly for Hassan to continue his offense. A harmless swing at mid-level was avoided by Hassan as he came forward. Francis recovered and thrust the blade forward. Hassan swatted the blade aside and Francis narrowly blocked the point of Hassan’s scimitar rising up to pick at his groin.

The Breton quickly recovered, once again thrusting forward and having his blade batted away, Hassan reinforcing the blade with a forearm to the blunt inside of its curve, he blocked the thrust and moved in close, and the tip of the scimitar almost split Francis’s chin. If it wasn’t for Francis punching out with his buckler, he would have had to yield with the point of Hassan’s scimitar poking the underside of his chin. Francis stepped to the side, keeping the buckler in control of Hassan’s blade, keeping in constant contact with it. As Francis stepped to his right, he half-sworded and brought the tip of the sword to rest right where Hassan’s kidney would be.

“Yield.” Hassan smirked.
“One for me.” Francis acknowledged, stepping back with his opponent to decide who would win this last round. Francis began with a downward cut but almost quicker than he could comprehend, Hassan parried with his forearm on the inside of his blade’s curve again, stepping to the side and almost resting the blade on Francis’s neck. Francis stepped back and pivoted with Hassan and the two had their blades to each other’s necks.

“A tie?” Francis said, unsure. He’d never had this happen in all his years of dueling. A first time for everything, he supposed, and the two duelists lowered their blades. Hassan sheathed his and Francis gave back Vendel’s long blade. Francis shook hands with Hassan, the two walking down to where Vendel made camp.

“Are you willing to accept my gold?” Hassan asked, hefting a bloated coinpurse.

Francis shook his head, “It was a tie, my friend, we should finish our match later.”

“You should accept the coin, Breton.” Hassan’s friend said.

“Should I?” Francis turned to Hassan.

“You should. You came to the Isle of N’Gasta in search for adventure. I still remember what you said to Alaire and I when we asked for volunteers for the away team, ‘It’s something to do.’” Hassan smiled, dropping the coinpurse in Francis’s crossed legs as they sat around in the day’s fading light, “What do you say now?”

Francis looked to Vendel, searching for any sign of disapproval. He knew how much the Nord wanted home but he had said that he knew that his friend wanted adventure, a chance to be among the Heroes and perhaps become one. There was no sign of disapproval. No sign of anything, really, and that’s what bothered him. This was it, though, if Elayna was in Helgathe then so were the others. He would meet Cub the Orc, Hralvar the Nord, Gorzath, Marassa, Sevari- maybe even Zaveed, an adventurer and hired sword just like him, but wandering sea, not road.

“What do you say now, Francis?” Hassan echoed.

“It’s something to do.” Francis smiled.

==========

[i]Current Day…[/i]

“Sir, troubling news.” The mer said in a level tone, walking from the door at the far end of the room to the desk at the other end. The Headquarters of the Dwemer High Government’s Ministry of Order sat just adjacent to the Royal Palace. Before the war, this place was another building in the pavilion that made up the Royal family of Helgathe’s home. The Headquarters was where the advisors and subjects congregated to see justice be done in the court. What better place to put the organization that earned the fear of those who resided in every Dwemer state than where the old laws were enforced?

“Sir, troubling news.” The mer said again. The Officer who sat at the desk took another sip of his tea and finally looked up from his book, [i]The Battle of Sancre Tor[/i].

“Troubling, eh?” Major Kerztar asked.

“Yes, sir, there are riots in the streets as we speak.” The mer said, wondering why the Major didn’t seem as concerned as him.

“Are there? See that the riot is quelled and allocate any resources you see fit to handle the situation but I want one man on the inside.” The mer went to say something before Kerztar cut him off, “Do I make myself clear? One man on the inside.”

“Yes, Major.” The mer saluted before leaving.

Major Kerztar stood from his chair and walked to the window. His office was situated on the highest floor of the judicial building, affording him an uninterrupted view throughout all of the sprawling breadth of the city below. He could see straight to the walls but what concerned him was the pillar of smoke rising from one of the streets and the sound of the wind revealed itself to be the distant hum of battle once he listened closely. No doubt this was the doing of one of the Heroes, or a close associate if not. Either way, he would get someone whose trail he could follow back to where they did not want him. Kerztar looked to the skies to find wings on wind. An animal, an omen. The hawk circled something in the streets below and Kerztar turned away from the window as the hawk dove.

==========

“[i]It’s something to do.[/i]” Vendel mocked from under the brightly coloured robes and keffiyeh that covered his white skin.

“Well, it certainly is, Vendel. Tell me, when was the last time we’d tasted a fight like this, hm?” Francis asked from beneath his own very similar clothes. They’d been recruited into the riot by Hassan and given Redguard-style clothes to match that of the populace, although it didn’t matter today, as the populace was what the Regime were fighting today. Disguises are best meant for staying out of a fight, Francis always thought. Best to look the part though, for solidarity if nothing else.

“Not since the Mausoleum. That was worse than this, though.” Vendel said, noticing how their crude phalanx grew quiet as the distant warcry resounded throughout the square they’d taken. Murmured whispers to the HoonDing could be heard, if not understood.

“We’ll see.” Francis said, clutching his bastard sword with white knuckles. The sound of marching boots could be heard but as the staccato grew louder, so did something else. Metallic clanking and whirring, menacing hisses reminiscent of Dwemer machinery, for those who have heard it. Francis heard orders shouted in Yoku before the marching feet stopped in an eerily disciplined fashion. The clanking continued until what rounded the corner gave pause and disheartened some ranks of the phalanxes and other formations. Audible gasps resounded throughout the crowds as a large construct resembling a larger Dwemer spider automaton stepped into view. Four thick legs, two grasping claws with tubes resembling those on the strange Dwemer thunder-staves mounted on them. On the main chassis the legs connected to, a longer and larger tube akin to a Dwemer thunder-staff protruded.

The square grew quiet as the machine seemed to stare at all of them, the golden hue of its metal skin giving the rioters their own stares and for those few seconds, Francis could swear it was so quiet they could hear the whispers of the Gods on the wind.

One man stepped forward to break the silence, screaming and brandishing a mace. The machine did not flinch at his mighty blow before he was broken, grabbed in its claws and squeezed to death, the sound of breaking ribs and torn lungs causing onlookers to step back. It was one thing to be confronted by an angry beast bent on your destruction, anger was emotion you could reason with. This cold machine only had cold and unforgiving purpose. Francis heard Vendel audibly gulp at the display. The two might have seen worse things in the Mausoleum, but these shopkeeps, leather tanners and farmers were having their first taste of blood today.

A group from deeper inside the square rallied themselves against the Dwemer Crab, marching towards it but one could tell they were all trying to be the last to get within range with their swords and axes. The machine took initiative and Francis, along with the rest of those all around him, looked in terrified awe as the ground underneath the advancing group exploded. Blood, bone, limb all went their separate ways and those with a mind to screamed while those who didn't stood back in stupefaction, many only having enough time to heed their de facto Captains's orders to ready themselves as the Dwemer and Redguard Authoritarian charge came.