[I]Hegathe Prison…[/I]

Zaveed placed a reassuring hand on Eleyna’s shoulder. “We will buy you all the time you require.” He promised, pointing down the hall to what appeared to be an office of sorts. “I suspect the cell keys may be kept there, although there may be a guard, so be alert. If you feel slight of foot, get as close as possible and out of sight, I’m going to be drawing no small amount of attention.” He turned to Reigenleif with a grin. “Since you have the potential of a walking natural disaster, I shall leave the main group in your hands. If you feel yourself weakening, fall back and get my attention. I will draw their attention by removing the two patrolling and the one at the desk.” He whispered to the two women. His eyes lingered on the Nord. “Don’t get hurt.” He said before slinking out of the stairwell and out into the cell block, his soft leather boots absorbing his footfalls as he moved quickly and low over the cobblestone, his own footfalls drowned out by the rhythmic clicking of the patrol guards’ own footsteps. 

True to Reigenleif’s word, there were two guards on patrol, one on the upper level, one on the lower level, and one lurking in the center of the floor, flipping through a ledger while periodically glancing at one cell or another. The khajiit knew he’d have to be careful to avoid getting caught in his gaze by accident; it was dark in the block, but there were enough torch scones to really keep long shadows from forming in all but a few areas. 

Zaveed slunk near a pillar, borrowed sword in hand, as he waited for the upper floor guard to make his rounds around a corner. He was so focused on following the guard’s footsteps that a voice to his left nearly made him leap from his own skin.

“Who are you?! Are you here to rescue us?” came the urgent whisper. A dark face was pressed against the bars, only the white orbs of the man’s eyes distinct in the flickering torch light. Zaveed resisted the overwhelming urge to curse the man out. Instead he brought a finger hastily to his lips and pointed towards where the guard was walking, mercifully far enough not to have heard the man’s voice. The prisoner at least had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. It was obvious that time was not a luxury that Zaveed had; all it took was one loudmouth prisoner to notice him to draw the attention of the guards. 

A thought struck the khajiit; maybe that’s what he wanted. He glanced back at Eleyna, waiting for her chance to move, and decided that the best way to take attention away from where she was going was to cause a distraction elsewhere. 

Hurrying along to the nearest stairwell, Zaveed hurried to the lower level and timed his approach to the man at the ledger with care. As he started to move to the man with the intent to run him through, suddenly the man called over to the lower patrolling guard. “Sabir, go fetch prisoner 25, Shazad Marad. He’s to be transferred to the governor’s men this afternoon.” He called out. 

The lower guard looked over at the man at the desk. “Certainly-“ his eyes moved past the guard, eyes locking with Zaveed. “[I]BEHIND YOU![/I]” He exclaimed, drawing the scimitar from his belt. Zaveed grunted disapprovingly, raising up to his full height, his borrowed blade sitting loosely in his hand. “A shame, I had mistaken this for a kennel.” He said to the guards. “Instead of finding dogs, I found men locked up like them. I’ll take them, anyways. I’m feeling generous.” 

Zaveed could hear a commotion from above; things were decidedly not going according to plan. He was faced with the immediate threat of two men with a third potentially following after him, and those in the common area would not be far behind. Zaveed could only hope that Reigenleif and Eleyna were up for the task; he doubted he had enough stamina or skill to dispatch the guards, especially with an unfamiliar weapon. He made a note to himself to obtain an axe again as soon as possible.

“Who’s with you, cat? Throw down your sword and we won’t run you and your friends through.” The second guard said, approaching, blade held back behind an outstretched arm. A commotion started to ring through the halls, the prisoners becoming aware of what was happening. This was fast becoming the most entertainment any of them had in weeks. 

Zaveed simply grinned. “Where is the fun in that, Redguard?” he challenged, drawing his elvish dagger from his back in his off hand, blue sapphire pommel shining dully in the torchlight. He approached in a determined stride with a trust of his sword, which was parried with ease, a momentum Zaveed carried on with an accelerated motion, a horizontal slash towards the man’s abdomen caused him to leap back before charging forward with an overhead diagonal slash. Zaveed met the blow with the side of his blade, intent on deflecting the angle of the blow down the side of his blade to avoid pitting the edge and risking a break. His mind idly reflected on how he could have used an axe to hook and twist his opponent’s blade, controlling it long enough to create an opening to strike with his free weapon. He had no such luxury here. As the locked blades moved away from the combatants, Zaveed immediately thrusted with his dagger, aiming to catch the man in the throat. The Redguard surprised Zaveed by bringing his pommel lengthwise across his body, striking into the khajiit’s wrist, knocking his arm away in a shocked blunt pain. The man was quick; the scimitar was brought in for an upper horizontal slash, something Zaveed caught with his sword in a low block before disengaging as a flash of movement in the corner of his eye forced him to move back in a quick hop, a thrust of an identical short sword to the one he was wielding shot forward, piecing the air Zaveed occupying only a moment before. He could hear several prisoners gasp at the close call.

It was not the first time Zaveed had fought multiple opponents, and he wasted no time in retaliating with a hasty, but powerful slash with his blade, which skirted across the man’s chainmail cuirass, severing a few small links as he moved away from the blade. Zaveed began to circle to the side of his first opponent, keeping the two guards to one side. Being surrounded was a quick way to die, he had witnessed far too often. His grin remained on his face, a feral, cruel look. “Let’s dance.” He challenged, coming in for a renewed assault on his adversary.
_ _ _ _

[I]Bandit Camp, North of Rihad…[/I] 

Grolash-Bar Dun was in trouble.

The massive orc, a feared orc that had never been bested in single combat in his life, was fighting from an uncomfortably lowered position on account of the spear jutting through his leg. The spearman had been too eager with his thrust, piercing the orc’s thigh and unable to remove the blade before a wide horizontal swing with the excellently crafted Nord sword cleaved through the man’s collarbone and traversing through each of his ribs, puncturing his lungs in the blade’s wide travelling arc. Dun was surrounded by no small amount of bodies, many killed by his own hands, but he feared he’d soon be joining them. He was tiring fast, and the pain in his leg was crippling. He managed to drive off the cleave of a battle axe before he grabbed the weapon’s shaft and yanked the man forward, smashing the sword’s pommel into the man’s helm, leaving an impressionable dent that may or may not have killed him outright. It mattered little a second later as the orc smashed a gauntleted fist into the man hunter’s throat, crushing his windpipe and cracking his spine in a single, savage blow. 

He was breathing heavily, pleased that even in such a pathetic state, he was still more capable than the shits that were trying, and failing, to claim his head. Doubtless the man hunters heard about the large orc who had the strength to dent even dwemer plate mail. He was certain somebody thought that was worth putting no small bounty on his head.

Suddenly, his head was jerked back and a blade was at this throat. A fierce-looking khajiit woman started down at him, but stopped short of opening his throat.
“You have my sword.” She said. The orc blinked, not comprehending until he recognized her.

“You’re that prisoner.” He stated. “Look around you. I’ve been putting it to better use than you, cat.”

He felt the blade press hard enough into his flesh to start drawing blood. “I’m taking it. Either from your hands as you bleed out like a whimpering bitch in heat, or you can willingly turn it over in exchange for me healing your leg. I get my sword, and you can keep your pathetic life. I have no preference.” Her voice was cold, her threat more chilling by the lack of anger in her voice. Just conviction. The orc made his mind up swiftly. 

“So be it.” He lifted the greatsword, offering the handle to Marassa who took it quickly, the blade leaving the orc’s throat to be tossed aside into the grass. Grolash-Bar Dun felt a sharp pain that caused him to cry out as the spear was yanked from his leg. A furred hand grabbed his wounded leg, the agonizing pain suddenly dulling as the khajiit’s restoration magic went to work. A few moments later, the worst of the wound was closed off, still sore but not crippling, and the orc was on his feet again, using the battle axe from his last victim as a crutch to help him rise. He towered over the khajiit who arguably saved his life for the first time. She stared back unfazed for several seconds, her amber eyes boring into his own. It was strange seeing a khajiit in Nord-style armour with the rare sword, but it took very little time for him to decide that it was the very essence of who the girl was. 

“You two done?” came a familiar voice, the bosmer named Talum. The archer had stood guard over Marassa and Dun, several bodies laid across the field, arrows placed expertly in their upper torsos, throats, and heads. 

Marassa didn’t even glance at him. “Yes.” She said, turning to walk away from the confused orc and bosmer, the khajiit warrior clearly intended to leave, her objective completed. Talum reached out towards her, crying out to her.
_ _ _ _

“Hey! You dwarf loving cunts!” Harding cried out at the backs of the man hunters, several of whom turned just in time to meet a charging, screaming line of pirates. Harding’s hands were both forward, a massive torrent of flame sweeping into a trio of adversaries, the intense heat burning and peeling back their flesh, the smell of roasting skin filling the air. The pirate captain laughed mockingly, as if this were the most enjoyable thing in the world. “Me crew and I are coming to collect what’s ours, you ain’t claiming our clients to line your coffers, you sodding bastards.”

The sounds of several captured rifles and pistols filled the air, weapons procured from Harding’s crew who preferred the unique and powerful weapons to the conventional bows and arrows. Several more man hunters dropped and her crew pressed the advance with the fury and ferocity of men and women who knew that an entire month’s worth of wages rested on the outcome of the battle. 

The fight carried on for twenty further minutes, the man hunter force, while initially at an advantage over the bandits, was soon finding itself overwhelmed by the combined forces of Harding’s crew and the Merry Men. By the time the last man hunter threw down his arm, seventy-three of the man hunters lay dead, twelve were taken prisoner. The Merry Men lost 28 out of their number dead or wounded, just shy of half of their number. Harding lost only five of her crew, her fresh and well-armed crew the decisive factor of the battle. 

Harding soon met Marion in the field, the latter with a broken arm in a sling. Burkswallow and his companions towed along as guests of honour. Marion offered the Breton pirate a weak smile. “I suppose this means you’re upping your fee?” 

“Something like that, aye.” She said, glancing around. “Although me thinks you’ll be purchasing much less cargo on account of your losses.”
Marion’s face twisted into a scowl. “Something like that. Still, you have our thanks. It could have been much worse.”

“Aye.” Harding said, looking past Marion. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that one isn’t one of your lot?” she said, pointing towards a khajiit woman with a massive sword in her hand, surrounded by a group of Marion’s men. Beside her were a bosmer, who was trying to claim his compatriots down, and one of the biggest orcs Harding had ever seen, who chose to show his deference to the khajiit by bellowing at the men and women standing before him.

_ _ _ _ _

“I’m telling you, she could have killed me, but she chose not to! If she were going to harm us, she would have done so already!” Talum shouted, shoving the point of a spear away from him. “I’m not going to let you kill her because she’s an armed escaped prisoner!”

“And I [I]would[/I] be dead if this bitch didn’t want her fucking sword so badly.” Dun growled at those in front of him. “Do you really want to fight another dwemer patrol without me? Then give the khajiit what she wants and let her go. She’s a nobody, anyways; we can’t sell her to a ransom broker.”

“You’re both a couple treasonous bastards!” A Redguard woman shouted back, her halberd held like a spear. “What loyalty do you owe this cat? You’re undermining Marion’s authority!”

“And while you were doting over your new girlfriend, how many of our friends died?” An argonian man challenged his voice seemingly close to breaking. “You can’t help her if she doesn’t drop her damn sword!”

“Try it.” Marassa challenged, her eyes narrowing on the argonian. “If you’re too spineless to fight, then break off and let me leave with my companions. I do not have time to deal with this.” 

A slow clap and a feminine, yet gruff, giggle seemed to cut through the tension like a hot knife. A face some would recognize as Captain Harding’s appeared in the gathering crowd. “I quite like her spirit. Me thinks she’d fucking turn the lot of you boys into eunuchs if you keep this up much longer. Is this so necessary, Marion? Me thinks your lot can’t afford another tussle like the one you just suffered, and this time I’m not going to lift a finger.” She nodded at the khajiit. “I’ve seen that look before. She isn’t afraid of death. She’s seen her fair share of it.”

Harding took a closer look at the khajiit, initially trying to ascertain her curves beneath the armour before she started in drinking in the details of the armour; it was peculiar that Nordic armour would find its way on a khajiit, especially all the way out East in the subtropical coastal climate they were currently in. The sword was what really drew her eye; it was Skyforge steel, something that was rather treasured by the Nords and collectors alike. The fact a khajiit, a pariah to the Nords of Skyrim, would have one was a bigger mystery than how she ended up out here. 

A memory trickled into the Breton woman’s mind, and the more Harding looked at the khajiit, the more she was certain of who it was. She burst out laughing.
“Oh, you daft cunts!” she exclaimed, her chest heaving with the heavy laughter. She caught her breath and some of her composure, although her jovial expression failed to fade. “You caught yourself one of the Heroes of Tamriel, you know the lot who stopped the Emperor from making you all dance around like pets on account of those damn auroras? You all owe this lass a drink.” She said, grinning as she shoved the mouthy argonian out of the way. She stood before Marassa, whose expression didn’t change. 

She offered a hand to the khajiit. “I suppose I owe you one too.”

“You look like a whore.” Marassa said bluntly. This only caused Harding to grin widely.

“You say that like I should be ashamed of me body. You’re Zaveed’s sister, aren’t you? He told me all about you last I saw of him. The way he spoke, he cares about you about as much as that ship o’ his.”

This caused Marassa to blink. “And what makes you think that’s who I am?”

Harding raised an eyebrow. “I’m not daft, lass.” She turned to Marion. “If you’re not going to let her go, I’ll take her back with me. Consider it part of me payment.” She looked back at Marassa. “Consider it a favour to a friend. Your brother and I go way back, even if he hasn’t warmed me sheets for the past few years.” 

Marassa paused, looking around. “I have two companions, an old Nord wizard and a bigger orc than this troll beside me. They’re coming with me.”

Harding turned back to Marion. “Mind getting your lads to go fetch them? You heard the lady. They’re a package deal.” She smiled at the Redguard woman, who simply rolled her eyes in defeat. She simply did not have it in her to argue the point. She beckoned Marassa to follow her out of the now breaking ring. She gestured to Burkswallow. “This here is Burkswallow, your brother sent him to me in an attempt to make me give a shit about the dwemer. He can fill you in on what trouble Zaveed’s been getting himself up to these days.”

Marassa stared at the Breton man at a length before speaking. “Zaveed sent you.” It was more of a statement than a question.