"No? We're not staying together?" Hralvar groused rhetorically to empty air as both Marassa and Cub ran off alone. "I'm going to have to drag at least one of your corpses out of this, aren't I?" He muttered to himself.

At least Marassa had the intention of meeting up again, whereas Cub hadn't even bothered to stick around. Exasperated, he threw his hands up in the air before running out of the jail cell himself, conjuring a bound sword in his hand as he did so. Once he was outside, the old Nord stopped to survey the situation, taking a brief look at the bandits and what looked to be mercenaries fighting each other. Except that they were wielding dwemer weapons. So they were being funded by the dwemer, then.

Unlike Marassa, Hralvar had no particular attachment to the sword the bandits had taken from him, given that it was already a replacement for the blade he'd lost after being captured by the dwemer. Therefore, there was no particular reason not to steal one of those fine dwemer blades for himself. Running to the side, Hralvar patiently stood still and watched as a mercenary cut down a bandit before he shot a spike of ice through the Redguard's head as he was distracted. With that, Hralvar wasted no time and ran over to the corpse's side, pilfering the sword and scabbard for himself, as well as the man's coin purse. Standing back up, Hralvar took another look around the battlefield before deciding to break for the forest. He had no love for either side in this battle, and joining back up with Cub and Marassa was more important.

With sword in hand, Hralvar charged for the tree line, taking advantage of the fact that the mercenaries were too distracted with the bandits to deal with him.

creak...

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.

creeeak….

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.

creeeek…..

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.

Curved. Swords. 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.

“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 huh 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.

==========

Current Day…

“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, The Battle of Sancre Tor.

“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.

==========

“It’s something to do.” 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.

Hegathe

The second guard collapsed, a large shaft of ice protruding through his chest, having pierced his armour like a thin piece of tin. Zaveed’s eyes met Eleyna, the woman’s distress rather evident across her normally fair features. A pang of regret filled the khajiit; many of the people who willingly followed him had never hurt a single soul in their lives, let alone know what it’s like to take a man’s life. He thought back to how he felt when he first killed a man, a singular desperate action that came down to his life or the argonian and came up empty. Whatever empathy Zaveed had for the sanctity of life had long been eroded from his soul. The bodies on the ground meant nothing to him, but the startled, horrified Breton girl standing in the street who was forced to act to protect him mattered. She was a friend, someone who should have never been dragged all the way from Cyrodiil to fight a war that all of them might not survive.

Zaveed noticed several civilians screaming or running from the scene of sudden violence, their normally peaceful routines so brutally interrupted. Doubtless a few were in search of guards, who ideally were busy occupied with whatever distraction the others had concocted. Still, Zaveed dragged their bodies from the gate and picked one of the guard’s swords from his body. When Eleyna approached through the gates, Zaveed walked over and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It is an unnatural thing to take a man’s life, but sometimes it is necessary.” He said, steering her away from the man she had killed, the ice spike still protruding from his corpse. “You did not hesitate from needed to be done, and because of that, many more people’s lives will be spared. That is why you’re helping free these prisoners, no? Think about what the dwemer did in Imperial City, in Chorrol. These city guards chose to bow before those butchers because it was easy. What we’re doing is hard. But it is right.” He gave Eleyna’s arm one final squeeze and prepared to enter the building as Reigenleif arrived, passing through the gate and sparing a lingering glance at the bodies. He nodded at the Nord and the three companions entered through the entryway of the building, the morning light not yet bright enough to create blinding darkness when they crossed the threshold.
Immediately, nothing seemed amiss. No guards were waiting with weapons drawn, no keys in plain sight or other things of note. The building seemed much like any other with sparse furnishing and little else of note. It gave off the vibe of a cottage, somewhere that was meant to be comfortable as a place away from home. Conspicuously absent were armed men trying to run the trio through.

“We won’t have long, we need to find the prisoners and release them before-“ Zaveed began, cutting himself short when a door to the left opened, a guard on the other side with a sword in hand looking to see what happened. He was only partially armoured, as if he were hastily trying to prepare himself for a fight on short notice. Zaveed was across the room quickly, his sword flashing ambient light as the guard managed to raise his own blade to block. The khajiit kicked the man hard in the guts, doubling him over, and he grasped the guards wrist, digging his claws in and twisting, forcing the ill-prepared man to release his blade. Zaveed forced the man onto his back through the doorway, blade at his throat. “The prisoners. Where are they?” he asked.

“I have no idea w-“ The guard started to protest feebly, cutting himself short as the sword’s point began to press into the flesh of his throat. He would have swallowed if he didn’t think it would cut him. “D-downstairs. There’s an empty room we use for processing with a locked door…”

“And the key’s location?” Zaveed asked.

“Hanging in the bedroom, beside the door…”

“And how many guards are there?”

Before the guard, could answer the question, two more guards, a man and a woman, who were much better prepared than the one Zaveed was questioning, came into the room, weapons ready. It was then that the khajiit was aware of his surroundings; they had found their way into the kitchen. The khajiit drove the point of the sword into the man’s neck as Eleyna and Reigenleif dealt with the intruders. The skirmish was over in an instant, the guards were no match to a pair of talented mages. The khajiit looked down at the guard he had slain impassively. “Many thanks.” He said, removing the blade and cleaning it on the man’s clothing.

The trio made their way into the bedroom, and much to Zaveed’s surprise, the key was hung exactly where it was indicated. The two women checked around the drawers, coming across a few coins and other trinkets that might have been worth some value, but it was clear this was a communal area. Nothing overtly of value was present.
It didn’t take long to find the entrance to the jail, as one of the rooms in the house was barred by a heavy iron gate that the key fit into and another door beyond that. As the door was unlatched, a long stone-walled stairwell descended into the earth, darkness leading the way down. Zaveed turned to the others. “Let’s keep tight-lipped until we know what lies beyond, shall we?” he said, leading the way into the darkness, the temperature dropping noticeably as they made their way down.

Upon reaching the landing, it became obvious that whatever this place was, it had been in the works for quite some time. A deceptively large, two story prison was erected out of the stone earthworks, the efforts of what must have been hundreds of hours of intensive labour. Individual cells could be spotted, six to a six per floor level. Near the entrance was a common area for the guards, far better lit than the rest of the prison on account of it being where guards would go between rounds to socialize to pass the long, boring hours until the time came for prisoner transfers. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution to housing, as the stores room at the far end on the ground floor was meager, at best. Above that level was what looked to be the warden’s office, likely containing the various keys and weapons needed to manage the place. In the middle of the prison floor was a desk and seat, along with a pair of poles with shackles chained to them, likely for processing of the prisoners or as a means of punishment. It was likely anyone sent here was only kept so long as they could be identified and appropriate punishment or confinement was decided. From the amount of light coming out of individual cells, it only appeared that a bit over half were occupied. On the floor, there appeared to be two guards making the rounds, disinterested in their routine activity.

Zaveed gestured Eleyna and Reigenleif closer, he spoke lowly, as to keep his voice from vibrating over the stone walls. “I am willing to bet the keys to those cells are located in the far office, possibly that desk in the middle. We won’t know how many guards are here until we look around, but we need to decide if we want to risk a fight or get everyone out quietly, which might be impossible of the gates creak. We will need to subdue the guards at some point, which we could use the prisoner’s help with. Either way, we need to hurry; it won’t be long until somebody finds out about the corpses outside and sends for help. How would you like to take this?” he asked.
_ _ _ _ _ _

Eastern Hammerfell…

It was utter chaos, with men and woman of all types fighting in what was more akin to a senseless brawl than an organized battle, and there was no rhyme or reason to the skirmishes around the quaint cottage that the trio had escaped from. Marassa was not paying attention to where Cub and Hralvar went, with luck, they’d be running away as fast as possible, since it was pointless for them to risk their lives for her own hubris. While she wasn’t armed, Marassa cast Oakflesh upon herself as well as a Feather spell on her armour, letting her move unencumbered as she ran through the melee in search of her prized blade. In reality, it shouldn’t have been difficult to locate; Skyforge Steel great swords were very distinct and exceedingly rare in Skyrim, let alone the rest of the continent. In the flurry of blades, the khajiit searched, so far uncontested as she navigated the carnage.

A deafening roar filled the air, and Marassa was surprised to see an armoured troll bound from the brush, leaping into the backs of two heavily armoured opponents, ravaging them under savage blow. The khajiit had no doubts that the troll would likely feast upon the fallen when the battle was through. The bandits that had captured her let out a cheer, encouraging the troll, improbably named Little John.

Marassa was glad that Hralvar and Cub put down their arms when they did; she certainly didn’t want to fight something like that.

A booming laugh crossed the field, catching Marassa’s attention. A huge orc, one of the biggest men she’d ever seen, had dealt a fatal blow to an assailant, the orc had managed to cleave through the man’s scale armour and the blow of the blade had travelled through the Imperial man’s ribs, almost to the center. As the last signs of life departed the dead man, the orc booted his victim off with a sickening crunch before roaring a challenge at other newcomers. “Come, kill me if you can!” he taunted, seemingly enjoying every moment of the blood bath. In his hands was Marassa’s sword, and the grip of anger surged through her. It was as if she were watching someone recklessly trash a family heirloom.

“That’s him. Might want to ask him after he’s done killing, because trust me, he ain’t very chatty when he’s, erm, working.” Her bosmer guide said, nudging her arm and offering her a falchion he had grabbed along the way. A compound bow sat comfortably in his hands, as did a pair of long daggers on his belt. Marassa took the offered sword, her eyes still transfixed on her target.

“I’m going to have a word with him.” She said bitterly, moving towards the orc, who had run another man through with the point of her sword. It would have been impressive if he weren’t such a thieving cunt.

A flash of movement crossed her eyes, causing the khajiit to leap backwards as a mace swung, scraping along her breastplate. Marassa snarled at her assailant, a dunmer of all people, and she launched into a fury of strikes with her borrowed sword, moving much faster than she could have with her great sword. The dunmer was an expert at parrying, the ball-headed mace light enough to be nimble enough to block and parry strikes with. She was so transfixed with her personal battle, she barely registered a second attack go down, arrow in the eye. “Kynareth be good, khajiit, pay attention!” the bosmer yelled from behind her, and the sound of a loosing arrow was heard, finding another mark.

The dunmer’s hands caught ablaze, and Marassa had just enough time to pull off a ward to shield herself from the torrent of unbearably hot flames. Instead of stepping back to negate the range, Marassa stepped closer into the flames, not wanting to give the other spell caster the distance he needed to attack with impunity, and it was impossible to know who was stronger until the other gave out. The flames were becoming more and more intense as she approached, but she soon was close enough. Marassa thrusted with her sword through the ward, her Oakflesh enchantment protecting her flesh and fur from the worst of the flames as the blade skimmed the flank of the dunmer, causing him to flinch back and parry, the flames suddenly dying off. Without wasting time, Marassa’s ward twisted into a blinding mage light, which she flung at the dunmer’s chest, the blinding light blinding to his armour. It was all the time she needed to cleave his head from his shoulders, sinews of ragged red flesh and blood trailing behind.

Marassa spared a look at her arm, the fur slightly singed dark from the heat. It would take a few days, at least, for that to grow out. She looked back at the orc, who was engaged with another set of foes in the front just in time to catch the glimpse of another drive a spear through the back of his leg, resulting in one of the most horrible screams she could imagine. It was a primitive, bestial cry of fury instead of the cognisant yell of man she had heard far too many times.

“He can’t argue if he’s dead. Come on.” Marassa urged the bosmer, who let out an audible sigh.

“I should just kill you and be done with it.” He said, exasperated.

“But you won’t.”

_ _ _ _ _

“Well, isn’t this a fine mess.” Harding said, her and her scouting party watching the skirmish unfold. They had docked in the shallows and had waited for the signal to offload from their clients on the shore. When it never came, the Breton captain knew that something was amiss. Gathering six of her best fighters, plus Burkswallow and his lot, they set out to find out exactly what happened. It wasn’t hard; she just had to follow the sounds of death.

“Rolf.” She said, looking at a dour looking Nord man. “Get back to the ship and gather the crew. We’re about to lose pay day, to these damn bounty hunters. Me thinks it’s time to demonstrate what it means when we hoist the red flag.” Harding said, slapping the man on the arm, who began the 10 minute run, 18 minute walk back to the ship.
Burkswallow and his companions had tagged along with Harding and her crew, making the long trip around the Western Coast of Hammerfell all the way to the inlet close to the Colovian and Hammerfell borders. The trip was largely uncontested and little action of note occurred, much as Harding said was the case. It was likely becoming very apparent to Burkswallow why the Breton pirate was so dismissive of the menace the dwemer posed; it was easy to imagine there was no war at the open sea, and their brief times in port were often short and undisrupted, long enough to gather more supplies and offload cargo to sell. However, the biggest and best wares were meant for the clients the small crew were watching fighting for their lives against dwemer-made weapon armed assailants.

“Alright, instead of picking our arses, here’s me plan. We mosey around, away from the carnage, and come at the bastards’ wagons from the flanks, capturing them and preventing an escape. It’ll also put their balls in a vice between us and the lads we’re selling to.” She looked at Burkswallow. “It ain’t me place to dictate how you spend your life, but I think it would be best if you entertain my plan, because you ain’t exactly a known quantity. At least with me, you lot won’t be killed by mistake.”

The continuous sound of muffled yelling from outside roused Blade from his slumber. His eyes opened owlishly and he winced as the cramped muscles in his neck resisted his movement. That's what he got for passing out in a chair he supposed. He got to his feet with a groan, empty bottles of mead clinking about as his feet knocked them aside. Looking down at the noise he noticed he still had one clutched in his hand, and it was only half empty.

Downing the liquor, he made his way to the shuttered window of the room to see what the ruckus was about. Throwing it open, he gazed down on the street below. People were running all directions, many waving hoes, shovels, and other makeshift weapons. There was the occasional sword or axe as well though. Off in the distance, screams of pain and combat could be heard.

The argonian grinned his pointy grin, his contact had not disappointed. He tossed the bottle aside and shuffled over to the dresser he'd laid his armor on and began to dress for the occasion. After slipping the brown robes over his gear, he tossed a handful of coins onto the bed, a tip for the rather large mess of bottles he'd be leaving behind.

The cacophony of fighting had grown even louder since he'd left the window sill, and it drew his attention as he stepped out of the inn. The more primal part of him yearned to go join the fray, but he had a mission to complete. Besides, there was sure to be plenty of excitement once he "infiltrated" the barracks. And so he started in the opposite direction.

Even this far from the main event however, there was fighting in the streets. The groups were smaller though, and the guards were making quick work them. Though his blood boiled at the sight of the guards cutting down their own for the benefit of the dwemer, he hugged the walls and avoided attracting attention. Busy as they were, the guards didn't even give him a second glance.

A short time later the barracks came into view. It was far enough away from the heart of the conflict that nobody was giving the two doormen any trouble, but Blade could see they were still on edge. Aside from them however, there were no others in sight. Devising a quick strategy, Blade began his approach from their flank. His robes hid the orcish sword that was drawn from his left scabbard, even so, the guard nearest him was becoming suspicious of the approaching stranger. Just as he was about to draw his own blade and address the argonian, a loud CRACK filled the air, followed shortly by a tremor. The commotion startled the jittery guards, who turned their attention away from the large argonian for just a moment, which was all he needed. In an instant, Blade whipped of the robes charged.

As the closest warrior returned his gaze to Blade his fission was greeted by a flying brown garment that landed over him. With a cry, he drew his scimitar and slashed blindly in front of him with one hand while the other desperately clawed at the woolen robes. Blade ducked the swing and thrust his own sword into the space where the guards neck should be and was rewarded with a gurgle. He didn't wait for any more confirmation however, he was already pivoting around the standing corpse while drawing his second sword which he slashed at the remaining guard. This one was ready however and easily blocked the telegraphed attack with his own weapon, but only just. The first guard fell bleeding to the ground as the orcish steel was ripped from his neck, severing it in half, and was used to pummel away at the remaining guard.

Blade was moving swiftly, without the heavy armor he could move faster then he ever had before, and his swords struck like lightning, slamming one after the other against the guard's desperate defense.

The man couldn't even muster the breath necessary to call for help, lest the break in his concentration doom him, but he knew he had to warn the others that they were under attack. He parried two more heavy slashes from his argonian aggressor then lunged into the offensive. His scimitar flashed dangerously as he swept it through a complicated series of maneuvers, intent on removing the argonian's head.

Blade growled as he was forced back by the extravagant display, the scimitar clanging off his own weapons. He has to end this now or lose the element of surprise on those sighing the barracks. He crossed his swords and stopped the scimitar dead, pushing against his opponent and locked hilts. With the sword pinned, he kicked out at the guard and caught him in the midriff. The man stumbled back wheezing, but with his blade up, hoping to fend off the argonian, but to no avail. Blade slapped the weapon aside with his own and slashed his throat with the other before slicing his belly open with both swords and a roar.

The argonian panted heavily as the guard slumped to the ground with a hand at either wound, attempting to stem the flow of his life. Blade quickly searched his two victims and found a key ring on the first. He hoped they would come in handy later. As he pushed the keys I to his coin pouch he became aware of a small crowd of people that watched on. He looked back at them with some confusion, though it didn't show on his face. It took only a moment for him to realized how this must look, in their eyes he had just committed murder. Well, at least he wore no colors to mark his affiliation. Nobody could say he'd sullied the name of the resistance if it was assumed he was working alone. Not that he really cared anyway. He wasn't doing this for the resistance.

He turned his back to the onlookers and marched to the barrack doors and entered. If these men wished to work for the dwemer, then he would slay them just the same.

Although Burkswallow had certainly noticed that the oceans were curiously quiet, it hadn’t put his fears to rest: No thief made his living by underestimating his enemies.
And if they tried, living would quickly stop being the correct term.
Despite their smooth sailing, the Breton was still silently plagued by concerns: He spent much of the first day’s voyage pondering whether sending a letter to Zaveed would do any good- he’d found that the couriers of Tamriel were a persistent bunch, come rain, sleet, snow or dragon fire- but had decided against it, partially because it seemed unlikely that the parchment would ever reach him, and partially because Harding’s crew seemed like the sort of people who would take his being literate as an admittance of him actually being a woman, who liked to wear pink and sing soprano.
”They’re just jealous of how pretty you are,” Sweeps had taunted him, upon him voicing this concern, ”It’s not your fault they don’t look half as good in a dress.”

Still, despite his worries, he let no fret grace his features: In an odd turn of events, in fact, Burkswallow found himself quite comfortable upon the sea.
When aboard The Sea Wisp, he’d been adamant in remaining unseen at all times- like hell he was going to cover deck-scrubbing duty- but for whatever reason, this journey seemed different.
Instead, he took quite well to the brine, and found himself lingering up on the top deck often, seemingly without need for his “marine guerrilla tactics.”
He supposed the sea air soothed an anxiety he hadn’t had during his previous ocean-escapades: Perhaps those crusty old mariners who haunted Skyrim’s ports were right when they suggested there was a medicinal quality to it.

When they docked, however, that effect quickly retreated: They hadn’t arrived to peace, but instead to chaos.
“I thought things were going too well, alright,” Burkswallow announced, as Harding issued Rolf his orders, “You know, it’s uncanny, my vacations always end with riots.”
Then she turned to him, and- almost instinctively- he drew the glass blade Zaveed had issued him.
”… At least with me, you lot won’t be killed by mistake.”
That almost brought a smile to his face.
“Harding, I’ve had castles and sewers dropped on me since this journey began. I’m shockingly easy to maim,” he raised his blade, pre-emptively, “But damned hard to kill. Seems to be the way the wind is blowing.”
He threw a fleeting glance over to the battle, before returning to her.
He nodded, “But you’re right. Lead the way, Captain. I’m right behind you, doing the most important job: Beautifying the party.”

Reigenleif arrived at the gates to the cities prison somewhat later than Zaveed and the Breton girl Elayna. Despite her redguard garb, her utter inexperience with hiding in plain sight and nervousness that she'd be discovered made her stand out rather more than the others. All this sneaking about and conspiring just wasn't her forte. She may be a mage, but she was also a Nord, and Nords tended to deal with their problems rather head on. Usually with a large axe, or in her case, fireballs.

Thus she had waited until the other two had completed this crucial phase of the operation successfully before catching up to them. She reached Zaveed past the gates just as Elayna did, and was just in time to hear his words to her and see the expression on her face. Reigenleif had been entirely unaware that there were some in the party that did not consider the occasional killing a normal thing. Granted she was unused to fighting in a city against men of the law, but right now they were the enemy, just like the many bandits and marauders she had slain in her travels. Zaveeds words inspired some guilt in Reigenleif. She knew it had been entirely possible for her to be the one that dealt with the other guard, and if she had it would've saved poor Elayna another death on her conscience.

The feeling was short lived however, as the trio quickly entered the building, Zaveed leading the way. It wasn't long before a guard stumbled out half-prepared to face them. Reigenleif raised a hand, lightning spell at the ready, but before she could strike the poor man down with magicka Zaveed was on him, quickly taking him down and asking questions. The cat mans speed and prowess continued to impress her, but she kept the spell ready just in case. That preparedness payed off when moments later another two Guards burst into the room, this time fully prepared to fight. Reigenleif’s hand flexed, and a bolt of lightning shot forth to strike the female guard in the shoulder of her sword arm. Her body tensed up as the electricity flowed through it, burning away what little nascent magicka the non-mage had in a sensation the woman would find highly unpleasant and unusual. Even as this was happening, Reigenleif was preparing a powerful fire spell in her free hand. Normally she preferred ice magic, but the climate made it more intensive to cast and she wanted to avoid the more exhausting magic this early on.

The moment the female Guard recovered, Reigenleif cast the incinerating sphere of fire towards her with a flick of her wrist. The woman's eyes widened for a moment before the bolt struck her, flinging her back into the wall where she fell into a crumpled, unmoving heap. Reigenleif prepared another spell for the other guard then, but it seemed the poor man had already been dealt with by the time it was ready. Lowering her hand, she followed Zaveed into the guards communal bedroom. While he acquired the key they needed, she looked around to see if any of the guards had Dwemer baubles she could take for study. She desperately wanted to compare modern Dwemer items to the ancient ones, preferably without them being still attached to an actual Dwemer. Unfortunately, despite her best hopes, the room was quite bare of valuables.

When they arrived in the considerably more expansive than expected lower story, Reigenleif’s head was already buzzing with possible approaches. She could easily unlock all the doors with magic precluding the need for them to retrieve any keys, but if she did that she'd likely expend almost all her magicka on it and the other would need to protect her due to the number of locks. That might be an option normally, but she didn't want to force Elayna into a position where killing a great many guards was her only option. No, Reigenleif was the mage best suited for eliminating the guards, and thats what she would do. First though, she would let Zaveed know her intentions and find out how many people they were actually facing. She looked at the Khajiit with a grin and then raised her hand close to her heart, pink swirls of light already contained within her fingers. The detect life spell flickered into existence, changing Reigenleif’s perception and shading Zaveed and Elayna in a roiling mass of light that signified they were alive. She looked around the room carefully, counting each other pink mass as she saw it. There were quite a few prisoners, but they were sitting still and hiding in their cells for the most part. She spoke then, very softly so only her two companion could hear. “I see three guards at a table in the common area, one up by the desk, and two patrolling. I think. There might be some hiding in front of the prisoners...” With that she released the magicka in her hand and paused a moment. Detect life wasn't the easiest spell for her to maintain, as it was near the limit of her Alteration abilities.

“The three at the table I can deal with quickly, but everyones going to know when I do.” She whispered, a grin forming on her face as she added “It's going to be quite... explosive. So if you are going to do any sneaking, probably best do it beforehand... Tell me how long you need and i'll wait for that count before getting started.” She whispered with a wink at Zaveed. She then began edging closer to the table where the three guards were sitting, keeping very quiet as she moved. She was already mentally preparing to cast a rune spell, a type of magic predominantly practiced in Skyrim. The Ice rune was clear in her mind and a miniature version appeared in her hand, hidden beneath the folds of her cloak to stop the light from alerting the guards, even as she counted down for the others to do what they did.

Off to the side of the scene of battle, Qara'Sion and his sister watched on. His eyes or eye didn't move to see what else was around him, only focusing on the riot in it's entirety. The only time it did move was to look at his sister, who's eyes appeared to dart from one spot to the next until eventually they stopped. She was definitely looking for something in the crowd of people instead of paying attention to any potential threat based on his own experience. Whatever that something was, she had found it.

"Do you think he'll do something stupid?" A feminine voice spoke to the two khajiit. Qara'Sion turned his head to face the direction of the speaker: Belle, who was carrying a slight wound on her arm. Shenzi didn't even turn to look at her. She kept her eyes focused on the mer who was currently dousing a guard in flames. "No, not unless he doesn't want the chance to find his son." She responded precisely. Qara'Sion followed his sister's gaze to spot the argonian she was referring to. The three of them were certainly a weird trio to say the least, since it appeared to him that they were traveling together of their own free will. Which brought up a question for him to ask. "Say... how did you two meet him anyway?" "We can have a story time later Sion, we need to get him from out of that crowd-"

Then, there was the clanking. The clanking that made the three go silent along with the rest of the square. A clanking the younger of the khajiits easily remembered. And he didn't like the sound one bit. Their heads turned to see unwelcomed reinforcements, and one specific thing made his heart halt. A giant, enemy, dwemer crab. Speechless. Completely, speechless. He couldn't recall seeing one of those even in Imperial City, but he damn sure knew he wouldn't want to incase he did.

Next, a fool of a man stepped alone to face it. A brave man, but a fool of one. Qara'Sion didn't even feel his jaw drop from the view of the now deceased fool. But what followed was a group of fools, including Shenzi and Belle's moving towards the machine albeit in a jittery movement. "Oh Gods, no he isn't..." Belle gasped, covering her mouth. The khajiit could feel and share the fear and concern she audibly showed. But was he really going to-

"Fat-one! Don't you dare keep going! Come to us NOW!" His sister roared to the argonian who immediately stopped the moment the words "Fat-one" flew in the air, only heard by him as it seemed everyone went deaf from fright. His head whipped around in the direction of the three as the argonian stood alone in between the marching party, and those who remained opposite. Just as he managed to back away, the marching party was blown to oblivion. Words could not, or ever describe what Qara'Sion saw as he clutched the dagger in his hand like a child in fright holding their mother's. Shenzi's friend luckily, managed to only be sent flying back into, or well on to, a small bunch of people like a cannonball. It was similar in remembrance to how Qara'Sion and a breton friend from the college were thrown, back during his first experience with the dwemer. The younger of the siblings kept his eyes on the machine, while the girls focused on their friend. The argonian stumbled as he stood back up, pulling something out from his side and immediately clutching his right arm. The two women sighed with relief. "For once... I'm really glad you call him that horrid nickname..." Belle slightly smiled. "Well... I thought if I called his actual name, he wouldn't have recognized my voice." The sister of the khajiits responded with a wink.

And there was the sound of metal hitting the pavement. Qara'Sion simply dropped the dagger, turned right around, and began to simply and only; walk away from the direction the dwemer crab was in. Shenzi quickly moved towards him and latched on to his hood; pulling it down and pulling him to her. "Sion, as much as I hate to admit being wrong, if we don't help stop that machine we will all be in trouble." Qara'Sion only blinked once before staring at her, as well as the machine in the distance. No audible response. "We're going to end up dead here or worse if we don't do something and I know there's a chance we could I think." Still no response, just another blink from his one eye. "Dammit Sion-" "You have a plan then? Because all I see is death." Someone quickly interrupted her. The argonian arrived at the group, bleeding from the side as well as from the top of his head. Shenzi sighed as she bit her lower lip. "Sion, please heal him. Please." His sister asked. The khajiit shook his head back to reality and placed his hands over the wound along with Belle. A soothing aura gently waved from their hands to the argonian. "Not much of a plan... aside from take out those dwemer staffs on it. I'm not too sure how to deal with the claws yet." "From ranged distance I assume? Because not many are too willing to go up to it now."

"And, thank you for calling to me. Fat-One sounds better than the one who called me coward." "Then they can be called a fool when they run up to that death bringer." Belle immediately responded as she and Qara'Sion stopped healing him, at least granting the mer reuse of his arm. The four remained in silence after her statement, turning to face the battle. "...Qara'Sion, is it possible you can make the machine fight for us instead?" Belle asked him. It took him a moment for the question to register in his head as fear currently was crowding in it. "...Maybe. But... personally, since I don't know anyway to directly control it, I could just end up making it stronger and still attack our side instead of the other. Not to mention if no one is even scratching the bloody thing, it'll more than likely resist it. I'm not a very powerful Illusionist..." He finally managed to speak again, bringing worry to Belle's facial expression.

"Sion, just try to hit it with something then. If Frenzy will still leave the chance for us to be attacked open, then try to make it stop attacking." Shenzi stated.

As the others fought directly in the battle, their group would indirectly fight. That was the plan set for them. Hands shaking, Qara'Sion held them in front of himself as they glowed a clear blue light. Flicking his hands, a dual ball of light flew through the air. Just before the dwemer crab was about to grab a man with its metal claws, it was enveloped in a blue aura and froze up. The man slowly struck the tip of the claw with a large hammer and jumped back before the automaton could resume to try to catch it's prey. That man definitely was one who was willing to die for the cause.

"How long did that last Shenzi?" Qara'Sion stoically asked in shock that his spell worked. "Maybe around three seconds. It looked as if it regained control of itself right before that man struck it. So yeah, in short, it needs to be weakened for your spell to last longer...Let's try to get one of the staves off it."

Qara'Sion held his hands in front of himself again, Shenzi stood to his left holding a throwing dagger, Belle to his right preparing a frost spell, and the argonian looming over the three with his hands aflame. "On my mark...three...two...one. Now Sion!" His sister yelled as he instinctively launched his spell. Once again the machine froze up in mid motion. Following the spell was the clang sound of a dagger hitting one of the staves, then an ice spear bashing the same staff with an ending of a fireball exploding on it, managing to force the staff to hinge off the side of the machine. After the three attacks, it was immediately affected by the pacify spell once more, just to make it reset its target from the group.

"...We got one? We got one!" Sion cheered with hope. "...My dagger did nothing at all..." "Which is why you should be more like me and be capable of both fighting and spells." The argonian laughed at the disappointed Shenzi. "The only thing you're capable of is clearing our plates for dinner." "Guys. Problem." Belle interrupted the two, pointing at a small group of guards moving in their direction. Qara'Sion's group was currently vulnerable as the argonian was still somewhat wounded and weaponless while Qara'Sion himself had little magicka once again to cast more spells. "...Shit."

The battle roared like thunder. The rev and boom of strange Dwemer weaponry soared over the clang and tin of metal. Cub couldn't work out who was what or where was anything. Armed with only his lone shackle and chain, Cub did his best to avoid confrontation as he skulked through the carnage looking for any sight of Marassa or the bandits that had captured them.

"That's right, make sure the flame spreads to the hay bales. They're not running anywhere." The menacing laugh of one of the invading mercenaries was punctuated by fearful whinnies as in the distance Cub saw smoke billowing from the stables.

"Shavie!"

Cub broke into a sprint toward the sounds of dismayed horses as flames began to lick up the sides of the wooden structure, his recent injury only adding a slight wobble to his gait. As he crested the hill and the stables came into sight, Cub saw two Redguard mages clad in Dwemer light armour setting fire to the large building under orders from a third Redguard, her heavy armour weighing on her dark coloured horse.

Still at full tilt and picking up speed down the hill, the green bull let out a mighty roar as he collided with one of the mages and momentarily distracted the other. Tackling the first to the ground, Cub clasped his chain around the mage's neck as the other let loose a blast of searing flame and the mounted Dwemer rode off to gather reinforcements.

Barely managing to avoid being incinerated, Cub rolled onto his back subjecting his helpless captive to the brunt of his comrades conjured flame, drops of melted flesh coating his armour. Thankfully, the enchanted steel digging into the poor soul's throat muffled his screams.

Using his opponent moment of horror, Cub managed to move to his knees, still holding his charred human shield between himself and his foe before lunging at the remaining mages legs. Gathering his wits, the mage coated himself in a powerful frost cloak, super freezing Cub's gauntlets and whipping jagged shards of ice against his face. Blinded by the sudden shards, Cub managed to grab only one of the Mages legs leaving the other free to keep him upright and his hands free to conjure a point-blank spell.

"This is for making me kill Malara, you green bastard!" The Redguard seethed and the hum of magicka filled Cub's ears and he blindly tried to grip anything on the Mage's Dwemer armour.

|You disappoint me.|

The hum of energy stopped abruptly, replaced with the sound of cracking wood and frantic braying. Desperately trying to blink back his sight, Cub heard the braying coming closer as the mage fired his destructive spell at the coming beast.
Then another.
And another.

Cub could barely make the shape of the charging blob and clung tighter to the mage's leg despite his struggling and pleading. Perhaps it was for the best that Cub was snowblind as the sound of pounding hooves and broken bones resonated mere inches from his ears.

|Pitiful. Your steed serves me now; a small punishment for allowing yourself to be beaten so easily.|

The Voice from the Below chided Cub as the braying ceased.

|Heed this mortal, for the consequences of failure are not yours alone to bear. Your weakness has cost this beast its freedom. But know this. As the weak serve the strong so they are made stronger for it. This creature's life shall be hardship but if it survives it shall never know fear.|

Cub knelt in silence, his eyes slowly adjusting to vision once more. The Mage to which he once clung was now nothing more than a trodden mass of bloodied armour and over him stood Shavie red to his knees.

|Listen carefully for you too shall know only despair beneath my yoke. But in doing so you will earn the strength you need. Fitting you stay on your knees then for I reward the loyal; your weapon rests in the main camp due South of here. Retrieve it and continue toward the water's edge and there you shall find your first labor.|

Rising to his feet, Cub finally saw what have driven Shavie to hysterics: a large wooden beam was caught on his lead, flames leaping dangerously close to his tail and driving him to escape the now emblazoned stables. It was odd then that even as the flames singed his hide, as long as the Voice within the Dagger spoke, he stood stoic.

|Go now! Exact my will, and hunt the Moon Shadow!|

Elayna listened to Zaveed with empty eyes, feeling more than a bit hollow. Yes, it was for the good of everyone. But that didn't mean she wouldn't see the face of that guard, or the bandit in the cave on their first night, in her nightmares. They were corrupted, unjust...but they had pasts. Lives of their own, a story penned by their own hands. And it was by her's that she brought them to an end. There was nothing natural about it, and for one who lived off of and learned to love the cycles of their world, it was painful to interrupt that flow. Her only recourse was to keep reminding herself that her opponents brought it upon themselves.

She was jostled from her thoughts when the Khajiit pulled her along, with Reigenleif behind them, into the guardhouse. It wasn't remarkable in the least, and even resembled a simple cottage. They had barged into the kitchen, as sparse as it was. The place was empty of inhabitants, at least momentarily. A shabbily prepared guard rushed out of a door to their side, searching for the source of the disturbance outside. Zaveed quickly apprehended him, before either of the women could respond. However, this did not stop Elayna from preparing an Ice Spike spell in her right hand. The extra magicka needed to form the projectile in the hot climate was already beginning to weigh on her. It proved to be a good move, as two more guards barged in the room. They were armored, and much more prepared. Reigenleif targeted the woman with lightning and fire, leaving the man to Elayna.

Letting the spike fly, Elayna used her remaining magicka to prepare another in her left palm. The guard was ready, and dodged the first, and moved to swing his sword at Elayna, but the woman ducked before her head could get lopped off. Using the angle to her advantage, and sent the spell at an angle into his ribcage, finding a space underneath the chest piece. As the guard fell dead, Elayna closed her eyes to combat the migraine in her head. Magicka expenditure was never pleasant, especially in such terrible heat. She wasn't a trained mage in the sense that Reigenleif was, so she had to come up with ways to deal with such issues so often. Normally, she'd brew herself a cup of Jazbay leaf tea with honey, using the dried leaves left over from her perfume stocks...but that wasn't available at the moment.

Getting up, and avoiding looking at the dead bodies on the floor, Elayna helped search the room for anything of interest. Of course, there wasn't much there. Zaveed had retrieved the key, and they were standing at the door into the prison below. She made sure to follow his instruction of keeping quiet, and followed their Nord companion into the cool depths. It was a remarkable construction, much bigger than one would perceive. It was actually quite dazzling that the Redguards had performed such an incredible act of masonry. Their leader asked them how they would like to handle the situation. Elayna pondered for a moment..."I'm not necessarily a master of stealth, but I wouldn't be able to hold off more than one, maybe two guards...especially with this damned headache." She clenched her fist at the realization that getting out of this without more death was going to be impossible. All of the prisoners were at stake, and they were needed for the rebellion. The Breton had to swallow her disgust for the act.

Her hand went to the dagger at her thigh. "I just want to get this over with. If you two give me an opening, I might be able to run to the back and find the keys. If they are indeed at the desk down there, then I'll just have to be quick and pray I don't get killed." Elayna tried to think of another role she could fulfill, but fighting and stealth just weren't what she was built for. But running...well, there were more than a few angry animals that didn't like her poking around their dens back home.

Many of the formations had broken after the Redguard charge. Very few could blame them and after the display of the Dwemer crab blowing his comrades to pieces with some kind of invisible magic, Francis couldn’t count himself among those few. Francis himself was still a bit shocked from the display, only to be snapped out of it by Vendel. As he stared at the Nord’s chest at face-level, his large and heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder and shook him hard.

“Stop daydreaming about the dead before you join them, damn it! I don’t plan to see Sovngarde any time soon, Francis!” Vendel said, snapping to give attention to the Redguard soldiers behind him.

Francis watched as Vendel parried an attack from one, thrusting his big shield’s rim into the armpit of the Redguard’s sword-arm and pushing his big blade effortlessly through the Redguard’s throat. With a mighty roar, Vendel ripped the blade out through the side and caught the blade of the other Redguard. Francis was taken from the bloody view, not having seen his friend in such a light, and thrust into a skirmish of his own. The Redguard yelled something in Yoku and Francis stepped back, casting stoneflesh, not trusting in the strength of mere chainmail seeing what it couldn’t do against Vendel’s ferocity. The Redguard came in quick, eager to steal Francis’s life away from him. Francis let the curved blade glance off his own, the blade catching on the crossguard and Francis taking advantage of the bind.

Francis half-sworded, bringing his lead foot rearward and twisting, putting all his weight and force into a pommel strike to the Redguard’s head. The Redguard stumbled back, clutching his helmet and, still half-swording, Francis stuck the point of his sword through the Redguard’s neck. He brought the blade out with a spatter of blood and took a moment to observe how surprisingly much a human could bleed through a hole in the neck. He’d never been in battle so thick, more accustomed to small bar brawls at the biggest and most intense. Those could get violent but he never remembered a time where a machine like the crab was present at one. That would have risen the stakes considerably, the Breton thought. He saw a group of Khajiit and a slightly overweight Argonian attacking the crab, somehow able to dismantle one of the pipes on the thing.

He’d never seen such a machine in all his travels and the things he saw in Hammerfell took him by surprise. The thunder-staffs, these machines, gods-damned Dwemer. He’d heard rumors from traders in the Iliac and corsairs come to Wayrest from distant travels but he never thought the whispers were true, just the gibbering of old sea captains or news distorted by distance and being passed on from too many mouths. This was definitely something to do, alright.

“Vendel!” Francis called, a bit taken aback to see his comrade in his current position.

The Nord was filling the cacophony of battle with his own deep and terrifying warcry as he kneeled with knees on the arms of a Redguard, rendering the man helpless at the hands of this terrible monster, hands enveloping his head. Francis’s mouth hung agape in astonishment at what muscle and strength could do, the Redguard slapping and clawing at the towering Nord before a sickening crack and a spray of blood added some color to Vendel’s face and chest. The Nord stood with heaving shoulders, seeking out his big sword and shield on the battlefield.

“Vendel!” Francis called again as Vendel found his weapons among the bodies around where he was fighting.

Francis rose an eyebrow, seeing that Vendel had brought an end to two more men in the span of time it took him to vanquish one foe, “What!” The Nord responded.
Francis only pointed to the crab, trying to recover from the attacks from the Khajiit and the peculiar Argonian. Vendel nodded, “We kill it!”

“We kill it!” Francis echoed a confirmation, conjuring a flame in his hands from what rudimentary skills he’d learned in the battlemage corps of the Camlorn army and letting loose a pillar of flame from his palm.

Vendel had sheathed his sword and grabbed a large Warhammer. It did not seem so large when it was wielded by Vendel. The crab turned to Francis and his pillar of fire, the Breton strafing so as to offer a harder target. Before the machine could lift its only working staff-arm up to fire, Vendel stepped in and swung the Warhammer in a devastating arc, catching the arm and damaging whatever mechanism it used to move the appendage. The staff still worked, it seemed and a crack filled the air. Francis felt a hard punch and stumbled onto his back, fumbling over himself with his hands and hearing Vendel’s roaring NO, followed by a series of ringing brought by metal pounding on metal.

Meanwhile, he’d found a hole in his robes and ripped the fabric open to expose the shattered chainmail underneath. Despite the stoneflesh, some of the pieces of steel had embedded themselves into his skin not deep enough to be anything but an annoyance. The truly disconcerting part was the hole in his stomach. He knew if he didn’t find a healer, he’d die, but slowly and painfully, as with all gut wounds. His hands became less sure of themselves along with his legs as he struggled to get to his feet. Not having time to think, he hastily swung at a Redguard guardsman only to have his sword parried. The Redguard wasted no time in stepping in close, dropping his own sword and grabbing Francis’s own by the pommel and section of blade closest to the crossguard.

Twisting counter-clockwise, the Redguard disarmed Francis and took the Breton to the ground. Something said in Yoku before a dagger was taken into the Redguard’s hand and made to plunge into Francis’s neck. Francis blocked it with his forearms. The blade still sank towards his throat and Francis slightly whimpered, knowing the shock brought on by being wounded by the mysterious weapon the crab wielded was sapping his strength away. Francis heard the roar of Vendel a distance off and more clangs of metal. Francis remembered his friend’s words on his unwillingness to die here and something took hold in Francis as he took hold of the dagger’s long blade. Some form of wildness flooded into his eyes and an incomprehensible anger wrapped its fingers around his heart.

Francis gritted his teeth and squeezed the blade in his stonefleshed hand, slowly turning the point away from his neck and towards his shoulder. Francis snarled as the Redguard pushed down with all his strength- more than Francis’s. Francis made the sacrifice and let the dagger bury itself in his shoulder about what felt like an inch- a very painful inch- in. With a roar, Francis wrapped a hand around the Redguard’s throat and with his other stonefleshed hand, bludgeoned out a few of the man’s teeth and broke his jaw from the sound of it. The Redguard made some noise that was much less fierce than he was a moment ago as Francis rolled on top of him. With one hand holding his throat and head in place, he began bringing the bottom of his fist to pound the Redguard’s face not unlike a hammer.

A broken nose, lost front teeth, Francis had only seen a collapsed cheekbone once and Vendel had done it to the sailor in Wayrest, bloody eye and then silence. Francis crawled on all fours away from his kill, not used to ending a man so gorily. He looked at his hands, no longer that of a handsome and cunning duelist but now something akin to those grim-faced brigands he’d seen on the roads and in the taverns. Something not unlike Vendel. As much of a friend Vendel was, he was a beast, and Francis told himself he’d never wanted to be that. He’d let Vendel be that because someone needed to, someone needed to be the one who had the guts to kill like he did and not rely on rules and honor.

He surveyed the battlefield, watched guardsmen cleaving citizen, citizen cutting open guardsmen, fathers cradling bleeding sons and the same men being cut down. A citizen fumbling at his own gut-rope, trying to push it back into place. Francis noticed that there were no rules here, no chivalry, no sense of honor. Only violence and blood and death. Perhaps every time he’d taken on a job with, ‘it’s something to do,’ he’d not been taking anything seriously. He’d been insulting those with a cause they believed strongly enough in to die for. He’d been insulting the men and women dying around him. Francis looked at his hands again, fingers and palm coated in crimson, some not his own. This wasn’t a duel, that was for sure. This wasn’t roughing up an unsuspecting man for not paying someone their due, this wasn’t a Pas d’Armes in the road to Helgathe.

This was battle, not a fight, but a damned bloody battle and Francis grabbed the hilt of the dagger buried in his shoulder and ripped it free with a gritted-teethed growl. He reclaimed his sword from the ground and stepped with purpose towards a skirmish. He wasn’t going to die today, but he wasn’t going to run either. Not while Vendel wouldn’t and friends don’t abandon each other, he remembered the big Nord saying. Francis roared, catching another blade in his own in a bind and adding a little more crimson to his robes.

Hegathe Prison…

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. “BEHIND YOU!” 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.
_ _ _ _

Bandit Camp, North of Rihad…

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 would 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.

Cub's head pounded as he made his way from Marion's camp, his hammer and Hravlar's staff in hand. As he marched south toward the sea in search of this "Moon Shadow" he struggled to make sense of his thoughts; constantly knitting and unbinding them to find some consistent thread among them. Only the sound of his own gears whirring kept him company, the sounds of battle had subsided, replaced with the regrettable coo of negotiation and Shavie's measured steps beside him mirroring his own.

The sun still hung high above the strange land to which Cub had awoken mere hours before to the siren song of the Silver Dagger and his new Patron. Like so many times before Cub simply accepted his change in scenery, the shuffle of days and nights around him as the winds of fate strung him along its sordid machinations. He did as he was told and things had always worked out, the weak obey the strong and are so made strong for it, is the way of things...then why did everything seem to be falling apart?

It had been over half a year since he left the wreckage of Windhelm and crossed a dying Skyrim yet still he'd not found Zhaveed. He'd not learned anything of the threat they faced though it burned Rihad simply to find him; there was no progress, only fire and death. Sevari had fled, Marassa traveled in circles, Hravlar was captured as well as Cub; without Zhaveed to lead them, they were helpless.

Cub stopped and turned to Shavie though if it ever was more than simply a name he'd never know as now the beast of burden showed no emotion, only stoic obedience. As it should. A mule is a simple creature made strong and useful by its labor, without purpose, without a caring owner it would be prey to quicker predators, smarter creatures of better design.

"You understand Shavie. Some are born prey and some are born predator. The weak serve the strong, whether in life or death, and they are made stronger for it..." Cub felt he finally found a twine he could follow to the heart of his own thoughts. "...Because those left behind were stronger than those weeded out...if Malacath has chosen me, it means...it means he thinks I can become strong. I can become a predator!" Cub spoke excitedly to the mute creature, the Dagger resting silently in its saddle bag. "If I find this Moon Shadow he will take me to Zhaveed and we will hunt those who hound us. Prey becomes predator...it all make sense now!"

From some distance away Cub heard a familiar voice. "I should have guessed you would have survived; no sword in Hammerfell could pierce that thick fat of yours!" The voice chuckled briefly then choked on a wince of pain. "Over here, behind the rock only slightly larger and dumber than you."

Cub moved closer to where the voice originated, a giant boulder weathered and beaten by the desert sands, hiding a wounded Redguard, his midsection sporting a deep gash and his once handsome face bruised and broken. "You're that damned javelin thrower!" Cub exclaimed, still frantic from his revelation as what might be mistaken for a smile, had it not been so gnarled, crossed the man's face.

"Always nice when my work proceeds me. Yes, it is I, Nazir, lover of women and taker of lives. We never officially met, you were far too winded for introductions if I recall." His pain was well masked behind flourish but Cub could tell from the amount of blood coating his garb his bravado was just that.

Cub remembered clearly how the nimble man had tired him despite his incredible endurance. Had he really been toying with him the whole time? Best not to think about it right now. Cub inspected the cut the Redguard clung to, no doubt trying to keep sand out until help arrived. "Looks more like taker of sword strikes to me; what happened? Can you walk?" Cub holstered his hammer and slid Hravlar's staff into Shavie's pack. "Hold on, this'll probably hurt."

Cub lifted his one time foe as gingerly as he could muster from the desert floor. Even so, the Redguard's bravado slipped momentarily as he brushed against the Dwarven Centurion Cuirass. "You're light as a feather!" Cub exclaimed. "That's why you were so fast when we fought, isn't it?

Nazir's grimace slowly returned to a broken smile as Cub situated him to a more comfortable position. "As perceptive as ever my fat friend." Nazir showed a toothy grin. " One must be quick in our line of work. Believe it or not, some people don't take as kindly to our 'steal from the rich, give to the poor' banditry as others. Unfortunately, those people usually have enough left in their pockets to hire head hunters which is exactly what brings us here now." Nazir smirked at Cub's furrowed brow. "Best not think about it to hard, you might hurt yourself. Bad people come to hurt. Nazir hide behind rock. You find Nazir. Underst-OWWWW!"

Nazir landed with a yelp and all around him sand puffed and fell. "What the hell do you thi-"

"You hid?" Cub's voice was shaky as he towered over the man.

"I, what? What? Of course I hid, look at me you dumb ox! I'm covered in blo-"

"You hid. They came and you hid. You hid. You hid." Cub's voice began stronger as his mantra's rhythm picked up. "You hid. You hid. You hid." Cub's eyes narrowed on the pitiful creature before him, Nazir trying desperately to squirm and writhe away. "You hid. You hid. You hid. You hid. You hid." Cub unsheathed his hammer once more and held it high above him. "Prey becomes predator."

- - - - -

A single javelin sailed toward the gathered party landing a few feet away and startling the lot of them. All eyes, Marion, Marassa, Burkswallow and Harding's boarding party darted to the figure cresting the hill from whence the projectile flew.

Cub and Shavie approached the stunned masses in silence, his eyes locked to Marion's as he approached. Towering over all but his fellow Orc, Cub cut an imposing outline as he knelt to lay the sling of javelins at her feet before returning to his full height. Eyes still locked with hers, Cub broke the fragile silence. "I found him bleeding out behind a rock. It was quick."

In somber silence, Shavie stood beside the near javelin embedded in the soil from Cub's herculean throw before following Cub as they both took their place beside Marassa, only then noticing the Breton to which she spoke. Without a second thought, Cub turned to the newcomer.

"Are you the Moon Shadow?"

Hegathe Guard Barracks

Within the outer walls of the compound, Blade was confronted with a large two story structure. To his immediate right to the East, a large training courtyard with archery target, training dummies, and an agility course sat unused on account the majority of the guards being deployed to quell the current uprising. Across from the building was a shady garden with flowering shrubs, an aquifer-fed fountain (which also provided fresh water to the barracks), and a covered patio with various floor cushions and short tables with various dining implements still across the surfaces; the guards clearly left in a hurry.

The structure’s lower floor contained the common area for the guards that had a direct exit to the South, as well as a separate sleeping area branching off to the West and a locked armoury to the North. To the East, the room gave way to a long corridor with six detaining cells, three on either side, meant for short overnight stays until transport could be arranged to take the prisoners to court to stand trial or the rowdy drunks had a chance to sleep off their stupor. Passed that was a reception area with an adjoining interrogation room. The entrance here is to the East. There is a storage cellar beneath the building, accessible from the outside to the North, but it is secured with a heavy iron bar and padlock. All of the windows on the bottom floor are protected by shutters and iron bars.

The building’s second floor, accessed by a locked staircase from the reception area, leads to the quarters of the Guard Captain’s suite, which encompasses half of the upper floor and is dominated by an open floor plan and is surrounded by a second story balcony. The man lives opulently, but securely.

The unmistakable sounds of conflict rang through the air, catching the attention of the bored guard sitting at the reception desk. He grabbed a mace from the floor beside him, a sense of dread and unease filling his heart. Normally, there were at least fifteen guards in the barracks at any given time, often more. Now there were but seven, himself included, plus Captain Doshin’s two elite bodyguards. The rest had departed under the Captain’s orders to bring about order before the citizens foolishly destroyed large sections of the city and killed someone. The receptionist hurried to a window and was greeted by the sight of two of his coworkers dead by the gate. He covered his mouth in shock, stepping back. Like most Redguard, he was a trained warrior, but not a very practiced one. Not two hours ago, he had spoken to both of those men and made plans to meet up in the park in the afternoon outside of the Ebonarm mosque with their children, something that was an impossibility given the sudden riots and the fact that both men were dead, slain by an unknown assailant at the gates.

This wasn’t the work of rioters, he was certain. There was definitely brutal purpose behind it, and now the killer was loose within the compound. Seeing as the front door was not opened, it could only mean he entered somewhere else. The receptionist hurried to lock the doors to the area and hurried upstairs to the Captain’s suite, securing the doors behind him as he went.
_ _ _ _ _

Three of the off duty guards in the common area sat at a table playing cards when the barracks door opened, initially glancing over curiously to see if it was their fellow guards returning with news of the riot. To their surprise, it wasn’t one of theirs.

They sprung to their feet, already in armour as they were on stand-by and gathered their weapons as the argonian approached. Two of the guards had small bucklers on their off-arm with one-handed swords and the third carried a glaive. While they scrambled to prepare, it took them very little time to adopt battle-ready positions. These were not soft, inexperienced men.

The one with the glaive moved to a more open area where he could freely swing his weapon or thrust while the two buckler-wielding guards spread out, advancing on the bloodied argonian from wide angles. He would need to be quick and rather dexterous to fend off attacks from both of them. The men held their bucklers out front, their blades resting on the sides with the points protruding past them. They waited for the argonian to make his first move, and likely his last. Choosing one over the other left him exposed.
_ _ _ _ _

“Guards! Help!” An old man cried, panting as if he had been running for several minutes. The guard sergeant, a hard looking woman and one of the few not wearing a helm, turned to look to see what the matter was. Her men had subdued several of the rioters, and killed those who resisted. The idiots did not seem to understand the meaning of martial law.

“Speak, citizen.” She commanded, her voice one of authority but professionalism. She did not berate the old man for taking her attentions from what was clearly more than a pressing matter.

“The guardhouse… a man… an argonian murdered the guards stationed at the gates! I think he went inside, but it was so…” he managed to get out between ragged breaths.
The sergeant wasted no time. “Ali! I need six men. The barracks are under attack.” She turned to the citizen. “You have our thanks. Come by the barracks later and you shall receive a small tribute. But for now, get off the streets before you get caught up in all this.”

Very punctually, six guards approached, looking ready for a fight… for revenge. All one had to do to provoke the wrath of every guard in the city was to kill one of their own. She nodded at the gathered guards. “Double time, back to the barracks. We have an assassin to deal with. Move!” she barked, leading her men through the streets at a quick jog, a normally tiring exercise in the sweltering heat. However, discomfort could wait.

The argonian would die.

Blade has approximately 15 minutes before reinforcements show up.

The reinforcements drawn from the riot-quelling guards has weakened their force, although many of the rioters are quelled.

Word of the murders of the guards at both the prison and the barracks has drawn unwanted attention from the populace and the city’s forces. It has boosted the morale of the uprising and its supporters with the consequence of the uprising losing some of its reputation from the neutral population.

The moment Reigenleif heard the commotion break out on the other side of the room she sprung into action. With a flick of her fingers, a white glowing rune pattern formed itself on the table the guards were sitting around, moments before one of them put his tankard down. As soon as the tin mug made contact with the magicka there was an explosion of light, with the sound of a million shattering icicles filling the room. The three men were thrown back off their seats and to the ground before they knew what was happening. One of them landed almost at Reigenleif’s feet, and she wasted no time at all reaching down and placing an electrified hand on his chest, the charge conducting through his chainmail armour and cooking him alive.

When she stood to deal with the other two, she was shocked to discover that one was already standing and about to charge her, and the other wasn’t far behind. The charging man hadn’t had time to acquire his shield, but the scimitar he was already wielding was dangerous enough on its own. Reigenleif barely had time to cast Ironflesh on herself before she had to raise her staff in a two handed grip and block a swipe at her neck. The mans next strike was a near vertical hack, likely aimed to overpower her in a contest of strength, but she had fought men that assumed mages were incompetent up close before. She sidestepped the blow, keeping her staff between her and the sword even as she swung the bottom of it in at the back of the guards knee.

The man, having stepped too far into his power blow, suddenly found his leg swept from under him. He toppled awkwardly to the ground and Reigenleif stepped back, preparing a thunderbolt as she went. Another flick of her wrist saw the poor crumpled guard dispatched as his flesh cooked and his magicka burned away.

Reigenleif was about to turn to throw another spell at the final guard when she realised he was acting rather strangely. He hadn’t charged despite being ready to do so, instead he was raising a dagger as if to throw it. The dagger left his hand before her spell was ready, but she was confident her ironflesh would protect her. A bolt of fire left her hand moments before the dagger struck, but she did not see what happened then, as the blade cut through the fabric of her sleeve and made the tiniest cut into her arm. She did not notice the scratch, and would not have cared had she not suddenly felt her ties to aetherius suddenly slipping away. The flames licking around her hand suddenly went out and the colour seemed to drain from the world. Her eyes widened as she realised the dagger had been poisoned, and she had been silenced.

Before she could react, the final guard was upon her, another dagger in hand. He reached around her with his free arm and she tried to call for help “Zave-”

Her voice was cut off as a length of cold steel was driven into her chest. A whimper escaped her, the world seemed to slow down and all she could see were the hard eyes of the guard. He was just doing his job. Dispatching a criminal. Her.

She was only on her feet because of the deadly embrace the guard held her in, and when he let her go, wrenching the dagger from her magically reinforced flesh, she fell to ground hard. Her staff fell from her hand, rolling away across the stone floor.
All at once, darkness rushed towards her and the colour flooded back into the world. She could hear the distant song of Sovngarde, but also the vital rush of aetherius reasserting its connection, the magicka flowing as freely as her blood now did. With a final effort of will, she forced the golden light of a restoration spell into both hands and focused on her mortal injury. The soothing effect of the magic sent her already shocked body and mind into shutdown, and she couldn’t help but shut her eyes and drift away.

But despite that, she would live. She was not ready to go to Sovngarde yet.

Blade growled with annoyance as one of the guards hefted a glaive. While not exactly ideal in such close quarters, the pole arm would pose a major problem while the sword and shield wielding guards kept Blade's attention. The argonian's first instinct was to charge the glaive user and eliminate him as quickly as possible, but the confines of the room meant the sword users could easily intercept and surround him, something they were trying to do at this very moment. Blade had to control the fight or he'd lose. Fortunately a strategy was already formulating. He'd been faced with odds like these regularly during his time at the Capital Arena.

Upon his entry he noted a depression in the eastern wall of the room. He couldn't tell exactly what it was from his angle, but it looked like it would work well as a funnel even if there was no exit, and he'd been heading that direction the entire time. But one of the sword wielding guards now partially blocked his path as they spread out. Eager to get to it, Blade took the offensive with a snarl.

He lunged and slashed at the guard blocking his planned route, but the buckler deflected the weapon easily. The Redguard simultaneously aimed a low cut at Blades abdomen which was parried by the second orcish sword and followed by a swift pommel strike to the head from the argonian's strong arm. The man had managed to avoid being knocked out by taking the brunt of the attack on his shield again. Still, he fell dazed to one knee with his shield still up to intercept more attacks.

Blade didn't get a chance to attack again however. A flurry of movement in the corner of his vision reminded him of the two other combatants and he dove over the kneeling guard before him, narrowly avoiding a killing thrust from the glaive. The argonian rolled to his feet swiftly and back pedaled before the skilled thrusts of the pole arm which forced him away from the hall. He was able to avoid or redirect most of the attacks, but an early strike had slashed his cheek while he had regained his balance. The glaive wielder continued to keep Blade occupied while the second sword user tended to his ally who shook stars from his vision and got to his feet.

The argonian was herded back into the middle of the common space and tripped backward over the low table the guards had been sitting at moments before. Without missing a beat, Blade used the momentum to roll himself across the boards and landed on the opposite side in time to see his opponent gear up for a powerful thrust to reach across the furniture. Blade reached down and with a burst of strength, hefted the edge of the table up so it was perpendicular with the floor. The blade of the glaive crunched through the boards, the tip passing quite a ways through and was properly jammed. In that instant, Blade jumped up and kicked the bottom of the table with both legs landing on his back with a thud while the weight of the table knocked the guard off balance and trapped his weapon beneath its hefty planks.

There was no time to relax though as the two other guards jumped back into the fray. Blade tucked his legs in to avoid a crippling slash from one scimitar and kicked out at the man, feet crashing against the shield and pushing him back before deflecting another sword with his own and slashing at the guards feet, forcing him to jump back and giving Blade time to get back on his own.

The third guard was struggling to free his weapon from the table's grasp while Blade parried the other two's attacks. The three fell into a steady rhythm of attacking and defending, like some kind of dance of death that had been choreographed before hand and was accompanied by the ear ringing clash of steel against steel.

Despite Blade's uncanny swiftness, and agility, which mostly due to the fact that he was used to wearing much heavier and restrictive armor, he steadily lost ground and both guards landed glancing hits on his arms and torso. Fortunately the chain mail held firm, for now, and the leather beneath absorbed some of the blunt force. But suddenly Blade felt the wall at his back and knew he had to turn things around.

He ducked a beheading blow from one of the scimitars which crashed into the stone wall and sent painful shocks through the guards arm, causing him to flinch and provide an opening. Blade deflected a slash from the other guard before viciously kicking the injured one in the leg. His heel crashed into the man's kneecap, snapping it backward against the ligaments and muscle holding it in place and causing him to scream in pain, completely dropping his defense to grasp desperately at his mutilated limb. A quick slash of orcish metal ended the man's suffering as it opened his skull, spattering blood across the floor as the arcing weapon flicked it away.

"NO! OBLIVION TAKE YOU WHORESON!"
The other Redguard yelled his defiance as he smashed his buckler into the argonian's face, opening a gash on his brow.

Blade grunted as his head whipped to the side painfully under the powerful blow and he scrambled blindly away as quickly as he could, knowing a scimitar would be hot on his heels. It was his turn to tell with agony when the Redguard weapon bit into the tip of his tail as it was swung about with fury, slicing off nearly a foot of the scaled appendage.

The argonian backed into the cell block and the Redguard chased after him swinging madly, having lost some of his earlier composure. By this time the third guard had managed to yank his glaive from beneath the table and rush to his remaining friend's assistance, just as determined to spill the argonian's blood. Yet again, Blade was forced to defend on two fronts, and even his considerable stamina had started to flag. But the pain in his tail had kindled some of his rage that he'd been carefully controlling throughout the fight, and the third guard could only thrust within hallway lest he hit his ally.

Blade felt a burst of energy course through him as his blood rage took hold and he slammed his weapons against his opponent's defenses.
"RAAAAAGGHH! COME ON THEN! KILL ME IF YOU CAN!"
He unleashed a torrent of slashes at the sword wielding guard who skillfully blocked the telegraphed attacks but fell back a step beneath the onslaught. Suddenly one of the orcish swords came from below instead of from above like he'd been expecting, and the tip slammed into the guard's gut, knocking the wind from him but not piercing the armor. Regardless, he doubled over from the force of the blow. His partner was ready to jump in and defend, but as his glaive was thrust forward, Blade dropped one of his weapons and grabbed the gasping Redguard, pulling him into the glaive as it passed and knocking it off course. The third guard's hand went to the dagger in his belt now that the argonian was inside his guard, but it was too late. Blade slashed him across the throat and he stumbled back, slumping against the wall with a shocked look on his face as he bled out.

The argonian immediately turned his attention to the guard he'd used as a shield who'd crashed against on of the cell doors but was getting to his feet. Blade stepped up behind him and pulled up the bottom hem of his chain mail shirt and slid his sword into the man's torso from below his ribcage, slicing into the vital organs within. The guard's breath caught as the cold steel entered his body and his nervous system exploded with agony. His eyes quickly clouded over and he slumped to the ground as blood pooled about him.

Blade yanked the weapon from the corpse and wiped it clean on the Redguard clothing before gathering his other sword and decided to borrow the glaive user's dagger as well. Now to find that Captain. Quickly frisked the guards but found nothing of use, namely keys. For the target had surely locked his doors by now. Knowing the answer, Blade ran to each door and gave an experimental pull and shove. The only door to open was in the common room and it only revealed the guard's quarters.

Blade could only assume that the Captain's quarters were on the second floor, but it would be asinine to try and cut through the well made doors. It was a gamble as to which one led upstairs, and even if he had a proper axe he'd be too tired to fight whatever might be waiting on the other side. He thought quickly about other options. The balcony. Yes, that was just close enough to the ground that he might be able to get in that way. He glanced at the table he'd used as a shield against the guards he'd fought and got another idea. He jogged over and planted his feet on the edge of two of the planks then grabbed the one in the middle. Then, with a heave he yanked the middle plank from the supporting one beneath that held the table top together. He quickly did the same to the other side. The freed plank was a good eight feet long and should serve his purposes nicely.

He carried the plank back outside and placed it against the wall at a rough forty-five degree angle then jogged several meters away. He winced as he prepared to make his climb, the adrenaline from the fight was wearing off the the sting from his injuries, his tail in particular, was making itself known. He shut it from his mind and sprinted towards the plank. He ran up the sturdy board with ease and stepped onto the wall, using his momentum to carry him up the last few feet and grasped the edge of the balcony.

The argonian clambered up and and stepped gently down from the parapet, his soft leather boots making no sound on the stone floor. If he was lucky, any attention would be focused on the inside doors after all the commotion that had come from the ground floor. He quietly made his way around the perimeter of the balcony and searched for an entrance, soon finding a shuttered window. Staying as low as possible, he ever so gently nudged one of the shutters open to see what lay waiting inside.

He wasn't entirely sure why he didn't just barge in like he had below. Maybe the reality of his mortality had set in after the close call with the guards. Though it had worked admirably, he decided he'd be damned before he ever left his plate armor and greatsword behind again.

There was something about charging readily into battle for- quite frankly- the first time in his life that felt almost… surreal, to Burkswallow.
True, Harding had seen it fit to turn most of the enemies front lines into lumps of smouldering flesh, and Sweeps had- quite shockingly- been happy to follow that assault up with a few expertly thrown balls of lightning, rendering the battlefield a sort of horror show before the true fighting had even begun, but…
Despite all that whirling magic, bright lights and clashing blades, it didn’t feel like he was on a battlefield.
It- almost peculiarly- gave him a pang of home sickness, for the first time in his joyously theft-filled life.

Because Burkswallow had never been a man of the blade: He much preferred sweet talking and deft-of-hand.
But he could use a sword, and that was because, once, he had been Melancholius Arturo… nobleman.
As his blade rushed to greet that of an attacker, colliding with a din of sharp, sheering clatters, he could think only of how once he’d been a younger, more honest man, who would never have raised his weapon with the intentions of hurting another person.
He’d been taught to fight for the sake of self defense, and nothing more.

And then as he quite adroitly severed his opponents thumb, and promptly disarmed him, he realised something else. He’d hated that kid.
He was the sort of boy who said “father” and “daddy” even when his hair had begun to grey, and was destined to wear an ostentatious suit and look the spitting image of his businessman father until the chain was eventually severed by a weak link who decided to burn the warehouse down for the insurance money.
So he supposed, in a way, driving his glass cutlass through that same attacker’s throat was oddly symbolic: It marked the grave of Melancholius Arturo and finally completed his metamorphosis into Burkswallow, Gentleman Thief and occasional murderer.

Then the battle became real again.
And Burkswallow leapt fully into action.

Certainly, he was no Randagulf of Clan Begalin, nor a Captain Harding, but Burkswallow’s moderate skill with a sword was not to go unused in the conflict: By the time he sheathed it again, he’d taken at least two heads, and half a dozen lives in total, no small feat for a man who’d never seen combat before.
Sweeps, too, had carved a reasonable notch in their numbers, having displayed a totally unexpected skill with destruction magic, which was made all the more worrying by how keen Burkswallow was to constantly irritate her.
“Oh well,” he’d thought, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

As for his other two compatriots, Bethilda had been happy to remain and knock some heads whilst the battle was waged, but opted to leave for the ship once the conflict was done, and Vingard…
Vingard looked to have disappeared before the battle had even begun, no doubt lounging around somewhere on deck.

Perhaps Burkswallow had spent too much time around Harding, because his first instinct was to bitterly refer to him as a bilge rat under his breath.

As the crew moved on, Burkswallow remained uncharacteristically silent, pondering on the importance of what had just happened.
He’d promised Zaveed that his blade would see use: Was this, therefore, its christening? How much harder would things get from here?
He supposed things needed to get worse before they could truly get better…
But on a lighter note, Sweeps had proven without a doubt that she could carry her weight now, so at the very least she’d become an asset as opposed to a handicap.
He’d never have said it to her aloud, of course: Then she’d have made him handicapped.

Because of this thought- and also the insane amount of adrenaline rushing through his system- Burkswallow didn’t really register exactly what it was that was happening when finally they rendezvoused with another group of people.
At least, not until Harding introduced him personally.

“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.”
He found himself stepping forwards, almost instinctively, until he was looking down at her.
He didn’t speak, he just looked, his pale irises reflecting her features back at her unwaveringly.
“Zaveed sent you.”
And then it happened… he hesitated.
He toyed with the idea of some quick one-liner, like, perhaps, a playful jab at how silly faces must’ve run in the family.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not again: Be it through his own nerves or Nocturnal’s meddling, his gift of the gab had become more of a restraint than a tool as of late.

He’d tried it on Harding, and could very easily have lost her interest: It was his gift of the free booze that forged that particular friendship, not a fast flowing tongue.
He couldn’t afford to complicate things further, not until he was sure they’d blame somebody else, anyway.

So instead, he addressed her in a tone civil and soft.
“No,” he began, simply, “Zaveed didn’t send me.”
He reached into his bag, and slowly retrieved a copy of the list Bethalda had issued him, and showed it to Marassa as some small gesture of trust.
“I’m here by my own accord, by request of The Thieves Guild of Skyrim… but your brother did help me in getting here, most definitely.”
He took his list back, and folded it gently before returning it to his inventory.
“Your brother’s doing well,” he gestured to his cutlass, smiling lightly, “He has combat skill to spare… but it sure wouldn’t hurt him to have a few more numbers.”

Burkswallow might have spoken more then and there, had a large silhouette not then been cast over him.
For a moment, he rationalised it as being Bethalda: But, upon turning, found himself gravely mistaken.
"Are you the Moon Shadow?"
The Breton was staring up at the imposing stature of an Orc.
An Orc asking him questions.
Moon Shadow?

The thief glanced down at his Nightingale attire, and then took a millisecond to take stock of how he wanted to reply.
Did he want to live?: Yes.
Would that involve telling a lie: Probably.
Was he okay with lying?

"... yes, some people call me that," he answered, coolly, "The armour should be an indicator. Can I help you, friend?"
"You know, you could be a Nightingale, if you wanted..." Nocturnal's soft voice chided from somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind.
"Quiet, you."

Hralvar brandished his stolen longsword, eying the four mercenaries surrounding him warily. It was just his luck that these stupid bastards had caught up to him as he'd reached the tree line. Naturally, they hadn't taken well to seeing the two dead mercenaries at his feet, and now they had drawn swords against him. Then again, after everything that had happened to him in the past week, killing a few more dwemer sympathizers wouldn't hurt his mood.

"So, four on one, just for a poor old Nord in his dotage?" Hralvar laughed as he raised his left hand into the air, conjuring a frost atronach to stand at his side. He was close enough to the tree line that he didn't want to risk any fire spells burning through the forest. "A bit much, wouldn't you say?" The battlemage taunted as he lashed out with a spell of chain lightning, electrocuting all four of the mercenaries as his atronach slammed its fist into a stunned sellsword's head, caving the Breton's skull in as Hralvar cut down a paralyzed Orc before the remaining two recovered.

"Ericsson, deal with the atronach! The battlemage is mine!" A second Orc bellowed at his Imperial compatriot as he swung his own longsword at Hralvar, who met his charge, parrying the blade.

"Oh, you think a little shit like you can kill me?" Hralvar laughed as he disengaged from the orc, whirling his blade against the mercenary's before he sucker-punched him in the throat. The orc looked young and rather inexperienced for one of his kind, much like Cub did if he wasn't such a fierce fighter. The orc reeled back, choking, and Hralvar thrust his blade through the sellsword's chest. As the orc bled out and died, Hralvar kicked the corpse off of his sword as he surveyed the last remaining mercenary, who had just slain his atronach with a mace. "Well, you look like you can at least handle yourself. Come on, then, lad!" Hralvar roared as he charged magicka in his free hand, firing off an ice spike at the Imperial, who ducked behind his shield as the icicle shattered against it.

Still tucked behind his shield, the mercenary bull-rushed Hralvar, who was sent sprawling from the shield bash. From his prone position on the ground, Hralvar's eyes widened as he saw a mace come down towards his head, and he rolled out of the way just in time to avoid having his head be pulped into squishy bits. The old Nord pulled himself up in a crouch and fired lightning at the Imperial's shield, who screamed in pain as he dropped the electrically-charged metal. Hralvar charged, and the two exchanged blows for a few rounds before they disengaged from each other, panting from the exertion of combat. The mercenary roared and charged towards Hralvar once more, but this time, the battlemage was ready. Hralvar sidestepped the Imperial's overhead swing and slashed at the man's side, cutting through his armor before he ripped his blade out and thrust it through his back, finishing him off.

"Oh, well done." A voice called out from behind, and Hralvar whirled around in surprise.

"Who the...oh, it's you, priest." Hralvar flicked the blood off of his sword, leveling a glare at the Argonian bandit. "Come to take me back in?"

"In a sense." Tucks shrugged, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "It would seem that we have cause to ally for the moment. I'm to take you back to your companions, if you'll follow along."

Hralvar sagged slightly, groaning in annoyance. If Marassa and Cub were still back at the bandit camp, he really had no choice but to follow along. Escaping was pointless if his comrades weren't with him, and if one of the bandits had found him, the others were sure to follow soon. "...Fine. Lead the way."

As soon as the clashing of steel began, Elayna funneled all she could into dashing to the other side of the prison. Elayna pulled up her skirt enough to unsheathe her dagger, before dropping and it pushing on. Gods damn these wretched clothes...pretty to look at, but absolutely terrible to steal cell keys in... The Breton grumbled mentally. In her free hand, she prepared an Stoneflesh spell and cast it, giving her some semblance of protection. It was getting to the point where such a paltry spell was barely serving her...she'd have to seek out a tome or two after this insanity.

While she ran, the prisoners who were lucid and knew what was happening shouted at her, telling her to look on the right wall for the keys. The young woman nodded as she ran, a breathy "Thanks, loves" escaping her burning throat. With most guards dealing with the more dangerous threats, Elayna initially believed she could get the keys without any hassle what-so-ever, but of course, fate had it's ways of testing her. A guard emerged from the office, presumably there to grab a weapon, curved sword in hand, coming straight for her. The dark-skinned man closed in, swinging his sword straight for Elayna's neck. She stumbled back, thankfully dodging the beheading strike, and sprayed the guard's face with a stinging Frostbite spell. The cold air and frozen dust suddenly shot into his eyes blinded the man, and Elayna took the opportunity to trip him and, with suppressed horror in her heart, she plunged her blade into the guard's neck, ending his life in a series of terrible gurgling pleas.

With a roiling stomach, Elayna removed the blade and used her headscarf to wipe it, promptly disposing of it over the railing. She finally made it to the warden's office, and, thank the Divines, the keys were indeed hanging on a hook on near the entrance. The Breton eyed the weapons that were on a rack lying against the opposite wall. Running out into the prison once more, Elayna began unlocking a couple cells on the upper floor, fumbling for the keys in the dark to unlock them. She was about to do the same on the bottom floor, before she saw Reigenleif crumple onto the ground, a wound on her chest and a guard above her. Her eyes grew wide as she saw her companion fall, though she was slightly relieved when the golden glow of Restoration surrounded the Nord's palms, enough to save her life temporarily. There was no way she could open all of the cells in time.

"Free the others, arm yourselves, and aid him." Elayna motioned to Zaveed and handed off the keys and potions, as she made her way to the floor below. With little more than a passing thought, she mustered her magicka and sent an Ice Spike through the chest of Reigenleif's attacker, as he turned to face her, causing him to fall to the floor as well. Elayna was stumbling now, the toll of Frost magic in a desert, her fatigue, and the sickness in her stomach causing her to fall at Reigenleif's side. Taking her dagger and cutting the sleeves from her blouse, the alchemist dabbed some of her rejuvinating potion onto the strips and tried to bandage the wound. Hopefully the strengthening properties would help her pull through. Someone would have to go without. Unable to actually pick up the Nord, Elayna had to drag her to the side and get her out of the way of more harm.

She had to hope the few prisoners could aid them, because as it stood, with all of their conditions worsening, they wouldn't last against reinforcements.

There wasn’t much in the way of peace and quiet as the battle raged on, some street urchins watching from alleyways, hidden behind barrels or crates. Most of the residents who were not too keen on joining their countrymen in the fray had run already, though the odd morbidly curious observer still stayed, watching from the windows above or simply just looking out from their window, being trapped inside by the chaos mere feet beyond their walls. Watching men and women die, guards cut down, rioters opened up. Blood soaked the ground in pools and tiny rivers sometimes meandered to join a stranger’s blood with another. In death, the life-force of guard and rioter intermingled. The stench of guts sliced open and baking in the sun, old black blood, sweat. The sound of metal on metal, screams of pain, of anger.

All of these hit Francis at once as the spear pierced his side. The sharp pain of the metal pushing itself deeper in, the panic at the first moment, the fear-tinged anger the second as his eyes met the gritted-toothed Redguard holding the polearm, growling and pushing the blade deeper. It was only at that moment that Francis realized his stoneflesh had worn off. The sting of a cut on his arm returned to him, the pain of a gash on his thigh showed itself for the first time, both leaking crimson- and now this. It seemed longer than what had happened in reality, whole years it felt as Francis felt the familiar unbridled anger coupled with the very mortal want of not dying, his fingers grasping the haft of the spear, spittle spraying from his gritted teeth as he roared.

All victories are won in sacrifice, no matter how small or how devastating. Even the battle won with only three men lost on one’s own side has seen three families sonless. Many victories can only be won by raising the stakes to a height where your opponent either can not or will not reach. The tip of the spear had already entered Francis’s side. His closed fist, white knuckles wrapping around the haft. Although it was through no volition of his own, more the grips of hysteria setting in caused a grin to split Francis’s visage, a terrifying thing coupled with his ruddy robes and wild eyes, made all the more wild by the very hysteria that brought about the laugh. The chuckle, at first, then the laugh, but no joviality to it. A wild, shrieking thing that put fear and confusion into the Redguard’s face that soon turned to horror as Francis yanked the spear deeper in.

All victories are won in sacrifice.

Raise the stakes.

Hand over hand, shrieking laugh, wild eyes, keffiyeh hanging open but the shrieking laugh turned to only growling, strings of blood laced Francis’s chin, the tip of the spear finding the air again through Francis’s back. Gritting his teeth even tighter than he ever thought he could, adrenaline coursing through his veins and hysteria numbing him to all the world, a single-minded purpose replaced everything in his existence as he pulled the spearman closer. Finally, when they were nearly close enough for their eyelashes to brush past each other as they blinked, Francis growled something, “You…Y-You should have let…go!”

Francis near stared holes into the terrified eyes of the Redguard and wrapped his hands around the man’s neck. Mage’s fire, the fire that erupts from the palms of those gifted with magicka, is said to burn brighter and hotter than the average flame. The Redguard was finding out if it was true as his neck practically disintegrated beneath Francis’s choking grip. The spearman fell away from his weapon, heeding Francis’s advice if only a bit too late and Francis stumbled about on the battlefield. He thought this would finally be his end as he saw a particularly stout Redguard hefting an iron-hafted axe and walking to him with purpose.

Francis only sighed and dropped to his knees as the Redguard closed on him. His pounding footsteps were almost audible as he lowered his head, bloody drool falling from his lips as he let the sound of the battle and the haziness of blood loss take him to somewhere else. His life dribbled away from him in crimson as he fell over to lean on a wall, too tired to protest his impending death. Consciousness was slowly beginning to elude him as his eyes grew heavy, but in his last moments, he watched the man’s head snap forward, eyes bulging out of his skull and blood began to pour forth from his nostrils before his head snapped forward again, falling to his knees and then falling limp on his face. Standing over the Redguard was Vendel. Blood on his robes, long blonde hair disheveled and caked with old blood as with his beard. The Nord rose again with the hammer and brought it down hard into the helmet, already caved in. Heaving shoulders, bloody mane, and furious, animal eyes, Vendel cut an imposing figure on the battlefield.

“Don’t die yet, friend. The battle is almost won.” Vendel smiled, tired.

Francis only grinned before darkness fell.