"Don't worry about the guards, we will deal with them. Just wait and get your strength back to keep that thing from attacking!" Shenzi told her younger brother. Reaching into her pockets, she swiftly pulled out five throwing knives. Without anymore words, she and Belle moved forward to the guards. Qara'Sion felt his eyes widen in worry, and as soon as they did, the large argonian brushed against his shoulder. "Do as she says. I'll keep them safe." He spoke before dashing. As simple minded as his sister made him out to be, the argonian easily read the emotion on his face.

Scared, concerned, speechless. That was all he could do as he stood still as a statue.

Holding one knife, and a flick of her wrist, Shenzi telegraphed her attack in a fancy manner and flung it at one of the guards. The man only tilted his head to dodge the blade as he kept moving. But he heard a gurgling sound as he kept moving forward, not looking back. Next, was a spear of ice flying in his direction. With a simple roll to the side, he dodged once more. However he rolled right into the direction of a massive fireball from the slightly-overweight argonian. Instead of rolling, the man lunged out of the way and heard another sound of someone in pain. But orders were orders to this soldier: stop the khajiit. Nothing else mattered.

Shenzi flicked her wrist once more in an attempt to throw another knife, yet she threw it far off to the side of the guard. With panic on her face as the guard neared her, she raised up her hands to protect herself. The guard swung his sword to cleave the damned khajiit in half. And he missed.

She rolled passed the tip of the blade and flung another knife towards his face, albeit missing. Filled with irritation and rage, he blindly thrusted his sword just to get rid of this annoyance of a being when the argonian appeared out of nowhere and tossed her to the side: taking the stab himself and grabbed the man by his throat. Yet filled with resolve and vigor, he didn't fall down or even flinch from his wound. Raising him up, he pulled the sword out from his body as Belle and Shenzi approached the two. Belle began to heal the argonian who luckily managed to not become stabbed too deep and Shenzi smirked at the guard.

"I figured for being a part of the dwemer forces, you all would have been a bit smarter." The khajiit taunted. The man tried to open his mouth to speak, to curse at that bitch of a khajiit but the second he even moved, the argonian holding him squeezed tighter on his neck. "Just look behind you, had you not been the one leading the charge blindly, maybe they would have been alive."

The argonian turned the man around to force him to see what she meant. Each of his allies had a well placed knife in their heads or throats, each one of them. He felt panic overcome his body, and began to squirm. Sadly, the argonian was much stronger than he was. "Do you realize it now? That each time we made a move it was to bait you into helping us out? You're tall, so the first man behind you couldn't see clearly enough. The second one: the fire and ice spells was to force the one to the side into its direction. To be honest I thought it was going to miss... oh, and the third one, he just appearently decided not to move out of the way. Meaning, the last knife I threw wasn't for you. But, this one is."

And once more, she killed another guard. A plain hop to reach the man and a stab. "...Gods Shenzi, sometimes, you actually scare me." The argonian stated as he dropped the corpse of the man.

Just standing there, he watched. His sister and her friends managed to hold their own against the guards. Even though he was told to stay back, he couldn't help but feel a certain way, aside from his usual fear. Too many emotions welling up in him from watching how his sister skillfully took out the guards, as well as being protected by ones not like her. A khajiit, an argonian, and an imperial. No noticable traits in the slightest between the three, and they worked in sync. And his sister alone was enough to remember, or at least recall a blocked off memory that Qara'Sion was able to put into words. That he lived under the shadows of all of his siblings. Mufasa, Lissandra, Rihana, Shenzi, Timoni, and maybe even Karrma. Not brave and capable of thought in a dangerous situation in the slightest. Too many bloody thoughts.

And he didn't want to think about them during this one moment. The dwemer, his unresolved family issues. and the infernal machine standing tall before him. Were the Gods joking with him at this moment? Bringing him fear and regret too?

"Just ignore it... that's all I can do... I want to..." He paused as he stared at the fight going on in front of him. Lowering his head as if something made him feel shame. What did he actually want? Obviously not this war, or to be fighting in it, So, what did he desire for himself?

Too many bloody, damn, questions. Too much confliction in his thoughts. Maybe staring death again in the face brought them back, but he knew if that that massive machine didn't kill him now, and they did not win this battle, someone else here would.

And now was not the time to think about all of what was in front of him.

When Vendel found Francis, he was near mortified to see the state his friend was in. The bleeding from the hole in his stomach, the cut on his arm and leg, the spear still jutting from his side. Vendel let the mace drop to the ground with a metallic clang and rushed to keep Francis from falling onto his back, supporting his neck as his head fell back and blood gurgled up in a cough that spattered Vendel's face.

"You couldn't follow me home," Vendel simmered, "You couldn't just follow me home to a life away from this and to reunite with your sister?"

Vendel debated with himself, trying to decide whether to move his friend to safety would save him or help him along in dying. He slammed a meaty hand into the wall beside him in frustration. I need a healer, he thought. Every ounce of his being oriented themselves to the preservation of Francis's life, ebbing away as it was, it was still there and Vendel wanted to keep it that way. Men were fragile things but they healed, and he once saw a man fight on without an arm before being rescued and taken back. They couldn't save the arm but they saved him. If they could do that for him, a healer could do good things for Francis who still had all his limbs.

Vendel's hand reached out for the mace before a feminine hand placed itself atop his. Vendel stopped, his eyes traveling up from fingertip to wrist, to elbow to face. It wasn't pretty, she had hard eyes, hard features, and she looked like one who was at home in rough places like this. She said something but Vendel didn't hear it until she gave his shoulder a shove and repeated herself in that desert accent of one who spoke Yoku more than Cyrodiilic, "I will help your friend as much as I can, you need only defend me and find a healer. Magic can do more things than I. Go!"

Vendel stood, grabbing the axe the dead Redguard had before having his skull pushed in. Vendel watched as the woman went to work, ripping Francis's clothing to reveal the hole in his gut and the spear that had been stabbed into him. He went back into the fray, his axe swinging this way and that, cutting bloody arcs through the air, men left dead in his wake before he saw someone. A Khajiit, the same Khajiit from before casting spells at the crab with his companions, putting up a good enough fight. Vendel hefted the axe and made his way over.

"Just rest for a moment. Despite the desire to depend on Shenzi's word, I need to regain my strength. Don't run, they will protect me... just... wait until you can stop the machine from fighting back..." The khajiit thought to himself as he clenched his hand. All he needed to do was wait... Yes, just wait.

Waiting was not the right choice for him. Some hulking nord was going in his direction. Definitely, not an enemy, but what the expression on his face was, it wasn't going to be something in Qara'Sion favor.

"You!" The Nord pointed a finger at the Khajiit, "You know how to use magic, I saw it. I need your skills, now."

Qara'Sion could only glare at the stranger before him. The khajiit actually had people he cared about to worry for, as well as his own bloody sanity to worry, and this man wanted HIS help? He was already worrying about his sister, as well as the two she traveled with for who knows how long, and some random person decided to come up to him? If they weren't willing to accept the battle, why bother fighting in the first place?

No matter how imposing the Nord was to the Khajiit, there was a certain air about him, probably felt by those looking at him. Vendel, as much as he was a fighter, a killer, the look on his face hinted at pleading. His dearest friend was hurt and may very well die if he didn't get him a healer and this Khajiit was his only hope at the moment. The Khajiit would have to trust Vendel, for the first time since the Mausoleum, Vendel was fearful, though he would never admit it to anyone else. The Nord searched his head for something to say, something to tell this Khajiit that would get him to save Francis but all he could say was, "Please."

He stared straight into the Nord's eyes as he thought his own unheard words. Even this man standing before him who could just drag him by his mane and demand for him to heal his friend....

"Fine. Take me to him and I'll heal him." The khajiit stoically said, staring with his only visible eye. In his head, nothing was making sense anymore, he couldn't think correctly, he couldn't act correctly, he couldn't even move correctly. Then again, doll's wouldn't do the correct thing without being controlled... just like him.

Vendel nodded his appreciation and led the Khajiit back to Francis, occasionally planting his axe into any enemy standing in his way. He glanced back to make sure the Khajiit was still alive as he followed him through the thick of the battle. Vendel had time to note that the rioters had created a good line of defense and managed to separate most of the guards from the Dwemer crab. Those guards unlucky enough to be caught behind enemy lines were huddled around the crab in a defensive ring, trying to fend off attacks from rioters.

Qara'Sion followed the man, with a feeling he did not recognize. Even if the man was capable of clearing a path for them safely which in fact, did give a bit of security... it felt as if... instead of running from the death around them, he was running to death. Straight to death. Moving to death...

The battlefield was not meant for this one.

As Vendel and the Khajiit made it back to Francis, Vendel saw that most of the haft of the spear once jutting from Francis was in the process of being sawn off. Vendel breathed a sigh of relief when Francis had weakly groaned and threw a limp hand at the woman treating his wounds. Vendel bit his lip at what Francis must have been experiencing.

"Have you gotten a healer? I may be able to take the spear out but without a healer he will bleed to death." She placed her hand gently next to the small hole on Francis's stomach.

Was this the man the nord wanted healed...? Obviously it was. How could it not have been when he led him over to this spot. Such a stupid question to ask himself. Sighing, the khajiit spoke aloud, "Yes, I can heal him. Tell me when to start."

"I have seen this before. Many of us have, and those who survived always had small metal pieces removed from the wound. How they got there, none of us know. I will have to extract the projectile before this healer does what he must."

She went to work, procuring a pair of thin metal tongs, slowly sinking the instrument deeper into the hole until she nodded. It was a few moments before she started to slowly bring the instrument back out from the wound, bringing a metal ball from the hole and tossing it aside, placing her hands over the wound that had begun to bleed again, nodding to the Khajiit to work his magic on the wound before she went to work pulling the spear from Francis's back.

Immediately, Qara'Sion knelt down and lifted his hands over the stranger. As soon as his hands raised over the wound, the soothing pink aura moved from his hands on to the spot where the bullet entered his body. The wound slowly began to regenerate itself, very slowly.

Another scream rang in the khajiit's ears, instantly making his head turn into the direction of the sound to his left. Once more, another man fell, yet he couldn't exactly see where thanks to the eye-patch he word. Groaning, he stopped casting the healing spell with one hand and quickly took off the eye-patch to see correctly. The dwemer crab fired it's weapon and killed another man from the looks of it. He couldn't accurately tell, but screaming and yelling were almost the only things he heard at this exact moment. He felt better knowing they weren't his sister of her friend's screams, but not too much better.

"Damnit, I wish I wasn't here right not... Dealing with the dwemer, whatever in the world that automaton is, these guards.... I probably should have gone with Zaveed, Elayna, and Reigenleif... Gods, I'd even have gone with Blade at this point than to go against that...." He subconciously spoke aloud in his moment of overwhelming stress.

Or rather, not be here at all.

"Thank you, healer." The woman said, watching as the aura slowly closed the small hole left by the projectile from the crab.

Once the hole had closed completely, she moved to turn Francis over, causing a groan to escape the Breton's lips. She wrapped her fingers tightly around the shaft of the spear she hadn't sawn off and slowly pulled it out, causing Francis to groan more and wince in his stupor of blood loss. Once the spear was pulled free she frantically motioned the Khajiit to work as blood poured forth from the wound. If they didn't stop the bleeding soon, he'd be dead. Somewhat waking from his near comatose state, Francis showed a weak smile to Qara'Sion, only one word from him before falling back to unconsciousness, "Zaveed."

A dying man. That's what he was as the khajiit believed. Regardless, Qara'Sion kept the soothing spell active, if only to ease the breton's upcoming death. Hearing the man's word: the name of one of the heroes, he shook his head once. "I guess practically everyone does expect the heroes to save them..." He lowly spoke, reminded of his conversation with the khajiit man the breton mentioned back in the desert. This one probably did too wanted the heroes to save him if he spoke Zaveed's name. It had to have been such a burden on the heroes to have so many people depend on them.

Or, did he mistake him for Zaveed? Thinking for the moment... it didn't sound as if the man was speaking for him, but calling him directly as him. He was passing out after all... so it was possible-

"Khajiit! Please, my friend, he needs help!" Qara'Sion whipped his head in the direction of the voice. Another nord covered in blood, holding up his brother by his shoulders. "He's going to bleed out, heal him!" The nord stated. And as he did, some random elven man came to him. "What are you doing wasting your time on this one dying man!? Stop that machine!"

Back and forth the two argued. All deaf to the khajiit's ears. He stopped healing the breton and held his head to block out the sounds of the yelling, the screaming, the shouting, his thoughts of his actual companions, the remeberance of his family, the panic and lastly death.

Too much, too damn much, too bloody damn much...

With a roar unheard from him ever, Qara'Sion stood straight up. "Fine! I'll damn well stop the machine by my own hand!" And the khajiit lifted his hands at an alarming rate and shot a rout spell at the dwemer crab instead of the pacify spell.

Right after he held one hand over the breton and held a hand in the direction of the dying nord. The smooth aura that once gently swayed was now shaking. It was in fact healing the two, yet casting more spells in such a success rate was taking it's toll on the khajiit.

Immediately he turned his head to the elven man, with cold eyes. "Now, go fight the crab like you wanted. It won't attack you. And if you don't right now. I'll make you fight."

The Bosmer and the Nord made to step closer at the Khajiit's threat but Vendel stepped between them. Vendel stood a head taller than even the Nord and the figure he cut was one of intimidation, looking down on the two as he hefted his axe, "You go no further."

The Bosmer scowled and backed away before rejoining the battle and Vendel gestured to the woman that had been working mundane healing techniques on Francis. Her services were not needed anymore as the worst of the wounds had been healed by her and the Khajiit's handiwork. The Redguard woman nodded back to Vendel and led the Nord and his bleeding brother to a space a few feet away, going to work and sewing up the wound after washing it off with a waterskin.

He heard not a word and only kept his eyes on the bosmer. Only his own command to fight. If he was going to be pushed to do what was "requested" of him, he would do the same. The bosmer backed off, and Qara'Sion dropped his hands as the healing was no longer needed.

"I must thank you, Khajiit. I am a man of honor, and should you need me, seek me out after this battle if you yet live." Vendel gave a warrior's nod.

"Make sure he lives then. This one does not want his efforts and time to go to waste." Qara'Sion spoke to the large nord as he ran back to his sister who was still managing to hold her own safely.

Eastern Hammerfell, North of Rihad…

Marassa reacted before she recognized what had been lobbed at the encirclement around her. Her sword was held at the ready and she had pivoted to face the threat, observing the angle of the javelin and working out that by its shallow incline, it likely was at the end of the thrower’s range. Her eyes scanned upwards for the assailant and was surprised when she saw Cub sauntering towards her, his face hard in a way she was immediately unfamiliar with; the orc always seemed to have a child-like wonder to him, an innocent that tempered his violent outbursts. What stepped before her and the others was not anything like the Cub Marassa knew, and she felt as uneasy and shocked as Marion felt.

The Redguard woman placed a hand over her mouth, staring at the javelins in recognition. When Cub spoke, it further drove the suspicion that something was horribly amiss. Marassa had never heard him speak like that, and she could not recall a time he put a man out of his misery. The thought of him being found coming out of the sea crossed her mind, the uncharacteristic action of the usually lovable orc. The khajiit paused, her frown cementing. Had she absolved Cub of suspicion on account of his open loyalty to her brother? He had always been so vocal with his intentions and his actions never conflicted with that, so what had she missed? As she stared at the orc, it occurred to her that past travelling for a few months with him, she perhaps did not know him at all. The man before her was a stranger.
And it was very unnerving.

However, this was not the time to let divisions become known. She could square aware her unease with Cub later; right now, leaving intact was priority. When Cub regarded the Breton man and asked him if he was Moon Shadow, she all but decided that he must have suffered head trauma. Whatever in Oblivion Moon Shadow was, or why Cub thought this Burkswallow was him was irrelevant, if odd.

Marion called her men off, pain spread across her normally fair features, and Harding was soon called over by one of her men looking at the spoils from the fallen man hunters. Marassa glanced at Cub before turning her attention back to Burkswallow. “He’s had a trying week, he isn’t quite himself.” She said as a way of apology for Cub’s behaviour, although Burkswallow seemed to take it in stride. The khajiit glanced at Burkswallow’s list but did not reach out to inspect it. “You’re here of your own validation, but at the behest of the Thieves Guild.” Marassa stated, staring down Burkswallow. “Either you have a different opinion of what doing things on your own accord means, or you’ve been pressed to do someone else’s dirty work. I particularly do not care.” She looked at the pirates, in particular a pair who were making a corpse do obscene things like an overlarge puppet. “My brother is always looking for people to join his silly causes. It doesn’t surprise me he roped you into it, as well.” Her gaze returned to the Breton. “If it is your aim to return back to Zaveed as soon as possible, then we have a common objective. If not, then my companions and I will find our own way. I do not care what the pirate woman says, although a ship is a welcome change from walking or riding. I’ve been doing that since Senchal.”

Movement caught the khajiit’s eye, and she espied Hralvar walking back to the camp, not in fetters or chains, but on his own accord, talking with the argonian priest he had been fighting with the day prior. It felt like a rare victory in days that had exceedingly few; her companions returned unscathed and now had what was potentially access to wherever Zaveed was hiding.

Only a few hours later, Marassa, Cub, Hralvar, Burkswallow and his companions were back on Captain Felicia Harding’s vessel, leaving their grieving captors with several dead, but perhaps a few more days of freedom. Maybe they would recover, maybe they would not. Harding had watched her crew make off with no small amount of gold, provisions, and as a boon, the finely crafted dwemer weapons they had taken from their fallen adversaries. While she regretted the deaths of five of her crew, it was a part of the job and she’d make those numbers back the next time they made port. Her mind lingered on Burkswallow’s warnings about the dwemer capability. Perhaps he was right and she needed to commit resources to stemming that tide, but tangling herself in a war that was not her plight was asking to lose everything, and Felicia Harding was a very sore loser. Regardless, she had all the way to Wayrest to figure it out, and the Corsair’s Republic would have some inkling of what other crews decided to do. Pirates were often independent and self-serving bastards, but in time of great peril, it wasn’t uncommon for them to band together.

The Breton woman leaned on the bannister forward of the wheel, staring down at the various groups on deck enjoying their evening meal as the sun’s last minutes of light kissed the horizon, bathing the sea with a brilliant hue of red and purple. Her crew, men and women of all races and creeds who fought under her flag and often died at her command, those who shared in her spoils and stories and drank with her in times of good, and times of bad sat in their social circles, drinking grog and eating dinner, a catch of fresh sea bass, corn from the mainland, and bread. Her eyes lingered on the group of visitors near the bow, an unlikely lot. In particular, the khajiit who had eaten wordlessly and reserved herself to staring at the approaching horizons, as if restless for the journey to end. If Zaveed’s words were to be trusted, and Harding often knew them to be, Marassa was a very focused woman who had a difficult time easing off from her goals. Unlike some of the others, her armour remained draped to her form, a sign she did not trust the company she kept aboard the ship.

A crewmember approached Harding, handing her a goblet of unspecified booze, from the scent a mead of sorts. The sensation of the Nordic scents combined with the khajiit’s armour took Harding back with a smile. A cat who fancied herself a Nord? Preposterous.

Still, the Breton woman had to smile as she raised her flagon to the back of the khajiit in wordless tribute, and she too turned her own gaze to the approaching horizon. It wouldn’t be long until she’d have that lot dumped off near Hegathe to find Zaveed and their other friends. It wouldn’t be long until she was going to have to give Burkswallow an answer to why he ventured aboard. Bugger.

A wicked smile crossed her features. There was more than one place to discuss business, and there were few rules, especially among pirates, that said you couldn’t mingle pleasure with it. Her cabin, after all, was plenty spacious enough for two. She’d even be finished her own drink by the time she dragged him off to extract Burkswallow’s payment for his voyage.

Hegathe, Prisoner’s Block…

“Zave-” Came the cut off cry from somewhere above, momentarily capturing Zaveed’s attention long enough to have his guard falter just enough to have the narrow edge of the scimitar bite along his arm. The khajiit hissed out in surprise and anger, half at himself and at the man who had the audacity to lay steel to him, and to whomever had caused Reigenleif to cry out to him. She wouldn’t have done that unless she were in trouble.

He wasn’t losing another person he cared for, not to oppressive, faceless bastards. Imperial Praetorians or dwemer employed city guards, both were not going to exact their tolls on him. He’d served his life faithfully to another man’s cause, 21 of the past 23 years in the crew of a corsair captain who had abducted him as a child and forced him into service. What had once been pride in his identity, a dashing brigand who answered to no one had become more and more jaded the further he got away from that old crew and aspects of his former life came seeping in like a leak in the bulkhead. The friends he had met in the two years since the Iron Reaper sunk beneath the Eastmarch waves had been truer companions and lovers than any he had ever known. He would die for any one of them.

He would also kill.

Bellowing out in rage, Zaveed pressed the attack on his assailants, forcing the man who had cut him back in a flurry of blows, his two blades outpacing his one. The jovial defensive fighter gave way to a feral, aggressive and hateful khajiit who wanted nothing more than for this man to die bleeding out in several pieces. The man tried to counter back with a well-timed thrust, exposing his arm. Zaveed’s short sword lashed out, parrying the blow across the Redguard’s torso, and Zaveed’s dagger plunged into the now exposed arm. The guard cried out in pain, especially as Zaveed removed the dagger and swept the man across the thighs with his sword, cutting deeply into his exposed flesh. He turned to raise his sword in defence to go after his second foe only to find a group of prisoners, armed with weapons from what had to have been the warren’s office, unleashing fury upon the hapless guard, taking out weeks, if not months, of abuse out on the man in a flurry of hasty, poorly timed blows. Zaveed took the opportunity to drive the point of his sword through the back of the guard’s knees, leaving him at the mercy of his former prisoners. He noticed others running around the catwalks, hastily unlocking cells and handing weapons off to the fittest of the guards. Eleyna had done her job well, then. Zaveed didn’t even spare his first foe a glance as his sword lashed out, removing the man’s head.

The khajiit bounded up the steps to the landing, heedless of the blood running down his arm. He found Eleyna tending to Reigenleif’s wounds, the Nord prone with her eyes shut. “No, no, no…” Zaveed said, hurrying to her side and lifting her back up into a semi-sitting position, his other arm across her torso. He could hear her breathing, but it didn’t look good. He looked desperately at Eleyna. “We need to get her to help. Now.” He said, lifting the Nord woman in his arms. He spoke to her prone form, trying to be reassuring without knowing if she could hear them. “You can’t die. We’d only just met.” He chuckled weakly, looking towards the stairwell ascending to the daylight above. “I’m not letting you die because I led you to this piece of shit city. I’ve taken many things, but your life will not be one of them. Please… do not let go.” He pleaded, standing and looking back at the assembling prisoners. “There’s no time to waste!” He shouted down at them. “What you do with your liberty is your own accord, but unless you arm yourselves now and act, then they will storm down here and kill all of us! We risked our lives for you, do us the same kindness and help us escape. It is up to you all to fight and rise up against these bastards, to reclaim your lives! Set this damn city on fire!”

The prisoners roared back affirmation, vengeance in their hearts. Soon, a few more who had no weapons were collecting them and armour from the fallen guards, and the group gathered at the base of the stairwell, 12 in all. They clearly weren’t numbered by capacity, as it turned out. An older looking Nord approached the trio with a respectful nod. “You’ve done us a great kindness, the three of you. I don’t know who you are, but your efforts will not go to waste. I promise. Word of what you have done will spread, I will see to that myself.” He paused. “What shall we call you?”

“Zaveed, Eleyna, and Reigenleif.” The khajiit said. Whether or not he was taking a chance on revealing their names to the man mattered little at that point; honesty met loyalty quite often. The man nodded and smiled. “Nice names for nice people. I should like to see you all again, after this is done.” He gestured to himself. “Torir.” The Nord turned to the others, his voice booming like a seasoned officer. “Alright, you bastards! We were locked up and treated worse than dogs, and we’ve been given our damn chance to show them that we’ll fight like Talos-damned dogs. I don’t know about you, but I think these dwemer-fucking shits need to learn that their masters can’t save them! Rise up! Rise up and reclaim what is yours! We’re taking our fucking city back!” he bellowed, ending with a fierce Nordic war cry. The other prisoners, including those who looked so infirm they could not walk, roared out in a cheer that was positively deafening in the enclosed caverns of the prison. It most have sounded terrifying to anyone who might have been waiting above, like the gates of Oblivion had opened and Mehrunes Dagon himself was coming for them. The Nord took position at the front, giving Zaveed one final nod. “If we should go to Sovngard today, brothers and sisters, the first round is on me! FORWARD!” he bellowed, charging up the stone steps and out of sight. Most of the others were right at his heels.

A group of six remained, walking over to the group. The chatted quickly among themselves before a nod of agreement went out. “We’ll keep you safe and hopefully keep some attention off you if you run into troubles. We’re not really fighters, but well… first time for everything, right? I’d rather die free than at the Governor’s amusement.”
As the group headed up the stairs, Zaveed walking sideways to keep Reigenleif from hitting her head on the narrow passage, the sounds of battle loomed up ahead. As they reached the cottage’s main floor, bodies already lay across the floor, a few of the prisoners among them, but surprisingly most of the casualties were the guards, who seemed to be pushed back by a deceptively well-equipped group of prisoners who outnumbered the reinforcements. Zaveed briefly caught a glimpse of the Nord he had spoken to caving in a man’s skull with laughter before he moved out of sight. He turned to Eleyna and the others.

“Shall we?”

Knife-like legs tore through a curtain of white smoke, joints groaning as they curved inwards and heaved a massive shadow to the fore. Gasps arose when it entered the light, clanking, clattering and whirring like most things forged in fire, yet displaying very animalistic traits. Small tremors rocked the earth as it advanced, in a way it gave substance to the shock and fear spreading through the crowd like poison. If they weren't gasping, they were gaping, especially all along the front line, where faces paled before their golden reflections. Thyra stood among them, wide-eyed and utterly awestruck by what they now faced, and what it meant for the greater task at hand. The first challenger, a brave but foolish man, had his innards squeezed out and onto the pavement. While his pain ended in death, the imprint it left on his countrymen would last a lifetime. After that, the front line resisted all encouragements from the rear, until that, too, disappeared entirely. As chaos unfolded, she felt weightless and battered, and then, she felt nothing.

Conscious thoughts were greeted by a painful, rhythmless ping, that battered the drums behind her eyes. They opened up to a shade of blue, too beautiful and pure for the violence wrought beneath it, and only when she turned, did the pain in her side make itself known. Ruby floors yielded when she rolled onto her front, exposing depressions in the surface and and to the woman’s everlasting shock, charred pieces of debris. It seemed the blood that felt cool when hit by air, didn't all come from the grazes along her cheek and chin. Arms, legs and other stubs were tossed about and coated in gore, smeared across the landscape like demonic paint-strokes. Beneath her nearest hand, a head in a scarf rested on its new mantle of meaty pulp. Thyra recognised the Alik’r man straight away and a wave of repulsion caused her steel nerves to shudder. She pushed upwards and away from the gore, almost frantically, only to be slammed hard against her ally’s cheek by an unseen force.

The Guard’s surprise was audible, a feeble patch of rags denied his spear the taste of spine, and a second, less tentative jab was repelled just the same. Thyra flipped over against his weight when he tried a third attempt, and grabbed the spear shaft as he stumbled. Its head landed next to hers, forcing the wielder within range of a few sharp kicks. She made wine with the children he'd never have, and accepted without shame the happiness it gave her. He sank to his knees as she rose, squeaking high notes to accentuate the pain etched in his golden face. In one fluid movement, Thyra took spear and thrust it cleanly through his neck. Arrows thwipped through the air, and in the direction they came from, she saw the two bowmen aiming for her. Yanking the spear free was like uncorking an upturned wine skin, his entire front was painted red, and the second time metal entered him, it was through slick leather with enough force to bust his heart’s cage. An idea formed as her eyes travelled the distance between the two assailants.

It astounded them, the way she dragged their comrade’s carcass on the end of a spear, turning him into a utility befitting his former job role. His feet skimmed the ground, yet all 6-feet of him still required her to bend low for protection. They looked on in disgust, judging her the same way they did all barbaric northerners, who ate and wore whatever they killed. And probably slept with them, too. They stepped towards her pensively, communicating a plan through head tilts and hand movements. One ditched his bow for a dagger and strafed right, while the other moved to await the opening his attack would create. Neither of them suspected an ulterior motive, thinking the Nord was simply desperate and incapable of perceiving strategy. When the dagger came at three o'clock, she swung her spear shaft and thrust it into the wielder's neck. As he fell, she knelt and hoisted it up high, absorbing the incoming fire from her nine. Suddenly, the corpse fell away, and the Archer was set upon by a hardwood shield charging at full speed. From his new position on the floor, he could see Thyra struggling against his dagger-wielding comrade and likened it to a wasp trying to overcome a bear. His strikes bounced off her shield, and his arm was fended away, leaving him prone to the skull-splintering uppercut she delivered.

The Archer fired an arrow into her thigh and earned a satisfying growl, but it, too, was futile. He watched in horror as the Nord wrenched it free and used it to gouge his comrade's eye. Her hand spread wide behind his head and, with a firm grip, she pushed the arrow deeper into his skull until his screams thinned out. She kicked away the Archer’s bow, stomped the dagger out of his hand and felt a split second grin clear her gloom as he crawled away on all fours. There was another weapon not far off, and he squirmed two feet over human muck to reach it, but no further. A heavy boot forced him down and pinned him there, as Thyra bent forward to retrieve her axe. He struggled to right himself the way he'd seen her do it before, but she moved with his bucks and sways and came down harder every time, forcing the wind from his lungs. He lay there dazed, and could only watch as a mighty swing brought the blade between his eyes.

The next three kills were gathered with haste as she tried to position herself near the dwemer crab. Adrenalin swirled within, she relished the thrill but it was easy to sully its edge with drops of bloodlust. In this battle, there were many situations that overwhelmed her love of it, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to lapse into a frenzy that eclipsed all logic. Her grunts acted as a counterweight, escaping in short bursts to shear chunks of flesh from unarmoured bone. They were like a dirge at each beheading. As the crush thickened and wrapped around her, the butt of her heft became a weapon, and shield-bashes formed combinations with the Gods-given two-hander that solved many disagreements in taverns and tight places. The throes of battle turned strangers into shield-siblings, and pitted the loyalties of blood against love of coin. At the center of a huddle lay the prone body of the second Alik'r warrior, which she and the now lone survivor fought their way to. Any other would see it for the waste of time it was, but for that moment she fought by his side, Thyra adopted his wants and pains as her own. She kept assailants at bay as the man knelt over his brother, gripping his blood-stained clothes, weeping openly and unashamedly. It would be the first time she'd hear the sound of his voice.

That eerie sound, of realities being torn asunder, of vorpal energies unleashed onto a virgin landscape, of forbidden forces ravaging the land, echoed and pinged with increasing frequency. She was close enough to smell foul magic on the breeze and see, through the corner of her eye, in which direction the Dwemer warmachine had aimed its functioning cannon. When it charged, she avoided the area in its crosshairs, and by Mara's grace, it avoided - for the time being - the site of her Alik'r ally, still trapped inside himself with grief. An enormous bolt of what looked like destruction magic wrapped around a dagger succeeded in peeling the cannon from one of its shoulders. She cheered as it swung loose and fell to a side, but the sight of guards tightening their defences around it turned her grin into a frown filled with curse words. It would take more than guts and a dash of stupidity to approach it now. She shifted two steps backwards after severing an opponents arm, and drove a heel into the desert-dweller's side.

"Move!" she yelled, looking over at him for a second, and not liking the image of ignorance he gave back. Thyra kicked him again, and harder, trying to jumpstart his motivation with anger but he refused to be moved.

A splash of orange appeared in a gap between the crowds, frequent enough to answer the questions that formed, and revealing such dire constraints she was left wondering if he'd gotten into the skooma. Yes, it was the sunset-coloured Khajiit. No, he wasn't with his sister, the plump Argonian or the bookish Breton, meaning something bad had happened. Possibly an eye injury. Yes, he was aiming his palm at the metallic reaper of genocide. No, it was not a good idea. Thyra hesitated before starting towards him, she looked back at the Redguard man, still wallowing in the dirt with his brother, looking much like a corpse himself. The gentle shakes of his sobbing gave assuring evidence that he wasn't... and disappointed the fuck out of her. The death of a shield-brother kept her rage alight for a fortnight at the least, this one was the complete opposite. She grit her teeth, eyes narrowed, and stormed up to him.

"Pick yourself up," she spat, crouching low when she was near enough to nudge his shoulder, "Your brothers' deaths are not worthy of vengeance." He looked to her with red eyes full of anger. "Look at the life they traded theirs to keep," she shook her head, "A waste." Thyra shoved him and pulled away. Their eyes never met a second time, and she disappeared beneath sprays of blood arcing over every hack and slash that cleared a path towards Qara'Sion.

He inhaled- and for a moment, savoured the briny air of the open sea- before exhaling again, and pacing casually over to ship's port handrails.
It had taken a few journeys, but Burkswallow felt that- at last- he'd acquired his sea legs.
Certainly, he preferred his land-legs- They were far more shapely and weren't quite as likely to be attacked by marauding pirates- but as he stared over into the fine, watery brume that encircled the vessel's hull, and slowly trailed off before disappearing somewhere beyond the ship's stern, he could certainly understand why it was mariners were so keen to hop dry land and take to Nirn's oceans.

He still thought they were utter madmen, but he understood all the same.

He might've stood there for hours, staring down at the passing blue, were it not for the sneaking suspicion that Sweeps- in another of her foul moods- might come up behind him and shove him overboard.
Furthermore, the water brought him brief peace, but he felt there was still work that needed to be done.
So- after a few more seconds- he withdrew, and threw a glance around the top deck.

Of course, just as warm mists sailed towards the stern, the bow was occupied by a colder element.
Marassa.

Burkswallow didn't much fancy pursuing a conversation with her, truly: She'd been blunt and cold with everyone she'd conversed with in front of him, and he found that immensely disconcerting in a time of war.
Hell, even Harding had been more jovial, and Burkswallow had basically come to ask for her help with nothing in return.
(Negotiations eventually did agree on a price, pirates will give you real cut-throat deals.)

But this was a time of war: And war was fought just as thoroughly on the home-ground as it was on the battlefield.
No wall with gaps would defend a city, and no force divided would fend off an invasion.
So, steeling himself, he made his approach, careful also to keep an eye out for the Orc who'd (understandably) mistaken him for a Nightingale.
"Marassa," he greeted, as warmly as one could with a solitary word, "We've got a long journey ahead. Is there anything you want to know about your brother?"

The khajiit was quiet for a few lingering moments, her eyes still locked on the horizon. "Is he in good health? I trust he hasn't found a way to have a limb amputated yet." her tone was impossible to dissern if she was joking or not.

"He was in one piece last I saw him," Burkswallow assured her, following her gaze, "Granted, that was a while ago. But he's pretty tenacious. I suppose you all are."

"We are that." She replied, finally turning her head to look at the Breton. He wasn't as soft as he initially looked. "Although, we all did what we had to do for different reasons. Mine was entirely to keep my brother alive, since I am not one to waste years of my life for something foolish. At least, something foolish that doesn't yield reward. And here I am again, in a strange land hunting for a man who should know better than to seek a glorious death." she said, tinge of bitterness in her voice.

Instinctively, Burkswallow moved his eyes to meet hers: And suddenly, the Breton found himself barely able to resist succumbing to a flinch.
For him, the eyes had always been a very important, inaudible aspect of any conversation: They betrayed thoughts, feelings and intentions, he'd always found.
That, he supposed, is why he was so good at lying.
His eyes weren't accustomed to portraying such aspects of his personality: They were his alabaster orbs, so pallid in their milky-blue hue that one may have been forgiven for presuming he was blind.
"Or a devilishly handsome falmer," he sometimes mused.

But other people didn't have such an advantage, and Burkswallow had always used that in order to craft and direct his viva voce gift unhindered.
Until now, it seemed.
He'd looked into Marassa's eyes expecting to see Zaveed's looking back at him, pools of blue which- for reasons unknown to the Breton- inspired confidence, and betrayed any attempts Zaveed might have made to ever pretend he was anything but a leader and a warrior at heart.
But instead he was thrown: Instead he saw amber.
A stranger staring back at him.

It took him a few seconds of contemplation to reply again, although his gaze never left hers.
"Zaveed seems intent to die by the sword," Burkswallow concurred, "But... I wouldn't wager on it happening any time soon. He's much, much keener to make sure other people go that way, first."
He drew the jade-green weapon Zaveed had entrusted to him, "Even if he's just enabling."
He sheathed it again.

"We'll find him soon enough," he assured her, tone certain, "I met him the first time by fortune. I'd say I'm long overdue another bout of it."

Marassa glanced at the glass scimitar, not recognizing it. She had not, after all, seen him much at all in the past two years. "He's always been very free with sharing his wealth with others. He may not think himself a good khajiit, but he's never been consumed by lust for gold. He never knew what he wanted until people started respecting him." she studied Burkswallow's face, the Breton man's features unsure of what emotion to take. It was simple for Marassa; a stoic, indifferent gaze was often most people received from her. It was no wonder why people gravitated towards Zaveed; he was much more animated and open hearted. It was asking for trouble.

"Unlike him, I've never been concerned with the welfare of others or the fates of strangers. It consumes him. It's pathetic." she said at last. "Are you certain you can find him again?"

Burkswallow considered these words for a long time, in total silence: Then, after what must have been at least a solid minute, the most peculiar thing happened.
He laughed.
He laughed, and turned his gaze back to the horizon Marassa had previously fixed hers on, until his joy slowly faded into mere breaths.
Then, he shook his head, as if in very mild disbelief, "I would've said the same, had you asked me three months ago."
He smiled a most unusual smile, unfitting of the current circumstances.
"Three months ago, I didn't care, either. I didn't care if my next hit was blind, or helpless. Just as long as I got a good rush of adrenaline and a trophy out of it, why should I have, right?"

He shook his head a second time, grinning down at the floor boards.
"And then that stupid Argonian got involved. On muscle memory I dragged her from a collapsing building, and ended up dropping a sewer tunnel on her instead. Can you believe it?"
He gestured over his shoulder, towards Sweeps, whom was leaning against a mast and peering out into the distance as though she could see some great sight invisible to any other. She was enchanted by the sea.

"And who do I end up taking her to, hoping they'll take her off of my hands? Only Zaveed and his merry band of psychos and underdogs."
He paused, and breathed in the sea air again. It relaxed him a little.
"I collaborated with them once, just so they'd help me escape Imperial City, and somehow ended up getting rounded into their little squad."

He breathed out, "But, you know, I wouldn't have changed any of it. I was some thief living life for the thrill, not a friend in sight, not that I wanted any. Now- and I'm not entirely sure why- I give a damn, and it feels great. Had things gone differently in The Skeever, Harding might've gutted me, and I went in knowing that because people I suddenly care about are on the line. I wouldn't have minded dying trying."
He slid his hands into his pockets.
"I think I see where Zaveed is coming from, there. If I'd died a nameless thief then they'd have exhumed my corpse from the palace and then buried me in a shallow grave. No great final battle, no charge into Sovngarde. But when you've got friends to die for, death in battle doesn't seem so bad. Better to burn out than fade away."

He lingered on this thought for a moment.
"I'm not certain of anything. These're uncertain times, and my luck isn't fantastic these days. But I'm confident we'll find him again. And if not, I've people I can turn to for help."
Some dulcet tone in his mind's eye made a small noise of curiosity.
"But I should hope it doesn't come to that."
Hmph.

The khajiit blinked at Burkswallow's sudden burst of joviality. "Maybe you're right. I had someone to care about." she said, pausing. "I don't think I was ready to let that go."

Marassa followed Burkswallow's gesture towards the argonian woman, utterly at home aboard the ship deck. She kept her eyes upon the woman as Burkswallow explained his own connection to Zaveed. It did explain a lot; Zaveed was rather good at finding people in times of crisis. It helped he also appeared to have a plan, even if he was as clueless as the next man.

"Nothing is worth dying for." she said simply. "Everyone I know who thought of a reason did so without changing a thing other than removing themselves from a world that could have used them a bit longer. Or not." She looked back at Burkswallow. "Burning out or fading away, or however colourfully you want to put it, ends up the same. A void where nothing can be changed." she caught the hesitancy in his voice. "Your thieves guild associates?" she asked.

Burkswallow took that excuse happily, and nodded the moment she made the suggestion.
"The very same," he said, "I'd rather not go to them, though. Slimey dogs," he laughed again.
Then, he shrugged lightly, "And, you can think of it however you like, I'm not here to change your mind. But at the end of the day, men like me- thieves and those who pray on the weakness of others- we don't really have anything to contribute to this world, not really. Not as we are."
He withdrew his hands from his pockets again, and used one to sweep a stray strand of hair behind his ear, "This world doesn't need us as thieves. But as people willing to die for the sakes of others who actually deserve to live? Well, I think that's a damned fine way to go out."

He turned his gaze skyward, "I'd rather go into that void screaming and chasing the souls of wickeder men than slip into it quietly, in the dead of night."
He grinned lightly, "Ironic, coming from a thief."

"You actually believe you and the others are going to change anything?" Marassa asked impassively. "Just watch. The world will continue on, regardless of what you do. The flow of a river may be diverted, for a time, but it always ends where it was meant to go." she turned her gaze back to the ocean before her. "The sooner you accept that this is a futile fight and the only thing that matters is the people you care for, then the sooner you will come to terms with the fact that you don't owe the world anything. You're starting to sound like my brother."

He seemed no less jovial to hear this. He simply followed her gaze again, back out to sea, smiing still.
"No, of course we won't change anything, O` hero of Tamriel," he chimed, softly, light heartedly.
"I don't care if we change anything. I don't care if I die and they dump my body into the sea. At least I fought for something, a cause bigger and more important than I was. For once in my life, the right cause."
He nodded, "Mhmm. And maybe sounding like Zaveed isn't such a bad thing, either. He's giving some people hope. Regardless of whether you think it's in vain, real hope is something that lasts until the last breath."

"Hope doesn't keep you sheltered and fed. Hope gives you false ideas that are crushed by advanced armies who violently will take everything you've ever cared for from you. You say you don't care if you die, but I assure you, you will." she turned back to look at Sweeps. "You care about her, do you not? Will throwing your life away bring her anything but grief? And what if she perishes following your lead? Will that be a worthy cause?" Marassa shook her head, something akin to sorrow creeping across her features. "I don't think Zaveed really understands what he's asking of people, or really understands that the people he holds close to him will die if he keeps the way he plans. There's no future in a grave, and for what? To kill a few foot soldiers?"

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, Marassa, but... that advancing army is coming whether we have hope or not. It's hope that's giving us the strength to rise up and attempt to fight back. If we all shared your outlook, we'd all be buried under the ruinous streets of Imperial City."
He traced her gaze to Sweeps, and at last a frown etched its way into his features.
"I care about her, certainly. Just as I do any of my friends... but this isn't about me, Marassa. Is it selfish to not care about my own mortality, if I feel as though I'm risking myself to make the world better for her? For Vingard? Hell, even for Bethalda, the moody old cow."
He shook his head, "I don't think so. You can't convince me it is. Besides..." he smiled a weak, sad smile, "You don't know me and Sweeps very well, but seeing me get mutilated may very well make her day. We're chaotic that way."

He turned back to face Marassa, "And she doesn't follow my lead, at least not like you think she does. I involuntarily gave her the chance to escape a life of servitude and take up another of adventure, and she's taken to it like a fish to water. If she grows frightened, she's free to leave. In fact, I... have been considering encouraging it, for some time."

He sighed, and leaned against the ship's rail again, staring once again into the water.
This time, it was not so therapeutic.
"You realise that what you say to me today makes no difference, I trust? You can invalidate me as a man, as a soldier, as any significant contribution, and tomorrow I will still rise ready to fight. And I will do so because I saw Imperial City burn, and I don't want to see it ever again."
He drummed his fingers against the wood, "I haven't always been so willing. As I said before, I only intended to join Zaveed for a short spell... but this feels important. This is something I care about, whether I'm confident or otherwise."
He frowned again, "You die eventually. There's the chance I'll die very soon. And I'm comfortable with that because I feel as though this is a cause worth dying for. Are you so keen to strip that away from me?"
He locked eyes with her again, "Because you can take that confidence, and I'll still go to meet my maker. But I'll be small. And afraid. Is that much better?"

Marassa was quiet for a time, pensively reflecting on a distant memory. "You are who you are. Nothing more, nothing less. I do not attribute people to titles. I have known good soldiers, I have known bad. I have known thieves with morality, some who would take from those who have nothing. People cannot be so easily attributed to mere titles." she paused, drumming her fingers on the bannister, her claws clicking on the wood. "You do know that had Zaveed, myself, and the other so-called Heroes of Tamriel failed to stop the Emperor and his spell, Tamriel wouldn't have become ravaged by war and would be united against this new threat? Perhaps even the dwemer would have become enthralled. The thousands of dead can't speak for themselves, but they would be able to had we failed. One man tried to stop war by removing people's will to wage it, and he was overcome. Nothing he did mattered in the end, just like this storm. Either it will be weathered and pass, or it will overcome us all. What individuals do rarely matter in the end. Eventually, Emperor Felix Mede would have died of old age, and with him, the spell, most likely."

The khajiit looked over at Burkswallow. "How you expend your life is up to you. I gave up the man I loved so he could survive and return to a family that needed him more than a dead war hero. I may very well die; it matters not. I am here because the only person I care for who is left is still in danger, and if I can keep him from meeting his end foolishly once more than that is enough. I just don't delude myself with notions of grandeur. Absolutely nothing any of us will change a damn thing. If it comforts you to think you're going to make a difference before you die, then that is your right as a man. It does not make it any more correct, Burkswallow. The sands of time will wash over you, and in time, everything you've ever tried to accomplish will erode into the sands of time itself. Forgotten."

The thief contemplated this for a moment, and then turned to Marassa with a neutral simper.
"Everything is forgotten, that's true... so I guess it really doesn't matter either way, does it?", he straightened up.
"Everything I've ever tried to accomplish will erode into the sands of time..." he recited, folding his arms behind his back.
He turned, so that he was facing in the opposite direction, and stood at her side.
"You know what? I can only hope."
He chuckled, dryly.
"It's been nice speaking with you, Marassa. Moreso than, and in ways, I fear you'll ever really understand."
He contemplated clapping her shoulder, and then dismissed the idea, "I'll see you around."
Burkswallow bowed his head lightly, politely, and then walked off, to appreciate the sea from the vessel's other side.

"She's right, of course," his misleadingly soft spoken, totally venamous patroness cooed, "You are, naturally, going to die a pointless death, my dear Melancholius. And history will remember you for nothing."
"Thank you," Burkswallow replied aloud, "I care little for the critiques of daedra. I've started to think you get such a bad press just because of your piss poor people skills."
"I can change that, you know. You can go down in history as a Nightingale: A living shadow to fulfill my bidding."
"Thanks, no thanks."
"Perhaps I'll offer it to that Marassa girl, then... I like her a lot. So jaded."
"If I won't obey you, how likely is she to?"
"A good point made by a fool. Miracles do happen. Perhaps your luck is changing."
"It's not."

The khajiit watched Burkswallow go with a sad shake of her head. The man was foolish, idealistic to a fault, not unlike a new convert to a faith he'd been neglecting his entire life; the Cult of Zaveed. Still, in a way she admired him for his candor, his conviction. It took a lot for a man to give up his old ways for a cause above himself, and it was respectable, in a way. Was that not what Sevari's father did? The old general likely gave his life to buy his estranged son time to escape. Had Marassa truly not cared like she vocally professed, she would have likely given up hope of Sevari's survival when the Thalmor had claimed him. Perhaps it was that same sense of hope that propelled her from the safety of the Dominion and her life to rejoin her brother in yet another fool's quest, something she was certain would result in death. But if she truly believed that, why did she come? She didn't owe Zaveed her life, not anymore. So why rush to his aid? Why save Sevari, a man who chose another woman over her?

Because she loved them. That's all there was to it. The dwemer would succeed, or they would fail. Whatever result occured then didn't matter, so long as the people she cared for were kept safe. Was it not the same thing that drove Burkswallow, even if his affections weren't quite the same? Nobody risked their lives for others without caring. The only difference was the scale.

She knew that the reason she fought was to reach a point where she no longer needed to, where she could set down her sword for good and carry on with life. A thought gripped the khajiit; what if the only reason she kept joining these fruitless expeditions was because there was nothing else for her? No family, no friends. An empty home with little warmth.

It was no wonder why she soughtought the battlefield. It was the only way she felt alive.

"I suspect there's more we can learn from each other yet, Breton." Marassa whispered to Burkswallow's back, as she saw the fire-haired Breton captain approach him, predatory lust dripping from her like burning embers.

Burkswallow sighed irritably, as his Daedric mistress spoke further.
"I could make it change," she suggested, in the same tone a merchant might say the phrase 'But for you? I'll cut you a deal!'
"At my say so, every lock you pick could surrender without even the slightest resistance; Your 'gift of the gab' will flow like the mead of a Nord's household, and guards in every city will find themselves strangely preoccupied as you loot to the content of your wicked little heart."
"Tempting."
"See?"
"Still no."
"... you are the most irritable and ungrateful little mongrel, Melancholius. I have offered you powers other thieves only dream of."
"Then pick one of them, leave me alone."
"Why do you refuse me, still? Do you not realise what an asset a Nightingale would be to this war?"
He hesitated, then grimaced. She had a point.
"And of course, you will have your gifts to lend! The winds would blow in your favour, not that of the dwemer."
"... you can't promise that."
"Can I not? Am I not she, lady luck?"
He gritted his teeth.
"I've no interest in being your slave."
"Slave! Oh, how ghastly a word. You would be my servant."
"Surprisingly not that comforting."
"Must we bicker still? You spoke with heart and soul to that khajiit: You said you were willing to die for this war. But you are not willing to deal with me?"
"Would you be offended if I called you a fate worse than death? You're a fate worse than death."

The two lapsed into silence.
"You are a very selfish man, Melancholius. They'll burn, and it will be on your head."
"Of course I'm selfish, I'm a thief."
"Oh? Did you not just tell her that you were a soldier?"
"Not your soldier."
"No... no, indeed not."
"Why are you still pursuing me, anyway? There must be hundreds of thousands of better thieves out there."
"Because I refuse to be beaten by a mortal with an attitude. You will bow your knee to me and you will do so willingly, by the time your moment-long life has ended. It is your destiny, and my desire."
"Oh, well in that case," Burkswallow perked up, "Bite me."
"I needn't. At the rate you're going, you'll soon do yourself harm."
"Let me make this clear, once and for all. I'll wear the armour, but I will never- never- give you my soul. I didn't run from a life of bureaucracy to live the life of a servant. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
"Will you leave me be, then?"
"Never."

The Breton balled his hands into fists, clenching them tightly. Then, he exhaled again.
"Well this has been lovely, will you leave me be?"
"That is not your choice to make. But I can see, today, negotiations are poor."
"So you're electing to leave?"
"I am choosing to remain quiet. Lest you throw a fullblown temper tantrum."
"And why do you care about that?"
"I do not intend to recruit a manchild."
"Maybe I should throw that tantrum, then..."
"We will speak again soon, Melancholius. Very soon."
And with that, Burkswallow found his mind free of Nocturnal's influence, at least for now.
Silence settled, like a fine mist of relief.
He sighed, contented with this, and rubbed his forehead.
"Well isn't everyone just a regular ray of Magnus today?"

"Talking to yourself, I see." Harding said as she approached Burkswallow with a mischievious grin. "I always figured you were a bit daft to be a thief, but it has an appeal to it. You can never be quite certain when you're being used, can you?"

Burkswallow fought back a frown: Of course, of course somebody had overheard him.
"Nine damn it, Nocturnal."
She laughed, cruelly.

Hegathe Barracks…

Wets-His-Blade’s reconnaissance, as luck would have it, went unnoticed by the three men in the upper floor. A well-furnished penthouse with no small amount of displayed art, fine rugs, and all manner of weapons and mannequins displaying elaborate sets of armour were laid out before Blade’s eyes. It was clear that Captain Ismal Doshin lived well outside of the means of your average Hammerfell citizens, doubtless enjoying the fruits of his partnership with the dwemer authority. He stood at the ready in scaled armour and a gold accented saber at the ready. With him were two men in heavy plate armour, chainmail veiled helms, and armed with kite shields and maces, both of dwemer make. All had their attention fixed on the locked door that evidently descended below.

After looking around the room, Blade will have noticed a forth figure, an upset looking man holding a ceramic mug in both hands, as if his life depended on it.

“There’s just the one man?” Captain Doshin asked, not unkindly, to the seated man. The man drank from the cup and nodded once.

“A single argonian, but he was skilled… he killed the men at the gate with ease. I know you left your best fighters as guards, Captain, but I do not know if it was enough.”

The captain seemed to give this no small amount of thought. “Very well, Kael.” One of his bodyguards stepped forward. “I need you to scout the lower barracks and see if you can’t find this assailant. Lock the doors behind you and exercise extreme caution; you may be one of the best fighters in the city, if not the entire province, but I do not want you to take any unnecessary risks. Now go.”

“Yes, captain. I will be diligent in my search.” He said, removing a key from a waist pouch as he approached the door.

“Kael, one more thing.” Captain Doshin called to his guard’s back. The man paused before he inserted the key into the hole.

“Kill on sight. No prisoners.”

The man nodded, a barely noticeable gesture behind the heavy veil, and soon the guard was through the door. Captain Doshin watched his man leave, confident in his own ability as a warrior, as well as his remaining bodyguard. Kael was a master of battle, a veteran of the Alik’r and one of the most ruthless bandit killers Doshin had the pleasure to employ. There was no reason to doubt his capacity in a fight.

The Captain turned around and immediately noticed something; the balcony door was ajar. He knew he had personally secured it when the alarm went out and a sinking feeling opened into the pit of his stomach. The killer was in the room.

“Show yourself!” He called out, brandishing his blade. His bodyguard took up position behind him, shield and mace at the ready. The receptionist leapt to his own feet, looking around uncertainly with his own blade. “Are you here to kill me, argonian, all alone? Is it your wish to perish in this room? Don’t be shy! What is it that you want, assassin?”

Deep in the bowels of the ship, the dreary, leaky dark of the ship, amid the food stores and plundered cattle sat Cub and Shavie. Harding might have objected to allowing such a beast on her ship though which one was anyone's guess. In the dim below, Cub toyed with the dagger, turning its cool silver over again and again in his hands. This was it, this was his tool. A gift from the Stronger.

Cub had never thought much about morality. Cub had never thought much about anything really. Zhaveed knew what to do, Cub did it. Simple, really. Why did the rest of the world need to complicate things so much? When the strong speak, the weak obey. When the weak obey, they are strengthened for it. We live and die for each other.

They were Heroes. Statues and everything. They led by example, they showed strength in the face of danger and the weak were inspired. They stood between the spear and the masses and lived.

Cub climbed in the mouth a dragon so his friends would live!

...If everything is so simple, why is it all so complicated?

...

Cub missed Zhaveed.
Zhaveed understood.
Zhaveed never asked Cub what he thought.
Zhaveed knew the burden of strength...

Cub continued to toy with the blade in his hands.
It was all too much. Too much. Too much! Too much noise! Too much thinking!

RAUAUUGHHH!!

Cub yelled in frustration and hammered his fist against the wooden beams benath him.

"ONE! We live together. We die together. Zhaveed's tribe is my tribe. This is the rule!"

Again, cub pounded his fist against the wood.

"TWO! The Strong protect the Weak. They carry their burdens and are made stronger for it. This is the rule!"

Again a large gauntlet emphatically hammered the ship.

"THREE! The Strong challenge the Weak! Without outside danger, the Strong must test the Weak. This is the rule!"

A final time Cub smashed his gauntlet then removed it from his hand and drew the silver blade along his palm.

"These the Rules of Cub the Outcast as witnessed by Malacath, Pariah God and Patron of All Orcs. Sealed in bloodoath, I will uphold these rules and die a good death. "

Then silence.

Seething to himself, Cub sat a long while in the dark.

Shavie, unflinching, merely stood beside him in the dim below, his ragged breathing matching Cub's own.

"Shavie."

"Shavie, I'm going to go test the Moon Shadow now. If he's strong, he'll take us to Zhaveed."

"Shavie."

"I'm going home."

17 Rain's Hand, Helgathe

And the Riot rages on...

Not many leather-clad skirmishers chose to take on a fast-moving Nord covered in steel, but despite their dwindling presence beyond the bind, there were always a few daredevils seeking the nectar good warriors thrived on - a challenge. In her, they found one worthy of Tsun’s attention. That’s if Sovngarde were open to mutant-worshipping heathens who were spat out by a country that killed itself to escape them. Perhaps that was too harsh a judgement, Skyrim, as well, had been founded through conquest and expansion.

The dome of silver on her arm dealt blows not unlike a stone bludgeon. Her arm was well trained to withstand the abuse, it could extend and retract, travelling with the blows or bracing against them. They were exceeded thrice over in speed by an axe that never knew rest, enacting a blood hunt that was as unrelenting as it was brutal. The parts of an axe not normally used, were assigned functions, and the parts most utilized, were done so in creative ways. She conveyed an intimate knowledge of its curves; the heel that formed a third first; the pointed chin which, at times, was both arrow and spear; the curl of a deadly smile that had kissed many necks and hearts.

Two paces before her delivery of an almost nonchalant chop to a woman’s neck, Thyra was kneeling over a man and hammering the pommel into his forehead. By his side lay the blade he had pulled from the chest of a rebel fighter, and as Thyra lay eyes upon its crimson coat, anger swelled within her heart, for she knew it belonged to a fellow Son of Skyrim. His forehead collapsed, and the hole joined with his eye sockets and was made wider. With a slight flinch, she yanked her axe from the wench’s windpipe and swiftly pushed on.

Through gaps in the crowd, Thyra could see the cat at work, both hands held over two prone bodies, exuding beams of light one could almost feel. It was an enriching glow that was tender on the eyes, despite its brightness. Thyra gave a small smile without knowing or meaning to, as her mind slipped into memories pre-dating the Auroras. She had felt that light before, it was an energy sanctified by the caster’s selfless act, something Qara’Sion was now performing. Shadows formed between his brows, the struggle was clear.

At her far right, the Dwemer crab waged an inner battle against whatever effects the Khajiit had thrown at it. New problems grew to replace those that were removed; guards jumped in when it retreated, barring any attacks on it as it fled. Then in a twist of irony and misfortune, they were crushed as it shied away from new threats at the rear. Within those chaotic few seconds, no one knew how to come within striking distance without dying. Thyra was willing to try.

A hint of concern was all it took to stay her hand a moment longer, chewing her bottom lip, she rolled her eyes and turned to check up on the sunset-coloured Khajiit. He hadn’t fled, hadn’t turned himself invisible, or into a braver version of himself. His back faced her and his head was turned sideways, mirroring the posture of the juggernaut he spoke up at. Thyra felt her eyes widen, her head cocked backwards, and the axe almost slip from her fingers, as a pang of disbelief gripped at her. For one who has been mistaken for a large man, herself, it should not come as a surprise that a fellow Nord exceeds such norms. But it did, and she had probably stared longer than what was considered appropriate. The cat’s safety was assured, Nine be praised, and may she forever loathe herself for caring.

Mind trickery was foul, however, its effectiveness in evening out the odds could not be ignored. Running into the fray, Thyra pushed her allies ahead and pulled men by their collars into position, pointing out the way to go. Their first task was an easy one. While the creature was spooked, the guards stumbled to avoid its path and were easily impaled on rebel spears, if not clipped by swords swooping in. Roaring with battle-glee, Thyra swung three wide strikes at a swordwoman’s right side, feigned overhead, then spun around to hit the left side of her ribcage. The guard listed, sword arm flying to her open wound, then stumbled over on a knee. Thyra nudged the woman upright with her shield, and put all her might into the fatal blow that almost halved her skull like a golden walnut.

To make use of the minute, they needed to impede the crab’s movement before the spell wore off. Thyra whistled loudly, calling to the nearest two-hander handy, a familiar face that looked more certain of his warhammer than he originally was.

“Take out the legs, make it kneel,” her lips formed a sneer around that last word. There was so much hatred in her eyes, she could feel flames building a wall where tears once threatened to jump. She twirled her axe and looked to the opposite flank, at the ranged units continually prodding the beast with bolts and arrows, drawing its damaged staff away from the phalanx slowly approaching its front. Thyra wanted to feel that tube shudder then yield below her axe. The young two-hander gathered three men on his way, as instructed they concentrated on its two hind legs, taking turns at striking the joints and pulling away. When the spell wore off, its vigour returned, and often it would threaten to turn on the blunt force team but be stopped halfway by a bundle of spears suddenly assaulting its chassis. The three teams alternated, and Thyra kept an eye on the staff between stints at the front line, slashing at the guard resistance that met them there.

With less and less cohesion, the Guard force fighting the rioters had been beaten back against all odds, their line cut in half with one half being beaten back and on the verge of routing and the other forming a defensive circle around the crab, trying to rein it in, but failing. The effects of the Khajiit’s spell would not last for much longer, as Dwemer machinery are naturally more resistant to spellcraft and only the most capable mages are able to exert control or manipulate automatons. The Guard force ceased trying to rally around the crab and instead formed something akin to a mob, no commander to lead them since the last one had taken an arrow to the throat. The guards put up a worthy fight, barely pushing back any probing attacks from spearmen and losing little to no comrades to arrows. Finally, after a few minutes, one of them took charge and they formed a defensive square, offering spears, swords, maces and axes hidden behind strong shields and arrayed in strong flanks to the rioters. Even in such a small number, the otherwise loosely organized rioters will not be able to break the formation without any leadership to coordinate an attack. As it stands, the formation can not make any movements to rejoin their brethren on the other side of the throngs of rioters.

The crab, meanwhile has since shrugged off the effects of the Khajiit mage, having already impaled two rioters on spear-like tips of the thick alloy legs. A group of five rioters made to prod at the thing to get it to back itself into a corner like they had been when the thing took to running rather than fighting, but now in its reverted state the rioters would have done well to make like the crab. The advice was not given and the crab took two in its mighty claws, crushing their skulls with little effort and throwing them aside before a claw snapped the head from a spear and then brained its owner. In its less normal state, the crab’s arm-guns had been dismantled by fierce warriors who challenged it, and now the only weapon it had were its legs, the claws on the ends of its two arms and the large cannon. The rioters were in too close a proximity for the crab to fire and it was designed to attack the clearest threat to itself when not being controlled by a Dwemer. The most immediate danger came from the rioters closest to it and it wasted no time in caving in skulls, crushing ribcages and impaling rioters on its legs, shaking them off after and discarding them like broken toys.

Not satisfied with staying outside of the fight, Vendel hefted his axe and strode into the fray. A raised fist and a warcry rallied a few stray Nords who found themselves farther from the snow than most expected them to be. A few Redguards added their weapons to Vendel’s mob and the mountainous Nord, beard and face caked with old blood cut through with a furious smile bellowed one command, “form a spearhead!”

The rioters that had put themselves under Vendel’s command did as he spoke and they arranged themselves into a shape resembling the head of the piercing weapon. Vendel knew the quicker the rioters dealt with the guards the quicker the danger to Francis and the Khajiit would be over. Vendel smashed his axe’s head into the nearest shield and a sharp tug halved the wooden barrier away. Another mighty swing split the man from shoulder to sternum. Vendel booted the Redguard off of his axe with a sickening wet noise and the flesh tore away from steel. A cacophonous battlecry escaped Vendel’s lips at the fray began. The flank he and his small force were attacking began to waver and retreat. Sensing the strategic disadvantage he and his men would be at should he press further on heedlessly, he ordered his men to withdraw and regroup.

Vendel, unknowingly, put his men into the path of the crab as it charged straight through his little formation. The men and women in his group were barreled over and returning to their shaky feet with head wounds of varying urgency or had been skewered by the spearing legs. Vendel saw that it was heading straight to Francis’s comatose body and the Khajiit healer who was busy focusing his magicka on his other patients. The woman that had helped to heal Francis had only enough time to scream before she was swatted aside by the metal arms of the crab. Vendel found anger boiling up from deep inside him as the soulless machine charged straight for Francis, hurt one who had helped his dear friend and would kill the Khajiit he’d come to hold the slightest amount of camaraderie towards. This would not do.

Along with the archers loosing arrows at the crab and the pikemen prodding it before it tired of the jabs from the steel-tipped sticks, Vendel let out a roar and led his men in a charge lending the aid of his men to theirs. He managed to intercept the crab on its way to the Healer Khajiit and Francis. Vendel’s axe pounded against the armored joint of one of the crab’s legs with all his might, slightly denting the metal while two others did the same to the other legs. He pressed on with his attack before the crab turned around and made to grasp his head in its crushing grasp. Vendel stepped back and instead of his skull, the iron haft of his Redguard-style axe was offered in place as Vendel took a few steps back. The crab, in a display of its mechanical strength, bent the iron haft before it fell in two pieces. It charged once again before the Nord with the wounded comrade from before charged, wrapping his arms around one of the machine’s legs.

Muscle heaped itself into granite balls on the Nord’s arms and his powerful legs and back worked at the foolish hope of toppling the machine. To the Nord’s credit, the endeavor gave the crab pause and to Vendel’s surprise, the crab’s legs skidded across the stone, losing traction. Muscles bunched and veins bulged in the Nord’s frame as his feet continuously skipped and then caught, skipped and caught in his struggle to keep the crab away from his comrade. Vendel saw the mace still laying by the dead guard near Francis and rushed towards it, scooping it up in a large hand. Long strides brought him back to the crab and the Nord and a powerful leaping strike brought the sounds of metallic clatter and hissing to Vendel’s ear. Another strike dented the alloy plate in a bit further.

The Nord that had been wrestling at the other leg was finally thrown clear as the crab turned its attention back towards Vendel. The big Nord stepped back, swatting away an arm with a powerful swing of the mace. Another swing to the base of the arm brought the same sounds and a small jet of steam poked itself out of the joint at the base of the arm. Vendel was too concentrated on his battle to know that the phalanx that had been prodding at the crab, as well as his own men, had diverted themselves to fighting the encroaching guards that had been cut off from the main force. Even so, Vendel and the other Nord fought on. Another powerful strike with all of Vendel’s strength bent the already wounded leg more crooked before shook and then snapped under the weight, causing the crab to topple onto its side. The other Nord stepped back, but not fast enough to avoid being speared through the side, lifted and thrown into the mass of guards behind the rioter’s line.

The bleeding projectile caused some confusion in the Guard’s small force, allowing the rioters to capitalize on the few moments of distraction and overwhelm the formation, killing and incapacitating some of the guards before the few that realized they were losing threw down their weapons in surrender. As they did so, there seemed to be a few moments of unspoken deliberation between the rioters on what to do. Show mercy after they had rightfully defeated their opponent or take their lives as payment for wrongs done at the hands of Dwemer invaders in the early days of the occupation. They chose the latter, adding more blood to the tiny lakes and rivers in the stone and earth of the street.

On the rioter’s main defensive line, they’d managed to hold back the guard force and pick off a few guards every so often long enough to actually make a large dent in their number. Noticing that they hadn’t been able to gain much ground and the long fight sapping away at their morale, the guard force’s line routs and escapes back into the streets. The day seems to be won until the rest of the rioters notice that the crab is still operational. The crab’s cannon swiveled to the mass of rioters converging on it, but before it can fire, Vendel hopped onto the crab and jammed his mace into the large tube in its hull before jumping clear and crawling away as fast as he could. A click unheard over the yells and screams of the rioters was all the warning the masses had before those standing closest to the crab were burned away or punctured and opened by shrapnel from the explosion.

When the smoke and dust settled, the crab lay motionless, its hull blown outwards and half-missing. The rioters stood in silence then, disbelief. Quiet, tired disbelief. Vendel himself stood back up, breathing heavy. He offered no words of his own, just gave the crab a few seconds of his gaze before moving over to Francis and letting his back slide down the wall to sit beside his friend. Some rioters stayed in the area to loot the dead guards of their armor and weapons to stow away for later while others just tiredly shambled off back to the streets, dragging their weapons behind them, unsure of what to do with themselves. The day had been won, it seemed, but there were no cries of victory for it could barely be called that as Vendel took count of the dead on the field. There were more rioters laying with lifeless eyes than guards but in a fight like this, Vendel knew that a pyrrhic victory was the best they could hope to achieve. Untrained, unarmored rioters fighting better armed guards. If one of them had told Vendel that they were going to win the Nord would have laughed in their face. But here he was, next to his friend that still breathed despite otherwise being lifeless thanks to the Khajiit next to them.

The only words from Vendel’s mouth were to the Khajiit, “If you know the Heroes of Tamriel, take me to them. It is a pressing matter. If you do not, I thank you for your services and will take my leave from your presence.”

The sound of revolution was truly deafening, in more ways than just the physical.

A cacophony was arising within the stone confines of the subterranean prison, bouncing off the walls with such vigor that Elayna's ears rang with it's strength. The rebels were arming themselves, as she and a gravely concerned Zaveed had to tend to Reigenleif. There was something in the Khajiit's voice, which was falling upon still ears, that the Breton hadn't truly believed to hear from their fearless, savage leader. The man who had just carved others to pieces was now carrying so much frustration and emotion on his tones that Elayna felt...well, moved, if there was no better term. As his gaze met hers, and he told her what she already knew they had to do, it'd finally clicked. Her comrade's life was in the balance. And if they were to survive this ordeal, then there could be nothing that would stop them.

From the mass of rebels, after the guards below had been quelled, a large Nord man who called himself Torir, approached them and asked their names. Zaveed obliged in truth. Aliases wouldn't really help them now, it seemed. After their brief introduction, Torir rallied his people with a vitalizing speech, leading them into battle above. With a few lulling behind to lend them aid, Elayna smiled a genuine smile. She knew that she would only be able to buy time for Zaveed to get Reigenlief away if they were to run into trouble alone. Some back-up was more than welcome in the streets that had to have gotten more chaotic since the morning.

With Zaveed cautiously caring Reigenleif, the group ascended the stairs to find bodies all across the floor of the cottage, with not as many rebels among them as Elayna originally expected. It was a grisly sight, but Elayna had to steel herself; A misstep could cost her life. Their new friend Torir was gleefully bashing in a guard's skull when Zaveed turned to them after they were away from the eyes of the guard. Shimmering frost, paltry though it was in the desert heat, dripped from the alchemist's palm.

"Of course. Lead on."

Unsurprisingly, Shavie remained silent. The braying, the chomping, such unnecessary indulgences replaced with stoic calm. It was the same freedom Cub sought, freedom from thought, from choice. And here it was in his grasp, as close the hairs on the Moon Shadow's head. He would test him. Break him if need be. The Moon Shadow would take him to Zhaveed, in open arms or open wounds. Raising from his vigil in the bowels of the ship, Cub creaked across the wavering boards, jostled by the sea and his stride alike. Removing his gauntlets, Cub rested them on a nearby crate which acted as a rudimentary nightstand. His fingers free from such metallic constraints, Cub began the task of loosening his Dwemer fangs, easing the misshapen metal from his large form. Crevices of deep red covered his green chest, reminders of a battle over a lifetime ago and the slaying of Nirn's last dragon.

Unarmored, he would meet the Moon Shadow on equal terms. Cub turned once more to Shavie. "Watch my things, I'll need them when we land. Zhaveed will need us." With a final breath to steel himself, Cub ascended the many stairs toward the deck.

Meanwhile, Hralvar had been in the mess, nursing a pint of grog. Not long after they had boarded the ship, Marassa had told him of Cub's sudden change in personality, as well as some kind of nonsense he had spouted about a Moon Shadow to that Breton they'd met back in the Imperial City. And that idiot Burkswallow had even encouraged this lunacy, claiming that he was whatever in Oblivion Cub thought he was. If it weren't for the fact that Cub's mule had been changed as well, Hralvar would probably have no clue what was going on.

As it was, though, Hralvar had snuck into the hold once when Cub had left to inspect Shavie, who had rapidly changed in temperament ever since the bandit camp, much like Cub himself. Under ordinary circumstances, the old Nord would have thought that the mule was only gelded, but that wouldn't explain Cub's change. The problem was that the old mage could feel unnatural Daedric magic influencing Shavie. After all, how could he not, when he was so familiar with summoning atronachs, which were Daedra themselves? Hralvar had searched Cub's things for any Daedric artifacts that he suspected the lad possessed, but he could find none. So either Cub had managed to hide one of the smaller artifacts on his person, or he somehow didn't possess one. Malacath was the most likely Daedric Lord that Cub could have possibly communed with, being an Orc, but Cub's warhammer was definitely not Volendrung.

Decades ago, Hralvar had researched into the Daedra and their artifacts while he had been studying the art of Conjuration, and he was quite familiar with the descriptions of the known Daedric artifacts. In fact, the old Nord would swear to his dying day that he had seen Emperor Titus Mede II wielding Goldbrand back in the Battle of the Red Ring during the Great War. But Malacath's only known artifact was Volendrung, so it had to be one of the other Daedra. Cub wielded no other weapons besides his warhammer, so the larger weapon artifacts were out of the question. That only left a number of possibilities. Thankfully, a number of them could be ruled out on account of Cub being Cub. Hermaeus Mora would have no interest in a simple, brutish lad like Cub. Unfortunately, though, most of the more benign artifacts were out of the question as well. It was out of the question for Azura to favor an Orc over a Dunmer. Mephala? Nocturnal? Also just as unlikely. That only left two artifacts that Cub could possibly keep on his person at all times. The Ring of Namira and Mehrunes' Razor.

"...Shit." Hralvar groaned, taking a large swig of his grog. He didn't know what would be the worse one: Cub being a cannibal or being under the influence of Mehrunes Dagon. And just then, as if to curse Hralvar, Cub walked into the mess hall. Looking him over, Hralvar saw no ring on his fingers, so that only left Mehrunes' Razor.

"Boy, where in Oblivion are you going?" Hralvar called out to Cub before drinking some more grog. The young Orc looked like he was going to murder someone, and considering all of his bullshit about the Moon Shadow, Hralvar could very easily guess who.

Cub had marched up several flights of stairs by the time he had reached the mess hall with several more to go before he reached the deck. If he had bothered to ask her name, Cub would have complimented their captor's attention to detail.

Startled from his determined pace, Cub was greeted by the oft inebriated mage. Cub regarded his friend warmly but quickly resumed his march. Now wasn't the time for pleasantries, they had a ship to steal.

"We're going home."

Havlar had proven himself many times and Cub had no reason to test him this day. Still, he had a mission and stopping to chat wasn't it.

"Going home?" Hralvar raised an eyebrow. "You realize we're on a ship, right? There's nowhere to go to until we make landfall, lad. Now stop talking in riddles. The bloody fuck are you doing?" He asked, utterly exasperated at how obtuse Cub was being. Hralvar was determined to delay Cub until he figured out exactly what the Orc was doing.

Cub's eyes narrowed at his old friend. Did he not understand the danger they were in? No, how could he? A Nord could never know the will of Malacath as a true Orc could. Cub was a true Orc. No matter what the others thought, Malacath had chosen him specifically! Cub would be forgiven, his crimes wiped clean in the eyes of his brothers and Zhaveed would welcome him back with open arms.

"The Moon Shadow must be tested before we follow him to Zhaveed. I'll not trust another empty lead, Havlar. We've been in that desert for months because of it... Sevari is gone, Rihad is in ashes, every thing we've done has ended in death and delay." Cub softened his gaze. "We need him to steal the ship. We need to find Zhaveed."

"Cub, you realize that this ship is literally taking us to Zaveed, right? Zaveed hired this ship to transport us to where he is so we could reunite." Hralvar sighed, setting down his grog. It was like talking to a child. Except that this child had a warhammer and was possibly being influenced by Mehrunes Dagon. Fucking wonderful. "Just relax. You want some grog?"

Cub eyed the old Nord cautiously. "We're not...we're not hostages?" Cub took an uneasy step toward his friend. "Where have we gone in the past six months that we weren't in chains?" Moving closer still to Havlar's swooning table, the waves moving beneath the ship in time to his puzzled steps, Cub denied the invitation. "You know Zhaveed doesn't like it when I drink." Still, even without grog in his belly, Cub felt...different. No, the same. The same as before. Before he'd received the Dagger.

"And Zaveed doesn't have to know." Hralvar smirked, passing his mug of grog to Cub. "Besides, do you see any chains on us right now? You heard Captain Harding. Zaveed sent her to pick us up."

This was good. Cub seemed calmer already. Maybe now Hralvar could get some answers.

"Anyways, boy. You find any good loot back at the bandit camp? I know you thought that staff you got was mine, but it wasn't. Kept it anyway." Hralvar asked offhandedly. Cub had given it a staff when they'd gotten on the ship, thinking that it had been taken from him by the bandits. Hralvar had no idea who the staff belonged to, but he wasn't about to turn it down. And he became even more loath to give it up when he'd realized what spell was stored in the staff. Oh, he would have fun with that. His skill in the Illusion school wasn't the best, and this staff would be very useful in bolstering that.

It was true, Cub didn't particularly feel like a prisoner. There were no chains, or rather no new chains as he had opted to keep his memento from the murderous Sevari. Regarding with the enchanted links on his wrist, Cub eyed the Nord once more. "And you're certain this ship will take us to Zhaveed?"

Had Cub misunderstood? No, Malacath had specifically said hunt the Moon Shadow. Why would Cub need to hunt him if he already planned to take them to Zhaveed? Was he not to be tested? Was THIS a test? Did Cub need to figure out for himself? Or was he to follow Malacath's words no matter what? Cub's mind whirled.

"I think I will have a drink actually," he said finally, sitting across from his old friend. Taking a deep simmer of the vile liquid, Cub grimaced and returned the mug. "I thought, ugh, I thought all mages carried a staff?"

"Cub, did I carry a staff two years ago? No? There's your answer. Anyways, you find anything good?" Hralvar leaned back, taking the mug of grog back for himself as he took a swig. "I got one of those dwemer longswords from those damn mercenaries. Saw a few with good daggers too. Should've gotten one of those for yourself. Always need a good sidearm."

Cub hoped his reaction was masked by that of the booze. Did Havlar know of the Dagger? Did he hear the Voice as well? He was a mage maybe, maybe they were more in tuned to that sort of thing...No. No, that's it, Havlar was a mage! How many Mages had Cub fought that used a dagger when their Magicka ran out? Cub chuckled a bit. "Yes, a good mage weapon. I was always taught bigger is better! I don't care much for loot. I have my armour, I have my hammer. I might keep an eye out though now with Shavie by my side. Have you met my mule?" Cub cleared his throat, a memory flashing behind his eyes. Shavie was no longer his mule, he served Malacath. "Er, have you seen him? Strong as an ox."

"Aye." Hralvar nodded, raising an eyebrow at Cub's sudden joviality. Boy really couldn't hold his alcohol, could he? "I have. He seems different now, though. Much calmer. You finally get around to gelding him?" He asked, already knowing the answer. The fact still remained that the mule felt as magically unnatural as a Daedra did.

"Yeah. Something like that." Cub clacked his tongue against his tusks, the last remnant of the Nord's swill dying as he did. "He's just better trained is all. The stable hands in Rihad knew nothing of obedience. Sometimes all you need is a heavy hand." Cub splayed his paw of a hand on the table between them as if to illustrate his point. "Like I said, bigger is better."

Hoping the Nord swallowed his dismissives as readily as that bile in his mug, Cub shifted the conversation. "And what of you, Havlar? What became of you when I left to find my...weapon?" It wasn't technically a lie, the Dagger WAS a weapon though it was also so much more! A tool, a symbol, a token, it denoted Cub as Malacath's Chosen and he would keep it safe from prying eyes and nimble fingers.

"What do you make of all this, friend?"

Drums… Drums in the distance…

And singing… A thousand thousand voices lifted in perfect harmony, singing tales of glory in the old tongue.

Singing of her glory… Calling to her….

No greater honour than to die in battle….

No.

The world snapped back into focus suddenly and sharply. The drums in the distance faded to be nothing but a throbbing in her head. She could feel something wrapped around her middle, and see Zaveeds lips moving, but the words didn’t seem to be comprehensible. She tried to push herself up, but the whole world spun from the movement. Reigenleif reached for her staff - not there. Gently turning her head, she could see it in the hands of a prisoner.

She raised a hand before her face, she could see every detail, dirt from the prison floor and the red of her own blood staining the the pale skin. She thought hard about wanting to feel better. For a moment, golden light swirled through her fingers, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. Still, there was a warm feeling from the thing wrapped around her, and she began to feel more herself. She managed to push herself to a sitting position, just in time to see Zaveed pulling her staff sharply away from the prisoner that had taken it before presenting it to her. She took the magical weapon from him with a meek smile, still somewhat dazed.

The movement of bodies around her reminded her that they were supposed to be moving quickly. She planted the end of the long staff into the ground, and in one monumental effort, pulled herself to her feet. The world spun once more, but before she could fall she found herself being steadied by a multitude of hands. What the hands didn’t help with though, was the sharp pain in her her abdomen. Her off hand went immediately to press against the source and she bent over from it, remaining steady only by leaning heavily on her staff.

At the very least, the pain tore through the dazed veil on Reigenleif’s senses, and with a rush almost as abrupt as the one where she was yanked away from the gates of Sovngarde, the world flooded back into proper focus. It was loud, with much shouting and footsteps. The necessary states of mind and gestures to cast spells began to return to her, and the moment she could recall a spell of healing, she made the gesture with her free hand. There was a shimmer of golden light around her, and once it had dissipated she was able to stand almost straight. The pain remained, but it was a little duller than before.

It was only then she realised her comrades were still looking at her with concern on their faces. “I have a few more glorious battles in me yet before Sovngarde...” She managed with a smile and a chuckle that she immediately regretted, pain shooting through her middle. “Lead on.” She said as she began to hobble forward, putting much of her weight on the staff.

More screams. More battlecries. More crying in general. How did a simple riot turn into a bloodbath, the khajiit wondered. Regardless, the only thing that mattered was for him to stay alive, as well as his sister and her friends. As people fought, he ran. Only to the destination he chose while brushing pass the dwindling number of men and mer. Even though he wasn't killing their enemies himself, blood stained his mane as everyone became more drastic and frantic as the fight went on. He only looked behind once to spot the nord warrior who fought with him against the goblins, covering his back by taking down more foes. If they both lived, he would have to thank her later.

Upon reaching his sister and her friends, they stood on the sidelines and watched the fight unfold. Nobody else decided to make them a primary target, but they kept their guard up just in case. Although Qara'Sion did believe it to be strange that his sister did not bark at him for running off to help a stranger but, the reason could possibly be that she assumed he was being brave for once and tried to stop the dwemer crab when in fact, he just snapped and blindly took control of the fight for the moment.

And to their benefit, it was partially a good thing he did. Because the damned automaton fell. They actually defeated it... "Unbelievable...."

The two khajiit rested on the side of a wall on their own, as the imperial and argonian left to deal with their own minor matters plus giving the two siblings their own time alone. Shenzi held a bucket of water to the side of her. "Alright... your turn to get the blood off of you." She spoke as she lifted said bucket. Qara'Sion obliged and lowered his head; the dreads obscuring his view of anything around them. It kind of was like old times when the siblings would take care of one of the symbols of their family. He just wished it could have been during another time...

This moment as Shenzi poured some of the water on him, he took the chance just to think about everything that had gone just now. Why did he act so blindly yet still precise?

Because he was scared and believed he was alone to do the bidding of others he did not know. Yet how come when Shenzi showed up, he didn't know what to do and felt the fear take control of him in a different way?

Because he was comforted by being alongside her, instead of those he did not know. He could feel his sister's fingers in his mane trying to scrub out the blood of those who had fallen just as he began to think of her. Now... thinking about her, why did he start to think about every single one of his siblings...?

Because he never felt he was as good as they were. All of them were just... better than he was. And facing death in the face probably forced him to think about his regrets... the regret of not being good enough to stay with the family he loved. Not strong, skilled, smart, or even good looking to be vain as they were. "Turn your head." His sister said to him. Without a word, his head tilted and she brushed his dreads to the side. Qara'Sion had a nice, clear view of the dwemer crab that finally laid in defeat. He understood just from the destroyed machinery why he was scared...

Because how could one not be? Even as it no longer functioned it was still intimidating to say the least. Then he had to deal with the two nords' friends and the fucking elf who aside from the larger nord, had the audacity to come up to him. Then what bothered him so much about that...?

Because he didn't like to be used by people he would never see again a day in his life. Heal this one. Hurt this one. Stop this one. He did all of that, and not even a bloody thank you.... all of these thoughts just created a mental breakdown for him. All of these clashing thoughts and emotions...

"Lean back now." Obliging, he sat down and tilted his head back as his sister told him to do; beginning to wash the front of his mane. The younger khajiit only looked into the eyes of his sister's: the gold and green eyes they shared. Only looking at her reminded him that their brother should have been with them. But at least, his brother was capable of staying alive and finding their eldest sister. But as Shenzi would put it, he's a capable killer.

Just from the thought of what his sister would say about their brother, something struck Qara'Sion as odd. His brother definitely did work involving something not... clean. But, how did he find out about what was going on in Chorrol way back when? He worked for somebody, but he would never tell Qara'Sion who it was. Their sister definitely lived near Chorrol as he could tell Mufasa was visibly upset, yet what other reasons was he there at the camp? Who in the bloody world did he work for?

....He went through a list of things in his head. One seemed the most plausible but he wasn't exactly sure. When they meet again, he would have to confront him about it, so he could only hope his thoughts were wrong. It would be best not to mention anything to Shenzi, just for her own sake. But what he did know for sure were these few things.

He could not stay and fight in this war. He would have to tell those he fought along that.
He wanted to get back to the college and return to his home. The only home he had.
He needed to speak with his brother about numerous things... none pleasant topics of choice.

"Okay, all done." His sister confirmed, prompting him to shake his head a bit. "Hey, Sion... are you okay? You've been quiet the whole time..." "I'm fine... I just need to relax a bit." He quickly told her as he leaned against the wall. He long since stopped looking into her eyes. She slowly shook her head once. "Alright... I'm going to check up on Belle and the fat-one.... you stay safe okay?" He only nodded as a response and as she frowned, his sister walked away from him.

17 Rain's Hand, Helgathe

Believing that this was very likely their last few moments on Mundus, the brave and ferocious Rebels fought without fear in their hearts. The frontline was subjected to relentless abuse and resistance from all sides, their focus rent between a sea of gold and a creature from darker depths. They lacked tactical support and the advantage of reinforcements stationed close by, but Kyne preserved them by installing sons and daughters at each critical juncture. At its peak, the battle took on three different fronts, each one tended to, if not led, by these children of the sky.

Thyra applied her fury to the fore, confident in her kinsman fighting at the rear against the monstrous crab. It was a heated battle made more intense by their tight proximity in the street, and the chore of patching up breaks in their defensive line. The remnant Guards were the first to fall. She could faintly make out their pleas above clatters of abandoned weaponry, and the cheers of their subduers.

For a moment, the old her surfaced. Rather than feeling disgust at their lack of honour, a twinge of sympathy placed an enchantment upon her, reminiscent of the sky banners that made fools out of thousands of people. Good people who fell into complacency the way she did, believing conflict to be an outdated solution. It wore off as quickly as it came but she’d still have to cope with the thoughts dredged up afterwards. Seems the auroras took more than her free will.

Cries rose from the execution and rolled off her back like a feeble breeze. The small number of spectators trapped within buildings nearby harboured hopes for an end to the battle, never mind the Occupation - never mind who won. Astonishingly, the Rebel frontline held out and turned back the Dwemer Guards and Redguard traitors to their post. Though the crab still ‘lived’, the invading force had been routed from the square. Victory was essentially theirs, and Thyra felt rowdy exaltations were in order.

“Run, milkdrinkers! Run back to your bitch-dog mothers!” the Nord woman jeered at their heels in mock pursuit. She turned back, laughing still, looking over the ones who hadn’t joined as they closed in on the still functioning crab. Steam gushed out of every wound, its thrashing fits had been reduced to a flail, and assaulting it was a lone warrior, venerated by a mass of cheering Rebels. They gathered around to seek a piece of the death-reaper, leaving Thyra with the few stragglers content to watch. At the sound of a sky-rending roar, its corpse surrendered a gentle hiss. Something wasn’t right, the Nord jumped away from his kill, and seconds after it became painfully clear when an explosion more devastating than cannonfire rocked the square. Sweeping across a wide radius, the debris it spat out were like bronze jaws riding a wave of thunder.

For the second time, that Oblivion-forsaken crab had knocked her on hindquarters - and in death, even! Thyra grunted, feeling more frustrated than in pain despite bleeding out against the building she was thrown into. She was in poor shape but doubly grateful for the steadfast bits of steel that still guarded her body. The right pauldron was dented beyond recognition and the left had been completely torn off, revealing the darkest shade her skin had ever been. Her chestplate was mostly intact, at the expense of her shield which now required treatments foreign for her Nordic knowledge if she was to ever use it in battle again. With a sigh, she whispered her gratitude to Kyne. She knew there was a high chance that their enemies would regroup and return, and in their weakened state, the Rebels had an ice wraith’s chance in Hammerfell to repeat that miracle of a victory.

Qara’Sion sat by an adjacent building, he was hard to miss being the same colour as a cat on fire. Laying her palms at either side, against two beams she was extremely lucky not to be impaled on, Thyra pushed herself up and forward. A blaze broke out above her knee whenever it moved or took weight. She didn’t bother looking down, it was damaged, that was all she needed to know with a Healer in clear sight. Struggling to keep an even pace, she limped up to him.

“You there, Cat,” she grimaced, “Fix.” She pointed at the pain above her knee, still refusing to look, as if there were a minor scrape and not a piece of Dwemer metal sticking out of it.

Hegathe Streets…

Guard and prisoner alike clashed in hasty, heated battle that poured out into the streets, looking more like a riot than a prisoner escape attempt. Much like Torir promised the various prisoners moved actively to keep the trio safe, a thanks of sorts for giving them a chance at retribution and potentially even freedom. Some, like most men are likely to do, raced away when they had a break to escape an uncertain fate. The Hegathe guards that had responded to the disturbance certainly weren’t anticipating the wave of fury that rushed to greet them, especially with their own weapons.

Reigenleif was walking on her own, supported by her staff. The Nord woman was certainly tough, and a fighter at heart. Despite her leanings towards learning, she certainly was no coward in the face of danger, and Zaveed kept close to make sure she didn’t fall too far behind. While she perhaps wasn’t up for fighting, she was making use of her powers to mend her wounds. Doubtless, she would need rest, provided they could reach safety. As if reminding him of his own issues, Zaveed flinched, his arm finally protesting the deep gash that had traversed his arm above the bicep. He would have never have admitted it, but putting Reigenleif down to support herself was a cry of relief he desperately needed. He’d left one of his two stolen blades with a prisoner who could make use of it, as he was fast approaching a point where he could even lift his wounded arm, let alone wield a weapon.

This… is not good. he thought grimly, finally leading Reigenleif and Eleyna down the back alley they had picked for their retreat earlier off the main street. The prisoners had begun to disperse and the guards were being driven back, and nobody wanted to be there when the dwemer soldiers arrived. Taking a moment in the shade, Zaveed slumped against a wall to catch his breath. Removing the excess layers of his disguise, the khajiit sliced a strip of fabric from the flowing Redguard garb he had donned himself in and wrapped it tightly about his arm, hopefully slowing the bleeding. He wanted nothing more than to collapse there and rest, but he knew stopping for too long was asking for trouble. With a nod to his companions, they continued on, making their way back to the safe house.

A commotion sprang forth from up ahead, the unmistakable sounds of conflict. The trio hurried along as quietly as possible, coming up to a terrace in the back alley that acted as someone’s shaded sanctuary from the stifling heat, although currently it was unoccupied. Feeling a sense of apprehension, Zaveed warned the others to stay low as he went to investigate by moving outwards, towards the streets where he could get a better view. Before he could peer around the corner, the distinctive crack of one of the thunder staves filled the air. The khajiit pressed himself back against the wall hard, his heart pounding. It felt like his breathing was going to quit. With a second crack, the khajiit willed himself to look.

Outside of the safehouse, Darak Mashad’s body laid beside his wife’s, a hole neatly in each other heads. A troop of dwemer soldiers stood around the captives, those unfortunate to be found in the safehouse, many in the heavy and near impregnable heavy armour that Zaveed had seen tear through the Legion forces in Imperial City. Still forced to his knees before a dwemer officer was a face that Zaveed feared would be put in that situation.

The orc looked up at the officer defiantly, who offered him a disapproving gaze instead, as if Gorzath was a child who needed to be told that what he had done was wrong. “I am disappointed, you know. I was rather quite excited that the Heroes of Tamriel I had heard so much about from the units in Cyrodiil were coming here, to Hegathe of all places! I had rather hoped you would all behave and be received as honoured guests, but now the streets are alight and scores of dead line the streets because you supported a bunch of misguided rebels.” The dwemer clucked his tongue, admiring the pistol in his hands. “Alas, I was hoping we could have become friends, and I would not find you here. Regrettably, the punishments apply to all people, despite your admirable record.” The barrel was leveled at the orc’s forehead.

“You’ll die for th-” Gorzath began defiantly before a sudden crack filled the air and his head jerked backwards, pieces of bone and soft tissues violently ejecting from the back of his skull. He dropped lifelessly, hatred still in his eyes. Zaveed pulled back then, not daring to watch the rest of the executions. He slunk back with haste to the two women and immediately collapsed, back against a wall, and his head buried in his hand. He didn’t move for several seconds, the shock of what he’d just witnessed come to light. His mind wandered back to the first days, outside of the Rift…

No. Focus, or you’ll die like him.

“We need to get moving. To the backup sanctuary.” He said, accepting a hand to be helped to his feet. The khajiit, Nord, and Breton all disappeared back down another side passage, yet another crack filled the air behind them.
_ _ _

Nightfall, The Old Mosque…

Hours had passed and the city finally seemed to have spent its fury in the day’s uprisings. Scores of dead on both sides were still unclaimed in the streets, and the group was directed to what was commonly referred to as the Old Mosque, an old decrepit building in the Old City, where some of the oldest buildings in the city were found. It was hard to say who controlled where, because it seemed like every other block was occupied by rebel fighters or dwemer soldiers. The entire city was effectively split into fragments, although it wasn’t looking promising for the rebels. The dwemer had barely begun mobilizing and reinforcements were sure to arrive from outside of the city.

It came as something of a shock to discover that traitors had been feeding the dwemer command with information about the safe houses and what the Merchants Guild had been doing since the occupation. The various members’ stores and warehouses had been marked weeks in advance, and within only a couple hours of the uprising, every single one had been raided, the occupants executed. It’s what had caught Gorzath, who paid the ultimate price of being in the wrong place in the wrong time.

Rashad, the guide who had escorted the Heroes into the city and had introduced them to Mashad on the first night, had found Zaveed, Reigenleif, and Eleyna and had brought them here. He assured them that the others were being looked for before departing again, promising to find out who the mastermind behind the safehouse raids were. As something of a parting apology, he had revealed that the equipment that had been smuggled into the city was being kept in the Old Mosque and they were welcome to retrieve their personal effects. Healers had attended to the wounded, and they were pointed to bedrolls to rest off the weariness of the day.

Over the next few hours, everyone was accounted for and brought to the Mosque. It was fortunate that only Gorzath had been killed, although that did little to alleviate Zaveed’s sour disposition. He sat against a wall, holding a mug of ale, not paying attention to anything around him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt aimless and more than a little overwhelmed. The scene in front of Mashad Textiles flashed through his mind repeatedly, his grip on the mug threatening to crack the ceramics. Suddenly, in a burst of anger, Zaveed threw the mug across the room, shattering it across the old pitted wall. The khajiit stormed outside to clear his head, it wasn’t good for the others see him like this.

He’d let enough of them down for one day.

Qara'Sion lifted his head, hearing a woman's voice. "You there, cat." Came from the blond haired nord warrior. She pointed down and his eyes followed to see metal in her leg, How she managed to approach him and still stand felt like it should be a mystery, but that's to be expected from the nords. "Fix."

It was also expected they would be blunt as well. He slowly closed his eyes and hung his, deeply exhaling. Considering the whole episode of the demanding thing just happened not moments ago, he found it very... coincidental? Ironic? Well, at least he wouldn't feel bad about changing his mind to thank her from before. Although he did know healing magic, he wasn't exactly a doctor, With no words, he repositioned himself to rest on one knee and one foot. He lifted his hands over the wound, but hesitated before healing. The metal needed to be removed or the wound wouldn't heal, or it would just heal on the metal. "...This needs to be removed before I do anything. Shall I take it out, or you?" the khajiit stated, not looking back up at her.

Thyra looked around in a fluster and barked at the Cat for not taking two seconds to heal her. "It's a small splinter," she maintained. A single glance at the problem and suddenly the ever sturdy Nord could taste what remained of her breakfast. In contrast to her even paler skin, the bronze shard resembled a crooked Orc dagger, stuck nearly two-inches deep and curved upwards at the end. Her thumb dug between it and her skin, fingers trembling around the rest, and in one quick, panicky, movement, it was yanked free. A withheld yelp died in her throat. "See," she whispered, pressing a supportive hand on the wall. "Now you."

To be honest, from the tone of her voice as well as her immediate response to its removal; the splinter was a bit more of a pain than was to be expected. Regardless, the khajiit obliged once said splinter was removed. Both hands enveloped in warm colors and the aura left his hands on to the wound. This time the waves were no longer shaking frantically from over exhaustion and a weakened mind. Blood dripped down, but the wound was in one way slowly closing and quickly closing. The only reason for it to be both was because had he been healing her entire body rather than just focusing one spot, it would take much longer.

It wasn't long before the spell did it's job. "There, all done. Can you still walk fine enough?" Qara'Sion asked her as he resumed to sitting down against the wall, finally looking up at her.

Ribbons of light enveloped her wound and gently pushed the edges together, mending muscle fibres and repairing the damage done. She saw none of this from the inside of her elbow, but rather felt the restoration take place, and the improvement in mobility straight after. "Aye," she replied more calmly. "Another good scar."

As she tested out the joint a couple more times, the Cat sat himself down and against the wall. "Oh, no you don't. Get up," she pulled him by the arm and pointed at where the Guards were last seen retreating. "They'll be back, pissed, and with friends. Get your group together, we need to go." Thyra left to pick her shield and axe up from the debris and ignored the ache in her bruised shoulder as she reattached them to her waist and back. Many of the survivors had disappeared, the ones she did pass offered kind gestures, a handshake or sip from their canteen, which she returned with a grateful nod. Before joining back up with Qara'Sion, she took a moment to look around at the abandoned dead, at the women weeping as their surviving sons pulled them off corpses in the street, the children peeking out fearfully from cracks in the wall. "Did we do a good thing here?" she thought to herself.

When she sought out her ally, she expected him to be with company, but not that of the two men now beside him.

He looked around quickly, easily spotting Shenzi and her oddball of a team discussing something. Just as he turned and took one step forward, he heard the words from a man speaking to him. “If you know the Heroes of Tamriel, take me to them. It is a pressing matter. If you do not, I thank you for your services and will take my leave from your presence.” Turning his head once more around, he spotted the male nord from earlier: the one that didn't threaten him. A pressing matter with Zaveed and Gorzath, huh? Another favor?

Qara'Sion placed one hand on his side, and two fingers on the bridge of his nose. Clearly showing a bit of annoyance. To Oblivion with it. If it wasn't urgent, the heroes would just shrug them off and if it was urgent well... yay? "...I do know them. But what is this urgent matter-"

She frowned disapprovingly at the poorly timed socializing and made her way to them. Ignoring their conversation, she gave Qara'Sion a light shove and whispered harshly at his side. "What in Oblivion are you doing? We must go. Now." the khajiit lost his balance a little bit from the shove only due to the fact that he didn't expect it, "I know, I know. This one just asked me something for a moment. Let's move from here."

As the Nord scooped up his friend, he rejoined the Khajiit and his Nord companion. The woman was tough, to be sure. He watched her as she had her wound healed and although she shielded herself from the gore in her own leg, at least she didn’t faint. A true Nord. To the Khajiit’s question, the corner of his mouth rose in contempt and anger before he settled himself down, remembering just who he was doing this for, “The urgent business is mine to know and mine to tell the Heroes, Khajiit. They are warriors, men who fight. I know men who fight and another sword on their side is never a bad thing.” He growled.

Qara'Sion only blinked while visibly showing one fang, keeping the same expression he had prior to this one's answer. For one, the heroes and his allies came first: throwing an extra burden on them was not something the khajiit liked to see nor do. And if all it was, was to just join their cause, well there were plenty of other ways to join. His right ear flicked as he began to regret healing the man's fallen friend. "Alright, it is your business after all." He shrugged while shaking his head.

He easily gave in and signaled for Vendel to follow them. In Qara'Sion's favor, Shenzi was in the direction of where they needed to go. They were a few feet away from them, and his sister easily spotted the one khajiit next to two nords. She tilted her head in confusion as their eyes locked, but all her brother needed to do was to wave his hand in a "follow me" motion for her to realize. They needed to leave.

Show me a safe path... He thought while his hand began to glow as blue as the sky. The khajiit made a motion as if catching something in his hand and to his eyes alone, a blue luminescent path from his feet went down a nearby alley. He tilted his head for the others to follow as he ran off.

Soon, they ran into a hooded man moving along the same alley. When he heard the group's footsteps, he stopped moving to look. He held his chest as he exhaled deeply. Relieved maybe? "You're with the rebels right?" "...Yes, we are." Qara'Sion answered first for once. "Thank the Gods, follow me. We're going to the old Mosque near here." Yep he was relieved. A relieved redguard- "Wait. I remember we were supposed to meet at the main safehouse? What happened?" The redguard lowered his head and bit his bottom lip. "...I can explain on the way. Come." He responded before moving off. Qara'Sion turned to look at the others in confusion before he followed suit on the trail of the man.

“Tell me, friend, what of the safehouses?” Vendel asked as they followed the Redguard.

“Raids. Bad ones.” His voice told Vendel he was not willing to divulge any more. He realized there might not have been any more words needed.

“Raids?” Vendel echoed.

“They killed many of those who gave us shelter and many of those receiving it. Many of those fighting for Hammerfell’s independence are dead now.” He said, voice void of any sorrow.

“A hard blow.” Vendel remarked, carrying on with the others.

“Yes.” The man said, interest in conversation subsiding as he led them through twists and turns in the streets.

The group stayed silent for a while, something Vendel wasn’t all too disappointed about. He’d stay silent unless spoken to. This was Francis’s goal, to be with the Heroes and offer his blade, not his. Even so, he wouldn’t abandon a friend, especially not Francis.

The younger khajiit's eyes widened as his feet carried him forward. Raids? No it had to be more than that- "But how? I thought everything was going to plan?" His sister asked, showing worry in her voice for once. Something quite unlike her. No doubt she had a realization. "Shit... Shenzi-" "I know. Just stay quiet." The argonian had the same realization as she did. And Qara'Sion could probably quess just by their few words and tones. Had she not loved her brother, and had he gave into her bluff... they could have been dead right now. He began to worry for the sake of the others...

He rubbed his face once before he opened his mouth to speak once more. "...I apologize if this hurts to ask, but we need to know. What about those who fought? The prison break groups and others, how did they fair? There's a number of people of importance among them."

“Alive. Zaveed and the others are among the escapees and should be heading to the Old Mosque.” The man said.

It would be another few long minutes of traversing backalleys and sidestreets before they reached the Old Mosque in Old Hegathe. The buildings in the city ranged from derelict to inhabited but aged. Vendel looked over the faces of those he caught watching the group. Empty eyes, exhausted of the whole ordeal of the killing and dying around them. Vendel could understand and he kept his eyes ahead for the rest of the trip. Once they were outside of the doors of the Old Mosque, the cloaked man bowed before wordlessly leaving. Vendel led the way in but stepped out of the way of a Khajiit he didn’t look to apt to make conversation at the moment. Vendel simply walked inside, eyeing the two people already there. A small pause in his steps as he recognized one as Elayna, from the Mausoleum and the market. He held his head low as he placed Francis gingerly out of the way of the others. The unconscious Breton finally began to stir.

Hunding Bay, South of Hammerfell, 18 Rains Hand…

The harsh truth about sailing was that you were at the mercy of the gods whenever you set out. Harding and her crew, seasoned sailors one and all, knew the storm was coming the morning before. The slight change of air pressure, the slightly sharper winds belied an impending peril despite the clear blue skies. More weight was shifted into the lowest deck as ballast to help keep the schooner balanced in the coming storm. Harding suspected even then it was not going to be enough, and consulting with her helmsmen, a sea artist who was perhaps one of the most accomplished sailors in the West, informed the Captain of the grim news; there was no way they’d find a safe cove within two days. They were at the mercy of the divines, it seemed.

She had instructed her passengers, particularly the ones in heavy armour, to store it all in a large airtight barrel that would be fastened to the central mast in case the worst was to happen, which would be the ship capsizing. Anyone caught in heavy armour, regardless of their prowess at swimming, would quickly be sunk and drowned without a hope in Oblivion of rescue. The Breton woman had seen that one happen far too many times to treat it lightly; it was a damned horrific way for a man to die.

The first of the rains hit an hour after sunrise. The sky was blackened like a soot and it thrashed the hull and the masts like a wave, the near horizontal rains threatening to push the crew to the starboard side and overboard, were they not careful. Many of Harding’s crew in fixed positions secured themselves with lengths of rope, as maintaining one’s perch up high was a perilous thing when there was little blocking the fury of the storm. The sea was picking up as well; waves crashed into the hull, spilling sea water over the deck in a powerful flood. Several crewmembers lost their footing and fell onto their backs, scrambling to grab a hold of anything as they slid. The captain cursed and ordered her helmsmen to take them further in land. A crack of thunder filled the air and a blinding bolt of lightning crossed the sky as if it were a chilling omen. Despite the rain, Harding could tell she was sweating.

It was not a good place to be.

Although the crew could not see it, within 40 minutes the shoreline was fast approaching according to the sea artist, and Harding was struggling to keep her balance on the wet deck. Some of her passengers, including Marassa, had chosen to sit anchored near the center of the deck, not daring stand or get in the seasoned crew’s way. Harding paid them little mind when she heard the helmsman shout in alarm, and she turned in time to see a water spout bearing down on the schooner, perhaps two kilometers out.
Ordering the helmsmen to make it straight for the shore, the man complied, turning the wheel with every bit of strength he could muster, the sails fighting against his wishes every degree of turn he earned for his efforts. The ship was now racing a storm; if they were to be hit directly by the water spout, they’d surely flounder and perish. Several tense minutes passed as the ship raced, rocking violently as the waves picked up in ferocity. Harding herself gripped the bannister so hard her knuckles threatened to burst forth from her flesh. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, as if willing her ship to outpace the storm. A cry came from foredeck, “She’s missed us! Thank Akatosh…”

The relief was immediately lost by a chilling, shrill cry. “ROGUE WAVE! BRACE FOR IMPACT!”

Harding turned swiftly, trying to ascertain where the threat was coming from and immediately wished she hadn’t. She scarcely had a moment to scream before the monstrous, towering wave overcame the ship and the world went dark.

Eventually after some time, the sky cleared and Marassa came to as she lay prone on the deck of the ship, the blinding light of the day burning her eyes, forcing her to cover her eyes with a forearm weakly. Her abdomen killed, the rope harness that had been fastened to secure her had dug in deep during the storm and felt like it had almost ripped her in half. Pulling a dagger free from her belt, which had miraculously stayed on her, she cut the rope free and breathed a sigh of relief as she mustered enough energy to summon a restoration spell that slowly eroded the pain. The khajiit wasn’t sure how long she laid still after that, but she eventually found it in herself to sit upright and struggle to her feet.

The ship had run aground on either a large island or the mainland, and if Marassa’s memory served her well, there were no islands near where they were sailing when the storm hit. The crew lay dazed around her, some walking uneasily from place to place, trying diligently to do their work, although it immediately became clear that they would not be going anywhere; the mast had a large stress fracture that threatened to splinter the wood in two. It was unsettling enough that the khajiit took a few steps away from the pillar with its ragged, torn sails. She found Harding sitting outside of her cabin, mending her broken arm with her own restoration spell. She looked miserable.

The Breton looked up and spoke before she was greeted. “I hate to admit it, but this isn’t the first time this happened to me ship.” She muttered anxiously, helping herself gingerly to her feet with no small amount of effort. Marassa moved to help the woman by throwing her arm over her shoulders. The khajiit suspected the captain would not have accepted the offer had she been more herself. The Breton looked devastated as she looked about the ship, shaking her head. “Twelve hands lost, either by virtue of being dead aboard or taken out to sea. Your friends all made it.” She said, answering Marassa’s unspoken question. The woman walked with a pronounced limp and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be dark in a few short hours. We’ll make camp on the beach and figure out if we can salvage the ship or if we have to scuttle her. It breaks me fucking heart.” She said, pulling away from Marassa with an appreciative nod as she started to bark orders to the survivors to mobilize them. It was going to be hard labour.
One of the virtues of a beached, damaged ship was the fact that firewood was not hard to come by, as various shattered and splintered planks gave more than enough for several beach fires that would last throughout the night. Marassa and her companions had their own fires and Harding was nowhere to be seen, likely making use of her largely untouched cabin. She’d likely be the only one sleeping well this night.

While people made small talk around their respective fires, the mood was understandably subdued and Marassa in particular was frustrated. She had no idea how far away they were from Hegathe, and while she knew that she was lucky to be alive and was spared a grueling journey overland, this was an unfortunate setback that did nothing but try her patience. She had found a whetstone in the hull and was tending to her sword that was laid across her armoured lap, her items obtained in the time after she had awoken and the crew got to work. She helped set up a perimeter of spikes and various light items were strung across lengths of rope as an early warning sign against predators or bandits. Who would attack a sizable and armed ship crew was either brave or suicidal.

Before Marassa could turn in for the night, her ears detected the unmistakable sound of the line being tripped by something. She was immediately on her feet, scanning the horizon for the intruder, her khajiit eyes penetrating the dark handily. She immediately regretted what she saw.

“SCORPIANS!” she bellowed, standing to and moving towards the line. The pirates who were asleep stumbled awake with a startle and those who were still awake scrambled for their weapons. Those closest to the line weren’t close enough and were set upon by the massive armoured arachnids, many easily six feet in length or more. Powerful stings punctured bodies and claws tore flesh asunder and three men and a women were immediately overcome by the creatures, disappearing screaming under a writhing mass of far too many legs.

“How many?!” an alarmed voice yelled from Marassa’s left.

“Dozens, at least!” She called back as she quartered off against the first of the beasts, hoping her armour would be strong enough to withstand the blow.

Casting feather upon herself, Marassa moved quickly and dodged a sting from the scorpion, which immediately had its tail severed and the point of her greatsword driven into its head, her support hand on the grip partway up the blade, giving the weapon a function not unlike a spear. The victory was shallow, as the writhing tide in front of her was far from depleted. Quickly casting a magelight into the sand before her, the horror she was witnessing was now visible to the others.

A part of her wishes she drowned, but Marassa had endured worse, and she was not going to die to several dull-witted creatures, not this close to hear goal.

Bellowing out a feral feline warcry, Marassa charged forward to meet her foe.

Finally, it partially felt as if it were hours before the group made it to the mosque. Hopefully this would be an actual safe haven for them away from the upcoming threat. As the cloaked man left, they walked to the entrance of the old building. Zaveed came out clearly in a foul mood which made Qara'Sion more hesitant to mention the decision he made as well as the favor of the nord but... it would probably be better to just get it out of the way now then later so it wasn't a constant string of negativity. So long as he had the nerve to.

While they were walking in, Shenzi noticed that he slowed down his pace and turned to look at him in curiosity. The younger khajiit simply raised one finger to her as a speechless "One moment" as he turned back outside to speak with Zaveed.

Scratching his head and looking at his body instead of his face in worry, he asked "Hey...Zaveed? Can I speak with you for a bit?"

The privateer had learned against a wall, staring aimlessly into the night. He knew people would be curious, or even excited to talk about the events of the day. A cocktail of mixed emotions filled Zaveed, a part of him wanted to break down and vent his anger and frustrations, another part wanted him to snap at Sion and demand privacy, and another just screamed at him. He inhaled deeply, not turning to look at the mage. "Now is not a good time." he said bluntly.

Just from the tone of his voice, Qara'Sion slowly flinched when he responded. He stayed silent and still for a few seconds, trying to decide if what he was going to say was the right thing to do...

But, if he didn't say it now, he wouldn't say it later. No other choice, let him yell at Qara'Sion all he wants for bringing bad news... the conversation would have to happen sooner or later. Shaking his head once, yet still keeping it down, the mismatched eye khajiit quietly spoke aloud "...I'm not going to stay and fight in this war...this is no place for me." He wanted to mention the nord and breton but he kept that to himself for now. Something did happen out there that made the mer in front of him change, and he did not want to speak of another potential annoyance...

"Good. Go." Zaveed replied, his tone barely registering what was said. "I've already watched one friend die today. The less people I have to concern myself over, the less I have to feel responsible for them. This is no one's war, and it was my mistake to let people think it was okay to fight it."

And only from hearing his first two words, Qara'Sion lowered his head even more. He could practically feel his mane against his chest despite the armor he still wore. It felt as if the same time so many years ago when his family left him behind. There was no doubt something did happen, and someone Zaveed knew had fallen. Maybe this really wasn't the time to speak about this however...

He already started the conversation himself, and he wanted an end to it. The khajiit standing before him was not who he thought it was, because even though he did feel nervous around him... it was horridly off. Qara'Sion noticed he subconsciously casted a spell on himself: Life Detect to be precise. Just to make sure Zaveed wouldn't attack him, and only due to him actually being scared of him once more. "...Who died today Zaveed?"

Zaveed inhaled sharply. "Gorzath. Executed at Mashad Textiles. The dwemer hit them all at once." Zaveed closed his eyes, and balled his fists, the anger welling up inside of him at his inability to act. He had seen many die, plenty by his own hands, so why was this one life refusing to give him peace?

Because you've never had friends before, you cruel bastard. You deserve to know the pain you've caused countless times. his mind screamed at him, as if it were not his own. His body started to quake from his inner turmoil, and his legs felt like they could no longer support his weight and he slid down the wall, agonized. He didn't trust himself to speak, his breathing was so ragged, only coming in as quick, shallow bursts. He almost forgot the younger khajiit who was so terrified of him was standing there.

"Gorzath... died...?" Unbelievable, Zaveed had to have been joking...

No, not with the way he was acting now. He was visibly hurt, one of the heroes, one of his allies, one of Qara'Sion's friends died? He wished it wouldn't be true but it had to have been regardless. This was becoming too much for him. He had to fight that damn crab, deal with unnecessary people both against him and on his own side, now this? Qara'Sion just wanted to be away from it all at this point. No choice... no other choice... but at least give Zaveed a break to inform the others about what happened. The other khajiit was breaking and even from the corner of his eye he could see his aura distorting; meaning he could potentially...

"..Do you need anything Zaveed? I can tell the others about what happened to take the burden off you know..." He asked slower than ever.

That caught Zaveed short, he drew the dagger from his back and stared at it intensely. "What I need is to drive this dagger into the bastard who killed Gorzath. He was my friend. He'd been with me ever since I freed him from the Praetorians and he helped me stop the auroras. We saved one another's lives countless times in just a few weeks, and we built a bond from that. It's my fault he's dead, I should've left him and the others when we were at peace. Instead I've roped you all with me as I march into Oblivion. It wasn't until now I realized what that was going to cost. You all are so loyal, trust me so much, and this is how I repay you. I am sick of it." His hands started shaking, forcing him to drive the blade into the dirt beside him and wrap his head in his hands, willing the world to go away. He no longer cared what the young skittish khajiit standing above him thought, what did anything matter? For the first time in as long as he could remember, he began to sob.

This was disgusting. No other words to describe it. One hero dead, another starting to cry, several missing. Then there was the dwemer, the dominion, and Gods know what else trying to strive for dominance in this world. He needed to say something to Zaveed, just for him to calm down a bit. And as motionless as he was, Qara'Sion opened his mouth to speak. "I think, we're loyal because... because... we know who is loyal to ourselves. You and Gorzath were truly loyal to everyone, not because you were "heroes" but because you were brother's in arms... friends..."

He didn't even realize how he was talking. This was completely unlike him to speak in such a way, but as he just said: they were friends. Sometimes, you had to just be different for a good impact...

Dammit, he knew he was going to need a drink after this... where in the world was Blade so he could antagonize him about the cave for a good laugh... He would tell everyone about Gorzath later, so Zaveed wouldn't have to...

Zaveeds gaze shot up and he stared daggers into Sion. "And what do you know of loyalty, hm? You just said you wanted to leave and abandon us, so go ahead and leave. I thought I knew you better, and I trusted you." Zaveed made a rueful laugh, a cruel sound. "I never forced you to come, you did on your own violation, and here you are, telling me you're loyal when all you're saying you've been planning on running this entire time. Leaving us. Why in Oblivion didn't you do it back on Stros M'kai when you were safe? What home do you hope to return to now that everywhere from here on East is filled with dwemer armies? You think the College is safe? Go. Find out, if you can make it. I'm sure they won't kill you and your entire family once they find you. Do you not remember what they did in Imperial City, the countless people slaughtered?" Zaveed's voice was raising, and he himself was rising to his feet, he took a step towards Sion and jabbed him hard in the chest with an outstretched finger.

"Why in Oblivion did you come? You clearly don't care if the rest of us perish fighting a battle to try to stop the bastards from wiping out another city! If you wish to go hide behind your mother's skirts, than do so and leave us to our fate. You're no use to me or anyone if you don't have it in your heart to fight." he inhaled sharply, his claws subconsciously extending as anger flooded his heart. "I could have run and fled to somewhere safe, without a damn worry in the world, but I wanted to do something right for a change after a lifetime of selfishly only caring about myself and my needs. I've killed hundreds of people, Sion, many of them innocent. Just because they had something I wanted. I see the way you look at me, like I'm a monster. And you're right, I am. I don't know what will become of me when I die, but it'll be no less than I deserve. But until then, I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure that worse men than I can no longer cut lives short for their own selfish desires. That is why I am here, and that is why I asked you people to help me. I can tell I was wrong about you." Zaveed's teeth bared. "You coward. I'm sure Gorzath would have loved to know that he died for his convictions when a man he trusted his life to intended to flee the entire damn time."

From those words alone, this was not the same person Qara'Sion knew and he was shocked by his words. But no matter who or what it was, no mattered if he were scared, he would fight back one way or another. And this moment was a very poor time for him to express his hidden temper that he shared with Shenzi.

He didn't flinch anymore, and only stared back into Zaveed's eyes while his own were illuminated. Qara'Sion opened his mouth wide as if he were going to roar, and yelled at him. "I damn well know about loyalty more than most people in this fucking world. Someone who was abandoned by not only his own blood, but others as well!? I did not plan on abandoning anyone, but I'm bloody sick of doing things for people who I will never see in my damn life again without a thank you in the slightest! You may have fought against powerful beings but understand most who had fallen today have not. Myself, my sister and friends and the nord warrior: Thyra went against one of the machines that could have been in imperial city which decimated the entire city!"

Qara'Sion's face matched the same snarl of the mer standing in front of him. With all of the stress of the day, and now this? He, was, livid.

"If I wasn't there healing people left and right, refraining the damned machine from attacking, and trying to look after who mattered to me and me alone, things would have been much, much worse. Blame me for being scared, it's not something I haven't heard before, but at least I act and succeed in what I do..." He hissed as he leaned in closer to Zaveed's face, paying attention to his hands. "I stood by you or at least you and the others because I believed you would protect me as I would for you despite being scared. Selfish people deserve selfish consequences; you are not supposed to be among them. Take your anger out on me if you want to, I'll leave your burdens to be your own then, but remember...

"I'm one of the best there is at what I can contribute. You could easily replace me but I doubt others will be as good despite being a coward."

If his mother heard his statement, she would be proud.
If his brother heard his statement, he would blame himself for what he was starting to become.

There was a fire in Sion's voice Zaveed had never heard before. He blinked slowly before disengaging eye contact. He walked back to where he had sat before and pulled the dagger from the dirt, wiping it off on his sleeve. "You think you're the only one who's scared. We're all scared. You'd be stupid not to be." Zaveed said quietly. "Things would have been worse without you there, your words, not my own. What do you think happens when you aren't there? Either you're saving lives or you're leaving the people in this fight to their fates where they may die because your unique talents aren't readily available. Can you live with that? The dead cannot answer for you. How many people are worth your life, I wonder. What is the cost that you decide enough is enough? Ten, fifteen, one hundred?" He shook his head. "I've never been here before. I never lost people I called friends before. I've... never had friends before." he admitted. "So forgive me if this grieving process is... unnatural to me."

He was right. Had he not been there to fight the dwemer crab, maybe more people would have died. But that wasn't what bothered Qara'Sion. It was the fact that he could apply it to his own scenario, where, had he been there with his siblings then... maybe they wouldn't have died. He knew what it was like to lose family... to lose friends. It hurt. But the khajiit would be damned if he was going to pass away fighting for selfish, ungrateful fools. He not once took his eyes off of Zaveed, watching his every more in silence but with the same snarl as before. He only shook his head in disapproval before turning to walk to the door to leave. As he did, he spoke once more. "This is why I don't want to be a "hero". You see the unneeded burden that you and Gorzath... even Hralvar and Sevari carry? That many people where most will only say "thank you oh great heroes" and go on with their lives right after? Its too bloody much. I only focus on those who have done for me, or for my friends and family; whats left of my family anyway. The number of the fallen doesn't matter so long as my own aren't among them..."

Qara'Sion grabbed the handle to the door and twisted it open slowly. But not before he finished his little speech. "It wasn't until I happened to meet the orc strongholds and the members of the college that I finally met friends, although the strongholds could be a stretch to say. And I don't know what would be worse to feel... having those who were by your side die, or have those who were by your side betray you...." He lowered his head as he sighed once more, lifting it up right after to prepare to enter the mosque. "As I said before, I am not staying. This fight has nothing to do with me. I'll stay with you until we get to skyrim, and when we do, I'll say my goodbyes. I refuse to die for this mess."

Zaveed thought upon Sion's words, frowning. The younger khajiit's words reminded Zaveed of Marassa, who he suspected was still in Senchal, staying away from everything as it wasn't her problem. His mind focused on Sevari, whom he had last seen outside Anvil and may not have escaped the Dominion siege. Another hard feeling gripped his heart; had he lost another friend without knowing it? It was becoming too much. There were no more words for the defiant khajiit who had unwittingly made things far worse.

"Until Skyrim, then." He said softly.

Collab by Dervish and Voltaire

Blade cursed inwardly when his target became aware of his presence. He'd slipped behind the curtains of a massive four poster bed in an attempt to close the distance with the captain, not wanting to face his heavily armored guards with such light gear of his own. The chain mail and leather would be about as useful as his scales against those maces. He decided then that he'd be damned before he ever parted with his plate armor again.

The ruse was up however so he stepped casually out from his hiding space, orcish blade in each hand. He responded to Doshin with a low growl. "It's as you say captain, I'm here to take your life. The people of this city are less than pleased with your performance and have called for your death. If you have any last words, you'd best say them now. While your head is still attached to your shoulders."

Blades eyes flicked about the room as he waited for Doshin's response, using the time to take note of items that could be of use in the approaching fight and planning his strategy.

Captain Doshin regarded the argonian with disdain, blade at the ready. His body guard took a protective position, shield facing Blade. "You are tired, wounded, and outnumbered. Drop your blades and you may be spared, provided you can give some insight into what caused this futile and bloody uprising." the Redguard stared daggers into the argonian before shaking his head, as if finding the words to scorn a misbehaving child. "Let me guess, some insurgent leader told you that I was an oppressive despot licking the dwemers' boots while rolling in the opulence of my position? Look around you." He fanned out his free hand. "This is all I have in my life, in this room. My so-called palace is shared by numerous other guards who are dying in the streets right now for what righteous cause? You came here and started this because some stranger told you I was the bad man, and that their hands are clean? You ignorant, ignorant child!" He scolded Blade.

"Do you know why I took this position? Because if I didn't, the dwemer would have done what they are doubtless doing now, crushing the uprising with brute force as they always do when they are resisted and as usual, the innocent are caught in the crossfire. We had peace, damn you! It was not perfect, and we still live under the oppressive thumbs of despots, but it was that or labour camps and genocide. I wanted to keep the people that had been friends of my family for seven generations safe from harm and you and your foolish, near sighted rebel friends are bringing death to people who just want to live! Look outside, and listen. Listen to the chaos and know that your actions have killed dozens of people, if not hundreds. You are nothing more than a dog, doing what he's told, fighting for a cause he knows nothing of but will gladly shed blood for. Tell me argonian, is it worth it? Try to kill me if you must, but know that even if you survive, that the days ahead with the countless bodies in the street and the dwemer brutality is your doing. I hope corpses and ash is what you want, because that is what you're fighting for. Did you ever think to ask what the average citizen wants, or did you just immediately kiss up to the insurgents who promised you anything? You think you aren't being used, manipulated? Do you think they're telling you the truth?" the Captain challenged.

At first Blade mostly ignored Doshin's words, but his eyes flashed and his blood boiled when the captain began to make his excuses for whatever brutality he'd committed. He'd almost lunged at the man then, the thought of his throat crushed between his fangs most enticing. But he managed to control his temper, barely.

"You give me too much credit Captain," the argonian growled. "I did not start this uprising. The people did. And I am carrying out the wishes of those people because it suits me. I couldn't care less about their rebellion, or who rules this city. And I couldn't care less if the gates of Oblivion itself opened up and dragged it to the fiery depths. You would shame me with the deaths of the people in the street?" Blade chuckled darkly at that, "I have personally laid claim to hundreds of lives for coin over the years. Why would I care about a few hundred more? In any case, you're wrong. Their blood is not on my hands. It is on the dwemer's. And it is on yours for allowing them free reign so willingly. It is on the coin you accept from them, the bed you purchased with that coin. The vessel you drink from and the wine that fills it."

Blade's brows furrowed and a scowl grew on his features as his fury began to build. "And you would dare to lecture me on hardship and oppression? You, who would facilitate the dwemer's brutality and accept their gold. You, who would sleep in your private quarters at the end of the day, after abducting, torturing, murdering on their behalf. A poor decision my dear Captain. You would have me believe that your actions have had the people's best interest in mind, that you have merely been doing your job. Well I have witnessed what happens when people like you just do their job." Blade raised his weapons before him and shifted his weight in preparation for the bloodshed, "And that is why I am here Doshin, to do my job."

The sting of Blade's injuries were long forgotten. Images of Doshin's mutilated corpse filled his head now, and he intended to make those images a reality. As his wrath boiled over, all he wanted was to taste the captain's flesh on his lips and to bathe his weapons with the mans blood. The argonian charged forward with a roar and aimed a heavy slash at the Redguard's neck.

The Captain's bodyguard was quick, moving to intercept the argonian with his shield and striking back with his mace, which missed Blade by only a handful of inches. Captain Doshin scowled at the argonian. "I wouldn't expect a dog to understand. Very well, then you shall die like one." He grabbed the wine goblet from the secretary, who was fumbling with his own blade and hurled it at Wets-His-Blade's head, not waiting for the impact, he moved in for a flank swiftly, slashing at the argonian's side as his front was occupied by the bodyguard.

The sound of heavy footsteps hurried up the stairs at the sound of the commotion and the second bodyguard was making his way back to the fight. The odds were not looking good for the gladiator.

Blade wasn't surprised by the guard's interference and side stepped the swing that followed his prompt shield block. The guard pressed the attack and the argonian ducked the reverse swing, simultaneously avoiding the hurled glassware which shattered harmlessly on the car side of the stone room.

The heavily armored guard used the momentum from the reverse cut to lead into a lateral smash that would cave in the assassins head, but Blade had anticipated this. While crouched, hed let his swords fall from his grasp then stepped inside his opponent's guard and caught the falling arm. Using the man's weight and momentum against him, Blade swiveled and yanked on the captured limb, sending the guard flying head over heels, crashing onto the ground. The flailing appendages forced Doshin to halt his advance to avoid being kicked by an armored foot.

The argonian kept hold of his victim's arm as he aimed a vicious heel kick at the downed man's head, hoping to snap his neck, then jabbed his knee into his captive's elbow for good measure. Blade didn't know if the man was dead, but the mace fell from nerveless fingers, so it would have to do for now. He grabbed the fallen weapon and swiftly brought it up to block the attack that was surely coming.

The attack didn't come from Captain Doshin but rather the second guard bashed the argonian with his shield, staggering him towards the Captain, who made a wide sweeping cut as Blade stumbled past, leaving a long bloody cut along the argonian's back. The second guard was much more conservative in his movements, preferring to tire the assassin and bleed him out than rush in where misstep could cost him his life. The secretary from downstairs had hurried and collected the blades the argonian had dropped and kept a wide berth away from Blade, holding one of the swords in a defensive stance. Going after him would be turning his back to the Captain and the body guard, who were beginning to circle around the argonian, one always trying to stay behind him. "Surrender." The Captain said. "Your death is assured, you're grievously wounded, and you are outnumbered. You put up a valiant fight, but I assure you that you cannot keep this up."

Shouting was heard outside from around the gates as the first of the reinforcements had begun to arrive, moving through the gates cautiously.

The stone floor was streaked with blood from Blade's injured back and tail and he grimaced as the fresh wound sent his nerves aflame. He'd have harsh words for the rebellion's smiths if he managed to survive this encounter. His breath was coming harshly as the exertions of the past minutes were beginning to catch up with him as well, and he backed cautiously towards one of the walls so his opponents would stay within his field of view, if just barely.

After a moment of silence during which Blade planned his next move, he glanced over at Doshin and snarled, "Watch me, dog." If nothing else, the argonian would make sure the captain never forgot this day.

Time seemed to slow as everybody made their moves simultaneously. Blade took the stolen mace in his left hand while his right moved to his belt and turned to face the remaining guard who was stepping in for an attack while Doshin moved in from behind. The guard raised his shield to block the now airborne mace which the argonian had thrown underhand, and sparked off the reinforced disc. As Blade continued to pivot his tail flicked out, sending flecks of blood flying into Doshin's unprotected face. One of the crimson droplets struck the captain square in the left eye and he naturally flinched and brought his hands up to guard against further attack. As he was raising his hands, Blade's right hand arced out laterally from his waist and let fly the dagger he'd stolen earlier. The knife flew the short distance to its target and pierced the palm covering the captain's face, passing through the flesh, muscle, and between bones before finally stabbing the eyeball hidden behind.

Doshin dropped his sword screaming in agony and staggered back, pawing at his wounded face with his uninjured hand. "You fucking bastard! I'll have your head for this you gods damned lizard!"

Blade hadn't taken the time to admire his work. After throwing the dagger he'd attempted to turn and defend against whatever the guard had in store, but he was too late. The armored man had started a blind swing while defending against the thrown mace, and the flanges of his own weapon slammed into the argonian's ribcage before he could even turn half way. Blade's howl of pain joined Doshin's as he collapsed to the stone floor with several broken bones. He gasped for air as his traumatized lung did it's best to function, and he crawled to his hands and knees, attempting to stand. The guard wasn't having it however, and neither were his allies who crashed up the stairs and went to aid either Doshin or the remaining guard in beating the assassin senseless as vengeance for their fallen comrades who littered the grounds of the compound.

Blade was too tired to defend himself and weathered the beating in stony silence. Captain Doshin had grasped his hand around his new wound, the shock of it all refusing to let him fully acknowledge the horror he had inflicted upon him. His breathing was heavy, and it took the bodyguard stepping forward to smash the argonian's skull in to intervene. "No, stop! There's plans for this one..." he had begun to say as Blade's eyes rolled behind swollen lids, and the world slowly faded from existence.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!" The crazed Nord bellowed as fire spewed out of his mouth. Hralvar swore furiously as the flames began to burn through his ward, forcing him his knees as the inferno began to overwhelm his defenses. Fortunately, the man's onslaught stopped as Gorzath bullrushed him from the side, but even that was short-lived as the man recovered quickly, battering Gorzath with multiple punches to the face before forcing him off with a cry of "FUS ROH DAH!", sending the orc crashing into a pillar. Hralvar and Zaveed charged the frothing psychopath together, starting to force him back through the sheer volume of their attacks. But the Nord remained unfazed, and bellowed another Shout.

"FAAS RU MAAR!" He screamed, sending Hralvar's sword and Zaveed's axes flying. Hralvar roared in frustration, extending both hands to fire a lightning storm at their foe. The Nord froze in place, yelling in pain for a moment before he let loose another Shout.

"WULD!"

And he was suddenly in Hralvar's face, raining fists down on the old man. Hralvar let loose a scream of pain as he felt a rib crack from one of the blows. For him, it was the Battle of Windhelm all over again. And just like last time, nothing he or his comrades did even slowed the man down.

"FUS ROH DAH!" The insane Nord screamed again, sending Hralvar flying through a window. For a moment, Hralvar was confused as to why he suddenly felt weightless, despite the pain that echoed through his body. And then he realized that he was falling. The top of White-Gold Tower grew further and further away as he fell, even as he heard one last Shout echo from the structure.

"MUL QAH DIIV!"


___

Hralvar awoke with a start, gasping for breath even as he gagged at the taste of salt water in his mouth. Pulling himself up, he spit out what water was in his mouth as he looked around. He was still on the ship, which seemed to have run aground. Groaning, he fell down on his ass, still gasping for breath.

"That damned dream again..." He hissed to himself. The final battle atop White-Gold Tower had been a nightmare for everyone involved, but Hralvar had been hurled off of the tower itself, falling to the streets below. If he hadn't known that spell of slow fall, he'd be in Sovngarde right now. Shaking his head, he stood back up, beginning to head for shore with the rest of the ship's crew.

___

Hours later, Hralvar sat around a campfire, passing a flask of rum around with several members of the ship's crew. Damn that storm. So far, everything that had gone wrong did go wrong for him, Marassa, and Cub. One city. They couldn't even make it to one fucking city without being captured or nearly dying? Sighing, he took a swig of rum before handing the flask over to the next person in the circle. Forget this, he might as well turn in early. Maybe getting some rest would improve his mood. As he stood up to find his bedroll, he was interrupted by a cry.

"SCORPIONS!"

Hralvar paused for a moment, watching Marassa cut down one of the local wildlife before she cast a Magelight out into the darkness, revealing an entire horde of the skittering bastards.

"...You know what?" He scowled, stepping forward as fire began to gather in his hands. "No. Divines be damned, I am not dealing with this tonight." Two fireballs flew from his palms, exploding in the midst of the horde as Hralvar continued stepping forward, more fire forming around him as he looked to vent his frustration against the scorpions.