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Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Cairomaru
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Cairomaru

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"...Zazu. Do you mind giving us a moment to speak?" The khajiit woman spoke to her mate. "Of course... take all the time you two need." He had responded to her, taking their son's hand from his mother's. The father and son slowed down their pace to not be able to hear their conversation. He knew she would have to tell him about what the siblings spoke of eventually, but it would be better to not let their words reach their child's ears.

"You didn't have to do that. There isn't much to hide." The brother told his sister as they walked. She solemnly smiled. "I had figured if it was just us two, you would actually speak." Her brother sighed in defeat. She was correct of course, as he would only speak in detail with his sister instead of giving one-word responses. "As I just said, There really isn't much else to speak of."

Silence hung among the two. The sister only looked up at him as if waiting for him to say something more, but the brother only kept his eyes forward. She decided it would be easier to just strike up a more precise conversation in hopes he would actually converse. "...I still cannot believe after all these years, Sion is still alive..." He only grunted softly as he nodded his head slowly as a response, causing her to shake her head. "I didn't get the chance to ask before...What does he look like now?" "Still thin. Probably Timoni's height. Looks similar to mother." Short answers. As could be expected from him. "...Do you think... he might have gotten hurt during the attack at-" "No. He's with the heroes. That'll increase his chance of survival." Or diminish it... The sister smiled once more as she closed her eyes feeling a sense of relief. Even if it was only fleeting. "...You do realize, he'll want to know about a few... subjects. Right Mufasa?" His head lowered slightly, pausing before his next short response. "I know. Hopefully, these gifts I have for him when we meet again will ease things..." He told her, tapping the side of his bag all the while still refusing to look at his sister.

Still the same older brother I see. The only thing I would ever want to change about you is that intimidating growl in your voice... a bad force of habit. Regardless... after all these years, I thought only the two of us and Karrma were still alive however now... it seems even her life may be in danger or gone. There should be seven of us... and as far as we know... only three stand. I've lost one of my sons... and I need to be strong before I lose anymore.

Damn this to oblivion and back. I may have my job to do, but my family comes first. I've stated it before to them that I shall achieve both goals with no mistakes, but one takes priority. They know me to be dependable and more than capable, so there should be no worry as to anything that comes up. I have the skills to do both. I know that I do. So why am I...?"

This is an unbelievable amount of bull. I could have just taken Belle and Fat-One and made it back somewhere... anywhere safely long ago. Yet... seeing this with my own eyes. Where was safe? Something could have happened at anytime... if it weren't for Sion... Gods know what we would be doing, where would we be going... part of me feels to blame him for pulling us into this... horror. And part of me wants to thank him... he brought us to safety... saved our lives just from his presence alone... when was the last time I felt like this.

I can't believe what I just said... how, what, who... it didn't even feel as if I were the one speaking. I literally argued with Zaveed... when did I ever argue? Maybe I'm just too stressed from today? But... Zaveed's words hurt. I know I'm a coward... that's one of the reasons I was outcasted anyway... yet hearing it from someone who's supposed to be your friend... feeling threatened by someone who's supposed to be your friend... threatening back the person who's supposed to be your friend... I can't do it anymore. I can't be betrayed, or get attached again. Nor can I die for something I don't want to be a part of. I need to start... accomplishing more of what I want, rather than others... I should only pay attention to the few instead of the many... for my own sake and sanity...

All four thought the same thing in unison. Something none would know the answer to. And... why does it feel as if something is coming back to chase me?

Qara'Sion turned the door handle of the building and stepped inside frowning. At one of the further tables, he spotted his sister, propping her elbow on the table and resting her head on the palm of her hand. She didn't seem distressed, but rather just deep in thought. Her two friends weren't with her, probably doing their own things. Now would probably be a good time to ask how did the three meet. Step by step, he moved further into the mosque.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Leidenschaft
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Leidenschaft Relax, only half-dead

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Francis stirred himself awake, looking over at his hulking friend sitting next to him, still awake. He couldn’t quite tell if he was alive, if this was all real and his mind started rushing towards possibilities that he was in some sort of purgatory before Vendel looked down at him, “You’re alive.”

“Yes. How did I get here? The battle, did we win?” Francis asked.

“We won, barely. You’ve got a few new scars for the tavern wenches to ogle now.” Vendel said, something in his face told Francis the comment was bitter rather than joking.

“I guess I do,” Francis said, pushing himself up from the floor to sit on his arse with his back against the wall, “What of the others?”

“Alive.” Vendel said.

“And the Khajiit?” Francis looked around the room for a Khajiit, not finding any, he feared the worst of his savior.

The doors opened and in strolled the Khajiit he’d seen when he was half-dead, laying in his own blood. He looked to Vendel, wondering if that was the same Khajiit. Vendel nodded and Francis got to his feet with some work. He still felt sore and tight in a few places as he made his way to the Khajiit. He cleared his throat in attempt to get the Khajiit’s attention, sketching as good a court bow as his sore body permitted, he said, “Hello,” recovering from the court bow, he went to rest his hand on the pommel of his bastard sword but found none, throwing the thought away to what was at hand, he nodded and continued, “You saved my life, Khajiit. Can a man know the name of his savior? You have my gratitude, my loyalty and my sword- uh- when I find it again.” He smiled sheepishly, looking down at his empty scabbard.

Stopping in his tracks, Qara'Sion only turned his eyes to face the person speaking to him with arms folded. This one was one of the people he healed during the battle: the friend of the large nord. He remained as still as could be, hearing the man's words: a hello, a thank you, and an asking of his name accompanied with a slightly distracted bow. He was in no mood to speak with a stranger, nor to hear false pledges of loyalty as he believed it to be. So the easiest and non-rudest way of hurrying the soon to be short lived conversation along was to give quick answers. Arms still folded and eyes locked on the speaker, the khajiit turned to face the breton. "Qara'Sion. You're very welcome. Is there something else you wish to ask?" He was blunt and stern in his voice. Just move this along as quick as possible, and go speak with Shenzi. That was what the khajiit wanted.

"Excuse me if I have intruded, but I wanted to just humbly share my appreciation and gratitude to the Khajiit that saved my life, you see." Francis said, sensing that he wasn't quite welcome at the moment.

"I understand that we won a hard battle, one that I regrettably did not take part in for long before I was cut down, as it were. Again, if it wasn't for you, I would not have survived my wounds. Thank you, and I'm sure many others in need cherish men, mer and betmer of your disposition." Francis looked to Elayna, still sitting far away with a Nord woman.
Zaveed had not shown up yet and Francis wondered where he was, "Do you know where the Heroes are? It would be my understanding that they are in Hegathe. Please, do correct me if I am wrong."

Qara'Sion's disposition did not change even in the slightest way even from receiving the breton's thanks. He only shifted his stand off-ish pose and blinked once, staring at the man. He only gave a simple nod to show a bit of mutual respect to the breton. His eyes followed the other's to see where he was looking. The khajiit could obviously see where he was looking at, but couldn't pinpoint exactly what...

Then his question came up. He could only sigh, lower and shake his head as his immediate response. He was right, he knew he was right. So many people in this world asking for the heroes... and so many burdens they carried. Zaveed was pissed off, Gorzath was dead, and Gods know where Hralvar and Sevari were... and any other heroes.

Picking up his head to look the breton once more in his eyes, Qara'Sion stoically spoke. "Zaveed is outside, and I suggest you do not speak to him at the moment. And Gorzath died today."

The khajiit felt as if he was going to repeat his sentence often tonight. At least, the last part of his sentence. At that, Francis inhaled sharply and his brow furrowed. Did hereally hear what he though he heard? Gorzath was dead? How? Krieger's shadowy monsters couldn't bring him down, nor the others under Krieger's command and he was felled now? Francis looked at the ground, not sure of what to make of it. After the Mausoleum, he, Gorzath, Elayna, Vendel, even Wets-His-Blade made a pact to take whatever they saw within the Mausoleum to their graves, they'd made of eachother a sort of brethren in silence. Francis held Elayna, Blade and Gorzath in high regards ever since the Mausoleum. He would never divulge what happened, but they were all brave.

"I can tell that you've said the truth." Francis said, grimly, unsure of what else to say, "He was with me, you know? On the Necromancer's Isle, we stood together against monstrosities the world was never meant to see. None of us wish to speak of it, but he was a brave Orc. Elayna too," he spared another look, unsure if Elayna, another member of the small pact, knew of Gorzath's fate yet, "Who else knows?"

Hearing his words, Qara'Sion tilted his head in confusion. He had mentioned the Necromancer's Isle and Elayna's name... which was off. That was one of the "requests" asked of the group back when, yet the khajiit didn't go along with the group to the potentially horrid place. The only ones he could remember going there were the hero, the alchemist, and the gladiator. Blade would be understandable in terms of knowing his name because the khajiit knew he was a fighter... Elayna was the reason he felt curious about how much this breton knew about them. Because as far as Qara'Sion knew, Elayna didn't appear to be the kind of person to have a celebrity title status to her name alone...

He straightened his head and removed the bewildered look from his face, returning to his no nonsense appearance. "Did you really know them? I've been along side the two for quite a bit so I'm a bit hesitant to just say whatever unless you give me a reason to. And you're potentially the first one to know Gorzath is no longer with us."

"I'm very sorry," Francis began, "You knew him far longer than I did, but I too feel like I lost a companion. You remember Nadeen, yes? From Stros M'kai? Mine and Vendel's captain at the time shared an interest of hers, she needed to prove to the Lord of Stros M'kai that she and the insurgency were useful. Captain Alaire and his men, which I was once apart of, needed to kill Krieger for his crimes. Nadeen saw an opportunity in the Captain and that is when I met Gorzath and Elayna as well as Wets-His-Blade, on the island when we were in camp together. Ask Elayna what she saw there and she too will not speak of it."

"None of us will. I am sad to know that Gorzath is among today's dead." Francis frowned, giving a small head-bow, "My condolences."

That... was a bit unnerving. He never bothered to ask about what happened on the isle, he was just glad the three made it out in one piece... Qara'Sion began to scratch his chin in curiosity. A side of him did want to know what happened, and the other side didn't want to question it. Was it really that horrendous for people to decide they should never speak of it? Just what in the oblivion was going on in this world...?

...The other name he spoke of, Nadeen made the khajiit growl in annoyance. Only because of the memory of some stranger using them to their own benefit. He wasn't the only one who complained about doing the "requests" as a few others did as well. He knew because of these requests more people were dragged into the fight, and more people fell.

Qara'Sion rubbed the temples of his forehead, lowering his hand to his side as he opened his mouth to speak. "You're not the only one who's sorry. Many people will be sad to hear of Gorzath's passing. Apologies if I sound rude right now but today was a rough day for us all. If you want to speak with Zaveed, it would be smarter to wait."

The khajiit paused before thinking a moment. Maybe the breton would tell him about what happened at the isle.... "Although I do want to know. What happened at the island? So much had happened from then and now, I never got a chance to ask. Originally, I could have gone with them, but I dealt with another problem instead. I had saved Blade's life awhile ago so it would be interesting to hear what he exactly went up against." He couldn't help from smirking slightly just from his last statement. It was always a bit of fun to antagonize the argonian about when he first met the group. And hopefully... the breton would give a bit more detail so the khajiit would know whether to put a bit of faith in him or not...

Francis's hand drifted to the scar in his side, where his heart could have been pierced had Vendel not been there. The half-buried monolith jutting up from the ground beneath the Mausoleum, the corpse-bride, the stench of the entire place wafted back into his nostrils and he felt like gagging once more. Darkness, shadows moving, helplessness, running. Pain, the feeling of hopelessness their gaze inspired. Krieger had been a horrid man, the bodies, they were everywhere...

He looked back up and let his hand fall to his side, "Forgive me. I can only say that you should count yourself thankful to not have been there," he swallowed, staying in silent thought before opening up again in whispers, "What I saw there, Qara'Sion, there is not a day that goes by where a few minutes I spend gripped in terror at the prospect of what was on that island escaping. If there was ever a personification of evil, Krieger would be it. It was horrifying, disgusting, I never knew men were capable of such monstrous acts and be able to smile all at the same time. I will never rest easy until the Isle is swallowed by the depths. There are dark things in men's minds, Qara'Sion, dark things."

He gulped, feeling a deep burning well in his stomach seem to open up and his old scar from the Mausoleum begged for him to touch it. His hand strayed there again and he looked into Qara'Sion's eyes with the most sincerity he'd ever put into any words, "I will never speak of it. Krieger deserved far more than death. We lost half of our men on that island and even though they knew the risks, I don't want to share their fate."

No, this one would not tell him what had happened. He only needed to hear "I will never speak of it." to know the breton would never say what actually happened. Not just his words alone, his body actions told the khajiit that he meant what he said. It was an uncomfortable subject... maybe it would be best if Qara'Sion didn't know. Even he knew how dark one's mind could actually be.

Possibly, he was blessed to not go along with them against... Krieger was it? He didn't even know the name of the man or mer who was evidently, that malicious. And he could have died fighting once more against someone for something he had no part in. Another reason to solidify his decision of not fighting in this three-way deadlock war. There could be a random sadistic bastard taking his chance to strike and he could die from that, let alone the dominion or dwemer...

Qara'Sion moved his hand to cover his eyes as if he could be crying. Just from the breton's story alone made him fear the world. He had to worry about three different sides of the war, his family, and others? On top of the fact of some bizarre psychopaths that could just pop out of the blue? He felt conflicted between many thoughts. Friendship, memories, loyalty, fear, anger, regret, shame, blame. Why couldn't this all just stop...? He didn't know how to act, how to speak, or even how to feel...

He removed his hands from his face, instantly adopting the same expression from before. Just to hide his emotions and up-coming memories. "...Regardless, thank you for fighting with them. By the way, you may want to thank your hulking friend over there yourself if you haven't. He's the one that found me to heal you."

Francis looked back at Vendel, who nodded to him before he looked back to Qara'Sion, "Well, my thanks go to both of you then," Francis frowned and nodded, looking at the ground, knowing he could have died, knowing Gorzath was dead, "Take care, Qara'Sion." He said, turning away and walking back to his and Vendel's place.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by rpg101
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rpg101

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Somewhere on the coast of Hammerfell
Flames licked at the flesh of the beast that was hoisted above the firepit by an iron spit. A Redguard, dressed in dark colored robes, manned the spit and carefully turned it, allowing each portion of the meat to be kissed just right by the fire.

The smell was intoxicating. A variety of spices had been firmly rubbed into the goat’s hide, mixtures of ground scarlet peppers and dark colored spices that hailed from across the tough land of Hammerfell. They mixed together in a bordello of savory and exotic flavors that wet the tongue and drove the mind mad with desire. Globs of fat melted under the heat of the fire pit, causing it to dribble achingly across the carcass and soak into the meat, promising a juicy bite to whoever had the pleasure of sinking his teeth into it.

While dinner was prepared, a few of the travelers had relaxed not far from the fires and were listening to a bard strum upon a lute. He was a Nord, thin and worthy of the title of ‘milkdrinker’ in his homeland of Skyrim, or rather, what was left of it. He strummed a lute and sang them songs of heroes from happier days, the Hero of Kvatch, the Dragonborn, Ragnar the Red, and the heroes who had placed Tactus Mede on the throne.

Well, when they still had a throne.

A Redguard called them towards the pit, and the travelers eagerly scooted themselves close to it. With a steel dagger, the man carved out chunks of roasted meat, bits of fat and juices that had mingled with the plethora of spices were now dripping onto the ground. He laid each slice onto a person’s plate beside a hunk of baked bread. They slunk back to their seats, eagerly devouring the delicious meat and mopping up the remains with their bread.

Once they were away and consuming their rations, the cook sawed off his own portion before waving for the others. Half a dozen Redguards, each wearing a curved Hammerfell scimitar at his waist, approached the goat, their daggers out for their own meal. Crossing Hammerfell was dangerous, no matter how strong the Dwemer forces were, they could not stop the beasts and bandits who walked the shadows.

One of them carved off two slices of the roasted meat and brought it to an Altmer sitting against a rock, a walking stick lying across lap and a worn leatherbound book in his hands. The man held out the wooden plate and the High Elf took it with a nod of thanks. Groaning and with several pops in his knee, the Redguard sat opposite the mer, who had already begun gnawing into the tough bread that made up the majority of their rations.

“Have you been to Hammerfell before?” The Redguard asked.

Valsiore finished chewing the bread and washed it down with a bit of wine from his skin before he started to respond. “I have actually. I served here during the Great War.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, “Did you fight wit-“

“No.” The Altmer’s mouth was a thin line, and he met the Redugard’s intense glare with one equally as ferocious. “I fought with you and your kind.” He spoke slowly, letting him know that he had found the question offensive.

The man’s expression changed in an instant, he gave the elf a smile and outstretched his hand. “Ehsan,” he said, “fought with the Sultan’s armies to drive out the Thalmor bastards.”

“Valsiore,” the Altmer’s gaze softened and he took Ehsan’s hand, “I served in Cyrodiil until the Emperor signed over his balls to Dominion. I spent five years fighting my kin, and I wasn’t going to let that go to waste.” His slender fingers tore off a bit of the goat meat, “I wasn’t ready to stop fighting yet, so I came here. I wasn’t accepted to quickly as an Altmer, but magic is useful in combat, so my help couldn’t be outright denied.”

They talked for some time. Not just of the war, but of their families and their homes. Valsiore didn’t have much to say, but Ehsan was more than capable. He told the elf of his wife at home, pregnant with their third child, and after two boys that couldn’t sit still, he was hoping for a beautiful little girl. They were lived back on Stros M'kai, and he had had to tear his two little rascals from his legs before they had departed.

Their conversation ended when they heard screaming.

The guards on watch were on their feet in the blink of an eye, their hands around the hilts of their scimitars. The travelers lifted their heads, a few scooting closer to the comforting presence of their armed guards.

“It came from the coast!” One of the men yelled.

Ehsan stood, “I’ll check it out. Achel, with me.” One of the guards sighed and crawled out of his bedroll, grabbing for his sword and following his superior. They gathered up a torch for each of them and lit them with the flames from the firepit.

Valsiore sighed and used his staff so that he could haul himself up. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “My magic may be of some use.”

-

The walk was surprisingly short. They hurried towards the sounds of screaming, which had begun to evolve into the much more ferocious sounds of combat. Warcries, inhuman screeches, and the sounds of metal biting into flesh. It was a sound the veterans of the Great War knew well, and as they walked through the darkness, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that they were hunting a Thalmor party once again.

When the group of three made their way over a ridge of tightly packed sand, they came upon what looked like the campsite of a raiding party. Numerous campfires burned, men and women were armed with an assortment of weapons were screaming as a number of approached. The creatures were wrapped in shadow, and from their location Valsiore and the others were unable to make out what they were. New war machines from the Dwemer? Beasts of Oblivion? Had the eight declared this judgement day?

A ball of light, the spell Magelight, flared to life from the palm of one of the fighters. It struck the sands and illuminated the entire beach, granting the newcomers a view of the battlefield.

A ship had run aground on the beach, its wooden corpse littering the sands with a thousand pounds of driftwood. The beasts that the sailors were fighting were enormous scorpions, dozens of them had surrounded the shipwrecked crew and were cutting them apart. A few bodies of the local beasts had already joined the dead of the crew, but it didn’t look like the odds were in the favor of the sailors.

“We have to help them!” Ehsan said.

“There’s too many of them,” Valsiore said, “we’d get cut apart if tried to help them.”

“If they make it to our camp, half a dozen of us won’t stop them!” Ehsan growled, “We kill them here we keep our charges alive.”

“Or we go back to the camp and get moving immediately, while the pack’s distracted.”

“We can’t leave them to die!” Achel said. When neither the elf nor his fellow Redguard made a move to the sailors, he drew his blade and charged the closest scorpion. Ignoring the protests from Valsiore and Ehsan, he swung his blade and sliced off one of the back limbs of the scorpion. The creatures screeched and swung on him in an instant, its pincer jabbing forward. The Redguard knocked the appendage aside, swinging again and striking the thorax. The steel cut into the scales, but stuck fast, and as Achel tried to free it the scorpion’s tail flashed. The stinger, sharp as a spear, impaled him through the chest and lifted him three feet in the air. Blood gushed from the wound and his screaming turned their blood to ice. The tail jerked and threw the corpse off a good sixty feet.

His body landed awfully close to Valsiore, the man’s blood coating his redshirt.

“Fuck,” Ehsan said, “I think we’re in this now.” He drew his own scimitar, “Best not to charge blindly.”

The Altmer nodded and swung his hands, his palms filling with balls of fire, “Go first, I’ll provide cover.”
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Dusk
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Elayna sat near the back of the Mosque, in a corner, scribbling slowly on a sheet of aged paper. On her lap was Toad, who had done as she asked and waited with her things. His left front leg, however, was injured, most likely from running frantically away from the fighting. The Breton took great care not to move it as she continued to jot down proportions, potential side effects, and benefits of a healing potion formula she'd been working on before Helgathe. She had no relevant materials with her, leaving her to simply pull what she could from memory. The going wasn't necessarily great.

"Bergamot...Cairn Bolete...Flax...or is it Fennel?" Elayna mumbled to herself, unable to get the specifics worked out. The battered young lady glanced towards Reigenleif, who sat not too far away. She'd been keeping an eye on the Nord, just to make sure she was alright. That wound was a wretched one, but the mage's healing spells saved her own life. It was that occurrence, and that which had injured her best friend, that brought Elayna's attention back to the healing formula. if she couldn't provide such a basic service, she'd just be weighing them down. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself, and time to start showing her true mettle. She was a Ferris alchemist, Gods be damned, and there was no surrendering now. Especially as her thoughts wandered to what surrendering could possibly mean.

More began to come into the Mosque, including Sion and his group, many of which were unfamiliar to Elayna, besides Thyra. Zaveed was outside, and Elayna was beginning to feel the weight of the reason why. There, behind Mashad Textiles...she had heard a familiar, Orcish voice, followed by that sickening mechanical crack. If the look that had been on Zaveed's face had been what she thought...no. He had survived the Mausoleum. She had personally witnessed him face down those horrors, those affronts to the natural order, and for him to be taken down by the mer in tin? Preposterous. Absolutely...preposterous...

It wasn't long after that before a familiar large figure holding another walked in, and Elayna felt his gaze for just a second before he looked away. The other slowly stirred, conversed with Sion, and looked her way a few times. And with each one, she met his eyes. With each glance, no matter how brief, the stench of long-rotten flesh and eldritch workings violated her senses, her mind coating the dusty Mosque in a horrendous masquerade. It was almost like going back to that damned Isle...but Elayna had to calm her racing thoughts. Yes, she knew of these two men. Knew of their prowess in battle. For them to be alive, even in such condition, was a good thing indeed.

Even so, she made no moves to go and speak to them. Fatigue was greatly weighing down on her, and the dread which stood at the precipice of her conscious mind just waited for the right words to descend upon her. The alchemist set down her quill, and placed her head in her hands to think. Just think. No news of Leyawiin, yet...that could be both good and bad. No further contact from anyone...though, with her current ordeal and location, it was no wonder that her family would have trouble reaching her. The book she'd received from her cousin back at Stros M'kai...it hadn't turned up anything really substantial. Just a bunch of vague ramblings from her forefathers. All in all, little progress had been made, but at least she wasn't going backwards.

Frankly, that was all Elayna could wish for nowadays. Ogres, bandits, Dwemer, necromancers...it surprised her that a country girl like herself was still standing. In fact, it was reassuring. She could survive. All she had to do was find the will to continue to do so. Were the lives she had taken still clutching onto her heart and mind? Of course. But the others had to feel the same, to some degree. Yet they continued to push forward, because they knew what had to be done. So she would fight, to see tomorrow, and to see those she loved again.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by WittyReference
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WittyReference the Living Dead

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|Fool!|
The Voice rumbled behind Cub's eyes as measured hooves pummeled him awake.

Though hazy from the crash, the large Orc knew instantly the Beast of Burden looming above him to be Shavie. How had he escaped the bilge? How had he even survived? Cub's only answer was another swift kick to the sternum.

|Did I not tell you to hunt the Moon Shadow? You left the Breton untested and look where it has gotten you!|
The Voice rumbled again, the Orc's massive skull threatening to split at the seams as he lifted himself to his feet. His whole body ached and his ears rang though whether that was from the crash or simply Hravlar's grog Cub's couldn't tell. His mouth too parched of sand and brine to speak he nodded weakly to the creature before him. Shavie remained stoic as Cub limped closer and pulled forth the Dagger from his saddlebag and nodded again dazedly.

|It seems we have an understanding then. Good.|
The Voice cooed as Cub felt the world darken around him once more.

|Now, sleep my harbinger. For tonight you hunt!|
With a last faint nod, the large Orc tumbled to the ground and blacked out once more.
_________________________

"SCORPIONS!"

Cub woke with a start, leaping to his feet...leaping? Cub stared down for a moment confused. He didn't feel any of the soreness he had before, face down in the sand on this...jungle? Had he not been a beach earlier? Admittedly he wasn't quite up for sight seeing but he distinctly remembered Shavie...where was Shavie? Had it been a dream...?

"Dozens, at least!"

Snapping back to himself, Cub reached for his hammer and drew...nothing. Of course! Harding had him tie his belongings to the mast! Thrice-damned a lot of good that did him now! The only thing she hadn't talked him out of was his helmet and boots though his blacksmith trousers defended little more than his modesty. A glint in the undergrowth caught Cub's eye as he moved to help his friends; the Dagger. "So, it wasn't a dream..." thinking aloud, Cub scooped the Silver Dagger though he wasn't sure how he planned to help anyone without his equipment. He was useless on his own.

Prey.

Just as he crested a fallen log, an especially large scorpion scuttled from the darkness 'neath the night time canopy, its body longer and wider than any man. Without thinking, Cub's powerful legs bounded him off the log and onto the beast's back. "What the hell am doing?! What-woah!" Stunned both by his own actions and the quickness of the primal beast, Cub narily avoided a stinger to his spine.

"Shit! Woah! Waooohhhh, Nelly!" The Scorpion bucked and clacked its pincers trying to rid itself of its unwelcome guest, several more attempts with its stinger haphazardly dodged as Cub tried desperately to stay on. "Shi-i-i-it!" Clasping his muscular thighs around the insectoid's sides as it twisted about, Cub's lefthand shackle clinked and chattered against the Scorpion's natural plating.

With a flash of inspiration, Cub swung the chain beneath the creature and caught it in his right hand to act as reins. He still had to worry about that nine-damned stinger but at least now he could steer the fuckin' bug. "Wooah, onward noble stee-eeed!" Pressing his large body close enough to the exoskeleton for his nipples to chafe, Cub managed to avoid the wild stinger, if only long enough to drive it toward the source of the shouting.

"Hravvvv-laaa-aar! This is why-y-y I don't driii-iink!"
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Heat pooled, Urzoth had noticed, in vastly different areas than where cold pooled on her body. She had encountered hot summers and icy winters in equal measure, but in Morshum or Whiterun, she simply combated the cold with a few furs and let her work warm her. For summer, the women of her home dressed as the men, naked backs baking in the sun, a fur about their waists secured by a belt, a pair of sandals or hide slippers covering their feet, going about the sweltering day without an ounce of shame. Her first summers away from home had been filled with quite a few stern talks from both her fellow combatants in the arena and the guards of the Imperial City, and despite the discomfort of the situation now, she smirked at her younger self.

There had only been a tiny slot of time through which Urzoth could squeeze her and her companions in order to reach their destination without draining their purses, a day or two later and they would have been forced to march across conflict-stricken countryside in order to reach Hegathe and seek out her old friends for the answers they assuredly had hidden away. Of course, as she rocked along in the heated hold of one Captain Alaire, eating nothing but potatoes and jerky and drinking nothing but rum and the sweat that beaded on her upper lip, she almost yearned to be wading through seas of insurgents and bandits about now. At least she would be sweaty and feel good about it. And have a better excuse to keep her armor on.

“You’ll break through the floorboards eventually, General,” Ushtur had said from her pile of straw across from Urzoth, twiddling each little brown stalk into a woven bracelet. Bored, she let it flutter apart and fall back into the rest of the bedding. Long archer’s fingers plucked up another batch, twisting them into another weaving. “Don’t you think your armor would serve a dis—“

“No.” She peered over at Ushtur through the tusks of her helmet. “If this boat sunk, I’d be dead anyway. Can’t swim.” She knocked a couple knuckles against her breastplate, and it gave a greeting vibration that spread all the way into her ribcage. “I’ll just have to hope you bastards would be enough to keep it afloat, huh?” Passively, she glanced down and swiped her tongue over her upper lip, wiping away the sweat there for the tenth time.

Bulag rose up from his spot on top of a crate, as if just now realizing Ushtur’s grave offense. There was a bit of drool attaching his cheek to the wood below him, and his words slurred just a little, like he’d been napping. “Watch your tone with your superior, woman! The Champion--“

Urzoth tilted her head up to level a stare at him as best she could.

“…Is…Hrm.” He plucked at a few grey strands of his beard. “Apologies, Champion.” With that, he stood, picked his way across the line of his traveling companions’ boots, and went above deck to join Durb, whom did not at all share his allies’ lack of enthusiasm for the sea. Urzoth watched Bulag slink into the blinding sunlight and grumbled, squinting against what white-yellow beams shot through the ajar trapdoor and directly into her eyes. She returned to Ushtur, staring at her wordlessly long enough to make her a little uncomfortable.

“General,” She began, not speaking much at all like an Orc. Her inflections marked her lineage, though her combat prowess suffered about as much as the combat prowess of a boar and a sabercat mixed together. “You were awake all night. You should rest.”

Urzoth answered her with a noncommittal growl, going from licking her upper lip to wiping at it obsessively with the side of her finger. Everywhere else, she was swimming in her armor, but something about a dripping feeling over her mouth irritated her the worst. “I’m fine.” Truth be told, something felt off about the crew of the ship she found herself on. She would sooner take her armor off in an unfamiliar place as she would strip naked and dance above deck for all the sailors. After a brief glance up at Ushtur’s face, however, she relented and tugged away her helmet, setting the beastly head down by her hip, within easy reach. By Mauloch, she felt like she had flown from Elsweyr straight into Skyrim.

The ship gave a little tilt, and it seemed they were turning. Urzoth quickly stuffed her hair back into her helmet and slipped it on, clamoring above deck. They’d been following the shoreline just out of sight since a few minutes after leaving Sentinel, if only to keep from being spotted by anyone looking from the beaches, but now she could see a little poking of greenery along the horizon. A few sailors were moving about, messing with the roping, and Urzoth steered clear of them as she came up to where Durb and Bulag stood at the handrail, watching the horizon go by.

Durb very quickly lost interest in the unfamiliar beauty that meandered along, and he inched aside to let Ushtur, freshly out of the stifling hold, breathe in the Hammerfell air. She seemed to capture some essence of her father in it, breathing out with a determined look. She smirked at Durb, who wasn’t looking up to see it, picking at some loose leather on his shield. He stopped with a jolt when Urzoth swatted at his hand. “I wonder how Bulag will address all the Champions we’re gonna be meeting.”

Durb shrugged like a child, giving her a rumbling little chuckle. How did Urzoth select this bunch as her most elite personal force? From her range of fighters from all corners of nearly every stronghold and outpost in Tamriel? She felt like a damned mother sometimes. Well, this was probably as close as she’d get. The shoreline was beginning to drift away again. Was it the wind? Were they not yet there and the sailors had simply failed to keep them far enough offshore for the turn? She looked to a sailor, being careful to only get his attention by tapping his back with an open palm. Some of the sailors, while she couldn’t pick them from the rest just by looking, distrusted the band of Orcs, and she didn’t want to risk a drawn sword from a jumpy little recruit making them distrust her lot even more.

“Hey, how much longer will this voyage last?” She said, watching him turn and flinch when he saw to whom he was speaking.

“Not much longer,” He said, hesitating slightly as he struggled with what title to refer to her as. She was oblivious, and merely sighed and waved a hand in affirmation at him as she stepped back over to her group.

“We’re close.” Urzoth glanced over at Durb as he relaxed by a degree. “But this region is in turmoil. Act as if we will arrive and face all the forces of the Ashpit itself.” Durb began to perpetually flex again. Her lips tightened together thinly and she wiped at her upper lip. Her mind drifted to Zaveed, to Cub and Marassa and all her other companions, fighting to remember their faces through the sea of time spent away. She lingered on Marassa. By Malacath, they’d wanted to strangle each other in the beginning. Or crush. Or stab. How odd friendships were. As the horizon approached, her heart pulsed under her layers of metal at the thought of any of her old companions coming to harm. Why were they in Hegathe? Of all places? Well, she’d soon find out, she supposed. Or prayed.
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A collab between Voltaire and myself.

Although he could not have been aware of it, it had only taken approximately 40 minutes for dwemer forces to retrieve Wets-His-Blade to claim him as a prisoner. The hefty argonian was stripped of armour and weapons and dressed in a simple pair of trousers and bound tightly with a length of rope. His wounds, while severe, were closed off by a group of healers, mostly civilian liaisons from the city in employ of the dwemer forces. A large six-wheeled transport that towered over the gates waited for the argonian to be loaded aboard in the enclosed back with other prisoners. It was like an oversized; mostly alloy covered wagon where the guards mounted the top and the driver was kept in the front, safely within the confines of the armour in a separate compartment from the prisoners in the back. Perplexingly, it propelled itself without horses to haul it along, seemingly indomitable against the forces that would seek to assail it, not that many would; the sections of the city the transport traversed were long since secured and the armed escort was usually more than enough to discourage rash action, and certainly while battles still raged in the streets.

It was not long before the palace loomed ahead, a towering-walled fortress of smooth golden stone and ornate carvings and inlays offering a breathtaking, if foreboding, façade to the massive structure. It was one of the largest structures in Tamriel, towering over the Hegathe skyline. The dwemer had first constructed it as the head of the Rourken clan using what materials could be scavenged from the arid terrain of Volenfell, and it stood as a symbol of their power in the harsh, lethal lands. When they had vanished from Tamriel, their foundations remained, waiting for so many years to be discovered by the Yokudan explorers from the West who would claim Volunfell as their new home and rechristen it Hammerfell. Only suiting of a land that was inherited by those who came after, the Redguard built upon the foundations the dwemer left behind. It was that merging of cultures that loomed before the transport before twin heavy, reinforced gates opened and the transport made its way through a series of three more gates in a narrow tunnel with inlets for archers and boiling water to fend off a siege indefinitely, as the palace had doubtless endured across the centuries.

Blade had spent most of the ride to the palace fading in and out of consciousness, every bump in the road making him wince as they jarred his cracked ribs. An injury that the healers hadn't had the time or supplies to tend to. He didn't fully come to his senses until about the time the vehicle passed through the gates of the palace. He grimaced as he rose to his feet, ribs flaring up again, but managed to disembark on his own. Though he was a prisoner, he refused to show any weakness around his captors.

He'd tried to make out details through the sack that had been placed over his head for the duration of the hike through the palace halls, but it was too well woven.

Parking in a courtyard, the transport door lowered and the Palace Garrison stood at the ready to process them. Blinking rapidly in the harsh sunlight he'd glanced around at the palace courtyard and the impressive walls that surrounded it and the palace itself. He was starting to realize he was in some deep shit. He'd started to follow the other prisoners when they were being led away but was mildly surprised when the guards directed him a different direction. With hands and feet bound in lengths of conjoined rope, was lead to another set of double doors, only beautifully engraved of hardwood that did not grow in the region. A burlap bag was thrown over the argonian’s head and the world went dark as he was escorted through the halls, across courtyards, and up various flights of stairs.

After a long period of blindness, the bag was removed and Blade was subdued by three powerful dwemer guards. A forth administered a foul-tasting elixir down the argonian’s pried open mouth and within moments a weak ache filled his muscles and his strength ebbed to a much more lethargic pace. The argonian didn't bothered resisting much when the guards roughly forced a beaker of something down his throat that sapped what little strength he had. Besides the fact that it hurt just to move, he figured it would be better if the dwemer thought him complacent for now.

This accomplished, the door was opened and Blade was lead to an open room, supported by carved marble columns and dominated by a hardwood desk in the middle of the floor accompanied by three matching gilded chairs, back to an open balcony behind. Standing at the balcony was a dwemer woman in a modest black dress with golden inlays that flowed to her ankles. Gold bangles hugged her arms in the shape of serpents and altmeri glass earrings hanging in long prisms from golden mounts. Despite her youthful appearance and clear complexion, there was an air of ancient wisdom to the woman, someone accustomed to living several lifetimes worth of experience and authority. She did not turn to face the procession. “Two of you, stand guard. The rest are dismissed. Our guest is not going to offer us trouble, is he?” she asked, turning to face Blade for the first time. “I do not know your name, but I do know of your more famous companions. It is enough to separate you from the common rabble and why Doshin saw value in keeping you alive to present to me instead of removing your head.” She gestured at the argonian with a nod before moving to a side table where a silver pitcher sat on a tray with four overturned chalice. She poured one, a clear white wine filling the chalice. One of the guards cut Blade’s restraints free with a dagger, effectively leaving the argonian unbound and unarmoured. She smiled. “Please do not mistake my words for idle threats; I am not one for such crude dispositions. I simply find value in the undisguised truth. I am Governor Razlinc Rourken, the inheritor of Volunfell and the administrator of this region. May I inquire as to what your name would be, stranger? I am quite fond of alluring, interesting individuals and anonymity will not suffice.”

"Our guest is not going to offer us trouble is he," The argonian repeated mentally. Not right now, he thought idly in response. He moved towards the table as she finished speaking and took a seat, wondering why no one had seen fit to give him a shirt. He didn't really care one way or the other, he was hardly ashamed of his physique. But he figured officials and nobility, who typically lived soft, comfortable lives, would likely be unsettled with the countless number of scars that marred his dark scales. Pale reminders of the constant violence he'd subjected himself to over the years in addition to the fresh cuts and contusions he'd received at the hands of the city guard. Well, he supposed she'd just have to deal with it.

"People just call me Blade, so I guess you can too." The argonian sat with sat with his arms crossed, eyeing the chalice briefly and wondering who it was for before looking back up at the Governor. "But is it me you find interesting, or the people I've traveled with? What could be so interesting about an otherwise unknown argonian? And was the potion really necessary? It didn't taste particularly good, and as you said, it's not as if I'm going to give you trouble, in my current state at least."

"Very well then, Blade." Razlinc said, taking her seat across from the argonian and setting the chalice of wine between them, precisely in the middle. She offered it no more attention. "The poison is a necessary precaution," the dwemer corrected. "It will do no permenant harm but it will prevent you from extending the same discourtesy to me. Understand you are at a disadvantage for one such as myself trusting your words; your actions have done little to engender familiarity or comfort. Had we met under more pleasant circumstances, you would have found a much more comfortable welcome, but I believe in maintaining civility with all who enter my premises, even if what you have done is cause for execution. And justly so, I might add." she said, her voice more curious than indignant. There was no animosity or disgust anywhere on her face or in her voice.

"While initially it was your companions we took interest in, as myself and several of my high command profess admiration for their accomplishment in Imperial City two years ago, you clearly are more than a simple follower or hired muscle. You single-handed planned and executed a brave, but ultimately foolish, assault on the Hegathe guards barracks and left several good men dead and came curiously close to killing the captain of the guard. Be assured, his fate is still being decided, but what to do with you?" Razlinc asked rhetorically. "I rather admire fearless, talented warriors and have more than a fleeting interest in cultures that are unfamiliar to me. Understand, I have read every text and scroll about this world and its inhabitants I could get my hands on over my life, but seeing, interacting with, touching... these are all things that are new to me. You are the first argonian I have spoken to, a race that had even driven the Daedra back in fear two-hundred years ago when Mehrunes Dagon had attempted to conquer Tamriel. Imagine my surprise! This world is nothing like I remember it. It's quite... appealing. You are a deadly, dangerous man, Blade. What should I make of you?"

Blade was pensive for a moment, and only looked back at the Govenor, studying her. During the brief silence however, thoughts raced back and forth within the argonian's mind. What information should he give this woman? He knew he had to give her something or his usefulness would wane and he'd likely be executed as she'd mentioned or be subjected to some other torture. He was certain that he should downplay his relationship with Zaveed and the others, for the time being at least.

"Well," Blade started as his eyes met Razlinc's, if it's information on the argonian culture you want, I'm afraid I can't help you. I've never even seen Blackmarsh, nor have I felt the need to research it. So you will certainly know far more about it than I."

Blade couldn't help but wonder what the woman was playing at with the single glass of wine. It was entirely likely that it was meant as some kind of test or trap. On the other hand it could be nothing and she just liked to toy with the emotions of her visitors. Blade refused to let her do that, and grabbed the glass from its place on the table, supping the rich liquid and letting it soothe his parched tongue before addressing her again with an almost cheery air about his words.

"As for what you should make of me, well, that's both difficult and simple at the same time. The simple answer is, I'm a warrior. War is my life. Day in and day out, my job is take the lives of others. The Capital arena was a fine place to do this, until the Imperial city was sacked of course. So I needed to find a new place to ply my trade. As it happened, there was a merry band of fighters who were more than happy have an extra sword join their crew. And in another twist of fate, these fighters were not so happy with the dwemer either. So I joined them, and together we've cut a bloody swathe across the western half of Tamriel." Blade gulped down the last of the glass's contents and sighed appreciatively. "Attack a city. Make enemies. Strange the way life works isn't it? But I guess that must be new concept for your kind as well."

The Governor didn't spare a glance at the goblet, her little test concluding itself. You could tell a lot about a man by something simple as his willingness to take an uncertain chalice of wine and drink from it when it was offered by an enemy. He did not hesitate or try to determine the contents, he took it for face value and was bold enough to make the most of the offered situation. He also did not believe it was poisoned, or if he did, he did not fear death in the face of something worse. It was usable information. She did not interrupt as he spoke, and she drank in his words as readily has he had the wine. She knew better than to cut someone off when speaking; all words, no matter how crudely postured or intentionally misleading, contained something of value.

"To the point." She conceded. "It would be fair to say nothing but a glorious battle drives you, then. Captain Doshin managed to report the things you told him. Your bloody swathe, as you postured it, has accomplished little, it would seem. The most notable thing you have done is overcome a light garrison at the Chorrol outpost. Other than that, inciting a small uprising that was going to happen regardless in Hegathe, and some other Heroes of Tamriel causing another in Rihad were about the only things to happen of note. The Rihad uprising, I should point out, had failed in remarkably short order. The disappointing thing is your companions would have been left unmolested had they simply not become involved. What happens in Cyrodiil is not of my concern, but here, in Volunfell... order is important. So, enlighten me." Razlinc said, folding her hands together and leaning forward somewhat. "What drove you to attack the guard barracks alone? Surely you understood that there was a very real chance of death, and you've made it clear you care not for your compatriots' cause. Unless, of course you do, and you were lying on that regard. I believe the term is actions speak louder than words?"

Blade scoffed at Razlinc's words and immediately regretted it as his fractured ribs flared up. He winced once then recovered. "Obviously I knew I could die when I made an attempt on Mr. Doshin's life, but I try not to let fear influence my decisions. And I'm afraid you've read to deeply into my actions. Though my allies and I have raised our swords against a common adversary, it does not mean we do so for the same reasons." Blade shrugged as he continued, "Near as I can tell, the Heroes of Tamriel as you call them, are hoping to sabotage your campaign with the hopes of bringing the Empire back to power. Or something like that. I dont put much stock in the plan, though by your own admission, we have accomplished little. Even a little is still something no? It's more than I expected. Anyway, as I told Doshin, I couldn't care less who rules as long as they do so honorably. Which leads me to a question of my own. Tell me, are your men trained to attack unarmed civilians as well? Because the troops I fought at Chorral didn't seem to give cutting down innocent men and women a second thought."

Blade knew he shouldn't be so combative in this situation, seeing as his continued good health relied on the deck ions of the woman before him. But the the memory of what transpired at Chorral sent his temper bubbling every time. He too leaned forward, his words coming in a low growl. "That is why I saw fit to attack the barracks. Because it was asked of me and I had no reason not to. Because your men have proven to be dishonorable at every turn. Because your men have sacked our homes, killed our friends, and are attempting to alter our way of life." The argonian paused for a moment and leaned back in his chair, taking control of his temper before asking, "why shouldn't I raise my weapons against you and your ilk, Governor?" Blade practically spat the final word out, as if it left a foul taste on his sensitive palate.

A small terse smile crossed Razlinc's face, a small acknowledgement of victory, not unlike solving a piece of a puzzle. "Ah, so you do care. It isn't just the thirst of battle that sustains you. To answer your simple inquiry, the short answer is I am not responsible for anything that happens outside of Volunfell's borders. Surely, the idea of different groups within the same race shouldn't be a completely alien idea to you. After all, did the Nords not just engage in a civil war recently, seven years ago? You couldn't possibly have bared witness, but it was one of our own who disagreed with our aims that lead to our entire race being exiled from Tamriel before we could turn our weapon against our enemies. Ancient history, I assure you. The long answer made short, Blade, is what the other Governors and commanders do outside of my command simply is not in my power to alter. I returned to Volunfell with the understanding that the Redguard were refugees from a homeland that no longer is there. I intend to allow them to continue to stay in their homes and retain their culture as we reclaim our own home. This still will happen, despite what a few misguided groups do in the name of their entire race, this insurgency. After all, it is rather simple minded to blame an entire race for the actions of a few, is it not?" she asked rhetorically. "If you wanted revenge against what was done in Imperial City, you simply traveled the wrong way and bought into a fight that wasn't your own."

Blade just shook his head as Razlinc spoke. "Of course, how very political of you. Yes, it bothers me when those who claim power do not treat the people of the land with the respect they deserve, but who rules does not concern me, it's how they rule. Maybe you do not treat the people of Hammerfell poorly, though I have heard otherwise, but you are still affiliated with the other Governors, and what happens to one effects another, and that is what makes this realm a target. I do not believe you have no power to change what takes place across the border, I doubt you have even bothered trying. But taking no action is the same as wielding the sword yourself. And I have the feeling that the only reason you keep peace with the Redguard, is because you don't wish to bloody your own doorstep, which is much easier to do when the populace is complacent. Correct?"

The argonian was annoyed that he'd allowed his temper to get the better of him before and was very careful to maintain control of his emotions as he continued. He would not give this woman another victory so easily. "I grow tired of your word games, Razlinc. What is it exactly, you want from me? You did not bring me here so I could tell you of my culture, most any argonian could do that. And since you apparently have subdued the insurgency, you must have a very good web of intelligence throughout by the city, so you likely already know anything I might have to offer. Why then, am I still alive? If you do indeed plan to have me killed, then I'd appreciate it if we got on with it." As Blade waited for an answer, he wondered if he could muster the strength to at least wring the woman's neck before the guards beat him into unconsciousness again.

Razlinc smiled. "You seem to confuse my lack of authority to act as a willingness to do so. The rest of the provinces can turn into an unrelenting slaughter for all of my concern. Volunfell is my home, the rest of the provinces are neither my concern nor my interest. If you think you or your insurgency have done more than take a few lives and damage some property, you are sorely mistaken. Everything that has been done can be reversed in a fortnight with minimal resources. Should the Redguard rise up as one, they will be put down as one, simple as that. The fact the insurgency has resorted to wooing war heroes into their fold and is resorting to guerrilla tactics to accomplish anything says enough at how little impact they are making. A key tenant of asymmetrical warfare like this insurgency is this; the only way it can win is if it lasts long enough for the occupying force to run out of resources or willpower and leave. They fail to realize that this is our home, and they are guests here. They can live in it with us, or die in the streets or sands, it matters not to me.

"As for why you are still alive and why I summoned you here, it's simple; a curiosity had to be itched. Now that it has been, you have nothing more to offer me." She let the word linger as she rose from the table and walked towards the open balcony to look upon the city. "You are here because you have the opportunity to earn your freedom and your record pardoned. The method should be along your tastes. Instead of simply executing criminals, I make a spectacle of it in the Arena. You will be a combatant, win ten battles and you are pardoned. Lose one and we both know what happens. A part of my fixation on other races is seeing how they fight, how they kill. You could become a champion in your own right, if the populace comes to love you. Do not harbour the illusion that you have a choice in the matter. I always get what I want. It is a much more fitting fate than had Captain Doshin simply driven a blade through your neck and hung your corpse from a lamp, is it not?"

Blade just sat with his arms crossed as Razlinc spoke, his eyes following her as she moved to the balcony. One of his brows rose as she divulged her plans for his future. "Really?" He asked rhetorically, a tinge of wary disbelief in his tone, "you're sentencing me to fight in an arena, and freedom is the prize. Ten fights?" He repeated what she'd told him, as if doing so would remind her just who she was speaking to. The argonian briefly wondered if she had forgotten that killing for sport was his profession. Or that he'd single handedly left some of the city's best warriors in pieces on the floor of the guard barracks. No. She didn't strike him as the kind of person to ignore such details. He had the feeling that these mere ten fights she had planned wouldn't exactly be fair.

Still, if Razlinc wanted to risk him getting free, however small the chance. that was fine by Blade. He shrugged dismissively, "Whatever you say lady. But you won't be seeing how argonians fight when I'm down there. Just how I fight. And no, maybe I didn't accomplish much today, but you should remember that every pebble in a river bed started out as a boulder." Blade left the vague statement at that and got to his feet, he was certain she would get his meaning. "Thanks for the drink," he growled. "Can I go now?"

"How poetic. And you claim to be an unthinking, unfeeling brute." Razlinc smiled, turning slightly to face the argonian. "Rest well, companion of the Heroes of Tamriel. Your sentence begins tomorrow." with a raised hand, the guards approached Blade, kicking out his legs to drop him to the floor to bind his hands forcefully. The last thing Blade saw before the bag turned the world black was the dangerous hunger in Governor Razlinc Rourken's eyes.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Dervish
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Southern Hammerfell Coast, Harding’s Shipwreck…

“C’mon you bastards! Push them back!” Harding bellowed, having made it to the beach from the wreck. She joined her handful of mages and Hralvar as they advanced on the scorpion horde, flames emitting from every palm. The flame walls were enough to cover much of the beach, but there were still wide gaps in which the creatures were able to advance. It was here the fighters and archers took their stand, Marassa driving her blade through the thorax of one of the scorpions as it tried to pounce upon one of the crew members. The man looked at her with a mix of relief and fear as he muttered his gratitude before finding his footing and joining the fight once more. While Marassa didn’t doubt there was an end to the onslaught of arachnids, she didn’t see one. It was a question of whether or not her and the others would tire before the creatures were driven back or killed. Her attention was diverted momentarily by Cub’s shouting and the khajiit had to blink.

The orc was attempting to ride one of the scorpions. Whatever he was trying to accomplish was likely to get himself killed.

A flicker of movement caught her attention and she moved her blade up to block, the edge of the Skyforge steel digging deep into the sting of the scorpion that had tried to impale her with its deadly toxins. Twisting the blade the rest of the way through, she angled the blade down across her body and drove it into the creature’s head, forcing the black-bodied creature to still instantly.

In the distance, behind the main host of the scorpions came the sight of two more men fighting the creatures. Whether or not they were there by choice or were pulled in by the bad fortune trying to approach the wreck, they were not in a good position. With her night eye, Marassa saw the crumpled, prone form of a man on the ground next to his companions, one of whom appeared to be a mage, an altmer. “There’s someone else out there!” she called.

“And what in Oblivion are we supposed to do about that? We’re losing our own men!” Another voice called back. A scorpion near Marassa died as an arrow lodged between its eyes, another soon following suit. She cursed before yelling out to the strangers. “If you can make it, try to reach us!” the khajiit pressed forward, a few of the crew alongside her as they brought the fight to the scorpions. To the left, the smell of burning carcass began to fill the air as the mages were enjoying their own respite from the fighting.

Marassa soon realized that she was outpacing the pirates beside her. “Cub, Hralvar! Give me a hand here!” she yelled, casting stoneflesh upon herself to protect her exposed flesh.
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Damn that Harding wench!

Cub jostled back and forth mere centimeters from the scorpion's sharp exoskeleton as the stinger overhead thrashed violently. Put your gear in this barrel she said, it'll be much safer she said, bah! Cub dug his fingers deeper beneath the beast's carapace as tried desperately to...do whatever he was doing. He'd never been one for planning but how he ended up in such a predicament perplexed even Cub's notoriously strange line of thinking. Besides, there were more important things to worry about; for instance, the fact his chosen steed seemed to be much less receptive to steering than Shavie.

"Watch out, runaway scorpion!" Cub called ahead as the writhing insect beneath his scuttled frantically towards the fray, up and over its fallen comrades and on a collision course with Harding's crew. Cub's head darted up from its perch clenched close to his green chest only to be hastily batted back down by a near fatal tail strike whizzing past his ear. "That's it!" Twisting the Dagger free from behind the scorpion's head, Cub released his make shift reins and thrust the blade as deep as he could given its diminutive size, especially in his hands. It took several laboured strike but the insect finally sputtered to a stall somewhere between Harding and Marassa though the latter was quickly opening the gap. With a stern glare he lept from the carcass and made for Harding and, more importantly, his gear.

"Cub, Hravlar! Give me a hand here!"

Or not.

Cub's eyes narrowed as Marassa's call to arms sent a chilling challenge down his spine. This was it. His friends needed him, needed him now. No excuses. No running.
...
No gear.

Quickly wrapping his paws around the lifeless stinger of the massive scorpion, Cub wretched forth the makeshift weapon from its stalk. Setting it aside to let the vile poison leak out on its own, he turned to defense.

With a roar of determination, Cub peeled the carapace from the Scorpion's back leaving the sinewy muscle beneath to the predators of this land. With no quick way to affix it to his chest, Cub threw several powerful blows of his large fist against the makeshift armour biting the sharp ends into his thick hide and leaving small streams of crimson in their wake. It was far from a perfect set up and left his rear and flank extremely exposed but it took only a few seconds compared to scouring the beach for his cuirass and greaves.

Powerful legs pumping, Cub quickly closed the gap to Marassa, his momentum allowing him to shoulder through a scuttering devil approaching her flank. "You called?" With a smile he'd not worn in months, Cub felt the weight of the world fall from his shoulders. No Dagger. No Voice. This was where he belonged, at his friends' side. He needed them as much and they needed him, how had he forgotten that so easily? What had happened to cloud his judgement so?

He'd have to ask Shavie later.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Robeatics
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Robeatics Codename: Fupa

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A collab between Derv and I

Hours had passed, the deck of the ship baking in the sun and chasing all of Urzoth’s party down into the depths of the hold after only a few minutes of watching the bright sea drift by. Durb had his knees up to his collarbone, resting his chin and spinning his axe slowly, one end on the floor, the other beneath his fingertip. He looked up, eyes glazed over with boredom, and sighed softly.

“I thought ship riding was gonna be fun.”

Ushtur stared blankly at a wall, rocking slightly with the bouncing of the ship against the waves. Her stomach tensed with a little hum of recognition, but for once she said nothing.

Bulag slept.

Urzoth paced the length of the hold, one end to another, anxious to leave after the taste of land she’d spotted only hours before. To think she was so close to feeling solidly placed again made her blood shiver in its tunnels, pumping into her legs and fueling her need to move. Light from minute cracks in the sealed boards to her right flashed across her darkened face, catching in her eyes every so often and making her squint and growl impatiently. How foolish she must look! A Hero of Tamriel, pacing nervously in a boat, getting pissy at little flecks of sunlight.

“Hegathe up ahead!” A sailor, outlined in blinding sun, had swung open the trapdoor and called down into the hold, then stepping away from the open door and going back to his business. Urzoth watched his earth-toned feet shuffle away and rushed into the heat of the day, followed closely by her companions. They clamored to reach the edge of the ship, where a port up ahead promised solid footing and some real food.

Buildings sprouted up like beanstalks in Hegathe, toned like the sands and bleached by the scorching rays of Hammerfell’s burning sun. “By Malacath, how do these people see?” Urzoth tilted the shade of her helm into her eyes, blots of ink swimming in her vision. She impatiently waited for the sailors to reach the docks, drop anchor and lower the gangplank before immediately heaving her body onto the gangplank, crossing it with steps guided purely by the surety of her arrival, and landing down onto the dock, where she paused to come to terms with how… level the ground was. Finally, no swaying. Her head raised at the sound of a call to the departees, and as her group gathered behind her a group of guardsmen approached.

"Hail, travelers." The Sergeant, a dwemer of indiscernible age approached, helmless in the blazing heat of the day. "Please produce the manifest and documentation. Be advised that the city is currently under martial law, so the liberties of the populace is currently suspended. You will be permitted to stay in the Harbour District, but be advised that there is a curfew from sunset to sunrise and anyone caught breaking it is subject to incarceration and runs the risk of being shot on sight." the Sergeant said, as if reciting something he'd said dozens of times already. He looked at the looks, a look of curiosity crossed his eyes. The four other guards with him stood motionless, watching the proceedings diligently but with only passing interest. The real threat was inside the city, and there were enough counter-measures in place to all but ensure an attack by a rogue crew would be thwarted with ease. Trade had to continue, if for no other reason than to legitimize the dwemer claim to their lands in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Most ships came and went without incident.

Urzoth eyed the Sergeant, his racial features not unfamiliar but odd enough to make her stare at him a little, like spotting a previously unknown species of dog. She seemed reluctant to produce anything, especially at the mention of martial law. This man looked bored, which meant he hadn’t seen much conflict all day. “I didn’t think I needed documentation,” She said, leering down at him.

Bulag hurriedly produced the necessary papers, uncurling the little slips and passing them over. His voice quivered with both age and pride. “We are the Hero of Tamriel’s accompanying—“ Urzoth grunted impatiently. “—accompanying party from the mighty Orsinium! She is Urzoth gra-Morshum, of stronghold Morshum. Bearing no weapons un--” He broke into a prompt coughing fit, half-doubling over and making Durb smirk very slightly.

Urzoth snatched back the papers as soon as the man seemed finished with checking them. “Which way is the Harbour District?” She gripped Bulag’s bicep as he finally ceased coughing.

"Hail, travelers." The Sergeant, a dwemer of indiscernible age approached, helmless in the blazing heat of the day. "Please produce the manifest and documentation. Be advised that the city is currently under martial law, so the liberties of the populace is currently suspended. You will be permitted to stay in the Harbour District, but be advised that there is a curfew from sunset to sunrise and anyone caught breaking it is subject to incarceration and runs the risk of being shot on sight." the Sergeant said, as if reciting something he'd said dozens of times already. He looked at the looks, a look of curiosity crossed his eyes. The four other guards with him stood motionless, watching the proceedings diligently but with only passing interest. The real threat was inside the city, and there were enough counter-measures in place to all but ensure an attack by a rogue crew would be thwarted with ease. Trade had to continue, if for no other reason than to legitimize the dwemer claim to their lands in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Most ships came and went without incident.

Urzoth eyed the Sergeant, his racial features not unfamiliar but odd enough to make her stare at him a little, like spotting a previously unknown species of dog. She seemed reluctant to produce anything, especially at the mention of martial law. This man looked bored, which meant he hadn’t seen much conflict all day. “I didn’t think I needed documentation,” She said, leering down at him.

Bulag hurriedly produced the necessary papers, uncurling the little slips and passing them over. His voice quivered with both age and pride. “We are the Hero of Tamriel’s accompanying—“ Urzoth grunted impatiently. “—accompanying party from the mighty Orsinium! She is Urzoth gra-Morshum, of stronghold Morshum. Bearing no weapons un--” He broke into a prompt coughing fit, half-doubling over and making Durb smirk very slightly.

Urzoth snatched back the papers as soon as the man seemed finished with checking them. “Which way is the Harbour District?” She gripped Bulag’s bicep as he finally ceased coughing.

The Sergeant was either indifferent or uninformed regarding what "Hero of Tamriel" meant, as well as the towering orcs' stature. He handed back the presented papers after stamping them, clearing them from inspection. "Yes, documentation." he repeated boorishly. "It's part of the customs of assuring you aren't pirates and are legally authorized to make harbour in Volunfell sovereign territory. Since Orsinium is, as I recall, something of a rogue state with little in the way of structure, this will doubtless be a delightfully droll undertaking to sort this out." he gestured to a squat building to the right. "Have the captain report there to register the vessel and his cargo. The rest of you are free to make refuge here." he eyed Urzoth with impatience, as if he were explaining something that most people should have already been able to decipher on their own. "You're standing in the Harbour District. Every building, shop, inn, and tavern you witness on this side of the walls that lead to the city proper is the Harbour District. Considering it's exposed to the threat of sea raiders and piracy, it's rather ironic it's likely the most stable and safe spot in the city at the moment. You'd do well to mind your own affairs while here and stay without incident." the Sergeant said, the unspoken threat lingering in his words. "Now, is there anything else you need to know? There's a khajiit fishing vessel that I had to impound because the captain and crew couldn't seem to come up with a justification of why half of their hold is filled with moon sugar and skooma instead of fish I need to deal with." he sighed, looking as if his eyes were pleading for the band of orcs to actually be on their best behaviour.

Urzoth frowned and sighed, exhausted, at the Sergeant’s reply. Stupid! What’s wrong with you, Urzoth? You’re losing your sharpness. “Right,” She muttered, and crossed her arms. She hated talking to people she didn’t know anything about. She was nearly tempted to ask the man for directions to an inn nearby, but right now she only wanted to leave and find her old friends as quickly as possible. “No, nothing. The captain will register with your men.” She started walking off, letting Bulag go so he could leave alongside with some dignity.

The guard, miraculously, left them be, and soon enough the smell of the harbor and the meandering of people absorbed her party entirely. Urzoth hung close to the head of them all, pushing through the swaths of Redguard and making herself look like she knew where she was going. The larger street eventually split off into thinner streams, where storefronts and homes were more modest and shaded. A little sign, half off its pole and looking heavily worn, bore the symbol of a little moon encircling a pint of ale. She could scarcely make out the name; something about the moon and ale, probably. Durb tugged on Urzoth’s bracer, making her stop before she could walk on by and look down at him. “This looks like a place to stay if we wanted to be robbed, Durb.”

The lean warrior shrugged. “You sleep in most your armor anyway, General. And they won’t be so worried ‘bout us breaking stuff.” His eyes looked a little hopeful, and she furrowed her brow deeply.

Urzoth, through further argument on Ushtur’s part, found herself pushing the old, old door open, half expecting it to turn to splinters beneath her rough palm. Only a few narrow windows above the door provided any sunlight, bathing the plain, sandy room in darkness wherever a short puddle of a candle couldn’t stretch its glow far enough. A few characters of ambiguity sat on stools, sipping sparingly from mugs that could be smelled from across the room. An innkeep looking as if he’d risen from the very dregs of his oldest keg hunched over by the entrance, dark fingers idly dusting little flecks of sand back and forth across the rotting wooden counter of his bar. He perked up as he heard the door open, and in the flickering light Urzoth could see the milk of blindness in his eyes. Glancing back at the patrons whom held a sudden interest in the large group of Orcs with expensive accoutrements, Urzoth cautiously approached the bar and set her hands upon it. She tilted her head over, looking at the tunnel of doors to her right that she figured served as the section for rooms. “I need two rooms for a night.”

The innkeep looked up to the voice, glassy eyes contrasting with his dark skin. "There's more than two of you. What do you plan on doing, sleeping on the floor? I strongly suspect the lot of you aren't joined under Mara's light." the Innkeep said, his voice deep and rich. "There's four available. I don't need a room of writhing green bodies doing debaucherous acts that would make Dibella herself blush. I already had that happen enough this month. One room per married couple, those are the rules. If you don't like them, you can try your luck down the road at the 'Never-Vacant Lodge' or the 'You Could Buy a House for Yourself For the Cost of One Night Inn'. Since most travelers aren't allowed in Hegathe past the Harbour District since those idiot rebels got their loincloths twisted, it's gotten damn busy in these streets of late. So, what will it be? Four rooms or try your luck elsewhere?"

At the mention of ‘writhing green bodies’ Ushtur and Durb collectively snorted, holding in their snickering like a dog holds in its own piss while Urzoth slumped and grumbled at the counter. “Fine! Four rooms. We’ll try to contain ourselves.” Not as if she’d actually be capable of sleeping in some rickety human-made bed, but she didn’t bother to make that point known. It was clear he only wanted more money out of them. She pawed through her coinpurse, drawing up the funds needed to hold them for the night, and let the Septims clatter to the table. “I hope your bronze-licking overlords still accept this as currency.” She grabbed the keys to the rooms, passed three off to her respective companions, and tucked her own in a pouch at her hip. While they went off to explore their tiny rooms and peel away their heavy backpacks and equipment, she remained at the counter, opting to stay standing after a brief glance at a twiggy stool nearby. “I’ll have whatever ale you’ve got.”

The glassy-eyed innkeep smiled as he swept the currency from the counter top to drop in a small pouch at his waist. With a confident swiftness and precision that seemed unlike that of a blind man, he found a large tankard and filled it from a nearby barrel, stopping the flow from the spout before the foam could reach the rim. He returned and slid this over the orc. "Big girl like you, I was expecting more of a fight. You're alright." he said cheerfully, polishing a glass with a clean rag. "So what brings your lot to a war-ridden town like this?"

She hummed at his words. Alright? She rarely viewed herself as one people could get along with. She supposed a man who couldn’t actually look her in the eye when he spoke to her would be the exception. She glanced over to the people in the corner and took a swig of her ale, hardly cringing at the taste. It wasn’t much worse than the mammoth-killing swill the young warriors of Morshum would drink as a rite of passage. “I heard the Heroes of Tamriel were around. Got curious.” There wouldn’t be spies in a place like this, would there? Of course, the innkeeper smelled like the kind of man who might sell his soul to his invaders for an easier ride.

"Ah! That lot. I was rather hoping they'd stop by here, drum up some business." The Innkeep said with a slight upturn of the lips. "Then again, the trouble in town started shortly after they arrived, like they kicked the viper's nest. Word's about that there's more than the actual Heroes, like they had companions or something like that. There was that one khajiit, Zalee or something, and that big orc necromancer, I know he was called Gorzath, 'cause he was killed earlier in the day today in the fighting. People are saying the dwemer pulled him out of a house and shot him in the street with one of those tiny staves." he said, pausing what he was doing reflectively. "Damn shame, after what he and the others did two years ago. Didn't effect me on account of being blind, but it doesn't mean I was immune, probably why the Praetorians never bothered me. Anyways, no idea where they went after the day's fighting, but you can bet if Zally was killed, the dwarves would be boasting about it. The bladesmith across the street might know something, he's got connections with some of the insurgents, I hear. Just don't go making too much of a scene, last thing any of us want in the Harbour District is for there to be a stronger military presence." he advised, frowning at the orc. "Let me put it to you this way, my friend. We don't give the dwarves a reason to put too many of their men and arms here, the easier it is for us to get supplies into the city for the honest folk who are caught up in this shit. I know it's hard for some people to understand, but most people don't care who's running the town, all they care about is making enough to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads. Not everyone can throw caution into the wind and fight for a cause. You need to look after who's important, you know? Anyways, that's enough talk from an old man. Didn't mean to talk your ear off, traveler, but take it from me, I've been dispensing advice for the better part of thirty summers now. Old habits die hard."

The bladesmith it was, then. The light outside was fading. Would his forge even be open by now? She anxiously finished her ale and paid for it. “You know much, old man.” That was about as close to a thank-you as she would get. She could feel tiredness tugging at her bones, her eyes, making the whole of her armor feel constrictive and overbearing. In the hallway to the rooms, she could hear Bulag’s quiet huff as he flopped down into his bed and knocked at his door. With a muffled groan and a bit of time, he answered and stroked his beard into a more orderly shape.

“Hello, general. These quarters are acceptable. I appreciate you giving me a bed to sleep—“

“—You’re welcome. I need you to be sure Durb and Ushtur remain here in the morning. I’ll be gone for a little while and I don’t want them stirring up any kind of trouble.” Absently, she leaned a shoulder against his doorframe.

His neck gave an excited quiver, at the prospect of ordering those two around or at the idea of Urzoth placing trust in him, she couldn’t tell. “Yes, Champion! They will not even dare to speak in my presence.” He bowed, a motion she found altogether far too frivolous, and stepped back into his room, shutting the door swiftly. The bed creaked, a muted sound. She straightened and sighed out, feeling for the key in the pouch at her belt and looking to her own room. The door opened with a painful noise, leading into a tiny cubicle of a room, a small table by a wooden bed with a straw-filled, sandy mattress. The floor was a little less spacious than she’d hoped for, and she shut the door behind herself. In two steps she was as far back in the room as she could go, and she peeled away her helmet, gauntlets and greaves. Now at least slightly more comfortable, she rested her warhammer in her lap where she sat leaning against the wall across from the bed. Her head dipped back, she passively squeezed the hilt of her weapon, and a sort of half-sleep began to wash over her.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by rpg101
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Despite the light given off by the mages’ spells and campfires of the shipwrecked crew, Ehsan and Valsiore were still shrouded in darkness. They could only roughly make out the shapes of the scorpions that lay in front of them. Four in number to the Altmer’s keen eye, but the night hid just where their pinchers and stingers moved.

There was a snapping sound as a set of pinchers snapped shut, and then one of the scorpions scurried forward, its legs kicking sand into the air. Urged on by its movements, two more began to follow suit, hurrying along the ground towards Ehsan.

“Elf…I’d appreciate some help!”

The Altmer’s eyes darted from scorpion to scorpion. The beast at the front, the two flanking it, and the last one at the rear. His staff was in his left hand, the palm of his right was set aflame, a fireball ready to be thrown. The campsite for the sailors was too far away to make a break for it, and frankly that would place them with the scorpions in front and the sea at their back, which was not a prospect he was ready to resign himself to.

Ehsan stepped backwards and raised his scimitar, “I cannot fight them all at one time my friend.”

Valsiore tried to loosen his white knuckled grip on the staff. The wood was already starting to become slick with sweat, and he didn’t need it flying from his grasp in the middle of the fight.

The scorpions begun to close the distance between them and the Redguard, who stepped back a few more feet. “Please, help Elf.”

“Step the left.”

Ehsan did.

The Altmer took a few steps to ensure his aim was on, and then brought his arm forward, his right hand swinging above his head. The fire leapt from his grasp and landed in the sand directly in front of the closest scorpion, erupting into a brilliant blaze of sparks and light. The arachnid screeched and scurried back. Following its lead, the others retreated a bit more.

The fire had little staying power, as the damp sand offered it no further fuel, and the flames merely withered and faded after a precious moment or two. The fireball had enraged the scorpion however, which let out a screech and charged Valsiore. Its mandibles flared outwards, revealing a set of beady eyes that started right into its prey.

Magelight, one of Valsiore’s first spells, taught within the comforts of the regal manor that he had once considered home, landed right between the mandibles, inches from the eyes of the beast.

The two caravan guards were suddenly bathed in the light from the spell, while the sudden onset of such a close light source seared the eyes of the head scorpion. Its earlier screech turned into a bloodcurdling scream, and it began to backpedal quickly.

“Ehsan, go!”

The Redguard charged, a warcry erupting from his lips in order to shove down the natural fear of the fight. He raised his scimitar above his head and brought it down with all of his might. The blade crushed the skull of the scorpion, and its entire body crumpled forward, eight legs all giving out at once.

There was little room for rest, for one of the others hurried forward, its stinger raised in preparation for an attack. Ehsan had placed his boot on the body of the dead scorpion so he could remove his blade, but it had brought him to close to the Magelight spell. He couldn’t see the arachnid coming at all.

Teeth bared, Valsiore ran and pushed past Ehsan. He brought his staff forward and willed it to act. The top of the wood glowed and issued forth a cascade of lightning bolts, each one striking the hardened exoskeleton of the scorpion. The first few struck pinchers and merely left foul smelling holes in the shell, but the next two seared off the mandibles, and the last entered the eye sockets and fried the brain.

Ehsan removed his blade and blinked away the spots that had appeared in his vision. “Okay,” he said, wiping his eyes. “Two against two. I believe I enjoy these odds a good deal more.”

“If you can make it, try to reach us!”

A woman had called them from somewhere in the midst of the sailor’s camp. Whether it was one of the mages whose mastery of ice and fire was almost like a song, or one of the hawkeyed archers who could put half a dozen arrows into a scorpion while ignored by her more skilled and idolized companions, it couldn’t be said.

“Your call Elf.”

Valsiore look behind them, towards the solace of the path that had brought them into this mess, to the body of their slain companion, and to the body of the first scorpion, Magelight still bathing them in a luminescent light. Then he looked forward to the smoldering corpse of the scorpion he had just killed, the sailors that were fighting for their lives, and then to the phalanx of scorpions in front of them.

“There’s no guarantee we’d make it back alive,” he said. “I’d rather try to meet them, at least there we have strength in numbers.”

“Fair enough. We’ll meet them together?”

“Together.”

Armed with steel and magic, the man and mer began to cut their way through the scorpion, towards safety.

Or at least, a less imminent death.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Sundered Echo
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Reigenleif paused at the door for a time when she heard Khajiit voices yelling. She had been about to leave the safety of the Mosque to comfort Zaveed when it had started - apparently the other Khajiit, the mage from the college, had arrived and the two of them had had some disagreement that, with nerves in the present state, had escalated into a shouting match. So now she just leant on her staff, waiting for the sound to die down. Or perhaps for Qara’Sion to leave Zaveed alone.

Since arriving back, she had had the chance to bathe and clean away the blood from her wound. The only evidence of it left on her skin was the faintest mark where her restoration magic hadn’t quite perfectly restored the skin, though just because it appeared healed from the outside did not mean it was gone. Restoration magic was powerful, but even the masters of the art would still encourage time to allow the body to recover and repair itself naturally. She had also donned her Winterhold robes once again, which some thoughtful Redguard had had cleaned at some point while they’d been wearing disguises. The feel of the clean fabric, and the magical enhancements it imparted, gave her comfort in this dark time.

When the sound had stopped and Sion had stormed into the Mosque, she waited only a moment before departing the Mosque through the great door. It didn’t take long to spot Zaveed off to the side of the door. He was in a poor state, that was obvious. While he had suffered only minor wounds in battle, the psychological toll this day had exacted on him was clearly immense. She slowly made her way across the short distance separating them and gently put a hand on his shoulder. “The way you fought for me today… No one has fought like that for me since -” She paused as she took her mind back to that awful time. “Since the Falmer killed my parents.”

The khajiit jerked at the touch before realizing who it was. He let out a long sigh, looking to take in Reigeinleif with solemn eyes. His eyes darted away momentarily, taking in her confidentiality, his emotions conflicted. Normally, he would have felt his skin flush with pride and desire to protect the woman, but so soon after he lost his composure in front of Qara'Sion, he felt as if his soul was being torn several different ways. He put his hand on top of Reigenleif's, offering her smooth skin an affirmative squeeze. "I lost enough over my life, I couldn't bear the thought of letting you perish because of my pride or someone else's whims. As long as I stand, I will keep you safe. That I promise." he said quietly. "You and I are alike in many ways, both of us are orphans of circumstances. I should have liked to meet your parents, it's too rare to meet someone who is good of heart, like you... I don't know where I stand these days. I've never felt more alone than I have now, but you... thank you for being here. It's more than I deserve." he said with a weak smile.

Reigenleif shook her head. “It’s not about what we deserve. You were there for me, and I am here for you. You are not alone.” She slid her arms around him and pulled him close, much as her father had often done for her when she encountered hard times. Few things were as comforting as the embrace of a lover - for she realised now, that that was what she was. “I do not blame you Zaveed, I knew what may come when I took up this cause of ours…” She spoke softly into his ear. “Its not your fault…”

The khajiit leaned into the embrace, needing it like a refuge from a raging storm. He closed his eyes as he accepted the woman's presence in an intimacy he never understood until recently. He thought of how they had met, in the sand dunes of Stros M'kai, battling a seemingly endless tide of goblins. Within minutes of knowing each other, they each had saved one another's lives and he took her quest to find the dwemer artifact upon himself as surely as his own quest. And after she had gotten what she wanted, she had stayed and marched willingly into something arguably worse than Jareth the Goblin King, noble of High Rock. Despite all of that, despite his fears and misgivings, his guilt and apprehension, Reigenleif reassured him. He knew that somehow, with her here, they'd make it through. They had to. Her words in his ear was like a cage unlocking and letting the enclosed bird fly free. Whatever may come, he would do what had to be done. "I know people here have willingly come, not because I forced them to, and I am glad for their companionship and courage. I just... can't shake what happened to Gorzath out of my mind." He admitted, looking up, as if the stars would yield some answers. They remained silent. "I would have never turned on Sion like I just did had I been more sure of myself. I freely admit, this is the first time in my life since I was a boy pressed into service on a corsair ship that I've been so terrified and uncertain of anything. Are we doing the right thing, or does it even matter?" he asked.

Reigenleif was silent for a moment, thinking about that question. Their position had been mirrored countless times across history as Empires rose and fell. Some of those empires brought much good to the world, others less so, but all of them believed themselves to be right. So was it right to resist them? What difference did it make to her when she hardly felt the touch of empire anyway? She closed her eyes as the answer came to her.

“Yes. I believe that what we are doing is right. Empires rise and fall, but not even the Ayleids of old were as monstrous as the Dwemer. They willingly turned a noble race of Mer into the Falmer of today. Once they have dominion over Tamriel….”

She didn’t want to think about what they could do to their enemies and subjects once there was no-one there to judge such actions. “It is one thing to enslave. It something else to corrupt the essence of an entire race.” She pulled back a little to look into his eyes then. “Does it matter? Only you can answer that… But even in asking I believe you have answered for yourself already.”

It was a point Zaveed had not even considered. The thoughts of what would happen if the dwemer remained unchallenged were almost unthinkable, and the falmer were a sign of things to come. "It is a cause I believe is worth dying for. If I do one thing in this life, one good thing, it will be to find a way to stop them. The Emperors and his damn auroras are nothing compared to what will happen if we all fail. But they are one against many, I do not care how strong they appear to be. They will regret their return, and I will be the dagger that plunges first into their heart." his face was hardened with resolve. He put a hand on the Nord's knee. "Thank you, for helping me see things clearly. You of anyone know what's at stake here... and the others do, too. They accept the costs as readily as I do." he smiled. "At least we aren't doing this alone, right? I never thought I'd find a part of myself belonging to a Nord, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

Though Reigenleif had not expected her words to prove so inspiring to Zaveed, she was nonetheless happy that they did so. She couldn’t help but be caught up in this sudden burst of fiery resolve, and her heart raced yet more with his touch. “I assure you you’re not alone in that sentiment.” She said with a smile, replying in part to both of Zaveed’s statements. “If someone had told me a month ago that I would fall head over heels for a Khajiit, I would’ve thought them an escapee from the Shivering Isles. But here I am. And here you are.”

"One would think that we already are escapees from Shivering Isles for getting involved with this. It is okay to be a little crazy if it means doing something good." Zaveed chuckled, moving closer to embrace Reigenleif. It was moments of peace and contentment like this that were making the days bearable. While his worries and fears still lingered, he felt he was strong enough to face the days ahead, and it was enough. "So assuming we somehow manage to stop our dwemer friends and survive this war, what happens to us afterwards? The open sea and old ruins couldn't be further apart."

“We are going to survive.” Reigenleif said as though the point was certain and could not be argued, Nordic confidence strong in her expressions. “Well you’ll take me sailing of course… The life of a mage is a long one, and I’m sure I will still get plenty of opportunities to explore ruins. Besides, even while at sea, the ruins are not so far from reach. There are plenty of coastal sites you could take me between, and with a waterbreathing spell, I can make extensive notes even on submerged areas…” She stopped herself then, smiling with the realization that she would likely keep chattering about that topic all night if she got started.

Zaveed burst out in laughter, his expression mirthful. "This is the most outrageously optimistic dedication to any pursuit I have ever heard. I'm sure with the right incentive, you'd find a way for us to go into the Red Mountain to find something buried under tonnes of lava." he smiled at Reigenleif, shaking his head. "We'll work something out, although I may be out of work if the Empire can't hold off the Dominion. It's rather a shame we can't be two places at once, because I'd like to have a few words with the Thalmor rulers. I imagine in a way this whole dwemer returning thing is exciting for you, because now they're more than a few musty tomes and indecipherable runes. You might be the key to figuring out how to stop them. I doubt there's many other people who understand them as well as you do." the khajiit said encouragingly.

A girlish grin came across Reigenleif’s face as Zaveed burst out laughing at her theories. “I do my best.” She said mirthfully, though her own laugh was cut short by pain in her abdomen. “Laughing hurts…” she said after a quick recovering and a meek smile. “You definitely know how to make a girl feel good about herself.” She said before adding in a more serious tone “I hope I live up to those expectations.”

Zaveed frowned at Reigenleif's pain. They had all given and lost something this day. Once more, the khajiit felt selfish. He was seeking comfort when his partner was suffering from a substantial wound. She would need rest. "Come on, let's get you back inside." he said softly, smiling. "I'd much prefer to not kill you through humour, although that would be a first for even me." He ran a hand through her hair and helped the Nord to her feet, careful not to shock her abdomen too much with the effort. "I'll make you feel better when I can get you at least half as drunk as I wish to be. I believe this night calls for it, no? And don't worry about meeting anyone's expectations, it is unfair to burden yourself with such nonsense. I know whatever you accomplish will be something that some slimy bard will doubtless be singing about in the days ahead until the point you wish you'd killed his family instead of stopped an army." he grinned, walking towards the mosque's doors with an arm around Reigenleif's waist.

Reigenleif had to force back the laughter at Zaveeds next comment, simply letting a wide grin cover her face instead. “That sounds like an excellent idea. You certainly know how to make a Nord happy… And it sounds like you’re speaking from experience about the bards.” She gave him a playful elbow to the ribs at that comment. “I bet they won't have a single drop of mead here though. It’d just be my luck.” Reigenleif’s drinking habits had changed quite a bit since arriving in the land of the Redguards. She drunk less - largely because they tended to have a rather limited selection compared to her homeland or the incredibly multicultural Cyrodil. Though of course, once one reached a certain point it didn’t really matter what the drink was.

The khajiit scoffed. "You have no idea. At first, I was quite enamored that someone would see fit to write songs based on my glories, but it started to become apparent the man can't live up to the legend. People are far more interested in the hero who never eats, rests, or spends nights shivering wet in a cave with people whom he isn't sure won't try to cut his throat while he's asleep. I think the story's more for the bard's benefit; they get more coin for their troubles than I do. A shame my voice wasn't more alluring. I'd be much less axe-happy." he grinned, grasping the mosque's door handle. "It is a place of worship, after all. I couldn't even tell you what they brought in for us, past wine. This is a night where you drink to forget, but I can think of a few toasts to share." Zaveed said, following Reigenleif through the door. His eyes met with Qara'Sion's briefly and he glanced away. "I can't say I'm used to feeling in the right and regretful at once. I quite dislike it." he said quietly.

“Hmmm, definitely time for you to drink.” Reigenleif said, searching the room with keen eyes for a bottle. “And hope there are no bards nearby… For the bards sake.” She said with a grin. Though Zaveed still seemed a little unhappy with events, he was at least in better cheer than than before, and that made Reigenleif happy. As soon as she spotted a bottle of wine, probably to be used in a right to one of the Redguard deities she was unfamiliar with, she pulled it over to her with a telekinesis spell and handed it to Zaveed. “You’d better start right now.” She said in a mock serious voice.

"It isn't the night for merriment, but a night without drink is a night wasted." he replied, allowing himself to clutch the bottle and find himself a seat at once of the benches set up along the ornate, but worn, pillars. With a mock salute he removed the cork with a curved, extended claw and took a deep sip, accidently catching an air bubble and inadvertently inhaling a few drops. The khajiit coughed hard, shaking his head. "Damn..." he said between breaths. "It's been a long time since I've made that mistake." he handed the bottle back to the Nord, breathing deeply to make sure the burning red liquid wasn't still lingering where air should be. "It's hard to believe my people live in a country as miserable and hot as this one... I can only imagine how unbearable it is when you get away from the sea." he said, shaking his head. "The only thing worse is fields of ice and snow. How did you tolerate Skyrim for so long?"

“Miserably hot is certainly an accurate description,” Reigenleif said drolly, taking a swig on the bottle before handing it back to Zaveed. “But I’d take a good ice field over this any day. At least there you’ll never run out of water. But surely with a natural fur coat, your people would find the heat even more unbearable than I? And the cold less biting?” Even at night Reigenleif found the heat of this place unbearable, despite the fact that the Redguards all claimed that nights in the desert were freezing. Even after all her travels, she had never stopped being a Winterhold girl - which meant everywhere that wasn’t north Skyrim felt too hot.

Zaveed chuckled, taking the bottle and tipping it back for a drink of his own. "Common misconception. The fur sheds heat. Unlike wolves and other such unpleasant manner of beast, khajiit do not possess an undercoat. Best way to describe it is like wearing light, long clothing that covers your body so the sun does not directly touch your skin, and it gives something of a barrier against the heat. I'm sure if we found deserts and jungles unbearable, our long-forgotten ancestors would have moved somewhere more temperate long ago, perhaps conquered Cyrodiil." he said, looking around the room. "I suppose I should try to reassure these guys, should I not? Everyone's been a bit shaken up with what happened today. Wets-His-Blade and Rena are missing, too."

Reigenleif smirked at the invasion comment Khajiit were typically thought of as merchants (or thieves) first and warriors as a distant third or fourth, though they were certainly fierce when they needed to be. She was genuinely surprised to learn that the fur actually cooled them though. She had never bothered asking a Khajiit that question before, never having been interested in the beast races until Zaveed came along. “Well, thats not what I expected. I could do with some fur of my own if it would help keep me cool in this Talos-forsaken desert. But you’re right, much as I would love to steal you away for the rest of the night, the others look they need reassuring. Don’t worry about me, we Nord girls are tough.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Psyker Landshark
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By Talos, what did he do to deserve this?

Hralvar snarled as he sidestepped a jab from a scorpion's stinger before thrusting his sword through the scorpion. Whirling around, he set two more alight with flame as he stood back to back with one of Harding's sailors for a moment, both of them desperately fending off attacks from the beasts.

"Nine Divines, how many of these are there?!" He bellowed in frustration as he sliced a scorpion's stinger off before ramming an ice spike into it. "Knowing our luck, we stumbled on a nest of the bloody things!"

"Cub, Hravlar! Give me a hand here!"

Hralvar glanced to the side at Marassa's call, seeing her outpacing the pirates that were supposed to be alongside her. Biting back a few choice words, he nonetheless rushed towards the khajiit as Cub did the same.

While Cub proceeded to utterly butcher a scorpion, Hralvar covered Marassa from the side, blocking off two scorpions trying to approach her with a wall of flame that set them ablaze.

"Damn it, girl!" He yelled at Marassa, annoyed that she even needed help in the first place. "Why in Oblivion did you break ahead of the line?"
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Cairomaru
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After the conversation with the breton: Francis, he slowly walked over to his sister sitting at a table by herself. He didn't realize it before until he neared her that the dwemer staff he carried with him rested in front of her on said table. Did she rummage through his belongings again? Such a nosey khajiit she was....

Or maybe, due to the expression on her face she was... thinking about something? There was enough of a strained expression to tell something bothered her but it wasn't about the staff. She would look less sorrowful.

Catching Qara'Sion in the corner of her eye, she quickly turned around and smiled as she spoke. "Hey, you took quite sometime. Is everything okay?" The younger sibling lowered his head and averted his eyes away from her, yet still moved to take the seat across the table to sit. "...I told Zaveed we, or well I won't be staying to fight. At least, until we have the chance to return to skyrim. It wasn't a good conversation." The two stopped speaking at the end of his sentence. Shenzi immediately had began to fiddle with the dwemer staff on the table, still silent. "You wen't through my stuff again didn't you?" "Yes. I wanted to just inspect this is all." She responded referring to the weapon. Qara'Sion began to scratch the side of his head out of discomfort. "Could have asked me you know..." "I do."

And they sat in silence once more only for a longer period of time now. Enough for both to be aware, but neither to speak. Until Qara'Sion decided to. "I have a question...Shenzi." His sister picked up her head to look at him, rather than the weapon on the table. "How did you meet Belle and Fat-One? It's very strange for a khajiit, an imperial, and an argonian to group together like this... it sounds more like a drunkard's joke."

His sister chuckled to herself before smiling. "Fine, I'll tell you. Well..." She had began. Qara'Sion was shocked she was so willing to tell him albeit not visibly and listened on.

"After I left our family... or well "family", I was on my own for awhile. As much as I hated... or learned to hate robbing someone, times were becoming tough. Survival of the fittest I should say huh? Anyway... I was near a quaint little village...town...I forgot. And I saw this woman with long hair, and a rather long dress leaving said town with a bag on her own at the dead of night." He watched as his sister sighed a little, turning her eyes away before returning the gaze. "She was crying, visibly upset, as we've been taught... easy to pick. So I approached her while no one was around. Asked her what was wrong, and she was open about her situation; trying to find someone she loved who had been cursed with something and even without the curse, his family wouldn't want her to be with him. Neither did his family want him amongst them. Then, to try and find the cure for it; whichever came first. I don't know, as I spoke with her, she seemed too kind to rob. So I offered to help her out. And she accepted." "...Just like that? There's more to it Shenzi..." Qara'Sion bluntly told his sister, arms folded on the table. "You're right. She's an imperial. A very intelligent capable one. Who obtained feelings for a nord. During the war." Qara'Sion remained silent, biting his tongue almost. "I don't know why she was willing to allow me to accompany her. But she did. I don't know why she allowed it... but she did. Not knowing where to begin searching, or even where to ask to search, but Belle did... then."

He listened on, as if a child listening to an old story. "Well. We met Fat-One. Obviously, you know that wasn't his name, but we stopped Riften since after traveling for a bit, we stayed at a tavern. And the Gods would be the only ones to know it would just happen to be us to stay there that night. Some drunk argonian caused a ruckus there as Belle and I were normally dining on whatever food we had. The storekeep had a temper-" Shenzi was cut off by a slight chuckle from Qara'Sion who instantly thought of Shenzi's own temper. She sighed and flicked his forehead on instinct. "As I said, he had a temper and said argonian decided to knock out the storekeep in one punch, then it turned into a bit of a mess until Belle and I decided to just deal with him ourselves. Well, I dealt with him out of annoyance because he stumbled on me. After a bit of a few swings, claws, and magic spells, we knocked him on his ass literally, and he only laughed at us. He was impressed that out of everyone in the tavern, it took the two of us to bring him down. Although he stopped laughing when the guards showed up...."

"And?" "And, they assumed all three of us were responsible for what happened there. Belle and I ran to try and get out of the town, but there were more guards. Fat-One plowed through them like a horse gone wild and we left riften together by chance. Best to believe, I doubt the three of us can go there anytime soon. I don't even know why we stuck with that argonian myself, but we were willing." "Then what's his story?" His sister looked in his eyes for a minute before giving in. She was definitely being a lot easier to talk to then she usually would be. "Fine, he was an ex-bandit leader. A strong one then any common-folk we've probably dealt with in the past. His band of merry thugs decided one day to let him go around on a sort of "vacation". Just to have some fun time to himself. He came back the day after... found his entire group slaughtered as he put it. Including two of his children and his "mate". The only body he didn't find, was one of his son's; the one he named after himself."

And that's why probably..." Qara'Sion thought. "And that's why the two of us stuck by him." His sister remained silent as she continued to fiddle with the dwemer weapon once again. Fat-One wanted to find his son, and Belle wanted to find the man she fell for. Who knows how long the three of them have been traveling together? They were all searching for something... someone. He couldn't help but feel jealous of his sister. Loyal friends who she knew she could trust... unlike himself. He really didn't know who he could and couldn't trust... but then again, he really didn't have a right to say if he was one to be loyal.

At least in his own mind he felt this way.

The siblings sat in silence, until a thought occurred in Sion's mind. Shenzi didn't say why.... "Um... Shenzi?" He began. His sister's head looked up from the weapon in curiosity to him. "I know Belle and Fat-One are searching for someone.... what are you searching for?" His sister remained silent as she stared into his eyes. Sion waited for her response. And she couldn't answer, yet kept the same expression on her face.

"Ah... i feel much better now. How you holding up Shenzi?" Came a deep voice. Neither of the khajiits paid attention to the large argonian walking up to the two with a grin on his face. "As fine as ever. Sit dog." Sion noticed his sister quickly turn her head with an annoyed smile on her face as she spoke to the argonian. All he did was sigh and sit down at the table, groaning. He must have been used to her names for him.

The two talked as he sat there listening, occasionally chiming in here and there. But in the back of his mind, he felt even more conflicted than before. The war between three factions... his jealousy... his ridiculous past... then Zaveed's words of cowardice...

This was going to be a painful night. He'll get over it.... just keep talking with the two of them and forget about it. Too many thoughts and too many conflicting emotions...
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Dervish
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“You called?”

Marassa turned her attention from driving the point of her sword into a scorpion’s head to see the sight of Cub looking like an oversized viridian falmer with the carapace of a dead scorpion crudely hammered into armour. It was unnerving to reflect on the strength required to do that, but the orc arrived faithfully at her side, putting himself at great risk. She offered him a curt nod before drawing her sword from the felled beast like a scabbard. Hralvar wasn’t far behind Cub, berating Marassa for pulling ahead of the rank and file, if you could call it that. She smiled tersely without facing him. “A weapon this size requires room to use efficiently, I would rather not explain to the bitch why some of her crew seem to be missing heads because they got in my way.” She gestured ahead, a magelight burning not far ahead. “That isn’t from one of Harding’s crew. Either they’re travellers who mistakenly came to inspect the camp here, or they saw peril and decided to help regardless. I can make it to them on my own, but we three have a history. I suppose my idiot brother taught me a thing or two about trusting in other people. Now come on!” she said, pushing forward, greeting the next scorpion who came to engage her and the others.

Casting an ironflesh spell on herself, Marassa pressed forward, hewing arcs to buy room between her and her adversaries. It was fortunate that scorpions were merely tenacious, not intelligent; they didn’t even make an effort to dodge her strikes, and the Skyforge steel bit easily through appendage and carapace. Behind her, Cub and Hralvar were helping widen the path, brute strength and magic proving to be overwhelming. It was hard to say how many of the scorpions were felled, but their numbers were noticeably thinning, either through death or fleeing.

The burning magelight and flung spells drew closer and Marassa was able to see the two figures headed towards her much more clearly now, an altmer and a Redguard. The fact that the two of them were together was a pretty solid indication that the elf wasn’t a Thalmor agent, much to Marassa’s relief. Soon, the two groups met up, immediately taking defensive positions against the beasts. Despite the burning, unanswered questions, there was still a threat at hand, made evident by a scorpion latching onto Marassa’s greave and a sting that found its way into a joint on her armour, stopped only by her ironflesh. A burning sensation took her arm and she knew that her flesh had been punctured and some poison had seeped into her body. With only one hand able to wield her blade, Marassa drove it into the scorpion’s pincher, pinning the appendage to the sand and the khajiit drew her dagger, hacking away at the sting, cutting through connective tissue with the jagged orcish blade. “YOU BASTARD!” She snarled, freeing her arm so she could crouch down and drive the blade repeatedly into the creature’s eyes, fluids spraying from the gaping wounds as life left the creature, coating the khajiit with pale blue haemocyanin as it finally stopped squirming. Marassa spat at the body as she used the dagger to cut her leg free from the pincer by slicing through the tissue. Now able to stand, she grabbed her sword and looked around, a few more bodies lay in the sand, killed by her companions as she struggled. She tried not to reflect on how quickly she would have been overcome and quartered if she had been alone as she turned to the elf and his human companion.

“It’s safer by the ship. Try not to die and make our efforts meaningless.” She said, feeling the poison starting to run through her body. It wasn’t the full dose, but it was enough to be wildly uncomfortable. What in Oblivion did I use to heal myself after I got bit by that centipede in Argonia…? Marassa thought. Ugh. Mudcrabs and gensing, maybe some of that Redwort flower if it even grows here.

Now in the relative safety of the group, Marassa cast a detect life spell and looked around. The seemingly endless scorpions were slowing. Many seemed to be retreating back to whichever den they came from, having been thwarted out of an easy meal. Others still were tenacious and were a very real threat; still, it gave Marassa room for hope.

“We make it back to the line and we’re out of danger. The beasts are starting to be driven back.” She announced to the others as they made their perilous journey back.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by rpg101
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Lightning, brilliant and blue, burst forward from the tip of the staff. The sparks blinded and seared the scorpions, keeping the beasts away so Ehsan could face the remainder. It required an almost constant use of the magics that the Altmer had been worked into the wood.

As he drove back two more of the scorpions, Valsiore could feel the wood under his sweat-slicked palms weaken. The runes he had engraved along the staff had lost their luster, no longer glowing when he called forth the lightning bolts. Not far into the future, quite possibly even during this battle, the enchantment would finally give out, leaving him with what would then be akin to a fresh cut branch.

There were of course the gems in his satchel that was over his shoulder. Three precious, jet blacked gems that he regarded as his war trophies. Any one of them would recharge his weapon and let him burn his way through the remaining scorpions that stood between him and the ship’s crew, but to recharge would take time.

He flung a fireball into the mandibles of a charging arachnid. It scorched the flesh, causing the creature to scream and hurry backward. Valsiore had a few seconds to catch his breath.

No, he decided. He didn’t have the time to even remove the soul gem from his bag.

A handful of sailors were cutting their way through the scorpions, ahead of the rest. At their head was a khajiit mage, keeping a number of the beasts at bay with sword and spell. A bit of mercy this cruel world, they looked like they would make it to Valsiore and Ehsan. Perhaps this wasn’t their death sentence after all.

Another flurry of lightning bolts, a fireball at a tail, and a quickly cast Fear at a scorpion that had gotten too close for comfort. Meanwhile, Ehsan dug his scimitar into one scorpion’s thorax, then sliced off the tail of a second, sending it scurrying.

By the Eight, the two groups actually managed to meet.

The khajiit, fur coated with blood, skipped the introductions. “It’s safer by the ship. Try not to die and make our efforts meaningless.”

“Noted!” The Altmer yelled, hurrying behind a line of several men who held particularly large weapons.

“We make it back to the line and we’re out of danger. The beasts are starting to be driven back.” She told them.

“I can help us return to the line,” the Altmer said, feeling safer now that he was in a group that he did not represent half of.

Now that he was not forced to constantly keep the scorpions at bay, Valsiore was able to finally alter his tactics. He had used much of Storm of Alinor's magic in order to conserve his energy, keeping him fresh for when he had met the sailors. He could throw fireballs just as well as the next man (or cat woman), but he had a few other skills up his sleeve, ones that were a bit more unconventional.

His first target was a younger sailor, a boy of nineteen, holding on to a cutlass with a shaking hand. Somewhere during the fight the right side of his head had been badly scratched, and it looked like he had lost an ear. The boy looked quickly from foe to foe, unable to focus. If he didn’t rally his thoughts, he’d have a scorpion’s tail through his pretty red tunic in no time.

Valsiore placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Courage my friend,” he said, willing the sailor to fight. It took a moment for the outside force to cloud the boy’s judgment, for his hands to stop shaking and his mind to focus only on victory. Thoughts of defeat and death were pushed to the side, an illusion of definite victory placed at the forefront of his mind.

Resolute, the sailor stepped forward.

Damn the brave and inspiring speeches that military commanders gave, Valsiore could do the same with a bit of magic and a touch. Perception was everything, and he’d make damned sure that the group of sailors he now found himself with truly believed that they could cut their way back to the safety of the ship and its crew.

The Altmer’s gaze was drawn to several dead bodies. He stepped over corpses that had been impaled and ripped apart by the Hammerfell beasts. The majorities were unrecognizable; a mixture of torn organs and cut flesh, but a handful still retained their rough shape.

Failing his little ‘inspiring push’, he did have a backup plan.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Robeatics
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A collab between Dervish and I

Drumming. Distant and sure, like a mountain on the horizon, like the river beneath it. Where Urzoth sat, she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the ground or the air, and in the distance steady drumming echoed across the horizon of vast, swallowing void. Above it a familiar voice was humming a little tune, off-beat, something the bard at the Bannered Mare might whistle between real songs. She could hear the voice slip his quiver over his shoulder, string his bow with practiced fingers, and shuffle to the door. In the oblivion of it, half a home appeared, her home, in Whiterun, and there he stood, by the door. His features were just a little off. He looked like a word she just couldn’t spell right for lack of memory, and the realization left her feeling heavy, cold. The drumming grew louder and she clenched her fists, aching to say something.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few days. Don’t worry about stamping out the fire if you’re at the forge, I can relight it.” The drumming turned to the thunderous beating of massive strides. It spread outside the door, a chorus, and still Urzoth was frozen. He chuckled. “Don’t want to come home to see the house burned down.” Clubs, all around, crashed through the windows, unwieldy, stony things, hideous and ill-made, their owners stamping deformed feet into the blackness beyond. He paid them no mind, as if they were birds flitting about outside, and shrugged at something Urzoth must have said. Her memory was a fuzzy thing, poisoning his appearance, even his voice, which now sounded as unsure as her remembrance. She cursed all the blows to the head she’d taken before she knew she would lose him. “Come on, don’t be so worried. I’ll be with Hafirs and Naetna. They know the area really well.”

A grey, gnarled hand shot through the door, gripping him by the middle and ripping him through the threshold like a weed plucked from parched earth. She could hear his neck snap at the impact of his head hitting the doorframe, and through the window Fuzrath’s broken body was framed with ink. The sight of the beast that jostled him, the defiler, storming into her life and throwing away everything, filled her with a loathing that made her chest jump up and ache with burning hatred. The giant’s maw opened and from it spilled alien words that made all the rage turn to chilling fear.

”YOL TOOR SHUL!”


“Ghrghh!”

Light hit Urzoth’s eyes from a ray of sun that had, miraculously, pinpointed the exact crack in the opposite wall through which it could shine like a smiting beam. Her head swung forward from the wall, and in the silence after her waking gasp, she shook in her metal skin and awaited the sound of distant thumping. Met with only the plodding of early morning merchants plying their trade and hauling wagons to and fro across the street, she stood, shook out her numbed legs and slowly reequipped her armor. She was dragging her feet with more difficulty than she would’ve liked, and in annoyed response she hauled up her warhammer and briskly went into the main room to have a drink and some semblance of food. She arrived at the counter to see a new, younger bartender, a man with eyes that darted from her weapon to her face and very quickly to his counter. He looked like the older man’s son. Or grandson. “Can I get you anything, uh, madam?”

She looked down at him and laboriously stilled her shaking breath. “Just a bowl of something hot. A lot of it.” The man looked like he was about to request specification, as if she cared what she ate, but he simply nodded and went to fetch something. He set a large, sloshing bowl of some form of stew on the counter, held up a few fingers and pinched away the coins she gave him. Overall, not the most exciting dish she’d ever had, but it tasted enough like the herd insects she ate in Orsinium that she could hardly tell the difference. She was just slurping away the last of her breakfast when Durb came wandering out of the hallway.

His hands were stained a muddy red, and he reached for a rag the barkeep left on the counter to wipe them off. He looked up from his furrowed brow at Urzoth’s face and put forth, simply, “There was a rat in my room, General.” Urzoth felt a little sorry for the rat. Durb sat beside where she stood and promptly began devouring about four or five burnt little scorpion kebabs, stopping to snort for air between bites.

“Bulag is in charge of you lot until I return, Durb. I don’t want you getting in one of your moods while I’m gone.” She frowned at him as he peeled a tiny plate of carapace off of his meal, assuming he heard her by the fact that he nodded, and made her way for the door. Outside, the sounds of the Harbor District were a little clearer, and the sun now blasted down onto her face like a hellish blaze. Cursing in her native tongue as she marched down the wide, sandy street, dark faces turned to peer into hers and glanced away quickly, as if struck with acid. A few Orcs she assumed were Orsinium traders gave her nods of acknowledgement from their wagons and stalls, having half the mind to not bother the woman they knew would be likely busy. The city dwellers were enjoyable like that. She eventually spotted a sign waving gently in the seabreeze brandishing the symbol of an anvil and blade, making her veer to the left to reach the lonely, glowing forge amidst pottery and crates. The sight made her think of home, and her heart ached, brow furrowing underneath her helmet.

When Urzoth entered the Bladesmith's shop, she would see a sizable establishment with numerous weapon racks on the walls and in the middle of the floor, a middle-aged Nord man with a thick brown beard and blue eyes working behind the counter, reading a note left with a blade a customer had wished to have sharpened. He looked up from his missive at the sound of the creaking door and caught sight of the orc coming through the threshold, her face illuminated by the ample light pouring in through window. He smiled warmly at the newcomer; an orc was a woman who knew the value of a blade. It would be his pleasure to make a sale, as Vargar prided himself on his ability to forge a blade.

"Hello, friend. Welcome to Vargar's Swords, please take a look around and let me know if you see something you like." he called out warmly.

“Hmm.” She nodded to his greeting stonily and gave a sweep of the weaponry he so proudly displayed, surveying particular pieces that stood out. Many appeared faintly Nordic in style and build, with strong, symmetric blades and hilts, while forged from the rich resources of Hammerfell: Some intricate and given a noble’s flair, others smoothly efficient in design. She hummed and reached for a small, thin knife off a rack that had a poised balance and wicked edge. She ran a thumb over the brass pommel, tilting it to watch it shimmer, and balanced the center of the knife’s guard near perfectly on the tip of her finger. “You have a fine craft.” Half of her knew he’d be more willing to give her information if she bought something of his and complimented him. That was how Zaveed did it, anyway. The other half of her really wanted the knife, and so she set it on the counter. “How much for this?”

"You have my thanks, my family's been forging daggers like that and fighting with them for generations. As far as I can tell, few other bladesmiths make a better cutting knife with as fine of a grip. It doesn't matter how rough it gets, that blade isn't leaving your hand unless you want it to." The Nord said, running a hand over his chin. "Usually, I charge about 150 gold for that kind of blade, it ain't fancy, but it's a hell of a lot more functional than those ridiculous ornate elvish blades with all the pointless flourishes. I'll sell it to you for 110 since business has slowed down since the city went into martial law. We in the Harbour District have been cut off from most of our clients in the city, so it's a damn sight for sore eyes when a traveler like you finds her way into my shop. I'll even throw in a whetstone and some oil, free of charge."

Urzoth nodded and set 150 Septims on the counter, leaning forward against it slightly as if telling a secret. “These dwarf bastards shouldn’t run your trade down.” She shook her head, hoping that her lack of finesse was made up for with her words. “They’d have to open my belly and burn all of Orsinium before they could take it like they’ve taken this place. Surely there is fighting somewhere, from what I’ve heard.” She attempted to act as if she was not hanging on every word she spoke by examining the dagger again. Sound casual, dammit! This is barely how Zaveed would do it! Damn cats. She suddenly shook her head, deciding against a subtle approach. “Listen. I am Urzoth gra-Magul, a…” She hated the title. “A Hero of Tamriel.” She sighed and took off her helmet, setting it aside. “I heard that you held ties with a particular group that may know where my companions are. The dwarves are an issue that the king of Orsinium will not allow grow to his borders.”

The Nord blinked once slowly before running his hand over the small pile of coins, quickly counting it and finding it to be the promised sum. He was surprised; he half expected the orc to try to haggle him down further, as he was accustomed to with more than a few cheap, worthless sailors. He let her words wash over him without expression. "Isn't them that's causing my hardships, not strictly anyways." he replied carefully, reaching under the till to place a whetstone and a small oil bottle on the counter as he swept the coins into a coin purse that dangled from his belt. He looked at Urzoth with curious brown eyes. "There's fighting everywhere you go here, we just make due with what we have to. I ain't Redguard, it isn't my fight. Unlike some of the other shopkeeps in the city, I don't intend to have me and my kin dragged out in the street and shot." he said, the tone of his voice suggesting Urzoth use a little more caution. He tilted his head and took the orc in a different light as she identified herself. It wasn't like he could confirm her identity, but it would be pretty damn exciting if what she claimed were true. "And who told you I'm that kind of man? Lots of people trying to do one another in for various reasons, can't trust anyone these days. Frankly, what happens outside these doors ain't my concern, Hero. You'll have to give the King of Orsinium my regards." he stopped himself before chuckling. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse my tone. My wife says I should be more polite to customers, especially ones as generous as yourself." he leaned forward, picking a Septim he had missed up in his fingers, turning it as he observed the face carved in it. "If you are who you claim you are, you might be happy to know that it's pretty common word that more of your fellow Heroes have been seen around the city, caught up in the uprising. One of them, one of the other orcs I've heard, was killed this morning if rumours are to be believed. One of the khajiit men have been seen around, some say Sevari, more say Zaveed, hasn't been seen for a while, but he isn't alone. Problem is, nobody knows the company he keeps or where he's going. Probably for the best for him if he doesn't want the dwarves figuring it out. So, how did you end up in Hegathe? Can't be coincidence you ended up where some of your friends are."

An icy chill of sharp, stabbing horror made her eyebrows twist and eyes widen. Was Cub dead? His words became a blur, Urzoth’s blood beginning to stir, pumping like lightning along a mountainside, arcing for something to set alight. She vaguely heard his voice inflect upward. Did he ask a question? She shouldn’t be surprised that Cub could be dead. He was unstable and monstrously out of place wherever he stood, even among other warriors and men of similarly bestial proportion. But she had seen him fight and it stirred in her memories of being a little child, standing at the waists of all the adults, watching them spar like clashing titans. Whatever could kill Cub was surely formidable, and she was surely going to destroy it. She leaned forward against the counter, murmuring, “…Hegathe? I’m…here for reasons my own. Perhaps coincidence.” She seemed to have gathered herself, but as she scooped up the dagger her elbow grazed a breastplate on a stand and tipped it forward towards the floor. Her arm swooped under it, catching the fine steel and heaving it back towards its rightful position on the countertop. She let out a string of curses in her native tongue, setting it aright again, and went immediately after for the oil and whetstone, tucking them away in a few pouches. Something felt hollow within her, and she was angry with the man for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. “You are a smith of Skyrim who would sit on his hands and watch invaders fester like a wound?” Her rumble was laden with hardly-repressed aggression, a trademark of Orc mannerism, and she sighed out deeply. “Thank you for what help you have offered. But soon enough you will be forced to defend your wife and kin beyond stepping aside like a servant.”

Vargar looked back impassively, as if he heard the same speech dozens of times. "Uh huh. I'm from Cyrodiil, and if anything happens to me, then what happens to my family? The thing about most of you so-called heroes is you don't have people depending on your income. And you can be sure if a time comes where I need to spill blood to protect my family, there will be no force on Mundus that will get by me. Until that day, I'll leave the reckless heroics to the people like you and the others who watched their families get executed in the streets before they had their throats slit. I'm sure they accomplished a lot before they died unceremoniously in the streets and the cost of their life justified their accomplishment." he said dryly. "Look, I moved here after the White-Gold Concordat was signed and my Legion brothers refused to carry on the war with the damned Dominion, so I thought Hammerfell and her defiance would continue the good fight after the damned Thalmor killed my first wife in the streets of Kvatch. I didn't get my vengeance against the elf bastards, and then the Dominion left but is still out there. For years, I plied my family trade here to put together a mercenary company to take the fight into the Dominion and make their families bleed instead, but people here tired of the war, too, and I spent a long time with a burning hatred about the things left undone and the cowardice of the people around me, and then I started to realize that the reason people don't keep fighting a war is because they have other people depending on them, families of their own. If you ever marry and have kids, you'll understand that the grand scheme of things just doesn't matter compared to keeping the ones you love safe. I met a local here, and have three young kids, and you're telling me to do, what exactly? Run out there to cleave some heads before I get cut down? Then what happens to my family? I don't like the dwarves any more than the next man, but they didn't start killing people until the uprisings started, and my family's safe. I've already filled my heart with hatred for one enemy, and that's been enough to last me a lifetime. I'm not going to do something foolish and replace that with another."

His logic calmed her somewhat, and she forced herself to cool down and mull over what he was saying. Her fury could not sustain her, and blind assault could not sustain men like the one she spoke to now. Shaking her head at her urge to charge ahead without any knowledge of the situation, she slipped her helmet back on and felt her blood slow. “I must respect your adherence to your duties. Protect your family. Fight well when you must.” Idiot! He probably does not even think of you as a Hero, with how awkward you are. A peddler cried out in the street, advertising his fish with a parched throat, and the sudden noise put in her a decisive spirit that sheathed her new dagger. She silently stepped away and made for the door, feeling overall as if she had failed something, as if he knew more than what he was saying about the resistance. Why did the innkeeper tell her he had ties? She turned her head to look at him, pausing right in the doorway, and listened to the currents of the people walking back and forth outside, scuffling and chatter. “What was his name? The Orc killed?”

"From most voices, I'm hearing Gorzath, they say he was the conjuror. From what I hear about you Heroes is the third orc in your companions was monstrous in size, and nothing like that's been thrown around, so it probably wasn't him." he sighed, frowning somewhat as he looked at the orc. "Alright, come on. I have something to show you. You seem like the real deal, not some kid who's got a death wish. Lock the door behind you."

With that, he led Urzoth to a bookshelf that had been re-purposed for displaying shorter arms and other trinkets. Reaching under the second lowest shelf, Vargar grabbed something out of sight and pulled it to the right and something was heard unlatching. Reaching on top, Vargar pulled down a hooked bar of metal and led the hooked end down towards where a natural hole in the wood was located near the center. Hooking it securely, the Nord pulled the shelf towards him with care, supporting the upper half with his free hand. Soon, there was enough of a gap behind the bookshelf that Urzoth could clearly see the rollers the shelf was mounted on. "I have to keep a low profile so the dwemer don't have any reason to check my shop thoroughly, but this passage has been here for Stendarr knows how long, but let's just say the last man who owned this place ended up getting hung as a thief. Anyways, this way."

After leading the orc through another set of doors, Urzoth could start to hear the sound of flowing water and down a curving staircase, lit by Welkynd stones to give enough illumination so the stairs were visible. Another set of doors opened up to the sight of flowing water, rushing towards the Harbour district. Light was visible through grates on either end of the tunnel. "This is a stormwater drainage channel that's gated off with heavy iron on either end to deter invaders. The one at the low end," he pointed towards the Harbour, "Doesn't open, and probably hasn't had to in some time. The lock's been cemented and then transmuted into some kind of metal, so it's pretty much useless. The other end, however, only has a lock accessible from this side, as well as a hidden latch that's only visible on this side. Anyone on the city side of the grate isn't going to see it, especially since there's a stone archway above the grate that obscures visibility and makes it difficult to reach. Normally, it flows about waist deep, but if it's storming, or if they open the secondary storm pond in the district, the water gets as high as the top of the bars, so needless to say, unless you're an argonian and somehow able to fight against crushing currents, don't try accessing it when it's high water. You do not want to try to go through there when it's night time because those bars are loud enough that the sound will travel, but during the day when the streets are alive and the guards are all busy? You can get through unnoticed. Probably." He shrugged.

Urzoth made her way further down the tunnel, hunched slightly, and swept a hand across the old stone walls, feeling the water-pounded smoothness of it. Her fingertips came away with the green of algae that had also been brought in thanks to the tide, and she turned to him, nodding at his words. “Reminds me of the sewer I had to crawl through during the Imperial City battle.” She peered over the flow of water into either side of the T-shaped passage, up, then down, and looked up again. “And this exit leads to more of the Harbor District?” She hoped he would prove her wrong; that perhaps it led to a separate section of the city she could traverse in search of her companions while having unguarded passage back to where she was intended to remain. The water sloshed by dully, a plain grey color, and the hush of the sea and the odor of salt and fish hung pungent by Urzoth’s head. Deciding to look for herself, she glanced back at Vargar before plunging a leg into the warm water. It came up to her knees, and while the polished leather lining on the inside of her armor kept most of the water from soaking into the fur underneath, she could feel it by her joints and seams. No worse than sweat, she supposed.

Vargar shook his head. "What you see is what you get with the Harbour District. That goes into the city proper, it doesn't make a lick of sense to have a drainage passage from one side of the district to the other. No, across the grate goes into the Garden district, where the stormwater ponds tend to collect. There's also a few Mosques and a couple Temples around there, so it tends to be a bit more peaceful and quiet. Given the uprisings, the dwemer are mostly concerned about trouble spots, so I can't imagine there's more than a few guards around this district, save for the passages to other districts." he replied.

The sunlight grew stronger as she climbed up to greet it, peering cautiously through the bars of the grate. Figures passed by, blotted out by the sudden rush of day, and a few children terrorized a chicken mere feet from where she stood in the little channel they hopped over. As a wagon with a particularly vocal mule came clamoring slowly by, she made her descent back to Vargar. She hauled herself back up onto the little ledge and shook some water out of her boots, then rising to her full stature. “Know any rebels I could talk to? Maybe a few battling alongside the Heroes knew where they went.”

"Can't help you that way, I'm afraid. Part of keeping my head down is not poking my head where it isn't needed. I just get the occasional person through, what they do is their own business. I know a bunch of the merchants are in league with the insurgency, so if you can find a Merchant Guild store that's still intact, you can probably find somebody who can point you in the right direction. Just don't mention me." he cautioned.

She felt stirred to show him gratitude in some way, and clapped a hand against the side of his arm that risked sending a smaller man tumbling sideways into the water. “I will not.” She ceased the contact very quickly, and began to make her way back up to the passage directly connected to the store. As she went, she admired the glowing stones along the walls, inspecting them curiously. They looked similar to the ancient stones she occasionally spotted during her time as a sellsword, sifting through ruins for nervous little merchants, and the gentle glow she likened to a forge at dawn. She waited for Vargar to reopen the hidden door, hovering by the wall, feeling the weight of several sparsely-rested days begin to tug at her eyelids in their familiar urgings. Her head tilted forward and she watched the motion of Vargar making for the door, sighing. “I should have been with my companions from the beginning.” If she had never accepted Nagamog’s offer, would anything have changed at all? Would she have known Ushtur? She wondered at how different things may have ended up, if she had simply remained a smith, if she had gone to the celebration in the Imperial City.
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This giant-ass wall of text is brought to you by Souliolios and myself. Apologies for the length! Lots to cover here.

Also, time skip is coming, I promise!


The night hung heavily over the city, the raging battles of the day giving will to an eerie, oppressive calm. Those inside of the sanctuary of the mosque had gradually turned in for the night when fatigue finally took them one by one, and Zaveed was no different. Turning in on a pair of sleeping mats with Reigenleif, the khajiit had tried to claim sleep while he could, but restlessness and the uneasy feeling of all the things left undone filled him as he stared up at the domed ceiling, his eyes seeing every crack, crevice, and decorum in bright detail. It was a natural part of his feline physiology, but Zaveed would have given anything to turn it off for a night and let the darkness take him. It would seem, however, all useful things came with repercussions.

After what felt like hours of nothingness with the Nord mage asleep beside him, snoring softly with an arm draped across his chest, Zaveed decided he might as well look upon the night sky instead of an old worn ceiling of a place of worship, the warm night air comforting to a man accustomed to more than one night spent sleeping on the top deck of a rocking ship with the Twin Moons’ light bathing the aged and salted wood with ethereal light. The privateer gently removed Reigenleif’s arm from his chest and rose to his feet silently, careful not to make a sound in the otherwise still mosque. Only the sounds of sleep from those more fortunate than Zaveed filled the air as he grabbed his dagger’s belt and strapped it to his back. He found the heavy wooden door and pulled it inward, cringing as the ancient hinges creaked in protest. He stepped outside to freedom and hopefully a clear mind.

Zaveed leaned against the uniform stone wall, twirling a coin between his fingers as he surveyed the horizon, letting his thoughts flow unhindered. It came as something of a surprise when a voice broke the still of the night. “Zaveed, I’ve been looking for you.” A familiar voice said. The khajiit turned to face the newcomer as his hand shot to the blade perched at his back. Rashad had both hands raised in a sign of peaceful intent. “Careful, you wouldn’t want to kill me before you hear what I have to say.” The young Redguard man said, his handsome features mysterious in the moonlight. Zaveed relaxed and crossed his arms before him.

“Trust me, of all the people I wish to kill, you don’t make the list.” Zaveed promised. “And what news do you have that couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I was, I assure you, but you clearly didn’t need much. If you’re awake and deep in thought, you might as well hear what I have to say.” Rashad said, perching himself on a barrel near Zaveed. “I haven’t been able to get back to you and the others since I brought you to Hegathe a couple days ago, largely because it seems like every safe house is compromised and the scores of dead are doing a fine job in highlighting dwemer brutality. I had to lie amongst the dead to avoid being killed myself. Fortunately, they seemed to be in a hurry since not long after, the fighting resumed in the streets and I was able to retreat.” He waved both his hands in a stop motion. “Sorry, I know you’ve had a trying day and I heard what happened to Gorzath. For that, I am truly sorry. Had any of you been at any of the other safe houses, you would have met a similar fate. But, if you can find it in you to steel your heart, I know who is responsible. A dwemer major called Kerztar Stungnthamz who works for what seems to be the dwemer equivalent of the Imperial Penitus Oculatus. He lead the raids and his men are responsible for most of the casualties at the Merchant Guild affiliated safe houses.”

Kerztar. I will remember this. Zaveed swore, saying instead. “And how did you find this out, hm?”

The Redguard grinned maliciously in reply before tossing Zaveed a satchel. “I had to ask a few people, but they eventually all seemed to agree on a single name.” he said. The khajiit opened the satchel and was confronted with several knife-shaped pale grey ears. He looked at the gruesome spectacle impassively. So Rashad wasn’t above torture and maiming. Interesting.

“So I have a name. What do I do with it?” Zaveed asked. “I cannot simply walk up to the enemy and ask them his whereabouts.”

“There’s no need.” Rashad promised. “I know where he is, where he stays every night. There’s a private estate in the wealthy part of town near the gardens that the dwemer senior officers have claimed for their own purposes. He’s been here only a few days, but he was called in specifically to hunt your people down. The Governor sees you as a great threat to her rule.” Rashad said, sliding off the barrel and pulling out a folded parchment from his pocket that turned out to be a map of town with several hastily jotted notes and markings. A small flame emerged from Rashad’s finger to illuminate the map.

“I had no idea you were a mage.” Zaveed observed his pulse pounding. His aimless helplessness was suddenly replaced with an excited and lethal sense of purpose. “Show me where.”

Rashad did as he was instructed. “Now, I don’t know what the best way to get to him is, but if you wanted to get the others, I’m sure you could infiltrate the estate a lot easier than with a large group of rebels.” He observed. “Of course, I don’t know if Kerztar is going to remain there long, but you shouldn’t be hast-“

“I’m going. Right now.” Zaveed said, grabbing the map off of Rashad. “I may not be an assassin like Sevari or Semedar, but I’ve had to slit a few throats in the dead of night behind doors I had no business getting to.” The khajiit said, an air of dangerous conviction in his throat. “I’ll be back before sunrise. Stay here and let the others know where I have gone, I know if I told them what I was doing they’d try to stop me. I am not gambling with their lives, not this time. But should the worst come to pass, they should at least know where to start looking.”

“You can count on it.” Rashad said, looking uneasy. “I really don’t think you should be doing this.” He cautioned. Zaveed glared at him.

“Then you shouldn’t have told me anything. Remember, tell the others.” Zaveed said, stepping off into the night. Rashad watched him go until he was out of sight. Instead of stepping into the safety of the mosque, the Redguard headed in the opposite direction, another mission of his own to fulfill.
- - -

The shutters gave way easily enough, granting the khajiit access from the second story window of the mansion, the owners evicted as to give the dwemer ranking officers and visiting dignitaries a headquarters and accommodation away from the palace and the hustle and chaos that came with being the epicenter of political and military organization of not only Hegathe, but the entirety of the Rourken dwemer in Hammerfell. The quiet estate was something of a retreat for those who did not want to be bothered and enjoy the coastal climate without being within the heavy traffic of the city.

It would be this that would cost Major Kerztar his life.

As Zaveed slunk in through the now-open window, curtains flowing gently in the breeze with him, his soft leather boots muffled his footfall as he closed the shutters behind him and began to make his way through the halls, having successfully eluded the patrols outside after scaling the high privacy wall and up a ornate pillar which offered ample foot and hand holds as he ascended to not the first available window, but the next one over, via a slight enough lip to grip and swing his weight over. From there, it was a simple matter of getting the window open and inside before the three man patrol turned the corner and back towards the East side of the mansion. The bottom floor windows were visibly secured and the doors guarded by a pair of armoured dwemer, shields and swords for clearly more than show. In a city under martial law and increasing conflict, the mansion seemed to be worlds apart from the troubles the rest of Hegathe faced. While the dwemer still seemed to have a solid grasp, their grip was slipping, as they simply did not have the manpower to be everywhere at once. The amount of guards present here almost seemed generous in that respect. Given the chaos from earlier, Rashad was right; this might be the best chance anyone had to kill Major Kerztar, a ruthless officer who reported directly to Governor Razlinc and was instrumental in rooting out and slaughtering the leaders of various resistance groups with terrifying and cold efficiency. Since the Heroes of Tamriel arrived in Hegathe, the man had personally overseen the raid on two safehouses and the arrest and execution of 15 insurgents. The man commanded a very precise and terrifying power. He had to be stopped.

It was just as well that Zaveed was doing this alone; should he be caught, his friends would not be snared as well. The privateer's mind flashed briefly to Gorzath, the lumbering, powerful orc conjurer that had been a firm and trustworthy ally since Zaveed had freed him from a foul dungeon in the Rift over two years ago. More than that, he was a friend. Zaveed hated that Kerztar killed the orc like a dog, leaving his mangled body like a grim calling card in the smoldering store that was once a safe haven for the resistance. Gorzath deserved more than that; had he not already paid a steep enough price for saving Tamriel once? It was wrong. It was almost as if it were an invitation, a challenge, calling the Heroes out.

And here I am, you bastard. We will share more than words.

The silent halls gave no indication of life, the residents asleep in various rooms, giving Zaveed time to think. He knew the dwemer officer often stayed awake late, partaking in small indulgences while he toiled over reports and correspondence that he did not like to do during the day. Perhaps he would be awake yet, a candle shimmering under a door, or curtain, as was the easy, flowing aesthetic of Hegathe's elite, a breezy, non-restrictive and open manner that coloured not only how they decorated their homes and bodies, but their very dispositions. Would a dwemer care for such things? It was rumoured that Kerztar enjoyed to learn about the customs and ways of the people he hunted, so what did he make of the Heroes of Tamriel?

As the thought crossed Zaveed's mind as he rounded the corner, the flap of a curtain down the hall, within the rounded corner tower he espied in his earlier surveillance. An open door revealed a dwemer man dipping a quill into an inkwell and writing on some parchment, a light smile upon his face as if he were writing to a paramour. A parrot sat perched nearby, eyes closed and head tucked as it slept, an attempt by the dwemer to make the small abode more livable.

An ill feeling filled Zaveed. Why were there no guards on this floor, and why would the man keep his door open? There were candles laid out on tables and in lamps upon the walls within the halls, to be sure, but not enough to illuminate a thief or assassin prowling the halls. Unless it was a personal quirk, or an affirmation of his trust in the guards, something did not sit well about this situation.

However, there was little time to deliberate and the risk was well worth the reward of revenge. Zaveed would never get this opportunity again.

He was still careful footed, making his way towards Kerztar, keeping his movement to slow, deliberate movements that would not immediately draw the eye. His eyes were almost locked on the dwemer officer, although he reminded himself to glance around periodically to prevent tunnel vision. After what felt like an obscene amount of time, Zaveed was finally at the threshold of the door, elven dagger in hand.

And he sprang forward, only a few short meters from the defenceless man who would soon cease to breathe.

Zaveed felt the sharp, debilitating pain of his muscles contracting as electricity flowed through his body, an agonizing and crippling sensation that ran through him well before he heard the crack of the shock rune on the floor. His mind foggy from the pain, he was dazed. He had never seen a dwemer mage before... except...

Footsteps behind him, and suddenly Zaveed felt the dagger wretched from his hands and he was forced to his knees by two pairs of armoured, none-too-gentle hands that held his arms in place. He looked up, breathing raggedly, to see Kerztar looking back at him, a thin smile upon his face. The parrot was awake and squawked loudly.

"Zaveed." Not a question- he still remembered what the Khajiit's statue looked like and this one was not a woman, nor a dark and brooding character- but a statement. He had caught their leader and Kerztar would have to send a bottle of wine to Rashad for this opportunity to finally see one of the only people truly worthy of hunting successfully caught. For a man like Zaveed, to lead an army of Nords and earn the respect and loyalty of complete cutthroats and outcasts, his capture was very easy to plan. It all centered on the Khajiit's sense of loyalty and his propensity towards violent revenge. Kerztar respected him, yes, but he recognized the Privateer was ill-suited to the world of espionage and intelligence.

"Give him a chair. He toppled an Empire and saved countless lives from having their minds taken from them," Kerztar spoke with probably surprising respect for the deeds of the Heroes, "I will at least give him the right to sit, not kneel."

With that, the two guards holding Zaveed obeyed, but it was anything but gentle. Zaveed's chair was filled and Kerztar sat down in his own, rolling the scroll back up and beginning the tedious task of putting back the quill, inkwell and parchment into their designated areas. Neat was one word one could use to describe Kerztar.

"I understand you came here to kill me. I know you came for revenge, but know this, your friend, the Orc, Gorzath," Kerztar spoke before clearing his throat and continuing, "He gave my men quite the hassle. I gave him the dignity he deserved and shot him in the chest. It was quick and relatively painless, and his likeness will be preserved for his burial, should your compatriots choose to have one for him."

"Now though, I am Major Kerztar- I will spare you the full title- and it must be very evident why my unofficial title is the Huntsman. Like all hunters, I do respect my prey and for your deeds, you have more than surely earned mine," Kerztar folded his hands on the table, a small smile still on his lips, "But you are predictable. Although, I expect such a rushed and ill-planned attempt on my life from the other Khajiit, Sevari."

Even a Khajiit who he respected, he could toy with. And what more did the Khajiit before him deserve than knowing how his friend died with dignity? Both of them...

"Speaking of which, my sources claim that he left Rihad on a whaler's vessel, bound for Senchal. It has come back to my stack of reports that the ship carrying him was caught in the crossfire between a Dominion Navy fleet and a group of Privateer vessels," Kerztar drew his lips tight in a slight frown at that, "His ship was boarded and he was cut down."

"A shame. I would have loved to enjoy the hunt for a man so used to keeping from being seen. Vanishing from the Emperor's killers sent for him and then killing the Emperor himself. Oh, well, to the death of yet another respectable soul." Kerztar put his hand to his heart.

A mournful tone. A frown. A simple but wistful look down and away in just the right way. A half-truth. The Khajiit did depart from Rihad, but anything after that, even Kerztar did not know. There were whispers though, and whispers and rumors could be oh-so-useful. Zaveed managed to sneak into the resort to plant a dagger in him, but now Kerztar was the one to plant two emotional daggers into Zaveed.

"You have been quiet. The effects of the shock rune should be wearing off by now. Go ahead, speak freely. You will find me much more civil than the ones you associate with."

While his voice might have failed him immediately following the violent shock, Zaveed quietly wished his ears temporarily took a hiatus as well. As it turned out, today was not turning out to be one of his more fortuitous. He knew he should feel afraid, but the most he could muster was a sense of apprehension and lingering anger towards this smug dwemer. Since he could not immediately speak, he listened to what the man had to say for himself.

All he offered at the news of Sevari's apparent demise was a long, slow blink, but his face remained steeled, partially due to the fading explosion of agony in his muscles and partially because he had long ago come to terms that a man in a strong position rarely was entirely honest. Still, he thought of his friend, the last time he saw him in Anvil, before the chaos erupted. There was a pang of regret, one he suppressed quickly. His mind wandered, faces, and then names.

Sevari. Gorzath. Shavi. Ash.

Semedar.

Suddenly, Zaveed burst out laughing. "You think you have it all figured out, don't you?" Zaveed challenged, his voice regaining its strength. "You flaunt the deaths of people I know, as if it's some kind of incantation that would break me. All men die, dwemer, it is simply a matter of when and if we spent our time wisely enough. I've lost many friends, and I suspect I will see them again soon, if you're done wasting my time. I watched an entire ship with people I have known my entire life burst into flames, the crew rended asunder by the depredations of a dragon. All men die. I should have died two years ago when the auroras blanketed the land, and months before that when my crew died. I am on borrowed time." Zaveed said, staring daggers into the elf. He spat on the floor. "Civilized, you? I've seen what your interpretation of the word means in your culture; pointless slaughter, for what? To reclaim land you forsaken thousands of years ago because you were playing with something you shouldn't have?" The khajiit leaned forward. "Tell me, Kerztar, had you ever set foot in Tamriel before your people returned? This is no longer your home, and no matter how many bodies you lay in the foundation, it will never be again. I make no excuses for what I am, and yet here you are, pretending you and your people are a mighty civilization when you're little less animals than the falmer. It's pathetic, really." he grinned. "All your fancy toys did little to help preserve Chorrol. How does it feel to be brought to a knee from a ragtag group who killed an entire garrison and stole much of your war material? Get used to that feeling."

Kerztar was taken aback with the sudden outburst of laughter. And then the speech. Kerztar frowned at the Khajiit. An attempt to be civil met with aggression, but Kerztar couldn't be surprised by it. The man did just lose a friend to the very mer in front of him and he brought tidings of the death of another. So, this Hero was not particularly given over to grieving. A miscalculation on Kerztar's part, one of very few. Kerztar leaned forward, "And you sit in my room in a Dwemer controlled resort, your plans foiled and me and my men to thank for it. I will not forget that you showed exceptional ability at outwitting a skeleton crew of a sparsely supplied forward base. I do however want to make this as civil as possible," Kerztar sat back, "other guests are sleeping."

"Vvarnoc does not like you. These guards will kill you if you try to run or bring me harm. I am the only one willing to talk and not kill you," all this despite the fact that he had his pistol close, "I for one am at a loss for words. Meeting a Hero of Tamriel. Especially one that has the courage to insult the entirety of my race and its claim to our home. Our cities still stand, our military facilities still litter the landscape and one of your greatest Emperors needed one of our great constructs to defeat Alinor in ages long past. But I am not given over to patriotic zeal. Only facts. And facts those are."

Kerztar spent a moment looking at the Khajiit before continuing, "I trust that as a loyal comrade to your companions that you will not give over any information regarding their whereabouts. I do have one question, perhaps the first, Khajiit," Kerztar frowned slightly, "What is your stake in this war? Your people hail from Elsweyr, yes? Farther south than the southernmost Dwemer city. Our two peoples hold no ill will, so why fight? The people were content enough to have us here and Governor Razlinc governs this state fairly. Why fight? Consider that many have died simply because you came here."

Kerztar's menace was unmistakable. Zaveed leaned back, resting his elbows on the back of the seat, giving his best Daedra-May-Care expression. Despite his intense dislike for the dwemer, entertaining his whims meant he stayed alive a bit longer, which always offered tantalizing chances for escape, and the less he was being injured, the more pleasant his existence would be. Very well.

"And so I do; planning ahead was never my strong suit, I admit, but sometimes one takes risks knowing that success is often a coin toss. This time I came up short." Zaveed shrugged his shoulders slightly. "It is of no consequence. One does not always have the luxury to be able to think things through, especially when opportunity is a candle in the dark. You either seize it when you can, or risk it extinguishing. You just so happened to be a candle I failed to snuff out in time. Pity." he glanced at the armoured guard behind him.

"Vvarnoc. A name that means little to me, I'm afraid. I tend not to remember details of people I intend to kill, at the end of the day, we all bleed the same. I've seen the inside of enough people to know that our differences really are only skin deep." He sighed. "And so, you're clearly my only friend in the entire dwarf army. Why keep me alive, why not take your strange weapon and end my life where I sit? Surely, you are not at a loss for companionship, and I doubt you care much for what I have to say. And sure. Your glorious buildings still stand. So does Windhelm. Rocks, metal, get enough of it and it'll last an eternity. Your facts fail to hold water to the mammoth in the room that you all managed to lose everything," he snapped his fingers. "Like that. Gone, presumed dead. To where, I wonder, did your people go? It must be pleasant enough that you didn't bother to return until now."

Zaveed returned the dwemer's gaze. "That much is true, yes. I'm not in the business to putting a price on people I fancy, it's bad for one's reputation, and that is more alluring than the glitter of gold, or even the fragility of one's life. A question?" Zaveed asked, raising an eye ridge. "My stake? Simple. I enjoy it, I like doing things that make people want to build big statues of me and offer their bodies and affection because I dared kill an insane old man. I do not have a people. I have a crew, and we do not share skin." Zaveed said. "Elsweyr, nor any other land, for that matter, has ever been home to me. Perhaps you do know know of many khajiit, but I do not speak like khajiit. My very existence is an insult to khajiiti sensibilities and cultures. Let's just say I fight your people because I've grown bored with the regular assortment we find in Tamriel typically, and I was rather hoping you'd have an old man I could kill to send you all home. I'm presuming not."

The khajiit glanced at Kerztar. "If people were so happy under your rule, then why are people rioting in the streets and ambushing your patrols in the desert? The dissent was already occuring by the time I arrived. They simply asked me to be a celebrity spokesperson, as it were."

"Some do not know when they are subjugated, know that it is pointless to fight. Peace was almost attained in Helgathe before you came and ruined it. In turn, I came to fix it. I started with Gorzath, he was hard to track down with almost no leads until an informant told me. Now you." Kerztar said, feeling the stubble on his chin and sparing a thought to shaving soon, "I see it that you have two choices, or possibilities, as you say in the Tamrielic tongue. Governor Razlinc will put you in the arena, where you at least stand a chance at winning your freedom, but no doubt she will sentence you to an impossible number of fights. Killing an old man with a crown on his head or no, you will find the arena much more difficult."

Kerztar let the first possibility float aloft in the room before continuing, "The second will be to remain in my custody. I will not lie to you, you will have little to no freedom. These are the two things that loom largest on the path you have taken. I do not boast and I do not threaten, Zaveed, but I will give you reasons to work under me. None of them gentle. You will not have a choice, Governor Razlinc will choose for you, but points to consider. You do not seem to be the conversationalist today, but in time, you will talk," Kerztar smiled, folding his hands on his desk, "I'm sure of it."

"And here I was, thinking I did not have a choice in my fate, and am instead being offered the illusion of one. Charming." Zaveed said dryly. He was resigned to his fate, note one he could escape... but the possibility was there. Given the two, he'd much rather fight. The thought of being trapped as Kerztar's lacky was an affront to every bit of sensibility he had. It didn't surprise me the dwemer had informants in the insurgent's ranks. After all, they had tangible rewards for service, where all the insurgents had were ideals. It was no wonder they were losing.

"Me? Not talkative? And here I thought we were building such a good rapport with one another. And do I meet this Governor?" he asked.

"You will," Kerztar began, nodding, "She was as interested in meeting the Heroes as I was. Although, she was also more interested in putting you all away for a very long time or having you fight in the arena. If I had it my way, well, people with talents such as yours wouldn't be wasted in an arena for the amusement of the otherwise easily-amused citizens, or simply locked away until your expiration."

Kerztar smiled, "And we were having a nice talk, as rude and condescending as you have been to my gestures of understanding to your grief. My desire for talking to one of the most famous people I have ever hunted still does not override the Governor's need to see that I have indeed caught you. I must release you sometime, no?" He explained apologetically.

"I do love talks. I always have brief interviews with the men and women I hunt. The most memorable of my hunts was in Skyrim, Nords are not the type of people one finds it easy to spy on. But, we had finally gotten to the last bastion of Skyrim's resistance and we were forced to slaughter the garrison. You would have liked the sight of it, by the file I have put together of the facts about your history, the battle was about as bloody. With all of its blood though, it lasted for forty-five seconds, one minute at the most." Kerztar said.

"As a child, I was always afraid of confrontations, never too good at fighting with the sword like my family's instructors wanted me to be. I was of noble birth; I was supposed to be a hero for the Dwemer people. Most of that had been drilled out of me in the military academy tucked away in that place you know nothing of, Zaveed," Kerztar remembered, his eyes seeing something distant, "Hard lessons. Like 'there are none to help you when you fall.' But no matter what the endless drilling and psychological warfare the instructors put us through to put us into the mindset to do it to our enemies, no lesson was harder than the one I learned from a little girl I'd found huddled in the barracks during my tour in the taking of Skyrim with the Second Shock Infantry."

"There was a girl. Far too young to be skilled with any weapon. The first time I saw her, I asked her her name and she only shook her head, refused to speak. I took her as a slave and gave her to my commanding officer. She brought us stews and meats and this is where I gained my appreciation for learning the different cultures of Nirn, you see, with such different cuisine being brought. This girl and I, we were fast friends, and I enjoyed her company. On one day, as she served the officers our breakfast and left the room, I took my first sip of the stew, first bite of the meat. I felt wrong after." Kerztar smiled then, snapping out of his aimless trance he'd fallen into, let go of a little laugh, "I woke up in cold sweats, convulsions and constant aches. The only thing that kept me alive was our Dwemer medicine and my will. I had learned that she had killed four fifths of the garrison and my fellow officers using the same poison she used to try for my life."

"As it turns out, I had deduced that the day I'd found her, she'd hidden a page torn from a book that contained the recipe to a poison in her mouth and spat it out later, which is why she refused to talk. It was her mother's journal as an alchemist, thrown out of the College of Winterhold. One page was missing and I matched it to the one I found in the girl's personal belongings. As it turned out, her mother was among the dead, as so many others were, unsurprisingly. The ingredients were probably collected from her mother's stash, somewhere around the fort."

"When I recovered, I recovered a changed man, a man with purpose. Before, I had simply been the youngest heir of a noble house, not entitled to any holdings when we made our return. I took life as it came through an Officer with the Dwemer Army I was." Kerztar's eyes hardened, "I scoured the breadth of Skyrim for the girl with red hair and the scar on her cheek that had once shared smiles with me and had the audacity to use subterfuge against me."

"My men and I found her apprenticed to a Bard in a small village in the Reach. They, of course, were forced to bring her out lest we burn the entire place down and mount their heads on their fenceposts. When she came out and was placed before me, I told her our little game of Hide-and-Seek was over, 'I won,' I said. She only gave me a small smile," Kerztar chuckled distantly, "The smile told me I was the biggest fool for trusting her. I learned from her that to trust any stranger was to die. I learned from her that the foe you can not vanquish with sword, axe or pistol," Kerztar said coolly, turning his pistol this way and that in the soft light of the candle, "you kill those who are much stronger than you with patience. Most of all, and the clearest lesson I took from her is to never leave something unfinished. No mercy, no compromises. She taught me the long game. I killed the girl then, put the village to the torch and killed the entire village. Man, woman, dog, sheep, rat."

"I look at your rebellion that you've helped build back the fire behind. I look at the rioters, I looked at Gorzath. I look at every man and woman I have hunted, and I ask myself if they are like the Nord girl with red hair and the scar on her cheek. No matter how fierce any of them looked, how thick of limb or silent and deadly, none of them strike fear into me like that which the Nord girl did. Not Gorzath, Not Semedar, Not Shavi, Not Hralvar. Not Sevari, not even you, Zaveed."

"Only now do I understand why she smiled at me. She knew that she had left her mark on me, a little mark, like the scar on her cheek. She knew that she had made a difference so profound in me. So long as I suffered badly enough to where I could remember her so well that one of my last dying thoughts would be of her, then she had won. She taught an entire Dwemer garrison, iron-willed mer, the strongest our people had to offer, she looked out at the faces of these men of will and taught them what will truly was. I had killed her but she had won. The long game, Zaveed. That is what no one knows how to play."

The khajiit was quiet for a moment before responding with a slow clap and a sarcastic chuckle. "Well done. You trusted a girl whose homeland you were in the process of destroying and let her kill off an entire garrison. If you keep that up, you'll be defeating yourselves in due time, and I have the best seat from which to watch. One wonders whom else is in a position to do something equally atrocious? I should like to shake their hand." Zaveed mused. "You speak as if I should be impressed that you were pampered your entire life and you found being challenged for a change is something I should be in awe of. You're soft, and you're still the scared little boy who was told to grow up by becoming a military puppet. You're still afraid of confrontation because you hide behind walls, traps, and guards and only personally get your hands dirty if there's no risk to you. You're a damn coward who knows nothing of real hardship." Zaveed glared at the dwemer. "And I do mean nothing. One day, someone like that girl, or like me, will kill you, but only after your fragile sense of security and comfort is torn from you like a shroud. It's a shame I cannot be the one to do it, but alas, if you're not afraid of how this war will conclude for you, then you're a fool along with a coward. I've killed enough of your men to justify the cost of me. I face death gladly, but with the only regret that I may not live long enough to see you fail. Such is the way of life, I've been on borrowed time fear years. I took on a continent and won; what have you done, dwemer? I've lived more in this life than you have in yours, and I suspect will still surpass you if I were to die in this room. They built a statue of me and held a festival in my honour, what are they going to remember you by? A coward who hid in the shadows and let others do the hard work." Zaveed smiled cruelly. "You truly are pathetic."

Kerztar stared at Zaveed as he spouted off insults to his upbringing and assuming things one would have rightly assumed of a man in his position. A few things rang true, Kerztar was a fool back then, a fool of noble stock, but a fool. He had to thank that little girl for showing him why each day he enjoyed his position as the leader of Southern Volenfell's Ministry of Order Cohort, "You speak truth on some things, but you may or may not be projecting yourself onto others, Zaveed. I was a boy back then, before the poison. I hardly knew how to command an army, let alone the small contingent I had under me and I may have been pathetic then," Kerztar leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his stomach, his mouth curving in a small smile, "But now, I fought tooth and nail to be where I am now. Here, in this room, a worthy quarry in front of me. It took me weeks, Zaveed, but I play the long game."

"I let you know a secret of mine, that I was once outwitted by a girl, using my naive sense of relationships. I am what I am now because of what happened, though. I may not know life as it showed itself to you, but the way it showed itself to me, in fever dreams, in bouts of babbling insanity laying in the infirmary," Kerztar smiled, nodding, he shook a finger at Zaveed, "A coward's mind knows fear and hurt. Pain. Cowards make good torturers. Though, I may know fear still, I know how to use it. I know the mind of the coward because I have walked its maze before; I know the turns, the pitfalls, trapdoors, and every chamber. I respect my quarry because I was once quarry. As it turns out, Zaveed, you and your companions have made me quarry once more. By the end of this, we will know who is the better hunter and I am debating whether to take my victory now and tell Governor Razlinc that we were forced to shoot you or to simply let you go and give you another chance, but she would not tolerate my failure, even if it were a lie."

Kerztar smiled, letting out a small laugh, looking at one of the guards and then to Zaveed, "I must thank you, after all, the hunt for you and your companions will make my career. I can retire, knowing that I caught some of the greatest to walk Tamriel or I could die by their hand," Kerztar shook his head, "I respect you, Zaveed. I really do. Though, you are an angry, misguided Khajiit who grew up on a ship and raided in the name of gold. You were a puppet once, but you saw the strings and now you hold them. I admire that about you. But just like me, you will die by the sword because you have lived by the sword."

"I have so much enjoyed this conversation. Hopefully it will not be our last, my friend. I do enjoy picking you apart and finding out just who you are." Kerztar smiled.

With his final bit of musing, the dwemer made a gesture to the two guards who grabbed Zaveed by the arms, lifting him out of the chair and forcing him towards the exit. As he was leaving, Zaveed caught sight of a face he had not expected to see again, the dwemer mage from Chorrol. His glance was fleeting and the khajiit was forced down the hall to what was to be his holding cell for the evening. As the khajiit left the room, Vvarnoc stepped away from the shadows where he had been standing, watching the exchange and paying attention to the spot where his shock rune had detonated, immobilizing Zaveed with efficiency. "That takes care of one problem. I wonder if like a snake, the rest of them will wither and die without the head?" he mused, picking up the seat Zaveed had been sitting in and moving it across the desk from Kerztar. "What's our next steps?"

"We'd be fools to think so, Vvarnoc. A victory today, a small one, but let us revel in it despite." Kerztar said, pulling out two cups and a bottle of alto wine from the cabinet behind him, he began pouring as he continued, "The Heroes are not to be taken lightly. We may have machinery and a vast army at our disposal, but they have discretion. An army can not slip past guards and into heavily guarded officer's resorts to take lives, sir."

"Our next steps are to sit and wait. Let the soldiers in the streets do their soldiering. We'll watch the waters for ripples made while they do. The long game, Vvarnoc, all we must do is be more patient than they."
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It had been a long day.

It was true. Francis had never fought like that before, nothing he’d experienced, bar the Mausoleum, was ever so hellish. How many men had he killed today? Three? One of those three was his first as well. A young man told to put down the riots and maintain peace. Peace, Francis thought, What would it all be like if the peace was kept? It was a thought. Perhaps Francis would be in Wayrest with a warm bed and a woman. He’d be home with his sister and Vendel would be making merry with the locals. There was Old Jean, who always made sure to pay for his drinks but would always slide the cup back to the barkeep with an extra coin under it so no one would swipe it before Anneliese could find it hidden away for her. Old Jean was a good man, old, just like his name told, old enough to remember a time where Wayrest wasn’t a refuge for outcasts and criminals. Even when the city changed for the worse, he didn’t let it change him.

Francis smiled as he remembered and for a moment, he was back in the tavern with Anneliese serving drinks, Vendel keeping the rabble out and he would always be chatting with Brunhilde. She was a Nord lass, strong, but beautiful. Shocking blue eyes like the Ice Fields of Northern Skyrim, blonde hair like sunrays. When he finally steps foot back on that dock in Wayrest, he’d chat with her some more. Maybe hold down a job, save up, and get an amulet of Mara. Who knows, maybe she’d say yes to someone who was more of a man than when he left. Maybe she’d say yes to someone who’d met a Hero, stood against a Necromancer, fought an army of tyrants and traveled to lands most never get to travel to and only hear the stories that merchants tell. Maybe he’d be a man worth calling friend, and a brother worth hugging and trusting to protect his sister.

Francis looked at Vendel. The big Nord was asleep, his head sagging to one side and his bear’s shoulders drooping. Even with the burly shoulders, barrel chest and warrior’s beard he’d been growing since Stros M’kai, Francis knew him as a man much more than just frightening in a scrap or a giant to be ogled. Francis got himself to his feet and looked around the room. He saw Elayna and figured he should talk to her. Something to get his mind off of today, at least. He crossed the room and stood before her, “Miss Elayna, I believe I owe you an apology for spoiling your experience at the market stalls.” He offered an apologetic smile.

Zainat paused outside the Mosque, a look of worry etched across his rough but handsome (By Dunmer Standards) Ashlander face. Would the others think him a coward for not taking part in the assassination of the guard captain? "<Fucking bastard outlanders.>" He muttered under his breath in Dunmeris as he remembered what had waylaid him.

He had... 'overslept' by a while, the only thing that cued him in was the sounds of the riot, and while he had enough time to catch up to Blades if he hurried, and he was. As he was leaving Methra's home, he came face to face with six of the criminals that Zaveed had released - Obviously these people weren't political prisoners, as they seemed to be intent on taking advantage of the distracted guards and committing more of the crimes that had gotten them imprisoned in the first place. One of them as known to Zainat - Last time he had been in the city a redguard of his description was caught after murdering close to twenty people - Zainat himself had almost been slain by the n'wah when he tried collecting the bounty on him.

It had been a brutal fight - The redguard was a superiorly trained former Aliki'r and his friends were no cowards either. He had taken quite a few injuries during the fight (Thankfully, Methra had given him a few Potions of Healing as he was leaving), and by the time he had killed the six of them and had made it to the Captain's barracks, it was too late.

Zainat inhaled sharply, and then entered the Mosque, muttering under his breath in Dunmeris. <"You are the Gulakhan of the Urshilaku, direct decendant of Sul-Matuul. You will face this dishonor with pride."> His eyes were lowered, and he continued to walk forwards, ,uttering under his breath until he accidentally walked right into someone. "Apologies, friend, I a-..." He trailed off as he saw who he had bumped into: The heretically ignorant Breton from the market stalls.

Elayna looked up from her formula, which she had returned to after her short introspection. A familiar voice spoke her name, though not one she had exactly enjoyed hearing. Not because of its owner, but because of the memories that stuck to every word, like rotting flesh. Her jade eyes met his, and she could see the pain of the day writhing in them. She offered him a ragged smile, understanding that pain. She was one of the few of that group still around that could. Gorzath was...gone. And Blade was yet to be seen. "Never mind that, Francis. Gave me a proper fright, for a moment, but it did serve it's purpose. Just glad to see that you and your friend made it." Elayna looked down at Toad in her lap, as he squirmed a bit, before looking back to Francis.

She could see beyond him slightly, and see someone enter the Mosque. The Breton couldn't tell who it was exactly at first, in the dimness, but as he grew closer, Elayna rolled her eyes, "Oh, by the Eight...Franc-" Elayna tried to warn, but it was too late. Zainat had bumped into the Breton man, and recognition had flickered in his dark eyes. "Zainat, how lovely to see you're alright!" The young woman calmly cheered, a bit forced, as she knew what was about to happen.

“Barely,” Francis smiled, scratching at his shirt, “I’m glad to know that you’ve made it as well. Of course, I never saw you at the riot. Were you the-” Francis stepped aside for whoever had bumped into his back.

“Pardon, my frie-” Francis’s polite, but haggard, smile melted away into an unbelieving visage.

Francis was not expecting to see the face he was looking at now. There was nothing going on around the room besides him and the Dunmer merchant, whose name escaped him. Francis, cursed himself for losing his sword, but remembered the dagger sheathed at the small of his back. It was the best he had to defend himself against this crazed merchant. He must have wanted to kill him badly if he followed him all the way to the mosque. Had he offended him that badly? Even so, apologies were given, none were accepted. After surviving today’s events, Francis was in no mood to die by the hands of some uppity merchant who was better at holding grudges than making sales.

“To what do I owe this meeting,” Elayna’s cheerful voice sounded from behind him, revealing the Dunmer’s name, “Zainat?”

A presence looming about him reassured him somewhat. The long shadow of Vendel, ready to draw three feet of cold, Nordic steel, cast itself over him. He hoped Vendel wouldn’t let his anger get the best of him. He knew the events of the riot already had him on edge but he did not want to have to fight anyone. Francis swallowed.

“I’ve never met a man or mer so yearning for death as to follow me and mine behind our backs-”

“Enough! Vendel, Zainat, none of us want or need a fight, no? Let us not have one. It has been a long day and I’ve died twice more than I’ve planned to in my life. What say you, Zainat,” Francis offered, “No fights.”

Zainat looked surprised for a long moment - Not expecting to bump into the two highky skilled men he had fought the day before. He gowered angrily at Francis, and began pulling his razor sharp chitin shortsowrd from its sheath - Before he heard Elayna speak to him. He stopped drawing the blade, but kept his hand on the hilt as a precaution. Even if Elayna seemed comfortable around the two men, they seemed to have developed a strange, almost stalker-ish tendency towards his friends - Meeting them two days in a row by chance was, in Zainat's mind, impossible. He had no intention in allowing them to follow Elayna, or any of his allies about.

He nodded at Elayna, and crossed his arms across his chest and gave a faint bow. "I am glad that you are alright as well, Serjo Elayna. I bring grave tidings, however." He said his voice holding no small measure of warmth, before turning his attention to Francis and his more friend who's name sounded suspiciously like 'vandal', something Zainat found rather apt, his hand once more going to the hilt of his sword.

"Ill favored fate and Ill luck is owed for this meeting, Breton." He said, his voice rather cold as he eyed the man, well aware that the last time he fought the two talented swordsmen that they worked well in tandem, keeping him from being able to focus on and kill them one at a time. "I hope that you have paid proper courtesy to Elayna." He said, referencing the strange way Ashlanders tended to act to outsiders and expect outsiders to act around them.

As the More awoke and rose, beginning to threaten Zainat, he quickly drew his blade from its sheath, his honor pricked. "Following you? You are the ones who seem to be following my friends, you milk-drinking snowberry."
However, after a moment, he put up his blade and nodded at Francis, his jaw squared. "No fights." He agreed, suddenly looking very tired. "I got caught by a few escaped convicts on my way to the Guard Captain's quarters. They were well trained." He said with a sigh. "From the look of you, you must be one of 'us' as well." With a shallow bow -not deep enough to be respectfull, but just enough to not be rude, he introduced himself.

" I am Zainat Ashurnasaddas of the Ushilaku tribe, son of Dutadalk Ashurnasaddas, Ashkhan of the Ushilaku." He said, distrust still evident in his eyes, but willing to speak plainly to them.

Elayna heaved a sigh of relief as the trio managed to, barely, hold back from ripping each other's throats out. She bowed slightly in return to Zainat, assuring him that she wasn't mistreated or disrespected in any way by Francis or Vendel. "These gentlemen are part of the reason I made it off Stros M'kai alive. I do trust them, Zainat." Elayna reinforced, wanting to at least somewhat lessen the tension if she could. Which, given the situation of the day, the current predicament, and everyone's moods, that was like asking Sanguine to put down the wine.

The bit about being caught by the guards worried her a bit. Could that have been what happened to Blade? He was a beast, and she'd seen his untamed carnage first-hand. The thought of the guards possibly taking him down was...unnerving, to say the least. After formal introductions had been exchanged, in the most neutral way he could, Elayna sat back down and turned to Francis. "You said you didn't see me at the riots? That'd be because I was with Zaveed and Reigenleif, freeing the guards' prisoners. Such open conflict isn't my strong suit." The Breton looked down, before glancing up at the three men, "...what happened?" She felt she had to ask, as they had been a ways away from the bulk of the riots.

"Death." Vendel grimly muttered, his voice a low bear's growl.

As Vendel very reluctantly removed his hand from the hilt of his sword, Francis turned to Elayna, "Many died, but moreso for the Guards. My being here is proof that we at least won by the skin off our brow." Francis smiled and chuckled, "Earned myself a few new scars too."

"And what of you, Zainat? Busy selling your rugs or were you hiding for the fights?" Vendel asked, a gruff laugh escaped past his lips.

Zainat nodded at Elayna. "If you trust them, then that is enough." Zainat said, with a wry grin, his blood tinted eyes peering at the two men before he sighed, and shook his head sadly. "I have a bad feeling about the raid - by the time I arrived there I was late, and the guards had locked down the area. I barely escaped without getting seen - I had to cut the throats of a few guards who were in the wrong place, blocking my exit." He furrowed his brow again, and glanced at Elayna. "Where is Blade? I don't see him around - Like I said, I have a bad feeling about it all."his tone betraying surprising concern for the Saxhleel warrior.

He blinked at Vendel's insulting comment, his brow furrowing in anger. "Are you as stupid as you look, Nord, or are you deaf? I said I was fighting criminals who escaped imprisonment during the raids who I ran into while I was on my way to assassinate the Captain of the Guard." He took a step towards Vendel, his hand on his blade, his shoulders squared, his honor slighted. He wasn't nearly as tall as Vendel, but Francis and the Nord would remember that Zainat was no easy fight - And they were tired from the earlier fighting, while Zainat was not.

"I could make you both, knife-ear. Come against me looking to take my life and you won't be walking away." Vendel growled, an animal smile curving his lips.

"You will do no such thing. There are dwemer in the streets looking to kill all of us in here. Let's not give them a helping hand." Francis looked at Zainat, noting his blade and his own lack of his own. It would be stupid to try to fight and he didn't want Vendel dragging him into one. "Stay away from him and he'll stay away from you. If you're killing the same men and mer as Vendel and I then we'll get along fine enough. I trust you're honorable enough for that."

Francis found the mer insufferable, to be honest. Concerned too much with his heathen Daedra and some notion of honor to see he and Vendel were not foes. Francis had never met a Dunmer before Zainat, but if they were all like that, he never wanted to again. High Rock never boasted much of a Dunmer population and not even Wayrest had many. Francis turned back to Elayna with words to speak.

"You freed the guards' prisoners? It doesn't seem Zaveed's style to let criminals run rampant through the streets."

Elayna solemnly stroked Toad's dirty fur, nodding her head. "Yes. Won by a hair...Gods rest their souls." She muttered under her breath, a half-assed condolence, she knew, but it was all that escaped her. They'd survived the massacre of the Imperial City, but this was yet another high pile of corpses. It had, unfortunately, been getting easier and easier to swallow for the young Alchemist, but there was still that cold stone of "barely" winning that sat in her stomach.

When Zainat and Vendel started going at it once more, she delivered them both as icy a glare as she could muster, pooling some frosty fog in her palms. "Bark at each other again, and I freeze your tongues solid. Got it?" She dispelled the small amount of mist, slouching once more. Elayna wasn't in the mood to revisit the market incident when Dwemer were looking for their heads. She looked back up to Francis afterward, nodding, "I'd usually agree. But they were part of the insurrection and were put away for it. Good men and women, at least the majority. I suppose we saved each other's lives."

Vendel looked to Francis at Elayna’s warning. He simply offered a nod, she would do it. He hoped Zainat would follow Elayna’s warning as well. After Elayna spoke her piece about the prison break, he spared a thought as to what she said. Even if they were part of the insurrection, what was stopping those who were former criminals from committing more crimes? If one of the Heroes was as short-sighted as the prison-break would have him believe, and the fact Zainat was accosted by suspected escaped prisoners, he wondered if he should even be throwing his lot in with this group. He had ties to Elayna though, and while his sister was far away and probably safe, he knew Gorzath was dead, Blade was nowhere to be found and Elayna was the only one here he knew for sure was alive that shared the bond of surviving horrors incomprehensible.

“A fast-forged alliance of necessity, eh? Not unlike the Mausoleum. Gorzath may be gone and Blade may be captured, but we are still here. I will be at your side, ready to fight, and maybe we can rescue another friend and ally from his fate at the hands of the Dwemer.” Francis spared a glance at the Dunmer next to him, wondering if he was with Blade, the big lizard would be with them now. It was no more use fighting over whose fault it was for Blade’s capture than it was complaining about the darkness at night. It was best to just light a torch, to do something about it.

With that, Francis had the inkling of an idea. A half-baked plan that may grow into something more ironclad, but things tended to go unexpectedly good when Francis found something to do. Sometimes. But doing something about Blade’s capture was something to do, after all. A smile spread across his lips and perhaps when Elayna and Zainat were better rested and things around the city had died down, he’d propose what he’d thought up. For now though, “I will let you both rest. Tensions are running high in the city and hopefully conversations will be more civil and fruitful when our heads clear. Elayna,” Francis bowed his head, “Zainat.” He said, bowing again. He and Vendel returned to their place at the far wall.
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Francis woke up. That was good, he guessed. He waited a few moments, listening outside for anything, the sounds of birds, wind, the people outside of the mosque. Oddly, it was quiet outside. He payed it no mind, opening his eyes and propping himself up against the wall. He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the stubble and reminding himself to shave soon. Vendel snored softly beside him, curled in the corner about his sword. Wiping the sleep from his eyes and getting to his sore legs, the need to relieve himself grew. He looked about the room, seeing Qara'sion, Elayna, Zainat. Blade had not wandered in and he caught himself looking for Gorzath before he remembered the news. Gods-damned shame. He shook his head. He sniffed and cleared his throat, stepping around a few bodies to get to the door of the place. Moving aside one of the slabs of wood, he stepped outside, closing his eyes and shielding them from the morning sun. Undoing his pants, he wet the wall and sighed. He didn't want to think about the past day's events before feeling something poke against the back of his head.

He re-did his pants, an eternity of silence ensued as he stood there. If he was going to die, he'd be dead already, so whatever was against the back of his head must be leverage. The problem with that being after dying twice already, he cared a fleck of stray piss about leverage. He slowly turned around, greeted by the pale gray face of a dwemer and one of his friends. Behind him, there looked to be a full team, complete with one of the giant crabs. He gritted his teeth.

"By the authority of the Dwemer High Government, you are being arrested for insighting insurrection, destruction of property, aiding enemies of the sta-" Francis ducked to the side, putting all of his weight into shoulder-checking one of the dwemer and running back inside, throwing himself to the ground as the cracks of dwemer weaponry resounded outside. He got to one knee and shouted for the others to wake up before a section of the wall blew away with a deafening explosion that staggered Francis.

The chaos that followed shook the Mosque to its foundations and the blast detonated a hole in the East wall the size of a large table, jetting cracks snaked out from the now gaping hole and the early morning sunlight began to pour in, as if aiding in the fury. Plaster and dust crumbled from the ceiling as the foundation took a beating, and those inside were needless to say rudely awoken.

One of the rebel leaders in the Mosque, a woman named Leah, a Breton-Redguard mix, hurried to get the late-wakers to their feet. "Come on! They're going to bring the roof down on top of us!" she urged, hurrying to a window to take stock of the scene outside. How in Oblivion had the dwemer discovered the Mosque, she wondered, and mustered enough forces to flatten it? She could see dozens of heavily armoured soldiers, a quarter of whom were in the dreaded powered armour, and several stern, perhaps hateful faces gazed upon the centuries old structure as if willing it to die, consuming its occupents in its death throes. What had happened? She looked around, noticing Francis was missing, cursing. She called out his name.

Francis heard his name being called as he got to his feet. Vendel awoke in the corner and Francis waved him over before looking for whoever called his name. Seeing a stray blade sticking up out of the ruined wall's tumbled parts, he took the hilt in hand and returned to his search for the one who called his name. He looked around, seeing a woman who didn't quite look as Redguard as most he'd seen waving to him. He ran to her, "What is it?"

"Oh, I don't know, it couldn't be that there's a dwemer garrison standing outside bombarding us while you were nowhere to be seen. You look unhurt, which is fortunate." Leah said bitingly, looking out the window again, noticing that soul gems were being affixed to pedestals outside and several rifles were being leveled at the windows. "You must know that we cannot withstand the assault, we'll all be killed. You need to gather the others and get to the hidden passage beneath the floor; I know not where it leads to, but it was made years ago by the old Imams ((I'll have to check this to see if it's spelled correctly)) in case invaders like the Akaviiri or even the mer came down upon Hegathe and sacked it. They must know of you and the others, the so-called Heroes. You are an image they wish to have erased. You must know this city is no longer safe for your faces."

Francis sneered at her biting attitude. Only the first few seconds of them knowing each other and she was already snapping at him. Usually it would take until the morning after and they'd be asking about the lack of pay when he tried to sneak away. Francis shook his head at her piece about not being welcome here, "I learned that the first few days in this city, miss. I have no want of being erased either. You can count on me."

With that, he sprang into action. He wasn't quite sure how he would rally the men and women and absolutely no idea where the secret passage was, which he reckoned was the point of it anyway. Thankfully, one of the older insurgents opened it and was waving his boys through before flinching in pain after some of the cracks outside and fell through the hole. The men continued funneling into it, but the dwemer were rapidly advancing. Francis was filled with no small amount of fright, knowing that there were no fancy healers to fix sucking chest wounds or cut arteries. He could die here, forever this time. More of the insurgents fell after the dwemer rose their staves and he felt angry. Angry at them for not saving themselves and trying to fight, but he knew and reminded himself why after a moment's thinking. They did it for the ones hopping down the trapdoor next to him. He remembered the Mausoleum, what he did, or more accurately didn't and failed to do. He remembered it all, from the yesterday's riots to the Wayrest alley, the knife dripping blood and the body laying before him. Crumpled about its wounds.

He thought of Gorzath, pushed the image of Blade's cadaver from his mind, hoped he didn't hear Elayna's death screams among the battle's ruckus. He stood, white-knuckle gripping the hilt of the redguard scimitar and stepped forward before a big hand clamped itself around his shoulder. He looked to see it was Vendel. The two shared a moment of understanding and he knew what he saw in Vendel's eyes, the same thing that was in his. The loyalty to a brother. He wouldn't let him be the one to do the saving this time. He owed it to everyone on the Isle of N'Gasta. "Get in the fucking hole, Vendel."

Vendel simply shook his head, "Rally them, I'll see you again."

With that, he pushed Francis away, stumbling to his arse and bounded away with the insurgents, beyond Francis's view, beyond the wall. Cracks resounded, more insurgents fell, but he knew his task. He saw movement in one of the insurgents hit from one of the attacks from the dwemer staves and rushed to him, hooking his arms under the insurgent's armpits and dragging him towards the hole and handing him off to another insurgent. He saw some of the others, Zainat, Elayna, Qara'sion, and he waved them over, hoping for them to get to him and hoping ten-fold they wouldn't drop trying to get to him and the passageway.

The onslaught was finally reaching the apex of it's fury as the rifles thundred in a rolling volley and the crab automata continued its lethal barrage against the foundations of the Mosque, each blast removing precious cover from those taking refuge inside and obliterating years of history in the process. While most of the casualties weren't caused by the ballista itself, several of the insurgents were pelted by collapsing rubble with various degrees of lethality. When the Mosque doors caved inward from the force of a blast, the Captain signaled for the crab to cease fire and gestured to the first of the vanguard to make their assault. "Lieutenant, how fares the search for the tunnels?"

"My team is searching dilligently, sir. So far, nothing has been observed. The city has changed much since the maps and tomes were drawn and written. We suspect some of the entrances might have been built over."

"Continue the seach. If these rats find their way back into their nests, we may lose them. Let us hope it won't be necessary. Take what men you need, we should be done here shortly." the Captain said, turning back to the doors and impassively watching as the first of the hulking suits of armour made their way into the passage beyond to hunt down their quarry.
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