The walk back to the inn from Vargar’s shop had been among the briskest in Urzoth’s life. She did not run for fear of appearing suspicious and thereby being investigated by any guards, yet the information she carried in her brain made her feet feel both far too light and far too slow. The streets went by in a blur, a flurry of noise like a blizzard in the midst of Morshum’s winter, and she was so preoccupied with not sprinting and clanging down the alleys in her excitement that the sagging sign to the inn knocked against the top of her helm and forced her to skid to a halt. She sucked herself back inside, into the shell that responded to General and Champion only, and pushed the door open with a now steeled expression. Durb and Ushtur were sharpening their blades and arrowheads at a table in the corner, and Bulag stood at the counter with his gut pressed forward against its edge, leaning and talking with the unfortunate young bartender. He was swirling a vial between his fingers as his big beard yapped and his neck quivered, and Urzoth could tell the man was bragging. She tugged him out of it with a conspicuous kick to close the door behind her.

Ushtur was the first to look up, and gave Urzoth a reserved smile and a twiddle of an arrow in greeting. Bulag smoothened down his robes after tucking the vial back into its hiding spot. “Champion,” He said, as if to distract from his recovery. “Do you have news from—“

For what felt like the thousandth time, Urzoth interrupted him. “<Hold,>” She murmured in the more common trader’s tongue of the strongholds, “<We cannot trust these other customers. I have found something we will discuss soon.>” She could hear Ushtur abandoning her table to approach Urzoth, and her eyes darted to settle back on a few Redguard dock workers reclining by the further corner of the room. They had stopped their after-work gossip, and now glanced over at the commotion, inclining Urzoth to grip Ushtur’s bicep and pull her into the salt of the midmorning air outside.

“<Did you find out where the Champions are?>” Ushtur looked a little excited, fidgeting with the arrow she still gripped in her fingers, face tilted upward toward Urzoth’s like a child full of wonderment.

“<No. But the man I spoke with was helpful. I wanted to show you something at low tide.>”

By the time Ushtur and Urzoth, as discreetly as they could, made it back from Vargar’s tunnel, Bulag was pressing them both for news outside the inn. It was around midday, and the sun scorched his beading forehead. Urzoth watched him peer over from the chatting Ushtur every so often to give a few frowning glances, as if indignant that Urzoth had taken Ushtur to see the secret passage herself rather than him, her marginally official second-in-command. Ushtur paused to glance between them and seemed to almost shrink down between them, avoiding the crossfire of words sure to follow. Bulag had his thumbs hooked into his thick waist sash, his throat bobbing. “<Are you sure this is not a ruse to have us arrested, Champion?>”

Urzoth both inwardly and outwardly groaned. In Morshum, any questioning of the chief’s orders would have been met with a swift challenge and inevitable beating. For the city Orcs, the rules were different, and so Urzoth had to force herself to not jab a finger right into the silly band on Bulag’s shoulder. “<Yes, he carved out a deep-running entrance into a drainage pipe just so he could lure some unsuspecting goblin-humper into getting arrested. In doing so making himself look like a damn rebel.>” Her tone was harsh, and for Bulag she offered few niceties.

Urzoth glanced down at a pressure at her armor, and saw Ushtur was, oddly, pressing a hand to the belly of her breastplate, as if that would quell the brewing conflict. Ushtur glanced up to Urzoth, her eyes hoping she wouldn’t be punished for the inappropriate familiarity (over the years of knowing one another, any pretenses had been thrown away piece by piece as they continued to save one another’s lives, but Ushtur clung to manners still). She spoke, and the others listened. “<We need to trust the General, Bulag. She knows a thing or two about fighting corrupt leadership and working with rebels. Let’s see what this tunnel will send our way.>”

Zainat never had been a deep sleeper. He supposed that it was a cultural thing - House Dunmer and Outlanders had always found that the Urshilaku were hard to sneak up on, so when the Dwemer began shooting at Francis, he woke up almost instantly - His Shortsword halfway out of its sheath before he was even on his feet. He crouched, looking around frantically - And then he saw Francis shouting and waving at the others, trying to wake them. "Francis! Are the Dwe- " He started, before part of the Eastern wall blew away, knocking him off his feet as a chunk of broken stone, no larger than his fist, slammed into his left shoulder. He dropped to the ground, but then slowly rose again. "What the fuck was that!?" He shouted, clutching at his shoulder. He wasn't given an answer, of course, nor did he need one - He knew it was the Dwemer, come to kill them all.

He quickly grabbed up his bow and quiver, slinging the quiver over his un-injured shoulder, and ran to a window near Francis and Leah, his blood tinted eyes widening in horror as he took in the massive army of Dwemer just outside the Mosque. "Azura save me..." He muttered, his courage breaking at the sight of the Dwemer's sheer might. He wasn't supposed to be here! His wanderlust had taken him too, too far from Resdayn. Not even Lord Nerevar had been able to defeat The Dwemer, and he had been Azura's chosen. What hope did Zainat have? None. He would die - He knew that.

Shaking his head, Zainat cast the thoughts from his mind - For now. Now wasn't the time to act like a scared child. Shame filled him, and he ran towards Francis, insurgents dropping all around him. When he reached Francis - He paused a moment, half turning to the Breton. "I take back what I've said about you and your friend. You are both honorable, brave men." He bowed his head slightly at Francis, and then drew an Arrow from his Quiver, and smiled softly. "Lead on. I'll follow you - If you'll allow me."

The night had, for once, offered Elayna some decent sleep. The exhaustion of their journey had caught up to her, and she was finally able to rest. However, of course, all good things had to end. As the first shots rang out outside the Mosque, Elayna stirred in the Western side of the chamber, where her bedding was set. Though she didn't actually wake until the assault truly began, and Francis urged them all to wake. Toad yipping in fright, the Alchemist acted fast to shove what she could into her satchel. Her mortar and pestle, a seasoned apparatus she'd hate to lose, her unfinished formula... the other apparatuses would never fit. "Shit..." Elayna cursed, hating to lose so much equipment.

Picking up her dagger sheathe and fastening it to her leg, she stood with Toad in her arms, frantically scanning for where to go. The East wall was ruptured, and the Mosque was crumbling, crackling shots being loosed on the insurgents. She roused those she could, though many were very much awake now. Bodies were falling, and more Dwemer instruments of death were being erected. The Breton caught a glimpse of where everyone was headed, disappearing into the ground. Adrenaline pumping through her like mad, she ran to Francis and Zainat, feeling awfully close to having one of those projectiles go through her skull.

"For the sake of your personal well-being, I highly recommend getting your asses in here!" Elayna said to the two men, quickly making her way down the hole. She would have stayed up there to help, but she was weighed down and she didn't trust anyone else with her companion.

TIME SKIP ACTIVATE!

One Month Later, 7th Second Steed, Near Cradle Stone Tower, Skyrim…
Detailed Skyrim Map

The rain pounded heavily on the weary travellers as they entered the dilapidated tower not far from the Hammerfell border and nestled on the periphery of the Reach. The gloom seemed to have matched the mood, regardless, as the trials and hardships of Hammerfell seemed to have turned up few things of good fortune to offset the crushing sense of loss. It was becoming apparent that they were facing an enemy with not only vast resources, but a martial prowess that seemed unsurpassable. What was worse was that their association with the Insurgency became well known, and soon it became impossible to be seen publically safely. The sands of the West were no longer safe, which had driven the travellers Northwest, to the wilds of Skyrim, enjoying one of its merciful summers. They dared not travel West, for the dwemer had given pursuit in the forms of long-range patrols that had been avoided or ambushed with effort. Before disappearing back across the border, one of the insurgents who had made the journey with the travellers had warned them that Markarth was reclaimed as the dwemer capital of Skyrim, and that Governor Urthenak, the regional ruler of dwemer-controlled Skyrim, was a brutal and blood thirsty tyrant. Whereas Razlinc attempted to reconcile dwemer and Redguard interests, or at least made the effort to maintain the illusion of compromise, Urthenak was not such a man. Total war and dwemer supremacy were keystones of his rule, and the stories revolving around the cities he sacked were atrocious. Piles of the dead were often left outside city gates to rot before being torched to remove the stench. No record of the dead were kept; it was as if they never existed, as their property, families, and all signs of their existence was thoroughly erased in cleansing flame. Major Kerztar, who maintained his hunt of the Heroes of Tamriel and their companions, would doubtless be reporting to the Governor of Skyrim for intelligence and any potential leads.

Despite the ironclad assault on the Nord homeland, or perhaps in spite of it, many cities had withstood the dwemer so far, or were too small to be considered strategically important in sight of conquering more symbolic or powerful locations. Somehow, despite relentless assault, Solitude still stood, thanks in part to the ability to resupply from sea, the narrow land passage, and the fact that captured dwemer siege weapons were proving quite effective at repelling the expensive airships. Likewise, Windhelm withstood its own sieges with its thick, heavy walls, freezing climate and ferocious weather, and the ferocious defenders of Skyrim’s capital, who faced down the dwemer assaults with almost suicidal determination. To the Nords, this was a chance to prove themselves against their ancient enemy, and dying in battle was as glorious of a death as any Nord could hope to achieve; after all, Sovngarde awaits those who die bravely. Other cities were not so fortunate; Markarth fell within a day from perhaps the most concentrated assault ever launched since the dwemer re-emergence, and soon after the dwemer forces began their campaign to reclaim Skyrim, one hold at a time. Morthal and Whiterun were the next to fall, the only survivors from either of those cities having wisely fled while they had the chance. News from the other cities had been unreliable and conflicting; the passage of information was committed entirely by eye witness accounts or hearsay. More than one person was heard grumbling that it would have been nice if the dragons were still around, a sentiment that was doubtless well agreed upon by those who witnessed the dwemer wrath.
Perhaps most unsettling were the unforeseen side effects of the dwemer reclaiming their old homes. Bands of falmer, driven out by their former slavers, had forced the blind and feral beasts into the vast Skyrim countryside to the horror of those caught in the open as their bands wander in search of their necessities. Stories of the Falmer emerging from the woods in the dead of night and the savagery that results has kept much of the countryside uneasy, and reports have begun to resemble ghost stories more than actual observances. It was as if the land itself was rising in turmoil and unrest due to the return of something long forgotten to history.

As the group sought refuge from the storm and to plan their next step, the thoughts of what had led them here and those left behind filled their hearts and minds. After the escape from the mosque had been carried out, it had become clear the dwemer were too powerful to be met head-on. The initial victories in the streets had been largely because of the relatively low presence of dwemer forces, an attempt by Governor Razlinc to maintain a bloodless turnover of power with a complacent and contented population. Reinforcements had been called from other parts of the province and the main military encampments had brought in the heavy weaponry. Now the heroes were known, their descriptions and locations given to the dwemer command by Rashad, all that was left was to escape and find another solution. It was becoming clear that the dwemer would have be beaten unconventionally, which was no surprising revelation to the Heroes of Tamriel; after all, it had been an Elder Scroll that had turned the tide against the Empire and a hidden and waiting Nord army that had helped them storm Imperial City that had ended the auroras. The widely accepted solution was to find out how the dwemer managed to cross over to Tamriel and close the bridge, easier said than done. No one had a suggestion of where to start looking for the answer.

Before the resistance could be trapped permanently by the reinforcements, one final assault was hastily planned and launched against the palace in an attempt to kill Governor Razlinc and several high commanding officers. Casualties were staggering for the insurgents, although they had accomplished the assassination of several officers, although Razlinc was never reached. Some of the attackers had found the arena and the prison and freed many of the forced gladiators, including Wets-His-Blade, who had been the survivor of several battles, his martial ability having earned the respect and admiration of the other prisoners and those who heard of his deeds single handed attacking the Hegathe barracks and nearly assassinating Captain Doshin. For the Redguard of Hammerfell, for once the reputation of a common man was beginning to eclipse that of the Heroes of Tamriel. He was becoming an inspirational figure for those rising up against the oppression. He had managed to rejoin his friends sometime later during the journey East. Zaveed, although he had been in contact with Blade on occasion in the prison, had gone missing the night before the assault, as did several other prisoners, escaped through means that had no ready explanation. There was no sight of struggle, or breakout. It was as if they had disappeared, although the guards that had been posted that night had allegedly been traumatized by something. They could not muster the words to speak, and offered no explanation how a dozen highly guarded prisoners vanished. Zaveed’s name did not appear in any of the Insurgent groups leaving Hegathe, which was made more unsettling by the fact that a small number of Insurgent patrols had gone missing without a trace in recent weeks, having went to scout out points of interest only to disappear without a trace. The dwemer were blamed for this initially, but it didn’t match their usual high visibility operations and brutal show of force. It was a mystery that no one had answers for. It was agreed that Hammerfell’s defenders couldn’t win alone, so many were sent to seek help. Some went North to High Rock, others East to Hammerfell. Nadeen herself had caught up with the Heroes before they disappeared to the East, promising that when the time came, she would be there alongside them at the end, and at sunrise in two days’ time to look to the South at the crossroads before disappearing into the night. Before Nadeen left, she called Urzoth and her men from the ranks to reunite her with the group, having located the orc band not long after they had entered the city. To everyone’s surprise, exactly as predicted, Marassa, Hralvar, Cub, and the unfamiliar newcomer Valsiore had appeared with a group, which included the survivors from Captain Harding’s ship. Together, the group spent the next several weeks heading towards Skyrim’s borders, gaining and losing members to skirmishes over the long journey while avoiding the worst of the dwemer forces. More unsettling was the re-emergence of the mysterious forces that were causing patrols to vanish were becoming more bold. It seemed to be that entire villages had disappeared ahead of the travellers without a trace, save a few charred bodies. A darkness was looming, and suddenly the comfort of night gave way to a quiet terror.

Before crossing the border, Harding announced her men, several of the insurgents, and her were going to break for Solitude in an attempt to secure a ship and travel to Wayrest to appeal for aid, taking Rena with her for protection and leaving the Heroes and their companions largely alone as they left Hammerfell behind and started into the late Spring of Skyrim. Now they had choices to make, and without Zaveed’s guidance.

Marassa sat against a wall by the window, staring out into the countryside, her eyes ideal for cutting through the dim gloom of the day, sword laid across her lap. She had seldom spoken to her companions, even those from two years ago she had long dismissed as dead or retired from adventuring. A feeling of resentment crept throughout her that she kept hidden under an impassive mask; Sevari was gone, perhaps safely back to Elsweyr, and Zaveed was gone, her ever elusive brother she had missed by a mere night in Anvil and now several days outside of Hegathe. She did not pay much heed to the gods, but this certainly was an occasion she felt like scorning them and their cruel machinations. She was ever alone, the only two men she had ever let her hard shell down for were missing from her life. All these other people knew was Marassa the warrior, the weathered traveller, the cold. They were the closest people she had to friends, and yet she could not afford to think of them as such. Some were probably going to die, or betray the others. If you didn’t let them close, you couldn’t miss their loss or feel burned by their treasons. She’d learned that lesson the hard way on the road.

The newcomers were nothing impressive. There was another khajiit, an inexperienced mage boy who lacked steel and conviction in his heart who seemed to feel as if the hardships he faced were unfair burdens of the world. Small, pampered, and an outsider. He was khajiit only in appearance, not in heart. Everything about him screamed that he had been pampered his entire life.

A Nord woman who wasn’t unlike Urzoth, a hard and brutal killer who existed seemingly for no other reason than to prove her strength, except unlike the orc and her clan ties, this Thyra seemed fueled by the irritable Nord superiority complex that had filled Skyrim so thoroughly that it had manifested the Stormcloak rebellion. She probably didn’t realize that she was no different than the Thalmor altmer that she despised so much.

Another Nord woman, this one curious because she seemed to have found companionship with Zaveed before he had vanished, and that she was seemingly a capable battlemage who cared more for musty old relics and ruins than people. She was tough, accustomed to isolation and the dangers of dwemer ruins. What Zaveed had seen in her didn’t really make much sense, but how much did she really know her brother? A bloodthirsty, impulsively violent if not charismatic corsair who swayed people with his words seemed like exactly the wrong person to find an appeal in a quiet and unassuming scholar. Zaveed used people and discarded them for his own personal glories, it was his way. Fame had gone to his head; she doubted he kept in touch with any of the other Heroes of Tamriel since their journey together, their usefulness at an end. At least she wasn’t Semedar, the equally emotionally devoid and murderous assassin that had targeted him for a fling before disappearing to presumably hunt down Praetorians to buy the group more time. Sometimes a rotting oyster has a pearl, it would seem.

The dunmer was simply insufferable, an elitist Ashlander who held himself superior to his compatriots and spoke in the baffling dialect and slurs of his people, somehow holding to the belief that being stupid enough to dwell in an inhospitable landscape of volcanic fallout was worthy of boasting about. He seemed to harbour a begrudging rivalry with the Breton man and his optimistic and diplomatic meanderings. She was indifferent to the two of them, and if it kept Zainat in line, she would be content.

A strong contender for person least likely to be in a hardened group of travellers was Eleyna, an alchemist with a pet fox who seemed rather innocent compared to some of the others, and uncomfortable about the predicament she was enduring. She seemed to be one of the more neutral, pragmatic voices in the crowd. This girl wasn’t grating like some of the others, and she didn’t seem to be the kind of person to harbour ulterior motives. It was strangely reassuring. Another man in the simply here to kill scores of people department was the battle wounded argonian that several of the insurgents had fawned over, his reputation of a warrior seeming to have won the respect of the martial people of Hammerfell. Indeed, from what Marassa had heard, he was an admirable fighter, spitting in the face of the odds and nearly getting himself killed doing the impossible. His resolve was unquestionable, but was he too reckless? Perhaps. It would be a shame to lose a capable fighter in the days to come if he let the show boating go to his head.

Breaking into the conversation, Marassa decided to interject her own opinion. “We should move South, towards Falkreath. The forests will offer concealment and the open terrain advantage the dwemer and their machinations seem to depend on are severely reduced. Crossing the Reach to reach Solitude after crossing the heart of dwemer territory to a besieged capital with one way of access is paramount to suicide.” She said, he eyes resuming their vigil.

The journey east took plenty of things from the people who made it, or thought they could before their final sleep. It was a staccato of a lullaby from dwemer staves, or the unceremonious expiration from bandits or some other terrible thing. It was a daily omen, a reminder that they were mortal when Francis woke up every morning to circling hawks and the group would be followed by them. Some days, the hawks would get what they wished, others not. It was the small victory of just taking one more step until sand became mountain that kept Francis from breaking. It was the sight of bodies, the feeling of dehydration, the hole in his stomach and the blade in his hand, the fear of a gushing throat in the night that helped to take him close to it. Limits were pushed, tempers rose, people would fight and the same ones would swallow an apology at the sight of their companions’ bodies. When they finally came to the tower, everyone was well-acquainted with the least romantic forms of death, the kind that didn’t take one to Sovngarde, only to a hastily dug grave and a worms’ stomach.

Francis himself sat beside the rest. Listening to them deliberate on where to go. Some said Windhelm, some said Riften, others said Solitude. He would follow them wherever they went but he’d part as soon as something stupid came up on them. Having two of the Heroes of Tamriel with them or no, he wasn’t looking to storm cities. At this point, after what happened in Hegathe, he wanted no part in fighting other men’s battles. He scolded himself for making the mistakes he used to. For leaving any deliberation at it’s something to do. He wouldn’t forget Hegathe. He wouldn’t forget the Governor’s palace. He wouldn’t forget the name of the man who imprisoned those who surrendered, but more importantly had imprisoned Vendel in the Mosque siege. Kerztar. Major Kerztar. His knuckles grew white at the name and he swallowed his regrets and anger for a moment as Marassa cut into the planning to voice her suggestion. It was sound, more thought out than most of what he heard. He still didn’t know what to think of Marassa but she hadn’t slit his throat so she was good, he guessed.

“I’m with Marassa. Anything we can do to move without being watched is good in my book.” He said, looking about the other faces sitting around the room.

“Falkreath is unimportant enough for the Dwemer not to care about it. They won’t come looking for us there. Each one of us knows what happens when the dwemer are looking for us and we’ve left people behind us that know what happens when they find us.” He frowned and sucked his teeth, looking down at the three feet of Nordic steel that used to be Vendel’s and added quietly, “Either that or I'll see if I can catch up to Harding.”

The warmth of the fire did little to loosen the chill from Cub's spine. It wasn't the dry ache of the summer wind that chilled him but the familiar gnaw of uselessness. To hear the newbloods speak, Zhaveed had vanished. The details were vague but he was gone. Again. And Cub was in Skyrim. Again. Rihad burned for nothing.

Crouching to stay level with the others, Cub pulled the hood of his tattered cloak lower over his face as he caught Urzoth's gaze. She knew of his crown but it still pained him to be seen by other orcs. They were camped too close to Dushnikh as it was, if they even still lived. If the Dwemer didn't find him, the hunters would. Skyrim held no allies for Cub and Zhaveed had slipped through his grasp. Even Shavie had left him for dead after Harding's ship crashed. Cub's hand moved to the Dagger on his hip; at least it was still there. Though just a fragment of a memory in its dormant state, it was something familiar in a sea of new faces.

"I don't care where we go but we can't stay here." Cub managed to at least seem calm as the hood obstructed his shifting gaze scanning the treeline. Clearing his throat, the idea of hiding became more and more appealing. "Renleif, what do you know of this area? Any ruins nearby?" The idea of moving across open land again made Cub shudder as memories of the digging beasts tearing through the Windhelm stables danced before his watchful eyes. "I saw Falkreath when I crossed the mountains to find Zhaveed. There were survivors but they were desperate for supplies. I don't know if any yet live." Cub cleared his throat again, the fear in his voice begin to peek through. No, he'd much rather try his hand where those larger machines couldn't reach him

"'Scion, that Dwemer staff you have, how does it work? If we were to surprise the Dwemer in one of their own thrice-damned holes, how long would it take for them to ready a defense?"

"So, even after we finally made it... you're going to continue on with them?" The sister khajiit asked with arms folded in front of her chest, standing in front of her two companions. His eyes glanced away from hers as he took a deep breath, beginning his statement. "Yes, only for a little while longer. If things are really that bad traveling on my own wouldn't be smart... I want to know what happened at the college... as well as find Mufasa." She only shook her head and sighed. "You will still be in the fighting you know? And how would you even find our brother to begin with?" "... I have a hunch he will have to be here in Skyrim. I've thought about it quite a bit."

Shenzi bit her bottom lip as she scratched the top of her head. "...Okay Sion. Belle and Fat-One... I'm going to go with them. I promised I would help them out. We'll be going to travel near Riften, back where we first formed our little group. Should make it there in a few weeks." Qara'Sion only nodded once, keeping his expression determined. The two stood still for only a moment before his sister abruptly hugged him tightly. "Just... stay alive okay? If you get a chance and if it is possible, send me a letter so I'll know you're fine."

Her hug shocked him. She was actually being sentimental for once. Things really must have been quite a rough ordeal as of recent for her to do so; he could tell. So in response, he hugged her back. Eventually they let go, and Belle approached him this time. "It was nice getting to know you Sion. I hope the next time we meet, it will be soon during more enjoyable times." She told him, hugging him as well in a gentle voice. Then lastly, the argonian approached him and placed a strong hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about these two, I'll protect them." He chuckled, which immediately stopped when Shenzi made a low comment, saying "The only thing you'll protect is our plates."

And the three were off. Qara'Sion watched their backs, primarily his sister's as they walked on. A half-smile crept on his face. A sorrowful half-smile, but still a smile regardless.

... It still hurts to watch Shenzi walk away from me. Just as the time Mufasa walked away. Probably just a childhood trauma... is that the right word to use? From when they walked away from me years ago. But... this time, I know they don't hate me, or think I'm useless... or stupid. I think. At least... they aren't walking away from me like they did back then...

.................................................................................................................................................................

In the tower, Qara'Sion sat near a window amongst the group. Switching between peering outside at the storm, looking at the pot of stew he attempted to make and fiddling with the dwemer staff. He became slowly better at using the weapon, at least if he wasn't in a panic. It was a good weapon for him; not like the sword or the bow. A scary weapon, but a good one. The khajiit just wished it were smaller. A small one would be nice... maybe two of them if he had the chance to get a hold of them. Yeah... much better than using the one in his possession.

He still needed to decide when he was going to see the college, or well... hear more about what happened over there. He could have left already... but perhaps he was too scared to find out if the last home he had was gone as well. The khajiit already knew not to bring it up in subject. If he was going to leave, he would do so without notifying anyone. Less stress on his part that way. Plus, it would probably be less dangerous to search for Mufasa than to go straight there anyway. There was quite a bit they needed to talk about.

Marassa; Zaveed's sister suggested they should move south. Further away from the college since they pretty much were on the run at this point. So his brother definitely took more priority at the moment. Unlike Zaveed, she was very unapproachable and not as sociable. Definitely not like each other, but he knew was it was like to have siblings with different personalities. Especially when there were seven of you. But it obviously appeared as though his ties with his siblings were much different than their's.

Qara'Sion sighed lowly to himself as he stood from his seat and approached the pot. Grabbing the ladle, he tasted a bit of the stew to test if it were finished. He grimaced. Wasn't much flavor and not yet finished... but better than any of the gruel he's had as of recent. Luckily it was almost done regardless. The khajiit did catch Francis' low whisper, but kept shut. He wouldn't blame him for the desire of revenge. Not a bit.

He walked back to his spot as Cub explained about Falkreath. It would end up being another struggle to travel there and remain there if supplies were desperate. "Is there anywhere else nearby where we could go to?" Each time he looked at the massive orc, all he could think of was Wow, your mother must have had a jolly ol' time when she went into labor. Then said orc called his name(?) making his ear twitch in curiosity, the light clanking of his earrings resonated in his ear. Turning around, he faced him to speak. "As far as I understand, soul gems power the staffs. I don't know how the inner workings of the staves work aside from that. They'd obviously must have a large amount for their soldiers as well as those giant machines but that's all I really know. Probably has more mechanisms or something in it to get the bloody thing to fire, but without a soul gem, it's about as useful as a long club. It would more than likely only be minutes at the most for them to prepare I think."

Valsiore had always found the rain to be calming. It never fell in a particular pattern, it pattered against windows, struck the flagstones, and gathered in the puddles in what could only be described as one giant ball of wibbly wobbly…chaos.

Now, with his back against the worn stones of some long-forgotten human tower, he was treated to a full view of the rain. Not far from him, under the protection of the crumbling structure’s roof, his fellow travelers were seated close to a campfire, preparing a bowl of stew.

He was unsure of his newest companions. They had seemed to know it each other well enough, which left him in the dark, and then their frantic, month journey across the sandy wastes of Hammerfell had not exactly put him on the best of terms with them. It’s a difficult thing, being a social being, when there’s a dry rasp in your throat from dust and a burning hunger in your belly from what could generously be described as slop.

They were all fighters. It seemed like half had been responsible for the eruption of insurgency in Hammerfell, the riots and assassinations of high-ranking Dwemer officials. They were battle-scarred and tough, but they were tired. The rebellion against the dwarves was a failure; the dwemer had crushed the Redguards and their allies beneath the heels of their finely polished boots. Too many had died, including Ehsan, the Redguard with a pregnant wife back home.

Exhausted, he ran his hands down the length of his wooden staff. The weapon had seen far too much use the past few weeks, and he had been forced to use two of his soul gems to keep it fully charged. Now he was left with only one, and he was not yet sure if he was ready to commit to binding another sentient being’s soul into the black gem, dwemer or not. They had scrounged up smaller ones in their travels, ones he could fill with a mudcrab or two, but the staff was a beast when it came to magical energy and nothing less than a Grand Gem would sate its hunger.

“We should move South, towards Falkreath. The forests will offer concealment and the open terrain advantage the dwemer and their machinations seem to depend on are severely reduced. Crossing the Reach to reach Solitude after crossing the heart of dwemer territory to a besieged capital with one way of access is paramount to suicide.” One of the travelers, Marassa, if Valsiore recalled, said.

There were murmurs of agreement. They all knew that it would another long, and exhausting journey, and likely to lead to another amount of troubles. But they had hope for survival there, and at the moment, that was all they needed to make it sound like paradise.

“I agree with Falkreath,” his voice cracked a bit when he spoke, so he opened his waterskin and took a long drink. With the rain, it was easy enough to refill and he could, for once, drink as much as he liked. “It’ll be hard to scrape by there, but it will give us all a chance to sit down and think without a Dwemer staff inches from our arse.”

Another drink from his skin before he continued, “I’ve fought this kind of war before. If any place can give us the time to think and the ability to move quickly, it’ll be the trees.”

The light from the fire cast Blade's face in stark relief as shadows flickered across his predatory features, marked with fresh scars, pale against the black scales. Though his imprisonment at Razlinc's arena had been short, a few days at most, it was also brutal. The argonian was sitting on a piece of rubble while he reminisced on the events that had transpired, his sheathed greatsword resting against his shoulder with the tip in the ground.

The dwarven Govenor had done her best to break him before the crowds of onlookers, pitting him against overwhelming odds and allies alike. Yet despite his injuries, he'd cut down her champions, bloodthirsty criminals used as executioners to slay political prisoners and anyone else who otherwise needed to be made an example of. And though he'd been forced to kill allies of the rebellion as well, there was no malice in the act. They all knew that if they didn't lay their blades into each other, then Razlinc would order the dwemer war machines to do it instead, and none of them would survive. So they fought each other, but did so with honor, hoping that whoever survived would find a way, some way, any way, to avenge the deaths of the others. No I'll will was harbored for those who made it out of the ring alive. It was a lose-lose situation for everybody.

Blade's eye twitched as images of blood soaked sand churned beneath the feet of desperate men as they fought for survival and for the entertainment of their dwemer captors. Screams of fury and cries of agony clashing with the sounds of cheering. He stared blankly into the flames as the words of Razlinc's best fighter/executioner -a brute of an orc who had been convicted of a score of murders- gasped out his final words as his guts spilled from his severed stomach. You would think to judge me, but I know what you really are. I can see it in your eyes. You're just. Like. Me. The orc went laughing to his death as Blade cut his head from his shoulders. The other prisoners praised him for killing the one who had taken the lives of so many of their friends. It was one small victory for people who had no hope.

These things troubled the stoic argonian. The orc was right of course, Blade had no illusions of being anything other than a killer. A monster with just enough self control to be able to direct his fury upon those who deserved it. There was no shortage of those now, in the midst of a war. But what about when the war ended? Before the dwemer attacked he'd been lucky enough to find a small refuge where murder was legal, but people would have no use for an arena whenever the war ended, having grown tired of the constant bloodshed.

And so it baffled Blade that, yet again, he found his fame as a symbol of the resistance growing. He was no leader. He wasn't a brilliant tactician who directed troops to victory. He was just better than most at ending the lives of others. Surviving fights the would crush any other man or mer. But people keep latching onto this for some reason, making him out to be some hero. That image only grew when the insurgency managed to break into Razlinc's palace and free the prisoners in the process. Unlike the other captives who were lead away to escape through the entrance, Blade commandeered weapons from fallen guards and joined the attempt on Razlinc's life, killing one of several officers found by the insurgents himself. His allies seemed to think he was doing these things for them. That he had some stake in their resistance. Would they be so welcoming if they knew it was all for personal gain? That it was just to sate his bloodlust and hunger for vengeance?

Speaking of which, Blade was none too thrilled to be back in Skyrim. A weight had slowly been building on his shoulders as he and his companions neared the tundra of his old home. Now memories of the past haunted him more than ever, making him even more irritable than usual, no small feat. The coals of hatred within his breast, which had lost some of their heat over the years, were burning hot again, ready to flare up in an instant. These dwemer bastards represented an evil all to familiar to him, and he'd have their blood on his steel soon.

Blade's slit pupils looked up from the fire as the new khajiit woman made her opinion known. Something about the way she said it rubbed his scales the wrong way, a certain measure of certainty that he took for arrogance. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. As if the group should just take her word for it. She may be Zaveed's sister but she was still a new comer and he didn't trust her. But then again, she favored plate armor and a greatsword, how bad could she be?

The others didn't seem to sense what he had and agreed with Marassa. Despite his misgivings about her attitude, Blade couldn't deny that the suggestion was logical. But after a month, he'd grown tired of running. "I don't care what we do as long as it means we can take the offensive soon," he growled. "The longer we fight the dwemer with our feet instead of our swords, the more land they take and the more entrenched they become. There are only so many places we can go before you run out of holes to hide in."

Cub's shifting gaze refocused as the creature spoke. The embers cast shadows upon his grizzled snout, thick dark scales breaking up the light and splintering it around his mouth as his lip-less mouth hissed its woe. Fangs, claws, everything about it spoke of death, but nothing so much as its eyes. Grotesque slits in its face, they stared unblinking into the flame before it, some scene of carnage or loss heaving behind them. It was a look he'd often see Marassa wrestle with before turning her attentions to the task at hand. If he was anything like Marassa it only served to cement Cub's thoughts of the enigmatic beast that had remained silent for most of their time together.

Predator.

Cub's fear melted in his chest. Here sat everything Cub could have been. If he had just been faster, if that wench had just steered her damned ship right. Everything was lining up perfectly. He'd find Zhaveed, Malacath would return him to his place among the Orcs; Cub would be the predator he was meant to be. HE wouldn't have left Zhaveed get captured. HE wouldn't have let the Dwemer win.

Sitting up sharply Cub's hood fell away, the dull yellow of his crown illuminated in the fire. That damned fire. The only thing separating him from that godsdamned Predator, the fires of Rihad, the flame of battle, why did this creature deserve to be the hunter and Cub was made to suffer as prey? It was too much for him to bear, no longer aware of the dangers outside nor anyone around, Cub barked at the Argonian across the campfire.

"There is no offensive!"

The roar lingered in the air for barely a second, just enough time to catch the attention of those closest by. "You had an army behind you and still failed. We should hunt those bastards down in their holes and make them tell us where they took Zhaveed; he's the only one who can stop this. He's done it before, he'll do it again." Seething, ragged breaths brought clarity as Cub came back to himself, suddenly very aware of the eyes borrowing into his flesh.

Quickly tossing up his hood once more, he spoke again though much more sheepishly, his eyes now locked to the flame before him. "Renlief, are there any ruins around here or not?"

Bulag, Ushtur, and Durb had all returned to Orsinium upon reaching the Hammerfell border, saying their farewells and going north. Anxiety overtook Urzoth for days; a feeling more brutal than any gut-wrenching punch to the face, urging from her more frustration than working with cheap, dry leather. To capture the feeling was to swoop down and capture a single grain of sand between her fingers. She was unused to and unfit for dealing with such helpless worry, and she put up with sleeping and eating only as much as would keep her less observant companions from noticing. Cub seemed to be nervous as well, but for reasons she knew he could at least logically justify. She had tried to tell him to suck up his worries early into their journey, that none of the others would even recognize his brand, but how could she expect to tell an Orc like Cub to get over his anxieties when her own threatened to swallow her up?

Marching had taught Urzoth more patience than she thought she could possess. She’d gotten damned soft since saving all of Tamriel; while her physical form was more viciously fit than ever, her heart had shed its many thorns and, in the quiet times when it could crawl from its ironclad shell, it emerged bruised and scrambling for control. She thought of the swarms of dwemer in the west, of Morshum and Orsinium burning, of her mother possibly being cut down or dragged off by filthy dwarves, and the maelstrom felt like a giant’s fingers had wrapped around her spirit and squeezed a little tighter with each uneventful night. She sat near the fire, watching it flicker against the backdrop of black-silver rain outside, and thought her many thoughts.

Cub’s eyes met hers. She watched him fidget with his hood and his belt. She’d noticed him doing that lately—perhaps it was ill-fitting? She would need to ask him later if she might fix it, then. For the sake of his trousers not flopping to his ankles in the middle of a fight for their lives.

The others had huddled close to the fire as well, and Urzoth tilted her head in to listen and hum. Marassa’s plan seemed the most sound, by her estimate, but it didn’t cover much beyond providing them with a new, marginally less useless place to hide before the bronze tide again lapped at their feet. She again glanced outside into the pitch of the night sky and to the mountains that reached for it and mulled over the situation while others threw in their input.

The High Elf spoke. She’d avoided him, as she did with most of her newfound companions, but his apparent age and fair amount of logic had earned him his fair share of her acceptance. Granted, his fair share offered him about a sliver of her capacity for respect. But it wasn’t an awful start. Some of the others were the sort that left an impression of weakness. Not of physical weakness—wielders of the arcane demanded as much awe and honor as any well-scarred warrior, she had quickly learned—but of the mind. It must have been a hunch. The Heroes would not travel with weaklings. Not out of some code, or because of high standards. Weaklings would simply die in their company. She would watch them and see.

"The longer we fight the dwemer with our feet instead of our swords, the more land they take and the more entrenched they become. There are only so many places we can go before you run out of holes to hide in." The lizard grumbled forth, and Urzoth shook her head. He was a warrior, as many of them were, and kept his blade close at all times, a habit Urzoth understood well. She could practically smell the fervor he hid in himself, like the warriors of Morshum had displayed much more openly: a thirst for battle, craving the rush of ripping an axe or a hammer out of someone’s skull and watching the vibrant arc of blood trail the weapon for a single satisfying moment. He was a warrior, but he clearly hadn’t realized that his brash call for an offensive would just leave them all dead.

Cub stood with a quickness that made her stand and growl as well. Seeing his anger flare up, she stepped about the campfire with a storm at her shoulders, elbowed past a few companions and stood a few feet from Cub, facing him with a stern silence as he spat, "There is no offensive!" His eyes darted about for a tense moment. Urzoth’s entire body was brimming, like a coil crushed down, ready to spring upon Cub and wrestle him into calming down if he got at all violent. "You had an army behind you and still failed. We should hunt those bastards down in their holes and make them tell us where they took Zhaveed; he's the only one who can stop this. He's done it before, he'll do it again." He panted for a while, and Urzoth almost instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach, as Ushtur had done. She could practically feel his heartbeat thunder through all of him as he tossed up his hood quickly.

Urzoth retracted her hand, regretting the motion as soon as the gathering quieted. She glared at Blade, brow furrowed. “I don’t like the idea of hiding and whispering in the dark. But that is what we must do until we have a way of fighting the dwarves on equal footing.” She stared at the group about her hard. “Falkreath is too temporary. Windhelm would offer the best protection and it’s got access to the sea, but it’s far off.” She turned to Cub again, a questioning look in her eyes. “Ruins?”

Francis left his words in the air, a hollow agreement with no loyalty but to the prospect of seeing dwemer die. Francis was not a brutal man, he’d spent his life cultivating an image of being the opposite of such. It was something he left for Vendel to be, but now the Nord was gone. The Nord, he though, is that what he is to me now? Is a lifetime of camaraderie, loyalty and friendship lost and forgotten so easily? Francis clenched his jaw and looked out the window, past Marassa. He immediately shifted in his seat and scorned himself for even thinking of becoming complacent and whiney. He wasn’t his father. He wouldn’t die just because he’d lost someone close to him.

He remembered when he first met the scaled beast, the Argonian. Wets-His-Blade, as he was called by some of the others. He remembered being intimidated, an Argonian who could rival Vendel in height and strength but didn’t hold the same trust between them. He was wary, something in his eyes that didn’t go well with him. He kept his eye on the Argonian for the month they trekked across the desert, not trusting everyone’s willingness to keep him around over his own instinct to avoid him and try with everything he had to kill him if the time came where he had to. But now that the great beast spoke about fighting, about war, about offensives, Francis felt like he wanted wrap his hands around the thick neck of his and squeeze.

For a moment, his anger got ahead of him. He remembered what happened when other men rushed to the fight, when others took the fray less serious than it should be. Vendel was gone and maybe even dead because of it. If this Argonian wanted to die, so be it. He opened his mouth to tell the Argonian why his words were foolish but the Orc did it first. The big one. And he did it loudly. The two great beasts in the room fell into silence and Francis readied himself to walk away from the tower and back to Wayrest if a fight broke out. The Orc, Cub, withdrew himself and asked about ruins again. Francis looked around, the rest stayed silent. He sniffed and scratched at his stubbled cheek before speaking, “Zaveed is d-” He stopped himself before he said something to the Orc he might regret, “Zaveed is missing and he hasn’t caught up with us yet. If a rebellion behind us did not help us win, one Khajiit won’t do it either. We ran from a lost cause and here we are in a lost war. In Skyrim. Nadeen said the Governor here does not hide his brutality like Razlinc.” Francis ground his teeth, two big fools, one spoke of fighting, the other told of his Messiah, “Go ahead, Argonian, Orc. Go and find them in their holes and fortresses.”

Francis turned to the Altmer in the room. He didn’t know many altmer but this one didn’t seem too much like the Thalmor. He’d been quiet throughout the journey though. Then again, so was Francis. The two were strangers going the same way it seemed. If he had indeed fought a war like this before, he’d stick close to him. The Khajiit too. But they weren’t shackles and he held no illusion of loyalty or camaraderie. He was simply here to see justice done, vengeance sated, blood spilled. Mer blood.

“When the storm passes we will move. If the storm passes slowly, we can sleep. Until the sun falls, I guess we can enjoy each other’s company. A month of walking through the desert and now this rain, I intend rest my feet in a dry place.” He said, he gave a tired smile and reached into his traveling pack, pulling out a bottle of wine, “It looked expensive when I saw it sitting on an officer’s desk. I killed him and took it. Anyone care for a drink? Elayna? Sion?” He looked to Marassa, offering the bottle.

The conversation, if it could be called that, offered Marassa a reminder of why she preferred to travel alone. Her thoughts were less chaotic, and she found herself arguing with herself far less often than this lot. This was the side of heroism that they never told in the stories, and the khajiit wondered if Tiber Septim spent his nights in his council tent arguing with his companions over trivial matters instead of decisively making decisions to move forward. She was pleased most people echoed her sentiment of moving away from the dwemer towards what she hoped was an untouched hold, it was a logical and safe choice to get supplies, information, and perhaps find a warm roof over their heads while they made their next choice. The khajiit learned long ago not to plan too far ahead, and simply focus on the matter at hand with a general goal in mind. Now it was decided they would go to Falkreath, all that mattered was getting there, which might prove impossible if the shouting match didn’t subside.

Things were going smoothly until the argonian opened his mouth, proclaiming his desire to die in a glorious bloody heap. Others, understandably, argued against this. After all, if the Insurgency in Hammerfell failed to make the impact that was hoped for, a small group of arguing misfits was going to die even more surely. At least Sion and Valsiore were thinking logistically for their own needs, and Marassa made a note to find them soul gems if possible, the stronger of the two going to the altmer mage and the weaker ones going to the khajiit and his mysterious dwemer weapon, it was a far more productive use of one’s voice than trying to drag others into getting killed. Marassa kept quiet, as others like Cub, Urzoth, and Francis more or less voiced her concerns with the argonian’s boisterous manner. The mention of her brother’s failure sat like a tightening knot in her chest, however; so damn close and yet so far, only this time there was cause for concern and Marassa was truly afraid she had lost the only family she had left, a brother she barely knew and dedicated her entire life to save from himself if for no other reason than to earn her own right to live in her parents’ eyes.

Marassa glared at Francis when he caught himself from saying Zaveed was dead. It was an abysmal opinion she would not abide, not until she saw Zaveed herself. She grasped the offered bottle from the Breton man as she stood, meeting him eye to eye. “I spent years searching for Zaveed without knowing if he were alive or dead, and this is no different. I will find him again, in one way or another. If you cared about your friend, truly, you would do the same instead of bemoaning his loss like it is a certain thing. Either he is or he isn’t, but you’ll never know unless you find him and find closure. You can stand here and mope about it, or you can do something. I chose to act.” She pulled the bottle free and drank deeply, not letting the unpleasantness of the burn show upon her face. She was not a drinker, all told.

She went over to Cub, reaching up to place a hand on his hulking shoulder. “You know that Zaveed is dearly important to me, Cub, so you know I hold him in high esteem, but Francis has the right of it; he’s one man, and he is prone to foolhardy mistakes like anyone else. If it were not, he wouldn’t have found himself captured and missing, which,” she said, turning back to stare at Francis. “We were told that Zaveed and several other prisoners went missing the night before their prison was assaulted. That accounts to his body not being discovered. If they were removed, then we need to find out who, if not the dwemer.” She returned to Cub. “Believe in your own strength, Cub. My brother is not the only compass you should follow, chiefly because he’s an idiot.” She stepped away from Cub, drinking from the bottle again before handing it off to the next person as she stood next to the fire, a podium of sorts.

“Perhaps they removed a portion of your brain when they lopped off the end of your tail, Wets-His-Blade, but the way I hear it you and many others took the fight against the dwemer directly and death and loss was all that was shown for it. It’s become starkly obvious that meeting the dwemer head-on is foolish and dying pointlessly accomplishes nothing. Patience is something you would do well to learn; all predators learn the ways of their prey before they pounce, and we are no different. We listen, we learn, and then we act. I wish to find out where my brother is, but I’m not chasing blindly after him, otherwise I wouldn’t have made this futile journey in the wrong direction, because hope is lost in Hammerfell and Skyrim may hold answers yet to be discerned. If the dwemer have a weakness, then it is our only option to discover what that is instead of wandering blindly into treachery unknown. Any idiot can swing a sword and kill, but the same idiot is accomplishing nothing if he dies with only a handful of kills to his blade. Stop and think, if you find yourself capable of it.” She said evenly, looking around at the group at large.

“And so, it appears we are in concordance. Falkreath is nothing more than a place to gain information and supply and, I hope, a new heading in our journey. We are not going to find ourselves joining some misguided band to fulfill their own purposes and goals; we only have one another. The people in this room are the only ones you can depend on, and even that’s in question if you cannot stop squabbling like kittens over a mother’s teat. Truth be told, were it not in my interest, I wouldn’t be spending what precious time I could spend looking for my brother in the company of strangers who are held together by the faintest of threads. Two of you among us I can call friends, the rest are an enigma who I rather hope aren’t ineffectual fools who want to die pointlessly because they can’t pull their heads out of their asses to do what has to be done. So, make peace with one another now so we can focus on our real foe, or find a way to die quietly because I’d rather not be caught up in your brash stupidity.” Marassa said, stepping away from the fire to return to her vigil, leaning against the wall by the window, staring at the unproven people she truly despised, save a few.

Falkreath was starting to seem like the most ideal option... yet going into an area that was more than likely still struggling didn't seem all too smart. And once again, still no other choice unless they were to go into uncertainty. The Gods were really screwing with them now...

"I don't care what we do as long as it means we can take the offensive soon," he growled. "The longer we fight the dwemer with our feet instead of our swords, the more land they take and the more entrenched they become. There are only so many places we can go before you run out of holes to hide in." Qara'Sion turned his head slightly to the speaker of their words. As much as he kept Blade in high regards being one of two people he has traveled with since the khajiit fell into this mess for the longest amount of time; the other being Elayna, he almost completely disagreed with the argonian's choice. They were even a smaller group than before... they couldn't hope to accomplish anything in their current state. Although there was probably no doubt they would eventually have to fight whether their own desire or not, now wasn't the time.

Then the orc shouted, completely catching Qara'Sion off-guard. A low-blow from his words to Blade. The khajiit only heard of what happened in the prison. Nothing good. Then Urzoth shoved by Qara'Sion and the khajiit staggered a bit. Could a fight NOT happen right now when no one knew what in the world to do?

He shrugged in annoyance once he regained his composure. Turning back to his spot by the window, he walked near Blade and spoke lowly through his teeth. "Calm down. Don't let it get the best of you." Hopefully Blade wouldn't be too bothered or angered by their words, but there wasn't much that he could do despite knowing the argonian a bit. As he sat back down, he realized randomly his mane was becoming too long as it reached his hips at this point. Digging through his pouch, he pulled out a knife and reached behind him, grabbing the dreads. With a quick cut, the locks fell behind him. Now his mane was only an inch or two above his rear. Short enough.

And Qara'Sion sighed. That was a decent enough of a distraction to ignore most of the others' words aside from Francis' offer for the wine of course. With a bit of a coy smirk, the khajiit shook his head. "Already ahead of you Francis." He told the Breton. Reaching back into the pouch, he pulled out another bottle of wine. May not be as good as the one Francis had, but always good enough. Qara'Sion stuck a nail in the cork of the bottle and easily pulled it out, him chugging a fair bit of the wine after. Maybe later he would go out just for a walk outside... just to relax a bit more.

He listened on to Marassa's words, primarily to Blade and about Zaveed. She really was cold. She was right, but cold. For the love of the Gods, please don't get mad Blade... Qara'Sion still never got the chance to apologize to Zaveed for his actions back at the Mosque. He knew Marassa wanted to find her brother. It would look as if they obviously both had a nearly similar goal. If possible, Qara'Sion would try to find Zaveed if his own goal of finding Mufasa doesn't come through first.

Finally setting the bottle down with a cough, Qara'Sion peered into the pot from afar. "...That stew is done if anyone wants to eat."

Blade's hand was at the hilt of his sword a mere heartbeat after the big orc bellowed out. He had no reason to think this "Cub," would actually attack, aside from seeming a few eggs short of a full dozen, but he'd been on edge ever since they'd neared Skyrim's border. It made him twitchy. He had half a mind to let the damned place burn.
The female orc -another new comer- moved before anybody else, facing down her kin with a stare before placing a calming hand against his breast. Good. Blade wouldn't have spared such a courtesy. The infantile beast was hardly a fitting replacement for Gorzath-
For a brief moment, the argonian's defenses fell and his brows furrowed as his thoughts turned to the fallen orc spellcaster. He'd shown no emotion when he received the news, but he'd grown to like the sullen fellow, and his death just gave him another reason to hate the dwemer. This fight was getting more personal each day.

Reptilian eyes refocused as the others went about making their opinions on the matter abundantly clear. Those eyes then rolled skyward as his companions interpreted his words in the most literal fashion. He was sufficiently irritated by the time Marassa was finishing, offering only a grunt in return to Qara'Sion's passing whisper. Okay. Two can play at that game.

Blade clapped slowly as the female khajiit returned to her corner. "A fine speech kitten. I imagine if you were half as good with your weapon as you are with your tongue this war might already be won. You can stand over there and glower all you want, but in this group, you are the one who is untested. The respect your brother earned does not fall to you in his absence, something you would do well to learn. I gathered scars fighting the dwemer yes, but at least I was fighting the dwemer. What was it you were doing at the time," Blade asked accusingly before adding derisively, "slapping scorpions out of your mane or something? Anyway," he continued, not bothering to wait for an answer, "you lot seem to think I'm suggesting we sprint straight for the dwemer lines by the light of dawn. As exciting as that would be, I'm not incompetent. What I'm saying is that even the best armor has it's weakness. We need to find the gaps in the armor and exploit them. Soon. Before the dwemer find those gaps and fill them."

They squabbled like children. Each one of them intent that their idea was the correct one, and that the rest were foolish to dare not share it. For the Eight’s sake, Valsiore had seen children work together better than this.

The Argonian, fabled prison-gladiator, spoke with an eagerness to take the fight to the Dwemer. The Altmer expected nothing less of what looked like it amounted to a pile of muscle and scale. Still, the beast was large and excessively threatening, and would be a hell of a hand to have if they ran into a dwarven patrol. It would be best to stay on his good side, especially if he was so consumed with fighting the Dwemer that he could make the perfect decoy if the High Elf needed to run.

“There is no offensive!”

Valsiore’s head snapped to the Orc, who jumped forward so quickly that his hood had fallen from his head. He was angry, and insulted the Argonian and insisted instead that they begin a search for Zhaveed, one complete with bloody interrogations of captured dwarves.

From the conversations he had heard during the journey across Hammerfell, Valsiore assumed it was the same Khajiit that was one of the revered Heroes. It wouldn’t surprise him, this lot looked like they had seen the gates of Oblivion, and if they were survivors of the Hammerfell Insurgency, well, it would make explain why they weren’t being currently being carved apart by Dwemer interrogators.

Another orc spoke up, Orzath perhaps, or something similar. The orc names were crude and inelegant, and Valsiore had long had troubled committing them to memory. ““Falkreath is too temporary. Windhelm would offer the best protection and it’s got access to the sea, but it’s far off.”

The Altmer met the eyes of one of the few men in the room. They had had little communication during their time together, but the man, Francis, seemed to know how to hold his own in combat and had not immediately accused Valsiore of being a Thalmor agent. Coupled with the fact Francis didn’t seem ready to throw himself onto the staffs of the dwarves, he was somewhere at the top of Valsiore’s list for favorite member of this group.

Then Marassa spoke again. The mage who had fought her way through the scorpions to meet Ehsan and Valsiore when they were swarmed by the arachnids. She spoke slowly, logically, giving each of their qualms with a level-headed answer. For the giant mass of scale and meat, she had something far sharper. A witty comment here or there, ones that would go far above the lizard’s head, showed that she was a clever thing, cat or no.

Hell, compared with the rest of the group, Valsiore was in love with her.

Blade replied with a far less amusing retort, but it became apparent that he had no interest in taking orders from her. No matter how long a few of this group had fought alongside each other, there was no clear power structure. They’d be fighting over who would get the first bowl of stew as surely as they would their destination.

The Altmer placed his hands upon his knees and pushed himself up. “Well then it is agreed, Falkreath.” He dug his bowl out of his satchel and scrolled to the fire, immediately ladling a hearty bit of stew into it. “It’s a long enough journey, but the going should be easier upon us now that we have crossed the border. Hammerfell is a harsher land to journey across, in my opinion.”

“I’ve made my way across the Nord’s homeland for years, I’ve even called it my home at one time. The land is rough, but we can survive here provided we are not foolish. Those of us with an eye for plants can find food, and I doubt there any jarls left who would care if we poach their game. The ground isn’t tamed, so it’ll be simple enough to lose any Dwemer patrols we find it we’re smart about where we choose to travel.”

A bite of stew, “As Marassa has said,” by the Eight he hoped he had gotten her name right, admittedly it was easier to remember then that Uzgoeth, “we’ll have to work together. Our band will be suspicious enough with how it is made up, and we do not want to attract any attention from the Dwemer government unless we have to. I believe we’ll do best if we can avoid any squabbling until we’ve arrived at Falkreath, once there and after we have a bit of rest, I suggest we have at each other.”

Another bite. “Ah yes, one last thing.” He held up the wooden bowl, a bit of steam rising from its contents. “My compliments to the chef.”

The journey out of the sands of Hammerfell and into the rocky forests of the Skyrim was a very welcome change for Elayna. To actually be able to breathe without choking on the dry, dusty heat and to actually see greenery was refreshing, to say the least. More had joined their ranks, all sort of terrifying in their own right. Marassa, Zaveed's sister, was as chilly as the Jeralls, though the Khajiit woman didn't seem to harbor any ill will towards her. Which was very much appreciated, given the large sword and thick armor. Cub...well, she didn't really know. For an Orc, he didn't seem too...Orcish. Tall and broad and somewhat threatening, sure, but there was a bit of a...different feeling about him that was throwing Elayna for a loop. She didn't bug him.

Urzoth, on the other hand, was what she'd expect from an Orc woman. Tough, brave, not afraid to get things done with her hands. Kind of reminded her of Gorzath...then there was Valsiore. The High Elf wizard. He seemed quite skilled, but not interested much in the group, so the Breton girl didn't care to pester him. If he needed a cure for something, she'd whip something up for him just like she would everyone else.

In the ruined tower, Elayna sat close to the fire, grinding up some Blue Mountain Flowers she'd managed to pick on their way with some water to make a nice poultice for small wounds. it was therapeutic, really, just sitting by the fire and getting back down to her roots. This was a remedy both her mother and Dominus taught her, a common home treatment used often in Skyrim when children get small cuts and scrapes. Her mother grew up in this land, brought here by the grandparents that they saved back in Chorrol, and Elayna saw plenty of these flowers dried as they came through Dominus' shop in the Imperial City. They were quite pretty and fragrant, in addition to their usefulness.

As the rain fell outside, Marassa proposed they move to Falkreath. That seemed well enough with the young Alchemist; she could have hiked it with Harding to Solitude to try and make it to High Rock, but she had doubts they'd make it there alive. Another part of her wanted to expand her alchemical knowledge and skill with Alteration and Destruction at the Arcaneum in the College, but such a large target would most likely be long gone, let alone the path there. She doubted the Dwemer would let such a powerhouse go. So, Falkreath and a chance to restock seemed like the best bet. The young woman nodded her head in agreement with Marassa.

However, Blade had a different plan it seemed. He spoke of going on the offensive, which seemed absolutely preposterous in their state. Hammerfell was in pieces due to their failures, and with Skyrim being littered with even more Dwemer strongholds, there weren't exactly the best of odds to begin with. He growled, Cub roared and praised Zaveed...who was gone. As was Vendel. They just couldn't catch a break...Francis had offered his expensive wine, and after Marassa had drank her fill and set them all straight, Elayna stood and took the bottle for a long sip. Gods, the burn felt good...a nice drink with this dampness in the air was just marvelous. She placed the bottle down, bowing her head in thanks to Francis. The man had to be taking Vendel's capture hard.

Elayna finally thought to speak. "They're right. While Windhelm is a logical choice, getting there would drain us of resources and probably get us killed." She stated, adding her approval to the pile. Though she felt somewhat bad for dragging Urzoth's idea down as well, it was just too impractical. Sion commented that the soup was done, and it made the young lady realize how hungry she was. Elayna looked at her mortar, contemplating using it as a bowl, but she remembered she had a small jar in her pouch. She removed it, pulled the stopper, and filled it with stew. It was hot, but she used a little bit of magicka to create a cool buffer between her hand the the glass, but not so cold as to shatter it. The Breton took a gulp of the soup, and gave a surprised look to the Khajiit mage. "Not bad, Sion, not bad at all." She smiled. Sure, it could have used some herbs, but...he didn't need to hear that.

So, the argonian did lose his brain with the end of his tail. It wasn’t surprising, since Marassa always assumed the worst out of people, but it was always a disappointment when she was proven right. She regarded him aloofly. “Untested, am I? Interesting. I hear they commissioned a rather flattering statue of me in Imperial City a couple years ago near that statue of the Avatar of Akatosh. I wonder why that was?” she asked rhetorically, stepping away from the wall to join the others as they waited for a serving of Qara’Sion’s stew. She crouched down and accepted her portion with a nod, subtly giving it a sniff. From what meager ingredients were found, it actually had a surprisingly fresh and pleasant scent. The khajiit warrior had made due with much more grueling fare in the past. She placed the bowl down to let it cool a bit. “Unlike you, argonian, I never asked for recognition for my deeds and I certainly don’t feed off of praise for doing what was necessary. I rather detest the label ‘Hero of Tamriel’, such pretentious nonsense.” She said, frowning as she stared at the fire before her. “I certainly don’t need to rise to the bait and justify my existence to a glorified pit fighter who found himself admired by simpletons who confuse the ability to kill as a spectacle with actual value. Besides, while you were getting yourself captured, maimed, and forced to fight for the dwemer’s entertainment after failing spectacularly to accomplish some pointless task at someone else’s bidding, I was searching for the people I care about. Sometimes rescuing them from capture and torture from the middle of a Dominion camp.” She saw the looks of a few of the faces around her, sensing recognition. Perhaps she would inquire about the potential connection later.

After the stew had cooled enough, Marassa scooped up the bowl and tilting it back, drinking deeply and chewing thoughtfully on the bits of dried meat and vegetables that had made up the stew. She nodded to the younger khajiit. “My thanks. It’s always pleasant when I don’t have to kill and prepare my own meals, and you seem to be quite good at it. Perhaps next time we make camp, I’ll bait and snare a few fresh rabbits.” She offered, her face thoughtful, no small part of which was thanks to the unanswered question of what had happened to Zaveed. While she would never admit to being worried about his potential demise to complete strangers, it ate at her mind. He was the only family she had left, one of the few people she truly, deeply knew that losing would crush her. She clenched her fist, staring at it in front of the flame before spreading her fingers wide to feel the heat. She had nothing of Sevari’s, nothing but the memory of someone she fell in love with but never had a chance to let him know until it was far too late. And now he was gone, perhaps forever. Was it selfish of her? Probably. But she was so very tired at devoting herself to others to justify her own life, the mistake that should have never been, and she rarely asked for anything of her own. All she asked for now was a chance to save the only family she had left, not to pay a life debt, but because she didn’t want to face a world knowing her brother wasn’t in it. She sincerely hoped these people would help her find him again, even it if took months.

“We should head out soon, perhaps when the rain subsides somewhat. Unless everyone feels like camping out in an exposed landmark for the night. It’s not only the dwemer we need to fear on these roads.” She said.

Francis regretted offering the wine to the Khajiit. She spouted off at him like a scolding mother and if he could take care of his sister for as long as he did then that was proof enough he’d gotten the right not to be scolded. He was sore at her words and had a few choice ones, mainly along the lines of ‘Go fuck a dirty Reachman.’ He took back his wine and glared at her as the others spoke, feeling something welling up in his chest that felt like if he didn’t speak it would break his teeth coming out on its own. He fought it back down and took a long swig, gritting his teeth. He’d never been a fan of wine but he thought they deserved to have something stolen from them that they’d miss- Officers, soldiers, expensive wine. He toyed with Marassa’s words, turning them over and over again. He spat to the side and took a few smaller swigs before setting it down next to him for the next person to pick up.

He wanted to act but what could he do against the dwemer that an army or an insurrection couldn’t? One could only look out from the tower’s top floor at Skyrim below to know what the dwemer were capable of when they threw coexistence to the wind. He doubted that Marassa had to face the dwemer war machine on her search for her brother. A wounded Empire, yes, but nothing like what he’d seen the past weeks. He took a bowl and scooped up a ladle-full of the stew. It was getting scarce with what had already been taken and Francis had already eaten most of his dried meat on their journey here. He looked at what he’d brought up from the bottom, more meat and substance than broth. He knew he needed it, he wanted it, his stomach was almost screaming. He swore under his breath and put some back for the others. They needed it as much as him.

He hardly waited for it to cool, instead taking small sips, trying his best not to seem like he was actually as hungry as he was. He wondered why he even cared. If Vendel were here he probably wouldn’t have spared a single thought to it. He’d begun taking gulps now and once he was finished, he cleared his throat, hoping no one would call him a glutton. He sniffed softly and placed the bowl beside him, “Thank you, Sion. It was good,” he said, “We- I needed... It was good.” He nodded. The lack of food and the month-long fast he'd been did nothing to dilute the alcohol he'd drank and he already felt it working. He felt slow, a bit disconnected, a little something he needed.

He stood and was silent for a moment before turning to Marassa, “Maybe we all have something to learn from the Hero of Tamriel.” he said, bitterness slithering from his voice. He turned to go unravel his bedroll before turning back with a troubled look, somewhat apologetically adding, “Maybe it would be good if we held to your counsel sometimes.” He looked at Marassa before looking away, “Perhaps Vendel is with Zaveed.”

He stood awkwardly for a few beats before turning, “I’m going to sleep. Long days ahead. We’ll need good rest.”

Blade scoffed at Francis' words, "I'm beginning to suspect all we'll learn is how best to ride the coat tails of our companions then abandon them when we've got what is needed from them."

The argonian chuckled darkly before turning his attention to Marassa again. "So they built you a statue did they? And next to Akatosh too? I wouldn't know. Never paid much attention to those relics, mostly because they don't prove anything. Just a bunch wasted time and effort carving rocks to please the memories of myths who do nothing to help those still living. Where is your exalted Akatosh now hmm? And for one who claims to have no interest in being recognized for her deeds or proving her ability to a lowly peasant like myself, you were quite quick to mention your precious statue. It's not healthy to project your flaws onto others you know?"

Blade made no move towards the stew that had been provided, the display of arrogance killed his appetite for food, though it fueled his appetite for other things. The way this woman spoke of the men and women who laid down their lives for what they believed in sickened him. It was clear she didn't give two shits about the people she was conveniently using to blaze a path towards her own goals, or what they were fighting for. He didn't care much either, but at least he respected them. Understood the reasoning behind their actions and mentally saluted them for it. He may not share the same reasons to fight the dwemer, but he would still try his damnedest to help for his own. Blade's eyes bored into the dismissive khajiit before him, doing his best to control his fury.

"Simpletons. Pointless tasks. Clearly you have no stake in this struggle aside from finding your brother. A task that those simpletons," Blade practically spat the word, "have helped you with. Their corpses marking a path we all walked from Hammerfell." Images of imprisoned Redguard of all ages, gender, and profession crossed his mind. Imprisoned and sent to slaughter like cattle because they fought for their freedom. "Simpletons who sacrificed themselves in an attempt to free your brother from certain death along with the rest of their allies. Simpletons who defy an unbeatable enemy that has laid low every army, even when they have everything to lose by doing so. You claim to be too humble to want a statue, and yet every word from your mouth marks you as a pretentious, selfish little girl who only gives back as little as is necessary to get what you want. Too good to even give respect to those that have lent their blades to your defense. Those simpletons have more courage and honor than you could even begin to comprehend." By now Blade's voice had lowered to a threatening hiss, his mouth a fanged snarl. "You may slight my deeds, my honor, my abilities, I don't care. But I warn you now cat, if I hear you sully the memory of those who have fallen or their allies again, I will rip that poisonous tongue from your pompous mouth."

Blade severed eye contact and glanced around at the others, "I have no objections with going to Falkreath, but if you choose to put your faith in Miss Perfect, don't be surprised to find a dagger in your back when you needed her; because she left your side to find the one she cares about." The argonian got to his feet and slung the dwemer weapon over his shoulder, glaring at Marassa once more. "I find it hard to believe that you and Zaveed are related in any way." He stalked off then, into the rainy night before his wrath could bubble over.

The wet grass and dirt sloshed as his heavy leather boots stomped across the soaked landscape. Cold rain soothing his heated brow, warmed by rapid pumping of his enraged heart. Of course it wasn't just because the khajiit had insulted the men and women of the rebellion that his temper had risen. She'd insulted the memory of his own brother as well, who was no different from the Redguard he'd fought beside aside from the fact that his rebellion consisted of just him. Because I didn't help. Blade gazed silently into the starry sky as water rolled down his scaled face. Never again.