A bottle was offered, then two, and Urzoth took the one from Francis’ side, swishing the wine for a moment. She mulled over Falkreath and Zaveed before taking a few reserved sips, thinking of where they came from and where they would go. The sweet-smelling liquid went down like a snake through the mud, hardly feeling any kind of burn, as she should. She pushed the bottle into Cub’s hands and made her way to her log, plopping down and hunching over her pack to pull out her more preferred mead. The way her uncle brewed, he would spit in her face for drinking something so watery. But he was dead. She drank half the bottle in a great big gulp. Different people spoke of different things, and for the most part their words blurred together into its typical drone. The little Breton woman, Elayna, ladled herself some soup, and Urzoth watched her hands glow gently to cool it. How convenient magic must be! She almost wished she could cast a spell or two, in that moment, if only to blast Blade square in the chest with a well-placed fireball. Marassa was speaking, and she listened in just enough to pick out the gist of her angry words. It radiated into Urzoth, and she felt the impatience well up, like an old, trusted friend.

Blade. What a fool. As soon as he hissed and grumbled and threw Marassa’s earned respect back into her face, Urzoth rose up, glared at his back as it turned. She could hear drums, not so distant, not quite so terrifying. The pace quickened. Her foot stamped lightly along with the beat and she growled.

“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.” Urzoth’s heartrate jumped up. To insult her comrade, her friend! If Marassa didn’t have half the mind to gut this damned lizard Urzoth would do so with her fists. “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." Her shoulders, arms, and legs quivered, the nerves standing on end, goosebumps prickling up beneath her armor like hackles raising. Her blood boiled. She blinked and saw the outline of the Dragonborn, a god in the body of a man. The crackling of the fire and the pounding of the rain became roaring, screaming, Shouting. The firepit jumped up into her memories as a blazing rocket, Yol Toor Shul. She would be dead if Marassa hadn’t bashed into her at the last moment, as the flame shot forth to nearly engulf them both. She owed Marassa her life, and so she owed Marassa a defense. "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." A threat. Empty or not, her chance.

"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." She felt like a collared dog. How could anyone let him go on this long? He was preparing to storm off. Not on her watch. "I find it hard to believe that you and Zaveed are related in any way." The final nail in Blade’s coffin. She realized she still gripped the bottle of mead by its neck, and she squeezed it so tightly the glass cracked and mead poured down into the dirt. She discarded it, abandoned her companions and followed him into the rain, the drums hot at her back.

In Morshum, he would be fought until he learned to shut up and respect the chief. Was Marassa even the chief? Or was his disrespect of her in turn disrespecting Zaveed? He was their chief, and every one of the Heroes knew it. Did Urzoth even care for any kind of fairness or honor now, or did she only want to take this lizard and pummel him and let him strike her until they were both bleeding and bruised and felt a little better? The rain washed away what was left of her warpaint. She could reapply it in the morning. Through the haze of fog and water, Blade’s outline cut a powerful figure. She stomped down the slope until she was several paces behind him, her arms pulsing with a desperate need to fight, like how she did years ago. “BLADE! You spit upon her and you spit upon me!” At the very least, she would strike him once. If he fought back, she would gladly accept the challenge. She narrowed the space between them, grabbed his scaled shoulder to spin him around, and bunched back her right arm to punch him across the face. A terrible area of the body to begin at, but she needed the satisfaction. At least she didn't have her spiked knuckles attached.

"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."

No they were not children, with their arguing and their ‘I’m far more braver than he or she is’. They were beasts. Provide the slightest stimulus between them, show that there wasn’t a clearly defined chain of command, and they’d turn on each other, snarling and snapping. It was like a pack of dogs fighting in an alleyway. Ignore the fact that every ounce of energy wasted over such trifling matters brought them further away from their goals and closer into the hands of the Dwemer forces, there was a manhood to be measured.

Zaveed, that was the name he kept hearing. One of the heroes of Tamriel, if memory served. He had clearly been the one to lead this group in the past, and judging by how they had so easily fallen apart, he must have been either an intimidating figure, or a silver tongued bastard. Only one who could inspire a mountain of fear, or respect, could have kept that bunch of savages in line.

The pile of scales threw the staff over his shoulder and left the tower, allowing his last words to settle over them. ‘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’.

The orc female was up in a moment. She cleared the tower in little time and was out in the storm before Valsiore could understand what had happened. The orc marched through the rain and mud until she was only a few paces behind Blade. She screamed at him, her voice cutting through the storm and clearly heard back at the tower.

Then there was a punch, and Valsiore became aware that it was entirely possible for someone in the tower to die that night.

As exciting as it would have been to watch two barbarians slug at each other until one was but a pile of flesh and broken bone, it would not have been good for their group. The two of them were each a mountain of muscle, and were too valuable to lose on their trip to Falkreath.

The Altmer placed his bowl to the side and stood up, dusting off a bit of dirt that had accumulated upon his clothes. He threw his hood upon his head and made his way out of the tower, boots squelching as they splashed into deep puddles that had accumulated on the ramp out of the tower.

His feet had not taken two steps out of the tower before he entered an entirely new world. Without the sturdy walls of the half-ruined building, he was tormented by sharp, cold winds that immediately set about peeling his skin from his face. Rain pelted him, causing dark splotches to appear across his robes. He had gone from a warm fire and comfortable bedroll to a freezing shithole in less than two steps.

Immediately he was angry. Angry that the bastards for forcing him out into the cold. Angry that he was in the middle of nowhere. Angry that he was about to embark on another journey across Skyrim. Angry that everything he had known was now burnt by some group of mer. Angry that that his soup was getting cold.
Once he had closed in on the two animals, he held out his hands and placed them upon their bodies. Damn asking for permission, he had neither the time nor the inclination, if they were going to act like dogs, he would treat them like such. He willed them to be calm, and a warmth spread to his palms as he cast the spell, attempting to soothe their anger and still their nerves.

“We are a very, very long way from Falkreath,” he growled, “with a thousand Dwemer and their assorted war machines between us. I have not the slightest problem with one of you killing the other or fighting over who gets to lead who, but to do it here is foolish.” He urged the spell to grow, trying to force down the flames of rage that he could feel inside the two of them.

“The best you can accomplish is to wound the other, and that leaves us with a body that we will have to care for and that will drastically slow us down. At worst both of you die, and we are without two swords that could help us against any dwemer we run across.”

He looked the orc in the eye, “How long do you think we will last if we’re carrying the wounded? How long before a dwemer patrol stops us and realizes we’re travelling with the bloody Heroes of Tamriel? How long before we’re strapped on tables with an interrogator between our ribs? I’ve been at that table, and I assure you it is not a place you want to be.

With an legitimate smile, Qara'Sion smiled. "Thank you Elayna, I just wish we had more to add to it-"

His mismatched blue and gold eyes widened as the argonian spoke back to the khajiit. "Gods dammit Blade, didn't I just say not to let it get the best of you!? Speechless and frozen. Qara'Sion only watched his back as Blade left the tower on his own. And immediately after, the female orc followed suit. Time slowed down for the khajiit, wondering in confusion as his blue eye squinted as to why she left...

Then his blue eye widened. "Blade is out there! You bloody idiot!' He cursed at himself in his head. Just as he wanted to avoid happening. Livid himself at this point, He wanted to know the truth about the college, he wanted to find his brother, he wanted to have loyal allies by his side. He wanted change. And none of those subjects were happening. Not surprising in the least bit for him.

Gritting his teeth, Qara'Sion took the dwemer staff off of his back and quickly grabbed his long leather cloak; putting it on and not bothering to pull the hood on his head. It was long for him, going down to his shins... but at least it would keep him dry.

...Paying attention to how long his cloak was far more enjoyable than dealing with the cradle of idiocy. But Qara'Sion knew he had to control it. Without a word, and hungry, he slung the dwemer staff over his shoulder again out of force of habit and left the tower after the elf Valsiore. Immediately as he arrived at the scene, he stood behind but far away enough of Urzoth and pointed a finger at her, his hand glowing coldly with an arrogant stance. He would force her to back off of Blade if need be, however as he shifted his eyes, he saw as Valsiore was using his own magic to calm them down.

Despite his age and experience, if he couldn't deal with the two of them, Qara'Sion would.

As Blade swiveled he saw that her right arm raised, so he raised his left to block the telegraphed attack while aiming a light jab at her neck with his sheathed weapon. If it struck home it would certainly hurt but wouldn't permanently injure her. He wasn't waiting to find out though, after blocking the punch he used the same arm to push her back while retreating a few steps.

"Allowing you to fight her battles isn't restoring my confidence or my respect for the cat," Blade said as he planted his feet in the slick grass, finding what grip he could in case he orc didn't back down. "If you really feel that you need to defend her, fine. But this is your one warning, which I don't give out very often by the way. Stow your fists orc," his order was accented by the scrape of his scabbard sliding off five feet of honed dwemer steel before growling, "I don't play fight."

The scabbard fell to the ground with a splat and the argonian just stood there waiting for an answer, sword in hand. "Just walk away Urzoth, I'd rather not cut somebody who doesn't deserve it." Though he said otherwise, a secret part of him, deep down, the feral animal that reared its head on the blood soaked battlefield hoped she wouldn't walk away. Thirsted for the crimson liquid to stain the gold metal and stubby grass. His own life blood began to pump faster in anticipation for the answer, flooding his corded limbs with nutrients to make them faster. Stronger. As much as he wanted to believe he wasn't a monster, moments like this said otherwise.

Blade offered one more threatening hiss, "Stand down."

It was obvious the argonian wanted her to keep fighting, and she knew that bringing her fists into a swordfight wouldn’t be the best course of action. Then again, she had won countless battles before against battleaxes, blades and fellow brawlers, and while it had never been her strongest suit it was the only one she had. She tasted her words with more carefulness than how she felt. “A true companion defends her allies’ honor. You should know this, standing up to Marassa to defend your fallen comrades.” She cracked her knuckles and gauged how she might go about stepping in close enough to render his long blade useless—perhaps a grapple. The drums demanded blood, his eyes cried out for violence, and her own heart pounded so viciously that to have it torn from her chest in itself would be relief.

She charged, and with a more cunning posture than she thought the lizard might give her credit for, positioned her gauntlets in such a way that they could swing up and clang against his blade should he strike while the range was at his advantage, sending it screaming past her shoulder and skidding harmlessly against the thick orichalcum plates of her armor. She grappled with his swordarm to attempt to capture it in a lock, struggling to remain upright on the slope in their fighting. Her blood boiled and burned in her chest. She felt more life in that moment than any number of simple bandit-slayings could offer—the challenge, the risk, the fact that this was more than a scramble to survive but a battle between two butchers looking to hammer out their own wills.

Blade's face was a snarling mass of now fangs, all rational thought not involving combat gone from his mind. His only desire now, was to see his enemy bleeding in the dirt. That enemy had closed the distance quickly, negating the effectiveness of his sword and attempting to control it, but Blade had anticipated this. It was the orc's only option of attack considering the circumstances.

So after a quick feint at Urzoths raised arms, he turned his left side towards her and pushed his left leg out, crouching to maintain balance. His thigh would act as a small obstacle that she would have to work around or risk tripping. The orc was successful in keeping him from slashing at her, but Blade had no intention of doing so in such confined space anyway. With Urzoth grappling his left arm, he shifted the weight of his sword to his right and let the point fall downward, releasing the grip for an instant before grabbing it again so that the pommel end protruded from between his thumb and index finger. Blade immediately began to viciously thrust the pommel beneath the orc's outstretched left arm like a dagger, aiming for the gap in her armor that exposed the armpit, hoping to strike the sensitive nerves within and incapacitate the limb.

Pain bloomed up from Urzoth’s armpit, growing with each successful jab of Blade’s pommel. Just then, an unwelcome warmth sprouted out from her left shoulder, and she swiveled angrily to meet the guilty caster. The magic was potent, and she feared it taking effect--not out of fear of calming, but out of a furious stubbornness to stay angry until she and her opponent decided the fight was done. She had to get away from the blurry, glowing hand before it could ruin the thrill, before it could silence the drums' deafening noise. The elf spoke, something she cared little to hear over the cacophony of rain and the ferocity of the struggle she was still engaged in. Two silhouettes now. A tail? Marassa? She wouldn't stop the battle, would she?

She leaned forward, arms braced against Blade's chest, and sent them tumbling down the hill, splattering into the mud in a great, thunderous heap. She tried to be sure Blade was the one to slap onto his back, digging her heels into the soft ground in some semblance of control, but the mud proved too slippery and she plunged in on her side, leaving Blade ungrappled while she threw herself up onto her knees to poise to beat the crap out of him. Mud had flown into her eyes and, alongside the rain and darkness, she could neither see her opponent nor the glint of his blade clearly.

Fortunately neither party was cut by the dwemer greatsword as they collapsed to the ground in a muddy heap. Though he did his best to keep control of the weapon, it was knocked from Blade's grasp by an unseen rock as the two combatants slipped off each other. Freed from the orc's powerful grip, the argonian scrambled to his feet and launched himself at Urzoth, leading with a fist and a roar.

Their orichalcum breastplates clanged as Blade crashed into the orc with a flurry of punches fueled by primal rage. He fought like a wild animal, tirelessly slamming his fists against anything within his reach. Water and mud flew through the air, sent skyward by the flailing limbs and brutal impacts, including Urzoth's own fists connecting with the argonian's feral visage, giving back as good as she got.

Viciousness in its purest form. This was it. Frustration, rage. She felt detached, neither the pain of the blows nor the discomfort of the mud seeping into her armor breaking through her sphere of...something. Probably something very unhealthy. Her abdomen strained; she had to force him away to at the very least sit up, else the strain of keeping her head above the deep pool of mud would surely dampen her arms’ strength. A cut above her brow, fresh and deep thanks to Blade’s talons, poured blood generously down her face and into her eyes and mouth. Should’ve worn your helmet, fool.

Blade was too far lost to his blood wrath to feel pain and he slowly gained the advantage, pressing the attack until Urzoth was on her back and he straddled her torso, legs splayed out for stability. A hungry hiss slithered from the deepest recess of his mind and consumed his thoughts, smash her... break her... bleed her... A stray fist caught Blade in the neck forcing a cough of pain from his maw. He'd had enough. Managing to grip the edge of Urzoth's breastplate and landing one more blow to stun her, he ripped his short-sword from the scabbard at his hip. His arm reared back, ready to plunge the tip through her neck and roared, "ENOUGH!"

Urzoth could see not but a dim shadow of Blade’s shape, outlined against the moons. She lifted a hand against the glint of his shortsword, rushing to align the tip with her palm. She would rather he slice straight through her non-dominant hand until he hit the gauntlet plate on the other side than have him surely kill her. She snarled in defiance, the animal rage bleeding out of her every pore to make way for cold survival again. She thought on what would surely happen should she miss, an instant's consideration that brought her mind to Cub. Would Marassa keep an eye on him well enough?

The argonian and orc both froze. Blade panted heavily and his upraised arm trembled slightly, though not from exhaustion. ...do it... came the whisper from the dark corner of his mind, you want this... it's who you are... Blade growled and tensed with exertion as he fought against his baser instincts. Urzoth’s fingers twitched. "I warned you dammit," he hissed. Then golden steel flashed downward and plunged into the wet earth next to Urzoth's head.

The rumble over head ached across the sky, the drums of war a falling crescendo. Through blood and grime Urzoth prepared her counter when the short sword sank into the earth mere inches from her face. The panting figure above her gave a final gruff sigh as it rocked back its heels victorious. A flash of light illuminated Urzoth's murky vision as thunder crashed overhead. Then a second time far closer than she expected.

Now smearing through the muck atop his adversary, Cub clung desperately to Blade's plate armour as he drove his body further through the bastard, driving the momentum from his charge through the lizard and down into the mud. Blade, caught unawares, had little time to react as the two slid to a stop. "You killed her! You'll die for that, Scaly, I swear it," Cub's threat barely half spoken. his paws began closing around Blade's neck.

Blade hadn't heard the big orc's approach thanks to the rain, he'd let his guard down. Squashed the blood wrath that honed his instincts and senses to a razor's edge. Stupid he thought. Now he was paying the price, he'd already lost to the new assailant whose powerful grip squeezed his windpipe. Well, at least he hadn't killed Urzoth. Now that he thought about it, it'd be rather ironic if he died at the hands of somebody who was taking vengeance for a person he hadn't actually killed for once.

He pulled futilely at the hands around his neck as he gasped for air and wheezed up at the orc, "She -gurck- isn't dead you -glck- fucking idiot!"

The cold chill of pain averted froze Urzoth in a daze for a few odd moments as a wagon in the shape of a man came bellowing down the slope to snatch her assailant away. She turned her head, squinting up at the wrangling pair, bewildered. Was that Cub. “Shit.” She forced her body to move, lurching up onto her knees to the chorus of a gagging lizard. “Cub! You big—“ She tugged on one of his shoulders, giving him firm but nonviolent smacks to the muscle there despite the damage she could do, still coming down from the haze of her bloodrage as she was. “I’m alive! Let go!” She sounded a little more exasperated than furious, and continued to angrily grapple with his shoulders and arms until he relented.

It was bound to happen eventually, Marassa thought as she impassively watched Blade lose his temper and storm out of the keep like an overgrown brutish toddler. It didn’t matter to her that men had chosen their own way to die; they died for a cause of their own, which was more than most could claim, as their lives were often ended shortly and in a rather purposeless and undignified manner. There mere act of dying for a cause wasn’t impressive in of itself. People had been doing it since time immemorial. The argonian couldn’t have been more wrong about her; she certainly wasn’t bragging about her recognition, although there was a certain pleasure about rubbing her rather unwanted title and recognition in Blade’s face. It wasn’t unlike how she treated Sevari in the earliest weeks, goading him on and prodding his emotional shortcomings to see if he would react for her own amusement. Whereas he sunk deeper into brooding until a surprising wit emerged, it seemed Blade only knew anger and indignation. She decided the lizard wasn’t even a fair target. He was far too easy to provoke, his pride easy to exploit like a chip in his scales exposing a soft underbelly. She suspected he wasn’t used to interacting with people outside of violent confrontration, and having the final word of threatening to rip out her tongue because he couldn’t emotionally handle her barbs very loudly proclaimed that he really didn’t know how to handle her. She decided it wasn’t even worth mentioning that she had fought dwemer before in Rihad, not unlike what this other group encountered in Hegathe. It wasn’t a contest and she certainly didn’t have anything to prove to him, or anyone for that matter. It also wasn’t worth mentioning that Zaveed was her half-brother whom she literally only met two years ago. Blood really was all they had in common, their upbringings couldn’t have been more different. The khajiit was about to bring the stew bowl to her lips once more when Urzoth stormed out after Blade, fuming. Marassa blinked. She never realized the big orc was that devoted to her past a comfortable familiarity. It came as a surprise that Urzoth would raise her fists in defence of the khajiit she once again called companion. “Huh.” Was all she managed to say as the tensions finally hit a critical point. Several others rose up and followed the two out, either to watch the skirmish or to interfere. The khajiit drank a bit of the broth quickly before following the others out, grabbing her sword in the process. Only an idiot ventured forth unprepared.

CUE MUSIC!

The small khajiit, Sion, stood ready with a spell, either looking for an opening or two intervene if the two titans needed to be stopped. She stepped beside Sion, placing a hand over his outstretched arm, pushing it downwards gently, if a bit firm. “Leave them. This is something they both need to do.” She said, turning her attention to the brawl and the altmer’s feeble attempts at intervening. He’d have better chances reasoning with a troll. This was less a brawl than it was about a force of nature, a storm, that would only pass when it had expended its energy. Heavy armour and a single weapon collided with ferocity, it was a primal fight where tactics were not afforded, it was pure instinct and emotion driving each of the hammering blows and grapples. Both were so fixed on destroying their foe that anyone else who had the audacity to interfere would easily find themselves sucked into the maelstrom, a position Marassa herself had no desire to be in.

When Blade lost his sword, the fight was more even and less concerning despite its savagery. Hammered fists and claws lashed out in heavy, damaging blows with no signs of tiring and the fury only built up. It was at this point that Marassa released Sion’s arm and stepped forward herself. Her tentative steps became a sprint when she saw the blade drawn. Neither would be satisfied with expending themselves in unarmed combat; things had taken a potentially lethal turn, and she wasn’t about to let a comrade die on her behalf. To her relief, Blade simply sunk the sword in the mud next to Urzoth’s head, an act that brought back a vivid flashback of the flash of an elven dagger with a sapphire pommel burying itself in the dirt beside her own head, Zaveed atop of her with a burning anger that turned his normally handsome features into something jagged and terrifying, holding the grip of his dagger with both hands and shaking. An anguished curse filled the air as the corsair bellowed out in rage and frustration. When his attention returned to Marassa, the fight was gone from her eyes.

Come home, Zaveed. she had pleaded. The memory was as vivid today as it was two years ago, the conclusion of years of searching for a ghost.

Cub was already throttling Blade, the poor bastard choking under the distressed orc’s crushing grips, Cub screaming that the argonian had killed Urzoth, who miraculously managed to call out to stop him and reach him, trying to get him to release his grip. Marassa joined her, placing a hand on the orc’s arm gently, like a big sister looking out for her little brother. “Urzoth’s fine, Cub. It’s okay. Blade and her had a disagreement, everyone’s fine.” She said soothingly. When the sense of recognition washed over the big orc’s features and his grip loosened, she offered him a comforting pat on the breastplate, as his shoulders were too high up for the reassurance to be a natural gesture.

Marassa glanced at Blade and offered him a shrug, as if it explained everything before she turned to Urzoth. “I’m not going to ask what that was about, but let’s not kill the people we’re travelling with. There’s already a lengthy enough list of people who are already trying to slay us to add more to it. Besides, if we tried to kill everyone I verbally sparred with, I’m pretty sure nobody would have made it alive across the Jerall Mountains on our way to Imperial City.” She pointed out dryly. “It’ll take more than words to besmirch my honour; I don’t need you to rise to my defense over words. The gesture is appreciated, however. Just don’t make it a habit.” She said, offering the slightest upturns of her lips. “It is nice to know that loyalty was built over the course of our journey that had nothing to do with my brother, however. Come, sit.” She said leading Urzoth to a large rock. “Get these armour pieces off so I can work on your wounds.” She said. It wasn’t a suggestion. She looked over her shoulder at Blade. “And if he is quite done moping, I’ll tend to him as well. I’d rather not listen to him bitch the entire journey to Falkreath. Also,” Marassa reached over and smacked Urzoth with a flat hand across the back of her head. “What in Oblivion were you thinking attacking an armed man without a weapon? I am not worth dying over, no matter how much of an unbearable shit Coin Purse is. We stopped the Emperor because we thought each and every one of our steps out, not because we rushed into situations rashly like a bunch of dogs.”

The drums were retreating back into their hiding places. Urzoth could not say she was sad to see them go. Cub seemed to be calming, and she pressed a hand to his broad back before turning to Marassa. “I’m not going to ask what that was about, but let’s not kill the people we’re travelling with. There’s already a lengthy enough list of people who are already trying to slay us to add more to it. Besides, if we tried to kill everyone I verbally sparred with, I’m pretty sure nobody would have made it alive across the Jerall Mountains on our way to Imperial City.”

The orc was thankful that she had to offer no explanation. The feelings that welled up—indignation, blind rage, loyalty like a rabid dog—they frightened her, reminding her of darker days when she had little to fight for and much to fight over.

“It’ll take more than words to besmirch my honour; I don’t need you to rise to my defense over words. The gesture is appreciated, however. Just don’t make it a habit.” Marassa smiled, if only slightly, and the pain of Urzoth’s wounds came into further clarity. Her boiling blood settled, and now all she could feel was the discomfort of mud being settling it shouldn’t and bruises and cuts peppering her body—mainly her face—like the creation of a chef who had only just learned of the many applications of spice. “It is nice to know that loyalty was built over the course of our journey that had nothing to do with my brother, however. Come, sit.”

She rubbed at her jaw, and could swear she heard it pop when she worked it a little. Her whole face felt both numb and tender, and blood still poured into her left eye from the cut above it. Just another likely scar. She followed Marassa to a large rock underneath a small overhang that kept the rain away, and glanced warily upward at all the reddish outlines cresting the hill when Marassa all but ordered her to remove her armor. Marassa had to know of Urzoth’s reservations about being so unguarded. At least without a weapon Urzoth could to a hell of a lot of damage, as Blade could attest. But no armor meant pain, meant being dispatched like an expendable little foot soldier just when the battle was at its thickest. What if Blade opted to attack her? She scolded herself quickly—Blade was not the one to begin the fight, and besides whatever honor he had surely had to think poorly of attacked an unequipped, injured ally.

She was jostled out of her thoughts with a good bap to the back of the head. Her hair had fallen loose in the struggling, and it fell down upon her face and reached toward the ground in wet, ropelike clumps. She pushed it out of her face and peered up at Marassa from under her eyebrows. “What in Oblivion were you thinking attacking an armed man without a weapon? I am not worth dying over, no matter how much of an unbearable shit Coin Purse is. We stopped the Emperor because we thought each and every one of our steps out, not because we rushed into situations rashly like a bunch of dogs.”

To that, she had an answer. Somewhat. “I did not plan to die, Marassa.” She wiped at her forehead and her hand emerged red. “I have herbs in my pack. I don’t know how well they might work, but I don’t need to waste a potion on this.”
She couldn’t refuse Marassa, not when she’d just viciously attacked one of their few allies. The armor had to come away if she expected to be healed properly and checked for broken bones. She gingerly peeled away her armor piece by piece until she was down to her greaves, boots and a sleeveless woolen shirt that was stained with blood. She itched at her bare arms, wiping away the mud and staring up at her allies in caution. She was being foolish, fearing injury or some random assault just as she was in a weakened state. But random assaults, in her experience, were never, ever out of the question.

“Blade is like an Orc in the body of a lizard. You should have felt his blows.” She huffed. “I don’t want you to think I stormed blindly into a fight. You know that a warrior like him faces the best counsel when such counsel is actively breaking his snout.” She rumbled with a laugh, immediately regretting it as sharp pain echoed throughout her aching body. She shook her head, feeling like she was telling a lie. Yes, she wanted to teach Blade to respect his allies. But that was not the only reason. She had her back against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder mainly with strangers, facing an enemy they could only wield a miracle against. She was anxious, trapped in the armor she was frightened to shed, soaked and cold, and had to listen to griping at a time when she could almost relax. She needed something to destroy, and Blade just happened to give her an excuse.

Marassa grabbed his arm as he aimed for one of the two combatants. Once more he flinched as usual as his head quickly turned to face her. “Leave them. This is something they both need to do.” She told him. His mouth opened slightly as if he were to say something, but he relented. The cold color shrouding his hand faded and he lowered his arm back inside his cloak, once she let go. Qara'Sion was to uncertain about allowing the two to fight, but maybe she was right. Maybe they did need to have this moment.

The khajiit watched on and regretted his decision to not stop them. Blade's face was different than when he watched the argonian fight in the arena. Too different. The look on his face would actually strike fear into the khajiit despite witnessing the gladiator's battle prowess in both competition and war. His eyes shifted to Marassa as she moved forward, then to the bout happening before them all. The argonian drew his sword. No, he's not going to is he!? The khajiit questioned in his thoughts as Blade began to plunge the sword downward. Once more, once more, he flinched, and froze up.

He missed. Intentionally missed from the looks of it. And began to walk away from his combatant. Qara'Sion inhaled with relief, but shock came back once more when the other hero traveling with the group bounded passed with heavy steps. Soon Cub was strangling Blade, and Qara'Sion's eyes stayed open as he began to dash with his heavy cloak on his shoulders. all the while preparing a spell to passify the orc. As Urzoth and Marassa were pulling Cub off of the argonian, the khajiit placed the single glowing hand on the orc's back. He should have listened to himself rather than follow someone else's word. Let them fight. Had Qara'Sion decided to intervene, this wouldn't have escalated so far.

He needed to stop listening to others, and needed to start acting on his own decisions. So he thought.

Cub let go, and the others as well as the khajiit removed their hands. His eyes shifted from Blade to Cub to make sure nothing more happened, less he needed to "act". Nothing at all. Good. All he could do was give the argonian a look that read "What in oblivion was that!?". Mouth open in a snarl, eyes in surprise before shaking his own head. "...I'm going for a walk please, could everyone leave me at least a bit of the stew?" The khajiit spoke with a tone of annoyance as he slowly walked off on his own, finally throwing his hood over his head.

The rain was calming to his ears. It reminded him of the times where once each month, his family would return to "Home" when it would rain. But only then. It was a generational thing they always did, from Gods know how long... Qara'Sion lineage ran deep.

Thinking on it as he walked as if instinct, he wondered if he kept his pouch on him. Reaching around his side, he was lucky to find out he did. One paper scroll with a map detailed on it. Using his long cloak he covered the map from the harsh rain, peering down at it to see where he was currently. Immediately he snapped his fingers, to find where his brother was. Qara'Sion looked down to see where the luminescent path lead him, then to the stars. Then back to the map.

No this couldn't be right. He snapped his fingers again. For once the path didn't change. He tried it thrice. Four times. Five times. Nothing changed. From what he could tell, his brother was in the direction of the college. For the first time in years, the spell worked in his favor when it came to finding his family.

He could leave them now. All of them, to pursue his own goals. Things were starting if they werent already to become bad. He could find Mufasa. Find out what happened to the college. His own desires. But he bit his lip. And shook his head. It would be asinine to go on on his own. The dwemer had most of the territory here in skyrim, Mufasa could move and it would be another chase, Gods... he was carrying a dwemer weapon himself. And even then where could he stay during the meantime? The only place with the most potential of being a safe heaven would be Narzulbur and the khajiit didn't know if the stronghold was able to recover from the attack a few years ago. He had no choice but to stick with them if he wanted a better chance of survival.

And Falkreath was becoming less desirable if those living in the area were struggling. With the number of people in their group, and the tension rising... how long would it take for them to just turn into hungry beasts?

A disgusting noise near his feet ran through his ears as he walked forward. He yelped and fired a shock spell in the direction of the sound. Instantly, he killed a sickly looking rabbit. He sighed and slapped his face with both hands. "I've... got quite a bit to think about. I'm letting almost everything get to my head...." He mumbled as he kept on walking forward. Even slower than before.

Honestly, I don't think.... I know I can't turn back now... but dammit... I need more time...I just don't wan't to have to end up walking alone again....Maybe I need to change..."

When he was far younger, in a different time, he had watched animals fight. The Wood Elves of Valenwood generally preferred to protect their forest and its inhabitants, but in every group there are those that are less than savory characters. Using their innate ability to influence the minds of beasts, a handful of entrepreneuring mer had set up a series of vicious fights between local wildlife. Massive bears, with claws capable of tearing a man apart, crumpled under the weight of wolves the size of hellhounds. There was no greater thrill than throwing septims at the master of the fight, screaming your bet on which beast would win.

That was what he saw now. There was no rhyme or reason to the fighting. No well-calculated movements to end the combat. It was brutal. It was animalistic. It was furious.

Eights damn him, it was entertaining.

The two masses of flesh hammered at each other. Struggling in the rain and illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning, they looked for all the world like two gods. Immortal beings locked in an eternal struggle, refusing to back down until everything but themselves had faded away.

Then, with another flash of lightning, they lost their footing and fell into the mud, Dwarven greatsword sliding away. But the fight didn’t end, they simply continued, globs of mud and dirt flung into the air while they grappled. Wolves tearing at each other, refusing to end until jaws were clamped viciously around the throat.

The gladiator was up first, his short sword gripped tightly in his hand. Blood ran freely down the Argonian’s face, washed away by the torrential rainfall. It looked as if that was the end for the poor orc that still lay in the mud. However, to his credit, the Argonian merely brought the blade to the side of her head, intending for a non-lethal victory.

It should have ended there. But out of the corner of his eye Valsiore saw a figure, full sprint, run towards the fight. The other orc, the male, threw himself onto the gladiator, screaming, desperate for revenge. Most of the words were lost in the roar of the storm, but the elf heard something about the lizard killing the woman orc.

She was up in a moment, removing the younger Orsimer from the Argonian and trying to calm him down. He was lucky the gladiator didn’t split open his stomach and spill his insides onto the muddy ground they stood upon. A second fight was avoided, and the group approached Marassa, who had made her way out into the storm.

Hood still over his head, the High Elf made his way over to the four of them.

“Get these armour pieces off so I can work on your wounds,” Marassa said. She looked at the Argonian, who had taken his fair share of damage despite being the victor in the fight. He looked less appealing than before, which was quite the achievement, but none of his wounds looked particularly life threatening.

“I can help Wets-His-Blade,” Valsiore said. “I’ve got some skill at healing.” At the lizard’s approval, he would help him out of his armor and start closing the worst of the wounds.

Helgathe’s main arteries pulsed with a ferocious, all-consuming beam of gold that ploughed through debris until only red remained behind it. Those untouched by the rebellious streak swore to never goad their oppressors so openly, as theirs was a brand of vengeance both chaotic and thorough. Peasants were counted among the slain, five for every rebel struck down, and luck certainly deserted those who missed the window of retreat. Joined by a large Nord toting an unconscious Breton, Thyra, Qara’Sion, and his pack narrowly escaped the Dwemer barrage as it began laying into the square. They moved swiftly and without the degree of care required for a covert escape, as the slaughter covered all traces with blood and noise.

Several hours after the riot, phantoms of guilt still clawed at her legs, and she could hear with almost perfect clarity, the ignored pleas of allies left to their fates. Flaring hungers were certainly sated, but when the battle came to its crashing finale, it left her bitter and regretful. She had tasted many harsh flavours of defeat before this one, but never had it burned her so. The weight of sudden stillness, the throbbing pulse leaping from chest to throat, the restless ache in every muscle, could not overcome or quell the sensations sown by a battle won through losses. On the outside, Thyra looked deceptively calm, but the same veins that sought to take the stiffening ice from every muscle, pumped out a raging, fiery urge to explode violently, in full bloom, at the centre of a bronze-coated square.

As darkness fell, torches and healing magics kept the ancient ruin alight. It was a glow devoid of warmth that simmered in pots and pits, or at the ends of sticks, teasing colour from the chipped mosaics beneath the high dome. Blank stares gathered around, rendered stiff by concentration or internal, more personal trauma. The few lead figures that survived called it a technical win, but those who actually fought in the riot didn't view themselves as victors. After a quick and pointless debriefing, where the results were praised and the remaining threats were understated, Thyra picked a spot for the night between two statues, away from the crowded bonfires. It was an odd move that none had the care or nerve to question. Unlike Qara’Sion, the resident healers took her gruff, axe-aided gestures to heart. If the Nord wished to be bitten raw by insects, and wake to symptoms of Rockjoint, then so it shall be.

Freshly healed wounds were not nearly as pliable enough to have her fit comfortably where she sat, but the open view of the mosque was worth the growing cramp. From her perch, she could see Qara’Sion, swaying dreadlocks, twitching whiskers and all, returning from his doomed conversation with Zaveed. Thyra tisked at his folly. Forethought was a crucial trait he needed to learn, unless he walked willingly into that trap, then the issue was more along the lines of ‘big brother’ syndrome. From all the tracking and hunting in The Pale, she knew the risks of encountering volatile creatures, and Zaveed's temperament had all the welcoming signals of a snowy sabre. By his look, ‘Sion was more hurt than shaken up, his distant voice was darker still, and there was the disheartening way he slumped over the table, where his sister was only too willing to straighten him out.

Elayna’s interests lay in her fox, books and bowls, and weeds with long, unpronounceable names. Tracing right, then flicking to the left, her green eyes followed her quill’s fluttery sway. So absorbed in her study she was, that the effect her presence had on some of the men was completely lost on her. Over the maiden’s shoulder, the distant image of Thyra’s hunched and brooding figure conveyed promises of death to all who looked the Breton's way. If she were not only grazing the axe with whetstone, its edge would've suffered from her distraction. At least, it painted an easily grasped contrast between nice and not so. Not all men who fought for others held benevolent virtues. There existed those who would submit to any deplorable act, if it meant living to see and spread violence wherever their heavy hands landed. Thyra knew of warriors more monster than man, and some of those gathered around Elayna had that barely concealed look to them.

The tall Nord, for instance, could have attacked on an endless loop, as if it were the one thing that kept his heart beating. He did so with a ferocity more blind and intense than any measure of Nord battle-glee she had ever seen. Where skill abandonned him, savagery thrived. They were shows of strength that upheld her people’s reputation quite admirably, but she was yet to see how far from that crazed thirst his Breton friend could keep him. Zainat arrived during the pair’s conversation with Elayna, and based on the reception he got, Thyra was the only person relieved to see him. Blade’s absence was most likely at the root of their concerns. Before they learned of Gorzath's fate, allied losses were admittedly not that important to Thyra. They were a point marked against them and not worth a second thought. Gorzath’s death, however, opened up the vault of fears and pain Mashad’s execution only scratched the surface of. If the Argonian continued to evade scout reports and feedback, it was a stab they would feel again. Some sort of tiff unfolded in the time Thyra spent looking towards the door. The Ashlander had a talent for rousing people. At just over half a child shorter than the Nord, he yelled up at his opponent with the fancily-dressed Breton man wedged between them. For the first time in a while, a smile managed to split her gloom.

Soon, the lines of communication grew silent, there were no new arrivals to give updates on the situation outside, and for all within, fatigue was quickly eating away at the unease. Wondering when the Dwemer assault would reach them, and how, filled her head with poisonous fog no tonics of Elayna’s could clear. So, in the absence of drink, her therapeutic activity became the tightening of rivets, the combing of blood from fur, and buffing of steel. Her mind was forced to focus on wounding damaged leather into usable thread, then spread wider to consider other tasks that needed doing. But very rarely can any mortal forgo their limits. Thyra met hers at the riot that day, and as she pondered taking night watch, the long stretch of mental distraction swiftly carried her to sleep.

---

Rainfall cast a thousand echoes in the deep, mist veiled valleys that spread throughout the western Reach. Kyne's voice was a divine burst of sound too powerful for mortal ears to bear. Her melodies broke into booming waves upon entering the mortal sphere, at times it was a rolling echo, like distant cannonfire, but at this hour it looked to dismantle the stone cradle upon which a lone tower was built.

Sheets of rain flew sideways and bled through the awning of a tall ramp, dappling the metal skin and blonde hair sheltered beneath. Mingling for a month with the sweat of her crown, blood and dirt hung in twisted knots around Thyra's head, parting at the centre just enough to let her clear eyes through. Dark water dripped onto her chestplate, pocked and scarred by endless battle. It ran like molten quicksilver over cooling steel, and where the moonlight struck, a glimmering lattice was revealed the outlines of a shattered soul. Her face held that same implacable expression it did the day the sky fell, but in her eyes was a hidden terror; a nervous energy that pulsed when claps of thunder sent shivers through the mud, for it was a similar noise that woke her a month ago. The belt of hilly terrain straddling the border drew a dark line broken only by pine fronds. She followed it skywards until the Druadach disappeared behind clouds. The trail of their descent was naught but a hint, heard in the great river, gushing with borrowed vigour, into the Lost Valley below.

She turned her gaze outwards and drank in the grand vista. For two years, she had sought every reachable path that led out of and away from Skyrim, not knowing that her fleeing would inevitably draw her closer. The hate and shame she associated with home faded like an angered breath steaming up the icy air. When recent turmoil forced the Rebels north, the familiar surrounds appealed to a sense of yearning, unknown to her until that moment they crested the Hammerfell border. A voice boomed from above, not from the cloud-kissed lips of Kyne, but from a more mortal, mundane and malignant source. The air turned to mist, "Bickering again," she thought with a sigh.

Specks of dirt fell into her view and a shadow entered the darkness, obscured by needles of moist and the winds that swept them. Lightning softened the gloom and the shrinking image of Blade was, for a moment, clearer to see. Another set cantered after him, causing debris to tumble in clumps, though this was one she didn't need to see. It was clear by the announcement made to the world, and any bandits camped nearby, that Urzoth had come to defend Marassa's honour. To be fair, Zaveed's sister compensated her lack of congeniality with an excess of biting wit, so friction was a guarantee. Unfortunately, Blade was one who cauterised wounds - literal and figurative - with blazing fists or sword. It was an inevitable collision, and one Thyra wasn't about to break up.

More people came and made noise on her roof, a pair of boots with an orange tail, and another housed in robes. She yawned loudly and stretched as lifted herself from the wall. Armed with a glowing hand, the Altmer, whose name she had no reason to use yet, stood primed and ready to play referee. For a second, she lingered on the want to apprehend his Calm spell, knowing well that the need to expell that kind of energy was not something to be resolved by the arcane. Blade survived the brutality of Helgathe's Arena, he could take whatever the Orc General threw at him, despite what legends say. The cat's fur showed every inch of shock coursing through him as the two passed each other, and had Marassa not moved, she might have nudged some sense into him. Elayna was already tucking into a bowl... or jar, when Thyra opened up the pot of venison stew. She pulled a tankard from her bag and scooped its fill of sustenance then settled into a spot next to her.

Showing a little more emotion than normal, she offered the Breton a nod and hoisted her tankard, "Needs more salt," she slurped. A large space on the wall, previously filled by the half Orc, half Giant, renewed her interest in the brawl outside. Looking past his childlike manner and the sickening way he pined for Zaveed, Cub was a marvel of a different kind. The type of beast that keeps hunters from venturing too far into Hircine's domain. But with two Illusion-casters and a Marassa on stand-by, there was little chance the fight would get interesting. Every member of their group had survived unspeakable horrors long before fate forced them together, however, very few looked as disturbed and bent on revenge as the 'fancy' man. He - Francis, she learned - lost his sense of security, perhaps the only person that kept him tethered to this world, if his whimsical manner at the mosque was not a front. The person sitting opposite her was not the same one from back then. Change and grief was what they all had in common. Remembering who was truly accountable for it, will keep them from tearing each other apart. Thyra wasn't going to enjoy her homecoming, but going back to Falkreath was the only way forward.

As Urzoth reluctantly removed her armour with Marassa’s help, the khajiit listened to her justifications for her actions. She let the orc finish the final steps as she began work on her face, her hands glowing with a healing aura as Marassa concentrated on the restoration spells that had saved her own life on more than a few occasions in the past. The swelling and lacerations on Urzoth’s face began to fade as the spell augmented the orc’s own natural healing process, accelerating it remarkably. “Nobody plans to die.” Marassa said, focusing on a large gash under the orc’s eye. The bleeding stopped shortly after. “They just end up doing it regardless when they don’t plan ahead.” When Urzoth bade the argonian her version of a compliment, Marassa snorted. “I make a point of not being pummeled by people, especially when they are particularly inclined to stab me. And I don’t presume to know what goes through any stranger’s mind; it’s harder to be surprised that way. I should point out that he was walking away to calm himself; you should know, anger makes people have outbursts and exposes glimpses of themselves through their defenses. It’s how I determined Sevari was more than just a typical assassin, it’s how I’ll find out if Coin Purse is going to be an effective alley or a disposable berserker. Given his reputation, I’m rather surprised he harbours any loyalty to people, especially when he barely knows them.” She said, finishing up with the face before working on the wounds on the orc’s torso. It was her way of keeping a distance from people, and by tripping them up verbally, she could figure out if she needed to be concerned about companions. If they couldn’t handle a few verbal barbs, then what’s to say they could handle prolonged emotional turmoil? By causing reactions, she learned bits and pieces about strangers that could mean everything or nothing at all. It was not something that engendered her to having friends, but she didn’t need friends. She needed to know who she could depend on to make decisions based on logic and long-term foresight, not emotional impulses.

“Look, we’re in uncertain territory without a leader and most of the people here have little motivation to push on, or to follow their own agendas. Two years ago, the lot of you that followed Zaveed had a common cause and someone who gave you a conduit to pour your anger. We don’t have that right now, and the only thing these people have in common is my brother convinced them to get involved in something very stupid. He’s gone now, and we’re starting to see the ropes of this union fraying. You, Cub, and myself need to be able to support one another while figuring out how to engender some form of union with these people. I’m no leader, Urzoth; people don’t listen to me unless I force them to. You’ve commanded your own people for long enough to know how to force loyalty. Use that. If nobody steps up to the mantle of leadership, it might fall to you if you like it or not. That means don’t try to beat people down because I provoke them, instead try to guide that anger towards something useful. None of us are Zaveed, and that’s a good thing; we’re not going to try to pull these people to an early death because it seems like the glorious thing to do.” She said, observing her handiwork over the orc’s rough and scarred flesh. “I’m going to find a stream to collect some water to clean off the blood.” She said, rising to her feet and returning to the keep for a moment, finding an old bucket and some old tattered clothes in a chest before heading out into the rain again.

Following her sensitive ears and smell, it wasn’t long before she found a stream of water cascading over some rocks. Slipping the bucket under the stream, she looked around, sensing something off. Dagger in hand, Marassa walked carefully down the bank, searching for… what, exactly? She caught sight of it shortly after, drawing a low hiss from the khajiit when she realized it was a body slumped against a tree. It smelled wrong, somehow. Carefully approaching, Marassa looked around before crouching next to the cavader, who unnervingly was dressed in similar Alik’r armour as the men they had travelled with to Skyrim. Investigating the corpse in the low light, she felt the warmth drain from her body as her eyes widened in surprise and fear.

A pair of circular bite marks in the jugular. Vampires.

People went missing unexpectedly over the flight from Hammerfell, their bodies never found and no sign of battle or struggle was ever apparent. There was a lingering feeling of being hunted the entire way, and while few voiced their concerns given the ultimate fear of the dwemer, there was certainly something unnerving going on. The body was left here as a calling card, Marassa was certain of it. A scrap of paper was evident in the Redguard man’s breast pocket. The khajiit gingerly pulled it out and read the note, written crudely in what was either ink or, as its faint iron scent implied, dried blood.

Darkness falls tonight.

Marassa fled from the corpse, note in hand, as she raced back to the camp. Looking at the others, she held the note out. “We need to leave. Now.” She said.

“Nobody plans to die.”

Urzoth picked at a loose metal scale on the thigh of her greaves, pressing it back into its place and making a passing note to check over her armor when they made it to Falkreath. The last thing she needed was a stick lodging in a place it shouldn’t or mud chafing against the joints of her armor in the middle of a battle. She studied Marassa’s features while the woman worked to stop the bleeding on a cut on Urzoth’s cheekbone. The pain in her face was gradually subsiding, and she knew merely by the feel of some of Blade’s clawmarks that they would become new scars. “They just end up doing it regardless when they don’t plan ahead.”

Urzoth wondered how many new scars Marassa herself had gained in the time since they’d parted ways. An unfamiliar, minute nick near the tip of her snout, trailing across where her fur and leathery nose met, barely noticeable until one was close enough. A faded scratch from a wolf, perhaps? The aftermath of an encounter in a tavern? She remembered that she was staring without talking again, and just as she poised to part her lips, Marassa spoke instead. She listened solemnly, accepting Marassa’s words. “…Anger makes people have outbursts and exposes glimpses of themselves through their defenses. It’s how I determined Sevari was more than just a typical assassin, it’s how I’ll find out if Coin Purse is going to be an effective alley or a disposable berserker. Given his reputation, I’m rather surprised he harbours any loyalty to people, especially when he barely knows them.”

The bleeding on her face had stopped, and Marassa moved to the dark bog-brown bruising that stretched from Urzoth’s left armpit and onto a portion of her pectoral muscle and shoulder. The ache gave way, letting the orc reflect upon the scolding with a little more lucidity. She shook her head. “I don’t think this is about loyalty. He wants to fight, he wants vengeance. Just as good motivators, if you know how to wrangle it down and point it in the right direction.”

She hummed at Marassa’s forewarning. The idea of leading Marassa or Cub or any of these strangers, some arrogant, some clearly more intelligent than Urzoth, filled her with an odd feeling. She could scarcely describe it, as there was little to compare it to. Pride at Marassa’s recognition of her technical authority, even if her role had been on a more personal level; the ice-cold in her chest at the prospect of leading yet another group of outcasts, the insecurity of relying upon her people skills to inspire others. She was not Zaveed—but, damn him and bless him, she didn’t need to be. The wind chilled her bare arms, but she felt it only vaguely.

She would surely grow attached to her potential charges, even if only to a few. Her old companions were one thing: she knew of their skills and trusted them to watch after themselves where she couldn’t. The breton woman was only a few years younger than Urzoth, but how young she looked! The human was sharp and could pick her way around a fight, sure, but Urzoth remembered too well the harrowing moments of many bandit encounters where Elayna had strayed a little too close to some thug’s wild axe as a result of a misstep.

Focus, Urzoth. You’re straying. “I’m going to find a stream to collect some water to clean off the blood.” Marassa was leaving; the bulk of Urzoth’s wounds mended or significantly made lesser. She flexed her shoulder, rolled it, and grunted at the ache present in the muscle. Healing aside, she would have to rest and stretch, lest she became sore. If I’m even given the chance to rest. Who am I to deserve respite when hundreds frailer than I need it more? No. If I stop it will kill them only faster. She buried her head in her hands. Exhaustion dusted away the remains of rage and pain and settled in smugly. You have miles yet to travel and feet yet to bleed. You can push onward, only a little more.

She glanced up from her breastplate and tasset to Cub, watching him and wishing Marassa would return quickly with the bucket so she could don her armor sooner. Even in a thick shirt and greaves, she felt all too vulnerable. Bad thoughts snuck in freely, but so too did…curious thoughts. Cub was not too bad to look at when he was crashing into Blade like a wagon down a slope. She looked away from him quickly. He also acts like a child with a Daedra’s temper. She sighed. There were moments when his thoughts seemed almost…alien. Neither orc nor anything else she could so neatly file away. Something you don’t understand. But you could learn.

Marassa was back, a furry smudge that burst from the sheet of rain and urgently offered forth a scrap of paper she’d crumpled in her fist to keep from getting soaked. Whatever the note said, it couldn’t be good. She didn’t carry her bucket, she’d left in a hurry. Filth be damned, Urzoth flung on her armor and fastened the straps with just enough carefulness to not make a foolish mistake. Muscle memory did half of her work for her, and she was shuffling her shoulderplates into place as she rushed for her hammer and helmet, both at the log by the fire where she left them. “What does it say?!” She demanded, furiously scrambling to find her sling. Damn you! Wasting energy on a petty power struggle! “What did you find?! What does it say?! Rrragh, dammit!” She stood tensely at the threshold of the tower, staring out into the darkness as if an army of Oblivion-spawn was poised to greet her at any moment.