Less than an hour had passed after Sevine had left Rhasha'Dar to speak with Sylvanis, and catch up on what had happened to her during the course of the battle. During this time, she winded through the streets of Windhelm, aimlessly meandering along, taking in the sights to see, as if this was the last time she would see the ancient stone city. Her mind wandered back to when she first traveled to Windhelm to join the Stormcloak's, it seemed so long ago, but in fact, barely a year or two had passed since the end of the war. Her thoughts drifted over everything she had seen, everything she had gone through. She found that her feet had stopped moving, as she leaned against the wall of a house, staring blankly at the cobblestone beneath her.

There was an incident that constantly played in her mind, the incident when she almost died, when an Imperial soldier had struck her down with a blow so hard, it lift her immobile, writhing in pain. He spat on her, kicked her around, put his boot on her trachea, and tried to kill her. When she passed out, and came to later, Sevine awoke to Leif sewing up a laceration in her leg, as he smothered a poultice over it to prevent the infection. She laid in the camp tent for three days before she could walk again, and the entire time, she thought only about tracking down that Imperial, and killing him. His blade had poison that made her weak, feverish, and caused maddening hallucinations that still haunted her dreams to this day. Even her dreams were consumed with hunting him down like the deer she had hinted in the backwoods of Falkreath, while she lay on the cot recuperating.

The din of battle, or at least that's what she presumed she heard, brought her out of her reflection. She looked up in confusion as her ears made sense of the noise she heard. Shouting from the Stone Quarter, with the sound of glass breaking forced her into a sprint. What in Oblivion was happening? As she rounded the corner into the Quarter, Sevine was met with the tail end of a mob, swarming with angry Argonian's, demanding to be let out. Several mercenaries had gathered at the front of the mob to hold them back, she could see Jorwen at the front from his distinctive red-beard, and his height alone.

"You can't leave you ignorant fools!" Sevine shouted, as she grabbed two unsuspecting Argonian's by the collars of their tunics, and yanked them back, and tossed them to the ground, drawing the attention of several others.

"We'll do as we please you Nordic whore!" Growled one of the Argonian's as he brandished a short-spear, aiming to run her through.

For Sevine, the only logical thing to do was run. So she conjured up a thick ball of phlegm in the back of her throat, and hawked it on the spear-wielding lizard. "I'd wager you couldn't catch me, if you wanted to you fat, smelly lizard!" She taunted. Typically, Sevine avoided confrontation, and she avoided racial slurs, or insults, as she had no problem with any Man, Mer or Beast. When the blob of phlegm struck the Argonian, Sevine took off down the street she had wandered along, racing as far away as she could. Behind her, chased four angry Agronian's eager to spill blood, and who better to take it out on than a fiesty Nord woman, like those that had taunted them, and kept them on the docks, judging them by their appearance and not who they were as individuals.

Two with spears, another with a makeshift club, and the fourth with a short sword rushed her, more than eager to capture her, and do ungodly things to her. But Sevine had other things in mind, as to how to deal with them. Her feet moved fast, and nimble as she darted along the cobblestone, she turned a corner and spotted several barrels. Ducking behind the barrels, Sevine waited for her pursuers to round the corner. Sure enough, when they did, too blind with anger to see her, she shoved the barrels into their paths, thankfully the barrels she hid behind were empty. The fore runners of the group went down immediately, flying head over heels as they landed hard upon the stones. The other two that lagged behind weren't caught off guard, giving Sevine the reason to take off running again. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, while the two Argonian's behind her jeered insults.

"Wait till we catch you, and skin you alive!" One said.

The cold, damp mist that pervaded the air, alluded to the oncoming rain that the sky promised to release. Her fingers froze, and her toes in her boots felt numb from the piercing chill, and dampness. Ragged breaths procured white vapors that whisked out of her mouth as she ran headlong. She headed down a back alley into the Grey Quarter, and when she rounded a corner, Sevine felt a burning sensation as she turned her head to see one of the Argonian's spears clatter to the ground. She gritted her teeth as her leg gave out, and she rolled to the ground. As the spear thrower went to fetch his fallen weapon, the club wielding lizard advanced on her. She tried to push herself to her feet quickly, but he quicker. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and held it tight, forcing her to look up into his stoic red eyes.

"Didn't get that far now did you?" He snarled, his breath smelt of ale, and fish. He raised his club to strike her down when her free hand darted to her hip, retrieving her steel dagger, and drove into his forcep that held his club. Howling in pain, he let go of his hold on her hair, and threw her to the side to deal with the dagger embedded in his arm. As she rolled away, the spear wielded had retrieved his weapon, and aimed to kill. Just as he thrust his spear downwards, Sevine grabbed the shaft with her hands, as she struggled to wrestle it away from her heart. Grunting and groaning with gritted teeth, the two struggled to overcome the other, one eager to kill, the other only desiring to live. With a boot to the groin, Sevine manage to knock the spear holder aside. She leapt to her feet, and darted away.

She couldn't tell how bad the wound in her leg was, for it burned like molten iron, and she could feel something wet trickle into her boot, she assumed it was blood. Sevine made her way to the graveyard, taking the back way into the Stone Quarter, hoping to rejoin Jorwen to give aid. As she turned the corner, Sevine was forced into a painful limp. She spotted the throng of mercenaries working to dispel the angry lizard-folk, and found Jorwen amongst them, working alongside a Khajiit, from the back she thought it was Rhasha'Dar.

"Jorwen! Rhasha!" She called out to them, making her forward. The crowds had thinned out, not wanting to deal with a group of well-trained guards and mercenaries.

---

Peeking through the bars, Farid confirmed Leif's sighting. He proceeded to locate the correct key in order to open up the cell. While doing so, Farid thought back to the sentry. That individual would be waiting outside; would they have fallen victim to the cave-in? Either way, would anyone come down to rescue them? Did anybody know him, Leif and Ander were down below? "What if this doesn't work? How can we get out then?" Farid wandered aloud. Ander said nothing.

Carving into the wall is right. There looked to be a deep dent on the cell's side. Layers of stone had been peeled away in a downward fashion. What constituted the dent were not larger marks, instead, numerous small, coin-sized craters stacked unevenly on top of one another. Over the top of the dent laid two hooks drilled into the wall, and on the hooks still attached studs of blanket wool. Rest of the blanket sat crumbled on the floor, apparently ripped out of its former place, which was likely used to cover the dig. In the middle was a rusty metal object; a spoon. Edges of the spoon worn out beyond typical use, and the coatings on its broad sides peeled off from heavy use. Across from dented portion was a body half rotten. Despite being so far down underground, flies have managed to find their feast on this dead person. In the lights of two torches, not much could be seen of the dead prisoner. But several locations on the flesh showed lacerations and heavy bruising. For this kind of injury, beaten dead or cut down would be merciful, so bleeding out or slowly fading to infection would make one inhumane execution.

Worst of all? The stench. Everything in the cell reeks of decay.

"I take it this is the "madwoman"?" Farid guessed, pinching his nose as he took a closer look at the remaining hair on the corpse. "So she dug all that," He shuffled towards the dent, stopping halfway to pickup an aged utensil. "With this; a spoon?"

"Yes, that would match what I heard at night." Ander nodded. He stood outside of the cell, his movements betrayed fear of the space instead of disgust of the smell. The prisoner, for all likelihood, got used to every foul fume present. However, the aspect of returning to another cell frightened him. "Dig through, so we can leave."

"Wait," Farid held up the spoon. He put it in front of his torch from Leif and himself to see. What they saw was an ordinary utensil nearly destroyed by labor it was not intended for; rock digging. "How long did she dig? This doesn't look something we could finish before we starve." The Redguard emerged from the cell, taking a deep breath and wiping his nose. His typical self-assurance all but gone at this moment.

"How long? She got thrown in here some time after me." Ander scratched his head. Locking empty eyes with Leif temporarily, he recounted. "A whole lot of guard came down a week or something like that ago. They rounded up most of the folks, heard they're killing us off. But the madwoman was supposed to go free, that is, until they tore that down." Ander hinted at the crumpled blanket. "Then there's slashing and bashing. Guess she got the wrong time, if she didn't dig at all, or started sooner..." Ander hung his head.

"That's great." Farid said impatiently. "I still don't think a spoon is going to get us out. Not without whatever miracle your friend worked."

"She had plenty of time to weaken the, what do you call it? Foundations." Ander responded. He shifted his focus to Leif, to his larger frame and his equally sizable weapon. "Just smash it, it'll be thin enough to give out."

The smell alone of the decomposing corpse was enough to make his stomach turn, and his eyes stinging from the pungent smell of rotting flesh. His eyes swept over the dead woman, and took note as well, of her heavily bruised body, along with the several lacerations he detected along her forearms, chest, and where her dress had fallen askew, the gaping wounds on her legs. It seemed that the whoever was in charge of the dungeons favored the tactic of torture. Certainly, it was highly effective, but weren't there other ways to go about punishing people? Shifting his gaze to the dent in the wall where the woman had dug at for months, how she managed to get through that much stone with a little, metal spoon baffled him. She must have been desperate to escape, and he pondered quietly as to why she was thrown down here. Even more intriguing, he found Ander's words peculiar, so the guards were rounding up the prisoners and killing them off? What was the reason? Surely not everyone had a death sentence? He had entered the cell with Farid to examine the wall more, and while he could feel the eyes of Ander on his back, Leif couldn't help but feel that maybe this man wasn't to be trusted. Heeding the prisoner's suggestion, Leif knelt by the wall, and pulled off his longsword from his back, where it had remained untouched during the battles, it hadn't seen much use as he had remained on the walls with Sevine, and the idea of putting it to use as a means for their escape from the cave-in, he would not protest. Grasping the hilt in his hand, he aimed the pommel of his sword at the deepest part of the dent. With a quick thrust, the pommel struck stone, and a curious noise resounded, it sounded hollow...

"Do you hear that?" He asked, glancing over his shoulder at Farid. "It sounds hollow sure enough. I've heard rumors from the lads I used to sail on The Courtesan with that there were ancient tunnels that ran all along Windhelm, some used for sewage, others used for means of escape in an emergency. I've seen sewer grates of course, but I never thought much of it."

Once more, Leif positioned the pommel of his sword carefully, and struck again, and again. He kept this up for several minutes before suddenly, the pommel of his sword became lodged in the stone wall, as it broke through to the other side with a successful pop!. Leif wiggled the sword around by grasping what part of the hilt he could, and then placed his foot on the wall, and yanked the sword out. Looking again at Farid, he nodded his head at the wall, "I don't suppose you could give me a hand? If we use the heels of our boots, I'm sure we could kick a hole big enough in the wall, since the stone has weakened it should give way pretty easily." There were already fractures in the stone from the pommel breaking through.

He placed his hand firmly upon the wall before him, and centered the heel of his boot near the hole where the pommel had gone through. Stomping as hard as he could, the energy from his boot sent up a tiny cloud of stone dust as a small piece of stone fell away from the hole he had made.

Putting his weight behind his strong foot, Farid joined in with Leif. He found a weak point caving inward, indicated by a tiny dot of empty space beyond. While booting down the wall, Farid passed his torch to Ander for safekeeping. Like his Nord companion, the Redguard had reservations about Ander as well. "Gods, can't believe this is working." Farid said after giving a second kick, which resulted a foot-sized chunk of stone falling backwards, and downwards. He told Leif to stop kicking, as they might lose their footing and fall forward with the wall crumbling so fast. Kneeling down alongside the opening, Farid then beckoned for Leif to bring forward a torch. His gloved hands peeled away movable pieces till the space of his head was carved out. Wedging his head through, Farid barely saw anything but darkness below. What did greet him brazenly was another repugnant odor. This time, it was the outhouse stench.

"It's a shithole, literally. " He relayed to Leif, not sure whether the Nord wanted a peek down. He stepped back and took a deep breath, but only finding the taste rotten flesh threaten to drain out his latest meal. "We have to go through sewer, don't we?" He complained.

Leif dropped to his hands and knees alongside Farid when he had stopped kicking down the wall; there alongside him, he poked his head through with the torch in hand, and immediately, the stench of fecal matter made him cough, eyes stinging from the putrid air. "There's no other way out, we're going to have to do it." Leif said as he pulled his head out of the hole, shaking his head to and fro, trying to clear his senses, as the pungent smell remained in his nose.

"Where else?" Ander shrugged from the doorway. "It is here the madwoman heard the hiss."

"What is this 'hiss' anyways? Some Argonian swimming in piss?" Farid sneered. "Surely even that airhead Utu-ja has finer tastes." To this, Ander did not respond. This was not the first time when Ander ignored Farid. The latter began to think whether the former lost some of his speech abilities, or maybe lost some of his hearing. Farid made a whirling gesture to Leif, hinting the frail person behind them might lack basic problem solving skills.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't sound good to me one bit. Who knows, if not some rabid Argonian swimming in the sewers, could be anything. Maybe some serpent? I can't think of anything else that would make a hiss." He shuddered at the thought of seeing snakes, Talos guide him, ever since he was bitten by a river-snake just outside the walls of Windhelm, when he used to think swimming in the river was fun, all of that changed when he had almost died from a venomous bite. And if there was anything that he hated seeing more, it certainly was a snake.

"Great work, big man." Farid commented at the wall, which Leif had widened further. The hole expanded to torso-size, also causing nearby sections to dangle off balance. Several fissures formed on top of the crack, and Farid took advantage of this by sticking his dagger into them. He made stones free from one another. With a couple of well-placed pushes, the wall came apart wide enough for a human being to pass through. Roughly a single story below contained murky liquid of undetermined depth. It did not flow very much. Farid sent a small rock over the edge to hear the echoes of it a soft tap against the bottom. The rock floated up afterwards, which meant, when added with sound, they were dealing with shallow water with mushy stuff beneath.

"Makes me wonder how good of condition the palace is in since we had such good luck knocking out this wall." Leif commented, literally, he felt that it shouldn't have been that easy to knock down the wall. Then again, there was the factor of the madwoman doing most of the work for them; still, with as old as the palace was, he couldn't help but feel worried at the possibility that the palace would come crashing down on top of them.

"So-" Farid wanted to ask Leif's opinion, but Ander crept up behind them and was practically waving the two forward. "Someone's eager for a dive." He sighed. "Well, I'll go first. Pass the torches down before you jump. We don't want to put out our only source of light." With that, Farid looked to Ander for something out of the blue. None came from the prisoner so Farid walked up to the edge, taking a deep breath only to gurgle on his bile. Then he carefully lowered himself into the tunnel. Water soaked up above his knees, splashing, as the most foul smelling fluid bounced onto Farid's face. His feet sunk into mud-like substances, it was certain Farid now trudged on human wastes. No longer have the will to stifle his vomit; Farid retched a good portion of his dinner into the waters, adding to the vile mix. Even as the Redguard's stomach emptied of meaningful content, Farid continued to dry heave for a good minute before regaining his posture.

Refraining a chuckle at Farid's disposition at ending up in the cesspit below, Leif quickly realised that he would have to follow suit soon after, and there, he swore silently, cursing Oblivion for letting his curiosity get the better of him. The pay had better be good after all of this...

"Oblivion take this, Sep's balls." Farid cursed, wiping the excess away from his chin with his sleeves. "Your turn, and toss Ander down first. I'll catch him." He announced meagerly, bracing himself against the hole above. While waiting, Farid took account of his surrounding; the prison above bisects the tunnel diagonally. One direction lead left and away, which is deeper in the palace and eventually the headwaters on the mountains. The other leads right and towards where they came from, Farid liked this way, since it would take them back to the city. Of course, the tunnel itself contained barely enough room for two men standing shoulder-by-shoulder. It is of the equal height as width, thanks to its circular shape. The only illumination came from the torches above. As far as ears were concerned, everything was dreadfully silent, though Farid wasn't certain if he heard slithering or merely his brain played tricks on him.

"Come on, I'm going to chuck you down there, and Farid will catch you. Don't make any fuss now." Leif said, he held the two torches in one hand, and grabbed Ander by the back of his ratty tunic, placing a foot on the edge of the broken wall, Leif put all his weight into tossing Ander down below. "Catch!" He yelled to Farid. Part of him didn't care if he killed the man, but he wanted to get paid, so he had to make sure he hadn't thrown him too haphazardly.

Dropping to his stomach, Leif leaned his torso half way out of the hole, and dangled the torches for Farid to grab when he had set Ander down. "Come get these when you're ready. I'll jump down right after. As he listened, he found the lack of noise to be unsettling, however, he appropriated it with the fact that nothing lived down here, or so he hoped. The light of the torches illuminated the sewer-way below, and just like Farid had taken note, he saw how the place split off into two separate directions.

True to expectation, Ander weighed like a feather, consistent with his dungeon diet. Farid placed the frail prisoner against the wall, so that Ander would not slip and drown himself in piss. Next came the torches, which were a thousand-fold more useful than Ander. Reaching up to take both torches from Leif's stretched arms, Farid made sure no drop of sewer water were to contaminate the flames. The Redguard, like most of kinsmen, practiced no magic. Neither did the Nord, if assumption prevails, so one dropping out is one-half of their lighting gone. Alas, that did not happen. Farid returned one torch to Leif, keeping the other in his left hand and unsheathing his shortsword in his right. Trudging forward in a miserable pipe is unsafe activity; no shortage of stories both factual and fictional demonstrated outcomes nobody want to befall on themselves. Farid took lead, sticking to the left sewer wall so Leif could move parallel. Ander stumbled behind them. The prisoner's footing frequently gave out, prompting Farid or Leif to slow down and give support.

It took Leif a few minutes to finish retching up his last meal into the cesspit of the sewer as just like Farid had experienced, the smell was overwhelmingly strong. In fact it smelled worse in the pool of shit and piss, than it had when he poked his head through. After he wiped the spittle from his lips with his shirtsleeve, Leif waded after Farid, waded because it came up to his calves. The idea of shit and piss swimming around his boots sickened him, in fact, he could feel some of the gooey pieces of shit that had leaked into his boots when he had leapt into the pit below.

Several minutes sloshing in pitch darkness, an outline broke out in the distance. For an object to be seen, there has to be another light. "Suppose we're going the right way." Farid muttered.

"The hiss! It's here!" Ander exclaimed out of the blue, almost making Farid jump.

"Shut the-" Farid spun around, intending to hush Ander. However, the prisoner was on to something. Slight movements came from ahead, a quick shadow danced across, accompanied by slick gliding. Farid leaned his torch forward, and without warning, jerked his sword violently. The blade tip ran through a rattlesnake's head. "Morwha's tits, I haven't been jumped like that since the Reach." He cursed, giving the snake three extra stabs to ensure its death, and also venting out that nervous energy. "Just like the slithering buggers back home. Are there lots of snakes around here? I thought they freeze in the cold." He looked to Leif for answers. The Nord seemed shocked, or at least uncomfortable as far as he could tell.

Leif stood trembling at the sight of the snake that Farid had just slain, mouth agape, eyes wide in horror. The warmth lift his hands, causing the torchlight to tremble as he gripped it ever tighter. "Yes..." He managed to choke out from a knot in his throat. "I just didn't expect there to be any down here." He hastily reached for the hilt of his sword, Leif resisted the urge, as he couldn't wield both his sword and the torch. "Most of the snakes hibernate in the winter time, but it is warm enough for them now. Not just in Windhelm, but Skyrim has many snake species." How did he know this? Wherever Leif traveled to, he made sure to avoid places where snakes would call home.

Eventually, the group started moving again. At this point, serious doubt began to ferment in Farid's mind. The closer they got to the light, the more anxiety Ander exhibited. The sight of a passageway expanding into a larger cavern practically had Ander boiling on edge. The prisoner muttered loads of nonsense like "should of listened back there" or "now we become the preys". Exchanging a worried glance with Leif, Farid was about to ask his companion to muzzle the prisoner. But before Leif could answer, another voice rang out.

"Who's there? Trespassers?" An oddly accented voice resonated. It sounded like an Argonian, female and weary with age. "I can hear you." The mysterious figure taunted.

Ander's crazed rantings did nothing to help calm his strained nerves already. It seemed, oddly enough that they moved towards a faint light that grew ever brighter, he certainly didn't like the look this was going to turn out. When the voice came, it lifted hairs on Leif's forearms, his neck, and even down his legs.

Hunkering his back low and bending his knees, the situation tempted Farid to snuff out his fire. On a second thought, that would not be wise, since stealth would be irrelevant if the other party spotted him before he spotted them. Instead, he held his weapon on guard and kept the torch behind in a similar technique employed against Kamals earlier. A few steps later, Farid spotted her. Crude robes poorly stitched together from snake skin, a scaled tail spilled out through the back, the Argonian positioned on wooden planks raised in the cavern center. Farid stood within arm distance to the opening, and in the cavern beyond, three more similar openings connected from each direction. Judging by water color, the cavern floor was equally deep underwater as the tunnel. However, rickety wooden boards lead from the outreaches to the central platform, on which the Argonian started to mobilize. She produced a silvery a flute, then proceeded to play a short tune. Her music was for the purpose of summon, because out of the passageway to the left, a four-meter long snake slithered out.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Leif swore under his breath at the sight of the massive snake, as if this couldn't get any worse! So Ander was right about the hissing, he wasn't a mad man after all, or he hoped he wasn't. He had every notion to go and knock that accursed flute-playing Argonian wench off atop the platform, but there was no way he could get to her without being spotted by the snake, and the muck they had trucked through, turned to dark, deep, foul-smelling water. It had to be deep enough to house a snake that big, and falling into the cesspit water wouldn't be a grand idea. Now, of all times did he wish that Sevine was there, she'd notch up an arrow right quick, and strike the creature dead.

"Well, this is problematic." Farid blurred out, truth be told, giant snake wasn't that terrifying after facing down snow demons. Nevertheless, a gloomy cavern with only a lamp hanged off the roof sapped courage out like starving mosquitoes extracting blood from exposed skin. Already, Ander was running away like mad. He didn't get off far for a face-plant straight into shit, literally. The prisoner was fine, at least he seemed like it when his raised his filth-covered head above water. One thing's absolutely sure though, counting on Ander for help was out of the picture.

"Yeah you're telling me! I hate snakes Farid! Absolutely hate them!" Glancing around, checking to see if he could find anything to his advantage, there was a rusty iron-hold on the archaic stone wall, meant to hold a torch light. He deposited the light there, and withdrew his sword, clutching it in both hands. So much for having Ander hold onto the torch, the poor bloke was facedown in excrement, coughing and sputtering like a fool. He began to doubt that this adventure was even worth saving this man's life. The pay had better be good, or else he would throttle the man that asked to get his friend out. If they made it out.

"So, lizard and snake." Farid sized up the situation. The snake started to make its way toward the Argonian, and the Argonian spilled a poison vial on her flute's sharp tip. She played again, and the snake moved again. Without musical guidance, the serpent doesn't seem to advance on its own. "Excuse me, could we talk without your pet?" Farid shouted to the Argonian, not sure how serious diplomacy can be with a sewer-dwelling lunatic.

While Farid negotiated with the Argonian woman, Leif knelt his head in prayer, lips moving silently. In times like these, he always found it essential to ask for guidance from Talos. Today might be the last day he would ever draw breath. During the civil war, Leif made certain to pray before battle, no matter the time of day. It helped to calm his nerves, and it gave him faith that Talos watched over him.

"You shall be purged." The snake whisperer declared. "Soon, we shall purge your vile city as well."

"Why am I not surprised?" Farid frowned, do all the crazies talk like that? He felt himself tensing in anticipation of fighting. Thank the divines Leif came with him. Two slimey creatures versus two human, not the fairest match but he'll make do. "Take one, I'll get the other." The Redguard told his Nord companion.

"Right." He turned his attention to the snake that swayed under the mystical power of the flute that the Argonian woman played. "Get her, she's the one controlling it, I'll distract this snake." He swallowed nervously, going up against a four-meter long snake wasn't the best idea he had had, but he hoped that Farid would be quicker. It seemed that today would be the day that he would have to face his fears, and overcome them enough to at least distract the snake from Farid, if not succeed in killing it. "Go hurry!" He shouted as he pushed Farid onward in the direction of the platform where the Argonian woman continued her song.

"Talos guide me!" Leif clamored as he banged his sword against the stone, metallic noises rang out throughout the stone grotto, his plan was to draw its attention to him, and away from Farid. The snake reared its ugly head at Leif as it swirled around to face him, its black tongue flickering in and out of its mouth, a terrifying hisss escaped from its mouth before its deadly jaws opened to reveal several rows of razor sharp fangs, curved backwards. For a few brief seconds, Leif stood there motionless, unable to find the courage to react in time to escape the horrendous maws of his foe. A spell of clarity fell over him as he rolled away just in the nick of time as the monster snake struck the spot where he once stood. Large drops of sweat beaded along his brow as the heart-racing encounter made his limbs trembled. He raised his longsword in defense, sinking into a readied striking stance as the snake regained its focus; bashing its head into the wall proved to be very disorientating or so it seemed. With legs spread wide, and his back hunched, Leif kept his eyes locked upon the snake.

If anything, Farid needed to make haste dispatching the snake whisperer. While Leif gave the impression of a fierce fighter with his large weapon, his nervous sweat betrayed the uneasiness of facing such a venomous foe. After a quick scan of the area, Farid found a wooden plank leading towards the cavern center. He waded through the muddy water in the shortest time possible, while staying relatively quiet. Then, he hoisted himself onto the raised surface. In the process of vaulting, Farid's torch fumbled from his hand and extinguished itself in the water. Losing the torch did not deter Farid, who now had a clear line of sight with the Argonian's own lantern hoisted above her. With his left hand free, Farid drew his dagger and cast it to the robe-clad shape. His throw hit the snake whisperer on her thigh, the steel buried through snake-leather and scale, almost but not quite knocking her off balance.

However, Farid disrupted his adversary from playing the flute. For a few moment, the giant serpent fighting Leif hesitated. Noting his opportunity, Farid let out a savage battle-cry and charged the Argonian with sword raised. He closed the distance in the matter of seconds, running as fast as he could on slippery planks without falling off. He brought his sword high, aimed for the Argonian's neck, and found himself parried by the metallic flute. A loud ping resounded from the clash, making chipped metal fly. Farid came out on better footings, so he pressed his advantage upon the Argonian recoiling rearwards, where he repeated the same stroke to score a successful blow against the Argonian's left shoulder.

This would be it, Farid thought as he wrenched out his blade. However, he felt an odd, uninvited sensation at his waist. Looking down, he saw the snake whisperer withdrawing her flute. There formed a small hole in his side, where leather and cloth had been pierced by a sharp tip. Farid was stabbed, by a poisonous weapon. The grim realization was accompanied a set of rancorous lizard eyes, who, from preciously one sword's reach beyond, stared back with the same malice as her snake thrall. Anger and distress washed over Farid, his pain would be overridden by a powerful adrenaline rush. He attacked for the second time, bringing to bear utmost ferocity and a uppercut set to bypass the Argonian's defenses. This strike landed across a wide margin; the Argonian's waist all the way up to her right shoulder, where a bloody streak would be torn open. Following through with the same motion, Farid ignored the winding flute to deliver a fatal thrust into snake whisperer's heart.

The fight ended, the snake whisperer is no more. Farid extracted his blade amidst lizard blood. He noticed he was stabbed yet again, around his midriffs and right above the first entry. Due the fight no longer continuing, Farid's own adrenaline worn down. The poison began pronouncing themselves louder with each passing second. Already, Farid's side tingled with numbness. At this rate, he would be dead before finding the exit. So the Redguard scrambled to the freshly slain foe, perusing the snake skin garment until a green vial appeared in sight. He wasted no time uncorking it, drinking, and as part of the content went down, an involuntary shiver caused him to drop the vial into sewage.

"What is this sick joke?!" Farid gasped. It was anti-poison alright, which would have fixed the whole problem if he finished consuming everything. Now, the solution lays mixed with the wastewater of Windhelm.

While the battle carried on above the platform, Leif kept his gaze cemented onto the snake. Its hypnotic gold eyes felt as if it pierced his soul deeply, right to the core. All of the fear he had ever felt when he faced a snake, after the incident when he was a child, left him numb. Yet, as the snake stood staring down at him, Leif realized that indeed, the snake wasn't moving. Taking the opportunity to dispel the risk of being bitten again, or attacked, Leif leapt forward, his longsword aimed upwards, where the head connected to the rest of its body. The tip of his blade penetrated the slimy scales of the gargantuan snake before it had time to react, yet as the blade pushed through the snake, it lost all control over its muscles, as it collapsed backwards into the water. As the two fell, in what seemed like a slow motion of time suspension, Leif made certain that his blade cut through the base of the skull. He kept a firm grip on the hilt of his sword as they crashed into the dark, murky water below. When his head went under, he planted his feet where he had driven his sword through, and with a great heave, pulled it out. Now free, Leif swam to the surface, a short distance away as the dead monster sank to the bottom. When his head broke to the top, he took a gasp of air, relieved to be alive, and swam over to the wooden platform he had stood on just shortly before. Chucking his longsword onto the planks, Leif pulled himself up, and flopped onto his back.

As he lay there, relishing in the fact that he had slayed a creature of his nightmares, it dawned on him that the sound of battle on the platform where the Argonian snake-charmer had ceased. His thoughts went immediately to Farid as he scrambled to his feet, strapping his sword to his back in one quick motion despite his water-logged clothes.

"Farid!" He shouted, racing up the planks, careful not to fall through to the water below. When he made it to the top, he spotted the Argonian woman dead on the ground, and Farid, shivering a short distance away from her. Dashing to his side, the Nord man knelt alongside his companion, thinking nothing of Ander, but only of Farid. His eyes swept across his body, looking for an entry wound. He found two wounds, and from the way Farid shook and trembled, he presumed that he had been poisoned, he resembled a familiar Sevine who had been struck down in battle with a poisoned sword. While Leif had little training in restoration magick, Orvar Red-Tree, did teach him Healing Hands, a way to heal others that were wounded. Yet as this was poison, he wasn't sure if Farid would be healed. Nonetheless, he would have to try.

With Farid's side exposed, he held his hands over the wounds, and closed his eyes. A golden light emerged from the palms of his hands, as he focused the energy of the spell onto Farid. In the recess of his mind, he quietly prayed to Talos, hoping his God would lend him aid in a time most dire. If Farid died here and now, Leif would be stuck with Ander in the vast cavern system of sewage-ways beneath the city for god's know how long.

Tsleeixth blinked in confusion as the scarred Dunmer began to wave a broken bottle at him while demanding that he backed off, the young Imperial soon followed suit after the scarred Dunmer by waving, instead of a broken bottle, a sword at him. Raising his good arm in a gesture that -he hoped- would convey that he had no ill-intent towards the both of them, Tsleeixth was about to speak up when the Dunmer threw the broken bottle against him.

Eyes widening in surprise, he managed to use his available arm to protect his face as best he could, but still felt a few pieces of glass biting into his flesh and leaving light cuts on his face. Blinking in confusion, he looked as the Dunmer broke a window with a chair and then jumped out of the building, soon followed by the young Imperial.

Time seemed to slow down as the Argonian turned around to identify what had caused the scarred Dunmer to jump from the inn’s window and away from the building itself. Tsleeixth felt a groan of annoyance escaping from his mouth as he saw the Argonians entering the inn, a mix of pity and annoyance soon settling inside of him; in one hand he could understand why they were acting as they did, yet he knew that in the long run it would only breed more contempt from the people of Windhelm ”Or from the survivors if the Kamals end up taking the city.”’ He thought morbidly before forcing his thoughts to stop dwelling on what could happen in the future and focus on the present.

He looked from the innkeep to the mass of Argonians that were trying to push their way inside of the inn. He cursed inwardly when he saw that the Nord woman pulled a dagger from under the counter, his eyes darting to the group of Argonians that were pulling out weapons themselves or looking for something with which to either defend themselves or outright attack the innkeep “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath as panic began to swell within him as he took in the scene. Time seemed to slow as Tsleeixth pondered on the alternatives before him, on one hand he owed nothing to the innkeep, and the more cynical part of his mind told him that most likely the Nord woman wouldn’t remember the one Argonian that had helped her, and that it was as simple as jumping from the window to get away from the soon-to be overrun inn….yet the other part of his mind told him that he couldn’t just simply leave the poor woman to whatever grisly fate she’d find at the hands of the Argonian mob.

Letting out a soft sigh as he made up his mind he turned to look at the woman “What are you waiting for, jump off!” He shouted at her before motioning at the broken window with his good hand, groaning when the innkeep seemed frozen by indecision “C’mon, what are you waiting for” He said to the nord woman, beckoning her to come over to his side. He breathed a sigh of relief when the woman finally listened to him, but frowned at what she told him once she was behind him.

“How do I know that you aren’t with the other lizards, that this isn’t some sort of trick.” Said the woman, disdain and mistrust evident on her voice as she spat the racist slur that the Nords commonly used when referring to his kind.

Tsleeixth groaned at the words of the innkeeper. He didn’t know if it was the whole situation getting to her or that it was simply how the innkeep generally was “Look, wherever it’s a trick or not, I am helping you evade death at the hands of a bunch of angry Argonians, so if I were you I’d jump from the window and get away from here.” Said the annoyed spellsword as he looked at the rapidly approaching mob of Argonians, hoping that the Nord woman would make the right decision.

The woman doubted for a few more seconds before she jumped from the window that Sadri had broken. WIth that out of the way, Tsleeixth breathed a sigh of relief and retreated closer to the broken window “Well, here goes nothing.” He mumbled to himself as he placed a lightning rune in the area before the broken window, pouring just enough magicka into it so whoever stepped on it would get shocked and not outright killed. Once that was done he hastily jumped from the window, falling into the cold streets of the besieged city.

Checking his surroundings he noticed that the innkeeper was nowhere to be seen ”Good, she ran away.” He thought before he himself began running away from the inn and the mob of his kinsmen. He stopped after a while, panting tiredly as adrenaline faded from his veins and took in the cold air of Windhelm “First someone throws a broken bottle in my face and then I have to run away from the inn because the other Argonians of the city are going crazy.” He grumbled in annoyance, kicking a pebble in exasperation at the events of the day.

Breathing slowly to try and calm himself, Tsleeixth let out a heavy sigh as he rubbed his forehead to try and stave off the headache that he felt was coming “By Sithis, when the Kamal break into the city they'll find we did their job ourselves.” He said, chuckling bitterly at the turn of events “And it's all because of that damn elder!” He shouted as he remembered the words of the old Argonian after the second battle against the Kamals. Breathing deeply Tsleeixth tried to calm himself after his outburst when suddenly a thought dawned on him “Of course, the elder!” He said as he facepalmed “If he managed to get the other Argonians so riled up he might be able to get them to stop this damn riot.” He said, his lips curling upwards in the Argonian equivalent of a smile as a plan began to form in his mind “Will probably need to find another Argonian who knows where the elder is and who isn't part of this damn riot first though.” He mumbled as he began to walk again, looking for someone who could lead him to the Argonian elder ”Who knows, perhaps he can help me understand what that dream meant.” He thought as he remembered the dream that he had earlier that day, wondering if, perhaps, the other Argonians in the city had experienced something similar before dismissing the idea, opting to focus himself on finding someone or something that could lead him to the Argonian elder.

The rain went unheeded by the hooded Nord, his red locks and great beard spilled out of the fabric around his head. He didn't know why he found himself among the wet stones of the graveyard. Perhaps it was the voices of friends long dead tugging at his sleeve, but the headstones brought him nothing but pain. He knew many men buried here. Some of them were friends he dug graves for, others were enemies. He recognized both by the names in the worn stone and he knew his apologies to either were wasted. Each name he read brought a queue of memories. Half-remembered faces at the campfire, sharing a joke on the march, a slap on the back or the pressing of hands before a battle. Others brought memories of blood and he wanted no more of those. Only the presence of Do'Karth at his side pulled him away from his meandering thoughts. That, and the voice he heard calling his name.

He spun about, catching sight of Mire and his men hanging far back, and then seeing Sevine. She looked like she'd been roughed up, but the important thing was that she still stood. Jorwen rushed to her side, lending an arm to help her stand. Jorwen wasn't a healer, but he knew the wound in her leg needed stitches. "An arrow first and now this?" Jorwen sucked his teeth and shook his head, "It's a wonder you made it through the war, little sister."

Do'Karth had likewise rushed to the woman's side and took note of the gash in her leg. "This one can stitch and dress that, but he needs supplies... and disinfectant." he said, pulling his coat off and offering it to her. "Let us get you somewhere warm and safe, yes?" he asked.

It had not been for Jorwen's strong arm to lend her support, she would've fallen to the ground by now. The adrenaline of the chase had kept the full extent of the pain at bay, but now her leg throbbed like it really had been stabbed with a hot iron poker. She offered him a lopsided smile, and shrugged her shoulders at the face he pulled.

"I would've been dead many times before the Reach. This, this is nothing." She rolled up the pant leg of her trousers as the Khajiit who she had called Rhasha, but was not him, came to take a closer look at the wound, taking the coat from him that he offered. Any warmth she had when she had took off during the foot-chase seeped out of her from the chilling rain.

"When I came upon the mob, and I saw the lot of you trying to quiet them down, of course not too friendly, but regardless. I thought it would be best to lure a few away. I had four of those lizards chase after me, I took out two with barrels. It was the other two that got me, left my dagger in one of their arms, and kicked the other one where the sun doesn't shine."

"I thought you were another khajiit there, friend, my mistake." She said, a blush coming to her cheeks as she realized that this khajiit looked nothing like Rhasha. Thick, crimson blood oozed out of a quarter-inch deep "J"-shaped hook where the spear had glanced off her skin, and taken a significant chunk out. If she wanted, she could put her thumb in the wound with how wide, and deep it was, but of course, that would be none too hygenic.

"Take me where you need to, I appreciate your kindness. Thank you." Sevine said with a polite nod of her head to Jorwen's khajiit companion.

"Think nothing of it," Do'Karth said with a tired smile. "This one gets mistaken for another more often than he cares to admit. "Let us mend you, then we can focus on the gratitudes, yes?" The khajiit patted himself down, looking for something to use as a makeshift tourniquet, silently cursing to himself for lacking even that.

At the mention of Jorwen and Karth's failure to peacefully disperse the mob, a barb of guilt dug itself into his chest. He looked away from Sevine to gather himself, "There was no peace to appeal to. A shame."

They walked- and limped- in silence for a bit through the rows of headstones. Jorwen looked at each one with the same curiosity and morbid urge as one picks at a scab or scratches at a bandage. He didn't recognize many names, but he did a few. It almost felt like a lead cloak had been lifted from his shoulders when they set foot past the graveyard's threshold and back out into the city. It was another lead cloak that replaced it at the sight of dirty-faced, bloodied, and shambling men and women. A man lay on his back in the gutter who looked almost dead. Jorwen would not have been surprised if he had been.

"We can go to my home." Jorwen felt odd saying that. It felt more Solveig and Halla's home in which he was a visitor. Still, he knew he had a place at the hearth, but his heart did not feel as such. "There'll be a fire and some food, maybe."

They reached Jorwen's doorstep soon enough and the big man pushed open the door. Arrayed before them was a simple means of living. The hearth was burning before which a bear's fur lay, staring dead-eyed at the licking flames. It cast a light that shone the three chairs in flickering orange, the table in a modest half-light and where the hearth could not cast its light, a lone lantern on the counter near the kettle and stove. Here and there, garlic and other vegetables hung in what was the kitchen, and the place smelled faintly of herbs.

Out of a doorway came a woman whose features under raven hair tied back in a simple bun were weathered but still held a beauty that remained stubborn and held fast through the years. Her hands, though folded daintily on the front of her dress were still those of a working wife and her blue eyes and smile were the most genuine things Jorwen had seen in the past days as they regarded him and his two companions. "Jorwen." She said, and then, "Still alive, my love." As she used to say as she looked at a younger man standing in her doorway in Whiterun.

And just like that young warrior used to say, "Aye." With a nod of the head and a good smile. They embraced, Halla only the height of Jorwen's chest. "I brought guests."

"I can see that." She smiled at Sevine and Do'Karth. "There's cured meats on the table and some cheese. I can cook something, or..."

"What will it be?" Jorwen looked to Do'Karth and Sevine after he helped the wounded woman into a chair at the table.

Jorwen's words were stark, and stoic, hinting to something that she had missed, perhaps to the cause of the rioters. It left Sevine wondering what truly happened as she had arrived later, or else she would know what his words meant. Instead of pressing the matter on, she let him escort her to his home. She knew that he had a wife, and had met his daughter, Solveig, a fiery woman like herself, one that she liked, and respected. When he pushed open the door, and she peered through the door way, which they soon came to stand in, it reminded her strongly of home. A smell of herbs mixed with the smokiness of the hearth brought her back to the days when she would come back hunting with her father, to see her mother standing over the cooking pot, preparing their lunch. A nostalgic grin appeared on her plump lips, and even a sparkle of homesickness appeared. As he ushered the two of them in, his wife appeared out of a doorway. One could say that the woman had been beautiful in her younger years, Leif would certainly find her attractive, as Sevine's eyes swept over her, but she herself, would say that Jorwen's wife was still a beautiful woman indeed. What she found curious was that, instead of red-hair, like Jorwen, she had black hair pulled back in a bun.

'Hm, so that's where Solveig gets her hair, from the old man then?' She mused inwardly, figuring that his wife would have had red hair as well. If she recalled correctly from their first meeting at Candlehearth Hall, Solveig had different eyes than Jorwen; must be from her mother then.

When she offered them cured meats with cheese on the table, a smile like a freshly lit candle flickered across her face at the mention of food. It had been a while since she had a meal. "Maybe something with alcohol to numb this pain, but that sounds delightful as is. Thank you." With Jorwen's aid, she sank into the chair that he guided her to, even more relieved to get off her feet, especially with her leg in the state that it was.

"Jorwen and I know each other from the war, our patrols used to cross paths, and we would exchange information for updates. He said he had a wife, but he never told me how beautiful you were. I've had the chance to meet your daughter as well, Solveig. Forgive me if I don't remember your name correctly, Jorwen's mentioned it before, is it...Holla?" Sevine tipped her head to the side, getting a better look at her from the light of the hearthfire, and with one motion, took her boot off, and rolled up the pant leg of her trousers again for Do'Karth; the bleeding had slowed considerably, but the missing chunk of skin was tender too touch, and throbbed like hellfire.

Do'Karth was still somewhat at a loss for words at the sudden invitation into Jorwen's home; it occured to the khajiit that he wasn't even aware that the man called Windhelm home. He studied the massive bearskin rug, pondering on how large the beast must have been, and if any in the household had taken the beast's life, it would not have surprised him. Nords were crazy in that regard.

The woman who was introduced as Jorwen's wife seemed to be a warm soul, and she didn't seem to be at all phased that Jorwen had brought a khajiit and a bleeding younger woman into their abode, but perhaps it wasn't the first time it had happened. He had served in the civil war, hadn't he? Who knows what manner of chaos that had brought into their lives. Perhaps Sevine, who had claimed to have served alongside Jorwen, was brought here before, but surely the two women would have recognized each other? He realized how tired he was, it was ruining his ability to think objectively and put two and two together. The khajiit was mindful of his posture and bowed his head respectfully at his host.

"Please, do not trouble yourself with Do'Karth; the siege has to be making food scarce, and he would not wish to impose. This one is humbled at both of your generosity." he gestured to Sevine. "However, any medical supplies, or anything that can sew and disinfect a wound, would be appreciated. This one needs to take care of her."

Halla looked about the kitchen and scratched at her chin, "I reckon anything here could be used to make a poultice." She leaned forward and examined Sevine's bleeding leg. "If you need any help, only ask. It's not my first wound I've come across-" her eyes darted to Jorwen and rolled back to Sevine's leg, "-so we needn't get too moist-eyed at Sevine's fate."

She smiled at the shieldmaiden and to Do'Karth, wrapped up in his simple robes. "So, you are a healer...and a Khajiit." and then she looked to Sevine, "And you, a shieldmaiden. My husband is fond of disappearing for times and bringing things home. I take it you fought for Ulfric," she asked Sevine before turning her attention to Do'Karth, "and you are a monk?"

Do'Karth chuckled. "Not quite, no. Do'Karth is not a monk. Simply a wanderer, this one's garment is typical amongst his people in Anequina. Healing is simply a skill this one picked up on his travels; getting wounded on the road often means you fend for yourself."

"Of course, I wouldn't have written my name in blood to serve those Imperials. Namely, I was upset with the Thalmor, what with them banning worship on Talos. Don't worship him myself, but I know many folk here that do, and it's not right for them to be persecuted because of the some piss-skin, knife-eared blokes say so." She responded with a nod of her head to Halla.

"From one who lived under Thalmor, ah, 'benevolence', this one can assure you they are even more insufferable when they occupy your homeland. They are more than happy to use khajiit as sword fodder, but understanding, let alone respecting, our customs? Takes a rather rare sort of altmer." Do'Karth observed, looking down towards Sevine with a wink.

A broad grin appeared once more on her face at the khajiit's words, she liked him, and in the back of her mind, she wondered if his fur was as soft as Rhasha's. She had half the notion to reach out and touch him, but strangled the urge, as she hadn't asked him permission, nor did she know him quite well yet, then again, she had hardly known Rhasha when she asked to pet him as well.

"I served the Empire for a good few years of my life. I fought on when my cohort was destroyed near Anvil, lived like an animal being hunted and hunting down Dominion troops for those years." A cascade of memories fell upon him and he cleared his throat, unfurling his fist and pretending to wipe something from the table, "I fought in the Northern Legions with Ulfric, so when he needed a sword, I picked mine up and went with him to the Reach and then to war against the Empire we both shed blood for." He shook his head, "A damn shame that business was then, a damn shame the business in Skyrim is now, what with the Dovahkiin's way of doing things."

"You look young enough to be my daughter, Sevine." Halla chuckled as she set to cooking what modest food they had, given the siege, "Did you hold a sword for Aelfgar like my husband here or was it another Chief you swore to?"

"Aye, that it is." She agreed with Jorwen, nodding her head slightly, "Don't know how I feel about Thur now, don't quite like how he's handling things either." Sevine turned her head to look at Halla, and smiled at her comment of being close to age to Solveig.

"I suppose we're about the same age, give or take a few years. I'm 26 now, though, if I'm right, Solveig is two or three years older than me?" She carried on to answer Halla's question about who she served under, " 'fraid not, though I know of the man. No, I served under a different Chief, his name is Jormar the Long-Legged, man could run like the wind, but was thick as a tree."

"Ah, I remember the man. He raced Rulf the Wheel when we were camped together in Hjaalmarch. Close race, but Jormar won. I wrestled Burly Borvar and mashed his face in the dirt, but not before he damn near ripped my arms off." Jorwen smiled to be thinking of the old times, and good memories, at that. "What about your travels, eh? You've a few stories to you, have to." Jorwen smiled at Do'Karth before cutting a slice of cured meat and folded it around some cheese.

"Nothing quite as heroic as Sevine or yourself, but this one's been around." Do'Karth smiled, working on clearing the area around the wound. He'd probably have to get her to remove her trousers to properly bandage it, or see if some of Solveig's spare clothing fit if he cut the pants leg off. "Do'Karth has travelled quite far and wide, seeing all there was to see in Cyrodiil, and Hammerfell, and even High Rock. This one has dueled knights, raced sand steeds, and on occasion, went hunting for lost relics for a fair deal of coin... and somewhere to keep a roof over this one's head." he grinned. "This one isn't sure what kind of tale you're in the mood for, but he has many."

Sevine inhaled sharply as Do'Karth cleansed the wound, "Oh Mara help me." She whistled as she gripped the chair tightly, her knuckles turning white. "That hurts a lot, y'know?" She said, speaking to Do'Karth. "Are you able to mend this properly, with me like this?" She asked, gesturing to her trousers, the fabric was long, and being rolled up as they were was proving a bit encumbersome to for the khajiit. Sighing, she tipped her head back, her jaw clenched tight that it ached.

"Tell us anything. It'll keep my mind off my leg. You said you raced sand steeds? Are those a type of horse, or another creature entirely?"

"Sorry, pain goes hand in hand with healing, no?" Do'Karth said apologetically as Sevine recoiled from the disinfectant that Halla had finished whipping up for him. "This one will be sure to be much more gentle when you are properly stiched and dressed." He tilted his head, considering she was voicing concerns about the trousers. "Do'Karth will have to remove that leg... of the trousers, of course! That or you may wish to remove them if you wish to keep them for later, but this one could always sew the leg back on. It just will not be pleasing to the eye."

A chuckle escaped her lips at his suggestion of cutting the leg of her trousers off. "Oh no, that's one thing I won't stand for. I prefer for my clothes to be in tact, so I don't look like a hooligan, eh? Gimme a second here." She pushed herself onto her feet, careful to avoid putting too much weight on her injured leg, and unlaced the strings at the front of her trousers. A crimson heat appeared on the apples of her cheeks as she shimmied out of her pants and cast them onto the floor. Fortunately, her red tunic was long enough to spare her the shame of having her backside exposed, she didn't care much for underwear, unless of course, it was that certain time of the month...

"There we go, don't mind me now. I've suffered more shameful experiences than this." She said as she sank back into the chair and let Do'Karth carry on uninterupted.

He continued to work, the area free and disinfected. "Prepare, this will hurt." he said as a word of warning, the needle piercing skin as he began his work in stitching the Nord back together. As per her request, he kept talking to take her mind off the pain, which Do'Karth was all too familiar with. It was part of why he began to help others with his limited medical knowledge to help them recover from similar trials he endured.

His words for her to prepare, that it would hurt, did no justice. Of all the times she had been pierced with arrows, cut with the blades of swords and axes, Sevine still didn't like the sensation of being stitched up. She quietly wished that she had been knocked out for this part, instead she pulled her lower lip over her teeth, and pressed hard. She forced herself to focus on his words, and found that Do'Karth's voice reminded her of Rhasha'Dar, enchantingly soft, with a slight honeyed purr to his words.

"The sand steeds are just a nick name for the Yokudan Charger, a breed of horse native to Hammerfell. Swift, beautiful creatures they are, they can run without tiring and with little water even across the Alik'r Deserts. Do'Karth was fortunate enough to be in Gilane when a famous racer, Jahan Hamal, injured his leg and could not participate in one of the big annual races in three weeks time. So, having the virtue of more less being in a similar situation as we are in now, was offered a chance to take his place." Do'Karth grinned, looking up at Sevine with mischievious orange-tinted eyes, "So, this one agreed before fully realizing that he had never, not once, ridden a horse in his life. Wagons, as it turns out, do not count. So Do'Karth had to learn how to ride in three weeks, and then participate in a race across the vast expanses of the Alik'r Desert."

"What a dangerous prospect to get yourself into!" Sevine exclaimed, finding it rather hilarious that Do'Karth had never ridden a horse before accepting the opportunity to enter a race for an injured horseman.

"This one wishes he could say he had a heroic upset that won the entire race, but it was simply fortuitous that Do'Karth even finished at all! By the time the race was completed, his water was depleted and the sun and heat had taken their toll. Do'Karth grew up in a arid, desert-filled region, so believe this one when he tells you that Redguards may as well be fireproof because this one slept for a solid day and drank as much water as they would give him! Do'Karth decided to stay, and he participated in a few more races, even after Jahan recovered and raced again himself. It was a warm time in this one's life, he will remember it fondly." The khajiit concluded, admiring his stitch work. He applied a bit more of the poultice to the wound and began to bandage it.

For the duration that Do'Karth told her his mesmerizing tale of racing on the desert horses of Alik'r, she found it entertaining to hear his tale. The tugging of the needle and thread eventually dulled to an annoying pain, she found it more bearable, and watched him work, for a khajiit he had a gentle, delicate way of stitching of her wound. It would be a scar nonetheless, and this wasn't the first by any means. "I thought all Khajiit's could survive even the harshest of conditions of the mighty desert. But perhaps that is why the Redguards are dark in color, and your kin still have their fur?" She mused with a light chuckle.

"We can." Do'Karth chuckled. "But even we have conditions we disapprove of. Our fur helps us shed heat; believe it or not, Do'Karth is barely protected from the cold.There, how do you feel?" he asked.

As she peered down into his amber colored eyes, her gaze wandered over him, taking in how his coat was the color of rust, with an underlying brown tone, stripes marked throughout. Her eyes travelled back to his face, and noted the scar that ran from his left cheek all the way up to his left ear, where there was a curious notch. She had forgotten that he had said something, as she felt the urge to stroke his ear just like she had done with Rhasha'Dar. Her hand lifted from the side of the chair where she had gripped the edge of it tightly, to Do'Karth's scar. Her hand hovered inches away from his face, before she remembered where she was, and who was present. Immediately, her hand withdrew like a snake had taken a bite, and again a red flame spread across her face. She gave a slight cough, and recalled the words he had spoke to her.

"It doesn't burn as much, but it certainly aches." Glancing down at her leg, Sevine admired the bandages, he had done a good job, nay, a fantastic job. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the wound would heal fine without infection, of course, as long as she kept up with keeping the linen clean, and the wound washed.

Do'Karth watched as Sevine seemed to fall into a trance, her hand reaching towards his scar or clipped ear. He did not move to interrupt her, but something brought her to her senses and she recoiled before touching him. He recognized the blush across her fair complexion well enough; she was embarassed.

"That will pass, in time." The khajiit reassured her, reaching up to place his hand on hers. She seemed to desire, or need, phyical reassurance. "May Do'Karth ask why you reached for him?"

Her eyes darted to his hand upon hers, it was warm, and soft, due to the fur of course, she found the sensation odd, but when he questioned her as to why she had reached for him. Her face felt even hotter when he had asked her the question she feared to answer. Swallowing hard, she licked her lips, and decided to answer him as honestly as possible.

"You may think me odd, Do'Karth. I have met another khajiit, and he entertained my idea of petting him. It turns out, that your kin have extremely soft fur... I couldn't resist. My apologies. I suppose it's not the nicest thing to do, Khajiits are not common housecats, and deserve not to be treated as such." She confessed, it felt odd hearing the truth come out of her mouth about her infatuation with Khajiit and their fur.

"Odd? Only in the sense you keep such an open mind for a Nord." Do'Karth chuckled and smiled warmly at the flustered woman's explanation. "The battle wounds and bold behaviour is rather on point, however. And no, we are not house cats, but it is much nicer that someone prefers to touch us instead of beating us. If you feel the need, Do'Karth permits you to, ah, pet him." He said, feeling immediately strange about having uttered the words.

"My mother and father raised me proper, or so I like to believe. Under the eyes of Mara, they taught me to love everyone, and everything. That if I treat my sister with kindness and love, then I should do the same for someone I do not know. I do not judge anyone unless they have wronged me unjustly. Thankfully, a fist to the head usually solves that problem if it comes that far. As for my traits, I cannot deny that. I still feel the fire to fight, to serve, and to protect my country. My love of this land runs deep." She paused in her speech, and again, her eyes locked onto Do'Karth. He did say that if she ever felt the need...

Her hands darted out, and began to rub both of his ears simultaneously. How soft they were! Almost like silk! A fierce grin appeared on her lips as she proceeded to pat his head before returning her hands to herself. "Khajiit ears, are especially soft. Perhaps I should write a journal with a description of all of the ears I have touched. Call it, 'The Allure of Khajiiti Fur: How Soft is it Really?' " With that, Sevine let out a deep guffaw, and doubled over in her chair, clutching at her sides.

"Do'Karth I thank you, thank you for everything you have done for me. I hope that I can call you a friend here on out." With that she extended her hand for him to shake.

Do'Karth tensed as the Nord reached out with uncontained enthusiasm and began to fondle his ears, being both a pleasant feeling, yet one he tensed up at. It was hard not to feel like a household pet at her touch. "Perhaps writing that book can wait until after this one is dead; Do'Karth rather not be the target of rug collectors' affections." he said, forcing a smile.

The khajiit reached into the front of his budi and pulled his amulet of Mara free, dangling it for Sevine to inspect. "This one likes to have a reminder of mercy and compassion with him at all times. Sometimes one deserves a second chance, no? You are most welcome, and yes, Do'Karth would be honoured if he could also call Sevine a friend." He took her hand and returned a firm, but loose, handshake. His world was slowly expanding. First Jorwen and Solveig, and now Sevine? He had never expected himself to become friends with so many Nords.

Jorwen almost couldn't breathe, the tension was so thick. When Sevine dropped her skirts(? Trousers?) Jorwen looked away, giving a few fake coughs that erupted into a couple wheezing hacks. His old wound was acting up. He saw Halla turn around with an eyebrow raised and her eyes widened when she saw Sevine, her reaction a sight that Jorwen almost laughed aloud at. She quickly turned around and began humming a bit tunelessly while she went back to preparing the food. "Do we have any mead left?"

"Aye, of course, right next to all the expensive whiskey your daughter returns home with." She disappeared into another doorway and the sound of clinking glass could be heard, faint whispers under it. "Where she gets the gold, I'll never know." She said as she returned, setting down three bottles of mead on the table. "And do be quiet. That, um, Altmer girl is sleeping. Solveig is doing the same, she got here and was asking for you, but went to bed when you never arrived."

Jorwen was almost physically pained by that. After Sevine and Do'Karth left and if she woke after, he'd be here for her. "I apologize. There was a mob, the guards needed help, and..."

His explanations petered out and died when Halla only nodded and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. There was a measure of disappointment in her eye that Jorwen averted his gaze from. A pantsless and handsy Sevine was the only other view, so his eyes made like the ground was interesting. "Just try to spend some time with her, is all. Remember what I said, Jorwen." Halla cleared her throat and smiled, "Anyway, the meal's coming along. I only need to heat the broth and we'll have a good stew."

At the mention of Solveig, Sevine's head whipped up, and her mouth dropped open like a floodgate. "Solveig's here? Ach, such a shame she's sleeping... I'd like to have a talk with her, I haven't seen her since the battle. How is she?" She inquired.

"I couldn't tell you with that woman." Halla rolled her eyes and shook her head, Jorwen knew how that felt like with Solveig. "She came in, asked for Jorwen and then went to bed. She wouldn't even look me in the eye. Do you know what she's on about?"

"We'll talk about that later. It's a complicated thing, Halla, and not something we should be dragging these two into."

"Fair enough." She said. The night continued on with good laughs had, something Jorwen had not had in a good while. He was thankful, reconnecting with his daughter, seeing his wife again, in the company of two friends and wearing a sincere smile for the first time in months, it felt like.

By the time Sevine and Do'Karth left their house the mead supply had been near halved. Jorwen, invigorated by the mead and the feeling of freedom it gave him, had become infatuated with his wife. It was almost as if he was seeing her in her youth with the eyes of the young man he'd once been. Half-wild with some iron in him. He had to sleep on the floor, swaddled in the bear-fur rug for not leaving Halla alone. It seemed she wasn't in the mood.

Dealing with the riot situation, with Tsleeixth@Mortarion and Sagax

---

The Gray Quarter was quiet, in contrast to the sounds of the riot still echoing from the Stone Quarter. It seemed to be dieing down, though, which was a relief. Do'Karth and the others must have successfully worked their magic. Sagax supposed that the temporary quelling of the mob would make their job much easier. Good thing, too, because it wasn't easy in the first place. Sagax let his guard friend do the talking; when Sagax tried to inquire about the elder, he was met with silence, but they opened up (if a bit reluctantly) to the guardsman. Much of the questioning was fruitless, as either the citizen being interrogated didn't know about the elder outright, or they couldn't tell them apart from the rest of the Argonians. Needless to say, it was a very frustrating search.

"Talos damn it all! Fifteen people, and not a damned one knows where to even begin!" The guard said as he kicked an old cracked bowl left orphaned on the stone. "We've searched all around the area surrounding the docks, and haven't seen a single scale of the old lizard! Some of these people are hiding something, I swear, and I'm half a mind to beat out of them whatever it is they're keeping from us!" It was clear that he was losing his patience with the whole situation.

"They can't have gone far. If we just keep looking, we're bound to find the elder eventually." Sagax heard the guard sigh heavily in response to his placations. Figures, he was never too great at actually appealing to people when they're in such a mood. He was far better at raising their spirits even higher when in an already-good mood.

"True, Sneak, but we don't have all the time in the world here. We've got those bastard demons on the other side of our walls, and something tells me they're not going to wait politely until we quell this riot nonsense."

It was hard to argue against the man. They were all already on borrowed time, and they would need to face the Kamal eventually. They needed this situation dealt with, and fast. He found himself sighing in frustration as he continued to sweep the many streets and alleys of the Gray Quarter.

Tsleeixth frowned a little as he heard someone shouting in the distance. His search for the Argonian elder taking him to the residential area of the Dunmer population of Windhelm. Peeking around the corner he saw one of the city guards "Huh, wondering what he is doing here, shouldn't he be trying to help and quell the riot?" Thought the spellsword, blinking when he noticed that the sounds coming form the Stone Quarter seemed to have died down "Wonder who it was that quelled the riot, someone perhaps from the company?" He thought, letting out a heavy sigh "I do hope no one got hurt. Either from the company or from the mob." He mumbled quietly to himself, despite knowing that such wishes were foolish when one took into account the situation in which the city found itself in.

Letting out a heavy sigh he stepped from around the corner and cleared his throat loudly to get the attention of the lone city guard "Hail, might I ask what brings you to the Gray Quarter?" He asked to the Nord man, raising his good hand in a gesture of peace so that the guardsman wouldn't mistake him as part of the rioting mob. However, once Tsleeixth saw who was accompanying the guardsman, he blinked in confusion at what he saw "Sagax, is that you?" He asked to the Imperial man, his lips curling upwards in the Argonian equivalent of a smile "Must say, it's good to see you again" Said the Argonian spellsword, glad to find the young Imperial -relatively- unharmed amidst the chaos gripping the city.

Hearing the umistakable inflection of an Argonian, the guard spun around and immediately made eye-contact with Tsleeixth. He did not immediately draw his sword, but rested his hand on its hilt cautiously. "Our business here concerns an Argonian elder. Have you seen them? Consider yourself under oath, so you'd better be straight with me, lizard."

Sagax was surprised to see Tsleeixth there. He would have thought that the Argonian would be amongst his kin. Was he looking for the elder too?

"There's no need for violence, I know this one." He nodded at Tsleeixth. "Likewise, comrade. Like the big man said, we're looking for the Argonian elder. We're hoping we can get them to talk down the rioters." The mob was getting quiter and quiter...or were they spreading out? It was hard to tell, Windhelm was a very echo-prone city. Perhaps they were forming smaller groups after having been dispersed?

Tsleeixth let a sigh at the man's words, specially at being called 'Lizard' "I would appreciate if you treated me with the same courtesy I showed you. My name is Tsleeixth, and as for an answer to your question, I have indeed seen the elder, however I am afraid that will be of little help...for I have only seen him after the second battle against the Kamals, when he first pronounced the words that have driven the rest of my kin into such a state" Said the spellsword, keeping his voice even and calm. It would do him no good to make an enemy of the guard, for -even if the Nord himself didn't knew it- their goals where the same.

His lips curled upwards once more when Sagax vouched for him, although the look of surprise on his face didn't go unnoticed by him "I suppose I shouldn't hold it against him, after all, how many Argonians has he met in his life? He probably thought that I'd be with the rest of them, which isn't an unreasonable thought." Mused the Argonian, falling silent for a few seconds when Sagax mentioned that their goal was to try and find the Argonian elder so he'd talk down the rioters.

"Then it would seem that our goals are the same, for that is my intent too." Said Tsleeixth, waiting for both of the humans to speak once more "Better to not bother them with my dream, it's probably nothing...just a simple nightmare brought on about by the stress." He mused, shifting uncomfortably in his spot.

Releasing his grip on his sword hilt, the guardsman looked Tsleeixth up and down before turning his head and heading further down the street, beckoning the Argonian with his open hand. "Then consider yourself deputized. Come on then, help us find this elder." His voice was terse and sounded like he desperately needed some sleep. Sagax wondered how long he had been awake, and if he had slept at all since the siege started.

"Glad to see you haven't lost your mind, Tsleeixth." Sagax said in a vaguely tongue-in-cheek manner. "Glad to have you along, as well. Something tells me the elder, if we find them, won't be so keen to listen to the words of outsiders." Thinking back to what the old man said before, he lingered on one thing he named: the Hist.

"Tsleeixth, what is the Hist? I heard about it from one of the citizens here; said he heard the elder screaming his head off about it."

"That was my intention Sir" Said Tsleeixth towards the guard, letting out a heavy sigh. HE probably should have more patience with the man since it seemed obvious that he was extremely tired. He chuckled softly at Sagax's words, but they only made his decision to not reveal his dream to the both of them all the wiser "Yep, it was definitely the right call, they would have thought I lost my mind." He thought for a second "Hmm, well, I wasn't gonna lose my mind over the words of an old Argonian" He said, chuckling softly but nodded when Sagax said that the elder would be more open to listening to another Argonian "Yes, that is probably right." He said.

He froze a little when Sagax asked him what the Hist was, shifting uncomfortably "Do you know what we call each other Sagax?" Said Tsleeixth quietly as they walked "We Argonians call each other 'people of the root' for we are united by the Hist tree, whom we consider the oldest living species in all of Tamriel." Said the Argonian quietly, tryign to find words with which to explain to the Imperial what the Hist meant to the people of Black Marsh.

"When an Argonian is born, they are fed sap that came from the Hist, and it is said that this is what determines how an Argonian...looks, for lack of a better term." Said the spellsword, struggling to explain it all to the young Imperial "It is said that each Argonian is connected to the Hist, but that the farther than yo uare from Black Marsh, the dimmer the connection becomes." He said "For example, amongst Argonians it is widely believed that, during the Oblivion Crisis, the Hist called to all Argonians to return to Black Marsh so that we might defend it against the forced of Mehrunes Dagon....now, I do knot know if this is true or not, I've lived most of my life in Skyrim, but if it is, it could explain why the other Argonians are acting like this." He said, shifting slightly "Might be why I had that dream. Could the Hist be really calling to me?" Wondered Tsleeixth, a look of worry crossing his face.

Sagax tried wrapping his head around the concept of the Hist as Tsleeixth explained it. An inner connection all Argonians share, and this Hist tree could even call out for defenders to come to its aid. Imperials didn't have any sort of shared consciousness, as far as Sagax could recall from his classes. It was a difficult concept for Sagax to comprehend. In a way, Argonians were all still individuals, but they still shared the same connection with the Hist. What would that even be like? If one were to strike the Hist tree or its roots, would you feel the pain that was inflicted on it? If the Hist were to die, would Argonians go extinct? Is that why all the ones in the city were so desperately trying to leave?

"Huh...that's an incredibly interesting concept, Tsleeixth. If only Imperials had such interesting heritage! I could also imagine such a connection would be very useful. No need for messengers or carrier pigeons, if your home is in danger you would just naturally be alerted." If the dragonfires in the Temple of the One had the same ability as the Hist perhaps the sacking of the Imperial City by the Thalmor could have been subverted.

"Is that why your kin are are trying to break down our gates?" Asked the guardsman suddenly. "They can, what, 'feel' this Hist of yours being threatened?" He had a hint of incredulousness in his voice, clearly having doubts about the whole Hist ordeal.

Tsleeixth chuckled a little at Sagax's words "Do keep in mind that this has, supposedly, only occurred once, during the Oblivion Crisis, so I couldn't say it with certainty if it's true or not" Said the spellsword, suddenly realizing that his life outside of Black Marsh had left him with, relatively, little knowledge of Argonian culture. Oh, his parents had tried to instill on him the Argonian culture, but his time spent in Skyrim definitively had an impact on him, molded him to be very different from the typical Saxhleel.

He let out a sigh at the guard's question, easily able to detect the incredulousness in his voice. It wasn't an easy concept to understand, and in fact he was surprised by how open Sagax had been, as such the guards doubts didn't surprise the Argonian spellsword too much "Perhaps, I am what is called in our native tongue of Jel a Lukiul, an Assimilated" He explained "This is because I've lived most of my life in Skyrim, so the deeper mysteries of the connection between the Hist and my people elude me, the same with my native culture. I could tell you more about Nord customs than Argonian ones" He said, his voice tinged slightly with regret. He had never questioned his life Skyrim, but this conversation was a reminder that, for all intent and purposes, he was a stranger to his own culture, despite the best efforts of both of his parents and his own.

The weary guardsman let out only a slightly audible "Hmph..." in response to Tsleeixth. He couldn't imagine growing up and living anywhere else than Skyrim. Being a stranger to his own culture was inconceivable to him, and so he naturally questioned the Argonian's life choices. Silently, of course. He wasn't in the mood, nor did he have the energy, to go on a tirade of culture and patriotism.

Fortunately for the party, they no longer had to search for the elder. He came straight to them. Preaching of the Hist, and the duty of Argonians to Black Marsh, the elder made a beeline for Tsleeixth, ignoring the Nord and Imperial entirely.

"You, brother-scale! Why do you dawdle and fraternize with these outsiders!? You must assist our kin in leaving this forsaken city! We must go home! The Hist is in great peril!" The elder spoke dramatically and loudly as he gripped Tsleeixth's shoulders and shook him angrily. "The end times have come, but we may stave it off! Come, brother, we must be off!"

Tsleeixth let out a heavy sigh at the guardsman's response to what he had said. Having lived for as logn as he did in Skyrim, the spellsword knew that the Nord people were fiercely attached to their culture and way of living, the most recent example of such a fact being the Civil-War that had ravaged the country due to the Stormcloak movement, a movement born of the desire to maintain the worship of the Divine Talos when the Thalmor tried to suppress it. As such, Tsleeixth guessed that the guardsman looked down on his life choices and, in some level, Tsleeixth himself did so as well.

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how one looked at the situation, Tsleeixth was brought out of his current mood when the Argonian elder appeared and began coming towards them while preaching about the Hist and the duty of the Saxhleel towards their native homeland.

The spellsword was about to dress the elder, but was startled when the older Argonian made a beeline towards him. Wincing in pain as the older Argonian gripped his shoulders and shook him violently, Tsleeixth could do naught but wait for the elder to calm down and stop shaking him violently. Taking a few deep breaths, Tsleeixth tried to calm himself "Calm down Pakseech." Said the younger Argonian, hoping that the title would calm down the older Argonian.

"First of all, we do not have any right to call anyone outsiders, this isn't our homeland either." Said Tsleeixth, causing the older Argonian to frown slightly "Second, do you think this chaos benefits anyone Pakseech?" Asked the spellsword, frowning at the Pakseech "Do you think this rioting will help us return to Argonia any sooner? Furthermore, even if we are allowed to leave, what do you think that will happen? The Kamals outside would cut down anyone that managed to leave the city." He said, placing his good hand on his kin's shoulder "Furthermore, this wouldn't be the first time that the Hist has been in great peril, remember the Oblivion Crisis, and how we Saxhleel endured it." He said, hoping that his words would calm the elder a bit.

The elder tried time and time again to rebut Tsleeixth's words, but he came up short every time. The threat of the Kamal was undeniable; they would all be decimated, or even completely wiped out, halfway across the bridge. The river would not be their savior, either. The waters were far too frigid to traverse for any length of time, and the snow demons would no doubt send countless glaciers crashing down on them. The words of his brother-scale made his lips curl in a mixture of anger and defeat as it dawned on him that Black Marsh would have to hold its own just a little bit longer. The elder had not even his hate for the outsiders to fall back on, as the guardsman and Sagax were silent and forwent any interjections, and let Tsleeixth do all the talking.

"I...I relent, brother. You speak the truth; I was blinded by my fear. The Hist has survived countless millennia, against all manner of brutality. I pray that our home can defend itself without us for just a while longer..." Looking toward the Stone Quarter, the elder began to move towards the main square of the city, calling out for every Argonian he saw to meet him there.

Tsleeixth let out a sigh of relief when the Pakseech relented. He gave the older Argonian a gentle squeeze on the shoulder to try and reassure him "It will brother, we people of the root persevered through the Oblivion Crisis, our home will be able to surmount this crisis" He said, his lips curling upwards in the Argonian equivalent of a smile, hoping that the gesture would reassure the elder. He looked as the old Argonian began to make his way towards the Stone Quarter, hoping that the rest of his kin would listen to him.

Back in front of Candlehearth, the elder gathered every Argonian in the city. Guards formed a large perimeter around the crowd, making sure that all other citizens, Nord or otherwise, were shooed away under threat of arrest for disturbing the peace to keep another riot from breaking out. Angry murmurs carried across the crowd like rolling thunder in the distance, but all noise died when the elder raised their arms, signalling his coming words.

"My brothers and sisters, we gather here again not to tear down these gates, nor to scream obscenities at the night sky. I have called all to this place to tell you..." He paused, as if the very thought of waiting any longer to return to Black Marsh physically pained him. "To tell you that our judgements are clouded! Clouded by fear, and anger! Beyond these gates await assured destruction!" He said, motioning his arm widely towards the main gates of Windhelm. "The Snow Demons will show no quarter to us! Though it brings me, and no doubt all of you, great anguish to admit, but we must be patient! We must beat back these monsters! Only then can we return to Black Marsh, and come to the aid of the Hist!"

The murmuring returned, with audible gasps and questions about the elder's health of mind. He paid no mind to the noise, and instead continued. "Our kin stationed in our homeland need all of us to help defend the Hist. If we force these demons to retreat, we may arrive in full force; a great wave of destruction! We will make it known that any that would bring harm to the Hist are not welcome in our home! But in order to achieve these, we MUST win here, first! I do not ask you to fight for the Nords, I only ask that you do not hinder the efforts of this city's defenders, so that we may sooner return home!" Scanning the once-again silent crowd, the elder lowered his arms to his sides, before sweeping across the mob with one arm. "Now disperse, brothers and sisters! Let hate and fear guide you no longer! Stay your weapons, and your tongues, against the citizens of Windhelm, and we will return home soon, I promise you this!"

As the elder fell silent, the other Argonians swimming about the crowd looked back and forth from one another. One slipped between the guards slowly, silently making his way back to the Gray Quarter. He was follow by another, who bowed to the elder respectfully. Soon, large swathes of the beastfolk exited the area as guards made larger and larger openings in the perimeter. Some of them were still silently fuming, but they respected the words of their Pakseech, though some undoubtedly only temporarily. Once more, the streets of Windhelm fell quiet, leaving only the machinations of the Kamal outside the walls to grace their ears. As the elder made his own exit, he bowed to Tsleeixth, and then disappeared amongst his kin.

Tsleeixth waited with baited breath as the elder began to speak to the assembled Argonian crowd, tensing slightly hwen the mob of Argonians began to murmur amongst themselves and question the elder's health of mind. He waited for what seemed to be an eternity as the Pakseech made his speech, but the Argonian Spellsword felt tension draining from his limbs rapidly as the crowd of beastfolk dispersed.

He blinked in confusion as the Argonian elder bowed to him, but managed to recover quickly enough to return the gesture. Once Tsleeixth was sure that the elder was no longer near them he turned to face both Sagax and the Nord guardsman "Well, it seems that everything turned out relatively alright" He said, letting out a heavy sigh, his tail twitching slightly due to the tense situation.

The guardsman accompanying Sagax and Tsleeixth let out of a deep, tired sigh of relief. Taking off his helmet, the guard could finally have a face put to him. A very scarred face with heavy bags under his eyes, but a face nonetheless. He swept a few strands of his short, raggedy brown hair out of his face and rubbed his eyes roughly. "Finally...this siege just got a lot easier to deal with." Patting Tsleeixth on the shoulder and nodding in approval of their tact, the guard spoke directly to the Argonian. "I know a good job when I see it. Thanks for your help. Probably wouldn't have gotten very far with him without you."

"Yes, thank you very much Tsleeixth. Good work." Sagax said with a smile. It was always nice to see something go right, especially in such a poor situation. "Well...what now?"

Putting their helmet back on, the guard responded shortly. "We prepare for the Kamal. I'm going back to the keep to inform my superiors that the riot situation has been resolved. You two are free to do whatever you like." With his few words spoken, the guardsman made his way to the Palace of the Kings.

"Well, I don't think that could have gone better." Said Sagax confidently. Maybe now that everyone wasn't trying to kill each other, they could all focus on preparing the city's defenses.

Tsleeixth's lips curled upwards in the Argonian equivalent of a smile at the guard's and Sagax's words "It was no trouble at all." Said the Argonian, dressing both of the humans that were with him at the moment. He nodded when the guard said that the now prepared for the Kamal's "Good luck with that, may Talos watch over you." Said Tsleeixth, having heard the phrase many times from other Nords that he had met. He nodded when the guard left, letting out a sigh of relief.

He chuckled at what Sagax said "Well, you read my mind Sagax." Said the spellsword, smiling once more at the Imperial man "Well, do you have any idea of what we should do now?" He asked to Sagax. He had been so focused on finding the elder that he hadn't given it a thought on what he'd do afterwards.

"I think I'll...huh. I don't really know what to do with myself, actually. Or if I could do anything impactful anyway. Could do what I always seem to end up doing, splitting up and just walking around looking for ways to help out. It's what I was doing before the siege and I got a few things done. Aside from that though...nothing specific has crossed my mind." The plaza in front of Candlehearth was silent and empty; even the guards had left and were off elsewhere in the city. Looking towards the shattered window at the back wall of the inn, he hoped that Roze found her way out all right. She probably did, and Sagax silently told himself to stop worrying so damn much.

Tsleeixth nodded at Sagax's words. Truth be told, there was much to do in preparation for the next attack, quite simply there wasn't enough time to sit down and relax even if it was for a moment. "I suppose you are right Sagax." Said the Argonian with a sigh "It was good seeing you alive my friend, hopefully once this business with the Kamals is over we can sit down at the inn and relax, eh?" Joked the spellsword, chucklign softly, as he patted the Imperial man on the shoulder "Well, I suppose I should be off, try to help as much as I can, do take care of yourself Sagax." Said Tsleeixth, holding his hand for the Imperial man to shake it. Once Sagax did that, Tsleeixth went away in the direction of the Grey Quarter, disappearing amongst the people that were roaming the streets of Windhelm.

Sevine hobbled down the steps from Jorwen's humble house, with a sensation of... what was it? Calm? Yes. She felt calm. Perhaps it was the good company, that she had found herself in once again, or perhaps it was the adrenaline of the chase wearing off that left her feeling exhausted? Whatever the cause, she did not understand. The rain continued in steady, grey sheets, not a heavy rain, but certainly a soaking rain. She shivered under Do'Karth's coat, the one he had offered her on the way to Jorwen's, she still had kept hold of it, to cover herself when she had dropped her pants. "I don't suppose you would be willing to escort me back to my friend's place, would you? He doesn't live that far from here, in the Grey Quarter actually. I would just rather avoid anyone still looking for trouble, if you catch my drift." For once in her life, Sevine felt vulnerable out on the streets of Windhelm now, after her scuffle with the Argonian's. With her injured leg, there was no way she could escape very far were anyone to pursue her.

"The Grey Quarter?" Do'Karth asked, surprised. "This one thought that area was largely off-limits to Nords, largely because that's where the Nords stuffed all the dunmer. But it would be Do'Karth's pleasure. He will see you there safely." the khajiit reassured her with a smile. He walked alongside Sevine, matching her understandably reduced pace. "Would it help if this one supported you?" he asked. Her leg must have been throbbing.

"Yes, that's right. It mainly is, but Leif's house is one of the oldest houses in all of Windhelm. Before the arrival of the Dunmer in large numbers, there were a few Nords that lived there, it was still considered the poorer area, but those folks were mainly dock workers. It's been passed down through several generations of his family, if I remember correctly." Sevine grunted as she almost lost her balance. She flung her hands out to catch herself, but instead caught Do'Karth's arm. Her face flushed red again at the embarassing misstep, but she was thankful that he had offered to support her.

"Ah, yes. That would be very kind of you, thank you." Sevine relented, and placed her arm over his shoulder, giving him room to put his arm around her waist if he wanted. "It's just down this way, and then, we'll make a right." She said, pointing where they needed to go.

Do'Karth considered the history of the Grey Quarter Sevine was telling him, realizing how easy it was to take for granted that there was a lot of history in these old stone walls. He recalled hearing that Windhelm was the oldest human city in Tamriel, and it wasn't that long ago that the Red Mountain forced the dunmer to flee Morrowind, so someone had to have lived in the Grey Quarter before. He imagined a few people didn't agree with being uprooted, or having their homes suddenly being surrounded by a bunch of outlanders. He didn't agree with xenophobic attitudes, but he certainly could understand where they stemmed from.

He reached out to support Sevine when she stumbled, and in truth he had begun to move the moment he caught her movement in the corner of his eye. "There is that blush again. You have nothing to be ashamed of! You are wounded, asking for help to walk so shortly afterwards is a sign of strength, if you were to ask Do'Karth." he said, guiding them in the direction Sevine was pointing. If one were to ignore the crowds, it would almost be a nice day, minus the rain. Rain was something Do'Karth quite enjoyed, for it rarely rained in his homeland, and when it did, it usually brought life. Here, it tended to make people cold and miserable. It wasn't hard to see why.

"So you knew Jorwen from the war?" he asked, partially out of curiosity, partially to take Sevine's mind off her pain. "What was it like?"

Whether she wanted it to happen or not, her face burned ever brighter at his words. It felt as if she couldn't hide anything from him, anything. She eased into him, letting him take some of her weight, so it wouldn't be put on the freshly sewn leg, and risk the possiblity of opening stitches. "You ought to understand, there is a reason why they call me The Huntress, Do'Karth. I fought with a ferocity that no other woman on the field could match, if I took an arrow, I kept fighting. It is hard for me to... ask for help. Even when I need it." She sighed, which led into a small smile.

"Jorwen? Ah yes, we were never apart of the same squadron, but our patrols crossed paths often. When it came time for battle, what little chances I did get to see him in action, by the Divine's, that man was a fierce beast. I do remember one young Imperial simply wet his pants, and Jorwen just roared at him, the poor lad turned tail and ran. He... I cannot say for certain, why he fights, but there is something that drives him. Perhaps it is the bonds forged between one's comrades, or it is the sheer adrenaline rush of blood through his veins." She gave a half-hearted shrug.

Steam rose off her body in the air, as did Do'Karth. In fact, a curious smell caught her attention. She turned her nose, and pressed it into his fur, inhaling deepy. He didn't smell like a house-cat, that was certain. Instead, there was a strange musky scent about him, like the earth, but there was an underlying, heavier scent that she could not identify.

"When did you arrive here in Skyrim?" She asked.

The khajiit grinned. "'The Huntress?' Quite intimidating! You Nords do love your names. This one understands where you come from, but it sounds as if you've already proven yourself. It is hard to continue to earn a repuation if you are too stubborn to ask for help that could save you, no?" he said, helping Sevine adjust so she wouldn't have to favour her wounded leg. He quite enjoyed the tales of the battle, how Jorwen was as fierce as the firey hair that dominated his brow. He decided he would have loved to have seen Jorwen terrify the poor Imperial, the war itself must have been quite something incredible. He said as much. "Do'Karth would have liked to have seen the war, to see things change so much, but he thinks he would have not been welcome then. Even now, Do'Karth feels like an outsider, someone that is still resented for being khajiit. At least he doesn't have to sleep outside the city walls." he smiled sadly.

"Do'Karth has been in Skyrim less than a month, he more or less came up past Riften and headed straight for Windhelm. Do'Karth heard a company was looking for recruits, so he figured why not? Earn some coin and see the sights. It was never meant to be a long-term situation, just enough to generate some stories and experiences until something meaningful came along to distract this one." he replied.

"Oh yes, I could keep you entertained with the adventures I've been one. Particularly about how I got that name to begin with. I will admit, that it is rather hard for someone to keep living up to the expectations of an earned name, as people always expect you to be that for the rest of your life." There was a dark, and sad undertone in her voice, her thoughts reflected back to how others had recognized her after the war, it was still shocking to hear herself being called The Huntress still. She was very proud when she had earned the name, but now looking back, she wasn't sure if it was something she wanted to carry anymore.

"I wouldn't let you sleep outside the walls, not with the Kamal's here, or even if they weren't. It's never made sense to me as to why your people have always been shunned. Surely the lot of you aren't all skooma addicts, and thieves." She commented, offering him a reassuring rub on the shoulder where her hand hung over.

When Do'Karth mentioned about wishing to be within Skyrim during the time of the war, Sevine shook her head, "Nay. Consider yourself lucky. It was a bloody, brutal war. Many lives were lost, many families torn apart. I know of a brother that was with my company, and his brother had joined the Imperial's. The lad ended up dying, thankfully not by his brother's hand, but he died nonetheless. Though, you're quite right about the stories, there are many stories now about the brave that fought on the side of the Stormcloak's. Just like Jorwen, and I, there are countless others that will be remembered for a very long time." She said behind a chuckle.

"You could always do what Do'Karth has done and just leave it all behind and find your own path again," he offered. "This one knows all too well how hard it is to live with certain expectations. Sometimes one just needs to wash their hands of it all and start anew. But Do'Karth is grateful; it is rare to meet someone such as yourself, an accepting and warm soul. Perhaps you should be running the hold." he chuckled, but his face grew serious. "The khajiit you often meet outside of the Kingdoms are... not welcome home. They do not represent the values of our people, and that is why so many are thieves, skooma addicts, assassins for hire, shady merchants... all manner of unpleasantries that do not belong in Anequina or Pelletine. This one understands why khajiit are widely distrusted and loathed; when you only see what is wrong with this one's people, how do you ever think there's good?"

As they turned the corner, Leif's house came into view. Surprisingly, it had gone unscathed in the siege so far, and even with the latest event of the riot, none had chosen to pillage the house. Sevine smiled even brighter at his words, especially at the mention of running the hold. "I think that is the very fork in the road I have come upon. After the war ended, I don't know what to do, or where to go. I find the idea of starting over... terrifying."

Even more surprising, Sevine learned from Do'Karth's revelations as to why many khajiit had left Elsweyr, they were not accepted. It made her question why Do'Karth had chosen to leave, or did he even have a choice? "Here, it's that house there." She pointed at the grey-stone house.

"If you've nothing to do, I'd like for you to come inside. I can whip up something for you to eat or drink." She offered, it was the least she could do, and they could continue their conversation in private as well. "Why did you leave?" Sevine asked, as she broke away from Do'Karth, and hobbled up the stairs to the door. Leif had given her the spare key to the house when she had come to stay with him, and gave her permission to stay there, as always, if she needed to. The iron key slid into the lock, and yielded, with a push of the door, it swung inward.

The khajiit grinned. "You will not find this one ever refusing food or drink when it is offered. Thank you."

It was a rather fetching house, and far larger than any Do'Karth had ever lived in. It seemed that the people in Windhelm, even in poor sections of town, lived rather well. He ran his fingers across the stonework as he crossed the threshold and found himself in a rather cozy set of accomodations.

"Starting over is always much more nerve wracking before you actually go and do it, and... well, this one hasn't told anyone why he left Anequina. Do'Karth tries not to think about it." he said, leaning his staff against the wall and wishing he had a towel to dry off with. He looked at Sevine, concern in his eyes. He was torn between wanting to tell this woman he barely knew and letting that part of him stay buried in the sands of time. "He made a mistake, and this one was not a good person in his younger years. It's why Do'Karth believes so strongly in mercy and second chances. After all, he was given just that, and has learned that sometimes people can change... if they have the opportunity."

Once inside, Sevine busied herself with readying the hearthfire, the coals were still warm, and it would not take long for a fire to catch. She then moved onto to the kitchen, listening to Do'Karth all the while. When she emerged from the kitchen, she came bearing a platter full of sweet rolls, fruit, goat cheese, and some bread rolls, Leif must have gone to the baker before they closed shop, he knew how much she liked sweets whether she wanted to admit it or not; along with a jug of mead, and two tankards hooked around her pinky finger. She set them down gingerly on the small table in front of the hearth, the fire had sprung to life and kindled quietly; oranges flames licking at the side of the freshly placed logs. Leif had a curious arrangement of furniture, as there were two padded chairs, and a long padded bench with a backrest, did he call it a couch?

Standing next to the growing fire, Sevine noted how wet Do'Karth appeared, for his fur was slick with rain. She smiled and cleared her throat, "Ah, let me fetch you a towel." Then she disappeared upstairs to the room she had used, Leif had kept a few, clean woollen towels in the armoire. When she came back downstairs, still hobbling on her gimp leg, Sevine handed over a towel to Do'Karth before taking a seat on the couch.

She wanted to ask him what mistake he had made, but she chose not to press the matter, instead, she asked, "Surely it was not a mistake that could not be forgiven in time?"

The khajiit had found a spot by the fire while he waited for his host to return. He accepted the towel with a smile and a nod. "Many thanks. This one is certain Leif would not wish to be plucking wet fur from his lodgings" he said, staring into the flames while he considered what she was asking. He shook his head sadly. "No, not for that. It is irreversable and time will not mend what had happened. A friend paid the price for Do'Karth's mistakes, and it should have been this one who died, not him." the khajiit sighed, his soul feeling like it was lined with lead.

As Do'Karth revealed to Sevine, the basis of what the mistake was, she could only wonder even more what had truly happened. She would ask no more on the matter, this was not the time. Instead, she pushed the plate towards him, and lifted the jug off the table. Honey-coloured liquid poured over the lip of the jug as she filled both tankards. Returning the jug to the table, Sevine took one of the tankards for herself, as well as a sweet roll. She took a sip, and bit into the roll, chewing and swallowing before she replied to what he had said. With some solid food in her stomach, Sevine felt better already.

"Whatever you did, I will not judge you. It is against my beliefs. I can only do so if you personally wrong me. However, there are things, perhaps just as dark, that I have done." She stared into the bottom of the tankard in her hand, and closed her eyes.

"There are only a few people that know the truth of how I got my name. In the war, there was a battle, a surprise attack from the Imperial's during the night. They had slaughtered our men on watch, and had set fire to the tents. I shared a tent with a Dunmer woman, and Leif was next to ours. We escaped without dying in the flames, and while we got caught up in the commotion, an Imperial rushed me. I didn't have a chance to reach for my axe, nor my bow. He cut me down, sliced into my hip, all the way to the midst of my calf. He spat on me, kicked me around with his steel boots, and tried to crush my throat in. I don't know what happened after that, or how I survived, Do'Karth, but the next time I woke up, Leif was sewing me up. He said the blade the Imperial used was tainted with poison. For the next few days, I drifted in, and out of consciousness, I dreamt of dark things, things that haunted me, that tormented me, all I could see in my dreams were of that Imperial's face, his eyes staring down at me, the sensation that I couldn't breathe, as I was reminded over, and over again the weight of his boot on my neck. I didn't know where I was half of the time. When I recovered, I burned with vengeance. All I wanted was to see that man suffer. So I left camp one night, and tracked him down like the animal he was, it took me two weeks to find him. After the attack, they had moved their camp to a different location, as they wanted to keep an eye on us, but far enough out of the way for us not to find them. I waited, and waited, for another three days until I discovered that man. I waited again, for him to leave the safety of his camp, and when he did, I caught him with his pants down, taking a shit." She paused in her story, eyes blazing something fierce as she looked up to the khajiit standing next to the bristling fire. Her hair had dried now from the considerable change in the atmosphere as the room filled with warmth, but her eyes were glossy with tears.

"I cut him down. I killed him with a head-shot, an arrow straight through the eye. Left him for dead. I went back to my own camp, and waited for us to move. By the time word got out, they had found my arrow, those Imperial's didn't know it, but our company knew. I always dyed my feathers green, so they would blend in with the surrouding environment, makes it harder for my prey to detect. I had killed an officer. To me, he was just a man. A man that I killed in cold-blood. For all I know, he could have had a family, with children that were waiting for him to come home. And I took his life, because I was angry. I haven't slept well ever since, and that was three years ago." With that, Sevine let out a shaky sigh, and set her cup down on the table in front of her. She stared at the floorboards between her feet before raising her head to look at Do'Karth, unsure of how he would react.

"That's how I became, The Huntress. My deadly aim, and my perseverance to hunt down my targets like simple deer, never relenting in the search until I found the man that did this to me. I healed in time, at least the physical wounds did. I have no limp, or aching hip, thanks to Leif, but my heart feels cold, Do'Karth."

Do'Karth stared at Sevine, transfixed, taking in this outpouring of admission, a story of vegeance and pain that lingered so long after the fact. He understood perfectly; to Sevine's comrades, she simply had killed an officer and she had struck a blow to their ranks, but to her, it was a deeply personal score that had scarred her, and she felt guilty over it, no matter how justified. He crossed the floor towards her, setting his tankard down and taking a seat next to Sevine. He placed a hand on her arm, his eyes locking with hers.

"Thank you for sharing that, this one is unsure why you chose to open yourself to a man you hardly know, but Do'Karth is grateful for your trust. You are justified in your actions, and this one is sure you agree with that, but trust Do'Karth when he says he knows all too well how different it is to plan to kill someone, to play the slow game and be removed from the heat of the moment. For your comrades to have given you that name is just to be reminded of what he had done to you, and for that, this one is truly sorry." he said, squeezing gently as if to say, you are not alone.

"Thank you Do'Karth. I... It feels good to tell someone for once, someone that understands." The squeeze on her arm felt reassuring, and even more oddly, comforting. Silent tears rolled down her face as a weight felt as if it had been lifted from her shoulders. She, herself, did not know why she had chosen Do'Karth. Perhaps it was the way he had spoke to her at Jorwen's, or even when she did not know him, when she had rounded that corner looking for Jorwen, and he had offered her his coat. He had shown her kindness when she had not asked for any. If anything, he certainly seemed wise beyond his years. From the way he sat next to her, Sevine felt as if Do'Karth had something to say for the expression on his face.

Do'Karth was quiet for a moment, eyes searching while he struggled to find words for his own deeds. "Do'Karth supposes that it is only appropriate he shares with you what he has told no other souls. Understand it is a part of him he wishes were gone forever, and he is not that khajiit anymore.

"Do'Karth was born to a family who worked for the Renrijra Krin, a criminal syndicate that dominates much of Anequina and Pelletine. It is an organization that dabbles its hands in everything illicit, from smuggling and thieving to murder. As it turned out, someone wanted the Mane dead. Do'Karth was to be the one to do it. This one was born as Dar'Turga, and he does not remember much of his family, other than he was treated as a business asset more than a son. Do'Karth's parents were arrested when he was a teenager, and he did not care. Others had raised this one more than they had, and been far less cruel. Without family ties, this one was ideal to use as a sleeper agent. It was an assignment, and identity, he took with pride." Do'Karth said, reaching for one of the dinner rolls. He manipulated it in his hands as he spoke.

"For years, Do'Karth, which was the name the Renrijra Krin gave me as the adopted identity this one would assume, trained to assassinate the Mane - the leader of all khajiit, and the symbolic figurehead of our people. This one was prepared, and he moved to Torval, where he lived for quite some time, and for the next two years, Do'Karth would join the city guard and befriend a court scribe named S'Razza, who initially was this one's source of inside information of the palace, the guards, and the Mane himself, not suspecting this one's purpose. Do'Karth grew to care for S'Razza, and after the assassination, this one was sure to miss him.

"The night came where Do'Karth received the symbolic dagger to act. Armed with a saber and djerids, a type of short javelins, this one moved on the palace and infiltrated the grounds with the intention of striking the Mane as he was carried down a long corridor on his palaquin. Do'Karth was undetected, a shadow. This one had the chance to strike, and when he moved, even the palace guards were caught off guard. This one tossed a djerid, and at that moment, S'Razza, seeing my movements, stepped in front to speak to the Mane. Do'Karth's weapon pieced him through the chest, and died to save the Mane. This one was stricken with horror, he had intented to kill the Mane, it did not occur to him he would end up taking the life of one he cared for. The guards fell upon me with blades, and most of the scars you see upon this one," he gestured to the long cut along the left side of his face, "Were from that night, where this one was cut down without mercy and dropped into a mass communal grave." Do'Karth said, biting into the dinner roll and chewing, his face visibly pained from the admission. "This one does not know how he survived, but something kept this one from succumbing to his wounds and Do'Karth managed to claw his way out of that grave and find some herbs to promote healing and patch himself up. Weeks of near death and agonizing pain and sickness threatened to kill him at any time, but this one survived, and he realized that it was a chance to start over, to leave that awful person behind and try to become someone S'Razza would have been proud to call a friend. And since then, Do'Karth has wandered with nowhere to call home."

Her eyes went wide half-way through his recollection as to how he fled his homeland. Of all things, Sevine would have never guessed him attemtping to assassinate the Mane, she understood him to be the leader of all khajiits based on Do'Karth's explanation. Yet, as she sat there listening, her eyes never wavered from his. Instead, in the back of her mind as she listened, the syndicate that his family worked for, Renrijra Krin were the ones to blame. Had the fates aligned differently, Do'Karth, perhaps, would have never been born under those circumstances. He could have led a normal life. Then again, if that had been the case, Sevine would have never met Do'Karth in these present circumstances. What proved more painful for Do'Karth to express, was killing his friend, S'Razza, when he had not been the intial target. Upon hearing this, Sevine returned a similar gesture Do'Karth had expressed to her, and reached for his hand, taking it into her own, stroking it tenderly as he continued on. His friend had died in place of the Mane, and Do'Karth had been maimed in return from the assault of the guards, and when they believed him dead, they chucked him into a mass grave to be left for dead. To her, it seemed that only the Divine's had granted Do'Karth a second-chance at life, she then came to the conclusion as to why he was untiring in the matter of showing mercy, and giving second-chances.

"I think, that your friend, S'Razza would be proud of the person you have become now Do'Karth. You are merciful in your ways, though I have not known you long, you are indeed, most kind to those in need. I also think, the Divine's gave you a second chance at life, it was not your time to go. You have been on a long path, one filled with pain, and anguish, seeking redemption for your actions." It was then, that Sevine leaned forward, and embraced her khajiit friend, pulling him close to her body. Together, they were two grieving beings, each filled with their own dark pain, each seeking redemption, seeking a way to restore the balance they had upset in their own worlds. For Do'Karth, it was becoming a better person, one that his friend would have appreciated, and Sevine, to accept her actions for killing a man in cold-blood, despite the current events of war, and to forgive herself.

Do'Karth squeezed Sevine's hand gently in his own. "Perhaps, it is what this one chooses to, needs to, believe. Very few people survive what Do'Karth have, and this one would like to think that perhaps even the gods can forgive. This is why this one refuses to kill, it would be like tearing a hole in my soul once more, and Do'Karth does not think it would heal a second time. It is much better to protect one's friends than kill them, no?" he was surprised by the sudden embrace, but he welcomed it with every fiber of his being. He had never received comfort like this from anyone before, and for once, he felt like he deserved something fortunate to happen for a change. Sevine was warm in ways Skyrim was not, and maybe home didn't have to mean a place, but who you choose to stay with. Perhaps, in each other's arms, they could find a peace that had eluded them, a harbour in a storm. "Thank you, Sevine." he said. "It means more than words could express to be able to finally speak those words this one feared to say for so long. You understand, like very few would."

When she released him from her embrace, Sevine only smiled, relieved that he had not shied away from her touch, nor shunned her for what she did. Raising her hand, she caressed his scar, the one that had come from the assassination attempt, her eyes searching his, not for answers, or questions, but to show reassurance. "Do'Karth, your secret is safe with me.You and I have both suffered from our deeds, actions that none may ever understand, I am glad to have found someone like you. I would be glad to call you my friend."

---

Those healing hands felt warm and dry, they gave Farid ever so slightly the respite from this damp sewer. Out of the corner of his eyes, Farid saw the giant serpent dead, slayed by Leif's two-handed weapon. He didn't see how the Nord took down the snake, as he was busy tangling with the Argonian. Nevertheless, Farid felt relieved knowing such a vile creature would no longer roam the undergrowth of Windhelm. What the snake whisperer said prior to their fight troubled him somewhat. Was she planning to unleash her monster up on the streets? From the lack of vermin down here, it seemed like the snake did a good job "purging". Gods know what it would do upon helpless citizens. Leif said he knew varieties of snakes in Skyrim, but does he know the oversized ones? Probably not. Basilisks frequent the badlands of his native Craglorn, no way in Oblivion could one slither so far. This particular snake must of been an import, maybe even grown unnaturally.

Thinking about the bigger helped eased Farid's mind off his pain. While Leif started mending his wounds magically, Farid slouched down against a barrel on the platform. The openings reattached themselves reasonably well after bursts of golden rays. This was as much as Leif's restoration could do, since the wounds no longer close significantly. Farid will have to heal the rest manually, which wouldn't be too much of a tall order. However, what troubled him was the creeping poison. He drank half, no, probably a third of the cure before losing the bloody thing. His innards eased before but was now biting back with a vengeance. Unlike poisoning the limbs, poison to torso meant one could not merely amputate the affected appendages and be on their merry way, lest the person wish to remove several vital organs. "The cut's fine now." He grunted to Leif. Lifting his jerkin to check, the wounds were indeed manageable. "I need something for the poison."

When Farid lifted the hem of his leather jerkin, sure enough, the wounds had closed, but as Leif soon discovered, he had not been cured all the way. At least for the time being, Farid was alive. An idea blossomed in his head as he remembered promptly that there was a potion of Cure Disease in his potion holster at his hip. With swift hands, he discovered it was still intact, and had not been broken in the fall into the sewers. He breathed a sigh of relief and extracted it from its leather bindings. The glass felt warm in his clenched hand, as it had remained close to his body, and therefore, his body heat had made it so.

Sometime ago, Ander made his way back into the cavern. The prisoner's face was caked with excrement, and his already rotten smell fared five times worse now. Farid was interrupted by Ander clattering around the platform. "Don't touch it!" Farid suddenly barked. His reason? Ander almost picked up the Argonian's flute. His command was obeyed, and Ander wandered off to another direction. "Bloody coward." Farid sighed. His deposition towards Ander fell lower than ever. If there isn't a big stash of gold as promised, well... "We should have fed him to snake."

Leif chuckled quietly at his comment about feeding Ander to the snake, "If we did that, we wouldn't get paid, no?"

Once a thief, always a thief, Ander proved the old saying true when he snatched a bound notebook. "This might help." The prisoner extended his find to Farid.

"A journal?" Farid cocked his head quizzically, he's really in no mood to hear the rambling of a mad lizard. He lazily flipped to the middle, expected lines of delusion. Except he found no such passage. In fact, he found symbols belonging to an unknown script. "What is this? Doesn't look Daedric." He guessed. Flipping back to the first page, Farid found familiar characters of Tamrielic writing. "I should start writing in Maormeri, master taught me to keep secret." Farid read aloud. "Maormeri? Isn't the lizard tongue Gel, or something like that?"

With one hand curled around the potion bottle, Leif tipped his head at Ander's discovery, a journal hinting some cryptic language called Maormeri. For some odd reason, it sounded vaguely familiar to him, without much other thought, Leif pressed the potion bottle into Farid's hand, "Here, this might help, though I'm not sure how much good it will do. It's a potion of Cure Disease, made it myself. If anything, it should slow the process of the poison spreading." As he sat back onto his haunches, he wracked his brain for any information on Maormeri. Hadn't he heard it in some ballad that someone sang on The Courtesan? He clasped his chin with one hand, and played mindlessly with the braids on his goatee.

Gladly taking the potion, Farid examined before uncorking the cap. It smelled like medicine, not that he was any expert in such fields. Anything would at help at this stage, as Farid started to feel poison burning in his guts. "I suppose we've gone too far for you to trick me." He joke. Farid always found humor a distraction from grim thoughts. "Here, to not becoming snake food." He faked a toasted and downed the liquid. He felt nothing change, nothing good or bad happened. Perhaps the potion takes time; he'll just have to wait and see.

"You Nords and your mustaches. Must be a pain cleaning them." He chuckled at Leif playing with his facial hair.

"Aye, now that I think about it, there was an ol' shipmate of mine, Halvar Rock-Jaw was his name, he sang some ballad that mentioned them, I can't remember it for the life of me. The man took me in at an early age when I left my parents home to prove my worth to them. He taught me how to write, and all sorts of other useful skills. If I can recall correctly, the Maormer, as they are called, are some type of Sea Elf. I have no idea where they call their home, or what influence they might have had over our dead Argonian mistress here, but the only way to find out, is to make it out of this shit hole, better keep a hold of that journal there, it might come in handy." Leif said with a slack-jaw grin. Rising to his feet with a push of his hands, Leif wiped his hands on his trousers, and then extended a friendly hand to Farid to help him to his feet.

"You've been around, eh?" Farid said, accepting Leif's help to get back on his feet. He still felt weak, partially from a 24-hour day and worsened by the ongoing poison effect. "Sea Elf? Never heard them bunch. Then again, I've never been on the seas much at all." He raised a eyebrow. "Sounds kind of exotic." Farid admitted. Sailing was something he wanted to try, a curiousity developed by decades stranded on arid land. He made a mental note to ask the Nord how he got around on the waves. But first things first, they're hitting no waves beside the splashing of sewage.

"You could say that," Leif began as a devilish grin played across his lips, blue eyes glistening under the dim lantern light, "I've had my fair share of women you know. Been everywhere the Sea of Ghosts would take me. From what I remember about the ballad, which isn't much, I'm just faintly recalling an impression, that whatever it is about these elves... didn't end well."

"We did it, the hiss is silenced!" Ander perked up from behind. This man must of made a habit to sneak up on people. "I cannot tell you how—"

"How you ran like cry baby?" Farid finished it for Ander. "You don't care if we die, that much is mutual. But if you can't make your skinny arse useful down here, you might just not make it out." Farid balled his hands into fists, staring daggers into the personified cowardice known as Ander.

Were Leif to interject upon the behalf of Ander, he would've called himself a liar to say the least, as he shared the same feelings as Farid. Ander had proven useless in the face of danger, and if he dared try again by running away, Leif would have no problem in tackling him, let alone maiming him. A poor excuse of a man; then again, Ander was a thief, and like all thieves, they only cared about themselves.

"I'm sorry." Ander eked backwards. "It's just the hiss, the snake-master, haunted my dreams for countless nights. You know I'll just get in your way."

Farid wanted to grab Ander's ruined collars, wanted to throw the bony Nord around while grilling him for being so much like a rat. He did the first, but as one of his hand seized the collars, a sharp pain shocked him from the sides, causing Farid to drop Ander down. "The poison's still around." The Redguard grunted to Leif. "This way, that's where we we headed before." He pointed to the passageway across from their origin.

"Serves you right, shouldn't be riling up a poor bloke like him, he's too skinny to properly defend himself." Leif grunted, though he was still concerned for Farid. He certainly didn't want the Redguard to keel over down here. It was quite obvious to him that the thief wouldn't help out.

"Anything else you know?" Farid said to Ander impatiently. "And you better keep up, because I'm not hauling around." He added.

"No, nothing. And yes, I will."

Unsure if Leif preserved his torch, Farid decided to take the Argonian's lantern. He also picked up the flute with a rag, carefully storing the instrument (or weapon?) inside a thick pouch. Who knows, maybe having the poisoned instrument might help his future healers crafting the much needed antidote. As for the journal, Farid left it to Leif, who carried around larger bags.

Before heading out of the cavern, he put the journal securely in his pack, which he had the sense not to leave behind before going dungeon diving, Leif retrieved the torch he had stashed away on one of the holds before returning to Farid and Ander, with a cocked sandy-brow, he put one hand on his hip, and asked, "Where to now?" He shifted around trying to determine which way was out. Assuming that the best idea was to head towards the inner city, Leif pointed at the possible exit.

"Maybe thataway?" He suggested, uncertainty clung to his voice. Starving to death down here, and leaving Sevine, not to mention all of the other un-wooed women in Skyrim alone, made Leif burn with a desire to get the Oblivion out of the damned sewer even quicker. What would he do if he died down here, and Sevine needed him? Well, he certainly wouldn't be around, that's for certain.

Farid let Leif take the lead, he himself stayed one pacing behind, not feeling too speedy and intend to keep an eye out in case Ander tries a fast one. They trekked through the passage, lantern and torch in hand. The sewage in the tunnels leading into the inner city was shallower compared to the palace, it also flowed. Farid wasn't sure whether the stench subsided, or the toxin got to his olfactory senses, or simply because he got used to everything. Rat screeches started to appear minutes down the tunnel, and the markings accompanied better maintained surfaces. Then, a series of metal bars came in sight. A ladder, leading up to slivers of light that seeped through an imperfect cover.

The sensation of clean, fresh air, free of the stench that was the sewers prompted Leif to rejoice, as he stood, head tipped back, mouth agape, taking deep breaths, as if trying to cleanse his lungs of the foulness from their excursion in the sewers. "Ah! Fresh sweet air!" He exclaimed, swinging his arms up into the air.

"Back on Divine's Mundus." Farid rejoiced when his head came above ground. Leif already climbed up above in, and moved the weighty cover aside. Climbing out of the manhole, Farid saw the streets brighter under morning light. At least the Redguard assumed it's morning, no exact way to tell with the sun concealed by ominous storm clouds. His eyes slowly adjusted to illumination. "Bloody hell, we've been down there a while." He looked between Leif beside him, and Ander scrambling up the ladder. He asked no one in particular. "We've been down on for what? An hour? It was pitch dark before the palace."

"Maybe more, I'd take a gander and say we were down there from an hour, to two and a half." Leif turned his attention to Ander as he pulled himself up to the surface, he certainly had the strength, and the energy to get his ass up to the surface. Regardless of that fact, Leif was more eager to be rid of the scrawny thief.

"Freedom!" Ander exclaimed as he emerged from below. "These streets, aren't they sights for sore eyes." The ex-prisoner sunk to his knees, touching the cobblestone like it was gold.

"Watch out!" Farid warned. From one end of the alley they found themselves in, a trio of Argonians streaked by, almost stepping on Ander if Farid didn't move him out of the way. After encountering the snake lady below, Farid tensed just at the sight of scales. He went to draw his weapon but a detachment of guards came on scene. Farid eased his hands away, not wanting the guards to get the wrong idea.

"Citizens, leave here at once." A guardsman commanded. This helmeted figure almost plunged into the manhole, and clearly felt no warmness towards those that might have been vandals. "For your own sake, there's a riot going on." The guard jogged on without a response.

"Riot, seriously?" Farid said. Suffice to say, he was kind of confused. Wasn't there a siege going on? Anyways, they needed to get moving, they need to haul Ander's sorry arse to his sorry friend. "Hold on," Farid searched around himself. In the stampede of guards and lizards, the ex-prisoner vanished into thin air. "Where'd—" At the same directions people came from, a raggedy outline resembling Ander was hopping away, Without second thoughts, the Redguard took off after it. He raced though alleys, dodging groups of riled up folks intend on ripping out each other's throats. His feet beat across bloody flooring as a boulder of ice touched down several blocks away. Finally, Farid caught Ander standing still. Ahead was the same rundown house where a shady individual requested rescue, now crushed to bits by Kamal's ammunition.

"Divine's would only know what would cause those fools to riot at a time like this." He mumbled, getting out of the way so as not to be trampled. His gaze had been captured by the events of the Argonian's, followed by the guards, when he turned to look back at their group, he found Farid running away after Ander. That man sure could move quick when he wanted too! Leif tailed his Redguard companion through the alleyways, keeping close on him so as not to lose him in the hordes of people that congregated in unlikely places. The grey morning light, had turned to a darker overcast of clouds where rain fell in large, icy drops. Sandy-blonde hair turned to the color of wet sand, almost brown in appearance, as the rain came in slow, steady sheets. Sure enough, Ander led them right where they needed to be, but the sight before Leif and Farid spelled of disaster, as the Kamalian siege weapons had obliterated the structure in which his friend lived. This had to be the place, but from the looks of it, Leif doubted if anyone was alive inside. He grimaced as he gazed at the bone-thin man that was Ander, disbelief etched into his skeletal face.

"Wynn! Can you hear me? Are you there?" Ander screamed on top of his lungs, desperation and fear clear in his torn voice. "Oh no, no, this can't be!" Having closed in on the destroyed structure, Ander hurried after a body buried under multiple beams.

If it was appropriate, Leif would have face-palmed himself then and there, but of course, the circumstances at hand suggested that would not be helpful. It was a sad sight to see Ander in the state he was in, after being held captive in the keep, only to escape, to find his friend dead. Of course, Leif would have been upset were that anyone he knew trapped under the rubble. All of that sewage mucking for nothing now. He withheld an aggravated sigh, and inched closer to Ander as he tried in vain to find his friend. As he moved in to help, there was an arm poking up from the rubble along with a leg twisted in a most unnatural way. The only thing he could do, was to help lift the beams off the poor bloke buried underneath. Grasping a broken, hewn beam in both hands, Leif threw all of his weight into lifting up the beam, and shoved it aside. Moving methodically, corded muscles rippled as he cleared the area away from the trapped body. Glancing over to Farid, with sweat running down his face, dripping off the tip of his nose and mixing with the rain, he raised both brows as he knelt next to the crushed figure, and felt for a pulse, of which he found none. He would have to hold a mirror under the man's nose to be certain he was dead. He could be unconscious, but he doubted that in the least.

"Is this the guy? The one that was to suppose to pay us?"

Tragic, sure. More so was frustration. Farid crawled through sewage, killed and poisoned by a hissing lizard just to find his payer dead. He stumped around the ruined dwelling searching for anything of value, which wasn't much, unless halved furniture were to count. The damage caused by the ice boulder made Farid appreciate the gravity of his predicament; if he were there minutes earlier, the Redguard would have shared Wynn's fate.

Noticing Leif sweating away clearing the wreckage, Farid lent a hand in moving the last pieces. The Nord's finding was confirmed when Farid examined the body himself. This Wynn, despite heavily disfigured by wooden weights, matches the shadowy figure from yesterday. "It's him, but he ain't doing no paying." Farid answered disappointed. He took the liberty of looting the dead man; nothing of value save for an iron knife, a pack of lockpicks and a meager 17 septims.

"What is this?" Farid stopped at Wynn's feet. Inside the left boot was a bulge, perhaps a hidden weapon? Farid wiggled the footwear off, flipping it over and a tiny cloth pouch dropped out. "Key." Farid recounted the pouch's content.

Ander strolled back at the sound of looting. The thief's eyes watered around the corners, he sniffled constantly to hold back the tears. Ander first looked disapproving at Farid, but just as harsh words began to formulate, Ander's gaze fixated on the key.

"Give it to me, now!" The thief commanded, every bit of his frail frame shaking with urgency.

"Easy, what are you on for?" Farid surrendered the key.

"Don't you dare desecrate his body." Ander scolded Farid, and warning Leif as well. "And mind your own business." Was all the thief said before he went behind a half intact wall. Farid shrugged and followed , seeing Ander knelt inside a hearth, digging away pieces from the brick structure. What fascinating was that the bricks gave way easily, revealing a medium wooden case behind. Ander ducked back out with strongbox, inserting Wynn's key into a blackened metal lock in front. The box clicked open. Inside, a velvet purse sat beside a roll of parchment.

Farid wasted no time snatching the purse away, reacting fast at the first jingle. At last, the payment for a long and winding journey. With Leif close by, Farid smiled as the purse lacing came undone. There was a miniature note on top, but below, oh boy, hundreds of golden shimmers blessed by Zenithar himself. "Jackpot." Farid claimed. Feeling joyous for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he began mockingly reciting parts of the note. "So: 'This is all the coins I can muster, not nearly enough to bribe even the greediest guardsman. I will try to find help for you. If for the odd chance you do escape, and somehow I am not there with you, please take my coins, it'll sustain you for months.' Heh." Farid read it out. All the while he felt celebrating, Ander still knelt with the parchment roll in hand. Suppose even Farid had a sliver of empathy, as he tossed down a handful of septims of Ander. Make no mistake, this sum could barely cover a room and a hot meal. The majority still sat in the purse.

"More on the back." Farid continued. "It says: 'Flea-Wool will arrive on the 4th; pass the documents to her. The Black-Briars would be very interested.' So, that suppose to be yesterday. This Flea-Wool could still be around the city."

"Flea-Wool, Lyssa." Ander recounted. The thief hobbled back onto his feet, leaning on the dusty hearth for support. "She never goes inside the gates, used to say there's a price on her head. She waits with darkies, as she called them. I think Dunmer farms."

"Oh." Farid said. "In which case, she's a goner. Snow demons steamrolled everything across the river."

"Sheo must be toying with me." Ander spat angrily. "Wynn and Lyssa, somehow I outlast everyone even being caught." The thief was clutching the parchments white-knuckled, as if he had a vendetta against the document. These people, apparently associated with the Thieves Guild, must of spent so much effort on an important steal. If Leif didn't bother asking what the document contains, Farid certainly would.

"What does it say?" Leif said, picking his way across to rubble to Farid, he had remained in place the entire time, watching with exhaustion as Farid uncovered the sack of loot left for them. At this point, with the rain coming down in gentle, grey sheets, he didn't care what happened now. However, the only thing he could think of, was getting home, and washing off the filth that coated his hair, and soaked into his clothes. Fortunately, the rain had already begun that process. From the sound of things, this thief, Ander, was tied in deep to things he possibly couldn't even begin to comprehend.

"Do you have to know?" Ander defended himself. Realizing the questioners were rather keen on getting to the truth, Ander unraveled the parchments. "Fine. It's a smorgasbord. Everything's from a year ago, so I'm not sure how much is, well, I'm not sure they're any good in the first place." The thief exhibited the foremost page, an outline filled with large headers and smaller paragraphs for explanation. An aged blue seal featuring a bear stamped the top right corner; the symbol of office. Below that, the text suggested unedited, but fine-handed print. The most obvious headers inscribed: Proposal to the High King for Banning All Intoxicants, Possibility of the Thu'um Academy Constructed on Skuldafn, Injecting Military Grade Toxin into Gray Quarter Wells for Testing Purposes, Soul Trapping the Undesirables.

Lastly, a tiny speck of ink dotted the page's end. Birthday present for my boy; someone has a spoiled brat.

"Banning mead, whoa, I thought the Deadlands would freeze over before a Nord says it." Farid laughed wryly. "Thu'um, the dragon magic, eh? Someone read too many legends." It seemed silly, the talks of metaphysical shouts and the instruction of such for the average mortal. Then, there were something close to everyday happenings, something bound to hit home somewhere and some place. "Testing poison on the darkies, stuffing dirty criminals, no offense, Ander, into crystals. Leif, does this jarl have it in him?"

When he came to stand alongside Farid, where he peered over his shoulder to read the contents of the scroll, all color vanished from his face. He even felt light-headed. Injecting Military Grade Toxin into Gray Quarter Wells for Testing Purposes, those words alone unsettled him. For Talos' sake! He lived in the Gray Quarter! But why, of all things, would they want to poison the wells? Did Thur really despise the Dunmer? Was there something even darker waiting to be uncovered? The rest of the contents in the letter troubled him more, banning all intoxicants, construction of a Thu'um Academy, and even more concerning, soul trapping of undesirables. Leif knew that the roll of parchment paper that Farid held in his hands, contained ground-breaking information. Farid's question finally reached his ears, forcing his empty gaze up. He was still in shock over the fact that there were plans, or at least considerations to put these things into actions.

"There's always a possibility, Farid. We better not let this document fall into the wrong hands. I think we might want to take this to Ashav. He might have a better understanding as to what to do. Before we do that, let's get you to a healer. You know what..." He paused in his speech, eyes cast downwards at the broken pieces of wooden beams upon which he stood, "There is a Khajiit in our company that really knows his potions. We'd best get you over to him before you get any sicker, you could really drop dead at any second." His brows furrowed in urgency, but his eyes flickered to Ander.

Farid couldn't argue with the logic here. This mission was getting to the point where sick and tired no longer adequately describes his enthusiasm. Ashav was the big boss, the top brass of the company. Leave the decisions to the decision makers, Farid thought. He already got what he wanted; the coins. Plus, the poison was set to strike back. The sick gut-knotting in his stomach once again reared its malicious head, ready to undo the counter-poison potion. If those reasons were not compelling enough, Farid knew the guards might soon come investigating. Given his track record with Windhelm's law enforcement, another encounter has a good chance of turning sour. "You're right." Farid concurred. "This Khajiit better not leave stray fur in my antidote." He grumbled at the prospect of leaving himself vulnerable to a cat he barely knew.

"You better come with us at least." While he didn't like the idea of having the thief tag-along with them, it would be helpful for him to be present to answer any questions Ashav might have. For all he knew, Ashav might know someone of value that would want to prevent this from occurring, if it hadn't already happened. The information in the parchment wasn't trivial, and possibly would change the fate of Skyrim at hand.

Ander raise his hand to protest, all the while sounding alienated from the mercenary pair. As dull morning light traced passed shattered roofs, bringing with them tiny raindrops, it became apparent that he needed to be somewhere safer. The thief kept his hand firmly around the parchment, not wanting to let go something he and his colleagues sacrificed so much for. Entrusting one's secret to hired swords does not appeal to wanted men, what that was what Farid interpreted as Ander's reluctance. The Redguard would have no of it. Time was running short. On the inside, vomit threatened to exist his throat, while somewhere outside on the streets, voices and footsteps drew ever closer. "I need a guarantee for my safety, or else-" Ander protested, taking a step back under surviving thatches. His back bumped into an aged barrier, sending dust particles all over himself.

"Shut your trap." Farid seized Ander's collars. He started dragging the frail man in one hand, confiscating the documents in another. He towed Ander pass various obstacles, back out the same way they came it. Once outside, an undeniable nausea froze Farid dead in his tracks. As quick as he could, he handed both human and paper to Leif, then dry heaved for the better part of a minute. Nothing came out; the poison was designed not to be retched out. Because his innards now performed dizzying acrobatics, Farid barely noticed the ice boulder nearby. Normal ice would have been on its way to melting, but this Kamal engineered projectile abnormally retained all of its crystal lattices. At that instance, a thunderous crack resonated in the gloomy storm clouds, followed by electric branches of lightning. One lightning fork connected with the ice boulder, cracking it and flooding the entire city block with azure glow.

"Why do I get the feeling that this is just getting started?" Farid said on his back, having fallen in the course of sudden panic. He didn't get zapped, miraculous, considering such close proximity. Was it luck or divine intervention? Farid knew not. The better question would be; how long could his fortune persist?

---

“Keegan, it's time. Ashav is waiting.”

Rubbing his sand out of his strained eyes, Keegan adjusted to the dim candle light. Someone, and in this case, Ariane Fontaine, chose to wake up from a fruitful slumber. Just as he was getting to dream, real world overtook priority. Since when did he actually woke up on his own accord?


Following a hasty retreat into Windhelm proper, and then deciding what to do with werewolf Relmyna, Keegan was exhausted out of his mind. The Dunmer hostel in the Gray Quarter was swarmed with angry Argonians in front, so the Altmer chose Candlehearth to crash instead. Except, there wasn't a room available for rent, or so the innkeeper said. Judging from her icy tone, Keegan was inclined to believe he was rejected solely on his race.

Well then, nobody's down at the boilers. Nobody would mind a prissy knife-ear taking a nap down there.

Plus, the warmth of boiling water warmed an otherwise frigid city. The steady steams and trickle masked whatever agitated folks do outside. All in all, it wasn't a terrible accommodation, all things considered. Keegan unfurled a shaggy fur pellet and went right to sleep behind a water tank. He slept so fast that he forgot what occurred earlier.

Sometime during the battle, Keegan and his companion were forced to cease hurling missiles at the Kamals. During that time, the Altmer sent down spells. One of such spell, for reason not apparent after the battle, was a tracer charm. In the heat of battle, Keegan threw down everything he could muster. While the memory charm requires complex preparation, it required low magicka expenditure. One side effect was the target becoming momentarily stunned upon contact, as the result of mental processes briefly tugged away. It was a useful distraction in combat, bearing no burden to the user should his target perish in battle. However, if the target does survive, the caster would be tethered their thoughts for a short while. Therefore, Keegan unwillingly inserted himself into the boots of a Kamal officer across the river.

The Altmer's eyes closed for an uncounted time, he opened them once again. Except, he was now gigantic, a two and a half meter tall demon clad in impenetrable shell. How did Keegan become a Kamal? He attempted to flex his limbs, but no response came. Essentially, he was watching for the snow demon's eyes, a spectator in the body.

All around, other Kamals hustled back and forth, doing camp work strangely familiar to Keegan's own in the Reach. The particular Kamal he was strolled out of a tent, coming face to face with two more of its kind clad in ornamented armor pieces. One Kamal spoke. The tongue couldn't have been more foreign, but somehow, Keegan understood every single word of it.

“Sir, this is the second-guard responsible for our failures.” One Kamal, wielding an elongated lance scolded. “I recommend we punish him for incompetence and resume attacks at once!”

“Is that so?” The other Kamal doubted. This one wore armor with elaborate trimming made from exotic fur and metal different than defensive plating. On his back were a pair of warhammers, both of which rivals the largest of an Orc's arsenal. These figures hid behind full face helmets. But if Keegan could guess, this one sounded like he's raising his eyebrows (if Kamals had eyebrows in the first place). “And tell me, first-guard Qofdgun, whose battle plan was it originally?”

“I, lord Hakkeam, I drew them myself.” The first Kamal answered. From his target's eyes, Keegan felt tension started to boil. “Everything would have gone according to plan, should second-guard Dzhuungits executed properly!” Pointing a massive armored finger, Qofdgun waved for two subordinate Kamals, while he (it?) went to grab Keegan (Dzhuungits). However, Hakkeam, the supposed superior in this case, laid one hand on Qofdgun's shoulder. Instantly, Qofdgun froze in a sheet of ice.

“Transport this one to the brig ship, record for insubordination.” Hakkeam redirected the Kamal soldiers. “I will be assuming command personally.” The hulking commander growled. He made gestures to his troops, the movement caused his warhammers to chafe against one another. Not only did metal grind against metal, so did the buzz of magic; these weapons were enchanted.

“You shall take one-quarter of our Farismea, and one-third of Nanoukut, to pacify villages in the west.” So, this was an order. What were the things spoke of in portions? Were they units or weapons? Somehow, Keegan could not understand it, which meant they're were unknown concepts to him. “And congratulations on your promotion, first-guard Dzhuungits. I hope you demonstrate greater proficiency, for your own sake.”

Keegan's Kamal trembled in fear, it bowed in respect and open its mouth (whatever the speech organ was) to speak. The scene abruptly vanished, connection severed as someone kicked Keegan firmly in the ribs. Another kick, this time, Keegan awoke feeling like his essence drifted between Oblivion and Mundus. Looking up, he was back in Candlehearth's boiler room, with an Argonian standing over him.

“We've got a live one.” Huffed the lizard. What in Auriel's name was happening? This one doesn't look like inn staff.

“Who are—augh!” Feeling adventurous, the Argonian poked at Keegan's eyes with sharp claws. He rolled back, getting on his feet as fast as he could to face this rude individual. Thankfully, the Argonian didn't have the time steal anything. “Damn it! Get away from me!” Keegan waved his empty arms, not awake enough for spells to flow.

“Sparks, brother, come up at once. Our Pakseech is beginning his address.” Another Argonian was calling outside. Prompting the current one to leave Keegan alone. With a weary sigh, the Altmer slid back against the wall. He could not sleep now, suppose he could make himself helpful for a change.

“Just can't get a break, can't I?”


“Just can't get a break, can't I?” These same words contain a sort of universal truth, an undeniable frustration at Keegan's current predicaments. He was following Ariane out of his private room. This time, Keegan was smart enough to rent a room the first chance he gets. Exorbitant price be damned; someone else can try sleeping on the cold hard ground.

“Nobody does, especially Ashav.” Ariane spoke blankly. “He's been busy ever since the snatch, I don't think he slept at all, in all six days.” Came another one of Ariane's non-nonchalant observations. “I never seen someone in this line of work so, what, involved?”

“What about you?” Keegan shot back. Running a hand through his messy hair, he felt like like a rotten sweetroll. On the contrary, Ariane looked like she was ready for a royal ball in her fancy robe. How did she stay above mundane concerns? “You're 'involved' in the company too?”

“I help.” Ariane shrugged. She said no more.


Often times, the biggest spectacle might not be the biggest problem. In the case of the riot, large mobs of disenfranchised citizens would obvious pose an eminent threat. However, in the heat of the moment, the enforcers of Windhelm lost sight of the agitator who initiated this fray.

Ashav, positioned atop of city walls, caught full sight of the Dunmer who broke the last straw by hurling his poison. Oh, it was poison alright. Daelin said he knew this was no mere water, as those splashed by its content turned on each other consistent with a frenzy poison. Therefore, Ashav made the dark elf his own priority; to capture the one responsible for initiating conflict.

As Ashav winded between a myriad of paths, he found himself constantly outmaneuvered by his target. If anything, the Dunmer always found another corner when Ashav thought the chase was over. In the course of a dozen close calls, Ashav finally closed in enough for a snatch. Though as the company leader approached, someone else dashed out between houses from the side.

Trius, the Dunmer veteran who fought on the docks earlier, struck out of nowhere. One right hook connected straight with the agitator, knocking him down on his back. Then, the bone-armored figure dove on top, dishing out three further punches. Satisfied with his bloody product, as in a broken and mangled face, Trius eyed the sword on his victim's belt.

“That's enough.” Ashav demanded. Trying to pry Trius off, Ashav was met with a backhand sweep, sending the unprepared Redguard reeling back.

“You took my sword.” Trius seethed. His left hand charged up in potent dark energy. “Why? Tell me and I will grant you a swift death.” The agitator kept silent, not unconscious, as he still squirmed in futile. “The hard way then.” Trius sneered.

Just as Trius prepared to unleash his furious destruction on his victim, someone ran up from behind and twisted his wrist the other way. It was Orakh, who finally regained enough wakefulness to trace Ashav's steps. He struggled against Trius for several turns, eventually besting Trius, forcing his spell into the a window and restraining the armored man.

“Yer deaf? The man said it's enough.” Holding Trius down, Orakh motioned for Ashav to take control of the agitator. “Take your gods damned sword and get out of my sight!” Orakh gave Trius a rough shove. The latter collected his prized blade, stalking away in foul mood. Orakh kept a firm grip on his axe the entire time; he was uncertain whether a fight would break out. Luckily for everyone, cooler heads prevailed.

“You know how to make an entrance, eh?” Ashav nodded to Orakh. The agitator was secured in two rope bindings, kind of overkill for a man beaten out of his senses. Better safe than sorry, Ashav figured.

“He is one dangerous man.” Ashav pointed to Trius in the distance. “Unpredictable too.” He added.

“So am I.” Orakh laughed. The Orc stretched his broad and well-worm shoulders. “I've fought dozens like that. Breton knights were just like him, all up in their plates and spells. Thing is, every one of them have openings, the Achilles' heel, or whatever Imperials used to say. I learned to exploit them.”


“So, what did you learn from the rogue?” Keegan asked.

“Basically nothing.” Ariane answered. “Someone gave him a frenzy potion the day before, and asked to throw it into the biggest crowd. He did what was told, as a clueless henchman would.”

“That's it?”

“Yes. Oh, and he thought it was a prank.”


For the remaining duration of the 5th, nothing exciting came about. This meant everyone got to sleep off the day, right? Fat chance. No one rested easy with stuff flung across the river non-stop. These siege weapons weren't accurate, nor do they needed to be. The city was a “target-rich environment”; sooner or later, the Kamals bound to hit something important.

Ashav visited the dwellings of Jorwen (more accurately, his wife) and Leif. He assured protection for both, but more importantly, designated the houses as fallback points in case combat breached the gates.

All throughout the day, people waited anxiously. They waited and waited, day turned to night and day again. On the morning of the 6th, everything changed.

Rain poured since last morning. Starting out as light drizzles yesterday, heaving downpour currently showered the city. The Kamals sat firm on the opposing shore. Their ships and tents puffed smokes. Scouts on the battlements witnessed Tamrielic captives hoarded onto ships, then sailed off into the distance. Reciprocal exchanges would happen, bringing with them additional Kamal troops. Multiple accounts also confirmed sighting war mounts. The eight-legged slug-bears and ice wraith-carried chariots both amassed in snow demon ranks. Yet with enormous amount of force to bear, the Kamals made no move forward beside executing prisoners.

Out of the blue came one disheveled Nord. This one was a Brave militiaman captured in Morvunskar. He carried in his hands a scroll sealed with exotic symbols. This poor lad ran across the bridge unhindered, as the Kamals paused the bombardment to allow passage. The morning's watch caught the scroll. A small slip attached on it was, surprisingly, written in common Tamrielic. It was a challenge, single combat issued to the jarl.

“We have no choice.” Jarl Lodvemar would say. “I cannot let our citizens starve while we wait for rescue. Their leader promised to withdraw if I win; it would be worth a try.” He reassured his advisers. “Whatever the case, do not open our gates, do not charge at the snow demons.”

“Father, let me go in your stead.” The jarl's son squeaked. It seemed like every single adviser face-palmed synchronously.

“My sweet boy, your time has not come.” Lodvemar said patiently. No one other than he could stand the young man's blunders. But for Lodvemar, naive talks just made him love his son more.

And here we are, center of the giant bridge as precipitation soaked the combatants. On one end stood the jarl, fully decked out in the city's finest equipments and stood valiantly like his Stormcloak days. Now, Lodvemar would be impressive if he fought another human. As fate would have it, his opponent was an unusual Kamal dual-wielding warhammers.

“Hakkeam.” Keegan gasped from the walls.

The resulting fight was exceptionally lopsided. Lodvemar attacked first, his axe swung and shield bashed. His attacks were parried by Hakkeam, whose dual warhammers provided ample coverage. In retaliation, one blunt head readily connected, it simply smashed the shield into pieces and found its mark right in the jarl's torso. The man’s ribcage broke and the organs contained inside burst. Lodvemar fell to the ground, clutching his ribs and coughing up blood. When he looked back up, another blow dropped.

“No!” he cried out in desperation. The hefty warhammer made contact with steel armor, at that instant, all three elements danced. First, the jarl was frozen solid in ice. Second, an orange explosion tore his frozen body to bits. At last, electricity weaved through, disintegrating whatever remained into fine dust.

Everything stopped at that moment. Gazing out from Windhelm's walls, the lone Kamal chief walked casually back behind shield lines guarding the bridge. A loud shrill broke Windhelm's silence. The jarl's son wasted no time screaming his head off. “Avenge my father!” “One last charge to Sovngarde!” The lad would shout out his lungs. Some guards refrained from rash orders, but it was obvious many were enraged at the spectacular demise of their leader. Therefore, a hundred or so fanatical warriors took control of the gate, opened it, and charged right onto the bridge.

“Do not follow them unless you want to throw your lives away.” Ashav cautioned everyone.

“Close the gate!” “Get inside!” “Quit hiding!” “Attack!” A cacophony ringed out between everyone. Kamals started vocalize as well. To Windhelm, it sounded like cheerful battle cries.

Indeed, the Kamals had a lot to cheer for. Ice barrages resume flying once the bulk of loyal guardsmen made it outside. The first barrage aimed for the gate rather than Nordic soldiers, paralyzing exposed gate controls and killing many trying to operate the gate. Massive levers and chains froze and broke, those that did not pooled in blood. The following barrages marked flesh targets. En route across the bridge, one in three warriors perished in icy shots. Those that didn't ran dead into Kamal shield formations. This was no glorious last stand, it was a horrific slaughter. Within minutes, a hundred-some men and women were cut down. The shock of bloodbath prompted some to question their loyalty. But retreat proved futile as ice missiles once again made mincemeat of human flesh.

As soon as the chargers met their gruesome death, the Kamals mounted their own assault. Shock troops akin to the first dock wave stormed across the bridge. Defenders perched atop countered using a spray of arrows; that slightly delayed Kamal's advances. However, a phalanx formed in addition to adjusted ice blasts. The gate still stood ajar, refusing to budge without functional mechanisms. By this point, fate sealed on Windhelm.

Ashav commanded everyone to scatter, find their way back and regroup at Halla's or Leif's homestead. Once there, no one was certain what to do next. Kamals soldiers cut through most defenders with ease. In the course of another hour, another few hundreds died inside city walls. By the time most mercenaries arrived in a safehouse, the guard lieutenant (the captain died following Lodvemar's son) had quit resisting. Strange thing was, the Kamals accepted surrender. Translators were even present among enemy ranks, shouting in broken Tamrielic for everyone to lay down their arms.

Last in Leif's home was a slender Nord. Farid instantly recognized him as Ander, the thief. Yesterday, Ander passed his documents to Ashav in exchange for a a hot meal. Now, he's ready to repay the favor, big time.

“There are tunnels leading to the outside.” Ander explained, much to everyone's disbelief. In which case, why didn't no one know of it earlier? For it could greatly aid fleeing refugees. “The Thieves Guild wanted to revitalize cavern networks dating to ancient times, however, insufficient fund and dangerous working conditions caused it to be abandoned.” Ander told everyone.

Believe it or not, this was the only chance right now. Quickly, words spread between Ashav and other commanders (the EEC, Dawnguard and White River Braves). By late afternoon, when the rain most stopped and many citizens cramped into the Gray Quarter, by Kamals, approximately fifty people sneaked down various manholes and wells. Thoughts were given to civilians, but the agreement was getting the message out before getting the crowd out. Ander headed the group through the maze-like sewer to a giant cavern, the middle of which lays a bottomless chasm. The only way across were several unstable planks. The mercenaries were first to cross, and as they did so, rocks started dropping from the ceiling. More crossed, more fragile the entire setting felt. The plank gave out after most made it across, those halfway in between plunged down a deep grave.

The subterranean network surfaced from a well east of Windhelm. This place was Anga's Mill, occupied by snow demons, tons of snow demons. Kamals outnumbered Tamrielic beings by a large margin, and to further the survivor's woes, the cavalry came to play. Several armored eight-legged bears, with slug-like faces patrolled with riders. Several ice shard launchers similar to their ship-mounted counterparts were carried on top ice sheets, generated by ice wraiths bound together. Taking them on was suicide, so sneaking past was the only way. The company waited until sunset, quietly scurrying by under darkness' cover. Well, in situation like this, someone bound to slip up. In short, stealth was broken before everyone could get away.

“Run! Into the woods!”

Frenzy ensured. Kamal war-beasts bellowed, ice crackled through the air, boots scrambled across vegetation and the occasional scream of death. Keegan ran till his lungs burned, then ran some extra. He vaulted logs, jumped over streams and whacked through bushes, all the while tripping and scraping himself numerous times. Eventually, the fast ones (or lucky ones) lost the Kamals in treacherous terrains.

“That's the last batch.” Orakh reported in his headcount. Utu-ja didn't make it, neither were a number of the Braves and Dawnguards. For the EEC, Cilo was their sole survivor.

Walking more or less continuous, the group hit Nightgate Inn one day later. It was the night of the 7th. The Inn ground was utilized as a camping ground for refugees. Nordic soldiers and Braves outside of Windhelm stood watch, planning a counter-attack on Windhelm. None of these warriors expected people from the city itself. Hearing the terror of Kamal war machines, the counter-attack was postponed indefinitely. Khajiit caravanners bartered on-site, among them were Rhasha'dar's siblings. Beware trading with Khajiits, for if you are not one of their own, every deal was a scam.

On the next day, the company set out for Dawnstar. A Cathay Khajiit known as S'riracha, who spoke with an accent untypical of Skyrim, Cyrodiil or Elsweyr decided to tag along. Dawnstar would come after two long days, during which the group had plenty of time to reflect beside uneventful roads and flickering campfires. The moons continued to bleed each night.

Ashav checked into the Windpeak Inn late on the 10th. There were less rooms than guests, implying doubling up, sleeping on chairs or other alternatives. On the bright side, it couldn't be worse than the warehouse, right?

---

The events of Sun’s Height the 5th passed majorily uneventful, save for the continuation of the Kamal’s siege weapons. Everything from massive, ice balls, to the dead, were continually slung over the wall. Leif had returned to his house, with Ander in tow, to find Sevine chatting to a khajiit, who she introduced as Do’Karth. To his surprise, and dismay, she relayed to him the information of the days past accounts, including her run in with the Dawnguard, an action he did not agree with, and then the incident with the mob, along with the wound to her leg. She pushed him upstairs to change his clothes while she readied his bath, that was the least she could do for him. Poor man smelt like he had taken the liberty of bathing in piss and shit. Then, she went to fix up a plate of food for Ander, the man looked like he hadn’t eaten in months, for he was rag and bones. She also managed to scrounge around a new set of clothes for him, albeit, a little big on his bony frame, but she was sure he would fill them out with proper nutrition.

When he had finished cleaning himself, and put a new change of clothes on, Leif came downstairs to find Sevine talking with Ashav. The leader of their company soon relayed the same information he had just informed Sevine of, he wanted to use Leif’s house as a fall-back point in case things went sour in the near future, particularly speaking if the Kamal’s managed to break through the walls, and slaughter the citizens of Windhelm like mindless sheep. He could hardly believe that Ashav thought his house would be of use but he readily agreed, if anything were to happen, it would be best to have the company gather in designated areas. Ashav also expressed that Jorwen’s house would be of use then as well, so as to spread out the amount of the members of the company. After Ashav’s departure, Leif pulled Sevine aside into the kitchen to explain his adventures in the sewer-ways below Windhelm. He informed her of the roll of parchment that Ander had, and even showed her the journal from the snake-charmer Argonian. She found his story incredulous, but did not doubt him.

---

---

As luck would have it, by dawn the next day, the relative calm that had fallen across Windhelm, was broken by the occupation of the Kamal forces on the bridge. A clamor arose across the city, prompting Leif to leave his house by the persuasion of Sevine to find out what was going on. He made it to the walls to see the Kamal forces gathered on the great stone bridge. One of the Tamrelic captives came running across bearing a scroll. Once received by the side of Windhelm, it was discovered that the Kamal’s demanded a fight with Jarl Lodvemar. To his dismay, shortly after the messenger bore the message, it seemed that fate itself had abandoned the city of Windhelm, for the jarl accepted the agreement in hopes of defeating the Kamal commander that had been put forth. Within seconds of the fight starting, Lodvemar, in all of his glorious arraignment was brutally destroyed, frozen, and then blasted apart in orange and red bursts, then whatever remained of him, disintegrated with sparks of electricity. His naiive son had been on the walls and shouted for vengeance, for the sake of his father. Leif, having no desire to meet the same fate as Lodvemar, booked it back to his house, heart pounding in his throat as he raced through the streets, he could already hear the assault of the Kamal’s begin, and every step he took, the more he panicked that he would be struck down before he could tell the others of the travesty.

When he burst through his front door, Sevine rose to her feet in concern. All color had washed from his face, while Leif’s blue eyes were as wide as saucers. The babbling of his words flew past her, she was unsure of what he was talking about, as she only caught the meaning of his words, the Kamal’s had killed the Jarl, they were all doomed as the city gates were opened up to let out those brave enough to face the certain doom of the snow demons. He grabbed his pack, all of his potion bottles, both empty and full, food, alchemical ingredients that were hung up to dry over the hearth were torn down and shoved into a sack-cloth.

“We’ve got to go! Pack everything you can carry!” Leif babbled, he sounded like a madman in his frenzied state.

Sevine followed suit, hobbling around on her wounded leg, packing her own rucksack in the same manner. It was during their frenzied array of packing did Ander explain that there were tunnels beneath the city, a network that the Thieves Guild were trying to rebuild for their own dark purposes. Several other members of the mercenary company had shown up at Leif’s doorstep, even Farid, and most were a mixture of frightened, concerned souls. Without much persuasion, Ander relayed the same information to them, and they unanimously agreed that the tunnels would be a safer bet to flee the city, than any other route. By the time the others were ready, it was late afternoon when Sevine, Leif, and Do’Karth scurried under a man-hole. They dropped into the sewers below to find Ander leading the group. Thankfully, Do’Karth had been kind enough to carry Sevine on his back through the deepest parts of the muck, primarily to prevent infection. Of course, Leif was not a happy man to see his most beloved carried around on the back of a khajiit. Regardless, in circumstances like this, he could not protest.

When they came to the chasm, Leif grimaced at the sight of the rickety, wooden planks placed precariously across the black abyss. One misstep, and they would all be dead meat. Their company were the first ones across, granted their hurried rush from falling rocks, and the creaking of the planks beneath their feet. The vast majority of those that had come down into the network of the caverns made it across, however, as another cruel twist of fate, the bridge gave way, those on it fell to their deaths. The assembly of survivors carried on, the desire to live pushing them on. By now, Leif had taken Sevine from Do’Karth, in part of jealousy, but he was worried that the khajiit would not be able to keep pace with the group if he carried her. He held her tight against him, arm hooked fast around her torso, helping keep the weight off her leg. It felt like eternity, as the somber survivors maneuvered through the caverns, that is, until they came to the exit. From the looks of it, it led to a place Leif knew well. Anga’s Mill. There were two houses, and a saw mill. Yet, the dagger twist of fate revealed that the place was overrun with snow demons. Leif had little hope for Aeri, the woman that ran the mill had survived, unless she had surrendered. After a short round of hushed decision making, it was decided that they would wait until nightfall before making their advance under the cover of darkness.

Eventually the sun set, glowing red as blood on the western horizon, and when darkness had consumed the setting of the mill, their group advanced into the open, sticking to shadows, desperately trying to skirt around the Kamal’s. It really seemed that the Divine’s were not on their side tonight, for someone, Leif didn’t know who, gave away their presence with a sneeze. Immediately, Leif grabbed Sevine in his arms, as if he were carrying a bride over the threshold of his home, and raced for the cover of the woods across the clearing. Agonizing screams filled the air as he ran, others were not so lucky to make it as the Kamal’s mounts roared to life, fearsome, eight-legged bears rumbled towards them. Volleys of ice were targeted at stragglers. He didn’t know how long he ran for, his legs burned, his lungs felt like fire, but he kept running, afraid that they would fall victim to the clutches of the Kamal. He raced headlong through the cover of the darkened forest, miraculously he managed not to fall flat on his face, or drop the woman in his arms, he could never forgive himself if he failed to bring her to safety. Finally, he broke upon a dirt road, and followed up a steep hill, Sevine had kept her mouth shut the entire time, until she deemed them safe from harm.

“Leif! Put me down! I can walk just as well, you know.” She squirmed in his arms like a mewling kitten, eager to be released from its childish captor.

“Sevine, we’re not safe yet! Please. I know where we are, just let me get you there.” He pleaded, hot tears stinging his eyes as he held on tighter to her. She quieted her protests, and let him carry her the rest of the way until they made it to Nightgate Inn. In truth, she was surprised he knew the approximate location of the inn, but then again, Leif was born in Windhelm, to her, it wasn’t all that surprising that he knew his way around the Pale. As he carried her along in silence, others that had survived the onslaught of the Kamals began to appear ahead of them, or behind them. Ashav, Daelin, Edith, Farid, Sadri, Roze, Sagax, Rhasha, Do’Karth, Keegan, Jorwen, Solveig, Halla, Ander, Tsleeixth, and several others had made it to safety. He refused to set Sevine down despite her protests, and squirming, she could have clocked him a good one, but she feared reopening her stitches so soon. They walked on through the night until the break of day, and stopped briefly to do a headcount, they carried onto until nightfall when they finally came upon Nightgate Inn.

His mouth was dry, and his lips were cracked as he came upon the pine needle covered ground floor. Crippling exhaustion overtook him, and he dropped to his knees, face slick with sweat. “Get me some water… I need some water, please.” He turned his face up at Sevine, his mouth hung agape while he panted for breath like a hot dog in the summer time heat. She dashed inside, and returned shortly bearing a filled water skein. As she fed him water slowly through the neck of the skin, a gentle neigh turned her attention. Outside the inn, was a familiar creature. Asper. Her mouth fell open in shock. She had forgotten all about him in the invasion of the Kamal! Relieved to see her mount alive, she forced the water skein into Leif’s hand and rushed to her horse. He had lost his saddle, which was to be expected, as the stable keep would have unsaddled him, and brushed him down for her, but still had his halter, albeit, lacking a set of reins.

“Asper! Oh, my precious Asper. How did you make it out here?” She cooed softly, running her hands along his muscles, feeling for any wounds, to her relief, she found none. “Huh? Did you run away when the Kamals came?” Rubbing his ear affectionately, Asper butted her hand, looking for treats. With her other hand, she scratched at his chin as she pressed her face into his mane. She had raised him since he was but a foal, and he had more sense than most men. It seemed, that by all the cruel ironies of fate that day, that the Divine’s had gifted him back to her.

As the hours of the day passed, head counts were taken, and to further her surprise, a group of caravaneers were on site, with what little coin she had, Sevine decided to save what she had for the upcoming days. Instead, she erected a tent, bringing out a roll of canvas from the bottom of her pack. It felt like home again once she finished, and when she had, Sevine simply crawled onto her bedroll, and fell asleep within minutes, the fear of not surviving the Kamal’s had overwhelmed her. Leif came to sit at the foot of the entrance once he polished off the water to guard her, so that others would not harass her.

By Sun’s Height of the 8th, the mercenary company, and other survivors, more or less assembled, made their way for Dawnstar. Leif walked beside Sevine, as she rode bare-back atop Asper. She had taken the liberty of binding her pack, and his onto her mount’s back with some spare rope she managed to find at the inn.

Over the next two days, the moons continued on in their crimson fashion since the arrival of the Kamals, and by late in the day of Sun’s Height of the 10th, they made for Windpeak Inn, unfortunately, space was limited. During the travel of the two days to Dawnstar, Sevine had kept relatively quietly, namely out of fear, she had never felt so scared in her life before. Not even during battle of the civil war, for she had fought against man. Fighting against the Kamal terrified her, for not even she, in her wounded state, could hold off a Kamal. That would require at least four others to do so. Yet, when they reached the inn, circles had formed under her eyes, as the uncertainty of her future kept her awake. For Leif, he was relieved to have arrived in Dawnstar. The Courtesan had docked several times on the return journey to Windhelm, and to his surprise, he learned that The Courtesan was docked in Dawnstar, along with his old-time crew members, Captain Atgeir Frost-Beard, Bjorn Strong-Fist, Halvar Rock-Jaw, and Orvar Red-Tree, he found them inside Windpeak Inn sharing a round of ale when he came into inquire about a room. Available rooms were short, leaving many of the newcomers to take to the floor, or to sleep in the chairs. It was overly crowded to say the least, but at least there was plenty of alcohol.

Leif came outside to the porch of the inn, and found Sevine sitting along the far wall, eyes turned out to the sea. He patted her shoulder, and offered her a hot mugful of sweet honeyed mead. Her eyes lifted to look him in the eye, and she smiled something sorrowful as she accepted the liquor. Bringing the mead to her lips, she drank from it readily, Leif read her like a book, he knew what she needed to calm her nerves.

“Come inside when you get a chance, there are some fellows I would like you to meet.” Leif said, squeezing her shoulder before he disappeared back inside, leaving Sevine to her thoughts as she cradled the tankard in her hands.

The glacial air against his wet body had never been so crisp, so welcoming to his lungs and sinews, than it has been in Skyrim, a province bleak and made beautiful with its stark splendor of Nirn's grey incisors and Kynareth's frozen tears that claimed the Pale for leagues upon leagues. One must have been mad to wash cold in such a land, and mad Almad would proudly accept. He had long favoured cold baths, believing them to be more refreshing for stamina and magicka after grueling efforts, although they probably did little of that.

He left his swim of a bath and climbed on one of the many rocks that claimed the shores, and dried and clothed himself, only removing the excess water from his eight long braids because he did not feel like restyling them, lastly donning the hood of his robe. He returned to the cave to douse the campfire and to retrieve his backpack and staff, and started chewing on the frayed ends of his twig and made way for Dawnstar to restock on a few supplies. The young Redguard had not earned any disdain from the locals, he hoped. He slept out of the town by choice.

Half an hour passed and finally he arrived at the noisy timbered town, which stunk of ore, smelt iron, a tannery, raw seafood, and manure, with the occasional aroma of cooked meat, pastries, and perfumed lasses who sought the attention of those who passed by so they could sell their wares. Ever vulnerable to comely faces and kind dispositions, genuine or otherwise, he browsed their goods for about half the time it took to reach Dawnstar and certainly paid a few more coin than the products' usual value, but he did not care. The coin he saved from knowing but a little magic lessened the tyranny of his coin purse.

It seemed odd, Dawnstar. Days of travel away was a city under siege and there lied a bustling port town disturbed, truly, by the waves that broke on the shore, but it too was touched by the horrors of conflict. The town was noticeably more populated than usual, and their tattered appearance hinted at a need for healing. Almad planned to leave but his training as a healer compelled him to stay, thus he went to a place he had never gone before, into the Windpeak Inn. He uncorked his canteen and drank the water boiled down from snow. He fastened back to his waist and proceed inside the building.

Kaliri stood, frozen in dream. The Argonian hissed at her, baring its teeth as it pulled a bloodied sword from the limp body at its feet. The lizard kicked the head of the body on the ground, its individual identity unknown to Kaliri, but she couldn’t help but feel some semblance of recognition. Those ornate robes, the face shrouded in shadow but somehow still familiar.

She heard sobbing, only realizing it was her once the lizard began walking towards her. Her magicka was completely drained, the charred corpses of at least four of the beasts lay crumpled at her feet. One of them had gotten too close for comfort, managing to cut the tendons in her right leg before she’d forced a fireball down its throat. She was bleeding heavily, she could tell. There was a healing potion in the cupboard, but the damn lizard was in the way.

It got closer. She had no way of running, no way of fighting. Her magicka was spent. She’d not had to lift a blade in self defense before today, and the lizard was clearly adept with them. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she pulled herself away.

Dreams usually didn’t have too much physical sensation. But Kaliri felt every agonizing second as the lizard took its time with her. It pushed the blade into her chest slowly, ever so slowly, clearly savoring the pain it was causing her. She - the woman whose memories she was watching, had never owned a slave in her life, and yet the lizard was butchering her all the same.

She started coughing blood, her lungs filling with her own fluids as the lizard ripped its blade out of her body before walking away, letting her bleed out on the floor.

She tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. She felt as her host died, just like she had every other time she saw this memory. The sensation of hot blood streaming down her skin chilled her to the bone.

With a flash the scene changed, the din and clamor of battle filled her ears as a young altmer gasped and collapsed, sliding off her blade with a sickeningly wet sound.

A cry met her ears and she whirled around, eyes widening in horror as a Bosmer riddled a young Breton man she had come to regard as a friend with arrows. Kaliri stood, paralyzed again, as her friend gasped his last, the Bosmer’s hateful glare matched only by her own helpless anguish as she was forced to relive the moment again.

She was unfrozen, yet had no control over her actions as her past self ran forward, casting desperate fireballs at the Bosmer before the world went black.

…

Light pushed its way into her awareness, long shadows lurked in the corners of her vision, still replicating the last moments of friends and foes alike.

Kaliri shut her eyes, not wanting to see anymore.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably just a few minutes, she cracked her eyes open again. She was at inn. Relatively safe. Nobody was trying to kill her at the moment. Checking the small magical doohickey she’d made one day, her eyes widened as she realized she’d been out cold for a solid two days. It was still a mystery to her how she managed to function normally after being deprived of water for two days straight, as this wasn’t the first time this had happened, and almost assuredly would not be the last. She speculated it was something like the hibernation many animals went into during the winter.

Whatever the reason, she was awake now, and for once rested. The events of the past few days slowly filtered back to her conscious memory.

With a start she flew out of the bed, grabbing her sword and an innocuous letter and racing out of her room. The innkeeper didn’t seem too pleased to see her barely clad form racing around, babbling frantically about Kamals and Windhelm. She had arrived at the city a few days ago only to find it under siege by the snow demons. How she knew their name she wasn’t sure, probably found it in some old text or something. Unwilling to risk getting too close, she had traveled to Dawnstar and anxiously awaited news of the siege. Apparently her fatigue must've gotten the best of her, seeing how she had fallen asleep soon after.

“Windhelm!” She interrogated the innkeeper, heedless of the discomfort her unclothed state must’ve been causing. Repeating the process with anyone else who didn’t shoo her off, she finally got an answer - the city had fallen, but a group of escaped survivors had just arrived in the town.

Kaliri bolted outside, still clutching her sword in one hand and the letter in the other. The frigid temperatures didn’t register initially, and she raced into the snow in just her undergarments, stopping just outside of the door as she took in the beleaguered survivors.

She raced into their midst, searching for any familiar faces. She wouldn’t be able to stand it if Leif’s face appeared in her nightmares. She’d lost too many friends already.

Rushing back inside, she froze again, unrelated to the temperatures outside, as she saw a familiar face not far away. Leif was alive, it seemed. A wave of relief washed over her, and she bolted for the man, tackle-hugging him. “You’re alive!” She shouted gleefully, the night’s terrifying visions fading away in the surge of joy she felt.

Sun’s Height, the 6th… the day the oldest human city in Skyrim fell. Things had fallen into place so fast when Leif had returned from his own ventures, and while he welcomed Do’Karth into his home, the khajiit was under no illusion the man was fond of him, largely because of his overly fond association with Sevine. However, his return today bore the mark of a man consumed by fear as he urged everyone present to pack as much as possible; the city was on the verge of collapse. From what Do’Karth gathered from Leif’s rushed explanation was that the Jarl had fallen in single combat against the Kamal, and several of his loyal guardsmen had thrown their lives away against the invaders. Any moment, the streets would be filled with invaders, and no one had any illusions just what they were capable of. Do’Karth had gathered his things, as well as tied off as much food and bottled beverages as he could in bed rolls that he managed to tie to his person, weighing himself down considerably.

Before long, several others from the company arrived, apparently having noted Leif’s house as an extraction point. Anders, the man Leif had helped save from the sewers, shared knowledge of a network of underground tunnels the Thieves Guild had used, knowing full well that those tunnels were the only way anyone was making it out of the city alive. Do’Karth had helped support Sevine, carrying her across his shoulders atop his well-padded rucksack, and Anders soon had them going beneath the surface. The khajiit offered a sympathetic stare when he met eyes with Leif, who was trusting the life of someone he cared about greatly to a stranger, but also having to give up his home to invaders. The emotional turmoil, let alone the fear of death, must have been consuming for the man.

The journey was perilous, and the further the company and others outside of the group carried on, the more casualties mounted. The boards gave out, dropping people down chasms to their deaths; it was after this point Leif had insisted Do’Karth relieve himself of carrying Sevine. In truth, the khajiit was growing exhausted with the extra burdens and carrying another person, and his leg screamed in protest at this discomfort. Do’Karth felt grateful for Leif at that time, because after the flight across the fields into the forests, Do’Karth was certain he would have perished. There was no time to slow down, and all around him people fell to spells and the terrifying slug-bears; by the time Do’Karth felt it was safe to stop running and it was okay to look, very few of the numbers of survivors they had set out with remained. It was a sobering and terrifying reminder of all of their mortality. The fear that gripped them all was unspeakable; Do’Karth had never been so afraid in his life, being forced to flee with death nipping at his heels, and it was so close, so many times. It was just another beast altogether to face down one’s enemies in combat and push your body to run because to stop would be certain death. It was being prey, and everything about it sat entirely wrong. His lungs threatened to collapse, and his heart beat so hard it threatened to burst, but despite all of that, and how much his muscles screamed in agony, he was alive, and that was keeping him moving forward.

Relief came later in the day when Ashev and the other commanders deemed it was safe enough to set up camp for the night, and despite the universal fear of being caught, fatigue eventually won out against any protest. Khajiit caravans peddled their wares, and while he did not stop others from trying to haggle with the elusive cats, who were experts at picking up on desperation, he had managed to secure a fresh rabbit for a small handful of coins and to share what remained of his bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy, spiced with a generous helping of moon sugar and to share a meal of his own with the khajiit, who were curious of the adventures of a fellow kinsman. Do’Karth decided to lay his bedroll down with his people for the night, offering to help in exchange for provisions.

Having secured the rabbit, Do’Karth cut half of the creature for Sevine and Leif, thanking Leif for his hospitality and generosity for the past few days, and for Sevine for everything she’d done for him. He promised he would protect them both, to the end of his days. It was something that seemed certainly urgent given what had brought them to this point, but Do’Karth was beginning to realize that everything he had worth dying for were right here, in the cold North. The other half of the hare was given to Solveig and Jorwen, and the khajiit thanked Jorwen for being an invaluable friend, and that he would keep his promise to him and Solveig to keep looking out for her, even when times were rough. Do’Karth’s world was small, but it was more than he’d had for most of his life. It was just a damned shame it took the Kamals destroying so much to give Do’Karth such meaning. As he wrapped himself up for the night, warming himself by the caravan’s fire, Do’Karth was all too aware that he was letting people so close into his life, and to lose them was to be unbearable. Troubled by thoughts of loss and fear of abandonment, Do’Karth drifted into an uneasy sleep.

After two days, the exhausted group of survivors had arrived in Dawnstar, marking the next long-term destination on their maps, and immediately they began to move into the town, wishing for salvation, warmth, and good food. Do’Karth had found himself sitting on the docks, resting against a post in a blanket with his sketch pad in hand. The khajiit stared listlessly at the beginnings of the charcoal drawing of Candlehearth Hall he would never be able to finish, and how quickly things had changed in just a few short days. It was enough that he had a moment to rest and reflect, and sprinkling his tongue with a small helping of Moon Sugar, Do’Karth allowed for the sense of warm euphoria to wash over him, giving him a sense of inspiration as he decided to take in the sights of the quiet bay, with the wooden docks, the frozen shores, and the water that shone pale green and black in the brilliant moonlight. After being stuck in a besieged city for days, this reprieve was enough to give him hope for the days ahead. He caught sight of Sevine, sitting outside the crowded inn. It was enough.

Fifth of Sun's Height, midnight, wall nearest the docks warehouse

---

After leaving the company of Tsleeixth, Sagax did little more than kick rocks in the Stone Quarter for a little while. He simply couldn't think of anything he could really do. He had no Restoration prowess or any knowledge of medicine, and the guards seemed to have a handle on things since the Argonian elder called for a cease of hostilities between the citizens of Windhelm. In all of the events of the day, he hadn't before noticed a strange sense of...lightness. As if he were missing a part of himself. Then he remembered something before the bombing run: His bag. It was still in the warehouse! He remembered now, leaving it behind so it would not be damaged by the waters of the river Sagax knew he would have been inevitably thrown into. A sinking feeling met Sagax upon the realization that Felix's manuscript was still in there. If it were still in his possession, he would have left his bag at the docks; he could always get a new one from somewhere, and a majority of the things inside could be easily replaced. But this determined Imperial wasn't about to toss out a man's dying wish like yesterday's rabbit haunch. So, Sagax waited until nightfall...

Which takes things to Sagax's daring escapade. Crawling low to the ground atop the wall overlooking the docks, Sagax remained out of sight of the Kamal until he reached the portion of the wall nearest to the warehouse which held his things. He knew he wouldn't be able to just jump down off the wall; that'd be VERY silly of him. Sagax came prepared, though, as he had snagged a length of rope from atop a random barrel; there seemed to be a large amount of such things just lying around the city, messy messy people. Making sure to tie a secure knot on a battlement still solid enough to hold weight, Sagax threw the rest of the rope over. It would lead him down a majority of the wall on its own. Good enough, he supposed; he could easily drop the rest of the distance and jump back up to grab the rope on his way back. After waiting for the current volley of projectiles to cease, the tiny Imperial man, no doubt a blurry silhouette to the Kamal along the river, slid down the rope, making more liberal use of his gloved hand to avoid rather painful rope burns. When he finally touched down onto the crumbling remnants of the docks, Sagax stood still for a second, checking for sounds of alert from the Kamal, along with any sign of another volley aimed for him. Good thing, too.

One of the giants patrolling the top deck must have seen the slithering shadow that was Sagax rappelling down the wall, despite his efforts to shoo away any torch bearers manning his area of operation, because as soon as laid eyes on the hulking ships, the ports of the nearest one glowed with a very familiar energy, prompting Sagax to, intelligently for a change, run the fuck away and into the warehouse, barging down the weakened door and diving as far into the room as possible. A very large mound of ice followed him, careening into the door frame, shattering it and a good chunk of the wall around it, before finding its place in the wall opposite the cowering snake. A few more spikes hammered on the walls around him, but thankfully the stonework of Windhelm was worthy of its status of legendary hardened ruggedness. Miraculously, some of the torches were still lit. Quite a few fell onto the ground and went out, though. Sagax knew it wouldn't hold for long, and so he scrambled about as fast as his limited vision would allow him, sweeping dust and rubble with his hands until he bumped into a familiar brown and leathery shape. He took no time practically ripping it open and digging around. Felix's manuscript was still there, excellent! "Now...how the hell do I get out...?" Sagax wondered aloud.

Then it hit him; probably not as hard as the ice spikes were hitting the warehouse, but still, it hit him pretty hard: The invisibility potion! Pulling it out from its snug place on top of his pillow, Sagax smiled triumphantly. If Varulae were with him he would have kissed her. Probably. Maybe. Might be a bit awkwar-GOD DAMN IT SAGAX QUIT TAFFING AROUND AND GET OUT OF THAT FORTIFIED DEATH TRAP. Why are they so damn focused on me, anyway!? What the hell did I do!? ...oh yeah. The boat.

He sat and waited, even with few precious moments left. He was figuring out the volley pattern of the kamal ships. One was firing at the warehouse, the others were still hammering the walls of Windhelm. His best bet would be to make a dash back for the rope just as the ship focusing on him began to charge its volley, as it delayed slightly after the other ships. As soon as he had the pattern down, he drank the whole lot of the invisibility potion. He figured it would give him around forty seconds. It was stronger than most, but it took true masters to make lengthy brews, and even Varulae would admit her own skill fell a little short. Still, it would give him enough time to get up the rope and back into Windhelm, he was certain. As soon as the effects of the potion took hold, the other Kamal ships fired their volley at the walls. Now was his chance.

Heart pounding and breath less-than-steady, Sagax burst out of the gaping hole in the warehouse and straight toward his escape, going over the heads of his attackers completely; they still nailed the warehouse, and boy, was he a lucky one. The walls of the warehouse buckled and everything came crashing down, kicking up dust in all directions. Great, a cover, except the Kamal were probably fine with blindfiring. Better get a move-on, eh Sagax? Making his way back to the rope, his breath was taken away by the sheer closeness of a spike to his getaway. The end of the rope was even frosted a little! He was inches away from possibly being trapped on the docks. Good gods above, he would be praying his thanks tomorrow, that much was certain.

Halfway up the wall, Sagax considered himself home-free. Until he heard the ship behind him launch a volley, of course. Quickly peering behind him, he saw a spike heading straight for him. Swearing loudly, Sagax swung to widely to the left, dodging the spike, but he knew the wall wouldn't hold him much longer. As he fell back into position, the Imperial used the spike as a jumping platform, launching himself a few more inches up the wall. He could hear the battlement he secured the rope to cracking, and he climbed as fast as he could. In fact, he couldn't recall any time before when he had scaled something with such desperation. The scaling of the Forsworn gate back in the Reach was nothing compared to what he was going through now. Panting heavily, Sagax had finally made it to the top of the wall when suddenly, the battlement finally gave out. One last lunge let him catch onto the top of the wall with his good hand, but with his other arm weakened and his bag weighing him down, he would have a bit of trouble getting up on his own.

"I am stupid, I am SO FUCKING STUPID!" He screamed at himself out loud. Yeah, great going Sagax. You got your stupid bag back, and now you'll get to die with it! Why didn't he put the damn thing somewhere more secure earlier, like INSIDE the city, in a barrel somewhere? Or, shit, he knew Leif, the man had a house! Could have just asked the man to keep his gear for him! God fucking-wait a second why was he suddenly floating upwards? No, not floating, he was being pulled up. Was he visible already? Huh, time flies fast when you're about to fucking DIE. As soon as Sagax hit the sweet, sweet solid ground of the wall, another spike slammed into the battlements sending both him and his helper flat on their asses. Didn't kill them though, that's something right? Dragging themselves away from certain death by pointy glacier, the person who helped Sagax grunted with a hint of frustration as they got up.

"You owe me TWICE now, Sneak." God damn it. Sagax must look like an absolute clutz to this guard. "I get a few hours of shuteye, and the minute my boots hit the street I catch word of some delirious rogue scaling the damn walls trying to get back to the docks! I hope whatever you went to get was worth it, you brainless twit."

"Uh...I went to get my bag." Sagax said sheepishly. The guard sighed a very long, exasperated sigh. "But it was important though! Well, kinda. To me, a least. One of my company mates, he gave me a manuscript for a book he wrote. He died attacking the Kamal, and I sort of see it as his dying request to get it published" he explained.

Sagax could almost feel the man rolling his eyes. "Well, that's better than nothing, I suppose. But still! You REALLY ought to get out of the habit of nearly getting yourself killed! One of these days I'm not going to be strolling by and happening along you dangling off of the edge of a mountain face or wherever else you might plan to go. Now, building off of that, get off my damn wall." He didn't need to tell Sagax twice. He said his thanks and scurried back down below into the streets; he got his stuff back, and that was good enough for him.

---

Present time - Tenth of Sun's Height

The next few days did not go so well for Sagax. Even after escaping the confines of Windhelm, he suffered frequent nightmares and was generally jumpier than...something. He was too tired to make any intelligible comparison. From escaping Windhelm to finding his way to Dawnstar with the rest of the refugees, the sullen sneak had maybe a total of six hours of sleep. Even the simple clanking of eating utensils jolted him upright from whatever corner he decided to call his bed. Is this what Caius had to endure during his time in the Legion? If so, Sagax could not blame his father one smidgen for not dwelling on any of it. Why the hell would you WANT to? Let such memories die the quiet deaths they deserve. Though he had a feeling the siege of Windhelm would stay with him for many, many years to come. The constant crashing of projectiles, the accursed Kamal and their taunts, the screaming of the dying...truth be told, Sagax felt like he was going to snap at any moment, all it would have taken was one shove too far.

For this reason, Sagax forwent any and all other possible activities, and instead found a dark corner of Windpeak Inn to sit in and go to sleep. He could barely get out a half-hearted wave to Sevine as he passed her on the way in; he didn't even look at her. He didn't know how long he'd be out and he honestly didn't give a taff, and if anyone tried getting him up Sagax was liable to crack them in the knee with the pommel of his sword.

A Redoran Epilogue: But Home is So Far Away A Farewell to Niernen, @Hank‘s fantastic character

It had seemed that the city was determined to keep its occupants from resting, let alone finding a moment’s piece. After the fierce fighting on the docks, Niernen had enjoyed a certain small amount of celebrity amongst those in the Grey Quarter, who had all but ensured she never wanted for anything that evening after Do’Karth, the khajiit she had developed a fond respect for, and herself had proven themselves fighting against the Kamal, the Snow Demons. The dunmer battlemage had little time to rest from her ordeal, as it seemed that the dunmer residents of the great stone city were all too eager to have a chance to buy her a round or listen to her tell her story, which she soon discovered that the defenders on the walls who witnessed her were all too eager to verify regardless of how embellished the tale became. While she direly wished for water and rest, it was hard to deny the allure of being the heroine that the dunmer people seemed to direly need in such trying times.

However, as the next days passed, things just became more and more sour and the Redoran battlemage, heroine of the decks, seemed to slip from people’s minds as the argonians grew restless and a brawl even seemed to open up in the streets, accumulating in a full-on riot. A kindly mother had sheltered and fed her since her fleeting moments of celebrity, and she was in no hurry to rush out to the streets to fight for a group of dunmer she had no stakes with; a flickering sense of nationalistic pride filled her, after all her and her family had struggled to remain in and regain Morrowind’s sense of grandeur, and yet these refugees had fled the moment things had become hard to become second class citizens to the Nords, with whom the dunmer fought so much in their past. Niernen was of course above all these things, but any excuse not to have her skull bashed in from a club was fine by her. She had to regain her strength for the gathering storm outside the gates. The Kamal were still there, and despite what these foolish argonians might have thought, they were not creatures that would simply allow people to leave.

After this, things went rather fast. Catching sight of members of the company running through the streets, Niernen rushed outside to greet them, and discovered that the city’s Jarl had died in a trial by combat with what was probably the Kamal’s commander, or at least one that claimed to be. Around 100 men and women had rushed out immediately to avenge him, and by their diminishing screams, Windhelm’s doom was soon going to be within the walls. She did not have much time to gather her meager belongings, and clutching the battle honour ribbon tightly to her breast, soon found herself fleeing into the sewers, a disgusting compromise that did not seem so bad compared to what happened to those who were caught in the open.

Her crimson eyes flashed in the dark, searching for anyone she could recognize at least a passing acquaintanceship, including Do’Karth, who seemed to be one she could really use at the moment. Those around her were strangers, and a panic gripped her; where were the people she knew? A man in Dawnguard armour brushed past her, and as they crossed a threadbare plank across a chasm, it cracked underfoot as she hurried across, not quite making it. Screaming, her fingers shot out and reached for any purchase. To her horror, the filth and dampness prevented her fingers from clinging to the stones, and she knew then she was going to fall to her death, along with the Dawnguard who had slipped ahead and cracked his brow off of the stonework. Unable to even chatter off a prayer in her fear of death, her arms were almost over when firm hands caught her, preventing her and another from falling to the invisible depths below, pulling her to her feet. Wanting to sob, but feeling the resolve of a warrior’s spirit given a second wind, she resisted the urge to brush the struggling tears in her eyes and accepted the fact her body was suffering from the worst stress imaginable. She was not going to die in a fucking sewer; it simply would be undignified.

The survivors of the collapse had made it out into the open not long after, finding themselves exposed. Even Garm, who had trotted dutifully ahead of her and had not left her side in the past several days, seemed unusually subdued. As far as Niernen could tell, they had existed by the outermost farmsteads, behind the Kamal siege lines, and she allowed herself a moment of hope that she would escape with her life. Everyone moved as quietly as possible, but as with any large group of people, they were soon noticed and set upon by monstrous steeds and calvary. The dunmer battlemage scrambled as much as she could, realizing she was close to the rear and extremely vulnerable. The terrible 8-legged beast bore down on her with its horrible slug-like visage, and she let loose yet another ear piecing scream of terror, willing a ball of fire to form in her hands as she simply reacted to the death that set out to claim her.

Garm, her beloved Nix hound, did not hesitate and with a fierce roar, leapt at the slug-bear and bit into its thick fur, the nixhound savagely shaking its head to and fro with determination to keep his master safe. The two creatures battled, and the Kamal rider was dislodged. Niernen had no choice but to flee, fearing for Garm when she heard an anguished yelp that she couldn’t be entirely sure who it belonged to, but she knew Garm gave his life for her. Cursing the gods and the Kamal for their actions, she scrambled without a thought but escape as she crested a hill into the woods, and kept running.

Hours had passed, and Niernen became more and more aware that she had lost sight of literally anyone, and she was utterly alone. Wrapping her arms around herself to shield herself from the cold night, she stumbled ahead, feeling as if death were still at her heels but nothing could be done to keep it from finding her. Looking up at a clearing in the treeline, the smoke bellowing from the Red Mountain was visible and she felt a resolve; she had to go home, she had to at least try. With a determined sigh, she continued trudging through the heavy snow, feeling fatigue but not giving in. She would do it, damn it all. She was Redoran, and that meant something.

An unearthly howl sounded off in the hills behind Niernen, and a chill ran through her spine. It wasn’t far off now.

The only thing filling Jorwen's head were thoughts of death and chaos weaving through the thumping of his headache. That, and his wife's constant pacing in front of him. She'd begun to chew her fingernails again, like she always did when she was nervous. She'd always have them bitten to the quick when he'd come back to spend his gild in town and they'd regrow the next couple days for the next chewing down. He supposed he couldn't blame her, not knowing whether or not he was alive is fraying to the nerves. After all, staring battle in the face not knowing whether or not you were going to live is just as fraying.

“Would you sit and eat your eggs?” Jorwen said, throwing a hand towards the full plate she'd cooked up for herself, opposite Jorwen's, before Ashav came and ruined breakfast, “He said 'if.'”

“If in your line of work, Red-Bear, is almost a certainty. There are snow-demons outside of the gates and a bed half-empty every night because of your leaving.” She pushed a lock of hair away from her eyes and sighed, “You were young, and strong and fierce and brave and proud, Jorwen,” Jorwen only swallowed and looked away from her, none of those things were what you called what he did, “But men aren't able to live their whole lives like that.”

“I'll know when it's time to retire, Halla.” Jorwen said, a bit more anger tainting his tongue than he wanted, but there it was. Halla only frowned.

“When? When we're patting the fresh earth over your grave like Aelfgar? Like White-Eye? Thrice-Pierced? Gristle? Steelhead? I can rattle off names of dead men until we're in the dirt ourselves, Hurrensson. They were my friends too, and it hurt to see their empty places at our hearth,” She had a sharpness to her voice then, until she sighed it all out and the years laid their hands on her again, “but I would never heal if yours was empty forever like theirs.” She nodded to Solveig's room, where she still slept, “Nor hers.”

Jorwen couldn't say anything to that, so he only ate with a frown but not much else in the way of rebuttals. There weren't many when dealing with an angry wife, much less one with some damned good points. He forked the last piece of egg into his mouth and put his fork down, chewing, all the while he stared into his wife's eyes. “I love you. You know that.”

She only nodded. Then, a great shaking to the earth as if Shor walked upon the feeble ground made their house tremble. Solveig poked her head out of her room with a heavy frown, “What in the Hells was that?” She croaked.

The tremors went on for long and when Jorwen peeked out of his door, he saw homes smashed to rubble and bloodied bodies. It was a sight he hadn't seen since the Siege of Solitude. The bleating panic of the frenzied herd was cast throughout the city as citizen ran this way and that before his scrambled and slow mind. Perhaps his wife was right. His heart beat like a joiner's hammer in his chest and he looked to Halla and Solveig, “Let's leave.”

* * *

She felt scared. There was no doubt that she was going to die. An inability to muster up any sort of feeling. She had to wonder if this was how the lamb felt moments before the wolf's jaws clamped shut around its neck. As they ran through the streets, her mother struggling to heft her bags while she was unburdened by her meager belongings. She carried nothing but the clothes on her, which included her armor. She carried her spear, its head wrapped in its oil-skin and her shield slung on her back. The weight of them made her feel sick, bringing back memories of the fight with the Kamal. A mother clutched tight as iron to her cloak and almost choked her before she stopped in her tracks. “My son! My son, he's trapped!”

She stared open-mouthed at her for a second, stuck between helping or leaving her. She looked to her father and mother, who were steadily disappearing through the crowds, then back to the woman, her eyes wet and frenzied while her child's cries were heard from under a half-fallen house. Perhaps she could do something to help in her life rather than serve herself. Maybe she could leave this mother with the joy of a living child. She swallowed. And then pushed her away hard enough to send her flailing onto her arse, squawking. Another man stepped up to her, yelling something she couldn't understand. Her head was swimming but her hand fist connected with his jaw without a thought. She turned and ran as fast as she could, moreso to run away from her fucking selfishness, her fucking cowardice, her fucking dishonor. She felt sick and had to put a hand to her mouth to keep from vomiting. Wetness was forming at the corners of her eyes as she ran and she could feel her lip quivering. Every eye that fell upon her was a chance at redemption that she had forsaken or an eye of righteous accusation burning into her black soul. Either way, give an animal a choice between another and itself, there's only ever one sure outcome.

* * *

These were animals that only looked like men. The fear in their eyes was the same fear he'd seen in lambs before their throats were opened. Even if the crowds were not parting before him and Mire and his two compatriots, he would've been pushing and shoving and punching. The city be damned, it was too late to dwell now, the only thing that mattered was that his family was alive. He'd warned them of the siege on Whiterun before it came, this city wouldn't be their end. Nothing else mattered, it would've been nice if they could all come to peace and order and march themselves out to safety. But there was no peace or order to appeal to. Shame.

He looked back at his family, Halla too exhausted to weep at the blood and sorrow around her, Solveig keeping her head down with a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of her knife. Mire strode beside him, eyes pressed to lethal slits in his face as he scanned the crowd, a hand resting easy-looking enough on the pommel of his knife, but every muscle in him were coiled springs, ready to spill red. Jorwen kept a good grip on his own knife, eyes darting about the crowd. His thoughts went to Sevine and Do'Karth and young Sagax. He yanked his mind to the present, his family mattered now, he could weep for the others later if he needed to. Tears weren't going to keep his family safe.

It was a miracle that they'd made it to the cavern. Jorwen, Halla, Solveig and the rest of their crew came across in ones or twos. As the bridge creaked more and the rocks fell from the ceiling, the others began to cross in larger groups. Jorwen grabbed a handful of Halla's shirt and put her in front of him as he hurried across the bridge, trying to get away from the terrified fools. Soon, the sound of rope snapping cut through the frenzied grunts and swearing of those trying to cross. Soon, it was replaced by the long screams of those that fell. Jorwen looked back as he, Halla, Mire and Brittle stepped on to solid ground. His breath caught in his throat and his heart stopped when he saw Solveig fall, the look on her face that of complete terror.

* * *

She gripped the rope hard enough to make her knuckles hurt. Her arms and back burned with the effort of not only holding herself up, but an old woman who was grasping onto her, one leg a vice grip on her leg, the other wrapped tight as a noose around her waist. The woman whimpered, “Climb, please, we can make it!”

Solveig didn't trust herself to be able to hold herself up with one hand, even for the split second it would take to put her right hand above her left and climb ever so slowly, inch by inch. She did not want to die. That's the only thing that echoed in her head, that filled her veins, the animal will to survive. Another man swayed next to her, his tongue lolling from his mouth and his eyes crossed. The rope had seemed to tangle him, his wrist pressed against his neck, bulging out over the makeshift noose chance had wrapped around his neck. She swallowed her nerve. Her right hand let go its grasp but she gasped and almost pissed herself as her remaining hand slipped on the rope without the assistance of the other. “I can't!”

“Try!”

“I fucking did!” She screamed. She closed her eyes and tried not to bawl like a child. The strengths in her arms was being leeched away every moment. She felt her hand start to slip with the sweat on her palms. She was not going to fucking die here, not after waking up after being near-brained by a snow-demon. She swung her body, slowly building momentum until she could wrap one leg around the corpse to her side. Soon, she was able to wrap both around the dead man's waist. She let her weight crack a few more bones in his dead neck, but otherwise hold her well enough. “I'm sorry.”

“Wha-” She was cut off by a knife in her neck. She fell without a whisper. And it was a weight off of her, of a sudden. A weight she was shamed to admit, but made her happy not to heft. As she put one hand over the other and climbed, she felt more relief. Her entire being, her entire purpose was to reach the ground on the other side of the chasm and live. Her hand slapped down on the bare rock and then her other did the same. She used them to hoist herself up onto sweet, sweet solid ground, her legs dangling down as if to mock death.

A boot came down next to her face, close enough for her to smell the worn leather of it. She looked up, fear closing her throat. Two of the meanest, dirtiest, ruthless-looking men she'd laid eyes upon stood over her. One of them offered her a hand, “You made it this far with your handiwork, little sister. I like you.”

She swallowed, looking them up and down. Her face dropped into a hard frown and she slapped the offered hand away, “I made it this far on my lonesome. You get in my way, you'll fare no better than her.” She lamely got to her feet and stared the man in the eyes. The hard eyes deep-set in a dirty face reminiscent of a skull. A thin lip smile spread across his lips.

“We've an offer, little sister.” A laugh like a crow's cry escaped him and she felt sick just by the look of him.

She spat, “Shit on it, pig.” And she stalked off, her heart beating fast and mouth dry as the distant deserts.

* * *

Dawnstar. He couldn't believe people willingly lived in such meager means this far north. Even to a Nord like him, it seemed stupid. But a chance to rest and pitch tents and warm himself by a fire was welcomed readily enough, even if it was in Dawnstar. Half a rabbit had been given to Jorwen by Do'Karth, the other half went to Leif and Sevine, the Khajiit told him. So they were alive after all, and Do'Karth too, 'less he was seeing ghosts. He snorted at that thought and spit into the fire. Brittle and Mire sat across from him, Brittle sharpening a knife and Mire on his back, staring up at the sky. Halla was asleep, which he could never blame her. She wasn't used to walking such long distances. It was Solveig that worried him most. Ever since they'd left the city and been chased past its borders, she kept herself distant, but always a trail of bottles behind her, or her waterskin filled with mead or whiskey more often than water.

“You know, I reckon I like your daughter.”

“I'll make a shield from your skin, Mire, if you ever mutter a word about her again.” Jorwen's glare itself threatened to throttle the life out of Mire. Brittle only smiled, his high-pitched laugh stretching on for a moment to cover the otherwise heavy silence.

“She's got some bones in her, got an animal thing in her,” Mire snorted, “A devil, aye, a devil in her. A little like you.”

“Pah.” Jorwen scowled, slapping at the words in the air as he stood. When he got far enough away from the fire, Cleftjaw fell in step with him, almost making him flinch.

“Hey-hey, Chief.” Cleftjaw smiled. Jorwen smiled too. Finally, someone he could trust out of all the people he knew, past family. Cleftjaw held out a horn of mead, “Drink?”

“Fucking 'course.” Jorwen snatched it out of Cleftjaw's hand and almost inhaled it. He drank so deeply that some of it caught in his throat and tried to shoot through his nose. He coughed while he handed it back to Cleftjaw, the long horn almost half-way emptied.

“That's a thirst.” Cleftjaw muttered behind him.

He only chuckled, “And a half, my boy. It's good to see you.”

“Aye, likewise. I like to keep away when I smell the stench of Sutt's men. What do they want from you?” Cleftjaw asked.

“What else does an aging warrior have to ask from another aging warrior? It's either a duel to the death so he can go to Sovngarde if I kill him or grow his name that much bigger if he kills me. Or he wants me in his shield-wall, commanding some men.” Jorwen spat and growled into the night, “I've spent long nights weighing out which is worse.”

Cleftjaw just shrugged and took a drink from his horn, “Sometimes my name's a weight to carry, Chief. Can't even begin to think of the weight on your shoulders.”

“No. Wouldn't want you hefting a name like this.” He took Cleftjaw's offered horn and took another gulp from it, handing it back, he belched and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. They found a place on a fallen tree, where they sat. “I never wanted this, any of it, Cleftjaw.”

“No one does, Chief.” Cleftjaw looked into his mead horn but a hardness he wasn't used to seeing entered his eyes. “But I can't say we don't at least deserve it, eh?”

Jorwen only nodded, solemn. There was truth in there that needed no agreeing to. A truth as solid as the sun setting soon and the moon rising after.

* * *

“Why?” A voice sobbed close to her ear, made her jerk awake. She still had the whiskey cradled tight to her like a child. Her mouth tasted like shit and was drier than anything. She took up a fistful of white snow and shoved it in her mouth, swishing the melted water around before it left her lips in a fine spray. These were the only moments her mind was quiet, but before long, memories rushed back. She waited hour after hour for someone to recognize her, to remember her forsaking the woman's child trapped in the Windhelm rubble. Remember her sticking a knife in the neck of a woman only hoping to see tomorrow, just like her. These were no killings in battle nor a duel in the circle, what she'd done was murder.

Murder in the blackest of ways. She looked at her hands, they didn't look any different, they still had the same calluses, the same scars, the same scabbed knuckles. But they would never feel the same. She'd gotten over the worst of it, the guilt. But there were still the dreams, still the quiet moments. She swallowed and hocked something up, spitting it off into her darkening surroundings. What would her mother think? Or her father? At that thought, she grimaced, spat again, “Shit on that.”

The old man had killed scores, by all accounts. His name was Red-Bear, and if you listened to the stories muttered about by old men still stuck in the past, he wasn't the Red-Bear because of the color of his mane. She was always told by the old warriors that to kill an innocent was the lowest thing you could do, the blackest deed any could imagine. So, what? Killing a man is alright once you hand him a blade and a shield? She snorted, “Shit on that.”

She swallowed her guilt and chased it with the whiskey. It wasn't a long walk back to the fire to find Mire and Brittle sitting there. Mire looked almost like he expected her to come walking out of the trees. “Little sister?”

She had a heavy frown on her face. She swallowed. Just say it, she thought, just fucking say it. She opened her mouth to speak, only a few words and she'd be working with Black Sutt and his men, and they had consciences the size of a tick's arse. You have to serve under a big name to get one yourself, don't you? A right fearsome one she'd earn under Black Sutt, indeed, just like her father's, and men sing praises of the blackest deeds, even. Then her father walked out of the bushes, buckling his belt. “Solveig?” He smiled, looking happy to see her around the fire finally, after a days-long absence.

She did the impossible and frowned even darker, stalking back off into the woods. Her father looked hurt when she glanced at him before she left. She cursed herself for feeling guilty, then cursed herself for being so callous. She couldn't face him knowing the things she'd did, even a man like him would shun her. Fuck her conscience, she thought, cursing it all to Oblivion. She took one last swig from the bottle before she tossed it into the snow, empty, hollow. She snorted a bitter chuckle, couldn't she fucking empathize.

---

Civilization at last, what a relief.

The lights of Dawnstar glowed bright like its name, a shiny beacon of hope for survivors of horrible ordeals. While it was night, and damn late night it was, seeing the few lantern glows alone warmed the heart of many freezing travelers. For the past two days, a mercenary company and part of a Khajiit caravan legged in out across the unforgiving terrains of the Pale. Sure, the time was early summer and bandit activities surprisingly few (highwaymen likely fled hearing Kamal intrusions), the bleak pine forest provided little comforts for those unprepared to weather its cutting winds.

Ashav visited this backwater shithole a grand total of once, on a layover from Solitude to Blacklight. He remembered staying at the Windpeak Inn, which stood proudly in the winds today as it were many years ago. The Khajiits pitched tents outside of town boundaries, a fate accepted by most cat-folks. Seemingly the Khajiits of the company were unbound by this convention, as they followed closely behind the senior Redguard.

At nine and half hours past midday, Windpeak was winding down its evening festivities. When Ashav and the twenty-some hired swords entered its lobby, they found an unlively scene. Empty tables outnumbered occupied ones, and those filled with people tend to be hosting professional drunks or professional drunks-in-training. Even the inn staff were getting off their shifts. No barmaids or tavern boys took orders. Thoring, the inn owner, busied himself with kitchen clean-ups, while his daughter, Karita, was stowing away musical instruments. Only one of their hired hands, Abelone, remained in the meadhall, sweeping around bread crumbs and half-heatedly berating alcoholics.

“Hello?” Abelone greeted the newcomer. Wait, newcomers. Twenty of them. “Thoring, we've got a problem here!”

“Evening,” Ashav hailed as politely as he could. “We came from Windhelm and is looking for-”

“Twenty of you!?” Thoring peaked out of the kitchen. “Is this a jest?” He came out and rubbed his eyes. Sure enough, the inn owner wasn't hallucinating; a herd of armed folks flooded in his inn. “You're mercenaries, your type are not welcomed here. Get lost before I call the guards.”

“Listen-” Ashav went to his coin pouch, filled with not as much gold as he would like. The Jarl payed portions of his contract, for repelling two Kamal waves and containing rioters. However, the rest didn't get a chance to switch hands before certain snow demon turned Lodvemar to paste.

“I said out!” Thoring barked. He sounded tougher than he looks, though he would be reasonably fearsome with his frying pan, to youngsters at least.

“Thoring, he's with me.” Someone stood up from one of the tables. It was a finely groomed Nord man, in his late thirties or early forties. He wore the trappings of a nobleman, with polished metal pieces suited for decoration instead of protection. “This is Ashav, I booked rooms for him and his companions, remember?”

“Him?” Thoring gasped. “Talos damn it all. Alright Gustav, they can stay on one condition; double the deposit. You know, in case of property damage.”

Ashav grumbled under his breath. Coins it is then. He unlatched the purse, only to have the noble-looking Nord beat him to it.

“On my tab.” The high-class man, Gustav assured. “Seven rooms are reserved for your men, on the right.” He waved.

“Ugh, this way, I'll fucking show you to your rooms.” Thoring sighed, not giving a single shit about customer service. “Entitled hooligans.” He muttered under his breath.

“Sit, Ashav.” Gustav nodded to his table when the bulk of the company went to their rooms. The Nord's attention then shifted to Sadri nearby, a smile plastered to his features when the Dunmer came in view.

“Ah, Madura Dalas! I heard you are with the company.” Gustav clasped the only Dunmer around by the shoulder. The real Madura squatted in a bush somewhere, defecating for the umpteenth time as the result of consuming 40-years old turkey that morning.

“Actually-” Ashav tried to interject, but Gustav hushed him with a raised finger.

“I know who this is. Madura Dalas, author of the Reexamination of the Lusty Argonian Maid, correspondent in the Narsis skirmish, connoisseur of Nibenese mudcrabs. Can't say how much I admire your works, come, join us and let me buy you a drink.”

Sadri had still been trying to wrap his head around the sheer stupidity that had gotten Windhelm occupied by invaders from Akavir. He had tried to wrap his head around it as he attempted to balance himself on a dampened plank on the verge of cracking under his weight. He had, again, tried to comprehend the mental course of action as he ran from a metal-clad giant centipede-thing chasing him, and he still had tried to understand it as he slid across a frozen river as the river cracked under the weight of the beast chasing him. Despite the dire circumstances he had gone through in the last few days, Sadri’s mind gave precedence to attempts on understanding the Jarl’s son’s orders rather than survival, for Sadri was, for better or worse, a man who had been through worse circumstances – but never in his adventurous life had he encountered such tragedy caused by such stupidity.

Deep down, Sadri felt bitter about the city’s loss – not because of the fact that it was lost, but because of the manner in which it was lost. He had lost acquaintances all his life, and he had grown accustomed to it, even, but still, senseless waste of life still managed to make him feel bad. Perhaps he wasn’t as sour as he thought. He had even felt a degree of comfort in seeing Cilo alive.

The sight of the inn in Dawnstar was a comfortable sight for Sadri, for the events of the last few days had really gotten to his nerves. On the march, he had been unable to have Mora relieve pressure from his bad eye, and by now, he felt practically half blind. Phantom itches ravaged his lost ear and arm, and lips, cracked because of the cold, tattered as he subconsciously bit on them in frustration. All in all, he wasn’t in that bad of a situation. He scratched his bonemold arm.

Then suddenly, someone put his hand on his shoulder, almost putting him off balance. The man addressed him as Madura Dalas, and invited him for a drink. After an instant of complete surprise, Sadri’s eye met Ashav’s, and then, he felt that he had to make best of the situation. ‘’It is, it is good to have someone who appreciates the work I have done. And you are…?’’

Ashav’s mouth hung open in disbelief. He raised his arm to clarify but Gustav paid him no attention. “Gustav of Solitude, founder of the Snow-Peak Company, loyal subscriber to the Gazette for eight years.” Indeed, this highborn man bubbling as if he just met a legendary hero. “You know, I’ve donated to your associates here in Skyrim many times, infact, the last was merely a month ago.”

“Ah, where are my manners. Sorry, it is such a relieve seeing someone of your talent not becoming casualty.” Gustav held out his hand to shake. Noticing the Dunmer’s prosthetics and missing parts, he raised a curious eyebrow and winced. “Was that from the so-called snow demons? I never knew you are a fighter as well.”

“You know,” Ashav blinked. “Nevermind. Where’s that drink you promised?”

“Thoring!” Gustav called out. “Get us three mugs of your best, the Blackbriar stuff.”

“As you wish.” Thoring bleated without enthusiasm. “Not getting paid enough for this shit.” He mumbled a bit too loud, probably on purpose.

‘’Ah, well, you see, Sir Gustav, if I were a fighter, I reckon I wouldn’t have to bear this now, would I?’’ Sadri jokingly replied to the man as he waved his absent arm. ‘’I am lucky to have, not to brag, some rudimentary knowledge of enchantments, however, to make sure this is only a minor inconvenience for my career.’’ As Sadri kept speaking, the notion that this wasn’t a good idea grew more and more in his brain – but it was too late now, it had been too late since his reply to the man.

“Honey mead for three, last of the evening.” Thoring slammed three mugs down so hard that a quarter of their content spilled out onto the table.

“Ah yes, enchantment, been trying to get into it myself.” Gustav flashed a smile, then dropped down to frown at the mugs. “Don’t mind Thoring, he’s not his best on evenings.”

Ashav let the little spectacle play out for a while, and amusingly, it was the first time “Madura” did the answering. If half of the company barely stood Madura, oh boy, this Gustav is not going be fun. In one long gulp, he downed half of his mug, burping twice afterwards.

“Will you write a piece on enchantment, master Dalas?” Gustav pressed on, not bother to skim his liquor. “I can’t tell you-”

“That’s enough.” Ashav slammed his mug, now empty, as hard as Thoring did. “You can interrogate Sadr-, I mean, Madura, later.” Leaning into the table, Ashav jabbed one finger inches from Gustav’s fineries. Damn, that shirt must costed more than a month’s pay. “How in Oblivion do you know me? How the shit do you know we’ll be here.”

Gustav sighed. As several candles were snuffed out, he leaned back against the wall, face concealed under shadow. “I am a wealthy and influential man.” He shrugged, also drinking from his mug.

“What a surprise.” Ashav sneered in mockery. His arms rested on the table, except it was too dark to see mead until his sleeves soaked in them.

“I hired you. The Reach, Windhelm, who else do you think paid for the arcane charges, the caravan ride, the bunkhouse in Windhelm.” Gustav counted.

“Bunkhouse my ass, it’s a naked warehouse. Have you tried tucking in with a couple hundred Kamals.” Ashav rebutted.

“That I do apologize, I should have never trusted Snake-Oil.” Gustav admitted. He spoke without much heed to Ashav, instead, he bore his gaze on the Dunmer primarily. “Now, now, surely it couldn’t be that bad? Master Dalas?”

Sadri felt more and more out of his element as this man revealed himself to be his employer’s employer – careful manipulation of words would be needed, and hopefully Ashav wouldn’t burst right through them. He hoped that Ashav would manage to stay as the primary subject of the man’s attention, but, unfortunately for our lovely impostor, it seemed that things weren’t going to be that way.

‘’Uh, our esteemed warrior Ashav here has a point – I have to say, I noted many of our brothers having to pay from their own pockets for better accommodation, including myself – the conditions were, to be frank, horrible.’’

Sadri looked at Gustav, his good eye meeting the man’s eyes, and then pulled out the small flask that contained Mora. ‘’Do you mind? The Snow Demons’ barrage put me in a situation that requires treatment, you see…’’ He asked as he dipped his fingers inside the flask and pulled out the small leech which flexed around the familiar hands of its owner.

“Ew, filthy worm.” Gustav jerked back in his chair, smashing his head against the wall. “Sorry, it’s just, well, in your journal of Stormhold, you expressed specific disdain for oligochaeta. I guess desperate times calls for desperate measures.”

“Again, an oversight.” Gustav returned to the topic of Windhelm.

“You’ll get used to it, he had it for a while.” Ashav said about the leech. “I mean, had it for a while since encountering Kamals.” The Dunmer was so focused on his facade that his mead was spared. Ashav took “Madura’s” mug and drank half of it, gods know he need it after so long.

“Speaking of Kamals, was that an oversight too?”

“Yes, uh, no, look, let me explain.” Gustav adjusted his tone. He was talking serious now, focusing on the Redguard instead of the Dunmer. “I was advised by a wise man, a prophet. This was the same man who helped my business endeavors.” The Nord took another swig before going forward. “Two months ago, he told me a crisis looms on the horizon, that we are to build up a shield should we to weather it. So I did, using the Reach campaign as recruitment and field trial. Two weeks ago, the prophet sent another message, he said the first flashpoint would erupt in Windhelm, and our forces should be there on standby. I never expected that crisis to be Akavir, and never a flashpoint so quick. Should I knew, I would have better prepared.”

“On the bright side, you two and the rest are here. It makes for one wicked story, wouldn’t it, master Dalas?”

While Sadri had planned to put away Mora at first, he decided to go along with the procedure after Gustav misidentified it as a worm, even though it was not a worm but a leech. He purred Mora’s belly (or was it back? Sadri couldn’t tell) and then held it to the side of his forehead, and let it stick as he intently listened to the man’s conversation with the hammered Redguard, sniffing out of his nose half-audibly with every slip-up the man made regarding his identity.

The man’s story came off as somewhat wild, but somehow, that made it all too believable for Sadri. He sighed as he put his hand on the edge of the table and began speaking deliberately.

‘’As evident your interest in my works is, I’m afraid I will have to correct you by pointing out that this particular creature is not of the oligochaeta, but is in fact a hirudine,’’ Sadri replied as he felt the pressure relieve from his eye. How a term that he had last seen a decade ago came to his mind, he did not know, but Oblivion be damned, his brain was doing a good job. ‘’As a journalist, of course I am interested in how captivating the story is, but I would also prefer to see to the end of it without any problems, and to see that my compatriots also do so. But of course, I would also like to see this scourge of beasts leave our beautiful Tamriel undefiled, so I may continue reporting the many beauties hidden amongst its landscape, people, and societies.’’

Sadri breathed out from his mouth slowly. That was a mouthful.

“Uh, right.” The leech continued disturbing Gustav, this man does not get along with leeches or worms. “We are on the same page, master Dalas. I would not rest until these snow demons are gone for good.” He declared.

“Oreochip, herpuderp, what?” Ashav glanced around confused. Hammered was an accurate description, seeing how the Redguard emptied the Dunmer’s mug as well. His speech started to slur and words came out less and less coherent. “Kill snow demons, what do you know, heh?” Ashav slouched back, kicking a leg on the stained table. “Where, what, no, why are you here? Where do you want us to go?”

“Drunk already?” Gustav mouthed silently to the Dunmer. “I came here to assess the situation, to either aid you or find replacements if necessary; won’t be the latter now.” He explained.

“As for the next step? I’m not sure.” The Nord admitted. The last few candles were dying, and the drunks either stumbled out or snorted on their seats. The room was nearing pitch darkness, quiet save for mercenaries getting ready to sleep. “I suppose we wait for the prophet, and in the meantime, recuperate. The jarl here also wanted an expedition to Winterhold, because someone came from that direction this morning, screaming like mad on how the entire city crumbled, again. Strange thing was, the college still stands, or so they said.”

“Madura, if you don’t mind me calling you that.” Gustav grinned. He felt like he made friend with the most popular kid in the sandbox. “Perhaps the Gazette sent you an early draft? We could start with their leads.”

Sadri gave Ashav a blank look as he watched the man move sluggishly in his seat. Things were getting serious, and all of a sudden, it felt as if he was in deep trouble. Every second spent on the seat next to Ashav was making things worse, it appeared, but he couldn’t just get up and leave. Things were becoming somewhat uncomfortable, even for a person like Sadri. He just hoped that this business would be over with as soon as possible. Then he’d have to take care of Madura somehow. Maybe he had some of these drafts the man was talking about.

‘’Gustav, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to keep up correspondence with the Gazette for the last few weeks,’’ Sadri spoke with a hint of hesitation that he tried to shape into regret. ‘’I suppose we will need to wait for your… prophet, as you said.’’

“That’s just too bad.” Gustav wiped mead drops from his chin. “All the more reason to sail for Winterhold.” With Ashav at a semi-lucid state, Gustav whipped out a notepad and a quill. “A request, Madura, may I have your sig-”

“Ashav!” Another Dunmer bursted into Windpeak, his howl rivaled wolves. This Dunmer was rather shabby looking, his face was white, and something dripped from behind. His britches wasn’t even fully fastened, and pieces of leaves clung to waterproof enchanted gear. “Where are the, uh, sanitation supplies?”

“Another Dunmer.” Gustav mused. “You with the company too?” He asked the newcomer.

“Sure, I just need wipes, after that I’ll tell you all about myself, Mad-”

“In Edith’s room, third to the right.” Ashav waved squiggly to the left. “Cuckoo, that jour-” Ashav made swirls beside his head, his intoxicated eyes scanned Gustav, the Dunmer, the Dunmers; he caught himself just in time. “No, leave! Go wash yourself in the sea, salt water’s good for your skin, trust me, I do it all the time, hehe.”

The latest dark elf spat out a string of curses, fumbling with his pants so he won’t trip himself on his way to Dawnstar bay. When he left, Gustav sniffed the air, something was foul. “What just happened? Ashav?” Prodding the Redguard yielded nothing. Why would it be otherwise? The man just collapsed on the table. “Madura, you alright?”

Sadri could barely contain himself from jumping straight out of the window once Madura had walked in, though thankfully, Gustav did not recognize Madura for who he truly was, and Ashav was able to control the situation in one last bit of sobriety before falling back to his stupor. Madura, the real Madura, wasn’t really that strong of a character, and given his shitty situation, it was no wonder why he didn’t object to Ashav’s order to go wash himself in the sea.

As Gustav asked about what happened, Sadri couldn’t help but think he had screwed up majestically. At least they would have to leave for Winterhold, where hopefully he wouldn’t see any more of this Gustav fellow. One way or another, the situation had to be resolved, and he did not want it to be resolved against his favor.

‘’Uh, that was Renym. Ashlander, you see, not much in the name of manners. He doesn’t know much about the basics of sanitation.’’

Sadri sighed. ‘’I’m alright, Gustav, thank you. It’s just that these latest events haven’t been terribly kind on my health. I’m afraid I may have to take my leave, but I shall definitely see you later.’’ Sadri shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eager to leave, and possibly have a talk with Madura. It appeared that they were going to get sent to Winterhold this time. He wasn’t all too enthusiastic on where that would lead.

“Ashlander? Don’t you have ashlander lineage?” Gustav raised an eyebrow. The more they talked, the suspicious he was of the dark elf. “You said they were quite proficient in the ways of sanitation.”

“Ah, what the hell. I am tired and our friend Ashav is drunk.” Gustav resigned. “Well, I can imagine traveling must be hard on you, so I won’t disturb the rest of your evening.” The Nord man stood up, surveying knocked-out drunkards splayed about the room. Only two candles burned, which meant moonlight seeped in through roof-mounted apertures. The light was bloody red. “It was nice meeting you, Madura. Don’t be afraid to give me a shout if you need anything, I am in the deluxe room down the right.” He extended a farewell handshake, then shook Ashav lightly on his way out. The company leader was out cold, not even snorting in his comatose state.

Sadri extended his right arm back for the handshake as the Nord nobleman took his leave, but realized that he was offering nothing in the manner of a handshake, what with the bonemold stump. He gave an uneasy laugh, which one could assume was because of extending an arm that wasn’t there, but was actually because of having managed to avoid the man’s last probe.

‘’Hm, now that you mention it… I think you may be able to give me a hand,’’ Sadri smiled as smugly as the situation would allow. He just couldn’t help it.

Perhaps this could lead to something good.

“A hand, ha, you are a witty man, Madura.” Gustav chuckled. “An enchanter in Solitude makes just the sort thing, looks like I’ll have to call her debt in.” Brushing off his expensive coat, Gustav cleared his throat. “A prosthetic hand it is. I’ll have it out tomorrow morning, you can count it.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Gustav added halfway down the dark hall. “They’ll have to mail it back on Gazette couriers, you know how it is, regular parcels get “lost” during wartime. Pickup’s kind of messy, need credentials and such, but a weighty name like yourself should have zero problems.”

"Mmmff... five more minutes Bryn..." The sleepy, muttered words came from the heap of blankets on the bed, a tousled mess of black curls barely visible beneath the covers. The shouting fell to deaf ears, but as Sagax brayed on the door once more, Rozalia cracked open one eye, momentarily confused.

"Hm? Where am I? This isn't the Bee and Barb..." Sitting up with a light wince, further loud crashes wrested Roze from the vestiges of her dream - which had been a pleasant one, making her awakening all the more disappointing.

More yelling, and the ringing of steel as swords clashed forced Roze from her bed - causing her to almost bend double in pain as she fully recalled the events that had brought her her.

"Ohhhh.... fuck... injuries, yup, gotta remember that." She hissed, pulling her boots on as fast as she could to see what ruckus was going on outside. For one brief moment, she had been terrified to consider that the Kamal had attacked again while she had slept, and had stormed the city. It was, in fact, just...

Argonians?

They were swarming around a guard, who was getting bloodier with each stomp, kick, and punch the rioters threw at him. Watching on for a brief moment - still somewhat stuck in the clutches of sleep, and wondering if she was still dreaming (Because who in their right fucking mind would be rioting at a time like this?) - one of the Argonian's spotted her watching, and began making his way toward her, frenzy evident in his reptilian eyes.

"Oh, for fuck's sakes! Like we don't have enough to deal with, without you scaly bastards attacking people and destroying shit?!" She exclaimed before heaving herself out of the shattered window behind her - unstrung bow still in hand, and injuries not appreciating the effort of her actions. Still, it was better than being beaten to death by a load of angry lizard-men.

With Sagax gone - hopefully he hadn't run off to try and play the hero again - Roze considered her options. She had no desire in trying to calm the crowd; diplomacy was hardly her forte, and she had no strength in her to do anything physical about it. The Gray Quarter was swarmed, which meant there was no getting back to Leif's house... therefore, her shadows remained her only ally for the moment.

And there Rozalia stayed - avoiding the commotion, and attempting to find something to aid her. Finding the blacksmiths, she spent a few moments picking the lock; breaking more than a couple on the complicated thing, but managing it all the same. Inside, she retrieved several strips of leather, and a new bowstring - she would be unable to do anything with them for the moment, but the strips would repair her armour somewhat when she had the time, and her bow... well, perhaps Sevine could string it for her.

"Won't do any good if I can't use it again, is it?" That bitter thought struck her as she knelt in the shadows of the quiet smithy; gazing at her father's bow as the outside light danced across its scratched, reflective surface. If he were here, he could teach her how to string it with just her mouth and her feet... but he was nowhere to be found.

Where were her parents? Had her mother perished in Solstheim? Or in the fight again the Kamal? Or worst still, had her father been among the dead? She and her mother had no idea as to where he had disappeared off too; for all she knew, she was in the exact same mercenary group as he had been. He had been a mercenary, after all...

"Of all the times to get homesick, Roze..." She whispered to herself, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "Steal now - get broody later."

And with that, the young rogue snatched a few septims from the nearby shop counter, and returned to the shadows outside once again until the riot had subsided.

---

Rozalia had remained in her inn room for most of the time after the riot - she felt fatigued to a great amount, so much so she could barely bring herself to go and search for her comrades. She doubted any of them had perished in the riot, but there still remained the threat of being crushed to death by the debris being sent over by the Kamal. Chances were that she probably made it more likely for herself to be hit, what with staying in the same room for hours on end - but there was a weariness over Rozalia that made her uncaring towards that potential fate. It would be a quick one, at least. She only withdrew from her room on the sixth, when word had it that the Kamal had challenged the Jarl to single combat.

That was a strange thing to occur, for her. How could such monsters be able to communicate with them, to even suggest something so... so, human? Either way, it didn't matter. The man wouldn't be able to kill a Kamal on his own, not without using foul play. And the Jarl was a righteous and proud warrior - he wouldn't cheat. He would fail, he would die, and then the city would belong to the Snow Demons.

And then all of them would perish.

As it happened, Roze's predictions had been correct. Fleeing with a number of her fellows to one of their safehouses, only to learn of tunnels from some scrawny Nord man. She was disconcerted to learn of this only now - so much for the Guild's resources, right? - but took his word for it anyway. It was hardly like they had any other choice.

---

The journey had not been an easy one. If Roze had been on her own, she would have slipped past the Kamal with utmost ease, probably even able to steal something from them before fleeing back to the safety of shadows. But crowds of people rarely have such stealth about them, much to Roze's ire. Although it had been easy enough for her to stay hidden, the screams of the dying and the guttural, alien noises of the Kamal punctuated the night air. Her breath left her in sharp bursts, the cold stinging her lungs and clouds of breath betraying her to the night. But she had outran the Kamal, or they had simply grown weary of their prey. As they re-grouped, she was relieved to see her friends alive still... but so few had made it out of the forest. As each hour passed, it seemed they were losing more and more people - she was not used to this. This amount of death, and sorrow, and grief. The atmosphere was akin to that of a few years ago, when the dragons had returned; but there was no Dovahkiin to protect them now. No, that tyrant lay hidden in the depths of Solitude, in the very castle she had once broken into many moons ago.

Why is this happening? Why did I join this group? Why am I still alive? _{why, why, why?} These troubled thoughts did not leave Rozalia's mind for a good while - an uncharacteristically sobering expression set upon her face as they made their way to Dawnstar. She had no jokes left, nor mirth, nor joy. The group would not have taken kindly to it, anyway. Now was not a time for jesting... and for one who relied so heavily on making light of dark situations, t'was a disturbing thought indeed.

---

---

It was colder even in Dawnstar than Windhelm, and her cloak did nothing to fight the cold. The inn was packed, the rooms full to bursting, and there was no way she'd be able to get in one - not with far sourer and stronger folk filling them up. Instead she remained outside, by the docks and inhaling the cold scent of saltwater... the air here seemed cleaner than Windhelm's sea air - but perhaps that it was just the lack of Kamal that made the scene all the better. However, the rusty light of the moons shimmered across the dark waters of the bay, casting a sickly, bloody look across the water... as if slaughter had already happened here, and they did not know it yet. That thought sent a shiver down her spine, one not just brought on by the biting cold.

As for Rozalia herself, she hadn't improved much from Windhelm. The bandages around her midriff had unravelled during their journey here, forcing her to give up her sling in order to further staunch the wound. The wound upon her shoulder had eased in it's pain somewhat, giving way to a dull stiffness that did not seem to shift, no matter how much she was able to move it around without succumbing to pain. Therein remained her worry, of it never returning to it's full capability again. And what that would mean for her days of archery, she did not know. Either way she looked at it, things were remaining dire. Windhelm had been stormed, she had no notion of where her Mother was, and Roze herself was not getting any better as the days went on. The caravan's had been sorely lacking in any form of potion or medical aid, but one of the Khajiit had been kind enough to save a health potion for her when next they brewed one. Which, judging by their stock, wasn't going to be anytime soon.

"Those Gods of Sagax's would come in real handy right about now." Roze muttered, fingers gently caressing the ridges of her amulet of Mara, as she stared at the bleeding twin moons.

"What are you writing now, furball? It'd better be about my armless exploits."

Sylvanis' abrupt words shattered Rhasha's concentration, and he looked to his Bosmeri friend with a light jolt, tiny drops of ink flicking from his quill at the movement.

"Ah... just about the events that have passed." He replied hastily, allowing the words to dry before closing his small journal. Now having calmed his mind and away from dangers, Rhasha had found some time to finally write in the book once more. Not that the words were particularly easy to write, at some times. "I'll be sure to include you - do not fear, Sylva. How could this one tell the story of the siege of Windhelm without mentioning you and your hammer?" He added with a grin, standing up and stretching. The pair were sat among the Khajiiti caravaners, on the outskirts of Dawnstar.

Following the finding of Sylva - and her missing arm - things had become far worse for the people of Windhelm. First of all, a riot broke out; the Argonians, demanding to leave the city, eventually becoming a swarm of fury and frenzy and destroying - or, at least attempting to - everything and everyone in their path. At this point, Rhasha'Dar had stood guard by the alleyway which led to the cluster of wounded that lay in the area; his spear in hand, a defensive stance locking his legs into place, and a stoic look set in his eyes - if the people chose to panic, that was to their own will. But he would not allow them to hurt the already injured and dying in the process of it.

As luck would have it, the riot avoided that area of Windhelm they lay in, and the city quieted... most of the noises only belonging to the crash and crumble of the debris hitting various things, and the occasional scream or wail in the distance. More died, more were injured, and some recovered from their wounds - Sylvanis included. Well, as best as one could recover from losing a limb, especially when one needed it as much as she did. But, infection stayed, and dues to the Kamal which had amputated her - the cut had been a very clean one. Almost surgical, which was concerning to say the least... just how advanced were these creatures to have weapons of surgical standard? The axe that had mutilated his Bosmer friend must have been sharp enough to shatter other metals, and the strength behind it was a force to behold. Rhasha's ribs still ached from where the Kamal had flung him against the wall in the first wave of attacks. And that had been with just a flick of the beasts' wrist.

As it happened, the true complicity of the Kamal made itself known with the prospect of victory or defeat by single combat... a shocking ploy, but a futile one on the side of the people in Windhelm. Nobody had expected such an offer, but considering the sheer awesomeness of the Kamal, it would be a pointless venture by the Jarl. Having donned Sylvanis' gauntlets to carry both her hefty warhammer and his own weapons and pack (She had been strong enough to at least carry her own pack, thank Azurah), they took refuge with the others, (While in the safehouse, even coming across a poor fellow he was actually able to help. A young Redguard, suffering from a not so kind poison - he was able to lessen the man's fever and pain after brewing and administering a potion for the fellow, instantly curing him), and then following on as they fled the city in the underground tunnels.

That action did not exactly sit well in the heart of Rhasha'Dar - leaving the people to an unknown fate at the hands of the Snow Demons. What did they plan on doing to the survivors of Windhelm? What had been their motive in attacking the city in the first place? Was this an invasion ploy?

Such questions were being pondered by most, Rhasha supposed. So he did not ask them, because he knew nobody had the answers... all the group had was the want - no, the need - to survive this. That was why they had fled. To survive, and to tell others of what had happened.

Because hopefully, if the other cities had warning, they could stop this.

"This one is going for a wander, Sylva. Stay out of trouble - and for the love of Ahnurr, don't get involved with any bets with the twins. They'll swindle you, arm or no." Rhasha gently nudged Sylvanis with the toe of his boot, and she glared up at him from the floor, punching the offending foot.

"I'll bet as I please, you cur. I may have lost an arm, but I have enough smarts left in me to know when I'm being cheated of a few septims."

"Hmm... if you say so, Sylva. This one will tell them to leave you enough for drinks, yes?"

At that, Rhasha walked off, laughing as she swatted at his legs again. As he left, the twins watched on, conspiratorial grins growing upon their faces as their elder brother approached. Rhasha'Dar had been most joyous to be reunited with the caravan at Nightgate Inn; his siblings had found him immediately, the pair throwing themselves weeping, on their brother whom they had feared had perished to the Kamal. It had been an emotional time, but after a few nights of catching up with one another, Ma'Zardi and Ma'Zargo were back to peddling to customers and pestering Sylva. As it turned out, she would be journeying on with the caravan until they hit one of the Orcish strongholds to the west. Rhasha thought this would be best, as she would find some aid in the large group. He hated to think of her journeying alone, with no useful weapons and only one functioning hand, the other a not-fully healed stump.

As for Rhasha, he himself would be remaining with the group. They had much left to do, after the Kamal attack. He also would not be able to bring himself to leave his new friends... especially to deprive Sevine of her love in fur.

Lighting his pipe and chewing on the end out of habit as he puffed, Rhasha'Dar walked towards the small town of Dawnstar, and the Inn that lay quite compellingly ahead. Feeling freer than he had for days, Rhasha decided it was high time to rejoin with his companions, and perhaps share a drink with them.

Out in the darkness of Dawnstar bay, a lone Dunmer waded halfway in the waves. He stood far from the wharfs, out of the reach of lanterns and ship lights. Only the scarlet moons shone his part of the water, so Madura assumed to be at the most private location possible without risks slaughterfish bites to soft spots. His pants and shoes were left on the beach, and armed with naught but a stiff brush (found on someone’s canoe), the journalist set to scrub his rear in saltwater.

“Saltwater’s good for my skin, my ass.” Madura fumed to himself. The scene was silent enough to hear his own voice carry off into the distance. “Heh, ass.” He smirked at his own cleverness.

“Ouch! f-” Scrubbing too hard with rough bristles, Madura opened a small gap in his behind. Salt immediate flooded into the wound, literally. More curses edged but Madura froze in place. His eyes froze on a moving shape from the town’s direction; wait, is that someone coming?

‘’I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.’’

For Sadri, the cold waters biting and nibbling at his bare legs like icy needles was not actually very unfamiliar – for a sailor, it was practically part of everyday life, but for a shipwreck survivor, it also surfaced many unpleasant memories. The cold raised the hairs on Sadri’s skin – and for a moment, he felt his lost arm also tingling with the cold, which was not a very nice feeling. But he had no right to complain; he had asked for this. After all, trying to scam someone you don’t know could lead to bad things, and Sadri had already fucked up the first part. Now he hoped he could make sure nothing would reach him.

And as he waded further into the waters, he saw the magic man, in all his half-naked glory, trying to wipe shit off his ass. While the situation wasn’t very unfamiliar for Sadri, the water meant that whatever Madura’s bowels contained could be a lot more far-reaching, and Sadri preferred his clothes clean. His absent hand keeping the scabbard above the water, Sadri walked closer and closer to the journalist, and eventually stopped at a distance that he found appropriate.

‘’Fancy meeting you here, kinsman. Must’ve had a very shitty day to end up in these waters,’’ Sadri said, with the hint of a grin on the side of his mouth. He just couldn’t help it.

“Holy periwinkle bull netch stingers!” Madura nearly jumped out of the water when he saw Sadri drawing close. However, the journalist had neither the energy or the indecency to hoist up his clothless lower half. “Ahem, hi? It’s, you know, shitty indeed.” The water was near freezing, but being tortured by diarrhea the entire day, Madura could no longer care about this kind of thing. Carefully backing away, he barely stammered anything out. “Did—did Ashav sent you out too? Damn fool.” In the process of retreating, Madura stepped on some hard object on the seafloor, almost tripping him. He spun to find himself retreating into oncoming waves. That was not the direction anyone wanted to head to on a creepy “bloodmoon” night.

“Well uh, water’s all yours.” Madura waved weakly. “If you don’t mind, I need to go dress myself.” He began walking up to where his pants were. Before Sadri interrupted, Madura got in a couple of solid scrubs on hard to reach nooks. With this crappy brush, this was as clean as he will get.

‘’Now, now, Madura, we’ve got to talk,’’ Sadri replied to the rightfully scared journalist as he raised his sword’s scabbard to halt Madura’s return to the shore. ‘’You like to talk, don’t you?’’ Without expecting a response, Sadri waited for only a moment, and continued, with a much more serious tone.

‘’Now, my friend, I should let you know that our leader’s employer is a very keen fan of your works, but he has some things mistaken about you. Namely, he thinks you’ve lost one of your arms, and also, he thinks you kind of look like me.’’

Sadri gave Madura a moment to realize the implications of his statement, and continued once again.

“What? Are you kidding me?” Madura stared blankly at nothing, trying his hardest to avoid the other Dunmer. When Sadri’s face did pass, Madura saw complete seriousness, if not a little annoyed. “Oh no, this can’t be true; what did you get yourself into?” The gravity of this ridiculous situation sunk in bit by bit. Once again, Madura found his knees too weak to move.

‘’Now, I took advantage of this man’s ignorance in more than a couple of ways, and now, it seems that he thinks you are not actually you, but an Ashlander who goes by the name of Renym. For the sake of our employer, and for the sake of our safety, I would suggest that we keep up the façade. Or you could simply try to fit in with what the man thinks you look like now, but you wouldn’t want to lose that arm of yours now, would you? And that left ear, too. They don’t grow back, you know.’’

“So that was why you three were huddled together.” Madura’s cheeks flushed with red, the humiliation of letting three grown men see him in his, undignified state, was unpleasant to say the least.

Sadri took a breath. He had to cut to the chase.

‘’You’ve got three options here. One of them is that you pretend that you’re Renym the Ashlander for the foreseeable future around our Nordic patron. And as for the others… I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear about them.’’

“Are you threatening me?” The journalist dropped his jaw in disbelief. “You talked trash for your own gains, now you are forcing me to play along?” He shook his head. “No way, Ashav will have your hide for this.”

‘’Ashav also played along,’’ Sadri cut in right after Madura finished speaking. That card would be important – he was the authority, after all.

‘’There’s a reason he told you to go to the sea when you came in, you know. Look, if you go in, introduce yourself as Madura Dalas, that guy’ll think that Ashav screwed him over on that ordeal, it’s going to put him in a bad situation. It’s going to put me in a bad situation. In that case, you’re the one who’ll cause Ashav trouble, and in that case he’ll have your hide for not cooperating.’’

Sadri sighed. If only people would just cooperate.

‘’Now, I’m giving you options. You can play along until this blows over, or you can go ahead and fuck Ashav over. Guess which one of them is likely to end bad for you.’’

“This is outrageous.” Madura threw up his hands. Walking away was tempting, but the more he considered Sadri’s words, the more sense they made, surprisingly. This was turning out to be a lose-lose choice, he would screw himself and others over whatever he does. “Fine.” Madura resigned. “I will play along, only when I’m asked. You need to get the rest onboard, if it comes to that. And you better stop demanding more from Ashav’s employer, on my name, that is.” Hanging his head in bitterness, Madura dragged himself towards the beach.

‘’It might already be too late for that,’’ Sadri quipped in with a somewhat more joking tone after Madura finished speaking. ‘’The guy really wanted to get Madura Dalas a new arm, you see,’’ he said, moving his bonemold stump for Madura to notice. Then Sadri’s voice suddenly dropped to a serious low tone again. ‘’But I’m not stupid enough to keep asking for favors in your name. The sooner the whole event’s forgotten, the better, so just try to stay out of that guy’s sight – I know I will.’’

“Frigging Oblivion…” Madura groaned.

Sadri paused. That could be kind of hard, now that he thought of it. The guy was a die-hard fan after all.

‘’You keep your past writings handy?’’ Sadri asked, with a tone that made his question sound almost unrelated.

“Why yes, some of it.” Sadri’s tone caught Madura off guard momentarily. Obviously, this question was no way out of curiosity. “You want them for your ruse, don’t you?” Madura pointed a finger at Sadri. “You tell him that I, you, Madura, no longer have any on hand.” He made sure to emphasize the word “hand”. After all, this elf relentlessly mocked him for his stomach troubles, it was only fair Madura gets the final laugh.

‘’You sure like keeping your shit to yourself, eh?’’ Sadri countered after Madura’s remark. He didn’t exactly want to make the situation any worse, but eh, it was already pretty shitty, in nearly every sense of the word. ‘’I’m just asking in case the guy starts asking about you, uh, me again. I may have made some remarks contradictory to your writings,’’ Sadri confessed. He wasn’t really good at being a conman, but then again, he had spent his entire life doing things he probably wasn’t meant to do. It was in the blood, he guessed.

“How would he even know? You're supposed to be the writer, the authority.” Madura raised an eyebrow.

‘’Guy called out my leech because you apparently ‘expressed a distaste for oligochaeta in your journal of Stormhold’. Can’t be much of an authority there.’’ Sadri rolled his eyes.

“Seriously, that man is obsessed.” Madura sighed. He began to shiver now, as the cold water drained out more and more heat. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” The journalist rubbed against some of goosebumps. “It is in my pack, over there beside my clothing. You do not give any to that man, and do not do anything to my work, understood?”

‘’Right. Keep the books clean and return them when due,’’ Sadri replied to Madura’s request dryly as the dull memories of the Bergama Library sent a tinge of nostalgia through his limbs. Back when he had four limbs, a sense of excitement, and all the time in Mundus. ‘’Just like old times,’’ Sadri thought to himself as he walked towards the shore alongside Madura. There was some reading to do before sleep.

“How did I get myself in this?” Madura mumbled. “If only I did not eat that spoiled turkey. Thrice damned turkey.”

After separating from Sagax, Tsleeixth didn’t much to help the besieged city. Being wounded as he was he couldn’t help with the more physical tasks and, as such, he was relegated to a self-imposed patrol of the city to try and see if any of the Argonian population was continuing to cause troubles for the city's defenders.

Yet it seemed that the Pakseech’s words had reached the ears of most of the Saxhleel population of Windhelm, with the Argonian spellsword running only into the occasional troublemaker which he was able to handle -relatively- easily. As such, the Argonian mercenary went to bed in his room in Candleheart hall with a relatively -when one takes into account the fact that they were trapped in a besieged city- calm mind, relieved by the fact that the situation of the Argonian riot had been averted before more damage had been done. With that, the Argonian soon settled in the rented bed, waiting for sleep to come to him after the exhausting events of the day yet once it did the only thing he found in his sleep were more of the same dreams he had experience the night before his encounter with the Pakseech.

---

When morning came the next day, Tsleeixth woke up with a groan. Propping himself upwards with his good hand, rubbing his face afterwards to stave off the last remnants of his dream“The same dream again, wonder how long they’ll last” He said with a heavy sigh. It was evident that the Argonian hadn’t had a good night of sleep, plagued by the dreams of the Kamals invading Black Marsh a problem that was only worsened by the constant sound made by the siege weapons that the Kamal had brought to breach Windhelm’s sturdy walls.

Standing up and dressing himself, the Argonian went by what had become his daily routine in his current situation, that is to say that he offered what little help he could in his current situation, until he overheard something that made him freeze on the spot. The invaders from Akaviri had challenged the Jarl of Windhelm to single combat. Blinking in confusion for a few seconds, he approached the man whom he had heard saying the shocking news “Is it true what you say? The Kamals challenged the Jarl to single combat?” Asked the shocked Argonian.

“‘Tis true, the Demons released one of their prisoners back to the city, apparently he came with a scroll that issued the challenge to the Jarl”

Tsleeixth nodded, shocked by the news “Thanks for answering me” He mumbled before he hurried away back to Candleheart Hall. Something didn’t sit right with him, he had seen the might of the Kamal’s at the battle of the docks and they also had siege weaponry...so why bother with issuing a challenge to the Jarl of Windhelm? Slaves? Demoralizing tactics? Hoping to minimize damage to the city in an effort to occupy it with more ease? These and thousands of other questions raced inside Tsleeixth’s mind as he made hi way towards the inn, only to stop when he saw Jarl Lodvemar, his son not too far from him, going towards the gate with a guard escort.

Looking around, Tsleeixth saw the various commanders of the various forces that protected the city, briefly spotting Ashav amidst them, and followed the group until he found himself inside the wall, looking as Lodvemar went to face the Kamal’s champion. Tsleeixth winced as he saw the Kamal pulling out his weapons, clutching the shoulder of his broken arm; he had first-hand experience with the strength that the Kamal possessed and could only imagine it’s devastating effects when used in conjunction with weapons such as the warhammers that the Kamal had chosen for the duel.

As such, the result of the duel didn’t surprise the Argonian spellsword at all. For while Lodvemar had put a valiant fight, a Kamal -specially one who had enchanted weapons- was superior to one enemy combatant something that Tsleeixth had learned the hard way. He looked as the Kamal backed away back to his kin, but was startled when he heard the Jarl’s son screaming. He opened his mouth in astonishment when the kid demanded that someone go avenge his father, his astonishment only growing when some of the guards, a hundred or so, complied with the orders of the lad.

What happened next seemed like a blur to the Argonian’s eyes. The vengeful guards opened the gates and charged outside, something that the Kamals seemed to have been expecting for they launched some sort of projectile that froze the controls of the gate, killing those who were trying to operate them. ”So that’s why they issued the challenged, they wanted us to make a mistake like this one.” Mused the Argonian spellsword bitterly. He heard Ashav giving his orders along with other commanders but, eventually, it was Ashav the one whom everyone seemed to listen to.

When Ashav gave the order to scatter it came as no surprise, with the gates wide open and with no possibility of closing them it was only a matter of time for Windhelm to come under total Kamal control. He soon made his way to Candleheart Hall, quickly retrieving his things before he made his way towards Leif’s house; he breathed a sigh of relief once the last member of their group, a Nord that he had never seen before, entered the house and listened as the man revealed the existence of tunnels leading outside of the city, giving them a chance to escape from the Kamals.

The hours passed as Ashav and the different commanders coordinated the escape from the doomed city and, by afternoon, it seemed that everything was set up for their escape from Windhelm. He made his way towards one of the wells and, with the help of some of the other people escaping, he managed to descend to the tunnels underneath the city. As he walked through the maze that ran underneath the city, a feeling of failure slowly sunk into Tsleeixth’s mind ”I guess this is it, no matter how much we sacrificed, how much we fought, in the end it was all for naught.” He thought bitterly, letting out a heavy sigh as they followed the lead of the mysterious Nord man that he had seen at Leif’s house.

Absorbed in his thoughts as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t hear the screams of the people behind him as the unstable plank bridge began falling apart, sending many to an early grave as they fell into the bottomless pit. Instincts kicked in as he grabbed to one of the planks with his good arm ”Heh, guess this is my end.” He thought, a bitter chuckle escaping from his lips as he closed his eyes, waiting for the plan to finally fall and put an end to his existence. Except that it would seem that his end hadn’t come yet, for Tsleeixth soon felt someone grabbing his arms “Come brother, hold on.” He heard the old Pakseech said and, soon enough, felt another hand grabbing him by the other shoulder; he was soon pulled upwards by the Pakseech and another Argonian.

Panting slightly, Tsleeixth felt his lips curling upwards “My thanks Pakseech, you as well brother” Said the spellsword, receiving a smile and a pat in the shoulder from the Pakseech in return and a silent nod from the other Argonian. Afterwards, Tsleeixth fell in with the small group of Argonians accompanying the elder, five or so without counting him and the Pakseech himself. The remaining trek was uneventful, Tsleeixth still absorbed in his thoughts, until they surface outside of the city walls, straight into what had become a Kamal outpost. ”Well, seems fate is not on our side today.” He thought wearily, a soft sigh escaping from his lips. The wait for them to try and escape felt unbearably slow, and many times Tsleeixth felt like bolting away with no care for the fate of the 50 or so people that would suffer the consequences, part of him wondered why he thought like that, was it perhaps the presence of the Kamal? Or perhaps the fall of the city had set him on edge more than he had thought? He pondered on this questions, fully aware that he normally never thought of doing something like that.

Regardless, time went by and eventually the group tried to sneak away from the camp something that was bound for failure when one takes into consideration the number of people. He heard Ashav screaming for everyone to run to the forest, and order that he promptly followed; shame burned within him as he ignored the screams of those that were cut by the Kamal and their war-beasts as he ran to save his own skin, part of his mind telling him to at least die with some honor, taking as many Kamals as he could, while the other part told him to keep running and to never look back until he was safe. He eventually regrouped with the other survivors, amongst which was the Pakseech and about half of the group of Argonians that had been with him, and made the trek with them towards Nightgate Inn, where he made little save for drinking slightly and doing his best to ignore most of the survivors from Windhelm, too ashamed to talk to any of them after having ran away as other died around him.

As such, the trek towards Dawnstar came as a relief, but Tsleeixth was surprised to see that the Pakseech and the surviving Argonians would be travelling with them towards Dawnstar “From there we are going to continue towards Black Marsh brother, the Hist still has need of us.” Said the elder when Tsleeixth questioned him on why they were going to Dawnstar.

---

When they finally arrived in Dawnstar, late on the day, Tsleeixth was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The siege of Windhelm, and the subsequent escape from the city, had taken their toll on the Argonian spellsword. Turnign to look at the Pakseech, the spellsword motioned towards the Inn with his good hand “Are you staying for the night?” He asked the older Argonian curiously.

“Nay, we are continuing onwards towards the Cyrodiil border and then onwards towards Black Marsh.” Said the old Saxhleel “You are free to join us if you wish brother.” Offered the Pakseech, the corner of his lips curling upwards in the equivalent of a smile.

Tsleeixth was silent for a few seconds, considering the offer that was given to him “I am honored that you’d offer me this opportunity Pakseech.” He said finally, letting out a sigh “But my place is here I am afraid, I have a responsibility with these people. they are my comrades, and some I would call friends, and I won’t leave them, I hope you understand.” He said finally.

“Yes, I do understand brother, may you be safe in your journey and future endeavors.” Said the old Saxhleel, offering one last smile to Tsleeixth before he and his group continued on their travel “And you as well Pakseech, may you reach Black Marsh safely.” Said the spellsword before the group of Argonians was away from hearing range. He stayed outside for a while, looking as the group got further and further away, but eventually turned around and entered the inn and, taking a seat for himself, ordered a bottle for something to drink, hoping to chase away the memories of the siege even if only temporarily.