Dervs and Roze built this collab in a cave with a box of scraps.

With a light sigh, Roze closed her eyes briefly, and turned from the waterline, dropping her amulet from her grasp and letting it hang around her neck once more. What good would praying to Gods be now? She'd never prayed to anything before, barring Nocturnal. And Nocturnal favoured only those who thieved - she would do nothing for Roze in her current predicament. It was Roze's own fault, after all, for being in this situation. And although they were far from danger, the group was far from being safe. Hell, Skyrim was far from being safe, with those Kamal landing on their shores and slaughtering their people.

Once more, Roze's mind was brought back to the Nord who had died before her, and she shuddered as she wandered slowly down the docks. Why did her mind continue drifting back to this warrior? So many had died already, plenty in more horrific and painful ways than he. But his gaze had been almost accusatory as his decpitated head had stared at her from the floor, blood still misting and steaming in the cold air.

Pausing mid-step, Roze brought her hands to her face, pressing her palms hard against her forehead.

"Stop. Just... stop thinking about it. Everyone here has seen the same, if not worse than you. And they're not being such babies about it." She thought to herself sternly... not that that did much to relieve her guilt. She'd heard of Survivor's guilt before, but had never considered it to be this... effective, to the mind or heart.

While paused in her wanderings, Roze noticed a lone figure at the side of the dock, sat a few paces from where she was. She would have wandered by, but after noticing a sketchpad in the hands of the Khajiit, her curiosity perked up. Surely, for a Khajiit, even drawing the bloodied moons would be bad luck? Momentarily distracted from the innermost turmoils of her mind, Roze stepped forward quietly, looking from behind the shoulder of the unknown artist to see what they had drawn.

Do'Karth's hands deftly and with great care worked while he allowed his mind to slip into an almost meditative state. Sitting on the docks, resting his back against one of the posts that kept the planks above the water, he regarded the hamlet of Dawnstar with an eye for detail, and a rough outline of the harbour began to take shape as the icy water just feet below lapped gently beneath Masser and Secuna's ever inquisitive light. It was a shame he had no way of capturing the brilliant greens of the waves, but he felt it was something he would not soon forget.

He was suddenly aware of a presence standing just behind him, where two lengths of dock intersected at a perpendicular angle, and he turned to regard the newcomer, unable to quite place the face, even though there was an air of familiarity to her. "It is a cool night, one suspects that you wish to avoid company to the extent of forsaking comfort this night. What can Do'Karth do for you?" he asked.

Roze's eyes darted from the pad to the eyes of the Khajiit, somewhat skittish in her response - was it that obvious she wanted to be alone?

"Oh - I, uh, I was just seeing what you were drawing." She replied quietly, eyes turning once more to his sketchpad. From what she could see in the shimmering light of the moons, there lay a outline of the bay, some of the docks and buildings included. There was an eye to detail, even in that rough draft. "Um... sorry to bother you." She added hastily in after-thought. Normally she'd be quite happy to saunter on in, maybe even offer some advice; but in such a sobered mood, such actions seemed pointless.

"Please, stay." Do'Karth said, gesturing for Roze to sit. He offered her the sketchpad. Contained within were images from across Tamriel, from tranquil forest meadows to the towering ruins of Stros M'Kai, and several faces, people of all races. "This one records where he has been, things that inspire him. He wants to be able to look back and reflect on the roads he has travelled, the people he has met, and in his old age, be able to remember. Do'Karth came to Skyrim to see its rugged beauty and to behold its people, so different from khajiit. He also wished to see a dragon, or at least its bones." the khajiit said, lips upturned in a slight smile. "It is why he sits alone on this dock, suffering the cold. There is a peace here that resonates, can you feel it? He does not know when he will be able to enjoy a moment of his own again."

Despite Roze's attempts of seeking solitude, the offer to look at the drawings was too good a one to dismiss; besides, this Do'Karth seemed somewhat companionable. Not quite as serious as the last one she had spoken to.

Inclining her head in thanks, Roze knelt beside Do'Karth, wincing as the movement jarred her side... but seeing the drawings was enough to distract from her pain. Although she had no skill in drawing herself, she greatly admired artwork. the amount of times she'd witnessed a beautiful sunset or landscape high up in Skyrim's breath-taking mountains, and wished she could capture the moment on paper, were countless. The same could be said of the faces of people she had met, just like Do'Karth had stated - there were a few faces she could not recall from back home in Riften. Even her Father's face was beginning to blur around the edges in her memory, and that thought alone was a solemn one.

Listening to his words of the calmness of the bay, a smile ghosted Roze's lips.

"I know what you mean... after Windhelm, it was hard to imagine such quietness. Even as we fled, you could still hear those Snow Demons as they cut down others... Dawnstar is a haven from such acts." She said, gazing upon the beautiful drawings within Do'Karth's pad. They were truly something to admire; some of the faces even looked vaguely familiar to her.

"You know," She said after a moment, smile beginning to grow as her eyes found Do'Karth's. "I've seen dragons. Dead and alive ones... even one caught inbetween as Alduin brought it back from it's grave."

The khajiit nodded solemnly in agreement, pulling the piece of parchment from his belt that was his initial sketches of Candlehearth Hall that had been interrupted by the riot. He never had a chance to finish the drawing, and he likely never would now the city was occupied. He offered it to the woman. "Windhelm was a tragedy, but not one we should dwell on. Sometimes one must shrink their world to the people who matter, and no more. Things become too heavy if one dwells on death for too long." he gestured up to the sky. "And the gods take care of their own, Do'Karth believes. He is only here because they chose to spare him many moons ago. It took a long time to figure out why." the khajiit shrugged. His eyes widened with glistening curiosity when Roze mentioned dragons.

"By the twin moons! That is truly magnificent! Please, do Do'Karth the honour and colour his imagination with what they were like. Did they block out the sun? Did their shouts fill the air from impossibly far distances?" the khajiit asked, feeling somewhat giddy. It was something he had long wondered about, and she was a window into that world. "An undead dragon, even! Who could have even believed such a thing?!"

Taking the parchment, Roze's heart sank upon seeing the beginnings of the familiar inn, sat in the stone courtyard. It would be a miracle if anything in Windhelm survived, with those Kamal swarming around it.

"Another one who thinks the Gods will help us?" She thought; and while not saying anything insulting out loud about the subject - because she was not one to deny someone of their beliefs (Like a certain group of Altmer she despised) - her smile did indeed dim slightly at their mention. The Gods hadn't done anything to help the mortal plane in eons - not even during the Dragon Crisis.

Speaking of which, the way Do'Karth's face lit up at the mention of the winged beasts was almost endearing - his enthusiasm was certainly infectious, too.

"Well, I'd just left Rorikstead when I felt something change in the air. Like when you can sense a thunderstorm approaching before it has even rumbled; the wind became impossibly still, and the air had an electric feel to it. It was if the sky had been slumbering, and a charge had awoken something alive in it." She told, the hairs on her arms raising just in the mere memory of it. "And as I climbed a rocky outcropping to get a better look at the sky, I heard it: the crash of sound hitting me like a wall of snow. If I had been further away, I would have assumed it to just be thunder - but Gods above, I knew it was a Shout. Even before I saw the dragon itself in the sky, like a nightmare with wings, I knew it was a Thu'um. Now, I'm no Dragonborn, but I could feel the essence of magic in that noise. It was unlike anything I'd ever witnessed before."

Roze paused, settling herself more comfortably on the docks as she told her tale, words regaining more passion as she regaled her story of seeing such awesome events.

"I'd seen a few dragons before, but this one was different - he matched the descriptions of Alduin that I'd heard; of a vast black Dovah, with an almost dead look to his scales and covered in razor sharp spines. Seeing the World-Eater himself was a terrifying experience - but a magnificent one all the same. He wasn't anything like the other dragons in the wilderness - while they could be seen as actual creatures, he was more mysterious - like shadows given life. And spikes. A lot of spikes. Oh, and his voice! He wasn't just using Shouts, he was speaking in Dovah, and in the common tongue - what a curious sensation that was. You don't expect an ancient legend like Alduin to speak like a man."

"And the resurrection! You must understand, at this point, dragons weren't being seen very much. The attack on Helgen had only just happened, so there weren't many of them about at this point... to see one of them being brought back from the dead was - well, stunning. A lot of us didn't know where they were coming from, you see. I'm not even sure how Alduin was doing it, but the process wasn't like your usual necromancy spell. First, a pillar of darkness appeared over the burial mound, wisps of colour dancing around it as Alduin did his.. ritual, I suppose you'd call it. And then, a vast skeleton erupted from the ground, letting loose a terrifying screech." Roze paused with a light chuckle as she recalled it. "I nearly fell off the rocks I was hanging on to in fear."

"They spoke, then. In that strange dragon language - and as they did, the air around the new dragon began to shimmer, small flecks of something being caught in it. After a few moments, I realized it was flesh - whatever spell Alduin performed, it was building up the dragon's body once more. After it finished, it was a magnificent bronze colour - I could see his scales shining even from where I hid. They took off soon after that, wings beating louder than the drums of war."

Do'Karth felt almost like a child being told a brilliant story around a campfire, and this woman certainly had a knack for theatrics. Her voice carried an almost lyrical quality, which was common for many Bretons, but there was a certain charm to her tone that was seldom heard. Her descriptions of the fantastical beasts, as if dregged up from some nightmarish underworld to rule the skies, sent chills down the khajiit's spine, and he loved it. "The World-Eater..." Do'Karth repeated, testing the words in his mouth, feeling their weight. The recounting of the resurrection was a detail that was certainly new to Do'Karth, and it was suitably shocking. Who could have known anything like this could have existed on Nirn? Apparently Akavir had dragons, and after seeing the horrors of the Kamal, Do'Karth was beginning to believe it. Dragons seemed like the only thing that would be able to withstand such creatures. When Roze finished, Do'Karth clasped his hands together joyfully.

"Simply wonderous! Thank you, Do'Karth was utterly enraptured in your telling. You must promise to share with him more stories, and he will do the same for you- It has occured to this one he has not asked for your name! One thousand apologies, this one seldom forgets his manners." He placed a hand flat against his chest. "As you likely have concluded, this one is pleased to be Do'Karth, forgive his peculiar way of speaking. He had no idea it was uniquely a khajiit thing. May he be honoured to learn the name of the Breton with the silken, illuminating voice?"

Roze chuckled lightly at Do'Karth's response, even pausing slightly in surprise at the sound coming from her - laughter. After the past few days, Roze had expected to never laugh again, and yet here she was. Perhaps Do'Karth was quite correct in not regretting the past - it certainly didn't get one anywhere. But the good things... they certainly did.

"Rozalia Éathliel, at your service." Inclining her head with a smile towards the Khajiit. "And do not apologise, my friend - you've done me a great service by listening to my story, which I am glad to hear you enjoyed."

"Laughter... has been in short supply these days. It is good to hear it. It means healing, and this one considers himself something of an expert on that subject." Do'Karth said with a chuckle. "And please, you humble this one. All Do'Karth did was listen, you conjured up great fell beasts with just your voice! Perhaps you have this Thu'um, no? Are you from High Rock, Rozalia? Or has Skyrim always been your home?" he asked.

Do'Karth's quip brought forth more light laughter from Roze, and truly, it was a comforting thing to hear - indeed, it was healing some of the heaviness that had sank into her heart in the past week. As for her physical injuries, it wasn't doing much... but perhaps Do'Karth could aid her on that front, with his self-professed expertise?

"I've never even left Skyrim, actually - I was born in Riften, but I've travelled around the country since leaving a few years ago." She replied, smiling almost wistfully. It was true; she hadn't been in Riften for a good amount of time, and she did find herself missing the place at times. And the Guild... but she doubted they'd allow her back in after she and her Mother had departed on somewhat sour terms.

"How about you? Are you from Elsweyr? I've always wanted to visit there, even moreso than High Rock - it sounds very exotic."

Do'Karth nodded. "This one passed through Riften on his way to Windhelm. He was warned about thieves, but warning a khajiit about thieves is like warning a fish about water." he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not that Do'Karth would ever steal anything! Well, maybe if one were to leave a salmon unsupervised and he were feeling peckish..." the khajiit grinned, adjusting himself to leg his bad leg stretch out. He began to massage out the tightness.

"Anequina, but yes, this one is from Elsweyr. Born and raised there most of this one's life. It is a truly beautiful land, with all manner of deserts and jungles that one would not believe unless you saw them with your own eyes. Did you know some of the oldest ruins in all of Tamriel are found in the deserts of Anequina? It's true. There's a long history there, before elves, before man... khajiit were there."

"Ahah - well now, there's nothing wrong with a bit of innocent burglary. My policy is that if someone doesn't care enough about something to look after it properly, they won't miss it much when it is taken from them." She answered with a mischevious smile; naturally, when one mentioned Riften, the first thing to come to mind was definitely the thievery in the city. It was a wonder people still visited, to be honest.

"I've seen a few ruins up here in Skyrim - ancient, crumbling ones, filled with Draugr and a whole manner of nasty traps... I can't imagine something being older than them." Noticing Do'Karth begin massaging his knee, Roze sat up a little straighter, wincing slightly at the movement.

"You mentioned earlier that you had some skill in healing, yes? I wonder if perhaps you could..." She paused momentarily, pulling her cloak back from her body to reveal the very tattered and blood-stained bandage around her midriff, make-shift sling from her shoulder still holding it together. "... I don't know, do something about this. I'm not an expert at bandaging, as you can no doubt tell." There was some discomfort in her voice - Roze was not one to ask others of aid, especially strangers. However, there was something in Do'Karth's voice that betrayed a kind soul - one to trust in days to come.

"Strange for someone to so freely admit to thievery, but do not worry, Do'Karth does not judge. Khajiit take things all the time and cannot understand why people become upset when they do. It took this one quite some time to figure out that just because something was unattended didn't mean it was free to use." the khajiit replied, raising his eye ridges with an expression that brokered comparison to the realization of forgetting something.

"But yes, Do'Karth knows non magical healing methods. Nothing overly elaborate and your body does most of the work, but he can mend wounds and prevent infection." he confirmed, regarding the bloodied bandage without much in the way of reaction. "You did an admirable enough job bandaging, but it only does so much if the wound isn't sealed. Do'Karth would be pleased to help you. Come, we should head inside where it is warm and where I can get some clean bandages. I do have a needle and thread for this purpose, and some medical supplies for preventing infection, but alcohol works best." he said, packing his things away and offering to support Roze when he picked himself up off the docks. "If it pleases you, we can have you mending in no time and Do'Karth can help carry your burden."

"Ah, stitches. Wonderful - hopefully the inn still has some rum to numb that unpleasant feeling. Or, knock me out. Either would work." Roze thought with a slight grimace - but all the same, she was grateful to the offer of help, and showed that with a pleasant smile.
"Thank you, Do'Karth. It's highly generous of you." She said gladly, appreciating both his efforts, and the arm he offered. At this rate, even some help in walking was enough to relieve some of her discomfort.

Taking his arm and standing up, biting her lip as a spasm of pain shot across her side at the movement, Roze grinned at her Khajiiti companion.

"I think the alcohol will be on me, tonight - and let's be honest, the bandaging is awful." She said with a light chuckle, glancing down at the tattered thing. Yes, medicine indeed was not her forte. She really needed to invest in some Restoration magic or something.

"We will ensure you are properly prepared with drink before this one begins. Do'Karth finds happy drunks to be much more agreeable when they are being mended." the khajiit replied, helping guide Roze to the inn. He paused for a few moments in thought. "You were the one at the docks, were you not? Do'Karth recalls someone who looked like you making a rather inspired, and somewhat crazy, run to blow up that Kamal ship. Are you one and the same?"

At this comment, Roze let forth a long and heartfelt laugh - hells, it hurt, but it was worth it.
"Oh, Gods - I'm never going to live that one down. Yes, that was I, and a very brave fellow named Sagax. We decided our little arrows weren't going to do much against the Kamal, so why not blow them to shit with bombs?" She snickered, leaning into Do'Karth as the pair walked.

"It worked, rather admirably! Do'Karth was busy in a duel of his own with one of the beasts when the explosion rocked his sense rather throughly. If it helps, even the Kamal who weren't incinerated were quite surprised by your little gift." the khajiit grinned, helping her up the steps. "Although, please, try not to blow yourself up in the future. This one is not nearly as proficient at sewing together dismembered body parts." he said, grabbing the door with his free hand and pulling it open to allow the both of them access in the much warmer inn, the fire raging invitingly. After a few moments of searching, Do'Karth miraculously found an unattended bench seat where he sat Roze down gently, promising to be back with supplies.

True to his word, the khajiit was only a few minutes, a candle and a swiped bottle of liquor in hand from a decidely drunk and passed out Nord. He returned to Roze and knelt before her, offering her the bottle. "Do try to save some for Do'Karth, it is for disinfecting your wounds also."

"You know, that's a shame about the dismemberment - pretty sure one of our number is still carrying around her chopped off arm in the hopes it can be reattatched." Roze joked with a weak giggle, which gave way to a breath of relief as they entered the warm and homey inn. She hadn't realised until now just how cold she had been out there - her cloak was heavy and even lined with fur, but it can only do so much to keep the frost from one's bones.
Taking a swig from the liquor bottle - t'was whiskey, not rum, but at this point Rozalia was not being picky - and the familiar sensation of heat running down to her belly woke her up, in some way.

On the road, there'd been a distinct lack of supplies, once the Khajiiti caravan had ran out of goods. Which meant no alcohol to help her sleep - but what with her injuries and the devastating escape from Windhelm, Rozalia had been knocked out pretty much every night on the road with mere exhaustion. Now that they were safer, it would be another matter entirely... and she wouldn't be surprised to discover her nights being restless once more.
Making a mental note to stock up on some form of spirit while in Dawnstar, Roze peered at Do'Karth as he unwrapped the bandages from her midriff. She had no idea what the wound looked like - just that whatever stitches had been administered in Windhelm had been ripped open, and the wound was not going to leave a clean scar.

"How bad is it?" She asked cautiously, holding her shirt up with her free hand, the other clenched around the bottle of whiskey.

"Happily, not infected. It is a bit red, but nothing too concerning." The khajiit replied, grabbing some fresh bandages he'd managed to store in his pouch from the company supplies in Windhelm and dampened it with the whiskey. "It isn't ideal, but it will do in a pinch. This might sting somewhat, so please refrain from punching Do'Karth." he said, applying the bandage and as gently as possible rubbing in and around the wound.

After disinfecting Roze's injury, Do'Karth found the needle and thread he kept as sterilzed as possible and took the tip, dipping it in the whiskey and then running it over the candleflame, hopefully killing any bacteria present. Stringing the thread into the eyelet with graceful hands, the khajiit pressed the needle to the skin. "Tell me if you need Do'Karth to stop. He does not wish to hurt you, but a small amount of pain now is much preferable to an infection that will kill you. He has seen it happen. Ready?" he asked, and the needle punctured skin.

Roze wasn't quite ready for the needle - but she tried to not squirm too much as thread drew through the new hole in her flesh. Although certainly not the most painful thing she'd ever experienced, the feeling of having stitches put in without any real form of pain relief was not a pleasant one.

Taking another swig of the whiskey and seemingly clinging onto it for dear life, Roze tried to avoid looking as Do'Karth worked.

"Shor's bones, it hurt less with the splinter of wood in." She joked weakly, a slight shakiness to her voice that would no doubt disappear once she got drunk enough. "However, don't stop. I'd rather it be over and done with."

"This one is relieved it is not entirely terrible. Some people claim this part is far worse than the actual injury." Do'Karth said with a smile as he continued to work in a steady and precise manner. After several minutes, the wound was closed up and the dressing applied. Satisfied with his work, Do'Karth hurried off to clean his hands and rejoined Roze, sitting next to her on the bench. He took the bottle of whiskey and sniffed it. "It could use sugar." he observed before taking a swig of his own, face contorting in a grimmace before he took another. "By Alkosh, how do people drink this for pleasure?" he asked, setting it down. He was decidedly not much of a drinker.

The pair settled in and began to mingle with other survivors in the company, having ended their temporary isolation out of doors, and for once, the air held a certain levity that had been absent for some time. Although the losses were staggering, and many had lost friends - Do'Karth considered himself fortunate that he had not had time to acquaint himself with many of the others, and those he had met had survived, there was a sense of relief of having escaped immediate peril and the confining walls of the doomed city. While it was impossible not to think about those left behind and at the mercy of the Kamal invaders, for those who had braved the deadly escape, at last there was refuge. It would have to be enough.

Dawnstar, truly a magnificent sight in the morning. The air was crisp and chilling, brimming with salty tastes of the sea winds. At this northerly latitude, sunrise gave the impression of Aetherius ascending over of distant waters. Though it was Sun's Height, therefore one of the warmest times in northern Tamriel, the wee hours of Dawnstar carried a bitter cold half the continent never experienced. There were no snow inside the town (though not the case in mountains passes), but layers of frost, analogous to dew in warmer climates, clung to the surfaces of buildings and vegetation.

Daelin was the first wake, as always. The Bosmer slept light, just the faint bird chirps off in some distance were enough to send him on his day. He went through his morning routine, then taking a short walk along the bay. Daelin saw sailors already up and about on their vessels. When he came back to the inn, food aroma greeted him from the kitchen. Thoring and his daughter busied themselves preparing breakfast, and judging by the amount of ingredients, it was going to be a large order. In the dinning room, the inn staff woke hungover drunks. One particular “drunk” Daelin missed on his way out was Ashav. The older mercenary doubled over a table like the others, only stirring when shuffling and food scents reached him. Daelin went wake Ashav, but as he came closer, someone emerged from the nearby room.

“Ah, fine morning to you.” A Nord man draped in finery offered a dozy smile.

“Hi.” Daelin answered hesitantly. “Do I know you?”

“Name's Gustav.” The Nord tipped his finely oiled fur hat. “The sponsor behind your company. By which, I presume you work under Ashav.”

Talking managed to shake Ashav out of his lull. With a sudden jerk, the Redguard launched himself upright. “Whoa.” He rubbed his eyes open. Shaking his head back and forth to clear himself up, and taking in the surrounding, Ashav creaked out in a raspy tone. “Daelin? And wait, I know you; Gustav?” Ashav stretched.

“Pleasant dreams, Ashav?”

“Um, not really. What happened, why am I out here? Where is my room?”

“You really let yourself go, didn't you?” Gustav chuckled. He moved a mostly-empty mug across the table. It had the slightest leftover of mead. Drinking on an empty stomach is bad idea, but any liquid is liquid when dealing with a hangover. “Remember this?” Gustav handed the mug over. “And this; everything?” He traced over familiar scratches and pointed to empty candle holders.

“The gods, what have I done...” Ashav exclaimed. Memory of last evening came back painfully clear. The embarrassment of intoxicated stupor, the lies that slipped out of his mouth like a drooling hound. Sooner or later, he and some Dunmer(s) are going to do a lot of explaining.

“It's alright, my friend.” Gustav reassured. He rested one hand on Ashav's shoulder and beckoned over the tavern boy with his other hand.

“We all let our hair down once in a while.” Gustav said. “Metaphorically.” He corrected after noticing Ashav's baldness.

The doors to Daelin's room flung open the second time to reveal Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker. Gustav stood up but immediately pulled back down by both Ashav and Daelin. “That's my lieutenant, Dumhuvud.” Ashav said. “And he's definitely not a morning person.” The Cat-Kicker isn't going to get any more friendlier any other time of the day. But Gustav didn't to know that. His wave to Dumhuvud got nothing but a dirty look.

Edith came out of her shared room minutes later, ready for battle beside chainmail and helmet. The Ariane behind her was a polar opposite, fumbling with hair pins and scrambling to smooth out every wrinkle on her robe. Ariane also went to Thoring for shoe polishing and laundry. The latter's expression was a mix of annoyance and amusement. Eventually, Ariane received a simple “no”. She would vent a good five minutes on the facility's “lacking state”.

“And there you have it, my advisers.” Ashav introduced each of the four to Gustav.

“Not bad.” Gustav reckoned. A satin pouch came out of his coat and dropped onto the table. “So, I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave now.” Getting to his feet, Gustav pushed the pouch over to Ashav. “Consider this additional funds. I have to leave for Solitude in the hour, and likely would not return for a week.” He continued. “I recommend taking up the jarl on his Winterhold expedition, and they are pushing embarkation to this afternoon.”

“If you and your men need anything else, do drop a requisition list by my ship, Kyne's Tear, in the next hour.” Before he left, Gustav produced a leather-bound book. Sanitation Guide to Tamriel was its title. “One more thing; please pass this along to Renym the Ashlander.”

“Who the crap is Renym?” Dumhuvud asked once Gustav disappeared.

“It's a long story...”

Gustav bumped into two people on his way. The first being S'riracha the Khajiit, who had a flyer of the Winterhold expedition, ripped from a bulletin board. Gustav stopped the Khajiit to tell him about Ashav, saying how he should work with the mercenaries instead of going solo. S'riracha seemed convinced, so Gustav turned to another soon after, a young Redguard by the name of Almad. This vivacious man wore a priest's trappings, and perhaps intending to lend restoring spells so famous to temple priests. Gustav told him the mercenaries are not cutthroats, and some might appreciate a little healing after combating snow demons.

S'riracha found himself in Windpeak Inn, beside Almad. Bringing up the flyer, S'riricha introduced himself and his intent to embark for Winterhold. The Khajiit said he would detach from the caravan for a while, lending his assistance to the town while sating his own curiosity from Winterhold. Not a moment too soon did the newcomers find Dumhuvud. S'riracha had yet to know Dumhuvud's full name, but the scold was more than enough to convey disdain.

“Great, one more ass-licking cat. Just great.” Dumhuvud sulked away shaking his head.

Within the hour, many mercenaries awoke from the first proper sleep they got in weeks. The first wave of customers also entered the inn. Thoring brought out platters of food and drinks, all paid by Gustav. The breakfast wasn't royal standard by any chance, but it was nevertheless warm, fresh and hand-prepared with coin-forced dedication. Several long tables were reserved for the company, separated by dividers from regular patrons.

“Alright everyone, gather around.” Once the majority had assembled, Ashav began. He ate his meal, a bagel and some smoked salmon, before most. Some people paused and paid attention to Ashav, but some found eating to be more important.

“What is wrong with you!? Give him some respect!” Dumhuvud slapped the food out of the nearest person's hands.

“It's fine, you may continue eating.” Ashav waved the Cat-Kicker down.

“The last few weeks have no doubt been trying.” Ashav started his speech. Looking around the tables, the venerable Redguard spared a glance to everyone. This was all that's left of the company. Three weeks ago, there were sufficient mercenaries to fill a plaza, now, barely four full tables remained.

“And I wager our jobs aren't getting any easier. Now, I don't blame anyone wanting to leave.” Ashav spoke. No longer was he issuing orders from a podium. He was no more than first among equals today. Before his voice cracked, he slammed down a large gulp from his mug. Mead in the morning, Ashav definitely looked like he wanted to numb the pain, wanted to make all his troubles vanish into thin air. It couldn't, so the next best thing would be laying them out plain. “In fact, you may go at this moment, I would not mind.”

Doesn't seem like anyone's going anywhere, well, not until they're done with their free breakfast. Accompanying his next lines was the expedition flyer S'riracha brought in. “Now, here's our next assignment; Winterhold.” Placing the sheet on the closest table, Ashav waited for everyone to see it before going on. “Apparently, Winterhold had another disaster, and some say the town's gone, permanently. Now this man,” Ashav pointed to S'riracha, “said he heard some rumors. The Kamals might have been somehow responsible.” The implication took some seconds to sink in. No doubt some folk, such as Keegan, wondered what other Kamal magic or weapon have yet been unveiled.

“Point is, the college over there still stands, but its bridge collapsed.” Ashav elaborated. “I assume they cannot last very long without supplies from the outside, so jarl Skald ordered a rescue.” The flyer finished circulating and returned to Ashav bearing food stains.

“As you can expect, the sea around Winterhold is cold, turbulent and saturated with icebergs.” Ashav tapped on a simple map printed on the flyer. “Skilled sailors are volunteering to go, and one of these vessels just happened to need a dozen extra hands; we will sail with them.”

“The captain's contracting us then?” Keegan raised his hand. In every single assembly since signing up, he was always the first to ask questions. Curious, sure, but Keegan preferred certain. Knowing anything could help in an assignment out of the blue.

“Well,” Ashav considered. “You can say that. Though it is the jarl's plan, so I say Skald is the ultimate authority.”

“Another jarl, how wonderful is that?” Farid let out a mocking laugh. His feet were previously on a table, while he took bites out of an apple. Setting his feet down at Ashav's words, Farid spat out pieces of the apple core to talk more clearly. “Let's hope this one doesn't go on suicidal duels, or have a bratty son, for the matter.”

“You just can't stop bitchin'.” Orakh frowned.

“Please, I'm not finished yet.” Ashav cleared his throat. “The paper said leaving tomorrow morning but our friend, S'riracha, informed me departure was forwarded to this afternoon.” He looked to the large, stripped Khajiit, who nodded back in confirmation. “Edith, Daelin and myself will not accompany you, as we need to plan for operations ahead. Dumhuvud will be in charge, he will coordinate with the captain.” Couple of worried looks passed around instantly. Ariane wasn't mentioned, but she was too busy trimming her nails with a bound dagger to care.

“If I may; something related.” Edith added. “We have a supplier taking orders to Solitude. Speak up now on your buys, or anything anyone wants to send there.”

“Right.” Ashav agreed. Rising from the table finally after a long night, Ashav flexed his shoulders. “So, you raise hands if you do not wish to go.” Good, seemed like most were fine with the mission, or don't have the guts to speak up. Either way, they'd better be fine, and better speak their mind on the next part. “Any questions?”

Thoughts about the sights that could not be unseen bombarded Almad's mind as the door widened. A drinking contest, a brawl, a naked individual prancing around as mead wet the floor, or a mead drinking contest in which the naked individual has to prance around those brawling? He did not know what to expect. He had seen but a handful of Nords at most, each reveling in their many tales about the lively inner workings of a Nord inn, but day broke only a few hours ago. Surely they could not start the day with a clamour, he thought, and then he recalled the words of a rowdy Nord of a bard and shipmate. True Nords bathe in mead and clean their teeth with fists.

Certainly an exaggeration, he assured himself, but he had seen stranger things. He braced himself for what lied beyond the doors and stepped forward, and inside was, calm.

He removed his hood and exposed his damp braids to the warm air that carried the lingering odour of alcohol, many scents of food, and burning wood that held a soothing crackle. Innkeepers woke those who made the tables their beds, an older Redguard man with more scars than hair on his head being the more noticeable one. He traded words with a Nord and a Bosmer, words that were not discerned in great detail. Three more individuals soon made their presence known, one of them—a Nord—invoking a defensive response in the other Nord, as did he to Almad though for different reasons.

He glanced away when he saw the offending Nord's face and expelled air through his nose. The vain pleading, hapless screaming, and stench of burnt flesh and heated blood twisted his gut. He forced down the air in his clenched throat and took only one step.

One of the Nords, the well groomed one, advanced and began speaking to the Khajiit. Mercenaries, he heard them discuss. Perhaps they numbered amongst those who arrived in town not long ago. As he was about to walk forward, the Nord began speaking to him, mentioning healing and snow demons, and departed. Almad narrowed his eyes as the Nord left. The Kamal, he asked himself. An inquiry for another time, perhaps.

The Nord with the marred face then crossed paths with the Khajiit. Almad's left brown began to twitch. He glanced at the barkeep and strolled forward, catching a glimpse of the Nord burying his one scrutinizing eye into the stranger. “Great," the Nord uttered. The disdain in his voice was thick enough to sharpen a blade. "Another ass-licking cat. Just great.”

Almad sat his staff against the countertop and sat on a barstool. He ordered a mug of water, a wedge of goat cheese, and soup with potatoes, tomatoes, and gourds. He pulled out two pieces of hardtack from his backpack and softened them in the soup. More bodies occupied the dinning hall as time passed, and they were accompanied by a spread of various meals that were sweet the nose and inviting to the eyes, courtesy of Gustav's coin purse, which had left with that very man not long ago Almad learned. An interesting gesture, he thought, and nothing more. Something about about accepting unsolicited or unearned pleasantries from random people, and people in general, was unsettling.

“Alright everyone... gather around," said a masculine voice. Almad turned to see the bald and scarred Redguard taking charge, which came as a surprise. He expected the gruff Nord to lead a band of mercenaries in the harsh province of Skyrim, not that the Nord lacked a position, Almad figured. The Nord slapped food from an unsuspecting individual's hand and barked orders of paying respect. "It's fine," the Redguard replied. "You may continued eating."

The Redguard continued and piqued his interest with talk of Winterhold, home of its namesake and esteemed institute of magical study. He intended to visit the college at some point. For what exactly, he had no clue, but the act of venturing to an enclave of legend held its own reward. He wondered how the local Nords would react to yet another mage in their midst. The potential wealth of folklore excited him, even the tales obviously pulled from one's backside, and the inquiry a foreigner would engender left him contemplating the many ways he could stretch their minds, and then the troubling news came.

“Apparently, Winterhold had another disaster, and some say the town's gone, permanently. Now this man,” said Ashav as he pointed at the Khajiit, "said he heard some rumors. The Kamals might have been somehow responsible.”

Almad growled under his breath. He put the mug to his lips. "Crap," he whispered. That was the second time he heard that name associated with conflict.

"Any questions?" the Redguard finished.

Almad cleared his throat. "Yes." He spoke with an accent and in a calm, inquisitive manner. "The man who departed not long ago said your mercenaries, I presume, might have wounds in need of attention. I wish to offer my services as healer on this journey to Winterhold."

Morning had come much faster than Leif anticipated as he had fallen asleep later in the night, after reuniting with Kaliri his crew mates from The Courtesan had ventured off the vessel, and into Windpeak Inn for some much needed refreshments. There seated at a table near the fire sat Captain Atgeir, Bjorn, Halvar, and Orvar.

Several rounds of ale and mead were drank through the course of the night as the old crew members of The Courtesan spent the rest of the night reminiscing. Orvar asked if Leif kept up on his restoration skills, and Halvar asked if how many women he seduced into bed with his teachings, to which Leif's reply was something along the lines of, did he want the long story or the short story? Atgeir marveled over the fact that Leif still kept his sword in such a condition, and Bjorn took it upon himself to see that Leif's tankard was never empty.

When the morning came, Leif awoke from his heavy sleep, by banging his head against a table, it seemed he had crawled underneath the table, and claimed it as his bed. Rubbing the salt away from his eyes, Leif sat up in a daze, and once the fog of sleep cleared from his view, he realized that Ashav and several others were gathered in the hall, preparing four long tables full of food. Fortunately the table he had fallen asleep under, did not need moving, and they left him in peace. Clambering to his feet, Leif took his seat near the head of the table, close to where Ashav stood. The sweet smell of fresh bread chased away the ache in his head from the excessive drinking, taking one into his hand, he eagerly bit into the roll. He filled the wooden plate in front of him, and glanced around to see the others from the company begin to take their seats.

Unlike Leif, Sevine had chosen a room with several others from the company to sleep in, albeit, she slept on the floor, but she felt rested nonetheless. She was troubled with a series of dreams, dark, omniscient dreams filled with blood moons, black waters; she felt continuously as if she were sinking beneath the waves, and when she reached the bottom, where her lungs felt as if they were on the verge of bursting, she saw the face of the Imperial officer she had killed, all those years ago. She was drenched in a cold sweat, and her heart pounded like a deer escaping its predator. When she had combed out her locks, she went in search of anyone she knew, eager to ease her troubled mind. Those dreams hadn't bothered her for a while, however, since she told Do'Karth about the truth of her Name, perhaps it was her guilty conscious playing tricks on her again. Her eyes swept across the room and spotted her old friend immediately, sidling up to him, she took a seat next to him as she clapped him on the back. His face brightened at the sight of Sevine, and he nodded his head towards the food, and hooked his thumb at Ashav, indicating that she ought to lend the man her ear.

Leif paid close attention to Ashav's words, and had enough decency to stop eating unlike some others, eliciting the wrath of Cat-Kicker upon them. At least he had enough sense, and respect. When it came time for questions, Leif rose to his feet after a curious newcomer, a Redguard man, asked if there were anyone in need of his services.

"Aye, I've got a question for you as well. How do you propose we get there? It'd be much quicker to sail from here to Winterhold than walking, and I've got just the vessel to take us. There's a ship in the bay that I worked for years ago, if we're in need of transport for our lot, The Courtesan will take us there!"

Last minute collab by the Schaft and the Dervs

She felt a pin prick at her skin and it made her open her eyes. The haziness of sleep faded slow, and the only thing she could make out was a rough blob that slowly took form as an ugly bastard holding a knife to her throat. “It's that easy.”

Well, she had to pay, didn't she? Someone had to come collecting, “Just hurry the fuck up.”

“So quick to sign your life away, little sister?” That familiar crow's voice came wafting over the same way the smell of shit does.

She snorted, “No signing to do with it. Death just happens.” The memory of terrified eyes wanting nothing but to live just one more moment, same as her, belonging to a woman with blood dribbling out of her neck and down her chin as she fell came to mind. She didn't sign anything that morning.

“Maybe it does. Don't mean you should make it easy for the bastard, even if you do deserve it.” Mire smiled that shitty grin.

“What the fuck do you know about what I deserve, you bloated pig?” Solveig snarled, paying no mind to the point of the sharp knife at her throat. If he'd meant to do anything with it, he'd have done it by now. “And sheathe that fucking thing, halfhead. You've the same knowledge of what to do with it in hand as your cock- nothing.”

Brittle's laugh stretched out and he sheathed his knife, sure enough. Solveig swallowed, trying not to bring her hand up to the spot where it tingled like mad at the knife's absence. Funny thing, that, even the worst things can be missed. “I like you, woman.” The dark-eyed little man smiled.

“I don't like you.” Solveig cast a firey glance his way and then to Mire, “Speak your business, or are you just the type of folk that like watching a woman sleep?”

“Two things.” Mire held up a gloved hand with two fingers up, as he spoke, he folded his middle one back down, “Ashav's got a meeting on. But before you go to that, I need to tell you something. There's a man in Winterhold. Not a bad one, or no worse than any of us here, eh? We're nice enough folk. But this man, this man, your father knew. You want to save your father from a knife in the back, you'll find him and kill him within the first moment your eyes meet.”

“Who says you aren't making this up and using me to knife some poor fool you got a feud with, or that owes you something?” Solveig narrowed her eyes. Mire's word wasn't worth shit to her, nor anyone. Murky, muddy, can't see through it, and treacherous and deadly too. Like a mire, it's how he got the damn Name.

“You don't. But that's the beauty of it, aye? You knife him in the throat, you get this purse full of gold and that's good enough if I'm lying. But if I'm not? You saved your Pa's life and got paid for it.” Mire showed the purse in question at that, “O'course, even I can prove to be a man of truth once every bleeding moon. Your Pa's got a feud with this man, this Reachman. Your Pa has a feud with about every Reachman in Markarth Side and west of the Druadachs. But this one's got a burning for your Pa's life hotter'n anything. Ask him about it, ask him about Durrum ap Yawl and his son.”

That got her thinking. The gold, sure, gold gets everyone thinking. But she knew her father wasn't well liked by the Reachmen of Markarth Side because of his little trip with Ulfric and his boys that way years ago. Who's to say there aren't more than a few Reachmen still wanting blood after all those years. She swallowed, “I'm not your fucking assassin.”

Mire smiled like he'd got a little secret, “Just a murderer, then? Reckon you and your father have a little in common, then.”

“Shit on you and your gold, Mire, you know nothing of me or my father!” She'd gotten to her feet faster than lightning and then she noticed that she'd gotten her knife in hand at some point. “I told you that if you got in my way or even if I saw you look at me you'd fare no better than that greyhead in the caverns.”

Mire's smile turned dark and he laughed low, “Trust me, little sister. Everyone sleeps and it is that easy.”

She took a step back to try and get Brittle into her view. She didn't like that man where she couldn't see him. “Hard words. I beat men in the circle who spoke harder.”

“I killed women prettier.” Mire smirked, “And I killed people better and worse than me. Which d'you think you are?”

“The one that shuts your cunt mouth.” She gripped her knife tighter and swallowed her nerve. Her mentor in Markarth had told her that the one that strikes first is the one that strikes last. Then Mire turned his back on her and started walking off, slow as slow, enough to tell her without words he wasn't scared. “You talk to me like that again, Mire, and I'll kill you.”

“Be sure to tell me when it's time.” Mire called back.

“You'll know.” She growled, fist starting to shake and her whole body getting hot with anger, “You'll know it's time when you wake up with a cut fucking throat!”

Mire only laughed his crow's laugh and turned to look at her again. He shook a finger her way, “I'm fucking liking you more and more.”

he turned back around and kept walking towards town. She watched their backs until they were a ways away and then took a deep breath. Her hands were trembling and her heart was beating faster than anything. She swallowed, sheathed her knife and then set off back to town for Ashav's meeting.

* * *

The room fell silent when it came time for questions. No one after Keegan ventured to know more about their mission. Just newbeards more preoccupied by the money rather than the completion of the job. Jorwen couldn't blame them, he was once blinded by glory and gold himself. Jorwen cast an eye about the room, finding a few familiar faces. He picked Do'Karth out of the gathering and they shared a nod. Then he saw Solveig, hanging back in a corner hunched about a steaming cup. Perhaps warm apple ale, knowing her habits the past few days. He didn't shake his head, nor did he nod, they didn't meet eyes until a small glance from Solveig that she quickly turned away from, nursing a frown. He remembered what Halla had told him back in Windhelm, that Solveig was a woman now and she didn't need coddling. Just a guiding hand. But Jorwen was a shit guide and was no example to follow.

Do'Karth made his way through the assembled sea of bodies to find his way to Jorwen, a pair of apples in hand. He passed one off to his great red giant of a friend, steering him towards the wall to lean both himself and his quarterstaff against the thick wood walls. A claw extracted from a padded finger and began to carve a slice out of the apple. "Do'Karth is sorry he has not been able to check in with yourself or Solveig since we were forced to leave Windhelm. How is Halla? This one cannot imagine it has been an easy transition for her."

"She knows how to pack quickly for the road. She's had to be married to me for more years than I can remember." Jorwen smiled, but it was a little bit of a shame to have that skill. He watched Do'Karth carve a piece of apple from itself with a claw. As one of the things in question pierced the red skin of the apple and dragged a fine scar downwards, Jorwen swallowed, scratching at a scar hidden beneath his beard. "And you needn't be sorry. That half a rabbit was good enough of a snack, and it was good to see a friend."

He took a large bite out of the apple and chewed in silence, weighing the thing in his hand before he swallowed, "And Solveig... She's distant. She keeps herself locked up in that head of hers. That's as dangerous as cradling a snake, keeping hurts locked up." Jorwen sighed, clearing his throat, "I didn't see you raise your hand to resign from the Company. Staying on, eh?"

"Do'Karth promised he would look out for you and your kin. That has not changed." The khajiit replied, freeing the slice from the fruit and wordlessly sliding it between his teeth. "Being khajiit has perks around caravans. They were going to charge 20 Septims for that rabbit, but who can say no to Do'Karth when he offers a trade, hm?" He glanced over at his friend when he mentioned his troubles with Solveig, offering a knowing nod. "We all deal with stress in different ways. She will release her hurts, as you call it, in some manner. All you can do is offer an outlet for that release to be a positive thing. She has her father back, and while it doesn't seem like it, she isn't exactly pushing you away, Jorwen. Do'Karth believes she wants to rekindle what relationship you have, but it is going to be a difficult road. One cannot simply wash away bad blood, trust Do'Karth; he knows. Just know he is here for you all, until the end."

Do'Karth paused in consideration before nodding slowly. "Perhaps it is foolish, but Do'Karth has elected to remain with the company, despite what he's seen, but as silly as it sounds, there's a sense of belonging he's felt here that he has not found before, at least not in a way he could discard so readily. After what happened, Do'Karth cannot abandon his friends. You, Solveig, Sevine... the three of you are the closest Do'Karth has had to friends since..." Do'Karth stopped himself, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. "Since it last mattered. Do'Karth tries not to become attached, but how can he not, after what we've been through? There is real purpose here."

"Sure feels like that, doesn't it?" He watched the crowd for Sevine and Roze and the others. Young Sagax sat listening to the briefing, once again, standing out among the other young'ns. Perhaps one day Sagax would be a man to follow, not like some of this herd. "I look at some of these scarred newbeards and striplings motivated by nothing but pay and loot, wonder how I could've ever been like them. Then I remember how much of a thing I was, always ready to get stuck in someone's craw, ready to bleed Skyrim dry for a hard name, for that familiar shaking of hands and slapping of backs before a fight with men you trusted. Guess we all got our reasons to stick with one crew or another."

Jorwen took another bite of his apple and chewed thoughtfully, thinking on Do'Karth's words, weighing them out. One part of him said they were true, the other part hoped they were. But if Solveig was as much like himself as everyone kept saying, he feared for her. "I hope you're right about my girl. I was young and fiery-tempered, same as her when I was young. Stories might die over the years, but there's a reason I'm named the Red-Bear and why Reachfolk hate that name. She doesn't want anything to do with me, it seems, but if you can catch her at the right moment, talk to her." Jorwen wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and scratched the hair under his cap, "I put a lot of responsibility for a daughter that isn't your own, I know, but as a favor to a friend. I've tried, and she doesn't take to it."

"You're going to have to sit Do'Karth down one of these days and explain exactly this whole name thing." The khajiit observed. "One thing this one is good at is observing people, and he knows you two are quite alike. Do'Karth barely knew his parents, so he spent a lot of time watching parents and their offspring, connecting the pieces. Try as one might, you cannot escape blood's influence. Do not fret, Do'Karth will consort with Solveig before we set out to Winterhold. Hard to escape conversation if you share a boat, yes?" he grinned, working on another slice.

Jorwen grinned and had a little chuckle, taking a last bite of what was left of the apple, "True enough." Jorwen leaned over and put the apple core on an unattended plate. "Names? Like a title, earned the same way. Some Names are just meaningless things- you got an ugly nose, folk get to calling you Hook-Nose. Maybe folk'd get to calling you Lame-Leg. Or Bone-Setter, on account of your healing. But the real Names, those you earn by being fierce, by being the biggest braggart in the hired and backing all of it up. They earn you glory, recognition, reputation, fear from those who hear it. Across Skyrim you'll hear of warriors' Names. Huntress, Ironside, others too." He sniffed, "Lot of importance in names here. I earned my Name when I followed Ulfric into the Reach with a few hundred others. It was some bloody business."

"So Do'Karth understands it. Sevine told this one of some of her experiences with the war. Truly nasty business. Have non-Nords ever been given these honourary names? Do'Karth shutters to think of all of the great things he's done without recognition! This one suspects 'Rug' does not qualify." he grinned with a slight chuckle, looking at the eager faces closest to Ashev. The funny thing was, in the grand scheme of things, Do'Karth was not an old man by any stretch of the imagination, but he felt like he'd already lived several lives in the time he was afforded. When Ashev asked if there were any questions, Do'Karth took note of the hard-looking Redguard who spoke, a face he didn't recognize, offering his services. Do'Karth suspected Ashev and the other leaders would be hard pressed to turn down manpower after so many losses. Leif also spoke up, enthusiastically offering the services of a ship. The way he spoke told Do'Karth that he was only half-listening to the briefing; Ashev had said they were sailing there, not walking. The khajiit said nothing as he worked on carving his apple some more.

When there was a break in the questions, Do'Karth tapped his staff against the floor, turning eyes on him. "Do'Karth was wondering how we are going to get supplies to the College. To this one's understanding, it sits atop a large pillar of stone and is only accessible by that bridge, as well as the entire city being at the top of a considerable cliff. If we are sailing there, are we climbing to the summit? Clarification would be welcome."

Having said his piece, Do'Karth's eyes met with Sevine's when he spotted her near Leif and he offered her a warm lingering smile.

"Aye, nasty business. Us Nords call war the Season Unending. Long before man there was war, long after, there will still be, the skalds say. All our heroes were made in war, all men we reckoned good and just. Shame." Jorwen mumbled before he cleared his throat and smiled, "But, you start doing things worth remembering, my friend, you'll earn a Name. There's not a lot to it, just be more foolish and a bit braver than most." Jorwen laughed, "Any which way, I think we should get to listening. Good talking to you, we'll have more chances to do it again on that boat, as you say."

Sagax slept very well for the first time since fleeing Windhelm, being out cold straight until the next morning. His position in the dark corner near the door to the inn ensured he was ignored, as most patrons were either too drunk or too tired to take note of the human-shaped dark mass snoozing quietly and resting against the back wall. He was only roused from his slumber by the clanking of platters and the murmuring of his compatriots as they shuffled into Windpeak, heavy bags still under the eyes of many. Looking up, he could see daylight peeking through the openings at the very top of the inn, and from the aroma and the smoke rising from a few cauldrons, Sagax guessed it was time for breakfast. Getting to his feet slowly and looking around for familiar faces, he saw several friends but unfortunately there were no open spots near any of them. There was one open table with just a few people in the back, and decided to take a seat with them. Halfway through eating the last bit of the bread still in his pack, Sagax was greeted with an all-too familiar voice.

"That's all? You ought to eat more, Sneak." Looking over, Sagax once more met eyes with the Windhelm guard that came to his aid time and time again. The poor man's uniform was filthy and in complete disrepair, and his helmet was no where to be found.

"Well, hello again. I didn't realize you made it out, friend."

The ex-guard shrugged and bit into a small sweetcake. "It was chaos, hard to tell who made it out and who didn't. Besides, you seemed too busy sleeping to say hi to anyone, eh?" Almost as an after-thought, he swallowed and waved his arm at the two people opposite. "These two are my mates; we serve...served, as city guards together. The one right across from you is Vori, and the other is Alarik."

Vori and Alarik were Nords all right. Vori's coarse black hair was slap-dashedly tied into a bun, with hard green eyes and shallow cheeks with a rigid jawline, much like Alarik. Even while sporting a more lean and athletic build than her compatriots, she was still clearly far, far stronger than Sagax, that much was clear when they two shook hands; it felt like she nearly took his arm off. Alarik reminded Sagax of Jorwen, if he were clean-shaven and wore his hair short. The hulking warrior was taller than both Sagax and Vori, and had more than plenty of muscle to spare. Scars were etched on both of his cheeks, and three big ones drug themselves across his left eye, which was pale in contrast to his right eye which bore a dark brown irid.

"This here's the Sneak I've told you about. Although it might be time to go passed that, yeah? Since I went and introduced my mates here, it's only common courtesy to introduce myself. The name's Frald."

"Sagax. A pleasure to meet you all." He rose to, finally, shake hands with the mystery guard that helped him several times back in Windhelm. Not knowing the man's name had started to bug him a bit, and he wasn't exactly sad to lose his nickname.

Downing her apparently third tankard of mead, Vori snorted facetiously. "This is the Sneak, huh? The guy that hopped the wall to get, what, his bag?" She looked at Sagax with one eyebrow raised and a coy smile. Alarik scanned Sagax harshly, but eventually nodded and uncorked his own mead. "You can never judge a book by its cover, Vori. He looks like a slippery one...no wonder the Kamal kept missing him. Probably as small as a tick from their distance."

"What was it you were trying to get specifically? A book, you said?" Interjected Frald.

"A manuscript a comrade wrote. Before he passed, he asked me to get it published. I wasn't about to let him down."

Alarik nodded again. "Good man. Your brother in arms is damn lucky to have a man of his principles like you honoring him." The giant was clearly the honorable sort. He spoke nobly and with a calm tone. His hulking physique betrayed his inner wisdom.

"Yeah, that's all well and good, and that was pretty fucking crazy of you, but the person I wanna meet the most is the mad bomber that charged down that Kamal ship! I could feel the ground quake from atop the wall!" Unlike Alarik, as anyone that was paying even an inkling of attention to the sounds around them could tell, Vori was loud and brash, and her low voice carried surprisingly well.

"Well Vori, today's your lucky day, 'cause here he is." Frald said, clapping Sagax's shoulders with a smile. "Saw it with my own eyes, him running down that pier with a little disk in hand. That was the explosive, right?"

Sagax felt odd being in the spotlight all of a sudden, and Vori didn't help with how she looked at him. "Ooooh...is that so?" She smiled daintily with a faint hint of a smirk, and she held steady eye contact with the Imperial. Nudging Sagax, Frald laughed. "Watch yourself. Vori here? LOVES crazy." Alarik rubbed his eyes and sighed. "Yes, Vori's a bit of a wild-card herself."

"Crazy's good, but crazies don't usually live very long; this one here's a different breed, obviously. No, I like a man who knows his strengths, and does something with'em." Finishing with a wink at him, Sagax began to sorely wished his hood was still intact.

In an attempt to divert even a little bit of attention away from himself, Sagax corrected Frald's retelling. "Actually...it wasn't just me. I had some help, a Breton woman, Rozalia. In fact, without her I don't think I would have-"

"Oh don't be so modest!" Interrupted Vori loudly. "You would have been just fine, I'm sure of it! Come on, don't be so afraid of taking credit!" Fourth tankard. She could really hammer those things down! It was almost frightening...

Alarik rubbed his chin in thought, as if he were trying to remember something. "A Breton woman...and if she were to help you charge down that pier, she would have needed to be like you, right? Stringy, and fast. I might've seen her before. She seemed the...unsavory type." Well, he wouldn't be wrong, speaking from the perspective of most people.

"She's a good person at heart, and I'm glad to call her my friend. You wouldn't need to worry about anything around her." Well, as long as you're her friend, but they didn't need to know the intricacies, right? "Besides, she did what she did to try and keep the people of Windhelm safe." Alright, even with Sagax's positive bias towards Roze, even he knew that was an outright lie. She helped him bomb the Kamal ship to get some of those giants off of her back. The knock-on effect was that there were less Kamal to raid the pier, but ultimately she operated in self-interest, not that Sagax could blame her for it. You do what you need to do to survive, right?

Frald looked as if he were about to say something, but Ashav's voice rang out first. "We can talk more later, looks like your boss is making an announcement." Getting up from the table, the Nord man beckoned to his friends. "We'll be around; need to prepare for our journey to Solitude. See you soon, Sagax." As Frald left, Alarik and Vori follow suit, Vori giving Sagax the same coy look as she left. First that angel thing with Roze, and now this Nord's giving him looks. At times like this Sagax wished he could just disappear for a while…

Getting up and moving from his table to hear Ashav better, Sagax listened intently. They would be going to Winterhold, or what was left of it, apparently. A bunch of sailors were going to perform rescue efforts for the College there, and they all would be joining. Didn't seem like it would be too horrible of a job; nearly anything would be better than fighting those snow demons. He was surprised that not only did nobody take Ashav's offer to leave, more were joining with the company; though perhaps it wasn't so strange, as most in the company most likely didn't have anywhere else to go; they certainly weren't about to go marching back to Windhelm.

Having no questions to ask of Ashav, Sagax sat back down and brought out his writing tools. He had yet to send out a letter of his well-being due to the Kamal siege, and could only imagine how worried his family must be. Scratching at the parchment with his quill, the Imperial detailed his current situation and where he was going next, and didn't spend long talking about the siege. Why spend so much time on that nasty subject, anyway? Folding up the letter and writing down the address for it to be sent to, Sagax slipped the paper and his writing utensils back into his bag to give to Edith or whoever would be sending off to Solitude later, when Ashav was done talking. He also needed to give them Felix's manuscript and axe. Perhaps they could find a nice place in the Bard's College to hang it up?

A good night's rest

Following the wee patching up job done by Do'Karth, Rozalia was in higher spirits than she had been for a while now. One could certainly correlate that to the whiskey - which she had pretty much herself the rest of the night, considering her Khajiit friend's distaste for the liquor - but it seemed the sulk Roze had suffered with since departing from Windhelm, had been lifted permanently from her shoulders. The light of the inn, the chatter and laughter that grew in volume as each minute passed, and the spirits of the entire group raised her mood. As the night passed on and the chatter died down, Roze finally found herself getting some decent sleep. No nightmares, no restlessness, no headaches.

As it happened, the headaches came the morning after - for all the whiskey did to sweeten her smile and her sleep, it was not kind when Roze awoke with a dry mouth and burning head, curled up beneath a table close to the hearth with her cloak tangled around her. The shuffling movements of other's awakening forced her to get up herself, struggling to get to her feet without emptying the contents of her stomach on the already stained floor.

"Ugh... this is why I stick to rum..." Roze muttered as she crawled from beneath the table, holding her head with one hand in an attempt to keep the pounding down. What had she gotten up to last night? It was somewhat of a blur after she and Do'Karth began mingling with the crowd.

"Ah... serves me right. I never learn my lesson." This thought was accompanied with the sheepish memories of past "adventures" with whiskey. There were inns she was still banned from down in the Rift... and as for her bedfellows often picked up on those wild nights, the less said about them, the better.

Somehow finding some fresh water on one of the moved tables - she had a strange inkling that she'd dumped salt in a few of the many pitchers last night ("By the Nine, I'm such a bastard when I've had a drink.") - Roze downed a few mugs of it as she took a seat by Sevine and Leif, resting her head gently on her hands with a low groan.

"I'll pay you both with whatever you want if you make sure I never touch fucking whiskey again." Said with a husky voice, but there still remained some humour in her tone, she offered up a lazy smile to the pair as she sat upright. By the looks of things, Leif's night had been just as rough as hers - ah, the wonders of alcohol. She cursed it's name now, but she'd be back to the mead by nightfall, most likely. As for Sevine, she too looked tired - but there seemed to be a heaviness in her eyes that likely hadn't been brought on by a hangover.

Speaking of, Roze could use a cure for it, and what did that better than food? Well, her stomach both grumbled and turned over at the sight of it, but she forced some bread down. It was deliciously fresh, and it would do well enough to quell the queasiness in her stomach. If they were taking to the sea by the afternoon, Roze wanted to be as sober as possible. She had her sea-legs, but they were certainly shaky after a night like the one she'd just had.

Pausing in her breakfast as Ashav talked, some of her brighter spirits ebbed away at the mention of their next job - she had no issues with Winterhold, other than how cold it was... but the mention of the Kamal again was a worrying one. They were in no fit state to fight them again - but surely the College would prove to be a worthy adversary against the monsters? Some of the best Mages in Skyrim and beyond attended the College, both as Apprentices and Masters. In fact, there was an old friend of hers living in the place - Sebastian Vorell; born to a Nord mother, Breton father, and raised in Cyrodiil, he - none too modestly - considered himself to have the best attributes of all three races. Paired with an uncanny talent in Conjuration magic, and an unflinching ability to bring out the inner Sanguine in anyone he met, Roze had found herself in tight spots with Sebastian many a time before.

Also... involving whiskey, most of the time. The son of a bitch knew her weaknesses.

Hearing that Winterhold had finally fallen completely this time around, she wouldn't be surprised to find Sebastian to have survived such events. He had a knack for finding trouble, certainly (Especially when she visited), but he had an even greater manner of getting out of it.

"There's an old companion of mine at the college... I bet if we find him upon arriving, he'd give us some help." Roze murmured quietly to Sevine beside her as Ashav called for questions. If Kamal were indeed behind the disaster, Sebastian would prove quite useful in battle - he'd never turned one down yet, anyway.

Tsleeixth woke up with a groan as sunlight filtered into the room, the rays of sunlight falling directly into his face. Rubbing his face slightly he propped himself up in the bed “That Hist-damned dream.” Said the Argonian -a hint of resignation in his voice- as he let out a weary sigh as the images of the dream that had haunted his sleep ever since their escape from Windhelm played on his mind. The dream was eerily similar to those that Tsleeixth had had before the Argonian Riots, a bunch of Kamal troops invading Black Marsh, but now, just like during that fateful day at Anga’s Mill, he started to run away from the Akaviri invaders and yet, this time, he could see the faces of those who had died during the escape from the besieged city.

He felt a shiver run through his spine as he remembered more of the dream, how the corpses grasped for his ankles, trying to bring him down, or screamed at him for having abandoned them to the demons. The Argonian spellsword shook his head, slapping himself to shake off what remained of the dream from his mind. He felt a scowl settling in on his face, his healthy hand clenching into a fist “Gotta stay calm, don’t let the nightmares get to your head Tsleeixth.” He said to himself before breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself down. Part of him knew that it was normal that he had such dreams, being fully aware of survivor’s guilt, yet it still surprised him how much it was affecting him. “Maybe if I hadn’t ran away….or if I had tried to help someone….” Thought the Argonian spellsword for a brief moment before reality settled in once more. If he hadn’t run, he’d be dead and would be lying in Anga’s Mill with the rest of those who had been butchered by the Kamal “At the very least, I can help avenge those who died.” Thought Tsleeixth darkly, his thoughts briefly turning to the Nord man who had saved his life at the first battle in the docks and to Utu-Ja as well, who had died while being swarmed by the demons from Akavir during their escape.

Deciding to not focus on the matter of his dreams, Tsleeixth began to get ready for the day ahead. He took off the brace that he had been wearing pretty much non-stop since the first battle at the docks of Windhelm, rolling the shoulder of his recently-broken arm to try and ward off any stiffness after such a long period of time with almost no movement “Good thing I managed to get the town healer to help me with this.” Said the Argonian, his lips curling upwards in a smile as he flexed the healed arm for a bit. Quickly getting ready, he soon went to the first floor of the inn.

He scanned the room, noticing the presence of familiar faces such as that of Do’Karth, Sevine, Sagax, Jorwen, Keegan and Roze. He felt relief at seeing them there, the familiar presence of those individuals brought forth a sense of tranquility, along with a slight pang of guilt at not having checked on them once they had arrived at Dawnstar, and of relief at the fact that they had survived. Sitting in quietly in one of the tables, he began to quietly eat his breakfast when he heard Ashav telling them to gather around.

He stopped eating and moved so that he was slightly closer to Ashav, so as to better hear the man as he spoke. He was a bit startled when the Cat-Kicker shouted at someone for eating, but Ashav’s dismissal of the fact drew the curiosity of the Saxhleel spellsword “Something’s changed.” He thought quietly, turning his full attention to the Redguard when he began to speak. He listened as the mercenary commander said that the last few weeks had been trying for all of them and felt his thoughts turning towards that time when Ashav’s next words brought him back to the present.

He turned to look around those gathered around the Redguard commander, surprised when no one moved away from the table. Whereas it was due to a sense of camaraderie or other concerns, to Tsleeixth it seemed that the group had become something more than a simple company of mercenaries. However, the Argonian didn’t have time to ponder on this idea for, as soon as he heard Ashav mention where their next assignment was to take place; Winterhold. Tsleeixth’s eyes widened in surprise “Winterhold….by the Hist, what could have happened…” He whispered to himself, feeling a shiver run down his spine as Ashav continued to speak. He shivered visibly when it was said that -apparently- the town surrounding the College was completely gone, yet the Argonian felt a small amount of relief at the fact that the COllege itself still remained.

As Ashav continued, he only paid the minimum amount of attention to the Redguard. He had spent 4 years living in WInterhold and during that time he had met many people, and made many friends, and as such his thoughts inevitably went to those persons and wondering wherever or not they were still alive. Trying to calm himself down, he reached for a mug full of mead and downed the content in one long gulp “Ashav, do we have any news if there are any survivors from the town itself?” He asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

Lingering goodbyes

The night had passed quicker than Rhasha'Dar had preferred, but it was a merry time nonetheless. People appeared to be getting over the events of Windhelm and the attacks of the Kamal, and Rhasha would have died one happy cat if he never thought about the "Ice-Bastards" (As Sylvanis had so eloquently dubbed them) again.

However, as morning came to pass, he realised how foolish he had been to consider forgetting the monsters.

Before the meeting, the morning had begun as a pleasant one - he'd said some last goodbyes to the caravan, his siblings, and Sylvanis - making them promise to travel as far west as they possibly could to avoid the Kamal. The twins were obviously concerned, thought they tried to hide it... Rhasha couldn't blame them. When he had joined this group, he had expected to kill some bandits or plunder some caves, not deal with such beasts that had arrived a few days ago. It would only be expected that they'd run into more trouble like that - the moons alone could tell him that.

"This one has penned a letter to ahnurr and fado - add something yourselves. The two of you are always terrible for writing home to them - this one will not be around now to remind you." Handing the heavy piece of parchment over to the twins, Rhasha offered a smile to them. He still thought they were too young to have left home with him - but he could not deny them an adventure, and they were certainly old enough to deal with the consequences.

“Forever nagging us, Rhasha. This one and her twin are too busy fighting mammoths and trolls to write home!” Ma’Zardi retorted, joking tone somewhat tinged with sadness as she hugged her older brother, Ma’Zargo watching on with a sober smile.

“These two will deliver the letter, however. Perhaps send a rude drawing to Ri’Nhazi? Cheer him up on the front lines.” He joked – knowing fine well any form of rude message would either cause a roar of laughter from their brother, or a scowl of embarrassment; it all depended on who he was with at the time. Since rising in the ranks, Ri’Nhazi-Do had become far more diplomatic in his words – a trait Rhasha was pleased to see surfacing in his eldest sibling, what with all the years of settling things with his claws. His brother had always lacked finesse, in that area. However, he seemed to be impressing his superiors, whatever came out of his mouth.

“Ah, perhaps.” Rhasha said with a chuckle, pulling his brother into the hug with his free arm, ruffling the top of his head as he did so. “Stay safe – and avoid mammoths, yes? You have an injured Bosmer to look after.”

“Do they hell. I’ll kill any bloody mammoths that wander in our path, arm or no.” The familiar grumble came from behind as Sylvanis walked over – she was far more steady on her feet, and the light pallor in her cheeks that had lingered simply from shock had faded – as for her stump, well... the arm was not going to be re-attached, nor would it grow back. But it was a clean wound, and was healing well – Rhasha’Dar had suggested she pick up some skills in enchanting, what with seeing one of their Dunmer companions coping well enough with an enchanted prosthetic arm. If she did the same, perhaps she could wield that monstrous hammer of hers again.

“Sylva, do try to avoid fights until you can hold your own again. This one will be most upset to find that you’ve been crushed to death by an angry giant.”

"Just try to stop me, you bloody cat." Although said with a smirk, Rhasha noticed there was something else lingering in her amber toned eyes... was it worry? Regret? Something he couldn't place, for it was a foreign thing to see in Sylvanis. Letting go of the twins, Rhasha then wrapped his arms around his Bosmeri friend, who, for once, did not attempt to fight him off - instead wrapping her good arm around him as well. Only when the twins joined in on the hug did she release herself from the huddle.

"Alright, that's enough." She muttered gruffly, familiar scowl now set back in place as she regarded the three Khajiit. "The caravan's moving on soon... and I'd like to find a place that isn't running low on mead."

"Hmm... and this one should rejoin the others in the Inn. It would be most regrettable for Rhasha to miss the briefing."

At this, the group split - with a few items exchanged, and a joke to avoid the cliffs, simply for Sylvanis' sake - and Rhasha'Dar entered the Inn. Having already eaten with the caravan, and all of the seats already filled up, Rhasha stood nearby the head of the table, taking a handful of the bread rolls to eat later - it never hurt to stock up, just in case.

This was when his heart sank to hear where they would be going next - and the possibility of running back into the Kamal. But surely, they could not have destroyed that entire city? Were their war machines truly that powerful? The company's next mission seemed to get worse and worse as Ashav talked - not only would Dumhuvud be in charge, but they would be going via ship.

"Ah, perfect. This one cannot swim." He thought with a sigh, shaking his head ever so slightly. He'd never been sea-sick before, but the idea of drowning in such cold waters was not a pleasant one. He'd be remaining below decks for the voyage, it would seem. Lighting his pipe and taking a few puffs, Rhasha'Dar remained silent as Ashav called for questions. Their mission appeared to be a simple one... or so he hoped.

Yesterday, the 10th of Sun's Height, was the Merchants Festival. Normally, shops would be wide open with once-in-a-year door crashers. The 10th also serves as Vaermina's summoning day. No town feared the mistress of nightmares more than Dawnstar. The townspeople say they were plagued by night terrors during the dragon crisis, and in that restless period, a priest of Mara and another mysterious adventurer explored the Tower of Dawn. All nightmares ceased once the adventurer emerged with a grotesque staff; her priest companion nowhere in sight. Henceforth, Vaermina's summoning day would be an anxious time. All but the bravest (or greediest) merchants would shut down business. For four years now, Dawnstar celebrates Merchants Festival on the 11^th, not the 10^th.

One can find many discounts in Dawnstar's stores; the time to buy has never been better.

Inside Windpeak Inn, Ashav answered questions one by one.

“Indeed we are.” Ashav responded to the first voice, another Redguard. Dark-skinned human were more and more common in Skyrim. In light of the Dragonborn's anti-Empire and anti-Dominion rhetoric, Redguards remain the sole foreign race wide accepted by Skyrim. This particular Redguard must been eager, for he spoke up faster than any of the veterans. Alternatively, everyone else could have known Ashav's methods well enough to not warrant asking.

“We could very much use your skills.” Ashav replied. No one could complain about another healer after what they went through in Windhelm.

“Yes. I'll take the new man over that louse Do'Ka-” Dumhuvud tried to inject himself before being cut off by Leif.

“Actually,” Ashav held up a hand, “that would work very well.” Scratching his forearm in thought, Ashav looked over the gathering crowd. “Everyone already enrolled, and you two,” he waved to Almad and S'riracha, “will sail with The Courtesan. As for the rest, why don't you report to the other vessel.” Ashav tapped on the flyer. “Go with them, they need hands as well.” With that, most of the newcomers were dismissed. A few stubborn ones appealed to stay, but Ashav quickly told them off.

“Are you sure?” Dumhuvud whispered so only Ashav could hear. “That cat, S'riracha, or whatever the Khajiit calls itself, too?”

“Both of them.” Ashav stated.

The succeeding questions came from the beastmen; Do'Karth and Tsleeixth. Ashav let both of them finish before talking back. In fact, he spoke slowly and intermittently, as if carefully considering word after word.

“According to the travelers from Winterhold, there exist corridors leading up from the foundation, all the way up to college proper.” Ashav explained to Do'Karth. “Now, as far as I know, The Courtesan will be joined by three other ships.”

For Tsleeixth, the worry on the Argonian's face was apparent. Tsleeixth managed to drink out an entire cup of water with no regard, probably assuming it alcohol without examining the taste or smell. This meant Ashav had to meticulously pick out his words. Unfortunately, he had nothing good to say.

“I heard they were travelers and fishers, the group that came in.” Thankfully, Daelin came to the rescue. His information were mostly overheard from street conversations earlier. “Apparently the entire town slid into the sea, but the college somehow remains.” The Bosmer said somberly.

Once everyone finished asking, it was time for Edith to collect requisition and outgoing parcels. Just like questions, Keegan claimed the first spot signing his name on the mail. He would try to get a set of durable trousers and jacket, which would no doubt serve athletic demands better than his current robes. In his hands was also a letter; for the first time in three decades, Aervyn and Skoerrho of Firsthold would hear from their child.

Dear mother and father, Keegan remembered writing last night. I apologize for leaving so abruptly. Perhaps I was worried over nothing, or perhaps you were right to commit me to asylum. Whatever the case, I wish we could have parted on better terms, like a proper family. I have gone through much, some proving your wisdom correct while other wildly contradicting everything I was told. No matter now, I am headed to the fight of my life, and should I perish, much of what I worked for would be sent to you. Interpret this as you will, for myself seek not your forgiveness nor express my anger; I am merely settling the debts I owed.

In the end, Keegan mulled over on what to sign with. Would it be Thaleruim? Keegan Vasque? Or something completely different so that he can't be traced in case his parents get any ideas. In the end, the appropriate choice was something simple and obvious: Your son.

Leif took it upon himself to waste no time whatsoever in readying The Courtesan for preparations, of course he had to inform Captain Atgeir that they would be taking on a few more people than originally thought. With sharp, steel grey eyes, in his yester years, Leif would have found the gaze of the captain intimidating. Instead, he saw a spark of excitement in the captain’s eyes, from the tales they had shared since Leif’s departure over several mugful’s of ale in the evening prior, he discovered that The Courtesan had taken lighter travels than originally planned in her vibrant years at sea; travelling from Dawnstar to Solitude. Atgeir, and the others had decided that the danger of gallivanting around the Sea of Ghosts were wearing on them, not mention that several of Leif’s companions had settled down in his absence, except for Halvar of course. He kept himself busy with wooing women, just like he had taught Leif during his hey-day. Atgeir, Bjorn, Orvar, and Halvar were in the thick of their forties, with Atgeir as the exception of the oldest onboard so far, in his mid-fifties. Though most wouldn’t guess that due to the size of him, with a broad-barreled chest, massive vein-covered arms, and legs just as thick, the only hint to his age was his lengthy peppered beard, and the locks under his cap which were a mix of grey, white and black. He lived up to his name of Frost-Beard, that part was certain, for not only his appearance, but his way of speech as well. Most that had served under Atgeir’s watchful eye would know that he was a man of few words, often speaking in grunts or offering up a stern, cold glare if someone did something he frowned upon. Regardless of their ages, Atgeir deemed it necessary to take on some extra help, and in the recent months hired on seven new sailors. A majority of these sailors were well-experienced with sailing, and respected Atgeir whenever he gave a command.

The Courtesan, neither overly majestic, nor too modest in appearance, was a remarkable ship nonetheless. Well into her thirties, The Courtesan’s weathered boards deceived many that thought her unsailable, or turned their eye to newer ships to seek their service. However, as the tale often told amongst the crew, The Courtesan was aptly named by Atgeir. A beautiful woman in his younger years, had won the heart of Atgeir when he landed in Solitude upon his father’s ship; one could say that the salt-water of the sea flowed through his veins, and his ancestor’s before him, making it a likely choice for him to continue the tradition. Each time he visited Solitude, he found himself in the comforting arms of this woman, whether he knew her name or not, he never revealed it to his fellow sailors. Then one year, after a particularly long journey away from Solitude, when Atgeir did return, he found that his lover had disappeared altogether, never knowing again what ever happened to her. When the time came, and Atgeir had enough coin, he purchased The Courtesan from the East Empire Company, and blessed the ship, naming her after his lover, as on the bow of the ship there was a figurehead in the design of a strikingly, curvaceous woman with flowing locks, rumored to be modeled after the very courtesan herself; years of sea-faring wore away the paint upon the woman, though Atgeir never bothered to have her repainted. To this day, one will never hear him speak of her, his lover, but only from those that know him best.

With two towering masts, a main mast centered in the middle of the main deck, and a foresail stationed on the fore-deck, her yellow, salt-stained canvas sails remained closed, wrapped against the beams, awaiting the journey bound for Winterhold. Located on the bridge, where the wheel stood to change the ship’s course, was a small flight of stairs that led into the captain’s quarters on the quarter deck. It was on the main deck, where the hatch was located that allowed one to enter into the depths of The Courtesan, down the short flight of stairs, there was a relatively small galley in which food was cooked, with a rather grumpy chef that found handling specific requests aggravating; it was best to simply eat what he had cooked for that evening’s meal without complaint. Turning away from the galley, there was a bulkhead that opened up into sleeping quarters, where hammocks were hung between the support beams. Originally there were ten hammocks to account for the other sailors on-board, but another ten were erected with the help of Leif and Halvar, leaving those unlucky to claim a hammock, sleeping on the floor with only a pile of straw for bedding. Found at the rear of the sleeping quarters, were the holding stalls for what few horses The Courtesan could carry, with only room for five. Thankfully, on this journey, it seemed that Asper, Sevine’s mount, would be the only one for now to occupy one of those stalls.

In the meantime, that Leif busied himself with aiding in the preparations of the ship, Sevine found the time to deliver a letter she had written with haste to give to Edith. Before she had fallen asleep last night, Sevine had taken it upon herself to write her sister, Liliana, a letter for once. Its contents read:


“Writing a letter home, eh?” Edith asked, offering up a clear smile as she glanced over the name to whom the letter was addressed.

“Aye. I deemed it proper to let Liliana know what I’m doing, and where I’m going, in case I never set foot in Falkreath again.” She returned the answer with a sheepish shrug of her shoulders, and ventured into placing an order of necessary items for the next return shipment, which included the following: an extra dozen steel arrows, two potions of Restore Health, two potions of Restore Stamina, one Potion of Cure Disease, and one potion of Cure Poison. She also placed another order for Leif, and she had not witnessed him come up from the docks since he headed down to the bay to help with the preparations in The Courtesan. For him, she ordered the same potions she had, along with: x5 Butterfly Wings, x5 Blue Mountain Flower. Shortly after, Sevine and Edith parted ways, and she headed out to retrieve Asper. It would be foolish to leave him behind, after he so bravely escaped the Kamal’s. Perhaps he would have some use over in Winterhold once they landed, however, from the sound of it, there was no land left of the city.

She found Asper at the hitching post outside Windpeak Inn, where she had left him the night before, and untethered his reins. He nickered softly, and pushed his muzzle into the palm of her hand, uttering a pleasant snort, as if happy to see her again. Tracing her fingers along his coat, Sevine’s gaze swept over him, making sure that he suffered no injuries, and once satisfied, she led him away from the inn, and down towards the docks. Asides from two other ships in the bay, save for the smaller fishing boats of the locals, The Courtesan was easy to spot for the amount of people bustling around the top deck. The waters in the bay remained smooth, hinting at the weather for the day, even the skies were clear, except for a few white, cotton-ball clouds that drifted lazily across the sky. Leading Asper onto the dock which The Courtesan’s gang-plank rested, she spotted Leif hoisting sacks of flour across his shoulders.

“Don’t hurt yourself there!” Sevine cried, her lips parting into a wide grin. Turning at once to see who called him, Leif returned the same smile and replied with a shout.

“Is that right? Last time I remember; you were the one that hurt yourself! Are you ready to board Asper?” He inquired, setting down the sacks as he ventured to the top of the gang-plank, hands on his hips.

“If you have the room, then yes.” She retorted.

“Bring him aboard, there’s plenty of room below deck!” Leif said with a laugh, waving her aboard before returning to his duties.

Once safely stowed away in the stalls below deck, Sevine returned to the top deck, and scoured the area, when her gaze landed on Leif, she made her way over to him. “Shall I tell Ashav that the ship is ready for boarding then?”

Leif stood alongside Halvar, who cast a lingering glance at Sevine, followed by a nudge to Leif’s ribs, which he quickly swatted away, he replied with a nod of his head, “Aye. That you could, we’ve actually just finished loading the food aboard, and the sleeping quarters have properly been arranged. When everyone is boarded, we’ll set sail right after.”

“Consider it done.” With that, Sevine went in search of Ashav, needing to tell him that The Courtesan was now ready for boarding.

---

Three days ago, the sky was clear. Three days ago, low tides lazily rolled through ocean waters, barely swatting at the ships' seemingly adamant hulls. The Sea of Ghosts started calm, with winds in near perfect orientations and blowing just strong enough for planned speed. The first two days were Kyne-blessed, as those living on the waves thanked the goddess of air for their good fortune. The small fleet of four ships encountered no other vessels at sea. This meant that few ships, if any, escaped the Kamal navy at Windhelm. However, it also meant sailors of nearby ports, Solitude and Blacklight, received warning to stay well away from the invaded areas. For what everyone knew, Blacklight might be overran as well. But for all that mattered, no Kamal ships were present off the Pale's coasts either. Some estimated all of the metal ships focused on Windhelm. That was an optimistic estimate, for none knew the true size of the Kamal fleet. They had at least fifteen vessels, probably a couple more in reserve, which added above twenty.

Besides The Courtesan, three other ships of different makes took up a loose formation. A medium-sized Nordic longboat belonging to the Thane of Dawnstar, a Nibenay style carrack waylaying to Blacklight, and finally, another Nordic boat volunteered by its altruistic captain for the purpose of rescue. The captains received no training save for the Jarl's speech, which were more political and abstract than practical. But with a stroke of dumb luck, the four ships stayed cohesive and covered two-third of the distance in two days.

On the second evening, the scarlet nightscapes that became commonplace in the past week were obstructed by uneasy clouds. These clouds went on forever and some sailors even swore they took up the shapes of malicious beasts. As night transitioned into an overcast day, so did the first raindrops. 13^th of Sun's Height saw precipitation increase until a downpour soaked ship decks that evening. Wind picked up pace, Kyne's mercy transformed into her fury, arousing the most aggressive waves against ship hulls that suddenly seemed paper thin. It was also the same time when the volunteer ship was forced to turn back. Sure, its fresh deckhands all felt so eager two days prior. But as the first plank came loose and jets of water blasted in, those daydreaming for a glorious quest quickly grasped the grim nature of their mission. All of a sudden, nothing was glamorous anymore.

Even so, the other three pressed on. With more than half of the journey already passed, the final leg of roughly one-third total distance could afford some slowdowns. Higher waves on the third day rocked the ships back and forth, thus shoving them on and off of their original course. Some seawater splashed onto the decks and those not yet accustomed to lives at sea endured stomach acrobatics. When winds subsided slightly that afternoon, the ships gathered closer and discussed the possibility of dropping anchor. The coast turned jagged and small icebergs dotted the waters. For all intents and purposes, this is the middle of nowhere. There were no worthy coves to moor, not to mention, the chances of being caught off guard by Kamal ironclads were more than enough to put any sensible captain away. So for three nights straight the ships sailed. Some came to regret going forward, as on this particular evening, the storms came back exponentially turbulent. In fact, the winds and waves were so high that the Thane's vessel nearly capsized.

Finally, the long-awaited destination came in sight on the fourth day. To be precise, the college came in viewing distance on the afternoon of Sun's Height 14. Earlier in the morning, the calamity that kept most sailors awake withdrew for the time being. This vacillating weather pattern led to believes that certain daedric forces were toying with the sailors; the unfortunate pieces in a twisted game. However, decent weather stayed past noon. The clouds even tempted dispersion when some spotted familiar coastlines.

Winterhold was no more. One might recall serrated cliffs steps from Winterhold's boundaries; reminders of what used to be a prosperous city. Now, similar cliffs invaded further inland. Verges currently stood a large crop field inward. No significant buildings remained on safe areas, and shattered wooden frames could be seen buried in the fresh landslide or floating out at sea. For unknown reasons (presumably connected to the collapse), sea level rose higher. The previous coastlines lay under the depth of several men, and the space of the old town now serves as a rock-littered beach. The marble bridge that used to connect the college and the town now laid in shambles, obstructing the very gorge it used to tower over.

As if the princes' laughter synchronized on everybody's terrifying realizations, lightning and thunder manifested overhead. Without warning, gusts of wind blew easterly. The storms were coming back, or so the captains agreed on. There was no time to marvel at the destruction, because it would soon be impossible to approach the college safely. Quickly, the hidden entrance was identified at the north-east portion of the college foundation. A tiny cave, probably passed for another crevice if not for specific instructions the steward wrote on navigation charts. The hidden cave was partially flooded, which meant it could only be entered via rowboats or swimmers.

“Launch the boats!” The EEC captain announced. A pair of canoes dropped from the nibenay carrack, followed by another rowboat from the Thane's longboat. But when it comes time for The Courtesan, not everyone got to leave. Roughly ten people at most could fit in the dinghies, and the rest had to stay behind and man the vessel. In addition, the spotter on watch found a fire eastwards down the coast. Someone, or something was stranded over there, and The Courtesan would do well to investigate.

How did everyone do?

First of all, not every single member of the company went. As mentioned before; Ashav, Edith and Daelin remained behind to plan ahead. Of course, Dough-Boy wasn't going anywhere either, as he was mandated to keep by his boss' side. Madura wanted to go, but Ashav insisted otherwise. The journalist wished to cover this rescue operation, but as far as Ashav cared, Madura can keep on wishing. A cramped ship possibly ferrying further occupants hold no place for an observer. Lastly, Ander was gone before any headcounts on the 11th. He was with company when they entered Dawnstar, but nowhere in sight afterward. However, Ander did leave Lodevemar's drafts with Ashav.

Dumhuvud, as expected, did not get along well with anyone. For the most part, he commandeered a semi-enclosed portion of the galley and sealed himself within. In other times, he acted in his signature acrimony. In particular, Dumhuvud scolded S'riracha, saying the Khajiit was nothing more than a crook, a robbery waiting to happen. S'riracha did take a stand, but when he and the Cat-Kicker nearly came to a brawl on the third night, S'riracha simply walked away with a smirk. It was highly unusual of the "spicy" personality the caravan spoke of S'riracha.

Ariane opened up ever so slightly. She initially demanded proper living quarters, whether that be a private room, a soft bed or even a tolerable bedroll, Ariane would take anything over the hammocks. Whatever captain Atgeir gave her, she eventually settled down. She would respond to conversations when dining together. Albeit awkwardly, Ariane would briefly talk of her mysticism training at the College of Whispers and ask about lives outside of academic institutions. When seeing Winterhold for the first time, Ariane's reaction was relief. “Glad it wasn't the mages.” She sighed.

Orakh was a rough character, but he was exponentially more approachable than Dumhuvud. One would expect him to be bitter against Trius, who he had came into conflict in Windhelm. But when the veteran Orc heard Trius enlisted with the company temporarily, and that the Dunmer needed funds to escape troubles in Morrowind, he actually took an understanding tone. Orakh would exchange apologies with Trius, and over salty-tasting rums, the two would become something like friends. However, Orakh didn't get along with Farid at all. The Redguard was everything Orakh hated; cocky, self-absorbed, and grudgingly, very good at pointing out others' weaknesses. In a half-drunken rent about his surname, a relic from his chieftain days, Farid would swoop in mock. A fist fight then erupted; it took four people to break them up.

Keegan, on the other hand, had plenty of his own problems to deal with. In short, he hated ships. The worn out hammocks fit poorly to his frame, so he chose a stack of hay instead. This sleeping arrangement was too much like his stowaway from Alinor. That part of his past came knocking in his dreams. Even in the calm nights, Keegan got little sleep. His dreams were filled with running, sweating and the blood-curling screams of strangers and himself. Stumbling topside, Keegan would lean over the side, puke out his guts and somehow feeling worse afterward. The third day got so bad that he vomited more time than he could count. His face was a ghostly white, and bloodshot eyes pleading, but unable to find closure. He begged captain Atgeir, the crew and any others skilled in healing for remedies. Those remedies never did work as told, and in the end, Keegan suspected he fell asleep because he lost consciousness.

So here we are, two dinghies about to be set. Farid and Ariane already hopped onto the first, while Keegan and S'riracha were loading climbing gears and emergency supplies onto the second. Dumhuvud and Orakh's staying with boat, and so was Trius.

‘’You see, you can trust the sea to be treacherous – it can carry you, and then suddenly not, it’s got no footing, it’s got no sense of consistency. You’re always on edge at sea – it’s a rougher experience compared to land. You’ve got to bear sunburns, you’ve got to bear scurvy, you’ve got to bear hands ripped from pulling ropes, you’ve got to bear the pirates and the shitty food, and you’ve got to bear the burping, and so on. Terra firma is quite the welcoming experience afterwards. And that’s why earthquakes are so devastating, in my opinion – it is not merely destructive, but it’s also possibly felt as some sort of betrayal. The sea’s much more hospitable cousin suddenly lashing at you and you can’t do anything about it.’’

The old Dunmer was used to the treacherous sea and its capricious, constantly changing demeanor. Like a neurotic mother, the sea either ignored the creatures of the land and their new, floating companions used to cut contact with the sea, only stirring occasionally to express its discomfort, or just outright smashed at the crafts used to carry men, lashing waves to tear off sails and make it no longer dependable, and violently moving to drop men overboard back into its grand embrace, where they had once come from.

He had experienced firsthand how unable to let go the sea was – years ago, off the coast of Woodhearth, when their battered carrack was finally shattered in half by the waves and the winds, Sadri had ended up in the salty water, and his body, riddled with nails, reopened lesions and splinters of wood, had sizzled as if it were thrown into fire, thanks to the saltwater coming in contact with all the wounds. Like a hungry snake trying to swallow its prey whole, the waves had crashed one by one upon Sadri, trying to pull him down. And days later, when he had woken up in a hut, under a pile of what seemed to be the remains of his late comrades, he had realized that he had cheated death. He still remembered the looks on the faces of the mer who had saved him, with half fascination, thanks to witnessing someone ‘come back from the dead’, and half frustration, thanks to the fact that what was meant to be their Morndas meal had now become a guest of the household. Sadri had left for civilization very quickly despite his condition, not wishing to prolong his stay and make his ‘saviors’ change their minds.

And now, here he was, once again on a ship rocked by waves, once again on a job that would have him risk his life. ‘’Time moves forward; but nothing changes,’’ Sadri thought to himself as he watched his compatriots drop canoes into the water for smoother advancement, while taking small huffs from his pipe. He had stripped himself of his boots and his armor, given the likelihood of falling into the sea or having to swim, and now, gritting his teeth against the cold air with only a short sleeved baggy shirt, breeches, a vest, a sash and a bandana serving as protection from the cold, he felt like a caricature of his younger days as sailor. He took another huff from his pipe, held firmly with his good hand. ‘’At least I still have my pipe,’’ he thought to himself.

A gust of wind suddenly sent his bandana flying off his head, and Sadri instinctively reached for it with his good hand, barely grasping it. He commended himself mentally for still having good reflexes, and then brought his pipe to his mouth again, only to realize he no longer held it. For a moment, he blinked, and saw the pipe rolling down the side of the deck. He opened his mouth to object, as if it would listen, but before he could say anything, let alone make a sound, the pipe fell overboard, making an almost inaudible ‘plop’.

Sadri took a deep breath. Once again, he opened his mouth to say something, but then, didn’t bother, and simply shook his head in disapproval. If anyone could see his eyes at that moment, they could actually see joy drain from them, and even pinpoint the exact moment when he lost a part of his will to live.

And in the Spiral Skein, Mephala’s terrific laughing echoed throughout, sending horror coursing through its inhuman inhabitants, who, even in their evil forms, pitied the one whose suffering was complete enough to provide amusement for the Webspinner.

Hours after setting sail from the bay of Dawnstar, Leif found Sevine leaning over the railing, emptying her guts out into the sea. Propping his elbows up on the wooden railing beside her, he reached out to comfort his ill friend, rubbing the midst of her back with a tender touch. When she lifted her head to gaze at him, Leif forced himself to stifle a chuckle, her face was the color of her eyes, figuratively speaking of course. With a shaking hand, Sevine wiped away the spittle from the corner of her mouth, and grimaced, trying to find the strength to smile. As Leif tried to recall, he couldn’t remember any mention from Sevine of ever sailing before, and if she did, there was a good reason why she never mentioned it in the first place.

“I thought about asking how you were holding up, but…” he gestured with a wave of his hand at her current state, “obviously, the sea is not your favorite place, eh?” She lurched over the railing, dry-heaving as she had emptied the contents of her morning’s breakfast long ago. Sinking to her knees, Sevine clung to the wooden posts, and rested her cheek against them.

“I hate it.” She gasped, trying to catch her breath. “I didn’t think it would be this bad. The sailing, I mean.” As she spoke, a tremble rolled through her body, causing beads of sweat to roll down the tip of her nose.

“First time?”

“Aye. It’s the… moving. Of the ship.”

“Ah, motion sickness then.” Leif realized, understanding that the moving of the ship across the surface of the water made many first time sailor’s sick, even on clear, pleasant days like today. “C’mon, let’s get you something to drink.” Extending his hand out towards her to take, Sevine grasped it, and found herself on her feet, leaning into Leif as he slipped an arm around her shoulder to steady her more.

Guiding Sevine to a long-table set out on the main deck, he pulled out a chair for her, and made certain she sat before fetching the water skein off his belt, and poured it into a nearby tankard. Taking the seat next to her, Leif pressed the tankard into her hands, and watched as she sipped on the liquid with a caution, unsure if her stomach would reject it as well. Her crimson locks were slick with sweat, and clung to the side of her head like bloodied tendrils. His eyes wandered over her, studying her like a newborn babe, he watched as her lips parted to drink from the tin cup, and suddenly looked away, a flush of bright red spread across his cheeks. He had found himself thinking of Sevine as more than a friend, as he often did. Yet, being so close to her in proximity, and having the opportunity to gaze at her uninterrupted, there was a part of him that felt shamed. Perhaps it was how she first treated him after his failed attempt at wooing her. After all, she nearly broke his nose. But now, seeing her in a weakened state, evoked a protective response from him. There was nothing more that he wished to do, than to lie her down on a proper bed, and ensure her well-being during the course of the voyage. However, Leif knew that Sevine would not allow someone to mother like a hen over its chicks. So, he stilled his natural urges to fawn over her, and reserved himself to pushing water into her body. When she set the now empty tankard on the table, her eyes flickered over to him, offering a weakened smile.

“Th-thank you. I feel better.” She mustered.

“Let’s get you into a bed, at least. It won’t do you any good to be staring at the sea while we’re sailing, ‘twill only make you sicker than you are now. I’ll come and check on you throughout the night, you need to drink plenty of water to avoid dehydration.” Once below deck, Leif unrolled her padded bedroll, and laid it over a pile of straw. Putting her in a hammock would only make her motion-sickness worse. As she crawled inside her bedroll, pulling the woolen cover up to her chin, Leif brought over a bucket, and sat it beside her, in case she didn’t make it topside. Her eyelids fluttered, threatening to overcome her with sleep. He remained sitting alongside her, and waited until she fell asleep, which was only in a matter of minutes. With a soft smile, Leif knelt over her, and placed a gentle kiss upon her brow.

Returning topside, Leif set himself to work by aiding with the rigging, falling into his old work patterns for when he sailed on The Courtesan all those years ago. By the time the evening meal was brought upon deck, Leif ventured below to check on Sevine, and found her fast asleep. He returned once more topside, and found himself sitting alongside a remarkable Breton mage, by the name of Ariane. She asked more questions about his life, than she answered about hers. She mentioned where she had gone for schooling in magick, something about the College of Whispers, which to Leif, sounded as secretive as its name suggested. He was soon drawn away by Halvar and Bjorn, who coaxed him into playing a round of songs upon a lute, telling him that they hadn’t the luxury of a decent singer since he left. Halvar and Bjorn attempted to convince what women onboard they could into dancing along to the sea-shanty that Leif’s husky voice provided as his fingers plucked the chords as tenderly as he would hold a lover in his arms. In the end, the two ruffians found themselves dancing alone.

“O’ my bonny lass,
Where she may be,
I know in the port of ol’ Solitude,
She’ll wait for me.
With hair bright as the sun,
And eyes as blue as the sky,
Her lips painted red with rouge.

In the soft embrace o’ my bonny lass,
Where she’ll kiss me from dusk to dawn,
Till I leave port come next morn.
A woman so true,
Full o’ love, as she waits for me.

O’ my bonny lass,
She knows not where my true heart lies;
‘Tis under the open sky,
With the wind of Kyne,
Filling our sails.
She’ll carry me away from home,
And I shan’t return anytime soon.

O’ my bonny lass,
Where she may be,
I know in the port of ol’ Solitude,
She’ll wait for me. ”



Over the course of the next three days to come, sailing was smooth with a pleasant breeze on the 12th. By the early morn of the 13th, the wind worsened into a blustery gale, with the seas becoming turbulent. Sevine fared no better on the voyage than she did at the start, but Leif kept a close eye on her, making sure she pushed the fluids to avoid the troubles of dehydration. On the 12th, she managed to eat a morsel or two of bread, and it was here that Leif inspected her leg, after she grimaced climbing the stairwell to the main deck. He sat her down on deck, and cleaned the wound; the stitches were removed, and Leif used his knowledge of healing to finish closing the laceration up. Now, only a red mark remained from where the spearhead nipped her calf. By the 13th, despite the fouling weather, Sevine felt considerably better than she had at the start of the voyage two days prior, though the continuous rocking of the ship did nothing for the pounding headache she suffered from. Perhaps it was the fact that she had had little to eat since setting sail that her stomach could simply not upchuck. She stuck to keeping below deck, and found herself sleeping more than usual, awoken by the nervous whinnies of Asper, who could sense the danger of the storm; he pawed at the floorboards, and poked his head out of the stall, nickering in earnest to Sevine. She could do naught for him, and let him remain. Leif kept himself busy by taking a seat in the fighting top, a wooden barrel-like platform situated halfway up the main mast, to give visual aid to captain Atgeir who stuck to the wheel like a boulder. Kyne had turned the sea into a mess of rising and falling waves. Water sloshed across the deck of The Courtesan making it dangerous for those that knew not on how to traverse wet decks. Halvar, Orvar, Bjorn, and the other sailors aboard were set to work, fastening ropes, and ties that were ripped free in the violent gusts of wind.

On the 14th of Sun’s Height, by mid-afternoon the clouds cleared, and the winds lessened, giving the sailors on deck a chance to rest. Though Atgeir remained uneasy, grumbling beneath his breath that Kyne was only playing tricks on them; it was when the other ships in tow pulled alongside one another did he voice his concerns. The swarthy captain pointed out that there was no proper place to moor the ships, for the beaches were littered with rubble, nor were there any safe coves to anchor in. While they made their decisions on how to handle anchoring the ships, Leif could see the destruction that had befallen Winterhold as he had remained in the fighting top, in fact the town no longer remained as was mentioned on the 11th before they had set sail. Rubble filled the shorelines, and broken shards of wood that were once the homes and other buildings of Winterhold floated out to sea, the bridge that connected the small village of Winterhold to the college filled the gulley it once spanned, and the water level had risen considerably than he had remembered from previous times of sailing past Winterhold. Even more curious, a fire kindled further down the beaches. Did someone survive the collapse? He would mention it to Atgeir, perhaps they would sail down yonder and investigate once the dinghies departed. When he descended from the fighting top to help in readying the dinghies, Leif’s clothes were drenched with rain and sea water. He spotted several members of the company were gathered on the main deck, deciding who would go, and who would stay. There, he saw Sevine, wearing a red tunic, and leather trousers; the choice to forgo her armor worried him, but he did not doubt her, as he saw her war axe stationed at her hip. If the dinghy capsized, which he prayed to Talos it wouldn’t, she wouldn’t be bogged down with the extra weight of her leather armor.

“Are you going?” Leif asked, sidling up next to her.

She nodded in affirmation, “Aye. There aren’t many that can go, what with the supplies and all. I figured that I could be of some help. Might be best for me to get the feeling of land beneath my feet.” Sevine had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t identify. Was it the lack of food? Or her nerves?

“Watch yourself, the waves are tricky. If you capsize, kick your boots off.” He returned, motioning with a nod of his head to her boots. With the fear of something awful happening to her while he lingered behind, Leif embraced her quickly, and squeezed her shoulder affectionately before pushing her towards the dinghy. She only offered a wave of her hand as the boat was soon lowered into the waters below.

As one might expect from a vessel christened the Courtesan, it was a rough ride all the way to Winterhold. The seas, even on placid days, rocked the ship in a motion that many of the company were ill-prepared for, and a good percentage of them were offending the concept of nutritional value by upchucking their hard-earned meals over the sides, in buckets, or in unfortunate cases, all over the decks. Do’Karth mercifully managed to maintain his meals, largely by only nibbling small portions and drinking sips enough to fend off hunger pangs and thirst but not having enough to nauseate himself with the rocking of the wood coffin that was ferrying them to their assignment. It was an uncomfortable arrangement that threatened both sickness and harsh hunger pangs, but it was a line that was walked knowing it saved him from something far worse.

Instead, it was the fear of being on the vast, lethal ocean that bothered Do’Karth. At least floating on most lakes, or swimming, you could stay close to shore and it was quite placid compared to the massive waves that rocked the ship in the worst of the storms. The khajiit refused any invitation to go topside, knowing that the vast unknown surrounding him would suddenly become real, as would the thoughts of being tossed overboard by a rogue wave or simply the rocking of the ship and subsequently swallowed beneath the icy waters’ surface, never to be seen again as he suffocated. While the crew was distracted with the others, complaining loudly and often about them and making mocking jeers at those not fortunate enough to have sea legs, Do’Karth made due with pinches of Sugar to keep himself steady and distracted. Days passed, and other than having sparse conversation with some of his companions, Do’Karth kept solidary and tried to sleep as much as possible, finding lying flat was the best way to resist the sickening motion, although the fear of capsizing and sinking kept things from being restful in the slightest.

When land was sighted and the ship was not being rocked as much by the waves, Do’Karth steadied himself and after a few minutes of mental preparation, climbed the ladder to access the above deck hatch to step outside for the only occasion that wasn’t to take turns emptying out a shit bucket. Bracing himself with his staff, Do’Karth walked tepidly to watch the approaching Winterhold coast and found it incredibly foreboding; had it not been for the College, a magnificent looking structure perched somehow atop a giant rock spire, it would have been hard to imagine anything resembling a village was here before, save for the occasional wood and stone structure that had survived the collapse that Do’Karth had heard so much about. It was only a reminder that the sea was not a place that any land-dwelling being was meant to be, and the gods seemed fit to remind them of that when dark thunderclouds came rolling in. The khajiit’s heart was pounding so hard, he had almost forgotten to breathe. The command to “launch the boats” might as well been an order to dig one’s own grave. There are many ways Do’Karth would have accepted as a means of dying, this is right near the bottom of the list of ways he does not wish to go. he thought as he followed the man ahead of him to his dinghy, forcing his legs to move as he stared wanting at the refugee of the fabric before him that was the only thing that could distract him from the predicament.

He was relieved to see the man ahead of him was Sagex, and Tsleeixth, the friendly argonian with the impossible to pronounce name, were among those he’d be with. Do’Karth clasped the bench below him with a desperate grip, his claws digging in. Along with nearly dying after his failed assassination attempt of the Mane many moons ago, this ranked among the worst experiences in the khajiit’s life.

“Please assure Do’Karth he will touch foot on land again. Cold sands, fucking snow, this one does not care, anything is preferable to this plain of Oblivion of which he has found himself.” He groaned to the Imperial and argonian and anyone else who was in ear shot.

Dawnstar, just before boarding The Courtesan

---

Everything seemed to be in order: he had given Edith everything he wanted to send off to Solitude and beyond. Sagax also requisitioned a new shirt, two healing potions, a potion of frost resistance, and a potion of magicka. Sagax explained to a slightly-confused Edith that he had no intention of using the potion himself, as he knew no magic, but he knew that there were several magic users in the company, and he wanted to keep a vial handy in the future in case any of them needed an emergency pick-me-up. Sagax may have been one impulsive sod, but he knew how to plan for the future...sometimes.

The next order of business was getting some new armor. His current attire would not be carrying him any further; the gaping holes would make sure of that. Thankfully, the local blacksmith was out working the forge, and he acknowledged Sagax with a look and a wave as the Imperial approached. The man looked Sagax's tattered armor over quickly and set his hammer down on the workbench next to him.

"Mornin'. Guessing ya need some new leathers? Or maybe you're looking to expand your arsenal? Whatever is, I've got it, friend! Got all my stock laid out on those tables there. Everything's marked down a'plenty today, too, so no need to be thrifty!" He said, pointing to three wooden tables lined up behind the forge. There were daggers, gauntlets, even a full steel breastplate...the man was clearly quite good at his craft and had every reason to be proud of his wares. Sagax crossed the creaking floorboards below over to one table and, after browsing for a few minutes, dug out a leather cuirass, buried below a set of chainmail armor. It seemed to be made out of harder leather than most of Sagax's Cyrodiil-made gear, more along the lines of what his boots were made out of, and it was constructed of layers of leather instead of a single piece stitched together. Dangling from the bottom hem of the cuirass was a draping length of chainmail that would probably reach just above his knees.

"Ah, a fine piece, is it not? Just made it. Hey, you're with that mercenary company, right? Well, you're gonna need a bit more protection than just those little kneeguards ya got there, lad!" After clearing a few swords away, the smith brought out a pair of long greaves, no doubt made of the same leather as the cuirass. "Why not throw in a few more septims for these, eh? I'll give ya some pauldrons, too, half off! What'dya say, lad? You're gonna need good quality gear in your line of work, no matter how fast ya are!"

It was hard to argue with the man. He wouldn't be able to rely on his speed forever; he'd take some hits eventually, and why not settle for just a large gash instead of missing a leg? The pauldrons would also no doubt be helpful in the long run, and it was all lined lined with fur on the inside to boot. Deciding it would all be worth the money, Sagax nodded his head in agreement. "Sure, you've got a deal." The smith's eyes brightened at these words as he shook Sagax's hand. "Aha, I knew you were a sensible man! Alright, come here and let's get this all fitted right..."

After getting his new gear to fit and paying the smith what was owed, Sagax approached the docks, his bag of coins being a bit lighter than before, though he was able to dock a few coins off of the greaves after trading in his old armor. Oh well, not like he was spending it on any thing else except for the odd bit of bread anyway. Besides, if he lived long enough he'd get all that money back, and the new gear would definitely help with that to be sure.

As he got closer to where The Courtesan was docked, Sagax was intercepted by none other than Vori, a fur cloak draped around her shoulders and holding a small bundle in her arms. Behind her were Frald and Alarik, dressed in furs of their own and with traveling packs rested on their backs. "Finally! Been looking all over for you, Psycho Rogue!" Psycho Rogue? What kind of a name was that? "Here, I got somethin' for ya." Handing over the bundle, Sagax found that it was a hooded fur cloak of medium length, reaching down below his hips. Wrapped up in the cloak were two flexible leather gauntlets with rough, bumpy palms and fingers.

"Since ya like to climb around and all that stuff, I thought I'd give ya my sister's old climbing gloves. She was a lot like you, but she used her skills to do more...ah, unsavory work. But that doesn't matter, I just wanted to give them to ya because you'd make more use out of'em than I would ever would, and honestly, I only brought them with me out of Windhelm because...well, us Nords can get sentimental too. They'll only make me mad every time I see'em, so just keep the things, I don't want'em." Vori's usual coy grin was slowly replaced by a forlorn grimace, and her eyes went further and further away from Sagax and towards the ground. Just exactly what kind of "unsavory work" did she mean? Sagax hoped it was simple thievery, but Vori's expression and tone hinted otherwise.

"Oh...well, uh...thanks, Vori." He couldn't think of anything else to say. The topic of Vori's sister was clearly off limits, and he still wasn't used to strangers just gifting him things like that. It was just awkward all around, and Vori was about to make it even more awkward for him.

"Ah, don't worry about it...Frald pitched the most in for the cloak anyway." Crossing her arms and rocking back and forth on her foot slightly, Vori looked from side to side in silence for a few moments before muttering something that sounded like "To hell with it" and leaning in close to Sagax and kissing him on the cheek. Alarik rolled his eyes at the sight, and Frald wore a bored expression and sighed audibly; he was used to this sort of thing with Vori, obviously. "Another one, Vori? Whatever happened to Wilhelm? Or Igmund? Or even that pretty young lass you liked to drink with? Sofie, right?" The only response that Vori would dignify Frald's wry quip with was an angry hiss and glare before turning back to Sagax, who had been struck into silence.

"I'd like ya to do one thing for me, Sagax. Just remember this: Being a little crazy can get ya places, but you'll get to even more by being strong. So remember your strengths...'cause I'd like to see you again." She finished with a wink and turned and walked towards her compatriots, nodding her head to the road out of Dawnstar. Waving their goodbyes, both parties turned and continued on to their respective destinations. Next stop: Winterhold.

12th of Sun's Height, aboard The Courtesan

---

Sagax was enjoying his time on board The Courtesan. He didn't experience any of the...issues that plagued some of his comrades. He did try to stay far away from poor Sevine and Keegan though, both hurling nonstop over the side of the ship. The sounds they made were none too pleasant to Sagax, and very nearly caused a small chain reaction several times. Thankfully he could successfully drown them out with the sounds of the waves smacking the sides of the hull, though these very same waves kept him from spacing out completely as they caused the ship to rock back and forth.

His new armor and cloak made braving the cold on the top deck much easier, and he would often stay out far into the night to stargaze. The current situation contrasted heavily with what the company was dealing with hardly three days ago, and was much more pleasant overall. Well, for some people, anyway. Do'Karth was never even seen on the top deck, and Sevine was a little too busy disposing of her breakfast to chat. He didn't know where Roze was, though that was par for the course, really, and Jorwen was doing...something, somewhere on the ship. Hopefully he was having a better time than the others.

The sailors aboard made decent enough conversation, and a few even had really good stories. Some sounded rather far fetched, to be certain, but they were entertaining little tales nonetheless. One or two of the men poked fun at Sagax, asking him what grand adventures he had been on. They were taken aback by the tiny Imperial rogue going into great detail about how he nearly sunk a Kamal warship; he even had the burn scars to prove it. Many "Well I'll be damned"s were heard, to Sagax's great amusement.

14th of Sun's Height, the coast of Winterhold

---

It was an eerie sight to behold: an entire town, gone below the waves, though it was hard to tell it was ever there at all. The only thing still intact was the College, sitting precariously an a large stone spire. The bridge connecting the College to the mainland had crumbled and fallen into the gorge, leaving the inhabitants stranded. The company's insertion point was apparently some kind of secret entrance around the base of the spire. He noticed that climbing gear was being loaded onto one of the smaller boats and decided to volunteer himself for the rescue, climbing was his specialty after all.

Stowing away his bag and cloak under the hammock he claimed for himself aboard the main ship, Sagax hopped onto the smaller boat commandeered by Keegan and the new Khajit, because no way in hell was he going to be sitting with Farid. Hearing another thud behind him, he saw Do'Karth take a seat, glaring at the waters below as if the ocean itself was his sworn enemy. "Ah we'll be fine, Do'Karth, don't worry about it. Besides, a short swim never hurt anyone right?" Sagax was in high spirits to be sure, though he had a feeling his furry friend didn't take to well to his jests...

Unlike many of her comrades and the sailors aboard the ship, Rozalia was having the time of her life. Truly, there was nothing quite as exhilarating as being out at sea during a storm - and what storms they were. It were as if the Gods themselves were whipping together such a frenzy in the water and sky; they lost the stars and the moons for a good long while, obscured by clouds as dark as the Void itself. The only light came from crackles of purple lightning flitting across the air, accompanied by such booming claps of thunder that could barely be heard over the roaring of the wind and the waves. And during the tempest, Roze did not retreat back into the holds - she could keep her balance well enough, and her stomach was surprisingly settled for the way they were being tossed about. While she knew nothing about ships, she was quick to volunteer help to the sailors, particularly if it involved climbing - it was high time she began working her shoulder once more.

Prior to leaving, she'd been able to get her bow finally re-strung from the smithy, also paying to have her leather armour patched up fully, and re-stocking her arrow supply. However, although her bow was in one piece again, Roze was finding it very difficult to pulling the string back at all. While the dislocation hadn't really done much for the joint, it had been the tearing of the muscle that was causing the most pain. It felt taut, even while relaxed - she'd need to exercise it before being able to knock and pull an arrow again. And what better exercise than climbing? It was either that or just sit beneath the decks, surrounded by fighting, vomiting, and just general nastiness.

So, Roze remained topside for most of the journey, enjoying some of the old stories from Leif and the crew. She hadn't known of his sailing past, but she could tell he certainly fitted in - there was something about the man that certainly reminded her of the sea. Curious as to why he even left this life to being with, Roze decided she'd have to ask him at some point. That, or she could get the story out of Sevine... once the poor woman recovered from the trip, that was.

As for Rhasha'Dar, he was enjoying the voyage about as much as Sevine. Although not suffering so much from sea-sickness - although this could have been down to his minuscule diet of nibbles of bread here and there during the journey - he was far more worried about drowning. Although he couldn't swim to begin with, Rhasha had many doubts as to whether it would matter, considering the size of the waves. He figured he'd have better chances surviving against one of the Kamal than the current of the wild waters. So, the Khajiit remained quiet, even staying out of the troubles going on between Dumhuvud and S'riracha - but that did not mean he ignored the matters. The younger Khajiit was a curious one, and Rhasha had watched on with a thoughtful frown as he stepped down from a fight. Back in the caravan, he would have been trying to hook his claws into the eyes of his offender... it was not like him to ignore such insults. Remaining where he sat, in a dark, quiet corner of the ship, Rhasha'Dar puffed on his pipe and watching his fellow caravaneer carefully for the remainder of the voyage.

As the ships reached their final destination, Rhasha'Dar finally found the courage to go topside, breathing a sigh of relief as the fresh air hit him. He hadn't realised until now just how stuffy it had been below decks, the constant stench of salty mildew and stomach contents likely making things worse for the already nauseated. While the sight of firm land was a comfort, Rhasha elected to remain on the ship. Although storms rumbled in the distance, he trusted The Courtesan to stay aloft over the small rowboats being used to get to the small cave. Besides, if the ship decided to travel down the coast to where the distant fire flickered, his healing may be needed.

Rozalia, however, climbed quite happily into the small boats after Sevine. By now, her shoulder was feeling far looser - she'd even managed to finally brush her hair, nott hat the joint had been pleased with the effort. Climbing the mast had been an easier task. While her curls were still stiff with salt water, the knots had been tamed, and she'd even been loaned a colourful bandanna from one of the sailors to push it back from her face. She fancied it suited her and her wild hair.

"I bet you're glad to leaving the sea behind, Sevine." Rozalia said with a bright grin, plucking the string of her bow almost absent-mindedly as the boat filled up with others. While she still couldn't exactly pull it back all the way, Roze felt better having the bow with her. Her newly-repaired leather armour had also been donned, a quiver of about ten arrows slung onto her back. Despite her sunny appearance, there were a small niggle of worry sat in the young Breton's heart - she hadn't really considered the extent of damage of Winterhold until actually seeing it, and it had been a breath-taking sight. Could something natural really have caused that? Was it the Kamal? Or worse, was it the acts of some Daedric Prince? Many on The Courtesan believed the storms were the acts of one of the Daedra, so it was entirely possible they had struck down the city in anger. Biting her lip nervously, Roze gazed at the jagged cliff edges left of the Hold Capital. "If I find out Sebastian lost a wager with Sheogorath or something and caused this, I'm going to be quite annoyed." The thought was a joking one, although not entirely impossible. In the same train of thought, she hoped once more that her old friend had survived the catastrophe.

---

Tsleeixth let out a sigh, Daelin’s news had not done much to ease the worries of the former member of the College of Winterhold. He couldn’t blame the Bosmer, after all he was only trying to ease the worries going through his mind, but the news that the entire town had slid into the ocean had only made him more anxious “What in the name of the Hist did the Kamal do to make the whole town sink into the sea of ghosts.” He thought to himself as he packed his things into his backpack.

He frowned slightly when something caught his eye inside of his backpack and, after fishing for it inside of his backpack, found himself staring at a small package “Huh, don’t remember this being here before.” He muttered to himself, his confusion only increasing when he found a small scroll inside of it. Unfurling the scroll, he saw inside of it a simple ring and that the scroll was -in fact- a letter.

He quickly read it’s content, rather surprised to find that the ring was a gift from the old Pakseech. He toyed with the ring in his hand, surprised to be able to feel an enchantment on the simple metal band, but soon enough Tsleeixth’s lips curled upwards “Thanks Pakseech.” He muttered gratefully before he shook his head. For now what mattered was the people that were trapped in the College of Winterhold, he couldn't afford distractions of any kind.

---

While Tsleeixth was not used to traveling on boat, he seemed to have managed to escape the numerous maladies that seemed to affect the other members of the company, for he felt neither seasick nor did he had any difficult when it came to sleep in the vessel’s hammocks. Yet this didn't meant that the Argonian was having an easier time than those who were affected by their method of travel for he was constantly nervous about the state of those who now took refuge inside the College, his nervousness often making him wake up early in the morning to take him to the upper deck of The Courtesan, always looking at the direction that the Hold capital once used to mark or to stay up until late in the night staring in that direction.

By the time the College -or at least it’s profile in the distance- came into view, Tsleeixth felt himself going crazy with restlessness at the pace of the ships even though it had only been two days since they had left Dawnstar. Yet the sight of the ancient structure brought no peace of mind for the spellsword, instead the fact that the nearby town that gave the College it’s name had indeed sunk completely under the waves only helped to cause him only further agitation and nervousness.

How many survived? Did they manage to take refuge inside of the College? Did the survivors of Winterhold had enough provisions? Had they brought enough provisions to help the survivors? This thoughts occupied Tsleeixth’s mind as the three ships approached the destroyed city and the College that -in spite of whatever calamity had struck the city- still stood.

---

By the time that they were close enough to approach the College of Winterhold in two dinghies, Tsleeixth felt almost like jumping from The Courtesans upper deck and swimming. Seeing the ruins of the city jutting out of the seas had given the Argonian an almost feverish energy, his worries and fears brought back to the front of his mind at the sight of the destroyed settlement.

“It’s funny, I had almost forgotten about my time in Winterhold and yet now it seems like I can almost remember it perfectly.” He thought sadly, a sigh escaping from his lips as memories of happier, more simple, times flooded into his mind “Funny how loss always seems to reminds us of cherished things that before seemed so insignificant.” He thought bitterly as he got into one of the boats, Do’Karth’s words bringing him out of his reverie.

He was about to speak, try to offer his Khajiit companion some reassuring words, but Sagax spoke before he could. Laughing a little at the Imperial’s words, Tsleeixth had to take in some air before he spoke again “I wouldn’t be so sure Sagax, I think in this particular case a short swim could hurt a little.” He joked before he turned to look at Do’Karth “Now, in all seriousness, don’t worry Do’Karth, before you realize it we’ll be back in firm land.” He said reassuringly to the Khajiit, patting his shoulder gently to try and calm him down.

“Launch the boats!” a voice bellowed though muffled by the wood and waves that surrounded the young Redguard.

Almad tossed the remainder of the honey-sweetened tea in his mouth and hurried off his rear. He slung his bag over his shoulders and headed towards the steps, towards those taunting little monsters that almost dislocated an ankle the night before. "Drat!" he uttered to no one. He returned to grab his staff and continued to the main deck, reacquainting himself with that lovely clime for which Skyrim was renowned, and as he turned in the direction of Winterhold, that sudden blitheness fled him like a flame inundated.

"The Nine," he mumbled, clenching his staff as his stomach clenched itself. He parted his lip once more and moved his tongue, but nothing was spoken. Words thought certain were made into a web of confusion.

Winterhold was supposed to be a town. There were supposed to be buildings and cattle and people, guards rushing to the docks to inform them of the trouble, but there, whatever that was, was nought but a craggy coast and soaked remains. He recalled stories of the previous terror that struck the town—the Great Collapse—and even that was made lesser by what claimed his sight. Nothing natural fell Winterhold, he told himself as he boarded one of the dinghies.

He then looked up at the towering construct—hard and true like the stone from which it was carved—disconnected from the mainland and an island onto itself. Odd, he thought. A mage from the college visited Sentinel and spoke of the ancient place as isolated in a solemn but sweet manner, told him of how a mere bridge separated them from everyone else and how beautiful the quaint town appeared when the candles and sconces peered through the cold night air.

Almad sighed and gazed at his palm as it was engulfed by a gentle ringing of bells, celestial clinging, and aurulent radiance. He glanced at the College of Winterhold and smiled, but his smile was not a warm one. It was critical and petulant.

"Suppose that's one bridge the mages can say they didn't burn," he said to no one in particular.

The situation in the College was not a good one, and understandably so, since Colleges, magical or not, were usually not built with the capability of withstanding sieges in mind. Mood was generally low, the wounded were many, and the greatness of magic seemed all too incapable to deal with the physicality of the situation brought by isolation. Apprentice and master worked alike to salvage the situation, but nonetheless, it was grim. Winterhold was gone, the bridge was gone, and the College, now all alone, had definitely seen better days.

In the battered Courtyard, amongst the bandaged and wretched looking mages, one figure stood out thanks to his more conventional attire, leaning against a broken pillar. This man, this melancholic man, nearing his middle age, and thinking of his past love far away, was Marcel Gawain, who, alongside a few others, had ended up stuck in the College while visiting, much to the chagrin of the more magically adept inhabitants of the school, thanks to the fellow’s rather odd relationship with magic. Somehow unscathed during the catastrophe, he was nonetheless attended to by an Altmer, who nearly puked her guts out after checking him for wounds and trying to apply Restoration magic. Had the College not been in such a situation, they would’ve probably taken Marcel for study – but, as things were, nobody cared enough about a dizzying magic sponge. That was something for later.

The Breton, seemingly bored by the fact that he wasn’t able to do much about the chaos around him, procured a Madeleine from a pouch on his belt and threw it in his mouth. Having last bought Madeleines from Solitude, and having been unable to find any more in other cities in Skyrim, they weren’t as fresh as Marcel would prefer them to be, but they would have to do. They were practically cut off from the rest of the world, and thus, no matter how stale, Madeleines were a comfort to be appreciated, and Marcel did so with the best of his ability. Had he been another Marcel in another time and another place, perhaps the taste of Madeleine could lead him to writing a literary masterpiece, but our Marcel was too bland, too wonderfully dull to achieve such a thing. Even if he actually had the skill to write a book, his masterpiece would be a six-volume encyclopedia of Breton fabrics, or a book on the volume of acid in the soils of the various provinces of Tamriel. Yet not all hope was lost for Marcel, given the fact that he could at least feel human emotions such as love, even if he was awfully quiet in his way of experiencing such things. At the very least, there was one person in Tamriel who could say that Marcel was actually a human being with emotions and not some sort of puppet trying to imitate a nice person, but she was far away, in Skingrad, and there was no reason for anyone to ask her about Marcel.

It was hard to believe that he was a witch hunter by profession – then again, it was hard to believe that he was a hunter of any sort, given the innocent and melancholic look on his face, you’d figure he’d be better off locked in some sort of study or behind some vending shop, to be forgotten in life, and lamented in death. If not for a series of coincidences, this possibility would’ve most likely been the truth, and if Marcel had thought about it, it also would’ve probably been seen as a better option, for Marcel was not a man of violence by nature. But Marcel also wasn’t a thinker, and thus, having to go with the flow, he was stuck with his profession.

As the man chewed on the stale piece of pastry in his mouth, he saw a young, thin lad approach. He had seen this fellow before the Catastrophe, in the Arcanaeum, talking to the old librarian about something. Of course, he was now thinner, courtesy of the food shortage, and had a bandage wrapped around his forehead, obscuring his right eye. ‘’Care to spare some?’’ The lad asked, and Marcel obliged, albeit it hurt him to do so, for Marcel had few things as precious in his life as his Madeleines.

‘’These certainly taste better than what we’ve been eating for the last few days,’’ the young mage said – Marcel felt a tinge of spite in the lad’s voice, yet whether the mage had meant that or not, that was not certain. Marcel realized that it probably wasn’t nice of him to eat beautiful, beautiful pastries in the middle of such a situation. But the lemony taste of it was well worth it. For Marcel, the sadness brought on by an act of selfishness did not take away the pleasure caused by the act, but neither did the pleasure take away the sadness – they existed hand in hand, and Marcel, ever the optimist, preferred to focus on the cake. It was still spongy, though it was a bit tougher to chew on.

Marcel felt like he had to continue the conversation somehow. ‘’Fine weather, isn’t it?’’ He asked to the mage, trying to skip the whole city-crumbling storms business. Right after he said that, Marcel realized he could’ve used a better way to open the conversation, but it seemed too late for that. The mage raised his good eye at Marcel. ‘’My brother was killed by lightning. My uncle probably died in the collapse. I lost an eye. Sure is nice weather.’’ Marcel was completely taken aback by how the lad made the best of the circumstances. ‘’It’s nice to see someone appreciate such things no matter what,’’ Marcel said cheerfully, for he did not want to seem out of mood compared to the mage. The lad’s eye lit up and he opened his mouth to say something, but then, he suddenly began choking and coughing. ‘’Are you okay?’’ Marcel asked in a concerned manner, and the lad flailed his arm at Marcel, as if trying to caress his jaw, though the hand was closed shut, so it wouldn’t be able to do any gentle touching. The closed hand missed Marcel, however, and sent the maneuver sent the choking lad falling to the ground.

‘’Help! Someone help!’’ Marcel shouted, and managed to attract the attention of some mages sitting by the statue of Shalidor in the Courtyard, who rushed to the aid of their choking friend. Marcel himself dropped on his knees to help, but he did not know what to do in this situation. ‘’He’s choked on a piece of cake!’’ Marcel informed them as they started abdominal thrusts to clear the lad’s windpipe. Suddenly, the half-chewed piece of Madeleine burst from the young mage’s mouth, followed by an amount of vomit, which ended up spilling all over the young mage’s robes.

‘’Shem, you know rationing is in place, where’d you get a damn cake?’’ One of the more experienced mages asked to the exhausted young mage on the ground. Before he could reply, however, Shem coughed more, and thus was limited to lifting his hand in Marcel’s direction.

‘’If not for this fellow here you could’ve died, you know,’’ another of the mages mentioned. Marcel smiled for doing something right as the bunch of mages carried Shem away, except one.

‘’I’d almost say it served him right, but it wouldn’t be right of me to say that,’’ the remaining mage said as she shook her head. ‘’He’ll need a reprimand, I think. It was good of you to inform us, we’ll have to restrict the rations further,’’ she said. ‘’ I’m Anne Duboisse. And you are?’’

‘’My name’s Marcel Gawain, Mme Duboisse,’’ Marcel said, and extended his hand for a shake. The lady complied and grasped the witch hunter’s hand, and suddenly twitched in place, as if struck by static shock. ‘’Ah, dear Mara,’’ Anne said, dizzied, and took her hand back. ‘’You will have to excuse me,’’ she said as she held her hand and ran away. Marcel smiled as the young woman hurriedly left.

‘’I think she likes me.’’