Meir Thorvale, a quiet hamlet with a couple dozen wood-framed buildings to its name, was nestled in the Western reaches of the Wrothgarian Mountains, and as such its stature amongst the towns and cities of High Rock was almost always cast in the shadow of something greater, be it the mountains themselves or the nearby city of Shornhelm, to whom Meir Thorvale pays taxes. Scraping by own what little resources its population has at its disposal, there had long been a feeling of resentment towards the larger city, which seems content to take and take but leave nothing for the small hamlet.

It is in this small hamlet that quite the stirring is happening, and in the early morning air a group of ten prisoners are marched out in shackles, the chain lengths jingling as they are marched towards the village square as curious onlookers watch these strangers brought before the fur-garbed Count Fleuren, a man with a hunched gait, a sunken face, gnarled hands, and a fiercely receding hairline that gave him an effective visage of a vulture. And like the carrion eating bird, he eyed his prisoners hungrily and with contempt.

The prisoners are knelt before him, knees digging into the hard, frost encrusted dirt. It is the first week of First Seed of 4E226, and winter’s icy grasp is finally relenting, although in the mountains, yet another two months of frigid weather are expected. Before the Count, the ten prisoners, all of which were recent additions to the overcrowded jail, which was at most meant to handle six prisoners, not this abundant lot, caught up for both major and laughably minor infractions that could have likely been squared with a modest fine, but Count Fleuren was a despicable and dishonourable sort, which is to say as far as ranking nobility goes in High Rock, he fit right in. Tightening his heavy long coat, embroidered and spotless, the Count walked up and down the line of prisoners, his hands clenched behind his back as the captain of the guard walked astride, holding the parchment that contained the prisoners names, crimes, and sentences.

“You vermin are here because you transgressed against the good people of Meir Thorvale,” he began, pausing to leer at the shabbily dressed Imperial who might have been a beggar. “The lot of you are accused of crimes against my subjects, and I am certain you found the conditions of our cells less than agreeable. However, a solution has presented itself to me that is impossible to ignore. I had initially intended just to execute the lot of you, but providence shined, and I am a merciful man. At noon, a ransom broker will be coming to town with a convoy, and you will be sold into his care.” A tight smirk crossed his face as he studied the prisoners. “So, in essence you get to keep your lives, my guards don’t have to tend to a bunch of thankless vermin, and Meir Thorvale gets to keep a tidy sum for each of your heads. Don’t look so grim! If anyone could possibly love your worthless hides, they can purchase you back. If not, well… I hear there might be dignity to be found in servitude. Now, captain, if you would-”

“RIDERS! BANDITS!” Came a cry from the watch tower, a bell ringing heavily into the morning air. The people fled into their homes or other sanctuaries, and the guards scrambled to assemble. The count, cursing loudly enough for it to echo in the din, made to retreat into his halls. Suddenly, the guard fell from the tower, an arrow sticking out of his throat, and riders burst into the village, throwing torches through windows and cutting down anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the open. The guards rallied, and the captain made to reach for his broadsword when a rider made a pass at him, running the man through with a spear. All around the prisoners, Meir Thorvale was ransacked, and all they could do was watch.

Bringing his horse to a stop, a fur and leather clad man descended from the large beast’s back, his footprints crunching the soil beneath. He was clean shaven, save for a small beard, and his eyes were a mischievous green. “Well, this worked out better than expected. You lot look like you might be worth something, after all.” He gestured to one of his men to search the fallen captain. Behind the prisoners, Count Fleuren screamed like a tortured animal and was suddenly cut silent. The man before them smiled mirthfully and clapped his hands together. “So, good news; the ransom broker story our dear departed friend Count Fleuren no doubt spun at you is a lie, a fabrication, and one that one of my men had fed him down the grapevine. Henry, may I see that parchment?” the man asked, and his man handed him the sheet of rolled up parchment that the captain was carrying before freeing a set of keys from his belt. “So, we have thieves, murderers, poachers, civil disobedience, basically a stew pot of mediocrity. Our dearly departed friend belonged here beside you lot, in truth; he’d not paid his taxes for over a year like the naughty man he is. I don’t think he expected the term, ‘pay with your head’, to be quite so literal.” He said, watching as two of his men carried the decapitated head of the count and dropped it at his feet.

“Another for the collection.” He remarked with a shrug. “So, here’s how it goes. You ten, of which I have your names and descriptions and no shortage of connections of which to find you, are going to do me a small favour. When I release you from your bonds, you will go in a nice orderly fashion to the prison, obtain your personal possessions, and go forth to the city of Camlorn. With me so far? Good. Once there, you are going to infiltrate the castle and find my brother, a nobleman called Callen Raimes, who my spies tell me is being held prisoner by Lord Marco of Camlorn. Obviously, the whole affair is a bit mucky and simply will not do.” The man said, nodding for his man to begin unlocking the shackles. “Once he’s in your possession, and unharmed, bring him back to the keep in Shornhelm and you’ll each be paid a tiding of gold, a pardon for your crimes, and that warm fuzzy feeling one gets when they do something wonderful for this world.” A woman’s screams punctuated the last sentence, prompting the man to look over his shoulder at the source.

Returning his attention to the prisoners, he knelt down before them. “You have three weeks, which is about as long as I trust anyone to do their bloody jobs without making excuses for their incompetence. You bring me back my brother, you get rewarded. You don’t, and well, look around at what you’ve done to these poor people, bandits. I suppose the Lord of Shornhelm would have to respond with considerable force at the wanton destruction of his subjects, would he not?” A cruel grin crossed his face and he pushed himself up off of his knees. By then, the last of the shackles was removed and the man slipped the parchment into his tunic.

“Before any of you ask the dumb question of why I would trust any of you to do so much as lick my boots, the answer is simple; if you fuck up, get caught, and otherwise fail, it can’t be traced back to anyone but you. You’re all expendable, and I’m offering you a reasonable chance at redemption. If you try to cross me or fail, well, you aren’t the only criminals in prison waiting for a chance to breathe clean air and eat food that hasn’t been rotting for two weeks… and your word against a Lord’s is a proposition that will only end poorly for you, bandits.” He said, returning to mount his horse. He wheeled the equine towards the prisoners. “Remember, three weeks, Shornhelm! Oh, and I suppose you’ll be needing this.” He said, throwing a pouch to the ground that landed with a clank. Inside was a respectable amount of gold, and a parchment that carried Callen Raimes’ picture. “Travel expenses and the man you’re looking for. Consider it a token of good will and gratitude. Do not squander it.” He warned before riding off, the raiders still continuing their work.

”What an arsehole.” A man with short red hair and beard said at the man’s back, his facial tattoos giving him a somewhat wild appearance. Standing and shaking out his legs, as well as brushing the dirt off of his trousers, the man crossed his arms, ignoring the coin purse. “I don’t know about you lot, but I’m getting me shite and getting out of this village before arsehole’s friends decide to mince us. Might as well meet at the road leading into this place, and decide what to do from there.” The man, Cedric, grunted and spat a heavy gob on the dirt. ”This was not how I expected today to fookin’ go.”

The road to Meir Thorvale was icy mud, pulling at her leather boots as the sky lay low, full bellied and threatening to snow once more. Gaela used her stick to trudge along, her hood pulled low over her river colored eyes. The town was not far, she could see the smudges of smoke against the grey sky from over the treeline. There she would stop and find shelter, perhaps trade some of her services for fresh food and some drink. Her mouth watered at the idea of warm soft bread and a mug of warm tea.

The guards looked her over with dull eyed interest, one of them muttering, “Don’t go shootin’ off spells in town.”

“I’m a healer,” she assured them and showed them the distinctive vials of health potion secured to her waist in a thick leather belt. “Restoration.”

One of them grunted and waved her through, his eyes on her round rump under the robes as she passed. Gaela wandered into the small cobblestone lined square, the large hall farther up on a low rise of land that overlooked the village.

It was after a few cups of tea that the worn out woman appeared, hovering silently as Gaela attempted to read by the stub of a candle on the table.

“Pardon, Miss?” she finally spoke up, startling the mage out of her concentration.

“Wha?” Gaela looked up, her thick brows raised in surprise. “Oh, hello there.”

With a drawn sigh, the woman folded her hands nervously, her thin fingers twisting around each other. “The guards said you were a healer, he described you I mean.”

“Yes, that I am,” Gaela rolled up the scroll and stuffed it into her robe, “And are you the one that needs healing?”

She looked at the woman critically, even in the dim light of the tavern she could see a faded black eye and faint bruises on her throat. Combined with her skittish demeanour, the woman certainly seemed a victim of some sort of attack. Leaning forward, her hood falling back to reveal more of her round freckled face, she gave the woman a compassionate look, “We can speak elsewhere if you wish?”

“It ain’t for me,” the woman said but nodded, glancing nervously at a knot of men sitting at a table, slumped over mugs of cheap ale.

Gaela followed her out the door, around to the back where a boy of about seven sat with his arm clutched to his chest. His face was pale and drawn with pain and he looked underfed.

Crouching down, Gaela peered at the boy, a warm smile crossing her pleasant face, “Seems you got yourself hurt, I can help you. May I see it?”

The woman watched, a warning look flashed as the boy opened his mouth to speak, “My Fa-”

He stopped and just held his arm, the elbow crooked and clearly out of place. Gaela stroked light fingers against his skin, a warmth emanating from them. The glow absorbed into his small body and she gently began to manipulate his arm back into place. If she had been a Restoration mage of less skill, this would have been painful for the boy but instead it merely itched and tickled uncomfortably as the joint lined back up.

Once she was done, she let the magic continue the knitting and healing as she set his arm back down. Her brown hair fluttered in the breeze that smelled like fresh rain, the loose tendrils that escaped her bun curling in the humidity. Her bright eyes saw more than a boy who hurt himself, she recognized the twisting motion that would have caused it, not to mention the finger shaped bruises on his wrist. The same size as the ones on his mother’s neck.

“He will be fine,” Gaela said, pausing for a long moment, seemingly lost in thought. The woman frowned and started to rummage in her modest coin purse, assuming the healer was waiting for a payment.

“It’s not much but-”

“His father did this? Same man who beat you?” Gaela finally spoke, ignoring the proffered coin.

The woman flushed, shame filling her eyes along with tears. She took a sharp breath, nodding as she looked away. The healer was a stranger, she had no connection to the town nor did she know her husband, Big Herve Brogan or his reputation for not holding his mead well.

“Just take the payment, ain’t nothing you can do about it, Miss,” she pushed the coin at Gaela.

Her wide blue-grey eyes only stared past the coin at the woman, “Why do you stay?”

The coin in her fingers shook and finally fell to the mud. Mrs Brogan covered her mouth with her thin hand, “Because he’ll kill us if we try to leave again, he’s told me and by the Eight I believe him. I...I tried once, when this one was hardly more than three winters, I had my girl still nursing and I was heavy with child. I could not bring another into that house...”

The woman swallowed hard and knelt in the mud to pull her son close, the boy’s face still as a carved mask as his mother broke down. “He beat and kicked me. I lost the baby and he nearly strangled me until I could not draw a breath. He said he would kill us all...unless we came back.”

Gaela’s placid expression flickered with anger and loathing, her fingers grew hot with the desire to burn the man in his boots, all the booze in his blood he would blaze up very nicely. But his death would bring more trouble than it was worth. Instead, she replied calmly, “And he’ll be the death of you, he’ll turn your boy into a man like himself. I’ve seen it before. Your girl will marry a man like her father and it will continue. You have to be strong, you just need some help.”

Fishing the coin out of the mud, she flipped it and looked down at the face of Tiberius Septim staring back up at her and shrugged, “So I’ll help.”

“You can’t...unless you have sword hidden in your robes.”

“Pah, no need for all that,” Gaela said, reaching for her pack, “Meet me here tomorrow night, I’ll have your solution.”

Mrs Brogan looked at her doubtfully but then nodded, “Fine, I’ve got little else to lose. Come along, son.”

She watched them leave, still crouched in the mud and her mind working over the details of her plan. Certainly it would simple to just kill him but in town, with guards and a Lord presiding over it would not do to bring that trouble on the head of the poor woman. Not to mention her own.

In her rented room, Gaela had several plants heaped on the table, candles burning even as morning broke while she ground up canis roots in her mortar,the pestle making a rhythmic clacking sound. With her steel knife, sharpened to a keen edge, she delicately sliced a dried imp stool. The ceramic crucible burned hot with mage fire and the vial of purified water was soon at a roiling boil and she added the ingredients.



With a wave of her hand, she lowered the flame to simmer the liquid not wanting to leech the material too quickly. Gaela picked up her small statue of of the veiled Divine of mercy, carved in a crude manner but with love. She smiled a little, remembering her mother giving it to her after her father died and she was so lost. Would Mara approve of what she was doing now? Blindly giving a potion to someone with no idea what she was doing, a potion that could very well kill a person if not administered in the right dosage. So much could go wrong, it could be not enough to paralyze the man and he would be enraged or it could make him slip into a sleep he would never wake from.

She slept, curtains drawn against the sun as the potion steeped for hours. Gaela stirred under her blanket, dreaming of dense woods and howls in the darkness. When she woke, beads of cold sweat dampening her hair against her neck, she saw it was nearly dusk. She rose and washed her face in the basin of water, rinsing away the heavy dread the nightmares always brought. The matters at hand were more important than that which could not be changed.

Gaela sniffed the flask, the stench of the fungus was strong and it might present an issue. Only a strong dark ale, something sour and heavy would mask that taste. It bothered Gaela that she did not know the man’s size or his constitution, things that would matter when dosing him with the paralysis potion. Too little and he would be conscious and though slow, he could still move and too much, he would die. As much as the drunk bastard might have deserved it, Gaela was not a murderer.

With her hood drawn, she waited in the shadows for Mrs. Brogan. It seemed like hours passed, Gaela growing tired of staying still and wondered if the woman got cold feet or she just could not get away. Just as she was about to give up and wander back to the tavern she heard a whisper, hardly more than a sigh on the evening breeze.

“Here...”

Gaela turned and saw the slender woman, her shoulders hunched with tension and she went to her, whispering, “How big is he?”

The woman glanced around nervously, murmuring, “He’s a smith and a Nord. He’s a large man.”

Without seeing him that could mean anything and Gaela bit her lip, “Show me.”

“I can’t, he’ll see me and it will be all for naught, please just give me the potion if you will. If you will not then I must go. My children are waiting.”

Gaela could imagine them at home, nervous because their mother acted oddly, perhaps telling them to gather their things. Their father off drinking, spending what little coin he brought in making horseshoes and plow blades on ale.

“Bring him a dark ale, the strongest tasting brew you can find because this has a potent taste. Give him half the bottle, watch him he will become stiff though he might stay conscious. As long as he can’t move, you can get away,” Gaela passed her the small vial, the neck tied with a bit of blue dyed yarn. “Be mindful of the dosage, we don’t want him to die.”

Mrs. Brogan nodded and clutched at the vial as if it might disappear, “I will. Thank you.”

“Just go, try south to Daggerfall or Wayrest, lose yourselves in the city. May the Divines guide your path,” Gaela whispered, watching as the woman darted away into the darkness.

It was a few days later when the guards broke down her door, yanking her out of her bed as they gathered the evidence of her crime. Gloved hands swept the glass vials and tools of her trade into a large sack, mixing herbs and roots together carelessly. Gaela stumbled as they shoved her clothing at her.

“Get dressed, witch,” the Captain said, staring boldly at her as she put on her robes.

“What is this about?” Gaela demanded, feeling her hands start to tingle, ready to throw sparks at the iron clad guardsmen.

“You’re under arrest by the authority of the Count of Meir Thorvale for the murder of Herve Brogan,” he said as he nodded to the man behind her. The Captain picked up one of the tiny vials and dropped it, crushing the glass and viscous fluid under his heavy boot. “By poisoning.”

A crackling of energy started to erupt from her fingers but it was cut off as an iron gauntlet came down and hit her hard in the back of the head. She saw stars then blackness rose to meet her, her body hitting the floor with a thud.

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Her wrists ached, she could feel the were rubbed raw by the heavy iron shackles as her arms were bound tight behind her back. The filthy cloth between her lips was soaked with her saliva, as mage the guards did not trust to keep her ungagged. Gaela looked up when the prison doors opened, they were all chained together, the prisoners that had been crammed into tiny cells. Her heart thumped wildly, perhaps the Count would finally hear her out, that the poisoning had been an accident. That she had only tried to help people that were under his protection that were being abused.

When the cold wind bit through the thin rags, she shivered, hunching her shoulders as her brown hair swirled in long tendrils around her face. The guard gave her a shove when Gaela was too slow kneeling and she nearly pitched forward but the strain of the chains that bound her to the other prisoners kept her from getting a faceful of dirt.

They were a motley lot, men and women, an Altmer and the largest orc she had ever seen. Her focus was on the vulturine man who stalked down their line, boasting of his bright idea to sell them as slaves. Her mind flew to her mother and siblings in Daggerfall, they were not poor but there was no way she would ask them to buy her freedom. It was the screams that startled her out of her thoughts and she blinked her round blue grey eyes as bandits appeared out of nowhere. Stuck in the mud, she tried to crouch, to make herself as small as she could as the clash of steel and flash of flame erupted around them. Guards fell and people who had come out to watch the entertainment of executions scrambled now to avoid their own deaths.

It was over quickly, Gaela looked up at the man on the horse, trying to focus on his words. A bargain he offered but her attention was pulled away by screams and cries for help. She looked at the ground, not wanting to see the butchery that was happening around them as there was nothing she could do about it, still bound as she was. Words stood out to her: Marco, Camlorn, Callen Raimes. How they fit together was a blur but the gist was that the man wanted them to rescue his brother and earn their freedom or simply die as hunted fugitives. They would be blamed for the raid and branded brigands. More deaths on her head. Gaela sighed through her nose, her shoulders slumping until the man came by to release her.

The mage’s arms flopped forward, the blood rushing back into her fingers like fiery needles. She groped around for the gag, yanking it from her mouth. The tattooed man spoke first, his accent told her he was a Breton though of western stock. She looked around, people lay scattered like chaff after the scythe and Gaela rubbed her wrists, “There are wounded here. I have to try and help.”

Her heart felt heavy, these same people who threw rotten cabbage and jeered at them, called her a witch and a poisoner, the same that had come to her to heal their aches. How fickle they were but she could not turn her back. Looking over at the big ginger Breton who spoke, she said, “I will meet you all down the road. I won’t live like a skeever, darting from one hiding place to another. I must clear my name.”

With the rest that would join her, she made her way to the jailhouse to collect her things. To her dismay, her once tidy and organized reagents and ingredients were jumbled in her knapsack, mixed with the other odds and ends she had collected on her travels. Gaela sighed with a deep relief when she saw the crucible was unbroken and she began to pack her things up, hunting down her staff. She saw two leaning together and grabbed the one that belonged to her. It was a sanded down branch with a knot at the end of it, hard as iron when she needed to use it to club someone. The alchemist threw her knapsack on, and belted on her pouches to secure her robe in place.

Gaela stepped outside, walking towards a cottage that was in flames and she saw a man hunched over a woman, a child clutched between them. She rushed as fast as she could without slipping, her packs and her ample bosom bouncing as she ran. The mage knelt but before she could even cast a healing spell, she could see the family was dead. Run through with spears and swords, she turned her head away from the gruesome scene, taking a deep breath of cold air.

Fiona could see one of the men she'd brawled with, in the fight that had landed her in Meir Thorvale's prison. He was an able man, having worked as a guard for trading caravans, if she recalled correctly. She had been quite drunk. Regardless, the man had traveled extensively throughout High Rock, and apparently passed through White Haven, and heard of the trouble she'd caused, and the trouble that had befallen her. The Penniless Sellsword, a lowly rabble-rouser, an Imperial girl that needed to go back to her home. But Fiona had been born in High Rock, and never once set foot beyond its borders.

The comment about her mother, unsurprisingly, was what set her off. Big words about running off to play the hero, and gathering other would-be heroes to her cause, and she couldn't even protect one defenseless person, her own mother. Fiona didn't remember much after that, not until she woke in prison with a dull, aching pain in her ribs, a bruised jaw, and dried blood all over her knuckles. Destruction of property was the official charge. Fiona was thrown in jail for it, while the men she fought were allowed to go free. Outsiders, especially those as lowly as Fiona, were not treated kindly here, apparently. Despicable lords of High Rock, each in their own way.

Of course, it now seemed as though being in prison saved her life, as the man she'd brawled with sat with his back up against the front step of his house, a javelin punched clean through his chest. He died quickly, while Fiona was chained and kneeling, helpless to do anything about it. It was for the better, she knew. Had she her freedom and her blade, she'd have tried to stop the senseless killing, and undoubtedly ended up one of the slain, for foolishly taking on a whole host of raiders. Such was her way, for better or worse.

"So we're to be hired thugs, so we can avoid being labeled as bandits and marauders? What a kind offer." Wisely, she'd held her tongue until after her new and sudden employer had departed, and her hands were freed from behind her back. She rubbed at her wrists.

It felt like a sickening job already. Pulling some noble from the castle of another noble. A dispute, no doubt, probably petty, and probably costing the people far more than the nobles who felt so wronged by each other. A large assumption to make, no doubt, but Fiona had grown accustomed to disappointment when dealing with High Rock's nobility. She took one look at the coin pouch tossed at them, and moved past it towards the jailhouse and her things.

"I'll stay with you," she said, in response to the healer, "and watch your back. Might not be safe here still." Fiona figured the woman was capable enough, but still, focus was required to heal, and that would leave her vulnerable. As the first person who didn't seem deplorable here to Fiona, she figured it would be prudent to watch out for her.

She followed behind into the jailhouse and found where they'd dumped her belongings. Her jacket she threw on first and laced up, for at least some protection from the cold. She observed some of the possessions of the others as she buckled on her belt, noting the diversity of it all. Her armor, what there was of it, had been stuffed into her bag with the rest of her modest possessions. She'd throw it on later. Fiona grabbed her two-handed sword and headed out.

The scene outside was brutal, but Fiona did her best not to focus on it, instead watching her surroundings for any threat. The fires would potentially draw things to them. She ran a hand through her fiery hair, exhaling heavily. It was a lot to take in. "This is horrible," she said to the healer, slowly starting to bind a few mismatched pieces of armor to her upper body. "Senseless. I won't work for these butchers, reward and cleared name or no. I'd sooner cross swords." Perhaps there would be an opportunity, down the line. But for now, there was little choice.

Night had fallen on Meir Thorvale, the small hamlet was deathly quiet the people already inside their homes in front of their hearths. Counting blessings and having their meals, as Cyrendil cast a glance towards the dark sky. Snow fell gently upon his face past the rim of his worn travelers hood, before he brought a plated hand up and pulled it ever deeper over his features.

His gaze cast out towards the small wooden houses, eventually resting on one that lied towards the end of a row. The others were well lit, and one, if approached, could hear the residents inside. Two days he had watched the home after arriving, the comings and goings, who entered who exited. It was always the smaller towns that had the worst ones; Maybe times got too hard, or gold too thin that they’d turn from the divines to darkness.

With the threat of the Dominion, he was lucky. He would be left alone to watch, none wished to go near him for fear of him being. as a Nord in a neighboring town had lovingly put it, a “Thalmor Fuckstick.” Or if they did, then they would do it at as a mob. Crunching of soft snow and the ground beneath it came as he made his way to the darkened home.

Altmer ears heard the shuffling within, low droaning and chanting he could not make out with the home and the wind outside drowning it out in ambiance. His hand went to his blade clasping it and drawing it slowly as he made his way up the three stairs that led to the porch and stood full in front of the door. With a sound of metal hitting wood he raised his leg and kicked towards the weakened part of the door, the simple latch crackled and snapped and flew open.

The inside of the home was furnished if not more than a little worn, but a closer inspection would find a corner with a small pile of rings and jewelry, the other side of the room a small pile of assorted clothes, and the heavy incense covered the faint stench of rot that came from the darkness past where his vision could not longer see. A woman within clad in dark robes looked from up a makeshift altar that was set towards the rear of the home where the lit hearth would have been.

The altar was caked in the dull maroon of dried blood, upon the stone slab fingers some more fresh than others were laid out in the Daedric ‘O’ for Oblivion. In the center was a heart that had already a bite taken from it, and had started to turn an ichor black with rot.



The woman reached for her belt grasping for the simple dagger that hung from it, but in her rush reeling from the shock of the door crashing inward Cyrendil had already cleared the distance and gripped the Breton tightly by the throat, she was younger than he expected. The soft blue eyes went wide as she stared up at the golden face peering back down at her, and she began to beg.

Cyrendil cut her off by squeezing tighter on her throat. “The Mercy of Stendarr does not extend to Daedra worshippers.” And with that he plunged his blade into her chest, the silver sword passing through the robes easily. And he gave a slight twist to his blade as it ran through her small frame to exit out the other side. "None escape the Vigil. All come into the light."
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The people had called me a murderer, had the insanity gotten so bad that pure hate of his race blinded them to the truth that I lay bare in front of them? Or was there a coven? Maybe even the local lord was part, thoughts dipped through his head. He should have done it in public, made a show. But he wanted it done quickly so he could move on. He shifted his body causing the chains that bound him to the wall rattle as he adjusted his neck cracking it as he rolled it from left to right. They had the nerve and gall to say I planted the bodies, the altar, the blood and rot. And that she was just an innocent girl I framed to murder her.

It made him so angry he could spit tacks, The Vigil would hear about this when he got out, and it would be as it was in Skingrad. A full investigation and search, then the purge of the ones who would hide their own black hearts from Auri-El’s light. His thoughts were interrupted by the maneuvering of the guard and the pushing of him of his cell.

Led like a criminal along a band of actual criminals, the townspeople gathered like savages to throw fruit and small stones, he heard plenty of insults not just thrown towards him. And as they were forced down in the snow he kept his gaze steely at the one these people would call Lord.

The vulture man spoke of his plan to sell them into forced servitude, the plan was as insane at best and blasphemous at worst does he think himself untouchable? Then the shouting started, the rush of men and blades against blades, and Cyrendil did not turn away but watched as the attacking men had started to run rampant through town.

When what could be called a silence fell, as the rider came to them. Offering freedom with a deal and politics. They would rescue his brother, and in return they’d be free of all charges, if they have failed. They’d be outlaws. Cyrendil cast a glance down at the rest of the group he was chained to, for some that title was already practically branded on their faces, and as the men went through unclasping each of the manacles and chains.

And as he was free’d he silently rubbed his wrists before making his way to his feet, he stretched his body the taut lean muscles stretched and the chill of the weather hit him in the filthy far to small rags they had managed to put him in. His hands went back to his now unkempt hair the long golden flowing wild and he did his best to put it back in the tied fashion he always wore. He looked towards the ginger Breton as he spoke, “Agreed.” Cyrendil replied, and made his way towards the jail opening the door to find most rummaging for their things, but noticed the young Breton woman sighing and making way to put her belongings which had obviously been tampered with in order.

The small clinking of glass caught his ears, before he turned away making towards his armour that was left in a pile opposite his cell, the guards thought it was funny to make him watch his own belongings as they used it as a stool for their feet and one had joke that he was going to piss on it. A small smile came to Cyrendil’s features, that blasphemy led his head to be cut from crown to jaw. The thought kept him warm, as he slowly placed back on the underclothes he had worn prior checking his bags and his blade the glint of silver not fading though it would need a good clean, as a few specks of the Daedric worshiping girl’s blood still stained the blade’s elegant length.

After the task of replacing his armor to his body, he stepped outside breathing deep. Auri-El bless him, his enemies lie dead or dying in the snow. His blade as at his side, and the Vigil would continue. His jaw clenched as his thought went to the children, and he made his way slowly to the gates of the town. Stendarr would have the mercy in death they did not receive in life, especially for the little ones.

As he walked silently through the town, the crackling of the fires the men had set he stopped at the town's center and looked towards the home he had broken into a few nights prior. It had not been set to the cleansing flame the home was ransacked and it seemed the men did not care for the many bones and smell of rot that still clung to the home. Moving towards a home that burned he found a plank that was alight at the top the heavy flame feasting greedily at the old wood. And with it he made his way towards home that was now tainted by sacrifice and blood, giving it one last glance before placing the flame against it’s straw floor near the door. He stepped back and watched it as it caught and started to burn.

Turning he went towards the gate, and the road leading out of the small town. Finding himself alone as the many cutthroats went about their looting he murmured as he walked. “As you souls slip into Aetherius, do not fear little ones… For guided your path will be, paved by Stendarr, lit by Auri-El's light, and at the end of your road awaits mother Mara to take you home." He halted for a moment and pulled his traveling hood over his head and took a deep breath.

Mediocrity?

Berich thought he recognized everything else that just transpired, but did that bandit just accuse him of mediocrity? You know, from getting smuggled out of the Imperial City through a sewer pipe, to hiding in that haunted tomb in Chorrol, to getting the shit beaten out of me by an angry yet oddly determined guardsman who followed me all the way from the Imperial City, being called mediocre hurts the most. Berich had never had so much excitement in such a short period in his life, and that's including the time he tried that synthetic skooma from the travelling Khajiit in the tattered grey robes. I'm practically an adventurer, now, Berich thought, I mean, slightly above average if anything.

Berich probably would have shat himself at the riding in of the oddly well groomed bandit if he had been given anything of sustenance to eat during his time in prison. But as his body failed him, so did the Count's body fail as it's head was separated from the rest of its gross self. The Count Whosit is dead, well I'd be lying if I said that wasn't the best possible outcome of this day, Berich admitted. I can't believe he was going to take the Emperor's money they paid him to hand me over and then sell me into slavery. What a... weasel. Even I wouldn't do that. Then they'd come back asking questions, and what's he gonna say? Guileless fool.

Berich remembered the conversation the Count of Meir Thornvale had with the lone Penitus Oculatus agent that had managed to follow Berich to this shitstain of a Breton town. Titus Urellius, was his name. He always liked to stick his nose up and pretend he was above being bought. In truth, Berich just couldn't find his price. Ah, Titus! My sweet, pure symbol of upstanding guardianship! It is fitting you were the one to catch me, old boy. But did you really have to kick my ribs so many times? I only have the few. I suppose that was responding to when I sent the prostitutes to his door. I really had you pegged for a prostitutes kind of man, but you went and arrested them all. Big Tit Bruna was a fine girl, and she didn't deserve to see the inside of a jail cell.

"This piece of rat shit cannot be trusted," Titus had told the Count while Berich was tied up. "He will try and make you release him with promises of gold. As such, you can't tell any of your guardsmen you have him in your custody. Let nobody know his true wealth. If anyone asks, say he is an Imperial merchant from the city who committed tax fraud. Keep that in the records, too. When I get backup and Macer is transferred to the Imperial City, we will pay you double whatever he offers to release him. Here is a down payment on that offer." Titus finished his instructions by handing the Count a small bag of gold, and Berich saw the greed in his eyes. Perhaps the Count was always planning on double crossing the Empire. If I'm really lucky, Count Whosit had Titus killed when he went to signal his other Penitus Oculatus boyfriends. Then nobody really knows I'm here.

That would explain why the Count kept Berich for so long. Titus should have been back at least a week ago with two, three of his merry band of Oculatus fops. So this Raimes fellow has no idea what my crime really is... and if I'm lucky, Titus is dead and the trail is cold... worst case, my doting Titus returns here and assumes me dead or sold into slavery. And I can slip away from these stinky prisoners the moment I get a chance! Berich had to contain a cackle as he formulated his plan. Then again... the Penitus could always pick up the trail. I suppose if Titus is dead, then that will only increase the attention tenfold whenever his body is found. And it's not like I have an appearance that can't be easily described... by Azura, I'm missing a damned finger. A blind midwife could describe who I am to a passing Penitus Oculatus hunting me. It might work if I stayed with this group... for now, at least. Safety in numbers, and I don't even think Titus will suspect me of travelling in a group. I hate people. They're the worst. Yes... this would be the perfect escape. My finale to our dance across the continent, Titus! I will evade you!

"Boy, that was weird." Berich offered, trying to make himself seem normal to the other prisoners. "You know, when someone says to me 'quick, I need a prison break, find some reliable men', my first reaction wouldn't be to raid a village's prison, throw a bag of money at some convicts and hope for the best. That is just... very optimistic, I'll give him that." Berich shrugged. "Anyway, I suppose I have nothing better to do than storm a castle. So I'll be accompanying you. Just don't expect me to fight, please. Also, don't expect me to wear any guards' armor if we do sneak into the castle. The plates bruise my shoulders. Other than that, I'm in."

From chains to freedom, as quick as the splash of blood of his captor. All night he had feared the unscrupulous lord's decree, that his execution was nigh, ignoring all the others to come to grips with his fate. He would do anything to escape that fate so that he may pursue his plot, to finalize that impossibly ambitious idea. Oh, how wondrous it was to hear that vulture man's words, that they'd be spared if they would just do one little favor on behalf of a patron. The fear subsided.

Until, that is, the splash of blood.

Finch reeled - the spitting, the spurting, and the gushing! It bubbled between his lips, the sanguine ooze. It prompted a retching feeling in his gut and chest, but he contained it. Now he just had to control the dizzying head rush - keep himself conscious and about his wits.

Why? Why was there a raid? Why now? He just wanted this chapter over with, and at every turn, death seemed to be awaiting him. Is this the punishment of the gods? A test? He was about to walk down a corridor of darkness and blood, was this a warning of what it entailed? Was he ready? Worthy? Who was he to spill blood; he who would recoil at its sight?

Finch, once squeezing his eyes shut, opened them, layed them on the dying vulture man. Bore them into him. To take in every detail, analyze every bubble in its growing pool.

'Take a nice, long look, Pharasius. This is what's waiting for me. This is what I've chosen. Lay in the bed you've made. Do you think there's room for weaklings there?'

Finch shuddered as blood was shed all around him. This innocent little hamlet, being slaughtered, in the name of what? They weren't even given the opportunity to surrender or give themselves in. It was senseless. Callous. Is this what it took to be an assassin? Or was there something more, something that made these brutes to be but murderers? Finch thought that, at least, he would acknowledge the value of life, and of the lives he'd take. Or is that a foolish, naive thought?

Their new captor showed himself, a Rivenspire noble. This was his orchestra, this mayhem its chorus. As he would have it, no witnesses, not even this hamlet's count. He would also have these prisoners be his pit dogs, and break his brother from prison. Finch could do it. Easily, and he would - at least for the count, but not for this man. The others saw no other choice it seemed, neither did Finch, but Finch was looking in a different direction entirely. He waited for their new master to leave.

"If he would massacre all these innocents,"Finch began thoughtfully to argue the Breton, but did so in hesitation, for the Reachman had made a reputation for his aggression, "and the count too, just to tie loose ends... why should we think he'd treat us any differently? Because we save his brother? Because so did the count he killed. He delivered us to him."

A shrill scream made Finch's head snap away, looking to where it came. An axe had gutted a woman, and her insides were spilling over her killer's boots. Finch immediately looked away and shut his eyes.

"We'll do our part like how the count did his, a-and then this'll be us!"

The young beggar would have no part of this. Despite the man man's claims, there would be no one to trace Finch back to. He wasn't going back to Daggerfall. He'd press forward, maybe to Northpoint. Who would recognize an urchin like him? But he had to get something first: the book. It was the key. He mustn't let anyone here find out he has it, or let them know what it is.

He sprung to his feet and made a wild dash for the barracks. His stuff was buried just behind. Maybe after he can go in and take some of the off duty clothes the guards wear. After all, many of them weren't going to be needing it anymore. These rags smelled offensive, even to him.

“Imf no-no-not a crimfinal!” Kiralla Lima shouted into the rag gagging her mouth. All she could taste was grime with hints of shit. Dressed down into itchy rags then thrown in with other prisoners under the streets of Meir Thorvale. The guards saw fit to gag her after recognizing her College of Winterhold robes.

Small green eyes squeezed shut on her dark brown skin, her long raven hair hung loosely about her round face the ponytail barely able to hold together after being roughly exposed and dressed. Lightly stained teeth slightly exposed by the gag.

Scrambling the best she could in the chains to find a wall to lean against she felt panic strangle her lungs and with every wheeze past the disgusting rag was painful.

Fuck!

---

-Earlier that Day-

The day had a clearly laid plan, as did each day Kiralla traveled High Rock’s roads. Never having a reason to travel so far west previously but tucked safely away in her leather book bag was years worth of research compiled into a couple of books with concise summaries to make it easy to pitch her ideas. The last couple of visits with her peers and contacts were links she needed to get this research off the ground, get some support to take back to the College for appropriate funding and recognition.

On her trip to Shornhelm had brought her into the small town of Meir Thorvale to stock up on food and most importantly rest. It had been a few nights now she had slept out in the open and relished the idea of sleeping indoors for a night. Warm meals and a warm bed waited for her. The cold nights of spring were nothing compared to the harsh winter nights spent in Winterhold or out in Northern Skyrim. The light wind and crisp morning air was refreshing. She dressed appropriately, had layered some light woolen shirts underneath her College of Winterhold robes. The robes themselves were made of a thicker material lined with fur to keep members warm year round.

When she reached town her spirits lifted while she made a beeline for the local general store. Knocking the snow off her leather boots and shaking the odd flakes of snow from her hair. Scanning through the small wooden rack of fruit she plucked out whatever was the freshest. After trading some petty and lesser soul gems she had collected on the road for gold. Getting a quick update on all the politics running along a thin line of resentment for the locals.

High Rock politics were rarely something that even registered on Kiralla’s day-to-day concerns. Certainly it was something locals worried over for good reason. After spending over a decade outside of High Rock coming back to it on an annual basis was something of a shock when she finally caught up on all the news. Post-Civil war Skyrim was so quiet in comparison and life at the College was isolated from outside influences that it felt akin to living under a rock.

It made for a perfect environment for mages such as herself to conduct their research in peace. Though a little more awareness would have been advised for traveling alone through High Rock. Especially when it was in such political turmoil.

When exiting the shop she was counting her septims calculating how much she could need for dinner and lodgings in the evening heading toward the local inn before the rooms were all snatched up.

Her thoughts were centered largely on the inn when she was blind sided by a man rushing past her and the distinctive thud of a book landing on the ground just a foot shy from her. Kiralla’s eyes snapped up to see the disappearing back of the man who had bumped into her. Her eyes tracked next to the book that laid in the mud, quickly scooping it up brushing away the dirt from it’s cover and pages. Curiously she read some of the first lines suddenly recognizing it as a business ledger. Not a moment after her realization did a shout from a man, presumably the owner, telling her to drop it and to give it up.

She stared at the book in her hand and then the trail of guards the ledger’s owner brought with him to catch the thief. Her eyes grew wide as saucers while she stammered, “I-I-I-I!” Dropping the ledger back to the mud where it rightly belonged as far as she was concerned now.

“Thief! You stole that ledger right from under my nose! You’ll pay for this!” Shouted the local smith still wearing his apron waving his hammer at her.

Guards surrounded Kiralla shouting warnings of her obvious appearance of a mage, “Mage! Gag her!”

---

A few days spent in the cells starving away on the meager portions of rotten food. Miserable with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. She rehearsed her defense case in between wallowing and hoped when she was able to present it the misunderstanding would be cleared up. She wouldn’t be forced to take the fall for a rotten thief. Her case was crutched on the general store owner being honest about seeing and remembering Kiralla’s trade.

“They’re g-g-g-g-…gone!?” She squeaked in horror standing before the Head guard.

He shrugged, “Left this morning to head for Shornhelm to trade or some such. Whatever it is that merchants do when they go to the city.”

“I…” Kiralla’s throat went dry and so did her defense case. “You must be-believe me. Send word to-to the College of Winterhold, they will vouch fo-for my innocence. I am no thief!”

Raising a skeptical brow the guard rolled his eyes, “We are not wasting time with a letter, who knows, and you might have nicked those robes and magical artifacts from an actual College mage. With no witnesses to support your alibi you were caught red handed with the ledger. Take the thief back to her jail cell to rot.”

Kiralla thought for a few mad moments to summon one of her Atronach to prove her abilities but such a display would only result a quick sword through her gut. Offering her wrists up with compliance the shackles were replaced. Rock bottom is how poets would describe her situation. Kiralla surrendered to resignation that this situation couldn’t possibly get much worse.

---

One morning still picking through a silent meal with other prisoners whom she refused to speak to for fear to be associated in a weird case of denial. Guards plucked her away from the cell marching her with a small batch of other prisoners chained closely together. Count Fleuran stood before them in the town square proposing death for punishment of their crimes. The mere suggestion sent Kiralla reeling inside her mind. Misery burned in the pit of her stomach listening to the Count willing and ready to reduce her life to enslavement. The moment, no the very second they had the opportunity to escape she’d rather run with a bounty on her head than be enslaved. Prove her innocence and carry on with her original plans.

When the calls of bandits and riders drifted through the chilled morning air locals disappeared while guards filled the streets seemingly ready for anything. The chaos unfolded in a bloody onslaught that little could do to stop it. The Count himself was not spared or given a second glance, as he was slain deep crimson blood stained the ground.

Kiralla’s heart thumped away in her chest there were only a few choice moments in her life where she felt this helpless before. Not once did she imagine to be in the midst of such men and women or involved with politics of all things. The sight of the count’s head being dropped before them struck a stark reality she had been denying the past few nights. She stared at the Count’s face a chill running down her spine.

The deal struck and being black mailed sent her blood boiling. The level of manipulation and absolute shit luck had surmounted while the shackles released her wrists.

The man on the horse boasted his brilliant plans of black mail then threw a satchel of gold at their feet. The others had gotten back up while the tattooed man made reasonable complaint and the imperial woman’s sarcasm was evident in her biting comment. The first to reach for the satchel Kiralla went straight for the parchment reading it over. Eyeing the gold then spat at the ground beside it her pride not allowing her to accept it.

“I’ll k-keep this safe.” She commented while wanting to get her things before they were nicked. Among the prisoners was a mage who immediately went to work using her restoration magic to heal the wounded. The thought hardly crossed her mind until a man stumbled into Kiralla’s arms bleeding profusely through his shoulder.

Kiralla reluctantly tried to set the man down gently on the ground. Stressed had pulled her features taunt.

“He-help…me…” He whimpered his brown eyes cloudy with pain.

Kiralla took a large gulp of air then focused her magicka calling on a basic healing hands spell to help take away the pain from the man. The man grunted painfully as Kiralla roughly tried to seal his wound. The bleeding stopped and when she finally pulled her hand away did the man sigh with relief.

“I-I’m sorry.” Kiralla muttered standing back upright her hands twisting in knots. Narrowing her eyes she jogged past more wounded ignoring the guilty feelings forming. Reminding herself that this wasn’t her fight nor her fault.

When she arrived to the storeroom at the prison her hands brushed against her Staff of Flames feeling a little comfort brought on by her good luck charm. Pulling her robes and soul gems, having small heart attack at not immediately finding her book bag at first. After a few minutes more spent haphazardly searching did she pull it out from a pile of clothing. Her books and research was accounted for along with her journal.

Refitting herself with her gear her staff in hand and a long face to match how miserable she felt. Freedom from the cells was bittersweet, now she was strung together with a group of strangers of varying degrees of criminal charges on their heads. It wouldn’t take very long to get to Camlorn from Meir Thorval. Preemptively she summoned Cindy, her Flame Atronach. The Atronach guarded her obediently. Giving the group that gathered a hard stare and shoulders squared. The Altmer in his armour and judgmental glare solidified his obvious connections to the Vigilants of Stendarr. She glared back at him daring for him to say a single word. In her current state she would all but jump at the chance to vent her frustrations in a lengthy debate with a Vigilant.

Damnit.

Among the prisoners was one Orc, an exceedingly impressive specimen that the town guards wisely kept their distance from, despite the shackles. His skin was a dark, unsaturated shade of green, mottled with even-darker spots, and his long, braided hair cascaded down onto his shoulders and down his back. The seasonal chill didn't seem to bother the Orc at all and he sat bare-chested without a care in the world, proudly displaying his muscles and his scars. The Orc ignored his fellow prisoners and didn't even look up when count Fleuren of Meir Thorvale went down the line, monologueing aloud in his slimy, disgusting voice.

Maulakanth had zoned out of the count's stupid rant and was busy staring into the middle distance when the green-eyed rider and his posse stormed the hamlet and butchered the guards. Broken out of his reverie, the Orc looked up when he heard count Fleuren's dying screams -- something that sounded like music to his ears. Amused, Maulakanth bared his tusks and guffawed heartily. The rider had his attention.

"So, here’s how it goes. You ten, of which I have your names and descriptions and no shortage of connections of which to find you, are going to do me a small favour. When I release you from your bonds, you will go in a nice orderly fashion to the prison, obtain your personal possessions, and go forth to the city of Camlorn. With me so far? Good. Once there, you are going to infiltrate the castle and find my brother, a nobleman called Callen Raimes, who my spies tell me is being held prisoner by Lord Marco of Camlorn. Obviously, the whole affair is a bit mucky and simply will not do. Once he’s in your possession, and unharmed, bring him back to the keep in Shornhelm and you’ll each be paid a tiding of gold, a pardon for your crimes, and that warm fuzzy feeling one gets when they do something wonderful for this world," the rider said.

He said other things too, something that sounded vaguely like a threat, but Maulakanth had already stopped listening. Work was work and he all-too-readily accepted the job. One of the rider's men unshackled him and the Orc stood up, rising to his full height, and rolled his massive shoulders. The bandits stared at him and Maulakanth returned the stare fearlessly. A deep, rolling growl purred in his chest. One of the bandits muttered an oath under his breath and they quickly moved down the line to release the other prisoners.

After the rider had finished his monologue and left, Maulakanth watched one of the Breton women take the parchment with the drawing from the bag and leave the gold. With measured, nonchalant movements, the Orc bent down and picked up the bag containing the gold and fastened it to his belt, his deep-set eyes daring anyone to challenge him. "And I'll carry this," Maulakanth said. His voice sounded like crushed gravel. It was a statement, not a question. Now that he'd acknowledged the existence of the other prisoners, he looked at each of them in turn. Most of them were the small, squishy, pale-skinned weaklings that so infested these lands, but the Redguard and the Altmer were notable exceptions. One of the Reachmen, the one with the tattoos, looked big enough to put up a fight. He suggested meeting up by the road. Another pale-skin of indeterminate race spoke up and a flood of cowardice seemed to spurt from his mouth, like a severe and disgusting bout of diarrhea. "Don't expect you to fight? What good are you, whelp?" Maulakanth said to Berich, and spat at the man's feet. "By the road, ten minutes from now. Whoever doesn't show up gets left behind. I suggest you get over yourselves now," Maulakanth continued, casting pointed looks at Finch and Fiona. Having asserted his authority, Maulakanth stalked off to the jailhouse to get his belongings.

He sighed in satisfaction after slinging the sheaths of his swords around his torso. Maulakanth drew the orichalcum blades and held them, testing the balance and twirling them in his hands. They hadn't been tampered with in any way. Excellent. He returned his pouches and potion vials to their rightful places on his belt and greedily unstoppered one of the vials, downing the contents in one go -- a strength potion. Maulakanth felt the potion's effects rush through his body and he growled in satisfaction. "That's the good stuff," he muttered quietly. Sadly, it was his last. He suspected it would have to last him a while.

When Maulakanth showed up by the roadside, he found the little woman and the Altmer already there. "So, golden boy, what did you do to end up in prison?" Maulakanth asked Cyrendil in a derisive tone. "Lost your temper, did you? Not so civilized after all, eh? That's alright. Not every High Elf can be a spineless cunt, I suppose." Maulakanth bared his tusks at him and chuckled, his chest rising and falling with his mirth, hands on his hips.

While they were filed out into the spacious courtyard of Meir Thorvale, Brynn's mind could care a shit about the jabs given to him by the guards right in his gut, where it hurt the most even after being force-fed healing potions to keep him alive. Funny thing, keeping a man alive so you could kill him later. But above all else, his mind went to the faces of his old crew, and how he'd kill each of them. He wouldn't like it, no, but it was only fair payment. When the backs of his knees were smacked with a staff to force him down, he swore under his breath. That was enough to bring him to the present, but Count Fleuren's nasally whining fell on deaf ears. It was more of the same, pompous nobles talking of this and that. What brought him back to the present was when a wide-eyed lad ran as if Hircine's beasts were at his heels. When he screamed of bandits, Brynn's eyes narrowed. He knew Hvitserk wouldn't be above torching this little hamlet if he heard that Blood-Red Brynn was in it.

As he heard the sound of hooves, he was ready to run as fast as he could with his ankles shackled, to kill as many of the fuckers as he could with his hands shackled. And to die. Because being shackled while two dozen hard killers are after you on horseback are shit odds. He rolled his shoulders but was met with a wee bit of surprise when he recognized none of the riders. No Big Jan among them, no Blacktoe, none of Two-Shafts' one in a million shots had split his bollocks in two yet. No, these men were different men. Uniformed men. Men just like him but in noble colors. This whirlwind of death rolled through the hamlet of Meir Thorvale killing everyone and burning everything. Brynn would have laughed at the sight of the guards who'd beaten him when they weren't shoving healing potions in his face being cut down if it wasn't the fact that he was on the other side of these marauders' blades.

As the show of death and destruction that left Meir Thorvale a charred husk of its former quaint coziness winded down, the leader of this lot spewed threats and promises in the assembled prisoners' ears. To be honest, Brynn felt a wave of relief when he knew he'd made it through that ordeal without getting a blade to the neck. Not only that, but it was only back to the same old thing he was used to doing; taking the odd bloody job for coin. As they were all unshackled, Brynn stood and rubbed his wrists, red and near bleeding. The first one to speak was a man bigger than him that he knew for an Eastern Reachman by his tattoos and the telltale up-and-down accent. The next to speak was the fire-haired girl, he had to keep his bitter laughter inside himself, “Then get your sword in the jail and kill the fucker that's offended you. Otherwise, keep it to yourself and I'll be counting out my share of the-”

He stopped in his tracks with his mouth formed half-way around the word for the fat sack of money now dangling from the tusked giant's belt. His lips curled upwards with contempt at the pig-nose's bold show of just how strong and dominant he was. He now knew this was a pack, just like his old crew. And he'd be damned if he'd go by this pig-nose's say-so. He looked the beast in his eyes and turned around, walked away to get his knives.

They set to meandering towards the jail to get their precious belongings from the chests the guards had stuffed them in. No doubt that before they were laying in a pool of each others' blood, the guards were playing a game of dice to divvy up all their belongings between them. He took a mace from a dead guard's still-warm hand and broke open the chest that held his belongings. He'd found his knives, his boots, his shirt, his pants. But not his hat. He liked that damned hat, took it from a Stormcloak one night when they went through their camp slitting throats and setting fires. “Gods damned greedy bastards, taking a man's belongings.” He said, half in jest, smiling a wicked smile at one of the others. A dark-skinned man who'd just finished buckling his sword-belt. Had a pretty sword on that belt too.

He'd already sprinted half-way through the emotions one feels when they lose something close to them, but as the rest of them went out to meet at the road out of town, Brynn spotted a bloodied guard sitting against an overturned table. His blood was leaking out of him and he had an arrow in his gut. More importantly, he had a very familiar hat on his head. He looked about the room to watch the rest of his newfound companions leave. Then he walked over to the man, looking him in the eyes. “You want your hat back, you bloody fucking outlaw? Take it.” And the guard reached up and weakly threw it on the ground. “Fetch!” And he laughed until it devolved into weak coughs.

Perhaps he thought of it as one last act of manly defiance in the face of death. Brynn just shook his head. He thought of it as rude as all the hells. “Why'd you have to do that?” Brynn hiked up the legs of his trousers to make it easier to squat. “Fetch, eh? I'm a dog?” Brynn chuckled, and patted the man on the cheek like a dear friend.

“Go fuck that big green giant, you and that other Reachman, hill-filth.”

“Rather not. And this is for the hat.” And easy enough like he was poking a finger, the blade of his smaller knife went in and out of the base of the man's neck, lazy-slow, with the same care of a bored man shrugging. With that, he scooped up his hat and put it on his head, leaving the guard to choke on his own blood on his lonesome. When he met with the others, he stood with hands on hips and a smile.

“Well, we getting to names? Figure we'd at least get to names if we're to be doing a job big as this one.” He shrugged, “Been on jobs where it's all about the money and no one wanted to work together. How's it? We're all more or less nice enough folk, eh?” He looked to the mousy lad and then the fiery woman with a sense of justice big enough to let her say things but not do things, he guessed, “Eh?”

When the Orc bloated up as big as he was with pithy remarks let one escape him, he chuckled, “And why are you here, big lad? Heard tell from the guards you punched someone you shouldn't. Didn't get a lot of telling-to's and open-hands to the back of the head as a child?” Something about the big Orc's sheer size made him angry. Fucker was too big for his own good. Reminded him of the boys back in the village tossing rocks and calling him Knife-Ear Brynn because of the points in his ears.

Clouds the shade of coin loomed over blackened fields. Rolling hills of shriveled grass thrashed in the furious wind, cracking into a dark dust that looked and smelled of death clung near the land. The macabre haze hovered as far as the eye could see in all but two realms. Though the deathly wilds spread far and wide they dare not encroach upon the fertile soil surrounding the City of Akatosh. Blood of dragons and daedra alike soaked deep, sprouting vibrant green upon the land and natural blue above it. In spite of such resilient beauty golden clouds gathered especially thick across the blackened fields from the City. Here the dark dust collected into a grim pillar drifting ever higher into the sky. Each time black plumes met gold clouds there was a rumble and lightening and a bit more of the greenery gone. Hundreds marched glinting in the light of the golden clouds across the blackened fields to draw the lightening closer. In there way stood three warriors.

"Three days, I'd say. Three days," repeated the captain, cocky and confident.
"We shan't survive this alone," warned the noble, somber and bleeding.
"Thrice you have proven a help," mourned the knight, broken and spiritless.

The Redguard arrived unwashed and caked in dust. This was not how one gained an audience with the Count of Meir Thorvale. The Redguard brought warnings and stories of war and wore fresh scars yet, he must wait. Meir Thorvale of meager population, the Craven Count of likewise repute. To wait would be to learn. To wait would be ponder the dead. To wait would be to eat a little more sugar to quiet and to forget.

Gold and black bled above and the skies tore. A blinding light shot down from the heavens, striking a hole from which the City of Akatosh bled. Children poured from out the city and played upon the fertile soil. They could not smell the death or see the haze. Hundreds marching beneath the golden cloud made way for the hole in the city. The captain rode his warhorse into the fray with a red banner in one hand and a steel sword in the other. The captain cut a swath in the shimmering army until once more the skies tore and lightening struck. And so the captain fell from his warhorse onto the blackened field and under the boots of the hundreds, all the while repeating, "Three days, I'd say. Three days." The noble rode his stallion into the swath with his own banner in one hand and an ornate sword in the other. The noble slowed the vigor in the shimmering army until twice more the skies tore and lightening struck. And so the noble too fell from his stallion onto the blackened field and under the boots of the hundreds, all the while warning, "We shan't survive this alone."

The Redguard waited a fortnight. When the audience was granted the Count of Meir Thorvale welcomed the Redguard with expectations for indebtedness, thankfulness, and general appreciation for such an expedited meeting. The Redguard wore a suit of plate and war paint as he would on the field of battle. He recounted the struggles for Cyrodiilic lands, the lives lost for freedom from the Dominion. The Count of Meir Thorvale would hear none of it. The Count replied as the southern Jarls of Skyrim had, although with apathy far less earned. Faced with yet more rejection and distracted by the sugar, the Redguard let loose. Slanders and accusations and threats filled the hall and a small fight broke out. Faces were bloodied. Counts offended. The Redguard arrested. He was stripped of his armour and his things and thrown into a cramped cell. He crossed his legs and sat in meditation as the days passed and his beard grew. The Redguard meditated for a fortnight.

The knight rode his colt into the swath of the slowed army a letter in one hand and a broadsword in the other. The knight killed many in the shimmering army until thrice more the skies tore and lightening struck. And so the knight fell from his colt onto the blackened field as a child, a young man really, leaped into the air and caught the strike in the heart. The knight held the young man with the blackened hole in the heart and mourned, "Thrice you have proven a help."

Crisp air of a dying winter filled his lungs and cleansed his mind. When the shackles fell from his wrists Faruq opened his eyes, perhaps for the first time in nearly two weeks. A blanket of white shined bright atop every home, shop, and field in Meir Thorvale. Yet, the beauty passed as blood and fire fouled the air. Faruq watched a man empty a woman's stomach and an altmer light a building ablaze. An orc of unholy stature plucked a fat sack of gold from the road like nothing at all. He scanned his eyes over the disappointing display, then rose and walked slowly to retrieve his things.

Faruq thought on the situation as he dressed. The others appeared to represent a broad range, some visibly disturbed, others by all accounts average. His eyes lingered upon the orc who mumbled something with deep pleasure on the way to the road. Orismer came in all shapes and sizes, but this one boasted such intimidating stature that he imagined guards shouting of drakes by mistake. Otherwise, Faruq noticed an imperial with hair the colour of her people's banners and a sword larger than he would ever care to wield. She looked hardened and moved quickly to assist the healer among them. His eyes stayed with her, noticing her watchful eye and confidence in every step. Faruq lifted his buckler last and began toward the imperial.

"Mind yourself, girl. Might aff to put you down," a bandit scolded a girl running from near the burning house. The rough looking breton grabbed her by the hair, jerking her backward onto the ground. "Aye, bit young, cute though. Paps I keep yuh, aye?"

Without breaking his gait, Faruq shifted direction toward the bandit. His pace sped, he pulled his chain-mail hood tight, and he drew his bone-handled sword. The bandit stood with his back to the knight. Faruq pommeled his shield twice, only just earning the bandits attention as he neared. Honour stipulated he wait for a weapon to be raised and the bandit did not disappoint. As the girl rolled herself away from the them, the bandit unsheathed an iron blade. By now a portion of the other raiders paused their raping and pillaging to see the next move. Faruq looked over them, a horde, and then to the girl, who by then had scrambled to her feet ran out to the road.

"Oops," the knight seemed to announce, feigning sincerity like a disinterested sload.

Faruq sheathed his sword and thought against joining the imperial. The bandit cursed, but did not strike. Silent, the knight stepped back and paid a shallow bow until the raiders returned to their work. He might hate to think of the fate Meir Thorvale, a fate brought on by yet another fool, but one sword could only accomplish so much. He shan't survive this alone. Faruq upon the imperial once more before making his way to the others awaiting on the road.

Cyrendil watched the road quietly his sharp features turned from the burning village behind him as he gazed at the downward slope, covered in a soft sheet of snow where the boots of them men who came up it hadn't crushed it into the soil. His arms crossed about his chest.

He enjoyed the silence, it added to the weight of what had just happened. And silence was always preferable to mindless chortling like they had come from a fight in the Imperial Arena. Blood had been spilled, some innocent. Most not. But blood did stain the inside of the hamlet. Bight crimson on white snow.

Then the Orsimer had to break the silence, as if this was simply part of a routine. Cyrendil did not turn to him, but kept his eyes at the road. He had contemplated for a moment, of simply letting the Orsimer talk until he either shut himself up, or wait until he got bored and tromped away. But could not help himself to at least say something. "Orsimer, like all prisoners will tell you. I was innocent and did nothing wrong."

Cyrendil's face was plain as if it was cast in stone as he spoke, his voice while stoic was still very much Altmer. Somewhat haughty but mostly lyrical. "I killed a Daedra loving Witch. Ran her through with my blade, then carried her corpse outside and threw it into the snow. A reminder that the Vigil is always watching. They had the gall to call me a murderer."

His face scrunched up as he scowled his next words were laced with venom "She was dead the moment she struck a deal with the Daedra. Filthy witch deserved something more public, but I found myself in a rush. They called her innocent, the fools. And as for temper? I was as calm as when I ate my breakfast that morning. There was only a feeling of relief, at the removal of another monster."

Turning to look at the Orc, his golden hair, and the majority of his face shadowed by the Travelers hood wore a placid expression as he glanced at him. "Mages are the worst of them. I think you'll agree on that, first they conjure an Atronach. Think it's fun maybe keep it as a pet, then they wonder if they could make a corpse dance, and soon they imagine themselves at the head of a conjured army at their own command." Cyrendil cast a harsh glare towards Kiralla "And in that need to push every edge, they bargain with powers that are not friends, that cannot be controlled, and that only Lord over the ones seeking foolish power. They are like children trying to swing their fathers sword."

And as his words ended he looked back out towards the road, quietly again watching the snow when he heard Brynn start to speak, asking how they were going to play all nice and asking for names before then insulting the large Orsimer. His eyes scanned the sky for a moment, the only telling was the slight tilt of the hood up. And he wondered how long before one of the children would get into a squabble where they bleed each-other like idiots. "Cyrendil." He said quickly and to the point before quieting again and still eying the long road ahead of them.

By the time the rider who had set them free and blackmailed them into his service departed, the prisoners had all found their way to their feet and almost immediately, differing opinions and tension filled the air. The ginger Imperial cynically stated the shit deal they’d been dealt, to which Cedric simply gestured to the Count’s decapitated and bulging eyed head, the terror and shock of death locked on his homely features. “Better than the one he got.” he said, turning to return to the prison to gather his belongings. He passed the fretting blue-eyed Imperial who was pondering aloud why their mysterious benefactor didn’t simply hire reliable men, slapping a meaty hand on the short man’s shoulders.

“Who said anything about reliable, lad? We’re attractive because we’re expendable and obviously not above breaking a few laws to serve our own interests. Damn good resume, if you ask me. And don’t worry, you won’t have to fight, you’ll just have to catch the arrows the gobshites generously donate to me from their own bows. Best part is, you don’t have to a damn thing but stand there.” Cedric said with a cheeky grin, which faded the moment another Imperial, a scrawny, filthy thing, started stammering in near panic about being betrayed and slaughtered. Cedric rolled his eyes, raising his voice to the complainer. ”If you don’t shut yer trap, these bandits won’t have a problem adding you to the corpse pile. I’m not banking on Lord Shitheel to be upstanding, but I am banking on his brother not being a right cunt when we deliver him and letting him know what good little lads and lasses we were in taking care of him. So calm yer prick, get yer shite, and get moving if you want a chance and not fookin’ dying next his goons find you, yeah?” Cedric said, turning to depart towards the jail, beginning to whistle a folk tune a his feet crunched the frozen earth as he crossed the yard.

Truth be told, the wholesale slaughter of innocents bothered Cedric, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Lords played their shitty little games and peasants paid the price, it was just how things went. The games they played often cost lives, and it was impossible not to be cynical how one wayward little lordling could be balanced against the deaths of dozens of villagers. Granted Count Fuckcunt of Meir fucking Thorvale and his merry band of goons probably earned their deliverance, but the baker? The seamstress? The fucking children? There was no justice in this world, and if they gods cared, they had a funny way of showing it.

Others had already beaten him to the prison, the door left askew and stepping into the room was like stepping into a veil of blackness until his eyes adjusted. Cracking open a couple of the chests until he saw his own gear, including his bow, which hung off of a hook on the wall, Cedric pulled his quiver from the trunk and started counting the arrow shafts. I’ll be damned. They didn’t pinch any. he thought, actually somewhat surprised that the guards actually gave a shit about property rights. He started buckling his gear on, reflecting on what had gotten him into this mess.

A six point buck, well fed, and too busy with flowers to notice the Reachman creeping above an outcropping and drawing back his bow. The barely audible twang of the string snapping back to its relaxed position didn’t even register in the morning air as the broadhead found its way behind the deer’s shoulder into its heart and lungs. Moments later, after a brief and surprised struggle, the creature had dropped to the snow, its life bleeding out in a steady pool. By the time Cedric had reached the creature, it had already passed on. Even so, he stroked its long neck reassuringly and said the prayer his father had recited all those years in the foothills outside of Northpoint. [I]“To Lady Kynareth of the skies and these woods, thank you for this gift and favorable winds so me mark was true and this creature did not suffer. Accept it now into yer embrace so it may find peace, having given its life so I may live.” After waiting a few moments, both to see if the creature still had signs of life and to mark a moment of respect, he drew his hooked gutting knife and began the process of cleaning the animal, removing its organs in several clean and practiced cuts before leaving them deposited in the snow. Nothing in nature went to waste; although he himself had no use for those parts of the deer, predators would soon find this spot and feast well. The deer’s passing would give life to many others, and the parts that were not edible would be crafted into clothing and alchemy ingredients. A simple, stupid creature such as a deer provided much more in its short life than most people. It wasn’t any mystery why Cedric didn’t like cities; people were utter cunts.

And it was cunts indeed who had confronted Cedric as he brought the carcass into Meir Thorvale, intending to sell the body to the butcher and the head to the local apothecary. The guards approached him, demanding to see the permit issued in the count’s name, and as simple as that, Cedric was slapped in irons and spent three very uncomfortable nights with other prisoners, sharing a shit bucket and questionably safe gruel to dine upon. Pausing in reflection, Cedric searched the guards’ office for keys, finding them hanging off of hooks on the wall. Grabbing the lot of them, Cedric returned to the cell block and immediately was hit once more with the repugnant stench of unclean bodies and bodily waste. Not bothering to check locks, he started tossing keys to the remaining prisoners. ”Free yerselves, but wait until it is silent outside or this place catches a blaze, there’s raiders who will kill on sight. Trust me, you do not want to take yer chances.” he said, nodding to the prisoners, who immediately started scrambling for their locks. It didn’t matter what crimes they committed, if they were left here, they would die a slow death by thirst before anyone found them, and he imagined most were locked up on bullshit charges like the ones he’d suffered. He could only hope the rapists and murderers took their second chance as a shot at redemption, not to continue on their deviant ways.

Regardless, it wasn’t Cedric’s problem. Stepping outside into the brisk morning air, Cedric strolled to the main road where others were already starting to assemble. Resting his bow on his shoulders and his wrists on top of that, he listened to the chatter and how there was a rush to establish a pecking order. The Redguard with the sword and buckler made to pick a fight with one of the bandits, but thought better of it. The bandit had to be held back by his friend, saying something Cedric couldn’t hear. Probably something along the lines of not killing him because explaining to the boss why they slaughtered the prisoners he’d sprung for his plan was not in anyone’s interests. The orc was sneering at the altmer, who huffed back, and the fellow Reachman with the floppy hat couldn’t resist getting his own barbs in, testing the water. When the elf, Cyrendil, made a high-strung and half-assed insistence that he wasn’t a murderer for utterly slaughtering a woman, Cedric snickered.

”So you murder people for admiring Daedra, do you? You went the wrong way, lad, Morrowind’s East. Of course, with all your Vigil shite, you’d probably have a hard time making it 50 meters into yer indiscriminate killing spree before you were taken down. Can’t have yer serial killer career cut short, can we Cyrodiil?” Cedric smirked. “Dunmer sure like their Azura, and this big green bastard probably gets off to carvings of Malacath every night, ain’t that right?” he asked, looking up at the towering orc with an exaggerated whistle. “By the way, whatever giant happened to be yer parent, I hope it was the fookin’ mother because otherwise… her poor cunt.”

Certainly, a fair point made by the Reachman, there were more minds at play than the one who had sprung them. Finch wondered how long they had been planning this move, or if it was simply upon a whim. Regardless, Finch had made it to behind the barracks. It was away from all the fire and swords and blood – his stash was kept safe. Nobody would think to look on the outside. Finch buried his fingers in the dirt and shoveled it away until his nails scratched stone bricks that partly made up the barrack’s foundation. It was loose, loose enough for Finch to get the tips of his fingers in and haul it out of the ground. A small burrow was revealed. A little hidey hole, an empty space in the lazy workmanship – or so Finch would argue, when in truth he had prepared this spot before ever stepping foot into town. Inside this hole was a deer skin blanket, wrapped around a hastily tied up rucksack of burlap. Inside it were Finch’s belongings, which were nothing more than a few sentimental mementos, lock picks, a small stash of septims, and the book.

That precious little book that had gotten him into so much trouble. Finch knew exactly which house he was snooping in, they were some wealthy clothier or something. Were they a noble, Finch knew not, only they wouldn’t miss whatever Finch would take. At least, they wouldn’t miss anything Finch thought he would find. He hadn’t the slightest clue that this sort of contraband still existed before that night. Finch had never even heard of Sithis. The sound of the very idea was frightening. Ironically, it shined a light on the Brotherhood of old.

Blasted! This is not the time to be having his head in the clouds! Finch scrambled to collected his items. Behind the sack was a small crossbow with a little crank on the side. The crank itself was optional, but was easier on Finch’s back... at the expense of making a bit of noise. Littered about were spilled bolts, which Finch had scooped up and poured into a long wooden canteen, which he had personally refashioned so that it was secured to the fore-grip of his crossbow. Meaning, he whittled a little hole or two in it and tied it around the crossbow’s stock with a string. The rucksack had a leather band that was threaded through a hole in the crossbow’s butt. He propped the weapon onto his shoulder, and went through the back of the alley to make it into town.

On the bright side, now he didn’t look too much different from the bandits that were burning everything down.

He entered the jail where the others had gone. Some of the others had already gotten their belongings – he wondered if he would be the last to meet by the road. Perhaps they were not counting on him to appear; perhaps they were secretly wishing he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter either way to him. Normally Finch would do what they were probably hoping he would and buzz off, but one of the Reachmen’s words was echoing around in his head. There was still a chance that helping the noble would mean life. There was still a chance for him, if he were to run, that he were to die.

A chance at life was better than a chance at death. There was potential for death either way, wasn’t there?

In the barracks, he had no belongings that were here. But if he had to invade a castle, he mustn’t be too conspicuous. He kicked open a trunk and inside were a set of clothes that the guards wore off-duty. He figured that, given the circumstances, some of them weren’t coming back to wear them. With the case of these men being grown and muscular – appropriately so, they were guardsmen – these clothes would swallow him... but it was better than what he had. He tucked a linen shirt and some breeches under his arm and scampered out of the barracks and onto the road out of the village. By the gate, the other prisoners were already congregating. Some of them were even arguing with one another, maybe even about to come to blows. He felt... small and incapable standing next to them. If there was anything he had over them though, well, Finch had a knack for going unnoticed.

He watched as the both of the Reachmen, the elf, and the orc fought with one another. Finch couldn’t say the same for any of these four.

Finch sighed. On top of that, religious arguments always bored him. The fact that the Vigilant was also an Altmer made his hair stand on end.

“What does it matter?” Finch dryly muttered to himself. ”Neither the Daedra or Divines has our backs at the moment...”

collab with Luminosity

Gaela stood, unable to do anything more for the dead family. She looked over her shoulder at the taller woman and nodded, “I appreciate it. I’m afraid that the raiders were pretty thorough.”

Walking forward, she passed several more people sprawled on the cold earth. If the stranger’s men were anything, they were cruelly efficient. She watched as several of the prisoners left for the road but continued her search, shadowed by the young warrior.

“I agree,” she replied, turning over one woman to check for life but the front of her skull had been caved in with a mace, “All of this to blackmail us into fetching his brother. Bloody politics. My name is Gaela, by the way. In case you need to holler it, I tend to...well, focus on one thing and forget to keep watch.”

“Gaela. Got it,” the young Imperial woman said, sparing a slightly disturbed glance for the murdered woman Gaela was inspecting. “I’m Fiona.”

It was not until she was near the edge of the village did she find a man who still drew breath. He lay with a spear in his gut, still pinned to the ground. Gaela heard his moans and rushed to him, already studying how she would remove the weapon from his body.

“My boy...my boy,” the man groaned, struggling raise his head, “Help him...”

“Where?” Gaela looked around, then spotted a small figure sprawled on the ground.

Even from where she was she had little hope he was alive and she turned to the red head, gesturing to the man, “Stay with him.”

Gaela went to the child and crouched, gently turning him over. He had been speared through, the torn guts spilling like limp snakes from his belly. Swallowing the bile that rose, she lay him back down, stroking his back gently in a futile comforting gesture. The healer could not bring him back, he was gone but she could save his father. A brief search lead her to a dropped cloak and she bundled the small form, covering the grotesque wounds.

Beckoning the tall warrior over, she said quietly, “The boy is dead, I dare not tell the father lest he lose his will to live. I need your help though. That spear must be broken and you seem to have more strength than I.”

Leaving the Imperial to what she would, she would need to break the shaft above the spearhead so she could pull it free. Gaela rolled the man over onto his side, while applying a low pulse of healing magic to keep him from dying as they worked to save him.

Fiona watched the interaction between Gaela and the boy’s father, likely checking to make sure he couldn’t see what she was about to do. She gently set her sword aside and crouched down beside them. “This is going to hurt,” she warned gently. Tentatively reaching out, she took hold of the spear’s shaft a few feet out from the man’s body, stood slightly, and then stomped down on it with her boot, snapping it fairly cleanly. She cast the broken part of the shaft aside.

The man cried out as the spear broke and Gaela looked up, “Now, Fiona, gentle and steady, pull it out.”

Gaela concentrated on the spells, healing hands and close wound to begin to knit together his torn insides after Fiona had withdrawn the shaft from his guts. Beads of sweat formed on Gaela’s brow, organ wounds were the most difficult to deal with and though she had skill, there was still a level of discomfort. She could not let herself be distracted by the suffering, that would be for later in the dark hours of the night when she would lay awake and remember Meir Thorvale.

Once the blood ceased, the man began to breathe easier and he gazed up at the women, giving them a shaky nod, “Th-thank you...”

Leaving him with one of her health potions, she gestured to the tall woman, “We should go. There is little else we can do here and that bastard on the horse has us by the short hairs. I don’t know about you, but I’ll be damned if I will live as a fugitive the rest of my life.”

Her robes swayed with her steps, the bundles and pack on her back jostling. She did not look back, the smoke now billowing from cottages and the crows gathering to feast on the dead. It weighed on her, that for all her skill she could not save more than one. There was no bringing the dead back to life, even necromancers could not, they only made puppets and that was dark magic that she dared not touch.

“Fiona, keep your sword handy,” she said, eyeing the gathering group in the road. The oversized Orc, the Vigilant in the ancient armor, two hillfolk bandits and a pair of slinking skeevers. The other was a mage who conjured a flame atronach and she felt a knot of foreboding. “I hope we can at least get to the city before throats are ripped out.”

Her fingertips felt warm, her body readying a fiery defense in case the tension that was clearly visible in the knot of people ended up breaking. As they approached, she spoke up, “We’ll need a plan to get this guy out. Anyone got a plan?”

Gaela looked at all of them, her round freckled face serious. Then she saw it, a flash of sapphire fluttered above them and she gasped, “Oh a Blue Lady!”

She stopped herself from reaching out for the butterfly and her face reddened as she cleared her throat, “I mean, a plan...we have to be swift and unnoticed...and all that. Um, well I'm Gaela for starters, healer and alchemist, occasional torch.”

Kiralla bristled at Cyrendil’s blatant excuses of murder on top of calling her a power hungry child. Glaring angrily at the elf clenching her teeth as if the dirty rag was still in her mouth.

”So you murder people for admiring Daedra, do you? You went the wrong way, lad, Morrowind’s East. Of course, with all your Vigil shite, you’d probably have a hard time making it 50 meters into yer indiscriminate killing spree before you were taken down. Can’t have yer serial killer career cut short, can we Cyrodiil?” Cedric smirked. “Dunmer sure like their Azura, and this big green bastard probably gets off to carvings of Malacath every night, ain’t that right?” - @Dervish

Kiralla chimed in nearly growling at Cyrendil, “Y-you are despicable. Righteous call-calls for murder are still murder. Witch or not you had no pla-place of judgment to kill a w-woman unarmed in her own home.” She snapped at him. “You would do well to shuh-show mages more respect. We-we could very well be wuh-what stands between you and death while we are on the road.” Kiralla warned.

“What does it matter?” Finch dryly muttered to himself. ”Neither the Daedra or Divines has our backs at the moment...” - @Spoopy Scary

Acknowledging the beggar having heard his muttering, “Bad luck is-is what I woo-would blame this on.” Crossing her arms when she let her face relax some after moving on from Cyrendil her green eyes fell on Gaela who joined the group along with the other woman, the imperial warrior Fiona. It brought her some comfort knowing she wouldn't be the sole mage. Even with the whirlwind of stress imprisonment brought her; the shiest part of her heart held the tiniest and most mild appreciation for being in the company of two very lovely looking women. Her stress and logical mind roared over that in reminder that Kiralla knew next to nothing about them both.

Focusing instead on the blood stains on Gaela's robes and on Fiona's hands. She swallowed a guilty lump in her throat. There was no saving the town and as a group they’d be fools not to take full advantage of this opportunity to outsmart the noble families involved. They thought they had the upperhand with blackmail. Not vengeful by nature but Kiralla knew the more time she had to think out a plan the more successful she would be to escape this group with her good name intact.

“My name is Kiralla. We-we need to move on, there re-really isn’t any more time to be wasted here. Camlorn is our-our destination.” She said decisively pulling away from the gaggle of people her flame Atronach following obediently.

Already their precious little band was falling apart. What was to be expected, recruiting a bundle of prisoners? Finch knew he was a criminal, perhaps only a petty one, but criminal nonetheless. He stole, circumventing the law. As far as he was concerned, all these people were too, despite what they claimed. The Altmer, as Altmer are wont to do, pictures himself above law, above man. So far above, he thought to kill man and go unpunished for it. So fierce was Finch's disdain he chose not to believe the Altmer in the woman participating in daedra worship, that instead, the Vigilant used it as a cover for his own hate-crime. But Finch kept silent, there'd be no fighting the zealot warrior, as much as it pained him to admit it. The healer was rather ditzy, a wanderer in the clouds, but he wasn't so different - but surrounded by fire and bloodshed, Finch couldn't help but be sober. The mage, a righteous and proud sort, as distrusting of the Altmer as he, but perhaps for different reasons. How could she hold onto such a pride, especially now? She was chained next to killers and thieves, and she thought herself better than the rest?

This time, he actually made effort into holding his tongue.

The precious band was truly in shambles. No one, save maybe the healer and woman warrior, liked or trusted each other as far as he could tell. In the end, it was about getting a job done for the sake of preserving their own hides. This seemed like a job that Finch could do on his own, none of these folks looked like they could do much to help! The orc, especially? Maybe if things went bad, he could cover the escape, but Finch would prefer if nobody had to die for the sake of some noble skeever. In fact, Finch was already coming up with a plan, assuming the others would be willing to listen.

Odds are, they weren't - but Finch would do it himself if he had to. He wasn't about to let them get in the way of saving his own life.

"I think I could get in... no problem." Finch finally said, attempting to assert himself among the brouhaha of the band. Perhaps talking about the actual job would distract them from their political and religious debates. He started following in Kiralla's footsteps by walking, maybe to finally veer away from the ruins of Meir Thorvale. "If some of you can come up with a distraction, and drag some of the guards out of the castle, it'll be like stealing sweetrolls."

In the end, he'd still need somebody to watch his back. But none of them looked too trustworthy. He remembered one of the Reachman, the quieter one. Whatever his name was, he remembered hearing some rumor about a man of that name travelling the High Rock roads. A bandit of some sort? He seemed like a careful, meticulous sort, maybe enough so that he could keep pace with Finch while not getting caught. But the Reachman was also a killer. Finch felt that having that man watching his back might leave him with a knife in it... it was all the better to work as though he were alone, anyway. To keep that extra eye on the bandit.

He caught himself staring at Brynn. 'Damn it!'

"Uh..." Finch stuttered, trying to come up with a save.

"So... I... might need someone ta' come with me and... watch my back?" He suggested.

A group collected at the gates like workers performing a task. Faruq followed the pattern, mind more consumed by the raiding party and their shameful display. His hand rested on the bone pommel of his blade. Drawing out of anger had been a mistake that quickly might have ended this brief departure from his quest. Still, what was a knight who did not stand against injustice? Perhaps a knight that lived longer. Faruq looked back onto the hamlet torn asunder with their citizens laid in the streets dead or dying. A horrid sight, but a fraction of what the Dominion would bring.

The conversation of daedra worship and murder did little to interest Faruq. While the altmer argued the definition of murder, he found his thoughts affected more by what occurred only a few moments ago. In light of countless innocents run down for no reason other than force their hands this Cyrendil felt the need to justify his crimes. Before Faruq could let vent his own frustrations the tattooed breton with a mind for humour spoke up. The words cut and cooled, offering a view not unlike Faruq’s, but following critique with crude comedy. Faruq might have laughed if not for the intimidating stature of the orc. Fortunately, the arrival of both the healer and the fiery haired imperial made further response unnecessary.

“We’ll need a plan to get this guy out. Anyone got a plan?” the healer began. Right quick her attention broke and posed as if to pluck a fluttering butterfly from out the air, she introduced herself as Gaela.

Faruq drew a deep and silent breath. Within moments of meeting one had begun debating the righteousness of killing a young girl only a few nights before and the other, distracted more by butterflies than the horrors behind them, declared herself as much a healer as an arsonist. A far cry from sharing the rode with Cyrodiilic nobles and seasoned soldiers struggling to protect life and liberty. He thought too of how many of them continued on this plain. The thought sent him away until his lungs burned and his sword hand drifted to a pouch strapped to his belt. Suddenly conscious of himself, Faruq released the breath and returned his hand to rest upon the pommel of his sword. He waited for the skinny imperial dressed in rags to finish his piece.

"Look around," Faruq exclaimed with a hand waving over Meir Thorvale. "Why any of us were imprisoned means fuck-all. We shan't have a chance to return to our lives lest we act now. It matters little to me who defies our saviour and who means to accomplish the task set before us. Camlorn is a ways from here. I wager there'll be time to plan and bicker on the way. Besides, strategies come easier over a map and ale." Faruq glanced to the ragged imperial with those words, then pointed a finger to the smoke rising from the hamlet. "What say you all we leave here before this Shornhelm fellow sends the guard?"

Cyrendil let the Ginger Breton speak for awhile, then took a deep breath. All the constant talk, all the mired words. Sometimes he wished they could have seen what he saw, the fires, the Dremora stepping from burning portals nothing but endless hate in their eyes; the smell of rot and blood as it grew in mist that spewed from Oblivion so thick you could practically taste the suffering and death on the air. The way corpses piled the once beautiful streets, and the way the Daedra had started to hang people by their own entrails. Men could show violence, just as they had to the small hamlet moments prior. But nothing compared to the cruelty and brutality the Daedra had for mortals, they thrived on it.

But that was years ago, that's why the Vigil was formed. So none would ever have to experience that for themselves, this group was as children are. Having no idea how bad the situation really was, they might understand the world is dark and there are evil men. They might just be the evil men, but they lacked comprehension of something far darker that lay just outside of their view. The darkness that constantly tried to claw it's way into the world.

Cyrendil gave a deep sigh of resignation before speaking.

"The Dunmer are a known quantity, predictable, and culturally bound... It's the ones that hide in small havens like the one on fire behind us. The pretty woman who lured people into a slow death by dismemberment, then started eating them in the abandoned house, built an altar of stone and bones. All the while bathing in blood and singing praises to her new Daedric God."

"It could have easily been one of you brought into her trap, but you managed to keep it in your pants, good for you. This time you were lucky." Cyrendil brought a hand to his right wrist and curled his fingers into his palm and turned his hand before letting it again fall to his side his hand went and touched the faded sun on his belt buckle before moving back to the side.

Hearing Kiralla's argument, he shook his head. His voice steady and certain, he did not raise or accuse merely stated. "Tell that to the three people she murdered, Witch... She was dead long before I sank the blade into her black heart."

"You mistake my hate for Conjurers for that of Mages. I am an Altmer, magic runs through my blood. I use magic myself. But true magic comes not from dealings with Daedra, that is the fool's bargain. So you are no Mage. I do not care what race any of you are, or what alliances you hold. I do not give any concern to politics. Dominion or Empire. I don't care if you enjoy my company or if the sight of me offends any of you. If you try to summon the Daedra into our world, deal and converse with them. Then you are an enemy of all living things. Nirn and Divine. And I will have no mercy"

His voice was full of conviction, but he kept his back on all of them looking outwards towards the road. She would not understand, they would not understand. Most he assumed, judged him because of his race. Fine, let them judge. They would never understand, but that is why there is the Vigilant. Why there were people like him, so they could live their lives thinking they had a grasp on what was going on.

"You're naive if you truly think she was an unarmed and innocent girl. If she was, she would have never have caught the Vigil's attention. Whether me or another Vigilant makes little difference, in the end she was dead the second she decided to make a deal. And that is the end of it."

He heard Fionna and Gaela make their way down the path before Gaela spoke, They did need a plan. He considered for a moment simply leaving, he doubt any would accuse a Vigilant of wholesale slaughter. And further doubted it'd hold up under any scrutiny. But the damage it might do to the Vigil's reputation.

Cyrendil's jaw tightened as he grit his teeth, damned nobles and their petty games for power. Waylaying a Vigilant is akin to putting the trap away when there is a bear loose in the area. When he returned he would make this lord pay, constant inquiries and surprise visits to his hold and his keep. He'll be so caught up in his own rumor mill, that he'd rather fall on his own blade than face another hearing.

Taking a deep breath the cold air burning at his lungs. Patience Cyrendil. He kept his eyes looking down the long road. "I agree for once, we get moving... If you wish to continue to call me a murderer, you can follow if you so wish it. I will not argue that I killed a young woman. Because I know I did, and I am proud that the Witch is burning to ash. So that she can never hurt anyone ever again."

Cyrendil made his way down the trudged on path that lead to the main road towards Camlorn. Not glancing behind to see if any were following nor caring. He’d had enough of trading words with the ignorant.

As expected of a rag-tag band that was half-assedly shoved together and then left to slowly fall apart, there were insults, glances and an almighty air of mistrust and tension that Brynn was sure he'd have to wear horker-hide overalls to slosh through. Many people offered up plans but all of them were different, almost everyone set on being the leader. It took all he had not to step forward, slash the throat of the big orc and set things up just right with him at the head. That's what got him in chains in the first place, being that kind of leader. A small, sharp amount of violence to avoid a larger catastrophe somewhere down the road was not what was needed with this kind of band. At least with these people, they didn't look too likely to be caught rummaging through his things while he slept. Except one, that mousy little lad staring at him. When his eyes practically whirled around to look inside his head when he caught himself staring, Brynn let go a wolf's grin. The Redguard stopped talking by then and he seemed a cool-headed sort, “I agree with our man here, talking of ale and plans.”

He fixed each man and woman and piss-skin and giant green cunt with his wolf-grinned gaze. “Anyone who doesn't, we don't need. Feel free to walk back into town and ask for what the rest of this place got if you've any quarrels with being hired help.” He shrugged then, an easy smile on his face like he addressed old mates, “Or, we can all waltz merrily to Camlorn. I'm sure as shit not losing my head because I didn't like who was holding the axe over it, if you get my meaning,” And he nodded to the other Reachman, the one with as many tattoos as petty insults, “You've got the right of it, friend. You, our Redguard lad, and this mousy soft-voiced beggar. Like it or not, we're all friends and companions now. You're all friends with the jolly Blood-Red Brynn, at that. Let's strike out, shall we?”

And he began to walk down the road with his hand on the head of handaxe in its loop, close behind Cyrendil, “Either way, I'm going. Hop along, mousy lad, 'less you won't have anyone watching your back with that big green mammoth turd at your heels.”