Cedric nodded at Gaela and her new warrior friend, silently agreeing with the fact that to do anything, they needed a plan. Before anyone could get another word in, the mousy Breton mage who identified herself as Kiralla unloaded on Cyrendil, rightfully indignant at the pompous ass, who responded in predictably prissy fashion. Cedric couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he blustered on, acting big and scary, like butchering unsuspecting women in their homes took any particular sort of courage. The elf decided, perhaps wisely, given how some of the more murderous looking of the group were eyeing him up, to get in the last word before strutting along.

”What a bloody bundle of sunshine that one is.” Cedric said, clucking his tongue as if gently admonishing a small child towards the departing altmer’s back. ”From where I’m standing, he ain’t any different than that so-called witch he butchered, but now ain’t the time to be fussy. Normally I’d like me companions to be nothing but fair-haired- bright-eyed, and busty women, but here I have you lot. No offense, lasses.” he said, giving a polite bow, but wearing an impish smile.

The Reachman raised an eyebrow towards the twitchy and utterly lost Imperial lad. “You do realize castles are fookin’ huge, right? No one is luring the entirety of the guard out, especially when there’s a city guard just for keepin’ the peace. Now I ain’t much of a city man, but from what I gather, castles tend to lock down tighter than a man’s arsehole the first night behind prison bars. Not that you would know anything about that, would ya lad?” turning back to the group, he listened to the dynamics unfolding. Now that the altmer wasn’t putting in his two Septims, things seemed to be going somewhat smoother. He nodded approvingly of Faruq, the Redguard, laying out a rather sensible idea; get the fuck away from Meir Thorvale to the next town over and sit down with calmer, and more ale filled, heads. It was hard to argue that logic. Brynn spoke up next, waltzing over his words like a cool hand who was used to bossing people around. When he looked Cedric in the eye, stating a job was a job no matter who was the one holding the bag, Cedric smiled and wiggled his brows in quiet response. It was true; he didn’t much care who was paying the bills, so long as at the end of the day, he could set his head down and not have to worry about waking up in the morning with it separated from his body.

However, Brynn spoke sensibly and backed up Faruq’s plan. With a shrug, he followed along the now departing group, speaking loudly enough so the distance between people wouldn’t be an issue. There wasn’t much of a reason to be overly quiet at the moment, given that anyone dangerous was currently ransacking Meir Thorvale and they’d all been given a pass to avoid dying for the day. ”Our Redguard friend has the right of it, I agree. Now, I ain’t familiar with the Western countryside, but from what I recall from maps is Camlorn’s a bit far off yet, probably about a two day hike if we don’t fook around too much. A bit down the road is Meir Doorguard or some shite, we can pick up supplies for a journey there, or keep on going until we hit King’s Guard, which should be about halfway to Camlorn. I don’t mind pitching a fire and sleeping out of doors, but it’s going to be hard to try to put roofs over all of our heads if we head into these piss-pot inns as a group, and I ain’t sharing a room.

“Anyways, name’s Cedric, people back home called me the Elkman. I’m a hunter, not much game I haven’t taken in these lands, so we won’t want for a meal.”

Finch picked up his pace, now that the others appeared to have decided now was the time to go. Blood-Red Brynn, his name was. Certainly, the same name he had heard from the local rumors. The bandit chief who was back stabbed by his own crew. He seemed an amiable sort, or so that's how he conducted himself. Finch still didn't trust him. For all he knew, Brynn would turn around and kill this lot in their sleep. But he seemed to view this as a genuine job - perhaps he needn't worry. Not now, at least.

His pace was quicker than the others, just from habit. What he lacked in long legs was quick feet. The crossbow was set on his shoulder, the butt and rucksack in front of him. He balled up the clean clothes and stuffed it in the sack, tying it shut again. He had a plan in mind for it, he didn't want to put it on just yet... although, actually, he desperately wanted to.

Now, Cedric, as the one Reachman introduced himself as, was an ass.

That's it.

His size didn't seem so scary when he starts talking, because you're too busy wondering what that sword-on-grindstone cringe tier of a voice he has would sound like when choking on his own teeth. Not that Finch thought he was capable of that... but it was fun to imagine.

"They're not around every corner, I wouldn't think... lest it's the emperor's tower." Finch refuted. "And we only need in their dungeon, and sometimes the entrance is someplace outside the main doors... just punch the elf, I guess."

Finch paused and looked around, anticipating their stares. Here he was, this beggar, talking as though he knows better. Surely an affront on anyone's ego, but dammit, Finch had his own life to save! This Reachman's pride didn't matter!

"I..." Finch started to explain himself. He sighed in resignation. "I... used to hang around some of those spots. Fantasized a bit over the stolen possessions box, ways to get in... but I had never actually done a heist, or... something like this before."

Finch swallowed a nervous lump in his throat. The realization of the sort of people surrounding him once again striking him. He immediately became self-conscious.

"My... my name's Finch - I- I mean my last name, but, ah... I can go in and out of places quickly. It's easy when nobody notices you."

When Maulakanth acknowledged Berich, the small man felt his innards get tingly. "Although you may not be able to picture it, there exist talents that can be used off the battlefield," Why did you say that?! Don't sass the giant, idiot! "I know how to make a deal, and I assure you that will come in useful. I may even be able to find a shirt your size; obviously succeed where you've failed." Stop it, man! You're killing yourself! Berich chuckled half nervously and shuffled off before he could be squashed.

A half-smile fell over Berich's face as he observed everyone talking, bickering and colluding. He had to admit, there was something exhilarating about being a wanted criminal, on the road, off on a quest to break into a lord's castle. Of course, he wanted to return to his normal life at some point. I hear Alinor is wonderful this time of year, but I hear tell of the Altmer committing those purges against all non-Elves... so that might be a no-go. I could always go to one of the Khajiiti kingdoms. No Imperial authority, and I could get in on the Moon Sugar trade. That would be an... acceptable future, of course that is only if I can't arrange a pardon in return for the Emperor's gold.

Berich was particularly proud of how he handled that little fiasco. Emperor Meade gave Berich's bank the entire budget for Imperial presence in Skyrim next year -- wages for soldiers, armor, weapons, and food for employees, and so on -- to invest and grow in various businesses around Tamriel. Berich was able to turn the money into something else... something that suited his needs more precisely. And now, the Emperor is facing an economic disaster in Skyrim. It could have all been avoided if Berich was made Councilor... but at this point, he'd settle for just being able to return to his businesses. At least until the Dominion finally invades and has him executed...

"I don't think we need to sneak anywhere, but that's just my opinion," Berich responded to Finch. "There are a few constants that you need to learn in life," Berich announced to anyone who would listen. "One of the most obvious is that everyone has a price. If we find the jailer who is keeping this young man, I might be able to convince him to hand over the prisoner. I'm very persuasive like that. Gold would help too, though. And we'd need to find the local brothel, of course. But assuming Camlorn is like literally every other place on Nirn, they have gold and whores ready to be used to suite our needs."

The little ones bickered like indignant children, especially Kiralla and Cyrendil. Maulakanth kept his mouth shut during the exchanges and silently absorbed the insults that were carelessly flung in his direction, merely staring down all those who dared look at him. His pride flared and bruised at their inability to recognize his immense superiority over them, but he resolved to silence their bullshit through a display of force against an enemy rather than them. There was no glory in slaughtering small men and little girls. Besides... he still had their coin. They'd better start respecting him sooner rather than later.

When everyone had finally stopped arguing and their merry train of misfits got to moving, introductions were tossed around. Maulakanth formed the rear, guarding their procession against potential threats from behind. He listened to their names -- Cedric, Gaela, Blood-Red Brynn -- but the Orc didn't doubt he would forget their meaningless names within minutes. "I am Maulakanth gro-Urgak, Hand of Mauloch of Orsinium," he added, his rumbling voice carrying effortlessly through the cold air. "I slew my father, Narzul-gro-Urgak, the previous Hand, in single combat. He was a far better warrior than any of you, and I am twice the warrior he was. You will be glad to have me when the fighting starts," he finished his introduction, baring his tusks and growling for emphasis.

That said, he went on about the plan: "And there will be fighting. Bribes and thievery is for cowards and milk-drinkers." Maulakanth had picked up the Nordic insult during his time as a mercenary and taken a liking to it. "I won't stand for it. Some of you may be utterly useless in a fight, but I will consider this whole affair an enormous waste of time if I don't get my blades wet."

Keep your sword handy, Gaela had said. Fiona sincerely hoped she wouldn't need it with this group.

She already disliked some of them, and downright detested others. Only a scant few had made decent first impressions on her. But worst, those that seemed most opposed to her beliefs, and each other, were likely out of her league as far as combating them went. The orc touted his own prowess, but Fiona didn't doubt he could back it up. He struck her as almost senselessly violent, but she supposed that fit well into his brand of warrior-culture. The Altmer she was predisposed to dislike, and he really wasn't doing any favors for himself with the long-winded justification of kill. Hell, she could identify with the bandits more easily. They just wanted coin and loot.

But both of them would likely dispose of her if she opposed them. They both had vastly more experience, and while Maulakanth seemed to prefer the armor his pectoral muscles provided, Cyrendil was better equipped, too. With all the obvious moral failings of most of the others, every fiber of Fiona's being cried out to separate herself from the lot, but what Gaela had said rang true: she couldn't live out her life as a fugitive, nor clear her name on her own. So for once, Fiona heavily restricted the words that she allowed to escape her.

"My name's Fiona, if anyone didn't catch it." She followed along with the others, keeping near the rear of the group. She had no intention of trying to lead any of these people anywhere, nor did she expect they would want to follow. For her part of the discussion, she happened to agree most with the merchant-looking man, she didn't believe he'd ever said his name. There were no bandits or raiders guarding the charge they needed to free, but city and castle guards, people just doing their jobs in all likelihood. The orc's blood lust was perhaps the worst justification she could think of for killing them.

Aggressive fighter though she was, Fiona tried to restrict her offensive to those that threatened towns and villages, not protected them. But this was not the time nor place to say such things. They would need to find somewhere to rest and camp for the night.

Sleep seemed unlikely, as Fiona wasn't sure she wanted to turn her back around these companions, let alone fall asleep.

Gaela stood among the group of strangers, listening to the insults slung back and forth. It was like this when strangers forced together had to learn the balance of the group. Who would emerge a leader, who would follow and who would buck against the majority. Her blue-grey eyes shifted from the mage and her summoned creature, the fiery conjuration staring with black pits at the gathered group. While she knew mages that specialized in it, she never had interest in the Conjuration school and the brushes with Daedric influences. She worshipped the Divines and it made her uncomfortable to draw on darker powers.

But to each their own, as long as the mage did not get carried away, she reminded herself as she turned her attention to the tall High Elf. His words confirmed the markings on his armor, a member of the Vigilant of Stendarr. Though she had never met one, she had read enough during her years in Daggerfall about their long years of battle against Daedra worshippers and necromancers, and the particular problem of vampires and werewolves in her homeland. The dark looks and accusations of murder made her sigh deeply. Perhaps it was hard to hear of a woman being killed but Gaela had stumbled upon a Daedra shrine before when exploring a cave and the haunting images of layers of dried blood and human skulls was something she would not soon forget.

She glanced at Fiona, she could see her worry and how she held herself. The young woman held her tongue and perhaps that was the wisest course, to say too much around the volatile tempers would cause more strife. The tension was thick after Cyrendil finished his speech, an explanation of his duties that would fall on deaf, uncaring ears. It meant little to most folks, just as much of the intricacies of her own work would bore them to tears.

Gaela winced and glanced at Kirella, she was offended and understandably so. Her work insulted and a veiled threat of being associated with Daedra worshippers by a Vigilant would be upsetting. Her curiosity about the dusky skinned woman grew as she heard her speak, the stutter more pronounced as her indignation rose. With spells often being very particular on how they were said she wondered how she had managed to obviously advance in her craft with the impediment. Making a mental note to speak with the other mage, she watched as the High Elf moved away, stiff backed in his careworn armor.

The rest of the group changed the subject to what she had asked about. A plan. The first few ideas were shaky and vague, as expected. Sneaking and trickery, and likely storming the gates of the orc had his way. A job this intricate would call for more complexity and likely more than one way to skin a cat.

Gaela tried to stay focused on the older man, the one with the funny floppy hat and the name that struck fear into travelers. Blood Red Brynn. He was straight and to the point, they needed to get moving and work together but she was wary of him taking the lead. Of course, as it was, none of them seemed choice and she certainly was no leader, especially not on a job of intrigue and bloodshed. There was the Orc with the pouch of gold to consider but when it came down to it, she thought Brynn at least would have experience working with groups of individuals.

She could not help but roll her eyes at the tattooed hunter as he proclaimed his preference of travel companions. Despite his mouth, he seemed a solid person to have in a time like this. Someone who knew the land and could scout, that would allow them to make an approach other than right down the main road if needed. Gaela had seen him free the other prisoners and found it thoughtful, she had not remembered them in her rush to help the dying. A shudder went through her to think of the suffering they had been spared, a slow death of starvation and thirst.

The dark skinned warrior joined them shortly after she had predicted he would join the feast for the crows when he ran towards the bandits. The last moment decision that it would be a fool’s errand to try to draw on the men that vastly outnumbered him saved him from a quick demise. She eyed him, at least the idea to move on and plan somewhere other than outside the smoking ruins of the village was sound.

With the rest, she turned and stuck near Fiona, not that she knew her any better but a few exchanged words and the shared experience of saving the speared man made her feel more comfortable with the woman warrior. She could see the scrawny kid Finch scuttle ahead and the tall frame of the elf farther than any of them. The slight man with the furtive smile insisted gold and a brothel was needed to further their plans. Gaela wondered if they did find such a thing if they would be able to pry the men out of there long enough to do their job.

Gaela drifted to the road side, reaching down now and then to snatch a plant, her eyes brightening at the familiar and comforting occupation. She refrained from expressing her opinions about the ideas being tossed around, collecting her thoughts as they made their way to town.

There was a saying in the Western Reach, you won't cross the mountains in a day. For Brynn, that held two meanings. Most of his small gestures of friendship to the crew were spurned, and he never even bothered with that big green cunt. Most of them either seemed to hate him or eye him like a rabid wolf among their herd. The only man who seemed at all to be taking to him were Berich and Cedric. He'd proven himself a worthy rival when navigating the land, picking a good trail, keeping up with Cedric's pace as best as a man recovering from being stabbed by his best friend could, and having a good sense of direction in the endless forested foothills where one spot looked almost exactly like any other. Berich obviously was like any other man after some semblance of power. He'd seen plenty. He'd seen it in many of Ulfric's warchiefs, in many of his fellow chiefs that sided with the Empire, in the eyes of every Lord and Lordling he'd pledged himself to. Berich was a man without a weapon. Brynn was a man with six hidden about him. The rest honestly could be fucked to give him the time of day, but he knew that you won't cross the mountains in a day.

Let alone at all with this damned lot. Many weren't used to the long march, keeping ahead of any outriders looking for anyone or anything to put the lives of Meir Thorvale on. Brynn was still a wanted man in those parts, and he was very fond of his head and was not fixing to get stabbed any time soon. By the time sunset came, they were cresting one last hill at the head of a countless many. For the first time, they stood shoulder to shoulder with each other as they looked upon the tiny hamlet of King's Guard. Brynn's mind already set to mapping out angles of attack and defensible points in the town and the countryside surrounding. It was a cluster of buildings with farmsteads sprinkled about. The fields would feed the people and the Lord's retinue, and when the time comes- as it always does- to feed the levies raised in wartime. The town itself grew closer and closer together around the stone-walled hillfort of a fortress the Lord called home. Immediately, as he was wont to do the last few days with this lot, Brynn walked ahead. He wanted to be scouting as much as he could, ahead of the pack, so as not to have to hear their endless bickering and whispers. To their credit, the whispers and bickering had died down the longer they spent with Brynn and Cedric. He guessed they finally figured out that the time to splinter off and get killed by Lord Fuckstick of Wherever's men had long past. "You know, the Lordling I was in service to sent me here once. Nice place."

He left out the part where he led the leader of the tax-men out to a horse trough and drowned him in it. That was a story for a different time. "How about yourself," He turned to Cedric, who'd joined him at the head of their little column of mismatched misfits, "Have family here? Friends? A favorite whore?"

"First time here, as it were. I've never had reason to leave the North, I'm not a worldly man." Cedric said, eying the fortress town with a keen eye, looking for the telltale signs of a tavern; every fucking town had one. "Wasn't much of a man for brothels and whores, meself. I never knew me mother, father always said she was a lady of the night, and I wasn't in a hurry to find a family reunion after stickin' me pecker in a woman only to find out we shared more than preferred sex positions." he grinned, nodding towards their destination. "So, you know the lay of the land. Where's a good place for our lovable crew to bed down and get shite faced?"

"As it happens, I do. A place on the outskirts, got whores and ale that isn't too watered down." He shrugged and chuckled, "With our big green jolly giant, we'd best stay away from the richer places, aye? Besides, I've spent my time in courts and merchants' clubhouses, and I always hated not being able to knife the powdered ponce that turned his nose up at me."

They were stopped by the watchmen manning the gates in their little palisade. They each had to divvy out 5 gold coins for each of them out of the bag that Maulakanth carried at his side. He grumbled about it, sure, but Brynn learned there was a limit to Maulakanth's bloodthirst. They were permitted past the gates, the guards eyeing Maulakanth and shuffling away from his aura of pure animal fury. He swore, that bastard got bigger each morning. The townsfolk turned and whispered or stared, or just looked away and made themselves busy at the sight of them. They made their way through the poorer slums to a small tavern- aptly named the Gaptooth Grin. Before they entered, Brynn stepped aside for a man cradling a wounded gut oozing red between his fingers. The fellow only nodded to Brynn as he walked past, as if he wasn't bleeding from the gut. "It's a fun place, though, I swear it on my Ma." He said, laying a hand on the swinging door to the inside and stopping just short of pushing it open, "Or at least on my best mate."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wW4sBlfDvOE

As he pushed the doors aside and strolled through, it was the typical crowd in taverns like this the world over. In the corner, there was a hooded man smoking a pipe next to the hearth, boots resting on his table. In the other corner, there was an underpaid and unappreciated band that played too well for a place like this. There were a throng of loners and drunkards sitting at the bar, mooning into their drinks in varying states of drunkenness. A pair of men sat at the far wall trying to figure out what to do for their friend, who'd had a gash along his shoulder that yawned open every time he moved it. Not far away, a man with a knife lay on the floor, thoroughly concussed, Brynn could tell. A troupe of whores posed themselves around the stairs up to the rooms, where a man tumbled down the stairs and failed to faze them one bit as the big Orc bouncer picked him up and hauled him outside. He passed a group of men dressed in leathers and green clothes sat talking far too loud and challenging each other to a game of five-fingers or arm wrestling. Oh, how Brynn loved that game, splaying your fingers and then stabbing between them faster and faster before you lost one. That's how Half-Hand got his name. He missed Half-Hand. But, again, a story for another time. Brynn strolled easily enough through the tavern and sat himself at a table big enough for their crew to all have a seat. "What'll it be, lads and lasses? Ale, mead, whiskey?"

"Whatever the fuck isn't watered down with goat-piss," Cedric replied with a grin, swiping an untouched bread roll from the table behind him, where a Breton man in chainmail was soundly passed out, drink spilled over, and utterly unattended. Cedric bit into it, was surprised it didn't have a tinge of sawdust to it, and chewed mirthfully while the others filled in, disgust on some faces, concern on others, enjoyment on a select few. In the corner, a band sat with a wooden tip bowl by the lute player's feet, and a large fireplace had a pig on a long spit rotating absentmindedly by a straw-haired lad with a wool vest covering his bare torso. He was reading a book one-handed, as if losing himself from the rowdy, boorish world he earned his coin in. A harried-looking waitress strolled up to the table, looking like she hadn't slept in three days, her features otherwise fair even as she approached middle age.

"What can I do for you lot?" she asked, her accent not of these parts, not unfriendly.

Cedric offered his winningest smile for the lady's benefit. "My friends and me are a bit peckish and parched after quite the day of traveling, which I'm sure you hear a lot, so I trust you'll know what quenches the thirst of a few weary souls." he looked over at Brynn, trying to recall what he said. "Y'know what, a couple pitches of mead and ale and some tankards to pass around should set us up nicely, and whatever's fresh for food. A couple loaves of bread, I'll have an ear of corn and some stew, that sort of thing." he said, before she scribbled it down on a well-worn booklet before moving down the line. Cedric stretched an arm behind his head, pulling on his elbow until his shoulder popped. Setting his hand down on the table and drumming his fingers along to the music, he looked back at Brynn. "So, you seem to be a take charge sort of lad, disposition of a man who's stabbed his share of folks over disagreements. Would that be unfair of me to say?"

Brynn tapped a finger on the table as he looked away in thought, then shrugged and chuckled, "Hells no. I been fighting since I was a lad who left Morthal not knowing that there was anything but swamps and mires. Roving with a fighting band was something I chose over digging up clay and peat. Fought bandits, fought Stormcloaks, fought rival bands, fought Forsworn, fought Orcish warbands too, and earned my share of feuds in my time." He sighed, a wistful twinkle in his eyes, "It's a life, alright. I liked it well enough, I suppose. Now, I'm here. I'm sure you know how Brynn Tiptoe ended up in the jail in Meir Thorvale. Either way, I think I can grow to like this lot. How about yourself? You set a good pace in the wilderness and you're obviously a damned fine scout. You done time in a lord's levy? With the Legion's rangers?"

Cedric snorted a laugh. "Oh, that would be a sight, me wearing the Legion's skirts. No, friend, I've always been a hunter, raised to string a bow and take me keep from the day I was born. Made a living selling cuts and pelts to the merchants in the Rivenspire regions, up in the foothills. It was a quiet life, stuck to me own with me father and me dog mostly, didn't have friends, probably because I beat the shite out of the little town boys who ain't worked a day in their sodding lives for flappin' their gums in a manner I did not much appreciate." he chuckled, a faint smile creeping upon his lips. "Other than that, the troubles of Lords and Empires and all that other political shite never much effected my day to day, so I simply didn't care. Biggest problem I've ever had to deal with were bandits, a couple of vampires, and a werewolf. You don't treat a hunter like prey, else you get an arrow in yer heart and he keeps your chompy bits as trophies." he said, reaching into a pouch and placing a pair of vampire and werewolf fangs on the table. "Always wanted to harvest me a mammoth at some point, I heard they're fookin' huge. Not sure How I'd carry around those big fook off tusks, though."

"Aye, now that's a fuckin' sight, friend!" Brynn had a childlike grin as picked up a werewolf fang and twisted it between thumb and forefinger in the half-light of the tavern, "Bagging a fucking werewolf, by the Nine. Aye, now that is something. I've got a damn good arm and a damn good eye, by all accounts. I could loose an arrow with the best of them, my old bow was a warbow with a draw weight of a hundred and six-score pounds. Could shoot it faster'n anyone I knew, farther'n anyone I knew, and more accurate'n anyone shooting back." He put the fang back on the table and patted his chest, "Now that, I swear on my Ma for. I've bagged many deer, but I always love the surprise in some puffed-up knight's eyes when my bodkin punches through his mail or my broadhead reaches out and touches his horse before he can poke me with his lance."

By then, the drinks had arrived. Brynn wasted no time in pouring himself a tankard and he toasted on Cedric's own, "I like you, friend. It ain't just because we're both Reachfolk, neither. Something about you, reminds me of a dear friend long past, a good man at that." He turned to the rest of the table, offering a friendly grin and toasting them too, "To the living, lads and lasses. Let's laugh as much as we can while we're among them, it'll be hard to after. Now, Faruq, how's about a story or somesuch? Or Cyrodiil, what's it like hunting witches and demons?"

Cyrendil walked into the small town, his green eyes glancing around from under hood at the various comings and goings of the town. Children playing in the snow, forging done, a leatherworker skinning outside.

He pulled his hood from his head, and looked towards the inn, half of the crew had already made way and he was sure would be deep within their cups by the next few moments. He thought about taking a small walk, but the small growl in his stomach warned against it. Many of the townsfolk had looked towards the odd group entering, but turned their gazes shortly after.

But one man kept his gaze on Cyrendil, the Breton with a heavy beard watched him silently. And Cyrendil met the man's gaze. He had hoped this town would be less difficult than the last but by the look of the man he was already wrong.

Cyrendil turned his gaze to the inn and made his way past the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. finding a small corner mostly by himself and sat down, his heavy plate boots clunking on the floor as he walked, many stopped to look at him then turned back to their drinks and food. Sitting down heavy in the wooden chair much to small for him, One of the haggard waitress moving to his table “What will you have stranger?” He looked up at the women and gave her a small smile “Whatever is boiling in the hearth smells wonderful, I’ll have some of that and some bread please. And wine, if you have a bottle. If not just for a mug of well water.” She nodded and moved off to the next table, he took the time to look around at faces carefully checking for any that he could remember on the posters for unknowns but found none. When he heard the door open and turned his eyes to the man who walked in.

He was the same one giving him the hard stare outside; The Breton glanced around the inn eventually spotting Cyrendil and moving towards him. Cyrendil's hand slipped under the table to grasp the hilt of his blade and he leaned forward as if bored.

The man came to the table, he was dressed in fine enough clothes warm more than fashionable and he smelled of sawdust and wood. “You one of the Vigilants?” Cyrendil bristled a little, and looked up at the man's face expecting hate in the eyes, but in them was a softness and a hope. He released his white knuckled grip on his blade’s hilt and brought the hand back to the table and visibly relaxing “I am, why do you ask?”

Cyrendil took the moment, as the man went to answer to start the removal of his gauntlets, setting them beside him on the table and clasped his hands together and watched the man.

The Breton smiled softly “May I take a seat?” And he gestured to the seat across from him, Cyrendil gave him a polite nod and the man sat down. “I won’t take too much of your time, I promise.” Cyrendil smiled “It’s fine, I’m not too terribly busy, what is it you wanted?”

“I wanted to say thank you, for the Vigilant...My…” The man paused for a second and looked down at the crude wooden table “My wife, was killed about two seasons ago by werewolves while she was out gathering.” The man spoke offhandedly as if recalling something. “She used to make the sweetest wine.” The man chuckled and then swallowed hard, Cyrendil assumed it was the thought of never seeing his wife again. He knew that pain. “Vigilants like yourself came through about a week or two after, and I heard from the Innkeeper that they had slain a den of werewolves.”

“I never got to say thank you to them, from me, and my daughter. Thank you for what you do, making people safer.” The man look relieved as if a great weight had suddenly thrown itself off his shoulders. Cyrendil listened to the man, and at the end gave him a small smile, but his eyes showed the glint of compassion.

“I am sorry, that you lost your wife. Many of us in the Vigil know the pain of losing a loved one to monsters... “ He reached out a golden hand to the man which the man shook and returned Cyrendil’s smile “How old is your daughter?” Cyrendil asked offhand

“She just turned ten last month, spitting image of her mother she is.” The man's eyes became suddenly sad for a moment and Cyrendil reached forward and patted the man's shoulder. “I am sure she will turn out to be wonderful, you care very much… I’m sorry I didn’t ask your name.”

“Greggart.” the man replied and continued “I saw you walk in town and had to say thank you, and if you were not busy maybe you could join me and my family for dinner? If it is not troubling you." The man looked expectantly at Cyrendil, who smiled but shook his head.

“For such kindness Greggart, I am honored. My name is Cyrendil.” he replied and shook Greggart’s hand again. “I have not been thanked, or offered a hot meal in a very long time… I appreciate the sentiment, but I cannot possibly ask of you to share your home and your food with an old elf.”

Cyrendil smiled, and wished for something to give to the man. So long had it been since any had thanked or offered a home to sleep in or a bowl of warm food freely. “Greggart, if you and your daughter are ever in need of any help, a place to stay, coin, a place for sanctuary. Anything at all, or if your daughter ever needs help of the same.”

Cyrendils’ voice lowered to a whisper so that only him and Greggart could hear. “Near the city of Wayrest, there is a Vigilant headquarters, you can travel there yourself, or send a message. Mention my name, they will know of me in the records. Say that you wish the Shield of Stendarr to assist you. And they will help however they can.” Cyrendil leaned back and gave the man a smile.

“This is a boon you may only use once, so do use it wisely. Of course nothing illegal, but I do not think you’d do that… So when you do use it, use it wisely. Do you understand Greggart?” And Greggart nodded his understanding.

“I wish you and your daughter everything you could both ask for, keep safe the both of you.” Cyrendil said before stood as the man did as well, and was about to bow before the man suddenly approached and hugged him, tears in his eyes “Divines bless you sir, you can’t imagine how much that offer means to me.”

Cyrendil stiffened but then gave the man a few pats on his back “The Vigil repays its debts and remembers it’s friends. It was nice meeting you Greggart. I will remember you, the next time I am around town I might take you up on that offer for a home cooked meal.”

The man pulled from him and smiled up at the elf “See that you do.” And with that he made his way towards the exit and out the front door, many of the patrons nearby heard and saw everything. The hard gazes he had received from some of the locals softened towards him and they turned back to their meals.

As Cyrendil sat back down, and took a deep breath in and let out a contented sigh before the waitress came back with the bowl of stew and a mug of water. Cyrendil gave her a small smile, the look must have been terribly odd for the people he traveled with. “Thank you very much.” He replied to the waitress. And set about the task of eating.

_{@idlehands & @DearTrickster}

---

Kiralla had kept pace with the group while they approached the town she dismissed her fire atronach, Cindy. Despite still not feeling anywhere near comfortable around the others the guard’s narrowing their eyes at her was enough to tone down the aggressive defences. As they made their way to the local tavern, she pulled a face but didn’t bother with a complaint. When they took a seat while Cedric and Brynn carried on all sorts of friendly with one another.

She settled pulling out her journal and the page she snatched from the satchel of gold studying the picture. She began sketching and copying the face into the pages in case the parchment was lost while idly listening to the conversations carrying on around her.

The Gaptooth Grin had all the charm of a festering boil but Gaela had been in worse places and she paid little mind to the stares of the locals as the troupe of outsiders wandered into their midst. She had no objections of the company of drunk men and stone eyed women, many times she had treated the results of a bar fight or one of Dibella’s diseases.

With a congenial smile on her freckled face, she strolled among the tables, her packs bumping patrons as she tried to squeeze through.

“Watch it,” one of them grumbled after she had turned too quickly and her knapsack knocked the mug of ale in his hand.

“Oh, sorry,” she apologized and quickly scooted towards a table where the other mage sat drawing.

Gaela smoothed out her rumbled robes and approached, her river blue eyes peeking over Kiralla’s shoulder, “Mind if I sit? What is that you’re doing?”

Kiralla finished shading the man’s nose then peeked up at Gaela, her friendly face and polite approach warmed Kiralla’s mood a bit while her mind raced in desperate attempts to quell any smidgens of attraction. Unfortunately it failed to stop her mouth from flapping about, “I-I-I-I…”

Kiralla took a deep steadying breath then answered her question straightening her shoulders, “C-certainly. I am cop-copying our t-target’s face to my journal.” She leaned back to let Gaela have a look.

Licking her lips she continued, “It is all I-I can th-think to do at the moment.”

Her lightly scarred hand brushed some hair from her face tucking it behind her ear. “I noticed you spent ti-time healing s-some of the wounded in Meir Thorvale. R-rather admirable of y-you.”

Leaning over, Gaela tilted her head as she looked at the drawings, wisps of brown hair escaping her haphazard bun dangled in her face, “That’s a good likeness.”

“Thank you.” Kiralla brushed her hand across the page removing pencil crumbs.

Removing her knapsack she put it below the table along with her walking staff and plopped onto one of the chairs. “Glad to be off my feet, that was a hike.”

Gaela listened to her speech pattern, the halting and stuttering but was not bothered by it though it made her wonder. Keeping the questions for another time, the mage folded her hands before her and replied, “It is my calling and my craft, to heal. Restoration along with alchemy is my specialization. I just wish there had been more people to actually save.”

Kiralla studied Gaela while she spoke choosing to focus on her words instead of her lips. “My mother is a Kynareth priestess, pushed me to-to study restoration. I-I know the basics buh-but never had the p-patience for it.” Her voice softened at the mention of her mother, she had last seen her a few weeks ago when she decided to travel to High Rock and naturally her first stop was Jehanna to see her family. They would not believe the next letter she sends them.

Her full eyebrows knit inward as she recalled the dead and the smile vanished from her lips, like a cloud crossing the sun, “There was little any of us could do against those forces and unfortunately we’re to be puppets.”

“Meir Thorvale was-wasn’t our fault. I-I don’t know wuh-what it is you were imprisoned for but to t-take the blame unto y-yourself is a waste of energy.” Kiralla said sincerely in hopes to not only remind herself that she had no reason to feel guilty but Gaela as well.

She looked down at her hands, twiddling her thumbs for a moment, “Hey, we should order some wine or something. So, I keenly observed the clues that allowed me to deduce you are a Conjurer.”

Gaela scrunched her nose and smiled, then waved at the harried waitress who passed their table up to serve a demanding table of drunken men.

A small smile pulled in response, “Yes, wine wood-would be excellent. You-you’re powers of observation are-are correct.”

“While healing is-is your calling, I th-threw my lot in with the school of conjuration. I-I’ve been honing my skills at-at the College of Winterhold for-for…” Kiralla paused counting on her fingers the years. “Fourteen years, gi-give or take.”

Gaela brightened, “Kynareth is one of my favorite Divines, her beauty and bounty make up my apothecary. My mother was an herbwoman but I studied in Daggerfall after...well, when I got old enough. I was apprenticed to a Lord’s mage and then I went to the Temple of the Divines, toyed with the idea of becoming a priestess of Mara but I could not make the commitment. I like to travel and explore too much to stay in one place long.”

Kiralla nodded listening to Gaela speak, grateful she was willing to chatter on. Kiralla was fond of listening especially in regards to her peers. Gaela had a traditional education for High Rock children through the Temple of the Divines. Kiralla often wondered how her education would have turned if she had been fully trained by her mother. Those choices seem like a lifetime ago now.

She reached to her chest, rubbing her hand along it and up to her neck where the braided thong disappeared into her robes. “Winterhold? I’ve always wanted to visit. I’ve only gone as far as Markarth I’m afraid. What drew you to Conjuration, if I may ask? It’s often a...difficult subject to master and dangerous.”

“Soul gems actually is wh-what drew me into co-conjuration. Made it my li-life’s research.” Kiralla said templing her fingers then leaning her chin against them, “D-despite what the vigilant thinks I-I am not a necromancer.”

The waitress finally approached and Gaela dug into one of her many pouches to find a septim. “We’ll have bottle of something red and two glasses.”

The woman plucked the coin from her and Gaela turned to Kiralla, “I don’t know about you but after today, I’m pretty thirsty. You’re right about it not being our fault but it is something not easily put behind. And as for what I was imprisoned for was a...mistake. My mistake but it was not purposeful.”

Gaela spoke so plainly and freely. Kiralla often ran into mages taught by the hands of the faith to be rather uptight. Difficult to associate with especially after they discovered her skills and research into conjuration. She wondered though what would have gotten a seemingly kind woman such as Gaela to be thrown in a dungeon, mistake or no.

“If I to-told you why I was imprisoned, y-you would not beli-believe me. It is as-as stupid as it is absurd.” Kiralla chuckled lightly.

Quirking her lips, she decided not to go down that road and switched the subject, chattering away at the dusky skinned woman, “What do you make of this lot? Fiona seems nice enough, she helped me heal a man.”

Kiralla’s eyes flicked left and right then she picked her pencil back up and continued to sketch casting her green eyes back to her journal. Answering carefully knowing the others were talking as much as they were listening as well. “The only opinion I have-have is of Cyrendil. We-we are not going to get along.” Kiralla said tightly through gritted teeth, “I-I personally intend to keep my he-head down and wat-watch my own back, I d-do-do not expect anyone else to keep me safe. Thi-this is a detour on my trip to publishing my r-research.” She said bluntly.

Gaella looked at her thoughtfully, “That is an understatement. The Vigilant are pretty black and white in their code, so I’ve read.”

Glancing around at the rest of the party scattered through the tavern, she sighed, “You’re probably right, we’re alone in a crowd. I’m sure it won’t just be the guards of the castle we’ll have to watch out for.”

Kiralla pursed her dry lips at Gaela’s downturn in mood, the arrival of the wine couldn’t have come at a better time. Kiralla accepted the goblets and the bottle. Placing one in front of Gaela and pouring it full to the rim. “I, however, know th-that if we collaborate we-we will have a-a better chance at survival. Do not lose hope.” She said trying out a warm smile raising her goblet scars on her cheeks crinkling.

“If-if you were willing I-I’d be interested in accompanying you in collecting ingredients. I-I-If you-you-you would have muh-me.” Kiralla stuttered out failing to stop the blots of colour on her cheeks. Then just as quickly covered, “I-I’m interested in studying why some ingredients supplement and boost magicka.”

Taking the wine, she swirled it, peering into the heavy goblet. She could smell the sour smell of the cheap village swill, “Hope toasted with vinegar, sounds about right.”

Gaela huffed a soft laugh and raised her glass, taking a timid sip before squinting at the taste. At the mention of gathering, she perked up and smiled, “You’d be welcome, I’d enjoy the company. I spend so much time alone on hunting for materials, it would be a nice change. As for ingredients that boost magicka, it’s generally a combination of their makeup but more so their preparation. Most stuff has several uses, it varies with what it’s combined with also in strength. And who prepares it, some alchemists are more skilled than others.”

Kiralla nodded attentively scribbling a few notes on a new page of her journal. Taking a long drink of her own wine finishing the note. It tasted young and full of tannins. She had worse, though this was far from being good.

Warming to her subject, she spoke with enthusiasm, leaning forward towards the other mage. Her grey blue eyes brightened, “I am curious as to what can be found between here and Camlorn, it is a road I have not taken. I did see some golden poppies on the way.”

Kicking her feet under her chair, Gaela giggled, dipping her head conspiratorially towards Kiralla and whispered, “Of course, those aren’t for magicka, they’re for charming people.”

She gazed at Gaela a happy twinkle in her eye she forced herself to turn away taking another long drink of her wine, now more than ever was she in trouble. Her train of thought completely lost on the conversation that no amount of focus could pull back the all too familiar flutter in her stomach. It hadn’t even been a full day. Letting out a long sigh of defeat the heat in her face was the only indication to how she felt.

It was like being back in Daggerfall, meeting up with the mage apprentices and novices at the local tavern to drink and talk for hours about theories and spells. She drank the rest of her wine and reached for the bottle and paused suddenly, “Oh! I meant to ask, what research? You mentioned it and I got distracted. Can’t get me onto herbs and such, I’ll talk your ear off.”

Attention pulled back at the question Kiralla answered happy to have been distracted, though much like Gaela when someone showed genuine interest in her craft enthusiasm was difficult to contain. “Soul Gems, I have been and continue to-to research on extending s-soul gem life. Though generally I-I have researched the planes of Oblivion extensively as well. F-fascinating subject matter.” She grinned a toothy smile at her peer, “I h-have written thousands of words about both. The research I’m-I’m hoping to publish is about soul gems.” Patting the leather cover of the journal.

“D-despite the detour, it is incredibly satisfying t-to be well-well on my way to publishing years o-of culminated knowledge.” Pride shining through her voice squinting happily at Gaela.

Gaela perked with interest. Soul gems were something she had learned about but rarely had an opportunity to handle them. “Fascinating, does it not worry you dancing so close to danger? It seems very interesting but I’m afraid you would have to enlighten me, I never studied Conjuration too in depth. In particular, the capturing of souls.”

Rubbing her slim fingers together, “I’ve always preferred a more tactile practice.”

As pleasant as their conversation had carried on Kiralla felt their surroundings melt around them. Although the dredges of young and strong wine could have helped to attribute to the quieting of her critical mind.

At a local table rabble of men and shrill giggles of women somehow grew louder than the ambient noise of the tavern. Locals out to unwind after a long day of work at the mill. The group of men and women that had entered earlier had all but settled into their own spheres of conversation. One particularly drunk mill worker by the name of Nolan Theitri, tall and comparably imposing stature to the other men gathered around him. He had been casting glances past the woman on his lap to the mages heads bowed and clearly enjoying each other’s company. His dark brown eyes were foggy with intoxication and his attention divided. It seemed wrong, all the women in the tavern should have been laying eyes on him and solely him.

He pushed off the woman on his lap cutting her giggles short and he all but lumbered toward the pair of mages. His hairy and large hand slammed on the book between the two of them making them jump, startled.

“Yuh two should join me. Plenty of room on ole Nolan’s lap!” He bellowed reeking of ale and sweat. “Yuh ladies would better spend your time admiring my biceps instead of those dusty pages!”

He laughed splashing ale across Kiralla’s journal cover. Then leaning in close to Gaela eyes locked on her chest. A low growl of admiration rumbling out of him like an animal. Then turning to admire Kiralla’s as well. “There’s even enough to share!” His hand clutched at his crotch.

Gaela looked up with a start when the man rudely interrupted them. She looked at Kirella in amazement and then back at him. Her brows rose above wide river colored eyes and she burst out laughing, covering her mouth as she giggled uncontrollably at the drunk. She sputtered and caught her breath, looking up at the hulking figure, “Um, no thanks. We’re gonna have the stew, not the sausage.”

Kiralla was half way through a snarl when the ale spilled across her journal scrambling to wipe it off with her sleeve before it stained. Nolan invaded their space with a loud bellow making her ears ring.

Gaela’s joke prompted Kiralla to grow indignant, “D-disgusting. A pork sausage, reeking of the p-pigsty.”

Nolan’s mood darkened immediately at the mage’s laughter and comments laying his hands on both of their shoulders with a painful grasp.

“Ain’t nobody talk to Nolan that way.”

(Collab with @Spoopy Scary)

Fiona was halfway through her cup of something strong when she finally caught a whiff of the disgusting pork sausage. Indeed, she could smell the man as well as hear him, insulting two of her new companions, two that she hadn't immediately found repulsive or depraved or otherwise undesirable. This man, Nolan, was all of those things, and yet Fiona was drawn to him. Her fist was drawn closed, and there was an undeniable attraction between it and the man's pudgy face. She really couldn't stop herself, not once there was drink in her. She didn't even know what drink it was. "Something strong" was all she'd ordered.

She found herself across the table from the other Imperial, the one that looked even younger than she was. Finch, she believed he'd said. She had no real idea of how he got there, or who sat at the table first, but he was there now, in his rags and general state of dilapidation. She took another gulp of her drink, feeling the warmth rush through her, and then held up a finger at Finch.

"Excuse me for one moment. This shouldn't take long."

Finch nodded in Fiona's direction, fully aware of the, quote-unquote, pork sausage. He had been listening in on them for a while now, without so much as a drink in front of him. Instead, meagerly keeping his hands set on his lap with his eyes still shifting around the room. Nolan was the type Finch knew he didn't stand a chance against - but he also knew that he was the sort whose stupidity could easily be taken advantage of... at least, he thought Nolan was stupid. He looked the type.

Fiona stood, wisely leaving her blade propped against her seat, and made her way over to the table Nolan was looming over, offering a brief nod to Gaela and Kiralla as she approached. Nolan didn't see her until she was right next to him. Of course, Fiona wasn't the type to just blindside a man with a punch. She never did like to make things easy on herself.

"Hello there," she said rather loudly, hands on hips. "You're bothering my friends. And me. I suggest you leave." He turned his eyes on Fiona and they drank her in. She still wore her armor, what there was of it, and he half-smirked, still eyeing her.

"Maybe we leave together, you and I," Nolan responded, not taking her seriously. "You look a feisty one. Reckon we'd have a good time." He chuckled at himself.

"Oh yes,.. you should see her stare down a bloody crew of bandits..." Finch commented under his breath, out of ear shot.

"I reckon I'd be a bit too much for you." His smile disappeared, letting Fiona smirk in its absence. "You strike me as insufficient. In a few ways. Now please, get away from this table." Nolan seemed to have had enough of being spoken to that way by the women around him, and his response was to immediately throw the first punch.

To his credit, he was quick, and hit like a truck. His fist caught Fiona across her left cheekbone, jarring her to the point of seeing stars, and sending her stumbling back a step to her knees. While she reeled, Nolan snickered to himself. "Now that's a more familiar place for you, ain't it?"

Finch immediately jolted backward in surprise. Their first stop out on the open road and things were already going south!

Fiona groaned slightly, shook her head, and then rushed back up at him before he could so much as finish his smug line. Her uppercut caught him under the jaw, sending a splash of blood up into the air when he bit his tongue. Before he could recover Fiona had seized his shoulder, rammed her knee into his crotch, and doubled him over, his face having gone purple.

She seized his collar, and cracked a headbutt against his forehead, stunning him further. Another right hook caught his jaw for good measure, before she grabbed him by the shoulder and back of his head, and rammed him into a support beam, leaving a small bloody stain, and knocking Nolan out cold on his back.

Huffing a breath, Fiona smiled down at her handiwork, before she realized that all eyes in the place were trained on her, including a guard by the door. Still half-smiling, she shrugged. "What? You saw it, he punched me first. I was just defending myself."

The guard rolled his eyes, and seized Nolan by the collar. Once the sausage had been thrown out the back, Fiona considered her work done. She nodded to the two mages at the table next to her. "Best to keep the spell-slinging to a minimum in town, I'd say. Wouldn't want to burn down the place." With that, she tapped twice on their table, and turned on her heel. "You girls enjoy your discussion."

She ran a hand through her mess of hair, a vain attempt to organize it a little, before she rubbed slightly at her cheek. Nolan had hit quite hard, and it surely left a mark, but it was nothing Fiona hadn't endured before. She sank back into her seat across from Finch, and sighed. "Sorry about that. Can't stand those types. Were you saying something?"

"N-not a thing!" Finch stuttered - but it wasn't out of fear, he had a big old grin on his face and taking something of an awed look at the woman in front of him. He was definitely impressed by the absolute beatdown that the red-headed woman delivered on an asking thug. He watched as the guardsman dragged him out by his collar, probably to spend a night in the stocks. Then again, he probably wouldn't wake until the morning anyways! He made something that sounded like a rueful sigh.

"It might've been worth it to check his pockets, though... a couple septims to tip the innkeeper with and apologize for the ruckus?"

"Way I see it, I probably did the innkeep a favor," Fiona responded, taking another drink. "That guy was probably driving away business. Maybe he'll think twice next time." She leaned back in her chair, intertwining her fingers and resting her hands in her lap. "I'm not much of a looter, anyway."

It was a good little fight, one that left Fiona feeling rather content with herself. The bad guy got what was owed him, Fiona delivered it herself, and she proved she was more than tough enough to take a hard blow and keep fighting. The three pillars she seemed to live by, more or less. Because there were always bad people that needed dealing with, a shortage of people to deal with them, and more than enough people willing and able to beat her down. Such was the life she chose.

"So what landed you in irons?" she asked, eyes flitting back up to Finch. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you strike me as a burglar or some such." Not a very successful one, though. She supposed he could've just been hauled in for making the streets look less appetizing. His state made Fiona look like a woman well put-together.

"Heh..." Finch uncomfortable laughed to himself as he averted his gaze from Fiona. It wasn't difficult to tell from this that Fiona wasn't far off her mark, but Finch didn't take any pride from it. Part of him wanted to make a witty comeback like all the others seemed capable of doing, like, something about burglar and beggar sounding so similar or something. But even if anything were to come to him, perhaps it would be best for him to be as honest as he could without condemning himself. He started to speak, though hesitating.

"It... it comes with the, uh..." Finched sighed, annoyed with himself. "It was a book. That's it, I just took a book. Then there I was, chained next to actual killers, scheduled for execution."

The young imperial lad's arms crossed and he shut as his, as if he were still coming to grips with all that has happened. "I guess they just wanted to throw out whatever trash they could haul."

“Well, I guess you and I were in the same boat then,” Fiona responded, tugging at the hem of her jacket. “I’d had too much to drink, and this asshole provoked me. Lot like I did just now. He had backup, though, no easy fight. They got me pretty good, but I got them worse. Got plenty of the tavern, too, and that’s what they threw me in for.” Seemed like it was just about who could get under who’s skin first, and that guy had definitely known how to get under hers. Still, didn’t work out for him in the end. He was food for crows now, and Fiona was somehow still breathing.

“I hope it was a good book, at least,” she half smiled to herself, and took another drink.

"Heh, yeah... quite a novel." Finch said uncomfortably. He twiddled his thumbs a bit, trying to think of something to change the topic to.

"Others don't expect... people like me to read," the young man continued, "they'd sooner think we use them as kindling or dinner plates. Truth is, there are a lot of things that burn easier than books. Plates are novelty, but dignity doesn't come before eating."

“Mm,” Fiona murmured, not really sure what to say to that. It seemed they both didn’t live in steady locations, but somehow Fiona imagined her experience on the road was much different than his. She wasn’t really able to make herself small, so to speak. She tended to stand out in a lot of places.

She took a look at her cup, and found it quite unsatisfactory. “Well, I think I’ll have another round. Couldn’t hurt too much. Want anything?”

Finch shook his head profusely, then shyly looking around the table as if that were an adequate hint. With types like Brynn, Cedric, and the orc, the last thing Finch wanted was to be anything less than on his toes. He still did not trust them, and while Fiona got his respect, he still did not know what to expect from her - and she, too, has shown herself to be capable of taking care of others. In the non-motherly sense. He didn't want to get too comfortable around these sorts.

“Suit yourself,” Fiona said, before she rose and strode off towards the innkeep. She supposed a tip would be in order, as an apology for the mess not long before. She’d even made sure to hit the man’s head on the support beam rather than the wall, to avoid denting anything.

Fiona was thoughtful, sometimes, while she was clobbering people that deserved it.

All manner of sounds and scents filled the Gaptooth Grin, not all of which inviting. Faruq entered alongside the others and enjoyed the type of attention reserved for sizable groups of travelers unfamiliar. He felt the eyes of strangers upon them. One breton in clothes neither humble nor fine eyed the altmer, Cyrendil, with a studious if somewhat worrisome expression. Meanwhile, a larger fellow with an abundance of body hair, so much in fact that Faruq wondered if the altmer might suspect him among Hircine's accursed, stared at the alchemist and mage unabashed. He wondered if the word stare did the peculiar look justice. And yet as Faruq followed Brynn and the rest to a table a certain charm impressed upon him. The barmaid spoke kindly and with warmth despite appearing worn by the day. If the drinkers seemed a rowdy sort, who could folk letting off steam after a hard day's work? By the time Brynn placed their order, the redguard had decided he liked the place.

What Faruq would not enjoy is drinking in a suit of steel. Years of marching and hard riding from one encampment to another made the feel of armour familiar, but only in the way one learns to accept the need for a tunic, yet yearns to feel the air upon their skin. He slid back his chair and followed the barmaid who took their order a moment before. A great many drunkenly tilted back in their seats or leaped to their feet, each shoving the redguard aside, and somehow leaving the barmaid untouched. His jaw nearly dropped as the woman spun upon a heel to avoid a man so drunk he fell to the floor laughing. Soon the barmaid had arrived to the front of the tavern where she quickly informed the cook and began filling a pitcher with ale from a tapped barrel.

The barmaid spoke without paying Faruq a glance. "Something come to your mind after I left? Too shy to ask in front of your friends, maybe."

"I wonder if there might be a room available. Not for the night, that is. Only a moment," Faruq replied, writing off her words as if the rambling of his mentor. "I assure you I shan't be long."

"Most men promise the opposite. Long or short, so long as you've the coin it matters not. You look a touch soft, no offense, fancy the sausage I reckon?" Her words came with an amused rhythm as she set a filled pitcher atop the bar and began on a second, this time of mead.

Faruq stood speechless before and after the veil of the barmaid's words lifted. Blushing, he finally managed to choke a few words of his own, "I-I need only to remove my armour." The barmaid let out a soft laugh then looked upon red faced Faruq and quickly fell quiet.

"Oh... Of course. Down the hall to your left, second door on the right. Mind that your quick as the room won't be free long."

After an exchange of awkward nods Faruq made his way down the hall to the empty room. He shut the door, ignoring the surprisingly clear moans and throaty grunts that penetrated the walls and looking over the space. The bed was small with simple linens and a chest on the ground at its foot. Otherwise, there was a barrel acting as a nightstand and a wardrobe with doors that looked too weathered to be functional. Faruq could not help but imagine the sorry lot who considered frequented such a hovel. While he fingered the leather straps of his spaulders, he wondered if a painted young woman was being paid to do the same the next room over. The heavy thump against the wall and muffled shout 'smooth like sheepskin' convinced Faruq these men were of a different sort. He might of laughed if the words had not penetrated the walls so easily. After a few moments passed a knock came upon the door. Faruq removed the steel shell latched around his boot, then opened the door to find the barmaid, who quickly glanced about the room. He nodded his thanks for the privacy, strapped his armour to his bag, then made his way back to the table.

Faruq returned to his seat as Cedric and Brynn wrapped up a conversation and poured the first of the drinks. When one of the pitchers came within reach, the redguard stretched out an arm and filled his tankard. The lightness of his arm was surprising at first, but welcome. His leather doublet weighed little and breathed profoundly better than plate. For a moment he thought of the freedom the fiery haired imperial must feel. As the thought turned another direction, a cheery, albeit hard voice interrupted.

"To the living, lads and lasses. Let's laugh as much as we can while we're among them, it'll be hard to after. Now, Faruq, how's about a story or somesuch? Or Cyrodiil, what's it like hunting witches and demons?"

"To the living!" the redguard proclaimed along with the rest. He raised his tankard then enjoyed a long and much needed drink. Faruq gulped down the sweet mead until confident the others had taken notice. Satisfied, he dropped the tankard to the table hard and raised his free hand with fingers spread wide. "Imagine if you will, Faruq began in a low voice, his hand waving over the group. "An ancient city of snow and ice, lost to men and mer alike. Lost to all in fact, except for the forgotten folk who called the city home. These curious folk resembled Cyrendil in all ways but the snow-white glow of their skin. They erected towers and sculpt great halls of ice that glistened in the cloud-softened light of the sun. Truly this was the land of the Snow Elves. They might still be forgotten too were it not for two khajit merchants and their dunmeri mercenaries --"

A good storyteller knows to watch the eyes of the audience. Big, gaping eyes hinted to awe or immersion, while a fleeting gaze suggested a change of material was in order. Faruq noticed the latter first, then heard the ruckus from elsewhere. By the time he turned in his seat, the fiery haired imperial was reducing the hairy man he'd noticed before to a pathetic lump. They stood near the mage and the alchemist and from the way she spoke to them after and the story leading up became all too clear. He watched her saunter back to a table with the sneak-thief, the young imperial's eyes tellingly wide from her display. Faruq furrowed his brow. Pangs of jealousy dug into his heart, though he quickly scolded himself for such immaturity. If he meant to truly continue the path of a proper knight such childishness must be discarded as quick as it reared its head. He repeated the thought to himself until the words became like a chant.

"Pardon me, I seem to have let the ale go right to my head. If you'd excuse me," Faruq apologized and stood from his chair. Though he hated to leave a story half told, especially such a promising tale, his mind and heart had strayed. Perhaps another time.

After a bit of air and a piss, Faruq re-entered the tavern. Only then did he notice Cyrendil sat separate from the rest. Harsh as the altmer was on those his order deemed undesirable, such steadfast conviction felt familiar. Faruq remembered the way soldiers spoke of the Thalmor before battle. Quick as the thought came, the redguard decided to put it to the test. He approached the table casually, placed a hand on an empty chair beside the altmer, and made his introduction.

"I wonder if I might join you a while --Cyrendil was it? My name is Faruq, they call me the Bone Knight."

When Brynn turned his attention to Faruq, probably to try and edge some yarn of a tale out of him, Cedric was left to his devices, measuring who was capable of at least letting their hair down and relaxing, so to speak. Cyrendil had gone to speak with a man who appeared to be overly relieved at having a member of the Vigilant yammering on about something, Gaela and Kiralla seemed to be getting on rather chummily, and then there was the mountain of apple-hued muscle that seemed to only have two expressions: scorn and smug arrogance.

Clearly, this was an orc that needed to be prodded. After all, there had to be something that made the shirtless wonder tick. Perhaps he was fond of theater, or catching sheep with his bare hands and eating it on the spot? Cedric was curious about what buttons could be pushed, and what exactly motivated a clearly horrible individual to wake up and continue on the next day without going on a rampage. He probably kicked puppies for fun, the monster.

Lifting his tankard from the pitted and stained table and his bow, which was leaning against his chair, the Reachman wandered to the quadrant of the table where Maulakanth sat seething, or something. It was hard to get a read on the guy. Noticing that there was a wide berth afforded to Maulakanth, Cedric did the reasonable thing and pulled up a chair, chummily close and sat down with a well-practiced air of carelessness. "So, you never said if it was yer mother or father who was the giant." he said with a cheeky grin. "Also, don't eat and drink our entire budget in one sitting, I know the temptation must be there."

The orc looked up from his own mug of ale and returned Cedric's shit-eating grin with an unreadable expression. Maulakanth hadn't expected any of the small men to attempt conversation with him, and Cedric's audacity surprised him a little. It was also confusing -- what did the Reachman hope to gain by making jokes at Maulakanth's expense? Getting his face smashed in? Maulakanth frowned and shrugged. "They both were, if we measure them by your race's standards," he said. "What do you want, hill-troll? I'm trying to enjoy my drink in peace. Your face is going to put me off my appetite."

"Well, the way I see it, we're going to be spending several long days in one another's company, and I've always wanted to meet a honest-to-Akatosh mountain troll. I imagine you have to eat half of yer weight a day just to sustain yourself." Cedric said with a shrug. "So I don't imagine the likes of me is going to put you off your food binging, lest you feel the need to eat a tree or two on our way to Camlorn. How did you end up in our charming company, anyway? Count Fookface got jealous that you have better posture than him?"

Maulakanth grunted, downed his mug of ale in one go and slapped his hand on the wooden tabletop with a loud thud -- this was his way of ordering a refill. One of the extremely wary barmaids approached with a pitcher of ale and gingerly poured the tankard full. "Careful who you call a troll. As for the Count -- of course he was jealous." Maulakanth spread his arms wide, displaying his rippling, enormous torso, and chuckled. "Who wouldn't be? Either way, I was in his employ as an enforcer. Milk-drinker had the gall to disagree with me all the time. Stubborn little creature. He told me our contract was severed and I punched him in the face." Maulakanth took another huge swig of ale and belched in an unapologetic manner. "What about you? Did you fuck one of the Count's goats? And I don't mean his daughters."

Cedric drank slowly, pacing himself, as he listened to Maulakanth boast, finding amusement in the decision to punch the vulture faced bastard in the face. For reasons to get incarcerated for, that certainly ranked highly in Cedric's approval list. He raised his tankard in mock salute. "Green ain't my kind of complexion, but you're one up on the rest of us for getting our licks in on the Count. Shame he had to lose his head so soon, but you strike me as a man who has a hard time keeping a job, unfair to say?" Cedric asked, smiling behind his tankard. "You mean his daughters and goats aren't one in the same? Colour me bloody surprised. But sexual deviancy aside, I was nipped for poaching. Didn't realize our mutual arsehole friend had ownership of all the lands and tried to sell a deer in town. Shame, it was a nice buck, too."

Poaching. What a laughable crime to get thrown into a prison cell for. For one man to think that he owned the nature around him was folly. Maulakanth furrowed his brows at Berich's observation about his employment record. "People are weak and pathetic everywhere. The king of Orsinium had me exiled for trying to expand his territory. He'd rather play nice with the Lords and Kings than fight for what's ours to take. And the Bretons around these parts are just as sad, but they all think they know what's best for them," the Orc said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. "And they're entitled."

"I'm not a worldly man, and couldn't give a shite about politics, but seems to me when your kingdom's been sacked several times over the years, you shouldn't bite off more than you can chew, lest you choke on the long cock of retribution. Think you could have held the lands you tried to take?" Cedric asked, draining his tankard before reaching for a pitcher. The sweet amber hue of ale tumbled into his tankard, and Cedric's throat still was parched. Drinking again, swirling the grain-made alcohol in his mouth, he swallowed thoughtfully before offering Maulakanth a grin. "But, as it so happens, I quite agree that most of the high folk in these lands are a right bunch of pretentious cunts that don't know an honest day's work. But let's face it, Maul, if people weren't weak and pathetic, think they'd be hiring a man like yerself? They need yer, ah, sunny disposition and ability to crack a man's skull with yer bare hands. Why didn't you just become a sellsword? You can be a bit more picky that way."

Maulakanth stared at Cedric while he talked, waiting for the man to finish, and brought his fist down on the table with the force of a forgemaster's hammer when it was clear that Cedric was done. Wood cracked somewhere beneath the surface of the table and it gave slightly. "You challenge my ability as a warlord, whelp? Of course I could have held those lands. The kingdoms of High Rock are divided and weak and the Redguards were preoccupied with the Dominion threat. I spent two years reorganizing Orsinium's armed forces, filling the leadership echelon with capable Orsimer that knew how to follow orders. I'm the greatest fucking Hand of Mauloch that Tamriel has ever seen, and--"

It was then that the inn collectively turned to look at Fiona teaching an unmannered, hairy Breton a lesson. Interrupted in the middle of his rant, Maulakanth growled in annoyance. "Look at these people," he sneered. "No discipline. This is no way to challenge someone to a duel."

Cedric watched as the meaty hand smashed into the table, and the audible crack was something to be respected. Not many people could make a solid table give out before their bones did. "Easy there, lad. Let's not spend our coin on a new table for this fine establishment, yeah? But begging yer pardon, it's hard to take you at your word for your ability as a warlord holding foreign lands when you couldn't hold yer job."

His attention turned with Maulakanth to the ruckus that turned out being some repugnant drunk making some ill-advised moves on the girls. Cedric worked his jaw and his fingers in and out of a fist as he watched the scene play out, preparing to excuse himself to go teach the idiot some manners. As it turned out, Fiona turned out being his kind of woman as she utterly dominated the drunk and made him turn tail. It was just as likely he'd be back with friends, and that suited Cedric fine. He nodded in agreement with the orc. "Aye, I'm inclined to agree with you there, Mauly. Normally, I'd just go and punch the cockswine upside the head and break a few pieces of furniture in the process." he drank from the tankard again with a laugh. "More fun that way. So, care to wager if the lasses' admirer comes back with some of his goblin pals?"

Cheeky -- that's what Maulakanth decided Cedric was. Real fucking cheeky. It didn't appeal to the orc very much, but he decided against starting another fight in the tavern all the same and buried his bristling pride in the bottom of his tankard. He grunted noncommitally at Cedric and ignored the implied insult.

The idea of the beaten Breton coming back with all his little friends, however, was a nice one. That would be a good excuse to get his hands dirty... but a man beaten by a woman might feel too shamed to return. "Ten Septims says he's off to lick his wounds and doesn't return, Elkman," Maulakanth said while gesturing for a barmaid to refill his tankard again. The ale was finally starting to have a mild effect on the big orc -- after the sixth pint -- and his ever-so-foul mood improved slightly. "As for mercenary work," he continued, referring to an earlier point in their conversation, "I did that too. Wasn't any better. At this point, I've half a mind to set off, carve out a kingdom of my own and kill every knife-eared white-skin that disagrees with me."[/color]

The Reachman grinned, raising his tankard in cheers. "I know I liked you, Mauly. Ten shiny dead Emperors for the chance to punch some cunt, sounds like the deal of the week. And boy, you are an ominous fellow. Just do me a solid, yeah? Let me know when and where you plan on making Orctopia and I will go somewhere else less stab-happy. I'd hate to think you were inconsiderate." he smiled, as the orc had surmised, rather cheekily.

Maulakanth chuckled and then grew instantly serious, leaning across the table and frowning at Cedric. "Well... you're a right cheeky sod, and you think you're too funny for your own good," he said after a few seconds. "Tell you what, Elkman. Keep the sass to a minimum and I will give you fair warning when I bring the wrath of Mauloch down on these soft, pampered runts. That sound fair to you?"

"Aye, can't complain. There's plenty of me to go around, don't you worry your colossal green hide, I'll be on me best behaviour. Maybe." he said with a wink. His meal arrived not long after, an actually alluring smelling stew that was probably best not to think about what went into it. Preparing to settle into his meal, he said, "Ah, here's the distraction I've been looking for. I'm famished. Let's hope our wager doesn't come waddling back towards the lasses while I'm eating."

Satisfied, Maulakanth leaned back with a grunt and surveyed the tavern while Cedric's food arrived. The orc had already eaten and felt pretty satisfied with the amount of consumed ale. "He's all mine if that happens," he said as a reply to Cedric's concern and flashed his tusks in what could only be a grin. "By the way, remind me to teach you how to fight properly one day. That bow won't do you any good up close."

Cedric shifted in his seat somewhat, leaning to the side as he pulled the mace from it's lanyard and placed it on the table by the orc. He returned to the stew in front of him. "I've never had much of a problem in that department. I like when they get nice and close, it breaks up the tedium of cursing when people can't get close enough to bash me fookin' head in. They are less impressed when they find out I can do the same to them. But sure, I'll take a few pointers from a man who clearly gets his jollies in by fookin' stabbing people for a living. I am, after all, a man of learning."

The two continued to chat quietly amongst themselves when the door of the tavern opened once more and a familiar face with a pair of men flanking him walked in the door behind him. They found a table nearby and were doing a terrible job hiding their contempt filled glances. Cedric grinned at Maulakanth. "You're gonna owe me money." he said in a sing-song voice.

Collab with @Spoopy Scary

Off in a dusty corner of the tavern everyone was enjoying, Berich sat; alone, stiff, tense. He didn't want to create too big of a presence for himself in the town. He still wasn't sure if an Empire sot was going around asking for the "short, weasel-like man with a missing finger and scarred face". And, sadly, Berich was sure that his new companions would turn on him the moment they found out the truth about him. These past few days, the sense of excitement had died down for Berich. He wanted his old life back. He was homesick, craving for anything to remind him of the Imperial City.

Berich glanced to his right, where Finch was sitting. Under normal circumstances, Berich would never entertain the thought of talking to the begger. But that link, however distant, prodded him to say what was on his mind.

"Finch, eh? That your name?" Berich started. He was sure what he was about to say would make him look a fool. "It's probably a coincidence, but back in the Imperial City I worked with a woman named Finch. She was one of my mentors, when I was just starting at the bank. Queer name, can't be many who share it. But... the world's a big place, I suppose. Forget I mentioned it."

Finch looked up curiously to see the merchant man fill in the gap that Fiona left behind when she left to get another drink. Something about him rubbed him wrong - but that wasn't saying much, given his distrust of the whole party. He may have grown mildly - mildly - accustomed to their quirks, but he still didn't trust that they'd have his back as soon as the Nine Divines decided to leave him for dead. This Berich, however, said something curious. He mentioned the Imperial City, his true home, and a woman sharing the same name as he did. The beggar, even as tired and exhausted as was from the long trip (as could be seen from the bags that were just started to develop below his eyes), immediately had his rapt attention captured.

"Oh... is that right?" Finch replied. "My mother's name was Alessia, after the Saint herself. She was an estate agent for the city..."

The young man's tone went solemn at the memory of his family. He looked back up expectingly at Berich, wondering if the name would ring any bells inside the merchant's head.

"Alessia! Yes, that was her name. I learned mortages in part from watching her work; how to sell them, how to convince someone to buy one. Yes, she was good at her job." [Not as good as me, Berich thought, but he doesn't need to know that. "She moved, though, did she not? What... what happened to you?" How did you become a hobo was what Berich wanted to say, but he decided to use more tact.

Finch smiled at the mentioning of his mother, and how wild it was to find someone who knew her in a place like this, suffering the same situation... But it was also bittersweet. He didn't part with them on the best note.

"She was married to Cassius Finch," Finch said, "he was promoted to commander after leading a strike on a Dominion settlement by the Gold Coast. He was called away to Daggerfall after that, and... we wanted to come with him."

The young beggar's eyes looked as though they were starting to get red. It wasn't an easy subject for him and wasn't entirely sure why he was spilling his guts to this strange man, especially one who had been rubbing him the wrong way just prior. He supposed it was because he was the closest to a familiar thing there was, and that Finch has been holding this in for too long. He felt his temper flaring up as he thought about his next answer.

"The... the Dominion wanted revenge." Finch spat angrily. "I guess! They took them both. Nobody in High Rock cared that Commander Finch was my dad, so I never got to go home."

"Oh... I'm sorry to hear that. The Dominion... yeah." Berich thought back to all of the information he had passed along to the Thalmor over the years, from insider tips into the Imperial City financial district to schedules, locations, and habits of people of interest of people he did business with. Forget it, Berich, you won't find anyone here who would understand you. It was foolish to try.

"Excuse me, I have to go," Berich muttered before quickly leaving the tavern. He needed a moment alone, away from the rest.

Left alone, finally, when Faruq's story was cut off and he stalked off to make conversation with Cyrendil. Brynn cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked around the room, at Fiona sitting not far from where she'd beaten that man's face in, at Berich's back just before the doors swallowed any sight of him. He took a drink, then another, and then figured fuck it and quaffed half the big tankard. It would still take some time before this folk warmed up to him, but it would just be a matter of simple gestures and campfire politics. It was the same with any band whose faces were all new to the other. The tavern maid came around and picked up a few of the unattended tankards left behind before speaking to him while she busied herself, “I've seen it before. Folk only stay around while the drink flows. Once it dries up, they move on.”

Brynn snorted, “It's not like that.” Brynn paused, his tankard half-way to his lips before the creeping realization that more than half the folk that followed him over the mountains hated what he was, or what they heard he was, “Mostly. What's it to you, Tavern-Wench?”

“Nothing at all,” She cast a glance at him before returning to her work of wiping the table down, “Road-Scum.”

“Road-Scum?” He felt his face get hot and he almost made to stand, but then found out he was drunk and this was his third tankard, “Road-Scum?” He worked his mouth, his lips forming into mute breaths, recognizing there was a lack of wit.

“Aye, I thought we were calling each other by slurs.” She smiled. “I've seen plenty like you.”

“Plenty, eh?”

“Aye.” She finished. There was no more conversation left in her for him, Brynn could tell.

“Would you get a glass of whiskey for each of those that came in with me.” He took another gulp of ale, “Or those that are still here, anyhow. Two fingers.” Won't cross the mountains in a day, just small steps at a time, he thought. “In the meantime, this Road-Scum is getting himself a whore.”

“There's a red-haired one you'd like!” Someone raised his voice from across the room. He noticed a certain slurred lisp to it that he reckoned he knew who it belonged to. Sure enough, it was the man whose face was beaten in moments ago. He stood and the tavern was quiet almost at once. The men dressed in green all stopped playing their games and drinking their ale to turn and look at Brynn. He suddenly felt unwelcome here. “You could take her and that floppy fucking hat out of this town.”

Brynn gave his wolf's grin, though every nerve in him was begging him to run. He felt pushed. He didn't like being pushed. “You, who got their face smashed in, what's your name?”

“It's fuck off.” He pointed, and all the men dressed in green stood, “All of you road-scum grow fat on the strife of the lands punished by war. You pick at the scab like maggots, hanging around the edges. You, that other hill-scum, and that green shit over there. You can come with us to the Lord's fort to be judged fairly, or not.”

“All this just because my friend wouldn't fuck you?” Brynn cocked a brow. “Sit back down, have a drink and then, uh,” and he shook his fist in a jerking motion, “have yourself some fun later, no shame in it.”

The big Breton's face had a creeping shade of red come over his face and he pulled a knife from behind his back, “Kill them!”

The first man that came close to him, he punched out with his tankard in hand and it cracked into the man's teeth. He stood as fast as he could and cursed himself for getting too drunk in a place like this. He felt like he was hit by a bull and the man standing over him looked like one. “You big ugly,” he heaved in a wheezing breath, “great,” the man lifted his boot to stomp Brynn's skull in, “fuck!” and Brynn rolled to his left, grasping up a stool as he stood.

He smashed it across the bull-man's head so hard that he could hear the wood crack. The bull-man paused and Brynn booted him in the stomach and doubled him over. He turned around on an instinct and the entire tavern had erupted into one giant brawl, “Ah, fuck.” He sighed, “We were supposed to lay low!” He said, as he punched a green-clothed bastard in the throat.

"Fuck the money," Maulakanth said to Cedric when Blood-Red Brynn managed to bring the fury of the locals upon them and got to his feet quickly. In the interest of fairness, the orc would have left his blades sheathed in an ordinary tavern brawl but these Bretons were quite clearly insistent on having them all killed. Maulakanth spotted knives, sickles and even a flanged mace in the hands of the enraged farmers and carpenters. This was going to be a good scrap, and a good opportunity to show everyone exactly who was the boss here.

He leapt over the table, past Cedric, and raised his hands up to grab the hilts of the swords slung diagonally across his back. The orichalcum weapons left their sheaths with an ominous rasp. The two swords were long and heavy, slightly curved in that typical Orcish fashion, with a jagged and irregular edge. Maulakanth bared his tusks at the Bretons and growled a deep, ululating purr in the depth of his chest. The brawl had already broken out around him in full force, but several of the locals hesitated for a few seconds. They looked at each other, finding courage in numbers, nodded, and charged at the orc. "Big mistake," Maulakanth sneered, and started laughing.

Everything went red as Maulakanth willingly gave in to the berserker's rage that always bubbled beneath the surface of his race. He could feel the spurned wrath of Malacanth give power to his limbs and the sulfuric rage of Mauloch lend weight to his strikes. Maulakanth bent his knees and arched his back, crouching slightly and lowering his center of gravity. The Bretons fell upon him like a wave, but the orc had become a rock in the surf. His blades moved and twirled with preternatural speed to deflect and parry multiple blows at once. The four Bretons surrounded him and hacked, slashed and smashed away -- to no avail. Maulakanth turned and pirouetted with all the grace of a dancer and his swords were everywhere. It was a beautiful defense, but the orcish bloodthirst singing in his veins demanded that he go on the offensive.

He roared, an ear-splitting, primal noise that made the Bretons flinch, ducked low and spun his swords around him, arms extended. The tips of his blades cut through thighs and abdomens alike, depending on the height of the Breton in question. Howling in pain and alarm, the four men stepped away, gingerly feeling their wounds. They had only suffered superficial cuts, but first blood was first blood. Maulakanth gave them no time to recover and rushed at one of the Bretons. The man panicked and lifted his dagger in an attempt to deflect the attack, but it was like trying to stop a sabre cat with a spoon.

The Breton ceased to be. Maulakanth's twin strikes were so vicious that the man fell to the floor in three pieces, slick with spurting blood. To the orc's surprise, one of the other Bretons used this opportunity, now that Maulakanth's back was momentarily turned, to stab him in it. Orc hide is tough and the blade was dull and of poor make, but it managed to nick Maulakanth and draw blood all the same. Maulakanth barely felt the pain, clouded as his mind was, and wheeled around at top speed. The Breton's little stab was repaid with a disgustingly strong thrust to the ribcage. Bone shattered as Maulakakanth's orichalcum blade ran the man through entirely. He barely had time to process what happened to him before his heart stopped and Maulakanth savagely kicked him off of his sword. "NEXT!" Maulakanth bellowed as he swung his blades around him with a flourish. His bare chest was flecked with blood, his eyes were wild and gore dripped from his swords. Truly, he was the Hand of Mauloch.

"Mara's mercy..." Fiona breathed, as the tavern erupted into an all-out struggle on her way back from acquiring another round. That stupid, wicked, pathetic man... he was going to get everyone in here killed because he couldn't have his way and because Fiona had made him pay for it. Even now the orc was already dismembering a fool that attempted to fight him. Could they not see that they were provoking experienced killers? Fiona never wanted any of this.

But her wants were irrelevant, as Nolan had stirred up the locals into wanting her entire group gone, or better yet, dead, and while the orc was intimidating to approach, Fiona was rather the center of the man's ire, and thus she immediately became a target. A problem made yet worse by the fact that she was only armed with a tankard of ale, her sword still half a room away. She held out a hand to the barmaid still behind her. "Stay back!" she shouted, just as the first man rushed her from the front. Fiona threw her ale in his eyes, temporarily blinding him, before she punched him in the throat hard enough to send him collapsing to the floor.

A shoulder rammed into her side, and sent Fiona stumbling into the nearest table, which sent a jarring blow into her hip. She lashed out with the tankard and caught the aggressor across the jaw, spinning him around, and she shoved him away with her boot. Then it was Nolan that was on her, his face now decorated with the improvements Fiona had made. He was knife-armed now, one hand going straight for her throat, while the other tried to plunge the blade into her chest.

His weight forced Fiona back, until she was horizontal atop the table. Nolan pressed down on top of her, tightening his grip on her throat, and she couldn't remove the hand, not while she was preoccupied keeping the knife out of her heart. She threw her weight sideways, and the entire table tipped over, sending the two of them crashing painfully into chairs, and eventually the floor.

Fiona scrambled up, reaching for her blade, and managing to grasp the hilt, just before Nolan seized a fistful of her red hair from behind, yanking her head back. She yelped in pain, turned sharply, and drove the butt of her sword into Nolan's thick gut, which had less of an effect than she would've liked. There was no room to swing such a long sword in here. By her hair Nolan pulled Fiona around, off balance, but still focused on him.

Then a knife was jammed into her right side from behind, the blade sinking in just above her hip. Fiona gasped and turned to catch a glimpse of the barmaid she'd told to keep away, infected by the same rage that gripped the others. It was all she had time to see, before Nolan charged into her. Fiona caught his wrist before he could stab her, but the man's shoulder rammed into her gut, the charge lifting her from her feet and carrying her backwards, pulling the knife free from the wench's hand. The tackle carried Fiona right into a window, and the pair shattered right through it, tumbling out of the tavern.

The air suddenly became bitingly cold all around them, as Fiona was deposited roughly onto the snow-speckled ground. Maintaining her grip on Nolan's wrist, the man still pressing his weight down on top of her, Fiona abandoned her sword, which was pinned under her, and better grasped his hand. She wrenched it unnaturally, a telltale cracking signaling his wrist breaking. He let the knife fall, crying out, but simultaneously grasping the one in her side, and twisting. She writhed under him, features twisting in pain.

His lost knife fell lightly on her shoulder, and Fiona grabbed it, unthinking. Flipping it backwards in her hand, she drove it up and sideways, right into Nolan's neck. His grunts of effort turned into gurgling chokes, blood squirting from the puncture sideways onto the snowy ground as his eyes went wide. With one more push Fiona removed him from her, and toppled him over. He was dead a moment later.

Gingerly, Fiona got to her knees, and pulled the knife from her side with another gasp. She cast it aside and pressed her hand against the wound to slow the bleeding. Her sword she placed in front of her, to have ready in case it was needed again. She could still hear struggling coming from inside the tavern. But Fiona wanted no part of it, instead remaining still, trying to catch her breath and pull herself together. More than her wound, it was guilt that racked her.

She didn't even feel remorse, for killing a man when she didn't need to. She felt relieved, actually. And that was the worst thing of all.

Gaela was about to react to the hard grip on her shoulder when Fiona stepped in, turning the drunk’s attention onto herself. The mage winced and moved the wine bottle when the two began to brawl. It was unnecessary, being on her own so much Gaela had learned how to deal with most men who got handsy. A little shock was usually enough to deter them but it was too late, punches were being thrown. When Nolan retreated in humiliation, Gaela nodded her thanks at Fiona but could see clearly that she had her own share of ale, perhaps contributing to her own aggression. The altercation was small, thankfully, and the innkeeper did not seem too upset by it all.

Turning her attention to Kirella, “As I was saying, before we got interrupted. About your soul gem research...”

Before they could get settled back into conversation, the door burst open and shouts rose as Nolan led a band of armed locals into the tavern. The big orc wasted no time pulling out his shinies and to Gaela’s horror began swinging the deadly swords around in the crowded confines of the inn. It did not take much to get the others involved, chaos swirling around them as chairs were flung and mugs went spinning through the air. Grunts and screams of pain accompanied the flashing steel and the healer sighed inwardly. At least with this group she would never be out of practice.

Knocking back the rest of her bitter wine, she reached down and scooped up her knapsack and other bags, hooking them on and snatched her walking stick. Turning to Kirella, she shouted above the din and beckoned her forward, “I don’t know about you, but I’m out. Once stupid and ale get together, the night is ruined.”

Using her stick, she shoved one stumbling, bleeding man out of her way. He was not hurt bad, just a superficial wound from what she could see. Pushing her way forward, she barreled towards the door, just in time to get knocked aside by Fiona and Nolan who were locked in combat. She hit the wall and huffed a breath out, pushing herself up as her river blue eyes flashed with annoyance. Gaela considered a spell, perhaps a bright light to blind the fighters for a moment but not harm them so she could make an escape. She ruefully decided against it, they would likely turn on her for casting magic and she would be in worse trouble.

Whacking one local on the head as he lunged for her in a blind rage, she made her dash out the door and into the cold night. The mage took a few deep breaths before turning to see the struggle between the redhaired warrior of her party and the lout. It was too late for him, she saw the life fade from his eyes even as she raised her hands to provide a healing spell. Once they were dead, that was it, she did not dabble in necromancy. Brushing her hands together instead, she walked over to them.

“Fiona, you’re hurt,” she stated rather than asked, putting her hands on her ample hips. “I can help you if you like.”

Looking down at the dead Breton she sighed through her nose and muttered, “What a mess.”

Cyrendil sat alone eating the stew while ever so often taking a drink from the mug of water, when he heard the commotion by the two mages table; The man was heavily drunk, and no doubt not in the right state of mind to do anything other than piss himself and pass out after a few more drinks. But by the way he clutched the shoulders of the two women, he was ready to have himself a go first. Cyrendil watched, he figured both could take care of themselves, when Fiona stood and started a brawl with the man. Cyrendil shook his head and turned back to his food.

There was little point in starting a brawl when a threat would have had the same effect, but the problem was no longer his. Contrary to the belief of the assorted band of scoundrels he was currently a part of, he was no city guard. Though the act of starting a brawl instead of ending it simply would cause problems with the town.

But then again, he was not apart of said brawl. He mused that the stew smelled better than it tasted, but it was filling at least, and he concentrated on the food, blocking out the sounds of boisterous toasting and storytelling, keeping his gaze on the room while he ate. Hearing the approaching of boots he turned his head to look at Faruq, and the only way the man could seem more pretentious than giving a title after his name is if he had a minstrel play the lute for him while he did it.

“What did you want Imperial?” and he turned his gaze to Faruq setting down his spoon into what remained of his meal and offered him a questioning raise of an eyebrow. When Brynn started to argue and call out the man who had gotten punched by Fiona. Which of course made the man even more furious. Which lead to the start of a brawl between the men.

“Would love to chat Imperial.” He turned and scooped up and few more spoonfuls eating it quickly and then stood with the mug of water in hand and took a long drink. He set the mug down and reached down grabbing his gauntlets and putting them on. “But, the silence has been ruined. And I fancy a walk.” With that he strolled towards the door exiting the tavern, and as he stepped outside he took a deep breath in.

Kiralla – The Scholar

The painful squeeze of a meaty fist on her shoulder made her hands ball into fists ready to lash out in defense. Fiona came to their rescue noting the terrible idea it would be to let two mages defend themselves in a tavern like this. Things would most certainly be destroyed in the due process of destruction spells being thrown.

Fiona took down Nolan with impressive strength and Kiralla was now inclined to at least consider Gaela’s judgment of Fiona. Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates when Fiona bid them to carry on. Kiralla also considered taking back her earlier statement about no one going out of their way to protect her back. Although as far as Kiralla was concerned that revision might only be reserved for the fiery Imperial.

Patting the rest of her journal dry from the spilt ale Gaela tried to continue the conversation saying, “As I was saying, before we got interrupted. About your soul gem research...”

Kiralla nodded coughing into her fist to help focus her thoughts. Nolan speaking up again after garnering support presumably from his friends and other locals alike. The air tensed immediately when Nolan slurred his words of challenge at Brynn, their reachman scout replied in kind with a rude gesture escalating the fight from fists to weapons when Nolan pulled his knife.

She watched then in a blink shuffled all her papers into her bag scrambling knowing what was to come next. Fists flew and the tavern erupted into energetic brawls, their little group doing their best to defend against the locals or run straight for the exit. Gaela seemed rather blasé when she gathered her things beckoning Kiralla to follow her through to the exit.

Ducking low to avoid an elbow and shuffling away from a body landing where she was sitting moments before crashing into her half empty goblet, “Right be-behind you!”

Her green eyes were trained on Gaela’s back while they dodged around the fights. The exit felt so far away between the sea of bodies. The orc’s bloody swords caught her attention and the terrifying sight of a berserker in a rage was enough to give the locals facing him pause.

“Witches!” A voice screeched to her right, Kiralla expertly dodged a man meaning to tackle her when her eyes went back to where she expected Gaela to be, the healer was pushed against a wall near the door by the brawling pair that was Nolan and Fiona.

Meaning to go straight to help her, Kiralla’s ponytail was snatched in an angry fistful then dragged to the ground and across the floor away from her intended escape. Gasps of pain it felt like a hundred bee stings across her scalp and Kiralla was released only when her head was smashed against the floor. She saw stars and crouched over the dirty floor on her hands and knees.

“Witch! You’ll pay for what your orc monster has done to us!” Screeched a voice over the crowd of roars and fights.

Barely able to focus on whom the voice belonged to Kiralla shouted back in defense, “N-no! I have nothing to do-!” A resounding kick to her stomach knocked the wind out of her. These animals were attacking and ignoring her words.

“P-please!” She begged as they kicked her back. Her arms protected her face as she scrunched into a ball upon the onslaught of attack.

While they pulled back to catch their breaths so to did Kiralla. Her nails scraped into the floorboards, shaking at the blooming bruises along her torso. Inhaling with gasps her broken ribs pinching painfully. Survival instincts pushed her heart rate up and through the pain did the very vivid image of what she needed most form. Words became rapidly clear from her swollen lips, dark pools of oblivion gathered in her right hand spreading slowly outward in a spiral motion. The solid head of ice slowly rising from the summoning portal as it grew in diameter to accommodate the massive size of the Daedra.

The attacks did pause at the appearance of the Front Atronach. Shakily pushing herself up to stand her Atronach casting a shadow over her features. When finally getting to her feet squinting past a black eye she tracked to the men and women that surrounded her in a circle. They all shared a look of terror but she knew animals such as them only understood one thing and that was brute force.

Speaking clearly and concisely Kiralla’s statement as cold as the Atronach, “You brought this upon yourselves.”

Snowflake threw it’s massive arm at the man closest sending him halfway across the tavern then swung around to throw another person. The others ran scared as Snowflake plowed a clear path to the exit for Kiralla knocking locals left and right; every icy step froze the ground it stood on. She limped behind her Atronach holding her side. Eyes trained solely on the exit. Snowflake stood rightly to the side allowing its master to walk through the door first it’s hulking mass choosing the larger and broken window to step through instead.

Kiralla hobbled out of the tavern into the night air breathing in a deep sigh of relief. Pushing herself to hobble further away barely noticing Gaela and Fiona off to the side of the building. Snowflake lumbered behind Kiralla as she collapsed to her knees. Hands shaking as she whispered the words to fast heal. Her right hand glowed with golden heat then pressed them firmly to her broken ribs, feeling the painful pull and magical healing. Her face contorted reminding herself this pain was nothing. It was several minutes before she let up on the spell to breathe. Finally her thoughts turned away from the fleeting pain and immediately to the murder the berserk orc was committing in the tavern behind her. That would easily warrant their group far too much attention. The guards would surely appear sooner rather than later and the list of witnesses would ruin their low and unknown profile.

It was only a matter of time now. She saw the finely dressed Berich already outside locking eyes with him.

"We need to-to leave."

---

”Why is it...” Finch muttered to himself as he immediately dropped to the floor and rolled underneath his table, “We can’t take one, simple, bloody spot to rest...”

A mug exploded against the back of one man’s head, sending glass flying in every which direction

“...Without bringing the whole damn town on our heads?”

If worst came to worst, and they were about to either be put up in stocks with even more new friends or once again put in a dungeon, Finch was going to give them all the slip and spring that noble from Camlorn all by his lonesome self if he had to. He had to hand it to them though – they knew how to fight. Not that it would help them get into the castle unnoticed. A curious thing, this bar-brawl though – Finch has never been in one before. He thought it was all punching, chairs, and mug and bottle fighting. There was significantly more blood being shed here than he had expected. Hopefully they were non-fatal.

Finch peered from his hiding place, trying to find a path to slip through the chaos – to see the spaces between their legs and see if he can find something of use he can take with him through this chaos... hopefully he wouldn’t get grabbed. He took a wooden bowl of salt of the table with him, and weaved his way through the thrashing. Sort of crouched, trying to stay out of everyone’s line of sight. He felt he almost made it where he wanted to go until a large meaty hand grabbed him by the scruff of his clothing and lifted Finch into the air. The young beggar clutched his wooden bowl of salt, his fingernails digging into them. He came face to face with a real brute of a nord! The man could probably give the Hand of Mauloch a run for his money, and he was angrily digging his eyes into this little runt of an imperial – the possible result of the lingering racism from the civil war ten years ago, Finch didn’t know. He just grabbed a fistful of salt in his hand and smeared it across the nord’s face, getting chunks in his eyes and whatever cuts and scrapes he had on his face.

In agony, the nord man dropped him to the ground and grabbed his face, getting what salt he could from his eyes. Now in a panic, Finch turned around just in time to see a Breton man swing a punch at him. The young, fleet-footed imperial was able to avoid the swing in time, just for it to come into contact with the nord that had taken Finch just before. The punch did little to harm the nord, but it did make him that much angrier.

“You filthy elf-lover!” The nord shouted, before taking his two meaty paws and grabbing both sides of the breton’s head and threw him halfway across the tavern (who let out a fretful cry of distress) into a number of people, knocking them over like pins. Finch, on the other hand, had long since escaped the rumble.

In the back of the tavern, there seemed to be nobody in here. Everyone was fighting out front, some were spilling into the streets, and anyone with half a mind left high-tailed it out of here; which meant Finch had the opportunity to cherry-pick whatever swill he wanted out of here. Hopefully Cedric, Brynn, or the orc wouldn’t feel so obligated to relieve him the burden of carrying whatever vintage Finch had on him then. Unlike the others, Finch’s mind was still on the job they were tasked with. After all, his own life was on the line!

Now, what was a choice pick? Finch didn’t know much about alcohol, but he figured that the older it was, the finer it was... or he could just look at whatever price they were labeled with. That worked too. There was a little bit of searching, and Finch found himself wandering to the far back side of innkeeper’s stock. A small compartment. Finch sighed as he broke out one of the lockpicks he had on his person, in one of the many little pockets he had from whatever patches of cloth he stitched onto his clothes, and he began fiddling.

‘No resistance there... no, resistance there. There... no, not there...’

Click!

‘Oh... there? Huh. Lucky.’

As he opened up the little chest, it held a couple bottles of wine. Finch didn’t stare at them as if they were some miraculous, miracle elixirs – he didn’t get the whole hype over this stuff. A quick read on the label read, “Firebrand Wine”. Huh. Whatever. Finch grabbed a bottle of that, shut the chest and started to turn around, but...

The innkeeper was standing in the door way, staring in disbelief at Finch as he held a very expensive drink in his hands.

“You...!” The man spat, starting to take angry steps toward the thief.

Finch started stammering, again in a panic. He was cornered! There was a window in here, but he couldn’t possibly...

Without thinking, the young imperial grabbed a wine rack carrying dozens and dozens of drinks, and pushed on it with all of his might (though that’s not saying much). It was enough, however, that the shelf began to tip and bottles were spilling over. The whole setup crashed into the ground between Finch and the innkeeper, glass and drink spilling everywhere. In the innkeeper’s moment of disbelief as half the stock that he had left was destroyed, Finch took the opportunity to unlatch the window and climb up the wall to make his great escape outside. There, he sprinted around the building with belongings (and stolen belonging) in hand, hoping to lose him in all of the confusion. The ice cold air licked the skin his blood rushed through, tingling as the speckles of cold sweat touched it.

As he came around, he came upon a grisly scene. Beside a few of the others, like the two mages, the elf, the merchant, there was one of his own party: Fiona was kneeled over Nolan, victorious over his motionless body before her - wounded, but victorious. Finch’s run slowed down to a jog, then to a pace. This time, there was no awe. The savage orc was one thing, this human girl barely older than him was another. He just looked at her in diluted anger and disbelief.

“I'm so glad something could come out of this brawl of ours.” Finch commented bitterly. Then he stopped, appearing to be in thought. “Oh, wait a second! There wasn’t! Someone, please... just get the other three or so idiots out of there before we spend another night in a dungeon.”

Finch sighed. By the Nine, he felt so exhausted. Not just in the literal sense either. He just wanted to get this whole chapter in his life over and done with. His life was dangling in front of him on the end of a fishing line. The only way he could save himself was by biting, but this lot was keeping him from doing that. He felt tired and bitter and just wanted to be done. He walked past Nolan’s body as his blood leaked out into the snow. The man certainly deserved what he had coming to him, but... was it really worth it? One punch leading to so many deaths? Gods, what was it that Finch wanted to do? He felt directionless. The book he found presented him with a fork in the road, and he wasn’t sure which side to take. He turned his eyes from the bloody sight and looked back at Fiona.

“Well, I guess there are worse things I could be than a ‘burglar’.” He said with a shrug, quoting Fiona’s earlier words. He shook his head and started walking off toward the other side of this little town where the gates were, wanting to get as far away from the fighting and as close toward Camlorn as possible.