"Too craven are we?" Faruq rebuked Cyrendil as the altmer stood to leave. Whether the challenge made purchase or fell uselessly he could not tell.

Violence erupted within the Gaptooth Grin begging the attention of all inside. Faruq caught only a glimpse of the hairy mill worker with the off-putting stare upon their return, his eyes instead drawn to the half-drunk knuckle draggers following close behind. A single blow triggered all the rest. One by one a mad fury jumped from one table to another as flagons fell aside for weapons. Palm sized stones, metal knuckles, and daggers appeared. Threatening undoubted, but Faruq reserved his attention for those drawing proper weapons. Quite the opposite of the breton standing across the tavern. Droplets of mead still stuck in his dark beard, the breton offered Faruq a brown toothed smile and unsheathed a well used claymore. The bearded bastard took the blade with both hands and split a table in his way in two. Mouth agape, Faruq retrieved the buckler hung upon his bag and the sword at his hip. Another swing of the claymore sent a line of air the redguard swore he could feel as two patrons caught in separate fights fell to the blade. His hand froze over the bone grip of his sword. Talos save me.

The old iron narrowly missed Faruq and bit into the hardwood of the tavern floor. He side stepped the strike, stumbling into a chair in the process. Steel plate tied about his bag clanged uselessly, adding all the weight of armour without any of the protection. Faruq dropped into a squat as the claymore swung unsated. The breton bastard looked down toward the redguard with a maniacal and decaying smile. Below his opponent from which gaps between armour is easily apparent, he felt a swordsman's opportunity -- and a swordsman never left opportunity untapped. Faruq raised the bottom edge of the buckler upward with the power of both arms propelling the heavy steel. Blood sprayed from the big bastard's nose, the claymore forgotten in the air, and the redguard happy to press the advantage. While the breton reeled, Faruq took a on the stance of a brawler. His naked right fist shot into the breton's gut twice before the buckler hooked from the left into their chest. When the big bastard stumbled backward without raising the equally large sword honour cooled the warrior's heart within him. The breton grit his glistening, dark teeth with bloody spittle glistening in his beard.

Faruq desperately jerked the buckler higher as the pommel of the claymore struck. The shock of the blow sent needles up his arm and a deep, warning pang. Before the feeling subsided the breton shoved with no weight withheld. Faruq glided backward over top a table, rolling under another both longer and covered in tankards and pitchers. In short the order the claymore shortened the bench by near a quarter. Yellow streams of ale fell like little waterfalls onto the tavern floor. The clouds filling the redguard's head refused to clear quickly, but the sign to move came all too clearly. Faruq kicked at the breton's feet before crawling from out the furthest end of the table. Splinters of wood flew upward as the big bastard tipped, breaking the table down clumsily with his body. Glancing backward, Faruq stared at his opponent now lying amidst broken wood and spilled ale. He stood as much in pride as in baffled awe.

"Be thankful you tussled with a knight, lest you leave with more than a few bruises," Faruq boasted with feign confidence. He winced, the throbbing pain in his arm like a reminder of humility.

Another glance around the Gaptooth Grin revealed little have changed. The beastly orc raised bloodstained blades, the wild ones disappeared smiling within a sea of fists of elbows, and a number of others blinded by drink fought one another. Faruq heard a sober voice above the crowd crying out about spilled wine -- Really? -- and a few smoother voices of articles of clothes and payment. He took in the shameful sight filled with drunkards and whores and brawlers and inhaled deeply. A likable place indeed, but not one included on his path.

Faruq stepped outside to find fiery haired imperial, the mage, the alchemist, and the sneak-thief who appeared richer for ware. He saw the hairy mill worker lying still in scarlet snow. His eyes immediately went to imperial woman, then glanced back to the bloody corpse. What young affections had been embers fanned by her presence to now again catch flame, now darkened. Faruq openly looked upon the imperial woman with his judgment worn plainly. "A most dire price saved for the worst and war. I pray this was among them," Faruq said, accusation sewn within the words without intention. He truly hoped the death done justly, or done without choice. Lest I forget this lot a band of criminals free from codes or morals. Murderers and sneak-thieves, perhaps all of them.

"Not quite nothing, sneak-thief," Faruq replied. "There is at least one dead here. I expect we will have bounties soon enough, perhaps an escort from here to a quaint little inn with rusty bars and shackles if we linger. There is that."

”Oh, for fook’s sake…” Cedric muttered as Nolan and his goons returned, only this time brandishing weapons. The Reachman scowled, his fun having been ruined with the revelation that there was murderous intent that was sure to draw in the guards, and that was the last thing any of their party needed for their most urgent mission. Getting arrested, again, would not only be a huge pain in the ass, but would put them past three weeks and it was anyone’s guess how long it would take for Lord Cocknose to pay off the guards to kill them off. Probably by starvation, or worse.

And of course Brynn had to make everything worse by provoking the idiot to a fight, and subsequently smashing the unfortunate man across the head with the metal tankard, sweet ale spilling wantonly as Brynn bashed his head in. Cedric reached for the tankard and eschewing manners, began to drink straight from it in an effort to milk his enjoyment of the night for even a few more passing seconds. It probably wasn’t the best idea, but alcohol numbs pain, and by the time he was good and drunk, the threat would have hopefully subsided. Still, it wasn’t his intention. They were going to get the hell out of town, and tonight.

Grabbing his mace and pushing himself from the table, and just in time to avoid getting splattered by blood from the man Maulakanth eviscerated, Cedric tried to skirt the skirmish and find his way to the door, ideally before the guards arrived to enforce order. The orc’s booming roar dissuaded one of the townsfolk from picking a fight and he moved right into Cedric’s path, his face momentarily surprised to have nearly bumped into him before turning angry. The man, wearing some kind of burlap made cap that looked like it was sewn by a drunken whore, and it probably was, brandished a carpenter’s hammer at Cedric.

“You’re with the ginger whore and the big bastard orc!” he exclaimed, trying his best to sound menacing. Had the situation been less dire, it might have even been adorable. The man couldn’t have been more than 18 or 19. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ya!”

Cedric held his mace up for the man to see. ”Mine’s bigger. Now fook off to mother and I’ll forget you existed, yeah?” he said. He felt tired.

Instead of an articulate retort, the man, after hesitantly eyeing the mace decided his odds were good and he rushed Cedric, screaming bloody murder. Cedric stepped aside, grabbing the man by the shirt and tripping him over his foot, sending the man sprawling face-first into one of the tables. The loud crunch of his nose breaking and the scream filled the air, but Cedric decided the man wouldn’t be in a rush to come at him again. He continued to hurry towards the door, hoping he wouldn’t run into any of the green-garbed idiots as he went to collect his companions to get out of town, and fast. It helped that a frost atronach, followed meekly by Kiralla, was clearing a path, hurling men out of the way like a temperamental child with his wooden toys. Cedric was momentarily stunned; he’d never seen such a thing, and a part of him was wondering if perhaps the alcohol was hitting harder than he’d anticipated.

Screaming from his right forced him to turn and more instinctually than with any sort of intent, Cedric managed to deflect the blade of a crude iron spear that had nearly run him through before the man wielding it charged full into the Reachman, toppling them both to the ground. The man tried to punch Cedric repeatedly in the face, but was thwarted by Cedric’s crossed arms and leather braces, which absorbed the impacts. Wrapping his legs around the man’s torso, Cedric used his considerable strength to flip the man to the ground off of him, where he wasted no time in getting the Breton into an armbar behind his back, twisting pressure against the man’s join. ”I don’t want to hurt ya, but I will fook your arm up bad if you keep trying me patience, you manky skeever.” Cedric warned before the tavern door burst open, and several guards with robin egg blue brigandine armour with a boar head sigil burst in, wielding arming swords and bucklers, as well as a compliment of crossbows. All of the seven men and two women wore nasal helms, their visions unimpeded. Outside, four more guards had surrounded Fiona, Gaela, Cyrendil, Finch, and Berich, three with swords, one a bit further back with a crossbow of her own.

Inside the tavern, the captain of the guard, as denoted by the silver sash draped across his brigandine and a red plume protruding from his helmet, stepped forward, a decidedly out of place scimitar in one hand and the telltale glow of frost magic in the other.

“In the name of Lord Marco and High King Egerton, I command you to throw down your weapons! You are under arrest under my authority!” he bellowed, gesturing for his crossbowmen to move into position to take down both Snowflake and Maulakanth. A guard with a buckler and sword approached Cedric and the man he was pinning to the ground cautiously, sword at the ready.

”These dicks started it! The ones in the green, not me, obviously, all because the red head girl would-“ Cedric began.

“Shut your dandy cunt mouth, curr! I will give you all until three to comply, or you can enjoy shallow graves, tramps. ONE!” the captain roared.

The room was still.

”TWO!”

~ ~ ~

Seven minutes earlier…

Guard Captain Renault had settled down for the evening, having assigned his duty roster for the evening, confident the night would be quiet as it was most nights. The funding from Camlorn to keep the peace was certainly adequate, and the roads leading to the city from King’s Guard were well-patrolled. There were troubles across High Rock, especially with the war on with the Empire, but that felt like a world away and something that wouldn’t come to King’s Guard, at least not without ample warning, and so Renault had taken off his armour and was left in a grey cotton undershirt when a raspy voice came from the stairwell headed to the bed chambers.

“Come to bed, my love. Lifts-Her-Tail is ready to serve you, m’lord.”

Oh, bollocks. He’d forgotten it was roleplay night, and his mistress-turned wife was a highly controversial choice for a man of his station; an argonian. At best, he was seen as a man of eccentric tastes, at worst, a sexual deviant under the thrall of Sanguine’s cruel debauchery. Whichever the case, Captain Renault was a bonafide argoniophile. He cared not what others thought, for behind his magnificently trimmed and groomed beard with hints of grey breaking the dark shroud across his face was a man of conviction who found love in the oddest places… and a fetish that started after he found a copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid when he was a young boy. Puberty was a strange mistress, indeed.

“Just a moment, I hope your outfit fits!” he called up, shutting the book he had been struggling to finish for a fortnite and rising up from the uncomfortable wooden chair of his desk. An urgent rapping came on his door.

“Captain! A fight at the Grin! Witnesses say there’s weapons drawn!” a shout pierced the wood, instantly souring Renault’s mood. Cursing in a manner that would be inappropriate with ladies present, the captain slipped on his brigantine and picking his scimitar, a gift from an old Redguard friend he’d adventured with when he was a young sailor shipping rum and spices across the Empire, Renault called up to his wife. “Sorry, Nikina, the damn rabble’s at it again. I shant be long!” he called, irritated to have been disturbed. Someone was going to pay, even if he had to throw them in shackles for the next few weeks.

~ ~ ~

Now…

A voice yelled in the door, “Captain!”

“WHAT NOW?” he demanded, his agitation reaching critical levels. A vein was bulging from his now red face.

“Guard tower and temple are on fire!” the guard said, fearfully. “LeClerc was killed by an archer… hooves, sir.”

“Those fucking centaurs…” Renault growled. It had been months since the town had trouble with them. “Get every guard to the gates, and rally the town to put out those damned fires! I’ll get to them in a moment.”

Screams came from outside, and for those outdoors, it became immediately apparent that the centaurs had broken through into the town, the hulking horsemen in dark body grease to conceal their approach… and to protect them from the fire-shrouded torches they were carrying. There were around 20 in number, most of which carried a curved horn bow in their hands and wore armour on their flanks, and others still carried cruel looking spiked cudgels made out of both wood and femurs of large animals. Many who were caught in the open were fired upon with the twangs of bows, innocents and some guards caught in the open. A trio of the centaurs charged right for the group gathered around the wounded Fiona and the very dead Nolan. Fortunately, the towering atronach snowflake barred their way from certain trampling.

More houses were set alight as torches broke through windows, the thick flammable grease that light the torches spreading as they caught fabrics and other similarly flammable materials. Captain Renault looked outside and scowled bitterly. He shouted at the guards to get outside to deal with it. “You lot help deal with these beasts, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll forget what I saw here. Alright, men! Let’s give these Hooved bastards the what-for!” he shouted, and the guardsmen cheered and shouted in response, most charging out the door into the streets.

A few, however, remained. One, a gravel-throated Imperial, stared down Maulakanth. “I don’t care what the Captain says, you aren’t going anywhere, orc. Murderous beasts like you don’t deserve to live…” he said, his crossbow trained at the orc’s eye socket.

Cedric reacted, having grabbed a tankard off the floor and hurled it at the weapon, trying to throw it off aim. He struck he man’s arm, causing him to twitch enough to launch the bolt, still aimed toward’s Maulakanth’s body. ”Don’t fookin’ kill them!” he shouted, knowing the only way this situation would play out in anyone’s favour was if they didn’t leave a pile of dead guards along the way.

The bar fight was rudely interrupted by the appearance of seven armored town guards. They looked ridiculous, Maulakanth decided, and he strongly considered bullrushing them, crossbows be damned. While he was weighing his options, his savage bloodthirst locked in a contest of willpower with his intellect, the situation was already changing. Apparently the town was under siege by centaurs. Centaurs? What the fuck? Maulakanth thought to himself, and the red mist cleared a little. The news was such an unexpected surprise that it pulled him out of his primal rage. The orc looked around the tavern, surveying the carnage. Cedric and Brynn were nearby, and mostly unharmed, but the orc didn't see any of his other companions. They must have gone outside already. Even the gigantic frost atronach had barely registered in the orc's mind during his rampage.

Considering there were just three of them now and it seemed like there was a way out of this for them yet, Maulakanth hesitantly lowered his swords. He briefly locked eyes with the captain, Renault, and nodded. He could kill centaurs. No problem. His beef wasn't with the guards anyway. Or at least... not yet. Most of the guards left, charging out onto the street, but three of them stayed behind. Among them was an Imperial whose crossbow didn't budge. "I don't care what the Captain says, you aren't going anywhere, orc. Murderous beasts like you don't deserve to live..." the Imperial said, his raspy voice clearly full of hatred. Maulakanth's subdued anger resurfaced and he exhaled sharply, his fingers gripping the knuckle-bowed hilts of his swords tightly. Before he could do anything, Cedric threw a tankard at the Imperial and the crossbow fired itself.

By all measures, Maulakanth was fast and possessed excellent reflexes, but he definitely wasn't fast enough to deflect or evade a high-speed projectile coming at him from less than fifteen feet away. The Imperial's aim had been thrown off by Cedric's tankard and the bolt fortunately didn't lodge itself in his eyesocket; instead, it was buried in Maulakanth's abdomen with a soft thud. Maulakanth grunted and dropped to one knee, keeping himself upright on the points of his swords. Intense pain flared in his gut and was almost immediately drowned out by the inhumanly powerful rush of adrenaline that flooded his body in response.

Maulakanth could hear Cedric call to him from miles away. "Don't fookin' kill them!" He had been prepared to forgive the Imperial for his words and be on his way to kill some centaurs, but there was no force in all of the realms, neither Mundus, Oblivion, nor Aetherius, that could stop Maulakanth's fury now. He was beyond reason. The Imperial's life was forfeit.

The scream that tore itself from Maulakanth's throat was monstrous. The Imperial guard barely had time to react; to his credit, he dropped his crossbow and reached for his sword-and-board quickly, but he wasn't fast enough. Propelled forward by every muscle in his body, Maulakanth raised his blades skyward and brought them down on -- and through -- the Imperial. An impressive spray of blood splattered across the ceiling. The two remaining guards bellowed, cursed and wasted no time in trying to avenge their fallen comrade. Maulakanth brandished his swords in response, greeting the guard's strikes with crimson orichalcum. These were trained warriors, though, wielding proper equipment, and Maulakanth was halfway drunk, wounded and beside himself with wrath. He was fast enough to keep up with the guards' initial assault -- sparks flew as the blades clashed, Maulakanth's braided hair whipped through the air, teeth were gritted -- but for how long?

(Collab with @idlehands)

On top of all that had happened, they wanted to judge her?

The thief of all people, stolen loot in hand, was going to ridicule her for defending herself from a disgusting man that had every intention of ending her life. The moment was already replaying for her, and Fiona wondered if she hadn't ended it when she had, if perhaps Nolan would've ripped the knife free from her more unpleasantly, and spilled her guts all over the snow? If she'd tried to knock him senseless, perhaps he'd have grabbed the fallen knife and pierced her heart. She wished she could've avoided it, of course, but who were these men to judge her, wounded and kneeling beside her attacker, when neither of them even saw what happened?

"Fuck you," she spat at Finch, still clutching her side as she struggled to her feet. She might've thrown a punch at him if she'd been in better shape. "Not all of us are slippery enough to run and hide when threatened." She turned to the bone knight. "Save the prayers. He was a foul man who should've taken the hint when I beat him the first time. Instead he came back, tried to have me killed... and got what he deserved."

Fiona was worked up into quite a state, a mixture of the heat from the fight and the alcohol in her, all fanned by the judgement of everyone who was so obviously superior to her. The night was ruined. Despite her killing being an act of self defense, it seemed very unlikely it would be seen that way, when the blood-mad orc inside was murdering indiscriminately. Perhaps the high and mighty around her were too intimidated to send their judgement his way.

She huffed, tears almost escaping her, but she turned away from Finch and Faruq and scooped up her sword from the ground. Another step, though, and a sharp pull in her side made her wince and stop. She'd nearly forgotten about the other women in her anger. Turning back, she nodded to Gaela. "Help would be appreciated, Gaela. Thank you." What a mess was right.

Gaela glared at both of the Imperial men, while certainly starting a bar brawl was not the wisest choice, it did not take away the fact Fiona had defended herself. As if she was supposed to give the man a chance to kill her out of some warped sense of honor. Huffing a breath, she muttered her annoyance, "Judgemental for a bunch of convicts."

When Fiona accepted her help, the healer moved forward to place her hands on her wounded side. It was a knife wound, likely deep enough to cause her not only pain but perhaps limit her breathing. As she concentrated on the spell, her hands glowing in a soft pale light as she sent the pulses of magic to bind the muscle and sinew that had been torn, she failed to hear shouts until she looked up. Guards.

They shouted for them to throw down their weapons but she had none. Fiona's sword remained in her hands, though the point was planted into the ground, and she leaned on the weapon to steady herself while Gaela worked. Gaela looked up at one of the guards standing over them with swords drawn, "I'm in the middle of healing, don't stab me. Just...a moment."

Forcing her focus on her task, she increased the power of the spell, powering through the fractured rib. It was certain to be uncomfortable for Fiona but the guards grew nervous and shouted their warnings but she could not stop once she started.

"Mage, take your hands off of that wench and keep them up," the woman with the crossbow shouted, her voice high pitched and grating. "If you even show a flicker on your finger, I'll turn you into a pin cushion."

Gaela looked at Fiona, whispering, "How's your breathing?"

"I'll live," she whispered back. "So long as we aren't stuck with crossbow bolts here."

"Good point," she replied dryly.

Turning to the guard, Gaela made a show of slowly removing her hands, wiggling them back and forth so her sleeves fell to her elbows. "Look, I'm only a Restoration mage."

To make matters more complicated, that was the moment when the band of centaurs broke through to attack the village, causing Fiona to wonder if some curse had befallen her, to suddenly surround her with so much in the way of unfortunate happenings. That said, there was opportunity in this. The guard captain was shouting for their aid, forgiveness of their transgressions in return. As though they needed forgiveness for being attacked. Well, the orc could use it, judging by the sounds still coming from within.

The healing she'd received would have to do, as the centaurs were almost immediately on them, directed towards the sides of their little group by the impressive frost atronach standing in their way, and right by Fiona and Gaela. The first came bearing a spiked, heavy cudgel, swinging down at them, and Fiona brought her sword up to block it, the weapons clanging loudly as the creature passed by. Arms rattling, Fiona took a step back and steadied herself.

The horse-man wheeled around for more, charging directly at Fiona this time, but he wore little real armor, and she had the advantage of reach with her long blade. She lunged forward with it, the centaur obviously expecting the intimidation of his size to have better effect. He ended up impaled through the chest, while his cudgel smacked against Fiona's armored arm, shaking her again but doing no lasting damage. He fell heavily against his side, and Fiona withdrew her sword, breathing heavily.

Gaela dodged the centaur as he charged closer to them, and she ducked behind Fiona. They were close, too close for her to safely dispatch a spell without harm coming to the warrior. When Fiona dropped the creature, Gaela grinned with relief but it did not last long. Another was pounding towards them, his mouth contorting with an enraged scream as he drew his bow to take aim at the woman still gripping the bloody sword.

Raising her hand, a glow began in her palm and her chest tightened as she shouted to Fiona, "Get back!"

A ball of flame erupted from her hand and hurled into the chest of the charging centaur, causing it to rear in panic and pain. Fire shot up towards his face, the stench of burned hair could be smelled even from where they were. Gathering her energy, she aimed once more a smaller, steady stream of fire shooting out towards the centaur. As it turned to gallop away, the tail caught fire and the pained shrieks could be heard as he retreated.

Fiona watched him go, nodding her thanks to Gaela, but it was hardly over. Another was coming in, and Fiona followed his aim towards the target of his bow: a young woman fleeing from the tavern. Specifically, the barmaid that had stabbed her from behind. She was paying no heed to Fiona anymore, distracted now by the terror within the tavern, and the terrors attacking the village.

With no more thought than she'd given to killing Nolan, Fiona threw herself towards the fleeing girl, latching onto her shoulder and pulling her back. "Get down!" she cried, just as the centaur loosed his arrow. By trying to keep the girl out of the horse archer's aim, Fiona put herself in it instead. The arrow thrummed into her upper abdomen, the force of it throwing her back against the tavern wall and driving all of the air from her. Fiona's breath caught in her throat, her legs almost giving out under her.

The barmaid stopped in shock at the display, but Fiona had the awareness to note the centaur archer was wheeling around to get his back hooves in range of them, and she shoved the girl aside, before throwing her arms up to brace herself. The kick came hard and fast against her arms, deflected away from her head and chest but still reverberating through her entire body.

She slid to the ground on her side as the centaur galloped off, knowing the others would soon turn their attacks on him. The barmaid still watched Fiona, stunned, while the warrior woman struggled up onto her hip, clutching the arrow in her belly and trying to gasp in a breath. This was all going very well, wasn't it?

"Just... get inside," she managed, between attempted breaths. The barmaid shook her head fervently.

"But the orc, he's..." she didn't need to finish the sentence for Fiona to understand.

"Then just... stay out of sight." That the barmaid could do, and she cautiously crept away, with no words of thanks. The look was enough for Fiona. Still unable to draw in much air, her eyes sought out Gaela again. "I think I'm... gonna need some more of that... magic."

Faruq’s words were ones of wisdom, but his addition of “sneak-thief”, again, it hurt Finch still. As though admission of what he is was a great shame to him. He nodded to him in acknowledgement but said nothing more; but as he began walking again, a pang of guilt and frustration overcame Finch as Fiona said her piece. It dug into him like a knife. He wanted so badly to yell back – she didn’t know him or what he had to go through, Finch did what he had to do to stay alive and suddenly his life was the payment of the job given to them! As impressive as Fiona was when she punched Nolan out in the first place, she should have left well enough alone. Those ladies weren’t in any danger, and they should’ve fended for themselves anyway and watch their own back! That’s the way life worked!

But as the young man whipped around, no sound came out – nothing that could carry through the sudden appearance and exuberance of the guard. They had them all surrounded, swords raised, and one woman had their crossbow trained on one of them. This was not the first time he found himself in this situation – the first was Meir Thorvale.

‘I feel like I’m losing my touch.’

As the guards circled them, Finch looked at the bottle of Firebrand wine in hand and back at the guardsmen, mustering as innocent a look as he could.

“Now, before you get the wrong idea, I bought and payed for this.” Finch lied. The vagabond looked himself up and down, covered in rags. “Alcoholism. Oblivion take me, right?”

“Shut up.” Said the woman with the crossbow.

“Aye, ma’am.”

It seemed though, as quickly as the guard had them numbered, another fiasco was taking place elsewhere. A scout came to report to the captain indoors of arrows and lit guard towers, hooves – centaurs. Finch muttered a swear under his breath. Their luck couldn’t get any worse, could it? Promised an opportunity out of one disaster and into another, they would pit this ragtag band of failures against a barbaric band of wild not-men where battle is ingrained into their very culture. Finch groaned as he tried to find a place to hide.

The centaurs were running straight towards them. The first came to strike Fiona, who blocked the first blow, and as it came around, dealt the death blow into its abdomen – she might’ve been a killer, but at least that was helping them out now. It was easier to digest considering that these weren’t men. The second came, and the mage set it ablaze with a simple fireball, causing it to flee in panic. The third came with a bow – aimed at one of the barmaids. He feared it was the end for the poor woman – but in the knick of time, Fiona took the shot for her. Finch’s eyes widened in shock as one of their own took what may have been a mortal wound – the placement of the arrow... it was either in her stomach, where the leakage would digest the rest of her insides, or she’d be unable to breathe.

Gaela was at her side, though. Thank the Nine for Gaela.

Gods, why? Why, why why! Fiona, so selfless, so stupid! Why was there this consistent pattern of putting herself in harm’s way? Was it a delusion of heroism? Because that’s what got his father, and every hero before and after him. Heroes don’t get happy endings. Period! But even with all of that stupid redhead’s flaws – you know, murder notwithstanding – she was something admirable, had a way of inspiring, even without words. Finch growled to himself in frustration, fighting that urge to act upon the opportunity Fiona had given them.

Finch slung his crossbow over his shoulder and drove the head end into the ground as he pumped the crank on the side of the crossbow, driving the string back and loading a bolt onto the rail. Panic was flooding his mind and he picked it back up and tried to aim at the retreating centaur bowman. His hands felt shaky. ‘Why am I doing this?’

A pull of the trigger, and the bolt whizzed through the air. While originally aimed at the base of the centaur’s back, it veered way off course as a result from Finch’s “expertise” and instead dug deep into the back of the centaur’s right shoulder.

“Blasted...” Finch muttered as he hurriedly started cranking the next round, anticipating another centaur to start coming through again. Well, there was one bright side: hopefully that centaur wouldn’t come back with a bow again. He desperately hoped that bolt hit some kind of nerve cluster or ligament or tendon – something – that would keep that thing’s arm from moving ever again. He looked over at the scene where Fiona was injured, and where Gaela would begin mending her newest wound. He rolled his eyes and sighed. He would probably regret this, but whatever. That girl looked like she needed a really strong drink.

While, hopefully, Faruq could cover their collective asses - if his stories held any credence.

Picking up the bottle he had set down just before firing the shot, he hurried over to the pair before the next centaur could get a drop on them. He was entirely expecting another dirty look from the warrior woman, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d survive a couple scorns. The look in his eyes, on the other hand, was a mix of something dry and annoyed – a hint of panic, as again, all that had resembled normalcy was falling apart around them, as though some agent of Mehrunes Dagon was following their every step. After a brief pause, between looking at the warrior and the healer beside him - whom he greeted with a curt and awkward smile, he stuck the strong wine forward to Fiona as an offer.

“I took this bottle so that when we got to Camlorn, I could use it as a way to get into the castle, or as an offering to the king.” Finch admitted to her. He hoped she would at least catch the subtext of it not being done in greed. He didn’t want to talk to her too much, lest she got tired of his excuses. He shook the bottle in front of her, hoping that at least the novelty of the drink and the idea of numbing the pain and whatever phantom pain that came after the healing - or, damn it all, dealing with the fact that there was an arrow buried in her gut - would entice her. “...Have it. We're probably dead anyway.”

Cyrendil had heard the sound of bows, long before the hooves the arrows flying through the air towards innocents and townsfolk. A thought crossed his mind, and he hoped the man he had met in the tavern was locked in his home safe.

He readied his blade drawing it from its sheath, the immaculate silver long-sword glinted dangerously, the sunlight gleaming off its blade, and he reached to his chest unclasping his shield and brought it around to bare, holding it in front of his chest so his eyes peered over it. When the guardsman came shouting out for assistance he did not hesitate.

“The Vigil stands with you, guardsmen.”

And it looked for the time being the filthy witch’s ice creature would keep the centaurs away from Gaela doing her healing and Cyrendil stepped outside the shadow of the Daedra. He would deal with that monster some other time for now there were the savage horse beasts. His heavy boots sunk deep in the snow as he moved away from the group, rushing as he could to a row of houses unburnt. He stood in the open before the homes, rolling the blade shining blade to catch the eye of the Centaur.

It worked as one of the larger ones holding a heavy bone cudgel turned towards him, it’s hideous features twisted into a grin as he saw the lone elf. The Centaur with a howl it broke into a full gallop. The High Elf's face was placid as he waited for the brute to get within striking distance. The Centaur raised the cudgel above it’s head intent on crushing the elf beneath him.

Sidestepping swiftly, he ran the edge of the sharp blade along the near foreleg and back leg of the galloping beast. Screaming in agony, the blood trailed in the snow as it's legs buckled, the severed tendons making it impossible for it to stand. It staggered and fell to its side, bucking its remaining two legs as it tried to prop itself up with its trunk like arms.

Cyrendil rushed to the beast man, yanking back the unwashed ragged brown hair and drew his blade deep across the throat. Letting go as the centaur flailed its arms, its hands gripping at its neck to hold the gaping wound as its grunts were smothered as it choked on its own blood. Cyrendil turned back to the front, the Centaur behind him in the last of it’s death throws before the movement behind him subsided.

His blade stained crimson, he wiped it off on the snow before awaiting another, He would defend these homes, they would be unspoiled. Cyrendil wore a face of stone, but his eyes were a green fire and a challenge. None may stand against the Vigil. Another Centaur answered, charging forward with a spiked flail raised and was met with the quick flash of steel.

It’s torso had been slashed deep, it slowed it’s gallop and looked down the new gash that was in it’s body The crimson flood down it’s chest and into the matted hair where man met beast, it dropped it’s flail placing its hands to the cut. Cyrendil took advantage of the momentary confusion his blade sinking into the beast's back and he turned it. A shudder went through the centaur's body, and then it fell limp as Cyrendil pulled his blade away crashing lifeless to the ground

He finally turned his gaze to some of the other members of the group finding Finch hovering over Gaela and Fiona. Fiona was in the snow and he could see the arrow sticking up from her gut. They would need cover, as Finch simply held a bottle in his hand. And he made his way quickly over to the group. Stopping to look down at the Fiona.

“You’ll be alright, don’t clench up. I believe the maid will be fine.” He spoke to Fiona before he turned outward shield raised, putting himself as a barrier between them and the centaur. “Sacrifice is the marking of true courage, with more than a little stupidity. You have the makings of a Vigilant, Fiona.” With that he glanced at the woman and Gaela, before his eyes cast on Finch “Thief, if you are not going to do anything of use get out of the way. Unless you’d like to get trampled.”

---

Kiralla wasn't surprised when the guards surrounded them. When she pushed herself back up to stand she lifted her hands above her head in surrender. Snowflake stood close, still as a statue.

"Banish the Daedra!" A guard shouted at her. "Banish it now or-!"

The guard's crossbow swiftly redirected its aim to the incoming centaurs galloping in their direction. Kiralla ducked low behind Snowflake while its hulking presence forced the centuars to move around them. Huddling close to its massive leg making herself as small as possible watching Fiona, Gaela and Finch face the centaurs. One last centaur raced towards with intent to help the one Finch injured then was promptly clotheslined by Snowflake's icy club arm. Quickly casting Ice Spike spell in her hand the form of a icy spear several inches long. Then plunged it into the downed centaurs heart. Life drained away from his eyes as Kiralla watched it go. She absolutely hated having to kill the creatures. Knowing guiltily, she had a fair share of sketches of various centaurs in her journal.

"I'm s-so sorry." She said then slid her hand over his eye lids to close them.

The long and monstrous roar errupted from the tavern making Kiralla nearly jump out of her skin. In her bones she knew who that belonged to without having to check, Maulakanth. Racing toward the door of the tavern it was still wide open after the barmaid escaped through it. The guard Maulakanth cut in half lay by his feet. The other two guards were shouting at him and attacking Maulakanth with unnbridled vengence. Cedric and Brynn had remained warily away from the orc out of reach from the swing of his swords. Her eyes swept through the fight then noted Maulakanth fought with a crossbow bolt sticking out from his abdomen. The guards must of shot him.

Beckoning Snowflake to come back into the tavern she took a long deep breath in having caught the overwhelming reek of blood and death. Then shouted as loud as she could at the guards, "Get out! Now!"

Snowflake climbed back in through the window stomping back to her side. The guards continued the onslaught ignoring her shouting. Balling up her fists she then pointed at the guards, "Snowflake, protect the guh-guards and stop the or-orc from attacking!

Snowflake stomped forward swinging its club arm at the guard's feet to sweep them away, swiftly bringing up its ice spear of a right arm up to stop the swing of Maulakanth's swords dead in their tracks. The sound of grating metal against the ice was piercing.

Maulakanth barely even noticed the frost atronach until it entered his field of view and blocked his swords with its arm. The orichalcum blades bit deep into the magical ice, but Snowflake's arm held, and Maulakanth was forced to a halt. He looked up, initially incomprehending in his rage, until it dawned on him that Kiralla's conjuration was trying to stop him. His eyes sought her out and he saw the small girl, a mixture of determination and desperation writ on her face. While the guards were still busy getting back on their feet, Maulakanth pulled his swords out of Snowflake's arm and took a few steps backward, panting heavily. Blood slowly trickled out of the hole punctured into his abdomen by the bolt -- the shaft was still stuck, blocking most of the flow, but the internal damage was no less severe because of it. More blood was splattered across his torso, most of it someone else's. He had completely disemboweled two men and impaled another on his blade -- that was guaranteed to make a mess. The tavern smelled heavily of iron and the rank stench of leaking organs.

"He shot me," Maulakanth grunted, wincing, and pointed at the severed remains of the Imperial guard with the tip of one of his swords, as if that explained everything. His vision was still clouded with the blood-red mist of Orsimer rage and when the other two guards immediately started yelling, cursing the orc's entire bloodline and making angry promises to put him in the ground, Maulakanth's fury, barely subsided, flared again and he charged, determined to cut the Breton cunts down through the atronach if he had to.

Snowflake brought it's left arm of a club back and waited for the right moment to hit Maulakanth. The orc charged forth meaning to use his immense strength and momentum to cut Snowflake down. Snowflake's club swung directly at Maulakanth's head meaning to knock him out. Kiralla knew it'd take more than a well placed club to his head to stop him. She just hoped it'd be enough to slow him down.

"You cah-can't justify cutting a guard in-in half!" Kiralla shouted. "You're only g-getting us in more-more trouble!"

Ducking low to dodge the frost atronach's arm, Maulakanth was forced to skid to a halt and back away before the ice club smashed into him on the return swing. He was about to yell something offensive at Kiralla when he broke out in cold sweat.

"Oh, great," Maulakanth groaned. Withdrawal symptoms. "Now? Really?" He felt his heart beat irregularly in his chest and rushes of hot and cold run through his body. Panic threatened to seize him and he sank to his knees, swords clanging uselessly on the tavern floor. The adrenaline surge of his berserker's rage was replaced by a crippling feeling of weakness and compounded by his body finally pausing to take stock of its injuries. The pain his abdomen returned, the bolt burning in his gut like a glowing metal rod. The Breton guards, still wary, looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "You," Maulakanth said, his voice hoarse, pointing at Kiralla. "Get the other girl, the alchemist."

"Snowflake, pin him." Kiralla commanded. Snowflake stomped forward using its club to push Maulakanth to the ground pressing its weight and pressure down on his chest. The icy spear poised at his neck inches away from his adam's apple. The cool mist drifing over Maulakanth's skin.

Kiralla approached slowly having taken her staff off her back and pointing it at the orc, with a glare to match. Still a few feet away she kicked away the swords well out of reach.

"What's wr-wrong? Besides the bolt st-sticking out of your stomach." She asked noting his breathing was rather haggard. "I won-won't be dragging anyone else in-in here."

Frustrated, Maulakanth tried to push Snowflake's enormous arm off of his chest, but the strength to do so had left him. He let his arms drop limply by his side, laid his head back and closed his eyes. "Potion," he said. "I need a potion. Strength potion. I'll be fine after that... and some healing, maybe," he added.

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Mauly lad. We were supposed to be keeping a low profile and be good little lads and lasses without murdering half the fookin' town along the way. I am not going back in chains because of yer little tantrum, aye?" Cedric said, loosening the tension on his bow. He spat on the floor, looking up at the colossal ice creature pulled out of the ass end of Oblivion to do songs and dances for the mousy Breton girl. "Uh, good boy. Say, Kiralla, any way of having yer walking iceberg drag our orchard coloured shithead friend out of town while there's a mess keeping the guards from evicerating us?"

Kiralla spoke to Cedric her eyes and staff trained diligently on Maulakanth once he mentioned the strength potions she knew where she recognized his symptoms. "Yes. Snowflake c-can restrain him wh-while the centaurs are being taken ca-care of. By-by the looks of it Maulakanth is experiencing what happens to skooma or moonsugar a-addicts when they do-d-don't get their fix. In his-his case it is strength potions."

The offense Maulakanth took at Cedric's words so great it invigorated him through sheer indignation and he turned his head to look at the Breton man. "These snot-nosed sods came in here with knives and cudgels and you have the nerve to tell me I should have 'laid low'? I kept my mouth shut when they came in here, it was Cunt-faced Brynn over here, or whatever the fuck his name is, that escalated the situation. As for the guards -- the captain gave a clear order and the ex-Imperial disobeyed it. Worse, he tried to see me dead. Do you think a sabre-cat lays down its teeth when some heartland twat puts a piece of wood in it? This wasn't a tantrum, you spineless cunt, it was self-defense. Now get this atronach off me and fetch the alchemist, Oblivion take you. I have centaurs to kill."

"You-you didn't have to mur-murder anyone! You don-don't get credit for not killing right away." Kiralla snapped back at the orc. He was trying to defend his actions with self defence, she really had no patience for such blatant disregard to the consequences. "You can't contain yo-your bloodrage enough to thi-think with the pea-sized brain rolling around in your skull. Do you think-think the guards o-or the locals will cer-care that it was 'self-defence' or believe you? No! You cut them in half! Even if you stayed your blade they-they would still pin the blame of the brawl on you."

One of the guards shouted at Kiralla now, "Step away from him! He deserves no less than the king's justice!"

"Oh, is the almighty Maulakanth admitting us puny mortals are a threat? Seems to me a man of yer statue should have had no problem dealing with some irritable locals without dicing them into stew chunks, but you aren't a man of half measures, are you?" Cedric retorted, rolling his eyes. The chaotic sounds of trampling hooves and screaming grew ever more insistent outside, and he knew he couldn't wait much longer. "Well, you big ol' saber cat, I leave you to our lovable iceberg and these nice guards because I have much more pressing shite to do than talk with a pathetic orc who needs his next fix. Get yer shite together, lad. You've killed enough today."

As Cedric headed for the door, he grasped Kiralla by the shoulder. "You heard the gentleman in the fancy armour, king's justice awaits our friend who clearly doesn't want any." he said, heading out of the still-open doorway and into the din of the streets where much bigger problems were at hand.

Kiralla jerked her shoulder away from Cedric, "Do not touch m-me. Snowflake, come." Then followed Cedric out allowing the guards to do their job. "I agree with you a-about Maulakanth but ple-please do not touch me without my permission."

Snowflake slowly backed away from Maulakanth while the guards pressed forward replacing the icy spear at his throat with their swords. Stomping behind its master it climbed back out of the window. Kiralla cast one look over her shoulder at the orc then turned her attention back to the centaurs still terrorizing the town. They couldn't afford to stand around allowing the raid to ruin their chances to get to Camlorn.

After his 'comrades' had left him, Maulakanth was hauled to his feet by the two guards. Righteous anger was still etched on their faces and Maulakanth, his hands being tied together with rope, decided not to provoke them. He tried to control his breathing in an attempt to clear his head. The withdrawal was urging, pleading and begging him to find a way out, some method of escape, so that he could return to the alchemist and persuade her to help him.

And then he could kill that fucking Elkman.

One of the guards gathered Maulakanth's swords, muttering an oath at the weight, while the other kept his blade pressed against the small of Maulakanth's back. "Walk," he spat at the orc. Maulakanth complied. What else was he going to do? The trio left the tavern and immediately headed towards the center of town. Maulakanth assumed the prison was there. He looked around for the others but there was little to see in the growing darkness and the sound of trampling hooves, screaming and the clashing of weapons urged the guards onward. An idea struck Maulakanth, fueled by desperation.

"Over here! Hey!" Maulakanth bellowed after gathering his breath and remaining strength. The guards cursed and hissed at him to be silent, but the damage was already done. A duo of centaurs came galloping around the corner of a house. The guard carrying Maulakanth's swords dropped them and reached for his own weapon. The orc forgotten, the guards turned their full attention on the centaurs. Maulakanth quickly sank away into the shadows of a small alley between two stone houses. This was his chance. He crouched low, the pain in his gut almost unbearable, and managed to hop over his tied hands to bring them to his front.

A mad dash, still keeping low the ground, got him as far as his blades. He picked them up with clumsy, sweaty fingers, his wrists still frustratingly tied together, and ran away -- the Hand of Mauloch running away from a fight. Somewhere in his mind, Maulakanth bitterly cursed himself -- but the addiction was in charge now. The alchemist, he feverishly thought. I have to find the alchemist.

By the time the guards had come, Brynn had already left a trail of writhing wounded or stone-still unconscious. His knife was red, handle slick with other men's blood, and he sat breathing deep and slow in a corner, leaning against the wall near the hearth. Crossbows were trained on everyone around the room and he grinned, thinking how this could get any worse than it already was. The big green bastard had already killed more than a few men, and he'd already left a few to bleed out, himself. He shook his head, rolled his eyes and began clapping when the halfhead guard shot Maulakanth. He was promptly killed, and the people behind him too.

So this was how Brynn's luck was. He rose to fame on the backs of lies, he shed blood and sweat to earn his own names, he shook hands and slapped backs with men others sing songs of, and heard songs sung of himself. Then he made enemies. He buried friends because of his feuds with those enemies. Then he was stabbed by his own friend over words. Actually, come to think of it, he should have seen this shit streak of luck coming a mile away. He laughed something almost like a cough at first, then a chuckle, and he shook his head and slapped his knee and cringed because he was reminded by the searing pain that he'd cut himself when he smashed a bottle on a man's head.

“Maulakanth.” He raised his voice and then mused to himself when no one acknowledged him, “That fucker has our gold strapped to him and he's too caught up killing these half-wits.” He raised a brow when he heard the pounding of hooves and remembered their horse-man guests, “And these fucking centaurs.”

He walked forward and picked up a shortbow and the quiver beside it. It was no warbow, and definitely not his old warbow, but it would have to do. He walked outside to the sight of two dead centaurs splayed on the muddy ground in ugly death. He turned to a guard next to him, a lad of only seventeen summers, “If I kill these horse-men, me and my friends all walk away from this and you forget it all?”

“If that's what the Captain says.” The guards-lad muttered.

“Even the murders?” Even still, the crashing in the Gaptooth Grin with the merciless howling of Maulakanth sating his bloodlust could be heard mingling with the shouts from the battle outside. Alarm bells rang, the terrified wailing of mothers scrambling to safety with their children, the shouting of the Captain to rally his men, the pounding of hooves. And somewhere among it all, a man being killed by a giant orc.

“Even the what? You killed people in there?” He said.

“Me?” He remembered cutting open that man's gut, stabbing that other in the crotch and then stabbing the one in the neck, “Mara's mercy, no.”

“I can't let murder go unpunished! Captain!” Brynn's eyes went wide and it was far too late to stab this mouthy nance in the throat. He and the lad both looked at the Captain, but the lad hacked and Brynn looked back over to see the point of an arrow through his neck.

“Serves you right, you loose-lipped cunt.” Brynn muttered, turning around while he nocked an arrow and sighted on a centaur riding far too fast in his direction for his liking. The centaur had a bow with an arrow of his own nocked. Brynn swallowed and darted to the left, hearing the twang of a bow and the whistling arrow. He pulled back the string, sighted as best he could and let loose. The dull thump of an arrow burying itself in flesh graced his ears for the first time in a long time and a smile crossed his lips. The centaur faltered and tripped over its own legs, falling and skidding to a stop twenty or so strides from him. “Cunt.”

He took a few arrows out of his quiver and planted them head-first into the ground at his feet. This was his element, a decent bow and some enemies a ways away. He didn't feel himself don his calm smile until he let loose another arrow that caught a centaur in the neck at fifty paces. Another wheeled around and brandished a crude sword and screamed something in his dumb language, “Oh?” The centaur charged for him and he nocked another arrow, drew, and fired. His first arrow missed by inches when the centaur dodged to the side. He reached down, keeping his eyes on the bastard and nocked another shaft. He drew, exhaled and shot. It caught the centaur just below the chest and he watched him slow to a trot and then slump to his knees before falling over. “Ponce.”

He spared a thought at how he could only ever feel right in places like this. In the midst of battle, or a good scrap or skirmish. He had a good voice for song, maybe could've gone to the Bards College in Solitude, he'd spared a thought in his endless musings about leaving home behind but ultimately chose the blade. But introspection was best left for after the battle, if you were still alive. He sniffed and cast his eyes about the battle, counting out his comrades, hoping that they'd survived. He caught sight of most of them, but he still felt like one was missing. He released a held breath when he saw the mousy lad, “All accounted for.” He nodded, then paused, an arrow nocked. His face told of thought and he rolled his eyes. With that, he plucked his arrows out of the ground and placed them back in his quiver. He could count them out later, he knew that big bag of money was here somewhere and he'd seen it last around the tavern. Then he stopped for a beat, “And Berich.”

He set off to find that rich-looking bastard, an arrow nocked and ready for anyone trying to get in his way.

The fiery haired imperial left Faruq speechless. A bloodied mill worker lay slain before her, a rougher sort undoubted, but a life ended all the same. His disapproval hardened at the sight, yet her words did not describe injustice or apathy. Indeed, her's was a familiar story told by many a soldier and squire Faruq encountered since leaving Windhelm. Still, this felt different. The mill worker deserved a lesson, perhaps a broken arm or leg to remind him for weeks to come. That would be true justice. Feeling the low throb in his left arm, he repeated the thought to himself. Faruq turned to the thief again to find the raggedy man with a pained expression. Somehow he felt responsible, not only for the offending the lad, but for the mill worker's death. Responsible and wrong and in a way confident his words had in fact been the right ones. Faruq felt the thoughts and the questions engulfing him, blinding him to the assembling guards and deafening him to the furious roar from the tavern.

"To arms! Centaurs approaching. To arms," shouted a guard running toward the tavern. A figure half a man taller appeared close behind before the guard's helmet flew upward with a red puff.

Another guard placed a hand upon Faruq's shoulder. He was lithe and lightly armoured with a sword in one hand and a shield in the other. The guard spoke softly, "No time to assemble all that plate. Useful stuff when it's worn, though. You any good without it?"

"We shall soon find out," Faruq replied. The guard gave him a firm pat upon the shoulder before pointing to the centaur that had just struck.

"They are slow to swing from one side to the other. Leaves the gut open, the ribs too. Watch for the knees as they'll break you as bad as the cudgels. Otherwise, keep watch," the guard explained, leading Faruq toward the sneak-thief, the fiery haired imperial, and the rest. When they drew near, Faruq slipped his bag and the plate armour attached off his shoulder. His things landed at the feet of the sneak-thief. "They like to run round before a hard strike. That little shield'll break if you try to block'em. Ready?"

Faruq ran into the open field with his bone sword and buckler raised. The centaur had looped back as the guard warned, now returning in an earth-quaking charge. Where he stood to the right of the beast, the guard stood at the left. He felt like a squire with one eye tracking the enemy and the other taking lead from the guard. First the oily stench of the beast hit Faruq, then the guard lunged with an arcing slash. Faruq mirrored the move as the beast's spiked cudgel swung just shy of his head and his sword slid back. Once the centaur had cleared him, Faruq heard a loud thump. The guard leaped to their feet, appearing to the redguard only as they drove their sword into the centaur's throat. When the guard raised their eye they promptly pointed toward the road followed by a shout, "Another!"

The warning came a moment too late. Faruq spun upon a knee, raised his buckler high, then heard a sharp and metallic crack. He crumpled instantly. Blinking as his mind buzzed, he observed the blood speckled buckler bent and broken and useless by his side. The subtle throbbing in his arm disappeared entirely. It was a respite he expected to come with too high a price.

"Gods," Faruq groaned, a new pain surfacing as he collected himself. His eyes drifted more slowly than he willed them, catching the centaur moments before it struck the guard down. "I'm-I'm not done." Faruq rose to a knee and grabbed the bone handled sword. "I'm not done, beast!" Stumbling to his feet, Faruq watched the centaur look back over its shoulder before running into a wide arc. "No buckler this time. I shan't forget twice," he whispered to himself. His eyes shot to the snow where he'd last seen the mangled buckler. Though he could not feel it, the buckler hung from the end of his left arm. Faruq noticed the blood and the way the metal plate buckled from the strike. He made to tighten his grip only to uncover a horrid pain. "Shan't be a problem then."

A dozen failures filled Faruq's mind before possibility surfaced. He stood with his sword raised far from his body as the centaur charged toward. The beast eyed the blade, then his unguarded chest, and prepared for an upward swing of its cudgel. When the beast drew near Faruq dropped the sword into the snow and ripped the battered buckler from his left hand. The centaur began to rear, veering away from the redguard only to catch a glimpse of Faruq in mid throw. He nearly cheered when the buckler caught the beast upon its brow. Faruq grabbed his sword from the snow and shuffled away from the beast as it fell onto its side.

Faruq arrived before the corpse of the first centaur and the guard lying nearby. The steel plates sewn into canvas bent and tore out of place a hand's length over the guard's belt. He saw a line of dark blood on the guard's cheek through the slit of their helmet. Faruq stood in front of the fallen guard, their name unknown to him, before feeling the ground quake yet again. His eyes panned to the others, now joined by Cyrendil.

"May you find greater purpose in the lands beyond," Faruq whispered to the guard before backing his way back toward his comrades.

“Get that wine away,” Gaela pushed Finch’s hand that clutched the wine bottle, “She’s got a gut wound, drinking anything is except a health potion is the last thing she should do.”

The healer knelt protectively over the warrior, shaking her head. She was aware of the chaos that still swirled around them and out of the corner of her eye she saw the flash of silver as the elf drove his sword towards a charging centaur. With a practiced step, Cyrendil dispatched one that was too close for her comfort.

“Keep watch,” she ordered Finch, noting he had a crossbow, “I’ve got to get the arrow out before I can start the healing process.”

Using her knife, she sawed at the shaft before snapping it to remove the fletching. “Yes, you’ll need magic and perhaps we should think about sturdier armor, yes?”

Raising her brow at Fiona before going back to work, she could hear the roaring Orc somewhere and the shouts of guards. Shoving up the armor, she saw a raised lump under Fiona’s skin, already bruising a deep purple with the blood pooling beneath it. She scrunched her freckled nose, it would not be as simple as she hoped. She would have to cut where the arrow head was and pull it out. It would be painful and delicate, drawing on her deep reserve of magicka to heal and prevent infection.

“This is no place to treat you,” Gaela decided, and stood up, offering a hand to help Fiona to her feet. “Can you walk? We’ll need to find somewhere safe, you’re out of this fight for now.”

Reaching for a vial on her belt, she passed the small health potion to her. "Drink this for now."

Brushing her hands together, she glanced around at few centaurs still attacking, their dulled eyed attention drawn to the large frost atronach as well as the armed men. It was then she caught sight of the great bulk of the Orc, his hands still bound, barreling down the alley. She shook her head, noting the arrow in his chest, “I’m gonna start a collection. Before we get to Camlorn, I’ll have enough to restock Cedric’s quiver.”

Beckoning Finch, she called, “Come here, I need your help. You’re good at finding hidey holes, yes? Then find us a safe spot so I can work on Fiona and...well, I’ll figure out what to do with him.”

Gesturing with her chin, she indicated Maulakanth visible in the shadows.

The wine was honestly tempting, but Gaela had a point. Every little motion sent sharp pains through Fiona's abdomen. She'd been hit by arrows before, but luckily enough always avoided having anything vital pierced. She supposed that if her fledgling adventurer career was going to have any length, these kinds of things would happen eventually. It was good that Gaela was around, as Fiona expected she'd be in serious danger otherwise.

"The thought's, ungh, appreciated, Finch," she managed, wincing as she worked herself to a sitting position, back against the wall of the tavern. She still couldn't draw more than tiny bits of breath at a time. Cyrendil's comment got a single, somewhat dark laugh out of her, though her expression immediately morphed to pain afterwards. She wasn't on the best of terms with the Gods, as of a few years ago. No one worthy of execution in the Vigilant's eyes, she was sure, but Fiona and the Gods weren't really speaking to one another.

Courage was something she strove for. So quickly did the judgement seem to flip after the brief display of sacrifice on her part. And undoubtedly they didn't even know the girl she'd saved was the one that stabbed her moments earlier. There was probably some stupidity in there as well. As for her armor, that was just because she was poor and lacked any resources for it. It was bound to hurt her eventually.

"I can walk, yeah," she said, taking Gaela's hand and carefully getting to her feet, using both the Breton woman and the tavern wall to steady herself. She planted the tip of her sword into the ground afterwards, a rather broad and sharp walking stick for the time being. She took the health potion gratefully and quickly downed it. It wasn't going to solve her problems, but she was at least certain she could make the trip to somewhere safer now.

The sounds of centaurs and the struggle of battle still echoed around the village, making Fiona grimace. She hated feeling like this. Weak, out of the fight, vulnerable if any enemy decided they wanted to attack her. All because of one unlucky hit. She took in as strong of a breath as she could.

"Let's get this over with."

Finch looked shyly away at his feet and stashed away the bottle into his knapsack, nodding to Fiona as she bid him her thanks. Gaela was more optimistic about her position than Finch was - not by much, but Finch was about ready to accept that Fiona might not see Camlorn. With an arrow in the gut, she wasn't about to last long. His crossbow was already cranked, and he kept watch as per the dear doctor's request. Faruq and Cyrendil disposing of the attackers - Faruq took a particularly rough blow, and Finch was wondering if the faux knight's arm broke from behind his shield.

Gaela spoke to him again, asked about a place for them to hide while Gaela did her handy work. Finch sighed and shook his head.

"U-uh, behind the Orc? I don't think there's enough time to find a hiding spot big enough for the two of you. A-and, Gods, she has a gut wound! I don't think..."

Finch turned and watched Fiona down a health potion. Oh, Arkay, he wasn't sure if that was enough. He growled to himself as he fought to make the right decision.

"...Okay, follow my lead."

He ducked beneath Fiona's other arm to help support the other half of her weight, and for such a small man such as he, it prompted a grunt on his behalf. This girl was heavier than she looked!

His arm shot out and he pointed his finger to the inside of the tavern where they just were a couple minutes before. It may not have been creative, but the guards did just storm in and broke all the fighting apart. They just had to clear a space and section of a corner with a barricade of tables, and they'd be set.

"In there, come on. We can barricade the doors." He said. Then his mind traveled to the innkeeper, and the wine Finch had stolen, and all the wine he had knocked over when he tipped over the shelf.

"If the keeper of the tavern hasn't already jumped ship, I just hope he won't be out for my... our heads."

Brynn didn't make it far before he saw Maulakanth slip away from some guards. He decided looking for the silver-spoon-holding Imperial would be fruitless. There were many more that needed him to get them back on track. This wasn't their fight, and murder or no, centaurs or no, he didn't care a stray fleck of piss if this town burned to ashes. It was his head that was on the line, that's what mattered. And for him to keep his damned head, he needed the rest of his party to keep theirs and not get their damned britches in a bunch over a town that didn't care a stray fleck of piss for them. He turned on his heel and made his way back to the Gaptooth Grin. The scene hadn't changed much, but two out of five of his best fighters were wounded something fierce. He clenched his jaw and looked about the battle, trying to cook something up. They could take shelter inside the tavern, but there was only one way in and one way out. With the way the centaurs' raid was going, the guard wasn't going to hold them for long and that tavern was no Greenwall.

He swallowed, nodded to himself and pointed to Gaela, “You, help Fiona to the stables near the gates!” He nodded to Faruq and Cyrendil, “Help the green bastard to the stables. Finch, you and Cedric are with me!”

They made slow progress through the city. Brynn tried his best to keep them in the alleys and backstreets on their way to the front gates and the stables. They needed horses and a cart and they'd find them there. They hid from guards rushing past and centaurs charging to and fro to burn and loot. They finally made it to the gates, the palisade doors broken down and the guards that greeted them earlier were glassy-eyed on the ground, arrows sticking out of them like pins in a cushion. Brynn led the way with Cedric and Finch into the stables, where they opened the door that held the horses inside. For their little bit of luck, a cart filled with hay had been left there. “Get the hay out of that cart and get it on a horse. Put Maulakanth on it.”

While the two men set to work doing that, Brynn checked each horse to see which one he liked best. In the end, he picked the one that happened to have some bard's things on it. A lute with extra strings, a map of High Rock and some booze. He stuck one of his boots in a stirrup and hoisted himself up into the saddle, gesturing to the inside of the stables when he emerged from the door, “Take your pick.”

Once everyone had gotten themselves in the saddle, talented riders or not, Brynn led them away at a fast canter. They needed to slip away from this town quickly, there were always more centaurs hanging around the edges, waiting for the second charge. Already, they'd begun burning and looting the farmsteads, he saw. They needed food and supplies to get them to Camlorn, laws be damned. He looked back at the rest of the people following after him and wondered what they'd make of the next step of his plan. He'd stolen before, he'd forced peasants to part with their cattle and sheep and burned and looted. But that was war, he had an excuse and he had an answer at his hip for those coming to collect it. He just wasn't sure if his companions would see it the same way. Even so, they rode up to the last untouched farmstead. A single candle burned inside, he could see it in the window as he dismounted. He turned to his party, “Stay here.” He turned to Cedric and the rest of his fighters, “Look dangerous. Meaner you look, the less ugly it'll have to be. Trust me.”

He put a hand on the butt of his knife and strode towards the door, taking one last look and trying to listen, wouldn't do for them to be chased off by centaurs at this point. He turned back around and his fist stopped short from banging on the door. He wondered what Cedric would think of him doing this, wondered what the rest of them would think. He didn't want to end up gutted on the side of the road again, he knew he wouldn't survive another one of those. He swallowed and banged hard on the door. He heard a woman's panicked whisper and a child start to cry while a man tried to hush them all. He opened the door, a meat cleaver clutched in a fist but what hardness was in his face disappeared at Brynn's wolf's grin. “Evening. We've come to barter.”

“Don't have nothing to barter.” The farmer's nervous eyes looked past him and at his gang of sorts behind him before returning, “You folk can find someone else, please.”

“Afraid I'm a man of convenience. Your stead was mighty convenient.” Brynn said, matter-of-factly, as if he wasn't turning over the prospect of a crossbow bolt in the back of his head now or a knife in his neck later. “We got gold with us. Happy to give you some.”

“Am I to eat the gold? Harvest was poor, so the reserves are low and I barely have anything to give to the lord.” His voice was shaky.

“Fuck the lord. Right now, I'm your lord, you're lucky I'm giving you this chance when the townsfolk over there only got fire and steel.” The farmer swallowed and looked at the column of smoke the centaurs had made of King's Gaurd and looked back to Brynn. He only nodded to the smaller man, “You know who I am?”

“You're Lordling Damarell's dog-er, his man.” The farmer whispered.

“Say it.” Brynn growled.

“Blood-Red B-Brynn.” That fear in his eyes, that respect, his grin grew wider at it and then he felt ashamed at that name, knowing what it was.

“Aye, and Brynn cut himself off from that lot and brought gold for your troubles. I could care a shit whether you eat the gold, a man let's his family go hungry when he's got enough gold ain't a man at all.” He turned around to his little 'gang' and nodded towards the farmer at them, “Grab some gold out of that sack and make sure this man gets it.” He turned around, “If you give me any more trouble, I'll make sure you will eat these fucking coins.”

Brynn set to loading up the cart Maulakanth was in with cured meat and sausages, some cheese and some fixings for porridge. It was a lumpy and lopsided bed, to be sure, but it was the best that Orc would get. Sure enough, the farmer gave Brynn and the rest of them dirty looks but clutched his gold tight and kept his mouth shut. After the ordeal was over, Brynn led his merry gang into the night. Brynn's conscience held up well enough when he was surrounded by folk as low as him, some lower, but the glances and glares he caught at that night's fire made him feel less than he was. He would've played a song, but instead, he just kept the lute in his lap. His mind wandered back to the farmer and the farmers he'd taken from before that one. He shook his head and said to no one in particular, “You know, I had a mind to go away from Morthal to Solitude to go to the Bard's College there. I had the voice for it, believe you me.” When no one answered, he sighed, turned to Finch, “Should get our rest tonight. I'll take first watch.”

* * *

Once they crested the hill it got no better. Thrown west by the consequences of their choices, one would think they'd get better living with each other. Maybe it was the fatigue from the long hauls, but at this point the horses had more right to complain. It was them with weight on their backs and doing the walking. He looked around at his merry band and shook his head. How could thieves and killers get along better than this whole lot? His horse, who he'd taken to calling Nag, huffed and Brynn felt the rise in the ground as they started working away at the next hill. He patted the beast's flank, “I know. Maybe this'll be our last hill to climb.”

As the towering spires and battlements of Camlorn rose up into view high enough for the gods to catch their bollocks on, Brynn let go a breath. His mind reached back years and years and remembered Karling's words. A dead man doesn't get paid, show me a hero fit for the songs in every way and I'll show you a headstone in Falkreath. He was hoping by now, they'd all become close and loyal enough to stick together when it mattered, but he still saw the cracks in their group, no matter how fine. A dead man doesn't get paid. Here's to hoping he gets paid at the end of this. As if the Gods were due for a laugh, they came upon a few dead bodies hanging from a strong branch. Brynn brought Nag to a stop and read the signs around the corpses' necks, two Dunmer and an Argonian. While the rest of his crew ambled past without a care, Brynn's stomach felt heavy. This is what happens to bandits in Camlorn. The lawmen who hung them had more to say and wrote it on the sign below the dangling feet, Sev'Ahmet's Gang. 500 septims for each one alive, 200 for each head. 2000 for the Knife. A crude portrait of an eye-patched Khajiit went along with it.

They'd gotten rooms at an inn far enough up the city's main road that they didn't see drunks laying in the gutter and topless whores flaunting themselves with no fear of the guards. Brynn didn't want a repeat of King's Guard and he was sure no one did either. They sat at a far corner near the hearth, a lit candle illuminating their drinks and plates. Their planning had gone mostly the same their whole stay at the inn. The only thing they could decide on is not cutting their way through the castle guard. “You think we could bribe the guards. But that leaves actually getting to the dungeons, let alone getting around the place at all.”

Centaurs were not something Cedric had encountered very often around Rivenspire, and it was always at a distance, well away from one another. Seeing a group such as this acting as a raiding party, for reasons Cedric could only guess at, was somewhat jarring. Still, he reckoned that there were two sets of vital organs, or the usual targets were worth aiming for; behind the front legs or in the human upper torso. Stepping out into the street, Cedric joined the fight, bow drawn.

His companions were regrouping as the skirmish unfolded with various degrees of success. Cedric was just in time to see Faruq’s arm become mangled from the full on strike of one of the centaur’s cudgel, which struck with inhuman force against his shield, and Fiona was dealing with an arrow pierced into her abdomen. The entire scene was chaos, and this was not going the way Cedric had imagined the first couple of days of traveling going. Predictably, Maulakanth was nowhere to be seen in the fight, ineffective with his dependency on strength potions. It was moments like this the big green orc would have been valuable in his prime.

A guard screamed in surprise as an arrow skimmed his helm, startling him enough to fall on his ass as he came to terms with the fact that the arrow had not buried itself in his skull. As the centaur wheeled to fire another shot at the fallen man, Cedric loosed an arrow at the beastman’s flank, the sudden shock of the arrow burying itself in his equine ribs causing the centaur to lose his footing, lungs pierced and he collapsed on the ground in a heap. The guardsman wasted no time in rising to his feet to hack away at the centaur that nearly killed him.

Brynn began to rally the others, and Cedric didn’t argue with the follow Reachman’s take-charge disposition and the group moved as a unit, more of a mob really, through the streets of burning homes, crumpled bodies, and pissed off horsemen who were intent to cut down anyone caught in their path. One of the centaurs noticed their stealthy maneuvers and made to call to his comrades, but before he could utter a centurian grunt, Cedric loosed another arrow which buried itself through his mouth and back through the rear of his neck. The stunned looked on the centaur’s face went rigid as if his body finally realized what was happening and after a few agonizing seconds, the centaur collapsed to the ground.

When they arrived at the stables, which was already a tense situation giving that thundering hooves that evening meant the threat of very real death, but the group worked quickly in securing mounts. Cedric picked a strong looking one, white with black spots not unlike a cow’s, and quickly mounted a saddle to the creature and helped the others do the same. He stroked his horse’s long and proud neck reassuringly and soon, he was mounted and joining the others in their procession to get the fuck out of King’s Guard. Cedric took up the rear, confident in his riding ability and his ability to fire a bow even from horseback. There’d been a number of times he’d ridden in his youth, and while his father and him never owned a horse, they borrowed one on occasion to help move supplies. Riding was a necessity, even if it wasn’t something bred into him like a knight.

Brynn’s continued plan gave Cedric pause. Normally, he frowned upon thieving, but at this point, he wasn’t above doing whatever it took to get out of town alive. Before Brynn went to pound on the door, Cedric rode astride of Brynn before he approached the house and grabbed him by the sleeve. ”Don’t hurt them, you hear me? Do what you must, but leave them in the state you found them.” he pleaded, although there was a hard edge on his voice. Pulling his muffler over his mouth and nose to conceal his features and block out the acrid smoke fumes, He moved back to his position, keeping an eye out for danger, not wishing to look the people Brynn was robbing in the eyes.

When the man of the house uttered Brynn’s name, Cedric turned, suddenly interested. His companion had a reputation he knew, but out here? From the way the man looked about ready to piss himself, Cedric knew immediately Brynn had done some truly awful shit in his days. It made the Reachman more tense for how the situation would play out. Fortunately, it was resolved without bloodshed. Satisfied that at least the family parted with some coin for their forced troubles, Cedric rode away with a clear conscious and more than a lingering curiosity of exactly who the fuck Brynn really was. Even that night around the fire where words weren’t quick to anyone’s throat, Brynn’s revelation that he wanted to be a bard just made him stranger yet. He didn’t turn in for rest right away, and instead sat by the fire, trying to connect it with something peaceful and relaxing instead of a burning village they’d left behind.

~ ~ ~

Guard Captain Renault stared down at the gathered bodies of the fallen, including a number of his guards, his fists clenched tightly within his gauntlets. King’s Guard had been ransacked under his watch, and he suspected he knew why. The logging expeditions were getting closer and closer to the forests that the centaurs had claimed, and he had wondered what had happened when one of the logging groups never returned that week as they usually did, successful or not.

It wasn’t hard to imagine their mangled bodies quartered and left for the boars and bears that shared the forests, and seeing the fruits of their labour laid out before him brought out a simmering anger that was made all the more intense when he’d discovered that the strangers in the inn had been responsible for the murder of more than a few of his guards. Pulling a rider aside, he ordered the man to deliver a message to the Camlorn garrison with the descriptions that anyone could remember to keep them from having entry in the city gates and to arrest them on sight – or kill them, it mattered little to Captain Renault.

Unfortunately, witness accounts left them with only a few details for each of them. A man with short red hair and tattoos across his face, an unnaturally huge orc, a rough red-haired warrior women among others… the captain pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and ordered the centaur bodies, at least the horse parts, to be cut up and saved for the hounds and the truly desperate. Meat was scarce enough, and after the hard harvest, times were lean. He also really wanted to disgrace the monsters who’s nearly murdered his wife while cutting down a significant number of innocents and guards, and those bloody travelers got away unscathed. It made his blood boil.

The report that several horses were missing from the stables was simply more than Renault wanted to hear for the day. Ordering his men to search for a suitable horse for the rider, he returned to his duties, deciding who he wanted dead more.

~ ~ ~

“Say, might be that it would be worth our time to become bounty hunters if that’s what the city’s paying for…” Cedric rode closer to read the signs hanging from the corpses, dangling like macabre ornaments for the worst holiday imaginable. “Who the fook is Sev’Ahmet? I’d claw me own eye out if I looked like a manky shite, too.” he said, grinning at the crude approximation of the khajiit’s portrait.

Around the table in some grungy looking highway in that could best be described as “You must be truly desperate to come here”, Cedric was rolling around the smallest and saddest tomato he’d ever seen with the tip of the provided knife. He shook his head in disagreement with the prospect of bribing the guards. “Coin’s got to last, lad. Besides, it doesn’t guarantee any guard we pay off doesn’t immediately report our likeliness and get us all trapped. It’s like the forest; we have to get a lay of the land. Maybe one of our mages knows some illusion spells that can either let them sneak past guards or make them think they’re supposed to be there? If we could get a hold of some uniforms, we’d likely be able to walk the castle walls at night without too much scrutiny. Until we know for sure where lord cuntlips’ brother is squirrelled away, we shouldn’t do anything too bold, aye?”

Kiralla arrived outside the tavern scanning their crew, Berich, their well dressed merchant had all but disappeared. Kiralla assumed the centaurs must of ran him down. Gaela was attending to Fiona while Faruq was injured as well. Kiralla’s eyes were filled with doubt but her will never wavered. Her face was still rather sore, cut and the swelling blurred her vision in her left eye. Her magic had healed the worst of her broken ribs, the rest of her body still rather tender from being beaten earlier.

Snowflake provided her with comfort and safety but it would inevitably stick out while Brynn rounded them up and decided to take them through the shadows to escape. Maulakanth rejoined the group after escaping the guards; Kiralla almost hoped they could have left without him. Maulakanth would prove to be an unstable element in their group even with the likes of Kiralla’s atronach to keep the orc in check. If he did ever cause more trouble in the future, it would be a simple matter of leaning on his addiction. If it meant preventing murder, Kiralla wanted to take on that responsibility for however long they were forced to work together.

Not to touch on the point of eyewitness accounts from the surviving locals and the guards, the Captain would surely see to finding them after the centaurs were cleared.

The spell to banish Snowflake came without pause. The miasma of a summoning circle enveloped Snowflake once again and the atronach disappeared. She jogged to keep up with the others. Cedric brought up their rear killing a centaur before he could call for help. His skills with the bow were rather apparent when the arrow cut the centaur’s words short. Turning about face again to carry on the group made their way to the shelter of the stables with horses to pick from.

“I’m p-perfectly fine with walk-” Kiralla began eyeing the horses warily. The others transferred their belongings to the horse they picked and mounted up before she could get another word in.

The last of the pick was this skinny mare, looking about as wary of the mage as Kiralla was of the horse. Small and getting on in age, brown with black spots along her face. The others began pulling out of the stables calling for her to hurry the fuck up.

“D-damnit.” Kiralla said under her breath, watching the horse cautiously she hopped on her left foot then jumped up to swing her right foot over the saddle. Taking the reins the horse whinnied irritably clearly unhappy having to leave off in the middle of the night amongst the chaos. “Cooperate with me p-please?”

The others pulling away into a gallop Kiralla struggled to get the mare into action, when she did the mare took a few minutes to finally catch up to the rest of the group coming up behind the wagon. Bringing up the rear, the destruction the centaurs wrought on the edge of town, destroying farmsteads, reaping where they could. Kiralla’s heart lurched at the trail of destruction they left behind feeling as though death had taken to following their group. While her body carried bruising from the locals at the tavern it was hardly a matter to condemn an entire town.

Watching Brynn with a glare as he bullied the locals into handing over their food. Despite having done an exchange of gold as opposed to blood, Kiralla made a spiteful decision while they were on the road to Camlorn not to eat it unless it was an emergency. Resorting largely to gathering her dinner from local fruit and roots. Brynn's revelation about hoping to become a bard did little to warm Kiralla to him.

While they travelled Kiralla’s focus was almost exclusively on riding, the mare had grown to dislike her with every passing day. Kiralla often opted to walk her horse taking breaks often from riding. She had gotten saddle sore rather quick. When they broke for camp at night Kiralla offered to help Gaela to change bandages and perform restoration spells to complete healing Fiona, Faruq and Maulakanth. Not without complaint at Kiralla’s impatient hands.

While the others snoozed and her turn to keep watch she would cast a small magelight spell that floated above her hands, as the light of the fire grew low she could still use the light to study the sleeping faces of her forced companions. Sketching their faces to keep herself awake. Sending Cindy to patrol the area on sentry duty. The atronach would occasionally return with a charred rabbit to show for it’s boredom.

Having finally arrived to the sprawling city of Camlorn the warning for Sev’Ahmet’s gang and the bounties listed crudely below them she studied the sketches curiously wishing to know more. What kind of knife could be worth two thousand gold? Must be an artifact stolen by the brigands.

---

Settled back into another tavern, a quiet spot where they could plan without interruption. Kiralla had been thinking about their strategy at length. Not a military mind by any means but she could provide some creative insight. Listening to Brynn and Cedric’s suggestions she shuffled through her bookbag for her notes.

“I am no il-illusionist. However, I have two id-ideas.” Responding to Cedric's suggestion, pulling out some parchment where she had listed her ideas in jot notes including little well drawn visuals. “First, we will n-need to infiltrate the keep to get ourselves a good lay a-about it. Then when we’re able to locate Callen R-Raimes, use an exit that is lightly guarded to smuggle him oug-out. Now, to ensure a-an area will be lightly guarded we have two teams working to smuh-smuggle Raimes away and another to run a distraction we could very well h-huh-have ourselves some success with little attention.” Kiralla said confidently, “As for distraction I can pose as a messenger from the College of Winterhold with a forged letter from the Archmage… If-If they would ever to find out I would be-be booted out of the College for this but I intend to spoil the evidence in some way so it can-cannot be traced back to me.”

“Cedric is right, bribery could easily ruin our chances, p-perhaps rely on it as a last resort?” Kiralla suggested as a compromise between the ideas.

Non's Nook, a road in on the road to Kings Guard, just a few days before .

He sat at a small table to himself. The mug of ale in his hand was the sixth he had drank in the last half and hour. ”Pisswater.” he mumbled. ”It is all fucking pisswater in this backwater shitstain of a tavern.” He mumbled underneath his breath as he took a swig of the lukewarm ale. His eyes roamed the room, looking for shiny cityguardsmen. He was itching for a fight. and The way petty militia men always acted he knew he would get one. So far, no such thing had happened.

It was then he spotted a couple of the shiny bastards, throwing their weight around and making a ruckus. One of them smacked the ass of a young raven haired barmaid as she passed their table. She yelped and almost dropped her tray but the Dunmer shot his hand out to steady her His other steadied the tray without thinking or looking her way.

”Who are those people.” He asked conversely.

”W-what? Oh, those assholes. That is Dayle and his two goons. They work the gate mostly. Word is that he is squeezing people from coin on the side. Nasty bunch. Don't get involved sir..” But her last words was lost on the Dunmer for he had already risen to his feet. He strolled on over. The three garrison guards looked up in confusion.

”Can I help you, duskfucker” Dayle, who was by far the larger of the lot, spoke.

”Duskfucker. That was a new one” The dunmer admitted as he looked down disapprovingly at them. They thought he was playing the fool to make a ass out of them. In fact he was looking over their weapons. One of them had rested his pike on the pillar just behind him. It would have to do. He had proffered the thick but short heft of a short spear. But he could do this with a pike.

”I would suggest you lot leave the establishment.” He said as he took a chair and sat down.

”Or you do what you piece of shit sa-” He got half way trough the word sand when he saw the Dunmer yawn. ”Boring you am I?” The man rose. Angrier at being ignored then being asked to leave by some random nobody. The Dunmer looked up at him trough one lazily open eye.

”Are you leaving, Or did you remember that your mother is home alone.”

”You.. What!?” The man grew red in the face as he stood up to stare down at the seated dunmer.

”You know. Alone, without a man. I bet her legs spread like the arms of the Divine Seven at mass.” Valen said as he got up, stepping to the right, just within reach of the pike. The men were eyeing one another as the leader, dayle reeled back his hand in a punch.

”You..:” Dayle began to spit as he just barely kept himself from taking the last step and escelate things further “You son of a-.“

”Aye. I mean. I may prefer the company of men, but I bet even I be welcome. Maybe I should help the poor dear out.” Valen said with a grin.

The guard roared and punched. The blow was sloppy and slow, more of a drunken haymaker then anything resembling a trained fighters punch. Valen dodged it with ease, ducking righ as it missed it's mark entirely. As The Dunmerstepped aside to the man’s right he swept the pike from the pillar. He whirled it over his head as he tested its balance and weight on instinct.

With a grunt he swung it in a wide arch adn smashed the elbow of one Dayle with the shaft of it. The guard yelped as he dropped the blade he was drawing from a sheethe at his waist. From there, it was a blur. Other had begun fighting around, a bar brawl was apparently underway independent of the four men. At one point, he lost his spear and proceeded to bludgeon Dayle to death with his own helmet.

By the time the guards arrived to aid there beset breathren and break up the fight, Valen was long gone, and so was several bottles of the establishments finest wine.

---------------------------------------------------

A few days later; On the eve of the centaur attack. Kings Guard

He had run out of wine. And so he had quested for more in places he should not traverse. Places where guards still knew his face. And now he was about to pay for it.

”Judgement day asshole. We've been looking for the fockin' asshole who took down Doyle. You are either coming with us to hang, or you are dying right here, stuck like a pig.” A rather large man with a heavy pike in his hand spat out. His face belied the fear of a man faced with what was a trained and apt killer. Valen stood lazily, his spear aimed at one of the guards, a shield in his other hand. Counter to him, Three men stood in a half circle, spears pointed at the man who looked like Dunmer had just woken cold turkey from a eleven day bender. Which, coincidentally, he had. '

Valen was once a proud and noble Dunmer. Stronger, faster, better then any imperial in every way of the word. At least, that is what he had been told. Yet here he stood, head throbbing like the Deadras had gone five round of 'kick the mortal' with it. And three guards all ready to skiver him should he try any funny business.

”Your form is sloppy” He said to nobody in particular. ”With a slouching posture like that, I could sweep your legs, take your spear and run your comrade to the left through with my own. The last doltsmight kill me but you would still be two men down by the end of it. Whom of you wish to die first.”

”There is three of us. And you are cornered.” A young man wearing a ill fitting piece of armor spoke.

”Aye? I am. Thank you for letting me know, imperial. How old are you.” Belen answered as he took a battle stance. Shield raised and his spear in a overhand, throwing kind of grip.

”....Twenty two.” The guard, who was the youngest of them by a long shot, answered. The Dunmer barked out a laugh that was as humorless and dry as his throat felt.

”Twenty bloody two? I spent half that killing Argonians twice your size as they tried to raid. I Pissed stronger things then you is likely allowed to drink boy.” The Dunmer scoffed. Just then, there was screaming. Something about centaurs. The men looked wildly about and Valen chose that moment to strike.

He moved like a viper, his shield blocking the big mans spear that was thrust at him from the right as he used the alleyways left wall to keep from being flanked. He stabbed the young guard in the foot as he slunk to his left, putting the now crippled young man between himself and the other guards. The poor man went down clutching his now defunct foot as the other guards tried to scramble and attack. The alley was to tight for them to spin arond with their pikes. His spear however, was much much shorter and made for getting in close. He tackled one and slashed spear in upwards stroke over the others face. The unfortunate soul went down blind and screaming. The weight of the third mans pike hit his shoulder with a grunt. It was to long to smash with anything pointy but the shaft was plenty heavy and unpleasant and Valen was lucky it didn't breaks his collar bone. With a grunt he grabbed and pulled it down to his right as he smashed the edge of his shield right at the mans unprotected teeth. The guard crumbled, clutching his face.

Looking around, Valen noticed he had taken all three. All in all it was over in the matter of a minute. The distraction having likely saved Valens life. He stepped over to the young man still clutching his foot. The man looked up in terror but Valen simply reached down and took the boys coinpurse. ”Thanks.” He said as he ran out of the alley.

He was met by chaos in every direction. The Dunmers red eyed looked about himself as he heard hooves and screams and crying. He payed it no heed. He had been witness to far worse. He strode trough the streets with a purpose. That purpose was to find someone to take him with them out of there. He spotted a group of ragtag misfits. Among them a truly gigantic orc and a Altmer. He would not look out of place alongside them and they were heading out which meant that they were his best chance.

The guards would be busy for a while with the centaurs so he decided to liberate a horse from the garrison stable. It was a easy enough task, men where dying left and right and one horse thief was no big deal.

He made sure the party had moved on a bit before he set off after them. He didn't wish to startle them and give away the fact that he all but stalked them out. He rode silently the road they had taken out of town, and kept himself well out of sight. When they stopped at a farmstead he set camp quite a distance away. But never so that he would not note their departure.

----
Camlorn
Like this, he had followed them without being seen. He had soon realized where they were headed, and after that he could go at his own pace. By the time they had arrived to Camlorn, he was only an hour behind. Asking around it was easy to find what Inn they stayed at. Such a strange group was hardly difficult to remember.

As he entered the Inn, his eyes scanned for anyone of the strange party. The Dunmers Spear was resting on his back, his shield over it. His bow hung at his side as well and as he took a seat not to far from his potential new travelling companions, he raised his had to catch innkeepers attention. ”Ale.” He said as he fish out the coin purse he had stolen of the guard a day prior.

(collab between idlehands and Lo Pellegrino)

The stench of blood and spilled innards clung in the nose of Faruq. Dead men and beast lay scattered about the road with a few unfortunately too wounded to expect to see more than the next few moments. A priest might stop and kneel beside each of them, might say a prayer or two to comfort the dying and send off the dead properly. Then again, if Faruq wore the hood and robes of Arkay he shan't be able to reflect upon the fallen. He whispered something for the princes, the innocents, the guards, and even the beasts until Maulakanth and Cyrendil glanced his way. Faruq disregarded the looks.

Once Maulakanth was settled within the stable Faruq wandered briefly. Despite taking great care with his left arm, jostling it about left him wincing. He knew the promise of a shoulder kissed by an arrow or of being run through by a dagger, but his armour spared him this until now. Indeed his discomfort did not come from the broken skin about his wrist and hand, from which bright red blood slowly dripped, instead he was concerned about the deeply felt throbbing that ran up his arm. Faruq squat against a nearby shack beside a slumped body and straightened the arm against his calf. He glanced at the body dressed in dark fur and a white silk tunic before tearing off a long strip. Biting down, Faruq wrapped the cloth around the open wounds, tight enough to add pressure as well as make him feel a fool for removing his armour. It was a slow work and he knew only enough to stop the bleeding until someone could afford to offer proper care. Not quite satisfied with the work and arm still throbbing, Faruq observed the corpse once more. It's head was hidden behind the furs and the belt at its waist visible. Well, would be visible if not for the obscene number of skins. Faruq shook his head and loosed a skin from the corpse's belt then took a swig. The taste of wine was welcomed, if not unexpected. He closed the skin clumsily with one hand before tying it to his own belt as well as a couple more from the corpse.

"Much appreciated," Faruq sighed, rising to his feet and returning to the stables.

---

Gaela slipped away from the dwindling battle and found Fiona where Finch had led her back to the tavern. Laying the warrior on one of the tables, she went to work using her restoration magic and a knife to dig out the arrow head. As much care as she took, there was still pain involved and a few times she winced in empathy as she withdrew the broad barbed piece of iron. Most of her magicka was drained by the time she was done with Fiona but the woman was mobile and the wound no longer life threatening. Her guts were saved but they would be tender and she warned the woman not to indulge in alcohol as it might hurt her healing internally.

Their escape was a whirl, the orc was tossed in a wagon like a very large sack of cabbages and she could see the bolt protruding from his torso. Gaela hiked up her robe and stepped on the side of the wagon, heaving herself into it as she dropped beside the wounded Maulakanth. While her own mount would have been nice, she was not going to add horse thief to her already growing list of crimes.

Crossing her legs, she leaned over and studied the wound. She was still drained so she reached for her belt, choosing a potion. Knocking it back, she swallowed the thick liquid and shuddered, feeling the power course through her as her magicka energy flooded back at a quicker rate. Flexing her fingers she set about to work on the wound. The jostling wagon was less than ideal but the bolt had to be removed and the restoration magic applied to start binding the damage done. He would still be sore and hopefully would think twice before raging into a battle barechested against archers.

The orc was restless and sweating, Gaela counted it as his reaction to being wounded. Shock must have set in and it was good that she decided to hitch a ride in the wagon or he likely would have been dead before they reached their destination.

When they stopped at the cottage, the healer was wary about Brynn’s intentions. He was a hard man with eyes that reminded her of a slaughterfish. Cold and searching for prey, now they had found it. Concerned with the fate of the family, Gaela clambered out of the wagon, her pouches and bags banging around her ample hips. Dropping to the ground with a huff, she brushed her hands down her robe and watched with some concern as Brynn approached the cottage.

Biting the inside of her lip, she furrowed her brow and sent a quick plea to Mara for the safety of the peasant family. Glancing aside, she spotted the dark skinned warrior holding his arm gingerly and she noted the makeshift bandages. Turning her attention to Faruq, moving towards him as there was little she could do about Brynn’s negotiating tactics,

“Is that a new fashion trend or did you need my help?” she pointed, her grey-blue eyes scanning over him as she indicated the various ragged strips of silk that now bedecked his body.

The redguard guided his horse closer to the wagon and attempted to tie the reins with one hand. Faruq replied, eyes still on the work, “I figure it best to save witty retorts until after my arm’s a little less battered, aye?” His expression softened when the reins cooperated. Faruq then received Gaela with a proper smile. “I must admit, the silk makes for a bit of flare though.”

Faruq glanced toward the cottage. The apparently renown bandit stood with shoulders squared and a mean expression visible even from behind. He saw the concern on Gaela’s face as he raised his left arm to her. Out of kindness, or perhaps self-preservation, Faruq continued, “He wouldn’t tell us to look mean if he intended harm. This Bloody Brynn doesn’t seem to me the average roughian. Asks too much of others, of our feelings I mean. I know not his tales nor these lands. I could be wrong. Even if I was wrong, though, those people are protected. Broken arm or no, I swore an oath.” Eying her expression, Faruq changed topics. Her fingers felt cold on the tender skin and despite his best efforts he winced. “Never broken an arm before. Then again, I’ve never stripped my armour in an unknown tavern and been attacked by centaurs either. They really should have signs for that sort of thing. Wouldn’t you say?”

Gaela unwound the silk scraps and examined the break, glancing up at him as he spoke. “Brynn will do as he will. If by average ruffian you mean he’s not a mindless thug, you’re right. As much as I know from my travels is that he was a leader of bandits, probably one of the few among us that is a true criminal. I trust he will limit his bloodshed after what occurred at the tavern, I hope it is a lesson to all of us that we need to keep a lower profile rather than call the guards down on our collective heads.”

“A proper leader of bandits, is that so?” Faruq side eyed the Breton and sighed.

She raised an eyebrow at him, smiling slightly, “Signs are everywhere, it takes someone to interpret them though,”

“Fiona killed a fellow in cold blood not long ago. He might of been a raper or a man made fool by drink -- murder, regardless. I saw the sneak-thief stand to a centaur to aid folks he barely knew. And he breaks bread among the most craven lots in Mundus.” He faced each of them as he said their names, then paused a moment. “To hear Brynn is truly the kind of man villages might send me to handle, yet also the most vocal among us for avoiding conflict... High Rock is too confusing a land.”

“I’ll agree Fiona should not have started that fight. Kirella and I are capable of defending ourselves,” Gaela replied without looking up from her task, “But that man’s death was self defense. I don’t know where you were in the tavern but where I was, he was trying to strangle her. I would not call that murder, unless you see it unfair he did not try to kill her with a sword. Not to mention she saved a girl’s life at nearly the cost of her own against the centaurs, the same the beggar stood against. The same we all stood against. Now Brynn sees what I see, that avoiding conflict is best when we’re trying not to be noticed. Though his insults against that local man were ill timed and some of his actions were questionable if he truly wished to not get into a fight.”

The healer’s hands began to glow as her fingers stroked along the muscles of his arm, the restoration magic straightening and knitting bone together. “A lucky break, it was clean and it takes a lot less power to heal. It will still be a bit sore but that is normal.”

Removing her hands from his arm, she asked, “Test your arm, how does it feel?”

Faruq looked to his Gaela then his arm. His left hand tingled like a thousand needles stuck into his flesh. Beneath the skin, he felt a flood of warmth from his shoulder down to his hand. He grasped the middle of his left forearm, fingers dancing as he tested their dexterity, and squeezed where streaks of cut flesh had mended. Fresh scars coiled around his left forearm over a part of his arm that felt cold to the touch and without feeling. He wondered about the numbness, then lifted his satchel.

“Whole again. If only my mentor had spent time in the School of Restoration, I imagine such a skill would serve anyone quite well,” Faruq replied, an honest smile spread across his face. “I hope at the next tavern you allow me to buy you a drink in thanks.”

“Restoration is an often overlooked school,” Gaela nodded, then returned his smile, “Make it one of Camlorn’s famous pork sausages and some fresh bread, I’ll be more grateful.”

---

“No idea about this Sev’Ahmet, but we all might if we linger here to wonder,” Faruq replied to the grinning Cedric. The breton was observing a poster with a portrait and bounty, which upon seeing for himself, stirred memories. “Ah, the khajit. You know my mentor once told me of two khajiit merchants leading a band of dunmeri mercenaries into a forgotten city of ice. For those unfamiliar, the khajiit hail from a land far warmer and more lush, perhaps like Hammerfell with more greenery. To convince not one -- but two khajit to leave the warm sands for such a icy and unwelcoming place, well, the reward must be great. Say,” Faruq leaned closer to the portrait from his horse. “Wouldn’t it be a laugh if this Knife knew one of the merchants?” He underscored the suggestion with a hearty chuckle.

The inn was a welcomed respite from the long road to Camlorn. Faruq sat the table near Gaela, all of his plate kept on and a helmet nearby with the Gaptooth Grin still fresh in mind. He listened to the suggestions of bribery, of scouting, and even of forgery. He paid Gaela a long glance, her remarks about few criminals among in his mind, and smiled.

“I suggest we use the time permitted. Take our time to scout the keep, watch the guards to find holes or discover those walking an unsavory path. We’ve a talented sneak-thief capable of pinching a crate of wine amidst a dozen guards, imagine the secrets he’d unearth given two nights,” Faruq looked to Finch and nodded, a glimmer of respect in his eye. “We can send our mages to the keep with a forged note with either Cyrendil or myself as their guard as well. If they buy it, we’ll get a night or two for hospitality’s sake at least. The rest might make camp or stay here. After a night or two we can converge with what we’ve learned, or if things go poorly, Brynn, Cedric, and Mauly can storm the keep.”

Faruq drank from his flagon then scanned the group. “Gaela, what do you think?”

Gaela paused, her mouth half full of sausage when he asked her opinions. Swallowing hard, she wiped the grease from her mouth and took a deep breath, “Well...I think using Finch to scout is a good idea, if he agrees to it. I can even help him in that case. As for the note, we must be careful. Who among us is such a talented forger that a copy of an archmage’s handwriting will not go unnoticed. High Rock is full of mages and any of them could have read scrolls or other works by the master of Winterhold. It’s a risk, because that would immediately arouse suspicion and I am sure the story of the great battle of the Gaptooth Grin has found it’s way here.”

Pulling apart a piece of bread, she looked towards the High Elf that sat alone in his tarnished armor, “Cyrendil could walk right in, without any trickery. He’s a Vigilant of Stendarr, all he would need to do was state he was doing an investigation. Any noble would allow him access, I believe. Lest they be accused of harboring necromancers or some other unsavory lot. And who is to say that Cyrendil is alone? I believe a couple here could pass as Vigilants, if they kept their mouths closed and looked serious. Fiona, you, even Kirella...as long as she does not summon one of her atronachs.”

She grinned at the other mage and shrugged, “Even myself, I know enough about conjuring to sound like I know what I’m looking for.”

Warming to the idea, she leaned forward, her elbows on the table, “While the Lord is busy convincing Cyrendil that there are no Daedra in the cellar, we can split up and search the place, including down in the dungeon where bad things happen. The rest can disguise themselves as local peasants or laborers and provide cover or...whatever else is needed.”

Popping a bit of bread in her mouth, she chewed happily as she sounded out her idea. It was not something she had thought out but it seemed a simple and obvious solution, or at least a partial one.

Old Blood-Red had taken charge of the party - good on him too, lest the whole group be as disorganized and aimless as a herd of cats. No one truly liked one another yet, Finch thought, so no one really wanted to follow each other's orders. Finch was more passive than the rest of the lot, as content as he to let life just pass him by. The once bandit shepherded them onward with expert leadership, and when they stopped at a stretch of farmland, his "experience" shone through. Indeed, perhaps it was negotiated diplomaticly, but the family was strong armed in actuality. While it consolidated his initial thoughts of Brynn, never once had it occurred to Finch to take the family's side. With this much land, they had gold to spare. Finch naturally thought the worst of them as greedy landowners who wouldn't shed a glance at Tamriel's weakest and vulnerable. Finch, while his alliance tentative, at least had friends in all corners of the world. Whether he met them before or not, they were comrades in rags.

There was no such understanding between Finch and the farmers, so he spared no second thought to them as they would do in kind.

Now they had gold, and the alchemist was kept busy treating Fiona, the Bone Knight, and the Hand of Mauloch. Next stop: Camlorn.

...

When the grand city came into sight, Finch was almost shaking. He wasn't certain if it was out of excitement or anxiety; after all, they were finally here and we're so close to completing their mission, but this was also where the real danger arrived. The hanging men outside of the gates were also called concerning. Was this a popular place for bounties? Would this lot have such bounties on their heads? It wasn't as though they avoided their fair share of troubles. Despite these troubles, there was yet another reason Finch shook with excitement: nice, fancy inns. If any of the group would look over, they might have even noticed his eagerness. It was extra peculiar when considering that Finch has been apparently bitter and timid and pessimistic since Meir Thorvale... but now, Finch had septims.

He seemingly disappeared when the group took their table. Finch had made his way through the crowd and gone upstairs to one of the rooms with his knapsack in tow. There, he unfolded the handkerchief and his eyes traveled to a basin and some buckets of water, coupled with soap bars made from lavender and horker fat.

Several minutes later during Brynn's and Cedric's conversation and debate, their plotting, and Gaela's and Faruq's input, the young imperial paced down the stairs. Slightly timid, almost uncomfortable in this feeling of new skin, but at the same time, clearly more confident than he ever seemed to be during the whole time traveling with the group. But his attitude was not the first thing anyone would notice. No, the dirt that seemed to be rubbed into his skin, head to toe, that was cleansed. Black, oily and knotted hair - cleaned and combed, still hanging down and wet, though thin braids were hanging intermittently over the left side of his hair. The tan imperial skin was easier to distinguish now that there was no dried mud on him. The clothes he wore were the same set he grabbed from the Meir Thorvale barracks. It was baggy on him, but it was nothing that no braided string couldn't save as he tied it around his waist to keep the breeches up. He still wore the old sandals.

Finch could come up with a number of reasons why he would clean up: if he had a bounty on his head, he'd no longer match the profile. He could more easily access the castle, no longer looking like a beggar. But there's little doubt in anyone's mind that he was itching (probably literally!) for a proper bath and clean set of clothes for ages. River water only did so much glory for so long.

He looked down at the group at the table rather shyly as he nodded his head in greeting.

"Hi... how's the game plan coming along? I still have that wine if it could be of any use."

Tender, was the word Fiona believed Gaela used. Didn't quite do it justice, but perhaps that was because she wasn't allowed any rest, as was probably needed. Their flight from King's Guard was swift, forcing Fiona up onto a horse to ride quickly despite her only just tended to wound. It left a terrible ache in her belly, and a thorough exhaustion that spread to every limb, but Fiona refused to succumb to it, and kept her consciousness. She claimed to aspire to some kind of toughness; now was the time to prove it.

Unfortunately, she had no strength to protest the banditry they half-performed at the farm house soon afterwards. She supposed, given the way recent events had gone, that the encounter ending in anything other than brutal bloodshed should be treated as a victory. Running her mouth and her fists had gotten her into enough trouble for the moment.

With the night's rest, and some continued aid from both Kiralla and Gaela, Fiona was able to mostly recover before the next ride. The hole left in her jacket and undershirt she stitched up when she found a moment. It wasn't the first time she'd repaired clothing torn in fights, and it would be far from the last.

Camlorn was a welcome sight, even if it heralded the fact that their risky venture was about to come to a head. The bodies hanging with signs around them was no less ominous, especially considering that they were probably wanted themselves. A walled city with a legion of guards would be no easy escape if they were attacked, and Fiona had no illusions about their chances against an entire city guard. She wondered if she was the only one feeling a sense of longing, looking at the call to action around the bandits' necks. It was exactly the kind of job she would want to take, if she had the opportunity.

When they settled back in to another tavern, Fiona listened uneasily to the conversation, the formation of a plan. She would be the first to admit she was no great planner, especially when it came to operations like this. Scouting secure urban locations, forging documents, creating distractions. It sounded complex, and reliant on excellent timing. One piece going wrong could cripple the entire plan.

"As long as I'm not doing much talking," she muttered, following Gaela's words. "I'm not much for subtlety, I'm sure you've noticed." She would be willing to pose as a Vigilant if it helped the plan, but she just knew if she had to verbally pretend, she'd end up blowing their cover. This really wasn't her kind of job.

It was a grey dawn that day, hanging above Maulakanth like an oppressive presence. He strode with purpose towards the Hand's Cave in the center of Orsinium. Today was the day. Maulakanth's new twinned blades were sheathed across his back, a gift from his smith-mother, freshly sharpened so that he might better cast down his father -- not in anger but in righteous challenge. Such was the way of the Orsimer. Only death could pay for power. All sorts of people gathered to watch his approach, flickering in and out of view at the edges of his vision. He saw other orcs, the inhabitants of Orsinium, but strange visitors too; the catfolk of the sands, armored knights from the heartlands and large, golden snake-people with twisted faces and long weapons...

The skies parted and revealed Magnus, shielded by Masser and Secunda in a prophetic double eclipse. Tall, deep shadows were cast everywhere, and Maulakanth could hear the snake-people laugh and whisper. Somewhere, the voice of his mother rang.

"I give you these blades, Maulakanth, most powerful of my sons. Kill your father. Let Maulakanth the son die, and Maulakanth the Hand be born."

The plaza in front of the Hand's Cave had been turned into an enormous amphitheater for the occasion, its stands rising dozens of yards into the air. The place was packed to the brim and Maulakanth looked around him, soaking in the sight of tens of thousands of mortals, come to watch him ascend. Mauloch himself, a dark figure of blade-edges and smoke, looked down at him. Maulakanth returned his attention to his enemy, who came slowly walking towards him in full orcish plate, his face hidden behind a sculpted helmet depicting a snarling demon.

"Narzul," Maulakanth heard himself say and drew his swords, the grips familiar in his hands. "Father."

Narzul gro-Urgak, Hand of Mauloch, dipped his morning star and tower shield in response. "Maulakanth. My son. Are you ready?"

"It's time, father. I am ready. Defend yourself."

Narzul swung his heavy morning star at Maulakanth, who raised his swords in defense. The morning star grew to a massive size and almost threatened to crush Maulakanth entirely, so the aspiring Hand cut through the orichalcum and stepped inside, through the ragged tear, into a tavern. Fog roiled along the floor and Maulakanth could hear the sound of hoofbeats and screaming outside. Maulakanth suddenly realized that he was on the floor, shaking and sweating, and a whole quiver worth of crossbow bolts protruded from his abdomen. Lurking above him was a Breton, covered from head to toe in ink, swirling around his skin like Herma-Mora's tentacles.

Behind the Breton, the word TRAITOR was spelled out in blood across the tavern wall.

"Oh, is the almighty Maulakanth admitting us puny mortals are a threat?" he heard the Breton say. The voice seemed to be coming from all around him and the Breton bared his teeth into a vile grin. "Get yer shite together, lad. You've killed enough today. I have much more pressing shite to do than talk with a pathetic orc who needs his next fix. Is the almighty Maulakanth admitting us puny mortals are a threat?"

Maulakanth tried to speak. No words would come -- only a gurgle of blood.

"Is the almighty Maulakanth admitting us puny mortals are a threat?"

The floorboards shattered beneath him and he fell into the darkness below, but the Breton specter didn't disappear. Instead, he filled Maulakanth's vision like a towering giant, his green eyes dripping with poison.

"You heard the gentleman in the fancy armour, king's justice awaits our friend who clearly doesn't want any."

With all the strength he could muster, Maulakanth raised his arms, grasping for the Breton's throat. By Malacath, he would strangle the life out of this damn traitor and --

---

Gasping for breath, Maulakanth awoke with a start. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes and raised his head to see where he was. It was dark, but he could see something resembling wooden boards above him. Something made a munching sound behind him. Groaning, he gingerly touched his abdomen, relieved to find the crossbow bolt missing and another smooth scar in its place. He tried to remember what had happened -- oh yes, the bar fight. The guards. And that fucking Elkman.

He sat up straight. Several horses were next to him, slowly chewing on their hay, and one of them turned its equine snout to look at him with dumb, empty eyes. He was on a cart in a stable, resting on a bed of several kinds of food. Maulakanth scoffed and clambered out of the cart, taking a second to stretch his limbs and roll his neck. He reached for his swords -- fortunately not left behind -- and slung them around his torso again. The familiar itch was still there, hungering for a strength potion, but he put that aside. Now that his body wasn't suffering from internal injuries he was a little more resilient to his addiction's siren call.

As soon as Maulakanth stepped outside he knew where he was. Camlorn. He'd been to the city before, for something work-related, though he couldn't remember what it was anymore. The stable he'd just left was part of an inn that Maulakanth figured his so-called allies must be staying at. A thought occurred to him and he paused for a second. They did not leave you behind, a voice in his mind told him. Whatever the Elkman's faults, he had apparently not insisted on surrendering Maulakanth to the city guard after all. Scoffing again, this time at himself, Maulakanth squared his shoulders. Several people on the street stared, their mouths gaping shamelessly. "What?" Maulakanth snapped, turned his back to them and stalked into the tavern.

Several of his allies were seated at a table, having a muted conversation over some food and drink. Maulakanth could see Kiralla, Brynn, Faruq, Gaela -- ah, and there was Cedric. With a grim look on his face, Maulakanth approached the table and cleared his throat, his tusks bared in a grimace. "Cedric. Outside. I want to talk."

The Elkman was rather occupied with the others and somehow failed to notice Maulakanth's approach, perhaps naively assuming he wouldn't have been rising up from the wagon for quite some time. The Reachman looked up at the orc with weary eyes, not quite trusting the orc's intent. On the plus side, his language wasn't confrontational. Maybe this wouldn't end up in murder. Letting out a long sigh, Cedric rose up from the table. "Excuse me, friends, it would seem I am wanted. If I don't come back, please make sure he's not saving me corpse for a snack."

Grabbing his bow and gesturing for Maulakanth to lead the way, Cedric followed him out of the inn, where they stood some way from the entrance, but well in sight of any passerby. Cedric eyed Maulakanth suspiciously. "Before you say anything, just be aware if yer fingers touch steel, I'll stick you with an arrow in a place you won't be getting up from. This ain't a threat, it's simply me covering me own arse in case you have more than words on the mind. Other than that, if this is about the shite that went down at the inn, I was right pissed and wanted to distance myself from a man who slaughtered guards. Ain't personal, I just want to get the gobshite lordling home safe and sound without having half of fookin' High Rock crawlin' up me arse." Cedric said, watching Maulakanth carefully. He wasn't about to tiptoe with the orc, the words had to be said, but Maulakanth already proven himself to be a bit wild and unpredictable. "Contrary to what you might think, I'd rather you, me, and all the fookin' gang get to part ways in one piece, and bluntly, I ain't got one sodding clue of how trustworthy you are around people, lad. First town we stumble across, a bar fight turns into bloodshed. You were right to defend yerself, but I hope you realize I tried to save yer ass when I threw that tankard at the fookin' guard. He was going to aerate yer brain, unfortunately, I couldn't save the rest of you. Now, unless I misread your intention, I hope that clears the air somewhat, because I'd rather not have to sleep up in a tree with one eye open in case you want to gut me."

Maulakanth listened silently as Cedric spoke and, while his nostrils flared and he clenched his fists, he kept his cool. He still didn't care for the Breton's authoritative tone and various perceived insults to his person. But... were Cedric's words false? Maulakanth, proud as he was, couldn't find it within himself to say yes to that question. He had been egregious when he drew his swords and started cutting down angry townsfolk and guards. "You are right, much as I hate to say it. It will not happen again. From now on, I will keep my blades sheathed until someone else draws blood first. That said," Maulakanth spat grudgingly and jabbed an accusing finger at Cedric, "if you throw me to the dogs again, boy, I will make it my life's sole endeavor to find you and put you in the ground. Am I clear?"

The Elkman blinked slowly. Maulakanth admitting that Cedric was right and that he made a mistake? Now this was something of a surprise and high on the list of events Cedric had considered highly improbable, somewhere under being crowned king and above discovering an undiscovered vault of treasure from the first elves. The finger jab and singular threat, however, were much more in line with what he expected. "Well, seems to me if you aren't going to butcher guardsmen, then the opportunity for me to throw you to the dogs has diminished considerably. I'm pullin' yer ear, I promise I'll stick by you moving forward, even if everything turns into utter daedra piss before our very eyes. Seems to me we're supposed to be working together to overcome our mutual problem, and we've been rather disappointing on that front, the each of us. So," Cedric said, placing the arrow back in its quiver to show lack of harmful intent, "You were the bigger man, in both meanings of the term, and came to me to square the shite away without ripping me head off, and for that, I thank you and feel like a manky shiteheel for not putting more faith in you. Shall we put this unfortunate chapter behind us?" he asked, offering a hand.

The orc stared at the offered hand. Maulakanth's jaw worked and his fingers balled themselves into fists, relaxed, and balled again. He couldn't remember the last time he had shaken someone's hand, and part of him still deeply resented Cedric for what he had done. A full ten seconds went by before Maulakanth finally reached out to the Breton and grabbed his hand in a firm grip, shook it decisively, and let it go quickly. Cedric's apologetic tone was what finally convinced him to bury the hatchet. "Very well, Elkman. All is forgiven. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have... something I need to do," Maulakanth said, grumbling, and walked away with a certain urgency in his step, down the high street. He knew there was an alchemist's shop nearby whose workstation he could use. Gaela could have helped him, of course, but Maulakanth hoped his allies would forget his addiction and he was loath to bring it up again. It was a weakness. Maulakanth did not like his weaknesses.