Cyrendil would not leave the town undefended, as the rest went to the stables to no doubt steal a wagon and run off, he would stay to make sure the guard was in place enough to sustain itself for the time being. The centaur attempted to swarm into the small town grunting in their savage tongue and striking at anything that dared moved.

But as sudden as it started the raid faltered, the guard finally getting organized enough in the chaos to made a wall of defense and the centaur had no choice but to retreat. Cyrendil watched the damage, half the homes were ablaze, civilians who happened to be outside at the time lay dead and bleeding into the snow. Including, he was sure, the ones who were killed by his 'party', his nose scrunched up at the thought.

Seeing that the guard would have it covered, he went to the stables, a few horses strong and a cart were already missing. He saw a few left that were in a condition to be ridden, searching around the now empty section that someone had once occupied, he found ink and a quill jotting down a quick note to whoever owned and ran the stable.

"The Vigil has need of a horse, It will be kept very comfortable and safe on it's journey and returned promptly and unharmed as soon as possible. If you require compensation for this one horse, take this note to the Vigil Hall outside of Wayrest, and you will be compensated accordingly. -Vigilant"

He folded the note and placed it where one could easily find it, taking the time to saddle one of the horses he mounted up and made haste towards Camlorn.

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Arriving late he spotted a few of them lingering before shuffling themselves off into the inn. He would have missed them save for the many blood stains from the wounded in the cart, which had already dried into the wood. He pulled his traveling hood down, and made his way with the mare he rode to the stables. Usually Cyrendil wasn't to fond of riding, he had preferred to walk. Because when times became more travel than food a horse was hard to keep fed.

But this silver mare had bore him with haste to Camlorn, and he patted the side of her neck before dismounting. He would keep her, he had decided. And walked her to the stables, asking the boy there to take good care of his horse. Before moving towards the inn his party would no doubt be in drinking again. It was loud as he opened the door stepping inside and finding himself a seat ordering from one of the roaming barmaids to bring him a mug of water and some bread.

He took a breath and closed his eyes, pulling back the long travelers hood so his golden hair could be free and Cyrendil rubbed his temple. More than once on the ride up he had considered leaving, what use of it to save a batch of rotten fruit? He cast his glance to the party, a jumbled assortment of bandits, addicts, people whose concept of honor was thinner than a harlot's dress. He shook his head looking back at the table, when the maid brought him what he asked for, he thanked her and took a bite of bread.

His elven ears heard Gaela's plan and he tilted his head to listen more, still chewing on the tough stale bread.

“Lord Raimes’ banner, open the gates!” Cried the sentry as he caught sight of the dozens of riders approaching the gates, proudly flying a standard of a Minotaur on a blue and white field. The riders, garbed in sky-blue dyed brigandines and leather-encased paultdrons covering both shoulders, were led by Lord Egerton Raimes, clad in thigh-length hauberk mail with riding slits with a tabard overtop in his house’s colours and a bascinet with a blue and white feather plume, who led his troops through the thick protective walls of Shornhelm as curious onlookers came to witness the arrival of their lord and his retainers. Being that the arrival was unscheduled, but not unexpected, there was not much in the way of fanfare; just the way Lord Raimes preferred.

The riders rode through the streets towards the castle grounds, the sounds of hooves clopping upon the cobblestone paths with houses and shops on either side. A woman in a tawdry dress ran up to him with a few apples wrapped in a cloth, offering them excitedly to Lord Raimes, who smiled graciously as he accepted the gift from the commoner and waved good-naturedly to her family, who were bunched together outside the door of their modest shop. Before long and without incident, the riders crossed the keep walls and the horses were steered towards the stables by well-practiced stable hands. Raimes dismounted his horse, a powerful destrier with an illustrious grey coat with a coal black mane and tail, and he offered the beast one of the apples, which it accepted indelicately with a chomp before allowing itself to be taken to its stable. Moments later, he was approached by the captain of his guards, standing resplendent in similar attire to himself, minus the helm and wearing a white tabard. The captain was remarkable in the sense that she was not only a woman, but a khajiit was well.

“Your ride was uneventful, I trust?” she asked, forgoing the usual formalities one would express when speaking to the lord of a great city. Raimes regarded her fondly, as she was his oldest and truest friend. Her coat was dark brown that graduated to a lighter shade with striking black stripes across her arms, legs, torso and face where they formed an almost curious M shape upon her brow. Her eyes were a brilliant amber shade with the usual cat-slit pupils one would expect from a khajiit, and her mane was kept neck length, but braided into dreadlocks. Rounding out her appearance were a pair of golden earrings upon both elongated, elf-like ears.

In her early 40s, the khajiit had a hard expression that made her utterly unnerving for many people to approach, if her Skyforge steel greatsword that had been her constant companion since as long as he had known her, and according to her, for about seven years before even that, didn’t do that job already. She was an unorthodox appointment, but one that had been proven time and time again over nearly two decades of service. The initial nay-sayers who found a khajiit holding such a lofty position soon learned to shut their damn mouths on account of how much more efficient the city guard had become, and how some of the most fierce fighters in the realm had challenged her right to her station had found themselves utterly discarded in single combat without much of an effort. Without word of exaggeration, Captain Marassa was the finest warrior he’d ever met in his travels, and that was not light praise by any means. She was the reason he was able to return to Shornhelm to claim his seat at all.

“Most of it was, yes, but Meir Thorvale is going to be somewhere that people avoid for some time.” Raimes replied, taking a bite of an apple and offering another to Marassa, who politely refused. The pair walked in step as they returned to the castle. He caught her look. “Usually you rather disapprove of such actions. I can tell when you’re indifferent,” he stated.

“I’ve seen my share of atrocities, and the innocent usually get caught at the end of someone’s blade. What happens outside this city is none of my concern.” She answered truthfully in a surprisingly articulate and clipped manner that would be more expected of a member of a Breton court than a khajiit. “That aside, even if I protested, I know that wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“Quite so. You know the worst part of it all? I haven’t been able to look at commoners as people for quite some time.” Raimes admitted, as casually as if he were confessing he despised children. “They’re assets, and the ones in Meir Thorvale were simply the assets of Count Fleuren. It’s no different than the foot soldiers one throws into battle. You go in expecting losses, measuring your odds by comparing numbers. Regardless, they served their purpose, and dead men tell no tales.”

“And yet the people of Shornhelm seem rather fond of you.” Marassa remarked. “Quite an achievement for a man who admits to being unable to distinguish between the value of a man’s life and that of a tool shed.”

Most people would not dare speak so flippantly to a lord, but Marassa was unique in the sense that she was friends with Raimes far before she even knew he was destined to become the lord of Shornhelm. Even after that revelation and his eventual succession, she did not balk from her usual disposition, and her candid opinions and perspective was something Raimes had long valued. In a world of yes men who would say anything to gain favour, it was invaluable to have a friend who was willing to speak against you when it was called for. He snorted in amusement.

“When you put it that way, I sound like quite the bastard. It’s like anything, take care of something, and it takes care of you. Polish and sharpen your blade, feed and groom your horse, pay tribute and respect to your allies, keep the populace happy. Past Shornhelm’s walls, High Rock is quite a nasty mess and people die at such a frequent interval one becomes rather numb to it. I’d rather be offered apples than have them thrown at me.” He said with a grin, taking a bite out of the fruit and chewing thoughtfully.

“I trust outside of your men, I’m the only one who knows what you did?” Marassa asked.

Raimes nodded. “I told you years ago; no secrets between us. Besides, it’s not as if you are unfamiliar with killing. Criminals, peasant revolts, quite a number people on our adventures… Honestly, it’s remarkable you’re still in one piece.” He said, walking with Marassa through the large double doors that led into the castle proper. Castle Shornhelm was a modest-sized keep with thick walls, numerous fortifications, and a sizable garrison, and the lords of generations past took great effort to make the place feel regal and comfortable, but pragmatic. They ascended to the upper floor and the sizable chambers the Raimes nobles set aside for themselves, kept rustic with polished wood furniture and hardwood floors and no small amount of candles. His own personal chambers had a large semi-circular balcony that was kept open when the weather was pleasant. Stripping himself of the weight of his armour and placing it on a stand, Raimes poured a pair of wine goblets from a table and took a seat in a soft reading chair with a relieved sigh. Marassa kept standing, and Raimes knew better than to invite her to sit; she never did.

“I need you to do something for me,” he said, swishing his drink slowly in a circular motion. “Prepare your rangers to depart in a fortnight.” Marassa crooked her head in curiosity, but said nothing, waiting for Raimes to continue. “I will transcribe the descriptions of a number of individuals I have charged in retrieving my brother for you and your men to track down and observe. If they are in possession of him before the third week is out, make sure they return to Shornhelm… discretely, of course. If they do not have Callen with them, and unharmed, in that time period, ensure they never walk Mundus again.”

The khajiit nodded, drinking a measured sip. “It will be done.”

“I know it will. You tend to have a very singular focus when you set your mind to something, I appreciate that.” He said, pausing for a moment of reflection. “Which is peculiar, I’d almost forgotten your search for your brother. It's been years since you mentioned it. That was your whole reason for adventuring, was it not?”

Marassa did not reply for a few moments, instead electing to stare out towards the open balcony. For most it would have been hard to get a read on her expression, but Raimes knew he had inadvertently touched a nerve. He knew all too well what she’d given up to serve him, and things like this reminded her that she never fulfilled her oath, instead coming down with a sense of resignation that it was a lost cause. Over two decades gone and with no real idea what he looked like save what her family had spoken of the few instances where they mentioned him had sealed the idea in her mind that she could not spend her life searching for a man who may or may not still be alive- and that maybe she didn’t owe the family that scorned her a damn thing. Still, when Marassa decided something needed to be done, there were few people in Tamriel who were more intensely focused on seeing it through. Were it not for their friendship, Marassa likely would have still been travelling Tamriel, searching without much hope of finding what she was looking for. Instead, she found herself an honourable position serving one of the few people in her life who actually appreciated her unconditionally.

“I found other obligations.” She replied at last, setting her glass down. “Other than marrying Callen off to princess Antoinette for political gain with the King, do you actually miss your own brother for sentimental reasons? You two were never close.”

“Truth be told?” Raimes said, leaning into his fist, “Barely. I know it probably makes your blood boil to hear me be so trivial about my relationship with my brother after you sacrificed gods-know-what to search for your own, but after father died, it was me who did everything to try and carry on his legacy while he fucked around and shirked responsibility.”

Marassa raised a brow to Raimes, a bemused smirk crossing her features. “Forgive me if my memory is somewhat fuzzy, but I seem to recall a certain someone wandering the wilderness in Skyrim pretending to be anything but the next in line for lordship, quite literally running from that responsibility when I found him.”

Raimes chuckled, polishing off his glass. “Perhaps it runs in the family. I tried, but you know what Callen’s like. After I brought you back with me, and the rotten shit he said about you…”

Marassa shrugged. “I’m used to it, and I’m past caring, to be blunt. He came around, and he knows I can beat his pampered ass without effort… and that you wouldn’t stop me. If you’ll excuse me, I have to rally up the rangers. I know the argonians in particular are eager to have a deployment that isn’t patrolling the canals for smugglers.”
Raimes nodded, rising up from his seat. Offering a hand, Marassa clasped his wrist and the two embraced. “You best make yourself available for supper. I am not suffering another one of Rowland’s tall tales without help.”

“So long as supper isn’t Count Fleuren’s corpse, I’d be pleased.” Marassa said mischievously, grinning at Raimes’ plea for company in the presence of the court mage, Rowland, who was an incredibly resourceful mage who fulfilled his duties without complaint or struggle, but was prone to rather exaggerated tales that had become something of a joke between them. Once, Marassa had convinced him that his ale was spiced with moon sugar, and the man acted as if he were under the influence of the potent spice, when in reality it was simply typical cane sugar from Hammerfell.

Stepping away from her friend, the khajiit dismissed herself to fulfill her duty, as she said she would. Raimes headed to his balcony, grabbing the khajiit’s half-empty glass along the way and he surveyed the countryside, staring Southwest, wondering how his company of convicts was performing.

((Collab Between Idlehands and ConstableWalrus))

The inn was rambunctious, people coming and going most drinking and grouping amongst friends with a scattered few alone at their own tables for various reasons. The main part of the party was together as they sat and talked of plans, some were grounded in some reality but most were flights of fancy out of a terrible Imperial Novel. Cyrendil sat by himself, scanning the crowd with sharp green eyes between bites of the terribly stale bread they had served him, it made him wonder whether the bread was actually stale for the rest of the patrons, or that the innkeeper disliked high elves. Dislike enough to serve him stale old bread, but not nearly brave enough to try to poison.

He had already taken off the heavy gauntlets and rested his sword along side him on the table, after a few days of almost non-stop riding he was tired, filthy, and hungry. “I’d kill for a warm bath and freshly baked bread” he mused to himself taking another harsh bite and ripping a chunk off with his teeth trying his best to moisten it with the water they gave him. He had been through worse of course, The vampire dens of Cyrodiil offered huddling in the dark surrounded by gore for days until the master vampire returned. But that didn’t stop him wishing for some minor comforts. Being honest with himself, he’d settle for a moment of silence and time to sharpen and manage his sword.

Gaela finished her meal, having said her thoughts on the grand scheme starting to take place. The talk continued, focused on other ideas, and eventually she grew bored, her eyes starting to wander around the room. Her gaze rested on the high elf, Cyrendil, gnawing on a chunk of bread with grim determination. He had been in battle against the centaurs, she had seen him cut one down as it charged at him. She took her mug and slipped from her chair, idling around the tavern as she made a meandering bee line towards the lone elf.

“Hullo,” she said, her mug grasped between both hands as she looked over his tarnished armor. Unsure what else to say to the aloof Altmer, she finally asked, “Are you all in one piece then?”

Cyrendil had caught Gaela’s gaze as he scanned around the tavern and was unsurprised when she stood and started meandering towards him as if she was taking interest in the things going on with strangers before she arrived at his table, he pulled his gaze upwards to meet hers as she hugged her mug with both her hands.

“As far as I know, nothing has fallen off yet.” He looked past her towards the group who kept eating around the table passing drinks and speaking. “You are going to be busy with this group… Gaela was it?” He knew her name perfectly well, and gestured to the seat in front of him. “Take a seat if you’d like, you know by watching you are terrible as masking your intentions.”

He let out a small chuckle and put the piece of bread down on the simple plate and took a drink of water. “Not meaning that as an insult, means you are honest. Or just very very good at feigning it. I’m leaning towards the former.”

She slid into the chair, propping her elbows on the edge of the table, her blue-grey eyes distant for a moment and then she blinked, “Oh, yes, I’ve had more action in the last few days than in months of traveling. I think I’ll start a collection of arrowheads I remove. And I had no intention of masking...my intentions,” Gaela replied before taking a sip from her mug. “That bread looks awful, you should try the sausage.”

Cyrendil shook his head slightly as she snapped back suddenly as if she’d been far away for a moment. “Right, so that’s why you slowly made your way around idling then? I’m in the business of watching people very closely Gaela.”

“I have not eaten since the inn, the last thing you want when you have not eaten for more than a week is to fill your stomach as fast as possible, makes you sluggish and slow. Also it could kill you if you are not careful. Seen that one first hand.” He took another long sip from his water his green eyes peering over the mug and watching her.

He set it down on the table and clasped his hands “So, I doubt you came over to talk about the sausage. Did you need anything? Questions? Concerns?”

Gaela looked at him for a long moment, then finally shook her head slightly, “Just checking on you, if you had any injuries that might need tending. Several of our party needed quite a bit of help, I didn’t want to overlook anyone.”

She tapped her fingers against the mug and her eyes darted around the room before setting back on his angular face, “I’m a healer...Restoration and also an alchemist by trade.”

“Very admirable of you, but as you can see other than the fact I’m filthy and tired. I’m quite alright.” He watched her mannerisms, the darting of her gaze the rapping of her fingers against her mug. “Restoration hmm? A good school, a shame I tend to use it more as a weapon than healing. But it comes with the job.”

“As I’m sure you heard me ramble on when we first got out of our… Shared experience. I am a Vigilant.” He replied looking at her rounded features and freckled face “You have me talking, not many get the chance to ask me questions I’d seize the moment.”

She furrowed her brow slightly and turned her mug, “I was really just checking on you. Though it’s strange to see a Vigilant in our predicament. I would have thought you could just walk away. You are protected by your order, are you not?”

Cyrendil nodded, the bright gold of his hair that hadn't been stuck to his neck moved as he did. “It had crossed my mind a few times, I could just simply up and leave now. And I’d be totally fine, Maybe go back to Cyrodiil for a time for what it’s worth.”

“But while most of this party most likely deserved to be in that place, there are a few whom I think didn’t.” He leaned forward a little bit with that “You, the Imperial woman, and even the conjurer I don’t think deserved to be locked up. Can’t say for the others, they have not made a good impression.”

He looked down on his plate at the terribly stale bread “Tell me while you were meandering around, did anyone else have bread this stale on their plates?” He picked up the thick slice tapping it on the wooden table making a small thunk as he did. “It’s like chewing on the table.”

Gaela quirked her lips and looked up at him, “You assume I didn’t. Yet you have no idea what I was arrested for.”

Her lips twitched with a smile and she raised an eyebrow, “I honestly was not looking that close. Maybe the innkeeper has Imperial loyalties?”

Cyrendil looked blankly at her “Quality of character, not a person's past. Again, either you have your heart set in the right place, or you are devious and able to mask your true intentions under a very thick veil.”

His jaw tightened visibly when she mentioned Imperial Loyalties, the thought made him want to grit his teeth. But when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled but his eyes was a barely contained frustration. “Imperial loyalties… Like I am some Thalmor spy right? Here to spy on their inn. Sneak about because that's just what Altmer do.” The tone slowly evolved into a condescending and mocking one. While not directed at Gaela it was directed at the race of men.

“It didn’t use to be this way.” His voice grew soft, the anger fading from his eyes and he took a long drink of the water draining what was left and set the empty mug down.

“It was one of those...’probably should have thought that out more moments’,” she admitted, sighing to herself. “Well intentioned or not, I made a mistake. Though honestly I don’t think bad enough to warrant an execution. So, here I am, to clear my name. I suppose.”

She looked him over and shrugged, “People are often ignorant to the wider world, I doubt many Altmer come through Camlorn these days. And...”

Gaela pointed at him, “Most of us are just blinks in your long life.”

He listened to her and nodded “Most things are not, that is why it does not matter to me what you did. But who you are, motive tells a lot about a person… We all make mistakes we wish we could turn back Gaela, Every day.” And as she pointed at him, he looked down. “True, most wish for a longer life but it is not as glorious as it sounds. You get to watch people, you might have been friends with, maybe even loved. Grow old, and then die. Unless I placed myself in Summerset forever, that is the burden of long life. You get much experience in whatever you choose to do, but the grief of life compounds over time.”

“For the longest time, races were together. For most of my life I was welcomed with open arms, save for some who didn’t like Mer regardless. But now? Fear and ignorance have bred a most black hate for my people.”

Gaela steepled her fingers over her mug, “I don’t follow politics much, I know war happens and it might come to Highrock. All this means to me, is more people I’ll have to heal. It’s unfortunate, but what can little folk do against the wills of the powerful? Like now...we’re at the whim of some lord that is using us like pawns. People see the Aldmeri invading, the Thalmor hold themselves above everyone and so naturally people fear and take offense to that. They can relate more to the Imperials, they’re men. Such as I see it anyway. It’s an unfortunate mess all around. I just try to patch the leaks.”

She gave him a helpless shrug and half a smile before reaching out to pick at his stale bread, crumbling a corner off of it.

“You won’t get appreciated for the work you will do, I will let you know that right now. But you will help a lot of people, even if they don’t deserve it.” He said after he listened and watched her take corner off the bread “I’d be careful with that, it’s like a rock. Don’t want to crack your teeth on it.”

He gave her a small smile and nodded slowly “Maybe when things quiet down, if granted you are not too busy trying to patch them up to bad. We could take a walk, discuss things. If you promise to not get too terribly distracted trying to pick ingredients off the road.”

“It’s for the birds,” she said, tucking some of it in her pocket. “And I never got into Restoration for the accolades or the glamour.”

Glancing up at him, she smiled, her eyes taking a dreamy cast as she thought about collecting. “I haven’t had much of a chance for that. We’ve been rushing so. Yes, once there is a chance, I’d like to replenish my stores.”

Brynn sat on his lonesome, balancing on the last two legs of his chair with his boots on the corner of the table. He hugged his cup of ale in his hands, eyes fixed on a spot on the table as he tried to think of ways to get into the castle. Sending some of them as Vigilants would've worked if they were in Cyrodiil. In High Rock, the Vigil often butted heads with the long-established Knightly Houses and Orders. Their safest bet was to have Gaela and Kiralla pose as envoys from the College of Winterhold, but how would the guards react to two unattended outsiders wandering the halls looking for the dungeons? Brynn and Finch could slip in from somewhere, but once inside, what would they do without a guards' uniform or courtiers' fineries? He rolled his eyes and got up from his seat when he saw some ponce come up to their table and say something about their plotting. He was about to take his collar in his fist and rear back with the other when he recognized the dandy as Finch. “My, my, lad. I'd never thought you had skin under all that dirt.” At the mention of wine, Brynn slapped Finch on the shoulder, “There's never a time where wine isn't of any use.”

With that, he left the table to piss. His friendly smile at the arrival of Finch sank low when he saw two men staring at him from a corner draped in shadow. One was tall for a Breton with a curious curled mustache and the other was a Nord built like a bull. Theirs were not the only eyes he felt, that of a Dunmer seated a few tables away from Brynn and the others. “I'll be back.” He said over his shoulder to anyone listening.

He turned and went for the lavatory, knowing someone was following him. He shut the door behind him and he held himself with one hand and rested his other on the grip of his knife. He barely had time to stuff himself back in his trousers when the door slammed open. Before the tip of his knife could clear the sheath, he was smashed against the wall and held there by what felt like a mountain troll. “We know who you are.”

“Congratulations, you must be proud of yourse-agh!” Brynn struggled for breath as he felt himself squeezed tighter in the big Nord's arms.

“You'll fetch a pretty penny up in Farrun, you know. They want your head up there and we're looking to collect.” The Breton said.

His fear soon turned to anger at that. He could feel his blood boiling and he had to keep himself from yelling. Instead, he seethed through gritted teeth, “Are you two truly touched in the head?”

“I could crush the life out of you if I wanted, little man.” The big Nord turned to the Breton, “Francis?”

“No.” Francis waved his hand and shook his head at the big brute, “You think we can't smuggle you out of here and get you to-”

“Do it! You'd be doing me the biggest fucking favor bringing me back to Farrun!” Brynn growled, struggling uselessly against the brute's strength, “Lordling Rainald is next in line for the ancestral Damarell chair and big hat. Do you really think he'll reward you with gold if you rough up his favorite sellsword and dump him at his feet? Brynn Tiptoe is Rainald's favorite because I can do what needs doing.”

“You're lying.”

“On my fucking honor.” Brynn seethed.

“Word is, Blood-Red Brynn's honor is the size of a louse's cock. I heard Greenwood saw that firsthand and now look at them.” Francis folded his arms and turned up his nose as if he'd struck a mighty blow. “Your gang saw that and now look at you.”

“Don't you dare speak of Greenwood like you were there.” Brynn had to swallow a lump in his throat and he shook his head, “Either way, the second Rainald Damarell knows your names, he'll give me his finest hounds to hunt you down and then eat your fucking corpses.”

“Maybe we'll give you to the other Camlorn guard as some nameless fool in Sev'Ahmet's gang we caught after our shifts. Found you wallowing in horse piss for some reason.” Francis shrugged.

“We'll be half-way to Hammerfell after they take your head off.” The big Nord grumbled.

Brynn barked out a bitter laugh, “So that's it? You're going to fucking desert with the money you collect from my bounty?” He said, smiling through the pain of being squeezed in a vice-grip that was the brute's arms, “And who's going to be signing a writ of passage through High Rock for a couple deserters?”

Francis opened his mouth like he had an answer then shut it again. Brynn only laughed more, “I've twice as much gold as whatever they'll give you for my bounty.”

“Maybe we'll take it.” Francis smiled.

“I'd pay to see you try that.” Brynn said, knowing the money was tied to a huge Orc. “My point is, I can pay you to unhand me, return to your shifts at the castle. You can liberate some uniforms from the castle armory. After that, it's only a matter of taking in some envoys from the College of Winterhold for a meeting with the court mage.”

“Who's writing their writ of passage?” Francis asked, genuine confusion with a bit of curiosity twinkled in his eye.

“I've a woman in mind.” Brynn said, thinking of Kiralla, “Might be her hand is the one that puts a signature on a writ of passage for two deserters.”

Francis nodded to his big Nord friend, who released Brynn. “I don't know about this, Francis.”

“Leave me to the planning, Vendel.” Francis frowned, “And why are you so interested in getting into the castle?”

Brynn couldn't just up and tell them. He was already taking a risk recruiting these two for his and his crew's ends. He shrugged, “It's something to do.”

Francis cracked a grin and nodded, “I like that.” He said, “Only promise me that the Lordlings won't come to harm.”

“Aye.” Brynn nodded.

“How are you getting in? Someone's bound to recognize Blood-Red Brynn's face at some point.” Francis asked.

Brynn grinned, “Someone's going to collect on my bounty.”



Brynn felt the first rain on his face, soft like a kiss on a lover's thigh. It took him back to his days in Morthal during the storms when a dragon's form could be seen on the horizon every couple days. He'd turn his face up to the skies and dare the lightning to strike him as the Skyrim rain slapped his face with stinging cold. This rain was softer, gentler, he smiled and opened his eyes as he met the gaze of the passing crowds. Seeing the disgust in their eyes, seeing the fear, seeing the hate. He remembered Fiona's was the same, much like everyone else's he called his own gang. He wondered how it felt to have him in rope binds, so vulnerable. He wondered if she'd cut him down, or if she'd hand him over to the guards peacefully. He followed after her and Faruq as they walked on, grim-faced through the crowd, not uttering a word.

The people parted for them, ogling Brynn. They just couldn't believe that Blood-Red Brynn was but a man, just like them. How could a man do such things as Brynn did? Easy, he thought, practice. His smile faded quick, his eyes opening were like the opening of a gate to Namira's realm, he felt. He was struck in the chest by a tomato and the anger seized hold of him quicker than lightning as he lunged forward, feeling no need but the need to bite out the tomato-lobbing, sneering gray-head's throat and spit it in his face.

Even as he was yanked back by the rope tied around his neck and he fell on his back on the wet cobblestone, Brynn saw the contempt in the old man's eyes turn to fear as quick as his own wistfulness turned to fury. He laughed out a harsh thing into the chill morning air at the quivering lip of the old fool. “You know how many of these bounties I've escaped? How many bonds I've slipped?” He bared his teeth in a snarl, “You've sons, old shit?” He had to turn around as he felt the rope around his neck getting tauter to keep the old man in his murderous gaze while Fiona and Faruq kept walking, “I'll be looking for those sons of yours!” Spittle flew from his lips as he yelled, those in the crowd stepping back as if Brynn was a wolf gotten into the sheep pen.

He smiled. Maybe he was. As the gates to the castle loomed up, they met a gaunt-faced guard clad in fine padded cloth and a brown tunic. He nodded to Fiona and Faruq, the two nodding back. Wasting no time, the guard turned on his heel and blew his horn to signal the gatekeeper, “The bounty hunters have arrived! They've got a member of Sev'Ahmet's gang with them!”

“Open the gates!” Brynn heard someone yell from on high, and so the gates did.

The large slabs of wood and metal parted and Brynn was met with a courtyard adorned with white marble pillars, floors polished to a mirror-like sheen to reflect the guardsmen and courtiers that stood upon it. He looked at the battlements, knowing somewhere up there were Finch and Cedric, who'd taken a grappling hook to a section of wall rife with footholds that he and Finch had spied a day before. Or at least they'd better be. Walking among the nobles and courtiers in the castle proper that dominated the scene before him were Gaela and Kiralla, very much not in chains or burdened by the uniforms of guards and having to pretend at patrolling the battlements. It was they he most envied, their pass into the halls being a forged letter written by the College's Archmage, or by Kiralla, anyway.

Those he took solace in not being were those crawling through the tunnels he and Finch had to wade through the night before. They'd discovered that it took them straight to a cavernous drop-off that looked like certain death if you took one way and to the dungeons if you took the other. Not a glorious way to enter, but most certainly the one of least resistance. He still liked being in binds more than he liked wading through shit-water. “How much d'you think they'll give you for me?”

No one had time to answer as a man whose leather-armored shoulders and splendidly polished plate were rounded out with a flowing white cape billowing behind him as he walked with an entourage of chainmail wearing guards walked themselves over from a large door that led into the castle proper. “This is the man, yes?”

“Aye, I'm him, you poncey-looking fuck.” Brynn smiled. The back of a gauntleted hand was all he got in response.

“Take him.” He said to the men at his side. This was Brynn's ticket into the dungeons, where he'd find this poor little lordling cowering in some corner. As he was dragged away by the guards, their arms hooked under his armpits, he smiled to Fiona and Faruq.

“See you in a bit.” To anyone, it was a threat. To them, it was a reassurance he'd do his job. Or at least, he hoped they took it as such.

As his boots clattered against the cobblestones as he was dragged oh-so-helplessly to the dungeons, he managed a smile, “You know, I never thought I'd be locked away in some noble's dungeons for a second time.”

One of the guards laughed, “Dungeons?”

“You're going to the block, you shite.” The other guard smiled, and his laugh was like mud in his ear as he was dragged oh-so-fucking-helplessly to the chopping block. The two guards laughed, “Chop-chop!”

“Fuck.”

When the pangs of one too many flagons of wine dulled the details of the plan returned to mind. First, simple satisfaction uplifted as knowing what lie ahead was a gift yet unreceived on this little journey. The seeds of doubt took root later, perhaps while walking the streets of Camlorn, or glimpsing the high walls surrounding the castle. Doubt came more freely than the wine. Placing trust in a ragtag lot recruited from the muddy floors of a poor town's dungeon did not seem wise, nor did thinking the plans of such honed minds infallible. Still, though doubt might sour supper and spoil otherwise good drink, it also begged for attention. When the second day came what remnants of doubt remained burned up in the hot excitement for what was to come.

The guards covered in shapeless mail took Brynn roughly. Meanwhile, the so-called ponce wearing leather spaulders and a plate cuirass more elegantly crafted than Faruq's smirked. They chuckled lightly, head shaking a little while unraveling a copy of the wanted posters littering the hold.

"If we shan't skin the cat I'll see one of his lots' heads upon pikes at the least," the ponce mused, seemingly to himself.

Faruq watched the guards carry Brynn off, boots dragging against the cobblestone as a shadow cast over the bandit's face. Stories of violence to the Blood Red name came to mind along with horrorific scenes sewn by bandits unknown. The face of the farmer protecting his family from Brynn and this lot as they demanded food on the journey here shown quite clear. Yet, the face of the farmer remained vibrant with life and the demand could hardly be considered banditry. Faruq stole one last glance of Brynn before he disappeared from view, then squared his shoulders.

"Indeed the khajit does not make tracking easy," Faruq added to the musing. The ponce turned to him and Fiona, observing them both as the redguard stepped forward and paid a half bow. "We found the bandit there scouting about for a new campsite. Said as much the way we found him skulking about, looking for the next place to make camp by the looks of it. She wanted to wait there awhile and capture the khajit and the whole of his crew," Faruq nodded to Fiona then shook his head.

Fiona managed to wipe the look of surprise at seeing Brynn dragged off for execution from her face, and shrug at Faruq and the white-caped man. "Taking just the one man seems hardly a victory." Faruq seemed to be adapting to this far better than she was. It even sounded like something she'd do, in this particular story. Go after the head of the bandits, and end the threat, not merely nibble at it. Risky, but with great potential reward.

The ponce chortled somewhat dismissively. "Fool girl... Sev'Ahmet would've gutted you, your captive would've gone free, and I would have no one to behead today." He studied Fiona momentarily, leaving her feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Rather young for bounty hunting, aren't you?"

She ignored the question, holding her ground. "Taking the scout's head is a mistake. He could be of use." Fiona was almost surprised at the words. It had occurred to her that letting Brynn die could well be justice, considering his history... but there were too many factors involved for her to be the judge. There was a better way out of this, and she had to try for it.

The ponce tilted his head slightly, gauntleted hands finding their way to his wide belt. "And how is that, exactly?"

"He could know where to find Sev'Ahmet. Surely the guard would be interested in dealing with those bandits once and for all."

"And let him walk my men into an ambush? I thought that was your plan," he retorted, taking a step closer. "Capture or kill his entire band. How were the two of you going to manage that, I wonder?"

She struggled momentarily for a response. This was not her strong suit. "We... have contacts of our own. Enough to deal with the bandits, if we could find them."

"I see. So why not bring the captive to them, and come to me when you have a real prize, not some raggedy scout?" Now her face was turning red, and she didn't know what to say. There was only so far she could go in defending the life of a man she'd supposedly brought in for a bounty, and her own logic had seemingly cornered her.

"Ah. Uh... well..." she began to trail off, looking uncertainly at Faruq.

"I tire of this," Faruq interjected, prodding at Fiona and giving a harsh look beneath a lowered brow. "Let's end this act shall we?" His words came slow. When he turned back to the ponce his expression hardened, his jaw set with a slight scowl casting lines down from his nose. He tried hard to summon the face he wore into battle, the face of the Bone Knight. "Indeed the girl is a bit young to hunt bounties. I happened upon her spending quality time on the burnt up remains of her family farm, her home and family gone. Crisps. Your Sev'Ahmet did that. What does this fool-girl do?" Faruq glanced to Fiona again shook his head. "Takes her crisp-father's sword and looks for the bastards. And I followed her!"

The ponce lowered their hand from a hip and made to speak. Before they could, Faruq continued, "I caught the scout. I hoped she would cry or ask I cut him down or disembowel the sorry sack herself for fuck's sake. Whatever to sate this appetite for revenge, because I am sure as shit not taking on that many bastards with only some fool-girl by my side. So I convinced her to bring the bastard here to the castle to make a deal. Since revenge means more to her than coin, what say you we use this reward to pay you," Faruq pointed to the ponce square in the chest. He then waved a hand over the guards standing about or walking the halls. "Or any of these fine men, to find this ratty khajit bastard. Paid and delivered a living fucking compass. The fool-girl gets her revenge, the count gets their bandits, and you get glory and nice bonus. Bah, we'll even go with you. What say you?"

The ponce looked between Faruq and Fiona, who had thoroughly reddened, though she supposed that was good for appearances. Faruq's tale had hit awfully close to truth, though there was little way he could know that. Her home gone, family lost, passion driving her to take up the sword and set out. Bandits had little to do with it, of course, but when put in these terms, fool-girl seemed to fit quite well. She wasn't even particularly concerned with coin, so long as her expenses were paid.

"You make a convincing case..." The ponce mulled over the tale, plotting something within his mind. "A swift strike, with the pair of you in the vanguard to soften them up, and a row of heads to bring back. Still, you're asking me to place faith in the directions of one of these scum." This also seemed a problem to Fiona. Brynn couldn't actually direct them to the bandits if he didn't know where they were, but even still it could buy him some time to carry out their mission, and maybe even clear some guards out of the castle.

"Appeal to his self-interest then," Fiona offered, a little more confidently. "That's what you can trust in these types. If it benefits him to turn on his kind, I'm sure he'll do it in a heartbeat. Anything to save his own skin."

"True enough." He glanced at Faruq. "And what's your angle in this? Purely monetary? Unless you've some vested interest in the fool-girl's revenge?"

Faruq felt his lips begin to move before a proper lie could form. His eyes flicked to Fiona, her red hair and the powerful expression that rarely faultered. Suddenly the answer came to him, and as the redguard felt a heat gathering upon his face, he shot back, "I suppose you might say I fancy the foolish sort." The redguard cleared his throat then took on his hardened face once more. His gauntleted hand outstretched, Faruq pushed once more. "You've your gold and a guide and two recruits beyond your own guard, not to mention the promise of glory. I can't imagine a better deal is awaiting around the corner."

The silken white cape flapped as the ponce extended a hand. He gave only a small smile, so slight in fact that Faruq could not help but doubt the man as they shook hands. Once their hands clasped one another the ponce pulled the redguard close and whispered beside his ear, "Should you happen to fall to Sev'Ahmet worry not. The girl shall be in capable hands." As Faruq eased out of the feigned embrace he bit his tongue so not to speak. He bit harder as the ponce extended a hand to Fiona as well.

Fiona wiped away any embarrassment left over from Faruq's words, which she truthfully had no idea if they were sincere or just quick thinking. For the moment, her wariness was fixated on the man in front of her, whom she did not trust or like in the slightest. Still, she reached out and firmly clasped hands with him, her features etched in stone.

"We have a deal then," the ponce declared, waving a hand delicately. At once a guard approached and bowed their head. "Send word to the executioner that we shan't need his services quite yet. Our newest guest will be detained within the dungeons after his trial. It is imperative he remains alive until I no longer have need of him. Are we clear?" After the guard nodded, the ponce gestured to Fiona and Faruq. "These two are my guests. See they are made comfortable after the trial and that their needs are met."

Your choices make your life into what it is. Its like a finely woven piece of cloth. It is like the layers of clothing you wear. The poor and unfortunate wrap themselves with layer after layer of dirty and frayed fabric in hopes it will make it better. A rich man is given clothes made out of finest silk. But everything can rip, everything can tear. Even the strongest silk. It takes a bad choice, a step in the wrong direction at the wrong moment. And when it ripped, even silk frayed. And thread by thread, it would cheapen and ruin. Until it was just another dirty layer among many on the beggar. He had resolved never to become that person. Never fall to that level.

And yet. He was currently ankle deep in sewage. He was pretty sure the fabric of his "silk" was well beyond being simply frayed and torn. Someone had tossed it onto a open flame and pissed on the ashes. With his spear in a tight but relaxed grip, he made up the rear of their little party. There was no way he would have a massive orc or a Altmer Vigilant behind him in a dangerous situation. He adujsted the strap of his shield. He had taken the money when offered, he had followed them for a reason after all. This group was driven, they were strange and they were varied. It would help take attention away from him as a individual. And right now, that along with the money was the most important. And so, the once proud dunmer slogged through shit and filth to help a pair of brigands. But was he so much better. He had killed more then his share of people since deserting. He had forsaken any sense of actual honor on his journey. Like a wild dog, going from one place to another. He had killed a man with his own helmet simply because they had wanted a fight with him.

So now he moved in the dark, damp tunnels beneath the castle grounds. On a mission to rescue some fool he never met. He shifted his grip on the spear again. "We should be right underneath." He stated flatly as he slowed his steps.

((Collab: @idlehands & @DearTrickster))

The next day after their plans were generally solidified with an understanding who would be heading where the two mages set up materials for a forgery.

Setting a piece of glass on top of two small wooden blocks Kiralla and Gaela had grabbed several rolls of parchment paper and plenty of ink. The conjurer was generally confident in her handwriting and steady hand but knew this was going to take a few tries.

“I do-don’t make a habit of forgery but this-this is a special case. What do you think will g-get the court mage’s audience?” Kiralla asked Gaela her pencil poised and ready to make notes.

Gaella quirked her lips, studying the looping, spidery script of the Archmage. It was ornate as one would expect and she knew her own plain hand would not manage such an imitation. “Well,” she said after a long moment, then glanced up Kirella, meeting her eyes, “Let’s just hope the court mage has never had communication with the Archmage of Winterhold. Not that I don’t have confidence in your skill.”’

She smiled quickly, her cheeks rounding and then she laughed, “Let’s hope he’s farsighted as well. I don’t fancy seeing that dungeon from the inside of a cell.”

“We-we may get lucky. If we write s-something outlandish it might be enough to distract them.”

Her pencil tapped against the paper and then scribbled a few notes starting to put her ideas through their paces, “We could ap-peal initially to pride or vanity. A man in the p-position of a court mage would not buh-be of the humble sort.”

Gaela replied , “As someone who once apprenticed to a court mage, I’m sure you’re right. He would be flattered at the notice of the Archmage of the College but it would really have to be something...”

“Perhaps a-a secret project. That only a privileged few are told of no… invited to… yes.” Kiralla began slowly with a grin while her mind spun a great story. “A project with hen-hints of political intrigue and importance that is surely to-to keep his attention.”

Furiously scribbling away her notes fueled with inspiration. Green eyes sparkling with creativity. Baiting the court mage with strokes of his pride led with personal commemorations to his good work in Camlorn at the his Lord’s side. It hasn’t gone unnoticed by his peers, the Archmage in particular. A secret and rather ambitious project that held some promising results for those willing to contribute. Vague enough to eat up and to cause so much excitement that would wipe away logic or reason. Kiralla felt devious in crafting her lies while feeling an unprecedented power in her words.

Her pencil paused over the paper realizing... it was only a lie. Whatever power she held was false. This letter alone will get more attention than her research had in the past few weeks before being caught in Meir Thorvale. While her research and ideas were genuine it wasn’t nearly as… exciting. It gave others in the community something to chew on but hardly something for them to spark a conversation, at least not in the way she had dreamed it would. The sheer importance of her research had gone unnoticed, save for a few sympathetic ears. Convincing herself that if she didn’t push her publication there would be no way to gain traction in any form, despite how discouraging the current results had proven to be.

Her grip tightened and the sparkle faded.

Gaela watched Kiralla’s quill fly over the parchment, leaning around her shoulder to try to read the words as they appeared. Certainly something that would distract the court mage, enough to draw the attention of the Lord himself. When she stopped, the healer glanced over at her.

“Stuck?” she asked, “I’m afraid I’m not the most devious sorts so I’m not much help.”

She noticed the brightness in the emerald eyes dull and Gaela reached over for the parchment, sliding it out. “Why don’t you take a break, you look a little pale.”

Kiralla blinked rapidly letting Gaela remove the parchment. She shook her head then glanced up at her fellow mage, “P-pale? I suppose a-a break would not hurt.” The back of her hand pressed to her forehead feeling a little bit of a cold sweat had broken across her skin.

“I-I am not sure what came over me. Perhaps the gravity of our situation has finally settled in.” She commented quietly standing up away from the desk scarred fingers wringing her hands.

“I had convinced m-myself that this was wholly necessary. I-I suppose some part of me…” Pulling a pained look not willing to finish her sentence. Admitting her unwillingness wouldn’t change anything just slow them down. In turn slowing down her chance to freedom.

Pulling her sleeve across her brow she resumed her seat deciding a break wouldn’t be necessary. Holding a hand out for the parchment, “Actually, Gaela I-I appreciate the co-concern but we have-have to complete this regardless of how I feel.” Adding quietly, “E-everyone has a penchant for trouble. There is always r-room for embellishment. What do you think?”

She watched her silently and then raised an eyebrow, handing the parchment back. “If you wish,” she said, “Personally I think we’re grasping at straws but it’s better than nothing. I’d suggest lacing the court’s dinner with a potion but uh...well, that’s already got me into trouble.”

A small smile brightened Kiralla’s features pulling her out of her sour doldrum. “Forgery and accidental poisoning. Wh-what a preh-pair of criminals we make.”

They worked steadily on several copies and fleshing out the document. Editing and rewriting several times before it sounded just right. The midnight oil was burning and their task complete.

---
“I-I am nervous.” Kiralla whispered out the side of her mouth to Gaela.

The document felt as heavy as a rock sitting in her leather pouch. They passed among the nobles, Fionna and Faruq’s escort of Brynn into the castle Kiralla caught his eye. He looked miserable in chains again. The guards walked the mages through the halls quietly. Reminding them that wasting the Court Mage Mooring’s time was entirely unwise.

Clearing her throat in her fist Kiralla said, “Absolutely. The proposal we were entrusted to deliver will be worth while.” Choosing to watch and mask her stutter in hopes to appear more natural than she felt. It felt like she was stepping back into her teenaged years when she was constantly policing her speaking patterns. She forgot how exhausting it is.

“Right this way, keep up and don’t get lost.” The guard replied leading on.

The guard led them confidently through the hallways and brought them into Mooring’s chambers. Spacious and organized, Mooring had his laboratory stocked with alchemy reagents, an enchanting table, bookshelves filled to the brim and desk space for four scholars over. Parchment hung on the walls while the desk was stacked with what appeared to be journals mixed with thickly bound leather books. Kiralla felt a pang of envy for Mooring having such a large workspace. She was lucky to claim a desk in the library back at the college let alone an entire room to herself.

The squat deeply tanned breton sat perched on a stool, clearly getting on his years but hardly could described as an old man. His hair was pulled tightly back into a streaking gray ponytail. His face square shaped with a strong chin. His dark brown eyes barely left the book he was reading when the women entered the room behind the guard.

“Master Mooring, allow me to introduce two College of Winterhold messengers carrying word from the Archmage addressed specifically to you.” The Guard stood at attention then bowed.

Mooring licked his thumb idly turning a page not showing any real interest in the news as if the guard was simply describing the weather. This didn’t bode well for Kiralla’s confidence.

“Very well, show them in.” He said his voice rather deep as a baritone.

Now was a time to test their improvisation skills.

A Collab between a Spoopy Mess and some filthy Dervert

"This shite pinches in places that ain't polite to talk about and it fits like I lost a fookin' bet. What kind of arsehole designed this garbage?" Cedric bitched as he tugged at his padded armour and nasal helm, the guard uniform that Brynn's guard friend provided to Cedric and Finch for their infiltration, along with the grappling hook and length of rope. The Reachman mulled it over as he sat concealed behind some shrubbery with Finch along the castle walls, eventually coming up with Vindell, or something equally off putting.

Both Cedric and Finch had been acquainted with the guard, alongside Brynn, with sets of uniforms in a warehouse they were told to meet up at, and while Brynn assured the two he had a plan, it seemed fucking terrible and regardless, both men spent the better half of forty minutes struggling to get the uniforms on proper and looking like proper guards. The fits were approximate, which accounted for a degree of Cedric's discomfort, and after slapping the hand and a half sword to his hip, was certain that both him and Finch were going to stick out like a sore thumb, looking like the goofiest idiots in the entire city, regardless of how much of a feat that would be. To his surprise, nobody looked at them twice, not even the other guards walking the streets, and they made it to their destination, where they waited patiently for the sun to go down enough to conceal their ascent.

Cedric decided to wait until the changing of the guards, where their guard would be lowest and would give him the best chance to hook the grapple without hopefully drawing a lot of attention. He turned to Finch, staring into the eye slits of the featureless visor, "You know what we're doing, aye? I throw up the grapple, we scale the wall and act like proper guardsmen to not draw attention to ourselves while we snoop around, look in windows and get a layout of this place, maybe even get a look at the little lordshite while we're at it. You have a copy of the description still, aye?" he asked.

Finch was still shaking and hopping around in place to get the gear he wore properly fitted, but to ill effect. On Finch, the uniform was big and baggy on him. The coat practically hung to his knees or below, the helmet rolled around on his head, and he was constantly readjusting it so it would stay in place. Eventually, the crafty young beggar slipped away with their innkeeper's off-smelling table rag and tied it like a bandana around his forehead so that the damn helmet would stay in place. Could he have found some other item? Sure, but Finch was a creature of convenience and the rag was convenient. Any hesitation of stealing was long lost.

But being a creature of convenience, he also felt annoyed that the party's best lock pick was stuck masquerading as a guard keeping watch. As far as Finch was concerned, he didn't fit the bill, and his skills were being wasted.

"Yeah, yeah..." Finch muttered. It didn't help that he was stuck with the loud mouth. "I don't get why I'm being made to do this. Do I look like a guard? Or even a Breton? In fact, why even bother with the hook? That'd smell a lot worse than, I don't know, climbing the stairs! Like a normal person! No one asked any questions yet."

"I'd wager you don't even look human, but here we are. And what stairs, the ones that are hidden behind several meters of stone that we can't access from the outside because they'd defeat the point of having fookin' fortifications in the first place? It's not like the two of us can walk up to the gates and hope that the guards watching the gates don't take notice that we aren't one of the several lads and lasses they work with every fookin' day, or failing that, challenge us with a password that we have no fookin' idea what it is for this shift. Now, shut it. We've work to get done." Cedric said snarkily, annoyed to having been stuck with the whimpering little goblin that had done nothing but complain since they were forced upon each other at Meir Thorvale.

It was dark enough to get to work, so Cedric stood carefully, looking around to make sure that no one was in eyesight, and that far down the wall a few groupings of chatting guards were visible. Not seeing the chatting guards and having no idea when the roster change would kick into effect, Cedric decided to throw caution into the wind as he rotated the length of rope into a few quick twirls before hurling it upwards, trying to hook onto the battlement. His first attempt fell short, prompting him to hiss at Finch, "Mind yer head!" as it fell and dug into the soil. Picking it up, shaking it off of dirt, Cedric tried again, increasing the momentum of his swing and releasing it with far more force than his first attempt, the hook sailing well over the stonework, which Cedric prayed wasn't smooth.

When the grapple didn't come falling down to the ground, he gave it a tug to test its stability, and after a few tries, it seemed to be anchored pretty sturdily. Shoving the rope towards Finch, Cedric said, "You fancy yourself a sneak, up you go. Let me know if it's safe to climb."

Finch wasn't about to argue this time - in fact, the two shared the same idea, that it'd be better to let the smaller and quieter of the two climb up first. He debated letting Cedric up at all, what with that mouth, but somebody he had to have somebody get him out of trouble should one of the guard catch him. He took the rope from Cedric and pulled on it to test its hold and put his own mind to rest. Part of him still didn't trust this thing. The lad was used to actually climbing, not scaling walls with rope, but he hardly made it a habit to infiltrate castles in the first place!

He pulled the uniform's gloves down, trying to get the best fit he could, and began pulling himself up on the rope. Boots planted against the wall, he started making his way up, occasionally digging his toes into some cracks in the wall's masonry to help his climb. Each passing moment, he scaled higher and higher, lightly, nimbly - slow and steady, making sure each grip he had on the rope was a solid one before he let go one of his hands to climb higher - all the while, still keeping a lookout for anyone nearby that might witness their trespassing. His heart was beating a mile of minute, crawling right up into his throat, and he fought to keep himself under control.

'It's okay, Pharasius, it's okay. Slip or let go now and you splatter across the ground. No big deal. Just don't look down.'

He was finally getting near the top, close to the crenelations of the wall. As he finally gripped the ledge with white knuckles, he fought the urge to immediately climb over to safety. Instead, he peered around the crenelation, trying to get a good look on either side. A guard with his back turned to the left. He pulled back and took a deep breath. Should he turn around, would would stop him from not just keeping a look-see at the surrounding land, but inspecting the wall he treaded? Grappling hook, out in the open, that'd immediately send red flags. Finch peered around once more. His back was still turned. Finch looked back down at Cedric and - oh, Gods, the heights - he clenched his eyes shut. H slowly reopened them and took a good look at Cedric on the ground below. He held a finger to him, suggesting that he wait a moment. Finch took some of the rope he climbed up on and tied it around his waist. Holding onto the edge again, slowly, quietly, he dislodged the hook from the wall and felt its weight, then swinging the hook around the crenelation so that it came back around the other side. With some careful maneuvering, he dragged the hook closer to his side with his foot, and once he finally got hold of it, tied the hook into the length of rope on the other side of the wall where the guards wouldn't be able to see it.

He made a couple of test tugs as he peered around the wall again - the guard was turning around and walking his way - damn, damn, damn! He tugged the rope around the crenelation, he tugged the rope around him - seconds ticking away!

'Do or die, do or die!'

Finch fearfully shit his eyes and released his grip on the edge of the wall and let himself drop...

...to be caught safely by the rope. It jerked harshly around his torso and there might have been some give, but Finch managed to secure himself to the wall without the guard catching wind. They just had to hope that, if they saw the rope, they wouldn't second-guess it. As he dangled in the air, heart in his throat he looked down at Cedric. Looking up, he, in turn, would be able to see him dangling from the wall, and a guard looking out on their side, ignorant of the boy three feet below his boots. Finch silently groaned to himself as he thought of how it was going to be Cedric's turn soon. Getting that asshole up here was gonna be a chore, especially if they keep making rounds around this part of the wall.

Finch heard footsteps above him, then getting quieter, so the young lad pulled himself back up and peered once more over the wall to see that the watchdog was finally leaving, heading all the way to the tower at the far end. He made a relieved sigh and scrambled over the edge and hurried to untie the rope around himself, and stood to his feet, welcoming the feeling of solid ground beneath them.

"Great. Now I just have to act... guardly... Gods, what does that even mean?"

The young man threw the rope back down to Cedric as he looked around him, then shot a thumbs up sign to the man below.

To Finch's credit, the younger man didn't hesitate at the prospect of scaling the castle walls, and he turned out to be a fairly adept climber, even being rather clever in hiding the hook from prying eyes. A rope tied to the battlement was a lot less visible than a hook jutting out, especially as the light began to fade. When Finch gave the all clear, Cedric returned the raised thumb and began his own ascent, grateful for his powerful upper body strength as he made his way up the vertical embankment. The stonework, mercifully, gave a fair deal of support for his feet as he scaled the wall, a feat that felt like an eternity compared to watching Finch do it. All in all, the plan was miserable, but it was the best they had. Neither of them were particularly suited to sweet-talking their way into the castle, so a hunter and a thief had to make due with the scenic route and hope the guards weren't particularly keen on looking closely at their fellow guards, especially with the chill that was in the air. Cedric wore a scarf over his face that was tucked into his collar, both protecting him from the cold while concealing the tattoos on his face for the most part. Shifts on the battlements were long and what creature comforts could be afforded were taken, especially when superior officers weren't around to tell you off for improperly wearing the uniform.

Before long, Cedric reached the ledge, listening for footfalls, before pulling himself up enough to look to see if it was clear for him to hop the wall. No one was watching, and the Reachman pulled himself over and set himself down as carefully as his aching muscles would allow. Straightening out and assuming the most proper posture he could muster, he turned to Finch. "That was way fookin' harder than I thought it would be. Damn fine work, you pleasantly surprised me. Now, let's start making our way towards the castle proper, see if we can't see anything walking past the windows, aye?" he said, his voice lowered.

The two walked in step, after a few awkward attempts to match one another's stride, and began to walk along the walls as unhurried as they dared. "So, Finchy, where are you from? You've been the most quiet out of all of us, I don't know a damn thing about you, lad. You always so skittish around people?" Cedric asked, although not unkindly.

Finch was silent for a few moments still, and his eyes darted to his partner in crime beside him. He scanned the man up and down for any sign of ill intention. Cedric seemed he meant no harm in his question. The lad resigned himself to answering one or two of his questions with a sigh.

"Said people give me nary a reason to not be." Finch answered, then looking forward again. "I'm... from Cyrodill. I lived in the Imperial City. I got stranded in Glenumbra five years ago... That's it."

Cedric listened without visibly acknowledging it. He was trying his best to look like the standard bored, yet vigilant, guard that one would expect to be roaming a castle. "Long way from home. Ever miss it? This is the furthest from home I've ever been, used to be that Rivenspire was me entire world. First time even seeing a city this large, strange as that is to admit."

Finch just gave Cedric a half-hearted smile. "Oh, more than you could ever know..."

The lad slipped a spyglass from his tool belt and went to the side of the wall, taking a quick look-see at the courtyard with his naked eye - only just catching a trailing glance at the back of their comrades' feet as the entered the buildings. His job and Cedric's was to get a layout, yes? Having men on the inside would be good for escapes. Fortunately, he and Brynn scoped out the sewers days prior. The elves and orc slip through, straight shot to the dungeons - assuming they were any good with the directions they gave them, and it'd be a quick escort to the drop-out. Finch supposed that it was also his and Cedric's duty they slipped away unnoticed.

"We should find the sewer drop-out outside the walls," Finch suggested, "that's where they should be escaping. I was down there with Brynn, so I've an idea where it might be from up here."

"Aye, we should make sure there's no locks or gates or anything barring the way. If you know the way, lead on." Cedric said, looking at the windows as he passed. From this angle, it was impossible to make out anything interesting for most of the openings. "Fook, imagine living in a place like this? What do you do with all the fookin' space?" he stated, bemused.

The duo made their way along the walls before finding a set of stairs down to the ground level, which put them at a risk of being questioned why they were leaving their post. However, the courtyard was dark and none of the guards seemed to be on particularly high alert, so none of the guards at a distance spared them a second glance, either not caring what they were up to or assuming they had orders. They wouldn't be able to check for the sewer exit until they climbed back down on the other side of the wall, but the walk along the courtyard was a good way to begin to scout a layout. Cedric noticed one of the higher towers. "So, what are the chances the people who own this place live in there? Think it's worth checking out?"

"Maybe." Finch said. "As I understand it, the higher towers would be used as watch posts, or so my father would tell me. But I guess the Bretons here in High Rock are a bit more... ostentatious. It might be worth a shot - if we can get in."

Finch craned his neck around to look for nearby patrols.

"At least I wouldn't feel as naked and exposed as I do out here in the open."

"Well, we sure as shite ain't going to walk to the door and ask to be let in. Only reason our disguises are working so far is nobody's gotten close enough to tell us apart from the rest of the goons." Cedric said, looking around as inconspicuously as possible. There was a balcony they'd be able to hook on with a rope if they double backed and grabbed it, but that would be a stupid risk if there ever was one. "Let's just head back up to the walls and do the perimeter and get back down. We'll look for your sewer. Then we meet up with the others, draw 'em a map, and get ourselves nice and drunk, aye?" he said, leading Finch towards another set of stairs that headed up to the battlements.

It was getting pretty dark now, thanks to it still being fairly early in the year, and lights were lit inside of the castle. Interestingly, other than the oil lanterns, Cedric could see what he assumed were Welkynd stones sublimating the lighting, casting a pale blue glow along the castle, giving the ancient stonework an appearance like it was covered with off-colour fireflies. Minutes past without event, and the duo were preparing to make their way back to the rope. Now that they'd been at it for what had to have been an hour or so, the tension wasn't what it was before as no one sounded the alarm. Cedric was tempted to push his luck when the balcony he noticed earlier had movement, stopping his his tracks, Cedric positioned himself like he were conversing with Finch to conceal the fact he was staring at whoever came out on the balcony.

The first figure, a man who didn't quite look like he reached his twenties with a shaggy mop of brown hair and a pale complexion came out, followed by another with another with straight sandy blonde hair tied into a ponytail. There was an unmistakable air of familiarity about him, and Cedric thought back to the parchment that was tossed to the group by Lord Raimes a few days back.

The realization hit like a brick; Cedric was staring at Callen Raimes, and with him was a young lord, perhaps Lord Marco's son.

"What in the world... don't look now, but I'm staring right fookin' at the Lordshite." Cedric said to Finch, blinking hard and shaking his head slowly. Sure enough, it wasn't an apparition and their man, as healthy and happy as one could imagine, was certainly not in chains. What was going on?

They were too far to hear what they were speaking about, but suddenly, Callen pulled the other man into an embrace, locking lips in a passionate kiss. In that single gesture, Cedric felt his world turn upside down and a sinking feeling hit him. It was becoming increasingly obvious that Callen Raimes was certainly not the hostage his brother had made him out to be; were they being set up?

"We better get the fook back to the others. Things just became far more complicated..."

When would the rain take a day off?

Wrapped up in a burlap sheet that acted as a makeshift ponch, guardsman Derrick Fontaine stood, soaking and shivering under his padded leather armour as another coastal breeze made his damp clothing seem that much colder. He didn't know how on Nirn he was going to make it to Loredas without catching a cold, and the only thing that was keeping him warm was the pot of tea that Eric had brought up on shift to help keep the guards more comfortable and alert. There wasn't much to look at; the moon and stars were hidden behind thick, heavy clouds and visibility was pretty much nonexistent unless there was a torch to guide the way.

Should've been born a Redguard, I'd rather get sunburn than deal with another fucking night of rain. Fontaine thought bitterly, bringing the pewter mug to his lips, trusting it was cooled down enough.

Vendel pushed back the hood of his cloak and scratched at the long brown hair he'd tied up in a ponytail. He sighed his frustration out to the cold air and grasped up a pewter cup, pouring himself his own cup of tea. He blew into the cup in an effort to bring it down from scalding to just-right and rested his ass on a low section of the battlements, rubbing at the old knife wound from before he was on Castle Duty. There was no talking until Vendel sighed again, "Fuckin' boring work today." He took a sip from his cup, which managed to burn his tongue and make him grimace, "Guess that's good, though. Who made the damned tea this time?"

"Eric. He has a friend on the docks who sets aside a portion of the tea shipments for him. I want to say he's doing it out of the generosity of his heart, but I'm pretty sure he just wants the rest of us to like him." Fontaine shrugged, debating whether to cast off his poncho or not. He continued to stare out over the sea to give the impression that he at least was trying to do his job on the off chance the sergeant saw him doing anything but looking vigilant again. There was a man who was eager for promotion, the cunt.

"So, you still seeing that girl, or what?" he asked.

"When I can. Sergeant Cresspin has me pulling wall-duty when I'm not manning the armory. Fucker is up in arms over those two uniforms gone missing a while ago." Vendel chuckled and shook his head, "What about you? Wife still making you sleep on the floor?"

"I would literally kill to get a posting inside right now... and yeah, either it's because she thinks I'm a bit too friendly with the dairy farmer's daughter or she thinks the bed is the place of our big lumbering oaf of a dog..." Fontaine replied, voice trailing off as something caught his eye. Stepping closer to the battlements, he squinted through the inky void that was the night, trying to make what had caught his eye. Suddenly, his eyes burst open wide, suddenly alert. "Oh, Zenithar's cock... there's ships..." staring harder, and scanning the horizon, he almost forgot to breathe. "Oh fuck, there's a fucking fleet!" he stated, startled and visibly worried.

Vendel choked on his tea, jolting to his feet and coughing, trying to get his words out. Finally, his cough settled just as he too made out the biggest gathering of ships he'd seen since the High King made a visit. "Oh, you fucking..." His voice trailed off as his gape-mouthed face dropped, eyes scanning the fleet. He pushed Fontaine by the shoulder, "Find that fucking ponce Captain of ours and Sergeant Cesspit so they can rally the men! I'll find Captain Gerrald, go!"

"Uh... yeah. Shit... shit. Ring the fucking bell, will you?" Fontaine managed, dropping his cup and hurrying to get off the wall to find the commanders, his feet not moving near fast as he wanted. The City of Camlorn was about to come under siege. Was it the Dominion? It had to be, didn't it?

~ ~ ~



Heavy bells tolled along the walls of the city, raising alarm. Guards and soldiers alike were rallied and roused from their beds, the officers finding their doors pounded on by messengers to lead and organize the men. Within twenty minutes, a good sixty percent of the city's defenders were in uniform, weapons in hand, and the commanders set to work ordering them. To the walls, archers flooded the battlements, although there weren't nearly as many as Captain Gerrald would have liked. The commander of the Camlorn Legion garrison, Gerrald was a grizzled man in his 40s, a close-shaved head that blended seamlessly with his stubble of a beard and a lithe build, a man accustomed to mobility and ordering men from behind the front lines, where he could watch the battle unfold and react accordingly. When guardsman Vendel found him, he'd been pouring through reports from the 3rd and 7th Legions in Cyrodiil, detailing casualty reports and the ever evolving frontlines. The damn elves were pressing hard, and they shook off counter-attacks like a dog shakes off water. He didn't know how, but it was worrisome.

And it looked like it might be a Dominon fleet attacking the city. The gods were testing Gerrald's resolve this day, he was sure of it.

"How many sails?" he asked the Nord.

"Too damn many. More than the fleet the High King took with him from Daggerfall on his visit last year." The Nord was still panting from his long run from the walls to the Legion Barracks. "The Castle Guard is preparing for a siege. There isn't enough of the Town Guard to rouse the folk and man the Kingsway gates. Guard-Captain Guillaume wishes for your men to bolster the town guard's numbers."

"I see." Gerrald said, considering his options. "Very well, we'll concentrate the bulk of our forces on the Western walls where the threat is imminent. I'll instruct the Guard-Captain to have his men keep order in the streets as well as to bolster the sentries on the East, North, and South walls. Louiselle!" he barked. His runner stood at attention. "Make way to the trebuchet batteries, tell them to make ready to fire. What's your name, guardsman?" he asked.

"Guardsman Vendel, sir." Vendel's heels clacked together as he gave his best salute. "I must return to the Guard-Captain and give him the orders. Stendarr have mercy, sir." Vendel wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and broke into a jog back to the castle. First Brynn and now this. Francis better thank me for all I do.

~ ~ ~

"In ten to fifteen minutes, the ships will be in range, depending on prevailing winds." The battery observer said to the runner. Fontaine stood nearby, listening to the conversation, feeling reassured that the heavy weaponry would soon be brought to bare against the ships. Foolishly, perhaps naively, he hoped that they'd be able to prevent a landing. He shuddered to think of how many vile elves were aboard those ships, waiting to slaughter Camlorn for no other reason than being a part of the Empire. Had Daggerfall fallen, as well? There were so many questions, and the absence of so many guards to deal with the Centaur problem around King's Guard was definitely a sore point of contention; the city was down about 40 men and women who were direly needed here, and now.

Well, at least he had the next ten minutes or so to contemplate the coming storm.

"What the fuck?!" a shout came down the line by one of the guardsmen. Soon, his cause for alarm was addressed when a succession of loud clanks were heard against the stone, and it only took Fontaine but a moment to recognize what they were; grappling hooks.

A pair of guards tried to look over the battlements to see below, but were swiftly rewarded with an arrow each into an eye socket. The men slumped over onto the hooks, dead weight securing their hold even further. More men tried to hack at the rope, an impossible feat, given the grapples had a foot of chain behind the hooked and weighted head, and peaking over the battlements was proving to be suicidal as impossibly expert archers were killing any who dared try to ascertain exactly what they were up against. Fontaine recalled the tales of how infamously and inhumanely deadly bosmer were with their bows, and how the lithe, small elves were known to make impossible shot through the thick forest of their homeland to take down their prey... which more often than not included trespassers. A sudden barrage of ice spikes flew past, missing heads or shattering on the battlements, giving further credance that some talented mages were amongst the ranks of the raiders.

Soon, the first hands were cresting the walls, and swords met. The battle of Camlorn had begun in earnest.

As Fontaine blocked a blow of a double-headed axe with his shield, he was startled to find that it wasn't an elf or even khajiit that was striking at him, it was a Nord of all people, laughing with maniacal glee as he struck at his foe with savage, heavy blows. Viewing further down the line at the raiders, there were other men and even argonians in the ranks... what was going on?

Fontaine bashed the Nord with his shield when the man raised his axe to hew at him once more, causing him to stumble back, trying to keep his balance. The Breton guardsman didn't give him a chance to retain his composure before driving his sword into the man's abdomin, taking him out of the fight as he begun to bleed out.

Suddenly, a half dozen screams came behind him, along with a torrent of unbearable flame that was so intense it overwhelmed the ward spells that tried to resist it, as if it were more kindling to the inferno that it feasted upon with untamed savagery. When the flames stopped, the caster became visible, a woman in her early 30s with short, chin-length dirty-red hair that was cropped to her chin, intense and cruel green eyes, and a striking trio of scars upon her cheek from some kind of claw marks time ago. Her arms were bare, and the leathers covering her torso were low on her chest; under other circumstances, she'd have a wild attractiveness to her.

The woman's hands were cast in flame, and she looked up from a smoldering, charred corpse and her eyes met with his, and despite the heat, he felt all warmth leave his body when the woman's lips parted into a menacing grin.

~ ~ ~



The city burned.

Untold hundreds were cut down in the late night attack that overwhelmed the defenders with its swiftness and ferocity. Within the first twenty minutes, the walls had fallen, and the trebuchets had been taken before they had a chance to fling their first stone. Reports were incomplete or even contradictary of what was happening, as scouts more often didn't make it back, and the city streets had turned into a hard fought tooth and nail skirmish between Legionnaires and city guards that had grown far too soft from years without real conflict and the invaders that hit with military precision along with raiders' ruthlessness. About the only thing that everyone managed to agree on was that the invaders were not the Aldmeri Dominion; they were something else entirely. However, one word was uttered through more than one clenched throat; pirates.

There was a sense of disbelief and outright denial by many who refused to believe that a group of disorganized outlaws that preyed on shipping lanes could ever assault a city, let alone in an organized fashion. Others said that among their ranks must have been quite a few trained former military members who brought training and skill at arms to the fold, along with officers' training.

Whatever the case may be, Callen Raimes was terrified but defiant; he wanted to defend his city, but the guards wouldn't allow him out of their sights. Him and Leonard Marco, the son of Lord Maximilian Marco, were ushered along by the elite of the house guard, who brought them through hidden passageways to a safe chamber to protect the family from invaders. Callen clutched his lover's hand reassuringly; Leonard was keeping his composure, but he required reassurance that it wasn't Callen's brother seeking vengeance against his family for keeping Callen's company without word.

"Don't be ridiculous," Callen had said. "My brother's rich, and he can be a heartless bastard, but he's not going to raise a fleet and start a war. Shornhelm's hundreds of kilometers from the coast, this isn't him."

It seemed to reassure Leonard, who was still understandably concerned far his father, who was separated from them at his order in case he was discovered. Lord Marco was a brave and kind man who loved his only son and grieved for his long departed wife; it must have killed him to have ordered himself away from his son to keep him safe.

The sounds of fighting weren't far now; they were inside the castle walls now, and growing ever closer. At least Callen was permitted to hold a sword; he'd be able to fight if they were discovered, at least. It was a small measure of power and comfort.

Leonard gulped and hoped that Callen didn't notice how slick his hands were. They hadn't even seen one of the pirates yet and he was already close to pissing. The ceremonial sword at his hip was the only weapon he had to him, but he kept a sweat-slicked hand resting on the crossguard. He tried to make himself seem fearless, and tried a slight frown but decided it was too much effort to keep through the fear. Callen's hand was the only thing that kept him grounded and he spared a glance at the man, standing half a head taller than he. "Either way, they won't make it past the Knights of the Table." He let go a sheepish chuckle that caught in his dry throat and he coughed into his fist, replacing it on his sword.

"Of course not, Lordling Marco." Sir Artur bowed his head quickly to Leonard. Leonard hoped very much that Artur was right. The Knight was not in the business of lying, after all, given his vows to the crown of Camlorn.

"Have you ever been in a fight, Callen?" Leonard asked, looking to Callen.

"Nothing serious," Callen admitted, rolling his jaw. "Just practice boughts with my retainers, I haven't even gotten into a fist fight. Nobility has an unfair way of keeping you from getting your hands too dirty when you're a youth, I'm afraid."

"And yet how rogueish and rough you seem to the likes of me." Perhaps Leonard's first sincere smile since this whole thing started crossed his lips. He laughed, "I hadn't set foot on the streets of my own city until I was twelve, for Mara's sake. In fact, when-"

The loudest crash against the door seemed to have killed all sound to Leonard. The sound of plate-mail shifting as the Knights of the Table drew their swords with the raspy whisper of their sheaths was all that punctuated the silence. A few beats more and Leonard flinched at another crash, boughing in the door and knocking dust from them. Another and Leonard let go a quiet whimper, squeezing Callen's hand ever tighter. Leonard drew his sword, however useless the jewel-encrusted thing may be for anything other than a fashion statement. He wouldn't die without his sword drawn, it would be one brave and proud thing Leonard would've done with his short life.

Another crash and he could hear the beam barring the door shut start to crack behind the force. Another crash and he could see it start to come apart. Another crash and it was splintered in two, a gaping hole left in the middle where the two bent and broken doors would've met.All was quiet, and Leonard was met with the same fear a child has in the lonely darkness. Slow as slow, a head with hair cut skin-close to the sides with the top flopped over one elven ear and a devilish grin of point-filed teeth behind bloody lips came through, eyes wide as valleys and pupils closed to pin-pricks appeared. A voice like winter escaped his jaws, "Here's Bloodbreath!"

With one more mighty knock, the already beaten doors fell from their hinges and out poured shirtless, painted bodies of Bosmer with similar crazed and hellish likenesses, giving whoops and ghostly high warcries. Bloodbreath stood there like a rock planted before the wave, his men splitting up to avoid him with equal parts caution and fear, arms opened wide as of beckoning forth daedra. Leonard stood as the clash of steel rang out all around him, eyes closed, not a thought spared to his sword. It felt like an eternity, but he knew it had to have been a short fight. As he opened his eyes slowly, he saw the carnage. All around them, Artur and his Knights of the Table lay dead with a few of the Bosmer raiders. Bloodbreath stood with his mer at his back, snarling and hissing like animals.

Through the portal that once was a barred wooden door strolled in another figure, unhurried, a khajiit of the Cathay breed. Garbed in a black thigh-length, high-necked coat that had metal plates sewn in the material, knee-high black leather boots, intricately carved metal pauldrons that went down the length of his arm, where on his right hand, a golden ring with a shimmering blue saphire sat upon his ring finger. His fur was gradients of grey with black stripes, his eyes an icy blue. Upon his head, his mane was styled into a mohawk and his ears carried a pair of golden hooped earrings. As he walked into the room, his hands rested lazily on his weapons, a pair of ebony war axes, were upon his red waist belt in leather hoops, and a peculiar was mounted to the small of his back. To say he struck an impressive figure was an understatement. Behind came some of his men, of various races including Orcs, khajiit, and even Imperials, but the most shocking was the Senche-Raht tiger, a massive beast that was in fact a khajiit that walked on all fours and filled the door frame, stepped through, dragging Lord Marco by his finery into the room with its powerful jaws. Dropping the lord by his son, the Senche-Raht turned and left the room, bitterly complaining about the taste stuck in his mouth.

The leader clasped his hands together enthusiastically. "My, what a touching reunion of father and son. And here I am willing to wager neither of you expected to see one another again, yet here we are." walking around the table and stepping over one of the bodies on the floor, he eyed the bare table distastefully. "And here I was hoping we would have been crashing supper. Understandably, rowing for several hours ahead of the fleet can be mighty tiring business, but I was just so enthusiastic to meet you, Lord Marco." he said, staring directly at Callen.

The young man blinked. "I'm not-"

The khajiit put up his hand, "Shh shh shhh, trust me, boy, I know better than you what your station is. Your world as turned upside down, and the pirate republic of Wayrest's leadership was eager to meet the Lord of Camlorn, who so graciously has taken the burden of hosting us this eve." Gesturing back to the leader of the bosmer, he announced, "And I see you've met my good friend, Bloodbreath. Say hello."

Leonard was caught between charging at the Khajiit and pissing. He swallowed, his lips moving, but all trace of sound absent. After a long while of silence, Leonard spoke the only thing that came to mind, "W-why?"

"I was hungry." Bloodbreath licked his lips, the eyes of a wolf staring at lambs were set in his skull-like face.

"My father had no quarrel with Wayrest." Leonard swallowed, trying his hardest to ignore the beast of a man eyeing him hungrily, "Before or after your ilk claimed it." He swallowed, looked to his father lying lifeless on the ground like a broken doll and hefted his blade, "Either way... I'm ready to die. Are you!?"

Before his lunge cound even reach out at its farthest, Bloodbreath stepped forward and swung a forearm into Leonard's throat, bringing him off his feet and to the floor without breath. Bloodbreath brought his gaze from Leonard to Callen, "We keeping both of these?" He asked the Khajiit.

The khajiit clucked his tongue twice, giving an approximation of an admonishing tsk tsk that one would be expecting from a disobendient child. "Keeping? My word, Bloodbreath, you speak of our guests as if they're property. No, my friend, they'll be coming with us. A ravaged castle is no place for a pair of lords, is it not?" he said.

"Who are you?!" Lord Marco suddenly demanded as Callen suppressed the urge to charge the terrifying Bosmer. The khajiit turned to face him as if noticing him for the first time and smiled graciously. "Ah, forgive my poor manners... I am Lord Greywake, one of the Five Pirate Lords of Wayrest. Considering how much we rather despise the feudal system and groveling to an Emperor the rest of High Rock is well known for, it's hard to shake how catchy the titles are." Turning to Bloodbreath, Greywake put a hand on the Bosmer's shoulder and leaned close. "Pick one, I'll take the other. They're valuable alive, so try not to eat him, yes? Your men can have the pick of the corpses, my necromancers want what's left."

Stepping away from his compatriot, Greywake stepped towards Lord Marco, who was positively snarling at the khajiit, who appeared almost amicable. Leonard had never seen his father so livid or furious. He tensed when the khajiit suddenly drew the dagger from his back with a large and peculiar pommelstone, a smokey white colour that almost looked like the colours were shifting. Holding it reverse grip, he held it up for the Lord to see. "Tell me, have you ever been curious as to what could have been, had circumstances been different?" he asked.

Lord Marco's rage suddenly faded and his face grew heavy, after a few moments tears welled up in his eyes as his hand reached out gingerly to the stone. "Alaine... my wife..." he said softly, grieving. Whatever he had seen had made him utterly forget what was going on in the room.

"FATHER!" Leonard yelled, terrified of the bewitchment that came over his father. Lord Marco looked over to his son, and a sudden flash of movement from Greywake's arm seemed like a flash of lightning; a crimson gash had spread across Lord Marco's neck, and the dagger dripped with blood.

An incomprehensible scream of grief and rage filled the room as Leonard watched the life slip from his father's eyes, who feebly reached to his son as bloody spurts pooled out from his neck. Greywake calmly wiped the blade off on the man's finery and stood, slipping his dagger back into its sheathe. Grinning at the boy, Greywake patted him on the shoulder as he passed. "Going by line of succession alone, I suppose you're now the Lord of Camlorn. Congratulations. Bloodbreath, you seem to be getting along swimmingly with Lord Marco, so I suppose I will be taking his friend with me. I will have plenty of time to get to know him on the way back to my ship. It will be a grand, marvelous time, will it not? I'll be sure to give Skyfire my regards; she did stellar work on the walls."

Gesturing to his men, Greywake stepped out of the room, humming a pleasant sounding and melodical tune as Callen Raimes struggled in the grasp of much bigger and stronger men who wasted no time binding his hands and slapping a sack over his head.

Leonard sat upright on the floor, propped up on his hands, feeling as helpless as he did the day mother passed. It was happening all over again, and still he lacked the courage to move, to spring to action, to save his father- much less his mother. He swallowed and the blurriness of tears crept around the corners of his vision.

"Either way," Bloodbreath's voice came unnervingly close from behind his ear in a mockingly high tone, "I'm ready to die..." He appeared from around him, Leonard had not been so uncaring as to his fate than now, "Are you?"

He saw Bloodbreath's bare foot rise up and shoot towards him, and all was black.

~ ~ ~

Lying on one's back and trying to unshackle oneself with both hands behind their back is as hard as it sounds. Brynn was having a jolly good time of it. A group of Bosmer screaming at the top of their lungs had stepped out of one of the passageways and knocked his escort over the head. He'd only managed to escape with the key by giving one a nasty kick to the face and the rest of them the slip. What made his night even harder was the fact he could concentrate with their incessant fucking banging on the door while he worked. Finally, the key found purchase and he heard the click of the tumblers and the falling away of the shackles, "Hah!"

He brought his hands to where he could see them, "Hah!"

Now, all that remained was getting out of this alive. A shame he had none of his weapons. It was do or die. The banging on the door was starting to grate on him. He took a deep breath and let it out. He turned the door's ring and the pounding stopped. He opened it, fist reared back and screaming at the top of his lungs- to be greeted with the petrified faces of several handmaids. "My apologies, ladies."

One of them screamed and they all ran as a terrified herd away from him. He wasn't much to look at, but he rolled his eyes and rubbed his face with a palm, to open his eyes and be greeted with a shirtless, painted Bosmer with a cleaver in one hand and a savage grin on his lips. They stood staring at one another for a few beats before Brynn ducked a blade's swing and ran in the direction of the handmaids, hearing the pounding footsteps of the Bosmer behind him all the while. He ran, taking erratic turns down hallways that lead to Gods knew where. He finally ducked into a doorway and waited for his attacker. He finally heard hard breaths and loud footsteps. When they seemed close enough, he stepped out and clotheslined his pursuer, only to see it was Francis. "You pig-fucker..." The Breton said, heaving in breaths.

"What are you-"

"Deserting, you half-head." Vendel grumbled, "Now's the perfect time."

"Lead me to the exit." Brynn said. He'd spent enough time here.

"I'll lead you off a damned cliff." Francis got up, rubbing his neck. The trio made their way through the halls of the lower castle and finally made it out into the courtyard. Vendel yanked both Brynn and Francis behind a cart of hay as a menacing looking Khajiit at the head of a procession of matching menacing outlaws followed him at the other side of the courtyard. Two of the bigger men held a squealing and screaming man wriggling uselessly in their arms. Brynn squinted, "No..." Sure enough, Brynn's hopes of having this be his last days beholden to Lord Fuckstick and his merry band of misfits were dashed on the rocks- Callen Raimes was being dragged away by some of the meanest raiders he'd ever seen.

And speaking of his merry band, Cedric showed up with Finch in tow just as the menacing group disappeared with what seemed like all his happiness. A few moments later, Kiralla and Gaela came out of the woodwork and the only consolation was that those in the sewer would be having almost as bad of a mood knowing they'd waded through shit-water for nothing. Brynn sighed, and the only thing that came to mind passed his lips, "Fuck."

Tearing his helm from his head and throwing it to the ground, Cedric chimed up, "Can't we fookin' go anywhere without the town burning to the ground?" he growled, his "borrowed" sword in hand. "We need to get our shite back, find the others, and get out of town. I don't think we'll be rescuing little lordshite today, c'mon, let's get going."

Fiona woke to the smell of blood and a burning city.

Tremendous pain immediately followed. She gasped and writhed on her back, every movement difficult and punishing. She blinked tears from her eyes, trying to figure out where she was, what had happened. Her head throbbed murderously, and she could feel blood on the right side of her face, still warm. Hers. She tried to rise, but the strain on her abdomen was like knives in her flesh. Something was jammed into her side, a small piece of wood from the looks of it, and she could immediately tell one of her ribs was broken. Fiona let her head fall back and tried to catch a bit of breath. This was not good.

Before any kind of hasty plan between her and Faruq could be cobbled together, before they could see what exactly would happen to Brynn or any of the others, there was alarm raised about a fleet of attackers. Dominion, Fiona had thought, along with all the others. She had to help, it was what she'd lobbied for for years now. Fight the elves that wanted their way of life destroyed and washed away. Faruq fought with her, on the walls, where the unprepared city guard had not turned away the much needed help.

But they were not Dominion Altmer that came so swiftly over the walls, cutting through them. Pirates were about as despicable in Fiona's eyes, and so she fought them too, not that they gave her much of a choice. Even managed to cut a few down, before they overwhelmed her. There were no arrows in her, thankfully, but she'd fought through half a dozen cuts, the worst horizontally across her lower back, before a blow sent her toppling over the edge of the wall, and out of the fight.

Fiona woke now in what looked to be a wooden merchant's stall of some kind. She'd fallen through the roof, judging by the hole above her, likely the only thing that had kept her alive. Still, she'd clearly hit her head on something, judging by the red smear across her fingers when she pulled her hand away. The sounds of fighting were distant now, not the cacophonous clamor that had been ringing in her ears from the moment the first enemy came over the wall.

She had to move, find Faruq, find the others, get out of here. With their prize lordling, if they could. The fight was obviously lost, but maybe their lives weren't just yet.

Huffing a few breaths, Fiona channeled the warrior that she claimed to be, and pulled the wood piece from her side. She grit her teeth against the scream, and immediately pressed her hand to the wound, trying to stem the tide. No time to stop. She rolled over, ignoring the cries of protest from her body, and forced herself up. Her sword was nearby; she grabbed it and sheathed it, knowing she had hardly the strength to swing it anymore.

She checked her path carefully once out of the stall, using the nearby wall for support. Bodies littered the streets, guards and soldiers and civilians, one or two she thought may be pirates. They'd clearly already passed through this area. They either thought Fiona dead, or never found her. She moved on, one hand reaching out for anything to brace herself against, while the other tried to keep more of her blood from escaping.

Down the next street, she found Faruq. He lay on his back, stripped of his armor and weapons, a half dozen dead pirates around him. There was a gaping hole in his throat and a few more on his torso, and he'd clearly passed on, after taking several of their enemy with him. Fiona sank to her knees next to him, as much to rest as to mourn. She'd not known him well, but... "You might say I fancy the foolish sort," he'd said. She never did find out if there was any truth to that, nor would she now. And if she did not move on, she would soon join him. She needed healing.

There was nothing Fiona was capable of doing for Faruq. The others could yet live and she expected if they were anywhere, it would be in the castle, under the castle, or near it. She had to get there.

Footsteps drew her to cover behind an overturned cart. She tried to steady and slow her breathing, and to hide the length of her sword. She had no skill at stealth, but it was necessary now, while she couldn't fight. A group of looters passed, armed and clearly with the pirates. Mixed races, as ever. She'd stopped sparing thoughts for who they were. A question for when she knew she would survive this.

When they were gone, Fiona continued forward, half-stumbling a dozen times but never losing her feet. She felt woozy, unstable, sleepy. She'd never been this badly wounded before. An apothecary's shop ahead caught her eye. It looked destroyed, and the building next door had caught fire, which would soon spread. But she had to try. Stepping through the doorway and over the kicked-down door, Fiona squinted through the darkness at the potions remaining on the shelves. Stepping back behind the counter, she tripped and fell over something, landing on her knees with a sharp cry. The apothecary lay before her, an arrow through his eye socket. She blinked at him, then forced herself back up.

Her search ended with a single health potion, not of the greatest strength either. Fiona downed it greedily, sighing as the bleeding was slowed and a bit more strength returned to her limbs. It was hardly enough, but it would keep her alive for the time being. Checking carefully as she exited the shop, she continued cautiously on her way towards the castle.

In the Sewers

"Agreed," Maulakanth said to Vendel. He hadn't gotten the measure of the Dunmer yet but the spear-wielding elf looked like he could take care of himself, which meant that Maulakanth had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being.

No, it wasn't the company that got on his nerves right now, despite the silent presence of the sneering Altmer. The shit-water they were wading through at waist-height was the current problem. It was disgusting and humiliating -- here he was, the Hand of Mauloch, crawling through the sewers like a skeever. Maulakanth snorted and muttered a curse for the umpteenth time that day. Like Valen, Maulakanth had his weapons in his hands and he idly twirled the orichalcum blades while he looked around for an exit. "Altmer," Maulakanth said, failing to remember the Vigilant's name, "can you make some light here?"

Cyrendil didn't like the fact that he'd have to go anywhere but walk the streets, as if he could not blend in, the thought was preposterous at best, insulting at the worst. Had this been years ago, he was sure he would have vomited by the smell alone, but while it was not at any stretch pleasant, he was able to keep everything down, his shield strapped high to his back, and he held his silver blade high, his other hand lifted up, and he took a glance back to the orc.

"I've got something, not much. but it will work... Tell me, has it not crossed your mind Orsimer, why all the ones they decided to send down to the sewers were elves? You'd think the men don't care for us too terribly much." Cyrendil said with a dry tone, and raised his hand up, a small golden outline coalesced and started to fill with a warm golden light the light illuminated some of the path in front of them, but it was no magelight spell, this took concentration to make any brighter, and none could be spared at the moment.

"I don't see why the beggar or one of the Breton men could be the ones down here, It's their own races filth. They should take a stroll in it." He said, peering sharp eyes into the fading darkness and shadows. "I wish I could say this is the worst place i've smelt. What about you two? Anything quite like this in your lines of work?"

"I get paid. I do the job. I shove the filth down their throat should they chose to make a point of it." Valen looked about them as the warm golden lifght elluminated the path and the walls around them. He pointed to a rather rusted but thick set of iron girding. A lock held the gate of it in place. The lock itseld was not as sturdy, and using his speartip as point for the lever of the spear shaft, he broke it open. "There. Let us get out of this muck."

Maulakanth laughed a little at the Altmer's remark about all the elves being sent on the sewer mission. The big orc didn't think of himself as an elf, but he had to agree that Cyrendil (the name just came back to him) was right on a technicality. "Men and elves don't get along. It's the way of the world. And no, I've never seen anything like this before," Maulakanth grumbled as he watched while the new guy opened up a gate for them. "About damn time."

Not wasting a single second, Maulakanth heaved himself out of the shit-water, through the gate and into the low, damp passage beyond. The slick floor sloped upwards, which was a good sign. Up meant out. The orc shook his head to get his braided dreadlocks out of his face and cautiously made his way forward, his blades lifted to greet anything that might jump at them out of the shadows. He'd heard stories of entire vampire clans hiding down in the sewers of human cities.

For a good while, nothing happened. The trio was able to safely make their way up to a wooden door, locked, that barred their path. Based on the neat cobblestones in the wall surrounding the door, Maulakanth guessed that it must exit out into the castle. Hopefully into the dungeons -- that's where the little lord they were supposed to rescue was supposed to be. Supposedly. Maulakanth had no patience for locks and he bashed the door open with his shoulder, swords brandished as he stepped out into a candle-lit corridor, ready to cut down any startled guardsmen.

Empty. The corridor was empty. Disappointed, Maulakanth looked around and saw more emptiness -- empty cells, devoid of prisones. Somewhere above him was the sound of battle. "What in Oblivion..." he whispered and looked over his shoulder at the Altmer and the Dunmer.

The Dunmer in question had felt a slight tremble in the ground just then. Like something above them collapsing. "Seems our friends could not wait to get started?" He asked, more to himself then anyone present. He moved slowly, taking care to clear his feet of any muck that could make him slip. He pushed past the orc to take point with his spear and shield. As much as he didn't like tot have them at his back, instincts from pitched battles and endless training of keeping formation won over suspicion. The dank stone was slippery beneath his feet as they made their way up and up again.

Soon, stares gave way to yet another door. This one splintered and a slumped body laying in the wreckage. A mighty blow had been struck across the mans face, the pulp of his brigand seeped out of a sizable hole in the skull. His instincts screamed at him to be careful as he stepped out in to the fresh air. He looked around him. The smell of charring flesh and burning thatch filled the air and made his eyes sting.

Out of the pyre that was the castle, came a half nude bosmer running at him. The wood elf was complete out of his mind with bloodlust and didn't take note of the Dunmers spear untill i twas to late. The Bosmers life came to abrupt end as his blade hit a sturdy shield and as short spear was trust hard into his thigh, likely severing his femoral artery and making sure he would never have children, live or die.

Valen kicked the howling raider to the curb and shoved his spear trough his throat with the precision of a military man who gotten corpse duty in many a won battle. "By the Deadras vilest curses. Does only death follow you lot?" He asked out loud as the group made it trough the crumbling castle towards their goal.

The courtyard was already occupied by the remains of their 'merry band' and the Dunmer simply spat. "Well this sure wasn't worth the trek trough the shit. Were is our prize?" He half spat as he jogged over a brisk pace. "There are raiders all over the fucking town. And I am stinking sober."

“Well? Speak up, I haven’t the time to waste on shy messengers.” Master Mooring spoke not unkindly.

Kiralla cleared her throat, speaking clearly “Of course, Master Mooring. We bring good word from the Archmage.”

Mooring’s expression shifted to that of curiosity. “A letter?”

“Yes, sir. Please know the urgency of this message and replying this evening is utmost importance due to time sensitivity.” Kiralla said bowing while handing Mooring the rolled parchment.

Mooring went about unrolling the parchment his eyes scanning through Kiralla and Gaela’s forged letter. Taking more time to reread the document while the mages stood patiently for Master Mooring to finish reading. Kiralla’s heart raced while watching him reread the document more than once. Was he looking for inconsistencies? Did he spot a mistake?

A lump grew in her throat and if she were to speak now there would be no chance of a proper word in edgewise to defend themselves. Surely she must of looked the part of guilty. The infiltration was ruined now that they had failed so horrifically in simple letter forgery-

The court mage looked up over the edge of the parchment and very quietly, “Truly?”

She blinked registering over the noise in her mind what Master Mooring was confirming. Relief washed over Kiralla, he believed the letter. She nodded not risking a word.

“I will need to discuss this with my Lord. Please, excuse me ladies while I take this letter to his attention.” Mooring stood from his seat a twinkle of interest in his eye. “Guards, please escort the messengers to the great hall for a bite to eat and rest from their long journey.”

The guard bowed opening the door for the Court Mage, “Yes, sir.”

Kiralla shared a look of relief with Gaela.

Master Mooring paused in the hallway squinting at something further away. The patter of steel boots against the stone raced up to Mooring. More guards speaking hurriedly ushering for the mage to follow them. Mooring turned quickly to the mages handing them back the letter. “The city is under siege! We will discuss the letter after the keep has been secured please go with Fletcher, he we will find a safe place for you two to hide until the siege is over. Divines help us.” He said rushing off with four more guards assumingly to his Lord’s side.

Fletcher pulled on Kiralla’s arm and Kiralla grappled onto Gaela’s hand. Matching pace with Fletcher, she wretched her arm away with a gruff, “Do not touch me.”

“Apologies, Ma’am. We really must hurry.” Fletcher said leading them deeper into the castle. Kiralla felt a sickening lump grow in the back of her throat now for different reasons. The sounds of the siege were growing, catching glimpses through the castle windows she stopped in her tracks Gaela nearly running into her fellow mage. Kiralla saw the sails on the horizon while the slam of a ladder nearly scared her out of her skin an argonian raider climbed past them.

The guard shouted at them to hurry but his words were cut short by a couple raiders running a sword through his armpit.

Kiralla and Gaela let out terrified screams, her legs acting before her mind could register Fletcher’s quick end. Kiralla ran as fast as she could dragging Gaela behind her, the raiders bellowed after the women giving chase.

The conjurer readied a spell in her free hand summoning Cindy, her flame atronach. Cindy stepped quickly from her oblivion portal taking long swipes at the raiders the heat stopping them in their tracks.

“Bar the w-way, Cindy!” Kiralla shouted the command. Flames grew in a deep line in the stone separated the raiders from the fleeing mages. Cindy caught up quickly passing Kiralla taking the lead acting as their guardian.

---

Carefully taking their time dodging raiders the best they could. With their wits about them the few they did run into were met with destruction spells from Gaela and Kiralla alike. Clearing the way back to the courtyard.

Noting the others had arrived generally in one piece which brought a little relief to her. The sewer team was reeking of shit while Cedric snapped about the town burning to the ground.

“We-we’re missing a couple. Where is F-Fiona and Faruq?” On cue Fiona came half stumbling into the courtyard, bleeding. The Bone Knight however was nowhere to be seen.

Kiralla and Gaela jogged over to the Imperial taking up her arms.

“Where is Faruq?”

The way her face pulled painfully Kiralla knew Faruq didn’t make it.