Starring:Roze and Sagax, with special guest appearance by Farid

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Standing so that Sagax's good arm was draped over her shoulders and she was supporting him, Roze managed to shuffle the poisoned man over to the nearby apothacary. She only hoped they had what she needed. Once inside - that was a fun struggle, getting the door open while attempting to keep Sagax from face-planting the wooden floor - she plonked him on a seat, hastily muttered "Don't die", and made her way to the counter.

The shopkeeper was an eldery woman, who eyed Sagax warily as Roze approached.

"Don't mind him, he'll live." She began swiftly, deciding that the shopkeep may not appreciate if he, y'know, died inside her shop. That was a mess nobody - particularly Roze - wanted. "He was poisoned about a day and a half ago, something the Falmer used. You have something to help with that, I hope?" Thankfully, the wary look left the woman's face, and was replaced with one of understanding.

"Day and a half? The boy's lucky he's still alive." She said abruptly, before turning to check the packed shelves behind her. Roze couldn't help but notie a myriad of odd ingredients dotted about beside the colourful bottles of potions and poisons; flowers, shells, scales, what appeared to be a heart, and a... a toe?

"Oh, that's nasty. I hope people don't eat that." She thought to herself with a grimace, looking away from the offending image and back to the shopkeep. She'd placed a red bottle on the counter, alongside a small bowl of poultice. Roze couldn't even begin to identify what was in the paste, but she had a feeling she didn't want to know. Either way, she was extremely glad she'd picked a few pockets before arriving here; this stuff wouldn't be cheap.

"Apply that to the wound, have him drink the potion - after a night's sleep, he should be on the mend." The old woman sighed, shaking her head slightly. "And perhaps don't go spelunking into Falmer caves in the future. Dangerous beasts, you know." Alongside the things for Sagax, Roze purchased two health potions - hoping perhaps one could speed up his recovery.

"Okay, down that, and try not to throw it up. I'm not paying to have her floor cleaned, or to buy you another one." Handing the potion bottle to Sagax, Roze sat beside him, unravelling the bandages she had put on earlier - and the wound certainly didn't look fantastic. Not infected, but slightly green. Wait, was that infection, or just the poison? "Oh, hell if I know. This might hurt a little." Hoping he didn't pass out of something in the process, Roze began applying the poultice as best she could to his arm, thinking that whatever it was, the strange paste would do the job.

Contrary to Roze's warning, the poultice barely more than stung slightly. It was very well put together, or at least Sagax guessed as much, as he knew very little of alchemy. Just what he picked up from Varulae, and that admittedly wasn't much. Eyeing the vial in his hand cautiously, he took a breath and downed its contents. The foul taste of the liquid more than made up for the painlessness of the poultice. He coughed and sputtered, but he was able to keep most of the antipoison down, though little droplets trickled down on to the floor. There was suddenly a strange burning sensation that began in his throat and continued through the rest of his body. It was very, very strange, and made Sagax wonder just what was in the vial. Whatever it was, it seemed to be doing its job well enough, as his vision began to steady, albeit very slowly, and his shaking decreased in intensity.

Blinking a few times, he looked over to Roze to see if he could actually make anything out. The crazy-haired blur in front of him was steadily replaced by a crazy-haired Breton, with a very worried look on her face. That was three times she pulled Sagax out of the fire, literally the first time, and that was after he got her blown up to boot. Hopefully he'd be able to pay Roze back some day.

When Roze was finished applying the poultice and rebandaging his arm, Sagax tried his luck at standing. To his relief, he didn't immediately face plant on the floor; that would certainly be embarrassing. He turned to the alchemist and bowed as well as his weakened frame would allow. "Thank you very much, ma'am." Good, it didn't physically pain him to speak now, that's always nice. "And of course, thank you too, Roze! I doubt anyone else would have cared enough to check in on me." Then Sagax's look turned sour. Roze was enjoying the festival, in her own little way of course, but then she all of a sudden had to worry herself about him. He certainly spoiled the good mood. He waited to speak to Roze after exiting the shop; he didn't need a lecture from the alchemist about bed rest and nonsense like that.

"Hey, Roze, the festival's far from over, ya? Well, I'm feeling better already, so why don't we get back to it? No need to mope like children kept inside on a rainy day!" Roze probably wasn't going buy it, but there's no harm in trying, right?

Roze gave Sagax a dubious look - she'd heard the wonders of alchemy, but she doubted he was back to 100% just yet. Still, the poultice and the potion seemed to have improved him immensely; the fact he was walking without aid was prove enough of that.

"Well... I guess it wouldn't hurt." She said hesitantly, but shoved one of the health potions into his hand with a stern look - or, at least, as stern as she could manage. "Drink that, and don't do anything stupid. I'm keeping my eye on you Sagax." And that she would - one bout of fatigue and she'd be carting him off to the inn for a rest. And perhaps a drink - he sure owed her one, at this rate.

"I'll be perfectly fine, don't worry, Roze." After downing the healing potion, Sagax wore the most assuring smile he could come up with. "Now come on, I'm sure we can find something to do somewhere...'

Roze's eyes trailed the crowds before them as Sagax spoke, an almost wicked looking smile growing on her face as she spotted a familiar figure.

"Oh, I can think of something very fun to do." With a light nudge on the elbow, Roze pointed towards Farid, who was milling about the crowds, no doubt looking for somewhere to drink. "How about we teach him a lesson... the rogue way?"

Glancing around, Sagax almost felt at home in Dawnstar. So many people bustling, talking, and of course, haggling. It was just like the Imperial City, if, you know, it were about fifty degrees colder normally. Turning his eyes to where Roze pointed, Sagax got a feeling he knew exactly what his Breton friend had in mind for "fun".

"Roze..." he began with a sigh. "Come on, we can't be screwing with other people in the company, even if they have a more punchable face than a drunk bard." Did she even hear him? Probably not. Roze is the kind of woman to do what she wants, when she wants to I suppose. he thought. No surprise there.

"Just tell me what you're thinking so I can at least plan for the fallout." Ashav would understand if he just explained why Roze cracked him upside the head with her bow or whatever it was she was going to do, right? He couldn't like Farid that much.

"Ooh, I'm such a bad influence." Roze thought to herself with an impish snicker. "Okay, okay, I'm not going to seriously injure the guy, alright? First off, I'm going to distract him with my womanly wiles." Waggling her eyebrows suggestively, she looked back to Farid; he'd just purchased a bottle of special mead, on one of the stalls outside. It appeared to be a rare sort of Black Briar mead, sold only at certain events. Roze was pretty sure it was just a slightly fruitier version of the original, but everyone went mad for it when it was available. Typical Maven.

"You're going to steal that mead - and maybe even his coin purse if you're feeling lucky. Then, I'll smack him once you're away. If anyone complains, I'll just tell them the big mean man was forcing himself on me." This last sentence was said with a mockingly innocent voice, blue eyes wide and batting to add to the charade.

"Well..." looking between Roze and Farid, Sagax decided that no real harm could come from some slight shenanigans. "...alright, why not." Throwing his cloak back on and lifting the hood over his head, Sagax played along with Roze's charade. He kept his head comically low and spoke in a low, broody grumble, like the many thieves depicted in storybooks. "I'll go and...make myself scarce. This'll be the heist of an era, truly!" Finding a decently populated nearby stall, Sagax stood amongst the crowd gathering around a man selling something called "Whaledogs". Some kind of battered whale-meat on a stick. What odd things these Nords eat...they're all the rage in other parts of Skyrim though, or so the man said.

Letting out a peal of laughter at Sagax's impression, and then made her way into the crowd herself - it didn't take long for Farid's eyes to find her. Roze doubted whether the man actually felt anything beyond lust for her, but she was used to such things. The familiar smile and look in his eyes had been on the faces of many men - and even women - in her past, some of them not even marks. The consideration that she was just a pretty young thing, with not a care in the world or brain in her head. Now, Farid had seen her fight, and had talked to her in the past, so it was unlikely he would think that... but she still figured he would underestimate her quite a bit.

"Farid, how are you enjoying the festival? Has anything caught your fancy?" She asked in a bright voice; part of it not even faked, with the excitement of what she and Sagax were doing. There was such a thrill to roguish ways.

"Not yet, but maybe you could persuade me otherwise." Was Farid's response, and she responded with a coy laugh, making sure to push his shoulder ever so slightly, fingers brushing against his bare arm. Gods above, could these men really not think up more original lines than that? Roze just hoped Sagax was quick; she had dealt with more repulsive marks in the past, certainly, but her dislike towards Farid was a bit more personal than some stranger.

Hmmm...three different kinds of spices, marinated in...wait, hold on, he was forgetting something. Sagax was sure he was supposed to be doing something, but...? Oh, the mead, of course! He caught the tail-end of Roze and Farid's back-and-forth as he turned to them. Maybe you could persuade me otherwise? Come on, man... Sagax could tell Roze already wanted to get as far as she could away from Farid, so he hastened his step slightly before she slammed the guy's head into a stall counter.

While Farid was busy ogling his Breton friend, Sagax swooped on over swiftly, making not a noise; he held his scabbard steady with his hand, no way would he repeat the mistake he made back in the Falmer cave. The crowds made good cover for everything else.

Now standing near Farid, but not close enough to draw his attention, Sagax eyed the bottle of Black-Briar mead the Redguard left on the counter next to him as he spoke with Roze. He had easier marks and he had harder marks, this one was child's-play all the same though. He waited until the person manning the stall turned to take care of another customer, and swiped the bluish-purple bottle in front of him, immediately turning the other way and walking off at a nonchalant pace, hiding the mead under his cloak. Thanks Frald, you're the best!

"Nice work, runner boy." Roze thought to herself, an approving look directed over Farid's shoulder towards the back of Sagax. Unfortunately, Farid assumed said approving look was directed to him, and his wandering hands suddenly found themselves quite firmly positioned on her rump.

"Oh boy, now I have a real excuse to hit him."

And so she did, pushing Farid back quite firmly, taking her bow from back, and thwacking it quite satisfyingly over Farid's forehead. It likely hadn't caused any real damage, beyond a graze, a headache, and a severly bruised ego.

"What the fuck was that for?!" He demanded, wincing as he put his hand to his head.

"My arse is off limits to everyone until I say so. Nice speaking with ya, Farid. Enjoy the headache!" At that, she marched primly away, ignoring Farid as he muttered "Fuckin' tease" under his breath, and finding Sagax once more in the crowds. Now, a bright smile donned her face, and she began laughing as he revealed the stolen bottle from beneath his cloak.

"Perfectly done, Sagax! Oh man... I hope the stall has ran out of stock by the time he realises." She managed to sputter the words through her laughter, the thought of it alone making it hard to get the words out. Oh boy, he was going to be so pissed!

"I aim to impress, naturally!" Wow, she really had it in for Farid, that was a lot of laughter for something so routine. Just the fact that she caused the man an inconvenience sent her into hysterics. Or maybe Sagax missed something, he was pretty far off after all. "Oh, here, this is yours." he said as he handed over the bottle of mead. "This isn't to pay you back for anything, of course. I'm just using you as an alibi, ya?" Sagax laughed with a sarcastic grin. "No way he'd think you stole it, because you're a perfect angel...or is that no longer the case? I can tell I missed something after I left; come on, spill it." Crossing his arms, he stared at Roze with one eyebrow raised, waiting for a very fun tale indeed.

Roze mocked an offended look as she took the mead. "Why, I don't know what you're talking about! I could never do something bad." Trying a swig of the mead, a somewhat more foxy smile replaced the innocent one upon her face. "Farid simply accosted me in a rather rude manner. There's only a few people I'd let touch my rump, you know." Said with a suggestive wink, she took another swig of the mead before handing the bottle back to Sagax.

"It was a group effort; only fair we share the profits. However, we could find the inn and buy some more drinks - the more the merrier, right?"

Rolling his eyes at the wink and rump remark, Sagax took back the mead. "Uh huh. Well, I suppose that was just a lesson learned then, huh? The man should keep his hands off of things that don't belong to him...not like we'd ever do such a thing, yes!" Hiding the bottle away in his cloak again just in case Farid came by, Sagax peered over the crowds to find the inn. Good thing it was situated on a hill, making it easy to spot. "A warm fire sounds good right about now. Yeah, let's head on back to the inn. Who knows, maybe that's where everyone else is? I'd imagine a lot of people would want a drink or five after the shit we trekked through."

Ugh, thank the gods Roze suggested heading back to the inn...I could really use a chance to sit down. His greaves and chainmail hid his shaking legs well enough for now, but they'd be flat-out wobbling if he didn't take a rest soon. "Come on then, Miss Angel. Hopefully we can avoid any more....hands-on situations." Weaving through the festival-goers, Sagax ducked and dived his way back to the warmth of the inn. He knew Roze could catch up, so he went ahead before her; no need to hold her hand or anything.

"I'll be surprised if there's any alcohol left in the town by the time we're finished." Agreeing with a chuckle, Roze did hope that some of their other fellows were in the inn, and also, having as much fun as Sagax and herself. After all, he was right; they had been through a lot of shit. Hells, they'd barely recuperated properly from Windhelm before leaving to Winterhold. The presence of the markets and festival just made everything seem lighter - laughter and impishness was just flowing free today. For herself, at least.

Following her comrade through the crowd, Roze smiled as the warmth of the packed building hit her. She'd barely noticed how cold it had been outside before now; glancing sideways at Sagax, she recalled the fever he'd been suffering from just minutes before.

"Take your cloak off Sagax - I don't want you overheating and dying on me." She tugged lightly on it, staying her grip on the fabric as she led him swiftly to an empty table before a bunch of Nords could snatch it up. "Now, are you going to buy Miss Angel a drink for all her sweetness today, Runner boy?" She asked once sat down, a charming smile adorning her face.

Letting himself be lead over to an empty table, Sagax set his cloak and the Black-Briar bottle on top. Mara's sake, that thing got warm fast. The fire is enough, thank you very much. "Well, I suppose I should get you something, hm?" He said with a half-roll of his eyes. "I'll be right back. Don't fly off with those wings of yours."

Looking through the stock of the bartender, Sagax picked out a bottle recommended personally by the tavern owner, something called Flin. Some kind of Morrowind brew, with a bottle in a style similar to the Sujamma that Roze shared. Paying up and making his way back to their table, Sagax offered up the Flin to his Breton friend. "Here you go, Miss Angel. I'm not too good with brews, but hopefully this one agrees with you."

At first glance, Roze assumed Sagax had bought more Sujamma - not that she would have complained, that stuff had tasted [i]amazing[i]. But no, the bottle was somewhat different, and when she pulled off the stopper, the scent was certainly different. Less sweet, more... oaky? She was hardly a connoisseur, but it had a scent she couldn't place her finger on. Likely something grown in Morrowind, if it was anything similar to the Dunmeri Sujamma she had found.

"Why thank you, kind sir. If only more people were as gentlemanly as yourself." She replied with a grin, before taking a swig of the unknown alcohol. Holy Hell, did it have a kick to it. Holding back a cough from the sudden harshness, Roze swallowed the liquid, and the taste hit her. Shit, it was like whiskey, only sweeter and spicier. Had Sagax just found another weakness of hers?

"Shor's nutsack, that's.... that's something else." She said with a somewhat throaty laugh, pushing the bottle over to Sagax.

Laughing at Roze's rather volatile reaction, Sagax sat down and drank a bit more of the Black-Briar. She seemed to like it despite the apparent kick. "Well, I'm certainly glad I found something else for you to add to your must-buy list!" Shor's nutsack? That's certainly a new one...where in the world did she learn those kinds of sayings?

The two continued their chatting and shenanigans, waving at people they knew and poking fun at those they didn't. More than once they imagined Farid's reaction to having his stuff yanked right out from under him, and of course "Miss Angel", "Runner Boy" and innuendos abound, to the point where several people stared curiously at the two. There was no clue to any deeper happenings, yet they continued on. Very strange, and the two knew it; it's why they kept at it for as long as they did. What's the point of life if you can't get a few confused stares out of bewildered drunkards?

Later that evening...

With the same urgency of the falling sun, the festival died down. Vendors closed shop, festival-goers retired to their homes or to the inn, the young men left the competition grounds as they slapped each others' backs or parted with glares. Like the stars coalescing in the sky, lanterns were lit and campfires went up. All was quiet for the night. Somewhere, an owl hooted, the wind rustled the branches in the trees and clouds drifted like ships around the moons in that sea of stars and void. Solveig had retired to Jorwen's tent with her mother, leaving him and Do'Karth alone at the fire. In a comfortable silence, the two stared at the flames.

It was the quiet moments like these that let memories come back to Jorwen, some like paramours, others like the plague. He was in the Great Forest in Cyrodiil at a different fire with different people one moment, then on the march in the Reach with Thrice-Pierced an eternity ago. He was clasping forearms with White-Eye before the Siege of Solitude when he took another drink of his mead and those pictures in his mind dissipated like a stone in a reflection in the water. He sighed, remembering his clash with Ashav, remembering Windhelm, remembering a dozen other resting places his friends lay.

He finally broke the silence, pushing that uncomfortable string of words into the cold, smoking on his breath, "I'm tired, Do'Karth."

The khajiit didn't immediately reply, eyes transfixed on the dancing and comforting flames that warmed him and his companion. "This one assumes it is not from over exertion. You have seem troubled today, friend. This one could not figure out why."

Jorwen looked into his cup and sloshed the last of his mead around the walls of it, not knowing quite how to form the words around what he felt. They would need to be said. Do'Karth was the closest thing he had to an old friend these days, besides Cleftjaw. "I argued with Ashav." He said, "I'm not long for this work." Jorwen tried to make it seem like he was leaving because of his differences with the old Redguard.

He tried to make it seem like he wasn't noticing every day how far he drifted from what folk knew the Red-Bear as, for good and bad. Like he wasn't noticing every day how long the list of friends he'd buried was getting. How the weight of his name was starting to make his legs shake. "Do you ever wish you could just disappear? Wake up and find that your mistakes were all a dream?"

"It is easier to disappear when one has no one. This one did such a thing, he found a way to start over and find peace with himself. We all make mistakes, Jorwen, but it is how we move on from them that matters most." Do'Karth replied, stretching out his bad leg, which was tense from the long march and the day's festivities. It was simply a reminder of mortality that never came to pass. "But you feel Ashav will discard you?"

"If he did..." he might be lost, he might be useless, "I may welcome it. I've been a warrior since I was only fourteen summers. I've been fighting my whole life, I've buried a lot of friends and the ones I haven't I make my enemies sooner or later. I'm tired, Do'Karth, tired of wandering the field after the killing's done and finding familiar faces with lifeless eyes." He stretched out a hand and made a fist of it, knuckles popping, "I was a tailor. I tried going back to it, but no one would let me. It's been so long."

He swallowed, bringing his cup to his lips and then letting it fall back down without taking a drink of it. He didn't know how to farm, he wasn't a carpenter, he couldn't remember half the techniques of tailoring his father taught him, he couldn't smith anything, much less a sword. He only knew how to swing one. And that was all.

"It would seem you have found a way to complicate your reunion with your family." Do'Karth observed. "You have lost your home, but regained the company of Solveig. You cannot return to Windhelm because of the Kamals, but you still need to find a way to support those you love. It pains Do'Karth to say, because he believes in his heart that what you say is from your own, but this war will not let you go so easily. Do'Karth did not wish to be caught up in an invasion, or freezing to death along the sea of ghosts while hunted down by beasts that defy description, but it is what has come to pass and the only people he cares about are here in this town, in this company. And yet, here he sits." He said, stirring the flames with a poker, continuing when the embers reignited with new fuel.

"It has been against everything this one has strived for, and has brought everything he wanted to leave behind... the fighting, the violence, the death. All Do'Karth wished to do was wander Tamriel until he found peace. Instead, war found him, and one does not escape the jaws of such a beast willingly." the khajiit said, resuming to work the kinks out of his leg. "The way Do'Karth sees it, Ashav cannot afford to lose you, or anyone. This one has seen those left behind and lost along the way, and how it consumes everyone. A sensible leader would try to keep all he can with him in such times."

Jorwen let out a tired, bitter breath of a chuckle, "Wherever you go, there you are." His eyes stayed on the flames as he spoke, "I want to leave the Company, Do'Karth. I'm getting too old to lead this life. I'm not the man I used to be, I'm not the Red-Bear anymore, no matter what anyone tells you. But I can't plough dirt, I don't know how to craft a table or build a house. Violence is all I've known."

He bit his lip, wondering whether to go on and if he did, wondering if he could do it without his voice turning into a quaking, blubbering mess, "I was never a good father to Solveig. There's a reason for her apprehension, Do'Karth. My wife tries, she does, but for every drop of love, I had to grovel to keep between us." His breath caught in his throat and he coughed into a fist, "I wasn't even there for her birth. I came back from the Great War before I met Halla and I was branded a criminal because I held Talos closer to me than some parchment the Emperor signed with the Thalmor. I was angry, and like all angry young men, I spread it amongst others."

"I found a sort of peace in Halla, but peace wasn't what I wanted. It wasn't what..." What he'd grown to crave, "Ulfric gathered men from all the corners of Skyrim to march with him to the Reach. I followed him, because I had more surety in life with a sword in my hand than a sewing needle. What I did in the Reach..."

Jorwen cringed at the memories of it, "Men cheered me on, they sang of me like a hero, they eyed me with respect and fear at the fires." He took another drink from his cup, "But a man can't live his whole life like that. Now I'm old and Solveig's grown. An old horse can't jump new fences, Do'Karth. I'm a warrior and there's only one fate for me if I don't leave."

The khajiit listened in solemn reflection. He knew all too well the turmoil that consumed his friend. "You'll always be the Red-Bear, as you Nords are so fond of those earned names, but it doesn't always have to mean what you think it does. Just because your name was earned through your skill with a blade does not mean that is all that defines you; the fact you want something better for yourself is better than what most men manage to achieve." Do'Karth said, looking over at Jorwen for a moment before returning his gaze to the flames.

"You were gone, yes, but you are here now, and it is what you do with this opportunity that will determine your legacy. What path is the one that would bring you redemption or tranquility? This one cannot say, but these are dark days, and Do'Karth dares say that perhaps the gods chose you for this path, even though it cost you so dearly to get here, because you will one day be needed to do what no one else can." He said reverently, clutching his amulet of S'rendarr, feeling it dance between his nimble fingers. "As Do'Karth had mentioned earlier, he was not always a good man, he learned skills for terrible reasons, but he chose not to let that be his legacy. This one wished to absolve himself of responsibility or power over another's life, and yet here he is, where his very morals and determination are challenged, and perhaps even shaken. But this one feels he is here for a reason, he has to. Why spare Do'Karth if he was not meant to do something?"

Jorwen sighed, as much as he liked Do'Karth, he was never one for praying to the Gods to solve his problems. "You don't get it, my friend." He said, his voice just this side of a whisper, "If you knew what the Red-Bear- what I've done... There's a reason that my name is cursed and feared by the Reachmen in Markarth Side and beyond. The Gods want nothing to do with me, if anything, they want to watch that blood-drunk and murder-hungry bastard waste away in his age." He folded both hands around his cup, "Punishment... or entertainment."

"In those tales from two-score years ago, the man named Jorwen you know now was far from the one he was then. If I ever met him... I'd be afraid. I didn't earn this name doing high deeds and heroic acts. I earned it by not ever being too picky who I killed when the killing got started. There was a Reachman village in the mountains to the west of Markarth Side, the only one that had access to a pass that led into the fertile valleys many Reachman tribes called home, where they were safe from the Breton Kingdoms that sought their destruction." Jorwen looked into the flames, remembering, "The Elder of the tribe in that village called for a duel against the champion of the raiders who'd been burning Reachmen by the dozens. I was that Champion. The circle was drawn in the dirt and hedged in by stones. It was a duel to first-yield. When I bested him, as I'd bested countless other Reachman chieftains, he raised his hands in mercy."

Jorwen looked down, "I talk of honor and my reputation as if it's been important to me all my life. Honor meant shit to me back then, so I took my sword- this sword-" and he patted the old length of steel at his side, "And cleaved him from shoulder to guts. I didn't feel remorse, because I had none to spare in those days. I felt what I'd always felt when I met the challenge of lives balanced on a sharp edge; Joy. Life was worth less than shit to me. No one stopped me from killing the Chieftain, from chopping his lifeless corpse like a mad butcher. No one stopped me from killing the men who were holding shields on his side of the circle. No one stopped me from burning his village down and killed his people to the last."

"All of them." He said, remembering the faces so clearly after all these years, and how he felt as if he was watching himself do it and not being able to hold back. And not wanting to. His bitter laughs and throaty, animal roars, how he split innocent farmers in two with his sword. How he choked, tore and bit at them. The Red-Bear was no hero. He was a damned mad-man. A vane, blood-drunk, prideful, selfish man. Jorwen tossed the contents of his cup to the side and shattered the thing of clay in a meaty fist, "I should be fucking dead. Some young hero should have taken my life and be sung of, but I killed all of them that came against me. Few men get what they deserve."

Uncorking a bottle of mead with a claw, Do'Karth listened to Jorwen's history, his dark past that he felt great shame for, and remained unflappable. The khajiit drank as he considered what was revealed, and found it didn't change a thing for how he perceived the man beside him. Jorwen was, and always would be, the kind man who showed compassion and welcome to a man who years before would have been a sworn enemy. "That was then, this is now." He replied simply, swishing the honeyed drink across his tongue. He could get used to this particular part of Skyrim culture, along with the shimmering stars in the sky. Had they always been this bright, this vibrant? To find beauty in Skyrim, unlike any elsewhere in the entire world, you simply had to look at the night sky.

"You are not the only person who has committed horrible acts in war. It is a part of being a soldier, no? Your skill at arms kept you alive, and presumably several of your companions in arms. You are not the man you were; you've moved on from that. Do'Karth can see that as clear as he can see the stars this night." He said, falling silent for a moment of contemplation. The khajiit's shoulders sank as he came to his decision.

"What Do'Karth will tell you is the same thing that he told Sevine many moon phases ago. She was the first, and until now, only person Do'Karth has told about who he was, the khajiit that was buried in the sands. Understand this one speaks of this khajiit rarely, not because he refuses to acknowledge who he was, but because he no longer defines Do'Karth and shall not taint how others perceive this one." he began, knocking back a large portion of the bottle, feeling the familiar burn that contrasted so brilliantly against the cool air against his skin. He continued, his voice low, as if uttering the words would unleash something that should never see the light.

"Do'Karth was born into the Renrijra Krin, an infamous and influential khajiiti crime syndicate. It is all the things a khajiit should not be; greedy, ruthless, and only concerned for its own benefit. This one does not remember his parents well, just that they were bad people who he barely knew. Do'Karth was not this one's original name, but the one he took when they trained him to be what you would call a sleeper agent. You wondered why this one is so proficient with a spear; it is because that was the weapon this one trained in to do the one job he was bred to complete. Do'Karth would be the khajiit who assassinated the Mane of Elsweyr.

"For years, this one trained in martial arts and subversion, learned arms and infiltration techniques. He later would live in Torval, becoming one of the city guards there for years, even going so far as to making friends, one in particular Do'Karth was particularly close with, a court scribe that permitted this one access to the palace from time to time to attend the Mane's sermons and court sessions. Do'Karth had met his mark, the spiritual center and leader of all khajiit, the only of his breed in all of Tamriel. He would be killed by Do'Karth's hand, simply because the Renrijra Krin wished him dead, for aims this one never knew." Do'Karth paused, his expression somber and downcast. He shook his head and continued to drink before continuing his tale. It was slightly easier to speak of the second time around, but he feared it becoming habit. The more he acknowledged the khajiit he was, the more likely he was to return. It was something he feared more than death.

"So the day came that this one was instructed to do the deed. Do'Karth had scouted his routes, knew when and where to strike, and so with djerids in hand, he waited... and struck. Only instead of the Mane, this one killed his friend... his only real friend in his life, all based on a well-practiced lie, and the mistake let the Mane live. Do'Karth was cut down by the guards, that is why his leg is still in pain to this day as you likely noticed... and this one was left for dead in a mass grave. That was when Do'Karth first heard the gods, and listened to what they had to say. They told this one how to survive, and from there Do'Karth decided to atone for who he was and what he did, and he swore never to take another life again... no matter how much they deserve it." The khajiit said, looking squarely at Jorwen's bearded face.

"You are the second person Do'Karth has told that to. This one trusts you to keep it safe, but he hopes you understand why he told you this. Jorwen Red-Bear, you are no monster, and you are not the man from the stories. You are this one's friend, and a man who wishes he'd done differently. One is not always defined by what they had done; it is what you choose to be that matters. Do'Karth is no longer the name of an assassin, a deceitful murderer. His name now belongs to a wanderer who wishes to see Tamriel and find peace with himself. What are you?" the khajiit asked.

Jorwen looked down at his hands. There were few hands that had more blood on them, and unlike Do'Karth, his enemies weren't all a world away. Jorwen's enemies were on his doorstep in comparison, walking among the living somewhere, chewing over their old feud. Sons of warriors, brothers of warriors, fathers, someone spiteful. He'd taken wives from husbands, daughters from fathers, someone out there was ready to do the same to him. How Do'Karth managed each day was a feat to Jorwen. The one thing Do'Karth had on Jorwen was the Khajiit wasn't wading through the blood of others, laughing like a banshee and crooning for more for twenty-some years. But killing a friend is something Jorwen knew about, too well.

He looked to his friend, "I'm sorry." For everything the Khajiit had went through, but also for himself, and he looked back to his hands and made fists of them before letting go, "But I just don't know. I can't forget what I've done, my friend. Once you've blood on you, you can't wash it all off. Three-score years of it doesn't leave you. I've enemies still, and the only consolation is no matter my age or health, I'll always spit a challenge in their face. My Name won't let me do anything short."

"Who said anything about forgetting?" The khajiit asked with a bemused smile. "You have done what you have done, and nothing will change that. The lives you took will always be with you, until the end of your days. A life is a heavy thing, and consequences seldom choose to spare one from their actions, but it is how we carry on in spite of that that is what truly matters. You became who you are because of what you had done, just as Do'Karth has become who he is because of who he was forced to be. It doesn't mean that it has to define us moving forward.” He explained, setting down the bottle by his feet. He brought both hands in front of himself, as if he were holding an invisible box as he looked to his friend.

"To build a home, you must lay down the bricks, layer by layer.” He said, his hands moving to accentuate the point. “The ones on the bottom are the heaviest to bear the weight of what comes after. When all is said and done, at the end of the journey, you need to be able to look at the house you built and be proud of it, despite the imperfections and cracks. Perhaps your foes will catch up with you seeking vengeance, perhaps they have moved on, understanding the cost of war. You will face them if it comes to that, and when that day comes, you should be at peace with the man you are." Do'Karth said. The bowl of whale stew he had plundered before finding the fire earlier was left untouched, an alluring but foreign scent lingering in the air, colouring the atmosphere most inquisitively.

Jorwen nodded. The two had an understanding of each other that most fairweather friends at the tavern couldn't dream of. The empathy of warriors was a strong bond. But so was the vice of killing. Some men grimace at the taste of blood, others seek it out like a drunkard to wine. No matter how much Jorwen tried to bat away Do'Karth's words, they were the ones he most needed to hear. Through the whispers at the fires, the accusing looks he'd get from time to time when his name became known, through all the memories telling him he was a monster, Do'Karth was the only one telling him he was a good man. Fallible and flawed, but what else can a man be?

Despite that though, Jorwen knew it would take much more convincing. Do'Karth's other words also rang clear and true- he will always be the Red-Bear. Some part of Do'Karth was still the man he was, a man is made from all the things he'd done, Jorwen knew. Every last thing. Jorwen sighed, "I say this time and again," The old Nord looked to his friend, "Take care of Halla and Solveig. You're among the very few I can still call a friend."

"Do'Karth gave you his word, and he will die before it is not kept." Suddenly, Do'Karth broke out into a small chuckle. "You realize, you are perhaps the reason this one didn't find a way to escape Windhelm the moment Frost Demons materialized? Force me to befriend you just to look after your family, the nerve!" he teased, smiling warmly. "You were the first person Do'Karth really felt a kinship with in my travels. People come and go... but something about you made this one want to stay. Perhaps the wild hair gave Do'Karth the impression that Jorwen was a really small mammoth and was fascinating."

Jorwen laughed while he looked around himself for another cup that wasn't in pieces, picking one up from the ground and checking it, he said through stray chuckles, "Someone has to do the damn deed." He poured himself another cup and took a drink, "I try to be as kind a man as I can each day. Maybe it's my way of distancing myself from what I was. A Nord's friendship is no charity; believe me when I say that I would draw a blade for you." He held a scraggly lock of hair and gave it a few soft tugs and smiled, "It's partly what I'm known for. Most Khajiit I've met in my life were trying to kill me, perhaps I was only showing kindness to you because I was afraid you'd do the same." He joked.

"Kill the hand that feeds? Not good survival instinct, this one thinks." Do'Karth laughed, enjoying the lighter turn of the conversation. "Within moments of you greeting Do'Karth, you shared a meal with him. It is not something this one will soon forget. Food is one of this one's vices, always on the lookout for something new and satisfying.” He said, sparing a longing glance to the stew beside him. “And Do'Karth believes you would fight for him without hesitation, but this one would never ask you to kill. That would be hypocritical." Plucking the cooling stew from the log beside him, Do'Karth took a few tentative bites, the fatty chunks of meat and salt exploding with flavour. It could use sugar. He chewed thoughtfully, consuming the portion before asking, "What was it like, fighting Do'Karth's people? He understands if you do not wish to revisit those memories, but this one is sure you understand when he is curious about matters related to his homeland."

"A Nord never shies away from tales of battle the same he never shies away from the act itself, my friend. We're so damn fond of bragging we give each other hard names over it." He chuckled.

"One wonders how one earns the name 'Cat-Kicker'. Such a mystery, no?" the khajiit grinned.

Jorwen shrugged, "Earned Names are supposed to be simple. They don't insist on themselves, outwardly trying to scare you. You don't find many men calling themselves 'Manslayer' or 'Bloody' if they've ever seen a drop of the stuff, much less their own." Jorwen smiled, "Cat-Kicker was never fond of Khajiit. I knew of him when I wore Stormcloak blue. He wasn't liked, even if he was fighting for Ulfric beside us. If there's one thing a Nord hates, it's a man who doesn't have the honor to stay on one side. I may have been a Legion man for a time, but I never betrayed them. I faced them openly and proudly." Jorwen sniffed and spat away to the side, "Rumor was he'd killed a Khajiit that looked like a housecat by stomping it to death. Coward couldn't have found one his size, I guess."

"An Alfiq." Do'Karth confirmed. "They look like domesticated cats, but they are as intelligent and personable as this one is. Some are even accomplished mages! It is a shame they are unable to speak, people often mistake them for pets. Perhaps one day Do'Karth will be the one this Cat-Kicker faces, and this one will ensure he is known as Cat-Kicked from that day on."

Jorwen chuckled, "Small as cats and big as men? Your kind are odd to this man. Now..." Jorwen's head turned upwards then, his mind stretching back a ways, "The first time I saw your people was when I was a bugle boy and tailor in the Legion. We were camped at the foot of the Jeralls at night and I awoke to yells and cries. A few of the big furry cat-men crashed out of the bushes, hissing and spitting and growling."

He nodded, their faces contorted with anger and bloodlust still standing out so clear, "Fear, that was the first thing I felt. I ran and hid. As time went by, I stood in the ranks against Khajiit and Altmer alike. For four years, we slunk through the forest as well as your people and their soft footfalls. I admired how those Khajiiti soldiers could appear like lightning from the forests around and I adopted the tactics." Jorwen smiled something fierce, a bit of his old pride showing through, "I aimed to make the Thalmor feel the same fear that I felt. Your people never left me. In the Civil War, men were surprised how well I could lie in wait and crash down on the enemy without warning, especially being as big as I am."

He hiked up his shirt and pointed to the jagged line of pale scar in his ribs, "Your people almost fucking killed me!" Jorwen laughed, "Straight into the lung. If it weren't for the battlemage with me, you would never know who Jorwen was."

"And Do'Karth would have been the poorer for it." He smiled warmly, able to picture the scenes Jorwen described, the khajiiti warband tactics, the controlled feral ferocity that embraced their feline predatory natures. Some khajiit liked to joke that if khajiit were not gifted the sugar, they'd have ruled the world. There was an odd source of pride about a man Do'Karth respected choosing to learn from the khajiit instead of simply looking at them as subhuman vermin to be eradicated.

"As a man who lived under the thumb of the Thalmor, Do'Karth can assure you that the Altmer refuse to believe that a man could ever outwit them, or possess more honour and skill. They treated us like their subjects, something to be spoken to out of necessity instead of respect. It is that hubris that lets our people, and yours, defeat them, and they refuse to learn from their blunders. It is satisfying." He gazed into the fires once more. "This is the only war Do'Karth has been a part of. He had not expected his enlistment to turn so... severe. He wishes to see the world at ease, like it was a few short weeks ago, not the chaos Akavir has brought. This one knows you have lost so many friends, and this one is sorry. Do you feel they are in Sovengarde?"

"A man can hope." He nodded with a sad smile, "If they are, they will welcome me after I wrestle Tsun to the ground at the foot of the Whalebone Bridge in his warrior's test. I can only hope they will welcome me with open arms and I may make amends with those I've sent there myself. Shor knows I've sent him some good men."

"The altmer girl I knew, Vurwe, she was Thalmor. Or is. She had a sharp tongue and an aura about her as if she was too clean for this world." He laughed, remembering her fondly and wondering just where that bitch had gone to, "I can't imagine living under that. What was it like?"

"This one has heard about some Planes of Oblivion, and all of them sound more pleasant than the company of Thalmor." Do'Karth grinned. "Oppressive. They force unjust laws, their Justicars make people disappear in the night, claiming they were plotting treason. Curfews. We were little more than sword-fodder to them, beasts to be tamed. But you cannot outsmart khajiit. We were here in the beginning ages of Tamriel, before the elves arrived, and we will outlast them. Like the sands shift, so do we. We adapt, we learn, we thrive. It is the way of our people." He said fondly, feeling pangs of nostalgia for his homeland. It had been so long since he felt the dry desert air, the taste of warm water upon his tongue, the smell of the moon sugar plantations that made home what it was. "This one doesn't suppose they would allow me to visit you there from the Sands Beyond the Stars... it is a shame there is only one life to spend with those we care for." He lamented.

"Aye." Jorwen nodded and regained his smile, "But that makes the time we have better. Too much of anything is like too much drink. Speaking of..." He poured himself another cup, "Like you asked me, you must have spent a fair bit of time in Skyrim before stumbling into me. What are my people to you?"

"Proud, boisterous, honourable. Do'Karth never truly knew what Nords were like until coming to Skyrim. You all seem to be warriors, fixated on song and martial prowess, you need to prove your worth constantly, and to step back is to admit you're wrong or weak. It is strange, for people so fixated on conflict, you are all capable of such loyalty and love. Your communities, family, brothers in arms... Do'Karth thinks most Nords would gladly give their lives if it saved someone they cared for. Some Nords look at this one and not see a person, simply a creature. Others have opened their homes and hearts to Do'Karth readily and provide him with companionship and understanding. You seem to be a people of polarization, where things must be one way or another with little middle ground or discussion." Do'Karth replied with a smile. "And no, this one was not in Skyrim long before coming across you. Perhaps a fortnite? This is all still so new to Do'Karth."

"Aye," Jorwen sighed, "It is a shame we pick our leaders and heroes from the most prideful and spiteful stock instead of those who would try the handle before kicking the door to pieces. But that is how we are. In a land like this, you must be strong. We're known for our bloodletting, I hope for a day where we can be known for more than hard names and hard words of hard people."

"Change starts from acting on a decision." Do'Karth said. "If you are concerned about the fixation on earning a name, perhaps convincing Solveig she does not need to prove herself would be a place to start. This one worries about her; she makes it hard to keep her safe at times."

"If she is as much like me, there is no stopping her until she's gotten what she's wanted." Jorwen put his arms out, "I'm a man whose been fighting all his life-" and he let his arms drop, "-Solveig is her own woman. I can't turn her from her path any more than I can change where the White River flows. I was like her in my youth, too ready to bleed Skyrim dry for the thrill of the battle. I can only keep her from dying or going too far as I did."

An amused snort escaped the khajiit's muzzle. "Then Do'Karth supposes it will be an interesting journey until Solveig figures it all out. Fret not, Jorwen, Do'Karth will keep an eye out for her." he promised. He crooked his head, looking Jorwen in the eyes. "Excuse this one for his impertinence, but Solveig may be forced to endure as difficult of choices as you had faced in this war. She may have to do whatever is necessary, even if it costs her dearly." Do'Karth cautioned, sighing as he brought the bottle of mead to his lips. "If you truly wish to know what Do'Karth has noticed of your people and learned from all of your words and songs, it's that you cannot live without carrying the shame of your actions and need to be reminded of it every time one speaks your names. You, Sevine... all of you, such heavy burdens with so little breath."

"Men don't learn from their mistakes, my friend, I have learned that too well." Jorwen sighed, "I knew a man named Black Sutt. He's a wiry, evil shite of a man. Sometimes I envy the way he can piss on remorse and sprinkle honor to the wind. Sevine is an honorable woman, the story of her Name is still in the bounds of vengeance. An eye for an eye. I'm only glad she learned that vengeance is a stray fleck of piss. It does nothing but make the dirt one life richer." Jorwen shrugged, "A baker makes bread, a carpenter makes tables, we make dead men."

Do'Karth raised his bottle slightly in a toasting gesture. "And doubtless the stories will carry on throughout the ages. Tell this one, were you inspired from heroes and their names, before you went to the war?"

"I was afraid of my father's endless flux taking his life and trying to scrounge as many Septims from the gutters to keep the tailor shop afloat to care about heroes. Perhaps once or twice I'd hum the Song of Talos or one of the verses from Fidulf's Edda. Each time my father gathered the strength to stand and hug me when I came home was a deed worthy of a hero in my eyes." Jorwen shook his head, "I traded fear for my father's life for fear for my own once we crossed the mountains south. I was scared, angry and tired every day of my life for four years down there. It changed me." Jorwen's face sunk, he hadn't talked of making men tremble in fear and respect in ages, and it felt wrong now to do it, "When I came back from the war, we were hailed as heroes. In Ulfric's war, some men had it that I betrayed myself wearing Stormcloak blue. I wasn't inspired by heroes long gone, I felt I was standing with heroes, or at least big Names. There's still a part of me that's proud that mine is among them."

His head hung low and gulped down some of his mead. "Now, I feel... ashamed. Our greatest hero in our greatest time of need is now our greatest oppressor. If I were younger, I would perhaps take up arms to wrest the throne away from him and give it to someone more deserving." Jorwen snorted, "That'd make something for the songs. The Red-Bear and all the other hard Names going to war against a tyrant. But I couldn't subject Halla to me leaving for another war. Nor a hundred-hundred other wives. My father once said that once things get bloody, you've lost already."

"Who can truly know such a figure's intentions? You simply did what was necessary at the time. It is no fault of your own that this oppressor formed from the shade of a necessary and great hero. Perhaps it will be another fight for another man, inspired by your name." Do'Karth said softly, turning his gaze to the flames. "Everything goes in a cycle, no? The truly important lessons are never what passes on, and the horrors of war and the reality of it all is forgotten when the next one who proclaims himself a savior or uniter or whatever pretense they have arises. Do'Karth is a stranger to this war business; his past deeds were quieter, more selfish. But he's seen his share of people who have come and gone, and regardless of their race, it is the same story etched on each of their faces. Do'Karth sees it in khajiit, he sees it in Nords."

Releasing a long sigh, the khajiit shook his head. "And decades from now, when this war has come and gone, ancestors will look upon the names of those who fought with admiration and wish to be like them. And so, all of this will just be the fuel for another fire. It makes one wonder how the elves have such a taste for it after living for so long."

"I'd never get tired of life if everything I did was right in every way unlike everyone else." Jorwen chuckled and then sighed, still smiling, "My side of the bedroll is getting cold, I think. Farewell, we'll meet on the morrow, eh?"

Do'Karth nodded. "This one looks forward to it. Rest well, Jorwen. Do'Karth wishes to stay by the fire for a bit longer. It reminds him of home." he smiled softly, pangs of meloncholy tugging at his heart. Jorwen stepped off, his footfalls far more silent than one would expect from a man of his stature, leaving the khajiit to his own devices by the fire that was dwindling at the night pressed on. Reaching for a pouch concealed in his budi, Do'Karth released the drawstring and the sweet scent of moon sugar filled his nose. Sprinkling some in his stew, he replaced the pouch and lifted the bowl, setting down to enjoy his meal before he turned in to find Sevine in the inn. For now, it was a chance to recenter himself, and soon the euphoria of the sugar filled his veins, giving Do'Karth the chance to meditate on the events of the past several days with clarity he would never be able to achieve otherwise. On one hand, his heart broke for Jorwen's struggles and fears, but like a great wolf in the fields, Sevine's face turned to him with the most genuine smile he had ever known.

Do'Karth smiled, in spite of himself. He found his peace at last.

---

Having left the Inn, and as fate would have it, missing Ashav by a mere minute as he left, Daixanos continued to look around for the recruiter as vigilantly as he would stalk an Elk on the tundra. The Argonian bounty hunter soon was lost in the large crowd however, the hunter now stuck in the middle of jovial merry making and uproarious laughter. More than once he saw a few Nord children looking at him and pointing. He wouldn't have minded as much if it weren't for the fear and disdain on their scrunched up human faces. While most would have shown visible affront to such actions, his visage was as stoic as always. It bothered him not at all, truth be told, if the insults were only at his expense. But he knew his entire race was in danger from such prejudices.

Raelyn was, reluctantly, playing "Ragnar the Red". To amuse herself she had changed some of the lyrics to see if anyone noticed. She changed the line "When he met the shield-maiden Matilda" to "When he met the Held-maiden, Fatilda," but no one seemed to notice. She wasn't sure why this song was so popular, she knew at least twenty other songs where a woman stabbed or beheaded a man. This theme had always unnerved her. They never asked for a nice song about how a woman fell in love and no one killed themselves.

When she'd finished, she gave a flourish of a bow, padding her coin purse appreciately. She'd been charging a few septims more to play during the festivities and it had worked out well. When she lifted herself, she noted a Argonian of all things. Knowing that it was unlikely that one lived in a Nordic village of all places, she figured it was a safe bet that he was a part of Rashavs little mercenary band. She politely but sternly denied some further requests to play, somewhat less politely at another request to play Ragnar the Red.

She burst from a crowd sideways, ending up in stride next to Dax, strumming in tune with their step. "An Argonian in Dawnstar? Doesn't your blood freeze in this climate?"

Dax's purposeful walk slowed not at all when the strange woman suddenly trailed beside him. He gazed forward for the most part, only giving her a slight glance in acknowledgement as she strummed her instrument. He couldn't tell if she was making fun of him or asking an honest question. He decided to answer honestly. "No." he said simply. "I've lived in Skyrim for years now. We Argonians are used to harsh climates, hot and cold. Though this took getting used to, I suppose."

Raelyn glanced over, saying cheerfully, "Can't say I'm quite comfortable with it myself. When your climate creates wraiths the Nine Divine purposed to freeze men, then perhaps its a might too cold. Or, perhaps, the climate isn't too ill fit to live in but we're too ill fit to live in it. The Nords seem to do fine, but I also saw one try to saw a log into a horse saddle once, so perhaps their opinion doesn't hold much water. Or ice as it were."

She considered the Argonian. He was being rather frank. Was he freezing up to being questioned by a stranger? Rashav might have asked him not to speak to anyone outside of the group, but then what of Jorwen? Or perhaps she was having trouble reading an Argonian. Their facial expressions were always alien to her. Did Argonians have facial expressions?

Dax decided to turn back to the Inn, knowing that Ashav would eventually need to go back there eventually. He was eager to know when the next assignment would be underway. The pay was good, but what he truly wanted was more action and more purpose. He was an Argonian that preferred adventure over idle discussion. He suspected the woman would continue to follow him, so he decided to at least humor her. "What brings you to this city?" he asked idly, deciding to be polite if nothing else. Usually he did not care for even that, but Argonians were being treated far harsher these days. He thought he might appreciate someone who was more curious than prejudice.

"Good food, good drink, men willing to give both freely in exchange for music. The finer things in life." she looked to the crowd around them, a whistful gleam in her eye, 'I also heard some mercenary company left here for one reason or another. After hearing stories from Windfell refugees, I thought that their story would make as good a song as any. Unfortunately, the only mercenary I managed to find...who stayed behind, for some reason or another, had a story about how they turned into a Red Werebear on the full moon. I can't say as to whether or not the stories true, but it was substantiated by at least two drunks and a priest."

It was at that point they had arrived at the foot of the Inn. "Mercenary Company?" he said, though the question was just as much of a statement as a a query. "It seems odd fate then." He kept walking, pausing before he continued. "I've just joined a company that has just arrived back to the city. Perhaps they are one and the same."

Raelyn grinned, "What a coincidence, that. Think any of them would be talkative under a bit of drink?" There were two things that Raelyn could always be sure of. Alcohols ability to loosen tongues and that at least one Khajiit in town was always selling Skooma, even if that town hadn't seen a Khajiit in weeks.

She rose a brow at the Inn, "An Inn? Very forward of you."

Dax gave her a near unreadable look, and kept walking. "My employer might be in the Inn. Ashav." he explained simply.

Raelyn grinned, adding a spring to her step, "Doing well enough to take residence in an Inn? That's near decadence as far as soldiers are concerned. So you're bringing me along to meet Rashav? Hope you're not bringing anyone else along. You know the old saying. Two's company, three's a crowd, and four's just indecent."

Finally, Daixanos the Argonian halted just before the front door of the Inn. He turned to Raelyn, and looked her straight in the eyes. "I am a lizard man," he deadpanned, then continued forward into the Inn.

---

Whereupon she finally crossed the threshold of Windpeak Inn, the sun had long set after her duel with Sadri, the sky now veiled in the abysmal darkness, embroidered with bright, twinkling stars. The moon had lost its ominous blood-red color, and her nerves were at rest for once. Did this signify a turn of events? Had it been a warning from the Divine of the approach and inherent invasion of the Kamal? Besides the fact, whatever it may be, Sevine made her way over to the bar counter, and settled onto the worn barstool. When Thoring had a moment to spare, he sidled up to the weary woman, and leaned on his elbow.

"What can I get for ye?" He asked.

"A room, if you have one. And a mug of your finest mead." After the exchange of currency, and the alotted room, Sevine sipped readily on her frothy mug of chilled, sweet-honeyed mead. Her nose tickled at the scent of spices used, and as she raised it to her lips, she felt the tension in her muscles fade. After quenching her thirst, Sevine turned in her seat, eyes sweeping over the cheerful interior of the inn, searching for any of her companion's she knew, even Leif perchance, strangely enough, she did not see him anywhere. It would not bother her for now in the least, as she presumed him to be resting. The poison arrow he received from the falmer left him in a weakened state, luckily, Sebastian, Roze's Nord friend from the College, and attended to him the best he could.

Elmera swirled the clear liquid rum in her glass, watching the tiny waves lick the sides of the container before she took a drink. It was absolutely mesmerizing, her crimson eyes fixated on the motion when it resumed. She had just signed a contract that could potentially give her a new life; perhaps she wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. The thought still lingered, of course - what if one of them found out and somehow got her? What if somebody recognized her or they needed to do work in Morrowind? It was all very unlikely, but she knew that this might not last forever. For now, she had somewhere that she could belong and there would be less rules than there were back home.

A Nord woman took a seat at the bar nearby and Elmera turned her head, quirking an eyebrow as she leaned back against the counter from her stool. She rested an elbow on the wooden surface and gave a nod for a greeting. Mead wasn’t the Dunmer’s drink of choice, but she could understand the draw of its simplicity. There was just something more alluring, for her, in the art of nursing a beverage that had a stronger kick to it.

“Evening,” She greeted, looking the Nordic woman over. She looked familiar… But not incredibly so. Elmera paused for a minute, maybe it was just because she had hair like that brute who had insulted her earlier. Eventually, all of these Nords ran together and looked like one person, shouting about their birthright and fighting for the homeland and winning their honour. It was a bit refreshing that this one hadn’t proven to be so boisterous yet, though perhaps time would tell. She was alert and her eyes were cutting through the bar, which was gradually growing more crowded, clearly on the lookout for something.

“Quite a festival, huh?” By the Nine, how Elmera abhorred starting small talk. But she couldn’t continue just being some spectre in every town she visited - especially if she was going to be with a group that needed to feel she was worth trusting. Might as well start with a stranger, right? This was a big festival and it was rare that a Nord of any kind would sit within two seats of a Dunmer unless they had to, so being cold and unsociable to this woman would only make her less approachable.

”Evening. Quite some festival, huh?”

The words cut through her mind like a knife through warm butter, turning her head in the direction of the voice, she discovered the source, a Dunmer woman with a peculiar look in her eyes, a feeling that reminded her of herself in years gone-by, though this woman appeared older, perhaps close in age to Sadri? It was hard for her to discern with Mer, they aged, gracefully?

“Hullo,” she returned, a pleasant smile coming over her, “aye… After the turn of events of late, a festival is most welcome. I've only visited Dawnstar once before, and this is a side I've yet to see.” Her piercing gaze swept over the woman, studying her with an intensity that would make a babe cry.

“Sevine, The Huntress, as some of my kin call me. I’ve not seen the likes of you around here, are you attending the festival or are you with the company?” She figured that it would be best to make nice, unless of course this woman wasn't looking for casual pleasantries.

With a pause, she finally responded. “Elmera. A pleasure to meet you,” She replied cordially, pressing her cool glass to her lips before taking a moment to revel in the rum’s taste as it ran down her throat and gradually to her brain. A shiver ran down her spine and Elmera shook her head, “I actually came here to join, since you mentioned it. Signed on only a short while ago with Ashav, he seems quite proud of what you all have accomplished.”

The Dunmer woman’s fingers drummed lightly on the counter. “It certainly seems like the kind of town that doesn’t get so worked up this often. If I’m not mistaken, it sounds like you’re one of my new ‘comrades,’ Sevine. So, perhaps you’re more willing to fill me in on what to expect here than Ashav. He seems to be quite the busy man and mercenary work is a new field to me, I’d be quite grateful for some insight.”

“Welcome aboard then.” The Huntress nodded in response, yet her eyes drew away to stare into the bottom of the wooden mug she cradled gingerly in her hands. What should she tell Elmera? There were several lines of thought that seemed to shout all at once in her mind, where she ended up running her fingers through her bangs with a heavy sigh.

“The pay is good, when we get paid. And the company is close, everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows who they don't care for, so some folk just avoid those. You’ll see what I mean when you get the chance to meet Cat-Kicker. Not the nicest fellow in the group, nor the brightest...he's a hard man to be sure, I just wouldn't like to find myself on his bad side.” She paused here, and allowed herself a small smile, as she reflected on how Roze came into the company, and Dumhuvud had singled the Breton woman out, and even how she had stepped in to put a damper on his banter.

“Allow me to warn you now, we have lost many in the company, either through desertion or death. The missions we are assigned, are not for the faint of heart. Death is prominent, it lurks behind every door, in every cave, every city, and in the eyes of those who wish to see us dead. I...hope that has answered some of your questions?” Sevine asked, tipping her head to the side, and gazed steadily at the Dunmer woman.

Elmera gave a small smirk and chuckled, shaking her head as she took another sip, closing her eyes for a moment. “Sounds like my kind of group… And I should be so lucky that death is hiding behind a door. I could use some excitement,” She muttered behind the lip of her cup. The crimson-eyed Mer sighed, her mind flashing back to those she had lost… Why couldn’t it have been her? Ugh, what bothersome thoughts to have at a time like this. She took another drink and asked Thoring if he would please fill it back up. It was now that Elmera realized she had been drinking a little bit faster than usual - usually her nursing took a while, but she just downed that glass in a matter of about twenty minutes.

“It does answer some questions, thank you… So, you seem to handle all of this death pretty well… I’m still a little bit hazy on how you Nords get your names, but with one like Cat-Kicker, he sounds weaker than he undoubtedly means to.” She rolled her eyes, “On the other hand, you really act like you’ve got yourself together. That’s good, strength is certainly an admirable trait to have. Where do you come from, then? One of Skyrim’s holds, I would imagine?”

Therein, a pained grimace came over her at the mention of Nord names, “We do not choose our names, our folk give them to us. It is based on what choices we make, but not every one receives a name. Cat-Kicker is not a weak man by any means, but his name comes from what he did. They are literal in a sense. For he kicked a cat to death, and not any mere house-cat, Elmera, Dumhuvud is his name, but he kicked an Al’fiq to death. Stomped the poor creature until not a breath left its body.” Downing the rest of her mead, Sevine motioned for Thoring after Elmera had her glass filled.

“Bring me a bottle of wine.” She said, fetching the coin from her pouch and slid it towards him. When he returned with the bottle uncorked, she poured herself a glass, and carried on.

“There is a reason why my folk call me the Huntress. I earned it through the war, but that is the besides the point. As for where I hail, my kin come from Falkreath, the mountains thick with pines, and mist just as dense. ‘Tis a beautiful place. Tell me, where do you hail from? Do you call Skyrim your home like so many of your kind do?”

Elmera shook her head, “How pleasant. I try to stay to the South and on the roads in this country - the mountains are… Not particularly to my liking,” She said, her voice trailing off. Again, she shook away the thought, “I can handle some cold, but not like that. I was raised in Morrowind, not a particularly interesting story. I’ve studied magic for quite a large portion of my life. Though study may not be the right word; I’m not so much an academic as I am a practitioner. My knowledge comes from a little study and a lot of experience. A few burns and shocks here or there, some angry fellow Apprentices from time to time…”

The woman nodded, figuring the story sufficed, for it was true. “I miss home sometimes. The land was mottled with browns and greys, but it was mine. The people aren’t so spiteful as our appearance would suggest,” She noted, fully aware that their crimson eyes and dark skin could be off-putting to strangers. “Otherwise it was a nice, simple life. I moved because I was tired. I may be old, but I’ll not be a slave to boredom,” She said with a cheeky smirk, raising her glass enthusiastically before taking a swig.

Sevine listened intently to Elmera’s words, it was interesting to hear Morrowind described, it sounded...dull, without color, almost like a wasteland, and she knew little of the culture. Perhaps she could ask Sadri, or that journalist, Madura?

“Back to the topic at hand, though… You earned your name in war, you said? How was that? Are you simply a particularly good marksman, or more of a tracker?” Elmera asked curiously, quirking an eyebrow.

The question caught her off guard, she had expected the woman not to touch the subject again, but, if asked, she would not turn down anyone. “Both. When I was but a lass, my Pa gave me a bow and quiver for my birthday. ‘Twas all I wanted to do, every day, I rose before he woke, finished my chores, and by day-break I was out in the cabbage patch, notching my bowstring, fingers straining to hold the arrow in place, and to aim it true. Many years did I spend, practicing the bow, when I turned seventeen, I felled my first deer without Pa, and carried it all the way home. It was a wretched winter, and Pa had fallen ill, ‘twere only Pa, my little sister and I, so without him, without me, we would have starved to death that winter. I knew every track of the animals that roamed the mountains there, and I could tell a footpath from a game path. When the war came, my skill at the bow were put to use, that is also where I learned to wield an axe for the first time. You could say that it is a mix of my hunting, and from the bloodlust I developed on the fields of battle. There was not a foe that survived in my line of sight. But that still does not say where I earned my name. It is an even longer tale, one that I do not like to tell in full.” She paused once more, this time to take a deep draught of wine. She had talked at a great length, but this woman did not know her, and for whatever reason, she felt compelled to disclose this much information as is. Was it the Dunmer woman’s age that comforted her? Perhaps. Such people often possessed an aura of wisdom.

“One night, as I lay sleepin peacefully in my tent, the Imperial’s swept through our camp, many were injured in the aftermath, and I, myself, suffered a grave wound, an officer of the Imperial Legion wielded a poisoned blade, and for many nights I laid awake wandering in and out of consciousness. When I recovered, I slipped away from camp, and tracked down the Imperial squadron that had attacked us. I waited for three days in the bushes, and when I caught the officer with his pants down around his ankles, I struck him dead with my arrow. A week later, my brother and sister’s in arms congratulated me, and thus that is how I became The Huntress.” She sighed, thankful the war was over, and thankful that she had survived so far.

“Now tell me, what brought you to our country? And tell me this, what forms of magick do you wield?”

Elmera nodded, listening intently to the story as she drank her rum. It was hard to tell when one of these so-called ‘Earned Names’ was from a dark story or a lighter one. This sounded more or less like one that was earned through hardship; good, those were the ones that she thought warranted such a tradition. “Thanks for sharing,” She said honestly, thankful that the drink could replace her itch for the Moon Sugar sitting quietly in her pocket. At least, it eased her mind for now. She wondered if she was the only one in the company who partook and how quietly she would have to do it. The question then turned to her and she knew that this was going to be difficult territory to traverse after the alcohol.

“I suppose that’s only fair, eh?” She asked with a small laugh, scooting to sit up a little straighter, “Well… I came here because, like I said, I was growing tired. My family was small and after my father’s passing, it felt like the only thing to do. I wanted to move on, go somewhere new, start a new life. I didn’t have a lot of people back home after he died, you see, because I spent much of my childhood as an Apprentice. When I returned home, I worked humbly to earn my keep and the rest of my time was spent taking care of my studies.

“My mentor was a rather well-rounded sorcerer, but I took to the School of Destruction early on. Of course I’ve dabbled in a few, but… there is no greater feeling than the power you get from this one. To wield electricity… Or fire itself in the palm of your hand is to feel specifically blessed by the Nine,” She said, staring at her hand as she flexed her fingers into a fist and opened it once more. “However, that said, it can also be quite dangerous. I was not well-liked among my peers when it came to practicing magic… I’ve had my fair share of accidents experimenting beyond my capability.”

“Perhaps one day, you could tell me of your ‘accidents’, depending on the sensitivity and the severity of course. I am unable to wield magick, or at least have never tried. I know the usefulness of it, especially in restoration, yet, the destruction side of it, while wholly enthralling, is as you said, dangerous.” She said, nodding in agreement, it felt good to know another woman with the same mentality so to speak, they were both humble.

The Dunmer took another drink. It was nice to have company; after all, Ashav had been such a professional conversation, but Sevine seemed personable, even if she was a little bit physically intimidating. Looking straight ahead, to the other end of the bar, Elmera rolled her shoulders, “So, are you waiting on anybody here tonight? I mean, you’re in the company, of course, but anybody specific that you will be meeting?”

“I, uh… Yes.” She blushed a deep shade of rose red, almost matching her tresses that hung over her shoulders in a warm veil. “I have...a close friend, I purchased a room for tonight, spent too many nights sleeping in hammocks and on the floors of caves to not take the chance when it presents itself. I offered to share it with him…” Her voice trailed off as her mind wandered to Do’Karth.

“I do have another friend, Leif Raven-Stone, proud Nord man he is, but I shall worn you, he is with the company, and a sly fox when it comes to women. He is loose with his words, and will try to bed anything with legs and breasts. Now that I think of it, I haven't seen him since I went to go look for a few select members of the company.”

“Leif is it? The Red-Bear paid for a room to put the blubbering fool asleep in.” Thoring grumbled, over-hearing their conversation, or at least her mention of her comrade. “He was tied up in knots over some woman that wronged him. Said a lot of mighty big words for a man of his size, I'd hate to be the lass to handle him when he wakes.” The inn-keeper turned away to carry off a platter of food to a table in the far corner of the tavern, leaving Sevine with a foul taste in her mouth. She squirmed in her seat and suddenly rose, “Elmera? I'll have to bid you goodnight friend, it was a pleasure to speak with you, I know I'll be seeing you with the company.”

Shutting the door quietly behind herself, Sevine settled onto the edge of the bed, the soreness of her limbs finally came over her, and she felt utterly exhausted. Squeezing the mattress like a farmer when purchasing new stock, she discovered it to be thin, as it were filled with straw, and offered a covering of wool, along with a stitched dual-layered wool blanket, sufficient in keeping the cold out. Not the best mattress, but it sure as hell beat sleeping on the cold hard ground. Reaching up behind her neck, she fumbled with the knotted leather cord, and therein it unravelled, loosening her leather armor. One by one, her layers of armor came undone until she was standing in nothing but her trousers, and tunic, boots cast aside in the corner of the room. For the first time in a long time, she could tell how dirty she was from the dark brown marks in the creases of her elbows. Running a finger along the nape of her neck, she discovered an equal amount of grime. Shuddering in disgust, Sevine searched her room for something to help remove the muck, and to her avail, she found a wash basin, along with a pitcher full of water, and neatly folded, a wash cloth. There, she slipped off her trousers and tunic, and pulled the single wooden stool up to the basin. She set about removing the dirt from her skin as best she could, even going so far as to pouring some water over her head so as to clean her hair.

Meanwhile, Do'Karth had entered the inn, the revelry having died down as most of the townsfolk and visitors had either turned in for the night or had passed out from intoxication. Those who remained awake in the Windpeak Inn were seated around tables and flickering candlelight, their quiet voices and shadows dancing upon their brows giving them an air of conspiracy. The khajiit stepped gingerly over one man who was curled up on the floor by the central fire pit, clutching an empty wooden pitcher as if it were a stuffed bear, and it became immediately apparent to Do'Karth he had no clue of the room Sevine had secured for the two of them. The inn keeper was nowhere to be seen, as were any of the servers.

This one supposes khajiit are sneaky for a reason., he thought, his bare feet quietly crossing the hardwood floors. Picking a room at random, he lifted the handle and released the latch, and peered inside. A heavily bearded man, shirtless and overweight, was passed out with vomit encrusting his dark beard, the remainder having missed the mark of a pail entirely. Do'Karth scrunched his nose and silently closed the door behind him, suppressing the urge to gag. He'd known for a long time that his nose was far more sensitive than a man or mer's, and it was moments such as this that he regretted that fact considerably. Grabbing a half-empty mug of some liquor, Do'Karth took a swig, desperate for relief from the Plane of Oblivion he had witnessed.

Bracing himself, he was about to try the second door when he heard the creaking of wood and several forceful grunts. Wisely, he elected to pass that room. Curiosity killed the cat, after all, and the lingering euphoria of all the moon sugar in the world wouldn't spare him from the embarrassment of interrupting sloppy and ill-coordinated lovemaking.

Door number three. With a sigh, the khajiit manipulated the handle and peered inside.

Sevine sat inside with a wash pail, and his eyes widened as he very quickly surmised that she was very much so naked. Do'Karth blinked, once again grateful for the coat of fur across his face to conceal his embarrassment. Still, it was clear she was comfortable enough around him to be in such a state; she knew he was coming eventually.

"This one was not expecting you to be this forward. It would seem the amulet had an effect." He said, stepping inside while closing the door behind him and securing it. He stood before Sevine, still garbbed in his budi and coat. Setting his staff against the wall, he shyly looked away. He was not accustomed to the intimate company of women, much less a human. Strange sensations filled his heart, attraction and awkwardness alike. He was attracted to her, of course, but the ingrained taboo would be hard to shake.

Finding herself clad only in her barest of undergarments, she arose with a start, a rosy hue upon her cheeks at Do'Karth's sudden entering of the room, she had expected him of course, but not this soon. Perhaps it was the mead that she drank in the company of Elmera that time seemed to have warped, in a sense that she had forgotten it completely.

"Ah! I, uh, forgive me!" She cried, all but finished now with her cleaning, and immediately ventured to her pack, where she knelt rustling through the wooden frame rucksack. "I did not expect you so soon, Do'Karth. As for the amulet...well, what can be said of that?" A smile graced her lips as she carried on with her rummaging, careful not to upset the orderly packing she had painstakingly done.

Finally she retrieved what she sought, a green linen dress. An odd choice, surely, for she had yet to wear it once since traversing the hold to the Reach for the first mission. Stitched with love and care by Liliana, it was her most treasured item, save for Do'Karth's amulet. Slipping it over her head, and straightening the light green fabric, Sevine turned to face him, unsure of what to do next.

"I... I invited you to share the room with me, well...since the outcome of today, and I thought, that perhaps, we could sleep beside one another? I have no experience in sharing the bed, so I figured that, we may begin there in the least, and spend what time we have left in the night talking, unless, you have other things in mind?" She suggested, her palms were slick with sweat, and she wished that she hadn't used the entire pitcher of water in bathing herself.

"Yes, Do'Karth thinks that would be desirable." he replied, still unsure of how to navigate the situation without seeming like a fool. He cast his coat aside on the back of a chair and approached with trepidation, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Forgive this one, he, ah, is not accustomed to intimacy. He wishes to comfort you and know you, and he remembers you like to touch his fur, yes?" Do'Karth said, extending his hand for Sevine to take. "What has been on your mind, Sevine? Did you find those you sought out after we parted ways?"

Joining him on the bed, Sevine at first sat down far from him, as she would if he were a friend, then when he offered his hand for her to hold, she reluctantly moved closer to him, her heart beat so loud, she found it hard to even think, let alone speak.

"Do not worry about intimacy, for I am just as foreign in that realm, as are you." As she spoke, she cradled his furred hand in her own, stroking the striped, rust colored fur tenderly. "I did find those I sought, the first being you, as you would know, but the second person I sought were none other than Sadri Beleth. I too, thanked him for coming to my aid as well in the cave. He fares well, and we even partook in a duel. I have to admit, without it being a life or death situation, I acted with over confidence, and he bested me in the end. Moreover, he is a delightful fellow. Then, just now, I spoke with a Dunmer woman, perhaps the same age as Sadri, by the name of Elmera. She is a delightful woman in the sense that she is old, not elderly, but there is an aura about her like Sadri, one of knowing. But..." Her voice trailed off, suddenly remembering Thoring's words.

"There is another matter of great importance... Do'Karth," she brought her voice to a whisper, as if there were ears pressed to the walls outside the room, "Thoring, the innkeeper, mentioned Leif. He said that Jorwen, Red-Bear as he called him, bought Leif a room, and carried him off to bed. He said to me, that he was tied up in knots over a woman that wronged him, called him a great big blubbering fool. I think... he saw us, and he is sickened with rage. For now he sleeps, so it would seem, but I worry of the morning to come. If I know Leif, and I do, I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach... He may confront the both of us. And as Nord tradition goes, he may challenge you to a duel. Have you seen Jorwen this evening?" Her eyes were heavy with worry, as she peered into the amber orbs of Do'Karth's, they glittered like precious gems in the candlelight. She knew in her heart, that while Do'Karth could handle himself, as she had been a witness to his agile moves in combat, she worried for Leif. While she knew she did not love him, she also knew that she did not wish to see her friend end up hurt, or worse.

Do'Karth nodded slowly, accepting what was being told to him. He had seen brashness in Leif, and how he regarded Sevine. "One does not fall in love without being a little brave, no?" Do'Karth smiled sadly. "Do'Karth knows of this tradition, and how Leif will likely wish to settle his grievances with this one in that manner. This one will accept this challenge if it will help him regain his honour and sense of self." He gazed steadily back in the emerald seas of Sevine's eyes and he gently squeezed her hand within his own. "This one senses your worry, not just for this one, but for Leif. While Do'Karth cannot promise either of us will remain unscathed, he will try to avoid causing serious harm. This one will never forget his generosity in Windhelm, and how he has been close with you for many moons. It is regrettable that he feels such agony, but it will pass. Pain always does."

"But yes," Do'Karth continued, grunting as his leg began to throb from the day's exertions once more, "Do'Karth has spoken with Jorwen, not of Leif... both a great many other things. He is a friend this one cherishes, and he feels a debt of gratitude to him and his family. Do'Karth promised to watch over Solveig for Jorwen, to keep her safe. This one hopes you do not object to his oath." he said with a soft smile. His thumb traced along Sevine's knuckle, fascinated by the smoothness of her skin.

Shaking her head in dismay, Sevine reached up with one hand, and cusped his cheek, the pad of her thumb smoothing the fur into place, "I worry for you both yes. I worry at the loss of a friend, and at uncertainty. If he is as injured as Thoring suggests, then perhaps you are right after all, only time can mend wounds of broken hearts. As for Solveig... do not worry about me, for I like the woman quite well, and I admire Jorwen just as much. If you swore an oath to look after her, then I will see to it that you uphold it." Sensing his pain, or rather that he was in pain from the tonal exertion of his grunt, her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Are you hurt?" She asked, her eyes breaking his gaze and swept over him, inspecting him for any visible wounds.

"You honour Do'Karth. Together, then." He said, blinking at her suddenly concerned expression.

"Oh, this? Old wound, spear through the back of the calf. It didn't quite heal properly, so it causes this one pain from time to time. It can be easy enough to ignore while fighting or in life-threatening situations, but it always catches up to Do'Karth." He placed his hand atop hers on his cheek reassuringly. "After Snow Demons, icy seas, dunmer soldiers, and Falmer, this one has gotten lucky to have not picked up any permanent injuries."

"Here, allow me." Pulling his leg across the lap of her dress, her fingers prodded with care at the muscles in his calf, she could tell from the light presses how tense the muscle was. "It would do you well to apply a warm poultice every now and then, if feasible. There was a remedy my mother used for my father after he spent a long day in garden, though I know it not, I can write to my little sister and ask her, Pa kept it written in a journal that we still have, or at least so I hope. This is the least I can do, for even the weary nights as a soldier were a cause for sore muscles." As her fingers worked the muscle gently, she glanced at Do'Karth from time to time, as if stealing glances to make certain what she saw before her.

"Now tell me, for I have talked at a great length. Is there anything on your mind?"

"There are warm things in Skyrim? This one was beginning to wonder." Do'Karth joked with a chuckle, sharply inhaling as Sevine's hands worked the tense muscle. "You would be doing Do'Karth a great kindness if you could inquire." he said, catching her eye as she glanced up at him.

"Oh, this and that... how a kind yet fierce Nord woman saw something alluring in a khajiit, how a wanderer ended up in the strangest and most awful war of an age, lost friends. There are many things, many without answers." Do'Karth responded, looking around the room, knowing full well he had not expected to be this far North even half a year ago. "Something about you made this one feel safe enough to speak of what he has not to anyone else... you made Do'Karth feel right at ease. It was something he had not expected, and since that day, he could scarcely think of anything else."

Nodding in a knowing fashion, her fingers continued to massage the muscles in his leg, again, her eyes flickered to Do'Karth's, "I could ask the same of you. I cannot say what it is about you, perhaps the feeling of your gaze, or the way you address me with such kindness, as well, for you are not another man trying to bed the famed "Huntress". As to what attracts me to you, I cannot answer, for why does the moth flutter close to the flame? Yet I know why I...favor you," the last word came out strange, as she were unfamiliar herself with what word to use, seeing as how she had never loved someone before. "Of all the others that have come before me, that have fawned for my attention, it is the fact that my name, the name they have given me, does not draw you to me. You did not seek me out for the fact that I am, the Huntress, but you sought to heal me. You did not prey on me in my time of need. And so, something in my heart, a kindling of a fire that I did not know could be kindled, was set aflame. Do'Karth... I do not know if I have told you, but I have never lain with a man or woman, nor even the thought of the notion of love. I considered it so foreign, and strange, that even in my youth, I did not act like the other young girls in Falkreath and spend my time doting on fanciful stories of romance. No... Love is foreign to me altogether, save for the sole exception a familial love." Her hands had worked themselves up to the knee, and began to inch closer to his hip.

"Now, when I think of you, my heart skips, and my head to my toes feel light, as if I am walking on air. I suppose this is what those girls believed love to feel like. You too, bring a sense of peace and security to me, one that is like a gentle warmth over my breast, one that makes me happy to open my eyes every morning so far. Mara has blessed me with you, I think, for my faith in her." Here she smiled a smile full of warmth and depth. Then she withdrew her hands and stood.

"It is late now, I have a feeling that Ashav will want us up early for the next mission announcement. Let us spend what is left of the night lying beside each other, I am curious to know how I will handle sharing my bed for the first time. If you are not tired, speak to me still, until our eyes close." She teased playfully, bending to pull down the wool blanket on the bed.

It had not even occurred to the khajiit that anyone would only want someone, let alone Sevine, just for their name and reputation. What he saw in her was a good person who had endless compassion for those she came to care for and a sense of duty that often put herself in harm's way, not the woman who hunted down and murdered her assailant in cold blood in war time. What he had said to Jorwen stayed true; Nordic fixation on earning names was a strange practice that made people do foolish things, be it in search of a name of their own, or someone who has one. The truth seemed to get lost somewhere along the way.

It was such a strange and wondrous feeling to have Sevine say the kind things about him and speak of her feelings, of what brought her to his embrace. There'd been an attraction almost immediately after they met, and it was strange and uncharted territory. Do'Karth had gone his entire life without seeking affection and love, just his duty and subsequent redemption. He had been afraid to let anyone close to him, as he had ultimately been the death of the singular person he'd befriended outside of the Renrijira Krin, and the cat he was before his rebirth from a literal grave was someone he never expected to speak of again. And yet, here was someone who, with a total stranger from a race her people tended to despise, trusted him enough to not only let her mend her wound caused by assailants that wished her dead, but to speak of the truth of her name, something that she had told no other soul.

And so, like an iceflow blocking a stream, his resolve and shame began to erode until he needed to tell her the truth of him; the kind khajiit who only wished to be of service to people and knew medicine that had saved perhaps a dozen or so life during the siege was not all he appeared; he'd once been a part of an ugly cancerous growth in Elsweyr's underworld, and he had been trained to kill the Mane without hesitation, all for riches and prestige. But Sevine just listened, not afraid or scornful for his deceptive persona that he'd cultivated for years, and she did something remarkable;

She took his hand and embraced him. The gods gave him a second chance, she said, that S'Razza would have been proud of the khajiit he had become.

It was then that Do'Karth realized that this Nord woman, one famed for her ferocity and vengeance in war, who had a curiosity in khajiit to the point she needed to touch their fur, whose hair was the most bright thing in Skyrim, was someone he could not live without. He watched Sevine prepare the bed after standing off to the side, and he helped tuck the blanket on the side closest to the wall. She thought it was Mara's blessing that brought him to her, as he felt the same for finding the company, finding her. It was certainly where he knew he belonged, and this would not be a fight he would leave others to fight, not when he found the one thing in his life that mattered.

Both crawled under the sheet still garbed in their clothing, and while the bed was small for two people, neither seemed to mind. Do'Karth stared into Sevine's eyes, her face still bright in his eyes as if it were day. It was something that was unique to khajiit, and he often thought others would feel envious if they knew what they were missing. "Do'Karth would never seek to take advantage of anyone's vulnerability, and especially never yours." he brought a hand to her arm, gripping it gently. This one recalls you that day in the graveyard, wounded and bleeding, fleeing away from men who sought to murder you. Do'Karth didn't think that he would expect something in return for helping you, you were someone who needed it, and Jorwen and Do'Karth could keep you safe. This one would have done the same kindness for anyone, and he has. It always seemed that no matter how many lives Do'Karth would eventually go on to save with his skill with healing, it would never even the weight of the one life he took. But you showed this one that the thing he desperately needed to believe, that we are not just defined by our past mistakes, and could one day find acceptance with it. Instead of pushing Do'Karth away, you pulled him closer, and for that, there are not words that would suffice for his gratitude."

His words filled her heart with an intense feeling of serenity, now knowing that his intentions were always pure, it brought tears to her eyes, and she could only bite her lip in response.

Moving closer, he pressed his forehead against hers and took the amulet he had given her into his hand, its weight all too familiar; how many times had he grasped it for reassurance and guidance? "This looks good on you, like it belongs." he purred, closing his eyes. Even away from her chest, he could hear the thumping of her heart, a comforting rhythm that he would always listen for.

“I treasure it greatly, Do’Karth. Certainly, there have been others that sought to give me a token of their affection, but never did I accept them, nor did I care for them. This...this is a symbol of something greater, something deeper. One that binds me to you. I will never lose it, and here it shall always stay.” With that, she covered his hand with her own.

As a silence came over them, Sevine found herself slipping her feet between his own, interlocking them, and just as he had caressed her arm, she returned the favor by letting her free hand wander to the only open patch of fur visible on his body, right at the hollow of his throat. There, she traced the softness of his fur beneath her fingertips, admiring the stripes she had never noticed, even toying with his neatly braided beard, rolling the bead that held it in place between her fingers. Sleep came like a shadow over her mind, filling it with weariness, for the musky scent of his body filled her nose, and the warmth radiating off him, warned her own being. With drooping lids, she fought sleep for as long as she could, solely desiring to keep gazing into Do’Karth’s eyes, and then, sleep overcame like a heavy blanket.

---

The timid, milquetoast Breton would have looked odd in a rural Nordic town to an attentive eye, but at such a time of celebration, attentive eyes would blur and swirl with alcohol, and trace fairer, more lust-inducing curvatures than those of Marcel’s lines. As if his inner mundane had decided that seeping through his face, expression, and specialties was not enough, it had also decided to show itself by using Marcel’s physique as a vessel. He wasn’t bad looking – in fact, one could call him quite handsome, but his sex appeal could only beat something as inane as concrete. Fortunately for Marcel, he wasn’t looking for a lay – he was merely seeking employment, partially because of a lack of drive, and partially out of a sense of gratitude. This mercenary company had after all saved his life – whether from disgruntled mages or starvation and sickness was unclear, but they had. And he believed he could pay back, for after all, ‘magicians’ of his sort were in quite short supply.

He looked for the mercenary leader in the stalls and the streets. Eventually, tired, he made his way to the tavern where he resided, sitting on a stool. Surely Marcel could notice him. He could do that.

Ashav was having a merry good time defecating in the inn's outhouse. He felt quite refreshed after relieving himself of a three-day long constipation. As he was about to reach for the cleaning supplies, he found only empty dissapointment.

"Thoring! Come back here!" Ashav shouted, face reddened in a rare occasion. He would rather face the tavern owner, or one of his employees, rather than exposing his filth-filled orifice to the whole wide world like a certain journalist.

"Anyone? Please!" He shouted again, more desperate and possibly for tavern patrons near the door to hear. If this situation was somehow a prank, he'll have the prankster's head for such crappy humor.

Marcel sat, with the patience of an aspiring prophet waiting for divine revelation. He sat, for what, to some others, may have felt like eons – but Marcel was one of the select few people that could actually discern it as about ten minutes. He waited, and waited, until he heard a cry for help. Only then did he get up, for it was important to help people, so he was taught. He moved through the drunken crowd in the tavern, and the cries for help got louder the closer he got to the back exit. Outside, on the grassy plain, there was nothing but some empty bottles, fences, and an outhouse.

Always a good empathizer, and having suffered from diarrhea in his childhood, Marcel ran back into the tavern to get a jug of water, a corncob, and a sponge. Going outside back to the outhouse, the Breton slowly placed these things on the ground and slid them with the side of his foot from underneath the door.

‘’There!’’ Marcel said with a slow, quiet voice. He wanted to be enthusiastic, for that was usually the best mood when talking to people, but how enthusiastic could you be with a man lacking essentials in a toilet?

Someone actually came for him! It was the voice of a good Samaritan, not Thoring or one his employees that brought him sanitary salvation. "Divines bless you." Ashav shouted to the man beyond the door, assuming the man was still beyond the door (they might be in line for the toilet). The Redguard cleaned himself to be best of his abilities with the sponge, then ran out of water halfway through hand rinsing. There was no soap, but Ashav got used to that a long time ago.

After what seemed to be the longest minute, Ashav stepped outside more or less clean. For some reason, the Breton that delivered the supplies still stood around there. "Thanks for help." Ashav acknowledged him. "Name's Ashav, and tonight's drinks are on me." He stuck out his hand to shake, but he realized there were still bits of filth he didn't wash off; Marcel already shook it at that point.

‘’It is a pleasure to help,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he grabbed the man’s hand for a shake, and released it to witness crispy pieces of brown amidst his fingers. Thankfully being mentally fit enough to make the connection, he thanked his master, Diarmid, for reminding him to wear gloves whenever possible, and made a mental note to rinse the glove good with lye.

‘’I am Marcel Gawain, pleased to meet you. So it is you who leads the famed Company that led the expedition to Winterhold. I have to say, I am in your debt. It was your men that led me out of there,’’ Marcel said as he walked back into the inn alongside the man. ‘’In fact, I was planning on signing up. I have been out of work for far too long. And I would be proud to say that my repertoire of skills aren’t found easy in this region, let alone the rest of Tamriel,’’ Marcel said, as he flicked a finger at Thoring the Innkeeper for attention. When the man refused to budge, Marcel got up, excused himself to Ashav for a minute, and walked over to the counter to ask for some soap and two bowls of hot water.

Thoring responded in record time, probably because of the danger of dried feces on his table and the dirty look Ashav gave him. Hot water bowls and soap appeared in no time, and Ashav breathed a relieved sigh washing his hands. "That's more like it." He thought out loud. Then noticing Marcel's dirty glove, Ashav applogized. "Hope I didn't ruin it, it looked like good leather to me."

Having then dried his hands on a towel ripped from Thoring's bar, Ashav turned to what Marcel suggested. "You want to join up?" He asked. "My company extracted you from Winterhold, correct? And I assume that repertoire of skills consist of magic?"

‘’Oh, not at all, sir, these gloves have had to deal with much worse,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he removed his glove and took the soap and dipped it in the water to start scrubbing. Indeed, these gloves had been smeared with blood of various strains in the past, having protected Marcel against blood tainted by Sanies Lupinus, Porphyric Hemophilia, Sanguinare Vampiris, and the ever-rare Noxiphilic Sanguivoria. Mere feces would be nothing compared to what these gloves had gone through.

‘’Yes, sir, your company helped me get out of Winterhold, hence my wish to join. And I suppose you could say my skills count as magic – only of a different sort,’’ Marcel said, drifting off towards the end. ‘’I’m afraid I’ve never been much good with regular magic. I have been told that I dampen magic, as well. I was mentored by Diarmid Goupeville, a Hunter of abominable beasts. He taught me how to manipulate magic itself, as opposed to shaping it into forms, be they harmful or helpful, like a regular mage would.’’ Marcel took a breath, scrubbing his glove good. It was covered in bubbles by this point, and he poured a little amount of water on it to wash it off.

‘’To put it simply, sir, I turn magic back – halt people from disturbing the Earth Bones, in a way. I’ve been a hunter of such disturbances for almost a dozen years now. I’ve fought various sorts of rampant mages, were-beasts, undead, witches, vampires, and things still worse,’’ Marcel said, checking his glove. It seemed clean now, but he began scrubbing it again, just in case. ‘’And, on the way here, I have heard that these calamities these lands are suffering are because of forces long forgotten to Tamriel. And I would like to help, sir. Spending anymore time amongst those mages in Winterhold could have been harmful to me, or them,’’ Marcel said, chuckling lightly.

Much worse than human excrement sounded like something Ashav doesn't want to know, we'll, unlike it's going to affect mission integrity. He doubted things like troll shit or monster remains could get in anyone's near future. Of course, what the Breton man presented in his verbal resume confirmed the fact his gloves once sifted through the worst Tamriel has to offer. Ashav watched the man methodically scrubbing his glove clean and described his encounters with patience. This witch hunter appeared calm and orderly at a glance, something Ashav absolutely appreciate following the fiasco with Jorwen. But what disturbed him was the fact Marcel somehow disrupted magic of all kinds. He could already see magic users such as Keegan, Tsleeixth or Elmera raising concerns with such person beside them. On the bright side, he'll enjoy being called sir a few more times.

"Where did you get them?" Ashav pointed to the gloves absentmindedly while pondered on a potential contract. "I could have our quartermaster procure a few sets like that."

Having made up his mind, Ashav first ordered a round of drinks for himself and Marcel, only did he talk when half a cup of water went down. He paid Thoring up front for both beverages to make true of his promise earlier. "If what you said is true, then you have a very unique skill set." Adjusting his gaze on Marcel, Ashav talked with hand gesture. "And given how you alter magic, there are side effects some colleague might be concerned with."

"I have no employment suiting you at this time," Ashav shrugged, "but if you are planning to stay around in the next few days, I might be able to find you work." Tapping the table to signal the end of the conversation, Ashav asked Marcel once more if he wanted to order anything else. As the Breton in front of Ashav started to leave, another came in. Ariane made her entrance just time, because Ashav will need someone to make sense of the magic mumble-jumble.

‘’I see, sir. I can understand your concern, and I can see where you are coming from. I haven’t worked much alongside larger groups of people and, now that you have mentioned it, I can see why my presence could hinder the company at points,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he patted the glove on the side of the table to get the remnants of soapy water off. It seemed quite clean now.

‘’I believe I shall stay here for a few days. I don’t have a destination right now, but it’s not hard for a man like me to find employment in times like these, especially in a land such as Skyrim. I would nonetheless appreciate if you informed me of possible contracts.’’ He got off the table as the Redguard made gestures that signaled the end of the conversation. As he walked to leave, he suddenly turned to answer Ashav's question.

‘’As for the gloves, sir, I bought them from a tailor in Skingrad. He was a man named Gerich Varo, quite a skilled worker both with leather and cloth. Anyhow, let me not dabble any further,’’ Marcel said, following his words with a small nod of respect, and then proceeding to walk out of the inn.

---

The festival was decent for a change. Keegan liked the whole aspect of people not killing each other and semi-palatable food being readily available; the event scored a five out of seven in his books. Fine afternoon teas felt like a life time away, which had only been thirty years (could have been an actual non-elven life time). Recent hardships tossed all hopes of regular luxuries right into Oblivion. Keegan might as well be reliving his prisoner days, fighting for every scrap of food and bedding.

After personally collecting payment from the jarl's steward (as he didn't trust Dumhuvud with his money), Keegan bought what seemed to be salted whale blubber and walked as he ate. There were talk of Argonians forcibly evicted from town premises. In times like this, Keegan shuddered just walking past a back alley.

"Ooo, shiny..." Keegan gasped at a golden glow in the said back alley. All fears of danger vanished, only to be replaced by curiosity and a little hint of greed. He thought it could be a glittering jewelry.

"This one got you now!" Came the maniacal laughter of a Khajiit bruiser. Decked out in metal armor and brass knuckles, the oversized cat nearly rivaled the Altmer's own height. This man wasn't Do'Karth or Rhasha; last Keegan checked, they had better senses of humor.

"This got to be the most creative debt collection ever." Keegan sighed. Yep, it's about time his debt comes knocking.

"You know the drill; money or your life." The Khajiit demanded. Two more punching bags emerged on cue, both without tail.

"Right right," Keegan said casually, "how did you do that glow anyway?" Sizing up the bad guys, Keegan could no longer find traces of what initially ensorcelled him.

"A magicka mirage magnifier." The cat patted his chest proudly. "This one is very smart, yes?"

"Sure, very smart." Keegan waved. His wave contained magic. Suddenly, the non-Khajiit enforcers fell under an illusion. "Hey, your crotches are burning!" Keegan shouted as he released mind tricks from his hands. Immediately, the Khajiit's minions dashed away in terror, screaming about non-existent fires and patting each others crotches in the process.

"Well played," the cat mock clapped, "too bad though, because this one got magic warding." He pinned a surprised Keegan by the shoulders against a wall, restricting the mage's hands, and his casting abilities by extension. "Any last words before Muh'ali caves your skull in?" The Khajiit hissed. His features were angry, ugly and scarred like a typical villain. However, Keegan could not make out much of it in the dimming lights.

"Uh, help!" Keegan decided to make his last words, well, hopefully not last words. With the festivities dying down, he banked on someone capable hearing his cry for help.

As if the gods had heard the altmer's pleas, or a passerby in a busy festival happened to be going by the alley in the diminutive village at that moment, Muh'ali suddenly barked a surprised and pained yelp and backed off of Keegan as his arm was pulled behind his back and twisted against the pressure points. Do'Karth, having just left the inn after meeting with Tsleeixth and the newcomer Dax, heard a commotion and came investigating. he was surprised to see one of the only altmer he'd seen in the company being accosted by another khajiit, and it simply would not do; he'd worked hard at giving his people a better image in people's eyes by trying to be something other than a thieving or murdering brute, and here was a large and ugly Cathay harassing someone he served with. Do'Karth wasted no time in descending upon the assailant and taking matters into his own hands.

"This one thinks you have the wrong mer, yes? Move along, enjoy the festival." He said calmly, as if explaining to a drunken friend that he was being an idiot.

"Quite the contrary." Muh'ali shook his twisted arm in pain. "You've picked a bad time to meddle; Muh'ali the champ will flatten both you and the elf shit."Seemingly unfazed by Do'Karth disabling one of his arms, Muh'ali swung the other in intricate flourishes. "This one was champion of both the butterfly flow and the bee sting."

It was a clumsy attack, given that his free arm had a limited range of motion to reach the khajiit behind him. Do'Karth ducked under or weaved aside the jabs and elbows and landed a savage kick to the rear of Muh'ali's leg, buckling it. The Cathay was larger and stronger than he was, but he certainly knew where it hurt to get hit. Do'Karth put more force into torquing the captive arm. His voice grew into a much more threatening tone, "Move along, or you will not have the choice."

Muh'ali's last ditch was a savage headbutt to Do'karth's face. Given how the larger Khajiit was wearing a steel helmet, this hit sent Do'karth reeling with a headache to remember. However, Keegan was longer helpless at that time. The Altmer had recovered from being pinned and managed to unbuckle his staff from its bindings. He swung the dwarven metal straight into Muh'ali's midsection, jotting the Cathay back and then applied a generous dose of electricity. These combined attacks put the big cat down on his back, who scrambled away with a series of rolls and crawls; figuring he clearly got more than what he asked for.

"This one and his allies shall return." Muh'ali spat once he put a safe distance between himself and the mercs. "Your debt will catch up to you sooner or later, Keegan Vasque." With that, the champ turned tail and hobbled away.

"Hey, thanks for the help." Keegan managed to mutter after the incident. He nodded to his savior and then glanced around cautiously, seeing nothing beyond Do'Karth, started to walk back out. Just then, he found a slip of paper laying where Muh'ali fell in the brawl. It was a bounty from Daggerfall city authority, who promised 1200 gold coins for his live capture or 600 for his dead body. Near the bottom of the ledger were tacked on handwriting, ones that were strikingly similar to Horace Fontaine, his former patron. The handwriting cautioned whoever went after Keegan to be aware of shallow physical resistance and abstruse arcane abilities. Keegan snorted at shallow physical resistance, something he begrudging admitted as true.

"Great." Keegan threw his hands up and shook his head at Do'karth. "Would you believe it, they hiked my price up again." In midst of a war against otherworldly foes, a bounty upgraded to dead or alive is the last distraction Keegan hoped for.

Do'Karth removed his fingers from his skull, which stung to the point it felt as if it were on fire. The strike had momentarily blackened his vision and the smell of copper filled his snout as the strike cut a small gash into his forehead and his sinus felt like a small amount of blood pooled back there. His fingers came before his eyes, a damp redness discolouring his already rusty-coloured coat.

"This one thinks you need new friends, and perhaps that he should have not had a few drinks in him before coming to your rescue. Who was that?" the khajiit asked, looking around for a rag to hold against his forehead.

"A debt collector. They're typically human but I guess the reward attracts everyone now." Keegan answered. He didn't like sharing these kind of details with people, but there was also no point hiding it when it became plain. "I was scapegoated in horrible accident. The most elites of Daggerfall were my patrons, fairweather friends, now blame me for burning down a theater; something I did not do." He showed the Muh'ali's paper to Do'Karth, who either didn't bother to read or couldn't read at all. No matter the case, Keegan explained further. "Daggerfall Theatre belonged to Horace Fontaine, an influential minor noble who happened to be Ariane's uncle. I suspect Ariane is here to spy on me. This has been what, the fifth time they tracked me down. Similar thugs assaulted me in Windhelm; nose breaking seems to be their preferred approach. How come another country and a mercenary company can't even stop them? I'll never get away from..." It felt good to finally find someone to vent his frustrations, his stress and his worries. Keegan talked on for a few minutes, arms flailing emotionally.

The Altmer went silent when he noticed blood trickling out of the Khajiit's nostril. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to..." Keegan cleared his throat while passing the armiger scarf to Do'Karth. The Altmer had little first aid experience, but he had seen Karth fixing wounds of both self and others. "Are you alright? I believe there is an apothecary nearby." Keegan cautiously placed a hand on his comrade's shoulder, something he picked up from other mercenaries. It seemed like Do'Karth's eyes struggled to focus on what's ahead.

Do'Karth blinked at the reaffirming touch, it was an unexpected gesture from a mer he had not become acquainted with before, as if Keegan were roping him as a potential ally in his own personal struggles with the bounty hunters. He took the scarf appreciatively. "Do not concern yourself with Do'Karth, he's suffered worse. All blood is is a reminder to do better next time." he said, smiling. He was surprised that Keegan opened up so honestly about his troubles; the khajiit was wondering if perhaps he had an air to him that made him seem trustworthy to total strangers. He found a close friend, a paramour, and now... whatever Keegan would turn out to be. It was rare to meet altmer outside of the Dominion, and those that were were more often than not affiliated with the Thalmor. "To be fair, it is hard for a company to stop something they do not even know is a threat. This one feels he should take offense, for he bleed to stop your rather sizable adversary from collecting you." he teased. "But fear not, you are in Do'Karth's company. He will stand by you when they come back."

He stopped in his tracks, placing a hand against the building they were walking alongside, the timber from bracing him as he held the scarf against the gash. The burning headache and mild intoxication, and whatever other damage the strike had done, had made him somewhat dizzy. It would pass, but the many factors were not encouraging. "Many pardons, Do'Karth's head rushed so suddenly. A moment, if you would."

Keegan felt awkward for a moment, he had not intended to disclose so much about his past. He started to frown when Do'Karth teased but got around the lighthearted tone a moment later. "I...thank you." Keegan scrambled something that sounded grateful. He never got the hang of thanking people. "You help a lot of people, and I shudder to think what would happen if you haven't came along."

Seeing the Khajiit stopping to brace himself against a building, Keegan stopped with him and stood close. "Not at all." He assured Do'Karth. "What can I do to help?"

"If one can be of use, why shouldn't he be?" The khajiit replied rhetorically, blinking stars out of his eyes. He was regaining his sense of balance, but the hit had been rather jarring. "There is nothing this one requires, he simply was looking out for a companion in a tight situation. He would think you would do the same, yes? It is simply enough to enjoy the festivals. Do'Karth has not seen anything such as this before." he admitted, looking around at the crowds and the hanging coloured lamps. "Things are somewhat different back home. Where are you from, Daggerfall?"

The words of his Khajiit comrade brought back memories when Keegan watched his mentor die. Honestly speaking? He's a coward, plain and simple. But he had since then vowed to not let those he depended on down. "Yes, you are right. We in the company watch out for each other." He was hesitant to say it, because Keegan could not picture himself in harm's way helping others, like Do'Karth demonstrated more times than he could count. "I'll lend you my spells whenever you need." He rubbed his shoulders and brushed the textures of his stowed staff. "But I think I am going to need to improve with polearms, the physical skills, if we keep taking such contracts." Keegan hinted for Do'Karth training him, but didn't want to ask directly.

"Uh, yes." Keegan answered , not sure what else to say. "I've lived in other places before, Fir-" He halted himself mid sentence. Do'Karth didn't need to know that much, not now, at least. "Wayrest before that, before it was a pirate nest." Shifting his head uncomfortably, Keegan took in the last strands of sunshine and decided to change topic. "It's tough fighting on foreign soil." He remarked. Involuntarily, goosebumps grew on exposed skin as temperature dipped. "Do you ever get homesick? For Elsweyr, or where ever it is. I heard the moons are sacred to your people, did the bloodmoon nights scare you?" The words slipped out of Keegan's mouth like rapid fire spells. He forced his curiosity down, lest he became as nosy as Madura. "At least the festival is, well, nice. Though I wouldn't try the whale blubber if I were you."

The look in Keegan's eyes when he mentioned needing to improve with his physical staff prowess made it fairly evident that Keegan was asking Do'Karth for help; he was literally the only one in the company who fought with a quarterstaff, and the technique for spear combat was different enough that the skills weren't directly transferable in a lot of ways. The khajiit let the unspoken request hang for the time being, instead nodding at the prompted inquiry of if he missed home.

"This one does think of Anequina from time to time, it has been years, and this one does not consider it home any longer. A wise man once said not to waste your time looking back, it is not the way you are going." Do'Karth replied, heading back into stride with Keegan, feeling sure enough on his feet to walk in a straight line after having a few moments to recover from the blow. "Jode and Jone, or as you might prefer, Masser and Secunda, are what determine what breed a khajiit becomes by the moon phases. The bloodmoon does not bother Do'Karth, although khajiit communities might take it as a bad omen, mainly since the phases directly effect our births. This one's been walking the sands of Tamriel for over two decades, he needs not worry what he will become." he chuckled. "Do'Karth intends to try a bit of everything. One cannot decide if they like something unless they try it, no?"

"Interesting." Keegan nodded. "Altmeri teachings, um, propaganda, say the moons can be bent to power magic. I wonder if the invaders was the cause behind this." Noticing Karth regaining coordination, Keegan resumed his normal pace. He wandered through a few streets without direction, then decided to head back to the inn and snag a room before none are left.

"I don't know how you could live on the road for so long, as myself never got accustomed to long travels." He said. "I especially don't like ships," reminiscing to the journey just earlier this week, "they are shaky, rough, irritating and the salty stink gets everywhere." Keegan found himself rambling on again, he's going to relearn his small talks if he were to be called an adept of speech.

"When you've been away from home for so long," Keegan slowed down again so that he wouldn't reach Windpeak before he finishes, "you start to forget all its problems and develop an ideal nostalgia for it."

The Altmer suddenly began to wonder about the Khajiit's age. Non-elven people aged like dogs (or cats and lizards), or that's what his tutor told him. "You have been traveling for two decades," Keegan decided to ask indirectly, "did it start on your own or with a family." Keegan then remembered something relevant from the newspaper. "Have you heard what's going on in Elsweyr? The Mane had been assassinated and there's a civil war right now; north fighting south."

"You misunderstand; Do'Karth has only been alive for around two decades. It has only been a few years since he started to wander..." the second part of Keegan's statement took Do'Karth aback; he'd heard rumours, but nothing reliable. In the end, it didn't matter if he succeeded or not in the assassination of the Mane; it would seem that the gods wanted him dead rather badly. It left a sinking feeling in Do'Karth's gut, like his failure and subsequent path of redemption were meaningless if the result was ultimately the same. The civil war, however, was entirely new to him. He'd heard of fighting, but nothing of the sort being described. He stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling very tense. "This one just thought they were words in the wind, nothing of substance... he had not heard of the war between Anequina and Pelletine, and he did not believe the assassination... there are no words, but this one is thankful he has no family to fear for. Just the soul of khajiit." he lamented softly.

Keegan got more questions listening to Do'Karth, but he decide to let them rest for now. "I don't know how true they are, but that's what the newspaper Madura brought in said. I believe it's called the Tamrielic Gazette. Have you read one?"

Now nearing the inn, Keegan checked his purse to make sure nothing was stolen. "The pay wasn't too bad this time, eh?" He changed topic briefly, wondering if the Cat-Kicker distributed the money to everyone. "Do you have a room?" He asked politely. It would be rude to hog the only room when there's someone else needing it. Keegan guessed they could draw straws, if it came to that.

"But I believe the Gazette's due for another issue tomorrow." Keegan said, trying to recall the schedule, if there's still a schedule in a war like this. "They say there's a power struggle on Summerset Isles, and more than the typical politicking in High Rock." Walking onto the inn porch, Keegan felt a little sorry for the refugee tents in the distance. "But there's no use worrying, is there?" He dismissed the concerns. "You should ask Madera for a copy tomorrow, he always receives them first, and then Dunmer's tolerable if you don't let him lead you into questions." He smiled faintly.

Ugh. Memories of the pushy dunmer came flooding back, a mer seemingly oblivious to the horrors around him in the city that pried Do'Karth and Niernen for information. For remembering another lost friend, a feeling of resentment crept up the khajiit's spine like a spider ready to bury its fangs in his neck. "Do'Karth is thankful he cannot read, for he has had the misfortune of meeting this Madura. He cared little for him. This one does not concern himself with problems of a world away, for there is more than enough excitement here." Do'Karth said, standing down a few steps from Keegan. He caught the altmer's gaze towards the assortment of tents. "This one is looked after, your concern is appreciated. Pardon this one's statement," he said, returning to study the altmer's face. "You seem to have a number of questions on your mind, wherever your mind wanders prompts a new thought. Is something troubling you, aside from debt collectors?"

Hearing Do'Karth as illiterate was bit of a shocker for Keegan. The Khajiit never acted dumb, and he assumed there's no way someone as well-traveled as he could get by not reading the signs. Perhaps what they said about "inferior races can't read" on Alinor retained some degree of truth. The Altmer stroked his chin, if it was him three decades ago, he would have mocked the catman. But now, he feels more sympathy than superiority. "You cannot read?" Keegan surprised. "Do you wish to learn? There's a set of chil- uh, beginner books in the tavern. I could get you started on them." He suggested, puzzling for a second on how kids' stuff got into a bar. "There's a few things." Keegan quietly nodded. There has been and always will be. He opened himself today more than he did in the last year. His comrade was trustworthy, but he'll need to ease his concerns out one-by-one, not spewing everything out to bare. "None of them are pressing matters right now." He leaned against the wooden railings, making a calm impression about himself. "I think the best thing for me, after the beating at sea, would be a warm sheet of blanket and a chilling mead." The Altmer chuckled at his unintended rhyme.

Do'Karth rewarded Keegan with a genuine smile. "Perhaps it is time this one settled down enough and figured out what all the fuss with words was about. Do'Karth thanks you, and will find time to read your kitten-level literature. The pictures may prove of use." he chuckled, tilting his head as Keegan looked like he wanted to continue his train of thought, be decided against it, before concluding that he had enough excitement for one day. "Then this one supposes we part ways this evening. There are still many things to taste, and after being trapped on a death trap of a ship, Do'Karth decided he would like to remain out of doors for a while where the sea cannot swallow him." he concluded, only half joking. Offering a parting wave, Do'Karth left Keegan to his devices before swiping the sweet roll from behind someone's back. Few things were quite so delicious as surprise delicacies.

---

Farid was angry.

To be precise, he was a mess. Standing disheveled early morning in a shabby, cold tent, he hurled objects angrily at invisible demons. It wasn't the dumb prank two rouges of the company pulled last night, as much as he loved mead, lusted after Roze's body and hated Sagax's face, he really couldn't care less about any of them. He thought about finding that Imperial kid and clubbing his ugly teeth in, but decided the consequences weren't worth it. No, how he wish it would simply be him and giving back on his headache and theft. Instead, the news had to ruin his day, and with what he had in mind, probably the rest of his life.

But it would be worth it, Farid thought. In times like these before, he would be confused, alone in making the biggest decisions in his life. That wasn't the case now. Mehm found him, counseled him and acted as the father figure he never had. He dug out the letters from his bag, beside a drawing of his siblings he paid too much for, and re-read their familiar contents. He was a Redguard, descendant of the proud Ra Gada that carved a trail of blood through arrogant elves and primitive Orcs. Yes, the Orcs were, and still are, nothing more than mindless, murderous brutes. Mehm couldn't have said it better. Ever since they first met in the staging area at Rorikstead, Farid received a total of three letters; one before the Windhelm siege, one before Winterhold and one yesterday, when he came back. He remembered the bold and forward-thinking mercenary, remembered his Vanguards (and the tale of their rivalry against Ashav) and most of all, the tactics and mentality that gave him a confident triumph when others quivered in front of snow demons.

Most importantly, he remembered Dragon Gate. He was the eldest of five children, born of an heiress who all but squandered away her wealth. He was practically the guardian of his brothers and sisters; Haraas, Turpen and Abujah. His birth father never existed, and his "step-fathers" were gold diggers only caring for his mother's wealth. Farid vowed to return one day, a glorious warrior rescuing his closest from that wretched little town. That day would never come.

"Are you alright?" Came the meager question of Dough-Boy.

Farid snorted, how could he be? "Eat shit." He spat at the kid. Useless fool, running errands for the even more useless and foolish Madura. Farid strapped the armiger dagger and the snake-charmer's flute to his belt. How ironic, he thought as he stumbled away, his deed would be done with his dead enemies' weapons. Perhaps he would have another by the time...

"No!" Farid smashed his fist into a wooden wall. He wanted nothing to do with the monster's vile tools.

---

Orakh just woke and had his morning piss. There was a copy of the Tamrielic Gazette by his doorsteep when he came back. He shut off the door of his Windpeak Inn room door and sat down to read it. As always, the reporters had the typical doom and gloom stories. He was old and really no stranger to how shit this world could be. Then his eyes popped wide open when it came to the Dragontail Mountains. "Lurbuk!" The old man exclaimed. Setting his mug down, he choked on the tea, suddenly aware how his throat burned.

Then the door flew wide open; someone just kicked it off half its hinges. "What?!" Orakh barely had time to shout. He stood up in shock, realizing this wasn't Thoring going mother hen about check out time.

"Orakh!" Farid snarled from the doorway. "You are the mentor of a butcher!" The Redguard jabbed his finger forcibly at the article.

"I'm your huckleberry." The Orc responded. His wrinkled eyes seemed to fight a war of their own against Farid.

"They're all dead because of you! Every single innocent, all my family!" Farid broke down and howled like a mad beast. "You made a killer, you are a killer! You would fucking leave me to drown and teach mindless savages to cut down the helpless!" Farid continued cry, but no one seemed to hear him, everyone else was probably sleeping off hangovers in this wee hour. "I know what you are, what you Orcs all are! Mehm told me. By Morwha, by Onsi, by Tava, by damned Talos, I'll avenge them!"

"Ain't got no time for your news story." Orakh remained stoic. He made not a sliver of movement. "And I sure as Oblivion don't get what you want." He added with an apathetic shrug.

"Your last words."

Now it became crystal clear what Farid would do. Orakh knew it a moment too late. Should he been more alert, he would have retrieved his axe from the container and forced his way out. But Farid already pulled out his weapons, but Orakh could still get out. He said nothing and launched himself foward without warning. He hoped to knock Farid down with an elbow.

It didn't work. Farid caught the elbow with his off hand and twisted it perpendicular to where Orakh charged. Aged tendons immediately snapped as pain stopped the Orc's momentum dead in its tracks. Farid then dived back, shoulder ramming into chest as he tackled Orakh into a chair, breaking it. Farid delivered knuckles, elbows, knees and headbutts amid wood splinters. When he made sure Orakh couldn't fight back, he pulled the bloodied Orc to his knees and crossed the flute and dagger in front of his throat.

"Make it quick." Orakh sneered, coughing up splutters of blood and teeth.

"You don't deserve it." Farid retorted. He raised his dagger up, but switched it with the flute instead. It would be fitting for Orakh to meet his end not on a weapon, but an instrument instead. Farid huffed at the thought of killing, no, he wasn't killing, he was doing justice. This was no man, what he faced was a monster like the Kamals. He would finish it with something that made music; perhaps this very deed would be enshrined in a song.

Farid stabbed the sharp end of the flute deep into neck tissues, past the jugular and straight into the windpipe. Orakh gurgled, but Farid dragged the flute in grinding pace from right to left. Halfway through, the flute refused to go, so the Redguard threw it out. He stepped back to witness his handiwork; a pool of blood and an old man clenching his throat hopelessly, body twiching in its last sign of life. Farid felt dread, like a mixture of fire and ice occupying his mind. He killed more than most ever would, but this felt wrong, it felt like he killed a part of himself. Farid shook his head from side to side, in a daze, he could swear he saw Orakh's eyeballs gazing past his soul, into the Ashpits of Oblivion. Hardening his resolve as best as he could, Farid finished the cut with his dagger.

Farid collapsed beside Orakh's limp body. He felt blank, as if the elements finally eroded his entire mind. Blood and tear mixed in his hands and the green Orc head rocked on a half-severed neck. He should feel like a hero, but as he pondered the first kill of his own volition, one that came personal rather than money, he felt like an animal. What did he do? Mindless and empty, Farid wanted to die.

The words that came sounded like a thousand mile away. Dough-Boy was dragging a weary Ashav and his lieutenants to Orakh's room. None of them were prepared see what rounded the doorway. Farid leaped to his feet, dagger pointed defensively outwards and his feet carried him back against the wall. He heard Dough-Boy recounting what he spied on, and they wanted to get inside.

"Back off!" Farid screamed. Patrons of the inn started to wake now; they gathered to watch the spectacle.

Edith was the first one to step beyond the threshold. She triggered Farid to point his dagger at her. She stepped again, this time, Farid sagged. The dagger blade was spun around and pointed to its owner's heart. Edith reacted quicker in end, faster than Farid could stab himself, the Nord woman had dashed in and disarmed him. Daelin followed right behind, tripping Farid to the ground and tying up his hands with ropes.

"Get out here, nothing to see!" Ashav cordoned off the room and shoved back a small crowd of onlookers. He even made sure Thoring didn't intrude. When only members of his company were left, Ashav let out a heavy sigh. "What are we going to do?"

---

A clear luminescent light filled the rented inn room, a hint indicating to dawn’s arrival. A brilliant beam poked through the shuttered window pane, and fell in a glaring fashion across Sevine’s face, rousing her from her sleep. Beside her still slept Do’Karth, his arm draped over her hip as they lay curled together. However, this peaceful image shattered at the sound of shouting. She shook Do’Karth hand before slipping from the covers and dressed herself in her leather armor, casting off the linen dress without hesitation. What in all of Oblivion was going on out there? Was it the Kamal’s? Her stomach bunched itself into a series of intricate knots as she lifted her axe and made her way out of the room.

There, she turned to her left, and spotted a small gathering of patrons outside a door to the inn rooms. Already, Ashav shooed them away, telling the onlookers that there was nothing to see, yet, she managed a glimpse into the room, and stepped back in surprise. Just beyond the tied-up figure of Farid, lay Orakh with a slowly pooling puddle of blood. Whatever had happened, it appeared to be a crime of passion, not of love, of course, but perhaps rage. She lingered at a respectful distance, as she had noted Edith’s presence within the room as well as Daelin. Perhaps her friend could clarify more on the puzzling circumstances?

Orakh’s blood threatened to seep into Edith’s boots. In the haste to get from her tent near the smithy to the inn, she didn’t even have time to put on any armor besides her hauberk. Hell, she barely had to time to do up her hair, which had now fallen from a messy knot into a curtain around her face. She had Farid’s dagger in hand, unsure what to do with the bloody thing, she decided pass it over to Ashav. “It looks Dunmer.” She quickly examined the blade. With Farid securely restrained by Daelin and Dough-Boy going on about some Mehm (which sounded like a name Ashav might have mentioned), Edith gave a tired nod to Sevine to outside.

“Mehm.” Ashav grunted. He beckoned Daelin and Edith to come outside. “I need to talk to him, alone.” His gaze turned to the dagger in Edith’s recovered and the flute discarded in a corner. “Daelin, go find Ariane and her truth serums.”

Daelin nodded. “Is this the same Mehm we saw at Rorikstead?” He asked before leaving.

“He is.” Ashav answered. “There’s no way he could hate Orcs like that; his second is an Orc.” He leaned on the doorframe uncomfortably. “I need some time to find out what’s going on, just bring me the serum and wait outside. I’ve already paid Thoring to stay out of it.”

Edith knew better to interfere when Ashav didn’t want it. She strolled out and found Sevine still standing where she was. “Orakh’s dead, and Farid killed him.” She announced, straight to the point. “A lot happened this morning, the news, Gustav coming back and now this.” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she sighed. Edith didn’t appear nearly as optimistic as she usually was. She took in a deep breath and smelled...cat? “Have you been playing kittens again?” A weak smile appeared on her face. It would be like Sevine to keep feline company, just as she did in their youths.

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air.” Edith led out. On her way, she washed off the bloodstain in a water basin, watching the crimson dissipate into liquid.

There were two lines of thought that weighed heavily on her mind, the first was to address the incident with Farid, and the second to address what Edith hinted at. She chose the latter.

“I've not had the chance to read the news, though I'm certain I'll hear it from someone in the company before the day is over.” She commented, as she held the door open for her friend.

When Edith joined her outside, they set off with no direction in mind. The festival had wound down, and the decorations were coming down one by one. They strolled along in relative silence until Sevine spoke.

“You know me too well, Edith. I've always held a deep passion for felines. I remember the time when you and I found a litter of kittens, and Ma wouldn't let me keep the one I brought home, but she changed her mind soon after when Pa fell asleep by the fire with the kitten on his chest.”

“I suppose you’ll uncover the truth sooner or later, so I might as well tell you. Do’karth and I… we’ve entered a courtship. I never imagined that my heart would finally find someone.”

Walking through a quiet and off-beat street, Edith occasionally spared a glance at Sevine. “A lot happened around the world, and none of it good. Well, were there ever good news? I think what happened in Hammerfell set Farid off.” She sighed.

“Remember Svari, my cousin? She used to love braiding your hair when we’re little girls.” Edith smiled at the simple joy of youth. Up ahead was a crossroad, where a few people were carting away decorations from the festival. The excitement of celebration was all but gone now, and in its place, the stark reminder of daily labors and enemies not far from the doorsteps. She waited for them to clear first, then made sure no one was around her before continuing. “I haven’t kept contact with her recently, but the Gazette said she just led a rebellion in Falkreath.” Edith checked the surroundings again, uncertain about suspicious characters overhearing their conversation. “They call her the Ice-Heart now, and she’s the jarl of Falkreath. I hope your sister is fine.”

The news of Svari, Edith’s cousin, caused Sevine to glance at her childhood friend in surprise. “May the Divines keep her safe, your cousin always had a passion hotter than any forge. I can only pray that my sister is well, I sent word to her when we first reached town, but I've not heard from her since.” She mused quietly, wondering now what turmoil brewed now in Falkreath. A long silence came between them before Edith spoke again.

“I do remember those kittens,” Edith nodded, “my aunt couldn’t stop sneezing around them.” She chuckled, recalling how she used to think people from the south (where her aunt came from) all had allergies to cats.

“I am happy for you.” The smiled faded and she wasn’t sure if she was truly so. She should be when her friend, if they could still were after so long apart, found her soulmate. But on the other hand, she saw a distraught Leif slurring hopelessly last night, and it was no secret how that man fancied the Huntress. “But does Do’Karth truly love you?” Edith regretted what she said immediately. What was her place to judge? Still, she had known Sevine longer than anyone else in the company, and she didn’t want her old friend to be taken advantage of.

“Listen,” Edith tugged on Sevine’s arm, “I saw Leif last night, and he was heartbroken.” She picked off several strands of cat (Khajiit?) fur from Sevine’s sleeve. “I believe he’s jealous of Do’Karth.” Edith leaned in and whispered. It was like something gossiping children would do, but she felt quite necessary.

Sighing at the mention of Leif, Sevine nodded, she knew. “Aye… I heard from Thoring of his raucous behavior. I have an inkling for what I may encounter when he wakes from his drunken stupor. He is my friend, of course. We fought side-by-side in many battles back in the war, and when…” Her voice trailed off at the thought of the night their encampment was raided by the Imperial's, a tactic used only to instill fear in their hearts, and to discourage them from fighting. Leif had gone to great lengths to tend to her wound, as she would wake from her feverish haze to see him dozing off on a stool next to her. Her heart felt for him, for she did not know the depths of his love, but then again, she justified her repulsion towards him because of his womanizing ways. She could never love a man like that.

“Leif shares deeper feelings for me than I could ever muster, nothing more than a friend to me. From the way Thoring spoke last night, I can't say I'll be surprised if he wakes up itching for a fight. I have half the notion to fight him myself, if it comes to that.”

“As for Do’Karth and I, you could say that we are two souls in a vast world that happened upon each other in the way we did. We have both done actions that would shame our mothers, and yet, we do not judge one another for what we have done. And that is all I have ever wanted. Besides, any Nord man here will never see past my Name, and that, I fear, is only what garnishes their interest in me. So yes, I suppose you could say that Do’Karth and I share intimate feelings for one another, though it is still early on to say if it is truly love.”

“Tell me, do you think I am in the wrong for what I have done?” Sevine asked, suddenly concerned that she didn't even know what she felt, or understood her inner emotions properly. She was a woman of great patience when it came to delicate matters, but as in the past, on the battlefields of war, she had rushed headlong, and made a rather hasty proclamation of love to Do’Karth. Yet, she knew that what actions she did act upon, were true of heart. The doubt still remained.

Hearing what Sevine had say, Edith felt uncertainty in where the Huntress stood. She was obviously glad hearing how Leif saved her friend’s life during the Civil War. However, she felt a tinge of regret for not being there herself. “I understand.” She clasped a hand on Sevine’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine the difficulties in a war, but I know I should have been there by your side. Whatever good that was, we sweared to be shield-sisters before.” Taking her hand off, Edith’s blue eyes looked sympathetically into Sevine’s green ones. “Leif sounds like an honorable man, and if you cannot love him, at least put his heart at ease.” Edith tried to counsel her friend. The last time they talked about love was when their imagination dominated their minds with gossips and romance. How things had changed, Edith noted.

“I would be careful about fighting someone in Leif’s state.” Edith cautioned. “You’re a skilled fighter, always better than myself, no doubt about it.” Sparing a glance at the axe on Sevine’s belt, Edith gestured to it as a symbol of battle. “I worry not only for your safety, but Leif’s as well. He could be reckless in combat, and that means he will put himself unnecessarily into harm’s way. It would not sit well with company knowing one of their members became casualty at the hands of another.”

A crowd of dockworkers suddenly appeared out of one corner of the street. Edith, in the interest of privacy, decided to walk in the opposite direction. “When you went to enlist in Windhelm, I applied for the Companions; that Edith five years ago saw herself fighting a bigger fight than common soldiers. I don’t know you still consider me your friend,” Edith started a good distance out of dockworkers’ earshots, “but as a fellow Nord woman, I learned that sometimes the heart and the mind desired two polar opposites.” Covering her eye as a bright sun emerged between houses, Edith spoke as earnest as she could. “I used to have an affair with a fellow mercenary, a warrior called Iron-Pumper. He was fearless, poetic and always had a supply of sweetrolls handy.”

“But when we traveled to Bruma to clear a coven of necromancers, we found out Iron-Pumper had made a deal with our targets for his own benefits.” Edith ran a hand through her hair. This was not an easy story to tell, and as a consequence, something she did not normally share. “He refused to back down and wanted to dispute his charges, so I fought my lover as Ashav’s champion. I can say that single kill was the hardest in my life.”

“Come to think about it, Farid’s fate will probably go down like this.” Edith speculated. “What I am getting at is that we should not only follow what the heart wants, but also what the mind wants. If you still love Do’Karth past the heat of passion, then he truly deserves your heart.”

Listening on in quiet contemplation Sevine marveled at the unraveling tale that Edith revealed. She pondered on whether Leif had it in him to betray her like Iron-Pumper had. It certainly left a heavy unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. When she managed to put aside the nauseating thought, she found courage to look Edith in the eye.

“Then perhaps I am not the one to fight him. If I must, I will, but from your words, it will not be an easy feat. I am sorry, that you were betrayed in such a way, Edith. That is unforgivable, what he's did to you and your companion’s. You are a strong woman, and after all these years apart, I still admire you. You shall always be my friend no matter the end.” Here she offered a sympathetic smile, it was the least she could do after hearing something like that.

“Thank you.” Edith returned the smile. There was the compassionate Sevine she always knew, the person that she always counted on and be counted from. “It is good to have something positive from the past, even if it is just one friend.” She felt a sense of relief in knowing that the years had not ripped them apart. “I will lend you my shield if Leif provokes you. But I believe Do’Karth will be the target of Raven-Stone’s wrath, and if he truly wants the best for you, then he will do everything he could to defuse hostilities.”

“But enough of this dreary talk.” Edith declared. “What we need to cheer the morning up is this wonderful troll scab perfume from the herb shop.” She dragged her friend away by the hand. “Trust me, it smells much better than it sounds.” A giggle escaped her.

While the thought of having two men fight over a woman, would sound appealing to any ordinary woman, Sevine dreaded that possibility, and knew that Edith spoke the truth. Yet, she allowed her friend to take her by the hand and drag her away.

“Troll scab perfume? It sounds revolting, but alas, you know me, curious as a cat in a haystack. Why they couldn't name this perfume something more...well, better, is beyond me. Jasmine Spring, or Heavenly Dream, sounds much more appealing than Troll Scab.” She scrunched her face at the name, but her eyes were alight with amusement at Edith’s antics; it made her forget, for a little while, of the maddening events taking place in Skyrim and across Nirn.

Ashav rubbed at his eyes, taking a break from ceaselessly running today's events through his mind. It was only morning and he already had so much to do. Dough-Boy brought back many letters of correspondence with Mehm that Farid had hidden among his letters to his family. He knew Farid had family in Dragonstar, and when the news came to him of the town's fate and in light of just who Orakh was, he couldn't say he blamed the young Redguard for being so outraged as to take the Orc's life. Had he been a younger man, he may have done the same. But a leader must plant his feet and follow through with all his decrees, lest he be pushed aside for another. It was with somewhat of a heavy heart that he'd see Farid go, disgraced and without purpose.

Ashav groaned and rose from his chair. Brooding about this was helping the situation as much as ignoring it would. He pushed his tent's flaps open and was immediately greeted by Gustav's face. “Good morning!” The lively Nord beamed.

Ashav's face remained a blank wall. “It's a morning. Wouldn't quite call it 'good.'”

“Troubles?” Gustav asked, his face growing just a tad serious, “Because, well, I have more to heap on you, friend.”

Ashav struggled not to roll his eyes, turn around and crawl back into his bedroll. “What is it?”

“It's best we talk inside the tent, Ashav.” All sense of merriment had evaporated into thin air from Gustav by his last word. Ashav could tell already this would not be a good day. Ashav stepped aside, holding a flap of tent open for Gustav, who nodded and ducked into the tent. Ashav followed and the two sat at his table. Before Ashav could even sit all the way down, Gustav started spewing, “I'm afraid there are complications with my benefactor.”

“You seem to have a lot of those. I've spent five days here waiting for you to get back to me from Solitude and here you are, surprising me.” Gustav smiled coyly, “I don't like surprises.” Gustav smiled sheepishly.

“Well, you see, I usually send the letters between myself and any of my associates on my pigeons. For those letters between myself and my benefactor, I send couriers, well equipped for any dangerous situations. Rough men, by all means “ Gustav frowned worriedly and Ashav knew where this was going, “They may be compromised.” Ashav wasn't wrong about the destination.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Ashav asked. He wasn't expecting there to be anything he really could do, but it was a courtesy to ask, wasn't it?

“Nothing. I mulled it over and decided it was important for you to be in the circle of people who knew. It would be unbecoming of my benefactor's military arm to be sadly left out of important news.” Gustav said, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Mm. Well, thank you for telling me that everything is going to shit.” Ashav sighed.

“Interesting morning, you said?” Gustav cocked an eyebrow. Surely he could sense the tension in the camp, hear the whispers among the company.

“First Jorwen disobeys me, rumors of one member possibly challenging another to a duel sometime over who gets free reign over some other member's body... Orakh's dead. Farid killed him.” Ashav said.

“No.”

“Yes.” Ashav's eyes lifted from his fidgeting digits on the table to look Gustav in the eyes with utmost seriousness. “I have to give Farid the terms and hope he agrees to them.”

“I see. Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you.” Gustav said, planting his hands on his knees and pushing himself up.

“What an astute observation,” Ashav said, venom on his tongue, “Just like all the others, it's true no matter how much you look at it.”

“I don't blame you for your vitriolic mood.” Gustav said, making his way to exit the tent. He put his arms out and giggled uncomfortably, “I swear, I never get used to sailing. My land legs are slow to return.” He laughed.

“Vitriolic...” Ashav's eyes almost popped out of their sockets with how wide with anger they were until he took a deep breath. Even Dumhuvud didn't like to be around him after he drank. Said he was merry when he was drunk and angry after waking up. “Well, how nice it must be to enjoy some light sailing.”

“Oh, I won't be the only one, my friend.” Gustav smiled.

“Eh?”

“I've an assignment for you. The duration of your contract is yet to run out, so you'll be packing your company onto my ship, Kyne's Tear.” Gustav said, folding his arms.

“My Company seems to have bad luck with ships. They tend to sink whenever they get on them. Should ask the last captain what happened when my company graced his deck.” Ashav said, picking at his fingernails with a slight smirk, as if he was talking about his rapscallion children and not one of the most unscrupulous assembly of killers, thieves, thugs, misfits and exiles all looking for steady pay.

“Oh, you haven't met this one.” Gustav chuckled.

“That's what Leif said about the last one.” Ashav chuckled back.



Farid must have looked a sad sight compared to what he once was. He couldn't muster up the will to kick and spit at the mercenaries that tied his wrists. His head hung low when he was marched through the camp to this fire, secluded from the rest of the company's. A small party of four men were assigned to keep watch on him. As if he would run. What would he run to? His family was gone, the reason he was in this business was gone, dead, burned to ash, buried. He could hear footsteps coming up the game trail they used to get to this pitiful place the set a fire and decided to wait for Ashav to deliver his sentence. Must be time. Was it an execution? Perhaps.

“Solveig?” One of the men smiled, “Woman like you shouldn't be out here all alo- oof!”

He heard the others laughing and then it was cut short. “Red-Bear. Didn't mean no offense to your daughter.”

“Mm.” He grunted.

There was a long silence before Solveig spoke up, “Up, we bring Ashav's orders. You're to report to a tribunal with the senior officers to be judged in front of your peers.”

“Is it an execution?” Farid looked up, his tired eyes holding no hope, only pleading for an end.

“Fuck if I know, Farid, just get up before I have to haul you all the way back to camp.” Solveig growled, her hand curling into a fist so tight her knuckles popped. All this talk of her being like her father and he couldn't see the resemblance between the fiery-tempered bitch and the hulking, calm man behind her.

“Jorwen.” Farid nodded.

“Farid.” The old man nodded back.

“Do you know what the sentence will be?”

Jorwen only shook his head, “I only know there's a gathering where he'll let you know himself. Now get up, lad. You're better than this, what happened to the grinning fuck I met back in the Reach.”

Farid's head turned back to the ground and he bit his lip, “Dead. With the rest of his kin in Dragon Gate.”

He felt Solveig's hands take up fistfuls of his shirt and haul him up with surprising ease. Now that he was on his feet, he guessed he might as well follow the pair back to camp to finally know his fate. It was a wordless affair, all up until he stood before the two tables pushed together to seat the senior officers. Dumhuvud sat grinning with that shitty face of his, the rest were all grim-faced. Ashav sat in the center, “Farid.”

“Ashav.” He couldn't meet his eye, though he did his best to at least look like he had some dignity left in him.

“We are all gathered here today to hold trial for Farid's murder of Orakh. As any of you know, if you read the contract you signed, or if you can even fucking read at all,” small bits of laughter weaved its way through the crowd but was immediately snuffed out by Dumhuvud's fierce eyes sweeping across the members of the company, “you will know the punishments for stealing from another member of the company, harming another member of the company outside of a sanctioned duel, and killing another member of the company. You are found guilty by multiple witnesses of the killing of Orakh. As per the terms of your contract with this company, you are to pay me blood price for the life taken and upon handing over payment, you are to resign from the company.”

“Ashav-”

“That is your fate.” Ashav said, his voice raised even louder.

“Ashav-”

“You are to pay me blood price and are to resign from the Company upon handing it over-”

“I can't fucking afford it! I can't!” Farid screamed, almost lunging at the senior officers. Dumhuvud rose with his hand on the head of his axe, while Solveig already had her longseax halfway out of the sheath. “You know this, you blundering fucking fool! If you weren't spending your nights being a half-headed drunk, you'd remember that almost all of my wages go to my family in Dragon Gate!”

Farid's shoulders rose and fell with his breathing. The sadness was again replaced by uncontrollable anger and he could feel his fingers twitching for a weapon, “If this was the Vanguard, there'd be no fucking Orcs in this Company! Mehm told me that you're a dumb fucking drunk who knows fuck-all about commanding a Company!”

Ashav's face grew dark and his eyes had a fire in them few had seen yet in the Company. Even Dumhuvud shifted uncomfortably, trying to get some space from Ashav. “You stand here accused of murder and incriminate yourself further with an admittance of treason. Two breaches of contract, Farid. I should have your fucking head!”

“Then take it, you pompous shadow of a man! I am in contempt of this tribunal, I call for a trial-by-combat and I'll not take no for an answer!”

“And so it shall not be my answer. By the sun's peak in the sky, I expect you to be ready. You'll leave this damned Company a defeated child of a man or a corpse. I'll choose my champion, be ready for him.” Murmurs erupted from the crowd as Ashav rose in a huff, walking back to his tent with a quickness. Like that, the trial was over. The senior officers followed Ashav, murmuring among themselves, even.

Jorwen cleared his throat, “My friend...”

“There's the prick you met in the Reach.” With that, Farid turned his back and stalked off, Solveig in tow with her hand on her seax.



Ashav found himself alone in his tent. Whatever respect for Farid he had had all but evaporated at this point. His hand twitched for something to throw or for a bottle of liquor. He settled for making a fist and squeezing it tighter over and over as he tried to calm himself. But he was angry, and he was angry about that. Angry at being angry. He'd sent Dough-Boy to retrieve Dax, as he was about the only one he could trust with assignments that needed doing. Jorwen was a man who went his own way, Sevine would never stoop to being his errand-girl, and the rest of them were much the same if they weren't more of the rough, violent, but tactless rabble he filled his ranks with. 

The Tent flap was opened by a scaled arm, and Dax entered. He was still in his full gear, and tilted his head as he regarded Ashav. "I have been looking for you for some time, Ashav. But as fate would have it, you've summoned me." he said. In truth, the past day Daixanos had been looking for Ashav, and he always just seemed to miss him. He had been looking for a new assignment, for this life if leisure did not suit the Argonian, who was used to living off the land and fighting criminals and fauna for a living. "What would you have me do?"

"You attended the trial, yes?" He didn't wait for an answer, it wouldn't do for Dax to say no and if he did, Dax would surely know why he was summoned, "I need a man dead. Crimes against our Company, Dax. Murder and treason. Corresponding with a rival Company. The men and women grow lax, they fight together and that is what I ask them. They can fuck each other, I can not control the innate. But they will not kill each other."

Ashav looked into Dax's eyes, "A Company that devolves to that is nothing but a gang of bandits. It is a fine line we tread these days, to be sure, but it is a line. Farid murdered Orakh for a crime the Orc did not commit, and has further incriminated himself by admitting he was talking to another Company's head. He has insulted my honor, the honor of the Company's Captain." He slid forth a coinpurse with a drawstring that looked ready to snap with the weight, "You know what this means, Daixanos. You signed the same contract as Farid, you know the terms within and you know the punishments for each. Carry out these in my name, the Company's name, and see Farid's sentence done." 

Daixanos was never one to hold a conversation for long. "It shall be done." he replied. "Though I would ask, what prompted this Farid to kill? I would not think you invite those into your group whom you would no trust."

"I wouldn't. Orakh was a trusted member with a sense of loyalty, as was Farid. Dragon Gate was razed to the last of its citizens. Farid's family among them. It is rumored the one to do it was Orakh's once-ward, and seeking the closest thing to take his grief out on like a child, Farid struck Orakh down." Ashav's anger faltered for a moment, "I sympathize with his grief. But I do not and can not condone his actions. As Captain, I must act without faltering."

Ashav stood and resumed looking at the board he pinned his maps and letters to, holding his hands behind his back, "When the time comes, so must you. Go. The Circle should be drawn."

Daixanos nodded in contemplation, before placing a fist on his chest in acceptance, and walked out of the tent.



Once again, the Company was assembled. The Circle had been cut in the grass and hedged in with stones. Jorwen stood in the center, his cloak billowing in the wind, held closed by a hidden hand. It had been a long, long time since he'd stood in a Circle. He closed his eyes and took in the smell of the fresh cut grass and the sea salt mingled within. He remembered the duel with Aodhan the Ash-Maker, the Stonejaw Clan's champion in the Reach, the duel with Chief Finnen, where he burned his village and put his sword to his people.

He opened his eyes in time to see the crowd shuffling apart in silence, where Solveig and another mercenary led Farid to the Circle, his swordbelt draped over one shoulder. With a swift motion, Solveig cut Farid's binds and the young Redguard brought his hands in front of him and rubbed at his wrists before drawing his blades. The two met their gazes and nodded. Jorwen knew that Farid had decided who would be the victor today, it was only a matter of how hard a victory he was willing to make it. “Friend.” Farid said, the word left out on the still air.

Jorwen nodded, “My friend.” He looked back at the surrounding crowd and saw them making way for someone, "I guess it's time."

Farid only nodded. Jorwen shouted to the crowd, "We're here to witness the duel between Farid and Ashav's champion for his crimes of murder and treason against the Company. Both duelists, step forward and list your pedigree."

Like a stalking wolf, Dax approached the circle nearly undetected before he stepped into the center of it. His movements having been smooth and silent, but permeating the practiced ease of a hunter that was evident to those around him. To those who had the observational skills to notice him, would have seen the Argonian's horns and frills above the heads of the crowd wading back and forth, like the ominous fin of a shark approaching its intended prey. 

With cable-like muscles that pieced together a lean but solid form, Dax stood vigil at the center of the crowd. For a moment he stood still and silent, before he unstrapped his bow and quiver, tossing them to the side. His piercing eyes fell on Farid, and the Redguard could see his prominent canines as he spoke. 

"Know that I bear no ill will toward you, Farid of Hammerfell." Dax declared to him, his Axe still strapped to his back. "I know too well the loyalty one has for one's own kin. It is that I respect this dedication that I volunteered to be your opponent. Though I am not confirming that I sympathize with murder, I can appreciate that with what you deal with. For this, I shall honor your request for personal combat, and will do my utmost to make sure that it is seen...to the end." 

Dax gave a curt nod to the Redguard, before reaching his clawed hand into his jerkin to produce his father's necklace. "May the Hist guide me." he whispered, and then turned to face the crowd. 

His broad shoulders framing his fearsome visage, Dax spoke aloud and without ceremony. "Before I came to the cold North of the Landstriders, I was a hunter. I killed with bow and arrow...knife and blade. It was not long before my home was attacked, and I used the same tools of my trade to hunt a new quarry. Dunmer slavers. I fought alongside my Hist brothers for three years. I killed and slew all that dared approach my land. I traveled northeast after, hunting both man and beast to make my living...I have been in Skyrim for years now. Some of you may have seen me before, or perhaps heard of me, if you have ever been south of here. Between Markarth and Whiterun, I have carved my legacy as a bounty hunter, and a seller of skins. Sabrecats and Elk have fallen to my axe and arrows, as well as bandits and cutthroats alike. I have aided in the slaying of a Giant. On my journey here, I killed a Troll in single combat. I am Daixanos the Hunter!" he declared. "But while these are my deeds, I take no pride in my actions. For it was the guidance and teachings of the Hist that have guided me. It has been the Hist that has given my people the strength to take back our homeland and our lives for our own. It will be the Hist that guides my blade this day! Let it be known, that the Saxhleel of the Blackmarsh are a force to be reckoned with. That all Saxhleel share the same strength, as those who have pushed back our enemies and invaded Oblivion itself. I will prove today, that our race shall not be looked down upon by those who are ignorant enough to think us weak." 

Finally he unsheathed his Axe, hefting it with an experienced grip in his strong hands. "For my people..."

Farid listened with a bowed head. He'd be facing a hard man today, but he wasn't in the business of slaughtering lambs. He took a step forward, "I am Farid of Dragon Gate. I came from the sands to work and there is not a man here who does not know my work. Let's get this done." Farid spat to the side and wasted no time for ceremony or handshakes, though he expected none from the scale-back he faced. Using his longer blade to flick a clod of dirt in Dax's face, he charged to his left flank soon after, hoping to negate Dax's range and plunge his dagger in his gut. 

It was thanks to his Argonian bone structure that saved him from a quick finish, for the majority of the dirt hit him near perfectly at the center of his snout, his eyes slightly far sideways compared to most humanoids. He let out a hiss, and instead of bringing his Axe blade down (for he had little room), used the haft with both hands to bash aside Farid's lunge, before bringing his head down in hopes of a connecting headbutt. 

Farid saw a burst of white light after he saw Dax parry his strike. He hit the ground rolling, springing to a fighting stance. Once again, he came close to get in range with his sword, lunging with it towards Dax's face while his parrying dagger went low in in an effort to stick the Argonian in the groin or thigh.

Daixanos ducked low, keeping his skull out of the line of fire and swinging his axe wide simulaneously, knowing Farid would need to retract or score a minor hit in a trade with an axe head to his side. 

The sloppy swing of the axe still connected  with Farid's dagger-hand and his fingers felt like jelly when it hit. He yelped and tried his best to hold onto the dagger while slashing for anything to hit, knowing Dax's axe, being a less balanced one than his sword would take a precious moment to recover from a swing like that. He pressed on, hopefully at least keeping his opponent busy.

Dax was cut mildly by one of the blades, of which one he was not sure. Small droplets of blood fell upon the ground, but he did not notice other than a quick flash of pain that only served to heighten his senses. He bared his teeth and pressed forward as well, having learned long ago that the haft of his weapon was just as an effective way of wielding his Axe as the blade. 

He yanked his weapon back, hoping the blade would cause another cut, but he did not pause to make sure if it had connected. Instead he attempted to strike forward with his haft, parallel to the ground for a quick and solid hit at either to collarbone or forehead.  

He felt the jolt of a slash connecting and bared his teeth. Dax was looking to get back on the offensive and reared back with the haft of his axe. He barely avoided the hardwood and ducked under it. He had no time to jump back and he had no mind to take the chance at stabbing with his dagger, so sprang forward, driving his shoulder into Dax's gut and hoping to even the playing field a little with the lizard on his back.

Dax was strong, but Farid was no weakling and he had the advantage of gravity when the dust settled. Daixanos did not attempt to wrestle his way out of the predicament. He might have been able to do it, but it would take time. Time for Farid to mount a better strategy to defeat Dax. The Argonian hissed again, and instead jerked to the side a bit and bit into Farid's left arm with his prominent teeth. 

Farid squawked and brought the pommel of his sword down in a frenzy. He didn't aim so instead of the skull-cracking beating he planned, it simply skidded down the side of Dax's head, scraping across the betmer's ear hole. Thankfully, that was enough to make the beast let go and he scrambled away from the animal's snapping jaw, readying his sword like a scorpion's tail and driving it downward towards Dax's neck.

Daixanos rolled to the side by one circular motion, almost feeling the sensation of the blade driving into the dirt inches from where he was now. He grabbed at his Axe, gripping the haft of the weapon. Instead of getting into a ready stance, he swung his Axe with a clumsy, albeit strong blow at the sword, hoping to knock it out of Farid's grasp. His tail flicked with agitation and anticipation. 

The sword instead found dirt and it ripped from his grasp by a vicious swing from Dax's axe. Before the Argonian could recover, Farid charged forth with a roar, taking a fistful of Dax's collar and slicing into Dax's hand for him to let go of his axe. He followed it up with a balled fist to Dax's jaw while he held onto the Argonian's collar.

The punch to Dax's snout sent a wave of pain down his face, but the Argonian met the Redguard with open ferocity, sending a vicious punch to Farid's midsection with a quick but powerful motion, and then using his other hand to grab the wrist of the hand holding the dagger. Both of them surged forward in a contest of strength and savagery. 

Farid let go a breathless grunt when Dax's strong punch dug into his gut. He heaved in a breath in time for his wrist to be seized and it sent lightning bolts up his arm, forgetting until now that the hand was broken somewhere. He ground his teeth and used the pain to push through, rearing back and driving his forehead into whatever excuse for lips Argonians had, hoping to split one and get the Argonian a little more fuzzy in the head.

Dax was quite finished with his face getting hit. He moved his jaw to the side and the fist slid across the scales of his cheek, and with an uncharacteristic roar, used his free hand to strike upwards and grip his neck with a clawed hand. It was no punch, but it was close to a palm strike. Still roaring, he stepped forward and stepped inside Farid's legs, using one leg to slip behind his to have them both fall to ground once again. 

Farid landed hard on his broken hand with a muffled whimper. The weight of Dax made it that much harder to slip away and recover, the big Argonian keeping him pinned under him, his dagger only a finger's breadth away from his hand. It may as well have been a mile away, what with all his struggling doing nothing to get him closer. In a last ditch effort, he dug his hand into a clod of dirt and made to smash it in Dax's face.

The soft earth hit his face, and Daixanos growled. He had wanted to finish this quickly and dignified, but it seems Farid continually tried to use underhanded tactics. Truthfully, Dax wasn't against such things in the wilds and in the heat of battle, but he had expected an honorable duel here. That expectation had quickly left him, and while he could not dodge the dirt, he had foreseen such a tactic. 

Like a coiled serpent that struck, he rolled to the side just as Farid went for his dagger. Daixanos had anticipated the Redguard's grasp of the weapon, and shook his head with one swift jerk to get the dirt off as he spun, Axe leading in a powerful arc, cleaving into the charging Farid's chest. 

He couldn't breathe. He tried, but he could not. He felt his knees hit the ground, the wet earth soaking into his trousers but it was odd to him how he lost all feeling by the time he collapsed to the wet earth. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't feel. Everything had led to this. Everything was black.



Jorwen watched Dax rip his axe from Farid's chest. It wasn't the wet smacking of the meat of Farid's chest closing together, the black blood pouring from him, nor was it the odd way his finger still slowly scraped the earth until finally his eyes glossed over. It was the fact he'd seen another man he'd considered somewhat of a friend dead, nothing but meat now, waiting for the worms. "Dax is the victor." He said, his voice flat, and ripping his gaze away from Farid's body. "Give him a good burial." He tossed a coin to Dough-Boy and and the mercenary that entered the circle to carry Farid's corpse away.

Jorwen turned to Dax, knowing the man did his job like he said he would. He could not blame him for that. The two shared a long gaze before Jorwen nodded, "Well fought." He turned and joined the masses filtering away from the Circle.

It is mornings such at this that make this one wonder if he should have left bed.

Although the body had been removed, the word of what transpired skirted through the air as attention grabbing and alarming as watching a sabercat sprint across the tundra to take an elk. Crimson blood pooled and glittered through the door frame, guarded by some of Ashev’s more trusted fighters of the company as others did the thankless job of cleaning up the very lifeblood of a man they’d all called friend. Orakh might have been an orc, and barely an acquaintance to Do’Karth, but the loss was still numbing. He thought of the times he’d been cut and nearly bled out, and before him was a grim reminder that everyone was all alike in the end, and the pools of sanguine blood that marked a violent end looked the same, be it man, mer, or beast.

The gods seemed content to not let the company enjoy more than an evening of reprieve of the horrors of the world, and hearing of Farid’s betrayal brought Leif’s brewing rage into sharp focus. Sooner or later, that would be a dragon that would have to be subdued, and word around the company was that he was all but prepared to die just the night before. It would not be altogether surprising if he chose to attempt to take Do’Karth’s life in the process, and so with that grim thought, the khajiit thought of Sevine and the unenviable position she endured of having the two people she cared for most be at such grave odds. He already swore to himself that he’d defend her with his very life and provide the comfort and sanctuary they found in one another, and immediately there was the prospect of Leif acting with lethal intent, or the two of them having to duel regardless. He would not kill the man, nor did he particularly wish to find himself as the man’s enemy, but one did not predict what the gods had in store. There as a reason for this, was there not? A test of faith, of his compassion? Do’Karth clutched the amulet of S’rendarr about his neck, beseeching the cold sandstone and brass amulet for an answer. The answer was silence.

Glancing up at the sky above, the lazy clouds drifting by unhurried, as if the storms that had ravaged the expedition in Winterhold were but a dream long forgotten, Do’Karth recalled the night he received the red ribbon dagger and his life forever changed, where the assassin would soon die and the wanderer was born. A voice in the back of the khajiit’s mind reminded him how easy it was to kill, and how for many years he trained to become very good at it. He suppressed it, knowing that he’d resist the temptation to demonstrate what he was once so readily capable of, and spoke to the cosmos, “This one will not play your games. We will both survive, and this one will not allow Leif to follow Farid’s path.”

~ ~ ~

As the circle was erected, Do’Karth had picked a nearby boulder to sit upon, the blank yellow page of his journal becoming increasingly filled with details as the charcoal in his fingers danced and traced line after line, soon bringing the scene to life, knowing full well what was about to transpire. He did not know who would fight Farid, but this was a moment Do’Karth wanted to commit to the pages of his journal in the only way he knew how. For years and across countless leagues and the provinces, Do’Karth had wandered, recording the important occasions and images to paper to serve as either a reminder of the journey he would one day tire of and settle, or to act as his eulogy for whomever would find him vanquished.

Do,Karth, you are rather preoccupied with mortality this day. Calm yourself. he thought, the medical supplies sitting about his waist in various pouches being to be all but useless for one of the men this day. As he sketched and the crowd grew, he was watching the darker side of the Nord culture he was indulging himself in unfold. When he had signed the parchment with a rough approximation of what a signature should have been, agreeing to terms he simply took at the recruiter’s word, he knew there would be death, and he would see some troubling things along this leg of his adventure. He’d never dreamed it would be like this, and seeing Jorwen’s great bearded face take place at the edge of the circle, Do’Karth immediately began to capture his likeness, the grim and somber resignation for what was about to transpire. Do’Karth feared for his friend, and found the moment perhaps more moving than the duel that was about to transpire. Day by day, Jorwen was bidding the final farewell to his few remaining friends one by one… the man was lonely, crushed under the weight of what war was taking from him. One by one, the faces disappeared, replaced by younger and younger strangers like the youth who had died in the wars he had fought.

There was an air of powerlessness that Do’Karth felt as he shut the journal, deciding, perhaps wisely, that he did not wish to capture the final moments of two men he’d fought alongside for what had felt like years but had in reality only been a few short weeks. Finding Sevine in the crowd, Do’Karth moved through the lot, grim faced and hard, until he stood at her side. He clutched her hand in his, and soon, Farid was brought forth. Do’Karth studied the Redguard’s face, and he knew of his crushing loss he must have felt. Many in this crowd now hated him for what he had done, and he faced his end bravely, choosing to meet it with blade in hand instead of letting others take what little power he had from him.

Ashev’s champion was Dax, the argonian Do’Karth had briefly met while enjoying the spoils of his victory against Solveig in their friendly contest of arms. The argonian was barely with the company for a day or two at most, and here he was, ready to slay Farid and boasting proudly of the feats he had claimed, enjoying the pomp and circumstance of the moment, the glory he would seek at the end of a blade. Perhaps it took a stranger to take Farid’s life, for there was too much blood and iron shared between many of those men and woman who stood observing the trial by combat with Farid. Whatever he had done this morning, he had a history of feats as a good and respected man. Do’Karth’s lips grew heavy with disappointment as he observed the argonian, who relished in the bloodshed to come. The thought of Ashev accusing Jorwen of treason for his insubordinate attitude crossed his mind, and would he be forced to fight in a spectacle such as this? There was little doubt Dax would step forth again and attempt to slay Do’Karth’s friend. He found his grip on Sevine’s hand tightening, and he loosened the pressure immediately, feeling suddenly self-conscious. He could not let that happen. He would not allow his friends to be disposed of, and to do that, he had to stop them from making foolish mistakes.

This is why you wandered, Do’Karth, this is why you never allowed others close. Death follows you like a shroud.

The melee that soon followed was a particularly brutal affair, without a clear victor apparent as the wounds and vicious blows, parries, and counters mounting in this desperate mortal dance of steel and blood, Farid and Dax throwing themselves into the fray with such savage and hateful ferocity it felt like neither would survive. When the argonian had Farid pinned to the ground, feebly reaching for the dagger, Do’Karth closed his eyes and clutched his amulet, reciting a quiet prayer for the anguished man’s soul to find the peace he was denied, and to reunite with the family that was robbed from him. The silence the followed was deafening, and soon the familiar intonations of Jorwen broke the air, declaring Dax the victor. As the crowd began to disperse, Do’Karth gave Sevine a quick but reassuring embrace before breaking off to head Jorwen off. The khajiit grasped his friend’s wrist as he passed, sharing a gaze with the man who had such a fierce reputation, but to Do’Karth, was one of the most compassionate men he’d met. Jorwen looked utterly defeated, and Do’Karth wanted to, no, needed to show him he was not alone, even in dark times such as this. The Nord continued on, no words shared between the two.

Do’Karth stepped into the ring, placing a hand over his heart as he paused for a moment to look down at Farid’s fallen form to pay a form of respect before approaching Dax. “This one offers his services to mend your wounds. You fought well.” He said, not quite meeting the argonian’s gaze. A veritable storm of uncertainty filled Do’Karth, but he still had a duty to fulfill, regardless of his misgivings.

A good kill.

Sagax opened his eyes and turned toward the source of the voice. He met the swordsman's cold gaze once more. Cold, yet still an ember of approval danced in the sockets of the specter in front of him. What was he talking about, though? A good kill?

The twisted elf...a good kill. A clean strike. But most importantly, you learned to be swift, and drown your fear in resolve.

A brief moment of silent passed as Sagax recalled the events of days past. The falmer, that chaurus and Do'Karth...if he had hesitated for just a second...

The Khajiit would be dead. But he is not. Because you stepped forward and intervened, where lesser men would have faltered and ran.

"But what about what you said before? To not be fooled by fear, what did you mean by that, exactly?"

The specter tilted his head, as if confused by Sagax's question. It was no riddle, I meant exactly what I said. The chaurus posed no danger to you, yet you still feared that it did. It fooled you into doubting your own skill. But you eventually saw through its ruse, and struck.

"Oh..." Sagax felt a little silly. The spirit had spoken plainly, yet he took their words as some sort of puzzle to be solved. Following a shockingly uncharacteristic chortle, the swordsman spoke.

I seek not to confuse you, Sagax, but to teach you. Do not read into my words so much. Riddles are of little use to warriors like us.

Warrior? Sagax was no warrior. He was a weak, little man that could do fancy flips and climb walls. He looked to his bandaged wound, and scoffed. Partially at the swordsman, but also partially at himself. What kind of warrior gives away their position like he did? Hell, what kind of thief does?

Why must you deride yourself? Mistakes were made, yes, but mistakes are made to be learned from, not sulked about. In times to come, you will have corrected your missteps and be further on your way to becoming the hero you wish to be.

A hero? He never really thought about being a hero. Besides, he wasn't exactly hero material anyway...people like the Dragonborn, the Nerevarine, they all had a blessing of some kind, or special powers. He was just...Sagax. He could move fast and was alright with a blade, but that's about it.

That is where so many people are wrong...heroes don't need special abilities, or be in the pocket of some meddlesome deity. A hero many people seem to have forgotten about is the one who liberated Kvatch from the spawn of Oblivion. The Hero of Kvatch; it's even a part of their title!

The Hero of Kvatch? Truthfully, Sagax had to try fairly hard to remember who they were. He read of them once, long ago, in a book about the Oblivion Crisis. From what he could recall, they breached the realm of Oblivion and destroyed the link to the Gate blocking access to Kvatch, and then proceeded to lead a counterattack against the occupying Daedra with the city guards. Surely to accomplish such a feat, they needed some kind of advantage, right? A blessing or some kind of powerful artifact...

No. All the Hero of Kvatch had was basic combat skill...and unbreakable resolve. That is all a hero truly needs, Sagax, and you would do well to remember that. Do not worry yourself about fate, destiny, or the gods. All you must do is take up your blade, and advance on your foe, whomever or whatever they be.

Could it really be so simple...? To be a hero? You just need a will and a way to do what's right...is that all? Thinking back, he had done things in the past few weeks that could possibly get someone to label him a hero. Throwing himself at the Kamal to weaken them, jumping on top of a chaurus to save Do'Karth...he could be a hero to somebody, somewhere. He did not have the favor of the gods, nor an enchanted blade of whateverthehell-bane. It was just...himself. Suddenly, the spirit spoke again, breaking the contemplative silence permeating the misty dreamscape.

It is time for us to part again. Think about what we spoke of, and hopefully you will come to the right conclusion.

As the spirit turned and walked away, Sagax shouted after them. "Wait! What about my next lesson? You never told me!"

His voice beginning to fade, the swordsman shouted back. That was your lesson, Sagax! To learn what truly makes a hero! Now go! The first person that should accept you as a hero is yourself, so as practice, learn to embrace your own deeds!

<>

CRASH

He woke up to the sounds of yelling and the smashing of furniture. By the time he left his room, all Sagax could see was Farid being restrained by some members of the company, face spattered with blood. Ashav was blocking the view into the room behind him as best as he could, and was shooing away nosy onlookers. He swallowed his curiosity and stayed far away from the scene; whatever happened probably wasn't something he wanted to see first thing in the morning.

Grabbing his gear and swiping an unattended copy of the new Gazette, Sagax stood outside of the inn and began reading, if only to make it seem like he didn't care about the current situation in the company. Reading through, he didn't find much of interest until...

The Nibenese secret society known as the Seventh Estate (rumored to be vampires), is the prime suspect. Individuals associated with the assassins broke out prisoners from Imperial City prison. Known escapees include Caius Speculatus, a former guard captain now likely to be working with the Seventh Estate.

Sagax threw down the paper in...confusion? Joy? Anger? He didn't know what to think. His father was finally free...but as a fugitive! And what was the story behind this "Seventh Estate"? Why would they stage a prison break? Recruits? Impossible! His father would rather die than collaborate with enemies of the empire!

A hundred emotions swirling in his head, the Imperial sped off in no direction in particular. He just needed to think. To breathe. To rationalize.

<>

Soap, wash rags, dried meats, canteen, whetstone, hammer, bedroll, fire starter kit, bandages, splints...

Knock knock

"Come in! I'm just checking over some things!

Through the door entered an Altmer, both hands holding bottles of red and green liquids. "Darling...are you sure about this? He's a resourceful fellow, I'm sure he'll be fine..."

The knightess shook her head. "No, Varulae, I have to go...you know how reckless Sagax can be. I need to be there to help him. Gods know what scoundrels and scum he's partnered himself with, they'd never lend a damned finger..." She knew that look. It was the same look Varulae gave to Sagax when he left. It meant she understood, but she didn't like it.

"I thought you'd say that...that's why I prepared these." Setting the four phials into the leather backpack, Varulae placed her hands on Piper's shoulders. "Just be sure that you don't forget to take care of yourself as well, alright? I want to see you two again in one piece when this is over, me and your mother both."

"I promise we'll all be together again. I'll make sure of it myself."

With one final sigh, the high-elf tightly embraced the hard-headed Imperial woman in front of her, using all of her willpower not to keep holding on. "You'd better go say goodbye to your mother, the caravan will be leaving soon."

Nodding her head, Piper clipped her four pouches onto her belt harness and threaded her arms through the pack's straps, and grabbed her helmet and longsword. Varulae stopped her just as she was about to head downstairs. "Piper, you've forgotten your gold, dear!"

"I've forgotten no such thing. That's for you and mother." Varulae looked no less than shocked. Piper was leaving behind every piece of coin she raised selling her pieces, along with the inheritance her master gave her with his passing.

"Wha-but, Piper, you need SOME money, surely! We can't take all of this!"

"I'll have more than enough money; I'm going to sign up with whatever company Sagax is a part of. Varulae, if you or mother show a single symptom of...anything, anything at all, I want you to head for Daggerfall. Use every last coin you need to. Don't let anything slide!" With that, Piper made her way to the main room before Varulae could utter a word; she wasn't going to hear any opposition.

Standing next to the front door was Equa, in her favorite blue dress, her red hair tied into a tight bun with streaks of gray showing through. "Mother..."

Equa raised her hand and simply smiled. "You don't need to justify anything to me, honey. You do what you believe you have to do. You and your brother have never been away from each other for long, anyway, this was bound to happen eventually." Hugging her daughter and kissing what little cheek was left uncovered by the chainmail coif, Equa hoisted Piper's teardrop shield from its place on the wall and put it in her hand. "Stendarr be with you, sweetheart. We'll be right here, waiting for you both. I love you."

Suddenly finding herself short of breath, Piper let out a crackly "I love you too", and shoved on her helmet as she left the house.

Now with the caravan, all Piper needed to do was hope Sagax could hold out for however long it took to catch up with his company. Until then...well, perhaps he wouldn't do anything too terribly stupid.

---

Madura got his stuff on the night of the 18th. It was late sleeping hours when Madura was woken by knocking on his room door. Turned out the Gazette courier had rushed all the way here from Solitude to deliver the papers. Accompanying the newspaper stack was a box of supplies. He typically only required a small packet when residing within civilization, but this time, Sadri's custom arm took up a sizable portion of the shipment. The courier asked for his credential, and when he provided that, the same courier just had to be curious about why he needed a metal arm when there's a perfectly fine flesh one. Madura didn't want to lie or give the impression of him misappropriation resources, so he simply slid over a batch of coins and told the delivery person to “not worry about it”.

Now Madura had step past passed out drunks and find that freeloader Sadri. That poor excuse of a man better not demand more of him, or else, well, Madura will improvise the else. One thing’s for sure; someone better give him back five Septims.

The Dunmer sat idle, watching the night sky, with his back leaning against one of the wooden pillars that supported the inn building's porch. Compared to a few days back, he felt surprisingly serene as he watched Masser and Secunda, and their reflections upon the sea. It looked almost as if the sky and the sea were one now, thanks to the night's obscurant properties blurring the lines between them.

He turned his face slowly when he heard footsteps. Was it Solveig? He would've liked it if it were, but in this guilt-free state of mind of his, he felt he could start a friendly conversation, even with Dumhuvud, for whom he kept a bitter cove of poisonous intent in his belly. But he didn't want to ruin his mood. Not now.

''Who goes?'' Sadri called out as he heard the porch floor creak with footsteps. His voice was gentle, but nonetheless, he leaned forward and put some distance between himself and the pillar out of caution. He wouldn't want to be caught unaware.

“Renym the Ashlander.” Madura replied dryly. He approached the pillar and drop the case with the metal arm beside him. It landed with thump, but judging by how sturdy the damn thing was, nothing got broken, sadly. “I guess you don't need this any more.” He tapped the case with a shoe-covered foot. The journalist remained standing, not wanting to risk bogging himself down with whatever the other Dunmer was doing.

The name that Madura used reminded Sadri that there were still things to feel guilty or careful about. He remembered that Ashav's employer still knew him as Madura, and that Madura himself was reduced to not much more than an Ashlander. Sadri looked at Madura, understanding of his frustration, and then looked at the case, opening it with his good hand.

''Ah. I appreciate you bringing this to me. I really do,'' Sadri said to Madura. ''I can see why you're angry. I would not say I'm sorry, but you have my sympathy. I'll try to pay you back. Maybe sell this old thing,'' he said, knocking on the bonemold stump that was bound to his body through a harness. ''It should net a pretty penny even now.''

Sadri grabbed the case, pulled it to himself, stuck it underneath his arm, and got up. ''I'll need to replace the harness, you see,'' he said as he moved back to the inn, ''And I don't think you'd appreciate the sight of my naked torso. This will hopefully be worth your while, Renym,'' the Dunmer said, finishing with a burst of air from his nostrils, meant to stand in for a chuckle. He hadn't done much in the name of enchanting for a while. He figured he could spend the night tinkering.

Given their history, Madura honestly did not expect any gratitude. Hearing Sadri voicing his appreciation caught him off guard, and as a result, made it harder to rant. “Well, you better, uh,” the journalist struggled to find a snarky retort, but failed, “better start working then.”

Leaning down to pick up Sadri’s old prosthetics, Madura examined the thing carefully before setting it back down. It was worn, possibly beyond normal use, but an item as curious as such could fetch a decent sum for purely collective purposes. “Yeah, I'll take half the profit for getting you your handy treat.” Managing a chuckle of his own, Madura found he wasn't much for laughter tonight either. However, he did notice something, and that was a lift in Sadri’s demeanor. He couldn't resist his journalistic urge to ask why.

“You're not brooding or smoking.” Madura remarked. “What happened? Did you strike gold at Winterhold?”

Sadri looked at Madura from the edge of the inn door as he asked about the cause of his good mood. For a moment, he felt like talking to Madura about Solveig and ranting about how love, and a mutual appreciation between persons could change one's nature, but felt the need to hide his precious' name, and his feelings. He did not want such an important thing for him to be given out to a man whose work was made of selling words. He did not wish to debase her name in such a way, by having it uttered by someone who wasn't him.

''Nah, I just lost my pipe to the sea there.'' Sadri remarked. ''I've simply remembered to appreciate some of the finer things in life, I guess. Sights, tastes, words, feelings.'' A faint smile curled up on his face. ''I'm sure you understand.''

“So healthy living does pay off, eh?” Madura went along. He didn't have enough energy to investigate, and the sudden yawn that came out of him reminded him of bedtime. “A friend once told me how tough it was to quit smoking, but you seem to overcome it with no problem.” Another yawn interrupted. “Speaking of healthy, I believe some sleep would be just what the restorer ordered.”

''Yeah, some sleep could do you some good. I'll have to work this thing's straps for now,'' Sadri replied, content that Madura wasn't feeling very nosey. And with that, he went into the inn, heading for his room with the case containing his new arm. With a little bit of adjustment on the harness, he figured it'd make a perfect fit. For all the good Telekinesis had, its lack of effectiveness on living tissue had troubled Sadri for some time. Now he could at least have a semblance of touch on another's flesh. And what better thing is there than to feel someone you love?

Elmera woke up with a bit of a cloudy mind, deciding to keep her eyes closed a bit longer. She couldn’t remember how much she’d had last night, but it was certainly enough that she had stopped counting and had a good chunk of the evening missing from her memory. That was fine, she wasn’t a rowdy drunk. On the other hand, she was a very quiet one, but one of predictable habit as well. Unsurprisingly, she felt another figure pressing into the mattress with her. The Dunmer did not open her eyes just yet, wrathing wrapping her arms more tightly around the figure. It wasn’t so tall as her, she could tell, as their legs wrapped around one another, but it was definitely softer. There was less muscle, a little more curve to this other figure.

When her eyes finally opened, Elmera found it was a Bosmer woman with long, golden-brown locks. Not a bad bounty, she decided, yawning as she stretched out a little bit and moved to untangle herself. She was halfway into putting on her clothes when she heard the commotion in the hallway. Without missing a beat, she finished putting them on with her leather chestpiece and snagged her sabre.

“Idula..?” The woman from the bed asked groggily, sitting up in bed. The sheets fell away slightly and Elmera continued to the door. She rolled her eyes - was Idula really the name she had chosen to share? She was getting worse at this. Whatever it was, she would have to pretend it was still the truth.

“Morning, sleepy,” She said in a fake, sing songy voice. “I was just heading out, you can go back to sleep, there are some things I have to handle,” She lied with a fake smile. Ugh… The nights were fantastic, but lying in the morning was probably the worst part of this - faking this bright and chipper character to avoid hurting feelings. Why was she so attracted to fragile women? Possibilities for what were going on outside began to run through her head and she resisted the urge to scratch an itch crawling up her neck.

The Bosmer woman nodded and laid back down, “Mn… Okay, yeah... “ How much had she had to drink? The woman barely seemed to have recovered from the first stage of alcohol’s effects, let alone the hangover. Elmera stepped out and surveyed the halls, there was a crowd gathering and she approached to find Ashav barking orders and trying to get the area cleared out. Mutterings of a murmur were apparent, but the Dunmer woman got to work moving citizens out of the hallway - either back to their rooms or out of the inn completely to ease Ashav’s suffering.

As it turned out, somebody went off the wall and killed an Orsimer with a flute… That was some story, Elmera had decided, finally getting her morning dose of Moon Sugar up her nostril to settle the racing of her mind. A bit of water helped to wet her throat, but she only acted as directed for most of the day. This Company was already proving to be quite an endeavor; a trial by combat was more than enough to satiate curiosity, Elmera decided, taking a seat at the duel. She tightly crossed her legs, watching, unimpressed through the introductions. It may not have been staged, but the fighters’ introductions seemed strange to her - this was a trial, was it not?

However, the fight that ensued was a sadistic treat. Suspenseful, to say the least. It came to an end sickeningly, she could still hear the sound of the axe being pried from Farid’s chest. Jorwen, the man who came out to give orders for the clean up, looked familiar. It was the man from yesterday and she sighed. She wasn’t feeling quite so on-edge today - many thanks to that Bosmer woman with an already-forgotten name - and decided perhaps she should at least try to mend the poorly constructed fence. Elmera was fully aware that she didn’t give the best first impressions to most.

It was never something anyone got used to- death. You’d think a man who’d lost as many friends as Jorwen could take the losing of another one like a mild disappointment. But it was never that way. He was running out of brothers in arms, maybe Solveig was right. Maybe it was time to retire and put Halla’s heart at rest, finally. Settle down and be a husband, take up tailoring again somehow, till fields. Make things grow.

He sighed, taking his eyes from the oceans and grinding his foot a little deeper in the sand. Footprints were already washed over by the tide, and he wondered how many other sets of footprints he’d never seen had been washed up and how many of those that made the prints were long gone. Perhaps that was the fate of all men’s deeds, great and small. Covered and forgotten. It made the last thirty-some years of his life seem a waste. It wasn’t long before he heard footsteps behind him.

Elmera sighed and took a deep breath of the cool air streaming off the ocean. She saw the hulking figure of Jorwen. The water lapped softly at the sand, carrying away the grains as she approached, leaving her fresh sand to stand on. She didn’t know what to say, so she let the calls of the birds fill the air for a moment before cocking her head. “I am no expert, Jorwen… But I’d like to extend my condolences, as little as they mean, for what has taken place today.” She swallowed hard and her eyes returned to the sea, “But I really came by to apologize for speaking so… venomously toward you the other day. I have a horrible tendency to give a poor first impression,” She felt her pride hang heavily, “I’m a stranger to your work - a company you’ve been a part of for longer than I’ve known about it - and I’ve no place to tell you off.” The woman acknowledged her mistake, but didn’t glance over for validation, letting Jorwen decide how he would take the information.

At her mention of condolences, Jorwen only drew his lips thin and glanced towards the sand, not looking over to who he now knew was Elmera. He’d gotten her name from whispers about the camp, and none were too promising about the Red-Bear’s and her relationship. He’d long ago forsaken any ill will towards the woman, making feuds was not something he needed to be doing in his age. It still showed him something good about the woman that she apologized anyway. “I knew Farid better than most, but even I did not know him well. I respect the man, and hope his soul goes to whatever good place he thought it would before all this.”

“I accept your apology. But you need one also from me,” Jorwen sighed, “I only found out my daughter was a fighting woman a mere handful of days ago, before Windhelm fell. Watching her go off to do the work that almost took my life many times and the lives of many of my close friends is hard on a father. Those words you heard from me were from a different man, one that I try every day not to be.”

A silence ensued. There was a feeling like that was all the business they had with each other, but Jorwen did not want them to part ways with such feeble relations. He looked at the woman next to him, looking so different than the one he’d first met. “Why sign on to a Company? Let alone one with an abundance of Nords. The way the old songs have it, our two people rarely ever agreed.”

“Maybe not in matters of politics… or even culture, for that matter,” She said, waving the apology away - he had no need to explain himself. He was arguing morality, she was arguing work, both were things they needed. It was probably best for each of them that they let the past remain there. “I have my own experiences with the Nordic people and the way they’ve been taught to hate mine. I was raised in the same situation, though reversed. I could hardly condemn yours for doing what I had when I first arrived to Skyrim. It is a prejudice easily lived with,” She replied calmly, her hands clasping behind her back.

“I have my own way of making it through this world, and I see this Company as a new realm - it’s something I’ve not yet done, but it’s free from the oath one can give an army. Seems like a nice fit, and at the very least, your country is… exciting.” The Dunmer woman chuckled softly, “I know the different races of mer don’t have an easy time here… But the ones I find get along better - it’s better to have two races that hate each other, such as Man and Mer, than to have ten. I don’t know of your travels, Jorwen, but in elven countries, the people even look at other elves as inferior if they’re of a different breed. Here? There are really only two, perhaps three races of people. Mer work with some hatred from man, but since it’s shared, they don’t feel better than each other. The Khajiit and Argonians even share this with us, to an extent, and thus… I find it ironically less prone to war over such paltry ideas and a region that fights for power, like any other would.” She shrugged, “It seems like a lengthy explanation, but the logic works better in my head than out loud.”

Elmera glanced over and really appraised Jorwen for a moment, “You seem a tired man, Jorwen… I can respect you being able to stand beside me without being disgusted by my presence - many Nords have that issue if they aren’t children.”

“One of my closest friends these days is a Khajiit. Disgust for other races is one I left behind when I returned from Cyrodiil.” And he picked it up again in the Reach, “I fought against Altmer and Khajiit, and here I am, two of the people I like talking most to are one of each. Besides, I try not to hate people if I don’t have good reason to. You haven’t given me any.”

He looked down at the sand, “You give your respect to someone for simply not hating you?”

“Perhaps it was worded poorly… I admire your lack of distaste in others. Old Nords aren’t the easiest men to speak to, in most of my experience. The older generations are usually the hardest to change, so I would say your travels, on first impression, seem to have made you a better person than you claim to have been.” Elmera looked over, “I signed on for what’s shaping up to be a real long haul,” She noticed with another small laugh, “It’d be good to know I’ve a friend or two before anything terribly significant comes about. It sounded the other day like you were making a departure soon, what’s your plan if you do?”

Jorwen thought for a bit. He could admit his defeat to his doubts and fears and simply say he didn’t know. But that wouldn’t do. No. “Settle down with the wife, make a friend that’s good at building. Have a house, till fields, make things grow. You spend as much time as I have making things dead, you start to wonder if that’s really all you can do.” And sometimes you fear that it is, “I’ll leave one day. It won’t be a grand affair, I just hope to fade back to a life I can be proud of, where I’m not marching every day and looking for the next fight. It’s a young man’s game, to be sure.”

He laughed, “But, like you said, it’ll be a long haul. I know why Ashav made me host the duel, why he made me bring Farid to trial.” A warning, but he left that part unsaid. “But by the fucking Gods, can there be something happy to talk of one of these days?”

Elmera shook her head with a smirk, “Of course. That sounds like an earned life - elves are cursed with longevity, don’t ever let anybody tell you differently. Living longer means it takes longer to get what you want, it’s the exact same proportions as the lives of everybody else…” She glanced over, “Something happy to talk of? For a married man? … That’s a tough one, you can join this group to kill some things, or you can go home and be told to wash dishes or feed the chickens every day. Perhaps someday I’ll find enjoyment in such tedious interests…”

She took another breath of the sea air and shut her eyes. Between this man and the woman she’d met the other night, it seemed she’d be in good company for as long as they’d have her. It was a bit reassuring as long as long as she could keep them talking more about themselves than asking about her. “What’s your daughter’s name?” She asked curiously, “She sounds like a strong woman.”

“Solveig. She has a temper. A rough woman, but she always has been. You won’t appreciate my description until you meet her.” Jorwen chuckled, “What of you? Brothers, sisters? I daresay children?”

“I’ll keep it in mind, wouldn’t want to anger anybody who took after you, that’s for sure,” She jabbed, crossing her arms in front of her, solemnly shaking her head. “Not to speak of, sadly. Parents never had any but me - I don’t think mother could, though she never told me… Father passed away from a sickness brought on by particularly cold weather and mother died while I was away studying magic,” She recounted basically, keeping the details true, but barebones. “Children of my own? Uhm…” She tapped her arm, not quite sure how to word it, “The company I keep doesn’t particularly provide for a situation in which I’d be able to bear any of my partners’ children,” She said jokingly, wearing a small smirk. “It’s rather hard to discuss. Are you an only child as well?”

“Ah.” Jorwen smiled, not quite under- “Oh. Oh, I see. I’ve met a few companions like that in my time. A sparse few, but I have.” He cleared his throat and chuckled sheepishly.

He recovered, sniffing and folding his arms, “I am. Mother died giving birth to me. I was twelve summers when my curiosity as to why I had no mother was sated by my father’s admittance. My father fared no better, though I was busy fighting a war while he died. Flux.” Jorwen cracked a smile, though it held little happiness, “It would seem the Gods were not kind to us much. My condolences for your father.”

Jorwen sighed, looking out at the sea once more, “Is this the first fighting band you’ve been with? Or are you used to a life of soldiering?”

“Thank you… It’s been a few years, but he was everything to me. I still wish I could get just a little advice from time to time from him. He was strong, but there comes a point when age will betray you when it comes to your body’s maladies,” She noted with a shrug. “He had a good life, all things considered, and so’ve I,” She said with a nod. “He gave me what I needed to survive and not depend on anybody but myself, so I’ll always have that from him.”

Elmera sucked the inside of her cheek, “I suppose you’re right, though… The Nine may not be charitable to us all, but if we didn’t bear this pain, then weaker men would have to, and I’d rather carry it than make another who couldn’t handle it,” She said thoughtfully. “This is my first official company, yes… I’ve traveled with a few Khajiit before, but I’ve never been a mercenary or a soldier. My father was, though, until he settled down. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not useless, this is just my first experience in something like this, specifically.”

She thought it over and finally nodded, “I’m glad we could build a bridge today, Jorwen…” She decided, “There’s a lot to do today, I’m sure, and I don’t want to hold you up much longer with such dreary discussion. I look forward to seeing you again - whether it’s on a battlefield or a farm somewhere, I’ve no doubt that it might be a good experience to share a drink or two and tell some real stories. I’m sure you’ve plenty of good ones, despite the hardships.”

Jorwen smiled at the bit about the farm and the stories, “Aye, I do have some stories. They’re for next we meet, though. We’d better get to busying ourselves, just don’t wait up for this old man.” He nodded with a smile as Elmera turned to leave. His eyes lingered on her shrinking form the farther she got from him. A good bridge built, and here he was thinking he was only good at burning them. He returned his gaze to the sea with somewhat of a new mood. Now, where was that cunt, Vurwe? She’d made it back to the Company this morning, hadn’t she? He missed her for some reason.

There are some kinds of memories that act as a bulwark to the mind. The first kind of memory, is failure. Failure is broken into mist and largely removed from the forefront of the mind. This veil of thought protects sanity.

The second kind of memory, is childhood. These are the memories that are preserved in amber, to be catalogued as a better time and place that we can always recall. These memories are always readily accessible. When the veil fails, this is what most fall back to.

The third and last resort, is love. Love is the salt and the earth, that the amber sits on and the veil mists over. When your early years were nightmare and your life a ruin of failure, you have at least one last reprieve in that someone, somewhere must have loved you.

Or else what's the point?

-----

Gordo and Raelyn were shooting eachother dirty glares across the Inn. They'd been slowly increasing the tempo, pitch, and decibel level of their singing in order to try to drown the other out. It had reached a point that those who hadn't had their glasses shattered when they'd increased their pitch to an operatic screech, were frozen in sheer astonishment. They'd never actually seen two bards fight with music before.

This was another brief lull where the musicians gathered their breath and prepared to, despite the fact they were six broken lute strings and seven glasses of ale down, play again.

"This fucking shouting is getting on my nerves. I wonder if they think they sound good." Cleftjaw asked as they stood in front of the tavern's door they'd just stepped through.

"Who knows. I think every drunk thinks they have golden voices. Anywho, I'm looking for Vurwe. Care to drink with us?" Jorwen asked.

"That venom-tongued knife-ear? No. Come find me after, though." Cleftjaw chuckled, slapping Jorwen's shoulder in a friendly gesture as he walked to a nearby table and struck up a conversation with someone.

This left Jorwen alone in his search, but he didn't have to look far. though he'd caught the attention of Raelyn, it seemed. He wasn't looking forward to her asking about him hosting the duel, or how many duels he'd fought, or how well he knew Farid or any other such questions. She was fond of asking questions about him, but not so fond of giving him answers about herself. He found that odd, usually bards wanted to talk of themselves when they weren't singing about others. He took a seat at the bar, trying to sit as far away from Gordo and his- albeit, surprisingly sweet- loud voice. He ordered a cup of mead and waited for it to be brought to him.

Raelyn grabbed the cup of mead a confused barmaid was trying to deliver to Jorwen and set it down, seating herself across from him. She smelled like alcohol. "Y-you see what did there with...The Fortunes of The Nine? Awful. Awful!"

"I think that was..." He trailed off, his pointed finger slumping away from the cup in Raelyn's hands. "How do you fare? Been payed well by the festival-goers?" He asked.

Raelyn slumped against the table, "Awful! They don't, they don't appreciate the arts. Well, music they love of course, but acting? Wordplay? Lost!" she threw up one arm, gesturing to somewhere above them. "Above their heads! No head for finer things like...like good Imperial ales and, and, soliloquys." she pointed forlornly at Gordo, "It's all his fault. Soon it will all be Dunmeri inspired music, used only to impress barmaids! It's all that...generational cultural influence..." she pointedly ignored the fact he was probably in the same generation as herself.

Vurwe tossed and turned upstairs, the sound of Gordos melancholy song about loss and death awakening her from a drink-laden sleep. She groaned, swinging her legs to the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes. She was going to kill him.

She stumbled down the stairs, hefting a wine bottle she was going to chuck at Gordo.

"Vurwe?" Jorwen called from across the room, "I've been looking for you since Windhelm."

She turned, her eyes flashing between Gordo and Jorwen. She had one bottle to throw. She lowered the bottle, "I've been doing the opposite!" she approached Jorwen, handing him the bottle. She leaned in and whispered, "You got a strong arm, just huck it at his big stupid head. Come on, do it!"

Raelyn said, "Awww, come on, he doesn't need to have a bottle thrown at him! He's just, just the end of real music! Just hit him with your fists, that's, that's a proper brawl!"

"Thank you." Jorwen took the offered bottle, sloshed it around, but sadly only dregs remained. He'd no desire to be swigging Vurwe's backwash, though she probably thought she had none and drank perfectly. He set the bottle down and ordered another cup, looked at Vurwe and then ordered two. "How did you even get to Dawnstar?"

Vurwe sat down, "Oh that's a story." Raelyn shot up, grinning, "It is? Hold on, I gotta..." she tried to slide out of her seat, but ended up falling to the ground instead. She pulled herself back up, "Th-this floor has no grip!" she eventually called a barmaid over. "H-" she hiccuped, "Here's my key. Go up and grab my ink pot, paper, writ of passage...wait...no...don't grab that last one, that's a special!" The barmaid went up to grab whatever the Oblivion Raelyn was babbling about.

Vurwe scowled at Raelyn, "Anyway, there I was, the only intelligent woman in all of Dawnstar. You know Gordo over there?" she gestured to Gordo.

"I remember." He remembered paying Gordo to not kick Vurwe out of the tavern many nights ago.

"Well he was no help at all."
Gordo stopped mid song to yell, "I'm the one who loaded all the smithy supplies!"
Vurwe grabbed the bottle of Alinor vintage and hucked it at him, "Your loud stupid feet almost got us hanged!"
It missed Gordo. "You called the smithys son, the son of a goat!"
"His father wasn't there, he could have been!"
"His father was dead!"
Raelyn recieved her paper and writing feather, "Can you repeat that again?"
Vurwe said incredulously, "You're going to write this all down?"
Raelyn nodded enthusiastically.
Gears started turning in Vurwes head. "Well, in that case..." Gordo followed along sliding alongside Jorwen at the table, "We went out with the smithy supplies and got a weaponsmaker to make seventeen swords!"
Raelyn wrote this down. Vurwe nodded approvingly, saying, "And with these swords, we lead the uprising!"
Gordo said, proudly, "It was a proud day for Dunmeri kind..."
Vurwe slapped Gordo, "No, it was a proud day for the glorious Altmer monarchy!"
Raelyn whispered to Jorwen, "Are they lovers?"

Jorwen's eyes went from Gordo to Vurwe and back again before he grimaced, "Don't ever ask me that again." He grabbed the two cups the barmaid delivered before hurriedly scurrying off after scowling at Vurwe. He handed one to the altmer woman, "I came here to talk to a friend, not be hounded by two drunken bards." Jorwen fumed, "Tell me the real fucking story. You don't lead an uprising with seventeen swords, besides, everyone who's read the damned Gazette knows it was Tennant."

Raelyn protested, "But lies are a better story! Look!" she brought up the piece of paper, but on the opposide side. For a brief moment, one could see a stamped document with flowery handwriting. Raelyn flipped it around, realizing she had been writing on the back of her writ of passage, and hurriedly disappeared the document into her leggings with a level of folding skill that would make an origamist pack up their bags and take up gardening.

Vurwe sighed, "Fine. We brought the smithy equipment to a cart we later borrowed."
Gordo chimed in, "Stole."
"Fine! Commandeered, but that's as far as I'm willing to go!"
Gordo added, "We 'ad to move quickly, on account of the arrows."
"I think it's possible the smithys son said something."
"Maybe the cart man 'id?"
"No, we didn't commandeer the cart before leaving, we did it after."
Gordo leaned back, "Huh. I don'ts remember that."
"We left him. In the woods? I mean, he was probably fine. Most Nords are warriors, right?"

"You stole a wagon?" Jorwen asked incredulously, "You stole a wagon." He said, expecting as much of Vurwe, "Did you steal the smithy's ware- of course. You did. You're thieves." He said, nodding.

He drank deep from his cup and only left the dregs, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "You cause trouble wherever you go, it seems. So, you rode your wagon all the way here, what are you planning on doing with the rest of your goods?"

Vurwe said, "Sale of course. I've effectively bought the entire towns steel and have been hiking the prices."

Gordo nodded, "She's also been selling bronze as Dwemer metal. We've had a local metalsmith make little figurines."

Raelyn gasped, "But I thought this was a real Dwemer fetish!" she brought out a warped piece of bronze that looked something like a very tiny humanoid figure with a cylindrical penis.

Vurwe groaned, taking a deep drink from her cup. She somehow did this daintily.

"I don't know if I should be ashamed or amused at your actions. Bring me to the cart, show me what you have, at least." Jorwen said, drinking the last of his cup.

---

Vurwe brought Jorwen to cloth covered lean-to which was guarded by about four rough looking men in chainmail. Two horses were hitched to posts outside. One guard glared at Jorwen through his helmet slit, "He the one from that song in'he? He causing you trouble Miss Highorin?"

Vurwe shook her head, "No, he's fine. He may pass."

The man growled at Jorwen as he passed, "You turn into your bear form, and I stick you with this silver dagger." he moved his hand meaningfully to a sheath on his belt.

Inside was a cart, piled to the brim with mostly bronze but also quite a bit of steel and fully constructed shields, daggers, and figurines. There was no way they were going to be able to leave with all of this.The shields were emblazoned with what looked like Altmer with beards, in a style that was supposed to look archaic.

"How?" Jorwen asked, more curious than disappointed at this point. He stepped forward and picked up one of the figurines, "I don't understand these though. The mercenaries like money, drink and whores. I don't know if they'd waste it on these. This though," He picked up a big sword, almost as long as his own, "You could make a fair bit of money." He felt wrong talking of reselling stolen goods, but the fact remained.

He put the sword back down, "Provided these aren't ceremonial or cheap. And how did you hire those men out there? Bear form?"

"I offered them a lump sum of gold in exchange for not stealing the cart we stole." Vurwe said simply. "They were highwaymen."

Gordo frowned, "You 'aven't heard The Ballad of a Red Bear? By that bard with a white rose?" He pulled out his lute and strummed a bit, singing in a baritone, . He paused, "You know, that one."

"Is that..." Jorwen trailed off, rubbing at his face, "Has she been singing of me? My Name?" He took a seat on a stack of 'dwemer' shields, grasped up a bottle of Alinor vintage lying on the ground, bit off the cork and poured himself some of it into a 'dwemer' cup. He looked around as he raised the cup to his lips and noticed there were a lot of bronze in here that he could very safely bet was supposed to be dwarven-make goods.

"And you're hiring outlaws." He remembered he had two of them by the name of Mire and Brittle following him around on the orders of one of Morthal's most wanted and disgraced Nords. "Has anyone ever told you that it's hard to be friends with you?"

"You should talk, I'm associating with a man who feeds on the agony of those he kills and made a pact with Molag Bal." she gestured to one of the guards who walked in, "Plus they're a conscientous lot of fine young gentlemen."

It was the earlier man, holding the silver dagger in his hand now, "Just making sure you're safe Mistress Highorin, it's reaching sunset."

"Don't worry, he's mostly harmless. Gordo could probably wrestle him down."

"How many people in Dawnstar know my Name now?" He asked, very apparent that he was wokring hard on keeping his voice low, "I've spent a long time trying to distance myself from that Name, you know?"

The highwayman narrowed his eyes and his hand inched towards his sword, "You ain't scaring me, boy. Had many people reach for their swords in my presence and you don't hear much about them anymore, do you? This blathering cunt right here is my friend, leave."

"M'lady?" The outlaw glanced towards Vurwe for a second, but his eyes remained on Jorwen's.

"He's fine." she waved a dismissive hand and the guard disappeared through the cloth curtain.

Gordo rubbed his chin, "It's not a very large place. The songs less fun to sing than my The Dunmeri Stallion, but if it got into the heads of some merchants or the fishermen...well...who can say?"

Vurwe sighed, "I suppose it's not the right time to introduce my anti-werebear medallions, is it?"

"It is very hard being friends with you." He finished off his cup and poured himself more, rubbing his eyes. "So, you stayed behind in Windhelm for a few days, what happened?"

"Well, it all started with..."

--------

Vurwe opened a letter, delivered by courier. The royal Highorin seal was stamped in the corner. "I hope this missive meets you well, in whatever hovel you reside in. Trouble brews in Summerset. Talk of metal ships, war. Duke Ganron has gained political influence and vows for action. I oppose the action of course, why fight for a force that is destroying the Nords as we speak? But this is not about me as much as it is about you.

Your...reputation, in High Rock has brought some very interesting eyes upon yourself. Have you checked under your bed?" Vurwe stopped, lying low to the floor and checking. Nothing. She continued reading. "Or perhaps behind a tree. I know not how the peasantry lives. In any case, your actions may have inspired some...traditional methods of dealing with embarassing nobility. Those who express less culturally appropriate sensibilities are not often suffered long. What comes to mind is an excerpt from a letter I received from your father years ago. As follows,

-My daughter, Vurwe Highorin, has been uncourtable. Those I have brought to her, she has stung with a tongue of venom and many verbal lashings. I once thought that perhaps her ability to craft words, create works of fine art, and establish what I can only call a merchantile dictatorship would be enough to keep men to her side. This has not been the case. You know that certain forces are plotting my death as we speak. If I am to die, orchestrate a removal of my daughter from her royal seat at the nearest opportunity. Summer birds only know what she would do, given power to establish mandates. I'm sorry, I know that you hate leadership more than anything. But please, sister.-

The same forces move now. Yes it is entirely your fault. I know of your work to bring Duke Ganron to an, albeit unsavory, justice and I approve, but you cannot stay in Windhelm. At least if you like your neck attached to your head.

Good Luck, You Will Need it,
Torema Highorin

--------

Gordo tsked, "She drank for weeks after that..."

Vurwe sniffed, saying somewhat stiffly, "I hadn't heard from my father..." she clutched a necklace at her neck, a symbol of the eight divine. "Well, since he died."

"Oh," Jorwen gripped his cup loosely, and it wasn't just the drink that made him look at Vurwe in somewhat of a new light. "I'm sorry." He said, his voice dipping a bit into sadness. He looked away, expecting her to lash out at him, and perhaps wanting it. It wouldn't do for the venom-tongued, apparently very resourceful woman to look anything but in his eyes.

Vurwe grabbed a bottle of Alinor vintage, popping the cork and drinking from the bottle. She looked down at the label. "I still see him in my dreams. Blood, a bolt in his back. It's what sent me to this gods forsaken snowscape." She paused, then whistled. The guards came, surrounding Jorwen nervously. "Please escort Jorwen back to the Inn. I have some things I still need to take care of."

Jorwen rose of his own accord, knocking back the last of his wine and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, leaving the cup on the stack of shields. He nodded to Gordo, who nodded back with an understanding. Before he left with the guards, one of which he reached out to push away from him but ended up stepping back anyway, he turned back, "A woman like you needn't be ashamed."

He knew what the drink could do to a person, and so did more than half the Reachman tribes in Eastern Skyrim and the westernmost fringes of High Rock. It pained him to see her like this, as much as it pained him to see his daughter distraught. Though she shed no tears, he saw it. "Not ever." With that, he turned, brushing aside the outlaws and leaving Vurwe behind for the second time.

She wasn't the first to have that done to her by him. He knew that. Vurwe's outlaws stopped in their tracks the same moment Jorwen sighted Mire and Brittle standing before him some paces away. "We'll leave you, Red-Bear."

"Aye." He spoke, not turning an inch towards them. He looked from Mire to Brittle and settled on Mire, "Where's my daughter? I've something to say."

Mire only nodded, turning and walking and Jorwen followed. He cast one glance back to the hovel and the cart and the horses. He frowned, turning back and leaving.

-----

When all memory has failed and you have nothing, there is but one more reprieve. It is called mead by the nords, skooma by the khajiit, but its effects are the same. The opposite of memory, to forget.

So the mists part, the salt and the earth give way, and the amber tumbles into the void. One bright day, thus shall it be for all of us.

- Raelyn Giordano, an excerpt from Beautiful Lies

Despite the cries of the inn’s patrons in the early morning hours, Leif did not rouse from his slumber, rather he carried on in sleep, snoring as loud as a cave best in hibernation. Granted, when he did wake, he regretted drinking so much ale the night prior. Scratching away the dried, crusted spittle at the corner of his mouth with the tip of his fingernail, he pushed himself up into a seated position. Immediately, his head began to pound with such an intensity, that it prompted him to return to his bed covers, where he then pulled the wool blanket up to his chin. His eyes narrowed into slits as he glared miserably at the light seeping into his rented room.

As he lay there in agony, woefully regretting his decision of ingesting a large amount of alcohol, the reason why came blazingly into the forefront of his mind. Sevine. And that stupid Khajiit, Do’Karth. Were he not in his present condition, he would have risen from his bed with gusto, and challenged the Khajiit to a duel in Sevine’s honor. Yet, at the same time, his heart weighed heavily in its cage of bone, and his mouth was dry with bitterness.

After fighting back wave after wave of nausea, Leif managed to pull himself out of the wood frame bed, and make himself proper for the day by combing out his sandy-brown locks, and braided the hair that grew over his temples. He washed his face and combed out his beard, re-braiding this as well and secured it with a painted bead.

He had returned to sitting on the edge of his bed, fighting the nausea of his hangover, and the growing sadness he understood to be Sevine’s choices when a prompt knock drew him from the depths of his thoughts.

“Time to check out, Raven-Stone.” Came the familiar voice of Thoring, the inn keeper.

“C-coming. Give me just a moment.” Leif called, his voice shaking. Any moment, his stomach threatened to heave in a violent fit, so talking only made him sicker.

There came no response from Thoring, so he deemed that the man had moved on to rouse the other inn tenants and reclaim the room keys. A few seconds later, Leif’s stomach won the battle, and what he could muster, came spewing out into the chamber pot. His breath came in ragged pants as he tucked his head between his legs, well at least the worst was over.

When he made himself proper, Leif pocketed the room key left on the bedside table and made his way to the bar. Even now, his nose picked up on the repulsive scent of liquor, causing his stomach to turn.

“Feeling any better, Raven-Stone?” Thoring asked, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at the paler than normal Nord.

“Aye, if you could say that. Might I have a flagon of water?” He inquired, his hands trembling. Thoring merely nodded as he retrieved the key, slipping it onto a key ring at his waist.

“The Tamrelic Gazette came in today. Care for a read?” Thoring offered as he returned with the water, sliding it across the wooden table top. Absent-mindedly, Leif reached for his coin purse, and widened his eyes at the weight, nothing. Not a single coin left. Had he really spent every last coin last night? Or had he been swindled by sticky hands?

“Ah, I'm afraid not. I’m certain someone will tell me.” Leif said with a regretful smile. He stayed there, and sipped slowly on his water, still fighting the mighty waves of nausea.

“Heard there's a duel going on, one of your members made a disgusting scene this morning, and now he’s to pay. Faheed, or Farid, and some Argonian are going to face off. I would check it out if you can, it's always a good day if there's a duel to be had.”

---

Not only had the entire mercenary company gathered to form a ring around the dueling members, so had other citizens of Dawnstar from apparent word of mouth. With arms crossed over his chest, Leif’s teeth were wedged together in agitation. His eyes were glued to one particular person, or rather persons. Do’Karth and Sevine. He paid no heed to the fight, only glancing on occasion to Farid and Daixanos. From where he stood, he had a clear view of the new lovers.

A deeply rooted rage began to boil within the depths of his heart, he simply found it impossible to tear his eyes away. And not only was there rage brewing, but therein also brewed a pain so intense, his eyes began to sting with the threat of tears. How could she deny him? It did not come down to his past conquers of women, rather the fact that he truly did feel an emotion so profound and so rarely experienced for Sevine, that the thought of rejection, albeit not outright, pained him even more. Every caress, every glance shared, and every touch, burned a wild fire, slowly focused on the idea of shaming Do’Karth. Where he stood, he spotted the new amulet that hung around her neck, one of Khajiiti make, that much was certain. An evident token of affection from Do’Karth, one that Sevine proudly wore without shame.

When the dark red blood of Farid began to ooze from his chest wound, Leif turned away in disgust, moreover Sevine than with Farid, he had heard already from those gathered near him the wrong-doings of the Redguard. His rising waves of mixed emotions led him away, his thoughts returned to Jorwen, and of the talk they shared. Now, without the aid of alcohol to ease his rage, the veteran warrior’s words were harder to stomach. There was nothing greater than death that could ease his pain. No woman, no amount of liquor, only the release through death. He silently vowed that he would become the most remembered Nord, one greater than the mighty Red-Bear, or the fearsome Huntress. He would make his own name for himself, and it would make Sevine look upon him with new eyes. Leif the Noble. Aye, that was a proud name to have, even if it meant death at the end of his path. Talos guide him.

Rhasha had been... quiet, during his time in Dawnstar. Even quiet during his journey with the mercenary group from the Armiger outpost to the small hold capital - and while he was generally a quiet sort of individual, this was unusual for the Khajiit. For there were many thoughts going through his mind; both in the journey, and in the events that had occurred in Dawnstar... there were things he had to mull over in his mind.

First of all, the sudden appearance of his sister. Although his thoughts of any kind of animosity - brought about simply be being related to a member of such a notorious assassin society - had been laid to rest already, he was still somewhat conflicted. Specifically so when it came to his monthly letter. A document he had promised for his parents at each turn of the month - for they deserved to know of his journeys and perils... also simply to know whether he was alive or not. Skyrim was a dangerous place, after all; even for folk who were welcome there, unlike the Khajiit. However, they also wished to know of La'Dansharr, for they had lost her many years ago. Although Rhasha knew of his absolute necessity to protect his sister (For her life, his life, and the life of anyone who would read such truths about his sister), there was a sour taste left in his mouth at the thought off lying to his parents.

Taking a deep breath of tobacco from his pipe, Rhasha tapped the parchment perched upon his bent knee hesitantly. What to write? News of the Kamal had likely already reached Elsweyr, but still... he had no wish to worry his parents. Did they need to know that he and his younger siblings had only just escaped from the Ice Demons? Did they need to know of the siege on the city? And what of the subsequent mission to Winterhold, and the god-like storms they had encountered?

"Ugh... this one does not need to give his parent's heart attacks. Perhaps..." His thoughts paused there, as did the nib of his quill over the parchment - ink dripping and staining the cream coloured paper. Finally getting his thoughts into some sort of order, Rhasha'Dar pressed the nib to the paper.

"Fado and Ahnurr,

This one regrets that he could not write to you sooner - it had been a busy time in Skyrim; but there is no need to go into details. This one does not care to worry or bore you with them.

As you have no doubt heard, beasts known as the Kamal had attacked Skyrim, and no doubt other places in Tamriel. It is a cause for concern, but this one trusts you will know what to do, should the time come for them to attack our homeland. They seem to move along coastlines, so Cyrodiil is likely your best bet for safety.

Ah...more talk of fear. This one should know better! Instead, he will tell you of good news - La'Dansharr has appeared to him once again, giving her wishes and love to the family. She is in a difficult place; a difficult job. She is unable to write to you herself, nor go back home. But she is safe, and happy - and this one hopes that is enough to bring some peace into your hearts. She did not leave for some small reason, after all.

The twins are also safe, and send their love - this one only hopes they have followed his advice in actually writing to you themselves... but there is much doubt there. You know what they're like.

There is not much else to say, other than your Rhasha is among friends - and he will write to you again when the time comes.

Also, give M'Vrasha a hug from everyone here in Skyrim - and pass along well-being to our eldest. This one only hopes he was not as bloodthirsty as the papers indicated."

Quill once again paused, Rhasha sighed and set the parchment aside. That would do - hopefully, it would be enough to keep his parents content. However, this last sentence worried him, somewhat - Rhasha had read the gazette, and was somewhat concerned of the situation in Senechal. While impressed that this brother had done so well, the word "slaughterhouse" being used was troublesome. Surely, his brother didn't have the capability to act as such?

"The world is a savage place... it should not be so surprising." Twas a sombre thought, but not exactly untrue. Everything that had happened in the past few weeks - the Kamal, the Armiger's... and now the murder of Orakh, by their very own Farid, was only evidence to the statement. Rhasha had not known either of them very well - only what other's in the company had said of them. But the act had been shocking to most, especially in the idyllic setting of the festival in Dawnstar. However, Rhasha did not agree with with Farid's manner of punishment. Trial by combat was either an easy death, or an easy way to freedom - there was no real punishment there, not for someone who had nothing left to lose. The Khajiit would have preferred a regular trial, done by the Jarl and leading up to some form of real punishment... but he was not in charge of the group, and didn't have enough heart dedicated to the matter to bring his concerns to Ashav. Instead, Rhasha had avoided the group congregating around the trial, sitting further along the docks instead and occupying his mind with other things - for example, the water.

It was calm now, not as it had been all those nights ago near Winterhold. And yet, the fear of such things remained - he could not swim, and was a burden to the company until taught otherwise. Perhaps somebody in the company could aid him in the avoidance of drowning?

Roze had seen executions before.

In a place like Riften, if a small-time thief had been stupid enough to get caught by the guards, they were alone. More often than not she had watched from the shadows of the city, watching them be cut down by guards just for stealing some petty candelabras. They had been executions, just as this one had been. Trial by combat... unless you were a particularly epic warrior, it was a pointless endeavour. But she did not look on with pity - there was none left for Farid.

Don't get her wrong, she didn't dislike the Redguard enough to kill him... or at least, those had been her thoughts the previous night. The fun she had had with Sagax had still been bright in Roze's mind when she awoke on the morn; hungover, unsurprisingly. Damned Runner boy and his Flin, no doubt. However, she had enacted some sort of vengeance upon Farid, and was currently content with it - until she had learnt of Orakh.

Roze hadn't known much of the elderly Orc, other than the fact he was kinder than he looked - a bit like Jorwen, in that respect. Either way, the thought of him being murdered by Farid was naturally a shocking one. Not just for the act, but the very murderer. She hadn't seen Farid as the desperate kind of sort to do something like that; regardless of motive or circumstance.

In the same vein of thought, regardless of motive or circumstance, she felt no sympathy as the axe hit Farid's chest with a finalising "thunk". She'd never met the Argonian who had fought on behalf of Ashav, but he could only have been a newcomer to their group - in fact, Roze had seen more than a few new additions to the mercenary outfit in Dawnstar. Perhaps people just popping their heads in while they remained in a populated town? Roze did not know; nor did she endeavour to find out just then. She a friend to catch up with... and certain rumours about said friend to put to rest...

However, her search for Sevine came to a quick stop as she happened upon Sebastian - he looked much better. More weight in his face and body; clean-shaven; and a brightness returning to his eyes.

"Good news?" She asked hopefully, already knowing the answer upon seeing the bright smile upon his face. They'd split up the day before; her to have some fun in the markets, and he to deliver news and pleas of aid to various magic establishments around Tamriel. He'd had hopes they could do something for Winterhold.

"Perhaps; I've a friend down in the Imperial City who might be able to help us out; I'd managed to send him a message even before your rescue party arrived. I'll have to go down and see him myself though - the other Mages aren't so convinced of the news." At this, Roze's brow furrowed in concern. Not just for the fact that their were sceptical Mages about (honestly, who would lie about such an event happening? Bloody Southerners...) but also for him travelling alone. She knew he was more than capable of looking after himself, but there were still plenty of dangers about. Especially for a lone mage.

"When are you leaving? And please tell me you're not going by sea." She was met by a dry laugh at this; as mentioned, he knew how to keep safe.

"I haven't lost my mind just yet, Roza. There's no way I'm going near the coast with all those bloody ice-demons and whatever else is out there milling about." Sebastian paused then, smiling somewhat. He had no desire of leaving his oldest friend alone once more; she'd told him of the perils the group had faced, and the injuries she herself had sustained. But then again, he was one of the few Mages to survive the rescue from the College, and something had to done to warrant help. He had to try, at least. "I'll... I'll stay until you and your group depart from Dawnstar. If you go by land, I may walk with you some of the way. If by sea... well, I'll wave you off from the docks."

A somewhat melancholy smile adorned Sebastian's face now, but Roze did not share in it. Part of her had hoped he would join the group, but then, that wouldn't have been particularly beneficial for anyone. There was a good reason the pair of them never stayed together forever - terrible influences. He brought out a wild side in her that not even the Kamal had seen, and she did exactly the same to him. Not what someone wants in a - somewhat - professional mercenary group.

"I'm not sure when we leave. But I doubt it'll be tonight, so... no goodbyes yet."

"No goodbyes." Sebastian agreed with a slow nod of the head - carefully planting a kiss atop Roze's head before darting a smile at her. "I'll be at the inn. Come and find me later - we can celebrate our very unlikely survival so far."

Roze couldn't help but laugh; unlikely was a kind word for her when it came to her survival. And Sagax's, for that matter. Agreeing to meet up with Sebastian later, Roze continued on her search for Sevine. She had some questions about a cat to answer!

Though she had risen earlier that morning to the sound of Farid, only to spend some quality time with Edith afterwards, it hardly felt as if the sun had inched any higher in the sky, when indeed it had. Once acquiring the new perfume, Troll Scab, which still puzzled her as to why someone would name a delightful smelling fragrance something so...distasteful, fact aside, Edith and her returned to the inn. To her surprise, she had a letter waiting for her from Liliana. Immediately, she set out away from the inn, clutching the sealed letter to her breast, and came to rest underneath an ancient pine tree behind the inn. Safe in her seclusion, her gaze swept over the name scrawled in black ink, her own: Sevine Varg-t’uk. Yet, she did not open the letter right away for her hands began to tremble at the potential news within. The anticipation of reading what her sister wrote nauseated her as it always had. Oblivion be damned, she remembered how excited, but nervous, she would feel when receiving letters from Liliana back in the war, and particularly how she learned of her father’s death.

Dearest Sister,

I am sorry to burden you with terrible news, but Pa has passed away…

There was more to the letter of course, but those words were emblazoned in her mind for the rest of the war, perhaps one of the reasons why she made it through to the end, for her sole desire to see her sister again, and pay respects to her father. Now, the same dread filled her, and with shaking hands, she broke the wax seal on the letter.

Dearest Sister,

With the arrival of the Gazette, I trust you will soon learn what has happened here in our beloved town, perhaps Edith has informed you?

But first, let me not carry on with the on-goings here at home, for my heart is glad to hear that you are safe despite the threats in Windhelm. Lodjolf treats me well, what a kind man he is, he fancies bringing me bouquets of flowers from his walks into town. Good news. You are to be an aunt! Yes, I only found out myself when your letter arrived, the midwife, Greta, says I am no more than two months along. I am overjoyed! Lodjolf says that whether it be a boy, or a girl, that we will name our child after Pa or Ma.

Now. If you remember her well, Svari, Edith’s cousin, you will recall that she is fiery in heart, despite her name. We are all safe here in Falkreath, and she chased out ol’ Dengeir! I am thrilled to have her as Jarl, there is not a doubt in my mind that she will do us right. A curious thing to note, she has an Orc housecarl, and a Redguard for a Thane! I've yet to venture into town since the uprising, as my condition is beginning to best me.

Sister, I wish to see your face soon, for I miss your bright eyes, and the sound of you laughing. But I am scared. I cannot lie. With the death of our High King, the invasion from Windhelm, the upset with the Orcs, and even here at home, I fear that I will bring a child into a world wrought with turmoil. I wish I were strong like you. I wish you were here. Write soon, I long for your letters again.

Your Beloved Sister,

Liliana Thorn-Raker

With great care, she folded the letter shut, and clenched it in her hands. Awash with emotions, her mind whirled with the news from her sister. Liliana…she wasn't hurt, but she was with child. One hand rose and covered her face as she smiled, she would become an aunt! The idea of returning one day to see a babe in her sister’s arms overwhelmed her, and hopefully, she could return one day to the old family homestead.

For what seemed like an hour, Sevine rose from her hiding place at the sound of excited voices. She assumed that those that wanted to see the duel were headed to the dueling circle, and she was right in her guess as she joined the tail end of the crowd. Luckily, or rather unluckily, depending on one’s viewpoint, she managed to claim a spot near the edge of the circle. To her pleasant surprise, Do’Karth found her, his hand in hers as the duel began.

She pitied Farid. He killed in cold blood, and regretted it almost immediately, she could see the lingering shame in his downcast eyes. Yet, there was also an apathetic atmosphere in his dark brown eyes as well, one that had accepted his fate, and all that was left to do, was to see if he would live, not that he would want to. After voicing who they were, and their great feats, the newcomer, Daixanos now known, fought with great and impressive skill.

A curious figure appeared on the opposing side of the circle, and her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach. Leif. She could see from the sour look on his face that he knew, just like Thoring had said. While Do’Karth’s warm hand encircled her own, growing tighter, perhaps from anticipation of the duelists, her own hand felt cold, drained of blood. The killing blow, she could not watch, and she turned her head away, Farid fought for his life, despite his dirty tactics, but watching someone she knew die, she could not stomach, at least not on this day. Suddenly, Do’Karth embraced her, and while she wished for it to last longer, so as to soothe her troubled mind, he withdrew and she watched him make his way towards a grim faced Jorwen. She had expected Leif to come for her then, but when she looked to the place he last stood, he was nowhere to be seen.

Then, she caught sight of a familiar face making a bee-line towards her, Roze. She grinned and started off to meet her halfway, relieved not to be harassed by Leif just yet this day. “Roze! Tell me, something wicked this way comes, so what have Sagax and you gotten yourselves into?” She teased as she neared the bright eyed woman, clasping her on the shoulder and pulling her into an embrace.