Their charge started quicker and more unexpectedly than she thought. Instead of spreading apart and retreating to find more of their number, they stood and fought. Sagax rushed ahead, bypassing two screaming mer and slicing one across the thigh, the bowman. She rolled her eyes, was this really what he wanted to do after making such a show? Cut a man's leg? Why not chop into his neck? There were still the two chargers to worry about. One broke off and she did not care about their fate.

Before she could dart forward and spike the mer in his throat and watch the idiot choke on his own blood, his friend's loud roar took her attention away. The sword he held skidded off her shield like oil off ice, leaving him delightfully open for a counterattack. She cracked a wolf-toothed grin at the mer's helplessness, wishing he'd look at her one last time and realize his grave mistake. Instead of ending him by poking her spear through his neck next to his jugular, she booted him in the shoulder, sending him toppling to the ground. “Wait!” She advanced on him, but she only bit her lip as each step brought her closer. “I can tell you where my friends are!”

Her grin fell when she saw the crossbowman fire a bolt that hit Sadri. Those weapons were made to bite right through plate, they'd make a quick meal of chainmail links. She swallowed, trying to stuff a hoarse scream back down her throat, but before she could spring after the crossbowman, smashing her heel into the foolish swordsman on his arse at her feet in the process, Karth was right there. Her eyes narrowed as they settled once more on the mer, clutching at what ribs she now knew she'd cracked on him. The world was nothing around her and the elf. A scream about hurting someone's friend could be heard miles away.

“No need, little brother. I know where they are too,” She changed her grip on her spear to an overhand one, “Rotting in whatever shithole afterlife you lot go to.” She growled low as she stuck the spear just above his groin. The mer's cry was silent, only the faintest squeal as the veins in his neck stood out and his red eyes went wide. While his face was still a picture of agony, she twisted the head of her spear in him and stepped forward, bringing the rim of her shield down on his neck. A sickening crack of bone and choking mer was heard and he was dead. The battle-lust slithered from her veins as quick as it had come on and her quick feet carried her to Sadri's side.

She grasped at his shoulder, her wide eyes scanning him, “Where did it hit?” She asked, wishing she'd had her thread and some ingredients for a poultice on her. Or at least a healer that wasn't at knifepoint. She expected there to be more blood, or for Sadri to be whimpering and his breathing to be quick sips of air. It slowly dawned on her that it might not be that bad a wound, “Where did it hit?” Her voice now less panic and more curiosity.

---

Ah.

There was an impact, and after that, for a moment, there wasn't much different going on. Life was normal and life-threatening as usual, but the Dunmer's crossbow had let loose. Sadri blinked, and then realized that there was something within his sight that wasn't there before. At first, he thought it was a stick - a mere moment later, his synapses got back to work, and he realized it was a bolt sticking out of his left inner bicep, right next to his chest, going through his coat, armor, skin and flesh. It was with this realization that Sadri felt pain, the old familiar feeling, and let loose a silent 'ah', followed by a short huff of breath. He looked at the crossbow, and then back at the bolt, and his bloodied coat. His mind got to work, and compared the situation to the last time he got shot - it wasn't a nice comparison, given how last time the arrow hadn't even managed to get to his flesh, but he'd been through much worse. Hell, he had once fought with seven arrows lodged throughout his limbs and torso. He wasn't going to let this get to him.

He took another breath. The bolt's presence caused white-hot pulses to course through his muscles, with every moment. He turned his eyes back at the crossbowman, but now all he could see was a woman. At first, Sadri thought that the bolt had actually hit somewhere much more vital, and that a guardian angel had come to take him away to whatever afterlife the Gods had for him in store - soon, however, it turned out that things weren't that fortunate. Solveig's grasp on his shoulder made his arm move slightly, and he was again rushed by another surge of burning muscles. He hissed out air, and blinked, focusing on Solveig. Was he in a situation bad enough to get her concerned? He felt guilty, angry, somewhat disappointed even, for he felt he had put a dent in her mood.

''Where did it hit? Where did it hit?''

Sadri blinked again, trying to gauge the tone of her voice, but mostly busied by the pain. ''Nothing to worry about, love,'' he muttered, then looked back down at his arm. It had gone clean through. He turned his head back to see the bolt head, and gave a sigh of relief. It wasn't a broadhead - it would've been much messier if it were. Had his right arm not been severed, he would've likely still felt the pain of that one he had taken in the forests near Silvenar.

Wait, what'd he say?

He took a breath. Suddenly, his choice of words felt more concerning than the bolt sticking through his flesh. ''Could you help me remove this? I can mend the wound,'' Sadri said quickly afterwards, changing the matter of subject. It wasn't like they were in a position where she could refuse. If only she could cut off the bolt head.

Did he call her love? Her cheeks grew hot and she thanked whatever Gods made it so the scene was in a half-light. She coughed into a fist, unable to meet Sadri's eye but she swore she saw even he was taken somewhat by surprise by his choice of words. Even so, maybe she'd have words with him over this at a campfire in the future or on the trip back, there was still the matter of a wound.

“Um,” Solveig's hands retreated from Sadri's arm, seeing now that she might be jostling where he didn't need any, “I can sew wounds, make poultices. Damn scarce ingredients for poultices though.” She eyed Sadri's wound, spreading red now, and wondered at two choices that needed to be made, “We could give you some leather to bite on, cut the flights and push it through or give you something more to swear for while I saw at the head with something.”

Her hands went to her belt and she unsheathed a knife, setting it down beside her and offering Sadri the leather sheath to sink his teeth into. “Either way, it'll hurt...” She remembered how many stories of scars he'd told to her than she had told to him and bit her lip, “Not that you wouldn't know.”

Sadri couldn't help but smirk, despite the bolt in his arm, upon her remark. ''Oh, I would know... It'll be fine,'' Sadri said, half reassuringly and half sarcastically. It was true in both counts - he really had suffered much worse, but on the other hand, it wasn't a fun experience, at least, Sadri had not become masochistic enough to consider having bolts pushed out of his flesh fun. He knew from experience that it would hurt like hell, but he was used to it. ''I know a thing or two about Restoration, shouldn't be too hard to fix,'' he said as he looked down at her hands. Seeing that the knife had no serration, Sadri decided it would not be easy, nor comfortable, to have her saw off the head.

With his iron hand, he took Solveig's wrist to lead the knife against the thread holding the fletches together. ''Slowly now,'' he muttered as he guided the knife back neatly, cutting the threads. He figured they were lucky that they weren't glued down, or, Anu forbid, carved out of the shaft. He watched her pick out the fletches, one by one, now that they weren't bound. With every movement, it hurt, but he knew better than to pay any mind to that.

And then came the hard part.

Solveig started pushing down on the bolt slowly but powerfully, which Sadri tolerated without any assistance except his adamance for a few seconds. Eventually, however, he caved with a quiet groan, gesturing for her to stop. He held his forehead, trying to call upon some magical Respite, and then nodded for her to continue, his artificial fingers squeezing his brow tight, channeling relieving magic as he closed his eyes. Eventually, he felt the flesh forced apart by the bolt fall relaxed once again, spilling more blood over his clothes and flesh. He raised his head and smiled at Solveig, grateful.

''Thanks.''

Holding his wound with his iron hand, Sadri held it close and stood that way for a minute to call upon magic, silently grunting, his eyes filling him with some respite through Solveig. He could feel flesh growing back upon the muscles, however poorly, and he eventually came to a stop after he felt that the wound had been covered by scar tissue enough to stop its bleeding. He figured that his Birthsign could handle the rest over some time. For now, he tried to console himself with the fact that he and Solveig now had a common story behind one of his scars.

Something that happens when Hank Hill and Derv Dribble get drinking beers by the fence

The Hlaalu looked up at the newcomer yelling about her friend, that he quickly pieced together was the khajiit that was pressing uncomfortably between his ribs with the end of the staff. However, it was not the shouts of Niernen that gave him pause, but rather the actions of Solveig giving his companion a drawn out and brutal demise that made his fingers give out, the weapons clashing to the floor as the fight left the Hlaalu as surely as the colour drained from his face.

Do'Karth stepped back and struck the Hlaalu hard in the kneecap with this staff, a sharp crack filled the air as did the dunmer's scream as he fell to the floor, cradling a surely broken bone. One couldn't run if your knee was broken, and considering both of the crossbowman's shots had consequences, Do'Karth felt vindicated as he knocked both weapons out of the Hlaalu's reach with foot and staff, and only then did he turn at the voice, one the khajiit had initially thought belonged to one of his companions in the heat of the skirmish.

Niernen was standing before him, gaunt and pale as a vampire, her cheeks saturated with tears. Do'Karth was at a loss for words, for he had truly thought she had perished. "Niernen, you're..." he said, the air clutching at his throat but not able to find the words. "How is this possible?" he asked walking over to her at a brisk pace, dropping his staff as he took his friend into his arms. Part of him was beyond elated to see her safe, another part of him was confounded, and yet another had to make sure he was real. She looked traumatized, and somehow she had managed to track him down. Of course she needed comforting.

"Do'Karth tried to find you, he is so sorry he failed." he said softly.

Niernen tried to answer Do'Karth's questions, opening her mouth to speak, but she was overcome with emotion when the Khajiit took her in his arms. Her throat closed up and she buried her face in the fur by the nape of his neck and wept -- she wept for joy at having found Do'Karth again, but also in anguish as the horrors and the suffering of the past few weeks washed over her and she finally allowed herself to break. She wept for the death of her Nix-Hound, Garm, and the loss of her family. They were out of reach in Morrowind and she had no idea when she would see them again or what had happened to them. She wept for her pain and broken bones and, a little vainly, for the sorry state of her precious hair.

Her shoulders rose and fell with each ragged breath and choking sob and she lifted her arms, sharp stabs of pain in her left shoulder be damned, to embrace Do'Karth. Niernen said something but it was incomprehensibly muffled. Eventually the Dunmeri woman managed to calm down and regained some of her composure. She lifted her head out of Do'Karth's fur and interspersed the last of her sobs with a sheepish chuckle.

"It's really you," she whispered at last and looked up to meet Do'Karth's gaze. "Azura must have guided my path, I can think of no other explanation. The Kamal hunted us down when we escaped from the city and I was separated from all of you," she said, her voice regaining some of its confidence and substance, and continued. "They chased me east and then the thrice-damned Armigers captured me when I reached Morrowind and sold me to the Kamal to be used as as a slave! Can you believe that? Then I was transferred onto one of their ships and these ridiculous pirates attacked the ship after a storm and I was able to escape with one other Dunmer. We drifted in a little dingy for... more than day, at least, and we made landfall here. Ashav found us. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw him, and then Madura said you were down here, and, well, here I am," she said and smiled, beaming. "And here you are!" Niernen caressed Do'Karth's furry cheek with her good hand and laughed, genuinely, for the first time in ages.

Do'Karth's heart sank as Niernen recounted her ordeal, and he knew all too well of the brutality the Kamal were capable of inflicting; he shuddered to think of what they did to those they decided to enslave. It really did feel as if one of the divines had allowed for this reunion, and for that he was thankful. "Here we are." He agreed, wiping a tear away from her face. "This one can hardly believe it, he is astonished by your tale. Perhaps Azurah brought you back, and for that, Do'Karth is grateful for her." he smiled, guiding her away from the bodies and carnage that had just unfolded. It was quite the range of emotions for such a short amount of time. "Do'Karth is sorry about your hound, he truly is. He understood you two were well bonded... are you injured?" he asked, concerned.

The elf nodded and clenched her jaw when Do'Karth mentioned Garm. "He was so brave," she whispered and teared up again, remembering how the Nix-Hound had fearlessly thrown itself at the Kamal and their eight-legged war beasts -- but Niernen was grateful for Do'Karth's thoughtfulness in remembering him. She blinked the tears away and took a deep breath, then shook her head at Do'Karth's question. "I mean, yes," she said, correcting herself, "they broke my leg and I'm pretty sure something is wrong with my left shoulder, and maybe some of my ribs, but I'll be alright eventually. I tried to heal myself but I'm not skilled enough." Niernen grimaced at the last few words and sorely regretted not devoting more time to Restoration during her studies. "What happened to all of you, though?" she asked, deeply curious. "You have to tell me everything! And why in Oblivion are you here?"

The khajiit snorted in amusement. "An excellent question, why are we here?" he grinned, helping support Niernen to a nearby wall so she didn't have to put as much weight on her leg; broken bones were beyond his skill, but she was getting around well enough for now, but it had to be agonizing just to move. It just spoke to her willpower she managed to get down here at all. "Do'Karth can't begin to describe everything that's occurred. Company wise, we retreated to Dawnstar and set up camp and the commanders started recruiting to replace our... ah, losses." he said, gesturing towards the generally direction the lift was located. "This one is certain you noticed the other dunmer coming in.

"We were sent to the College of Winterhold as word was there were mages trapped there that needed to be rescued. The operation was almost successful... storms beset us on the journey back and most of the mages died attempting to retreat from the ship, which was taking on water. When some of us landed on a dingy, we discovered the Armigers and their affiliation with the Akaviri. Turns out that this is bigger than just the Kamal, they have allies." Do'Karth said, gritting his teeth for a moment. The prospect of people willingly joining the Snow Demons was utterly disgraceful.

"Do'Karth led the group back to Dawnstar, we nearly died in a blizzard and encountered some falmer in a cave we took shelter in. We returned back to Dawnstar, where we finally had some respite from all of this. Do you recall Sevine, the Huntress as others call her?" he asked. "Her and I have entered courtship. It is about the only bright spot since the Siege of Windhelm." he said, smiling fondly. "Of course, Leif wishes Do'Karth to cease living, but that is a problem for another time. He's here on this mission now, although he was injured pretty badly. Do'Karth fears for his life." he said, his smile faltering with genuine concern.

"As for why we are here, there was news that this Armigers had garrisoned these ruins and were looking for something, this one is hazy on the details but after everything he's seen the past few weeks, nothing is too important to overlook. If they are puppets of the Kamal, then there is something foul afoot here." Do'Karth concluded.

Niernen listened with growing amazement as Do'Karth took his turn in recounting his exploits. It seemed that the Company had experienced no shortage of dangerous adventures. Niernen was grateful that the Khajiit had managed to survive all of it.

The news of Do'Karth's courtship with Sevine was another surprise. She raised her eyebrows and queried her memory about this Sevine -- a flash of red hair and a stern look briefly appeared in her mind's eye. Niernen opened her mouth to congratulate Do'Karth on having found love in these trying times and found herself faltering, feeling a twisted knot in her stomach. "That's... that's great, Do'Karth," she said and managed a smile, suppressing the feeling. "I'm happy for you and Sevine. You'll have to properly introduce me sometime. As for Leif, I think I saw him near the entrance as well... his wound looked nasty, but he was talking with the Dunmer woman. I think he'll live," Niernen said, trying to reassure Do'Karth, and patted him on the arm. It was so typical of the Khajiit to be concerned for the well-being of a man that held a grudge against him and Niernen smiled, endeared. Her guts wrenched again.

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. Niernen never had any time for courtship before, what with her studies and the war. That was not to say she'd never had a crush before -- some of her fellow students and soldiers had been quite strapping, and the knot in her stomach was worryingly similar to that feeling. Trying to distract herself, Niernen focused on the rest of Do'Karth's story.

"Right, Armigers. Oh, that reminds me, we saw a bonemold ship moored topside before Madura and I came down here. I believe he was supposed to tell Edith. Maybe these men had something to do with it?" she said and looked around at the dead and incapacitated opponents.

"Of course. She'll be thrilled to find you well. We all need good news these days." Do'Karth replied warmly, missing the hesitation in Niernen's voice as she searched for words. "On the plus side for Leif, this one hears women like scars. This one has a few of his own." he chuckled.

Her report on the bonemold ship was indeed an interesting development. Perhaps it belonged to the ones they had encountered already? He nodded toward Edith, who was checking up on the others. "She is rather hard to miss at this point, especially for a nosy sort such as Madura. This one overheard these adversaries speaking before attempting a dialog that... did not turn out fortuitously. It seems they are employed by the owners of your bonemold ship. We need to find them. Do'Karth assumes the orange-garbed fool over there has answers."

Orange-garbed fool sounded about right and Niernen laughed her pleasant, pealing laugh again. "It is a ridiculous outfit, isn't it?" she said. "I'll let Madura do the explaining." Niernen put her back against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment and realized her head was spinning with exhaustion. She hadn't slept in more than a day and all the pain had sucked the energy right out of her. "You don't happen to have any of that soup with you, do you?" Niernen asked and opened one eye to glance at Do'Karth with a half-smile, referring to the lukewarm soup he'd shared with her after their battle against the Kamal in Windhelm.

"This one wishes he did, it is a shame you did not manage to arrive even just yesterday. There was so much food at the festival... perhaps there is leftovers. Most of the food Do'Karth has is back on the ship. There's this, though." the khajiit said, opening his pouch, fingers brushing on the container of moon sugar before finding the nearly empty jar of honey he'd shared with Sadri a few days prior. He handed this over. "To tide you over, this one hopes. You should return to the surface with the commanders and recover, this place is very dangerous. This one does not wish for your return to be short lived." he said softly, his brow furrowing in concern.

"Oh, thank you," Niernen said and accepted the jar of honey with gratitude. The sugar would probably perk her up a bit and she scooped the remaining honey out of the jar with her fingers and licked it off shamelessly. Now was not the time for decorum. "And you're kidding, right?" she said, her voice a little muffled, heavy with the stickiness of the honey. "You can't reasonably expect me to leave you again. No, I'm coming with you." There was a tone of finality in her voice and she punched Do'Karth's shoulder softly, smiling. Niernen had always been incorrigible and stubborn and some things, it seemed, hadn't changed. The presence of her friend fired up her spirit and she felt better than she had in weeks. That said, Niernen saw the look on Do'Karth's face and sighed, digging deeper in the jar for more of the honey. "I promise I'll stay in the back."

"As this one recalls, you are more than capable from the rear." Do'Karth grinned, shaking his head. "Do'Karth's fur smelt burnt for days after our fight. It is rather comforting to know that this one will have to be reacquainted with that particular sensation. Besides, our foes will have to get past Do'Karth first. That won't happen." he concluded with a wink, looking over towards Edith. "Perhaps we should let Edith know who you are. So far, today is not proving to be very productive with strangers. Everyone is a bit jumpy." he looked back as his friend, grasping Niernen's arm gently. "Niernen," he said, "Do'Karth is grateful you found your way back to him."

Niernen couldn't help but grin at Do'Karth's wink and when he reached for her arm, she covered his hand with her own and gently squeezed. She could feel her heart beating faster and the twisting in her stomach became stronger -- a bittersweet feeling. "I'm really glad too," she said quietly as her copper eyes softened. She stretched out the moment for a few more seconds before finally letting go of Do'Karth's hand and averting her gaze. "Now, you should go tell Edith who I am, and I'm going to reacquaint myself with our friends over there," she said and gestured towards Sadri, Roze, Solveig and Sagax. She narrowed her eyes at Sadri. "Huh," she muttered. "I think I've seen him in Blackmarsh before..."

With one last glance and a smile at Do'Karth, she hobbled over to the other mercenaries and came to a halt a few yards away, cleared her throat and waved awkwardly. "Greetings, sera's," she said and smiled sheepishly. "My name is Niernen. I think some of us may have already met."

When Niernen turned to greet the others, Do'Karth picked up his staff and decided to go collect his orange-clad adversary. When he turned to where he'd left his foe, the dunmer had vanished, and a pit formed in his gut; he was certain the Hlaalu was too injured to move, and he had been so caught up in his own selfish moment with Niernen that he wasn't keeping an eye on who should have been a captive.

"One slipped away." He called out to the others, wishing to give chase but knowing that would be a foolish endeavor.

Nieven appeared to have heard of more comrades who Valen could only assume she had thought dead. A part of him wondered if he should follow, there were few enough of his kind that didn't try to kill him after all. He decided against it, as they needed to go check out the boat. If it was gonna be a problem, it was better to not be caught unwares. And so it was that he crept along the shore towards the boat shortly after arriving.

Valen put a hand above his eyes for shade and glared at the ship that lay anchored rather far up the shallow waters. It was an ashlander craft, there was no mistaking it. Which he argued, meant problems. He knew not what his new possible allies and comrades did here, but by the looks of it they weren't on a picknick. He levied his spear and shield back onto his back as he moved alongside his new found comrade in arms. But he kept his distance, not trusting him enough to readily be in weapons reach. He crouched low as he made his way towards the boat., Trying his best to figure out what they were dealing with. It was a sizable vessel and he wondered quietly if it had brought a full crew with it. That would pose a problem if it came down to a fight. He wasn't sure he had enough arrows to put them all down.

As luck would have it, there would be no armed guards coming at them. So , Hargjorn in his endless wisdom began to wade out into the water. Valen, having just come from the sea decided this was divine punishment and sighed. In silence, he moved with Hagjorn and heaved himself up the aft hatch. He hung back, something prickling in the back of his mind. Where was all the crew?

His eyes snapped up at the sound Hagjorns cry for help and his finger deftly pulled a arrow out of the quiver and onto the bowstring in one smooth movement.A hooded figure was besetting his newfound ally to what purpse Valen did not know. What he did know was that he was not going back on any slave ship, and he would not die here due to folly on his or any others part. With the precision, discipline and for once sober mind of a veteran he knocked the arrow and pulled back. His back straight, his legs finding his balance against the gently rocking of theboat, he let lose his arrow. Aming for the center of the attackers mass he argued that is such a tight space the attacker could not move to avoid. Especially since he was attempting to kill Hargjorn.

'Twang' went the snap of the string as one sharp and shiny bodkin arrow sailed towards its target.

As instructed, Daelin rounded up his team two hours later, based on the movement of the sun as it traversed the sky. They were rested up after their fight, and those with minor and manageable wounds were more or less back to their usual physical well being, albeit with some aches and sores to accompany them for the march ahead. Although he did not know Rothvar, the man seemed an honourable sort who seemed all too eager to lend a hand after the group’s intervention; he seemed to be guilty for the injuries he indirectly caused as the team rushed to his rescue. Still, if he ended up being a problem, Rhasha’Dar, Sevine, and Keegan could likely keep him in line, despite their injuries.

And so, Daelin headed the column again, not worrying about scouting across this largely dead and scorched landscape as he followed the provided map to Cindershine Mine, with Daixanos, Jorwen, and Marcel carried across the scorched landscape, the sun getting unsettlingly low across the horizon. They’d be arriving after the sun dipped below the mountains, although the march back wouldn’t be difficult, given much of the forest was clear cut from flames. There were no sounds other than the shifting of their equipment as they carried on, their footfalls cushioned by ash. No animals were around, and the absence of even birdsong gave the air a chilling vibe of death.

And they were marching towards the cause.

~ ~ ~

When the team arrived at the entrance of the mine close to two hours later, it was already shrouded in shadow, the rocks about it darkened from scorch marks; the usual moss and overgrowth that jutted from between rocks had been cleared away, leaving everything around the entrance, save for the wood beams that lined the entrance, were blackened like a discarded black soul gem. Worryingly, some spots of the sand in the area appeared to have traces of crystallization; ordinary flames could not turn sand to glass, and yet here were traces that whatever had touched upon the ground here was almost approaching that heat. It was a foreboding sign.

The team entered the mine with trepidation, not sure of what to expect as they entered the portal of the mine. Soon, everything was becoming too dark to see, and the discovery of a torch scone gave everyone a moment to consider that they’d ruin any element of surprise if they illuminated their coming, but an equally compelling argument was they’d get nowhere without sight, and the pyromancer would be at an advantage against them, especially since the floor had numerous puddles from water seeping through the rocks. The group was uncertain of what they’d discover as they traversed the old tunnels of the mineshaft, abandoned an unknowable amount of time ago. Some tools and equipment were still in place from when the last workers set them down, and piles of rubble dominated some of the dead ends where workers had begun to clear more rock in search of mineral deposits. For whatever reason, the mine was abandoned, and outside the team and the pyromancer that was reputed to lurk within, it was impossible to know if anyone else had set food in the mine; conspicuously absent was the lingering scent of animal habitation, as several creatures claimed abandoned caves such as this as their own after the lingering scent of man disappeared.

Carrying the lit torch ahead, and prepared to extinguish it in one of the numerous puddles of water that dominated the mine, the group pressed forward in search of their quarry.

Before long, and in such short amount of time even with the tension, light was seen flickering up ahead, prompting Daelin to plunge his torch into some water he had passed several steps behind him, and voices were heard up ahead. Whispering to the others, the Bosmer said, “More than one. Be ready.” He said, notching an arrow into his bow and carefully walking to ensure that if he touched more water, it would not splash. As he approached the illuminated corridor, he could not help but feel like he was walking into the mouth of a dragon, and he really did not wish to see what waited around the corner; even for someone as experienced and battle hardened as Daelin, creeping around in caves in search of a man who incinerated an unspeakable amount of forest was hardly an encouraging proposition. Still, he had a job to do, and if he were lucky, he’d be able to put a shot through the eye of the pyromancer before he became a threat to anyone.

Reaching a corner before catching sight of who was beyond, Daelin could hear the argument, and given the circumstances, was almost disappointed at how mundane it seemed.

“You were once my apprentice. I would have thought you’d be happy to see me,” A familiar deep voice said. Daelin chanced a look, and he immediately caught sight of a young orc woman in the robes of a commonwoman, flanked by an altmer with a gaunt face and dark robes; something about him reminded Daelin of necromancers, and the origin of the voice, whom he could only see the back of his head. The three of them were facing a bosmer, and a ghastly looking one at that; a hunched over posture with dried and cracked skin that had the appearance of having bled and dried on numerous occasions dominated his appearance, and eyes that Daelin could only describe as crazy. The bosmer was fidgeting, his skin saturated with the sheen of sweat that permeated through his tattered clothing. He looked like the kind of individual who evoked the Wild Hunt and was ejected from the horrible mass that resulted from the ritual. However, when the bosmer spoke, it was far more clear and powerful than Daelin was expecting, as if it belonged to someone much more put together entirely.

“I still have work to do, and you will not stop me. The lands need purification… the Green Pact demands it!” the Bosmer stated with fever.

The deep voice, a Redguard, shook his head, visibly surveying the Bosmer’s living situation distastefully. “I don’t give a damn about your Green Pact, which you’re defiling by burning down the forests, I might add.”

“PURIFYING!”

“I do not have time to argue semantics. The Synod is still looking for me and for you, and I am here to offer you a chance to come with me peacefully, my apprentice, and we can pick up the pieces that we left behind from the shattered Blue Blood Mage Guild… or did you forget your brothers and sisters?” the voice asked accusingly. The Bosmer appeared to flinch at the word, but otherwise did not appear convinced.

The Redguard reached into a satchel at his side, and a very large black soul gem filled his hand, the crystal so dark that in the dim torchlight appeared to drink all the light that touched it as it thirsted for its vessel to be filled. “Or you can come with me in here. One way or another, you will be helping me with my research once more.”

“You’re mad!” The Bosmer shrieked, finally sounding as feral as he looked. The Redguard chuckled in response.

“Bold claim from the lunatic who has been burning every living thing he can get his wretched claws on. How many people have you burnt alive? Quite a few, I imagine. If I could find you so easily, the Synod is not far behind and you know that whatever they’ll do to you will be far worse than what I could to do you, and you recall my teachings in conjuration…” the Redguard trailed off.

Bright white flames emitted from the pyromancer’s clenched fists. “You’ve made a mistake coming here, Jonimir.” The Bosmer threatened.

Daelin’s eyes widened. Jonimir… his mind raced back to the Reach, the Redguard soul trapper who was once a part of the company, albeit not for very long. Suddenly, it all came rushing back and it was as if he were seeing a very unsettling ghost; there really was no question that it was their former comrade standing in front of the team with two strangers, about to confront a very dangerous individual.

The team would have to make a decision and act fast, as things were about to come to blows. The altmer stepped forward, a powerful ward in one hand and a fist arcing with electricity in the other.

---

Keegan awoke with a pounding head. He supposed this was what a good hangover feels like. The Altmer didn't really drink the foul liquid Nords called mead, so there's little personal experience to back it up. There was this one after party at the Daggerfall Theatre, where he had a little bit too much Bretonic brandy and subsequently woke up with obscene shapes drawn on his face. It was humiliating; some Bretons thought Altmers used phallic shapes as facepaint. From there on, Keegan's been sticking with tea and coffee.

To his utmost horror, it appeared that he had been carried. No matter how hard Keegan tried, the "useless support" never let him go. In fact, he was not metaphorically, but physically carried. His face tried to burn, but it wasn't much burning compared to the burning in his skull (or the burning in the woods). There's likely a concussion going on, and dried blood where his forehead got mashed by wood. Getting up was a challenge, and walking in a straight line felt like arm wrestling Kamals. Daelin knew dragging Keegan along would be a terrible idea, as he would go from "useless support" to "useless unsupportive". So the Bosmer quickly checked up on Keegan and went his way preparing for the next stop.

Thankfully, Keegan wasn't the only one getting wrecked. Though he really should feel bad, he couldn't help but smirk as the mighty "Huntress" got taken down by mere wolves. The wilderness was a truly unpredictable place, an equalizer where even the most experienced get put into their place. As more sense returned to his head, reason, and accompanying it, fear, seeped into Keegan's mind. There was him and the other two injured, along with a Nord who could only be best described as "Nordic". It was afternoon and the sun was bound to set soon. They were left to fend for themselves in the meantime.

Jorwen apparently made decent conversations with the legionary turned lumberjack. Keegan didn't like that in the slightest, as the only thing in common between a Stormcloak and a Legion soldier was killing elves. He stayed away from them and instead, found Rhasha'Dar with gruesome piercing wounds. It looked really, really bad, that's about as much as someone untrained in medicine could assess. Approaching a Rhasha set to gather ingredients, Keegan offered him a flask of water.

"Who would've thought that wood spirits fought harder than elite armigers." Keegan started, remembering how they both stumbled from seasickness into a deadly ambush. When the Khajiit finished drinking, or refused, Keegan took his own sip. “Say, what happened to that crossbow? It would have been pretty handy here.”

Some time then passed and the sun started to retire. Besides the basic team communication, Keegan had neither the mood nor the strength to talk in length. While he rode out the worst of his headache, the Altmer retrieved his staff and made sure it was still serviceable. He avoided Rothvar, that was, until Rothvar surprised him from behind.

“Uh...” Keegan stammered, locked in fear as he thought the Nord was going to beat him up.

“Easy, elf.” Rothvar laid a calloused hand on Keegan’s shivering shoulder. He pointed to the distance with the other hand. “We have guests.”

“Guests?” Keegan spun around to see what that was about. Rhasha and Sevine was nearby right now, and those two silhouettes were someone else, something else. Then it dawned on the Altmer; these shapes were humanoid, but bigger than any man, elf or beast. They were taller than Keegan himself, and that was no common feat considering his seven feet stature. In addition, they were bulky.

“Kamals!” Keegan nearly shrieked in terror.

“Reckon we can take them?” Rothvar asked, not a clue as what he was about to face.

“Reckon you want to join your friends?” Keegan’s eyes widened. He saw Rothvar frown at his words, so he took a calming breath to speak more politely. “They’re the snow demons that sacked Windhelm; no way on Nirn or Oblivion we can fight them, not when we’re all injured.” Sparing a glance to the Kamals’ direction, Keegan saw that they have not noticed the camp, yet.

“We’ve got to run.” Keegan suggested, but immediately regretted saying that when he noticed the path ahead was devoid of any cover, thanks to the thorough burn. Even if there were cover, he’s certain that none of them could run much in their state. “Actually, hide.”

“You do know they’re headed straight to your chief and his folks.” The Nord said.

Keegan could not believe the stubbornness of the old fool, so he resorted to tugging the Nord off the center of the camp. With him out of the way, Keegan ran to inform Rhasha and Sevine. Everyone got behind a bundle of semi-charred bushes just as the Kamals noticed the camp. From where he crouched, Keegan observed that the pair of snow demons were quite different from each other. One was heavily armored and had a giant axe/hammer combo that could easily bust down walls. The other was clad head to toe in exotic fur and cloth, with a metal plate only covering its torso; this one had a bone staff with teeth of ice. The warrior Kamal made a lot of noise from merely shifting its legs, while the mage had gusts of frost swirling around its staff.

The scariest part? They were splitting up to search around the camp.

Only then did Keegan notice the old lumberjack digging. He was digging long and narrow ditches in the ash-covered ground, with some haste considering only the basic tool was involved. The Nord looked to Keegan between handfuls and gestured to the first dugout. “Get in.” Rothvar stated simply.

“Why?” Keegan refused. “This is too damn early for graves!”

“Look kid, you want to hide, right?” Rothvar explained as he finished a second dig. “This is what the legion did to hide. You stay down and I smother you in dirt, except your face. Trust me, we fooled men a lot sharper than you.”

With no better idea, Keegan lowered himself into the ground. He saw the Kamal mage walking closer and closer. He closed his eyes, so dirt wouldn’t blind him, as Rothvar began pouring ash on him. Silently, he mouthed a prayer to Auriel, hoping that this crazy plan would somehow work.

---

All in all, the fight took about a minute. The reunion between Do'Karth and Niernen took a lot longer than that. When Niernen first entered the scene, Edith thought she was a sailor from the Kyne's Tear. Of course, Madura followed up and explained the unlikely. With Madura being Madura, Edith had a lot of trouble believing what came out of his mouth. But then again, there was no time arguing about it. In the time it took Madura to recount his observation (with unnecessary, journalistic details), Edith found the Hlaalu man went from a certain catch to nothing. Madura wasn’t the only one to blame, as everyone in the party got distracted by something. The bewitching nature of dwarven decorations was the one to blame, or so the books say.

With two down earlier, and two fresh faces inserting themselves, the group was back to its original numbers. They moved again soon, reaching the end of the current corridor, turning into another, and another, before arriving at a crossroad. A few destroyed Dwemer machines littered along the way. One route was blocked by a metal double door similar to the set that guarded the spire above ground. The other way leads into another winding corridor. However, a piece of torn orange fabric laying in front of the doors indicated that Hlaalu might have went that way. Carefully poking the door with her sword, Edith found that it was not locked. Either Hlaalu forgone doing so in haste, or they were being led into a trap. Thankfully, the mercenaries had someone knowledgeable about hidden mechanisms. Edith called up Roze to examine for anything suspicious, and when nothing came out, she pulled open a door in one swift motion.

The next area was a giant chamber. The ceiling was twice as tall as the cramped hallways and the horizontal space equated to a rectangular ballroom. Interspersed along the floor were pipes and bronze tanks. Steam leaked out of valves and flows of water led to the opposite end, where Hlaalu stood among eight other individuals. They were all dark elves, all dressed in clothing native to Vvardenfell; netch leather, chitin, bone and occasionally augmented with Dwemer pieces. One man in their midst was likely their leader, chitin armor, red facepaint and speaking to Hlaalu with a sense of authority. They were speaking in Cyrodilic, voice echoing through the grinding of machinery.

“Narivar,” Hlaalu was croaking between pained grunts, “they killed the rest, at least six of them, we’ve got to move!”

“I care not for them.” Narivar responded. He was looking at a wall, no, another door. A dwarven wrench in his hand was being used on a valve. Steam spew out each time he turned, suddenly, something was moving near the side wall. “Three weeks of work and we are too close to a breakthrough for pirates to interrupt.”

“Narivar Dalas? What are you doing here?” Someone interrupted from the mercenaries’ direction. It was Madura. Edith came close to clocking the damn fool in the face; so much for the element of surprise. She had nearly forgotten about the journalist and the sorceress, thinking they both would be cowering behind the sturdier folks. On the contrary, here was Madura taking steps forward. If not for Edith snagging him back and clamping his mouth, the journalist would be blabbering his way ahead until he knocked himself out on a Dwemer furniture.

Unfortunately, Madura was heard loud and clear.

“Show yourself, pirate!” Narivar barked across the room. Steam began to fill, but both sides could still see the other. “Madura?” He said in a moment of shock, then quickly shifted back to a reassured posture. “You shouldn’t have came here, brother.”

“Why?” Madura shot back, managing to wrestle out of Edith’s grip. “Because you would rather follow old ghosts rather than family? So you stole our parents’ money just to play archeologist.”

“I have found my true family.” Narivar gestured to the eight Dunmers around him, all standing alert with various arms at the ready. “These are the nomads we descended from, and they have accepted me as a brother, as their leader.” Casting his dwarven tool aside, Narivar took a glass spear in hand. “We are wanderers no more, our service finally returns to the Nerevarine. The treasures of Bthamz belong to our true king.”

“Your service goes a spineless appeaser!” Madura spat, dodging Edith’s attempt to catch him. “How could you kneel for the snow demons’ puppet?”

“What? What are these snow demons you speak of?” Narivar hesitated.

Madura was going to say something, but Edith seized him again and held him firmly in place. While the conversation between Dalas brothers went on, steam had greatly reduced the visibility in the room. At that instant, a large pipe above the mercenaries burst open, sending down jets of scorching vapor. Edith raised her shield in time to protect herself and Madura, while others stood far enough to avoid being blasted. Similar steam jets erupted all around, accompanying them were shaking on the walls. A large chunk of the left wall flew open, tearing through the hole was a Dwemer centurion.

“Get out!” Hlaalu screamed to his companions. “Fight through them!” He then proceeded to say things in Dunmeris, causing a stir among Narivar’s Ashlanders. For someone crippled, Hlaalu was uncharacteristically bellicose. Actually, judging by how the orange robed elf hid behind everyone else, he never planned to fight in person.

“Defensive positions!” Edith ordered the mercenaries. Shoving Madura back towards the exit, Edith unsheathed her sword once again.

“Please, this is all a big misunderstanding!” Madura implored everyone. “We don’t have to kill each other, we can-” The rest of his voice was drowned out as the centurion walked to the room center. Steam had occupied so much space that it was difficult to see, though the artificial eyes of the giant construct stared menacingly between the two sides, as if it was sizing up ants to squish.

---

Valen's aim was true. His arrow found the assailant's neck, impaling a good distance through the netch leather. Blood seeped out from where the arrowhead went in, and the poor fellow dropped dead in front of Hargjorn. The latter had to shove the fresh corpse off his front, but despite that and the blood splattering onto his clothing, Hargjorn's reaction to Valen was one of approval. The knife that nearly slit his neck was now in Hargjorn's possession. He spun it in his hand, examining the darkened bone grip and the curved metal blade. It was foreign like its former owner's armor. That armor was the next thing Hargjorn investigated. He peeled off a tangle of hood and mask, revealing an androgynous dark elven face filled with tribal markings.

"Doesn't look like anyone familiar, eh?" Hargjorn asked Valen, crouching beside the corpse to better examine it. "Oh well, nice shot anyways. It was this one or me; you whacked the right chum."

A quick pat around the body revealed nothing significant. In fact, the Dunmer had nothing saved for outfits and the knife. Several buckles were even loose, which probably meant they geared up without time to spare. Pushing the body to one side, Hargjorn continued forward with Valen rounding up the rear. With his trusty falchion in hand, Hargjorn methodically went from cabin door to cabin door on both sides of the passageway. The next pair of cabins turned out uneventful; one was full of barrels and another hollowed out for bunks. Familiar Morrowind spices, along with unfamiliar, but similar fumes filled the storage room. The bunks, on the other hand, gave off the typical musk of sailors. There's little signs of occupation, however, Hargjorn did find some sort cargo manifest on a barrel, though he could not make sense of the Dunmeris writen in Daedric characters.

"Hatch up ahead, it's open." Hargjorn pointed out for Valen. "You're handy with the bow, I've seen it, but something shorter works better in tight quarters."

Continuing forward, there was a door beyond the hatch. The door was ajar, and when Hargjorn got closer to it, he saw something behind it. That something looked like a head. "You see that?" Hargjorn confirmed with Valen. On his second look, the head was gone. There were shuffling noises, the door swung ever so slightly and Hargjorn realized what was happening.

"He's invisible!" Hargjorn blurted out. Ducking below shooting height, the sailor called out. "Running on the steps now, shoot it!"

Now Hargjorn regretted telling his buddy to switch off the bow earlier, because no matter how fast Valen could put out that arrow, only air and bulkhead awaited. His heart pounded in urgency, his steps did not wait to carry him to the ladder leading up the hatch. Nothing more than a cloudy sky sat above it. Hargjorn ordered Valen to watch his back, while he kicked the ajar door wide open. A galley full of dried ingredients in sight, no signs of anyone else.

"Ashav, on your guard now, you have company!" Hargjorn ran back to the hatch and shouted up. Without waiting for a reply, the sailor started scrambling up the ladder as fast he as could.

"Up you go, we gotta chase him topside." He beckoned for Valen to follow.

Sevine didn't remember much after being attacked by the wolves in the ashen clearing, except for the excruciating fire that emanated from her right arm, and left leg. However, when her eyes flickered open, she took note of the familiar Argonian sitting just a few feet away from her. Gold eyes gazed watchfully back at her, at first, she didn't know what to say, then, she didn't have to say anything, as a pounding headache brought her back down into a lying position. When the throbbing in her head had substantially subsided, she sat up, much slower this time, and placed a hand to her brow. There, she noted the torn and twisted leathers of her bracer, and even more importantly, flowing rivulets down the back of her hand. Her eyes shifted to her injured leg, and noted that the ferocity of the wolf had practically destroyed her boot.

"Where are we?" She inquired, glancing at Dax, relieved to see him of all people. The duel between Dax and Farid had left quite an impression on her, one that showed her the Argonian was more than capable of handling himself in combat. As she carefully unlaced her bracer and tugged it free from her arm, it came away with a sickening noise, one that reminded her of walking through wet mud, except, it was her arm. The blood coated on her forearm made it hard for her to discern how badly injured her forearm was. She flexed her hand, and formed a fist, gritting her teeth as pain shot up her arm and to her shoulder. She tossed the bloodied bracer aside, and surveyed the surrounding area. To her, they were in a camp of some sort, and apparently had suffered some fire damage.

Before she had a chance to clean her wounds properly, Keegan and Rothvar broke through the clearing, hurtling towards Dax and her. In hushed whispers, Keegan explained in haste that they had spotted Kamal's. As she panicked silently, Rothvar, the Nord that vaguely reminded her of Jorwen, began digging shallow trenches. He too, explained with great haste, as to what purpose these trenches would serve as hiding spots, clever tricks that the Imperials used to hide from the Stormcloak's. She allowed herself a soft smirk, one that comes with realization, so that's how some of the "abandoned" Imperial camps from the Civil War, appeared deserted within seconds of their arrival. When it came for her, she made no complaint as she hobbled over to the shallow trench into which she lowered herself. Quickly, Rothvar covered her, save for her face, although a thin layer was applied so distort the whiteness of her skin with charcoal grey ash.

A weighted silence fell across the camp, as they lay now all in their graves, and for a few hopeful moments, she prayed to Mara that the Kamal's would bypass the camp altogether. Alas, that was not to be, as the familiar, heavy-booted footfalls of the Snow-Demons were soon heard shuffling through the campsite. Sevine kept her eyes closed, and held her breath, praying earnestly that they couldn't see the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Dax had shouldered his BattleAxe and strung his bow, having volunteered to accompany the vanguard party to halt this threat once and for all. He was a fine watchmen, but hunting was what he was bred to do, and so he went with them. Through the charred remains of the forest and into the deep cavern that appeared before them.

Daixanos was used to caverns. He did not frequent them as he would the tundra, but he had often delved into various caves through Skyrim. Some he had done through simple exploration, but most of the time he had been tracking and hunting bandits or game. Sometimes he would use them as temporary dwellings for himself and check them routinely to see if a beast had wandered in for him to trap and kill.

He kept his tail swishing in a flowing manner, just above the ground. If he found himself in water, it would simply dip in fluidly as he moved silent as a whisper. His bow was still ever ready, and he did not trust this cave they were in no matter how used to such things he was. He kept an arrow rested upon the string of his bow, his eyes scanning the darkness.

As the scene unfolded before them, Dax lurked at the corner of their little cavern mouth that allowed him to see somewhat of what was transpiring, hidden within the shadows. He let out a growl low enough to not be perceptible to most ears. Why is it always magicks? He pulled back on his bowstring and began to aim at the Bosmer, and took a moment longer than he normally would to aim for the magick that unnerved him was about to be unleashed. If any of his companions would have him stop his carefully aimed shot, they had the time now. But he was to loose at the Bosmer at the midsection.

In an unpredictable turn of events that absolutely no one could have predicted, the journalist Madura knew entirely too many people and turned out being a mission compromising problem. The adage that the quill was mightier than the sword was rather stupid, in Do’Karth’s opinion; Madura’s weapon of choice was quill and parchment, both of which weren’t going to do a lot of good when his old friends decided his loud mouth needed to be separated from the rest of him… along with the rest of the company. The Khajiit rolled his jaw, irritated. He stepped back behind the loose line of the mercenaries, who Edith was trying her damnest to organize, as the jets of burning steam erupted, turning the room into an oily-smelling sauna.

As Do’Karth was assessing the adversaries through the steam, a sight most unsettling burst through the wall, much like the dream he had had a few weeks prior about a sentient water pitcher that burst through Windhelm’s walls, shouting in excitement as the children cheered him on. A Dwemer centurion, a fabled construct the Khajiit had heard plenty of horror stories about, strutted with authority into the cavernous room, the steam concealing its appearance and making its visage, when visible, all the more hauntingly ghastly.

And for something that could not emote, it certainly looked rather murderous, Do’Karth decided. When Madura pleaded for peace, Do’Karth prodded him in the back with the end of his staff, hissing, “You brought this upon us all, you loud fool. This room is full of enough hot air without you contributing, so be silent, for once in your life.”

Although Edith called for everyone to take up defensive positions, Do’Karth felt that was inviting trouble; the Centurion would have a much easier time deciding to kill a group of perceived intruders rather than multiple groups, and those Ashlanders might have an opportunity to slip away if unhindered. The choice was obvious; he had to stop them.

Slipping away, his bare padded feet silent across the floor as he moved, unencumbered by noisy and restrictive armour, the Khajiit moved in a wide flank to put distance between himself and his team, keeping half an eye on the towering machine that was still deciding what it wanted to engage. Steam concealed Do’Karth’s presence, and the typically vigilant Dunmer were rather preoccupied with the group at large and the Dwemer machine that posed an equally grave threat for both parties.

And so, when the Ashlander finally noticed Do’Karth coming up behind him, he could not react in time as the Khajiit swept in behind him, swinging his staff about the Dunmer’s neck as he brought his back into the Ashlander, pulling him forward and over his back, slamming hard into his back. The Dunmer gasped, winded, but managed to bring his sword up, bracing it with both hands as Do’Karth’s staff came down, blocking the blow. Undeterred, Do’Karth kept his staff moving, the momentum being the key for his weapon’s effectiveness, bringing it back under his arm and down hard as the Ashlander tried to roll away, striking him hard in the flank. The Dunmer screamed, getting to his knee and thrusting out with his blade in the same motion, matching the direction of Do’Karth’s retracting arm and catching the Khajiit in the side with the edge of the blade, giving him a shallow cut just below his ribs.

The Khajiit sucked in air, the sudden sensation of pain sobering, and he brought his staff down horizontally in front of him, smacking the blade’s second strike down before it could bite into his flesh again. Although it went against his code, Do’Karth viciously struck out, rotating his arms as if he were swinging an axe into the Ashlander’s head. Such a blow could be crippling, if not fatal, but in the heat of the moment, and as time was of the essence, he had to end the fight quickly. The Dunmer collapsed to his side, groaning weakly, and Do’Karth brought his weapon down in a flurry of heavy blows of his opponents back; between his collarbones, his spine, and the small of his back. The lack of decisive reaction was enough to suggest the enemy was incapacitated.

Clutching his bloodied side, Do’Karth turned and for a moment, his eyes met with the carved face of the Centurion. He’d definitely caught the worst kind of attention, and he was unsure if he’d be able to outrun that thing if it had a quick stride.

“Madura, you ass,” Do’Karth hissed.

The massive dwemer Centurion focused uncertainly on the stalactite. It knew it was a stalactite, I mean, it was standing stock still and had dirt on it. But when it looked at it from the corner of its vision, it saw a mortified Imperial woman. Then it would focus in again and another stalactite. This was deeply unnerving.

Raelyn had heard that Dragons couldn't see you if you stood stock still and while this was certainly untrue it seemed to work for this thing. It seemed to be waiting for movement and she was just happy not getting involved in any of this nonsense. She couldn't see how she or anyone else could possibly profit from engaging in this fight. This was a very appropriate and Imperial mindset, which famously lead to the Great Emperor Talos realizing there was no profit in a jungle. So he had all Imperial lands transformed to what was more or less a forest retreat. Why he hadn't decided to get rid of all the dangerous and volatile Dwemer ruins was anyones guess.

This was all well and good, up until the moment the frenzied Ashlanders decided to try to charge past the Centurion, which began flailing its arms about, not sure who to smash first. Raelyn was watching this with some interest, when she realized far too late that a Dunmer man with a spear had managed to get within "Oh, gods, there's a Dwemer monstrosity behind me and some woman in front of me, I'll take my odds at the front thanks" distance. It probably wasn't profitable to stab random women in garish clothing, but he wasn't an Imperial so this wasn't a problem for him.

Raelyn felt, for a moment, a sudden pressure in her abdomen that all things considered was alarming but didn't reach the full apex of alarm until she hit the ground. Then she hit the ground because the weight of a spear jamming into you at ten miles per hour isn't anything to scoff at. The intense, burning pain didn't come up until about the moment she lifted a bloodied hand. Something in her brain that had been ignoring what just happened until this point realized that she was at least dying, or at least she thought she was.

At first she tried to rationalize. She hadn't been stabbed, that was just...well, damn that wasn't working. It also hurt, way more than a universe guided by Talos's benevolent hand should. Then she went past the other stages of being stabbed straight to clutching at the thing and doing what she thought, due to her lack of any medical experience, was a good idea: trying to remove the spear. That just made it worse and she let out a scream that she noted madly, wasn't in tune. Her hands were shaking and she just knew for a fact she wouldn't achieve her life long goal of seducing the Dovahkin into telling his life story to her so she could write a better song than that hack garbage, The Dragonborn Comes. She should have apologized to Brittle for teasing him, teasing a man like that was like pulling a steak away from a dog at the last second. She was about to regret conning those peasants in Dawnstar out of their hard earned coined but then thought better of it, that was hilarious.

Solveig's shield let the blade skid from it, she grimaced at the bolts of pain that shot up her arm as she took the hit. Her spear lanced out from under the rim of her shield and caught the man just above his groin and she could hear him yelp. She yanked her spear out of him with some effort, butting him away with her shield and the length of chitin once again struck out, this time catching him twice around his lower chest in quick succession. The man dropped and she backed away a couple steps, wary. The steam was starting to cling to her skin and made her clothes stick to her. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, but the biggest discomfort was the giant machine prowling the mist. The working of its joints, the hissing of its movement echoed throughout the chamber even as the sounds of periodic struggle lended the whole scene with a morbid ambience.

She heard a scream behind her and she turned, her vision only barely making out what was an Ashlander fleeing, leaving his spear dangling in another figure. She squinted, panicking at the possibility that one of her comrades had died, dreading if it was Sadri. But she remembered it was a girlish scream she'd heard and Sagax wasn't with them. She rushed through the mist, the wet air lending a difficulty to hauling in each breath, and she threw her shield aside and replaced her spear on her back. It was Raelyn, the eccentric bard, but that did nothing to quell her mind. The crimson blooming on her blouse around the long shaft of the spear sent her mind reeling and dried her mouth, and she could only imagine Raelyn's sentiment on the situation. Raelyn's quick breaths and wide eyes screamed panic. This was no crossbow bolt or arrow's shaft, no, this was much more.

She didn't know what to do, she tried not to lock eyes with Raelyn, but she probably saw that the young Nord felt as helpless as she did. "J-Just..." Solveig swallowed, letting out a whimper that was supposed to be the start of something reassuring but instead, she put a hand to Raelyn's stomach. "Help..." She whispered, looking around, it was only her and Raelyn, "Hel-Help!"

When no one came in what felt like hours in her cloudy mind, thoughts being muddied by her heart in her ears, she gritted her teeth, "Sadri! Sadri! Karth!" She snaked a hand under Raelyn's neck and her other hugged around her stomach. She tried to get Raelyn to her feet.

Raelyn was muttering something rapidly, possibly the lyrics to some love ballad but it was pretty unclear because she kept yelping mid-word. As Solveig easily lifted her, she didn't have much weight, she gave a soft shrill of pain. Her eyes darted wildly, the automaton was somewhere out there. Being smashed flat would be a mercy right about now.

She groaned, "I'm going to die aren't I?" There was the metallic clang and follow up squelch-crack of bone. "We're going to die." She had a terrible thought. "I'm not going to go to Sovngarde, am I?" she made a whimpering noise.

"No, no," Solveig said without looking down at her, her eyes set to the task of scanning the mists, "Nords only, and I'm not set at seeing it any time soon."

She turned to leave, trying not to jostle the spearhead lodged in Raelyn too much. The fast pace of her walk brought her back from where she and the others came, emerging from the mist and back into very relative safety, she put Raelyn down. She couldn't do anything for her, and if no one came to help her, she'd die. What happened in Windhelm still hung over her, despite how sweetly Sadri spoke to her that day at the festival. Having another death on her hands was not something she wanted at all.

She rose and turned, finding a dunmer holding a dagger out at her in a shaky fist. Her left foot slid back ever so slightly, a reflex. She'd left her shield in the chamber with the others and she couldn't reach for her spear in the time it'd take him to jump on her and stab her to death. To make it worse, it wasn't just her she had to worry about, she had Raelyn. She didn't dare look back at the woman, keeping her eyes on the Dunmer's own, "You can walk away, I won't follow you."

The Dunmer said nothing, the most unreassuring silence she'd experienced. He shook his head, then lunged. Thankfully, she managed to catch his wrist with only a searing cut along the outside of her right forearm. She twisted his wrist and the Dunmer grunted, cracking her nose against his forehead, giving her a burst of brilliant light in her head. She responded by reaching up and palming him in the face with all her strength, sending him stumbling back. Before he could recover, Solveig was on him, the two rolling on the ground. They punched, kneed, threw elbows, he reached up to try to push her head back and she bit down on a finger that strayed too close to her lips.

She tasted the iron of his blood and wouldn't stop biting until her teeth hurt and he'd run out of breath to scream with. She spat the finger in his face, her hands holding both his wrists to the ground, she reared back with her head and brought it down on the Dunmer's own nose once, twice, three times. He lay there, breathing slowly, the fight out of him. Anyone else would have stopped, maybe, but this Dunmer had come for her life. She gritted her teeth and brough an elbow down on his mouth, making him cry out. Once more and he only gurgled his own bloody drool, she wrapped her hands around his throat as she got to one knee for some better leverage.

She lifted his head and brought it back down, up, down, up, down, until the floor was a red mess of hair and skin underneath his head as the dull thuds turned to wet smacks. She stood, breathing hard and kicked the dagger away from his hand for good measure. Her head was still blurry from headbutting the man and she wove an uneven path back to Raelyn, letting her back fall against the wall and she slid down to rest on the floor. "I'm so sorry." She said. She couldn't help Raelyn. She was bloodied and mighty sore herself now, feeling the trail of blood making its way from her forehead, down to join the one coming from her crooked, throbbing nose. "They'll be here. I'll wait with you." She said, placing a hand on Raelyn's shoulder, "It'll be okay." She couldn't tell who she was telling that to, herself or Raelyn.

Raelyn said quietly through terse breaths, "I think I'm dying. If they don't, can you burn my lute case?" she looked directly at Solveig, eyes wet and dazed. "I...it needs to be done." she sobbed, "I didn't want it to happen this way." Though she wasn't sure how she wanted it to end. Maybe surrounded by dozens of grandchildren weaving a blanket.

"We're not burning anything," She bit her lip, knocking her head softly against the wall and trying not to wallow in how shitty this all was, "Keep talking like that and I'll have to hit you, woman." Though she could see Raelyn had lost a lot of blood.

Gut wounds were the worst, took the longest to die from. She pounded a fist against the wall, each one thump accompanied by a, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" She put her hand to her face, "It'll be okay." Each time she said that, it felt like more of a lie.

While Niernen's sudden reappearance alongside Madura could've been seen as surprising from a different standpoint, his time with Ashav's company had somewhat dulled his sense of surprise. It was only normal, since never before had he been declared an enemy of the state - he had gotten close in Valenwood, but hadn't succeeded - for fighting against invaders from another continent. These were some interesting times, with lots of hardships, but the sight of the young Dunmer, which he remembered faintly from the past, was a pleasant one. People could survive - battered, wound down maybe, but still, they could survive.

The sights that followed after, however, weren't as pleasant. The group, with its new arrivals, walked deeper and deeper into the brass inferno, and the familiarity of the sights did not help Sadri feel elated in any way. On the contrary, he felt disturbed out of knowing the horrors that these ruins could set forth. And what little he knew only made a springboard into the terrifying for his imagination. Back when he had worked to excavate such ruins, he had heard rumors of monstrous, gigantic masses of processed flesh, consuming unaware lifeforms. Sadri had never seen such a thing, and never a trace of it, but then again, he was still alive. Maybe that was why.

Traces of the mer who had shot him in the arm had led the group to a large room. While Sadri would've liked the room to contain a helpless, single Dunmer who had magically ran out of bolts and fight in his guts, things usually didn't go the way one liked in a Dwemer ruin. Then again, things usually didn't go the way he liked in general, but that was life, and Sadri had made his peace with that fact long ago. He gave a quiet sigh, admitting his helplessness before Nirn with it, and moved on. He still had things to do; more limbs to lose, psycho women to love, books to read and not comprehend (probably the better option for his sanity), and many, many more.

Of course, the room did contain the Hlaalu, but unfortunately for the party, the Mer wasn't alone. The sight of shady and dirty Dunmer was a familiar one, but not a pleasant one - even before all this, even back in the Black Marsh, Sadri had seen how cruel his kind could be. Hell, some of his own actions and feelings were testament to that. It was likely that he had done more evil acts than most of these fellows. Then again, some of them were real ugly, uglier than Sadri himself. It was almost as if Anu had not shed his light upon them - they looked evil, and for the old Dunmer that was a good enough excuse to believe he had moral superiority upon them. It helped when things came to blows.

Then it turned out that the situation was also a family reunion.

Sadri looked blank eyed as Madura started talking to the Ashlander leader. Had he not been related to the journalist, whom Sadri had screwed over in the past, he'd have called dibs on the guy's spear and given it to Solveig. He thought of that for a moment. It had to be a real fucked up relationship for them to gift each other weapons as declarations of love. But truth be told, Sadri's path had always been a crooked one - he had been born two months earlier than usual, and, according to his mother, had not spoken a word until he was five years old. He really didn't have a say in what was fucked up and what wasn't. But he still made a mental note to try to be non-lethal against that fellow, in case he and Sadri came to blows.

Edith rushed out to pull Madura down and prepare for battle, and the sight rattled Sadri back from thought-land to reality. He wasn't sure if his constant daydreaming was a result of Moon Sugar withdrawal, or something else. He readied his sword, and felt moisture gather upon its blade, a result of the sudden infusion of steam into the room. Suddenly, it felt as if he were two places at once - one Sadri Beleth, here, and one Sadri Beleth, younger and healthier, wielding a much elegant weapon with much more inexperience, in some Dwemer ruin in Hammerfell.

Both of them saw the same, though - amidst the steam, a tall, brazen tool of destruction, hailing from a destroyed wall. The young Sadri saw rats and spiders rush forward to escape underneath the beast - the old Sadri instead faced murderous Ashlanders rushing to get out. As the young one squirmed at the sight of rodents, the old one brandished his sword with confidence as he walked back, on the defensive. He felt a pleasant presence by his side as he waited for the Ashlanders to strike through, one he guessed was Solveig. Sadri could see his youth with his bad eye, and forty years back, his partner in crime wasn't a love interest but a burly Redguard eunuch.

Forty years later, Sadri heard a scream as his swing against an Ashlander's head was caught by a chitin shield. He turned his head to the side instinctively, a mistake, and quickly reoientated himself, kicking with all his weight the Ashlander's shield, putting the savage down on his rear. Who had screamed? Was it Solveig? It didn't sound like her- but now, he was sure, she was crying for help. His vision into the past broke, and Sadri himself almost broke as he rushed back into the steam, his love's agitated, frustrated and somewhat fearful voice his only guide.

Sagax was about to start celebrating his party's victorious charge, seeing his target crumple to the ground and watching as his comrades dispatched their own foes, but then he heard a familiar swish and felt a familiar sensation, though this time it was centered on the side of his left calf. Sagax yelped in pain and whirled around to meet his previously-unseen attacker...who just happened to be Roze. By the look of immense regret on her face, it probably wasn't intentional; didn't make it hurt any less though. Taking the quiet moment afforded to him by Do'Karth, and to everyone's great surprise, Niernen, helpfully neutralizing the orange-clad jackass, he assessed his wound. A gash had been opened up along the one thin strip of unarmored leg showing through the Imperial's greave and chainmail. Figures. Oh well, it wasn't too serious at least. Now he just needed to get some bandages or something...wait a minute, he kept his old shirt! Digging through his pack, Sagax fished out the tattered remnants of his former attire. Wiping as much dirt as he could off of it, he tore off a long strip of fabric and began tying it around his leg. Tightening the knot as much as it would allow him to, Sagax's efforts paid off, and he was able to keep the wound from bleeding further. That reminded him, he'd need to redo his arm bandages too, they were looking a little worn. Maybe Roze or Do'Karth could spare some after the mission.

Looking back up to face Niernen, Sagax smiled and waved. He didn't know her too well, or at all really, but she was Karth's friend, so she couldn't be all that bad. "Hello again! I'm glad to see that you've been able to make it back to us in one piece." One piece was kind of stretching it, actually. The poor woman looked like she'd just lost a fistfight with Malacath. And Malacath had a horse shoe hidden in his glove. She was alive though, so that was a positive.

Before moving on with the rest of the party, Sagax put his hand on Roze's shoulder in a way that he hoped was reassuring. Accidents happen, after all, and he was quite accident-prone himself. Just add that one to the long, long list. On the subject of accidents, Madura went and had one, that accident being a sudden and unexpected family reunion. The leader of the opposing party was Madura's brother, who had apparently allied himself with a faction known as the Ashlanders. Sagax didn't really know what or who Ashlanders were, but it was clear Madura had no love in his heart for them. The mist and steam made it hard to tell, but as far as Sagax could see, with Madura's kin were several armed Dunmer, wearing armor similar to that of the Armigers the company had fought days ago, along with that damned Mer in the orange robe. He must have slipped away while they were distracted.

This couldn't have gotten any worse, or so thought Sagax before hearing the pounding of footsteps. Very heavy, metal, footsteps. Emerging in the center of the room was a massive dwemer monstrosity, its green eyes glowing with silent, stoic fury. It looked between the company and the Ashlander party, daring either side to move forward. Sagax thought the Kamal were scary, for certain, but this metal beast, this centurion of automatons, was absolutely terrifying. You could strike a Kamal with awe, with fear, or at least cause their self preservation instincts to surface. This...thing, though? It undoubtedly knew no fear nor did it seem very impressed with the forces standing before it, like beetles beneath the boot of a mighty Legate. He stood with mouth agape, staring at the machine for several seconds, before hearing the primal yells of men heading to battle.

One such man, or Mer, rather, met Sagax and struck at him viciously with a wicked chitin blade. Deftly parrying the blow with his own blade, sending the sword askew and upsetting the Dunmer's balance, Sagax carried through with a strike of his own at the chink in his foe's arm guard. Pivoting quickly to let his pauldron take the blow, the bonemould-clad warrior took a swing with his off-hand at Sagax's head. Tiring of repeated blows to the head, the Imperial ducked below his arm and struck the Mer in the back of the head with his sword's pommel, following up with a boot to their spine, sending them sprawling back into the steamy fog. Slinging foreign words in a very harsh and rude tone at the tiny wounded man that literally kicked his ass, the Ashlander disappeared into the mist and most likely tried rejoining his comrades, though what luck he would have with the Dwemer construct lurking about, Sagax had no idea. All he knew was that he successfully held his position...and that someone nearby did not. Swirling about trying to find the source of the struggle, he saw a vaguely-reptilian figure fall to the ground, with another more armored figure running past them, leaving their victim for dead on the cold stone floor. Only one person in that room had the tail of a lizard, and Sagax knew exactly to whom it belonged to.

Sprinting over to Tsleeixth, Sagax found the Beastman to be in a very bad way; the Ashlander that had fought him was clearly none too gentle. Grabbing Tsleeixth by the arm and setting him upright, Sagax brought out one of the potions of healing from his pack. "Hold on just one moment, Tsleeixth. A Speculatus never leaves family or friends to bleed..." Uncorking it, the small red vial found itself in the hands of its new owner, who certainly needed it much more than Sagax did. "Drink up, and don't thank me. No one in this company dies on my watch, Mara as my witness!"

As soon as he uttered those words, Sagax was sucked into a memory once thought forgotten. A Nord clad in his kind's traditional iron armor, with a helmet adorned with ram horns. He was struck with an arrow that pierced his armor and flew straight into his stomach. Over and over he told Sagax to just drop him and run, but the Imperial refused. He carried the man's body all the way to the other shore, ignorant to the fact that his comrade had died from his wounds moments earlier. Mara indeed was his witness...the witness to his failure. For those few split seconds, Sagax's expression was one of melancholy, eyes focused on nothing in particular. He quickly regained his posture, though, shoving the memory back into the unreachable depths of his mind, where it belonged. Taking a deep breath, Sagax addressed Tsleeixth calmly. "Come on, we need to get you up and back to the rest of the company; that behemoth won't stop with those Ashlander guys..."

---

Of all the jobs Bharzak had embarked upon in the recent future, this was proving to be the least pleasant by far. At a glance, the cave that marked their destination didn’t seem particularly foreboding, that was, as long as one could overlook the scorched ground and complete lack of greenery around the area, somehow managing to look particularly barren despite the general scarcity of any visible life. It did not help that the long shadows it cast gave it the appearance of the cavernous maw of some enormous predator, and, if their assumptions were to be proved correct, something dangerous did indeed make its residence within that structure. The clearing emanated an air of danger and hostility that was difficult to ignore, and while the orc was not about to say a word about how she felt, simply being there made her rather uneasy.

She could already tell that the rogue pyromancer was going to be troublesome for her and her acquaintances to deal with, and she was not looking forward to entering the tunnels one bit. And that was not even considering what she had learned about the bosmer from someone who had known him—one of her 'companions', Jonimir, had once been his mentor, and apparently their foe was somewhat of a prodigy. Having survived a run-in with an only moderately talented necromancer a couple months before present, Bharzak did not relish the idea of picking a fight with another mage with ill intentions so soon, especially considering their magical prowess.

In that same train of thought, it occurred to the orcish mage that now would be a good time to ask Jonimir if his former apprentice had any weaknesses that they could easily exploit, or anything else of that nature. Turning away from the man-made cavern to face the redguard necromancer, she inquired, "Anything I should know about this fire mage before we fight him? Any major shortcomings or flaws?"

The Redguard did not turn to face Bharzak, his face a mask of contempt; whether for her or his quarry, it was unclear for whom his ire was directed.

"Gwinnir was never a stablizing element, although he was a quick study. Quick to learn, did not question orders or become squeemish at the unsavory aspects of conjuration. Once he gets an idea in his head, it is hard to shake it... which is probably why this," Jonimir replied, gesturing to the scorched earth around them. "Is something that came up rather recently. Something put the idea in his head, and his insane mind filled out the rest. In short, do not underestimate what he is willing to do, because he simply does not regard consequences for his actions. It was once an admirable quality that made him well suited for my purposes, and now." An irritable snort escaped the necromancer. "He's become quite the thorn in my side, and to our benefactors.

"One thing I found peculiar about him was what seemed to simply be piss poor hygene practices became more clear to me that Gwinnir is afraid of water. He hates the rain more than anything, save for rivers and lakes, so if there's any present in the mine, perhaps it would be a potent tool at our disposal. Other than that, do not expose yourself for long to him. I have never seen a mage wield destruction magic with such brilliant potency. It was that very same potency I tried to tap into for our... let's say experiments." Jonimir concluded. To his side, the Altmer Arenco was weaving a spell through his fingers, likely as a warm-up, or to have something at the ready at a moment's notice.

"Hm. Thanks," Bharzak responded, falling silent once more as she mulled over the information she had just received. It would remain to be seen whether or not they would get lucky and have some water to use in their upcoming confrontation with their quarry, but she sincerely hoped they would have such an advantage. This interaction had also given her more than a bit to be concerned about, and not just in regards to Gwinnir's exceptional magical prowess and unstable mind. While she had no reason to care much about her current traveling companions, she had at least expected that a bit more commiseration over their similar circumstances would have occurred in the time they had spent together—but there was no such thing. They did not seem overly bothered by the fact they served demons, and therefore the orc had kept her discomfort to herself. Arenco seemed to be eager to impress Jonimir, for whatever reason, and had interacted with her even less than the redguard deigned to. She got the feeling that neither of them would be more than minorly inconvenienced if she were to fall in the fight against the pyromancer, which was hardly a reassuring thought. She would be glad to get this mission over with, provided that she survived it.

The alteration mage was glad when her associates started towards the mine, as the longer she waited around, the uneasier she grew. If she was going to have to fight a gifted pyromancer, Bharzak just wanted to get it over with, without giving herself too much time to muse on any possible outcomes. She followed after them, easily matching their pace, although she was careful to walk behind the other mages, not wanting to get in the way or to even really put her back towards them. She did not have a solid reason to distrust them, she had no reasons to extend them any more faith than was absolutely necessary, either. With a barely audible sigh, she continued into the mine, a hand hovering over the handle of her axe in order to be ready for combat in a moment’s notice. Blinking somewhat disorientedly as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the tunnels, Bharzak took a moment to get her bearings, taking in her surroundings as she moved with hopes she might be able to use them to her advantage.

From the looks of things, the mine seemed to have been abandoned rather abruptly. At least, it certainly seemed that way to the mage, judging by all of the miscellaneous mining gear and essential—and some non-essential—supplies that still decorated the earthen passageways. She passed by a rusted pickaxe and an empty wooden wagon as she moved along, as well as a couple rolled up, musty-looking bedrolls, giving the place a haunting, dead feel. And, to her slight relief, Bharzak noticed that there was no scarcity of water in the area, as there were several pools of varying size and depth visible on the ground, and some of the walls of the man-made passageways glistened with moisture. It appeared Gwinnir had not chosen a particularly wise place to set up a base of operations, provided there was an effective way to use this water against him. Curiously enough, nothing seemed to have been particularly disturbed since whomever had previously occupied this mine had evacuated, which led the orc to wonder whether their foe had been expecting someone to come in search of him and had tried to leave as few traces of himself as possible. Such a thing would be ironic, however, considering the ruined surroundings of the cavern’s exterior. She did not figure the pyromancer to be one who favored subtlety.

As it would turn out, he did not. For that matter, it did not appear that he had been expecting any visitors at all when they found him, as the bosmer had been sitting in a corner of one of the dead ends of the tunnels, his back towards him, and seemed rather absorbed by the task of scribbling furiously within a book—presumably a field journal of sorts, or perhaps some sort of manifesto? Bharzak did not allow herself to muse long on the nature of the tome, however, as their enemy snapped it shut quickly and tossed it aside as he turned to face them, anger and a sliver of surprise visible in his eyes. As the orc got a closer look at their target, equal parts pity and revulsion filled her at the sight of his charred, peeling skin, unnaturally flushed with heat. It was beyond her how he had ended up in such a bad way, but if they were successful in killing him, it might be more of an act of mercy than anything. Aside from his very obvious skin condition, Gwinnir was rather scrawny in stature but looked to be light on his feet, and his eyes held the dead light of one who had been consumed by some form of mania, appearing unfocused yet determined as he glared at the newcomers.

Before any individual could come to blows, however, Jonimir seized the opportunity to confront his former apprentice verbally, expressing his disappointment in the individual—as well as informing him in an eerily calm manner about just how he planned on killing him. Bharzak listened with growing discomfort, as she learned new things about her companions that she had not been aware of previously. Particularly, the fact that the redguard was not only a necromancer but was once part of a group that took their studies deadly seriously made her want to be as far away and unaffiliated with him as possible. Necromancy was a slippery slope for a mage to try to traverse, and it was something the orc had absolutely no desire to be even distantly associated with. The bosmer fidgeted nervously as their conversation continued, and with growing trepidation Bharzak observed the two, tensed and ready to spring into action the moment they stopped being 'civil' towards one another.

That moment came very soon, and the alteration mage was quick to react, drawing her axe as she began to cast Ironflesh with her free hand. A pale, translucent mint green sheen started to envelop her robes and skin as she concentrated on her spell, though her concentration was momentarily diverted by the sounds of movement from nearby in the mine tunnels—sounds that were too loud to have been caused by the usual inhabitants of cave systems. Suspicion flooded Bharzak at this revelation. Was it possible the pyromancer had allies of his own, that were now coming to his aid? Or were they soon to be joined by a completely unrelated third party? Whatever the case, the orc was not overly eager to find out.

She would come to rue allowing herself to be distracted, however, as it seemed that the bosmer had chosen to target her first. The unstable pyromancer flung an enormous, white-hot ball of flames her way, and, while she did her best to evade the magical projectile, she could not move fast enough, and the blazing sphere grazed her right side. A hiss of pain escaped the orc's lips at the pain that suddenly blossomed in that area, and she grit her teeth, deciding to temporarily retreat in order to assess her newly gained wound and to (hopefully) come up with a way to defeat Gwinnir. Her gaze settled on a nearby table, and she darted behind her two currently engaged companions to reach it, wasting no time in grabbing it by its ledge and overturning it. She noticed with some satisfaction that the wood was soggy, which would make it somewhat harder for her enemy to incinerate should he continue to pursue her. Letting out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, she cast a glance down at her side. Luckily, it seemed she'd managed to get away with only a minor burn, second-degree at the very worst, and it would not take too much effort on her part to block out the pain. And now that she'd been hit, she was feeling a good deal less anxious about combat. All that remained for her to figure out was how to use the cave's moisture to her advantage.

No such strategies managed to come to mind, however, as her attention was yet again stolen by the sounds of whomever—or whatever—she had heard earlier approaching quickly. Trying to force down feelings of growing apprehension, the orc risked a peek out from the safety of the cover of her makeshift shield. The sight that greeted her was by no means a welcome one, as her fears that strangers would enter upon their conflict was swiftly confirmed. And there were a good deal more of them there than were members of 'her' group, which led her to feel as if things were just a few seconds away from going horribly, horribly wrong.

Tsleeixth remained silent as they ventured through the Dwemer ruins. The surprising return of Niernen was a present surprise to the Beastmen, who was glad for the survival of the Dunmer sorceress, easily remembering the help that she -and Do’Karth- had given him after he had been wounded fighting the Kamal, who offered her a smile, or the Argonian equivalent of one, and a wave towards her. However, the return of Niernen had also stirred memories of the Siege of Windhelm and their retreat through Anga’s Mill, along with the bitter shame that he felt at himself after that terrible event: ashamed at himself for those that they had failed to protect and left in the hands of the Akaviri invaders and shame at his own failings during the Siege. At having been crippled during the entirety of the Siege due to his foolish decision to fight a Kamal with nothing, but the help of a summoned creature and not a true fighter “Perhaps if I hadn't been hurt Niernen wouldn't have been captured, or Utu-ja wouldn't have been killed.” He thought, his mind going from the Dunmer sorceress to the deceased Argonian ranger that had been with them during the Reach campaign and who had perished in the escape from Windhelm. “I should probably go and talk to her once this mission is done.” He thought to himself.

However, the memories of the Siege of Windhelm weren't the only thing bothering the Saxhleel spellsword for he also felt ashamed for having agreed to try and parley with the group, an action which had put Do’Karth in considerable danger that luckily hadn’t been fatal but, very well could have been, and for not having helped out in the fight that broke out once his Khajiit comrade had been attacked, even though he knew that -logically- he wouldn’t have been of much help considering where the fight took place. He shook his head slightly, lightly tapping his skull with the knuckles of his hand in an effort to clear his mind somewhat, mentally chastising himself for constantly second-guessing himself and for constantly wondering what might have happened if things had gone differently, especially during a mission where they couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Focused as he was on his thoughts he hadn't noticed when they had reached the Dwemer door blocking their path, barely managing to avoid colliding with Madura when the company stopped moving without him noticing. Tsleeixth looked on as Edith poked the double door with his sword, tensing as he waited to see what would happen for he was afraid that the old Dwemer door might be booby-trapped. Breathing a sigh of relief when the door opened without any sort of deadly mechanism activating, Tsleeixth followed the rest of the group into the steam-filled room. Tensing immediately when they heard the voice of the sole Dunmer that had escaped the skirmish in the tunnels behind them. However, before any of them could do anything, Maduras suddenly spoke up, revealing himself as the brother of the leader of the Dunmer’s in charge of the Bthamz expedition and from what he could gather it seemed like there had been bad blood in the past between the two Dalas brothers.

Yet despite this fact it seemed like a peaceful compromise might be possible, especially when Madura’s brother reacted in shock at the journalist mention of the Snow Demons “The alliance between Morrowind and Akaviri must be a secret then, I wonder how many Dunmer's could be convinced to take arms against the Nerevarine if they knew what allies he courted.” Mused the Argonian in his mind as he looked on at the exchange between the stranger brothers. However, any chance for a peaceful compromise was lost when Hlaalu incited the other Dunmer's -or Ashlanders, whatever it was they were called, it made little difference to Tsleeixth- to attack the company after the sudden appearance of the Dwemer Centurion, Madura’s pleas that they needn't kill each other -that they could come to a peaceful solution- seemingly falling on deaf ears on either side.

Taking a defensive position per Edith’s order, Tsleeixth saw one of Narivar’s Ashlanders approaching his position. As the heavily armored Ashlander quickly approached him Tsleeixth debated with himself on what to do, on one hand Narivar’s group hadn’t attacked them when Madura spoke -though that might have been more due to his presence, and filial bond with Narivar, than any disposition amongst the Ashlander’s themselves- to his erstwhile brother; on the other hand, the scuffle with the group headed by Hlaalu made him wary to try diplomacy for a second time. In the end the Argonian spellsword chose not to draw his blade, perhaps Madura’s plea for nonviolence had convinced him or perhaps he simply didn’t wish to draw the attention of the Centurion.

Raising both hands in what -he hoped- was a placating gesture, Tsleeixth addressed the Ashlander. “Please, there’s no need for vio-” He began, his words interrupted as he barely dodged a strike from the Ashlander, for the Dunmer hadn’t listened to him and had instead drawn a dagger with which he had intended to skewer Tsleeixth’s neck. Fortunately, he had managed to dodge the fatal blow, instead the dagger had buried deep into Tsleeixth’s left shoulder. Viciously yanking the dagger from the Argonian’s shoulder, leaving a gaping wound in the process, the heavily armored Dunmer pulled a chitin blade from it’s scabbard and once more charged at Tsleeixth. Drawing his own chitin sword, Tsleeixth tried to stop his assailant as best he could, but the wound in his shoulder had robbed the Argonian spellsword of most of the mobility in his left arm.

Bereft of his left arm, the Dunmer swordsman easily deflected Tsleeixth’s attacks and put the Argonian in the defensive as he pressed on with his attacks. In the end it didn’t take much to bring Tsleeixth down, the fight coming to an end when the Ashlander punched Tsleeixth square in the face which was quickly followed by two stabs in the small part of his abdomen that Tsleeixth’s iron armor didn’t cover. In a last ditch attempt to stop the Ashlander, Tsleeixth summoned his Frost Atronach to try and take down his assailant with him; seeing the elemental Daedra manifesting, the Ashlander decided to run away, but not before stabbing Tsleeixth one last time before his escape.

His consciousness quickly fading away, Tsleeixth crumbled into the stone floor like a marionette that had it’s strings cut. The Saxhleel spellsword barely registered as Sagax grabbed him by the arm and set him upright “Sa….Sagax?” He asked, shaking his head slightly to try and stay conscious, when the Imperial began talking to him, accepting the potion that he gave him with a shaky hand “Thank you my friend.” Said Tsleeixth as he quickly drank the content of the red vial, his mind clearing slightly as he recovered some of his strength. Touching his gut he winced in pain as he accidentally prodded one of his wounds, the tip of his fingers stained with blood “Yeah…..we need to leave now, I might need your help standing.” He said as he raised his good arm for Sagax to grasp. Once Sagax helped him to stand up, Tsleeixth quickly surveyed the scene “Wait, give me a second.” He said, frowning slightly; he was sure that he saw Niernen panicking, but due to the steam wasn’t sure, for all he knew he was merely seeing a vision due to the blood loss and Niernen wasn’t even in the chamber. Turning to look at his Atronach, he commanded the creature to go in the direction in which he thought he had seen Niernen and to protect her if the Daedra found the Dunmer sorceress. “Alright, let’s go Sagax.” He said as he turned to look at the Imperial, his left hand weakly clutching the area where he had been stabbed.

A tasty, tasty collab between @POOHEAD189, @Peik, and the Schaft

As the conversation between the magi continued, Daelin wasted no time in studying the room for firing positions. The raised walkways in the old mine were still mostly intact in this large chamber, branching out from the mouth of the passageway they took her like a horseshoe, crates and barrels stacked behind the wooden parapets for good concealment, and the shadow would help mask any movements the barrels couldn't. Daelin put a hand on Dax's shoulder, who'd already had an arrow nocked. When the Argonian looked at him, he pointed to the western side of the walkways, telling him to take up position there. While Dax slunk away nimbly, he turned to Jorwen and Marcel. “Stay behind cover at the barrels near the ramp that leads down there. Daixanos and I will keep watch from above, move only when the fighting starts.”

With that, Daelin turned from them and moved towards the eastern walkway, almost disappearing in the shadows. As Marcel and Jorwen moved to take their position, he took his own behind a stack of crates. It wasn't long until the sounds of magical combat was heard a large section on his side of the walkway's wooden infrastructure gave way after being charred. It came crashing down in a pile of crates and barrels. Some of the barrels broke open and began to leak something black out onto the floor. He squinted, and his scout's eyes made quick work of the twenty paces between him and the broken barrels. It was pitch. If they could set a flame, it might be able to suck enough of the oxygen out of the air to make the mage's flames less powerful.

He looked about the room for more things that could even field for them, pickaxes, hammers, various tools and some bits, baubles, books and scrolls the pyromancer had brought in with him. Nothing struck him other than the pitch barrels until he saw a small trickle of water coming through the wall down below, the small stream on the ground it was creating was running down into another passageway that probably led to an underground reservoir, or at least hoped so. If there was flowing water underground near this mine, there had to also be some body of water.

He peeked his head up and saw Marcel and Jorwen moving in, and two flame atronachs faded into existence on either side of the Pyromancer with a raise of his arms. They fanned out to attack, one for each of the warriors down below.

Daixanos had just been about to loose, but Daelin had halted him at the nick of time. He was pointed toward the western walkway, and though curious at first, he could see the logic in it and slipped away like the silent hunter he was. The fight began to commence just as he got into position, and Dax nocked and arrow once more, predatory eyes scanning the cave for a clean shot to make.

The magic unnerved him, but he had hesitated a moment earlier and was now steeled to what he needed to do. He was about to strike the mage before the Flame Atranochs appeared out of the air. He hissed quietly, but decided they were a fine distraction for the mage to stay still as Daixanos aimed carefully. The Hist guide me... he intoned, before loosing an arrow aimed at the Pyromancer's throat.

The sight of hostile magi in a cave made Marcel feel more at home, compared to fighting Spriggans amidst a desolate landscape. Realizing that he would have to get to business soon, he quietly sheathed his silver smallsword and unsheathed its larger, steel counterpart instead. The fact that he had to fight men and mer, however evil, compared to mindless beasts, made him feel somewhat sad - but this was his job, and to bear the sadness was also part of his job.

Adhering to Daelin's orders, Marcel moved alongside the old Nord quietly, his sword at the ready. He could overhear the conversation between the mages. Like dozens he had heard before - arrogance, stupidity. These had always been in the mages, there was no denying that.

When the chaos began, and the cave lit up in color with motley displays of searing flames, summoned Atronaches and cracks of electricity, Marcel jumped out of his spot, swinging his sword in a broad strike, aimed at the neck, against the Bosmer that seemed to be the center of attention. The first strike in the sundering of this cabal.

Jorwen steeled himself. There were only the four of them here to take on whoever these magi were. Of those four, it was him and the Breton. Only the two of them, he shook his head, but your Chief gives you an order, best to carry it out until it's finished. He readied himself, tightening his grip on his shield and seax. Before he could hop up and over the crates, howling for blood, the Breton did the same without so much as a sound. Jorwen followed him over, his shield raised as he followed Marcel, circling to the Breton's left to take the Bosmer at his back. Before anything could come of the maneuver, a ball of fire roared by and he turned to see one of the atronachs the mage had summoned. He bellowed, lashing out from behind his shield with his seax.

Things seemed to turn south very quickly for their group; too quickly for one to remain very confident in their current position. First, her own stray arrow scraping past Sagax; Roze winced on his behalf, a ton of guilt hitting her as she stayed her bow on Edith's command. Of course it had been too risky loosing an arrow in such a narrow corridor; and of course she had risked it anyway. Thank the Nine it had only scraped Sagax and not pegged him in the throat. Having to make do with a very apologetic expression from across the room, Roze couldn't help but watch on at Niernen and Do'Karth's reunion. She only vaguely recalled the Dunmer - had she joined them at Windhelm, or before? The poor woman was almost unrecognisable, with the torments she had been through.

As the group moved on, Roze's still abashed face gave way to a smile as Sagax found her - clearly he wasn't all that bothered about the gash on his leg; but Roze would still take a look at it after this shit-storm was over. Her list of people to check up on was growing; Leif, Elmera, and now Sagax. Gods... she'd have to slow down or she'd be usurping Sevine from her status as worried mother-bear. Not that Roze was anything close to bear-like - she was sure even a cub weighed more than herself.

"Oh, great. We're moving even deeper into this place?" Roze grumbled silently to herself as their group laid chase to the orange-clad Dunmer. They were probably heading straight towards an even bigger group of the bastards, and who knew what else would come their way? All manners of foul beasts made the Dwemer ruins their home; Falmer, Chaurus, more of those automatons... perhaps even spiders. At that thought, Roze gave a light shudder - happy to take her mind off such terrifying creatures by examining the Dwarven door. After pressing her ear tentatively to the cool metal, and tapping lightly in a few places, she gave Edith the go ahead - it seemed safe.

However, safety seemed to go out of the window as more Dunmer came into light, only just visible through the steam in the room. Madura, feeling chatty, decided to completely blow their cover and have a conversation with what was clearly the group's leader.

"Oh, fuck. I can't believe you've done this." She muttered under her breath, staring incredulously at the idiotic journalist. What was he even doing down here in the first place? The guy was a writer! And he was going to get them all kil-
Anger ebbed, swiftly replaced by shock as something huge burst through the wall, the room filling with steam. In a moment of blind panic, Roze wondered if it was a giant spider or something; relief flooding through her when she saw it was just a Dwarven Centurion.
"Wait, what? Fuck. FUCK. Roza you idiot, at least you can stab spiders!!!" Mentally slapping herself ("Just a centurion... Talos guide me. I'm losing my mind."), Roze began backing towards the back of the room, away from the middle of the fight and bow in hand. She couldn't risk another incident like before, lest it be far more lethal for her poor companions. Casting a detect life spell, she blinked a few times as the auras lit up brilliantly in the fog before her. Even the Centurion had lit up, and it was...

Oh.

It was looking over at her.

It's gaze shifted again, and Roze kept herself pressed near the wall, using the steam to her advantage. While they had been lucky in gaining two more members after losing Leif and Elmera at the elevator, Roze shook her head in slight disbelief as two more fell down - what had Madura been thinking? If he was still alive after this, she was going to kill him. Looking around to see if she could find him now, all that appeared were 3 figures nearby; all of them Ashlanders. She couldn't take on 3 at once... could she? Now, Roze didn't have a death wish, she wasn't Sagax - but she could hardly stand by and just let them walk out. The other Ashlanders were in the midst of the steam, and even with her spell aiding her, she couldn't risk firing an arrow into that, surely? It could injure a friend... or worse, get more of the Centurion's attention.

"Ah... fuck it." She muttered, finally knocking an arrow and aiming it towards the brightest, most sure target in front of her; the orange-clad Dunmer, Hlaalu. Well, the Centurion was certainly the easiest target, but no way in hell was she aiming towards it. Arrows do better against squishy dunmer flesh than thick dwemer plates. It certainly wouldn't go down as easily as that sphere earlier.

With Bharzak temporarily subdued and behind cover, Gwinnir turned his attention to more pressing concerns, namely the presence of additional intruders. His arms became shrouded in flame, and from the depths of Oblivion he conjured two Flame Familiars, if for no other reason than to bring the fight more to his favour. The Bosmer had no intention of dying this day.

The crack of electricity filled the air, striking Gwinnir in a feeble attempt to weaken his magical reserve. With a roar, the pyromancer cast a Fire Rune under the feet of Arenco, forcing the Altmer to break his attack in the interest of not erupting into ash, and a sudden blinding pain shot up his arm. Some concealed archer had the gall to shoot an arrow while he was distracted. The Flame Atronach moved to intercept, pulling its hands together and a torrent of flame raked the walkway Daixanos had used as his perch, and the wood began to cackle and burn under the inferno. Flames jutted through the cracks of the wood, and the Argonian’s choices of escape were dwindling drastically.

Jorwen and Daelin fared little better as the second Flame Atronach blocked their path, shrouding itself in a flame cloak as it advanced. Marcel fared somewhat better, although he had been aiming for a swift decapitation, Gwinnir had moved away from the blow and suffered a gash across his chest as he struck out with a flame touch spell, striking the Breton hard in the ribs, knocking him back, robes set ablaze. Gwinnir backed away from the group, trying not to become encircled, and he grasped the arrow in his arm, which quickly burnt to ash, and the same burning hand that had knocked back Marcel dragged across his chest, sealing shut the wound, leaving bubbling, festering skin in its wake.

Jonimir had decided against taking the direct approach and cast a wall of electricity, trapping the combatants from the exit and he prepared to cast an icy spear to skewer his traitorous apprentice and any of these other intruders who interrupted. Arenco moved to rejoin Jonimir, preparing to cast bolts of electricity.

Suddenly, Gwinnir’s body emitted an incredible flame cloak of such intensity it hurt to look at him directly, and direct physical attacks and arrows were out of the question; everything caught within the cloak incinerated, and the air within the tunnel was becoming thinner and harder to breathe for everyone; the threat would have to be dealt with before everyone started to suffocate.