Valen crouched over his kill. Tilting the boys head from side to side he made a tsk sound. "Not a tribe I recognize. Smaller family I assume." He mumbled under his breath. They had clearly not expected people to come at them from below. He would have to admit Hagjorn had the right aidea approaching in such a manner. He closed the boys eyes and sighed. "Sleep young warrior. You are far from home." He mumbled to himself. He wondered idly if this would be his own fate one day. Killed by some random mercenary, far removed from everything he used to love. It seemed more likely by the day.

He then got up to his feet and followed his newfound comrade with urgency to his step. At the mentioning of switching weapons, he simply nodded and took out his spear instead. They moved trough the lower deck of the boat, going cabin to cabin in search for something, anything really. They found bunk beds, but not their owners. Barrels upon barrels in another cabin. He wondered briefly if this was just a merchant vessel, seeing how they found nothing very militant or insidious.

He picked up the manifesto as Hagjorn put it down. Eyeing it he read it slowly in the poor light."Excavation tools, specifically sets for working with Dwemer mechanisms. Looks like they are after whatever is buried around here. They seem to be here for a long haul. This got to be a weeks worth of provisions. Plenty of soulgems to. An awful lot actually. Could be worth coming back for those." He eyed the list critically and made a face as he saw several bottles of sedative potions listed along with whips. Terrible memories flared up in the back of his head. "And to torch the fucking boat afterwards..."

Putting the list down, he followed after Hagjorn again, shield na spear at the ready as they suddenly stopped. Being behind hagjorn, the cramped space made it hard to see. "See what?" He asked, but felt a knot in the pit of his belly. At hagjorns sudden yelling he growled. "I don't have my bow out remember!" He pressed low and held his shield in front of him as he rushed the stairs after their ivisible enemy, HIs spear out in front of him, making even a unseen enemy unwise to try and fight his reach and defense. He came up after Hagjorn and immedietly scanned his surroundings, prepared for anything.

A solid hit, Daixanos saw. He bared his teeth in a smile at the shot. His victory was short lived however, for another two Flame Atronach conjured, causing him to shudder at the magicks now he being further displayed before him. Would this magician not run out of juice? He went for another arrow, fully intending to continue his archery support from on high. It was not to be however, and what the magician did next was not something he had entirely expected.

The foul mage swept flames over to lick and disintegrate the ramshackle wooden beams that held up the walkway he was perched upon. He froze for a single moment, his scales crawling from the mystical attack before he decided to leap into action. It was a moment too late, and just as he pushed off the timber beneath him, it gave way. His jump was only partially successful, clearing him of the flames and out into the cavern proper.

Unfortunately, Daixanos hit the cavern wall and fell an untold amount of feet to the cavern floor, using his claws to rake the side of the cave as he fell out of sheer instinct. His landing was hard, the Argonian's bony head knocking against stone. Blackness filled his vision, and he fought through the haze of nothingness that began to swallow him up.

After what seemed to be either the longest or the shortest time, depending on the perspective, the dwemer centurion finally put together its slaughter queue. First up was an Ashlander close to Hlaalu, who was immediately flattened under a large brass hammer. Hlaalu himself escaped being a target, probably due to Roze crippling his chance of standing up (or adventuring) with an arrow to the knee. Next up was Roze herself. The centurion had set a course towards her, but to her luck then, the automaton tangled its legs on a series of pipes halfway across. In its attempted rampage, Do’Karth was all but forgotten.

Blanketed by steam, Do’Karth could see Narivar and another Ashlander prying open the door they worked on earlier. The Khajiit was further in than out, so he could not know what happened to the rest of the mercenaries.

At the side where everyone came in from, a tense standoff occurred besides the door. Niernen managed to pacify an opposing Dunmer with nothing but her native tongue and an ingenious speech. That Ashlander proceeded to trust Niernen by offering his observations. He pointed out to several tall cylinders that apparently served as boilers and hot water tanks, from which steam were generated and stored. One flanked each side of the centurion, where it struggled to smash through the pipes connecting in between. The Ashlander told Niernen that cranking up valves below the tanks will cause it to overload, possibly exploding or collapsing straight into the centurion. In addition, a large pipe on the ceiling showed cracks directly overhead the giant machine; an arrow or offensive spell could easily burst it open, blasting steam right into the centurion’s “eyes”.

Exploiting dangerous mechanisms near a killer robot seemed insane, but there were little alternatives. Apparently, what Narivar and his Dunmers sought after was across the room, behind the opposite door. In Hlaalu’s panic and foolish aggression, his subordinates had been sent away from their destination, and quite frankly, into danger. Of course, running was a safer bet, but who knew if the centurion would give chase or not. Here was a rare moment of opportunity, when the two groups can take down their common enemy with ease, provided they work together. When Niernen brought it up to her, Edith was not ready to be convinced. Madura, on the other hand, went along without hesitation.

Madura switched between Tamrielic and his rusty Dunmeris in order to break it to the three Ashlanders not yet out. At his urging, they temporarily stopped running and stood with weapons on guard. None of the three said anything at first, but when Edith decided to play along to get Madura out of the way, one of them actually responded. The strongly accented words were something along the lines of “we’ll do it if you do it”.

In the end, Edith settled on give it a shot. As long as the injured are cared for, and judging from a quick glance, both the injuries of Tsleeixth and Raelyn seemed to be stabilizing. The Ashlanders themselves reluctantly allowed the Tsleeixth out, once they have done so, Edith rallied whoever not hurt to execute the plan of sabotaging the centurion. Three opposing Dunmers waited for the mercenaries to make the first move, claiming they have already demonstrated good will by making way for Tsleeixth.

The edge of Marcel's sword was stained with blood, but unfortunately for him, his one strike wasn't enough. For a man of his manners, having the fight go on longer wasn't exactly preferable, but then again, neither was the situation. He lifted his sword against the Bosmer once more, but the fellow had managed to turn his attention back to Marcel, right after adding more to the deadly colors that flew around the cave and glimmered off the walls like a dangerous aurora. Before his sword could cleave open the crazed mage's head, a blast of magical fire from the mer's palm sent him off his feet, falling to the ground. He could feel flame creeping up his clothes, licking at his flesh, and thus, having already stopped and dropped, rolled around on the ground and muffled the flames. He hissed under his breath afterwards, feeling the remnants of pain from the magic now that he had come to a stop.

As he picked himself up from the ground, Marcel saw the mage literally burn away the wound he had inflicted, and blinked in disbelief. That was certainly the first time he had seen anything like that. He tried to lower himself to pick his sword back up, but when the mage began fanning out flames from his body like a furnace, he found himself staggering in the heat, and immediately threw himself away from the man. He wasn't going to be able to get anywhere near the man - even with his dampening abilities, the heat was too much. He lunged to the side of the cave room, grabbing a pickaxe that had been laying on one of the barrels of pitch, and with the momentum of the movement, swung it straight in Gwinnir's direction, releasing the handle when the middle of the head pointed at the blazing Mer.

''Altmer! Shock him!'' Marcel shouted as the pickaxe flew in the mage's direction, and proceeding his cry, he jumped out of place, maneuvering to confuse his opponent's sense of direction. He could only hope that the Mer would agree to his words, instead of shocking him. It would be a rather annoying disturbance.

"Listen up and listen well! I am Niernen Venim of House Redoran. The Nerevarine has gone mad! He has brought back with him monsters from the realm of Akavir and let them loose upon Tamriel -- towering demons of ice and snow. All Dunmer who fought for a foreign power, and this includes neutral mercenaries, have been judged traitors and enemies of the state. I was captured and enslaved by the snow demons; this is what they did to me. You are being lied to!"

These were the words that Niernen hastily yelled at the top of her hoarse voice in rapid Dunmeris. One of the Ashlanders was intrigued by her words and, after a brief hesitation, rushed to her side. Continuing in Dunmeris, the Ashlander confessed that he had heard the Venim family name mentioned in stories of the Blackmarsh invasion -- stories of valor and honor. "I believe you, for now, but you have to tell me more about these demons later," the Ashlander insisted and Niernen acquiesced, relieved. For the time being, the Ashlander was content to point out the tall cylindrical boilers and the steam pipe with the crack in it. "Sharp eye," Niernen quipped with a smile.

Turning on the spot, Niernen stammered over her words, switching back to Tamrielic, and explained the Ashlander's observations to Edith. Madura took charge, a little to Niernen's surprise, and started convincing the other three Ashlanders that had rushed to their side of the room to get away from the centurion.

Speaking of, Niernen turned to look at the Dwemer automaton and her mind briefly froze up -- suddenly the steam looked like swirling snow in baleful moonlight and the towering centurion was replaced by a hulking Kamal, its war-club ready to strike. Terror gripped at Niernen's heart and she grabbed Madura's shoulder to stabilize herself, resisting the urge to scream. Focus! she told herself and Niernen managed to shake the hallucination off after a few seconds, blinking rapidly and slowing her breathing.

With Tsleeixth out of the way and everyone agreed to some form of a plan, Niernen decided the time for waiting and dallying was over (before her mind's eye decided to have another seizure). "Look alive!" she shouted, raised her hands and fired a volley of fireballs at the weak spot in the steam pipe. The successive impacts managed to widen the crack and the pressure building up in the pipe finally exploded outwards, sending hot steam directly in the centurion's ocular systems with a frightfully loud hissing noise. It suddenly stopped thrashing and turned on the spot, trying to move out of the hot blast of vaporized water.

"Huh," Niernen said, pleased. "That actually worked."

The exploding pipe had all but sealed the deal that the towering Centurion, who had elected to crush one of the Ashlanders before attempting to reach Roze, had elected to decide the Khajiit with the staff was not a sufficient threat as others in its immediate vicinity. Watching it get tangled up on pipework before having burning steam envelop its Mer-like visage made it almost seem pathetic. Do'Karth groped his amulet of S'rendarr, feeling that the divine cat that embodied compassion and mercy had taken Do'Karth's devout following to heart and was keeping him safe. The past few weeks had been a series of near misses that could have resulted in severe wounds or outright demise, and yet things seemed to pass by him, like water parting around a rock in a stream.

"Not Do'Karth's time." he observed, watching the Dwemer construct thrash uselessly against the super-heated steam that, ironically, only existed because of the creations of the Centurion's masters. The Dwemer, from beyond the grave, gave intruders the tools to disable the very thing they left in charge of protecting their secrets. It was no wonder they disappeared from the world; they probably died of collective embarrassment.

Movement caught Do'Karth's keen eyes, and while he could not see his comrade through the sauna-like room, he certainly could see a pair of the Dunmer trying to escape by prying open a door. After letting one slip away in the first place, Do'Karth was determined to put a stop to yet another failure on his own part. He approached the duo, staff resting across his shoulders, his hands clutching the staff tightly, giving him the appearance of someone who was at once relaxed, yet ready to spring like one of the many traps that lurked in the Dwemer ruins. The Khajiit cleared his throat loudly, getting both of the Dunmer's attention.

"This one suggests you cease with the escape plan and come quietly. A number of your allies have already fallen to Khajiit and his friends, and now nothing stands between him and yourselves. This one had attempted to reach an understanding with a few of them, and they had tried his patience by loosing projectiles at him. This one remains unscathed, and they remain corpses. Which would you prefer? Fair treatment, or to find out which of your Gods likes you enough to take your soul?" Do'Karth asked, giving both Dunmer the same dangerous glare other races sometimes referred to as the "eye of fear", given that Khajiit still resembled a number of predatory feral cats cats that were usually alpha predators in their regions. There was an instinctual fear of the Beastmen, one Do'Karth hoped would give him an advantage. He was feeling sore and tired, his leg was throbbing in acute pain, but there was still a job to do. He just hoped to finish it without further bloodshed.

Sponsored by: @Mortarion and Frizan

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Seeing that Tsleeixth had difficulty standing(and honestly, who wouldn't after being stabbed that many times), Sagax hauled the beastman up by the underside of his arms and lifted him over his shoulder, careful not to agitate the wounds and letting Tsleeixth use his admittedly small frame for support. "The way seems clear enough...we should be able to get back to the others without much issue. If we do get intercepted though, leave the fighting to me, ya?" Small and frail Sagax was indeed, but he wasn't bleeding profusely out of several new holes in his body. The potion wouldn't do much at all if Tsleeixth reopened his wounds trying to fight, and while the rest of the company couldn't have been too far away, the less time his scaly friend spent bleeding out, the better. Peering through the steam as best he could, Sagax carefully navigated the room, steering clear of anything that looked particular big and mean. He didn't come across any more Ashlanders, which he was most certainly thankful for, and Sagax didn't have to guess why they all took the opportunity to run off: All the armor in the world wouldn't stop a hammer the size of a small boat from turning them into paste. "I hope someone over there has some first aid supplies...maybe Roze or Do'karth could help, but I haven't seen either of them since the steam settled."

Tsleeixth grunted in pain as Sagax hauled him up, pain flaring from his wounds as he was moved, although he was grateful that Sagax had the forethought of hauling him up by the underside of his arms rather than pulling him by the arm. Leaning for support he nodded when the Imperial told him to leave hte fighting to him if they ran into any trouble "Hmm.....alright." He said finally, letting out a sigh of frustration, clearly not happy at not being able to help Sagax in case they got into a fight, although he knew that in his current state it'd only worsen an already problematic situation. When they began to move around the steam-filled room, part of Tsleeixth was happy that the steam made them move more slowly as he doubted that in his current state he could move very fast or at least not without it causing his wounds to open up again or some other complication occurring "Seems that the Centurion scared off most of the Ashlanders, eh?" He commented, his wounds flaring up in pain as a coughing fit racked his body, crimson blood splattering on the floor of the Dwemer ruin "Ah, Hist-damned bloodlung." Said the Saxhleel, wiping the corner of his mouth with his good arm, turning his attention towards Sagax when he spoke again "Yeah, hopefully they'll have some medical supplies....I think Niernen knew some restoration magic so hopefully she'll be able to help too."

"Ah, yeah, that's true, Niernen seems very skilled with magic...far beyond anything I could possibly hope to learn, that's for sure. I'm sure she'll fix you right up. Hopefully no one else requires her services, she'd have her work cut out for her." Progressing further, Sagax could hear voices. Tamrielic voices, one he could recognize as Edith. Finally, they were back with the company! "Nearly there, Tsleeixth. Hopefully we can get the hell out of here soon..." Adding slight briskness to his pace, Sagax went to rejoin the rest of his and Tsleeixth's comrades. He couldn't see Sadri or Niernen immediately, but having Tsleeixth sit with the others for a little bit would be better than leaving him alone in the middle of the room. Eventually though, Sadri made his way over to the beastman and patched his wounds up with little issue. Sagax bowed and said his thanks, and attempted to help Tsleeixth test his steadiness, and lifted him to his feet again.

"Hmmm, hopefully, but something tells me that, with the luck we've been having, I won't be the only one in need of restoration magic, far from it." Said Tsleeixth, shaking his head slightly. He raised his head a little when he heard people speaking in Tamrielic, vaguely able to recognise that the owner of the voice he now heard belonged to Edith "Ah, good, it seems that there are more of us still in the fight." He said, relieved at the fact that, to the best of his knowledge, he was hte only one that was injured so far. Grunting slightly in protest as Sagax started moving a little faster, Tsleeixth did the best he could to keep up with the Imperial's pace although it was evident that he was much weakened and even a slight jog was taxing for him in his current state. Once they were amongst their comrades he couldn't help but let otu a sigh of relief and sat on the ground tiredly, letting Sadri take care of his wound to the best of the Dunmer's capabilities "Hmmm, will have to thank him latter." He htought to himself. Once that was done he didn't protest when he was lifted back up once again by his Imperial comrade "I think I'll be fine now Sagax." He said as he moved a little away from Sagax to stand on his own without leanign on him, but his knees quickly gave upon him and if it wasn't for the nearby wall in which he leaned, he'd have collapsed to the ground for a second time.

It looked like Sagax wasn't the only stubborn one. Going over to assist Tsleeixth, he helped the beastman to the door to leave the room; Tsleeixth was in no place to fight a Centurion. Staring down one of the Ashlanders that were miraculously, if only temporarily, made allies by Madura and Niernen, Sagax cautiously lead Tsleeixth out of the room. "I don't like the way those Ashlander guys were looking at you...looked like they would have pounced on us at any moment." Sagax had heard stories and read historical books about the lives of Argonians that lived in Morrowind, how they were kept as slaves on farms and in mines. The Ashlanders clearly saw Saxhleel as a lesser race, more akin to animals. "You should be fine here, Tsleeixth. As much as I'd rather not, I'm going back in. That metal monster in there won't topple itself! Ah, but hold on a moment..." Tearing off a few strips from his shirt, Sagax handed the fabric to Tsleeixth. "If your bandages start being bled through, you can tie some more on to stop it." Turning around to walk back into the steam-filled deathtrap ahead, Sagax was glad he was so agile...the best way to fight is to not get hit at all!

Tsleeixth didn't protest when Sagax guided him towards the door so that he'd leave the room, he was in no shape to help against the Centurion he had to accept that no matter how much he disliked the truth of his situation. As thee moved away from the room Tsleeixth was surprised, albeit unpleasantly, to see the two Ashlanders there, the looks that the Dunmer's threw at him and Sagax having not gone unnoticed by the beastman "Yeah, tell me about it...." Said Tsleeixth, waiting until they were away form earshot of the Ashlanders before continuing "Bastards would probably be happy to see me in chains, working in some mine or farm back in Morrowind." He spat with disgust before Sagax set him down once they were sufficiently away, the Argonian frowning when Sagax, after he had handed him a few strips of cloth from his shirt, said that he was going back into the room with the Centurion. Reachign with hsi good arm he grasped the Imperial's wrist when he had turned around "Sagax, be careful.....don' t let your guard down, not with the Centurion nor with those, I don't trust them." He said, his tone weary, bbefore letting go of Sagax's wrist and allowing the Imperial to return to the steam-filled chamber at the heart of the Dwemer ruins.

"Don't worry about me, friend, I'll be fine! When am I ever not the soul of caution, ya?" Pausing momentarily, Sagax turned back to Tsleeixth with one hand raised. "Actually...don't answer that." With that, he sped off back into Robot Hell to lend his, albeit little, assistance with the current situation. Nothing could go as wrong as the bombing run though, he was most certain of that.

"...fingers crossed."

---

Raelyn was completely fine, I mean, she loved being stabbed. There were worse things that could happen. She could have been stabbed twice. She wasn't feeling better, but the pain had reached a peaceful sort of agony that you often see in sick wards. The pain wasn't dulled, but her mind had entered the doorway of delirium. She lay against a wall, nearby Solveig, groaning and occasionally stiffening painfully. She'd mutter some prayer, more often than not to Stendarr, but occasionally to Dibella, who was also the patron of the arts as well as beauty.

His adrenaline and fear fueled blind marathon through the underground steam cavern filled with mouthbreathing Dunmer dumbasses and forgotten, ancient mechanized giants had Sadri soaked in sweat and blood by the end of his moments-long journey. Having accidentally stumbled upon Sagax and a wounded Tsleeixth, Sadri had somewhat begrudgingly applied his amateur Restoration magic upon the lizard's wounds, anxious over the fact he was busy saving someone else other than the one he wanted to. But even though he wished to do so, he couldn't just run off and leave the lizardman to die, and plus, he had to make up for that bottle thrown back at Windhelm somehow. Upon closing the Argonian's wounds, or at least, having diminished their severity, Sadri dashed off once more into the steam, looking for the spearwoman, and came to a panting stop after finding a bloodied, impaled Raelyn settled against a wall, and a somewhat anxious looking Solveig next to her. He was relieved that she was okay, but showing his relief in front of a seemingly dying woman was not exactly sporting behavior.

''Oh. You're fine. No, I mean, of course not,'' the Dunmer muttered as he walked over to the bard, although his eyes couldn't help but dart at Solveig to see if she were wounded. He clapped his hands together and kneeled next to the bloody bard (he couldn't help but think that would be a good nickname if she were to survive this endeavor), looking at her wounds. ''Stabbed, are we?'' He asked, internally chastizing himself for his dumb behavior, and then pulled out a potion of restoration from one of the satchels on his belt. ''Alright,'' he muttered to himself as he settled the bottle next to Raelyn. He got around to analyzing the wound. Stab in the gut, that much the spear poking out of the woman told him. Looked quite deep - hopefully her intestines weren't damaged. He figured he could push her guts back in if need be, but to meld her guts back together, that was likely harder.

''So, we'll have to pull this out. Can't push it out the other side unless you want to shit from your belly for the rest of your days,'' Sadri informed the bard. ''If you could, give me a hand, eh?'' Sadri said, looking at Solveig, as his iron hand wrapped itself around the spear's handle, ready to pull it out.

Solveig readied herself to leap at the body coming through the doorway to where she rested with Raelyn. One more Dunmer to kill, maybe, but when she saw the scarred face before her, she couldn't help but let go an exhausted smile. She grunted, moving her weight somewhat of a task now, getting to one knee. She didn't want to block Sadri from his work and when he beckoned her over for assistance, she hesitated. Throwing her doubt to the wind, she undid the knot keeping her cloak around her shoulders and readied herself to keep the wound from bleeding after the spear left it. She nodded to Sadri.

Upon seeing Solveig ready herself, Sadri raised his head to look at Raelyn. ''This is going to hurt,'' he informed, as kindly as he could.

With a stutter, Raelyn said, "Be gentle, it's my first time doing this," just a moment before an amused Sadri slowly tugged the spear back to see if its path back was obstructed by anything. It did not seem to be lodged in anything important (aside from Raelyn's flesh, at least), and thus, Sadri pulled back once more, and immediately threw the spear to the ground upon hearing the equally disgusting and relieving 'plop' from the flaps of flesh falling back around the gap where the spear once was.

Raelyn, at this point, wasn't sure if she were alive or dead but if she were dead it was the sort of painful oblivion that Molag Bal would likely inhabit. She made a sobbing sound after it was over, possibly relieved that she would soon be well enough to punch Sadri in the mouth for pulling the spear out.

''Right, her guts aren't out, are they?'' Sadri asked Solveig as he kneeled back, inspecting the wound once more, with Solveig trying to stabilize the bleeding. ''We may have to lay her down,'' Sadri told Solveig, as he grabbed the potion he had put on the ground, popping open the cork. ''Would help staunch the flow.''

Solveig moved quickly to staunch the immediate bleeding, taking a peek behind the cloak at Sadri's question. She looked back to him, shaking her head, "No."

She nodded to Raelyn as she snaked a hand behind her neck, though she doubted the bard could tell she was trying to reassure her. She looked like she was in some other place, as far as she was concerned. She did not protest past giving pained huffs and grimaces when she led her to the ground, "There."

Sadri sighed with relief upon hearing that the girl's guts were intact. ''Well then,'' he muttered to himself, and handed the potion over to Solveig, motioning for her to feed it to the bard. Afterwards, he prepared for the awkward part, and after a moment of hesitation, slipped his fingers into the gap made by the spear on Raelyn's shirt, softly clasping on the piercing wound. ''Magnus help me,'' he muttered, as he closed his eyes and began channeling what he could of the flesh-mending magics that roamed Mundus, feeling scar tissue growing quick underneath his fingertips.

Raelyn coughed and weakly tried to push Solveig's force feeding arm away from her, but she wasn't especially strong even in the best circumstance and this wasn't one of them. She felt like her skin was being wound with cord when it wasn't, so she moved to grabbing weakly at Sadri's wrist, relaxing when the magic stopped pouring into her wound.

She only stopped giving Raelyn sips of the healing potion when she outright refused them, clamping her lips shut and turning away. She wasn't going to pry her mouth open, so she watched as Sadri wove her wound shut, eyes closed in concentration. She breathed easier now, knowing that Raelyn wasn't going to die in her care. Once all things were done, they sat beside Raelyn. She couldn't help but feel at least one bit happy, after all the things she'd done in Windhelm, she could say she did something to make up for it. A calm settled over the room, with the sounds of fighting in the other drifting over. "You'll live." She laughed weakly, rubbing at her bloodied face, only succeeding in smearing it over the side of her face, "I told you everything would be fine."

Jorwen followed Marcel into the fray, hoping to keep close enough to cover him. When the atronachs manifested from thin air, he stumbled back, shielding his face from the heat of its form hovering just above the ground in front of him. He'd only ever seen one once, controlled by a Thalmor officer and standing behind her as she disappeared behind the tent's flaps to torture one of the legionnaires captured along with him. He was frozen in place, staring at its graceful but wrong feminine form. It had no eyes, but he could feel it looking into his own. This demon from beyond his realm raised an arm and tossed a fireball in his direction, missing him as he scrambled away. The Red-Bear was a killer of men and mer and betmer, but the power of mages was something even he was afraid of. A length of steel could never protect him from magic and many of his fellow legionnaires fell to the otherwordly stuff of Thalmor mages and Reachman witches.

Images of the scraggly trees jutting from cracks in the rock deep in the Reach seemingly coming to life and spearing men with their branches, of roots coming up from the ground in the dead of night and crushing sleeping warriors. Of walls of flame making young Legion men into nothing but black-charred bones, of the Thalmor inspiring a terror he'd never known he could reach with a single touch of a magic-cloaked hand to a young Nord's pallid, sweat-soaked skin in that torturer's tent those many years ago. He lost fingernails, he lost pride, he lost sense and humanity and bravery. And he gained a very real fear of magic and a very real hatred of those under the black-and-gold banner of the Thalmor.

Another fireball painted his shield black and the heat of the conjured mageflame penetrated the thick rawhide and wood. It followed him, never touching the ground and he stumbled back even farther. Suddenly, a brilliant light and heat filled the chamber and the raised walkways that Daelin and Dax were perched on came crashing down, thankfully crushing the atronach. He stood, panting, while Marcel hurled a pickaxe at the mage they'd all come to kill, apparently. He couldn't concentrate on what he said to the Orc across the room, but he hoped it was a plan to end this battle. In the face of magic, the Red-Bear was nothing.

Taking the water gladly from Keegan, Rhasha was able to force a few swallows down without choking on the fluid. Even the process of drinking was sending reams of pain across his chest - a coughing fit likely wouldn't help his situation either.

"This one is just happy to be alive." He said in response to the Altmer, wincing as he took a few short steps. Thankfully, his legs were perfectly fine. It was bending over that would cause the most issues. "As for the crossbow... well, it may have made things worse. This one only knows about spears and axes; he fears shooting a ranged weapon would cause more than a few friendly injuries." He added with a somewhat grim smile. Keegan should know - he'd already been shot by it once, on the beach. Poor R'ihanna had looked mortified about that.

As the group milled about; the majority leaving with Daelin, Rhasha attempted to do something useful. First, retrieving his spear from the original battleground. It wasn't far, thankfully - but he had no intention of leaving behind such a beloved and well-used weapon. Axes already returned to their place at his waist, Rhasha used the spear as support while he walked back to the group, eyes on the lookout for any vegetation that may have survived the blazes. Thankfully, he was in luck. While there wasn't much in the way of fungus (Blisterwort could have come in handy) he was able to scavenge a few rock warbler eggs from a nest; the branch it had sat upon had fallen from the fire. Most of the eggs were smashed, but a few remained intact. Further along, he spotted some blue mountain flowers - many reduced to ash, crumbling beneath his fingers as he touched them - but some had been saved from the fires. All he had to do now was brew something useful out of them. They wouldn't make more than 2 health potions, at best. Unless he had some spare ingredients left in his knapsack?

Snapped from his musings about alchemy, Rhasha met Keegan's face as his near-shriek reached his ears. If he had the skin to go pale, Rhasha would have. Kamals? Here, and now?! He followed the three without hesitation behind the bush, not even considering running - even at his best, those things had the gait to catch up to him in no time. With injuries, it would be a pathetic jog to earn him maybe five extra minutes of life. He couldn't understand their misfortune... first the attack by the Spriggans, and now two of the Snow Demons had shown up at their weakest. Rhasha's hand travelled almost instinctively to the pendant around his neck while the four hid behind the bush, but he didn't grasp it as he used to do in times of fear or grief. Was there any point to praying to Azurah now? She never answered. And she wouldn't today.

Following the other's actions, Rhasha lowered himself into the shallow ditch in the ground, gritting his teeth to stop himself crying out in pain. His wounds were still far from healed, but things would be a damn sight worse if the Kamals heard him mewling like a newborn kitten. More ash was poured onto him than the others, simply to cover up his fur properly. After Rothvar was satisfied, he lowered himself into his own ditch, and then.. they waited. The mage grew closer, and Rhasha vaguely wondered what would happen if it happened to step on them. Would it notice the sudden change in the ground? Keeping his eyes shut now, Rhasha hoped the four of them were good at playing dead. Maybe then the Kamal would leave them alone.

As the fight raged on around her, Bharzak took some time to catch her breath. It appeared that she was no longer the object of the pyromancer’s focus, and she was glad of it—she supposed the newcomers did at least give her more of a chance of surviving this encounter. She peeked around the corner of her makeshift shield just in time to see one of the newcomers fail to incapacitate Gwinnir, as he melded together the wound on his chest with a flaming hand, appearing more annoyed by the injury than anything. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in this new kind of power he displayed, and immediately she rule out any ideas that required close combat with the mage—or weapon-based combat, anyways. Judging by the fact the pyromancer seemed not to be running out of magicka anytime soon, he could probably ‘heal’ as many wounds as he acquired. It would probably take an attack that didn’t depend on letting the mer bleed out. She was not about to risk losing her war-axe to this flaming madman, and there had to be more effective ways to go about inconveniencing him. The only problem was coming up with something she could do that would both be useful and within her particular set of skills.

Then the pyromancer conjured himself a flame cloak. Bharzak immediately ducked behind her shelter once more, anxiety spiking within her gut so intensely as she heard the wood of the table crack and fizzle that the slight twinge of pain from her burn went unnoticed. Her eyes felt as if they were burning from the unpleasant heat that now surrounded her; the temperature of the cave was now rather sweltering, and the fresh air available to those within it had become noticeably scarce. Luckily, the wooden ‘fortification’ she had taken shelter behind was too damaged by the blaze, although there was no telling how many more of the pyromancer’s attacks it would withstand. Despite these significant distractions, however, the orsimer mage was able to concoct a plan of action as her eyes landed on an abandoned pickaxe and a few chunks of valueless, discarded stone lying not far from her makeshift defenses.

Her idea was a risky one, but if she could move quickly enough, it might just pay off. Bharzak did not know any particularly flashy or devastating spells, but she might not have to in order to make a difference in the fight. Perhaps her actions might be all someone else needed to bring the pyromancer down—and the orcish mage was not one to be bothered by not ‘claiming’ a kill, as long as the crazed mer was dealt with. Taking only the briefest of moments to prepare herself before she rejoined the fray, rust-colored wisps of a telekinesis spell began to emanate from one of her hands. Shortly afterwards, one of the pieces of stone rocketed up from its resting place, flying towards the Bosmer at a dangerous speed.

"Why do giant things keep wanting to kill me?" This particular thought was the only thing buzzing around Roze's head as the Centurion set it's eyes on her; bits of the ashlander it had just obliterated still dripping from it's hammer. She had frozen in fear of imminent death for a moment, breaking out of it immediately when she realised the Centurion had become stuck. From what Roze could gather of the garbled conversation around her, this could work to their advantage - taking out the Dwemer monstrosity with the very thing that aided in it's functioning; steam. From where she stood she caught sight of bronzed valves sticking out of the pipes. Upping the pressure of those things would likely cause some ruptures down the line... perhaps even where the centurion stood. Would a sudden, possibly explosive blast of steam do the trick? And furthermore, would it be worth the risk of getting so close to the damned thing just to get to the valves? It still seemed particularly angry (Did these things even feel emotion? Gods, she hoped not - that would just make things awkward for both parties.) towards herself, so getting close was not a rather favourable option for the young rogue.

Thankfully, it seemed she and the others were in luck. Due to a well-placed shot of magic from Niernen, a pipe above the centurion ruptured, sending down clouds of steam that all but engulfed the thrashing mechanic. Roze let out a slight sigh of relief - the valves would (hopefully) be safer to turn now, but the flailing centurion still posed a threat. Deciding this was time again to put her sneak to good use, Roze got down into a crouch, heading towards the closest valve to herself, on the right of the Centurion. Hopefully it had lost it's targeting system - or whatever in Oblivion it was that it used - and wasn't taking any notice of her. No way of finding out until it attacked, so she crept silently towards the valve anyway. Hopefully if it turned on her, Sagax would jump on it's back and start riding it like a bucking horse. That would surely get it's attention.

Grunting slightly from exertion, Roze found that the steam had been useful in more ways than one - the valve she was attempting to turn clearly hadn't been touched in decades, perhaps even centuries. As such, it wasn't turning much - however, the steam in the air must have loosened up it's gears somehow, and after a few tense seconds of pushing on it, the valve began to turn. A strange noise began emanating from the pipes the more she turned; a high-pitched whining that only increased alongside the pressure. Once she began to hear the clunking, groaning sounds of metal bending to far beyond it's capabilities, Roze rushed away from the valve as quickly as she could still in a crouch, managing to put a good amount of space between her and the pipe before it ruptured, in a manner very similar to the one above the Centurion. However, the tank above it also seemed to be groaning under the pressure too - the small fissure made in the pipe didn't seem to be good enough. Roze watched on from the shadows with bated breath, hoping the construct would collapse right on top of the centurion. At this point, surely the group deserved some good luck?

After being put through the ringer for as long as they could remember, the mercenaries in Bthamz experienced a rare success, let alone one that could have very well been a failure. The centurion remained immobilized just long enough for Roze and an Ashlander to trigger valves flanking its sides. Additional steam thanks to Niernen blasting open the overhead pipes disallowed it from taking any defensive or offensive measures. Two hot water tanks rumbled and groaned, and within harrowing seconds, cracks started to appear on their brass surfaces. The one Roze tempered with collapsed first, with leaks undermining lower supports and tumbling straight into the centurion. On the contrary, the Ashlander didn't get far with his luck. As his tanks exploded right in the middle, sending giant chunks of metals flying, one of which exacted vengeance on its saboteur, killing the Ashlander. However, most of the pieces flew at the centurion. Combined with the first toppling tank, the centurion appeared to have collapsed and no longer functioning, or that's what it seemed as the steams cleared.

At the same time, many other mechanisms exploded or went haywire in their own ways. In the room center, the Dunmers accompanying Hlaalu were killed by a variety of hazards. Narivar and his companion were affected as well. As soon as Do'Karth made his entrance, Narivar's partner charged forth with a chitin dagger. Narivar tried to hold him back, but to his disappointment, the only thing his tribesman got was falling debris from above. A jet of steam first damaged his face, then, a piece of ceiling foundation smashed the dark elf flat. Sounds of the centurion collapsing brought both Narivar and Do'Karth out of their focus, when they finaly returned to each other, Narivar was still standing with glass spear in one hand, and the Dwemer key in the other.

Besides Narivar, the remaining survivors of his company were the two Dunmers near the doorway, both decided to follow Niernen in a mass of confusion. Hlaalu was alive as well, though he was half-buried underneath a pile of rubble.

"It's over." Madura observed, coming out of whatever hidey-hole he went into. "Wait, where is Narivar?" The journalist swung his head around wildly. "Brother, are you out there?"

Seeing nothing around, Madura leaped right into the room center. Edith came by not fast enough to stop his stupidity, for the second time, it seemed. With a grumble, she followed Madura over the centurion carcass. Stepping carefully as if to not awaken a sleeping beast. Nothing moved on the machine, saved for pieces left dangling from impact. Still, steam and dust lingered around. The visibility cleared slightly because everything that could blow up had already blown up. To people outside, clouds of hot vapor streamed out steadily. To the people inside, however, the room remained a choking, sweating and blinding mess. Moisture clung to armor, clothing and skin, making already on-edge folks feeling even less reasonable.

"You're still alive!" Madura exclaimed once he made it past the scrap heap. Seeing Narivar in a standoff with Do'Karth, Madura ran forward to defuse the situation. He didn't go anywhere, for Edith finally caught up and tackled the journalist to the ground.

"That's enough trouble you're causing today." Edith berated. She proceeded to tie Madura's limbs up with a length of rope and gag his loud mouth with a handkerchief.

"Yes I am," Narivar said, "and unlike many of my brothers." He looked forlornly at several dead Ashlanders through the thinning mist. "I don't care what kind of pirates, gravediggers, thieves or lowlifes you are, but you will not steal treasures rightfully belonging to my king." The elf stood firm.

"This key opens what we all sought after," he emphasized on the object in his offhand and the door behind him, "and you shall not take it from me alive!" He stuffed it in his mouth and swallowed in one fell swoop. After that, he talked again after gulping down the object. "Madura is right about one thing though," speaking with the obvious difficulty of metal in his throat, "this day does not need to have more deaths, your deaths; so leave right now!"

Marching up to Do'Karth's side, Edith stared uncomfortably at the dead Dunmer between them and Narivar. Clearly, that person was not getting up again, because his head was crushed like a spoiled tomato. "We got him outnumbered," Edith whispered her assessment to the Khajiit, "go left, I'll attack from the right."

It would seem that pride was worth dying for. While woefully under armed and fueled by anger, the Ashlander seemed to accept his fate and the desire to bring Do'Karth down with him. The Khajiit smiled ruefully. He'd hoped it would play out this way. He wasn't in a terribly fine mood to humour his enemies at this point.

What he wasn't expecting, however, was the explosive crack that sounded from above and a shower of debris and burning steam that engulfed the Ashlander. Do'Karth covered his head with an arm and crouched away from the collapse, protecting his face and head from harm. When none came to him, he looked. The Ashlander that had charged Do'Karth was prone and trapped under debris, motionless. The open skull that splattered blood and tissue ahead of the body was enough of an indication that that particular problem was dealt with. Do'Karth bowed his head, holding his amulet of S'rendarr and recited a quick prayer for the Mer's soul before taking notice of Narivar staring hatefully back at him. The Ashlander's spear caught Do'Karth's eye. Solveig would appreciate that. he thought, sizing up the Mer before him.

"You're still alive!" Came a cry that pulled both Narivar and Do'Karth's attention away from one another and Madura, the insufferable fool, was running towards him like a child towards his mother's skirts, oblivious or ignorant to the dangerous all around. To Do'Karth's great pleasure, immediately barreling beyond Madura came Edith, who took him down with an impressive tackle and tied him up with a rancher's skill with a rope. The Khajiit's respect for the woman rose immensely.

Narivar was quite distraught, as it turned out, and the colossal amount of loss his people had suffered had cut deep. Do'Karth was confused and concerned when the Dunmer opened his mouth and swallowed the key, wondering how on Nirn they planned on retrieving that. Did he think people would respect his corpse and not cut into it to free the key? The whole situation made very little sense. Edith's presence was noted as she sidled up beside Do'Karth, reciting her instructions. Do'Karth nodded once in agreement and began to flank him around the left, moving at a quick trot to keep in line with Edith. When the duo moved in for the attack, Do'Karth decided to aim at disabling Narivar by injuring his spear-wielding arm and removing the weapon from his grasp. He hoped that the Ashlander's skill with the weapon was as pathetic and desperate as he looked.

Niernen whooped and laughed in delight when the Centurion was disabled successfully by the combined efforts of herself, Roze and a now-late Ashlander. "Way to go, Breton," the Dunmer woman said to Roze and gave her a thumbs up. The following series of severe malfunctions in the steamworks immediately stifled her mirth as debris began falling from the ceiling, randomly crushing people left and right. Her heart lept in her throat when Do'Karth disappeared from sight but he reappeared a few seconds later, unharmed, when the dust cleared a little. Relieved, Niernen decided to follow him and listened to the quiet exchange between him and Edith. The decision to attack Narivar seemed justified at this point. Anyone in this room who still followed the so-called High King of Morrowind deserved what was coming to them... even if he was Madura's brother.

"I curse the thrice-damned Godkiller and all his ancestors, n'wah, and you with him," Niernen spat at at the spear-wielding elf in Dunmeris, channeling all her bitter wrath over the Nerevarine's betrayal at his vassal standing before her. From the corners of her eyes she could see Edith and Do'Karth circling around to attack Narivar from different sides. Thinking quickly, Niernen aimed to keep Narivar's attention and thus bolster her allies' chance of success. She conjured bright flames in her hands, digging deep within her magicka reserves to make them burn as hot as she could manage, and spread her arms in a taunting gesture as white-hot fire tinged with blue warped and flowed around her fingers. "You will die here, alone, while your ancestors turn their backs on you, s'wit! You will forever roam these halls as a restless spirit, for the Godkiller is the Fifth Corner of the House of Troubles and eternal rest is too good for his witless servants!"

She briefly considered actually firing a spell at Narivar but decided against it, remembering Do'Karth's near-incineration at her hands on the docks of Windhelm when the two of them fought the Kamal. She would leave this one for her allies to take down the old-fashioned way.

Arenco scowled towards Marcel, mostly due to the indignant manner of his address. Still, it wasn’t as if there was much to debate in the situation; Gwinnir was becoming incredibly volatile and dangerous, and the Altmer was sweating through his robes as the mine was fast becoming a blast furnace thanks to the pyromancer’s incredibly dangerous use of magic. He wasn’t confident he could even speak; it felt like the very moisture had evaporated from his mouth. Still, he extended his hands and unleashed as powerful of an electric bolt as he could muster against the pyromancer, wavering the intensity of the inferno enough that the Bosmer was visible beyond the veil of flames.
 
It was enough for Marcel’s impromptu weapon, the hurled pickaxe, to pass through the flame, its handle burning into cinders, but the rough iron head of the weapon managed to maintain enough momentum and accuracy that it struck true, the heated metal working against Gwinnir as it raked across his skin, opening a rather sizable gouge in his flank. The spell was interrupted in the sense no new heat was being applied, and Bharzak’s opportune telekinesis-propelled rock struck him across the jaw, knocking his head askew with an audible crack that was heard even through the cackling flames and his guttural scream. His jaw was clearly broken, and the threat of incineration had passed.
 
Jonimir took advantage to the lull in the spell to cross over to his former apprentice with unmistakable malice and determination, grasping the Bosmer by the throat, choking him as he forced Gwinnir to look him in the eye. In his hand was a simple-looking steel dagger that had an eerie glow to it. “You are such a disappointment.” The Redguard stated, thrusting the blade into the side of Gwinnir’s neck, the blade glowing ever brighter, along with one of the pouches upon his hip. The pyromancer squirmed under his former master’s grip, but it was a losing fight. Within moments Gwinnir’s final gurgles escaped his throat and Jonimir removed the blade from the neck, the suction of air into the open wound accompanied by a spray of blood that fell across the stone floor, spent and useless. Jonimir cleaned his blade with a dirty cloth before returning it to its sheath and pulled the soul gem from his side, now glowing brilliantly with black light. 
 
“You may prove to be of use yet.” He said to the stone, looking at the mercenaries who had interrupted. “Jorwen, it has been some time… I regret it isn’t under better circumstances. Strange how the fates make us cross paths after our departure, is it not?” he asked, eyeing the prone and scorched form of Daelin lying motionless on the floor. “I still sense life in Daelin. Arenco may be able to stabilize him, but it is… unlikely to do much, I’m afraid.” He nodded at the Altmer, who hurried over to Daelin and placed his hands upon the Bosmer, which began to glow in soft healing light of restoration magic. “Now, it is obvious we had similar goals here, Gwinnir was my mistake to correct and you were doubtless sent here with your companions to deal with the treacherous swine, so I do not see the need for further confrontation. We parted as friends once, no reason we could not do the same again. Bharzak, to me. It is time to depart.” He said. The cruel looking collar about her neck was clearly visible, as was her discomfort at the arrangement.

Despite having been given a direct order by someone she had no other option but to obey, the orsimer mage found herself hesitating. She had been more than surprised to know that Jonimir had apparently been acquainted with these people—perhaps even having spent a decent amount of time in their company. From the way some of them had fought, she doubted they were in any way affiliated with his old 'guild', which was some small relief. And, after seeing how the man had treated Gwinnir, despite his lunacy and the fact he had been trying to kill them all, she wanted to be as far away from his agenda as possible, not to mention that she did not relish the idea of continuing to serve the Kamal forces. Now Bharzak saw she had a rather opportune chance to leave. Ordinarily, she would not deign to desert any organization she belonged to in such a manner, but she had not chosen to be a part of this one willingly. And as things were now, she found she would prefer to take the risk of potentially joining even worse company to escape her present situation.

"I don't think so," she replied evenly, crossing her arms in what might be considered a defiant gesture in an attempt to smother the feelings of apprehension she now felt.

Jorwen watched them talk amongst each other, having nothing to say to the mage who'd all but disappeared after the Reach. The way the Orc woman's eyes lingered on him and Marcel before she turned around to defy Jonimir only added more confusion to his head. He narrowed his eyes, finding the same collar on each of the mages before him. The make of them put him in mind of whatever metal the Kamal covered themselves in and this lended them no trust in his eyes. Slaves? Scouts? Would they kill him where he stood if he pried into the reason they all wore them?

His eyes flitted to each of the collars and the people wearing them, "I wasn't aware friends left without warning before popping back up like this." He nodded to the Orc, "It seems the woman is fixing to leave you for some reason."

"She's tepid about our little arrangement, but she'll come around, won't you Bharzak?" Jonimir asked, keeping his voice civil throughout, but the stare he offered the orc might as well have been daggers. Arenco was keeping an eye on the situation as he tried to resurrect Daelin. A gesture from Jonimir made him stop. "Well, if you feel that way, Jorwen, then I guess friends don't save each other. I will be taking my leave." Staring down Bharzak, he emphasized, "Now."

Jorwen frowned, "Answer one question before you leave your acquaintances to die in a hole, mage. Why are you wearing the collars?"

"Because there are those even worse than I who have a stake in my success, it would seem. I'd much rather not die because I turned out being a disappointment." Jonimir replied with a scowl. "You chose your path, I chose mine. Now let them diverge and not worry about what happened here again. You'd like to retire, wouldn't you? It would be rather dreadful if that never came to fruition." There was an air of malice to the tone.

If Jorwen were a younger man he may have been quick enough to cover the distance between him and Jonimir and split the mage's head open with his seax. If Jorwen were a younger man he may not have given it a second thought to throwing himself at the Redguard with blood on the mind. But Jorwen was not a young man anymore, no matter how much his old pride wanted him to be. But he got his answers, the metal was the same and the collars didn't look like gifts of jewelry. The Kamal had the intelligence to employ, albeit forcefully, foreign agents. This did nothing for Jorwen's unease at the Kamal. "Aye, fucking paths and all that shite. Go in peace, or whatever it is Redguards say to each other."

Jorwen's heart was beating like a war drum as stepped forward, the Altmer stepping back from him as he bent down and scooped up Daelin, his limp form heavier than it looked. He hoped Daelin would be able to be healed if he took him back to Rothvar's camp. He wanted nothing to do with Jonimir and his lot and even if Bharzak wanted to leave with them, he and Marcel wouldn't be much use against two strong mages. He spat at his chances and turned to leave, beckoning for Marcel to take Daelin so he could find Dax. If he could walk, good, but if he couldn't then he doubted Marcel could carry the big lizard. "Come with us or go with them, Orc. I understand your leader chose a path, should choose yours now."

Bharzak had regarded the exchange between Jonimir and Jorwen somewhat impassively, having done her best not to grimace or flinch at the Redguard's previous demand of her—one that had clearly bordered on being a threat. She was quite certain that now was as good a time as ever to separate from the Kamal, even though she might not be able to expect the third party present to pitch in and help her if a fight did ensue. However, she was surprised when the Nord offered her the chance of leaving with him and his companions. That might make the other collaborating mages decide to let her leave, but she still wasn't entirely sure her defiance wouldn't be met with violence. Looking to Jorwen, the orcish mage gave nodded slightly, saying, "I would be glad to part ways with my current associates."

Then, turning to send a rather unfriendly look to Jonimir, she added in a cool, indifferent tone, "I suggest that you let me leave. I have no desire to continue serving the Kamal forces."

While Marcel had never thought of letting the other mages get away, their help in taking down the feral pyromancer, the party's wounded, and his older companion's seeming indifference against the side they were serving kind of put him at a bad position to fight them all. He had fought against worse odds, and although the results weren't always pleasant, it somewhat felt like an affront to let a Kamal associate, and a damned Necromancer at that, to leave. The old Nord beckoned for him to pick up their wounded superior, but things just didn't feel right. He shot a quiet, conflicted look at Jorwen, and then Bharzak, inbetween eyeing Jonimir and the Altmer angrily. 

What were his chances? He could cover the distance between him and the mages, and he hadn't really used any of his skills to hollow out his magic battery. In truth, all the zapping, flames and everything else had amped him up. His main concern was about his companions, really. Would the old man help? Would the Orc help? Would the wounded survive? He turned his head to look at Daelin lying on the ground, and then back at the mages. He could feel the tendons in his right hand itching to pull the smallsword and lodge it in the arrogant Redguard's face. 

Jonimir weighed his odds, and from the weary looks on the mercenaries' faces, as angry as they were, they seemed to have suffered enough for one day. Enough to discourage them from doing something foolish. They did the bulk of the effort to put an end to Gwinnir, and both him an Arenco were unscatched and still ready for a fight. They'd both leave without further conflict and all he had to do was discard an Orc who was too weak and pitiful to defy his will. She was a disgrace to her kind, and in truth, her only forseeable use for her was as sword fodder and subsequent reanimation. She wouldn't make it far with that collar, regardless. Sooner or later, the sorcerors who melded it around her neck would discover she was no longer under Jonimir's guidance and would activate the spell runes within, puncturing her neck in multiple places with cruel spikes of ice. It was a fate that Jonimir would suffer if he displeased the Kamal, but they offered a surprising amount of autonomy, as if they could not conceive anyone under their thumb conspiring against them. 

"Very well, Bharzak. Do not let it be said that I am not a compassionate man, you can leave with your new friends. Jorwen, consider this exchange a token of my appreciation for helping with such a troublesome part of my life. Be well, and do not take it as a slight in me saying I hope we never cross paths again." The Redguard said, disengaging from the group and with a final look and nod of the head, headed out of the cave with Arenco in tow. Their footsteps faded into the cavern, and soon, there was nothing.

"Aye, die in a bloody fire." Jorwen grumbled when they'd disappeared down the tunnel. He looked at Bharzak, then Daelin, and wondered if the Kamal would come to collect the Orc. They didn't have strong walls around them this time, and the last time they'd met them in the open they'd lost a good portion of the others in the Company. He shook his head, getting to the task of digging through the debris to find Dax's body. He felt for a pulse, and thankfully, he found one. He breathed a sigh of relief, hefting the big lizard over his shoulder. "We'd best get moving. Put as much land we can between us and them, Orc." He trusted she knew who he meant.

He called over his shoulder to Marcel as he ascended the ramp back up to the entrance, "We're not leaving Daelin and I'm already hauling Dax."

* * *

At the Nightgate Inn, a long night-march later...

The group had made it out of the mines, parting ways with the mages and taking one with them. Jorwen found his mind drifting back to the revelation that Jonimir was working with the Kamal, voluntarily or no, and even moreso to the mage's threat on his life. When they made it back to the camp, news of a Kamal patrol given to him by the others was also foreboding. Could the collars lead the Kamal back to them? If so, these four walls may be strong enough to stand a blizzard but the Kamal were tougher than cold winds. He tightened the fist he had on his knife, stuck into the tabletop, and rubbed his face. He was tired, they all were. Sevine had taken well to him appointing her as his Second, having taken charge after Daelin apparently had no plans to wake up. Daelin showed much less promise than the others when it came to healing, the efforts of Bharzak and Rhasha'Dar at least making sure that the Bosmer didn't die. He hadn't even opened his eyes from the time Marcel carried him out of the mines to when the Breton lowered him onto the bed.

He clutched at his chest and let go a long, gravelly cough, his eyes screwed shut in pain. He growled behind gritted teeth and took a few long breaths, damn cold air messing with his lungs. He got up and crossed the room, opening the door to reveal the landscape filled with nothing but mountains and snow, the sunrise coming out of the horizon a long ways away. Rothvar was still keeping watch, seemingly the only other person not complaining when Jorwen proposed marching rather than sleeping when the sun began to dip below mountains and snow-hills. It was appreciated, but he needed rested warriors, “You should sleep. I'll take up watch.”

Rothvar only shook his head, though the yawn betrayed him. Jorwen frowned, there wasn't much convincing a Nord when he had his mind set to a task. That much, he could respect the old soldier for, but there wasn't an enemy alive that could take a minute's sleep away from Jorwen if he could help it. Even so, he plopped himself down in the creaky chair, wrapping his cloak around him and sighing. “We've a long day ahead of us, we're marching to Dawnstar and we won't be stopping whether or not you fall on your face for lack of sleep.”

“Thank you for respecting my decision.” Rothvar's words held a little bit of sarcasm. There was a pregnant silence growing between them, Rothvar's eyes hardening on the mountains, “We didn't bury them.”

“We could have, but then those Kamal you all saw would've killed us if we...” He couldn't say wasted, time spent giving a good burial to a good friend was well-spent, he knew, “if we took the time to do that.”

“I know.” Rothvar grumbled, looking away from Jorwen and scratching near his eyes.

“A friend helped me to realize my mistakes were not something to run from, but instead learn from.” He took solace in the thought of sharing another fire with the Khajiit when he got back to Dawnstar, “Our dead ones will welcome us with open arms when we get past Tsun and cross the whalebone bridge. They will understand.”

“Aye.” Rothvar didn't look all too convinced, then he leaned forward over the wooden railing of the porch, as if struggling to see something in the distance. Jorwen looked too, but he could see nothing.

“What?” He asked.

“Nothing.” Rothvar shook his head, looking back once more before going back inside to warm himself, rubbing at his sleepy eyes.

Jorwen squinted, trying to see what Rothvar saw and his mind immediately conjured up images of the Kamal, memories of them from the docks and the death they wrought. He swallowed, shaking his head and sighing, wondering if he'd made the right decision in letting the Orc come with them. Every chief ponders the chance that his orders kill his boys. If he'd kept his damned teeth together, Daelin might be walking and talking and his own dodgy knees wouldn't be shaking under the weight of the others' lives now. He let go a grating cough that seemed to cut his lungs and spat something off the porch. Dawnstar was a long way away, but who knew where the Kamal were.

---

Watching on as the tanks ruptured, Roze was silently thanking herself for backing away so quickly - the Ashlander opposite to her had not been so lucky with his own tank, being punctured by several pieces of shrapnel as the towering construct fell; the Dunmer had died, but the Centurion was no longer moving. Was it dead, however? Roze watched on dubiously, bow once again in her hand, ready for any further movement from the metal monstrosity - but other than the metal groaning under the weight of the collapsed pipes and tanks, it seemed to be fairly motionless. Glancing to her right upon hearing laughter, Roze shared a grin with Niernen.

"Not so bad yourself, Dunmeri." She replied with a quick wink - but Roze did not follow Niernen further into the mist. The steam had all but soaked her leather armour, sweat dripping down her neck and making everything ten times more uncomfortable. Quickly retrieving her bandanna from one of her several pouches - and still amazed it was in one piece since getting it during their trip to Winterhold - Roze used the brightly coloured cloth to tie up her sodden curls, heading for the exit of the room for some much needed fresh air; also, she wanted to get away from that Centurion. At least with people, you could see if the light had left their eyes when they died - the machines in the Dwemer ruins didn't have life nor eyes to see it with, so Roze wasn't particularly fussed about taking a chance and going near the fallen centurion. Even half-crushed, it could cause some damage.

Walking as quickly as she could manage without skidding on the floor, wet from all the steam, Roze paused as she spotted Tsleeixth on the floor, propped up against the wall. Although closer to the entrance, there was still an uncomfortable amount of wet, sticky heat in the air. If Roze felt bad uninjured, Mundas knew how poor Tsleeixth was with several stab wounds.

"Hey - want some help getting to the elevator? I'm no expert in restoration, but I may be able to make you a bit more comfortable." Walking over to the injured Argonian, she offered her aid with a kind smile.

Tsleeixth tensed up when he heard the sound of an explosion coming from the room where the Centurion was, promptly followed by the sound of falling rock and creaking metal. "By the Hist, please, let none in the Company come to harm." He thought to himself, tensing slightly when he saw the door opening and someone coming out only to relax immediately when he recognised Roze once the Breton woman entered his field of view. Shifting slightly in the suddenly uncomfortable atmosphere in the ruins Tsleeixth nodded when Roze offered some help getting to the elevator. "Yeah, that'd be much appreciated." Said the Saxhleel as he tried to stand up, his knees shaking slightly as he propped himself upwards using his good arm.

Reaching up to steady himself in Roze's shoulder, Tsleeixth stopped as he felt a cough coming up. "Ah, Hist-damne-" He began to speak before his frame was racked by a coughing fit, crimson blood hitting the floor with each cough of his. "Ah....dammit...." He wheezed in between coughs. "Sorry Roze, Bloodlung doing it's magic." He said drily as he steadied himself against the wall. Grimacing, he spat what little blood remained in his mouth due to the coughing fit. "Sorry you had to see that, it's not usually much of a problem but I do get this coughing fits every once in a while." Admitted the Argonian with a sigh, waiting for if Roze wanted to say something before grabbing her shoulder for support.

Roze's smile faltered somewhat in concern as Tsleeixth doubled-over in a fit of hacking. She'd seen cases of bloodlung before, but these people had been bedridden. Were they over-exaggerating their disease? Or was Tsleeixth just suffering from a mild case? Well, by the looks of the blood and pain etched across his face, she doubted very much it was mild - of course, the coughing wouldn't be doing his wounds any favours.

"No need to apologise, my friend." She replied, letting him take hold of her shoulder and using her free arm to gently support his blood-stained body. For the amount of stab wounds he had, he was doing well to be walking. "It doesn't sound like a particularly fun ailment to have." She said as they walked slowly back to lift, she taking care not to jostle him too much. "Although, I don't suppose any ailments are very fun. Apart from maybe hangovers; it's always great seeing a friend with a sore head after a heavy night of drinking." She added after a thoughtful pause, chuckling slightly. Looking back to the Argonian, Roze recalled that one of their number was an alchemist. Perhaps he could help? "One of our Khajiit - Rhasha'Dar, I think his name was - he's handy with potions. Maybe when our two groups meet up again, he could brew you something to help? Bloodlung is cureable, right?" She asked hopefully - not knowing all that much about the disease, other than it clearly hurt like hell and could potentially kill you.

"Thank you Roze." Said Tsleeixth when the Breton thief told him that there was no need to apologise and let him take hold of her shoulder, letting out a sigh of relief when she used her free arm to gently support his body. He wouldn't admit it freely, but standing up as he had before had been incredibly difficult for him and the coughing fit he experienced shortly after that didn't help matters in the slightest and, as such, both Roze's support and the slow pace with which they walked back towards the lift was a welcome respite for the weary Argonian. "No, it isn't." He chuckled softly when she mentioned that Bloodlung didn't seem like a particular ailment to have. He laughed a little at what she said next, his lips curling upwards in a smile. "Aye, true enough....hmm, speaking of hangovers, I wouldn't mind downing a bottle of alcohol, or twenty for that matter." He said, letting out a soft chuckle, before fallign silent as she pondered on what Roze said about Rhasha'Dar.

"No idea to be honest, Sevine gave me a potion back in Windhelm for my Bloodlung and the only thing it managed to do was lessen the severity of my coughing fits." Admitted the Saxhleel, letting out a sigh as he shook his head. "I know Bloodlung is curable, but as far as I know I haven't heard of a case of an Argonian contracting it so who knows how my kind reacts to the disease. For all I could know it won't kill me but I'll be coughing blood for the rest of my life." He said, shrugging as best he could. "Though, admittedly I do not know much about diseases in general and the lack of a big Argonian population in Skyrim doesn't helps matters at all." He admitted with a light frown.

Letting out another chuckle at the thought of alcohol, Roze couldn't help but agree. Once all the dangers were dealt with, maybe she could find some more Sujamma down here? The Ashlanders must have had some somewhere... unless their magic Nerevarine leader had outlawed alcohol or something. Gods, what a miserable existence that would be.

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to try another potion?" She replied somewhat uncertainly after listening to Tsleeixth. If he'd had one potion already and it hadn't done much, perhaps there wasn't a cure for him? Although, with all the miracles she'd heard of, like cures for vampirism or lycanthropy, it was hard to believe someone, somewhere hadn't managed it. "A shame Rhasha isn't here now - we could really use some health potions." She added with a sigh as the pair finally reached the elevator, the injured Leif and Elmera still there - and still alive, thankfully. Once again, Roze was cursing herself for not knowing any restoration spells; some spotty, non-magical medicine would have to do in it's absence.

"Right, let's get that armour off, see if I can put more pressure on those wounds or something." Approaching one of the walls, Roze helped Tsleeixth gingerly sit down; it'd be far easier to do it on the floor, just in case he fell over. Or passed out - judging by the loss of blood, both were highly possible, and the last thing he needed was to crack his skull off the hard stone floor and sustain yet another injury.

"Hmmmm, I do suppose you are right. Can't hurt to try, it's no like the next potion will make me cough my lungs out." Chuckled the Argonian before nodding when she mentioned that it was a shame that Rhasha wasn't there with them. "Aye, it's true, we could use some health potions, though we do have Do'Karth with us so it's not like we are bereft of healers, and Niernen knows restorative magic as well so her sudden appearance is a boon to us as well." He said as they got into the elevator proper. He was relieved that they found both Elmera and Leif safe in the entrance of Bthamz, breathing out a sigh of relief at the fact that they were safe.

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." Said Tsleeixth when Roze suggested they get his armour off so that they could treat his wounds better. He bit back a groan of pain as Roze settled him down on the ground, pain flaring from his wounds at the movement. Moving his hands he gingerly took his iron cuirass off, hissing in pain as he accidentally scrapped the gaping wound in his left shoulder with the metal armour. "There, that should be better." He said, looking down and grimacing at the sight of his body. Blood was coming from the gaping wound in his left shoulder where the Ashlander had yanked his dagger away, and the three stab wounds in his gut seemed to have opened slightly due to his coughing fit.

The young thief couldn't help but wince at witnessing the extent of Tsleeixth's injuries. The only solace was that the wounds were to his gut and shoulder; although undoubtedly painful, and still weeping from blood, they weren't life-threatening as of now. With healing on hand, it was better to have injuries to guts than lungs - not that his lungs were in perfect condition anyway. Using some cloth that Sagax had kindly donated, Roze used a small bit soaked in water from the skin at her belt to mop the blood around his bandaged wounds. Doing so as gently as possible, Roze once again silently cursed the lack of alcohol. Not just for drinking - although Tsleeixth certainly could use some inebriation as of now - but it could have disinfected the fissures in his scaly skin somewhat. Water would have to do.

Cleaning as best and as gently as she could, Roze carefully unwrapped the bandages placed there earlier - the 3 injuries to the stomach seemed to have reopened somewhat, but weren't quite as bad as his shoulder - with a lack of both restoration magic and stitches (Not that she'd be comfortable sewing someone's skin together - Do'Karth was better at that than herself) - she'd just have to be imaginative with her bandages.

"Sorry if this hurts - I'm just going to tighten these to try and staunch the bleeding somewhat." She apologised in advance as she tore the strips of cloth into smaller pieces, balling them up and pressing them right against his wounds. Keeping them there, Roze re-wrapped the bandages around his midriff, keeping it as tight as possible without hindering his breathing. She then did the same to his shoulder wound, attempting to keep the cloth packed well into the cut - somewhat dangerous, considering the cloth was far from clean; but there were better healers than she that could deal with possible future problems. For now, the bleeding had to be stopped. With the final bit of cloth, left un-torn, Roze fashioned it into a make-shift sling, not unlike the one she had worn after injuring her shoulder in Windhelm. Lowering it over Tsleeixth's head and gently easing his arm into it, Roze leant back on the balls of her feet, quite pleased with the outcome.

"Well, I think my bandaging skills have improved since last time." She said quite cheerfully, wiping her bloodstained hands on her leather-clad legs.

Tsleeixth bit his lip as Roze began to gently rub the wounds in his body with a watered piece of cloth. While he was thankful that she was being gentle it still stung to have his wounds cleaned, pain flaring up from the contact against the piece of cloth in Roze's hands. He nodded a little bit when Roze apologised if his wounds ended up hurting again when she tightened the pieces of cloth wrapped around them. "It's ok, I understand." Said the Argonian, his fists clenching in anticipation as she re-wrapped the bandages around his midriff, hissing slightly as the wounds in his gut flared up as the piece of cloth was tightly wrapped around them. However when she pressed the cloth against his shoulder wound Tsleeixth's eyes widened slightly in pain, his fists clenching until his nails dug into his palms, calming down shortly after Roze was done putting his arm on the sling. "Well, I'm glad to hear that." Said the Argonian, chuckling slightly, when Roze cheerfully said that her bandaging skills had improved since the last time she had used them. "Shame there isn't a bottle of wine or something, I'd say we've earned a drink or two, eh?" He said, laughing a little bit as he shifted slightly and got as comfortable as he could in his current position.

"Ain't that the truth." She agreed, groaning slightly as she straightened up from her current crouched position, stretching her aching shoulder. After having loosed so many arrows - and dealt with a rather stubborn valve - her previously injured shoulder was throbbing from exertion. It would be stiff as hell tomorrow, but at least it was still working right. Her aim had been fine... well, barring that one scrape with Sagax, but a scratch was better than nicking an artery or something. Still, Roze looked back on it with embarrassment - Sagax endangered his life well enough by himself without her helping him along. Perhaps it would be best to keep this story a bit dumbed down when telling Sevine of it.

As her mind drifted to Sevine, Roze remembered the issue going on with Do'Karth and Leif. While the former was still in the steam-filled room, Leif was right here, and her eyes darted to him momentarily; he seemed none the worse for his injuries, from what she could see. While certainly painful, the burns didn't seem to be life-threatening. Deciding the talk about Sevine and his issues with her new furry partner could wait until there wasn't an audience, Roze threw herself into a spot besides Tsleeixth, letting out a light huff of air.

"I hope nobody does anything stupid while we're out of the room. Still some damned ashlanders alive in there." She said quietly after taking a swig from her waterskin, then offering it to Tsleeixth.

Tsleeixth chuckled at Roze's words, nodding in agreement, concern briefly flashing in his eyes when he heard her groaning as she straightened up from her crouched position. "You ok Roze?" He asked her worriedly, looking at the Breton archer with a critical eye. As far as he could see she wasn't bleeding from any wounds, though that didn't mean that she couldn't be hurt some other way, frowning slightly as he thought on how she could have gotten wounded when he noticed her eyes darting momentarily towards Leif. He nodded a little bit when she mentioned that she hoped no one did something stupid while they were out of the steam-filled room, although the mention that some Ashlanders were still alive left a sour taste in his mouth. "Fucking pricks." Was all that the Argonian said as he accepted the waterskin that Roze offered to him, taking a swig of water before handing it back to the Breton woman.

He was silent for a few seconds afterwards, debating on if he should ask Roze the question that had been nagging his mind ever since the voyage from Dawnstar. "Hey, Roze." He asked her once he finally decided to speak his mind, his voice dropping down to a low whisper. "Is there a problem between Leif and Do'Karth? I noticed that those two were strangely tense during the voyage to Bthamz, and you looked towards the former in a strange way when we got here." Asked the Argonian, confusion somewhat plain in his voice. "I ask merely because I am worried about our Khajiit friend, and I'd like to be able to help if possible at all." He said, frowning slightly.

"Oh, I'm fine. Shoulder's been battered and shot at one to many times - I suppose it'll always have an ache to it after Windhelm." She responded to his query with a wave of her hand, indicating it was no big issue. Some people had lost entire limbs, and others had lost their lives; a stubborn shoulder she could live quite happily with after a scrape with the Kamal. Laughing quietly at his insults to the enemy Dunmers in the other room, she was about to take another mouthful of water when he asked another - unexpected - question. She chuckled again - somewhat nervously this time. Was it really her place to be spreading this around? Leif wouldn't be happy about it (Although it was a wonder not everyone knew at this point, after his drunken outburst in Dawnstar) but Roze doubted Sevine or Do'Karth would be pleased with her spreading rumours around the ranks of the group. Except... well, it wasn't really a rumour, it was the truth. A hard truth for the trio at hand, that was.

"Well... I'm not sure you'd be able to help at all. And, it's not really something for us to be worried over." She replied quietly, dropping her voice even more as she continued. "As you may or may not know, Sevine and Do'Karth have began courting. They're not exactly keeping it secret, so there's no harm in telling you that. But uh... well..." She hesitated a moment, fiddling with the top of the waterskin. "Leif has known Sevine for quite a few years now, and he wasn't... content... with her new relationship. So, there's definitely some animosity towards Do'Karth, but again, I shouldn't be too worried about it. Leif just has to get used to Sevine's new... arrangements. I'm planning on talking to him later - I don't know what I'm hoping to achieve, but maybe I can lessen the tension somewhat." She finished her hushed sentence with a light shrug. "For now, I'm just wanting everyone back on the ship in one piece - and then I hope we don't run into more troubles." She added honestly - their last voyage to Winterhold was still fresh in her mind.

"Ah, good, glad to hear it's nothing too serious." Said Tsleeixth, nodding slightly at Roze's explanation. He was silent after that, waiting for her answer to his question, but her nervous chuckle did set off some alarms. "Shit, maybe I shouldn't have asked." He thought to himself, his worries easing somewhat when Roze began to talk again but the Breton's nervousness at having to speak didn't go unnoticed by the Argonian. He listened in silence and by the time that Roze was done talking Tsleeixth had to suppress the urge to groan in annoyance, lest he attracts unwanted attention from the nearby Leif for some reason. "Ah shit, so that's why those two were acting so tense around each other." He said, his voice low, as he frowned slightly. "To be honest I thought it was something less serious, that Do'Karth had somehow insulted Leif or that Leif had unwillingly insulted Do'Karth somehow, I didn't think the two were in, for a lack of a better word, a love triangle." He said as he shook his head slightly, making sure to keep his voice low so as to not be heard by the nearby Nord man. "Aye, that I can agree on, let's hope that we all make it back to Dawnstar in one piece and then we can, or more appropriately they, can focus on fixing this." He said with a sigh, shaking his head slightly. With the troubles the Company kept getting into it, having two of it's members at odds with each other wouldn't do them any good at the very least, if not prove a severe hindrance at the very worst.

"It's the tension that's bothering me." Roze murmured in response. "It would better if they just had a fist-fight, got it out of their systems and moved on from it. Nords have fights over less than a lady, that's for sure. The longer it stays like this, the worse the outburst will be." Shaking her head slightly, she began to bite soem stray skin on her bottom lip, a habit she ahd recently picked up the last 3 weeks when being bothered over something. "Hence why I want to talk to Leif. Hell, maybe he just needs to bed a woman to let it go. " She added, considering Leif's options. Spending the night with someone - it didn't really matter who - did wonders for stress most of the time; even emotional stress.

"Not that he'll be bedding anyone here, that is. I wouldn't like to, it'd be most uncomfortable." Roze had seen bedrooms of the long-dead Dwemer in ruins like these; even they were stone. Stone floors, stone chairs, and stone beds; it's no wonder the Dwemer became extinct, they likely never had a good night's rest on one of those things. Sex on them would be even worse. No, they'd all have to wait till Dawnstar for a decent bed; the ship had some comfortable hammocks, but they were terrible if you were prone to sea-sickness. Not that Roze was, that is - in fact, she was wishing for the rest of the group to hurry up so they could head back to the ship. At this point, she'd completely forgotten why they'd come down here in the first place.

Tsleeixth nodded in silence at Roze's words, there wasn't anything else to add to their current conversation, nor there was anything else to say about their current mission. Shifting slightly against the stone wall Tsleeixth settled in as comfortably as he could and closed his eyes, letting out a weary sigh. "Fuck, I hope this mission is finished soon." He thought to himself.

Ashav was the only one moving about the top ship deck. When Hagjorn climbed up, he saw the Redguard pacing anxiously with his glass great sword. They both tensed at the sight of the other, and after a quick second of mutual recognition. Lowered their guards. As Hagjorn got a better look around, he found an Ashlander woman dead on the deck, a blade stabbed through her neck.

"Is that it?" Hagjorn asked, pointing to the body. "Was she invisible?"

"Not it." Ashav shook his head. "This idiot jumped at me as soon as you climbed in back, but ended up tripping on her dagger."

"Damn..." Hagjorn let his voice trailed off. He moved to the side so Valen could see what he saw earlier. Glancing nervously around, he noticed a rope connected from a sail mast to a post on the beach. It seemed inconspicuous at first, but upon closer examination, it looked something like a zipline.

"Were you looking out this line?" The sailor tugged on the rope; it could support a man's weight with zero issue.

"What?" Ashav puzzled. Then it dawned to him. "No, I was blocking the ramp. They could've went off there, but I didn't hear anything."

"I say a muffling spell after the cloak." Hagjorn guessed. "Tira from my old crew pulled something like this to dodge pirates. This sneak could be very well on their way to the ruin, either to warn their mates inside or shank your buddy Niernen in the back." He directed the last part to Valen, making sure he's aware of the situation as well.

"We aren't reach Edith with this." Ashav fumbled with the communication crystal, which did not glow no matter how he toyed with it. "Don't suppose any of you know magic." The Redguard sighed. "Alright, I'll stay on watch here and you two give chase." He scratched his bandana covered head. "You did clear up everything downstairs, correct?"

"As far as I can tell." Hagjorn shrugged. "Unless Valen saw anything out of the ordinary."

There were a few seconds for Valen to explain his findings, or not. It wasn't long for Hagjorn to notice several rocks falling from the boulders leading up to the Dwemer spire. That was enough evidence for him and Valen to take off again. He told the Dunmer to ready his bow this time, in case they were running into a trap and his falchion fell out of effective range. However, there was no trap. They scaled up the sharply angled rocky faces with haste, then jogged along the makeshift trail up to the lift.

"Figure it wouldn't do one landlubber any good down under." Hagjorn chatted as he waited on Valen. Unlike the healthy Nord sailor, Valen's beaten and battered form didn't do him athletic favors. "Ashav said he sent about ten down there, and now there's Niernen and that journalist." He counted. "Are you two related? Is Niernen your sister or something?" Hagjorn glanced over his shoulder to Valen. "A lot of you dark elves kind of look the same."

Again, there was just enough time for Valen's response before they had to stop. The elevator shaft came into view for the duo. No such elevator was on the surface, and in its place was a deep hole going underground. However, the sound of steam and gears could be heard. Accompanying those sounds was the visual of a Dunmer emerging from stealth, who desperately worked a panel of buttons and a brass lever, presumably calling up his ride down. This Ashlander (by the looks of him), didn't notice Hagjorn and Valen for a good dozen seconds, and when he did, he went immediately for his weapon.

"Found him." Hagjorn grinned to Valen. "Now you have a clear shot; don't miss."

Nightgate Inn - Night

Long after dusk had fallen, the sight of Nightgate Inn came into view. For Sevine, it brought back memories of the flight from Windhelm. So many had succumbed to the Kamal, and they were lucky to reach the inn unscathed at this point. Together, Jorwen and Sevine had taken command of the group, her being placed in second command if Daelin’s condition...worsened, and Jorwen fell too. In truth, she rather enjoyed the sudden, yet temporary, promotion. Her tasks were simple, help keep the group in line, and keep an eye out for any changes in the surrounding landscape during the march. The Kamal’s had left the scorched encampment without much prying, and to her relief, Rothvar, Keegan, Rhasha and her were still alive. She had done her best to tend to her wounds by herself, but with the ever-present ash in the area, it made it difficult to properly bandage and cleanse the wolf bites. Settling on wrapping the wounds in strips of her tunic she had torn off, Sevine waited until they reached the inn to take better care of herself. After all, she had something to live for… someone to live for that is. It served as a source of motivation to keep her feet moving, even though her left leg throbbed with pain.

Once inside, Sevine took the liberty of purchasing one of the inns for the night. She wanted to unwind in privacy, and nurse her injured pride for being taken down so soon in battle. She made a mistake, plain and simple. By trying to draw attention away from the group so that they could fight with ease, she had over anticipated the ferocity of starving wolves under the influence of a Spriggan matron. Her plan certainly did draw attention away from the group, but at what cost? In part, she felt she was to blame for her reckless actions in the heat of battle. Were Leif there, he would have pointed out a different way to attack, just like he always had back in the war. Whether it was the blood loss, the inflamed wounds, or her sore attitude for feeling like a failure, she wanted nothing more than to be alone at the moment. And quite certainly, the idea of curling up next to Do'Karth sounded more enticing the longer she thought about it. As she stumbled into her rented room, her hand clutched the amulet he gifted her. Sinking down onto the straw mattress, she kicked off her boots, and slipped off her trousers. There, she undid the strips of red tunic around her ankle. A wave of pain flared up as the fabric clung to the edges of the wound as she tore it off with a quick yank. Just looking at the inflamed and punctured filled flesh of her calf made her nauseous; the outer edges of the bite marks radiated an impressive amount of heat. Pressing the pads of her fingers into the raised portion of the flesh elicited a sharp hiss from her. It looked as if her leg was ran through a meat grinder from the way the fangs tore through the muscles. Carefully, she plucked the water skin from her rucksack by her feet, and loosened the cord around the lip, using her good hand to hold it steady. With a trembling hand, she fought to control the flow of water pouring down her calf. As if to make matters worse, the water skin slipped, and emptied its contents onto her leg, and pooled around her foot. Groaning in annoyance at the difficulty of the situation, Sevine sat there in self-pity, wishing that for once she had Do’Karth, or even Leif with her.

With what she could manage, Sevine knotted her leather trousers, rolled up her pant leg with one hand, and hobbled out of the room barefoot to the bar, rucksack slung over her shoulder. There she plopped herself on the stool and waited for the barkeep to attend her. When the bald head of Hadring the barkeep approached her, he cast a curious look at her, one that wanted to ask what happened to her. So she beat him to it. “Wolf attack. Nasty business that is.” Sevine gestured to her right arm, still wrapped in red linen.

“...Right. What can I do for ye?” He asked his eyes darting to the arm she held in her lap.

“Spilled my water skin, so I’ll need it refilled. Perhaps, if you’re so kind as you look, could I bother you for a pitcher of water? Along with a pot, and a bottle of your finest rum?” Sevine asked, sighing with defeat.

After slipping Hadring the coin that she owed, Sevine made her way to the cooking spit, where she hung the pot, and filled it with water. Then, she hauled over a stool and plopped down with a grunt. Restarting all over again, she washed the wound on her calf once more, and then with care, poured the rum onto the raw wounds. She hissed in agony as the liquid seared her inflamed skin like white-hot iron. By now, the water in the pot began to boil, so she tossed in the cheesecloth that she had kept from the last bit of food she had packaged during the first part of the journey in the reach. Over an hour and a half passed, and Sevine had painstakingly cleaned, disinfected, and bandaged both the wounds on her right forearm, and on her left calf. Even now, as she gripped her forearm with her left hand, she could feel the heat radiating from her wound. So she sat there, sipping on the rum that she hadn’t finished, and found herself thinking of Do’Karth. She prayed that nothing ill had befallen him, and that they would soon be reunited again in Dawnstar. More importantly, she found herself recalling the distinct features of his face; the exact shade of amber that his eyes were, the gravelly sound of his voice, even the softness of his fur under the palm of her hand. Abruptly, in her recollection of thinking of him, she felt overwhelmed with longing for him. She wanted nothing more than to find comfort in his arms. A lump formed in her throat while the bottle of rum began to shake in her left hand as she fought a wave of emotion.

Unbeknownst to them of the nightmare ensuing in the lower levels of Bthamz, Leif and Elmera were left in a state of oblivion. For Leif, however, this was not so bad, for while he nursed his injured pride in silence, he was relieved to have the Dunmeri woman as a companion. He never quite felt safe within the walls of any Dwemer ruin, and for that matter, he deemed it better to have her, than to be alone altogether. With his back resting against the stone wall, he lifted his hand on occasion to prod at the singed flesh on his face, as well as to peer down his armor and tunic to see a mix of blackened flesh amidst drying iron-coloured blood. For the most part, Leif fared much better than the woman to his right, majorly for the fact that he did not suffer the ill-fate of having a dwemer bolt lodged in his thigh. Thankfully, Roze had been kind enough to fashion a tourniquet around the woman's thigh before departing into the depths of the ruins with the rest of the company.

Elmera's breathing was slightly labored as she lowered herself to rest against the wall beside Leif, wincing until she was settled again. Her leg throbbed and it was all she could do to hold the muscle and prevent too much blood loss. If she could just get a moment, she'd rip this bolt out of her leg and try to close the wound, but first she needed to gather herself. Magic was not something to be performed lightly - especially on oneself. As she waited, the worst possible happening came to be - someone was approaching. She reached for her blade, but found herself unable to rise to her feet.

Curiously, the sound of metal gears grinding as the lift behind them rose, Leif scrambled to his feet in nervous anxiety, he would defend Elmera if need be. Were he wielding a one-handed sword, she would have seen his right sword hand shaking in anticipation, however, since it was a two-handed longsword that he held, his left hand helped minimize the trembling. Up it went, and then down it came, and when the gears locked into place, he slid into a defensive stance, knees bent with his legs set wide. He could see through the dwemer metal bars that it was another Dunmer, yet he could not discern who until the doors of the lift opened, and out stepped a familiar figure. Wasn't this the sorceress from Windhelm, the one with the strange hound?

It appeared that she recognized him as well, though her thoughts were occupied elsewhere as she approached him in a frantic haste, and inquired if Do'Karth had come below with the others, to this he confirmed, and pointed in the general direction that the company had gone, though he wondered if she had caught his warning about the ruins being filled with automatons. Nevertheless, he sat down grumbling to himself, these Dwemer contraptions did not fascinate him, and he would rather have not to deal with this place, yet he did volunteer for this trip.

Thank the Nine, Elmera silently prayed, that the figure was seemingly known. Leif gave her a direction and some instructions before the woman took off on her own. Damn the ruins and automatons, she just wanted to get deeper and help the others too. Elmera could empathize - she wanted to be down there proving herself as well.

For what felt like hours after their encounter with Niernen, which could have only been an hour at the most, in his agitation, Leif decided to break his silence with the woman. His nerves were wound tight like a rusty coil of iron chains, it would do him some good to find something to take his mind off of, and what better than to strike up a conversation? Of course, that being if she was a sporting companion for speech.

Elmera sat quietly. She was never one to really realize that silence made others uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, the woman often felt at peace in the quiet and thought far more could be said by a pair who spoke without words. It was not until Leif spoke that she realized the kind of tension it had placed on him.

"That's a nasty wound there." Ouch, that was awkward, of course it's a nasty wound. Quick, make this better. "I know a few restoration spells," Ok good, keep it going. "If you'd like me too, I can help mend your leg up so the wound doesn't start to fester." There we go, back into the swing of things. While he awaited a response from her, he praised himself on making the poor start to the conversation better. Perhaps it was the fact that after having his heart shattered in two, Leif wasn't up for talking with anyone, and that led him to the current situation, difficulty making conversation that once came so easily to him.

Elmera gave him a bit of an awkward smile, watching from the corner of her eye as she nodded. "Yeah... It's uh... I think I'm just about used to it, actually," She said, trying to joke back. The Dunmeri laughed softly, "I'm pretty versed myself, actually. It was my second most studied school... Had I more space, I probably would have been able to flash my magic a little more helpfully." She sighed, "Unfortunately, I didn't stand a chance," The woman joked, pointing to her thigh. There ya go, see? You can make a joke.

Leif felt a huge weight off his chest lift as the Dunmer woman responded to him, there, awkward silence broken, mission accomplished, well...more or less. While she reassured him that she was feeling better, he actually doubted her words, his eyes glanced to the wound in her leg and took note of the darkened fabric where the bolt had torn through.

"If you'd really like to assist in the healing process..." The woman started, "You could tear off a chunk of shirt or find me something to bite on, give me a second to prepare, and then yank this bolt out of my goddamn leg. I think I've recovered enough energy to stop the bleeding... And then, with a bit more time, I can help you out. Deal?" She offered, actually turning her head to look at the Nord beside her.

"Deal." Leif said with a half smile, he extended his hand to her to shake, "By the way... I didn't catch your name? I know you're new here to the company. My name is Leif Raven-Stone."

"Well met," She replied, shaking his large, meaty hand. "Elmera, no fancy last name," The Dunmeri introduced herself, releasing her grip.

After their introduction, Leif turned away from her to ruffle through his rucksack that he had carried with him. Years in the war had taught him to never go anywhere empty handed, in case of situations like this. As he sifted through the leather bag, he clucked his tongue disapprovingly for the fact that he didn't have any suitable piece of cloth to give her. Then, as he sat back on his haunches, he glanced down at his chest, and noticed his tunic. With a reach around of his right hand, Leif fumbled for the lacings on his leather armor, working it loose with a tug here and there until he could pull it off, careful to avoid the burn on his face. It was awkward to work around the burn on his left shoulder, but he managed nonetheless. Once free of his armor, Leif held firm the blue linen cloth in one hand, and reached for one of the daggers at his hip. There, he made a small nick in the fabric, and began to tear off the hem as wide as his palm. Laying it aside on top of the rucksack, so as not to dirty it further, Leif undid his belt.

"Whoa, whoa," Elmera said, putting up her hands. "You're definitely going to have to buy me dinner first, Mr. Raven-Stone," She teased, shaking her head with a joking grin before accepting the leather. A tense smile crossed his own lips at her words, it sounded odd to hear a joke in a situation like this, but it had been a while since he last smiled so willingly, no matter how tense it was. "Alright, when I give the signal, just yank... It's not gonna wanna come out - but remember, the more times you pull or the longer you have to, the worse it's gonna hurt, so... all at once is best."

"That should serve right proper for you to sink your teeth in, and this," he gestured to the torn linen, "can serve as the bandage." Then, he knelt close to her, and waited for her to give him the signal. The barb on the bolt concerned him, it would be more difficult to pull it up through her leg, and there was the possibility of nerve damage. The shaft was short, and there were feathers attached, those would have to go first. He set to work on shaving the feathers off with the edge of his steel dagger, and when those were completely removed, he broke the remainder of the bolt protruding from the top of her thigh.

Elmera nodded and placed the leather strap between her teeth, readying her hands as she bit down hard. She looked to Leif and gave him a nod to say that she was ready, her hands already beginning to glow slightly, her magic prepared.

With a slow inhale to steel his nerves, Leif's blue gaze flickered to Elmera, and nodded in return. One hand slipped behind her knee, while the other curled around the barbed arrowhead. Ripping out arrows was never an easy task, there would be some pain involved as the shaft would tear through the muscle around it. Then, he pulled as quickly as he could manage. The points of the barb pierced his hand, yet he gritted his teeth, putting all the strength to remove it as smoothly as possible. What seemed like minutes instead of very tense seconds, the bolt lodged in her thigh came free. Holding the blood-soaked arrow shaft in his hand, Leif grimaced at the sight of bits of flesh clinging to it, albeit small, but flesh nonetheless.

"We have to clean the wound to prevent infection," Leif said, turning away from her to rifle through his rucksack again, where he removed the water skin tethered to the side, and a small bottle of unopened whiskey, something he had found in the galley on the ship. Returning to her side, he peered up at her, unsure of whether she could even handle rolling up her pant leg, or if she wanted to drop her trousers, but he would have to clean both sides of the wound.

Elmera bit down hard, but her groan, near-scream of agony was only slightly stifled by the leather strip as her restoration magic completely left her hands. She would have to re-prepare the spell after it was time to cast it again. Her eyes rolled back in her head slightly as she pressed the back of her skull into the wall behind. Finally, it was free and she panted, dropping the leather. The wound seared with pain as Leif mentioned needing to clean it. She supposed that it wouldn't hurt to take the precatuion before closing the flesh. Unable to reach her pant leg, the woman grimaced, pushing her waistband down just past her thigh.

"Do it quick..." She muttered, readying her hands. He was hurt too, so she wouldn't expend all of her energy fixing this one problem, but rather she would just do what was necessary to prevent further breaching or re-opening; the rest would repair itself in time. "I'll close this up, then we'll take a look at you, alright?"

He offered her a gentle smile, and for once, reserved himself to focusing on the wound. Carefully, he poured water from the skin he held in his hand. The tourniquet had proved useful in slowing the bleeding, but with it gone and the bolt free, there was more blood to account for. "You might let me do the healing." Leif protested, shaking his head as he lifted her leg up as gingerly as possible to wash the underside of her thigh. "Too much blood loss, with a wound like this will knock you out." He warned in a soft tone. Then, he reached for the linen he had set aside earlier, tore it in half, and dabbed at the wound, knowing full well she would feel some pain at that. After cleaning what dirt and muck could have possibly been on the bolt, he reached for the whiskey. It would help disinfect the wound at least. Biting into the wooden cork of the bottle, Leif tore it out, the stopper rolling across the floor.

"I've suffered worse, bud," She reassured him with a nod, giving him a half-hearted smirk. As he lifted the whiskey, the woman took a breath in and held it, waiting for the inevitable. "I won't be expending everything I have - but I'll be able to close the hole in my leg so I can limp, even if the inside is still in a bad place."

"This might sting a bit." He said, his eyes flickering to hers before pouring the alcohol on top of the wound. A sudden wave of nostalgia hit him, as he was brought back to the distant memories of the war, and how he had cared for Sevine many times when she became injured on the field. Alcohol in a flesh wound always hurt, they both knew that.

With the underside of her thigh taken care of as well, properly disinfected, Leif proceeded to wrap the linen around the wound, not too tight to serve as a tourniquet, but tight enough that it wouldn't fall down if she wanted to hobble around on her own. "It would be best to make certain that the wound isn't infected, I'd advise against healing it now. Maybe tomorrow morning, if it doesn't show any sign of infection, then we could give it a go at closing the wound." He rolled back onto his haunches and watched her with a concerned gaze. Even though his own wounds still itched from the lightning attack, he knew that the pain he felt was nothing similar to what the Dunmeri woman before him was experiencing, and for the moment, that was a bit relieving in the pain department.

She rolled her eyes, "Fine. Then I'm gonna find something to prop me up while we walk. C'mere," She muttered, not waiting to turn his head to face her, lighting it under a torch on the wall. The Dunmeri woman furrowed her brow, "By the Nine, that's a nasty big of burn you have here. It's gonna take a couple weeks to heal over... I wouldn't be surprised if you were left with some scarring, to be honest, but I can at least start the process." A golden glow emanated from her hand as she applied a weak spell of restoration to the side of Leif's face. The mark from the burns and electricity was still quite prominent by the time she drew her hand away a moment later.

She sat down again and shook her head, "Sorry... That's the best I can do for now. I can take a closer look after we both get some rest." With a sigh, Elmera looked down the hall, finally hearing a few voices. "That must be the others... Let's get in the lift and wait for them," She suggested, gradually rising to her feet, giving the returning party a brief wave. She was pretty sure that it wasn't quite everybody, though who was she to know where the entire group was? She'd been crippled from the get-go.