Having witnessed the butchery of his companions and finding himself backed into a corner, Narivar lashed out like a cornered animal, bringing the fight towards Do’Karth, the unarmoured of the two targets. Edith, clad in heavy plate armour and carrying a sufficiently large shield would have been quite ready to ward off any strikes the Ashlander would dole out with his spear and leave him quite exposed. He harboured no illusion he was making it out of the situation on top; his only goal was to take at least one of the bastards with him before being slain. At least then he would rejoin his brothers in arms.

The Dunmer thrusted towards the charging Khajiit, who managed to ward the deadly glass blade away from his torso with his quarterstaff, halting his advance as he found himself on defense. It was an unhurried thing, as he only had to hold Narivar’s attention for long enough for Edith to take him, which she did when she came up behind the Ashlander, who spun to try and fend her off, exposing his back to Do’Karth for a moment, who wasted no time in driving the end of his staff into the back of Narivar’s knee, collapsing it. Edith wasted no time in bashing the Dunmer’s chest with the corner of her shield in a powerful swing, knocking him on his back and sending his spear skirting from his grasp. In a matter of seconds, the Ashlander’s leader was disarmed and apprehended. He was set upon immediately and Edith, ever ready with even more rope, secured the prisoner like she were tying a boat to a dock. “Good work.” She said to Do’Karth, who nodded in response and suddenly felt the fatigue of the day hit him like a lead weight. The thought of finding a hammock suddenly felt very appealing.

While all of that was going on, Niernen found herself left alone with the two remaining Ashlanders. Their faces turned grim when they saw what Do’Karth and Edith were up to, but they were torn between rushing to their leader and the harsh words that Niernen had spoken earlier about the Nerevarine. Flames still danced in the female elf’s hands and she slowly turned to face the Ashlanders, a wary expression on her face. She really did not want to fight them now -- they were too close, the room was too small. She winced when memories of Argonians with wicked war-blades flashed through her mind.

“Surrender,” Niernen hissed in Dummeris and raised her hands, ready to douse the Ashlanders in liquid flames at a split second’s notice, but their natural resistance to fire would make it more difficult to incinerate them completely. The Ashlanders hesitated, their weapons still in their hands, and Niernen’s heart leapt in her throat. “All of us can make it out alive if you lay down your arms, kinsmen. Do not tempt fate,” she added, speaking quickly, a slight tremble to her voice. She emphasized the last few words by flaring the idle fire in her hands. “Three… two…”

Convinced, the Ashlanders looked at each other, dropped their weapons to the floor and sank down on their knees, their hands in the air. Niernen allowed herself a long sigh and lowered her hands, the flames extinguishing. She was swaying where she stood and stepped away for a few seconds to find support against a wall. While Edith was busy with Narivar, Sadri executed a timely return to the chamber and stepped in swiftly to bind the other two Ashlanders with even more rope, preventing them from any further hijinks.

Making his way away from his adversaries, both fallen and subdued, the Khajiit noticed Niernen and Sadri, two individuals he was rather pleased to see weren’t caught in the crossfire. Behind them were a pair of bound Ashlander warriors, who were disarmed and kneeling compliantly, the fight having left them. Niernen convincing them to cooperate earlier had clearly helped matters. “Do’Karth would like to make note that his first time in a Dwemer ruin was hardly one considered all that enjoyable. He is pleased to see you well,” he said, smiling at his reunited friend.

Having regained her composure, Niernen looked up to see the Khajiit approach. Pleased to see Do’Karth was still in form, Niernen returned his smile with a beaming example of her own and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She felt the same flurry of emotions in her guts as before. Frustrated, she straightened her face as best she could and tried not to think about how agile and powerful Do’Karth looked while beating up fools -- despite her best efforts, her cheeks were flushed. Niernen hoped Do’Karth would assume it was from exertion, not… other things.

''Yeah, it doesn't get any better in further trips.'' Sadri replied to Do'Karth as he walked forward in a somewhat hurried pace, his hand red with Raelyn's blood. It was a nice change of pace to not be part of the action for once, even though in this case it meant trying to play medic, and then constable with the Ashlanders. ''Saw your tricks with that rod. Nice.’’ He told Do’Karth, and pointed back at the remains of the Centurion with his thumb. ‘’Shame I didn't get to see that damn brass giant go down though.''

''Never got to say it, but thought you were dead. Glad you aren't,'' Sadri added as he turned to the sickly looking Battlemage that stood next to him - she was a familiar sight, he remembered her from Windhelm, but was quite sure he had seen her before that as well. It was a small world.

“Glad to be alive,” Niernen quipped to Sadri. Now that she saw him up close it confirmed her suspicions that she’d seen him before Windhelm, though it was hard to place exactly where and when. It would have to wait -- now wasn’t exactly the time to ask.

''So, we can open the door now, right? I've spent enough of my life in these damned ruins to be fascinated by staying any further,'' Sadri asked, looking at Narivar, eyeing the spear from time to time. He had set eyes on it the moment he had seen this fellow, and was quite glad that nobody had decided to play keeps with it. Yet.

Do’Karth shrugged indifferently. “It was nothing. Do’Karth has been fighting for as long as he can remember, it will take far more than the likes of them to introduce me to my gods.” he smiled, following the gaze towards the Centurion. “That and something resembling sense. Avoid the large, murderous contraptions and they cannot harm you, no?”

The prompt about opening the door was another challenge entirely. “It would seem our new friend here swallowed the key to that door. Perhaps you know a way to get it out of him?” the Khajiit asked Sadri, not expecting anything less than a murderous response.

''He swallowed the key?'' Sadri asked, brow raised, trying to make sense of the Khajiit's words. How'd he even swallow a Dwemer key? Even the most experienced whores of Daggerfall would agree that it was quite a feat. He looked at Narivar again, and then he looked back at Do'Karth. ''Right. I know a way, but it's not exactly pleasant,'' he said, looking at his boots. He'd have just gutted the damn Ashlander straight away, but frankly, he didn't want to screw Madura any further.

''May I, Bright-Wings?'' Sadri asked Edith, as he took a few steps back from the kneeling Ashlander.

Edith regarded Sadri with apprehension, looking between him, her prisoner, and her hog-tied journalist charge with uncertainty. “Alive. We need him to talk.” she said as way of consent, stepping back, morbidly curious as to what Sadri had in mind.

''Of course. I wouldn't have it any other way,'' Sadri replied to Edith with a fake sense of decorum and aristocracy, before turning to Niernen for a moment. ''Don't look, sweetheart,'' he said jokingly before stepping further in a flash, and sending his foot flying forwards in a punt kick into the mer's belly. He remembered one of the games he had played with the kids in his neighborhood when he was just a teenager - Sarhad's father had bought his boy an enchanted leather ball that kept its rigidity no matter how much it was battered, and the boys of the street had taken a liking to kicking the ball around. They would gather teams and try to kick the ball into the rival team's post.

Now there was no ball to kick, nor was there a goal post, and Sadri hadn't played the game in decades - but he still trusted that he could send one hell of a punt. The kick connected with the Dunmer's belly, and a disgusting sounding grunt came out, and Sadri looked down at the Ashlander. ''Sorry,'' he said as he took a few more steps back, only to rush forward for a punt again, hoping for the mer to vomit out the contents of his belly. He wasn't exactly enjoying this, and at this rate, the Mer would end up vomiting his guts out if he didn’t vomit the key out.

Initially tempted to retort with something equally sassy to Sadri’s comment, Niernen quickly shut up and averted her gaze when the older Dunmer started kicking Narivar’s abdomen with unrestrained force. Bizarre -- she had been prepared to roast Madura’s brother alive if it had been necessary, but now that he was disarmed and on the ground she suddenly couldn’t stand to look at him being abused. Niernen cast a guilty glance at Madura, the brave journalist who had vouched for her, and mouthed ‘Sorry’.

Sadri’s gentle prodding, that is precision kicks that would make any child who kicked around a ball green with envy, had something akin to the desired effect and soon Narivar started to retch, the contents of his belly, mostly bile and whatever he had for lunch, came spraying out of his mouth after just a few hits. Do’Karth watched, leaning on his staff for support as he watched his companion work over the prisoner. Soon, a slight gleam in the Ashlander’s mouth caught Do’Karth’s eye. He placed a hand on Sadri’s shoulder to halt him before taking a knee in front of the downed Mer, and shoving several fingers inside of the wheezing mouth, grasped the key, pulling it free by a pair of claws. How Narivar swallowed this without choking to death was nothing short of astonishing.

The Khajiit reached back, handing the key to Sadri. “The fruits of your labour.” Do’Karth stated, eying the glass spear with curiosity. He set is staff down and picked it up, feeling the weight and running a hand over the intricate engravings and metalwork that adorned the shaft, as well as inspecting the translucent green blade, which was a curiosity for the Khajiit. It was a beautiful weapon, reminiscent of the craftsmanship of the Altmer of Alinor. Do’Karth thought back to the times he’d seen Thalmor marching around Anequina with similar weapons and armour.

The same thought that was doubtless filling Sadri’s mind for the weapon’s fate crossed Do’Karth’s. The Khajiit stood, glancing back towards the entrance, the last place he saw Solveig. He did not spot her immediately, but the gesture was likely caught by Sadri. “Do’Karth has it on good authority that women seem to be fond of sentimental gifts. This one can think of someone who would appreciate this, he thinks you know her very well.” he grinned at his friend, before glancing over at Niernen, whose skin was flushed. She looked… embarrassed?

“Are you well, Niernen?” he asked, suddenly concerned. He’d been so caught up in the spoils of his victory that he’d momentarily forgotten that Niernen was thrown right back into the fray after being a prisoner of war. This had to be excruciating for her, he frowned. “We should get you somewhere warm, some food. Excuse Do’Karth, but you’ve seen much better days.”

Startled, Niernen looked at Do’Karth and stammered. She’d been somewhat zoned out while staring in morbid fascination how Sadri retrieved the key and, after that, lost in the gleam of the glass-tipped spear. “Y-yes, I’m fine. Well, that is to say, I have had better days…” she said and smiled sheepishly before attempting to conjure a more resolute expression. “But I want to help. Sleep and food can wait a little while longer.”

Do’Karth nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This one would think so. Normally one decides to rest after escaping captivity, but you are rather tenacious. Please do not overextend yourself, you are so close to safety, let us see you there, hm?”

The touch of Do’Karth’s hand on her shoulder sent a shiver through Niernen’s body. She enjoyed the contact for a few seconds, her copper eyes meeting Do’Karth’s amber gaze, before she responded. The instinct to say something immensely sappy was overwhelming and Niernen only managed to nuance the statement with humor at the last second. “As long as I have you -- to hide behind, I mean -- I have nothing to fear.” She gave him a warm smile, cleared her throat and looked at Sadri, seeing the wary look on her fellow Dunmer’s face.

Sadri himself wasn't exactly sure whether to smile back at Do'Karth for his statement, or see a competitor in him. Admittedly, it was the cat who had taken down the fellow, but he had gotten the key out of that bastard, hadn't he? Plus, he had seen it first. Even if he hadn't, he really didn't care - he'd rather hand that over to Solveig himself. But he wasn't a creature immature enough to just reach for that. The Dwemer Key in his iron hand reminded of much more important matters at hand. The time to split loot, or play coy with others, was not now. Nonetheless, that did not help much to change his conflicted expression, and had a blank moment, feeling like a deer coming face to face with a hunter, when he noticed Niernen catching his gaze. ‘’S’wit.’’

Do’Karth caught the somewhat resentful gaze from Sadri, and knew immediately what must have been going through his mind. The Khajiit burst out laughing. “Oh, this one did not mean to deceive you with his intentions. He meant you should give Solveig this,” he said, flourishing the spear around so the point was away from Sadri and the shaft was offered towards him for the taking. Do’Karth smiled. “You should be aware this one is spoken for. Besides, have you not seen Jorwen? You are quite brave for pining for his daughter. Do’Karth would not be so bold.”

The Dunmer shot a glance back at Do'Karth, confused as to whether his feelings were that obvious or not - he was not really happy with how the cat had spoken of it out loud next to Niernen, Madura and Edith, but then again, he had kind of made it obvious by attacking that Dark Brotherhood brute back at the Pale Coasts, and it was Do'Karth who had propped him up afterwards. It made more sense in hindsight, and Sadri took a hold of the spear with his good hand, nodding for the Khajiit, grateful to both the cat and the greater powers at work for making this easy for him.

''If only it were up to me, Do'Karth. If only it were up to me.'' Didn't they say that love is blind? Sadri was almost halfway there. It was only normal that his heart chose rather difficult people to love. But the Dunmer wouldn't have felt anything beyond base attraction had it not been for the feeling that they shared something similar, deep down. And, well, he never was one for damsels in distress. ''I appreciate the sentiment. I appreciate this even more,'' he said, brandishing the spear before setting its tip down. ''Right. We've a door to open, don't we?''

The Khajiit grinned. “You are a bold warrior. This simply is another kind of dance, this one is confident you will find the steps. One should be so flattered that you have their back.” he offered reassuringly, patting the Dunmer on the shoulder before gingerly taking the key from Sadri, as the spear was a considerable burden to carry on its own. “But yes, Do’Karth is dying to know what our friends were trying to get at. As long as it’s not more Chaurus. This one has had enough of those beasts to last one of nine lives…” he trailed off, turning to look towards the door. The key suddenly felt heavy. Why did he do that to himself?

Niernen whispered a soft “Aww,” at the revelation that Sadri had feelings for Solveig. The idea of the battered old Dunmer finding love lifted her spirits, even if she barely knew him. At the same time, her eye twitched and she looked away when Do’Karth reminded her that he was now spoken for. Determined not to let it get to her, she thought about something -- anything -- else. A frown slowly made itself master of her face and she opened her mouth to say something.

“What… is a Chaurus?” she asked cautiously, her eyes shifting between Do’Karth and Sadri.

“Imagine the largest insect you’ve ever seen, then make it bigger and give it pincers as long as your arm. It still doesn’t do it justice.” Do’Karth replied, shaking his head at the memory of staring one of the beasts down. Sagax was the reason he was still alive today; the Khajiit’s brash foolishness nearly got himself killed.

With key in hand, Do’Karth approached the door, wondering why exactly Narivar was struggling to unlock and open the door. Granted, the door was rather imposing and thick, likely as a means to thwart brute force from permitting entry, and stressful situations tended to make one uncoordinated, but the large key slid in effortlessly and the tumblers slid open effortlessly. “Huh.” The Khajiit remarked, expecting to have to work at it. Say what you will about the Dwemer, but they made things to last.

Equally surprising was when the door opened easily with but a small amount of pressure; the Ashlanders could have pried for hours and not have made a budge, it seemed, and soon the entryway was opened, and what said behind was indeed an impressive haul. Were Do’Karth’s lips capable of whistling, he would have.

Flanking either side of the room were two massive Dwemer ballistas, angled upwards as if preparing to pierce the sky, their massive strings loose as they were out of battery. Each were seated on wheeled carts that were choked in position by wedges. They were clearly meant to be siege weapons, or mounted to a wall as a defensive battery, or to the deck of a ship.

Equally interesting was one of the most peculiar bows he’d seen before; it had peculiar locking mechanism on each of the arms along with a folding aperture, along with a locking slide that would reduce the arm length in half. It was a folding bow, one that could be stored in a compact form and extended with only a few small adjustments. Do’Karth knew this because of the schematic that was preserved behind a glass case had detailed illustrations of its use, as well as numerous writing in Dwemeris. Seated in an exquisite quiver of some thick hide and Dwemer-alloy embellishments were 20 arrows. Someone would doubtless find it useful, perhaps company armourers could reverse design it?

A few chests were tucked away behind a gated area. Aside from the usual coin were a pair of Dwemer daggers, a few cut gems, and three grand soul gems and five lesser soul gems.

“After you,” Do’Karth said to Niernen, directing his arm inwards towards the spoils. He called out towards Edith and the others to come take a look.

Delighted, the Dunmer sorceress stepped forward, eyes wide in amazement. She had been inside Dwemer ruins before but never an undisturbed specimen. This room looked like it hadn’t been touched in hundreds of years. She inspected the ballistas and folding bows, intrigued by the complexity of their design, but they were of no use to her personally. The poisoned blades of the Shadowscales had made sure Niernen would never be strong enough to draw a bowstring ever again and siege engines were widely outside of her area of expertise. The soul gems, on the other hand, were of greater interest. She was merely a novice enchanter, really, but grand soul gems were hard to come by and very valuable.

“Don’t mind me,” Niernen muttered to herself while she held one of the soul gems against the light of a wall-mounted Dwemeri lamp. Throwing back her grey traveling cloak, she slipped the grand soul gems into one of the pouches at her waist. The ordinary gems -- among them amethysts, rubies and emeralds -- also attracted her interest. The Armigers that had captured Niernen had also robbed her of her septims and it felt justified to help herself to some of them, but the stern voice of her father in the back of her mind stopped Niernen from taking them all. Greed is for men, not mer.

Now that the room had proven itself to be free of any Chaurus adversaries or other Dwemer traps, Niernen decided to take advantage of the quiet moment by lowering herself to the floor for a minute at the far end of the chamber, looking out over the rest of the room and the entrance on the other side. She leaned her back against the wall behind her and wrapped her arms around herself and pulled up her knees so that her cloak covered her body entirely. She was cold and exhausted and suddenly very eager to return to civilization.

“There’s some coin and a few gems in these chests,” she called out to Do’Karth. “You should grab a few before the others find them.”

Right after Niernen finished her sentence, a satisfied whistle filled the room, followed by the one-armed Dunmer. ''Damn nice. You don't find such gear in this condition often. Y'know, we once had a similar expedition near Blacklight, we found an untouched, defunct Animunculus, human shaped. Our client had it dismantled and made it into plate armor. Such a fucking shame.'' Smacking his lips afterward, like having stumbled upon a nice meal, the Dunmer eyed the chests with tired and battered, but nonetheless uninhibited greed. Watching Niernen reveal their contents, and then inspect a powerful looking Soul Gem in artificial light, Sadri felt like protesting for a moment, but then remembered the glass spear he was holding right now. ''To the victor, the spoils,'' he mused, as he walked over to the chests himself, witnessing a whole lot of gems, coins, and a bunch of daggers. This was sure some nice treasure they had found.

After hearing Niernen call for Do'Karth to the loot, he voiced a newly found concern. ''You know, we used to split the booty after the job was done, with fixed shares. We've got our share of wounded who did the fighting. I mean, I'd likely get more this way, but that's not exactly fair play, is it?'' Sadri asked, inspecting the gems with his free hand.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Niernen said after a few seconds, a tone of embarrassment to her voice. “I wasn’t implying we shouldn’t share equally with the others, I just… don’t want Do’Karth to be left out.” The seated Dunmer woman cleared her throat and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, obscuring her face in shade. She hadn’t been part of a treasure hunt before. Now that Sadri had pointed it out, it seemed obvious that the loot should be split evenly, not taken by the first to clap eyes on them. “Apologies,” she added quietly.

Do’Karth raised his hands in mock surrender. “Do’Karth needs no material wealth. He is happy to be a part of the team. That said, he always had an eye for shiny things, so he will put in for a gemstone or two. Perhaps he will embed his staff with a diamond or two?” he smiled at the ridiculous thought of making a piece of steel-reinforced wood a widely embellished treasure. “This one does agree with Sadri, of course. It would be hard to conceal our spoils without arousing suspicion, and besides, we are not pirates.” he glanced towards the door where others were still gathered. “Do’Karth dares say some earned their share more than he did.”

Sagax tip-toed curiously, but cautiously, around the fallen Centurion. It still hummed and its eyes yet glowed, but it didn't move an inch. The inquisitive Imperial nearly had a heart-attack when a mass of steam spewed out of a loose valve after prodding the massive shoulder of the automaton with the tip of his blade. Deciding that perhaps he should leave the two-story, hammer-handed machine alone, Sagax hurried off to see what everyone else was doing. When he caught up to Niernen, Sadri and the others, the Ashlander leader was writhing on the floor near a pool of his own sick, the other warriors had been subdued, and the armory door was wide open. The ballistae were certainly something else indeed; they looked like massive crossbows, mounted to large, wheeled carts. Sagax could only imagine what they could do to a Kamal, or one of their ships. Surrounding the ballistae were some less impressive but still valuable arms, ranging from daggers to a quiver of dwarven arrows.

"Hm...I've heared Dwarven instruments shred flesh and hide like butter. I think I know someone who would appreciate one of these..." Taking one of the daggers, Sagax tucked it away in his bag. He refrained from taking one for himself, as he was already equipped with everything he needed. No reason to grab more than he could make use of.

"Sagax!"

Turning to face whoever was calling to him, he saw Edith, standing next to the disarmed Ashlanders, beckoning him over. Pulling back his hood, Sagax made his way over, wondering what she wanted with him.

"We need to get these ballistae out of here, and if it wasn't obvious from their size and the fact they're made of metal: they're heavy. We're going to need a bit of help moving them, but thankfully, we've got plenty." She said, nodding to the Ashlanders. "I want you to give me a hand directing them."

"Yes ma'am." With Sagax's response, Edith signaled for the Ashlanders to stand, and lead them to the ballistae. Before long, they were all ready to cart the weapons out of the ruin, which was no quieter, even with the defeat of the Centurion. The creaking of the carts' wheels could barely be heard over the sound of whirring machinery and the passing of steam through overhead pipes. Sagax would be very happy to be out of that place, because while he didn't mind noise, it was a different noise than that of a crowded city. The noise in the ruin gave him a headache, and the constant steam in the air made him sweat horribly. How in the world did the Dwemer tolerate those kinds of conditions? He really couldn't blame them for going somewhere else.

@Chrononaut and Leidenschaft bring you this tasty tidbit from the Bruiser and the Bard...



Raelyn was feeling some of the strength in her arm return. This was her moment, to do what she vowed to do after she was well enough to do it. She lifted on arm limply and punched Solveig with the force of a toddler. This forceful action caused Raelyn, already wobbly from her near-death experience, to tilt over, her head landing on Solveigs shoulder, facefirst. Her face scrunched up in Solveigs leather armor she swore an array of muffled slurs that even the most barnacle encrusted sailor would find offensive. Whatever they were, they ended with "Owwww".

"Shush up, now." Solveig hissed, eyes darting about the hallways, expecting a dunmer to jump out and skewer her or a knife in the back at every moment. Every errant sound in the halls, whether it be her footsteps echoed or some mechanical clink, whir, or whizz was an enemy lying in wait. She'd already killed one of them with nothing but her hands and her head still pounded from it, she knew her luck had stretched as far as it was willing to. The battle lust had long since left her and it seemed it took its share of her strength with it.

It took everything she had not to fall to her knees and take a rest, but she knew that once she got to the elevator, she'd have her moment. She looked down at Raelyn, her face buried in her fur-cloaked shoulder, whispering death threats for saving her. She'd be lying if she didn't feel at least a little bit of a kinship with the woman now that they'd shared a horrid, horrid trauma together. "I remember my first stab wound." She breathed, trying to cheer her up.

Raelyn rotated her head so now her mouth wasn't pressed into Solveigs shoulder, "Was it with a long, wooden shaft as well?"

"Actually, yes. It was just me, in the Circle, and one of the biggest men I'd-" She'd caught herself and frowned, feeling the heat grow in her face. Surely it was as red as her hair, and she felt the urge to push the teetering bard over, but thought better. Raelyn was giggling weakly, stopping to say 'ow' again. Solveig folded her arms, rubbing her nose, "You joined a Free Company and you don't know how to wield a weapon, aye?" She said, trying to quickly change subject.

"Only in a theatrical sense." Raelyn lied. "Ever seen a travelling troupe? Like that." It was the sort of lie that fell well into Raelyns background, clothing, and general demeanor. This was Raelyns second favorite kind of lie, a close second to 'I'm a virgin'. At her waist, was a dunmer blade in a sheathe. It looks to be one of the blades that were found during the initial Dwemer spider assault.

"You know how to dance, then? You're a troupe actor? I think I saw one of those when I was a little girl in Whiterun." Solveig said wistfully. She'd only really liked the parts where the hero was fighting his enemies, and even then, she didn't like the fact it looked more like prancing than battle. "How's it like to travel with mummers and the like?"

"Oh, you know. A lot of panicking before a show, then drinking and celebrating afterwards before doing it all over again. One advantage is that while travelling I sometimes meet a troupe and they often need actual women to play the more feminine parts. Most of the men who had been having to mock kiss one another or wear dresses and wigs are often thankful, but you get the odd fellow who's gotten really good at those parts getting coarse with you. The part I love most is when camp is set is the dancing and music. You don't often get that many people in one place who know how to really sing and dance. The Altmer courts and the like, like to think themselves elegant dancers, but to a troupe they move like they have spoons shoved up their ass. Then the average tavern, well, they have all the enthusiasm, but none of the grace."

"I'd kill for an average tavern, truly. It does sound like a fun life, I just was never good at dancing. I had all the footwork down for fighting, but... well." She shrugged, "So, um, why Skyrim? We're not exactly known for our arts, whatever the Bards College says."

Raelyn wasn't as much of a fan of this kind of lie, the quick kind that you use when too many questions are being asked at once, the kind of true but also unlikely kind, "You are known for your history, which for my line of work is a part of the path to art." She coughed, following up with a nervous deflection, "That and men like your father...wait, you met a man bigger than him?"

She nodded, "Nord men are big." She put a hand to the top of her head and moved it outwards, keeping in line with her full height and her hand hovered a good distance above Raelyn, "So are the women." She smiled. "You need help getting to the elevator? Could carry you."

"No, wait, I think I've got this." she said, stumbling onto first one leg, then the other, falling against the wall for balance, this hurt a bit. "It'll be a little like being drunk I think, except I won't have to worry that I might stumble into Brittle." She thought about this, she couldn't even leave the table half the time when she drank. "You know what, maybe if I used you as support."

She held out her arm in a display embarassingly close to a man offering out his own to a maiden in need. In light of the first jab Raelyn had at her, she again looked away and cleared her throat, "Go on."

Raelyn took her arm as support, "I'm glad the first time is over, I'm sure I could get used to being stabbed by crazy eyed Dunmers. Though, maybe for my health, it shouldn't be with a spear. I'd like to be able to walk straight by the morning."

"Aye, sure. I remember in Whiterun, I'd picked a fight against Horik, man was strong but had no stamina. Did get me good, though, I put him on the ground and the other lasses had to help me out the door." She laughed, remembering her first bar fight at only sixteen summers, "We get back to Dawnstar, I could show you a thing or two next chance we get. It'd be better than what any of the men in your old troupe... uh... taught you. About fighting." She coughed into a fist.

Raelyn sighed, remembering Fortis Russo. He'd taught her a thing or two about fighting, both publically and in private. Though she wasn't about to tell Solveig this, "Sounds like a good time! We can add that onto 'drink all the mead' on my to do list."

"I'll help you cross that one off when we get back to Dawnstar." She chuckled, her tired eyes still darting about the halls as they walked. She thought of sharing a fire with Sadri when they got back. She bit her lip as the silence pressed in on the two and threatened to kick the words at the tip of her tongue back down her throat. She sighed, she thought of Sadri, running back out into the hall to fight. A brave man, if not a little reckless with his life, but she could say the same of herself. She stood against one of those Kamal without a second thought and fought it until she was... well, until she could've died.

She wanted to find some way to show Sadri a sense of appreciation before this violent life they led took any chance away from her. Or him. Perhaps a new-forged sword, fresh from the smithy? Or would that be too brutish a gift? She didn't want violence and weapons to invade every facet of her life, though they'd played a large part of it. She'd seen a tiredness in her father's eyes that she didn't want to have, a life away from his own child that she did not want to subject the child she'd have in the future to. "Have you ever felt... have you ever had... well, was there ever a man in your life?" She asked, voice quiet, "How did you show him the appreciation you had for him?"

Raelyn turned her head to look at Solveigs face, "Really? Well, there's always cooking and a romantic song, but I've always felt the quickest avenue to showing appreciation..." she stopped, leaned forward, and whispered something into Solveigs ear.

Her breath caught in her throat, face getting hot all over again, and she choked. She coughed into her fist, stammering in a quiet voice. She might have had feelings for Sadri she'd only ever had one other time in her life, but the thought of doing something like that... Could she, even? Surely she wasn't limber enough, and she didn't want to give Sadri the wrong impression about her. "Wh- huh-have you really... done that?" Her view of Raelyn had certainly... changed.

Raelyn smiled as if she didn't know what shame was, "Yes, though I'm not sure if Sadri's the type who'd be able to handle it. He does seem to have many injuries and-" she looked Solveig up and down, "I'm afraid you might break him. Does he have good upper body strength?" Though she figured Sadri must have some ability, a man with that many scars tended to spend his free time with as many women as he could. Or as Raelyn tended to put it, if there's a will, there's a way.

"I... well..." She stammered and almost tripped over herself while they were walking. She shook her head, "I'm sure he does. I'll take all that into consideration, but I was thinking more on a gift I could give him. A real gift, like a jewel or something of that nature."

Raelyn considered this a moment then said, "Ah, well, he does have that fancy vest...he might, perhaps, enjoy a more elegant take on his clothing and armor." She had no idea why Solveig would put in that much effort, despite the fact Raelyn herself put in extreme effort into her uniform, going so far as to add a white rose to her ensemble, an item not too commonly found in Skyrim or indeed most other sovereigntys.

"I have to wonder if I could afford it." She said, a bit forlorn now. She'd lost her gold in Windhelm and the only coin she had to her name was hanging from her belt now. She bit her lip, there must be some kind of task she could do for coin, even if it was just going back to her days in Whiterun and chopping wood for extra gold. "Thank you for your advice, though."

They'd made it to the lift and as she stepped onto it with Raelyn at her side, "This discussion did not happen. I don't want Sadri catching wind of my intentions before I can surprise him with something."

---

Despite having most likely put a good deal of distance between herself and the necromancers, Bharzak still could not help the fact that her idle thoughts were all but occupied by them. Now having time alone with her thoughts for the first time in several hours, she was very much concerned with just how much ground the Kamal collaborators had covered without her. The unpleasantly bulky collar around her neck felt even heavier now as her paranoia over its enchantments increased—she was concerned about just how much time she had left to figure a way to rid herself of it. The delayed-action runes placed on the item were unlike anything she had ever come across before, so any ideas on her part were mere speculation, most of which would likely have a very negative outcome should she act on any of them. It also probably did not help her growing anxiety that she was exhausted from the previous day’s events, but far too much had transpired for her to even begin to think about sleep.

Presently, the orc had chosen to exit the warmth and relative comfort of the building, leaning against the wall of the front of the building with her arms crossed as she looked out somewhat vacantly into the distance. She knew that she ought to try and speak with one of her new associates about what her current situation entailed, but she was not sure just how much they might trust her word, or, for that matter, if they would even be able to help her. For all she knew, there might not be a single enchanter associated with the people she was now in the company of. And, as many of them appeared to be even more exhausted than she felt, she had decided to wait to bring up anything regarding her situation until a more convenient time. It could not possibly hurt to put things off a few hours—she hoped so, in any case.

The door closed shut with a soft snikt, and the floorboards creaked from the otherwise soft footfalls of the Nord as he stayed behind her. He took his moment, deciding what to say. It was true that many did not find the time to speak to her on the long march here, her previous companions and the familiar-looking collar still holding fresh images of lost friends and lost homes in their minds. Part of him wanted to trust that no one would work for the Kamal willingly, the other though, the other part of him wasn’t always so peaceful and trusting. “We need to reach an understanding.” He started. “I reckon you might not appreciate some of the looks and the silence from the others. I’ve half a mind to say that we’ve no obligation to keeping you safe. You parted ways with Jonimir, you left that mine, that’s it for ‘us.’”

He stepped up to her side, letting the silence speak for a moment before he continued, “If you want to continue with us, you’ll have to get that collar off. If you want to get that collar off, we need to reach an understanding. Gain a little trust, eh? I need to know why you were with them.” He folded his arms, “I need the truth.”

The orsimer mage had listened to the Nord respectfully as he stated his terms, and did not waste any time in replying. “I understand your wariness, and will gladly comply with your terms. Before I was apprehended by the Kamal, I took on bounties. I was in Eastmarch to deal with some wraiths, but some of their troops were in the area. They found me and I did not try to fight them, as I knew myself incapable of overcoming them alone. Because of this, I was given the option to either resign myself to slavery or do jobs for them. Death was also an option, but I’ve never been much for the idea of “death or glory”. It seemed best to continue in my previous line of work, although I was not in particularly good company. I am glad for to no longer be a part of their forces, though the length of my freedom remains to be seen.”

Keegan wasn’t intent on joining the scene, but after a few hours of tossing and turning on his bed, he decided fresh air would do better than forced sleep. His head pounded, like it had been constantly since being headbutted by the spriggan, and his walk was still somewhat stumbling. The march had not been easy, but the Altmer found himself far too worked up to sleep. So he got some drinks from Nightgate Inn, and to his surprise, they carried a decent tea brew. He drank one warm cup and took another one outside, intending to enjoy it in the morning air. What he didn’t expect was Jorwen and the newcomer already striking up conversation this early.

Keegan waited for the Orc to finish her explanations, as he himself was most curious about the so called “Kamal collaborators”, especially following the encounter near Rothvar’s camp. He cleared his throat then to make himself known.

“Don’t mind if I join in?” Keegan spoke up. He extended the teacup forward, its warm liquid steaming in chilly breezes. “Fresh brew if you want it.”

He gave some time for drinking, and when Keegan was sure the silence dragged on long enough, he talked again. “Sounds, uh, unpleasant.” He responded to the Orc’s story. So much for “speech skill”; consolation apparently didn’t come as part of the package. “Were you near Windhelm? Jorwen and I last saw Jonimir in the Reach, and that was a week before the invasion.”

Upon the Altmer’s entrance into the conversation, the orc gratefully accepted the proffered beverage, taking a few sips as she listened to his question. “I was,” she answered simply, “And that is interesting. Perhaps he was taken prisoner there.”

“Aye, maybe.” Jorwen nodded, casting a glance towards Keegan before returning it to the Orc. What purpose did they have in sending Jonimir to the mine? He knew they were very fearful of fire and all things related to it. He managed to bring a Kamal to its knees using fire salts, so the Pyromancer was an obvious obstacle. He put two and two together, and ran a hand through his mane, breathing out a curse, “How big was their force and where was the camp they brought you to? Were the charred woods the farthest you ranged from where you were camped?”

“I can’t give an exact or estimate of their numbers, but they’re not just some scouting party, if that helps. And as for location, they were based out of some cave north of this inn and south of Windhelm, about halfway up the mountains. It was south of River Yorgrim, too. And I can’t speak for my former associates, but the only mission I was sent on was to clear out the pyromancer. They have likely been on more.”

“Is that close?” Keegan asked, not quite familiar with Skyrim’s geography yet. When an answer was given, he pondered the problem with the Kamal already advancing so far. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, well, several others and myself came close with a pair of Kamals in the forest.” Blowing some hot air to warm his hands, Keegan recalled the encounter. “There was a mage with them, and it’s staff had similar aura to your, uh,” he hesitated to a polite way to describe the ugly metal ring around the Orc’s neck, “collar.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at it? I’ve my share of enchanting before.” Without waiting for a consent, and possibly for Bharzak to deflect the issue, he moved closer and placed a gentle finger on the collar. It felt cold, not like the natural air whisking away body heat, but rather, a magical vortex that threatened to stop his blood flow. However, there was entropy underneath the metal, a small tug that drifted to the east; it was reporting to the Kamal. Suddenly, the Altmer felt his heart drop, because this Orc might have led the Kamal straight to them, willing or not.

“Seems like you know magic; can you sense what effect this device has?” Keegan finished his examination and stepped back to respectful distance. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear from the Orc herself, to see if she intended to play them.

“I am uncertain, but if they felt the need to reach our current destination, there would be at least a day’s worth of travel to get close, I’d estimate,” Bharzak mused, passively allowing the Altmer to look at the collar she currently wore. She noticed the man’s look of suspicion intensify as he moved away, indicating that he had been a skilled enough enchanter to get an idea of what the Kamal had done to it. She didn’t intend to bring any harm to these people, and she highly doubted she’d be tracked down when an easier solution to her ‘rebellion’ presented itself to the invaders, but it certainly would make her appear quite suspicious to her present company. Even though she had no ill intent in joining up with these individuals after dealing with the pyromancer, there was no way they’d know it; she would have to be careful in how she worded her response to ensure she did not appear false or threatening.

“I see.” Keegan acknowledged quickly, letting the Orc continue.

“I have some experience with enchantments, yes—and enough to know that this was made to be a tracking collar. However, I do not believe it is a particularly advanced enchantment, particularly as it was paired with another, one that happens to be much more bothersome—and lethal—to the wearer. If my actions are not to the satisfaction of the Kamal, or if I am found to be in defiance of them, this device contains a unique variety of destruction runes. I would estimate I have a few hours before they’re put to use by some Kamal Mage,” Bharzak responded, keeping her tone even in spite of the anxiety her current situation had begun to cause her. “However, if you believe that my presence may be a threat to those within your group, I can go. I do not wish to be the cause of any unnecessary or unjustified deaths.”

Hearing Bharzak’s explanations, and a true explanation, that is, Keegan nodded in agreement. “I have suspected magical tracking as well.” He confirmed. However, he wasn’t quite as prepared to hear the lethal twist that came next. His face wince slightly, knowing that the Kamal could engineer such cruel devices. “Then we should remove this dangerous device as soon as possible.” Suggested Keegan. He recalled something similar used by the Thalmor on Summerset, and seeing another mage suffering the worst this world has to offer made the Altmer sympathetic.

“The magic can be temporarily disabled,” Keegan began formulating, “however, I’m going to need someone with the aptitude to handle, you know, the physical constraints. There should be an arcane smith around, some ‘Fulrog’ the innkeeper gossiped.” At this point, Keegan stopped to glance at Jorwen. Keegan knew that he tended to proceed too fast when he’s certain of himself, and it dawned to him now that the big Nord might still harbor suspicions.

“Fine.” He said after taking his moment, chewing over the options. He wasn’t in this business to save the world, no matter how kind he’d vowed to be for his family and to atone for the thing he was. He couldn’t push the woman out into the cold, though, that would be unkind. “We’ve already spent a night with her and we’ve gone through too much to push her back out on her lonesome. Get Fulrog.”

With that, he turned to leave and opened the door back inside. Before he disappeared inside, he turned to look at the Orc, “Be ready within the hour. We’ll see if the Kamal come for you.”

The orsimer was unable to mask her surprise at the Nord’s reply, as, after the company she’d previously been keeping, she fully expected that they would have turned her away. Nevertheless, she managed to overcome it quickly, replying with a grateful, “All right. Thank you.”

She had not been anticipating this response, but she was more than a little relieved she would not be dealing with the aftermath of her forced servitude alone. The altmer and nord had no reason or obligation to help her, but they were, of their own volition, although the latter did seem somewhat reluctant about it. Not that she could blame him for it. Bharzak only hoped that her situation would not put these surprisingly sympathetic individuals in danger themselves.

“You’re welcome.” Keegan replied. He watched the mass of red hair walk away, and by the time the Nord finally left, he spoke to Bharzak again. “Jorwen’s a bit blunt, but he means well, most of the time.”

Before fetching Fulrog, Keegan offered a final piece of advice to Bharzak. “Our company had several costly engagements against the Kamals and their allies. As many mercenaries are rougher folks than myself, they can come off as cynical, especially around snow demon collaborators, whether that be the willing or the forced.” He asked for the teacup back, then continued on. “I don’t know what exactly transpired in the pyromancer’s cave, but if the Kamals or Jonimir does come after you, I would keep a low profile.” Speaking from personal experience, Keegan saw the Orcish axe holstered on the woman. Other than that, she was unarmed and armored, which did make trusting her less threatening. “Just don’t make any sudden moves; no heroic charges or running away. Trust me, drawing attention in these situations are, well, very unhealthy.” In the end, Keegan’s words surprised himself; it’s amazing what one learned by simply surviving in a mercenary company.

“I understand. I will endeavor to not offend any with my presence or actions,” the orc replied, talking the Altmer’s advice to heart. She was not a particularly impulsive or hot-blooded person by nature, and figured it would be easy enough to avoid agitating her new acquaintances.

Within the hour, Fulrog released Bharzak from her collar. The old Orc arcane smith, who had just woken up not long ago, was not one in the mood for small talks. This large man, an old bear just like Jorwen, except for tusks and green skin, showed unexpected nimbleness when it came to his trade. He asked for a slightly discounted price than typical enchantment removal services. It could be in part because Bharzak was another Orc, or also, him already contracted for similar tasks with the White River Braves. When Fulrog did speak up, he asked which stronghold Bharzak came from, and whether or not she had heard of Kamals wiping out Narzulbur. He remained quiet otherwise, clearly not liking the fact that his client was a mage.

Upon being spoken to, Bharzak was brief and polite in her answers, mentioning Larkegh Kraz in a neutral, almost detached manner before informing him that she had not, in fact, heard of Narzulbur’s destruction, and that she was saddened to hear it. She, for one, was glad Fulrog was not a particularly talkative sort, as she was not much in the mood for conversation. While she was incredibly relieved that the impending threat of a gory death no longer hung over her head, her future still remained to be seen. Going back to taking bounties on her own was a foolish idea, as it would likely only lead to her re-encountering the Kamal, who would likely not be anywhere near as ‘merciful’ as they had been towards her previously. It would be a stretch, but she began to wonder if perhaps she might join up with the band of mercenaries fate had cast her lot in with at the present. Though that opportunity would most likely be reliant on the Kamal not making a stop by Nightgate Inn. To be sure, many had reason to not trust her, considering what she had come from, and she respected that. The orsimer decided that she would let things take their course, though she hoped that the mercenaries had been able to tell that she had been entirely truthful in her dealings with them, and that she meant their organization no harm.

''Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.''

The lone Breton mumbled to himself an old poem, uneasy, as he looked at the cup of honey milk in front of him. Next to it was a small bowl full of cinnamon rolls, yet despite it all, and the events, Marcel was not feeling hungry - in fact, he was anxious, more than anything. He could feel the edges of his hairline stand up with static magic, as well as the fabrics in his clothes. Perhaps it was because of all the absorption from that cabal in the cave. Or perhaps it was the feeling of a loose end because of the mages that were let go. Or the Orc, and her collar. Or perhaps it was something else. He looked down at the milk again. His throat felt squeezed tight - there was no point in trying to drink.

As soon as Jorwen closed the door behind him, he felt warmer. He'd send someone out to keep watch in a bit, but he felt like sitting in front of the fire for a bit. He sat down far from Marcel, the hall's shadows playing with his face and making it seem uncharacteristically hard. He rubbed his palms together, wondering if Marcel blamed him for Daelin's condition, wondering if Marcel thought he should've kept his lips shut. He shook his head, sighing into his cupped hands and standing, taking a seat next to Marcel. Hadring came by and asked what Jorwen would be drinking. A few moments later, Jorwen was nursing a cup of warm apple ale. Between him and Marcel though, was silence. Jorwen took a sip of his drink before asking, "How are you holding up?"

''Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.''

Marcel sneaked in glances at the redheaded brute as he walked inside the inn, and turned back to his mumbling after seeing the man sit in front of the fire. Only such flames looked like fitting companions for the man of such fiery appearance, and, Marcel assumed, temper. He took a bite out of one of the cinnamon rolls in front of him, and tried to wash it down with his drink, but he struggled to do so. He felt an itching, almost a pricking, in his fingers - looking up, he noticed the Nord sitting by him. He kept quiet, not knowing what to say, until the man asked him about his situation. Marcel kept on with the silence, again unable to find something to say, but he eventually coughed something up.

''I am fine, thank you,'' Marcel said, although he really didn't feel fine. ''What about you, though? Such close encounters with such potent magick is not exactly healthy for one's body, or spirit. I suppose we have testaments to that.'' He coughed. ''Although they're alive, thankfully.''

"Mm." Jorwen nodded. If Marcel found Jorwen at fault, he didn't show it. There was a certain apprehension in the Breton to talk, but he'd noticed his quiet nature at the beginning of all this, and did not fault the man for it. "As a Nord, I never trusted in the arcane." He said. "I was a legionnaire in the Great War, going up against Thalmor. I saw hedge magicks in the Reach too, never cared for the stuff."

Jorwen sipped at his drink, "You seemed none too disturbed by it. You don't act like most of the others in the Company, a few I've seen look the type to turn to banditry at first chance. Others are leftover Names. If you don't mind me asking, where does all that coolness come from, in the face of conjured demons and necromancers like...like that man I knew?"

''Uh, neither have I trusted magick, admittedly,'' Marcel replied, monotone, holding the cup in his hand. Memories of chasing covens and clans, hunts for holdout Daedra, rumored to be left over from the Oblivion Crisis, and various other beasts flashed by in an instant. ''For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble.'' He did not have any reason to trust magic. And it seemed magic did not trust him either - it wasn't him who had started the unique relationship, after all.

''I guess I have never been much of an expressive person. But I do have some experience against such things, and once you earn some sort of familiarity with them, you no longer feel as afraid as when you did, when you did not know the extents of their power.''

He took off his gloves, for the charge from the static felt too strong to ignore.

''And, of course, to use that against them is another thing entirely,'' Marcel muttered, before raising his voice back to 'easily audible'.

''So, you knew that man? The Redguard?'' He paused for a second. ''I suppose we all have made some past acquaintances that we regret.'' Marcel remembered his misadventures alongside the Disciples of the Order of the Morning Star. Had they gone underground after accusations of heresy? He wasn't sure. He wasn't very keen to find out, either.

After spending what had seemed like hours by Daelin's side, Rhasha'Dar finally retreated from the Bosmer's room, heading into the main hall in a defeated manner. Daelin's injuries had been extensive - not just wounds from the fall, but the fire had caused even more problems. Burns, and who knew what state his lungs were in from the smoke and suction of oxygen from the mines. Rhasha's alchemy was useless beyond some poultices for Daelin's skin, as he was in no state to swallow even water, let alone a potion. His restoration magic had been exhaused as of then, but the Khajiit's stamina seemed to have been drained from him as well. He felt a weariness deep in his bones, one he hadn't felt since the werewolf attack many years ago. It wasn't just that he was wounded - all of which had thankfully stopped bleeding but still needed further healing - but there was guilt and fear fresh in the Khajiit's mind. Everything that had happened; the Spriggans, the mine-fire, the Kamal... the day just seemed to grow more dangerous as each hour passed, and even in the warmth of the inn there was an obvious tension to the air; like the quiet before a storm or the eerie echo of the beginning snow falls of an avalanche.

And then there was his guilt; when he had fallen on the battlefield, Daelin had risked his own life to save Rhasha's - protecting him from the Spriggan Matron and forcing a health potion down him. If not for their leader, Rhasha would likely be dead - and now here was Daelin, in just as rough a spot and Rhasha could do nothing more to help him.

Sighing quietly, Rhasha made his way to the back of the hall where the fire lay, hearing a hushed conversation between two silhouettes sat there; upon closer inspection, it appeared to be Jorwen, and the Breton fellow they had picked up in Winterhold - Marcel, he believed.

"May this one share in your company?" He asked the pair, weariness evident in his still gravelly voice - while he was sat down he could probably apply a bit more magic to his wounds. And get a drink - he certainly needed one.

Marcel lifted his head up weakly after hearing the request to sit alongside them. The brutish Khajiit stood in front of them, no less intimidating in his wounded state in its resemblance to wild cats. The Breton gestured for the fellow to sit down and be comfortable - it was not sporting demeanor to keep a fellow standing up while others were enjoying the comfort of their seats.

''I wouldn't mind. Would you like a cinnamon roll?'' Marcel asked, pushing the plate forward gently, eyes occasionally inspecting the stripes on the cat-man. He could feel his mind drifting off into uncomfortable depths - the uneasiness hadn't dissipated. In fact it had gained strength, almost.

''Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, for the ingredients of our cauldron.''

"'Course." Jorwen said, offering a smile to the Khajiit. He hadn't shared many words with either of the two here. They both seemed beaten and tired, of course he couldn't tell if that was just how the Breton was. The Khajiit, he was one of the first to fall back in the charred forest, but now looked to be in much better condition. He was glad. "How do you fare? I know your wounds were not the lightest."

Taking one of the seats and sitting down heavily, Rhasha refused the offer of the cinnamon rolls with a grateful shake of the head - he couldn't stomach any food as of yet; the appetite seemed to have been wiped from him alongside his energy. As the innkeep walked by Rhasha asked for something warm and alcoholic, not particularly fussed over what it would be; the Khajiit just needed something to put some warmth back in his body. A fireplace did wonders for warming you up on the outside, but his insides seemed frozen; just as tensed up as the atmosphere.

"This one will live - but he's seen kinder days." Rhasha replied to Jorwen, his hand drifting to his chest where his wounds lay. As the stab wounds to his midriff had been the most serious, he'd used as much magic and potions he could spare on them; now they were completely closed up, but still extremely tender. The flesh where the 3 puncture marks had been remained raised and an angry red colour; the tendons and muscles within were knotted with newly formed scar tissue. Still, he was in no danger of infection from them now.

"And yourselves? From what this one has seen, the mines were no safer than the forest." He questioned, hoping the pair weren't harbouring hidden injuries. More than once, he'd seen a brave warrior ignore a cut because it seemed harmless, only to succumb to illness because of it days down the line. Marcel seemed to be drifting in and out of the conversation, but that didn't necessarily mean injury - from what everyone had seen, it was only natural for one's mind to wander. As for Jorwen, well... Rhasha didn't know the fellow well enough to discern whether he was acting differently or not.

As he spoke, the Khajiit rolled up his arm sleeve and began wrapping a clean bandage around it; he'd long since taken his armour off to tend to his own injuries, and had been wearing a loose-fitting shirt for the past few hours; a blessing for his smarting chest and back. Long cuts still remained on his arm, face and neck; while they'd been cleaned, he still wasn't happy leaving them open as they were; deep enough to warrant stitches, he had a lack of both thread and skill to sew the wounds in the old-fashioned way, so bandages would have to do for his arm. For his neck and lower jaw - magic, once he'd refueled, that was.

''It was a somewhat heated experience,'' Marcel replied to the cat-man nonchalantly. ''I should be fine. Can't say that for all of us, though,'' he continued, as his eyes shot a gaze at the door of the room where Daelin was resting. Poor fellow had been burnt pretty badly - he would need constant attention, and, without magical aid, would need constant change of bandages. He knew how uncomfortable it could get, stripping scars bare like that - the gauze tearing off the flesh, especially worse with burns. He squinted with discomfort for a moment. ''At least the mission's a success,'' he said, taking a sip of his sweet milk.

Jorwen nodded gravely at Marcel's calling the mission a success. They killed the Pyromancer, he wouldn't be a problem anymore, that was the task Ashav gave Daelin and the rest of them. The fact still remained that Jonimir's appearance muddied the waters a bit. He'd never known the Redguard was a necromancer, and carried one of those black crystals he'd only heard of in wives' tales and talks around the fire. Those collars too, he wondered if anyone else was driven mad with trying to figure out the importance of them and what they did, exactly. "A success, aye." Jorwen frowned, taking another sip of his warm apple ale, "Those collars, have any of you shared a word with our Orc friend since we left the forests?"

Thanking Hadring as he brought over his drink, Rhasha sighed as he sipped the mulled cider; this sigh more content than weary, as the warm liquid flowed through him. Listening to Jorwen, Rhasha shook his head in reponse.

"This one hasn't talked much to her, beyond discussing what to do for Daelin. But I agree with your concerns - these collars are showing just how much reach the Kamal have. With things like that controlling people, the Kamal won't even have to leave their ships to move inland." From what he could guess, the collars must be enchanted in some way; it was hard to believe it would be impossible to remove them from the necks of their holders. Without killing them, that is.

''A collar?'' Marcel mused, after the tiger-man responded to the man-bear, looking at the cinnamon rolls in front of him. ''It must have slipped my attention.'' After a pause of pondering, he continued. ''I had heard that the Dunmer made use of magicka-draining bracers to make sure their slaves did not run away, but collars, that's interesting. Is... our friend able to cast still?'' He asked, his eyes darting around for the mage woman.

''Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witches' mummy, maw and gulf...''

Jorwen hadn't seen Bharzak cast a spell since she joined the band. He did remember that Altmer in Jonimir's trio using the spell to keep Daelin alive, so chances were that Bharzak could cast if she wanted. "Mm, I would think so. Why send mages with no spells to deal with a Pyromancer?" And he shook his head at Rhasha, "As far as I could tell, she is still at the helm of her own mind. The Kamal might be terrible, but they will still have do their own soldiering."

"So... the mages are acting out of self-preservation, not mind control..." Rhasha could not decide as to whether this was better or worse. Better, in one respect; you could sway the mind of someone as long as it still belonged to them... but worse, that they could potentially be wreaking havok for the Kamal of their own avolition. When people were fighting for their own life, they could become desperate - and desperate meant dangerous.

"This one hopes the Kamal do not snatch up anymore people, especially from our own folds. Those Ice-Demons earlier today got too close to us... this one believed it would be his end." Shaking his head slightly to mask a shudder of fear, Rhasha took another gulp of his warmed drink. "Where do you think they were going? A scouting mission, perhaps? This one hopes they're not targeting Dawnstar next."

‘’Well, from what we’ve seen, I can guess that the Kamal wanted the same thing as us – that fire mage out of commission. We may have inadvertently given them an opening to advance,’’ Marcel quipped grimly, in response to the cat-man musing about where they were planning to go to. Then immediately he mentally chastised himself for voicing such grim possibilities out loud, for the party was already battered, and thinking of such things would not help them recover any faster. ‘’But I would say it’s better not to think of such things. We should enjoy our… victory, for a few moments,’’ he said, trying to put up a smile as he took a bite of cinnamon roll. He couldn't think of anything else that could help the party at that moment.

Jorwen halfheartledly raised his cup, "Aye, victory." And swallowed a mouthful of the warm ale. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed. "It's obvious enough why they were after the fire mage. We all know they can't stand fire or fire salts. I swear to the Gods I'll never part with a pouch of the stuff after this."

Nightgate Inn, the Pale...

(insert long title here) by D and L.

The rudimentary defenses put up almost overnight had made the Nightgate Inn somewhat of a workable strategic position. He admired what the Braves could do after watching them come out of the forest like ghosts and immediately set to work digging the trenches and the barriers. Their leader had remained a mystery and Jorwen had no intention of wading into their working area and yelling for their leader to name himself. Him and his own would stay cozy in their beds until the Braves decided they wanted to talk. Even so, Jorwen sat in the creaky rocking chair with his cloak wrapped tight around him, his shield and his seax kept close at hand. It was somewhat relaxing watching them work, rocking himself softly in the little chair. It reminded him of his days as a guerilla in the Great Forest, hunting Thalmor and their Khajiiti irregulars.

One of the men flanked by two others, his Second and his Housecarl most likely, broke off from the men in the camp and started making their way towards him. He stood, raising a hand in peace, “The Chief shows himself to the other.” Jorwen spoke, a friendly smile on his face.

The man did not return the gesture, instead standing a head taller than even Jorwen and the lower half of his face covered by some kind of black muffler. His brown eyes never seemed to blink, and he was far more tanned than most Nords would ever be in their lives. Over a brigandine he wore a brown longcoat with a fur-lined interior with the front buttons unfastened, giving him access to a bastard sword and a secondary dagger. The man was completely bald, almost obsessively so, with no hair upon his head save for a pair of bushy eyebrows that almost matched his eyes.

“If one buys too hard into the tribalism of chiefdom, then they cannot become the leader necessary to run the most successful mercenary company in the Northern hemisphere.” The man replied, gazing down unerringly at Jorwen. “You are the commander of your men, I presume?”

Jorwen’s smirk fell quickly and he once again donned his squinting demeanor in the face of what this man was. His accent was not Nordic, some sort of a deep, sing-song, posh Brettic, and a closer look showed that he spent time in sunnier places. He nodded, more business-like now, “Aye.” He nodded to the encampment from which the sounds of digging and hammering and work songs could be heard, “Your men seem oddly keen to readying themselves for a battle. The Kamal are moving west?”

He knew that Bharzak could’ve brought Kamal to them. For that, this man could very well kill her for any sort of supposed treachery or treason. Jorwen wasn’t in the business of letting his own be killed, no matter how short a time they were part of his band. It was best to feign ignorance to anything past the Siege of Windhelm.

“One does not take unnecessary chances in a time of war. Windhelm will forever serve as an example of the cost of complacency. That noted, I have had reports, not fully substantiated, about Kamal scouting formations moving uncomfortably South for anyone’s liking. There is word from some reliable sources the Snow Demons are operating in this region. I intend to be prepared.” The Braves’ commader said, looking at his men and women doing final touches on fortifications. “At the very least, this keeps my men preoccupied and their skills sharp. A drink should be earned, do you agree?”

“Tastes sweeter that way.” Jorwen nodded, though no sign of good humor. This man didn’t even talk like a Nord, but he figured time could be far better spent sussing out the lay of the land and plans of attack rather than sussing out wherever this man was from. “Is there a name your men call you?”

“Dorrance.” The man replied with a nod. “I’ve heard you addressed by name, Jorwen. Any relation to the fabled Red-Bear I’ve heard stories about during the Great War or the rebellion?”

Jorwen’s bones grew cold. Did he know this man? Had he killed his father or a brother? He swallowed, though his eyes did not show it, his hand very much had a mind to rest on the small knife at his back. Should he be honest or should he not? He remembered Karth’s words, that no matter how much running, his shadow would be at his heels. His chin rose, “The Red-Bear was not a rebel, he was a sworn Housecarl in Aelfgar Ruddy-Mane’s Stormcloaks.” He shrugged, “He stands before you now.” And he gripped the knife at the small of his back, even so.

If Dorrance recognized the danger, he didn’t show it, his gaze was unwavering. “Call yourself what you will, a soldier can still be a rebel, and you speak as if it is such a putrid word. I rather admire a man of conviction who is willing to stand for his beliefs, even if I do not necessarily share them. Politics have never been much interest to me, and I have had men from both the Legion and Stormcloaks find their way to the the White River Braves’ ranks over the past couple of years. Ideology does not interest me as results do. You, Red-Bear, are a man who gets results. You have my respect. Several of my warriors speak highly of you.” He said, returning his gaze to the fortifications. “Your Imperial friend seems to be quite in his element amongst the fortifications.” he noted.

“Aye, Tower-Shield’s useful with a joiner’s hammer and the axe. He was at Greenwall when Yellowtooth’s Stormcloaks sieged it. I’m glad I was in Hjaalmarch, if we’d met we wouldn’t be friends now, I reckon.” He nodded, “My men are resting, but should you need some handy folk, we’ll be at hand. Sevine the Huntress is my Second, you might not have met her.”

“I have not. Perhaps there will be time in the morrow.” He said, suddenly turning to look towards a voice calling for the commander.

Through the door burst a young and slight Imperial man, if he could be called that thanks to his youthful appearance and soft features, his brow caked in dirt and sweat. “Commander, the enemy has been spotted in the Southwest, moving North.” he managed between breaths. He took a few moments to inhale and slow his breathing before continuing. “We were unable to get close enough for an accurate headcount, but we make at least 40-60 Kamal along with some mounts, and a expeditionary force of Tamrielic nature of about 100 or so. A small vanguard force, it looks like.”

“I see. How long?” Dorrance asked, looking upon the young man with curiosity.

“Within the next two hours. They were well past the blight, sir.”

“Good work. Get some water and rest, I will send word for the company to prepare.” Dorrance said, gazing towards Jorwen when the runner took off again. “It appears your men will not enjoy much of a rest this night. I look forward to seeing what you are capable of, Red-Bear.” he said, following out the door the runner departed from, leaving Jorwen standing on his own.

Jorwen looked to his room and sighed. He made his way in, grasping up the huge, old blade and admiring it for the hundredth-hundredth time in his life. He nodded, solemn, “Always more work.”



Dzuungits traced the pale white of the scar that ran down his forearm. It was equal parts trophy and reminder. He remembered the Raiding Season long past when the Tang Mo had almost cleaved straight through his arm. It seemed almost sad now that another Sleeping Season had passed and in those long years, that Tang Mo’s life did not stretch as far, so he would not find him again and meet him. It would be a bloody reunion, if it had happened. He shook himself from his reminiscing, slipping the heavy gauntlet back over his hand and sniffed at the air. This Raiding Season was promised to be the most glorious, and it had been. They had returned to the West for the first time since his father’s father told tales of marauding through Morrowind. But it was confusing now that Morrowind and the ash-skinned long-ears were their allies.

It seemed wrong, but it was not for Dzuungits to wonder why. It was for Dzuungits to go west and make corpses. The collar-slaves were useful against the Fire Mage, though one was missing, and before they could find the green-skin long-ear, she’d disappeared from their shamans’ Long-Eye. “Dzuungits does not like how you move. He can not hear it.” He said to the presence of the Cat-Man at his side.

“All the better. It has kept Ji’Vesrai from being squashed by those even bigger than he.” The Khajiit said, his tail flicking from side to side. Garbed in entirely black leather armour with covered steel plating upon his shoulders and forearms, the Khajiit was certainly one that someone who was not acquainted with the Dark Brotherhood could mistake as being one of their ranks. Instead, Ji’Vesrai was now the commander of the Tamrielic scouting regiment that had formed under the Kamal. The entirety of the unit, as far as he knew, were comprised of men and women who were upset with the status quo, or felt that life under the Kamal would be more comfortable if they proved themselves in service to the Akaviiri invaders rather than live as cowering subjects.

For Ji’Vesrai, the Kamal were his best chance at seeing the Aldmeri Dominion pay for the deaths of his family and subjugation of his homeland. The Empire and damned Stormcloaks weren’t going to do it, so this unstoppable force of foreign invaders seemed like the ticket. It would be a long wait before the Kamal reached Dominion lands, if ever, but what choice did the Khajiit have?

“This one is pleased to report that the way appears to be clear, save for a single inn that is fairly-well fortified and have a respectable number that rival our own, save for a lack of cavalry, and certainly not the weapons we bring with us. It should be a much more straight-forward scenario than the invasion of Windhelm, this one suspects.” Ji’Vesrai said, running a finger across the scars on his white-furred nose.

“Good.” Dzuungits nodded, tugging the reins on his mount and the huge steed growled before turning and rejoining the march west. It had been two days and no sign of anything to pillage. The young raiders were growing restless and two had already sought to find glory at each others’ throats. This would be good to steady the nerves of his men.

Within three hours, he’d brought his men to a full halt and crested a ridge with the Cat-Man at his side. It was a formidable field. The trenches would make it hard for them to advance, much less their cavalry. If they did not deal with this, they would be taken at their backs, or while they slept. There was no doubt that his hundred riders were being tracked. Some would die here or they would all die later. He would not be the cause of the deaths of his men while they were sent to raid westward. “Ready your men within the hour, we will send them first. We will test the defenders.”

Ji’Vesrai rolled his jaw irritably. Sword fodder, that’s all we are to you. he thought bitterly, but dared not speak. The Kamal weren’t very fond of conflicting dialog; they tended to prefer to solve their conflicts with a heavy-handed and very final show of force. “Very well. This one will send the skirmishers in first to subdue their sentries and attempt to breach their first line without announcing our presence. The line infantry will follow once the foothold is secure.” he replied, looking back on the train of men behind him. There was very much so a distinction between the Tamriel unit and their Kamal retainers. They’d never be seen as equals. “This one requests that the Kamal cavalry be prepared to flank. Ji’Vesrai’s troops are good, but it would be best if we did not take unnecessary risks. This one wants to see as many warriors live to see the next battle, and the one after, until there is something truly glorious that bards and scholars will sing our names for an eternity afterwards.” he said, feeling that he knew Dzuungits well enough by now to know the Kamal was honour bound and a warrior to his core. He absolutely bought into the romanticism of war.

“I will place my men.” Dzuungits nodded. With that, they disappeared behind the ridge once more, to where the skirmishers and the cavalry parted ways and took position.



A sentry was perched atop a small hill, dozing off and holding his spear with the head towards the sky. It was slapped out of his limp hands and he choked on his own blood as a knife thudded into the side of his neck. His limp form rolled down the small hill out of sight, the Bosmer wrapping himself in his cloak and grasping up his spear in the same skyward position, flashing a cheeky grin at the archers that took position next to him. A group of three faces around a pipe were illuminated by a match somewhere away from the camp. The first arrow buried itself in a burly Nord chest just as the match’s flame touched the bowl of tobacco and the fates of the other two were decided by Bomser arrows whistling in the dark.

A Khajiit’s eyes over the shoulder of a young Nord as he pissed into the ditch at the edge of camp. Quiet feet bringing death through the first of the tents at the edges of the camp. There was blood in the moonlight and it was too late and useless a warning as the first man to open his eyes before the knife slipped across his neck could scream. Of a sudden, there were groggy warriors stumbling from tents and cursing, eyes struggling against the darkness and swinging weapons wildly. Questions of where or what were only answered by grunts and cries before the first torches and lanterns were lit.

A Bosmer watched as his Khajiiti companion threw aside a tent flap only to be palmed in the face so hard he heard his head break. The biggest, reddest Nord he’d seen emerged like a bear out of a cave with mad eyes and snarling teeth. The Nord took his shirt in a big fist and their was a white light, and his head was numb of a sudden.

“Weapons! Weapons, you bastards! We’ve Knife-Ears to trim and fur cloaks to make!” Jorwen bellowed as loud as he could, looking left and right and all around for the Dominion soldiers. He was looking for golden skin and pointed ears or glowing eyes at the edges of a lantern’s glow before his tired mind caught back up with him. He was in the Pale, at the Nightgate Inn with the White River Braves, “A raid! Gather towards the inn!”

A man was running at him with his sword raised, giving Jorwen pause before he jumped back at the last second. “Are you fucking mad?” Jorwen yelled at the deranged Nord.

He realized after the man swung again that he was very convicted in his actions. So there was man-folk among the raiders too. Was it bandits? Jorwen jumped back again, and again. Finally the young man grew frustrated and roared, a fierce swing if it had landed hissed through the air in front of his face, leaving the lad’s whole right side open. Jorwen roared, springing forward onto the young Nord and putting him on his back, breathless. He picked him up by his gambeson and flung him into the tent he was sleeping in minutes before this whole thing. He ripped his knife from his sheath as the young man struggled to his feet, putting a hand out, “Wait!”

Jorwen shook his head and kept walking forward.

---

What had started out as a rather simple pity-party between the Huntress and her bottle of rum, had turned into something more chaotic. For starters, she could have sworn that she hadn’t finished off her rum, and nor had she fallen asleep in the chair, head tossed back with a line of drool leaking out of her mouth. But of course, that was indeed, the truth. She had passed out after finishing three-fourths of the spiced rum, the purpose of which she had used for disinfecting her wounds.

At first, she thought she was dreaming, for the shouting and the ruckus that followed roused her from her sleep, leaving her quite disoriented as her head snapped up to the noise from outside that filled the hall of the inn. Bleary-eyed, Sevine struggled to pull herself together as she noted the panicked look of the fellow that just barged through the inn door. She could tell with some ease, that something was amiss, it still didn’t register in her mind. That wasn’t until she staggered to her feet, wherein a fiery spout of pain shot up from her ankle, and set her knee ablaze.

“Agh! Oblivion be damned!” She hissed, “What in the bloody blazes is going on out there?” She yelled, clutching half her face with one hand. More importantly, where had she put her boots?

Since his early morning didn’t include much sleeping, Keegan caught up on that late morning and afternoon. Now between late afternoon and early evening, Keegan had just finished eating and cleaning himself up. His headache had subsided (though it still faintly lingered), and he had the chance to wash with whatever the inn could supply. However, he could never have been prepared for the sudden cries of battle. Jorwen’s familiar shouts were echoing through walls, and despite how much Keegan have heard of it, he probably won’t ever get used to the old man in his fury. Plus, “knife-ears to trim” doesn’t sound good in knife-ears.

Stumbling out of doorway with his staff in hand, Keegan found Sevine stumbling around a chair. Last time he checked, the Huntress was passed out in that same chair; guess she passed back in too quick for her own good. Wait, was she looking for her boots, and what was that pair of leather right outside Keegan’s room? No wonder rotten feet kept drifting into his sleep.

“Easy, are those yours?” Keegan rushed the boots to Sevine, turning his head away (and wincing) the same time to avoid fetid fumes coming out of them. Did she puke in them or something?

Interrupting, or at least not intentionally, was Fulrog. The heavyset Orc arcane smith (half equipped in a hurry) wanted a peek outside, but as soon as he did that, an arrow flew into his eye socket. He dropped dead instantly, an unmissable thud announcing his Dwemer steel clad body twitching in his own blood.

She had little time to apologize for the nauseating odor radiating out of her boots as she managed to stuff her feet into them. Blood, sweat, mud, and the smell of infection was putrid enough to make any man sick to his stomach. In a split second, she raced into her room, fetched her leathers, and came barreling back out with her axe at her hip.

“Gods, he’s dead!.” Keegan grimaced. He scanned the area for Bharzak, wondering if she still needed help from Fulrog. In his current state, there’s no chance of the old Orc seeing to that. Additionally, the younger Orc could have ran away, and if she did, she better not have done so in relation to the latest threat. “We’re under attack, again. I heard Jorwen shouting outside a moment ago. Also, have you seen the Orc woman from before?”

“Under attack?! Is it the Kamal?” Colour drained from her face at the possibility of the snow demons finding them again, her eyes flickered from the dead orc to the door. “N-no. The last I saw, she was outside getting some fresh air.” She answered, hastily tying her leather armor together. While this would have been an easy process, as she had done so many times before, her right hand slowed the pace, the freshly bandaged muscles in her forearm were aflame. Finally, as she tied the last remaining knot, she looked at the Altmer, and then turned to gaze about the room. Where was Rhasha-Dar, Marcel, Dax and the newcomer, Bharzak?

When Rhasha’Dar awoke from a fitful doze, he assumed he was still asleep; stuck in some kind of nightmare - a panicked mention of Kamal in the distance only strengthened this belief; but as the seconds ticked by, the Khajiit realised with a start that everything was all too real; the screams and clash of fighting; the throbbing pain from his wounds; the fires flickering outside his room’s window. Bolting into an upright position, Rhasha looked around in a panic, losing his head monetarily in a haze of sleep-deprivation and confusion. Clothes were applied hurriedly, so fast that in his rush to get ready and leave the room he did something rather embarrassing for a Khajiit - he tripped over his own tail. Hissing with pain as he hit the floor, Rhasha’s breath seemed to hitch in his throat as his heart pounded. What could this group possibly do, if the Kamal were attacking? This inn was nothing to the stoic city of Windhelm, and that had fallen all too quickly for a place built like a fortress.

Finally having dressed himself, he reached instinctively for the amulet of Azurah he had placed on his bedside table - but then, hesitated before his hand could each touch the pendant. What good would it do? Azurah hadn’t saved him and the others earlier; the quick thinking of his comrades had. She certainly hadn’t done anything for poor Daelin either. Fingers curling into a fist, Rhasha’s jaw set square as he left his room, leaving the amulet behind and glinting in the torchlight.

Finding Sevine and the others by the door, Rhasha felt slightly guilty upon looking at his friend; in the desperation of saving the Bosmer and dealing with his own injuries, Sevine didn’t seem to have received any aid. Letting his spear rest against a nearby table, Rhasha handed her one of the few health potions he had managed to brew. He was far too low on ingredients now - any more potion brewing would have to wait until they re-stocked at Dawnstar. If they got back, that was.

Keegan greeted Rhasha with a curt nod. He wasn’t fond of speaking to the Khajiit, especially after finding out that he was the one ultimately responsible for the crossbow friendly fire.

Sevine was shocked to see Rhasha-Dar up and walking, she remembered that the Khajiit barely had enough energy to heal Daelin, let alone himself. As he neared, she clasped him on the forearm, a sympathetic look in her eyes.

“This one can’t do much for your wounds in the time we have, but he can ease the pain somewhat.” Holding out his hands and readying a healing spell, he glanced at her arm. At least it was bandaged well.

“Save your potions, the rum has much dulled the pain.” She said, passing the bottle back to him. Truly, she wasn't in much pain, save for the stiffness in her limbs.

“Is it the Kamal we are to fight?”

“We’ve yet to learn.” She nodded to the Orc lying dead on the floor, “If it is, we’re no match for them here.”

In truth, Marcel had expected something, not necessarily something like this, but something, for some time now - and frankly, for him, the news of an attack was in a twisted way a relief, even though it had woken it up from his troubled but still blissful sleep, in that he no longer had to be worried about something. He silently cursed his constantly worrying demeanor as the cries about the attack became louder and louder, rubbing his teeth against his upper lip, and began arming himself, quick, but not panicking, in a show of concentrated effort. Even though he acted, and felt, normal, a feeling in his gut told him not to expect this to go well. Upon getting fully dressed, he opened the door, to witness an inn in panic.

Marcel witnessed a half-dressed woman rush to her room as a heavily-armored Orc walked by him, trying to put on his helmet while also trying to get a view of what was actually going on through the inn doors. Marcel decided to go along with the mer, and peeked out alongside the Orc himself. After a 'thud', Marcel decided to warn the Orc that it could be dangerous to keep peeking out of cover like that - and turned to see the Orc twitching on the ground, with an arrow sticking out of his eye.

''Well then,'' Marcel said to himself, deciding to heed his own warning.

---

Meanwhile, the Hunter stalked…

Daixanos too had felt a bit downtrodden for a short time after his fall and failure in the battle against the Pyromancer and the Necromancer, respectfully. His dispatching of a single atronach did little to ease his frustration, but all is as the Hist wills it, and he pushed it far from his mind as soon as he had regained full consciousness and strode out of the cave, merely groggy from the blow to the head.

He had spent little time with the group once they had made it back to the Nightgate Inn, only staying near the fire’s warmth for a short amount of time and eating his share of food, before going out into the wilderness to take some time for himself. The group he was with were decent and hearty folk, but their measure and compassion did not take away his longing for solitude.

He spent no time hunting, though he tracked a rabbit for a short while until he realized he was simply doing so to preoccupy his mind. After a small time, he decided to stay within eyesight of the Inn, but travel to a higher elevation and keep watch with his bow upon his lap, readying himself to accept the sun’s rays when they would first decide to peek over the horizon.

It was not the warmth of the sun that greeted him next, however. But the cries of battle and the clash of violence. The Argonian warrior had not noticed the dark figures of the approaching invaders until they had attacked, but they had not seen him either. He let out a low and guttural growl.

Unfortunately for the Kamal invaders, violence was just as welcome as the sunrise.

---

“Regardless of what happens, we’re going to have get out of here. This inn will become a tinderbox if one of those archers dare looses a flaming arrow.” Sevine commented to the assembled group. “We’ve no time to waste. We don't know who's on the outside, and if our comrades are out there, we have to help them.” Her mind flickered to Jorwen, she hadn't seen him inside the inn, and presumed him to be engaged in the fighting. Perhaps the orc woman was out there with him? And Dax…

“Look, we have three options. We can stay inside like children, or we can join the others. If we join the others, we face a problem. As soon as we open that door, we're likely to end up dead like this bloke by a flurry of arrows. So, we can either charge out, weapons raised, without protection, or, we can form a barricade outside.” While speaking, she moved to one of the smaller tables and began examining it, glancing from the table to the door repeatedly, as if to determine if it would fit through the door. As if satisfied with the answer in her head, she cleared everything from the table top with one mighty sweep of her arm. There she began drag it over to the entrance, where she set it off to the side.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Keegan murmured to himself. “The front door is just where they expect us to go!” He threw his hands up at another one of Sevine’s thoughtless plans. “We should regroup out of the back door,” the Altmer realized there probably wasn’t any, “or windows!”

“Harumph. Well have you got a better plan?” Interjected Sevine, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I'll listen if you do.”

The witch hunter merely watched as the warrior-woman, whose name he remembered as Sevine, explained to them their quandary, rightfully anxious about the situation. She suggested to them that they should charge out, lest that they get burnt down in the inn. He kept quietly observing as she cleared off a table of its contents through an arm swipe, likely seeking to use the table as a shield. Before he could say anything, he heard the Altmer intervene, voicing a valid complaint, and an equally valid suggestion. Mer usually tended to be smarter than Nords - it seemed this instance wasn't an exception.

''Keegan has a point,'' Marcel interrupted hesitantly. ''A table may protect against arrows, but definitely not against magic.'' He amused the idea of the trio accidentally dropping a flaming table on their own men in a panic in his mind for a moment, then came back to more sensible ground. Yanking the collars of his greatcoat away from his neck to stop the constant static charge from growing further, he looked again at the dead Orc, then to the rear of the inn.

''Who wishes to lead?'' He asked, brows raised, half in expectation, and half in anxiety.

“I will. I take it, that from us gathered, I'm the one with the most experience.” Sevine nodded, that wasn't a problem with her.

Before jumping from one reckless move to another, Keegan decided on casting a detect life spell to check their surroundings. He found focusing was a bit difficult, with interference from Marcel like he had in Winterhold. Still, the Altmer was able to power through and trace a few lives on the northern side of the inn, where the main road was. Nothing against the southern rooms, or at least, no living things near the wall. He could attempt to map out the distance, but that would require more time to focus; a luxury they did not have.

“This side.” Keegan told Marcel. Approaching talking distance with Marcel was uncomfortable in itself, as the Breton oozed of magical static. “I see, uh, felt a couple of living beings on the opposite side.”

Before proceeding to smash out the windows, Keegan searched for the innkeeper. Destroying someone’s property, even in life-and-death scenarios, could be considered rude. Hadring was nowhere in sight, like because he went to hide in his cellar. It wouldn’t be a bad idea in a normal bandit raid, but with a strong possibility of snow demons, cowering merely prolongs one’s death. The smarter move was running, or at least, that’s how Keegan survived last time around this place. He sent his staff pommel into the nearest window, and upon seeing cracks appear, a follow-up blow took out the tinted glass. He then swept the dwarven steel blades over the window base, which cleared out smaller shards. Even so, the window would be a tight fit for many; himself included.

''I would say 'ladies first', but in this case that would not be very courteous of me,'' Marcel mused as he inspected the small window with suspicion. He wasn't sure if he would fit, but at least, it seemed he had a chance. Plus, he was covered with buff leather well enough to make sure that no stray shard would pinch at his flesh. He didn't want to start bleeding here.

''Shall I?'' Marcel asked the other two, right hand feeling the window frame. He twitched for a moment out of the static caused by the friction, and smelled a hint of charred wood underneath his hand. ''Or would the two of you be interested in leading?'' Or maybe the cat-man would, but Marcel could not see him in his immediate vicinity.

“Allow me.” Sevine gestured, lifting her axe from the leather ties at her hip. With both hands curled around the handle, she stepped forward, axe raised as if it were a wood axe, and gave Marcel plenty of time to step aside. Just then, she swung the axe down. It bit into the frame, splintering from impact. What she didn't anticipate was the pain that shot through her forearm. Grimacing, she repeated the action again, and again. Finally, she had chopped away enough on the window frame that it could accommodate them more appropriately.

“There.” She panted with a grin. With grave caution, she popped her head out the window, checking that the coast was clear. Once discerning that no one had been drawn immediately to the sound of her hacking away at the wooden ledge, she wriggled out, and dropped to the ground on the other side.

---

At this time, a somewhat confused Orsimer mage was attempting to get back to Nightgate Inn, unsure of what exactly was going on—though she was certain that something was off. After Fulrog had removed her tracking collar, she had found herself still full of nervous energy, and, upon leaving the shelter of the inn once more, intended to go on a brief walk around the inn’s grounds. During her nighttime excursion, she came across a nearby pond with a covered pier, deciding to take the time to walk out on it, at this time unaware of the impending peril that would soon reach the area. She spent some time looking passively out across the still, murky water, stars reflecting dimly on its surface as she wondered at what the future might hold, and how she might best prepare for it. While she had been wearing the collar when she reached the inn, she still highly doubted the Kamal would be headed in their direction, and, at that moment, was primarily preoccupied with whether or not she would be trusted enough to join the company that had rescued her from her previous ‘occupation’—or, at the very least, allow her to continue on with them until she reached a place of relative safety.

Of course, that had been before she had heard a rather urgent yell, one that sounded like a call to arms despite the fact she had only caught snippets of what had been said. The individual who had spoken had been far away enough that most of their words had been incomprehensible to her, but the urgency in their voice was clear. Immediately suspicious, Bharzak turned her back on the pond, a hand on the hilt of her axe as she half-jogged back down the pier. They can’t possibly be here, can they? she wondered, guilt flooding her as she jumped to conclusions, Did I actually bring the Kamal here? I wouldn’t have thought they would care that much about a ‘defector’. I need to get back–

She paused, suddenly conflicted as she looked back in the direction of the inn, the slightly wooded hills around her filling the orc with apprehension. Would she even be wanted among the other members of the resistance during this fight—would they automatically assume her to have been a plant and attack her on sight if she returned?

Suddenly disgusted with herself, the mage shook her head slightly, as if trying to purge that question from her thoughts. It’s a risk I’ll take. I can’t leave. It’s not right.

The orsimer jogged with renewed urgency and speed towards Nightgate Inn, almost running, and as she neared her intended destination, it became immediately evident that they were indeed under attack—and she was a rather open, easy target for any well-hidden marksman. No sooner had she thought that, something whizzed past her shoulder, tearing at the fabric of her robes as it passed. Immediately she searched for its origin, and caught a flash of movement as something—someone—disappeared behind the trunk of a particularly large conifer. Bharzak withdrew her axe and moved cautiously towards the tree, holding her weapon in a defensive position as she sought out her attacker, knowing they likely had more weapons than just a bow on their person. As an afterthought, she cast Ironflesh, hopeful this would prove a suitable defense against any more long-ranged attacks from her current adversary.

Upon reaching what she assumed was their hiding place, she quickly moved to apprehend them, coming nearly face-to-face with a surprised looking khajiit, apparently startling him enough to make him freeze up momentarily. This was opportunity enough for the mage to strike, and she lashed out at the archer with her war axe, intending to disable him from continuing to use his bow. He recovered in time to block the blow with his weapon, though the orcish weapon bit into the dry, pliable wood with considerable force, slicing about halfway through its grip. Bharzak attempted to withdraw her weapon from the nearly-ruined bow to strike again, but found it stuck fast, and abandoned it as she realized retrieving it would put her in certain doom. Concern and annoyance filled her as she noticed attacker’s free hand now held a wicked-looking steel-bladed knife, something she’d anticipated he might have but currently had nothing to use to defend herself from it. Seizing his chance, the archer lunged at her, but in that instant the orc came up with a plan, a grim smile crossing her face as she moved to meet him, casting Magelight in his direction.

The sudden, brilliant—almost blinding—light hit the khajiit full in the face, and he dropped the knife with a yelp, his hands flying up to his face. Bharzak almost found herself pitying him, considering khajiit were usually able to see quite well in the dark; the artificial light must’ve been far more unpleasant than she’d expected. She quickly dismissed the thought as she scooped up his weapon from where it had fallen, easily knocking over the disoriented marksman. Now practically on top of him, she moved to stab her opponent in the jugular, noting as she did that he appeared to be a Kamal ‘collaborator’ himself. For a fraction of a second, she wavered, feeling the slightest bit of pity for the individual she was about to kill. But nothing about their fight had hinted at the khajiit particularly wanting to avoid killing for his newfound ‘masters’, and if she did not kill him, there was no doubt in her mind he would not return the favor.

She ended his life as swiftly as she was able, grimacing as hot blood spewed from the wound, coating the blade—and her hands as well. She was quick to stand, ‘sheathing’ the knife in her belt before bending down to retrieve her axe, wanting to be ready should the marksman have any ‘friends’ nearby. Now that she was no longer in the middle of a fight, she was able to break the bow the rest of the way and retrieve her weapon, annoyed by the delay it had caused.

The mage redoubled her speed now that the inn was well in sight, hoping that she had arrived in time to fight off the Kamal—or, at least, their lackeys—with the others. As she rounded the barely visible path back to the inn’s front entrance, she noticed with some dismay that someone clad in dwarven armor lay dead near the door. She practically ran up the steps, identifying the corpse as the enchanter who had helped her just a couple of hours ago that night; Fulrog. Both anger and guilt simmered within her as she cursed herself for not sticking around the inn where clearly everyone capable of fighting was needed, and briefly wondered if more of the inn’s previous occupants had been cut down as well. She stepped through the doorway cautiously, half-anticipating being attacked as soon as she entered.

---

She appeared on scene right as Rhasha’Dar slinked out of the window, graceful in ways only a cat could. Between the Altmer and Marcel, Keegan noticed the intruder first. He leveraged his staff towards the entrance, electricity charging between its blades. Then he saw the familiar robes, the green skin and a face split between anger and guilt. Keegan lowered his staff.

“Bharzak?” He called out. “Get inside! The archers got the entrance lined up!” He paused when the glow of mage armor and the blood stained knife became apparent. In order for the Orc to get through from the outside, and looking like she just lived through a fight, there’s a good chance that she killed their attacker. “You killed them? The archer, or whoever killed Fulrog.” Keegan asked carefully, noting that Fulrog no longer twitched violently as before. At the same time, the Orc was now lying in a sizable blood spill, something no one could avoid coming in or out.

“Oi, Marcel!” Alerting his Breton comrade, Keegan waved him away from the window. “I think the door’s clear.”

While someone else in Marcel's place may have made a comment on the ample rear of Rhasha’Dar trying to wriggle itself from the shredded frame of the window, a man of such upstanding moral quality and prudence such as Marcel would have none of it, and turned his head away as the dirty and wounded Khajiit finally squirmed through. Not wishing to go through the same, and also not wanting to deal any unnecessary damage to his greatcoat, Marcel hesitated for a moment.

In his display of morality, Marcel had completely lost track of his Altmer colleague, and his attention was brought back to him when the illusionist called out his name directly. Quickly turning his head back, he was surprised by the presence of the Orc that they had met in the mines during the job.

''Oh, excellent news, my good man,'' Marcel exclaimed as he pulled his steel sword out of its scabbard in a somewhat showy display, and lowered its tip slightly alongside his head, in a show of courtesy for the newly arrived Orc woman. ''En garde, then,'' he mused as he walked forward with unexpected confidence, although a strong onlooker would be able to see the fingertips of his gloves twitching, like the collar of his outfit.

The three of them then exited the Inn. Greeting them was an enemy with arrow drawn; an enemy fell by the arrow of Daixanos the Hunter.

---

Jorwen was hid behind his shield, his big seax held in a fist, eyes peeking over the rim. The moon cast all around him a ghostly pale where the fire’s light failed to reach. He still had blood on his sleeve, each touch sending a shiver up his arm with the coldness of it. An arrow thumped into his shield and he advanced, a couple newbeards behind him. They happened across a trio of Bosmer clutching a bundle of wet skin and hair he could only imagine were scalps. They stopped to look at each other, the Nord warriors and the Bosmer. The silence broke when the mer leapt at them, one kicked Jorwen’s shield and only recognized his mistake when the big Nord punched out with the boss of his shield. He heard the crack of bone behind his shield and thrice plunged his seax into the mer’s stomach as he howled, leaving him spitting blood and choking as he stepped over him.

As he did so, Sevine and Rhasha came into sight.

---

Daixanos lowered his bow, having seen the archer foolishly getting within the firelight near the Inn entrance. Perhaps the fool had been driven there by whatever masters that commanded them. It mattered little, for there were still many archers left aiming at the battle down below. His cover had not yet been revealed, and he would keep it that way until just before the kill...

The night was only lightly illuminated by the distant fire and the pale moon, and the rise at which the varied groups of archers fired volley after volley was easy to spot if one did not have both a fire and battle between them, as Jorwen and those below. Swift and silent as a stalking wolf, the Saxhlee made his way around the archer's flanks. He knew his companions below were skilled, but it only took one well placed arrow to end the life of a great warrior.

Slipping through a dense copse of trees and over a rocky crest, he leaped down and crouched. Before him were Four archers, one of the smaller groups near the others over the rise. As he watched, one shot an arrow that nearly took out one of his companions. The man that had missed swore, and began to grab for another arrow. He received one, but not in the way he expected.

The man cried out in pain as an arrow thudded into his back, jutting out of his chest cavity. He fell onto his knees as blood spurted out of him. The other three jumped and spun, fumbling for their bows. Dax's assault was swift, for he knew he couldn't win an archery fight against these three without time, and time he did not have with their reinforcements so close. He dropped his bow, and his Axe was out.

The second Archer did not turn around with his weapon ready in time, Dax's powerful shoulder rush sending this Mer practically flying over the rise to skid and roll down the hill. He wasn't dead, but he was out of the fight for now. Unfortunately, an arrow pierced Dax's shoulder blade, the furthest archer to the right now doing his best to get another arrow. Dax's axe spun. The Khajiit closest to him ducked and whipped out a sword, eyeing the Argonian ranger with barely suppressed disdain as his comrade fumbled for another arrow. "This one thinks it would be wise for you to accept death."

Dax did not speak, giving a thrust of his Axe head that the Khajiit dodged, who in turn sent a thrust of his own at the Argonian. The other archer had now nocked an arrow, but could not rightly fire while the Saxhlee and Khajitt fought in such close quarters, and decided to take out a dagger and enter the fray as well.

Dax blocked an overheaded chop from the Khajiit's curved sword, pushing his opponent back and then swinging his Axe wildly to keep the Mer from stabbing him from behind. Suddenly it seemed very much that Dax was in a desperate attempt to survive, and he very well should have been normally. But he was nothing if not calculating and resourceful, and he could see they saw their own advantage too, which brought a sense of arrogance he would now exploit.

Dax suddenly spun, fluidly blocking the slash of the Khajiit with his Axe haft. The Mer predictably went in for the kill from behind, but had not counted on Daixanos' alligator-like tail. The Argonian's spinning momentum not only allowed him to block the Khajit, but his tail clubbed into the Mer's chest. If one had thought the shoulder rushed man had been sent flying, they would be in for a treat. The surprise and pain on the Mer's face as he disappeared down the hill was comical to the say the least.

The Khajiit stabbed forward, swift as a snake, and his blade bit into Dax's hip. But his thrust was half hearted, for he never recovered from the surprise of his suddenly lost companion, and Dax's blade quickly cleaved through his collarbone. He died with a gurgle of blood.

Suddenly, there were no more enemies on this part of the rise, and Dax felt the full weight of his injuries. He gritted his dagger-like teeth and yanked the arrow out of his shoulder. The Hunter had felt worse, but he knew he couldn't fight the way he just had again without serious risk. His hip and shoulder would take less time to heal than Mer or Man, but at the moment he was in no condition to fight for any length of time.

In truth, he had not done much. Two archers were down the hill and another two dead, and judging by the shouts in the distance of those that had heard his combat, there were more to come.

He did not lament however. His goal was to draw them from firing at the Inn, and he knew that task was still not yet completed. Using all of his pain and his rage, he let out a howling roar to further grab the attention of the other archers that were now closing in. Stray arrows began flying towards his direction from the dark, and he quickly fled with his Axe and bow, letting them chase after a ghost and keeping them preoccupied.

For the time being.

Kyne’s Tear, The Sea of Ghosts…

The raid had proved to be fruitful as the mercenaries had thoroughly plundered the armoury, electing to take the spoils topside and divvy up the loot equally amongst the crew, along with the Ashlander prisoners that had proved to be rather compliant after the brief, but brutal, skirmish that claimed the lives of their kin. Even Narivar had become much more docile after Sadri administered a through beating to force his fellow Dunmer upchuck the key he had swalled, and Madura had actually proven to be useful for a change keeping an eye on his brother and keeping him company and somewhat amicable now that family was involved. The two brothers, plus the Ashlander survivors, took the now-unclaimed Ashlander ship and sailed West with the intention of confronting the Nerevarine, a goal that most thought to be suicidal. While some were glad to see the pesky journalist gone, namely anyone who had been inconvenienced by him in a life or death situation, there was an undeniable sense of loss without his almost naive charm and optimism among the ranks.

All in all, outside of a few somewhat serious injuries suffered by the crew, the mission was a nice success, especially following the College of Winterhold debacle where their rescue ended up losing almost every mage they set out to pick up and nearly losing The Courtesan in the process.

Best of all were the four ballista that were labourously wheeled up to the surface using the same lift they had descended down from. The hard part was getting them aboard the ships, two a piece, which took a fair deal of effort and ingenuity with no small amounts of ropes , pullies and no small amount of manpower. The weapons and their munitions were secured to the decks of their respective ships, and the company was afforded an hour’s rest before setting sail once more, making way towards their next objective.

The seas had remained as agreeable as they had been before the landing, and the crew had largely felt like they managed to escape any unwanted encounters with Kamal vessels, although the fact that Niernen and Valen had just escaped from a Kamal prison ship and largely drifted back to safety by coincidence gave many a sense of apprehension; the enemy could not have been far off. Still, the sky remained fair, and the horizon remained clear; as far as the sailors were concerned, it was a perfect day, and they were making good time to Bleakrock Isle, despite the Westerly winds working against their sails. The company, in turn, had a chance for some much needed rest, and the technologically inclined scoured over the captured ballistas, figuring out how to crew the weapons and exactly how to operate them. As it turned out, it was somewhat more complicated than a crossbow, if for no other reason than the enormous scale, and no one rightly knew exactly how to aim or range the weapon. They’d require some target practice, and so a debate over the merits of expending precious projectiles over open water in case they were needed was waged amongst the leadership and weapons experts, who varied on opinions that varied between it is better to lose a few bolts to the waves than not know how to operate it in the event of a skirmish verses not having enough when the time came to use them. Eventually, a compromise was reached where the projectiles would be secured by lengths of ropes, which would hinder their ballistic performance somewhat, but it would enable the crew to pull the shots back in. As the ship sailed, icebergs and small isles would make due as makeshift, low-stake targets.

However, as most things in war tend to be, the uneventful peace was broken when up high in the crow’s nest of Kyne’s Tear came the bellowing of a war horn. A ship was sighted.

Hargjorn stomped from the bridge to the bottom of the mast, yelling up at the lookout. “What do you see?”

“Kamal ship, sir! Frigate, from the looks of it!” the voice called back.

True to the lookout’s word, from the port-stern came the now familiar and wholly haunting metallic-plated hull of the Kamal ship, which Niernen and Valen would have recognized as the very same prison ship they had escaped from earlier, thanks to the pirate raid. Evidentially, the captain of that particular vessel was not thrilled to have had his prisoners escape custody and using whatever nautical charts were available, likely retraced their metaphorical footsteps to Bthamz, the closest island, and pursued the trail to the next likely location; their allies’ outpost at Bleakrock Isle. Even for the non-nautically inclined, it was clear that the ship was gaining on the two Tamrielic vessels, and fast.

“We’ve got maybe an hour, two if we’re lucky. I’ve no damned idea how much that frigate displaces, or I’d try to lose it in the shallows, but that puts our ships in jeopardy of being beached.” Hargjorn growled to Ashav and Edith, who had joined him at the rear of the Tear, watching the enemy vessel’s dark silhouette on the horizon, hunting them.

“Then we’d really be in a mess.” Ashav observed.

“More like right fucked.” Hargjorn corrected. “We can’t use the terrain and we can’t outrun ‘em, so it looks like things are about to get messy.”

“I’ll rally the company, let them know we’re expecting visitors.” Edith said, turning to get everyone prepared for battle.

A bit over an hour later, the first shots were fired from the Kamal ship, which had come within a close enough distance, perhaps a league, of the two ships, which had prepared the ballistas to be fired off the port side for the Tear, and starboard for the allied ship. For this, captain Karena had taken the helm while Hargjorn was busy barking orders at the ballista crew and sailors while also seeing to the distribution of weapons and equipment, including crudely cast fire salt hand bombs, for the fighting men in the event of a boarding action.

The first shots, massive ice spikes from the bow of the ship, landed just short of the Tear Forcing both vessels to turn opposite of each other, making the Kamal captain have to pick his target carefully. As luck would have it, for the Tear, at least, the ship began to pivot in pursuit of the escort ship, which launched both of its ballista, which thudded into the hull of the Kamal ship near the bow; from the ropes tailing from the shots, the captain of that vessel had evidentially elected to try and negate the frigate’s ability to maneuver by pulling it by the ropes, which were secured to starboard forward breast line and forward spring mooring points, iron hooks that were used to fasten the ship to dock, but now were used to hold onto the Kamal vessel while the crew loaded a follow-up volley.

“Aim for their aft! They do not have firing ports there!” Hargjorn yelled to the Tear’s ballista crews as the ship came around side of the Kamal vessel, which launched a salvo of spikes at the ship as it passed, tearing holes in the sails and puncturing the hull high above the water line; the turning motion of the ship gave the deck somewhat of a tilt that likely saved it from worse damage, including taking on water.

The escort ship was not so lucky, as it turned out, as near its bow were three sizable holes that were at or just above the water line; it was taking on water, and the lines that were fastened to the enemy vessel was dragging the front down somewhat, dipping the hull breach below the waves as the ship was pulled around. The Tear could ill afford to worry themselves with their comrades, as the battle required precise timing, and luck, that could not afford patience.

“FIRE!” Hargjorn yelled, and the heavy twang of both ballista shook the deck as the ropes sailed beyond the over-sized bolts that cracked into the wood near the cabin. “Pull us in, boys! Let’s get these bastards back for Windhelm, for Winterhold!”

A roar of approval and anger rang out across the deck as the crew, six for each line, pulled the Tear towards the Kamal vessel, which was trapped between the two ships, the escort vessel’s crew trying to pull themselves closer to the frigate, both to bring their men into fighting position, and to have a chance at saving their ship. Whatever the reason, the effect was practically acting as an anchor for the Kamal frigate, which wasn’t able to turn to face either ship. Archers on both company decks loosed at heads that dared peak over with flaming arrows, ignited from braziers that had been fastened to the deck in an eventuality of combat with the Kamal once more; likewise, the ballista crew was busy loading thick-oil coated bolts into the weapons that were ignited prior to firing, flinging flaming and penetrating projectiles into the hull of the ship. It was through hard-earned experience that the Kamal hated and were rather vulnerable to fire, something that Do’Karth was certain Niernen was more than eager to demonstrate on the snow demons that had held her prisoner. When the hulls collided, assault ladders were brought out and fastened to the ship, which sat higher up than either Tamrielic vessel due to its much larger size. The grenadiers were first up, covered by archers, and a lobbed volley of fire salt bombs flew over the gunwale, igniting with a brilliant blast and a chorus of inhuman screams. Climbing higher yet, a second volley was tossed, with similar results. Shortly after the detonation, and taking advantage of the confusion and agony of the Kamal defenders, most of whom weren’t in their heavy armour due to fear of drowning, the boarding party climbed aboard the enemy vessel, in for a fight they weren’t entirely certain they could win.

“Rozalia, Sagax, I have an important assignment for you two. It is dangerous, and potentially fatal, but after what I witnessed in Windhelm, I trust no one else to have the… talent to pull this off.” Ashav said to the dynamic duo, both of whom had earned something of a reputation of being an invincible, and questionably sane, suicide squad. Lined up in a crate were a bundle of canvas satchels, along with a few sets of fire starters. “These are arcane charges, they work similarly to the fire salt bombs, but on a much grander scale. Note the length of the fuses; that should give you enough time to clear the detonation radius safely while not affording the enemy much time to react.” He pointed to the holes that were opened in the frigate’s hold. “You need to get the charges in there. I leave it up to you if you want to board the ship to reach your marks, or to commandeer one of our dingies for this, but I need this done.”

“Niernen! Valen!” Do’Karth called to the two Dunmer companions. “This one has a plan, but he needs your assistance.” The Khajiit said, looking between them and back to the Kamal frigate. “Do’Karth wants to get to the prisoners on that ship and release them, both to help us with the fight, and to give them a chance at escape if things… do not go according to plan. You both understand what the Kamal are capable of, and you are familiar faces to them. This one hopes there is a sense of trust that comes with that amongst the prisoners when they see you have returned. Do’Karth does not know where the prisoners are kept, but you both do. Will you help him do this?” he asked.

---

Although Keegan didn't see Dax, he could see enemies peeling away. Someone on their side was drawing attention. It was good, good enough that he had the time to roughly survey the battlefield. These foes, mostly Tamrielic, but scarcely Nordic, seemed to have gained the flank. The Braves' trenches and barricades were directed toward the roads, but unfortunately, a large portion of the enemies poured out of the hills. Currently, some were pouring back up there. Keegan breathed a sign of relief. He could afford to think, but the thought drifted to Daelin. Where was their leader? Was he still alive? This was a opportunity for Keegan to find the Bosmer, but unfortunately, a Bosmer found him.

"Where's the damn Kamals?" The unknown wood elf complained to a dark leather-clad figure. Upon noticing Keegan and Marcel, she pointed to him with her sword. "They've gotten out! Our attack has been foiled! We must retr-"

"Useless imbecile! Must Ji'Vesrai do everything himself?" The leather man shoved the Bosmer aside. He revealed himself as a full-sized Khajiit, with height rivaling that of Keegan's. Despite the muscular exterior, his movements were fluid. "Go on, run away. The Kamal won't be as forgiving as I am." The Bosmer took his advice, apparently deciding to roll the dice with snow demon task masters.

"Thalmor scum!" The Khajiit challenged Keegan. "Time to die! For Elsweyr!"

Ji'Vesrai charged, glass scimitar aloft. In the process of his chatter, Keegan already prepared a paralysis spell. Because the sudden shock of the assault, the green magic sphere flew wide. But the distance between the adversaries allowed Keegan to shoot off a second spell. This time, the paralysis glanced Ji'Vesrai's thigh; not completely immobilizing but forced him on his knees. This was the cue for Keegan to exploit his opening. If given the time to logically process his options, the Altmer should be turning Ji'Vesrai away with fear, or retreat for a better bruiser to take over. In his brashness, though, Keegan elected to zap the Khajiit with his staff.

Lightning arced towards black leather. The recipient wasn't a cat, instead, it was his blade. In a quick movement, Ji'Vesrai caught electricity with his scimitar. He got up again, one hand engaged to his warding weapon and another punching blood flow into his lame leg. What little distance remained between the two were soon crossed, and as Ji'Vesrai hissed at Keegan's face, he effortlessly flicked the Dwemer staff out of the Altmer's grip. But as Keegan had experienced moments earlier, Ji'Vesrai realized electricity tethered his sword to the staff. The staff would fly, but the scimitar would be dragged with it.

"Boss, watch out!" A Kamal collaborator warned. Ji'Vesrai ducked in time to avoid an arrow from behind. When he reengaged the Altmer, the Altmer was no longer available for engagement.

"Coward!" Ji'Vesrai barked. Claws extended from his paws, slashing the air around him. "You openly underyoke others; at least openly face your end!"

Keegan had, in fact, made a sleight-of-hand with an invisibility spell. It was time like these that quick casting on stage gave birth to an unexpected survival trick. His first thought was to retrieve his staff, but then again, it would be exactly what anyone with half a brain would anticipate. Instead, he stalked in the opposite direction, barely out of the reach of big kitty claws. Though disarmed, the Cathay was anything but helpless. One of these claws could easily slit throats.

"This one's brothers and sisters drove you out of Elsweyr, just like we will drive the Nords from these backwater hills." Ji'Vesrai taunted. In his passionate speech, his hood had been thrown back, revealing emotional feline features. "You are all profligate opportunists! Ji'Vesrai shall show you true might!"

"Aah!"

"Argh!"

In a series of awkward fumbles, Keegan lunged into Ji'Vesrai with a bound dagger. Had Keegan been more proficient with stealth, he would have taken his opponent by surprise. But Keegan was as clumsy as it gets in melee combat, so even coming out of invisibility, his arm would be caught. Determined, the Altmer added his other arm on top of the first, but even so, he was easily out-muscled. Keegan was shoved back, in the process, two sets of slashing sounds rang out. The summoned dagger vaporized, in the time that two claw-shaped lines ran up Keegan's coat sleeves, and running into the flesh of his forearm. On the other side, Ji'Vesrai got a taste of hurt as well, even if it was just Keegan's dagger scraping through his leathers.

"How, how can you disparage me, when you made yourself a snow demon puppet!" Keegan growled. Blood started to seep from his arm, but Keegan could not afford to clench it, as his spare spell casting hand made for his last line of defense. He wasn't sure why he started ranting all a sudden. Perhaps he was fed up being associated with everything negative his race stood for, or, the Altmer wanted to stall, so that another weapon-wielding ally could tip the scale against Ji'Vesrai.

"This one is no puppet!" The Khajiit shot back. Anger and sweat now tainted his proud visage. "The Kamals are true warriors! It is better to live as their friends and champions, than to die as slaves and fuel." Clawed hands pointed threateningly at Keegan. The two of them are just the right distance apart; longer than a lunge, but close enough to be covered in a short sprint. They sized each other up. Ji'Vesrai was puffing with anger. Keegan found his fear checked by a flurry of emotions; anger, pride, confusion and a desire to dominate.

"So, so you would help the Kamals subjugate everyone else!? How is it different from the, the Thalmor!? How is it different from the draconian ty-, tyrant, of this land!?"

"This one will be a liberator to many. Ji'Vesrai has learned that might makes right; in the end, the only difference is who wins!"

The witch hunter's calm, in the middle of all the chaos that the night attack had brought, likely gave him an advantage against those which he had been fighting, not because of analytically guided strikes, for Marcel had no idea what he was doing despite his calm exterior, but rather because of how suicidally confident it looked. Wordlessly, and in fact soundlessly, Marcel swung the steel weapon in his hand, rather unused to its broader swings compared to his silver smallsword and its effectiveness in sudden thrusts.

The Redguard who had been harassing him had been deflected properly for a while, but Marcel was not a swordsman by birth, unlike Redguards, who likely came out of their mother's wombs bearing scimitars, and thus Marcel had ended up on the defense. Unable to match the Redguard's speed with the sword, Marcel occasionally kicked back at the man inbetween parries to attain somewhat of an upper hand, and for a moment, it worked. His heel connected with the Redguard's groin, and the fellow, clad in a padded coat, recoiled.

Marcel made good use of his suddenly found initiative and swung an immediate strike at the man's wrist, but the fellow, ever nimble, dodged by quickly stepping backwards. Marcel's blade licked thin air, although to Marcel's surprise, the fellow's admirable defense was broken after tripping on the arm of a dead archer. The Breton drew his sword backwards for a thrust to end the fight quickly, but hesitated for a moment upon seeing the Altmer, Keegan, struggle against a great tiger of a Khajiit, and in this moment of hesitation from picking targets, he fell to the ground with a flash and a crackling sound, lightning licking at his face and torso.

''That does it, no?'' A Dunmer quipped as he walked over to the Redguard, hands sparkling with magical electricity. ''Not so tough in the end.''

''No, wait. He's still alive,'' the Redguard replied, voice seething with the frustration borne of having been literal inches from death moments before. ''Crisp him,'' he said before coughing. ''Fucker nearly killed me.''

''Yes, I know,'' said the haughty Dunmer, and as the Breton managed to prop himself up on his knee, opened his hands with a flash, and moments after, began twitching unnaturally, right before he started smoking internally in front of his Redguard friend's eyes. Screaming in pain, his fingernails exploded, and his hands went from channeling electricity to the Breton to his eyelids, trying to contain his boiling eyes. He fell a charred, twitching mess, bleeding from all orifices, dead in moments.

''By HoonDing, what in Oblivion?'' The shocked Redguard gasped, as he gazed upon the Breton, whose face and clothes were slightly singed, but otherwise looked unharmed, although his hair, just like nearly every part of clothing that was loose, seemed floating and raised, as if pulled away by some otherworldly source. Marcel looked at the Redguard with slight contempt, but as the man started running away, he turned his head to see Keegan, bleeding, face to face with the tiger-man.

On his knees, Marcel began crawling towards the duel, managing to throw himself back onto his feet and hobbling after a moment. Just as he came close, the Khajiit started a sprint towards the Altmer, prompting Marcel to raise his hand in protest.

SHKOOOOW

Out came a nearly blinding flash and an ethereal sound of discharge, and the Breton's clothes and hair, suddenly relieved of the static that bound them in their state, fell back to gravity's whim. Marcel, in that moment, felt an indescribable feeling of relief, best compared to the tenderest, most intimate moments of his time in bed alongside his dear Theodora, as if the worry that had been gnawing at the back of his head had been washed away with the flash.

His knees gave way with the immense relief and pleasure, with a warm feeling in his underpants, and Marcel fell to the ground face flat right after a dark liquid splashed all over him. Almost paralyzed in bliss, the Breton barely raised his head to see the remains of the Khajiit, a lower body, and an arm half-attached to the remains, splattered around the premises in a bloody mess. Keegan seemed to have received the most of the gore blast, though, nearly covered in blood and smaller bits of Khajiit.

Marcel, from underneath a layer of warm blood, just like the Altmer and practically everything in an eight-foot radius, barely fought the urge to sleep.

''There,'' he said to Keegan, gasping.

Her arms burned in a way they hadn't a long, long while. She was short of breath and red in face, but she pulled hard on the rope gripped tight in her white-knuckled fist. "Heave, you bastards!" One of the men said, both hands around his mouth to project his voice instead of lending them to doing what he was telling the rest of them to do. There was timeless quote about good leadership or the laziness of men in there somewhere.

She rolled her eyes, wanting to stroll up to the mercenary and knock his teeth into his belly. The ballista finally was in place and she let go of the rope, taking a couple stumbling steps back and putting her hands to her knees as the deck croaked and creaked in protest before finally settling. She hauled in burning cold breaths and growled, moving her hand to her hip and wiping her forehead. Despite it being cold as Coldharbor, her forearm still came away wet from her forehead. She looked up at the ballista, the huge thing looming over her and the others, placed there because she thought she should try at busting a vein in her forehead rather than sitting and resting.

She was done now, though, and no amount of cajoling or shouting would get her to lift her arse from the deck now. She spotted Sadri milling about the deck amongst the others, almost lost in the crowd if it weren't for the warmth she had when she caught sight of him, wanting to keep it. A warm smile spread across her face, "You, Long-Ear! A drink with a lass?"

The long-ear in question, having been practicing the timeless art of looking like doing something but actually doing nothing, first raised his head up and gave a blank stare like a deer caught face-to-face with a hunter with his bow at the ready, but relaxed after seeing who it was that had called out to him. ''Aye aye, cap'n!'' He shouted in reply with an amused tone. Smiling, the mer picked up the long, broadcloth-covered object that he had been pretending to inspect, and walked over to the woman, sitting down next to her. Underneath the shadow of the ballista, he could not help but feel somewhat small, but the slight feeling of awe quickly subsided.

Sadri unslung his flask of flin from where it had been hanging, and offered it to Solveig, only to question its lightweight feeling while keeping it up. He opened the flask and rotated it downwards, and only a slight drip fell down for a moment. Seemed that there was nothing but the smell of flin in the damn thing now.

''Well, either you have a bottle somewhere, lass, or we're going to have to suffer each other's company sober,'' he said sarcastically, although there was nonetheless a hint of regret in his voice - not out of the fact that they had nothing to drink, but moreso out of the fact that they constantly seemed to drink when alongside one another. Had they no tolerance for each other? Was the inebriation their primary reason for sticking together? Many questions of this kind dawdled around Sadri's head, gnawing at his brain. Perhaps it was this uncertainty that led him to drink, most of all.

"I'd hardly call it suffering." She chuckled, playfully slapping a hand on Sadri's shoulder when a look of worry twitched across his face. She handed Sadri her waterskin after taking a couple pulls from it herself, "Only water, my skin of whiskey is belowdeck. You're better company to endure than most though. At least you're not Leif," She said, "As much as the whispers about the Company make me pity him, I do remember he once said he'd 'pollinate my flower' back in Windhelm."

Sadri somewhat relaxed, and internally felt a cloud of warmth after Solveig's reply, and chuckled slightly as the woman slapped his shoulder, although he did feel a slight jolt of pain from the spot where a crossbow bolt had pierced through his arm earlier, thanks to the impact. He grabbed the waterskin from Solveig's hand, and started taking a long sip, although his relieved moment would be defiled, and his water poisoned, by Solveig quipping about Leif's words. He coughed with a choke, and put the waterskin away from his mouth, filled with conflicting feelings of hatred, dejection, self-pity and jealousy, tinged with a hint of indifference that hurt him most.

''Erh,'' he grunted, trying to get back on track. ''I was like him once. Doesn't get you far,'' he said, trying to sound normal, but the artificially produced calm in his voice betrayed his internal frustration.

She'd seen it in Cleftjaw's face when he saw Sadri the first time, saw it in a lot of newbeards over her years as a tavern maiden and a simple woodcutter. She'd like to think she could pick out what troubled Sadri under all the scars of his face. She also knew men's pride never grew any more flexible from the time when they were babes to bulls, so she could forgive Sadri his insecurities and imperfections. She sighed, "It didn't get him anywhere. I'm not some fair-skinned damsel given over to men like Leif, I've seen them before and they've never had me. Don't tell me you were worried the stalwart ice-brain who can't keep his fruits in his trousers threatens the worldly Sadri?" She chuckled, "Honestly, it does surprise me to know that you were like him once. Then again, I'm sure even my father had his times in his youth."

''It's not that I was worried, really. Gets him anywhere or doesn't, I don't really have the right to judge, do I?'' Sadri said, his tone quickly drifting into a more distorted, emotional voice. ''I'm... I'm just jealous, really. Sorry,'' he apologized quickly, feeling dumb for having considered himself too old for reliving such feelings, as the ones he felt right now, at some recent point in his past. ''But yeah. Trust me when I say men can change big time. I honestly don't know how I'd treat the younger I. Or if I could recognize him.'' He kept silent for a moment, contemplating, but it felt too scary after some time. ''Then again, I guess everyone would change after four decades of misadventures.''

Solveig smiled, nodding. "I see. By all accounts, my father makes it seem like the man he was only a few years ago was some stranger with the same Name. I like to think I know the man well enough that he hasn't changed as much as he thinks he has." She took another sip from her waterskin before adding quietly, "A valiant effort in trying though. You say you've changed. Well, good or bad, d'you think?" She asked.

''Damn, woman, you sure ask the hardest questions,'' Sadri said, chuckling. ''Well, I really can't say. I've let horrible things slide getting here,'' he continued, shaking his head, half in regret, half to forget. ''And I've learned a lot of things, too. I don't consider myself a wise man, but I've sure as Oblivion gotten a lot more wiser. All in all, I can't say, really. What do you think?'' He asked, hand on the cloth wrap next to him.

She thought for a bit. How could she imagine the mer she loved committing, or at the least, 'letting slide horrible things'? Then again, taking a life could be considered horrible to some, and she looked down at her hands, remembering the Dunmer from only an hour ago. Best not to dwell, dwelling never benefitted anyone. Before she knew it, she was thinking of Windhelm and spat, a little more acid on her tongue than she expected, "I reckon we've all done things. We both know it." She sniffed, sighing, and then smiling, "But as you said to me, we can let go. Or at least accept."

''Yup. Let go, move on. You can't live otherwise,'' he said, drifting off somewhat. The way the conversation had been going, Sadri could not help but feel somewhat angry at himself. He'd ended up in a spot where all he could say to the woman he loved was regrets from past misdeeds. ''Speaking of learning new things... Just look how they come to use.''

Deftly, he unwrapped the cloth around the long object and pulled it upwards, letting a glass spear fall inbetween Solveig and himself. It gleamed in its own naturally reflective properties, but a trained eye could tell unnatural roots growing into the tip of the spear through its malachite-iron shaft, Sadri's little tweak to Madura's brother's weapon.

''For you,'' Sadri said silently. ''I've tinkered with it down deck somewhat, burnt a gem into it. Haven't tested how effective it is, but glass is already pretty deadly. With the gem, you should be punching through most you find. Figured you'd like it,'' he said, with a somewhat sad tone, eyes fixed on the spear.

Solveig gasped as Sadri propped the spear up between them. It was a work of beauty that she thought she would only witness in the hands of kings and heroes. When Sadri had told her that he'd tinkered with it, she couldn't help but smile. It was as much an art-piece as it was a weapon. As her fingers traced the elegant carvings across its shaft, she felt almost that she wasn't worthy of such a thing. But the Nord in her told her it was to insult a weapon to not use it. She grasped the thing in a strong fist, "I...Sadri..." Her lips worked to form words of the little gasps, but failed. She settled on hugging the Dunmer. She chuckled, eyes still fixed on the spear, "Were you a jeweler once too? Where did you find this? Did you make it?"

Sadri felt a rather indescribable warmth following a moment of surprise as the young Nord woman lashed forwards and grabbed him with a strong hug. Despite feeling a beaming happiness from the way she had accepted his gift, Sadri could not help but feel a fear, a doubt, of her enthusiasm in picking up a tool of death. He quickly threw away these ideas - he did not want to feel doubt at this moment, just the warmth of her arms. Although this quickly faded when she asked if he were a jeweler, which, followed with her reaction to the shaft's carvings, made him realize she might have misunderstood what he meant by the gem.

''Oh,'' he chuckled nervously. ''By Anu, you overestimate my skills. I got it from Bthamz, found it the way you see it here,'' he mused. ''I'm no jeweler, I'm afraid, I don't have the skills yet. But I know my way around soul gems. That's its gem, you see, I've enchanted it,'' he explained. ''Like this one here,'' he said as pulled a jade-studded ring from behind her ear with a sleight-of-hand trick he had learned years ago. ''Some nobleman had gifted me this back when I had first joined the Company. I think it'd suit you well,'' he said as the ring stood in his good palm.

He was much more enthusiastic about this one - it was more than a tool of war, which was a subject he could not help but want to distance himself from, now that he and Solveig had gotten closer. The thought of losing her was one he had to stalwartly banish from his mind in every moment of clarity, despite not even being properly together.

"Sadri..." She gasped, after a few moments of her mind scrambling to recognize what he was holding after it came back from behind her ear. No matter how good a gesture it was to gift the spearwoman with an ornate spear as this one, but the ring... The ring had more meaning to her. She felt her face getting hot now, her mind racing to find a suitable idea for a gift to match these. A sword, she thought, at first. Now, it seemed like it'd be a crude gift, like gifting a smith a smithing hammer. "I don't know how to repay this... it's- it's beautiful. I've never been gifted something like this."

Sadri stood there with a faint but certain smile, eyes looking at nowhere in particular, as she spoke. He wanted to just tell her that her being there was enough, that her love was enough, but could not find the strength in himself to say it.

''You don't have to repay for it, you already have,'' Sadri said finally, leaning back and supporting himself on his two arms. ''You know, Solveig,'' he started, but could not exactly continue. He gave a long pause. He didn't know what to do after this point. Seventy-something years, many loves, and yet still, he was as clueless as a toddler at moments like these.

''I think I love you,'' he blurted out all of a sudden, looking straight at the tip of his boots standing in front of him.

She remained there, still as a deer after a twig breaks underfoot, looking at Sadri as he stared off. It was adorable, or as adorable as one could say Sadri could be. Her mind swam with his echoing words. Her fingers intertwined with each other as she looked at the toes of her own boots, thumbs twiddling away as she tried to gather up the strength to say something, anything, to reciprocate. She could scream her boasts to the heavens, look the Kamal in the face and tell it that it was to die by her hand, proclaim her many fights in the Circle. This was but another time like that, she told herself, "I-I...Sadri..." Her hand crawled towards one of his own and she touched the cold metal of it, though if she was disappointed that it was not flesh, she didn't let it show. She wasn't. "Me too. Ah, love-think I love... I feel the same way." She squeezed Sadri's hand in her own.

"I'm glad, you know, that at least one good thing happened to me while I joined the Company. Getting my father to leave fighting behind isn't going as well as I'd planned, but... this is good." She said, staring down at the grain of the deck.

The Dunmer accompanied the woman in her stare, silent.

''Yes, yes it is.''

Being onboard a ship always boosted Leif’s morale. To him, being surrounded by the open waters, with a wooden deck beneath his feet, gave him power. Power in the sense that he had spent nearly eight years sailing, it was like second nature to him. Not to mention the breeze coming in off the sea felt marvelous on the seared portions of his face. He made an effort to check on Elmera every once in awhile, and took it upon himself to heal the burns himself. For the most part, Leif continued to avoid Do’Karth, although some of his hatred towards the Khajiit had dwindled, mainly because he made an effort to forget. His heart still ached for Sevine, however, the rejection there would not subside. At least not yet.

In the meantime, Leif spent his time helping out with ship duties. It was such, that when he had a moment of freedom, he wandered over to inspect the massive ballistas. Overall, Leif was impressed at the sheer size of what looked like to him, a giant firing crossbow. Needless to say, after he gave them a once over, he stuck to volunteering around the ship. On occasion, he crossed paths with Do’Karth, but he didn’t pay him much attention. He had more important things to do than to squabble with a cat. Most of his thoughts now, were focused on the present task at hand, surviving and returning to Dawnstar, and finding comfort in the arms of some maid. He spotted Solveig and Sadri sitting beside one another, and while he witnessed her throwing her arms about him, he felt a sense of esteem towards the two of them. Even though Solveig had chosen a knife-ear, she was a fierce warrior, and a respectable Nord woman, just like Sevine. The esteem came from the fact that he hadn’t loved her like he had Sevine, and the fact that she hadn’t stomped on his heart. It was by this time that the winds of change had arrived.

The distinctive sound of the war horn blowing caused him to scan the horizon. While he couldn’t immediately see any sign of danger, he soon discovered that the sailor in the crow’s nest had sighted a Kamal frigate. As if on cue, the plated ship emerged on scene from the port-stern. His heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach. How in the world did the Kamal’s find them so soon? He cursed under his breath, and jumped into action. Ducking below deck, he fetched his leather armor, helm, and longsword, where he strapped it to his back. When he re-emerged, the frigate had closed the gap between the Tear and themselves. Hargjorn barked orders, trying to prepare those onboard for imminent contact with their enemies.

While there were those on deck making ready for battle, Leif joined the sailors in their work to pull the two ships together. He heaved with great effort alongside the men, muscles straining, and sweat running in rivulets from the strain. When the Tear sidled along next to the frigate, close enough for those attempting to board, Leif moved between preparing the bolts by lathering them up with oil, and bringing more fire salts to those launching them at the frigate. For the time being, this is all that kept him occupied. Should the Kamal try to board the Tear, Leif would dive into action, and see to it that they might a fiery end.

Although somewhat concerned at Sevine's state of health, Rhasha placed the healing potion back in his knapsack and dropped the matter; the potions may be needed more desperately later - and he had only the 3 of them left. As the situation seemed to deteriorate further (Rhasha'Dar was extremely sick of fire now, and had no interest in being burnt alive after surviving the attack by the Spriggans earlier) his racing mind thought back to his amulet, still sat in his room. It would be foolish to retrieve it now... Gods, it was foolish to be even thinking of it now. Chasing the thought from his mind, Rhasha followed Sevine wordlessly through the window. While appreciative of the extra room made by Sevine's axe, the climb through was still an uncomfortable one. Thankfully for his injuries, he landed on his feet outside, pulling his spear through with him and readying himself for whatever lay outside.

Much to the Khajiit's relief, there was not a Kamal in sight. When he and Sevine happened upon Jorwen, he and a handful of others were killing off a group of Bosmeri. The lack of Ice Giants lightened Rhasha's mood somewhat, but there was still danger afoot. It wouldn't take much to assume that these foes were in cahoots with the Kamal. Either that, or it was a particularly diverse group of bandits that seemed to be rather effectively taking down a somewhat large host of experienced fighters. Deciding the former to be more likely, Rhasha'Dar tightened his grip on his spear as his eyes danced around the scene, cat-eyes picking up shapes in the darkness that would otherwise go amiss.

With a sweeping gaze, Sevine gave Jorwen a quick look-over and determined that he appeared to be uninjured so far. It was here, that she took in the rest of the unfolding chaos. "By the Divines, I thought we were under attack by the Kamal." She murmured, taking note of the motionless bodies littering the ground.

Jorwen rolled his shoulders, growling and looking for the next fight. While the newbeards were busy slapping each other's backs about this little skirmish, he was keeping an eye out for the towering monsters to come over the hill and ruin everyone's day that much more. He heard the newbeards quiet down and one whispered, "It's the Huntress."

The mention of her Name made her stomach turn, though she wore a mask empty of emotion. Now was not the time to delve into the underlying problem of having a namesake such as hers. Her concern centered around the attack for now. As long as she made it out alive, and back to Do'Karth is all that mattered to her.

He turned to his Second and shook his head at the mention of Kamal, "No. Bandits, maybe. Where're the others?"

"Rhasha and I slipped out the back window. Marcel and Keegan are still inside the inn last I saw. That old orc is dead, arrow to the eye." She commented in a soft tone.

"Do you know of their numbers, Jorwen?" Rhasha got his own question in, hoping the old Nord would have some answer. He and the handful of younger men seemed to be coping fairly well against the myterious attacks, but the sounds of fighting and screams echoed across the wintry air - this was no small skirmish. While the group was untrageted, Rhasha gave his chest wounds a few more blasts of healing magic - he had no idea if there would be time to do so later.

"No." He shook his head, "I awoke minutes ago to someone trying to open my neck. This reeks of something else, raiders would not risk a fortified position unless they outnumbered us a good bit. I wouldn't."

"Hm." Grumbled the huntress, none of this sounded ideal. Then again when was fighting ever ideal? "We should join the others, it would be best if we didn't leave them to be slaughtered."

"Aye." He nodded, turned to the newbeards that had placed themselves under him, "Get your arses to the front with your Captain. We shouldn't let ourselves get on the defensive now, lads."

One of them nodded and they all jogged off at a steady pace. Somewhere, he heard Tower-Shield bellowing his warcries again. Perhaps a man after his own heart, the way the old warrior stood against his foes. He was happy to bring him along, no matter what side they found themselves on in the past war. There was a new one on, after all, with new sides to choose. "We'll let the Braves handle themselves. Our mission is to get Bharzak back to Ashav, she knows the Kamal better than any of us. Shouldn't waste our strength fighting raiders." They themselves made their way back to the Inn and Jorwen waited, putting a hand on the Huntress' shoulder when the others had found their way inside, "My orders, Wolf-Tooth, we don't belong to the Braves. But if the Kamal are waiting in those hills, we break them here." He said the last words with a darkness and sincerity and a hatred he hadn't been used to in a long, long while.

There was a tremble of fury on his tongue when he continued, "They took White-Eye from me and I ran. They almost took my daughter from me and I ran. They took Windhelm from me and I ran. I won't let them visit horrors upon Halla and Dawnstar. I will not let my daughter come back to see it burnt to the ground," His grip on her shoulder grew a little more firm, "Wolf-Tooth and Red-Bear, Skyrim doesn't sing songs of retreat with those Names in them. We'll make sure the Kamal know our Names."

"I will make certain that our Names are the last thing they hear before either of us leave this realm. Kamal, bandits, whatever awaits us, I will not turn tail and run." Still, apart of her did not wish to die before returning to Do'Karth, the pain of never hearing his soft-spoken words again elicited two separate emotions. One of profound pride, such that Jorwen had instilled in her just now. She would not run, she would defend this place until the very last breath in her body fled. The other, a more hidden notion that she did not mention to Jorwen, one she was still unsure of herself, that she would make damn well certain she would live to see the next day.

Rhasha's ears flicked back in fear at Jorwen's words; he was not a cowardly Khajiit. He had never been cowardly, never fled from battle to let others fall and die in his place. He'd been willing to face off a Werewolf just to save his own - but the Kamal were something else entirely. At least when facing a werebeast, you knew it was an animal; it had no strategy, no morals, no ulterior motive. But the Ice-Giants were invaders; killing innocents and destroying cities - even collaring and enslaving some to gain even more power in Skyrim. He knew that if his group were to face the Kamal, nobody would survive. Especially not the wounded; Sevine with her injured leg and arm; himself, still suffering from spasms of pain in his impaled chest and back... Daelin, unconcious and badly burned, still in his deep slumber in the Inn.

"Jorwen... what of Daelin? We cannot leave him here at the mercy of these attackers. This one cannot see the Braves protecting someone as injured as himself either." He knew it was a fruitless thing to ask, but somebody had to say it. Daelin was a dead weight, but Rhasha would not be able to forgive himself if he abandoned the Bosmer.

His gaze flicked to the Khajiit in the doorway. His words on Daelin didn't make him feel any better in his part. But if a dedicated healer could do nothing for Daelin, no one here could, past making sure he suffered through sleep longer. He shook his head, "We've done what we can." He said.

The words left his lips and cut deep on the way out, but there it was. "If he wakes, so be it. We can leave on the morrow and pray nothing happens if we like. I need to see this business done." With that, he slipped past the two. Sevine trailed after him, casting a glance over her shoulder at Rhasha-Dar. The Khajiit's eyes met Sevine's, obviously downcast. He would have offered to carry Daelin if he must, but in his current state, while fending off attackers? Rhasha'Dar's fate would be as hopeless as the Bosmer's. Sighing quietly, Rhasha trudged after Jorwen and Sevine, head down and shoulder's heavy, as if the guilt was pressing down on the warrior. Truly, Azurah had abandoned them all.

Bharzak had stuck with the altmer and breton as they had exited the inn, not waiting to see what the other former occupants of the inn were up to in her eagerness to help deal with the Kamal threat. Because of this, she had not been spared from being spattered with bits of the now rather deceased khajiit Marcel had just caused to explode. Equal parts disgusted and amazed, the orsimer was briefly paralyzed by her conflicting emotions, nearly slack-jawed as what had happened registered in her mind. Such a powerful display was something she had never seen the likes of—something she was not sure she would ever even be capable of.

That thought brought her back to the present, along with a much greater sense of urgency as she saw the current states her companions were in and their now-fleeing opponents. Scolding herself for not getting involved sooner, the alteration mage took advantage of the slight lull the breton’s incredible kill had created, making for the Redguard who had previously picked him as a target. Axe in hand, she slashed at him with considerable ferocity. While he was able to dodge the blow at the last second, turning around to avoid what would’ve been a decapitating (or, at least partially so) stroke, it was apparent the intense yet refined qualities of her fighting style threw him considerably off guard, and she immediately aimed to make the man lose his weapon.

She struck at him quickly and irregularly, and, with her third hit, she caught the edge of his blade in hers and wrenched at it with all her strength, pulling it out of his grip entirely. It fell near-noiselessly to the ground by her feet as she wasted no time in burying her axe in the man’s chest, ribs cracking under the velocity of her attack. The redguard was now very much dead, and, with a slight bit of difficulty, Bharzak removed her weapon, turning to look for the dunmer. It seemed the fellow had not stuck around with all his compatriots dead, so the orsimer allowed the states of her two comrades to be the center of her attention.

From the looks of it, neither of them seemed to be in the best condition to continue fighting. She briefly considered whether it would be worth trying to extend her Ironflesh spell to either of them, but quickly came to the conclusion that it would not be a particularly practical way to go about helping her allies—not to mention it would weaken her own defenses. The discarding of that idea only left that of getting into her potions supply, something she was not particularly eager to make a dent in so early in the fight. She hoped she would not be made to regret sharing them later. Addressing both Keegan and Marcel quickly, she made the offer as she retrieved the items in question. “If you want them, I’ve got some potions of healing and magicka I can spare. But if you do, speak quickly, and preferably before more of the Kamal come our way.”

Suicide Mission 2.0 with: @MiddleEarthRoze and myself

---

"Yes sir! It will be done, and with the utmost efficiency!" Surprisingly enough, Sagax was as confident as he sounded for once. He and Roze had shown up the Kamals once already, no doubt they could do it again. Well, yeah, sure they had a scar or several and no doubt experienced some mild mental trauma from their near-death experiences, but aside from that everything went swimmingly! Ha, swimmingly...

After Ashav left the duo to do what they do best, the Imperial patted his small friend on the shoulder and gave a genuine smile. "This is gonna go great! These charges actually have decently long fuses, so we're not going to repeat what happened last time. All we have to do is swim over, get below deck, and put the charges in those breaches. Simple!" Another so-called simple plan from the man who had no actual reason to be so chipper. Perhaps Edith was right, and that taking a fall like he did onto the hard stone floor of the Dwemer ruin scrambled Sagax's brain a little.

Roze's look at Sagax was equal parts incredulous and terrified. The sudden appearance of the Kamal ship had shook the young rogue more than she had thought; suddenly she was getting flashbacks of Windhelm; the explosion, the screams, the blood and the fear... even her shoulder began to ache at the mere memory or the horrid experience. Attempting to swallow the nervous lump in her throat, she stared at Sagax, wondering how on earth he was feeling so optimistic about this.

"Right... long charges... good." She mumbled, a shaking hand pushing her hair from a now pale white face. She couldn't exactly run away from this, despite how much she'd like to. She and Sagax had a job to do - and if they failed, it was entirely possible that everyone on the ship would die. Eyes darting to her comrades scrambling about on the ship's deck, they landed on Do'Karth, and then Leif. The thought of Sevine losing her love and her best friend was one that settled any doubts in Roze's mind. Better her to go than anyone else... including Sagax, but then again, she couldn't do this without him. Taking a steadier, deep breath, Roze nodded stiffly and clasped Sagax's forearm.

"There's nobody else I'd rather blow up a ship with." She said, a smile ghosting her face. It was time to go.

Sagax could tell Roze was not exactly at ease with the situation, and her nervousness crept into him. The situation was...well, it was fucked. Incredibly fucked, and their chances of success were actually barely better than their Windhelm run. He remembered the mage, and his smile faltered for a moment.

"No. No turning back." The Imperial thought to himself. "No second thoughts; fear will not fool me." Time to go indeed, and neither the Kamal nor their own fears would stop the two daredevils. Placing both hands on her shoulders, Sagax tried to put some of his own optimism into Roze.

"We're going to win the company this battle, Roze. We're going to march onto that ship and blow those oversized tankards back to Akavir in a million pieces! Oh, and wanna know the best part?" Sagax said as he pulled out two vials from his bag. "I've actually prepared! Well, sort of. I ordered one of these back at Dawnstar, and the other Rhasha gave me. But blind luck can still count as an indirect plan, right?"

"These will help ward off the cold of the waters. We're going to swim so we aren't noticed, and that's how we'll get these charges planted. What do you think?"

Roze thanked the Gods silently at Sagax's forethought - or rather, blind luck, as he had so eloquently put it - but either way, the resist cold potions would do some good. Not just against the freezing waters, but against any ice magicks the Kamal choosed to use... if they were spotted, that was. Taking on of the potions from Sagax, Roze smiled again; this one stronger, and more hopeful. Swimming would be the least conspicuous, and with these potions, chances of living were going right up.

"Indirect or no, this is a fine plan Sagax. I'll go first - at the very least I can breathe under the water, and I'll be able to scout out the inside of the ship first. Sneak is my middle name, after all." Pulling the stopper from the potion bottle with a small "pop", Roze downed the icy liquids and gave Sagax one last smile before heading to the edge of their ship, the charge's fuses trailing along behind her. The battle on the decks was louder now; Roze wondered if they had lost anyone yet.

"Don't throw the charge until I give the all clear!" She shouted back to Sagax over the clatter of the fight, and then dove into the waters below. Even with the potion working it's magic, the water was still bitingly cold. Having cast her spell before diving, Roze was able to comfortably tread the waters below the waterline, out of sight from either ship, and able to find a decently sized breach in the Kamal frigate that they could climb into. Swimming over, her head cautiously bobbed above the waterline, glancing inside the frigate to see what awaited them. As far as she could see, there were no Kamal below deck; all seemed to be fighting up on the main deck, trying to quell fires while simultaneously setting them onboard the Kyne's Tear.

Clambering up the side (Quite a feat, with the slippery metal; thankfully the blasts had provided jagged pieces of the armour to stick out, providing sharp, but solid handholds) and into the belly of the ship, she pressed herself to the wall, eyes darting around. Again, there was no sign of movement - just the muffled sounds of the fight above. Peering out of the hole towards the other ship, she waved Sagax over, hoping he would be quick about throwing the charge (and that he aimed well enough) and getting himself over as well - she did not want to stay on this frigate for very long.

Taking the charges in hand, Sagax took care to be as precise as possible when throwing them to Roze. He remembered all too well what happened last time...those burns still flared up some times. Whirling the special delivery from his side, he hoped Roze would be able to catch it without too much hassle. If she accidentally fell in after them, it'd be game over, as the fuses would be too wet to use. Sagax waited until it was sure that Roze had the charges in hand before diving in himself.

After a very tense moment of seeing the charges drop faster and faster, Sagax was relieved to see Roze snatch them out of the air and finally wave him over. Drinking down his potion and leaving his bag in a relatively safe spot with his cloak aboard the Kyne's Tear after taking out his fire-starting kit and wrapping it up in his makeshift pillow, Sagax jumped into the freezing water below. Making his way over to Roze as quickly-yet-inconspicuously as possible, the soaking wet Imperial climbed up into the bowels of the kamal ship.

"The fighting's all up top...we've got free rein down here! Let's set these charges and get the hell out of here. I'd rather we not overstay our welcome, ya? Kamal hospitality is something I can live without."

"SSSHHHHH!!!" Was the first thing to come out of Roze's mouth, her waving her hand frantically for Sagax to keep his voice down. After waiting a few moments to see if anyone had heard, she breathed a - quiet - sigh of relief. She was fully aware of how paranoid she was being right now; no way anybody would hear them with all the clatter above deck.

"Sorry - let's just get this over with." She agreed with him after a hasty and whispered apology, and the two paused a moment, wondering where to go. "I suppose the center of the ship would inflict the most damage? But then, the further we go in, the more likely we are to be caught..." Her lips clamped shut together for a moment, considering their options. They had to take this ship out, no matter what. Even if they did damage it enough to get away, they could easily repair and attack some small town near the sea... or even the very unprotected Dawnstar.

"Come on then... stick to the shadows, and try to make sure those fuses don't snag on anything. The last thing we need is a broken charge." She murmured to him, wringing her sodden hair over the side of the ship before moving on; she was being very paranoid now, thinking the dripping from her water-logged hair would attract attention. Gods, she would deserve a drink after this.

Carefully placing each charge where Ashav had directed them to, Sagax crept along the walls, making sure not to make too much noise. The thudding of his leather boots were just barely audible through the fighting topside, so thankfully they didn't cause any problems. After the explosives were set, Sagax looked up and down the room. He had the itching worry in the back of his head that maybe they set up the charges wrong, or maybe something was wrong with the charges themselves. The Imperial decided to act on his concerns and double check each explosive, just to be sure nothing was awry. This had to go perfectly, and any hitch in the plan would doom their allies.

Feeling in slightly higher spirits than before (slightly - she was still stuck on a ship full of murderous ice-demons) because there'd been no sign of anyone else below deck, Roze helped Sagax in checking all of the charges; they didn't need one ot go off prematurely like last time. Well, last time had admittedly been a lot different, what with them ice-skating towards their target and throwing with blind luck that the charges would land and not kill any friendlies. This seemed a much more thought-out plan... so why was Sagax looking antsy?

"What's wrong Sagax? Are you ghostly senses tingling?" Her voice was hushed, but one could hear the amusement in it - ever since Sagax telling her about his ghostly protector or whatever it was, Roze liked to make a few jibes about it now and again. Not to insult her friend, of course, but to make sure he knew she was comfortable with it. It wasn't everyday that your comrade told you about seeing dead people. He seemed to ignore her words, head tilted towards the engine - which is when she picked up on what it was. Footsteps; heavy ones, ones that could have only belonged to a Kamal. The smile was wiped from her face, and she crouched as close to the wall as she could, barely breathing. The footsteps were accompanied with a dragging noise, then a thud as something hit the floor. The Kamal began making some strange, guttural noises - it took her a moment to realise that they were probably speaking in their language. It had never even occured to her until now that the beasts could even speak.

"Sagax, let's get out of here." She hissed quietly, although tempted to sneak a peek at what was happening by the engine.

Ignoring Roze's frantic tugging on his arm and her hushed requests to get the hell off of that boat, Sagax crept forward towards the door of the engine room, hugging the wall as tightly as he could. Inside were Kamal and...bodies. So many bodies, all of them...Argonians. "Where did they get all of these poor people?" He whispered near-silently. Further scannings of the room brought his eyes to a familiar face: the Argonian Pakseech! That's right, they were going back to Black Marsh after they had escaped Windhelm! They never made it home...

Sagax watched in a mix of horror and disgust as the Kamal tore some kind of wispy energy from the bodies on the floor, and tossed it into the massive contraption in the middle of the room. Each offering made it hum louder and louder, and shake violently. What they hell were those bastard Snow Demons doing to those poor souls, and what was it they were taking from their bodies? Magicka? Perhaps it was best if Sagax never knew.

Just as Sagax was about to turn away, he saw movement in the pile. The Pakseech was alive! This was their chance, they had to save him! The Kamal would not have his life! Sagax slowly began drawing his sword from its sheath, preparing himself for another charge, until...

While severely annoyed that Sagax had given into his temptation to see what was happening, Roze could hardly complain as she peeked out from the door beside him, also overly curious as to what was going on - when she looked, she wished she hadn't. That engine... she hadn't realised what it was being run on. The Kamal were using souls as energy, pulling them mercilessly from the limp bodies of the Argonians and throwing them into the engine, with as little care as one would throw a log onto the fire.

"Gods... how did they even do that?" She didn't expect her whisper to be answered; it was like the engine was one giant, mechnical soul gem. The amount of work that would have gone into creating one of those... the amount of souls thrown at it... it was utterly monstrous. But they had a chance now to destroy it, and make sure the Kamal responsible on this ship were blown to Oblivion. Backing away slightly from the door, Roze's eyes widened in alarm as she saw Sagax begin to unsheathe his sword; grabbing the hilt, she shoved it forcefully back into it's scabbard, looking at the Imperial incredulously.

"What are you doing?! We have to leave, Sagax!" Glancing at the doorway to make sure the Kamal were still busy, she jerked her head in the opposite direction, towards the hole they had clambered through originally. "We don't have time for this."

"Leave!? What do you mean LEAVE!?" Sagax whispered angrily, the first outburst against Roze that ever occured. "The Pakseech is alive, we can save him! We just need to distract those Kamal..." Looking back inside, there weren't many to be found. Two of them, to be exact. One for each. "Look, we can go in there and lead them on a chase. It'd give the Pakseech time to escape through the breach! Come on, we can do this!"

"Unbelievable. I knew he'd grown in bravado but this is ridiculous." Quelling a scowl appearing on her face, Roze attempted a look of understanding.

"The more time we spend on this ship, the more time it has to destroy ours! I won't be responsible for people dying for the sake of one life - this isn't the time to play the hero, we have to blow this damned ship before it kills any more people." She could barely believe his plan; while certainly an honourable thing to do, it was potentially suicidal. The pair of them would barely be able to kill one Kamal, let alone two of them. "If we die saving him, there's no-one left to blow the charges. Then everyone dies." She silently hoped he'd agree with her and leave; the hope she had felt earlier was quickly dwindling at this new turn of events.

As much as he hated every single word that left that Breton's mouth...Sagax knew she was right. But by the gods he wished she weren't. He looked to the Pakseech, but then thought back to everyone back on the Kyne's Tear...and also to Piper and his dear mother. If he tried luring away the Kamal, they would just corner him. Then he would be the one powering that infernal engine. He promised to come home in one piece...

And so he would. Suddenly letting out a growl of anger, but also of despair, he didn't even bother looking at Roze as he stormed off and grabbed all of the charges. If they couldn't save the Pakseech, at the very least they could vaporize their captors. At least then, his soul would remain his own, and not fuel for the Kamal's unholy machines.

Lighting the fuses after planting each charge in front of the engine, Sagax looked back once more before turning around and heading back to the breach they entered from.

"Come on."

Although perturbed by Sagax's uncharacteristic anger, Roze didn't speak of it - now wasn't the time. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief as Sagax lit the fuses, she didn't have to be told twice to follow him back out. Although the resist-cold potions had worn off somewhat, she'd take the freezing waters over being caught on a Kamal frigate any day. She didn't look back when leaving like Sagax; freedom was too sweet and too near for her to be bothered about much else.

After a dive and brief swim in the swarming waters (It was definitely colder the second time round) Roze and Sagax made it to their own ship's deck, both in one piece and smiling. Well... Roze was smiling at least; the pair found Ashav who seemed hopeful at the expression on her face.

"Charges are planted and fuses lit - I'd recommend getting everyone off the frigate boss, otherwise it won't be much of a victory for us." Teeth chattering from the cold between her words, Roze almost wished to get some warmth from the fires on deck. Unfortunately, she'd probably be shot by the Kamal for her efforts.

Niernen had wasted no time in finding a comfortable hammock after the company returned to the Kyne's Tear and was sound asleep when the loud noise of the war horn rang through the hold of the ship. Roused from her dreamless slumber, the she-elf sat up straight, startled, trying to steady the rocking hammock with her hands. She cursed quietly under her breath while her scrambled brain worked to reacquaint itself with reality, a feat which took more than a few seconds to achieve. More sounds of commotion came from above as people ran around the deck and hollered orders and acknowledgements at each other. "Shit," Niernen hissed as she clambered out of the hammock, hindered by the wooden splint on her sore leg. A few swigs of a health potion she'd received upon her arrival to the ship had helped the bone start to mend, but it still hurt and would be fragile until her body finished healing the old-fashioned way. As she hobbled towards the staircase and the hatch that led topside, ice-cold tendrils of fear spread through her guts -- intuitively, Niernen knew what had happened, and she dreaded the thought. Not again... please, Azura, not again...

The daylight outside blinded her when she stepped out of the hold and onto the deck and Niernen blinked rapidly as she looked around. She saw the ballistae they had hauled out of the Dwemer dungeons being loaded and prepped for battle, and all around her members of the company were arming themselves, their faces grim. Grabbing hold of a sailor's arm, Niernen's breathless inquiry as to what had happened was answered with a single word; Kamal. It felt like being slapped across the face and Niernen swallowed hard, the cold fear in her guts turning to a heavy feeling of resignation. It would seem she was not to receive any respite from the horrors of these Akaviri invaders. Niernen cursed the cruelty of it all and, for the n-th time, half-wished she had never left home. Since she had no weapons to arm herself with, nor a complex suit of armor to wear, Niernen made her way to the stern of the ship and silently watched as the Kamal frigate gained on them over the course of the next hour. She recognized the ship -- it was the one she and Valen had escaped from, come to reclaim the audacious escapees. Niernen almost marveled at the sheer vindictiveness and single-minded hatred the Kamal seemed to possess. Their drive to dominate and control exceeded even that of the Altmer, she thought to herself; a funny thought, were it not for the gravity of the situation.

After the first shots were fired, Niernen retreated to the center of the deck, close to the mast. Her heart was pounding in her throat and the sound of blood rushing through her ears nearly drowned out everything else. Everything felt surreal, like she was watching through the eyes of someone else, and Niernen put one hand against the reassuring solid shape of the wooden mast for support, trying to control her breathing. Fear had been her greatest enemy ever since the disaster in Blackmarsh, but the Kamal had managed to make her tendency for panicking much worse, especially if they themselves were involved. Niernen could almost hear the baying howls and roars of the terrifying war-beasts that had chased her through the woods near Windhelm, and her mind's eye was lost to a vision of swirling snow and baleful moonlight. Thankfully, she also remembered how, after she'd been surrounded, she had used her precious scroll -- a gift from one of her Redoran war-wizard mentors -- to erase them from the earth with the fury of Magnus himself. Fire, blessed fire, had swirled around her like a thunderous mass of shapeshifting beasts and engulfed the Kamal and their mounts in heat so intense the Akaviri creatures had molten where they stood. That part of the memory gave her strength. The scroll had turned to ash in her hands, of course, after being used, but she wasn't alone now, and her own flames were still dangerous. She would fight them and the Kamal would rue they day they decided to pursue Niernen Venim. Damn right, she thought, and rose to her full height -- the thundering of her heart in her ears had stopped and she could see clearly now. She was ready.

That was when Do'Karth called to her and Valen. Niernen looked behind her to see the other Dunmer there, armed and ready, and gave him the brightest smile she could muster. Time for payback, it said. Turning back to Do'Karth, Niernen listened to the Khajiit's plan and immediately nodded without a moment's hesitation. There was no time to think -- thinking would only bring the fear back. "Of course," she said, her hands raised in the instantly recognizable pose of a sorcerer ready to unleash the wrath of her magicks. "We'll lead the way. Right, Valen?"

"Right." Valen's response was short and through clenched teeth. He had enjoyed the relative silence that accompanied the lull between fighting. He had rested, not fully in slumber, as the others went about their business. He had re-wrapped his scrapes, taken care of his bow, did the motions that in someways maintained his grip on reality even after all these years. Routines was the warriors greatest ally and enemy in one. Grow to inflexible, and a unpredictable opponent will kill you. Grow to undisciplined, too loose and too lazy in your ways and your mind will rot along with the flesh. And so he had practiced. His arrows left the quiver in a blur, fired with deadly precision one after another on the target he had sat up. It consisted of thick helm he had "liberated" from the camp prior to set off. It would not hurt his arrows but it did possess a certain odor. He found visualizing the faces of people he didn't like helped steadying his aim, and with his list that would not run out of names any time soon. He was just about to start stringing his bow anew when he heard the alarm. A sinking feeling in his gut told him everything he needed to know. With a heavy breath he had strung the bow at as calm a pace he could manage before he got up to see just how bad it was.

Turns out it was worse then imagined. The Kamal was coming for them. At his fellow Dunmer's words he nodded. "Right" He knocked a arrow. "Into to the jaws of death I step, With bow in hand, I will bring it with me." His eyes narrowed. "For the Deava will reward those of strength, and those with cunning. Go not into death without a trophy." He lifted the bow and narrowed his eyes. He didn't have to visualize this time. He saw the face of the beasts clear as day. "May my arrow be the first to dig into the Kamal's excuse of a brain." He waited for the first face to show up before he let loose the first arrow. Without looking if it hit he was moving up to the steering wheel, affording himself some more alleviation. "My arrows are my redemption in the Eyes of Azura, for each demon I fell I step closer to her embrace." He let go off another arrow as another demon peaked up. Without fail, he would knock another arrow on muscle memory alone. His voice ringing out throughout the chaos. For each word, for each arrow fired, his mind cleared. The years of drinking drifted the back of his head, the fear of being captured evaporated. This is why he existed, to fight. He had been raised for the purpose of protecting those better than him.

"I am Valen Alveul, I was put on this world to end you" Nobody deserved slavery under those beasts.

"This one will scale the ladder first, followed by Niernen. Valen, cover us as we ascend. Once we make it up, we will secure the foothold while you scale behind us. Then it will be up to you two to lead the way, Do'Karth doesn't like the prospects of a straight fight, so it is important we do whatever it takes to make it to those cells without delay. We may not be able to best the Snow Demons without the help." Do'Karth reaffirmed. Grabbing his amulet of S'rendarr, closing his eyes as he quickly meditated to clear his mind and steady his nerves, and set off for the closest of the boarding ladders that had been hooked over the lip of the prison frigate's gunwale. Other fighters were already making their way up the ladder, and the sounds of battle were becoming joined as the seconds passed, the first few brave souls who had gone first were likely doing so knowing that they were going to perish, but did so knowing it would buy time for the rest of the crew to swarm the enemy vessel.

The Khajiit grasped the rung of the ladder with one hand, his staff hanging by the side as he knew he would have to climb single-handed if he wished to retain his weapon when he reached the summit. It was a delicate balance of reaching up high, and walking up to meet his hand to repeat the exercise on the rocking decks of the ship, and very nearly, his grip slipped and only by throwing his arm around the back of the ladder, nearly losing his staff in the process, kept him from tumbling back. Far too much of this war involved climbing dangerous slopes, the Khajiit decided. He had been foolish to have been the one to volunteer to climb the ice shaft at the College of Winterhold, and now he was among the vanguard of facing off against the terrifying adversaries he had not wished to see again. Do'Karth simply had to react when others would not, it had always been in his nature.

And as of this moment, he was wishing he could listen to the rational part of his mind, which was being drowned out by the heavy beating of his heart.

It couldn't have been more than a couple minutes of climbing, but given the difficulty and the worry of what would happen when he reached the gunwale made it seem like he was walking into a death sentence and time went impossibly slow, every agonizing pull of his muscles etched in his consciousness as he climbed. Now, his arms over the edge, Do'Karth pulled himself up onto steadier deck, but exponentially more danger.

The deck ahead was burning, shards of hardened claw scattered about the deck from the fire salt bomb detonations, and a handful of towering corpses were smoldering where the blazes burned. While some of the Kamal had made their way around the detonation and struck back at the raiders, trying to push them back off the ship so they could return the favour, the numbers that had gathered were scattered and disorganized from the flames. Burning arrows occasionally sailed like shooting stars through the air, landing across the deck in thuds, in some cases catching flammables ablaze where they landed. A handful of Kamal were evidently delegated to that threat, with some falling victims to the arrows.

Most of the Kamal, while still imposing and towering as usual, did not seem to be quite as intimidating or even nightmare-like without their heavy armour; in place of the cruel-looking plates, the Kamal were all garbed in thick clothing, sealed around the cuffs with wrappings, gloves, and full masks. This emboldened Do'Karth somewhat; the mystery to the Kamal had diminished, and he'd already bested them at their worst in hand-to-hand combat with the same woman who was following him up.

One of the armourless Kamal charged at Do'Karth with a large cleaver-like sword, preparing a diagonal slash down at him. He leaped out of the way, avoiding the clumsy but powerful strike, and cracked the Kamal across the arm before the Kamal struck again, thrusting down at an angle, prompting Do'Karth to pivot his staff and bring it down on top of the sword welding wrist, knocking it harmlessly towards the deck and not his chest. "So you feel pain like the rest of us. Good." Do'Karth taunted, ducking out from a hammer blow of a fist that had come down as the Kamal withdrew his sword, quickly finding his footwork to give some more space between the two of them. The Khajiit kept his staff in motion, circling the Kamal as they both sized each other up. "Show this one what you are made of." He dared.

The Kamal charged, bellowing bloody murder.

Climbing up the boarding ladders was quite the physical challenge for Niernen. Her permanently weakened muscles had trouble holding up her weight, so she awkwardly shuffled up one rung at a time, muttering a litany of curses and prayers under her breath. She had been right behind Do'Karth initially but he reached the summit of their climb sooner than she did and she saw that the Khajiit had already engaged one of the Kamal by the time she finally hauled herself over the edge. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the sword-wielding Snow Demon -- whereas the sight of the creature unarmored might have been a little reassuring for Do'Karth, Niernen was strongly reminded of her absolutely savage mistreatment at the hands of these beasts as their captive. Even their cloth masks were capable of expressing an unfathomable amount of cruelty all the same. Still, she could not help but grin at the sight of Do'Karth defiantly taunting the Akaviri invader.

Now she was eager to express her strong dissatisfaction with their continued existence. Because Do'Karth and the Kamal warrior had circled around each other for a bit, Niernen had ended up behind the creature and was in the perfect position to punish his reckless charge. She drew upon her magicka and, using both hands to increase the potency of the spell, formed it into a seething ball of flame and plasma that she fired at the Kamal's back. The fireball made a roaring noise as it hungrily consumed oxygen during its maiden (and only) voyage, drawing the attention of the Kamal long enough for him to look over his shoulder. His charge faltered but it was too late to change directions now and the fireball slammed into the Kamal with considerable force. It combusted and set the creature alight practically instantly. An inhuman wail was cut short as the he disintegrated where he stood, collapsing to the deck in a goopy pile of viscous liquid. Niernen spat in the direction of its corpse and grinned at Do'Karth -- her blood was singing in her veins now. Vengeance was sweet indeed.

Arrow after arrow, skull after skull. Some were close misses, other were far away from hitting anything, one or two hit home with stunning, eerie precision. Even Valen's precision would suffer on a boat, with such chaos around him. But it didn't matter to him as one Kamal came crashing down onto to the deck, intent on rending man and mer alike into tiny ribbons, the last of Valen's arrows flew trough the air. The song of air splitting and the imminent death followed it. The whistling sound cut short as the steel tipped, narrow headed arrow hit the Kamal straight in the temple. The Kamal had a surprised look underneath his mask as it slid off his face, replaced by the death mask. Falling first to its knees, it then slumped forward and planted it face on the wooden floorboards. Valen could feel the vibrations of that thick skull smashing heavily onto the deck.

"Come, Spectres of death. Let us dance in the Shade of the Deadra. Let the last of my honor be enough to carry this burden. " He spoke as he placed the bow, now worthless, onto a nook on the ship and picked up his shield and spear. Looking up, seeing the Khajiit enter first., dancing between Kamal strikes, smashing back with his staff. It was inspiring in a way and he began his own advance to help Niernen and Do'Karth. As he did, he slipped on the the metal helmet he had worn for all these years, its embracing cold confinement like a blanket over all his anxiety and fears. A calm fell over him, hours upon hours of practicing with the spear rushed back and anchored itself into his backbone. He was practically shooting up the rigging, shield on his back, spear in one hand. He was a one man storm when he spilled over the railing. "For Azura!" He flew into the closest Kamal, ducking a clumsy swing and wringing his shorty spear deftly up into the creatures armpit. Again, he could tell the Kamal were surprised at his own sudden death. He freed the spade like tip out of the Kamal in one go and unslung his shield. They would not see it beneath the steel mask of his helmet, but he was fury itself, eyes alive with the thrill of battle. Smashing his shield with his spear he bellowed. "Come then. Dance with me you rotten bastards!"

Apparently, the size of such a pathetic creature daring to challenge them affronted the Kamal and one charged headlong for him, wielding a jagged axe in both hands. Swinging it high the Kamal's rage did not keep Valen from dancing away from the hideous weapon. Dodging to the side, letting the heavy axe split part of the deck apart as he took stock of his opponent. He danced back in, stabbing at the Kamal who deflected him just in time. The dunmer skirmisher weaved in, deflecting the lighter, faster blows from the Kamal and poked with his spear at arms and thighs, tearing the protective suit apart in the process. When the heavy axe seemed to grow to sluggish, he stepped in, smashing it back down as the Kamal tried to lift it, shoving his spear right into the creatures eye. Blood spattered, thick and viscous as Valen bellowed out his pent up rage, driving the creature to its back before lifting and stabbing the spear down again several times. He had recognized the beast-like Kamal as one of his chief tormentors back during his stint as a Kamal slave.

Do'Karth's nose wrinkled at the incinerated Kamal, the off-putting smell of charred flesh was never one he had found all that endearing. Watching the devastation both Niernen and Valen brought upon their former captors only cemented the Khajiit's opinion that death was preferable to being enthralled under their yoke. He reached out, grabbing Valen by the shoulder. "Enough. He is dead, and there is still work to be done and more adversaries to do away with. Come on, let's move." He said, noticing that the company was managing to create a rather firm foothold on the deck and more and more mercenaries were managing to climb the ladders without fail. The ballista shots from the wounded ship had ceased, however, and it became apparent why at a glance; more than half of the ship was submerged at this point, with the bow being held afloat from a combination of the anchoring rope and air trapped within the deck. The heavy weapons, however, wouldn't stay put for long; their weight and the offset angle was creating too much of a strain on the wooden deck and stress fractures were crossing the wood. The accompanying ship was on borrowed time; everyone would have to return on the Tear.

Niernen seemed to be enjoying herself, Do'Karth decided. Much like Valen, there seemed to be a sense of vindication and relief after being able to turn the tide on their tormentors, and the Khajiit had no doubt that the remaining prisoners, once free, would enter the fray with a similar enthusiasm for revenge. Another pair of Kamal blocked the path to the stairs below deck, where Do'Karth assumed they had to go. One was armoured up with a shield and spear, and the other was unarmoured, save for a shield and carrying a short blade by Kamal standards. "This one assumes that is the way to go," Do'Karth asked his companions. "Do not exhaust your resources, we have ways to go yet... do either of you know who holds the keys?" he asked.

"I do not remember the specific Kamal no." Valen said. "But that is indeed the way we are meant to go." He looked to Niernen for confirmation and hopefully a better recollection of who may have the key.

Raelyn seemingly appeared out of nowhere, holding what appeared to be a chamber pot filled with firesalts. She waved with a free hand, causing her left arm to droop with the heavy pot. She re-gripped it with both hands, "Hello! I see you're all still alive and well. And you haven't even began to pry loose jewelry and gold teeth from the dead! This battle must not be over, what a pity. Well, I brought a gift!" To be more accurate, Ashav shouted for her to start ferrying fire salts and if she didn't he would throw her off the ship with his personal chamberpot on her head.

Running up to smack a hand on Raelyn's shoulder, Solveig breathed the words through breaths dragged in from the run, "Don't... fucking... run off... like that!" She frowned, hauling in one breath and scanning for a fight. "It wasn't long ago I was cradling you while you were dying. I don't want that to be the case again, we might not be so damned lucky." Raelyn physically cringed at this comment, her fingers gripping tight on the pot handle.

Being assigned to protect Raelyn while she ferried the salts from the crates to the boarders was not something she wanted to be doing. She'd rather be at the head of the attackers, shield in hand and putting the spear Sadri had given her to the test. As much as she wanted to give the spear its first taste of Kamal blood, each time she toyed with the ring on her right hand, it made her want to hang back and keep Sadri with her. At least she'd keep one man in her life from barging into a fight. Of course, with the state of things, she had little faith she would have a chance to sit out a fight if she wanted to. "What's to do?" She asked.

The appearance of Raelyn, Solveig, Valen and other mercenaries on the deck bolstered Niernen's faith even further, and she greeted them with an enthusiastic salute and a grin. She very much appreciated the sight of Valen skilfully taking down the Kamal, and completely understood his desire to violently desecrate the monster's corpse. Bit grim, though. Do'Karth's question was a good one, and the sorceress took a few seconds to think. "Yes, that is the way, and as for the keys... probably the big one," she said eventually, her voice low, a deep frown creasing her brows. There had been several fiercely awful Kamal aboard this ship that delighted in tormenting their slaves, but the absolute worst was the hulking taskmaster that had broken Niernen's bones with his bare hands. "Oh, how I should like to meet him now," she added ruefully and flared the flames that idled in her hands until they burned blue and distorted the air around her with sheer heat. Gritting her teeth, she prepared a fireball with one hand and summoned her trusty Flame Atronach with the other. The Daedra coalesced in a rush of fire and smoke and mirrored its handler's pose; arms raised and hands at the ready, prepared to unleash a volley of flaming death. "Warriors, up front!" Niernen yelled.

Raelyn set her firesalt pot down. She put a hand on one hip, looking at the Daedra. She looked to the warriors, grinning, "Well if you're comfortable running in front of fire woman and her arguably sentient fire immortal, I think you might want to stick your swords in here. I don't know the exact logistics of how mystical fire dust borne from the corpse of an Atronach works, but I'm pretty sure it will make your swords more...firey." She looked to Niernen, like she'd know, "Is that how it works?"

"This one is starting to think you may have an unhealthy affinity for things that burn..." Do'Karth observed, watching as the flame elemental began to scorch the deck underneath its lithe feminine form. The bard, Raelyn, had arrived with jars of fire salt, giving them much needed weaponry against the Kamal. "Right then, let us find the biggest Kamal we can, but perhaps it would be best if we secured the cells first? Do'Karth cannot lock pick, but perhaps the key isn't necessary if someone has that particular talent." He nodded to Solveig, who was someone he hadn't had a chance to fight alongside since the operation began in the Dwemer ruin. Fortunately, she didn't seem to require him to look out for her, as much as he promised Jorwen he would.

The group, now grown by two more bodies, began to make their way to the stairs leading below deck that the two Dunmer had directed them towards where the two Kamal sailors had been identified and the group set into a loose battle formation, with Do'Karth, Valen and Solveig leading the column and Niernen and Raelyn somewhat more protected behind the melee fighters. It was simply a matter of finding an opening, since both Snow Demons carried shields and weren't keen on letting their guard down around not only superior numbers, but also the knowledge that they were against proficient fire magic and incendiary devices. It was one of those cases where Do'Karth didn't see an opening he could exploit, but he could at least divert their attention. "Do'Karth will circle left and try to create an opening. They cannot look at all of us at once." he said, taking off at a jog to flank the one without heavy armour.

"I will take the right." Valen said, circling to the right as Do' Karth moved to the left. His spear resting a groove on his shield, he had aimed straight at the rightmost Kamal. "Do'Karth, no prolonged fighting. In, get your hit, draw their attention. Let the fire do the rest." He said, not waiting for the other to answer, but trusting in his instincts that he would understand the plan. For his part, the Dunmer danced in, twisted and thrusted his spear at the Kamal closest to him. The kamal blocked and tried to cleave his spear but he pulled it out of reach, aided by the fact it was shorter then a normal one. The Kamal sliced at him and Valen took it on the shield, stabbing low at the creature's thigh. It to moved away with a block, leaving its exposed right shoulder momentarily towards the fire mage.

Not wanting to leave Karth without cover, Solveig moved left, keeping Do'Karth at her back and the other Kamal in front of her. She stayed in a low crouch, her shield covering the left side of her body, making sure to only show her eyes up from behind the shield. She sprang to her left, feinting a jab with her spear to get the Kamal to react. Just as expected, the Kamal's big shield moved to block the strike that never came, in that same instant, she sprang back to her right and intended to dig the glass blade of the spear into an exposed part of flesh. She was thwarted again as the Kamal stepped back, swinging its shield in an arc around to bat away her spear. She too hopped backwards to recover, The fire salts on her blade would be no use if they never found flesh. She breathed a curse, frowning a little deeper now.

While Solveig and her Kamal opponent bobbed and weaved without exposing any weaknesses, the creature opposite Valen had momentarily failed to cover its shoulder with its shield and Niernen, spells at the ready, wasted no time in taking advantage. With a single synchronised motion, the Dunmer sorceress and her conjured Daedric atronach set loose their fireballs at the Snow Demon. Niernen was suddenly set upon by a moment of dizziness, undoubtedly courtesy of her exhaustion, and her spell missed its target, instead flying past Do'Karth's head with merely a yard to spare. It exploded behind him against the deck of the ship where tongues of flame burned briefly before extinguishing, finding nothing to fuel themselves on the hard iron of the ship. Niernen's atronach, on the other hand, was incapable of experiencing such mortal weaknesses, and its fireball struck the Kamal square on the shoulder. Its clothing immediately immolated and the fire spread to its flesh within seconds -- now exposed to the Tamrielic air and beset upon by temperatures too fierce to handle, the Akaviri invader quickly collapsed with the same inhuman howls as its comrade earlier.

"Sorry!" Niernen yelled at Do'Karth after steadying herself and clearing her head. The remaining Kamal wasn't garbed in mere clothing like the other one -- no, this one was armored from head to toe. Niernen's fire wouldn't do too much here, not unless she planned on expending all of her remaining magicka in a searing blast like the one she'd nearly roasted Do'Karth to death with on the docks of Windhelm. "This one's all yours," Niernen said with a nod towards Valen and Solveig. If Do'Karth could provide an opening from the side, Niernen was confident the two spear-wielding warriors could take the creature down quick.

The sudden scorching heat nearly made Do'Karth lose his footing, as any sane person wasn't keen on remaining too close to a blaze and enjoy the intolerable heat. He heard the apology from behind, and Do'Karth was suddenly reminded of the last time Niernen worked with him at the Windhelm docks; he sincerely hoped every encounter wouldn't run the risk of him being incinerated. It was very low on his priority list.

The flames, as well as the shrieking and dying Kamal proved to be enough of a distraction against his adversary that he was already within range of the lumbering creature by the time the Kamal took into account the Khajiit coming up on his flank. Do'Karth leaped upwards towards the Snow Demon's head, trailing his staff behind him in a swing, smashing it into its jaw with enough force to make it stumble and nearly fall backwards. He landed gracefully just behind the Kamal with a roll to carry his momentum away, turning to jab the end of the staff behind the creature's knee, collapsing it to the deck with a heavy thud. As the Kamal began to fall, flailing in futility, Do'Karth rose, both hands at the ready with his weapon. He would not be the one to finish the adversary; he never was. Instead, he stepped back, waiting for the inevitable to happen with a heavy sigh. Despite everything these terrible beasts had done to Tamriel and its people, his friend who stood across from him included, he could not reconcile the need to kill with the simple fact that he was the embodiment that even the worst people could change if they had a chance. Every time he had the chance to kill, he was risking destroying the man he tried to become.

Others, fortunately, didn't have that reservation.

Raelyn decided, after seeing Do'Karth being nearly set on fire that she was just as happy sitting in the back as she ever was. She was surprised when DoKarth didn't finish the beast off. She said to Solveig, "Maybe you should help Doko remember why he bares a staff. I think he might be having moral qualms." Though she supposed she might feel a bit bad if she had to try to kill a Kamal with a stick. That could take days.

Between flames and blade, the Kamal were slain with haste, but there was no time to reflect on the victory as the team moved past the corpses and headed below deck in search of the prisoner cells. While there was a risk of a Kamal waiting in wait in darkness before their eyes could adjust from the bright sunlight to the murky pitch of below deck, it was a risk they had to take. Do'Karth decided to take it as a good omen when they weren't immediately hacked to pieces upon descending below. Now was just a matter of both locating the cells and finding a way to open the lock before Roze and Sagax managed to blow the frigate a crippling blow with their unique brand of "moderation" when it came to using enough charges.

Though his blood dribbled down onto the forest floor, Daixanos' powerful arms lifted his body ever higher into the trees. Only light grunts and low, grating noises could be heard from within his gritted teeth, for he wished to be extra quiet as he found a safe spot to hide, or potentially, ambush from. With one more surge of his considerable strength, he pulled himself onto the third lowest branch. Not a moment too soon, he found out.

Beyond the rise just outside of the woods, two figures with drawn blades now cautiously waded deeper into the outerlying woods. Daixanos stared at them with a measuring look. A Mer and a Man, one with a Long Knife and the other with a Short Sword. Bows upon their backs, strung and ready to be used if needed, though it would take time to retrieve. So they were some of the bowmen who had pursued him into the dark.
They would regret such a decision.

He waited patiently, allowing them to pass by unmolested at first. That is, until he dropped an arrow, letting it fall and strike the earth softly. The Hist had guided his timing. It made no more sound than a twig would, but it was enough to have them spin around, blades at the ready. One muttered something to the other. The Mer had spoken to the Man he realized, and strode forward himself.

The Long Knife wielding Altmer stepped lightly, doing his race proud for their light footed steps. He drew closer, and closer, before he found the source of the noise... A single iron arrow.

Crack...Thud. The screams of his comrade that were suddenly silenced behind him sent a chill up his spine that he would remember for the rest of his life. He turned in time to see Daixanos sliding his bloodied Knife out of the now broken man, whom the Argonian had just landed on to break his own fall.

A growl emanated from Dax's mouth, and he drew himself up and gazed at the Elf now quivering before him, Knife held out defensively. Dax did his best not to let his injuries show, or concentrated on how much he ached after that fall. "Give up, and I shall spare your life," Daixanos said, now gripping the haft of his Battleaxe.

Having seen the damage the Hunter had wrought earlier, and with no backup, the Mer dropped his Knife and complied. Daixanos was relieved, for in truth another battle might be his last. "Good choice, Mer." he let slither out of his mouth, and the next sensation the Elf felt was the haft of an Axe connecting with his skull.

It was an uncomfortable amount of time, but eventually Dax had maneuvered his way within the forest closer to the Inn 'round the frontlines. His breath wheezing and his body still bleeding somewhat, Sevine, Rasha, Jorwen, and whoever else was there would see a moderately injured and heavily tired Daixanos with an unconscious Elf strew upon his shoulder, his Axe merely being dragged in the dirt behind him as he slowly enters the firelight.

"Prisoner," was all Dax had the breath to utter, before he fell to his knees and gasped for air. The Mer's form rolled off him to hit the ground with a short bounce. Daixanos caught himself with his clawed hands, growling at his own weakness. Hist lend me strength.

---

Dzuungits wasn't impressed. He never expected to be impressed, therefore, the result did not surprise him the slightest. When Tliskev, their liaison with the locals, approached him with an eager band of Tamrielics, he knew they would serve no more than to dull the enemy's blades. Actually, everything under his command felt second-rate. The best cavalry had been assigned to Eviake and his southern front. What was left for Dzuungits were Nanouk (the eight-legged water bears) in sub-par conditions, a measly four Farisme (ice wraith pulled carriages, with ice-launching crystals detached from ships), in which one broke down five minutes out from Windhelm. Hell, at least two Nanouk lost their mouth suction, which meant they had to be straw fed. Like maintaining the mounts' temporal adaptive assembly (or whatever the shamans said) wasn't troublesome enough. Now he realized Hakkeam had deemed him expendable, even as he were promoted from one of the dozen second-guards to one of five first-guards. His troops were merely distinguished between the forlorn hope and the forlorn hopeless.

Pulling up an enchanted spyglass to his visor, the Kamal rider saw Ji'Vesrai being electrocuted to bits. It was a relief in the end, as whatever secret weapons the defender held had been drawn out by the distraction. However, this meant most of the collaborators started retreating. Some ran to back to the northern hills they flanked from, while others attempted the fastest way back, which meant through a series of trenches and obstacles on the main road. If anything, these locals were fast. Some of them were bound to be killed in retreat, but a few, like the Bosmer woman accompanying Ji'Vesrai earlier, ran back faster than that Tang Mo dimwit For'reste Gum'p.

"Sir, our attack has been scattered! They killed Ji'Vesrai, blew him up!" The Bosmer came up between exhausted breaths. "We can't do this, it's-"

"Shut up!"

Dzuungits' giant hand clamped on the tiny elf's head and smashed her into the ground. There was a bone shattering crunch and blood seeping out. The long blurb of foreign words started to give him a headache, so it was only fair to repay the favor. He didn't care, he had enough, and the pathetic Tamrielics went past their usefulness. The only shame was the elf's sweat dirtying his gloves. "Commence bombardment!" He ordered his crystal operators in their native tongue. Walking further back, he took command of the two captured catapults; one of which was crewed by collaborators, while the other was manned by these bone clad Armigers they suppose to call allies. "Launch, now!" Dzuungits barked in Tamrielic.

A volley of ice and rocks touched down around Nightgate Inn. Because their position was set up hastily, their shots were not calibrated to be accurate. With that said, Dzuungits was satisfied to see at least one rock smashing into the main building. It only destroyed a corner, but for whoever under that corner, they're flattened good. The siege weapons continued launching for a few more minutes; many hit nothing, but some had certainly found their target. The death of three densely clustered defenders were witnessed through Dzuungits' scope, then he swiped to side, and he saw the Orc woman.

It was one of the collared mages, at least she looked like it. There were scarcely any green brute-elves within the collaborators' ranks, as the massacre of their nearby stronghold drove them into hostility. This one appeared to be fighting against Dzuungits' "advanced scouts", which meant, she was fighting for the enemy. The enchanted properties of the spyglass should pick up anything their shaman marked, yet for some reason, the Orc had no collar signature at all. Tliskev assured that the leading mage, some "Jonimir", would keep the rest in line. But, there was no reassurance on if Jonimir's subordinates wanted to stay in line. If Dzuungits needed any more reason to attack, the danger of the green-skin leaking vital information was it.

Bombardment ceased as he had ordered. Dzuungits saw damage being done, but it was far from a clean extermination. Many obstacles and defenders remained, but no matter; he could handle this much.

Saddling on his Nanouk, Dzuungits blew a baritone war horn; the signal for his cavalry to advance. The sound would be heard by the defenders, and hopefully, driving fear into their puny brains. He urged his bear forward with its rein, causing it to plod ahead like it always had, for decades. Thinking about it now, Dzuungits recalled the Nanouk were not predators prior to their domestication eras ago. Their natural behaviors were akin to some panda bears in other Akaviri lands. However, a Nanouk's fury knew no equal at its prime, and that, Dzuungits understood, came only when it became desperate.

"Time to hunt another big game." Dzuungits said, strapping his heavy shield to arm. Up front and center on the shield attached a head, a lizard head in which Dzuungits took as trophy three weeks ago. He patted the leathery features gently. "Don't you agree, Utu-ja?"

Utu-ja was calling to him.

A cloud of voice clamored for Daelin's mind. It was hazy as to who spoke what, but when they started to materialize, the Argonian was first to pierce through the smoke. He was told to wake up, to fight, to breath and to return to where he belonged. All a sudden, everyone started speaking; Iron-Pumper taunted him over the betrayal, the Riften thief laughed at his foolishness, the Nordic demographer probed every aspect of his life, and finally, Eridor, the chief of his clan. He was always eschewing responsibility, always running from the consequences, always turning away from what was important, the figure told him. "No!" Daelin would counter. These days were long over; he had worked tirelessly as Ashav's lead scout, the numbers of lives saved, and lost...

"You never care."




"Open your eyes!" Utu-ja reached to him. His scales danced in smoke and dust, as if they clung to this unreal reality. A dark gaping maw hungered behind the Argonian; Daelin knew what would happen if he did what he was told.

"You're dead." The Bosmer said, a statement to himself.

"Yes, but you are not." Utu-ja told him. He extended his scaly hand and all the other figures fell silent. "You can honor me one last time; give my body a deserved rest."

Then a bright lightning pulse arced through space, shattering every single figure. Daelin woke up. He was on a bed, most of his clothing were on, though some were roughed up and burned. He remembered, the memory licked him. The stand-off, the confrontation and one ball of inferno that destroyed the solid under his feet. He was severely injured, yet, his wounds were treated. Every part of body screamed in different types of pain, but in its entirety, it remained functional. Someone was fighting outside, and the blinding flash that woke him must have been part of it. Where was he? Scanning the room for details, he found "Property of Nightgate Inn" carved on a drawer. Where were his weapons? Conveniently, whoever tended to him laid his bow and quiver in a corner. His bone dagger still sat in his boot. Now the final question, where did his men go?

Out of nowhere, an earth-shattering impact shook Daelin out of his thoughts, and out of his bed. When he looked up, the opposite wall had been demolished by a large rock. That definitely confirmed he was in a battle. With adrenaline surging, Daelin ignored the protest of every sore muscle by leaping out of the partially destroyed building. On his way out, he heard someone begging Talos for mercy from behind the cellar door. He also saw an old Orc so pale, and the blood pool around him so deep, that the poor fellow must have been bled dry. This wasn't one of the mercenaries, but if something could do this, then the implication of whatever Daelin was about to encounter sent a wave of dread into his stomach.

Thankfully, Daelin stepped outside to few ongoing conflicts. A lot of armed individuals were running away. That didn't matter, for the Bosmer immediately caught the shapes of Keegan and Marcel drenched in a puddle of gore. An Orc woman was handing them potions, so that's where Daelin hustled to. He realized that his attire (and half of his mohawk) was badly burnt and wouldn't hold up against a serious blow, though that was a worry for later. For now, Keegan was thrashing and panicking.

"Ahh! I can't see." The Altmer haphazardly scraped remains from his face. He managed to clean off one eye and found an eyeball in his hands. "Aaahhh! My eye!" His scream was loud enough to cause a bunch of Nord fighters to stare in wonder.

"Easy lad." Daelin rushed to Keegan side and laid a hand on his face (only possible as the taller elf was kneeling). He wiped the blood off the other side of Keegan's features, revealing a mostly fine eye. "Look, that ain't yours."

"Oh." Keegan panted. The sight of Bharzak offering health potions must have been a welcoming one for the Altmer, for he gladly took the bottle and chugged it like an alcoholic reuniting with his long lost beer. There's so much blood caked onto Keegan that his scratch wounds from the earlier fight had been completely blocked. Even though Keegan didn't look any prettier with the potion, he was certainly moving with more vigor. "Th-, thanks."

"Wait, Daelin?" Finally seeing the Bosmer took Keegan aback, even more so than seeing Ji'Vesrai's torsoless legs, which was cauterized in the blast and not leaking much blood.

"I-" Rudely interrupting Daelin was a gigantic ice spike dropping from the eastern skies. It landed harmlessly away from the mercenaries, and harmfully into a trio of Braves. "When-" Another spike. "Y'ffre damn it, who is attacking us!?" Daelin screamed to match the sudden loudness of projectiles impacting the ground. "And who are you?" He pointed at Bharzak.

"She's Bharzak, you rescued her from the cave, remember?" Keegan introduced for the Orc. "We got Fulrog, the arcane smith, to remove the collar Kamals put on her" Keegan gestured towards the blood pool at the inn door.

Daelin nodded in response. He did recall the Orc, but the last he checked, she was working with Jonimir. Whatever, he'll take Keegan's words for now. There was also the question of their attackers, but that was cut short by a rock flung into nearby revetments, sending wood splinters at Daelin.

"Get out of the open!" A Braves fighter alerted them; the Nord in question was dragging another with a jagged piece of wood in his stomach. His words were wise to the situation at hand; Daelin, Keegan, Marcel and Bharzak found themselves behind a stack of barrels.

"Scouts say the Kamals are just to the east. I bet they're coming after this." The uninjured Brave said between efforts to stabilize his wounded comrade. He glanced up, seemingly recognizing the features of Keegan and Daelin. "Aren't you the mercenaries from Windhelm? I'm Aenar, met with one of your Argonians, Tsleeixth or something. Is he ar-"

This time, a booming horn interrupted Aenar. It was heard loud and clear by every on site. To the veterans at Windhelm, it was much alike to the signal when Kamal troop ships lowered their ramps for assaults. "Incoming! Cavalry charge!" A Braves watchman shouted from the frontlines, voice quivered with fear.

Aenar's eye widened. "We can't take them here! Gonna need some help! Why can't the Dragonborn be saving the day now?"

"The Dragonborn's been assa-" Daelin put up his hands. "Wait, you were held by the Kamals?" The Bosmer spoke to Bharzak. "Does their cavalry have any weakness we can exploit? Anything that can help us?" He almost plead.

"Even if they do, we won't have the resources to exploit them." Aenar pointed out. He looked to his fellow militiaman, seeing life rapidly drained out of the man, Aenar hang his head in resignation. "Get her back to your boss in Dawnstar, that's where you're based, right?" Desperately ripping off clothing for bandage, Aenar could not stop his battle buddy from dying. The impaled fragment was the size of an arm, and wrapped around it were vital organs. "Get us help, anything. Guards, Stormcloaks, bandits, by Oblivion, I'm sure Dorrance will even take Thalmors!" The injured warrior's eyes drooped shut, and Aenar sorrowfully checked the pulse. "Go, us Braves will hold them off."

For what it was worth, Aenar gave the best plan Daelin could match. He had nothing to argue, and merely told the rest to comply. However, as the first formation of eight-legged bears crested from the horizon, everything happening at this moment became trivial. He saw the Kamal leader, the shield, and the macabre ornament mounted upon its front. In that instant, his dream made perfect sense.

"Uh, Daelin." Keegan worried. "Are we going now?"

"Find Jorwen and the rest; get to a safe point." Daelin replied without paying Keegan much attention, as he was all of a sudden fixated on the charging snow demons. He stood up, bow strung with an bone arrow nocked towards one Kamal with gold trimmings on its armor. "I have a dying request to fulfill."

Dzuungits rode in front, not the first, but just behind the earliest line of riders. Trenches and gabions formed an incomplete blockade, with gaps being either unfinished or destroyed in the bombardment. The defenders let loose arrows, some flaming, once they came in range. But it was clear that the archers were in reduced strength, and it was insufficient to stop the cavalry charge. Nanouk moved slower than horses. These amphibious bears were not sluggish, but they had to make up for pure celerity by carrying heavy armor. Many shots bounced harmlessly off the bears' plates, but some, especially the flaming ones, inflicted critical damage on unfortunate riders. Pained Nanouk emitted sharp, high-pitched shrieks uncharacteristic for their size.

When Dzuungits' mount leaped across the trenches, many defenders were already fleeing. Dzuungits was able to skewer two Tamrielics on his tree-sized lance, that was, until his Nanouk came to a complete stop. Turned out a steel trap had snapped shut on one of his mount's eight legs. The creature reared in pain, forcing Dzuungits to dismount. Hastily inspecting the damage, the Kamal commander knew he had no time to pull the trap out. He would be fighting on foot, so Dzuungits discarded his lance, for its length, and the added weight of two impaled bodies, made balance awkward. His backup weapon was a short sabre, one that would be proportionate to a Tamrielic longsword. Before the said sabre could sheathed, a defender barreled in with axe aloft. Instead of cutting off Kamal heads, this Tamrielic being was tossed back by a thrown spear.

"One of you get my mount free; the rest of you press ahead." Dzuungits ordered his soldiers. Several more had switched to moving on foot, including one adept ranger with a spear-thrower and a bundle of whale bone spears. "You, come with me." He beckoned the ranger.

A new challenger entered in no time. This one, who was previously caring for his comrade, came charging at the Kamal ranger. Initial thrown spear missed its mark, allowing the Tamrielic and the Kamal ranger to engage in close combat. Dzuungits kept marched forward, having full confidence of his men's capabilities against the paltry natives of this land. But before he got anywhere, player two decided to join in the form of a crisped midget elf.

This individual was hardly threatening in a set of ashen outerwear. He shot an arrow at Dzuungits, which was easily deflected on his generous shield. The elf scrambled another shot, all the while raving about some "payback", "disrespect" and "burial". Perhaps it was some form of distraction, as the arrow glanced off Dzuungits' pauldron, close to his head. The midget was fuming mad came the next shot. Three arrows loaded against Dzuungits, all overdrawn so far back and the elf himself recoiled back, clenching a dislocated shoulder. One arrow flew off wide, another hit Dzuungits' shield, and the final one bit into his forearm.

It was his sword wielding arm. As the arrowhead torn into scarred tissues, Dzuungits abruptly lost grip on his sword. His enemy took this chance to close it with a dagger, somehow ignoring a dislocated shoulder. The elf was fast, so fast that he sprinted besides the Kamal, dropping below his shield in a slide and cutting into the joints between his greaves. Now behind Dzuungits, the elf leaped forward with his dagger.

"For Utu-ja!"

Thud.

Dzuungits had spun around in time. He caught the dagger with his shield, then roughly slapped it out of the elf's hand. With his unhurt leg, Dzuungits kicked the pitiful elf with enough force to send him flying. Ribs cracked over his boots.

"Finish him!" Dzuungits told the ranger, who had killed the attacking local, but sustained several cuts in the process. He himself found his sword arm numb and paralyzed, which meant the arrow was poisoned; such an underhanded tactic was befitting only of the Tang Mo. Nevertheless, Dzuungits must continue handicapped. He snapped out the arrow, recovered his sabre, forced it into a solid grip and froze his entire forearm with an ice rune. It would crystallize the wound and prevent poison from traveling elsewhere.

There was one more target before Dzuungits could seek treatment; the Orc woman. He needed to bring her corpse back to Tliskev, and mount her head besides Utu-ja's. "You will regret running away." Dzuungits taunted in Tamrielic as he drew near her. "You will die like the elf. Your head will like be this lizard's."

Marcel lay on top of the bloodied soil for a moment, murmuring, almost like a toddler begging his mother to sleep a while further, even as the Orc they had saved from the mines offered them potions to regain their composure and vitality. It wasn’t until the mention of the Kamal that he did anything, but with the danger mentioned, the witch hunter bled back into the mind space then occupied by the child, and stirred, fingers clenching back onto the hilt of the sword lying next to him. Lifting himself up from the pool of red, he tiredly grabbed the potion of replenishment in the Orc woman’s hand and poured the contents down his mouth, feeling energy slide back into his body. The hairs on his spine lifted themselves from their slumber, and his eyelids shut back into their domains, freeing his eyes from bondage.

Standing upright once more, Marcel looked back at the mess he’d made with amazement, not really listening to Keegan’s screaming, before a sudden piece of ice crashed onto the ground and sent tremors through the soil. Another one, somewhat closer, peppered Marcel with pieces of earth, and he tried to trace the attack back to its source before something out of his vision crashed on what sounded like wood. A man screamed for everyone to get to cover, and Marcel, still disconcerted, hobbled, zigzagging, until someone pulled him down behind some cover.

He recognized the burned man sitting next to him, and felt surprise, although with the chaos and everything else around him, the feeling of surprise actually felt quite dull to the Breton, who was far too high on adrenaline and fear. He took in a deep breath, although could not exhale properly, thanks to a sudden, booming, low-pitched sound, which made him, and everything around him, shake. He blinked repeatedly, not daring to take a peek and see the source of the sound.

‘’Incoming! Cavalry charge!’’

As the Nord voiced their inability to stop such an attack, and argued with Daelin on how to proceed, Marcel gathered enough courage to take a peek, and then, did so. And such, for the first time in his life, the Breton saw the Kamal, armored beasts atop their eldritch mounts, coming crashing down like an avalanche, looking like rancid Daedra out of Oblivion itself. It seemed that the invaders lived up to their reputation as snow demons. He stopped peeking, and caught the end of the conversation, hearing the Nord telling them to run away. He looked at Daelin, who was once again their superior now that he was up and running, and saw him confirm the order to Keegan. Marcel was not exactly happy about the matter, given how it was aggression that was respected the most in his profession – but this was not witch hunting, and he admittedly did not know anything about military strategy. He would have to comply, he figured.

It wasn’t until he had cleared some distance alongside the others that he saw Daelin attempt to duke it out with a now-dismounted Kamal cavalry officer. While he had been content with retreating, the thought of going through all the trouble with the Bosmer, only to see himself get killed, did not sit right with Marcel – had he not been of a naturally calm demeanor, he would have felt angry.

He stopped, and, pointing at Daelin with the tip of his sword, addressed his comrades:

‘’I wouldn’t be content with myself if that fellow got himself killed by precisely what we were trying to keep him away from. I would appreciate your support, if you would.’’

With that, Marcel rushed back into the fray, sword at the ready. He was fully aware of the folly of this course of action, and indeed could feel his body fear for his life, a familiar feeling. He did not care much for it –quiet he may be, but he was still stalwart. Plus, hunters of High Rock knew well that fear was what separated them from those that they fought. Despite this, they themselves were known for being relentless in battle, and Marcel did not wish to prove himself an exception.

Sword raised, Marcel made it to Daelin, who had been knocked off his feet by the Kamal he had been fighting. He brandished his sword against a wounded Kamal that had intended to finish the Bosmer off – the two stood there, in hesitation, until another of the snow demons moved in swinging, attempting to outflank the Breton. Marcel deftly stepped back, sword now trained at this new opponent.

‘’Dagon take you!’’ Marcel spat as he dodged another swing, noting the uncommon occurence. After two other empty swings, the beast assessed that it could not accurately strike Marcel, who had been dodging every attack like an experienced mosquito, thanks to its heavy mace. And so, the beast feinted from its next strike into an unexpected, quick backhand, sending Marcel to the ground with its impact. Disoriented and bruised, Marcel rolled on the ground, looking up to see the beast’s mace raised overhead.

And it came down with a rumbling smash.

Raising its head from the strike, the Kamal warrior searched for the remains of its newest kill, but to his surprise, could not find any. As it turned its head to the side, the edge of Marcel’s sword slid tangentially through the visor of the beast’s helmet, splitting both of the beast’s eyes in twain.

Blinded, and with blood seeping all over its face, the creature bellowed in agony and threw itself on its back in pain, and Marcel, once more, found himself rid of an enemy. Not wishing to near the beast trashing wildly on the ground for a proper execution, he moved back, content with his partial victory. He could only hope his comrades had also found similar success.