Prologue

14th of Second Seed, 4E207
The Imperial City

The weather-wizards of the Synod, whose eyes were permanently directed skyward as they studied the wind and the rain and the clouds, had claimed in a statement published in the Black Horse Courier that it was going to be a very hot summer this year. Hector saw no reason to disagree with their findings as he made his way through the wide boulevards of the Imperial City. It was only Second Seed and the warmth radiating off the white stone slabs of the architecture and the cobbled streets was enough to make him sweat in his leather Penitus Oculatus uniform. Hector still thought the black-and-red colour scheme and the sigil of the all-seeing eye proudly displayed on the chest were a tad ridiculous, but it would do well for him to appear in official attire at a briefing. In some ways, the Penitus Oculatus and the Ruby Ranks were hardly different.

It had been two years since the Empire defeated the Stormcloak Rebellion at long last. The protracted civil war had raged for more than four years. Its progress had been temporarily impeded by the reappearance of the dragons but the Last Dragonborn swiftly put an end to most of that, only to disappear into hiding almost immediately after. Ulfric Stormcloak had blamed the Empire for leaving that task up to a single individual, no matter how prodigious his soul and martial prowess, and the armed conflict resumed with renewed vigor, and only came to its end after a horrendous siege on the city of Windhelm that lasted for weeks. Hector had spent the entirety of the war up there in cold, harsh Skyrim and had thoroughly enjoyed his forays into warmer climates these last two years in service of the Penitus Oculatus.

Little did he know he was about to be sent to the opposite end of the continent.

Hector's order made its headquarters in one of the many halls of White-Gold Tower. Cool air and shade greeted him upon stepping foot into the building. Its thick walls drowned out the bustle and noise of the City outside; the only sound to be heard was the rhythmic pit-pat of his leather boots on the stone floor as he made his way through the foyer. It was a large, open space, scarcely decorated and without windows. The only feature of note was the wooden door set into the wall opposite the entrance with the same all-seeing eye of the Penitus Oculatus hanging over it, sewn into a large banner. It was deliberate theatrics designed to intimidate all those who entered. Hector sighed.

The door was flanked by two heavily-armed and armored guards. Even though they knew who Hector Sibassius was, uniform and all, the Penitus Oculatus took security very seriously and the taciturn soldiers asked for Hector's papers before they let him in. The next chamber was much larger and stretched deep into the carousel-shape of White-Gold tower's base and Hector could see the curvature of the structure in the chamber's walls. All of its space -- except a single wide aisle through the center -- was filled with desks at which dozens of scribes sat and worked. Even here it was surprisingly quiet, save for the sound of many quills scratching away at rolls of parchment blending together indistinguishably into a humming background noise. None looked up from their work to notice Hector's passing.

"Captain Sibassius," an older man said as Hector stepped into one of the offices that connected to the Hall of Scripture. The man turned around while Hector gently closed the door behind him and greeted him with an affable smile. At once Hector recognized him; it was Gaius Virelo, one of the officers previously assigned to the Oculatus' field office near the border with Morrowind. Hector despised him. Virelo's smile did not extend to his eyes, and the gauntness of his face made him look like a snake.

"Commander Virelo. What a pleasant surprise. I see they've promoted you again?" Hector replied flatly and retorted Virelo's insincere smile with one of his own. He approached the chair prepared for him on his side of the office's large mahogany desk and laid his hands on the crest rail. Virelo laughed -- a barking, mirthless sound -- and dismissed Hector's assumption with a handwave, as if it were a small matter. "Where is Petrus?" Hector asked.

Unfazed, Virelo presented Hector with another smile, this one markedly more condescending. "Retired, Hector. Haven't you heard? The Emperor thought it best. You know, at his age... either way, come, sit down," Virelo said and gestured towards the chair.

Frowning, Hector scoffed. Petrus was nearing seniority, yes, but Virelo was only four years his junior. Still, it wouldn't do to immediately come to verbal blows with his new superior at the first opportunity. The ex-Legionnaire sat down and busied himself with draping the black skirt of his uniform over his legs properly while Virelo took a seat of his own. "To business, then," Hector said, and had cleared his face of any expression when he looked up. It was better to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Very well," Virelo replied, clearly of the same mindset, and pushed a bundle of sealed documents over the desk towards Hector. The Commander cleared his throat and continued: "Those papers contain everything we know about a certain character named Akhar. Have you heard of him?" The older man raised his eyebrows expectantly and stroked his chin with his fingers.

A pregnant lull in the conversation occurred as Hector reached for the scrolls and began to rifle through them, his cerulean eyes moving quickly over the black ink, absorbing as much information as he could. "Oh," he mumbled eventually. "So this is the pirate lord. I had heard of his activities, but not his name." Another silence followed as Hector continued to read.

"This," Hector said, louder, and held up a single sheet of papyrus. "A plea for help from High Rock?" he asked and met Virelo's gaze.

The older man nodded once, slowly, and cleared his throat. "It seems the city-states are not capable of addressing the threat that Akhar poses. They assure us that Hammerfell's coast is in similar dire straits, but the Redguards are too proud to admit it." Virelo smiled genuinely at this and chuckled. "We have no way of verifying if that is true, but I would not be surprised."

"Nor I," Hector replied absent-minded as he continued to read. The information contained in the scrolls was both interesting and disconcerting. Reports of sailors claiming their ships had been boarded by Daedra, townspeople of coastal villages swearing they saw black ships pass on the horizon in the dead of night, their sails ablaze with flame, entire caravans lost to an unknown force...

"Look at the majesty sideways and all you see is the Tower, which our ancestors made idols from... Look at the secret triangular gate sideways and you see the secret Tower... The secret Tower within the Tower is the shape-- What is this?" Hector asked, frowning.

"Oh, that," Virelo said and rubbed his temples. "Our scholars have identified it as an excerpt from the Lessons of Vivec. One of the survivors of a caravan raid swore up and down the mountain that he saw Akhar himself and that he spoke those words before he executed the whole caravan. The survivor was spared deliberately. We asked the College of Whispers why he would preach those words, or that sermon in particular. I believe they're still bickering about it. Personally, I think it's not that important -- so he quotes the scriptures of a dead god. He's insane. Maybe you can ask that friend of yours what it means, eh? That Dark Elf?"

Hector grunted non-noncommittally and went back to reading.

Virelo leaned forward in his chair and placed his viperian head on his fingertips. "Hector," he said, and the man in question looked up at the tone of Virelo's voice -- did he just detect a hint of concern and wariness? "Much of what those documents contain is hearsay and so fantastical in nature I find most of it hard to believe, but we do have reasons to assume that this Akhar is no ordinary pirate. He sailed into the harbor of Daggerfall in a stolen trader's vessel, made his presence known and challenged the Knight of Moons to a duel. Honour-bound, the Knight agreed and ordered the guards to keep their distance."

The wooden chair creaked as Hector mimicked Virelo's pose and leaned in closer.

"They fought then and there, in the harbor. It was over in seconds. Akhar struck the Knight down and shattered Dawnbreaker as if it were any other blade. He escaped without a scratch. How is it described again? There, that scroll -- no, the other one."

After a few seconds of mouthing along to the words as he read, Hector spoke them out loud. "After the Knight fell, the guards attempted to accost him... Akhar cast a great wall of flames that burned so bright it turned night into day and retreated aboard his ship... none could reach him... there was a great wailing." Hector looked up, disbelief etched clearly on his face.

Virelo shrugged. "It's true. Dozens of witnesses confirmed it. We've seen the body and the shards of the blade ourselves. This happened two days ago. The latest reports indicate the riots in Daggerfall are still ongoing. I'm sure you understand the Emperor cannot ignore such an event."

Momentarily amazed into silence, Hector retreated into the comfort of the chair and pondered this news. "What, exactly," he asked eventually, "is expected of me?"

"Kill him, if you can. The Emperor asked for you directly. Aside from everything you just learned, the largest problem in achieving this goal is that Akhar appears to have made his lair in Valenwood. Somewhere in the vicinity of Greenheart," Virelo answered. Hector tried to read the man's expression and tone but got nowhere. Virelo represented the Nibenese branch of the Penitus Oculatus, which believed that the commandeering of such an agency should be left to magistrates and politicans, not soldiers. Hector would not put it beyond the man to use Akhar as a tool to rid himself of another soldier on a meteoric rise in the order. That said, openly voicing that assumption without hard proof would be a foolish mistake.

And what if the Emperor really did ask for him by name?

Virelo continued. "The political situation between the Empire and the Dominion does not allow for a frank discussion about the presence of Akhar within the Dominion's borders. We do not know if they house him willingly or if he makes his home there against their will, and they have simply not yet succeeded in ousting or slaying him themselves. Our eyes and ears in Valenwood are a precious few these days, but one of our assets in Morrowind claims to have heard a rumor that traveled all the way from Valenwood through Anequina, Black Marsh and finally to Blacklight, that the elves fear him greatly. Something about blood streaming upriver..." The old Imperial paused and sighed.

"A covert assassination, then," Hector said curtly. Virelo nodded. The man's poignant stare made it clear to Hector that he would stand alone in this. "Plausible deniability, Hector. We cannot risk sending more of our own."

"As the Emperor wills it."

--

Chapter One

27th of Sun's Height, 4E207
Near Arenthia
Valenwood

Hector was the sole member of the Penitus Oculatus that was to carry out this mission, but that did not mean he had to do so utterly alone. Interpreting Virelo's words to mean that he was free to utilize his assets as he wished, Hector had spent the first few weeks discovering the whereabouts of various people he had met in the past and sent them messages by courier to request their assistance. For some it was a matter of principle, like Roland Corvo, whom Hector believed would follow him anywhere if asked to do so. For others it was the money, like the Khajiit Do'ava; Hector had drawn upon his significant allowance to finance the mission.

And for yet others, it was friendship. Hector and Balen had set up camp just north of Arenthia on the bank of a small river, where they now waited for the others. Hector's letters had specified this day as the day the group should assemble and had included forged documents of the East Empire Trading Company with them. The Empire and the Dominion might be close to war but trade had to continue and such documents would grant Hector's allies entry at one of the many Thalmor checkpoints that dotted the border with the Empire.

This far north, the fabled jungles of Valenwood were not yet very impressive. The trees were of middling height, with smooth bark and strange, large, flat leaves that sprung from the very top. Balen had informed Hector these were known as 'palm trees'. Predictably, the Imperial had not cared at all. More remarkable to him had been the undergrowth. The small shore upon which they sat now was the only patch of earth Hector had seen for miles that wasn't covered in waist-high vegetation, save for Arenthia itself. Predators could hide themselves easily in the tall grass and ferns and Hector had constantly thought he saw something move out of the corners of his eyes on their way to the river, much to his annoyance.

He insisted on wearing his Cyrodiilic steel armor and traveling cloak despite the heat (the weather-wizards had been right and it was positively sweltering) and the image he struck, of a knight of the Third Era of yore, looked sorely out of place as he stared pensively at the clear water of the river, his hands clasped behind his back. Hector used a trick he'd learned from an Imperial battlemage to keep himself cool and continuously drew upon small amounts of magicka to send a burst of ice-chilled air into the gaps of his armor -- one of the few cantrips Hector was capable of.

"I hope she comes," Hector said to Balen for the third time that day. He was referring to Erissil Stagshoof, a Bosmer native of Valenwood, that had apparently agreed to guide them south. Hector had sent the messenger into Valenwood with a mixture of hope and resignation at the idea that no one would heed the call. It had been a pleasant surprise to receive word that one of the clans had sent one of their own to meet him. Still, Hector was not sure he believed she would appear at all. The other allies he had called upon would be a welcome presence indeed, but Erissil could make or break their quest by herself.

Like a she-devil who comes when her name is spoken, Hector looked up to see someone moving in the bushes on the other side of the river. His hand instinctively went to the grip of his sheathed sword. "Ba-- Eno," he hissed, quickly correcting himself (they had agreed that Hector would use Balen's alias whenever they were around people they did not know). "What do you see?"

_{(@Peik and @Jbcool, you're up first.)}

The Dunmer had, true to his nature, spent most of the journey quiet, trying to arrange his thoughts on the recent developments to find some peace of mind, despite knowing all too well that what he was doing was futile. Ever since Hector had first informed him of the mission, and showed him those documents, Balen had feeling unease and elation at the same time (or perhaps, two emotions had simply wrenched more power than usual), which proved to himself (Balen liked using absolute terms about himself, since relativity meant uncertainty, and Balen was not comfortable admitting that he wasn’t certain about his very own thoughts and feelings) once again that he was a mer of contradictions.

There was a certain appreciation to be found in this mission for Balen, just as there was a certain appreciation to be found in everything that filled a sapient being with emotions – the body liked the action, the hormones, and the adrenaline. Balen, having long since accepted his body as a burden that he was to take care of, just like an unwanted child or your superior’s pet, found its constant, self repeating and purposeless desires (such as action or adventure) uncomfortable, yet also necessary, since his body was (at least for now – he had yet to receive any answers from his attempts to contact the Psijic Order, or find that fabled tome on using ectoplasm as a vessel to leave the body) what was sustaining his existence. Thus was Balen, locked in passive hostility against his flesh, akin to two exhausted warriors just staring at each other, unwilling to give up but too exhausted to continue fighting.

He got up from the fallen tree trunk he had been sitting on, and stretched his torso and arms back and forth in an attempt to shake away his constant and clouding thoughts, and began scanning his surroundings to keep his mind busy. Indeed, there were many objects to be distracted by – the relatively alien and untamed look of Valenwood, while nowhere as mind-boggling and awesome as the light-refracting, illusory towers of the Summerset Isles, was still enough to keep his mind busy. Alinor, by Anu, Alinor… He took a look at the river in an attempt to retrace the gleaming lights of the city’s skyline (A skyline! What other city had a skyline?) in the whirling reflections of light in the water, but unfortunately for Balen, night had not set yet, and thus, all he saw was a blurry image of himself, more than enough to disappoint.

‘’I hope she comes,’’ Hector repeated. Balen felt a tinge of discomfort in his voice, which he attributed to the wait for the guide, and his choice of attire contrasting with the climate, both of which were valid points in his opinion. Balen saw Hector as a simple man, relatively at peace with himself, unlike Balen, whose melancholy had been wrought into him to a degree that he occasionally entertained himself by thinking of scary things such as consciousness after death. The duo’s friendship, if it could be called that, was a source of bewilderment for the Dunmer. The two personalities had almost nothing in common, save an interest in board games – even the circumstances in which they were met were as inauspicious as a hymn to Molag Bal in a shrine to Arkay. Then again, considering that they only met whenever there was some danger to be overcome, perhaps their friendship had been created by the circumstances.

‘’Well, she’s Bosmer,’’ Balen muttered slowly as he sat back down, as if his mind was too busy with other things. ‘’Might be watching us from amongst the tall grass. Might be hiding between the tree leaves.’’ He picked up a broken, little branch from the ground and began drawing lines into the muddy soil to pass the time. ‘’Might be hiding under the soil.’’ He stuck the branch into the ground, and let it go. ‘’But I have a feeling she’ll come around, one way or another.’’ He tried to whistle quietly, but interrupted himself after he saw Sibassius grasping onto his sword’s grip. Balen’s hand instinctively pulled his walking cane closer to himself, and looked at the other side of the river after hearing Sibassius’ question.

‘’Short, primitive,’’ Balen replied. ‘’Has pointy ears.’’

He felt like such a dick sometimes.

The carriage creaked, as it moved on the road. The road was full of bumps and had been ill-maintained. Damn, someone needs to do something for this road Roland thought. It wasn't the first time he was traveling on a bad road or across a broken terrain, but this was ridiculous. He had joined a caravan bound for Arenthia from Skingrad, and it seemed that their destination was near. He hadn't been to Skingrad in years, and now he had to just practically run through it. Hector hadn't left much time to be late, to be honest. He was a man of tight schedules, as he had been during the Civil War.

Roland never had been to Valenwood, and even at the borders he had been a bit amazed. Forests in Skyrim and Cyrodiil were just that, forests, but here, Valenwood seemed to be synonymous with the word itself. If one looked forest on a dictionary, you'd find a picture of Valenwood. Roland was reading the letter Hector had sent, once again. It was written with precise and tight letters, and it was short. My dear friend Roland, I hope this letter finds you well.

The letter went with the pleasantries for couple of sentences, but it also brought up the business quickly. Hector wanted him to come to Valenwood for a secret mission, that could affect the fate of the Empire. A mission of utmost importance, for the reasons of state I cannot reliably write in this letter, as it's fall into the Thalmor hands could undermine my work. Come with haste.

Roland was sitting in a open-top carriage, armed and ready. He had joined the caravan on the pretext of a simple caravan guard, but the master of the caravan had been suspicious from the start, for the first couple days or so. As they approached Valenwood, the master had become himself more nervous, in fear of possible bandit raids or harsh Thalmor customs officers. Everything had gone smoothly, though. They had crossed the border and would reach Arenthia almost ahead of schedule. The caravan would stock up of Bosmer goods, while Roland would leave them and find Hector.

They came to a bridge, and another caravan guard, a young Orc, sighed of relief. "You know, I've gone this trail for a few times now, and somehow, that bridge gives me relief. It means we've passed the hardest part of the journey."

Speak for yourself. If I know Hector, the hardest is yet to come, Roland thought as he raised his eyes from Hector's letter to take a peak at the Orc. Tough-looking, muscular, armed with a scimitar, a bit nervous. Possible Legion material.

"This hasn't seen hard at all. I fought in Skyrim a few years ago, and this could labeled as a quiet day. Of course, it is often calm before the storm," Roland pointed out, and folded the letter.

"Right. Did you see any battles?" Orc asked out of curiosity.

"No, I didn't", Roland lied. He didn't like it, but he had to, for a while longer. He had actually served as a swordsman, fighting in the frontlines. "I was in charge of a supply wagon. Well, a few, actually. We hauled mostly food, weapons and armour for the Legion. Most of the time, it was a boring job."

They talked a bit more about the Civil War, as the caravan crossed the bridge to Arenthia. They stopped near a tavern, and Roland said his goodbyes to the Orc, probably never going to see him again. He left the caravan with his equipment. Roland was wearing his armour and had his trusty bastard sword on his left hip, and so the locals he saw seemed a bit wary of him. The armour wasn't the Legion's armour, but what he had bought along the way from Skyrim to Valenwood, buying the pieces from here and there. Hector had specified not to use the Legion's armour.

Entering the tavern, Roland wanted to indulge himself one last beer before the mission ahead. Heck, it might the last one in a long time. He ordered a pint of dark beer and asked a Bosmer barmaid of a tall, middle-aged Imperial in or near the town. It was a risky bet, as the Bosmer could be a Thalmor informer, for all he knew, but Roland didn't know exactly where Hector had made his camp.

"A tall Imperial came to Arenthia a few days ago. I heard he has a camp in the river bank", the Bosmer said quickly. "Just walk down stream, and you should find it."

"Thank you", Roland replied to her. He finished his pint and left for the river bank. It took him quite a while to get there, as the undergrowth was quite dense and roots were everywhere. Finally, he approached the campsite, and saw Hector and a Dunmer with him. Both seemed to peer at the other side of the river, as if looking for something. "Hector!" he shouted at him. "It's me, Roland."

For all his perceived dick-like behaviour, the absolute-loving Dunmer was not wrong in his assumptions, for a mere eyes distance away among the tall grass and vegetation was the spot where they had been watched ever since their arrival. Covered in the earth of her land and the sweat of her body she had waited, watching, studying the strangers with a state of mind and attentiveness as ingrained into her mind as the green markings were into her flesh. A couple of feet behind her was a scene that would have been scoffed at by most 'experienced woodsmen'; a small gathering of grass and river reeds for a bed, a stone for a pillow, the smallest fire she could get away with building, and a half-day-old carcass of a roasted piglet – it was from this place that she had watched and waited, and now decided that it was time to approach her apparent employer.

It had taken some weeks to travel from the interior of Valenwood to, what to her and her people at least, was the farthest away from home that she dared travel. She had never even been to Arenthia before, in spite of it laying upon her very doorstep, and place of outsiders and stone buildings – odd sights, odd smells, no good to her - and even coming this far out of her life among the tall trees made her feel vulnerable and consistently on edge; for this reason she had rarely let the smooth feeling of her bow leave the grip of her hand, her palm feeling empty without it.

Why was she even here? A question she could not really answer, the messenger – and the Clan Mother besides – telling her very little, perhaps neither really knowing much, and it was even as she stood and began to make her way out of the long grass that she began to think that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

Ah, the feeling of riverbed silt between her bare toes, now that was something she did not mind the feeling of! Something made quite obvious by the way she moved out of the fringe of grass, her pure black eyes constantly moving this way and that – not that one would be able to tell without the presence of a visible sclera – as she knelt down and rummaged a fistful of it through her digits. It was different to the soil further in the forest, drier due to the sun that beat down upon her exposed skin and yet more absorbent for all that, just another oddity to remember on the return journey.

Remaining squatted down, already short enough but becoming even shorter, she duck-waddled over to the edge of the river and knelt beside it. Ever guarded she had waited for the Dunmer to take his seat at the camp sight once more before making her way to the waters edge, her bow and quiver pressed against her bare back and her hatchet and dagger secure on each hip (just in case...), dipping her cupped hands into the water and allowing it to slip between her lips and sharpened teeth. It bought a sigh of satisfaction from her, and only now did she even bother to look back at the clearly nervous Imperial and his dour friend.

Why was the Man, the one she assumed was the Imperial by the way his ears rounded at the tips and his almost rotund face, wearing a shell of metal? In this heat? Perhaps he was touched in the mind?

"Hector!"

The shout from nearby was enough to snap what little bravery she had gathered to meet these strangers, her nerve finally snapping, and in milliseconds of motion she had snatched her bow from about her shoulders and levelled an arrow directly at the thin interloper.

"It's me, Roland."

Row-land?

She must have looked slightly ridiculous stood in the middle of a river, the water washing about her feet (and pleasant it was too), a bow with a nocked arrow threatening to impale one who may well be important to this endeavour. Aye, dressed as she was in almost nothing, and with her diminutive height, to many it may well have looked comical...but to those who knew anything about the Bosmer, well, there was much less reason to smile at her expense.

Balen's description of Erissil turned out to be, for its lack of verbosity, quite accurate. Hector watched with great interest as the she-elf stalked out of the long grass, approached the riverbed and drank from it like a beast. The Imperial reminded himself that she was a bit like a beast. The native clans of Valenwood were poorly understood and studied by the Empire and much of the information on them and their habits was centuries old, but Hector knew enough to know that these Bosmer lived so much in-tune with nature that they were more like it than perhaps any other race in Tamriel. Her scant state of dress was cause for Hector to raise one eyebrow, feeling compelled to avert his gaze for modesty's sake before he realized that Erissil would not care one way or another.

Hector was about to open his mouth to say something when he was cut short by the arrival and enthusiastic greeting of Roland Corvo. His interest was immediately replaced by alarm when Erissil raised her bow and nocked an arrow faster than he could say 'he's with us'. Hector raised his hand in a placating gesture, keeping his eyes fixed on Erissil, and spoke quickly: "Eno, talk her out of it!"

Leaving the task of making conversation with the Bosmer to his elven companion (in the assumption that Balen would know Aldmeris or Bosmeris or whatever it is the wood elf would be likely to speak), Hector pedaled backwards towards Roland, still not taking his eyes off Erissil, with fast strides and grabbed the man by his arm, his other hand still raised defensively towards the Bosmer.

"Roland, good to see you," Hector said in a low voice. "Do not draw your weapon. The Bosmer is our guide. Treat her like a wild animal. Stay calm and make no sudden movements." He emphasized the statement by shifting his gaze and staring into Roland's eyes in the way only an officer can when he is expecting total obedience from his soldiers.

_{Note to all: give @Peik the opportunity to calm Erissil down before introducing your character to the scene.}

Roland answered to Hector's stare with his own. Hector's blue eyes still had the commanding tone as before, but Roland didn't flinch. Roland shifted his eyes to the Bosmer standing in the river, noticing the bow and drawn arrow, ready to be released. Even with his armour, the arrow would most likely pierce his breastplate and hit deep into his flesh at this distance. Roland felt a wave of nervousness passing in him, but it passed as quickly as it had came. By Talos, she's good.

Roland turned his eyes back at Hector. Despite the arrow pointed at him. Roland felt safe and sure, for some reason or another, despite the few seconds of passing nervousness. With a low, calm voice, Roland replied to Hector. "She won't shoot. If she had wanted me dead, she'd have loosed the arrow already, and the Empire would be one man poorer in the next war."

He had heard of the Bosmers' skill with a bow, and Roland didn't doubt that the she-elf was deadly with hers. Still, she had sneaked unto them and he hadn't even noticed her coming. Only Hector's intervention had probably saved his hide this time. "Anyhow, thanks for the warm welcome. You've always known how to introduce people to each other", Roland said with a bit of humour in his voice, cracking a cautious smile. "At least she has an eye for fashion."

The Bosmer clanswoman, in her mannerisms through her traversing of the riverbed, proved to Balen that she was a part of nature like an animal, rather than a being aside from nature, like civilized man. In her primitive clothes (or perhaps, lack of), mannerisms and body paint, she blended into both the literal and figurative background so well that she looked like a creative painter’s attempt to hide a sapient figure in a pastoral painting, or a figure straight out of that popular children’s book, ‘Where’s Waldovius?’. Balen reassured himself to the figure’s sapience, given the clothes and the bow, but in truth could not help but feel as if he were his great grandfather Edras, watching Kagoutis to take note on their mating habits.

‘’Hector!’’

Balen purposefully delayed his reaction as to not scare the beast-woman (he had read that wild creatures were not fond of sudden movements), expecting a possibility of her reacting physically in response to the shout, such as running away. Contrary to his expectations, the little Bosmer proved that she was willing to hold her ground or at the very least look like it, and immediately drew and nocked an arrow, aiming towards an entity whom Balen could not see at that certain moment, since he was so focused on staying put as to not accidentally get a first hand outlook on the effectiveness of tribal arrow craftsmanship.

Upon Hector’s request, or order given the circumstances, Balen slowly took a breath and cautiously spoke.

‘’We are friendly, woman,’’ Balen said in Bosmeris, although a skilled linguist or a native could probably argue that the way he spoke the language was influenced by Ayleidoon (Balen, not having practiced Bosmeris for a time, could not tell, and only assumed that he probably did not sound very natural). His voice was loud enough to be heard, but low enough as to not sound like a danger. Nonetheless, as he spoke, he relaxed his posture and prepared his muscles for a possible dash to cover behind the tree trunk that he was sitting on.

‘’Please,’’ he added in Bosmeris, ‘’lower your weapon and come over,’’ concluding in Tamrielic, for he did not know Bosmeris that well, and wanted to believe that Hector and/or his superiors had found a guide that the group could communicate with, no matter how rudimentarily, in a common tongue, rather than having to use a dead ancient language as a medium. Afterwards, he could only hope that the group did not create a sight odd enough to scare the Bosmer woman away.

"Oh what would you do with a drunken Khajiit, what would you do with a drunken Khajiit, what would you do with a drunken Khajiit, early in the morningg..." sang Do'ava as he and his steed trotted down some forsaken road out of Cyrodiil and into Valenwood. It had been a long trip, nearly a week of non-stop travel. A night or two Do'ava bypassed inns completely and just camped on the side of the road. He had gone through several imperial checkpoints since he left Riften and he figured he would go through one more before he made it into Valenwood proper. His horse he had purchased on the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border, a mix between the hardy and small horses of Skyrim and the large and fast horses of Cyrodiil. These breeds mixed made for a suprisingly well rounded animal, capable of keeping a rapid pace for hours on end without tiring. Do'ava was surprised how cheap he had gotten the young colt and as he rode, he was considering breeding more and creating a line of incredibly strong steeds. He would certainly have the funds after this job. Indeed, Do'ava was being surprised by a lot of things this week, including how much money Hector had offered Do'ava to come on this job.

Which of course made the experienced Khajiit suspicious of the likelihood of surviving this job. But sometimes you had to take a gamble and hopefully this one would pay off big time. Do'ava shivered and pulled his traveling cloak around him tighter. It was late, and although he was getting close, the nights in Cyrodiil wasn't exactly like Senchal. That was one thing Do'ava never got used to in Skyrim, the unbearable cold. It always made him miss home. He hadn't been home for years now, not since he was thrown into that cell in Windhelm. His eyes began to droop and Do'ava shook himself awake. He couldn't sleep now, he had to be on the south side of Arenthia by midday, at least. It had been a week since his last fix. The young Khajiit looked around and reached into his small traveling pack, pulling out a bottle of skooma. He felt the hunger just looking at it. Do'ava twisted it open and tilted it back, snorting a respectable amount. The world came into focus and all his fatigue was gone, replaced by a jolly determination. He knew his horse, who he had thought about naming Ur, could go at this pace for another 3 hours before needing a rest. That would put them outside Arenthia just before sunrise. They could rest a few hours then get to the rendezvous point just before noon. With a roguish grin, Do'ava spurred Ur onward.



They had been riding through the jungles of Valenwood for a short time when they came upon the riverbank. Do'ava had been enjoying the warm weather, his armor, even if made for cooler climates, didn't cook him alive. It was Khajiit made after all, so the caravan guard supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. No doubt the tense standoff at the river heard Ur's thundering hooves as Do'ava rode briskly through the jungle. Ur didn't even seemed phased with the terrain and heat. Do'ava would definitely invest in breeding more horses like him. Do'ava gave a hearty "Whoa!" when they came thundering onto the riverbank. Ur reared slightly and dropped to the ground with a thud and Do'ava quickly took in the scene. A scantily dressed wood elf (Do'ava approved) and three slightly affronted/bewildered civilized men. The Khajiit had to restrain a laugh at Hector's face, which looked positively un-amused. As for the wood elf, Do'ava saw tribal women from the Elsweyr badlands and deserts wear less. Why wear a top in the desert when your fur did all of the work and the fabric had a million other uses? No doubt startling everyone, Do'ava couldn't resist grinning. "Mr. Sibassius, Reporting for duty!" he said jovially, dismounting Ur.

He eyed the wood elf, who no doubt eyed him back. Despite his happy-go-lucky attitude, this former smuggler knew all too well the skill of the wood elves with a bow. Do'ava raised a hand up, a gesture of peace, hoping she would understand. He then slowly lead Ur to the river, the horse taking lead and stepping into the river and beginning to drink. Do'ava stepped into the river too and was greeted with pleasantly cool water cascading over his feet. "So Cap'n, when are we heading out?" asked Do'ava, thoroughly enjoying himself.

Everything was going pretty well, all things considered, due in no small part to the fact that Balen spoke to her some words that she recognised – true, it was in a dialect tinged by others and by a dead language, an older idiom but it checked out. Understanding Tamrielic spoken slowly and in short bursts was also something she was capable of, even if half of it did sound like gibberish to her pointed ears; all-in-all she had not loosed an arrow at anyone and was even lowering her weapon...that was until Do'ava arrived in possibly the worst way possible.

For a creature that was, no matter how sentient they may be, essentially a bipedal feline – along with all the pros and cons that went with it – this particular Khajit seemed to have absolutely no idea just how close hew had come to being skewered. Riding headlong onto the scene had been bad enough, and the adrenaline of a fight-or-flight response coursed its way through the Bosmers veins even as she stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the river. Nor did it help that she had never even seen a Khajit before, especially not one who suddenly began yelling in the direction of the larger group; to her this cat-man was both a threat and a prize whose head would look very fine mounted on the wall of her families homestead.

Within her chest the strong heart pounded, blood circulating at an accelerated rate and her breathing becoming almost a hyperventilation, yet she neither ran forward into the attack or backed away toward the brush from whence she had sprung. In lieu of any such actions she appeared even more comical than she already had, glaring at the black furred irritation – not that you could even tell where she was looking – and gauging whether the apparently peaceful man-cat could bleed like other creatures.

Calming herself with a few more swift breaths had become her priority, each passing moment seeing her tense frame becoming somewhat less inclined to leap forth. Like all animals, from the largest Mammoth to the smallest ant, she had no real violence in her unless otherwise provoked...and no one had provoked her, yet.

Taking her eyes away from the Khajit, though not her ears and with some reluctance, she padded first to her right and away from Do'ava and his rather fine looking mount – seeking to get some distance between them - and then across the short length of sandy riverbank until she stood within feet of the small encampments perimeter. By this time her bow was replaced on her back, the arrow slid back into its quiver once more, even as her hands hovered dangerously close to and unmoving about the hilts of what could be called her secondary weapons.

Standing closer to Balen than the others, the Dunmer acting as a sort of middle man between them, she cocked her head and squatted down at the edge of the camp. All these outsiders, all these strangers in shiny suits of metal and all wearing weapons, even the way they had made their camp, it all unsettled her and she could feel the flesh on her limbs and spine prickling even in the sweltering heat of the day. Nostrils flared as she took in the stench of them, while her eyes picked out the glinting ruby of the Captain's pommel, the smooth cheeks and youth of Roland, and the air of internal solitude that the hook-nosed Dark Elf in what would have seemed like a glance to many others.

“Erissil,” she then piped up in a lilting voice directed at Hector, the man she correctly concluded was the leader here, sitting back on her haunches and placing a hand to her chest by way of introduction, “Hektor Sea-bass-iass?”

The hand moved to point at Hector and then lower itself back to resting on one patterned thigh.

Hector was torn between amusement and fierce irritation when Do'ava galloped into the scene without a care in the world and dismounted by the river. He was afraid for the Khajiit's life but fortunately Erissil managed to keep her wits about her. It occurred to Hector that she might never have seen one of Do'ava's race, making note how she circled around the group while she kept everyone else (and especially Balen) between herself and the cat-folk. Sensing that the danger had passed when Erissil shouldered her bow, Hector took a few seconds to cool himself down with the same ice-burst trick as before while he sauntered over to Do'ava. "Good day, old friend," Hector said amicably, if still a little tense, and shook the Khajiit's hand without taking his eyes off the wood elf. "We'll wait on the others until dusk, then we move out. Now excuse me for a moment."

The Captain slowly approached Erissil until he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Balen. The two exchanged a brief glance just before Erissil spoke up. The cadence and accent of her Tamrielic was already peculiar, but the hunched posture and the almost primeval gestures made Hector feel like he was talking to a creature of ages past. "Yes," he agreed, and tapped his breastplate with one finger. "Hector Sibassius." He conjured up the most affable smile he could manage. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Erissil. Welcome." His hand then pointed at each member of the assembled group in turn and introduced them by name. "Eno. Roland. Do'ava."

A short silence fell while Hector thought of what to say next, only to be interrupted by...

_{To all: feel free to post, but I especially recommend @Dismas to use this moment to introduce Alaron.}

Alaron's feet ached and his throat was parched. The journey from the Imperial City had been taxing on his body. He had deliberately left early for Valenwood, only possessing enough money to afford a carriage as far as Skingrad. He was no adventurer, and this showed through in his preparedness for on foot travel. By the time he had reached the border to Valenwood he was already dehydrated, carrying with him only a meager amount of water. His affliction was only amplified by the foolish decision to continuously smoke his pipe throughout the journey.

The thought of passing a border checkpoint frightened him. He was given assurances that the documents he received would fool the guards but it did little to comfort him.

Miraculously he managed the crossing only receiving minimal questions despite a heavy aroma of tobacco and moon sugar. The guard had seemed almost hurried in his processing of Alaron, perhaps an indication that his shift was nearly over and had important plans for the evening.

Alaron progressed towards Arenthia, keeping a slight westwards heading as the notes instructed. He felt the heat was almost unbearable in his fur-lined coat, but sadly it was the only coat he owned. Steadying himself on tree trucks and wheezing through a throat with sandpaper texture by this point he felt he must be nearing on the meeting site. He propped himself up against a tree to catch his breath and listened to his surroundings. A few birds called in the distance and the vegetation sounded as though it was scraping and brushing against itself in a constant war for sunlight. He pulled at a few leaves, continuing to gasp for air till he heard voice in the distance. A loud call rang out from between the trees.

Alaron's body plummeted beneath the vegetation. The voice sounded comforting, like a greeting. Still, Alaron wasn't about to take any chances, certainly not in a place as foreign as Valenwood. His breathing slowed as he focused, edging his way towards the source of the voice. Foliage was not a terrain he was used to creeping through and every leaf that scraped along his coat rang out to him like a siren. As he grew closer he could hear murmurs. Short conversations grew louder and louder till his body reached a breaking point. The dehydration had wrapped its arms around his legs and pulled the man to his knees, partially toppling and snapping a small bush. Alaron could almost feel the campsite's gaze loom over his sweat glossed face.

By this point he couldn't take any more punishment and needed a break from his journey. Panting like he had run a marathon he emerged from the undergrowth and passed by a few trees, finally finding the campsite. His vision was blurred, and he made for the first upright tree once he was in view of the party. He attempted to make his descent to the clear ground graceful and scanned the group members who had arrived ahead of him.

His eyes were first drawn to the shimmer of steel armor worn by an Imperial. Alaron looked in disbelief and wondered how he wasn't as in poor condition as he was. Next was a Dark elf, who had the look of a college type about him. He noticed the containers strapped across his chest and it reminded him of the Imperial City's researchers he viewed taking samples from the surrounding water.

Alaron could make out another man, tall with long dark hair and he could make out a battle-worn face. He thought of the hired muscle and large doormen he encountered working for various crime syndicates. Next was a Khajiit, and Alaron's eyes lingered on the creature's black fur. It was like staring at a walking shadow, and Alaron felt envious seeing the advantage of such camouflage.

Lastly was what Alaron assumed to be a Wood Elf. Once he managed in a great show of willpower to pull his gaze from her attire he took note of the extensive tattoos covering the wood elf, particularly adorned upon her face. He would have gawked a moment longer but had to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It felt as though someone was pouring a jug of sticky mead atop his head, except at a boiling temperature.

He drew a few more gasps for air before uttering his first words to the group.

"Greetings." he winced, unable to sustain eye contact with any of them.

When Roland heard the Imperial greeting the group, his sword went instinctively for his sword's handle, gently grasping it, before turning towards the newcomer. He was a young man, about his height and looked exhausted. He had malnourished look on him, and could be a bait. Or he could be a member of this troupe of heroes, Roland ran in his head.

"Well, greetings to you, fellow Imperial" Roland said, moving his hand away from the handle softly. He had a flagon of red wine strapped to his backpack, and Roland would hate himself if he let it go sour. Perhaps I can try to relieve some of the tension.

"As our fellowship grows", Roland started. "I suggest a drink before our voyage onward." Roland took his backpack and detached the flagon, opening it and letting the wine breathe. It wasn't an expensive vintage, but it would do the trick. "When I fought in Skyrim, me and my men shared one habit, and that was drinking together. As we travel together, we will share everything and anything, even our drinks. Only then we can truly triumph."

Roland took a sip of wine and passed the flagon around. He didn't doubt that it would come back to him empty.

It did not take long for Balen to notice that during the short time he had sat motionless and observant, everything had almost went to complete shit. More ‘allies’ of Sibassius had appeared, in some of the worst ways possible – Oblivion, in truth, after witnessing the way the Khajiit had strutted in despite the animal-like Bosmer, he had expected the next man to come after to enter the fray on a meteorite. Observing the Wood Elf closely (had she not been such an uncivilized specimen, Balen would likely have chided himself for focusing on desires of the flesh again – big mistake), he quickly came to see that his assumptions weren’t incorrect, and that she had almost let go of the bowstring.

Mindfulness was a curse of its own.

Balen felt a tinge of comfort when Erissil stood closer to her rather than the rest of the party, not unlike what a regular person would feel when a cat would not be intimidated by his or her presence, and would instead even stay close in an apparent show of companionship. While Balen was not a very animal-loving person, he still found comfort in their presence, and the Wood Elf’s presence felt exactly like that. Had he not been a cautious and logical person, he likely would’ve let some protective urges take root. Balen could differentiate his emotions and focus on them separately, however, so he disregarded the protective urge and focused simply on the small comfort given by the feeling of acting like an intermediary, a person defusing the tension, at least until Erissil spoke.

Her mispronunciation of Hector’s surname formed a very dry and faint smile on Balen’s lips, although even more bemusing than that was the Imperial’s attempt to look amicable in the eyes of the tribeswoman. There was something childishly funny in it – the stern commander, bumbling, trying his best to give the impression of an understanding and friendly person, as if he were speaking to a child – then again, the Bosmer did act somewhat like a primal child.

As Hector introduced everyone to Erissil (and, by extension, Balen), another man popped up out of the blue, wearing a coat with fur shoulders, likely trying to tempt the Earth Bones to give him a heat stroke. They truly were a motley bunch – Balen was reminded somewhat of when he had first met Hector – everyone had kept popping up similarly, and as uncomfortable as it felt to say it, the expedition had not gone all that well (one could argue disastrous, even). At least he and Hector had survived.

The ‘troop’, as he had just nicknamed the young man called Roland, greeted the newcomer with caution, and likely because he felt that the group had not exactly bonded, took out a flagon of wine from his backpack and offered it to the ‘fellowship’. Lecturing the others about how shared habits had helped his men back during the war and how it would help them to ‘triumph’ now, he offered the wine. Balen immediately found the man supremely boring.

‘’Thank you, but I don’t drink,’’ Balen said passively, although he intoned it as to not give out a feeling of alienation and condescension by poking holes into the troop's claim, but rather a polite refusal.