---

‘’Dear mother and father,

There is little reason to lie to you at this point. I’m afraid the Neverarine’s decided to deal with the Akiviri against the rest of Tamriel and, as such…‘’

Sadri raised his head up from the skewered whale meat that he had been chewing on upon hearing the word ‘Neverarine’, and did not pay attention to the rest until Cilo blurted out an ‘Akivir’, upon which he put his other hand on the young man’s shoulder and tugged at him to stop, pointing at the paper and making a gesture to delete what he had written.

‘’Gods be damned, Cilo, did they not teach you how to write in the Legion?’’ He asked in a rather condescending tone, frustrated. He only had a limited amount of parchment, and, if Cilo were to fail the next attempt as well, he would have to write the letter himself. Exhausted after all the action he had gone through since the expedition into the Dwemer ruin, and wounded, no matter how superficially, at the ship fight, Sadri was in no mood to bother, but felt a nagging feeling of responsibility against his parents, who could have been worried thanks to him being unable to send the letter he had written in Windhelm.

‘’It ain’t like I have to be able to do everything,’’ Cilo replied. ‘’I still don’t get why this would help me,’’ he continued, looking at Sadri, half frustrated with the Dunmer for giving him this exercise, and half frustrated with himself for being unable to accomplish the task given. You could criticize Cilo for many things, but his aspiration was definitely a positive quality. It gave him dependability, no matter how ineffective it may be.

‘’How’d you feel if your dear Maria went for that pansy bookkeeper instead of you the war hero, Cilo? Ladies like informed men,’’ Sadri lied, urging him to continue. For all the reading he had done, he still had no idea what women wanted, or admired. Or rather, it was the feminine – the few ‘effeminates’ he had been with were also quite vague and, in Sadri’s viewpoint, hysterical. That was probably why he liked Solveig – she was blunt and honest. He thought of her name for a moment. He figured that she needed some alone time, what with the news about her father. This didn’t stop Sadri from feeling guilty about it, about being unable to keep her happy. And with everything else…

‘’It’s all going to shit,’’ he muttered to himself. The war wasn’t going well, it was a cavalcade of losses with a bunch of partial victories scattered here and there – even Jorwen, in a way their own juggernaut, had fallen victim. The government that he had killed and sold men for was now trying to have him killed; even the group was troubled by bickering, exhaustion, and infighting. Even here, at their ‘reward’, murder. That bitchy Altmer girl, Vurwe, had finally gotten what was coming to her, and now, a pogrom was imminent with the situation concerning the Argonians.

And, of course, wherever there was a problem with the Argonians, there was a problem with the Dunmer. Already, one of his kin had gotten murdered. Yes indeed, it was all going to shit – he could not help but feel afraid that the past would catch up with him, sooner or later. For the first time in a while, he was afraid not for his life, but afraid of losing things, people. ‘’Solveig…’’

‘’What’d you say, Beleth?’’ Cilo asked.

‘’Oh, it’s nothing. Let’s begin again,’’ a sullen Sadri replied. For some reason, he could not help but wonder if Cilo would survive all of this. Was his disdain for Cilo’s gullible demeanor turning into compassion? He had no idea.

Cilo signaled that his quill had been dipped in ink, and Sadri began once more. ‘’Dear mother and father,’’ he said, before stopping to take a couple of bites from the whale skewer. It seemed that he had chosen lesser evils to fill in the place of Skooma. Maybe his grim mood was part of the withdrawal. He took another, bigger bite to fill the void.

Cilo turned, gesturing at the paper for Sadri to continue, but Sadri shrugged a hand and took another bite from the whale, and then noticed a stern figure walking towards the veranda that he and Cilo were placed on. ‘’Shit,’’ he thought to himself, trying to make out the figure. Was it an Argonian? Was it a Dunmer? Somehow, all of the options felt equally terrifying. Could be a past figure come for payback, could be a partisan, could be an assassin come for him or someone else. He attempted to gauge the figure, but as he came closer, Sadri could not help but notice that he was dressed completely in plate armor, no matter how horribly out of fashion the pieces were. The ability to walk from wherever he was coming all the while decked out in plate armor implied to a competence that immediately made Sadri wary of the figure. He eyed the man up and down, but in vain, given how the armor obscured most of the features.

It was only when he came closer and showed a red glint in his eyes that Sadri realized he was a Dunmer. Given the situation, it was equally relieving and distressing.

‘’Pardon me, master Dunmer, have you seen my sister? Her name is Niernen and she is Dunmer, like us.’’ As the man (rather, mer) gave a rather correct estimation for his apparent sister’s figure, Sadri’s paranoia flared, remembering her ties to nobility and the situation with the Armigers. He felt like lying, but the possibility of the fellow being honest made him hesitate, and he figured that the inn was full of hardened mercenaries anyway, who could punish a rash action quite violently.

‘’Niernen’s your sister?’’ He asked in disbelief. As he pondered for a moment, he did faintly remember from the past a mention of a brother from the girl, back when she was much more hale and hearty. Deciding to stop giving a fuck, he spilled the beans. ‘’She must be inside the inn, I reckon. Send my regards. She wasn’t very well off last I saw her (this was an understatement). She should be glad to see you… provided you take off that helmet.’’

As the metal figure went by, Cilo turned his head to Sadri and hesitantly asked: ‘’You know him, Beleth?’’

Sadri rummaged through his mental archive of known Redoran warriors and gathered an average sum. He went over the qualities – they were regal, uncaring, and commonly suffering from Jerkassus Colossalis, a recto-psychological disorder that seemed to target positions of power and nobility.

‘’I think I’ve got an idea.’’

---

‘’Dear mother and father,

I see little reason to lie to you at this point. News will probably have reached you by the time you receive this letter. The Nerevarine has allied himself with the Akaviri and launched an invasion of Tamriel.

I would say that I am safe, but if I did, I would have been lying to you. Dark times loom over us. I have seen how the Kamal treat the people of this continent. Even the Dunmer that they are allied with are not spared should they come across them, despite the alliance (I have seen with my own eyes how they have treated a noblewoman of House Redoran). They are brutish and disgusting. To see that my toil for the glory of our homeland has rewarded us all with a stab in the back by the one we held in high esteem, it is a cause for much regret.

It would make me happy to write more to you, but truth be told, there is not much to write. Our retreat from the Kamal has led us to settle in a town near the coast. Hunger is rampant, and there has been conflict flaring up with the lizards again. Azura knows what tomorrow will bring. Keep me in your prayers and thoughts.

-Your son and very own fool,
Sadri

P.S. Let me know if Najad is still alive. If not, please give the black-armed statuette in my room to his children. It originally belonged to him.’’

Sadri seemed more satisfied with the letter, now that he had finished his skewer and regulated Cilo’s writing more effectively. It still wasn’t very good, but at least there were no mistakes in grammar, at least, none that he could see. He patted Cilo in the back, somewhat proud.

‘’You know, if you survive all this, you can be a bookkeeper. It sure beats having to kill for a living,’’ Sadri said, with an amused tone.

‘’Then why do you still keep at this, Beleth?’’ Cilo asked, likely unaware of the importance of the question. Had a smart man asked this, knowingly, he could’ve probably undone Sadri with a couple more important questions. Sadri, not wishing to give Cilo a possible upper hand in a possible debate, shrugged and landed a half-joking smack against the back of the young man’s head. ‘’You’re too young to understand, boy,’’ he replied, causing Cilo to frown in reply.

‘’Get this to the Courier’s Roof, would you?’’ Sadri asked. ‘’And get some cranberry juice and potato distillate on the way back.’’

Cilo, seemingly happy to be someone depended upon, rushed away, and Sadri looked after the quickly disappearing figure. ‘’What a foolish young lad,’’ he muttered to himself, yet no longer could bring himself to hate him the way he could the first time they had met.

SLAM

The Dunmer he had pointed a path to earlier came out of the inn, hand on the pommel of his sword. Sadri sent a nervous gaze at the man’s hand, and when he pulled out a sword of complete black make, he cursed internally. Ebony. The few times Sadri had seen this material, it had turned out to be a complete fight-ender. He still remembered vividly, the one time he had seen the legendary warrior Burog Gar-Wreg, wielding a damned huge hunk of ebony as a sword against seven Redguard knights that had come to apprehend him. All the buildings facing the street where this fight had occurred still painted their walls red in commemoration.

Sadri wasn’t exactly content with how the man looked, and, more importantly, he did not want anything to escalate. That damned drunkard Leif had already picked a fight with a party member. Had this been the Bristlebacks, he would have had gotten lashed. But Sadri wasn’t exactly in a position to complain. He was, however, in a situation to possibly avert further chaos.

‘’You look familiar without the helm, young man!’’ Sadri shouted at ‘Niernen’s brother’, now undeniably a Dunmer and more likely to be honest. ‘’Come closer! Were you at Stormhold? Thorn?’’ He asked, trying to get his attention – rather, a more friendly sort. Attracting this fellow’s attention in his current mood would probably send one to an early grave.

---

---

Tsleeixth made his way down the ramp that led from the Kyne's Tears towards Dawnstar's dock. Shortly after he disembarked, what few Argonian's the Company had managed to free from the Kamal's frigate were roughly escorted away by a group of Hold Guards; Tsleeixth clenched his fists in anger at the treatment his kinsmen were subjected to, they had just escaped from the Kamal's vile hands and now -instead of being helped to recuperate and heal from the mistreatment suffered at the hands of their captors- they were forced away towards the camp that had formed outside of Dawnstar while they were away at the College of Winterhold.

He tensed slightly when a pair of guards approached him, wondering if he was going to be forced to leave Dawnstar as well but the duo that was approaching him stopped at the words of another guard, who Tsleeixth guessed was their captain. With that sour event firmly in his mind the Argonian spellsword made a beeline towards Windpeak Inn but, as he moved closer and closer to the large building, sounds started reaching Tsleeixth's ears that made him pause, it sounded like a scuffle and, what was worse, he recognized both voices, Leif and Do'Karth. As he edged closer and closer to the Inn the figures of both Do'Karth and Leif became evident, alongside that of Sevine who looked on as the Nord man and the Suthay-Raht fought against each other. However the presence of a fourth -unexpected- figure drew his attention, that of his fellow Hist-brother Daixanos.

Waiting for the fight to end, Tsleeixth approached Dax and clasped his shoulder lightly as way of greeting "It's good to see you Dax." He said, letting out a soft sigh and shaking his head slightly "I take it you saw the fight between Leif and Do'Karth, no? Would you mind telling me what caused this...confrontation between our comrades?" He asked to Dax, hoping that he'd have answers. He knew that there was tension between Leif and Do'Karth for Sevine's affection -his chat with Roze back in Bthamz had made that abundantly clear- yet he hadn't thought it'd lead to the two of them fighting against each other.

Dax shook his head as Tsleeixth asked about the confrontation. "Landstriders find more reasons to fight than I could fathom." He replied. The Argonian was no pacifist, but he fought when he needed to, as did the rest of his people. He could not think of a time when the Saxhleel had waged war on someone who had not deigned to attack them first. The machinations of the Landstriders were truly an odd thing to his people. He could conclude that this fight had a true aggressor, however. He would bet the next Elk he bagged it was not Do'Karth. "I do think Leif has sought to...acquire Sevine. But that is mere speculation. You would need to ask them."

Tsleeixth stiffle a chuckle at Dax's answer to his question "Very true brother." He finally said, shaking his head slightly as he smiled slightly. However when his fellow Saxhleel said that he thought Leif tried to claim Sevine Tsleeixth could do nothing but let out a soft sigh "It is not mere speculation, it seems that Leif harbored feeligns for Sevine and, well, he isn't dealing with the fact that Sevine chose Do'Karth very well to say the least." He said, shaking his head slightly.

Daixanos let out a breath, and to most non-Saxhleel it would sound like a juttering growl. "Brother, in a weeks time I will be returning to our homeland." He revealed. "The news that has been coming to the North tells me our kin need our race united. I cannot ignore that call."

When Daixanos told him that he planned to leave the Company in a weeks time to return to their homeland Tsleeixth was mildly surprised. He knew that the Hist was calling to every Saxhleel across Tamriel, yet Dax's words surprised him nonetheless "Come brother, I think we have much to discuss and I don't think talking about such matters related to our people should be done in such an open space, wouldn't you agree?" He asked Dax, motioning towards the Inn and slowly making his way towards there, wondering if Dax would follow him.

Daixanos nodded, meeting Tsleeixth's gaze. "True enough..." he breathed, glancing back and forth. He trusted Do'Karth and Sevine, but with the anti-Argonian sentiments going on, there was little more they could trust. He gestures for his friend to head in with him. Hopefully they could find a corner to speak at.

Tsleeixth nodded when Daixanos gestured for them both to head into the inn. Opening the wooden door he motioend for Dax and entered after him. As soon as both Argonians crossed the threshold that led into the Inn the telltale murmur of conversation that usually characterized such establishments seemed to halt immediately, replaced by the sound of people whispering to each other. As Tsleeixth led them both to an empty table that was further apart from the rest a few words reached his, and most likely Dax's, ears 'Filthy lizard' 'Someone get the guard' 'How come they are allowed here?'

"Seems the Landstrider's love for our kind has grown in our absence, wouldn't you say brother?" He said acidly, low enough for only Dax to hear him. After a while the Inn's mood returned to, more or less, it's usual state, though a few patrons cast glances towards Dax and Tsleeixth's table every once in a while. "I take it you ran into Kamal forces during your mission, no?" Asked Tsleeixth after motioning for the innkeep to bring him a drink, somewhat unsure of how to breach the subject of what had driven Dax to leave the Company and return to their homeland. "Otherwise I don't think you'd decide to return to our homeland so suddenly. You heard, or saw, something that told you you had to get back, no?" He asked, hoping Dax would tell him what it was precisely that had set in motion this sudden desire to return to Black Marsh.

"I do not seek to return to Blackmarsh," Daixanos said. "I go to Morrowind." He let that sink in. "It wasn't one thing, Tsleeixth. It's been harassing me since I've arrived at Dawnstar. I broke the back of a slaving ship here, and even then I do not feel fulfilled. Now the Kamal...the news of the Dunmer and Akavari. I cannot wait, and won't. But I do not go to our homeland."

He stood tall. "I gather every able bodied Argonian from here to Windhelm, to Darkwater crossing. I go to hit the Dunmer where they least expect, from the North. A few hundred Argonians invading from Skyrim? I do not blame them for being caught off guard." He bared his teeth. "We will hit their supply lines, and their officers. We'll move into Blackmarsh from Morrowind itself, cutting our way through until we breach their lines from the inside. The Hist guide me, I swear."

Tsleeixth's jaw opened in surprise as Daixanos stated his intention of going not to Blackmarsh but to Morrowind. He listened as Dax explained his reasoning for wanting to go to Morrowind "But...why? Is it frustration because the Company hasn't done enough in battling agaisnt the Kamal invaders? What could motivate you to head straight to Morrowind, with all of our brothers and sisters you can muster?" Asked Tsleeixth incredulosuly once Dax had finished explaining his plan, how he'd gather ever able bodied Argonian he could as he went to Darkwater crossing. It was clear that Tsleeixth was still somewhat shocked, he had been expecting Dax to tell him that he was going to Argonia and not to attack the motherland of the Dunmer people.

Dax turned to regard Tsleeixth, and he shook his head. "I don't question our companions." he said. "I also realize that you know them far better than I, though admittedly I've grown fond of the group. It is only that their interest is not Blackmarsh, nor would I expect it to be. But mine is, and always will be. I will return after, however. Skyrim feels like a second home."

Tsleeixth listened as Daixanos spoke, explaining his reasons for leaving towards Morrowind. Taking the drink that had arrived shortly before their conversation had started, but which had remaiendu ntouched as Dax spoke, Tsleeixth took a long gulp of the mead, shaking his head slightly "I understand Dax, at least I do now, but this....this is suicidal." Spoke Tsleeixth, shaking his head "Not to mention there's no guarantee you'll reach Morrowind." Added the spellsword "The Kamal seem to have been taking in people travelling the continent. You rememebr the Pakseech that Do'Karth told you about?" He said, letting otu a weary sigh "He was taken in by the Kamals....one of their frigates attacked us on our way to Bthamz and we managed to freed some slaves that were working on their vessel. Among them there were a few of our brothers they...they told me of their capture, and of the death of the Pakseech on that Hist-forsaken vessel." Said Tsleeixth sorrowfully, emptying what remained of his drink in one go.

"But, that wasn't the only thing they revealed to me....you see, they also told me that the ship's overseers would sometiems extract the soul from one of the slaves. Do you know what that means Dax? Every slave that the Kamal capture could be used to power their war effort, we still knwo almost nothing about them...who knows what other kind of weapons they posses, for all we know every captive the Kamal take only serves to hasten our doom." Said the spellsword with a sigh.

"Do you understand what this could mean Dax? How many of our brothers and sisters could be poached by the Kamal as if they were cattle while you make your way to Morrowind?" He asked Daixanos "And what if, once you get to Morrowind, you are captured there?" He pressed one "Please, I implore you, think about this, whatever brothers and sisters of ours join you won't be trained fighters like we are, you'd be leading htem to their doom, eitehr at the blades of our enemies or under their yoke, used either as slaves or as fuel for the Kamal war machine." Finished Tsleeixth, hopign that Dax would listen to him.

"And what!? Stand here as our brethren are beseiged, and the rest remain refugees in the cold!?" Daixanos replied, now inches from Tsleeixth's face. "Do nothing, is that what you advise!?" The Argonian breathed heavily, but after a moment he calmed, his mind having caught up with him. He found he was glad the Tavern was uproarious as usual. It didn't draw so much attention to them.

The Hunter let out a juttering sigh, and spoke. "Tsleeixth...you know as well as I do they cannot take Blackmarsh. The Daedra couldn't do it, and it was not even inhospitable for them, as it is for anyone not of our people. The one they called Talos could not even take it, instead just claiming it in word only. He knew that even if someone succeeded in defeating our armies, they wouldn't dare truly invade. That would be suicide by disease and guerilla warfare. But I cannot stay here and let my loyalty be thrown aside by that, because it's still our people dying."

He hesitated before he spoke next. "But...your words give me pause. I apologize for yelling." he said. "I would not take anyone who could not fight with me. I will escort them to the southern edge of Cyrodiil, before striking north again." Dax shook his head as he regarded Tsleeixth once more. "Fighting these Kamal here does not aid Blackmarsh. You need to realize that. If I killed a wolf for its pelt in Markarth, it does not make the Elk in Darkwater Crossing any more safe." Dax closed his eyes. He suspected Tsleeixth thought he would try to assassinate the Tribunal himself. He wished he could, but he was not suicidal. "In a fortnight, I'll gather our people that will follow and head southward to Blackwood, and then me and what brothers I have will hit Stormhold's reinforcements and supplylines from the rear. I respect you, Tsleeixth, even if you decide to stay. But I cannot. Not when our people are being invaded by Demons."

Tsleeixth clenched his fists as Dax shouted at him, his eyes narrowing as Dax contineued his tirade before calming down. He let his fellow Saxhleel continue with his train of thought uninterrumpted, letting out a sigh of frustration when Dax finished "The Pakseech tried to go to Cyrodiil brother, he ended up dead in the holds of a Kamal slave ship." He said with a sigh, shaking his head slightly as he rememebred that fateful day when he had last seen the Pakseech. "Onto your point of fighting the Kamal here not helpign Blackmarsh....that's hwere you are absolutely wrong." He said firmly, resting hsi hands on the table as he looked at Dax in the eyes "You seem to forget one crucial detail, this is war. The kamal aren't merely beasts, they are an organized army that has a chain of command and follows tactics." Siad Tsleeixth, letting his words hang in the air for a few seconds.

"Now, take that information into account....what happens when an unexpected threat rises? What does an army does? It diverts resources to combat said threat, merely heading towards Morrowind to attack will do nothing, you'd jsut be throwing yourself at the jaws of the wolf Dax and end up used as a slave to toil for the Kamal's and hwen your body is broken, your sould will be used as fuel for their war effort. I do not say this to scare you, merely to state the truth." Continued Tsleeixth, letting out a sigh as he pondered on waht to say next.

"You yourself said that our homeland has never been conquered, Talos couldn't do it, nor Mehrunes Dagon and the armies of Oblivion....and neither will these Kamal, they will succumb to disease and to our fighters, they'll die in the marshes that characterize our homeland." Continued the spellsword, letting otu a breath "They don't need us Dax, but here, right now, we are of use. We can bleed the Kamal here, make them pay for every Argonian life taken at Blackmarsh." Continued speaking Tsleeixth, braing hsi teeth at Dax "And I promise this to you, I will make them pay. I swear by the Hist, the Demons will rue the day they decided to invade Tamriel." He said, anger palpable in his voice "Before I am down, I will send as many Kamals as I can to Sithis's embrace Dax, they will pay for each of our brothers that are toiling under their rule and for each of us that has died to their cruel weaponry." Finished the spellsword "Now, the only question that remians is this. Will you stay and help me brother?"

While he was proud of Tsleeixth for his loyalty to helping his people, Dax had seen war. He didn't believe Tsleeixth knew of the tactics he spoke when concerning different theaters of conflict. Still, he couldn't rightly say no at this moment. He hadn't the heart, even if the Hist itself disagreed with Tsleeixth. "I cannot say yes." He said, firmly rooted in what he believed. "But neither will I refuse, for now. I said I would gather them in a fortnight...perhaps I will use this time to think."

He placed his claws hand on Tsleeixth's shoulder. "I meant no offense. I'm merely angry at the state of things, not you. I am proud to have fought alongside you, and proud I shall be if I continue to do so."

"I know, and believe me hwen I tell you I am angry at the state of thigns as well. And it has been an honor to have ofught alongisde you as well brother." Said Tsleeixth, glasping Daixanos's hand once he moved it from his shoulder "And all I ask for is time Dax, if you don't trust my words then, at the very least, trust in our people. We came from the Oblivion Crisis stornger than ever, I am sure we'll be able to endure the fight against the Snow Demons." Said Tsleeixth to Dax before the hunter left.

a collab between @Peik and myself

---

Standing out in the streets of Dawnstar, staring blindly at the sloping street before him that led down to the docks, Narzul fumed with rage. His thoughts (or lack thereof, having been displaced by his emotions) were interrupted when the same old mer that he'd spoken to before called out to him. It took a while for the words to penetrate the fog of Narzul's ire, but when they did, he turned his head to look at their source. It was only then that Narzul noticed he had drawn his sword. He took a moment to feel the comfortable weight of the heavy ebony blade in his hand and calmed his breathing. What had he wanted to do, exactly? Find the nearest Khajiit and disembowel them? With reason and logic worming their way back in the saddle, Narzul slowly sheathed his sword and approached the older Dunmer, who now sat alone on the veranda.

"Both," Narzul replied. "I held command during the sieges. The firestorm at the gate of Stormhold was my sister's handiwork." He grimaced after mentioning her and looked away for a few seconds, working to keep his face under control. While it could be construed as unwise to suddenly divulge his identity to another person in his current predicament, Narzul enjoyed the opportunity for discourse with a fellow Dunmer too much to care. He needed something -- or someone -- familiar. Without asking, Narzul sat down on the chair that Cilo had recently vacated and placed his helmet on the table between them. "You also look familiar, sera."

Much to his rejoicing, Sadri’s plan had worked and the angry Dunmer had taken the bait of bond. The mer’s facial features relaxed, and the glint in his eyes mellowed to a more manageable tone, and he began to approach. Sadri figured that either he was going to be killed by a cold-blooded sociopath as opposed to a maniac barely able to contain his inner flame, or reminisce upon lost time (oh, how he loved doing that).

The young mer, much better looking than Sadri in terms of appearance, approached, and, having decided to answer Sadri’s question before sitting down, gave the older Dunmer slightly more free reign atop his territory on the table. ‘’Hmm,’’ he thought to himself audibly, and put one of his elbows atop the table to support his head as the Redoran answered, letting Sadri know what he already knew. ‘’Of course I’d look familiar, commander (Sadri put some sarcasm into that, savoring the fact his once-superior was now sitting at the same table with even footing), we’ve served together. I’m Sadri, Sadri Beleth,’’ he introduced himself, offering his metal hand for a handshake.

‘’I knew your sister from back then, suppose I should also know you. What was the name, uh,’’ Sadri kept thinking out loud, and finally found an answer. ‘’Varzul, was it? Or was it Narzul? You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not very good with names,’’ he continued into proper conversation.

Narzul felt the all-too familiar flare of annoyance at the sarcasm that Sadri inflected into his usage of the word 'commander', but he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Narzul shook the offered hand with bemusement and used the moment to inspect the prosthetic arm shamelessly. "It is indeed Narzul," he said. "Narzul Venim." He racked his brain, trying to remember Sadri. "Ah, yes. I remember you from the slave pens in Stormhold. You were, if I recall correctly, quite the supplier, no?" Narzul nodded, as if to confirm his own question. "You had a different arm back then. Where did you get this device? It looks... Dwemeri, almost."

Observing the rest of Sadri's appearance, Narzul decided he had seldom seen such a worldly creature. The boots were undoubtedly of Man-make, much like the thick coat, but Narzul did not know enough about them to know which of the races in particular. The old mer's face was an even bigger peculiarity -- the amount of scarring was cause for Narzul to wonder about Sadri's capacity and disposition as a warrior. Was he so disfigured because of a great fondness for combat and had the wounds simply added up over time, or had he sorely lost just one or two fights? The contrast with Sadri's clothing was strong, for the only armor to be seen was a layer of chainmail beneath the padded coat. Then again, it was a moment of leisure. Perhaps Sadri kept a proper suit of armor somewhere else.

‘’Well, we all did our part in the war. Volunteer regiments weren’t assigned to a lot of roles. Maintenance, skirmishing, raiding, or if unlucky, cannon fodder,’’ he replied upon Narzul’s admiring reply. Was he trying to lift a part of the blame off himself? He was not sure. Of course, it was almost certain that the mer sitting in front of him saw nothing to blame, but Sadri was somewhat conflicted about some of the things he had done during the war, like most veterans. He waited well beyond Narzul’s question about the arm, replying only after he finished his inspection of the prosthetic.

‘’I earned it with the help of a journalist a couple of weeks ago, bless him,’’ Sadri answered. ‘’Madura Dalas, he was with us until recently,’’ he continued, pausing upon realizing that the noblemer was immersed in his ‘rugged good looks’. He found no offense in it, or anything negative, but still could not help but question Narzul about it. ‘’Something the matter, young lad?’’ He asked. ‘’Afraid our conditions aren’t the best these days,’’ he said while poking at the bloodied tear underneath his arm. ‘’We had but one tailor in the group, and he fell prisoner, you see,’’ Sadri continued, his voice trailing off slightly. Black humor was not so enjoyable when it afflicted your loved ones.

"Yes, I read the article he wrote," Narzul said and held up his wrinkled copy of the Tamrielic Gazette. "It was actually what guided me to Dawnstar." He met Sadri's gaze and blinked at the question. "Oh, no. Just observing." Giving Sadri a small smile, Narzul nodded politely when the older Dunmer showed him the tear in the coat. The rest of the mer's comment was cause for Narzul to sit up straighter. It just occurred to him that Sadri had probably faced off against the Kamal before, which meant he knew more about them than Narzul did, and even a Redoran like him was aware that information is power.

"Taken prisoner by the Kamal, you mean?" Narzul asked tentatively. He wondered how to best approach the subject, for he did not know Sadri's real opinion on the High King's alliance with the creatures -- or if the Dunmer was even aware of this at all. But, since it was a comrade that was missing and Narzul detected the petering off of Sadri's voice well enough, a display of sympathy would be appropriate regardless. "That's rough. I saw the lizard camp outside the gates. It seems they have certainly caused a lot of woe. Have you... seen the Kamal yourself?"

‘’Small world,’’ Sadri muttered upon learning that Narzul had learned of Niernen’s presence thanks to Madura’s articles, which cracked his lips up for a slight smile, but then, Narzul asked about what precisely had happened to Jorwen, which turned his smile to a frown and caused him to let out a sigh.

‘’Yes, the Kamal. I wasn’t there with him, I’m afraid; we were on a different mission. I hope we can find him, although, given what we’ve seen, that might be as good as dead,’’ Sadri replied grimly to Narzul’s question. ‘’You’re certainly lucky Niernen survived. From what I understand, their treatment of prisoners is not all that different from a Bosmer’s treatment of a dead relative.’’ It seemed that the Redoran had still not properly adjusted to real life, even though the journey from his ivory towers to here would’ve taken some time.

‘’Ah, yeah, about the lizards, they aren’t exactly happy about things. Things have been flaring up, what with the Dunmer collaborating with the Kamal and such, pours salt and piss on already open wounds, and the rest of the races around are kind of off-put by their tendency to migrate back to Black Marsh in the middle of everything else. There have already been a couple of murders and fights. I’m afraid that things may lead to a pogrom, almost did in Windhelm before it fell,’’ he replied.

‘’As for the Kamal, yeah, I’ve faced them. Not the hardest fight I’ve been in, but that’s thanks to pure luck, I’d say. Fuckers are the size of trolls, plate armor everywhere, and their carving knifes can be the size of a short sword. Seen one of them grasp onto the leg of a friend of your sister. Mer was a trained Great House bodyguard, yet couldn’t free himself. The damned giant took him to the seas.’’

Sadri leaned somewhat further on the table, hands almost reaching Narzul’s helmet. ‘’If you don’t mind me asking, you looked like you were about to kill someone when you first came out of the inn. Reunion don’t go that well?’’ He asked, eyes lining up with the Redoran’s.

The knowledge that the Argonians had begun an exodus to Black Marsh was cause for Narzul to ponder the potential ramifications for Morrowind. He knew that others believed the Argonians were, for all of their flaws and inferiorities, one of the most dangerous races in Tamriel whenever they were united by their tree-gods. He had heard the stories of how the Daedra of Mehrunes Dagon had been forced to close the Gates during the Oblivion Crisis when the Argonians swarmed into the portals, though he wasn't sure he actually believed any of it. The Altmer of Alinor had seen their Crystal Tower topple at the hands of the Daedra. Surely a horde of scaled beasts were no more capable.

This line of thinking was quickly cut short by Sadri's description of the Kamal and his anecdote about Niernen's friend. Narzul furrowed his brow at this, wondering just how reliable of a narrator Sadri was. He was, after all, an outlander, and thus a fondness for embellishment fell entirely within the realm of possibilities. Narzul knew just how capable the Great House bodyguards were and the idea of one being dragged to his doom by a giant ice-demon was... discomforting. What good was martial prowess when faced with such brute strength?

It wasn't until Sadri's last comment and question that Narzul felt the need to respond. He had treated Sadri with respect initially but now he was armed with the knowledge that the older Dunmer was, and always had been, Narzul's inferior, and an outlander to boot. Feeling that Sadri had overstepped his bounds, the younger Dunmer glared at him with an acidic glint to his eyes. "I do mind you asking," Narzul hissed and looked away, clearly not accepting any further prying remarks.

After a few seconds, Narzul sighed and turned back to face Sadri, the venom having left his gaze. "Since you seem fond of personal questions, let me ask you one first. Why do you fight with this... mercenary company against the Kamal?" Narzul was aware that the tone of his voice and the way he phrased his question was, in and of itself, a partial answer to Sadri's inquiry, but did not care enough to hide it.

‘’Fair’s fair, young mer. I know better than to push people – but do understand. I have few kinsmen here, Niernen’s one of them, and now there’s you. We Dunmer have only each other in these foreign lands,’’ Sadri replied in a much more amiable tone upon Narzul’s answer. It was obvious that his feelings were still fresh, and Sadri had dealt with nobility before. It was best to warm them up to some sort of kinship first. Plus, this lad seemed far too young to get completely lost in the rituals and prejudices of nobility – they did say that the tree grew as the twig was bent.

‘’As for your question – let me answer,’’ Sadri remarked in a slightly more serious tone. ‘’I’ve wandered all my life. Only time I ever fought willingly for a country, it was for Morrowind. Figured I needed a home.’’ He breathed out loudly. ‘’You’ve done your part. So did I, and with valor. I’ve been congratulated by the Nerevarine in person for capturing one of the lizard elders along with his entourage.’’ He dazed away for a moment, in nostalgia. The loss of conviction brought on by having a goal seemed hurtful still.

‘’I set out with money to start a business. These damn Nords can whale, so can we. Yet my very own friends from the war betrayed me. Tried to take away my money,’’ he sighed. ‘’They got justice, but my earnings from the war were lost with them. I’ve done many jobs, but foremost I have been a mer of labor. I’m not one to lament for losses. I decided to earn my coin back.’’

Cilo appeared far away behind Narzul, seemingly hesitant, and holding the two bottles that Sadri had requested. He beckoned him over, grabbed the bottles, and silently shooed him away, insistently glaring at him to leave when he attempted to protest vocally. He put the drink and the cranberry juice in the middle of the table, by Narzul’s helmet. ‘’The men here can’t brew anything like flin, just so you know,’’ Sadri said as he put the bottles. ‘’And the Kamal killed my supplier back in Windhelm.’’

‘’In any case, I’ve worked with these folks since. Even the cats and the lizards have proven their worth, and I don’t say this lightly,’’ he continued. ‘’For some time, I had my doubts and fears. What had the Kamal done to Morrowind, if they were able to take Windhelm so effortlessly? Hate built up. Fear built up. It was only when we were attacked by Armigers that we found out,’’ Sadri said, a tinge of lamenting in his voice.

‘’By that time it was too late. I’d lost comrades and kinsmen to the bastards, and they showed no intention of mercy to us. It was a battle, I can understand that, but, ask anyone, if you wish. We saved your sister and his late friend just recently. The Kamal treat nobody like what they’re worth. They hold us Moriche, and some labor from Argonia, in same contempt.

Your sister, she is nobility, like you. Her friend, Valen was his name I think, he was also part of high society. Me, I’ve drifted in between both scum and nobility, I would understand if the Kamal threw me into the grinder if they found me,’’ Sadri said, ‘’but even they were shown treatment worse than a Telvanni would show to a beggar. And I will not betray common merit and the honor of my race by collaborating with such backstabbing and brutish scum.’’

Sadri’s voice actually held some hate by the end of his speech. He opened the bottle of the distillate after stopping.

‘’Fancy some?’’

Narzul came to the conclusion that he did not like Sadri very much. His naïveté was off-putting and the mer's insight into the current war was decidedly short-sighted. Though the Redoran accepted the offered drink, he scoffed and shook his head slightly when he brought the cup to his lips and said: "You cannot fight a worthy enemy and expect to be treated properly when captured. Niernen said many of the same things you did. Hypocritical, when one remembers how we treat the lizards and the cats you appear to have a weakness for. Do neither of you understand that?"

After taking a sip, Narzul grimaced and put the cup back on the table. "Ayem's mercy, that is foul." He cleared his throat and put his elbow on the arm rest with a soft, metal clink, using his hand to articulate his words. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, I will readily admit that, but what I do not understand are your actions afterwards. Windhelm is besieged and you see fit to take up arms... in defense of a Nord city? Are you a common soldier that whores himself out to other races? Never mind," Narzul growled irritably and waved dismissively. "You are a mercenary, so clearly you are. The sensible thing to do would have been to go back to Morrowind immediately. It is what I expected my sister to do, but apparently she has lost sight of her values."

He paused for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, and continued. "But, alas, here you both are, having betrayed your honor and fought to defend Skyrim -- of all places. Does it really surprise you that the Kamal would treat anyone they capture here as an ordinary slave? An enemy is an enemy. I would have my soldiers do the same if I were in the position of the Kamal. Now, of course... I regret that this happened to my sister, but only because it's her -- if it were any other Dunmer of 'high society', as you put it, I would not be sympathetic in the slightest. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, master Beleth," Narzul said and finished his own monologue with an insincere smile.

Sadri pushed forward the bottle of cranberry juice for Narzul to distill his drink with after the Redoran rightfully complained about the drink’s awful taste. ‘’Try watering it down with this, makes it more bearable,’’ he said in a very out-of-context, helpful tone, as if the two were not arguing but simply trying to enjoy a drink to the best of their abilities. In truth, despite a growing dislike for the Redoran, Sadri seemed to hold some degree of respect for him. For Sadri, there was something to be envied and admired in people who kept to their ideals – perhaps out of a benign jealousy, for Sadri himself was mostly a drifter without a cause.

‘’I will admit that you raise a fair point on their treatment, but at the very least, I tried to spare those I captured their afterlives,’’ Sadri replied, pouring some cranberry juice in his cup. ‘’Never gave my prisoners to the Telvanni, feared they would burn their souls away in their experiments. You may look down upon me for this, but I say this as a mer of almost eighty years, it is best to spare a thinking soul its own duty beyond this coil. I would not wish to lie, for I have not seen it with my own eyes, but I have heard from my comrades that went down to the lower decks that the Kamal used the souls of their prisoners to fuel their ironclads. Their ships are gem-powered, from what I understand.’’

He took a sip of his own, and he could feel the tasteless bitterness of the potato distillate creep through the cranberry – no doubt he had it better than Narzul, however, who had taken his drink dry. He gathered his mind; Narzul had proven to be a stable opponent, he needed to mantle his inner librarian, articulate his thoughts and words.

‘’I think our problem is a matter of perspective, truth be told,’’ Sadri continued in a diplomatic tone. ‘’We have differing opinions on loyalty. I am a mer of labor, serjo Venim, I always have been, and I find my comrades in my labor. Be they esteemed like us mer, or savages like cats or the lizards, my allies are those I work with – it is a matter of ethic to not betray them. I suppose you could call my work for Morrowind an attempt to change that, but surely you understand, getting betrayed leaves you cynical and with a rather sour taste, not unlike this thing,’’ Sadri said as he pointed at the bottle of distillate.

‘’You are of different birth and status than I – you’ve grown in a completely different environment, and from what I infer we do not share much in character aside from respect to a job well done. Thus, it doesn’t surprise me that your views and dogmas are completely different than those of mine. I may quit once my job is done with this company, but until then, my word binds me. I will not sell my sword and my comrades for status. And thus, fate has put me on this side.’’

Sadri lined his eyes up with Narzul’s again. ‘’I expect you will disagree. I wouldn’t dare judge you for it. But it will make me happy if I can make you see my perspective, at least,’’ he said softly and blankly, disregarding Narzul’s tangentially hostile remarks and gestures.

"Thank you," Narzul said politely in response to Sadri's suggestion to use the cranberry juice and promptly did as suggested. He had to admit to himself that the drink tasted better afterwards. If nothing else, Sadri knew his way around booze.

As for the rest of Sadri's words, Narzul felt his esteem of the mer grow slightly when he managed to convey his point articulately and with respect. That said, Sadri was right, of course -- Narzul disagreed with the notion that binding loyalty could be found among a multi-racial rabble like the mercenary company. He was firmly of the opinion that it was the duty of all Dunmer to serve the interests of their race and nation, first and foremost. Family and (if applicable) House came second. One's co-workers were rather far down on Narzul's list.

But for a drifter like Sadri, Narzul began to understand the attachment to his current allies and he could find no fault with his logic, other than that it was extrapolated from a fundamentally incorrect position. The Redoran suspected that their status and birth indeed had something to do with that, but that only raised the question of why Niernen had so forcefully thrown in her lot with these people. She was much closer to being Narzul's equal than Sadri's.

"Then be happy, for you have," Narzul said at last, brooding over his cup. He swilled the mixed drink and took another gulp. "You're right, I don't agree with you, but I understand where your convictions come from. Riddle me this, master Beleth, if you can; why has my sister done the same as you?" Narzul felt no need to further explain his question. If his estimate of Sadri was right, the Dunmer was smart enough to understand what Narzul was implying. If he was not, the conversation was over.

Sadri smiled visibly and contently upon hearing Narzul’s acceptance of his argument, and listened even more intently as he continued, enthused by the fact that the young mer was accepting of compromise and coexistence (this always implied to an open mind in Sadri’s point of view – even though one could argue Narzul was anything but open minded). Then, the Redoran asked the question that Sadri had been expectant of in one form or another, yet eluded so far by his drinking companion. Sadri nodded enthusiastically – he believed that a proper reply to this question would not only help him understand Narzul further, but also possibly defuse the young mer’s negative feelings.

‘’I see, I see,’’ Sadri mulled out loud as he scratched his beard. ‘’Truth be told, serjo, there are too many factors for that, but I shall try to explain to the best of my ability.’’ He took a faint breath before continuing. ‘’Your sister and you are different characters – you may have grown up in the same society, but you have had different roles, from birth, as your sexes, and from then on. I have seen that she’s a talented mage – you show yourself to be a talented warrior, and House Redoran’s always had a preference for wristwork compared to magic. I assume you are older, given your protective nature, and this also shapes the dynamics within family. Already your paths have diverged so.’’

Sadri took a small sip from the cup to refresh his mouth before continuing. ‘’I would delve into matters such as birth year and birth sign, but that’s far too esoteric and subtle for us to consider at this point, although I do not think you would disagree if I claimed that people have differing tendencies within their very own nature, and some just take after differing ancestors. May be possible that you grew to resemble, let’s say your grandfather, while she took after someone else, but let us carry on.

There plays in a part of prowess as well, and, in my opinion most importantly, experiences. I remember hearing talk of her getting wounded back during the War. Some experiences can twist one’s very being, for better or worse. You speak with conviction and self-assuredness that she lacks in her voice. This would make her more malleable.

And more importantly, she has been with us for longer than you have - they do say that if you lay down with dogs, you will rise up with fleas. We are shaped by base emotions as much as we are shaped by ideals, sometimes, they even merge together, and one emotion or experience leaves its influence, its taint, on a whole chain of thoughts. I remember her having to fight side by side with a cat back on Windhelm, for instance. To face against certain death with one you would normally detest, that is bound to dissolve one’s feelings of prejudice, out of the sheer memory you would remember whenever you saw the person or, to a lesser degree, anything that resembles such things. This would also explain our different ideas of loyalty – I am an expatriate, I’ve lived most of my life outside Morrowind, fought alongside people of different nationalities. You’re of the Great Houses, all your allies have been Dunmer.

It is also because of these experiences that I believe you will find her hard to coerce – she’s the only live person that I know who has been captured by the Kamal, and she has survived thanks to having stumbled upon us once again – bound to strengthen her familiarity and sympathy. She was also there, amongst us, when we fought Armigers who wished to harm us for the Nerevarine’s cause.

All this should provide compelling evidence, and I will cite again different temperaments. Add all this together, and you should understand.’’

Sadri leaned on the back of his chair, having concluded his observation. ‘’I believe talking any further would be just elaborating and repeating my points. You don’t strike me as the type that needs that,’’ the Dunmer said, looking at Narzul’s face.

That was not what Narzul had expected. He sat silently after Sadri had finished talking and rubbed his chin, mulling over this analysis of his sister with mixed feelings. On one hand, he appreciated the insight, if it was true, but he also felt like Sadri made an audacious amount of assumptions about his sister's life based on details that Narzul was not entirely pleased the older Dunmer seemed to have perceived. It also sat wrong with him that he implied she was malleable, and the idea of Niernen having to fight for her life with a Khajiit as her only ally made that thought even worse. That meant that, if Sadri was right, Niernen's mind had been poisoned by her experiences to the point of believing untruths about things like the beast-races and the worth of her assocation with the mercenaries, instead of by some trickery at the hands of the Khajiit -- his initial assumption. Narzul did not relish the idea of having to rectify that kind of psychological damage. It would not be easy, like Sadri had said. And if Sadri was wrong, Narzul had learned nothing. Either way, he did not like what he had just been told.

Another thought, insidious and insistent, began to argue a different point of view. Ignoring the topics of loyalty and race, what if Niernen and Sadri were right about the Nerevarine? He had not forgotten that the Hortator had slain his ancestor, Bolvyn Venim, to claim the title of Redoran Archmaster. Narzul had never seen much of a problem with this (unlike their father and, to a lesser extent, Niernen) as the Nerevarine's victory over Dagoth Ur had justified his actions, but maybe -- just maybe -- it was indicative of a deeper capacity for betrayal that Narzul had ignored thus far.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "No, that won't be necessary." He drained the rest of his drink and got to his feet, scarlet eyes moving up and down the dark street (the sun had disappeared behind the mountains while they had talked). "You have given me much to think about. Goodnight."

And with that, the Redoran left, helmet in hand, and made way for the inn. He would rent a room for himself and assess the situation again tomorrow. In any case, one thing he was sure of; something had to be done about Niernen's mistaken fondness for the wrong sort of friends.

---

A lone horse-led wagon dragged along one of many lonely cobbled roads that zigzagged across Skyrim's fields, crags, and bitter tundras. Roads with grass and brushes growing in the middle of them, sometimes forking off into the same road and a dirt path pounded flat by dozens of feet - you didn't want to follow those paths - and it was years upon years of travel that created wheel-dug indents in these roads with no one around to bother repairing them. As such, riding these roads had become something of an art. Turn wrong or spook your horse, and you run the risk of misaligning one of your wheels or ripping them off entirely. It took a considerably lucky sort for an amateur equestrian to hit these holes in the road repeatedly with little-to-no-consequences.

Creeeaaak... thunk!

The entire wagon slammed the ground as it rode the edge of the dip in the road and fell back into it, causing whatever that rode in the back to abruptly shift.

"Sorry!" Cried out the driver in a rural, Nordic accent. He turned his head around, showing off a wide toothy grin with a piece of wheat sticking out from between his smile. He wore a wide-brimmed hat made from straw and dried fronds and blades of grass. "These ol' roads have themselves quite the temper, yeah?"

The occupant groaned as she wearily rubbed the side of her head, apparently rising from a poorly had slumber with less-than-comfortable bedding (i.e. hard wood). The poor coordination of her driver didn't do her many favors by having her head dropped against said wood. She had spent a few days on this journey, sharing few words with her driver as she spent the majority of her time either resting or in silent prayer. As Wylendriel clutched her now aching head, she did her best to remain positive with a sense of humor.

"You don't say..." She replied. "It practically jumped at you." She felt it was a good start. It was far better than the thoughts that kept insisting on treading where they did not belong. Thoughts such as, 'You think the road's temper is bad, you should see mine.' Thoughts of blood and pain. They were not her own. The driver, in response, just laughed and continue leading his horse with his reigns, and a repetitive "hip-hip" he seemed to blurt every minute or so. The horse was whining with irritation, but obediently treaded onward. Wylendriel sighed and let all of her tension escape with her breath. The temple encouraged such practice of breathing, for with each breath, you breathe in the wind, allowing Kynareth to heal you from the inside. The pain in her head began to subside and her tired body seemed to ease.

With the thought of her lady in her mind, she breathed in and relaxed her muscles and raised her face to the sky. She muttered a prayer under her breath: "Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in terror, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures."

There was but only silence again. Still, she remained faithful and continued on with the second half of her prayer.

"Song of night-tide canopy - stars woven between your leaves. Crow's watching eye; snake's empty belly - moving, dancing in every moment... forgetting what comes and what is gone."

'Now there's a pretty song!" The nosy driver chimed in.

"It's a prayer," Wylendriel corrected with a smile, "its recited by Bosmeri followers of Y'ffre. It reminds us of where we come from, and where we will one day go."

"You aren't one of 'em are ye?" The driver asked. "Them cannibals?"

Wylendriel shifted in her seat uncomfortably, but stifled a nervous laugh. "Ah, no." She told him. "I am also a priestess of Kynareth. No rules exist saying I cannot worship across pantheons, yes?"

The driver just laughed and tipped his hat to keep the sunlight out of his eyes as they crossed over a hill. He said, "No, I s'pose there are none."

As they rode over the wooded hilltop, sunlight finally broke through and touched Wylendriel's face, and she took the opportunity to relish in its warm rays. Even forsaken as she was, Kynareth still generously shared nature's gifts to all who breathed beneath the skies. In the distance was just as much a promising sign: the line where the ocean meets the sky, and in the distance, the small port town of Dawnstar. A ship was at rest at its docks, and the people who lived there out and about. This is where she was led, and then... she had to retrace her steps - whatever that meant. The gods often led their faithful on epic quests, but going from here and back to Eastmarch (or even as far back as Valenwood!) sounded like there were incredible odds stacked against her. Still, she imagined it took a lot to impress a Divine... and it was just as likely she may be interpreting the message wrong. No mortal, man nor mer, should be ridden with so much hubris that they would claim to fathom a god's intentions. That being said, this was just as much a test of her mind as it was a test of her faith.

The wagon rolled closer to the city and she could begin feeling the salty breeze. Even in dead of summer, it felt cold as it swept across the northern ocean. As a traveler from Valenwood, used to the cozy tropics and humidity, she just pulled her robes around herself tighter. Northern Skyrim was uncomfortable in summer, and she could only imagine how inhospitable it must be by year's end. The wagon suddenly stopped at the outskirts of Dawnstar and the driver swung around in his seat. "Alrighty, little lady! Dawnstar!"

Wylendriel hesitated. "Um...?" She leaned her head out to still see the gates ahead of them. The driver redirected her attention to the refugee camp full of argonians just outside.

"Thieving wretches, they are, got to see plenty of 'em myself down in the Rift."

"Charming." Wylendriel commented in reference to him, but he seemed to have taken it in reference to the argonians.

"I'll say! Watch your pockets on your way in! And your back too, you never know what they might be up to..."

Without further word to the driver, Wylendriel collected her belongings and climbed out the back of the wagon and marched on without making contact with the racist moron-- Gods, just make it stop. Not her thoughts, not her thoughts... Not. Her. Thoughts. Still, why did it have to feel so... right? Insanity notwithstanding, she trudged on, but towards the camp of argonians refugees. The nagging suggestions in the back of her mind insisted her to ignore them and continue on her pilgrimage, to focus on Dawnstar - but she concluded to ignore those thoughts. Yes, her journey was important, but it wasn't worth it if she lost herself in the process. Her identity as a healer helped her to distinguish herself from her curse. Still, she had to wonder sometimes which thought was really her. Was it the corruption that told her to continue the pilgrimage, or was it telling her to help these folks in order to drive her off-course? She elected to focus on helping these wounded in lieu of this disturbing pondering.

The argonians, wrapped in bandages and smelled of anti-septic, look cautiously to the robed Bosmer woman. One of them, an older looking lizard with feathers growing from the sides of his face, raised a hand that prompted her to halt.

"Come further if you wish to help," he said cautiously, "otherwise we do not want any trouble."

"I'm a healer." Wylendriel explained. Many argonians whispered to each other, and although it was very rare Wy ever got to meet an argonian, their faces seemed to gleam with excitement and anticipation. "What happened to all of you? This doesn't have to do with... with the akaviri... does it?"

The camp fell quiet at the mention of the name, and the elder slowly stood up. He measured her carefully and spoke, "I'll assume you must be very new to Skyrim, since you don't look to me as to swim in the river of fools. Forced to age, yes? You've a weathered look."

Wylendriel simply answered, "I am on pilgrimage. News travels where there are people."

"I am not one to cast the Hist's blessing back into the river. My name is Tzinasha, stranger. The worst of our ailing sleep in their tents. Please help them if you can."

Led through the camp, she caught a number of stares. Many of them had their arms in slings, but at least they were standing. Some of them were even missing parts of their tails. She was invited into their largest tent and she was instantly treated with the smell of blood, medicine, and septic wounds. One of their worst cases seemed to be one that was coughing blood and missing an eye. Their tail was stumped and the dressings across his belly were still bleeding through. She grimaced. A missing eye and tail was something she couldn't do. Resetting a broken bone? Easy. But she couldn't create new limbs and organs.

"Many of them have high fevers," Tzinasha said, "this one is Vijan-Nim, one of our warriors. He personally evacuated dozens of hatchlings in the Kamal's seige... but I fear we may lose him as early as tomorrow."

Wylendriel sighed as she sat down on her knees and pulled out ingredients from her pouches and the mortar and pestle from her satchel. She took a piece of mudcrab chitin, a pinch of bonemeal, and strands of a hawk feather and gave the ingredients to the elder with specific instructions: "Mix them well with water and give them to anyone running a fever. It should bring down their temperature and kill any infections."

Tzinasha nodded and immediately went to work - they had their own medicine, but what they had was limited and they were still dying. There was very little they had to lose in hoping that her treatment would be any better. Meanwhile, Wylendriel pulled out a book, "Notes on Racial Phylogeny." She didn't have the opportunity to work with argonians very often, so the book's input will undoubtedly be of some help. What she did know, however, was that there was a general technique used across species. The trick was to capitalize on that method. Unfortunately, the book was pretty useless. It just suggested the possibility of argonians being similar to dreughs - pro-tip, there aren't many dreughs in either Skyrim or in Valenwood. The only dreugh she has seen was one next to the lake in Cyrodill, and she was far too preoccupied with running to look behind her to get a good medical inspection of its hungry, frothing mouth. This meant she just had to work under the assumption that, "Hey, we're all mortals. What could go wrong?"

She casted the most powerful healing spell that she knew and focused it on Vija-Nim's belly and closed her eyes as she whispered a prayer to herself. The tent illuminated with a bright light, causing looks of awe and muttering to spread - when the light faded, the argonians shifted in his bedroll and his good eye fluttered open. "Wha... what happened to me? Sun on my scales; my pain... my pain is nearly gone!"

The previously hushed voices, the head poking curiously in the tent, erupted this time with victorious uproar. This caused Wylendriel to shrink slightly, humbled by the gratitude they all exhibited - but also she felt fulfilled in some way. These people were hurting for so long with no real healer to take care for them that they must've given hope. Now she was here. It was in Dominions camps, almost like these, where she learned how to hone her craft. Was this what the Divines meant when she was told to retrace her steps? Regardless, she had to get her mind out of the clouds. She has work to do.

By the time the group of Mercenaries had made their escape (Rhasha being kept upright, quite gratefully, thanks to Sevine and Dax), and a handful of Braves had caught up to them, Rhasha had managed to replenish enough magicka to cast a few small healing spells on himself... but he didn't dare to remove the shaft of the arrow from his chest, not until they got to a safer place. For all he knew, the arrow was the only thing keeping blood out of his lungs, or the only thing keeping pressure on a severed artery. The head and fletching had been clipped away for more ease of movement, but there was still something grating about having a piece of wood impaling oneself.

The Khajiit remained quiet during the argument between their elven members; he too would have gone back to try and rescue Jorwen, a good and brave man that deserved a better fate - but he could barely walk, and Daelin didn't seem to be back at 100% either. Sevine was hurt, and Dax also seemed to have some injuries. He hated to admit it, but Keegan was correct; they would have to abandon the mission well and truly if they wanted to make it back to Dawnstar in one piece. As it happened, the journey itself was hard enough to nearly finish them all off.

As the hours passed, Rhasha's exhaustion only grew; the only relief he had was healing his wound whenever he got the chance too. After retreating far enough away from the Kamal, the Khajiit had risked removing the arrow shaft from his chest, breathing a sigh of relief upon seeing a lack of arterial spray gushing out of his wound. Any blood that had pooled in his diaphragm must had been from torn capillaries, as it had subsided and clotted after only a few hours. By the first half-day of their journey, Rhasha could support himself after several bouts of healing magic. If the group had paused for longer than half hour bursts, he would had offered to try and forage for some more alchemical ingredients, create potions of healing or endurance. By the look on Keegan's face however, he didn't dare voice the option - the Khajiit got the distinct impression that Keegan was annoyed at him in some manner, but couldn't quite understand why. The least he could do to help was support Daelin when the journey became too much for the Bosmer, but in Rhasha's own exhaustion, wasn't able to do all that he would usually. As such, the sudden appearance of friendly "bandits" and their fort was a miracle for the starved and shivering lot. Food, water, and shelter from the wind was enough to lull Rhasha'Dar into a heavy sleep, despite the work from the mines. With all their bad luck, it seemed things were finally beginning to look up.

The next morning, the group was replenished, and although the atmosphere was still tense and down-trodden, Rhasha was beginning to feel somewhat better about things. Although he hadn't found the time to brew any potions (The cat had slept like the dead... perhaps an inappropriate comparison, with what may have happened), Dawnstar was but a day's journey away, and they could rejoin with the rest of their group. Daelin seemed to be in better spirits that day as well - or at the very least, better rested. Enough so for the two to have a short conversation; Rhasha had expressed his relief in seeing Daelin alive. Back at Nightgate, his chances hadn't looked good at all with the amount of injuries recieved, and the situation deteriorating outside.

"This one's family has some... unique situations." He had said in response to a query about his siblings. His elder brother had been in the gazette, leading to Rhasha writing a worried letter to his parents about supposed "killing of orphans". Ri'Nhazi had always been headstrong, but Rhasha knew he wouldn't be responsible for war crimes. Or at the very least, was unaware they occurred. As for his sister... well, everyone in the company probably knew of her affiliations now - a fact he had kept from the remainder of his family as a favour to her. Rhasha could only hope that both of them stayed as safe as they possibly could in their current lines of work. Wishing Daelin the best of luck in reuniting with his family, Rhasha began to wonder about his own, and felt a pang of guilt upon remembering where he had left his Azurah pendant. He regretted leaving it behind, simply because it was one of the few things that connected him with home, and with his family that were scattered across the continent. For the rest of the journey, the Khajiit remained silent, contemplating about the lost necklace. Would Azurah see his anger and abandonment of her beloved token as an affront to her? And if so, what would she do?

As the group finally reached Dawnstar and went about their business, Rhasha was content in taking the smaller amount of pay simply from relief; they had made it, and it seemed everyone from the other group had made it back alive too. All they had lost was Jorwen, and even his fate was unknown to the recovering land group. Perhaps the Gods would be merciful, and Jorwen would appear alive and in one piece in due time. But as time passed and Rhasha went about his business; finally restocking and being able to replenish his potions supply, he took up a quiet corner in the Inn with his equipment, some food and wine, and a smouldering pipe dangling from his mouth. A cursory glance at the latest Gazette, left folded over on the bench beside him caught his attention, and mercy seemed to be in short supply between the printed words. Placing his half-crushed bear claw filled mortar down, further reading of the news article snapped up all of the Khajiit's scrutiny. 'Failed attempt on his life... abducted?' Rhasha's thoughts from earlier rushed back, and the paper slipped from his grasp in stunned silence. His brother, kidnapped? It sounded impossible to consider. Ri'Nhazi-Do was the biggest of his family, a cathay-raht that was considered tall and muscular even for his sub-specie. How could anyone have taken him? But that wasn't the only question now swimming around Rhasha'Dar's mind. How could he stay here when his sibling was gone... when his country lay under attack from beasts that sounded just as horrifying as the Kamal in Skyrim? What were his parents going to do, if their Riverhold came under attack? His youngest sister M'Vrasha still lived with them, and the thought of losing all three was a terrible one.

Rhasha'Dar began grinding the bear claws again, but his expression was one of numbness. What path would he take now, with peril reaching both himself with his companions, and his family so far away? The answer was not known to him yet... so he would do what he was good at. Make potions, and help people.

---

The first argonian to be healed was something of a test. Now that Wylendriel knew she could do it, she could perform a mass session. Already had the refugees began organizing their wounded in a circle around the center of the tent. Those who weren't hurt, but sick, they treated with the medicinal recipe the priestess had provided, providing the ill with some relief from their symptoms. The Grand Healing restoration spell was exhausting to perform, but it was excellent for healing multiple bodies. Military camps, for instance, usually had a sick tent filled with many wounded. Wy remembered watch expert and masterful restorationists repairing their bodies in a matter of minutes. Now here she was, preparing herself to fulfill the same deed as she has only a couple times before. She was fortunate to not be exposed to too much strife - until last couple of years. Any decent healer bears the misfortune of experiencing harrowing times. After all, healthy folk have no need for experts.

"I raise the spine of gratitude. You are the sun on my scales," Tzinasha said graciously, "soon enough my egg-brothers and egg-sisters will be okay, and we have you to thank."

Wylendriel smiled and set her hand on the elder's shoulder, and as she did, she felt the cool scales on her skin. She replied, "I won't say this was nothing. Life is such an amazing and yet fickle thing to be toyed with, so I appreciate your trust. We just all have our roles on Nirn. I'm blessed to say this is simply mine."

"Pure rains make sweet rivers, softskin." Tzinasha responded. "One day, we will all rejoin the one, but I am glad they may swim this river a little while longer. As far as I am concerned, our nest is yours."

"You humble me, Tzinasha!" Wylendriel laughed. "But let's see all of your people healed before you become too hospitable."

"I may know your name before you begin?"

She smiled at him and replied warmly, "Wylendriel Greensky. You and your people may call me Wy."

Part of her wanted to stall for time, since even though the spell got easier to cast every time, it was still stressful at the best of times. With so many bodies, her magicka was gonna be strained. Then again, that could've been the corruption talking, so that just made a different part of her want to push even harder to make this happen. "But what if you need your magicka later?" This voice would ask. Then she could always drink a potion, she'd answer herself. If there's a problem you can't fix, then there's no point in worrying about it. If there's a problem you can fix, then there was no point in worrying about it! At least, that was the idea behind her advice for people living every day lives in Whiterun. It seemed less concrete in cases of mass healing and daedric influence. She sighed and stood in the center of the circle of wounded and dying argonians.

She crossed her arms together and closed her eyes, muttering a prayer for strength as her hands began to glow.

"Kynareth, my lady, please... come to me. Be my breath, and if not for me, then for these innocent souls lest their lives be cut short, so that they may breathe you in through me - and in this exchange of the breath of life, their bodies may heal. Let extend their lives for at least another day, so that they may exchange breaths with one another for a while longer."

The bodies situated around began glowing with the same light that emanated from her hands, surrounding all of the open wounds and abrasions and slowly closing the seams. Wylendriel felt her magicka reserves instantly begin sapping. She continued the spell with steady, albeit heavy breathing. The priestess ended her prayer with a last whisper: "Let not your bountiful treasures be profaned."

Using all of her strength, she pushed her magical power to her limit and the healing process on the dozen of argonians sped up and the light became more intense, beaming out the crevices of the tent, prompting a couple of curious peaks into the shelter. The septic infections practically boiled away, some few pained moans were managed by the patients as deep gouges closed themselves shut and the nerves endings were freshly sewn back together. Some severe cases were briefly awash with pain before a relaxing warmth glazed over their bodies. Some who have been in such pain for a long time would continue to feel phantom pains for some time. Most importantly, everyone who had been arranged in this circle would be okay. Wylendriel fell to her knees as she finished and the light faded away. Her patients, some crippled moments before and intoxicated by whatever drug that placated them, began stirring and looking around - then at themselves in wonder. Hope was at last restored to these refugees, and even those outside rush in to greet the loved ones they were prepared to lose.

Tzinasha cut through the triumphant crowd, and shooed away the grateful argonians who personally wanted to thank the wood elven priestess before he helped her to her feet. With her arm over the elder's shoulders, she smiled weakly at him with deep breaths. No such smile formed on the elder's head, but the spines were stiffly erect.

"For as long as we've been in Skyrim, we were not paid any heed. Even to passing travelers as we die outside their nests." He said wistfully. "You really are a blue reed in yellow peat."

"I... think I know what you mean." Wylendriel hesitated.

The elder explained, "It means you swim a different river."

As little as the refugee community here had little to provide, Wylendriel's humility was put to the test by some of the people who insisted on giving her gifts. A thought entered her head that told her to go ahead and take it because she deserved it - she pushed that thought down. Maybe it was better this way, they owed her something and they knew that; it was like willful slavery - she shut her eyes and pushed that thought down, too. She felt far too spent to deal with daedric suggestions... but those thoughts might not be from daedra at all. She distracted herself with the rambunctious people who sought her attention as Tzinasha helped her outside so that she may breathe in the fresh air.

"Please, your hospitality is payment enough. Your injured are healed, but you must still find food for yourselves." She insisted. Looking Tzinasha, she can sense the warm feelings from him despite his cold expression (or lack thereof). "Once you find a new home, you will send a courier for me, yes? I may find time to visit."

"Of course, Wy. I imagine you will be in our thoughts for some time."

Finding her balance once more, she managed to stand on her own and turned her gaze towards the town of Dawnstar. It was so busy for some reason, and perhaps for the same reason as these refugees. A war with a people called the Akaviri. Yet the argonians were situated in a camp outside of town, dying from injuries and sickness. There was little wonder why they were hesitant to allow a stranger's approach. On the other hand, Wylendriel needed to keep going. She just used a fair bit of her stockpile of medicine and was running low, but with only ten septims on her person, there was no way she'd get back to the amount she had before. Expenditures were not the kind of roadblocks she had expected to come across on her pilgrimage. Who would've ever thought that such a thing required funding? She would go out and get her own, if only... if only it weren't so risky. Twice before she traveled on foot. Once, fleeing from Valenwood, and the trip was treacherous. The second, she technically died, and on top of that, daedric influence infected her. That was after she decided it was safer to travel in groups, too. The only alternative left then was to find work. Unfortunately, her only real skill-set was a healer, and as a priestess, her vows kept her from profiting off of that.

Tzinasha must've sensed her stress, for he set his hand on her shoulder and gestured toward a campfire. Both of them sat onto the ground beside the fire and stared into the flames.

"As a Saxhleel in Skyrim, sometimes not even the sun is enough to keep me warm." The elder said.

"Saxhleel?"

"Elves like to make things sound sweet, so they give our Black Marsh the name Argonia." Tzinasha explained. "Hence why Tamriel call us Argonians. We call ourselves Saxhleel."

"Saxhleel..." Wylendriel repeated. She then looked at them and asked, "I think I know what you meant. The Saxhleel are found of metaphors then?"

"It is our way. Symbols live in everything. Dunmer demand many things, xhu? But their culture respects ability and confidence. Say no assertively, and they respect your wish even if they may not acknowledge it."

She nodded in understanding and looked back into the fire and embraced the heat her robes absorbed. Tzinasha continued, "What I meant was that there's no shame in accepting help. Accept it when you can. The rivers we swim in have jagged rocks, there is no telling when we may find it again. Rest with a us a while longer before you depart. It is rare that we find an outsider willing to talk; rarer still they help us in the way you have."

"I'm grateful for your wisdom, my friend." Wylendriel cooed.

So there she stayed a while longer. Some who felt well enough to move had risen from their bedding to thank her personally and greet her properly. Some who may have been particularly impressed and smitten by the mer lady had tried their efforts in regaling her. While thoroughly entertained, stricken with laughter and bemusement, treated with a vulgar tasting drink made from boiling pulped beetle larvae and butterflies in water, garnished with the latter's wings, and assured her that if she thought that was good, she should visit Black Marsh when the King Yellow slug was in season. Sided with a drink called theilul, there was apparently no finer cuisine on the eastern edge of Tamriel! When asked what this "theilul" was, the Saxhleel people simply snickered to themselves and guaranteed the rum's taste was well worth the buzz.

As she and refugees enjoyed each other's time, the Skyrim's skies had grown pink as the sun fell behind distant mountains, and the energy of the camp had begun to dwindle. After all, while their wounds were healed, she couldn't nourish their bodies or re-energize them after days of sickness and inactivity. When it was just her and a couple others including Tzinasha, comparing each other's culture (they had taken great interest in the similarities between the Bosmer's reverence of nature via their Green Pact and their own relationship with the Hist), they noticed torchlight climbing up the hill from Dawnstar. Wylendriel did not fail to notice that the refugees fell quiet in anxious anticipation. The sound of rubbing leather and the ringing of chainmail betrayed the identity of the newcomer before they had even arrived. A guardsman most likely, and considering the refugees' anxiety, there was certainly no love between the two groups - but one did not have to be a therapist to determine that truth. One only had to take notice of the fact that the Saxhleel slept sickly in tents outside of town, instead of the cozy lodging a tavern could provide.

The guardsman finally came into view, and from the torchlight, Wylendriel could just barely make out the eyes that hid behind the helmet. He took a careful and appraising look at the camp, from the argonians strewn about, who were certainly more numerous than they had likely taken into account since their last patrol. He finally seemed to focus on the Bosmer lady. While the argonians shifted stiffly in their seats, Wy took into consideration her conversation with Tzinasha earlier, thinking carefully about the type of culture the Nords had (of which she had actual experience living in). She assumed a dignified posture with her arms crossed, hoping that a show of confidence and a visible strength of character would serve her some good in her impression upon the guard. It sounded like he let out a sharp breath of amusement.

"So," he began, "what's the meaning of all this commotion? Climbs-From-River, your people look well. Must I check our provisions? Perhaps our alchemist's stores?"

Tzinasha almost seemed to hiss from the sound of his given Cyrodilic name, much to Wylendriel's surprise. He stared down the guardsman, apparently after calming himself down. "No need." He explained, then gestured to Wy. "Our friend here is to whom we owe our thanks. She swims a holy river; on pilgrimage, as she says."

"This little elf? She did all this?" He snorted in disbelief.

Tzinasha gave him and irritated remark, "There would be many more of us left if she had come sooner, but our struggle could've been avoided entirely had we not been forgotten."

"And this little elf's name is Wylendriel." Wy inserted. Thoughts entered her head suggesting that she ought to show this man his place - and given the blatant disrespect, it was not starting to sound like such a bad idea.

The guard approached her with careful inspection, still muttering a couple words as though he were still responding to Tzinasha, "Oooh, trust me, we didn't forget..." As he measured her up, the amulet around her neck appeared to catch his eye and his interest was piqued, so he shifted his weight onto one leg. He asked, "A priestess of Kynareth, eh?"

"How astute." Wylendriel commented dryly. "Yes. I serve out of the Temple of Kyne in Whiterun."

"O-oh! Is that... right?" The guard stammered slightly. "I, uh, heard rumors from over there, but I... didn't think they actually took in an elf. My apologies, priestess."

"Your apology is appreciated." She said. Not really. The man's apology rung hollow. It was clear that he held little respect for an elf to be holding any position of influence, and to think that an elf such as her had penetrated so far into nord society must've been torture to him.

"Anyways..." the guard continued, "priestess, if its not too bold of me to suggest, your help would also be appreciated inside town. No point in wasting time on filthy lizards with better jobs to be had, yes?"

"Mind your tongue, sir." Wylendriel asserted brusquely. "These filthy lizards happened to be quite hospitable to me."

"Right. Well, please take it into consideration. Enjoy your evening."

As the camp watched the guard trek back down the hill, one of the argonians piped up: "Well, that was a crappier liaison than usual."

"What was that all about?" Wylendriel asked. "And what was it that he called you?"

Tzinasha sighed as he sat back down next to the fire. "Skyrim has become less welcoming of elves and 'beast' races since the Stormcloaks won the war. In doing so, deep-seated prejudices - even subtler ones - were given unspoken permission to swim freely. It does not help matters that one of our own, the egg-sac that they are, murdered a high elf girl. Unfortunately... we do not know which one had done the deed... it is especially disconcerting." He picked up his clay cup full of the same drink Wy had tasted earlier and took in deep gulps as to relax his nerves. "Climbs-From-River is my given Cyrodilic name," he said.

"Your Cyrodilic name?" She parroted back.

"We have our Black Marsh names. Some can be translated into their Cyrodilic names. Some choose not to, such as myself. So they simply gave me one: Climbs-From-River."

"Why that name?" She pressed.

Tzinasha fell quiet for a couple moments and took another couple of sips from his drink. After a moment of silence, he finally spoke up. "Because I tried to climb out of the river. When I fled from dark elf slavers in Morrowind, I was forced to relocate in Windhelm. When I could no longer bear it... I tried to kill myself. They like to remind me of that."

Wylendriel's curiosity had gotten the better of her, and now she was left speechless, and not knowing what to say to the elder. Her jaw hung low enough to just let her mouth remain slightly open and his posture now slightly jarred. She silently sat beside him and stared at the campfire's dwindling flames. The remaining charcoal was aglow.

"It's well upstream now. My past does not haunt me." Tzinasha assured. "It does not feel good to open the wound, no, but it would do us ill to linger. Focus on the scar too much, and we forget it to be a sign of healing."

Her hand, in response, self-consciously covered the ugly scar that stretched across her throat. Perhaps Tzinasha's wisdom also held true for spiritual scars. It shed some hope for her future.

"Don't mind the guard's tongue." He insisted. "That mammal-licker hisses loudly but seldom bites, but he is right about one thing: you must continue to swim. No one here will think you a traitor for entering Dawnstar. You still have your pilgrimage to finish."

"You've been an enormous help to me, Tzinasha." Wy admitted as she began to stand up.

"And you to us." He replied, joining her to his feet. He raised a hand to his head and painfully plucked out one of his colorful feathers, then sticking it into the braided bun of Wylendriel's brown hair. "We have egg-brothers inside Dawnstar. Tsleeixth and Daixanos. Show them your feather, and they will know you are one of us."

Wylendriel nodded graciously and was about to speak, but hesitated - and before the elder argonian knew it, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Though caught off guard, and he returned the young elf's embrace.

"May friendly branches shade your path, priestess."

Cradling his face in her hands, tears filled her eyes as she gazed back into the brilliant amber eyes of Do’Karth. Her lips trembled as they parted into a grin, she kissed him again. Once on the lips, on his snout, and then each cheek. She pulled him into a crushing embrace, relieved that the fighting had stopped and at the fact that she had her lover again in her arms. She buried her nose into his shoulder and inhaled his musky scent. “Oh Do’Karth…” Sevine murmured as she ran her hands up and down his back.

“I was so worried about you,” she said at last, pulling away from him to look him square in the eye, “Are you hurt?”

The Khajiit shook his head, running his fingers down Sevine’s cheek. His smile didn’t falter. “Nothing that won’t heal on its own. Every hit taken is a lesson.” he said, looking her over, noticing immediately the bandages wrapped about her limbs. His expression grew concerned. “What happened? What can Do’Karth do to help?” he asked, immediately switching to a caretaker personality, much like when they first met. “May this one have a look?”

Of all people, Do’Karth would be the last one she would keep anything from. She rolled back onto her buttocks, and extended both limbs out to him to inspect. “It was during the first part of the mission. We were investigating the fires in the woods when this Nord man emerged from the forest being chased by a swarm of angry bees. That wasn’t the end of it, because behind him came some spriggans and some wolves. Which is what you see here,” she gestured with a wave of her left hand, “I tried to draw away the wolves from the group. I thought I could take care of them, after all, they’re only wolves. That’s what I told myself, at least. I barely had time to fight back before they took me down, and shook me like a ragdoll. I’ve tried to clean the wounds, I used some brandy to disinfect it, but the journey back didn’t give me the chance to take care of myself.” She paused in her explanation, should she tell him of the Kamal attack at the inn? Better let him start on the first batch of wounds before she told him.

Do’Karth looked over the wounds, as frightening as they were, and listened to the story of how the mission panned out, it sounded utterly miserable, and perhaps a little terrifying. Being eaten alive was one of the ways Do’Karth absolutely feared to go, so hearing Sevine’s ordeal made his heart sink. She was much better than she had the right to be, he thought, but still, the marks might remain for some time. On the plus side, they didn’t appear to be infected; whatever she had done had staved off the worst of it. “Just in case, let us obtain a cure disease potion, but your wounds do not appear to be infected. All Do’Karth thinks he needs to do is change our bandages to some fresh ones.” he said with a reassuring smile, taking her hand with his own. “It must have been horrifying! Do’Karth has come across the lone wolf or two here and there in his journeys, but never like that.” He said, looking over the mangled and raw flesh, mangled and with obvious tearing. It looked awful, but several years of practice on countless people, and his own trials, gave Do’Karth a pretty good idea of how bad wounds could appear without necessarily being infected. She would be fine, if given time to heal.

He found some fresh and clean bandages, and applying more alcohol to the wound, Do’Karth began to rebandage Sevine once more. “Did you find the cause of the fires?” he asked, focused on the task at hand. “This one is sorry he was not able to join you. It was frustrating being apart and not knowing what was happening with you, Sevine. This one knows he told Leif that he wasn’t going to stand in the way of your duties as a warrior, but it does not mean he does not worry about you or want to keep you safe.” he said, smiling sadly as he met Sevine’s eyes.

A burning fire rose to her cheeks as their eyes met again, she knew that Leif had acted out of spite, out of guilt for not being there as he always had been, but Do’Karth made a good point. She was a warrior, not someone that needed to be doted upon. A smile spread across her lips as her gaze shifted to Do’Karth’s hands skillfully wrapping her wounds in fresh linen. “In a way yes, I did not go with the rest of our company because of,” she wiggled her injured limbs, “these. I stayed behind with Keegan and Rhasha’Dar. Daelin suffered severe injuries when they went to investigate, something about a pyromancer and his desire to cleanse impure trees is what I gleaned from the situation. We retreated to Nightgate to recuperate, and that…” She hesitated in her speech, the truth would have to come out now. “What have you heard, in regards to Jorwen?” She began in a tone of concern. Sevine knew that Do’Karth shared a friendship with the Red-Bear, and what he knew already, she could not say.

A knot began to grow at the back of Do’Karth’s throat.The sudden implication, the way her pitch changed to almost sound consolatory, made the Khajiit fear the worst. He could still picture Jorwen’s face quite readily from the day they met, the impressive red beard and the warm smile behind it all that belied a lifetime of hardship, and the unlikely kinship he offered Do’Karth when few others would have even spoken with him at all. “This one… has heard nothing. Is he,” Do’Karth’s lips pursed tensely, his gaze darting to the side, not wishing to speak the word. “Is he dead?”

Her eyes burned at Do’Karth’s words, her hands curled into clenched fists that rested atop her knees, “I don’t know,” she said, “The Kamals… We were at Nightgate when they came in the dead of night.” She struggled to speak as her head swam with disbelief.

“We fought hard to keep them at bay, but there were so many. Even with the help of the Braves, we couldn’t hold our ground for much longer. Rhasha and I were focused on rescuing Daelin, and I…” She paused in her speech where she lifted her eyes to meet Do’Karth’s. All moisture in her mouth disappeared, leaving her without the ability to speak further on the matter.

“I didn’t see what happened to him, we had to retreat in the end. It wasn’t until we gained some distance that I realized that the Red-Bear wasn’t with us.” She said, her eyes were fixated on her partner, watching his every move.

Do’Karth locked up, unmoving as a statue as he took in the news, his heart torn a dozen different ways between hope and despair. He couldn’t imagine what they’d endured fighting the Kamal on their terms without the fortifications Windhelm offered, and if they had to leave Jorwen. Do’Karth desperately needed to believe Jorwen was still alive, that he could be saved; another part of him felt that it would have been better if Jorwen were killed rather than captured. After seeing what had happened on the frigate, the thought of that happening to the closest friend he’d had since leaving Torval made him choke up. His fists clenched and relaxed over his knees, his eyes sinking downward. Tears fought to break through their ducts and the Khajiit inhaled so sharply it sounded like a hiss. His body began to tremble and quake. He’d known loss before, but something about this seemed so unfair, so unnecessary. Do’Karth’s thoughts immediately thought about Jorwen’s family, Halla and Solveig. It had seemed impossible the Nord wouldn’t make it through this war, and now there was a very real chance that one of the very few people that Do’Karth cared for above all else were gone forever.

He took Sevine’s hand into both of his, holding onto her with the same determination as if he might lose her, too. “You did all you could, Do’Karth knows that. He is so happy you came back to him, if this one lost you too…” he trailed off, leaning forward to lean his forehead against Sevine’s. A strained sob racked his body, what will he had to resist deteriorating. “Do’Karth should have been there for Jorwen, for you. He let you both down, he could have done something… anything!” he cried, collapsing to his side, his limbs losing feeling. Laying on the ground beside Sevine, her hand still his his own, “How can Do’Karth make this right?” he asked quietly, tears flowing freely.

Her heart came close to stop beating upon witnessing his anguish. When he collapsed onto the ground, Sevine’s own tears broke. This was too cruel. It would be different if the Kamals weren't, well, Kamals. If they had been Man, it would have been easier to handle. She could have stayed, and fought with every last breath in her body. Cracked ribs or no, she would have stayed. Like a caring mother cradling a grieving child, Sevine pulled Do’Karth’s head into her lap where she proceeded to stroke his ears, and scratch his chin.

A tear rolled down her nose, splashing onto his chest. She could do nothing but shake her head, “There is nothing you could have done. We were lucky, we were all lucky we were able to escape. Let us pray that Jorwen has been captured, not slaughtered, for he still may have a fighting chance.” Her hands drifted across the fur on his nose, stroking his snout and his throat.

And so she quietly began to explain the events of Nightgate to him, why she did so, she did not know, perhaps it was the only thing she could think about. “Rhasha, and I shimmied out of a window while the others went around front. We scouted out back to make sure no bandits would sneak up on us, then we headed around front to join the others. We joined Marcel, and Keegan, and spotted Daelin trying to attack one of the Kamals, I couldn't understand how he was up and moving already, but he was. So Rhasha and I decided that we better get him out of there while we can. He didn't stand much of a chance, not with his injuries. I distracted the Kamal, by the gods are they big, while Rhasha got Daelin out of harm’s way. And what a mistake that was.” As she spoke, she kept her voice quiet and soft, hoping to soothe Do’Karth, “I lost my axe in the fray, and you won't believe this, but I climbed that damn Kamal. Stuck a dagger right in his temple. Did it do a damn thing? Heavens no. He plucked me off like mud from a boot, and chucked me a good couple yards. That's not the worst of it.” Sevine smiled at the thought, Oblivion be damned, she was alive.

“I had to make sure that Rhasha could get to safety, so I circle around behind the Kamal, and I shoot off an arrow, aiming to distract or injure I don't know which. But, would you believe it? Poor thing, I struck Rhasha instead.” She said through a half-hearted sigh. “It was a goddamn mess. We ended up rolling Daelin down the hill as we retreated, so that I could help Rhasha stay on his feet. We walked for miles after that. Walked until our legs almost gave out from under us. One of the Braves asked me what the point of fighting was, and I thought of you. Gods did I think of you, Do’Karth. Coming back to you was all I could think of. And that's how we got home. That's how I got back to you.” She stalled in her retelling of the tale to glance down at Do’Karth.

Having his head in Sevine’s lap was calming, a deep primal part of his memory vaguely recalled his mother doing something similar for him when he was very young. Back when she acknowledged this one was still her son. he thought, not as bitterly as he might have expected. He barely remembered what she looked like it had been so long ago. His breathing was still shaky, but the tremors and sobs had resided. “What had happened to Daelin?” he asked, looking up at Sevine, drinking in the brilliant emerald colour of her eyes.

“Daelin?” It dawned on her that, Do’Karth had not been there, “Oh yes… I’ve not heard details on the matter, when we were in the woods, those who were not injured went with the Nord man that had appeared being chased by bees. I heard they found a cave or some other where this pyromancer was holed up. Fires inside caves don’t work out all too well, and Daelin had serious burns from the event. We weren’t sure if he was going to make it, that’s why I was so surprised to see him up and running around. He should have been fleeing.” Her hands continued to scratch Do’Karth’s fur.

’He’s like a giant kitty-cat…’ she mused.

“There is so much this one does not know about what happened, but fear not; Do’Karth will get you a new axe.” he promised with a smile. “He promised he wouldn’t interfere with your duties as a warrior, and that you did not need protection, but he said nothing about providing you with the means.” he said, tilting his head slightly as Sevine’s nails found a particularly wondrous spot to work their magic. Without realizing it, a slight rumble escaped his diaphragm as his eyes shut somewhat. “Do’Karth remembers how awkward he felt when you asked if you could touch his fur, now look at him.”

There were two emotions that arose in Sevine, the first being gratitude at the suggestion of him replacing her axe, and the second being elation, she remembered when she had asked him, in Leif’s house at that, if she could touch his fur. “Do’Karth,” she said, “I am grateful for the offer, and while it shames me that the company has not provided me enough coin for this mission, I would be reluctant for you to do so.” She bent down and kissed his brow.

“Coin is of no concern to Do’Karth, what use does he have of it other than food and services?” he replied rhetorically with a slight smile. “Please, think nothing of it. You need a weapon; this one will make sure you are never unprepared.

“As for your fur…” A light came to Sevine’s eyes as she peered down into the pools of warm honey, “It is a marvelous creation, and I am honored that you allowed me to touch you so. While us Nords can tolerate the cold, I often wonder if a layer of fur would keep out the cold. And most importantly, I cannot get over the fact at how soft it is.” Sevine said as a grin split her face in two. By simply being in his presence, her worries and concerns had disappeared. Even the fight with Leif, she cared not, let him make a fool of himself, for he acted like a fool. But, here with Do’Karth, she could only experience happiness. They were together again. What more could she ask?

“I do have one question to ask you… will you take a look at my ribs?” She asked, why couldn’t she learn restoration like the others? Magic and its concept had always evaded her understanding.

“Of course.” He replied, sitting up. He made sure to adjust the tent flap to give more privacy. “You’ll need to, ah, pull your blouse up.” He said, recalling how bashful he was when she had removed her pants when they first met and he was dressing a stab wound. It was less embarrassing now, but this level of intimacy was still quite unfamiliar for him. This was purely a medical check, but still, it was hard not to feel somewhat bashful.

While Sevine prepared herself,Do’Karth made sure to clean and dry his hands the best he could. “Khajiit are of the desert, our fur is meant to shed heat, keep it from our skin. Believe this one when he says it does very little against Skyrim’s bite. But he is glad it has another purpose.” He replied, turning with a question, “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” She said. One arm covered her breasts, while she stretched her arm as high as she could overhead. Her ribs were a colorful mixture of dark purple, blue and yellow. Her face twisted at extending her arm, it certainly hurt to breathe. “So enough about me, my love. How fared the mission to Bthamz?”
The Khajiit shuffled over to Sevine on his knees, given the low headspace in the tent, he examined her skin, noticing some pretty bad bruising immediately. “Do’Karth is going to run his fingers along each of your ribs, trying to feel for a fracture or break. It will hurt along the bruising, but if it is deeper, let him know.” he said, his mind switching from awkward sensual thoughts of his half-naked lover to a purely medical perspective now he had something to focus on. In response to her question, he breathed out between teeth. “We did not fare much better out in the Sea of Ghosts. This one is beginning to feel that ships are entirely cursed. Although Do’Karth does not relish the idea of burning alive, drowning somehow seems worse.” he said, slowly tracing his fingers along the uppermost rib. “Everything went fine initially; we found the ruin, and a deployment of Ashlanders that were working with the Kamal. We managed to fight them to submission, this is how Leif received his injuries. One of those Dwemer spider contraptions jumped him. The new Dunmer woman in our company was also wounded, poor woman. First assignment and she’s nearly killed.” He paused, looking up at Sevine’s face. “She’s fine now, don’t worry. We didn’t have casualties in the ruins.” with a downcast expression, he shook his head and continued.

“It wasn’t until we got back to sea that we had our losses. Do you remember Niernen? Her and another Dunmer named Valen had escaped captivity by the Kamal and had made it to Bthamz and Niernen was overjoyed to see this one, the feeling was mutual, but… perhaps not the way she expected.” Do’Karth said with an apologetic smile. “Apparently Do’Karth is quite attractive to strange and exotic women for similar reasons, but he has a hard time imagining he needs more in life than the sight of you in the mornings… sorry, back to what I was saying. After we left, death followed. The Kamal prison frigate engaged our ships, sinking the escort vessel and damaging Kyne’s Tear. We had obtained Dwemer ballista from the ruins and had armed the vessels with them, and they were what decided the battle. There’s… there’s a chance this one would be in a cage right now if it weren’t for those weapons and the bravery of others.” Do’Karth said solemnly, pausing over Sevine’s heart. When his hand stopped over her heart, she gently guided him to a rib where she had felt the worst of the pain.

“Here.” She said, nodding for him to continue.

“Valen was killed in the fighting, and the Argonian leader, the Pakseech or whichever he was called. The Kamal were using the Argonian prisoners’ souls as fuel for their ships. It’s how they move without sails, it is insidious and horrible. We won the battle, but many were killed at the expense of taking down each and every Kamal on the ship. We had managed to rescue most of the prisoners, sparing them of that fate, but the cost was extraordinary.” Do’Karth said, gritting his teeth. “This one hates this war. He cannot close his eyes and not see Valen falling to his death, over and over again. How do you fight literal monsters? How does Do’Karth justify his vows when there is such great evil preying on the innocent?”

His recount of the mission left her stunned. She turned her head to look him in the eye, his last words struck her even deeper. Her heart ached to comfort him, and so she did. The arm extended in the air dropped, where she placed her hand upon his shoulder. “All monsters have a weakness.” Sevine said, rubbing his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “War is like a grindstone. Round and round the wheel goes, crushing harvested wheat under its weight, none can escape its clutches, everyone is affected in some way. But you… you do not have to be the wheel. You can be the one who tends to the wheel, so to speak. You do not have to kill anyone, but you can help in the mechanics of war, and that is something most people do not understand. To keep the war running like a grindstone, someone has to tend to it. Someone has to devise plans, and oversee other important tasks.” Her hand traveled up to his cheek where she stroked it with her thumb. “I am sorry about Valen. I am here if you need to speak, or if you do not wish to speak at all.” She said.

There was wisdom through experience in Sevine’s words, and Do’Karth resigned himself to the comfort of her touch. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing much like when he meditated. It was a calming ritual. “The pain will pass in time. Everything is just fresh, is all. For now, let us focus on getting you better, yes?” he replied with a slight upturn of a smile. “Thank you for giving Do’Karth perspective. It is times like these it is hard to see the way forward, but we will get there together… speaking of which, nothing appears to be broken, but there is a chance that you may have a cracked rib or two. This one suggests we get you to a restoration mage.” He said, leaning back onto his haunches. “Do’Karth will take care of that for you, you stay and rest, he will be back soon… promise.”

Running his hand along Sevine’s cheek one last time, the Khajiit low walked to the tent flaps, departing quickly to find a proper healer for Sevine, or at the very least a potion. He headed down the hill, a mixture of conflicting emotions that had come to light over the past hour forcing him to slow down, bracing against a tree for support. His blood was still pumping from the fight, and he was tired, emotionally and physically. Still, he was overjoyed to have found Sevine again, and while she was hurt, she would get better with his help. “That is what you should focus on. Let the rest of it drift into the ether.” he consoled himself, breathing deeply and shaking off the malignant feelings for a few moments. Feeling somewhat more focused and sure of himself, Do’Karth once more made his way to the Dawnstar docks.

Do’Karth’s eyes immediately were drawn to something rather out of place; another Khajiit, a woman in Nord-style armour. She seemed lost; at the very least, he could show her the right way and talk to someone from home… news from Anequina was few and far between, and she would be a lead of sorts, he hoped.

What was the harm in saying hello?

Racing the sun usually was something where one comes up short while travelling long distances since any number of factors could prevent one from reaching their intended destination before nightfall. Providence shined this time, however, and the small, squat abodes of Dawnstar came into view just down the road and the dying light was still beaming its last breathe between the mountainous peaks to the Southwest, as if leaving a convenient beacon of where one should travel if they wished to reach Markarth. Khazki adjusted her rucksack, the straps weighing down uncomfortably on her pauldrons despite the padding involved. It was a familiar pain, and one that the Khajiit rarely paid mind to, but after marching for the past 8 or 9 hours without more than a half-hour break in between, it was beginning to feel like a load of bricks. She’d seldom been more enthused to see a crappy Nord fishing village than she was at this point; it meant she beat the Kamal advance. Her biggest fear was arriving too late and finding Dawnstar occupied and having nowhere else to flee. The noose was tightening around the Pale, and more than a few of the refugees she’d bumped into seemed to confirm that sentiment. Windhelm, just North of Whiterun… the Akaviri invaders were getting bolder and pushing further in-land and word was that Tamrielic races were either forced to serve them or did so willingly.

It wasn’t something Khazki fancied for herself. And so, not trusting her ability to make it to Solitude before her luck or strength ran out, she headed North, knowing Dawnstar was the last bastion of safety for getting out of the frigid waste the locals called Skyrim. Up until very recently, it had never occurred to the Khajiit that Dawnstar was somewhere anyone would want to go willingly, and yet here it was before her own eyes, the most beautiful eyesore one could imagine since docked invitingly was a high-masted ship, her ticket to safety. Laying her greatsword across her shoulders to give her arms a break and to appear less fight-happy to the guards she’d spotted up ahead, Khazki pressed on, thinking that a bowl of mutton stew sounded damn fine at this juncture. It had been two weeks since she ate a meal she didn’t have to prepare herself.

Off the road and distinctly outside of the town like some kind of quarantine zone was an Argonian encampment, likely because the Jarl was one of many who thought Beast races were little more than wildlife that forgot their station in life, but in this instance, Khazki couldn’t say she blamed the decision; Argonians were alien, strange, and if the tales of their homeland were to believed, probably disease carriers of unparalleled capacity. Just because they didn’t get sick didn’t mean germs didn’t thrive in their bodies. It was reason enough to give the camp a wide berth, and grip her sword tighter when she made eye contact with a small group of them. They didn’t approach, which worked out best for both parties.

Arriving at the guards, both Nord men were visibly tense. “Halt! Stay your business!”

“I’m chartering a ship.” Khazki replied. She suspected she’d be answering that particular line of inquiry a lot. “There’s a bunch of Kamal a lot closer to here than I’d like.”

That apparently was the wrong thing to say. The guards stood closure, shields held much more at the ready position than before. “Where’s your caravan, cat? Did the damned elves send you?” the younger of the two pressed on, far more assertively than he looked like he could muster. Idiot looked like he barely knew his way around a razor blade, let alone a sword. Was everywhere this hard up for reliable fighters?

“Oh, for fuck’s… I’m traveling alone!” she retorted, her legs far apart and tail flicking irritably. “Look, sir, boy, whatever. I’ve had a long day and if I’d been a Thalmor stooge, I’d have snuck in the dead of night in the numerous blind spots and not be wearing heavy steel armour. The golden pricks were enough a problem in Elsweyr, and I came up here to get away from their sneering horse faces and sickly complexions. I really don’t care what you all do here, I just want a spot on that ship when it sets out, or is that too hard for your frost-addled brain to process?”

“That’s what a Thalmor agent would say to make us let our guard down.” The youth pressed on.

“Ugh. You’re one of those.” Khazki rolled her eyes. “Look, asshole. Mister asshole. Can I call you that? A whole bunch of displaced vagabonds are making their way here, and it’s a mixed bag of what you’re getting. You going to question every single prick that shows up at your gates like they’re all potential spies? Besides, you over-eager bog sniffer, Pelletine hasn’t been a part of the Dominion for years, so their well of Khajiit puppets is well on its way to drying up.” She stepped closer, pressing up against the shield, looking the man dead in the eyes. Jutting her thumb back towards the Argonian camp, she said, “Look, if you aren’t going to give me passage, I’m going back there and telling those fine walking handbags that you guys slipped up and were planning on sending in an extermination squad to clear out the camp to free up resources. They may not believe me, but it’ll stick, trust me. I can either be a slight pain in your ass or the biggest you’ve ever dealt with.” Reaching into the coin purse on her belt, Khazki pulled out a pair of coins. “For your trouble.”

Minutes of arguing later, the guards acquiesced after conceding that if she was a spy, she wouldn’t go out of her way to be so memorable. And so after a short spell, Khazki was standing well within the limits of Dawnstar, looking up at the ship she’d spotted from outside of the town, and for potential crew to speak with. None stuck out from the usual dock workers. Deciding to give one of them a try, a voice came behind her,

“Pardon this one, but he does not believe he’s seen you around. It’s rare to see another Khajiit.”

Turning to face the source of address, Khazki was confronted by a Suthay-Raht, a rusty coat of fur, a pitted ear, and kindly amber-orange eyes looking up at her invitingly. He was garbed in a grey budi, a staff in hand. He also wasn’t wearing boots; an exceptionally stupid thing to do in Skyrim.

“I’m new to town. You know who owns this vessel?” she redirected the question, gesturing at the ship.

The other Khajiit pondered that for a moment. “A man named Gustav, this one thinks. The captain is one Karena Wave-Rider. Currently, they’re hired by this one’s mercenary outfit. Why, are you looking for passage?” he inquired.

Khazki stared at him incredulously. “You? Are mercenary? What, do you fight with that stick?”

That prompted his expression to sour somewhat. “Of course. And well, Do’Karth might add.”

“What do you do, inconvenience them to death?” Khazki sneered. “And Do’Karth? What, you fancy yourself a warrior, do you? No one uses that prefix unless they earned it.”

“This one was the Mane’s bodyguard, in Torval.” Do’Karth said defensively, deciding rather suddenly he did not care for this stranger. He’d expected a new Khajiit would have been overjoyed to find out they weren’t alone in Skyrim, which was hardly welcoming at the best of times.

A tight-lipped smile did not match Khazki’s eyes. “Stellar job you did on that one. Mane’s dead, you’re out of work and run out of town. That how it all went down?”

Do’Karth scowled. “Do’Karth had left long before that happened!” The nerve of this woman!

Khazki extended her hands out on either side dramatically, looking up at the sky. “All the better! You deserted your post and weren’t around to make a difference when it actually mattered. Thanks for that, a civil war was just what we all needed. You from Anequina?” she asked.
“Yes…”

“Gods, that explains so much. So, Do’Karth the Deserter, where’s your boss? I want on that ship, and if the likes of you is what’s on offer, it won’t be hard to get signed on.” She prompted.

He gestured haphazardly. “Go on then, make a fool of yourself. He’s in the big tent nearest the docks to the East. Be warned, he tends to like his brutes to have some manners.”

“’A fool’, says the guy who confuses a stick for a weapon.” She said, stepping away with a lazy parting wave of the hand. It didn’t take long for her to find where Do’Karth’s boss was holed up; it was the tent with the very mercenary-looking guards standing watch, a mixed-race rabble with mix-match sets of armour and weaponry. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about wearing the team uniform.

After addressing the guards and saying she wished to enlist, the guard closest to the door, a big Orc, requested she turn over her weapons when speaking to the man. Pulling her dagger free from her belt and handing over her sword with the blade towards the ground, the tent flap was pulled aside and she had to adjust her eyes to the candle-lit quarters of a Redguard man dabbing at a split, swollen lip with a damp cloth. He looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.

“State your business.” He announced in a voice that suggested he was a reasoned leader, at the very least.

“Boy, you look like shit.” Khazki replied flippantly, arms crossed, her stance askew. “I heard you’re the man to talk to about getting on that ship docked outside. The big one.”

If Ashav was rising up to the bait, he didn’t give an indication of it. “My company is chartering its services, yes. If you’re looking for transport, I’m afraid it’s dedicated to the war front, and unless that’s where you intend to go, you’re better off talking to one of the fishermen and seeing if you can bribe him to take you where you need to go.”

“So, let’s say Dawnstar’s about to be overrun by our Snow Demon friends, you’ll be taking that ship somewhere where they aren’t I trust?” Khazki inquired.

“Something like that. We were stationed in Windhelm until it was overrun. It’s likely we’ll have to relocate if Dawnstar looks to share the same fate. Looking for work?” the Redguard asked.

“Something like that.” Khazki replied with a shrug. “I know how to fight, if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t care much about the pay, although I won’t say no to the usual rate. I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t desperate looking for any chance off this rock before the Kamal show up, and if I have to work my ass off to get that chance, then so be it, I’ll fight for you and my baton spinning brethren I’ve already met. Besides, I reckon I stand a better chance fighting alongside others when I run into the Snow Demons than if they caught up to me. When they catch up, let’s not delude ourselves.”

Ashav considered this for a moment, studying Khazki with stoic dark eyes. For someone who looked like they’d been mugged, he still maintained an authoritative manner about him. “Sounds like you’re just planning on using us to escape, then what?”

“I like big boats, I cannot lie. But let’s make this simple. You sign me in for a one month contract, if I try skipping the ranks before the signed date, I’m a deserter and we both know how that works out for people. At the end of it, maybe I reenlist, maybe I part ways. But let’s be frank…”

“Ashav.”

“Ashav.” Khazki acknowledged. “Nowhere’s going to be safe from what’s going on all over Tamriel. Everywhere sounds like it’s a festering wound that’s been torn open and if I’m being frank, I’m an adventurer that’s looking for a claim to fame. I’m not keen on selling my soul to a uniform, but if you’re willing to hire an idiot with a stick without demanding he change, I’m a golden saint in comparison. I’ll fight your war, Ashav, if you’ll have me.”

After a moment’s consideration, Ashav extended a hand. A handshake and a signed contract later, Khazki secured her way out of Skyrim when the time came. Folding her copy of the contract and stuffing it in her armour, Khazki made her way out of the tent, secured her weapons, and made way to hunt down that mutton stew that danced tantalizingly in her thoughts.

---

''My slumbers—if I slumber—are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
Which then I can resist not: in my heart
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close
To look within; and yet I live, and bear
The aspect and the form of breathing men.''
_{-From Lord Byron's Manfred}

At first glance, it was not an unusual sight, although it was certainly marvelousand unexpected of the otherwise normal inn. The inn was lively, lit up by a motley dance of colored flames from various enchanted candles, and the beauty of the serving girls was certainly mind-blowing. Luscious and ripe they were, of differing physiques and of multiple races – some of them seemed more at home in a battlefield, for they were scarred, and some looked unkempt and homely, as if they had just woken up from their beds to serve at the tables. Despite the constant movement and laughter, the inn was largely quiet.

Sadri looked at the table – he was sitting alongside fellow Dunmer, who were all eating from a large, silver plate of spiced salmagundi sitting in the middle of the table. Despite the compulsion that he should be hungry, Sadri was not in the mood for eating, and instead took to inspecting his associates, for they all looked similar, and their similarity to each other unnerved Sadri to a point that he felt droplets of fear dripping into his stomach and creeping up his chest.

He looked to his left. The Dunmer, who was throwing shrimps from the plate voraciously into his mouth and then half-chewing on them before gobbling on more, turned to Sadri, likely having felt the Dunmer’s inquisitive gaze, and gave him a boisterous smile, revealing all the chewed-up shrimp In his mouth and stuck all over his lips, before patting him on the shoulder. ‘’S’good seein’ ya! Haven’t treated me well, have ya?’’ The mer shouted, spilling shrimp all over the table, and laughed. Not realizing what he had done to the mer, Sadri attempted to apologize, but he was bashed off his apology. ‘’No matter, no matter, make yerself at home!’’

Sadri thought that he should feel disgusted, but his mind was too busy trying to approximate where he had first seen the mer, and his eyes were too busy looking for clues, which is when he realized the starfish stuck on the Dunmer’s arm, pieces of moss hanging off his shoulders, and the constant dripping of water off the mer’s body. He opened his eyes in fear, but could not do much aside from that. As if something had pinned him to the chair he was sitting on, he barely found the strength within him to move his eyes away from the mer. He felt all of himself droop down, almost melt, and found horror in this lack of control.

That’s when he came face to face with the mer facing him on the other side of the table. This one was young, almost a child, although his face looked quite similar to the sea-mer sitting to his side. He was inspecting a figurine of what Sadri thought to be Ebonarm with one hand, while squeezing lemon onto his part of the plate with the other. Sadri, lapsed out of his cold fear, wanted to chastise the child for dripping lemon on the table, but before he could do that, a grim, middle-aged Dunmer woman in a plain dress came and took the figurine from the boy, warning him that the toy would go back if he kept taking it to dinner, and smiled warmly at Sadri, before putting zucchini pancakes in front of the boy. Sadri, recognizing the woman all too well, jumped out from his seat and fell in shame and fear, much to his friends’ chagrin. His fear had partially devolved into denial – there was no doubt this was not happening.

Looking up while gathering himself from the floor, Sadri finally saw the fellow to his right; a desiccated corpse covered with scars, lacking an eye, and a good part of the left side of his head. Covered in a ragged, bloodied and dusty coat, the dead mer got up from his seat, revealing a large, gaping hole on his chest, and offered his hand to Sadri. Mentally stunned, Sadri took the hand, only to fall upon having it detach from the wrist with a rusty clonk. Holding the rusted metal hand amidst his palm, Sadri threw it at the corpse waiting atop him like a vulture in denial of all that was going on around him, panicking to get away.

‘’That’s no way to treat an elder!’’ The corpse replied, his head lying on its side on the ground, having been ripped off from the neck with Sadri’s throw. As if mocking Sadri’s fear, it began to laugh, opening its maw further with each cackle. As it cackled, its mouth grew larger, and larger, until it grew large enough that it swallowed the inn and Sadri with it.

---

Sadri woke in a puddle of cold sweat, his eyes darting across the bed and the ceiling in complete frustration and fear. Finding himself trembling amidst a flurry of hyperventilating breaths, he held on to the edge of the bed, forcing his fingers into the mat to find some strength, and after a couple of seconds of adjusting, began slowing down his breathing as to not end up suffering a convulsion.

After a moment of stillness, and a couple of seconds dedicated to appreciating this more stable state of mind, Sadri got up from his bed and sighed, trying to make sense of what he had just seen. He had heard of Dawnstar once being victim to an epidemic of nightmares, revealed to be because of a Vaermina cult that had once taken refuge in one of the abandoned forts nearby. Perhaps the story had decided to pour out of his subconscious, or perhaps their influence still lurked here. Whatever was the case, Sadri decided on getting some fresh air.

Outside, at this hour, there was practically nobody around except Sadri and a couple of fishermen preparing their boat. The cold, having sent its shivers through Sadri when he had first gotten out of the inn, was now found accommodating by the Dunmer, whose self chastisement for not having worn his coat had since turned into contentment for the refreshing properties of cool air. He walked by the coast, taking in as much of the seaside environment as he could, and distracted himself with Masser and Secunda’s reflections atop the calm waters, sitting down by the shore and watching glimmers of red and white overtake one another in an unending dance atop the shimmering sea.

As waves broke and swashes of water washed the beach’s edge, Sadri felt somewhat more relaxed, as if the sound of the coast was washing away the remnants of horror in his mind. He let himself relax, and looked on as something swam by. Not being able to see it properly thanks to it being night and his bad eye, Sadri moved somewhat closer to the waters, and closed his bad eye to take a proper look, and, as expected, failed.

Not having sated his curiosity, Sadri walked somewhat to the West, to the edge of the bay, to see them closer. Were they narwhals? He had not seen any narwhals for years. Childishly, Sadri hoped that it would be narwhals, his pace getting faster with the thought. At the edge, amongst various makeshift seine nets set by the more intrepid amongst the poorer children of Dawnstar, Sadri walked almost knee deep into the waters, having noticed more of these oddities slowly floating away. He squinted for a while, and then turned back, confused, before almost tugging on something like a heavy branch. He cursed, and scanned his surroundings for whatever that had almost tripped him.

That’s when he saw a pair of glassy eyes glaring at him from behind a net. Sadri’s eyes opened wide and his upper body twitched backwards instinctively, before calming down to make sense of it all. He took a closer look at the bloated, lifeless corpse in half caution and half trepidation, and saw a faded blue tabard, bearing the livery of Windhelm, tugging at the corpse’s torso as the water ebbed back and forth.

Comprehending the situation only made Sadri’s horror grow further. Gritting his teeth and trembling slightly, Sadri looked back at the water, trying to gauge the direction from which the bodies came, and found desolation in the confirmation of his idea that the drift, and the bodies, had been coming from the direction of Windhelm.

Walking by the coast frantically, now with a clear category to fill, Sadri stumbled upon a couple more of bodies, of civilians, guardsmen and militia, caught up on the fishing nets or just having drifted ashore. For a moment, he stalled, finding himself faced with many options that felt ultimately futile. He stood for a few moments, sighed, and walked back towards the docks, shouting at the fishermen for help.

The Bard and the Bear
@MacabreFox and Leidenschaft

* * *

A handful of days of nothing but shit and this is what she came home to? Vurwe dead? That drunk bastard Leif picking fights and losing them with cats? At least her father hadn't entertained Leif's drunken challenge, or his loss might have ended in his burial. And if her father ever found out about that Altmer's death, no matter his past dealing with her kind, there would be bloodshed. Speaking of the man, she hadn't seen him among the crowds at the inn. She walked about town with a furrowed brow that managed to keep people away from her while she searched for the huge man. She must have searched for an hour before she gave up and settled for Mire and Brittle. “Little Sister.” Mire's skull-grin made her want to rip it off his jaws.

“Piece of shit.” She nodded, before greeting her old friend Brittle, “Piss stain.”

“I'm glad you've made it back alive.” Mire said, over Brittle's high laugh.

“I'll be glad too once I find my father. Where is he?” She asked, and Mire's shrug was not the answer she wanted.

“I've no good idea.” He frowned.

“I thought you two were the ravens on Black Sutt's shoulder, or the two flies that buzzed around that sack of shit.”

“You have such a way with words, Little Sister.” Mire smiled.

“Let me rephrase myself, Mire, I want to know where my father is or I'll be cutting chunks of you off over tonight's fire like a fucking hare.” She stepped closer to the two mangy fucks her father had a history with.

“Easy now, Little Sister, I told you everyone sleeps-”

“I sleep pretty light nowadays, and not often. Why don't you just act like a fucking man and find me while I'm wide awake.” She jabbed a finger in Mire's chest and her hand was already on her knife when she Brittle twitch toward his. Luckily- for Brittle- Mire held out a hand to keep the cur of a Nord at bay.

“Fine, fine, Little Sister.” Even Mire looked a bit forlorn, and already Solveig knew she was not going to like this news. “Your father never came back. It was told he was taken by the Kamal.”

Her father was dead. She stepped back from Mire and Brittle and turned on her heel. She walked away without a word, hard ones or sad ones. She just walked, because that was the only thing she could do. Putting one foot after another, over and over and over. She didn't even have to think about it before those feet of hers took her to the tavern, and then to her mother, and now she was on the beaches.

Her mother's howling and weeping almost made her do the same, but she hadn't cried since she was a girl, and it wouldn't do to start again now that she was a woman. And a warrior. Instead, she stared at the sand and the waves reaching out to touch the toes of her boots before she swallowed and sighed and took another swig. She looked at the bottle of Wayrest whiskey and realized it was already almost half-finished and suddenly, an irresistible urge to vomit gripped her.

She was already salivating too much and she closed her eyes to try to fight it back. It was no use. Closing her eyes made her lose all sense of balance and feel like she was rolling back, only to find she was. Before she could step backwards and attempt to gain her balance, she was on her side in the wet sand and she was sick all over the ground. She grimaced, tried to move away from the puddle of her own past rations, and then retched again, but dryly. And again, until the muscles in her stomach were strained and she gave up, rolling onto her back. Giving up, she mused, is this all you can do any time life throws something in your face? She was all too happy to challenge anyone who called her honor into question, but when the Gods are the ones heaping shit onto you, how do you challenge them? You don't, she guessed, you only accept it and hope that you regain the blind, dumb happiness needed to smile at the heavens and thank them for it.

After quite a while lying on the ground, she decided to struggle to a less pitiful sitting position.

"Care for some water?" A hoarse voice broke the silence, towering over her stood Leif, with a newly acquired shirt. Much like the old tunic, albeit, without the blood and holes. He extended a water skin to the fiery haired woman, a friendly gesture to say the least. Moments ago, he had left the Courtesan after visiting Captain Atgeir and his old shipmates. He discovered that Atgeir had had the ship repaired, and now it was seaworthy again. As he departed from the ship, he spotted the Red-Bear's daughter emptying her stomach. Perhaps she could use some company after the heart-breaking news over her father.

She held a hand over her mouth as she hiccuped, feeling something come up that wasn't air. She made no move to hide herself as she spat a stringy mess on the ground, wiping her mouth on her forearm. Wordlessly, she grabbed the water out of the man's hand, glancing at him before taking a moment. She finally drank, and deeply, while staring at the man. Her vision was becoming blurred and she felt tired to her bones. Finally, a hint of recognition crossed her, "I heard about your fight with-" She stopped herself, wondering if she really wanted to antagonize a man who'd been through something so recently. Perhaps the news about her father made her a bit more sympathetic, "Your fight with the Kamal captain." She let the silence grow pregnant, Leif probably knowing what she was going to say at first. "That was brave of you."

"Mmm." He grunted, settling down next to her. "Don't know if I would call it brave. Reckless, maybe. But not brave." For awhile, he said nothing, just stared at the rolling waves washing over the sand. So much had happened. His talk with Niernen helped, but at the present moment, he wanted nothing more than to forget about what happened. "Same goes with my fight. With Do'Karth." He added at the end. Leif heard it in her voice, he knew what she was going to say. Most folks had, and if they hadn't, well they were blind, deaf, and dumb.

"Made a damn fool outta myself then. Don't know why I bothered. I guess. It's not like she cares." He said, digging the heel of his boot into the sand. A heavy sigh rolled over his lips, his shoulders drooping as if under an invisible weight.

"I see you and Sadri have something between you two." Oh boy, what was he trying to say? He scrambled to regain control, move the conversation into a more positive note. "I'm happy for you both. Love is precious." Ok, so not much help there. Leif felt like a damned fool. Why not just say what was on his mind? His small talk didn't help, so he thought.

"I'm sorry about your father." Leif said, there, now it was out in the air.

At the mention of her father, her mood crashed down from where it was when Leif had her thinking about Sadri. A deepset frown cracked along her face and she grasped the bottle of whiskey at the neck and threw it at the waves. She was on her knees and let the silence fill with her heavy breathing before her head began to swim again and she settled back on her arse. "So am I." Her frown softened a bit, "I want to strike out on my own to find him... or his body. Give him a good burial. I want to smack Do'Karth for following me like a mother hen instead of standing at my father's back like a true Shield-Brother... but what would that do?"

She shook her head, "Your fight with Do'Karth, your... situation with..." She sighed and rolled her eyes, "She cares. Because if she did not, she would have nothing to do with you and she would be far more cruel in pushing you aside like a fly buzzing about her face. But how can she care for a man who can not step back and care for her happiness as much as he cares about his own, Leif?" She was nothing if not blunt, "Do you love her or do you want her? Because there is a difference. If Sadri acted out in such a way with someone else, it would scream so loudly that he thought it would be fitting to ruin all happiness other than what happiness he thought I should have. And a Nord should know that a man who tells a woman what is good for her is no man."

"Trust me, I've drawn Circles for many a man like that and I've left all of them." She frowned. "Raven-Stone is not the Name of a fool, Leif. Don't make it one. For what it's worth, even though the last words you spoke to me were that you were going to pollinate my flower," she giggled at the last part, "You've proven yourself to me and all the Company that you are much more than just a foolish sailor with a weakness for anything with tits and a nice arse."

Leif regretted the last sentence he uttered, the expression on her face crushed him. How could he be so dense? His mouth fell agape, though no words came to pass his lips. What she said... that resonated deeper with him than what everyone else had tried to tell him. Why? Was it because he saw a bit of Sevine in her? His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he reflected on the meaning of her words. Though he believed Sevine had not a care in the world toward him, perhaps what she said was true after all. His stomach twisted into a series of intricate knots, and now, his stomach threatened to upheave. Regret filled every fiber as a hand covered his face in shame. He stifled a groan, though it came out sounding much like a strangled cry.

"I'm sorry. I..." The hand fell away as he turned to look at her, "I don't know why I do the things I do. I can't justify it, reason it away or give an excuse. I suppose..." His head tipped back to gaze at the night sky, his eyes lingering on a passing cloud, "I've always wanted what I've read in eddas and ballads. A noble love, or, no, I guess, someone to love me despit all of my faults." Why was he saying all this? Most of all, to Solveig? He knew that the words he spoke were true, and perhaps baring his soul to someone like Solveig, who didn't look at the world through a rosy haze, would bring him to some type of reconciliation with himself.

Solveig nodded, there was a time when she dreamed of a handsome Jarl's son coming to swoop her away at the head of a host of his finest warriors and handmaidens, but those dreams stopped when she was too old for her mother to read her to sleep and old enough to learn that Jarl's sons married Jarl's daughters and that most men only wanted her because they hadn't had her yet. Her shoulders drooped before she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, "There's but one thing this world of ours shares with the eddas and ballads, Leif." Her mind went back to her father, and she felt tears building up over her eyes, "They're both filled with men who never learn from their mistakes. And the only thing it ever gets them is a decent burial or a good pyre. Bjorwulf's Edda, and a hundred-hundred others."

Her hand wiped away a tear that ran down her cheek before it crossed the distance between her and Leif, she squeezed the back of his arm reassuringly, "Love is precious, as you say. Who knew a woman from Markarth would fall for a mer scarred from head-to-toe." She shrugged, "It happens, though. We don't make it happen, though. At least I didn't. Remember that." She sighed and nodded, "But she does care, because that is what a Shield-Sister does. A Shield-Brother should make amends for any wrongs he's done, it's what good people do, much less good men. My father did that when I forced my way back into his life. If the stubborn, blood-thirsty, fearsome Red-Bear could do that... well, I'm sure the Raven-Stone can."

Her words of how a Shield-Sister and Shield-Brother acted rivoted him to the spot where he sat, his gaze never left the spearwoman sitting next to him. 'A Shield-Brother should make amends...'

"Aye." He started, "You speak the truth. I suppose an apology is in order." Leif nodded more to himself than to Solveig. "I was upset... Those long years of fighting by her side, looking after her every time she got hurt... and now, for fuck's sake, she nearly died on me, and neither Do'Karth or me were around to help her." He shook his head at his own words, realizing immediately what he said, "Do'Karth was right... Sevine is her own woman. And you're right, as well. I think... all this time, I've wanted her, and loved her." He fell silent, picturing the towering Red-Bear making amends for his actions, so why couldn't he? He swallowed a hard lump in his throat, talking about this after opening up to Niernen was like holding a burned hand over a flame. He didn't want to talk about Sevine anymore, and why should he? She had her own partner now, and any words he spoke of her from here on out would only cause him further pain.

"I'll help you find your father." He meant that, dead or alive, he would help her find him. Part of him held fast to the idea that Jorwen might still be alive. After all, those that survived the assault at Nightgate hadn't really seen whether or not he died at the hands of the Kamal. The company simply reported him as missing in action, so there was a fair chance Jorwen had survived. Talos protect him.

Solveig fell quiet. Leif's words were not what she expected, no matter how much she'd never thought Leif would utter those words, nor anyone. She even doubted Sadri would follow her if she took up the task, and now the man who'd told her that he'd pollinate her flower was pledging his loyalty as Shield-Brother in her quest. She had to remind herself that she was the one who was drunk, and she saw a conviction in his eyes she'd never thought she'd find there. She swallowed, squeezing her legs tighter to her before letting them out straight in front of her and resting back on her hands, feeling too much like a little girl doing that.

She glanced sidelong at Leif a couple times, not knowing what to say at first, "Truly?"

"On my honor, my word binds me as your Shield-Brother." He extended a hand for her to shake, Leif didn't pledge himself often to tasks, but when he did, the Gods be damned, he wasn't a liar. "You say the word, and I'll leave at the drop of a feather."

Perhaps it was the Nord blood coursing through his veins, or perhaps it was the conviction of comraderie that binded him to his fellow kinsmen during the war. Whatever the cause, there was no reason for a respectable man such as Jorwen should be left to the devices of the Kamal, Name or no Name. He reflected on the rescue mission for the frigate. Later onboard, he overheard about the mysterious oven-like device where the prisoners were being fed into to fuel a massive soul gem. He prayed that that wouldn't be the fate Jorwen would come to suffer, were he still alive.

"Leif, you may be a foolhardy bastard hells-bent on proving whatever to whoever..." Solveig struggled to her feet without much grace and almost fell back down at one point, "But by the Gods, I'm starting to like you more."

She extended her open hand and forearm for Leif to clasp like a true Shield-Brother. It may have been the drink talking, but in that moment, she felt like she could strike out now. Well, that was the drink, but she could definitely strike out in the next couple of days with Leif in tow. She'd test his resolve and his sincerity, there would be little chance for breaks in their march towards wherever they took her father. Any time spent idle was time wasted and time in which they could kill her father. And that just would not do.

He clasped her forearm and gave it a firm shake, a laugh rolling over his tongue at her words. "I suppose that's good to hear. If you're headed back to town, I'd be delighted to walk with you." Leif paused in his words as he gazed into her frigid blue eyes, his heart sank again, how many more times it would take the plunge in the days, weeks, months to come, he could not fathom. Jorwen had done the same for him, though Solveig wasn't anywhere near as drunk as he was on that night he challenged the Red-Bear to a fight.

* * *

Windhelm...
...a bear has awakened

All was dark in this place. All was silence in this place. All was nothing in this place. All was hell in this place. He could not remember what brought him here, only snippets of a battle, and even then, he only remembered some sounds and smells. Was he in the Great Forest still? How was Carpi? Was Fangelmo still torturing him with his fear spells and white-hot bars of metal? How long had it been since he had come to this place? A day? A day and a night? A handful of both? He knew not the answer to his question, but he was still a man of right mind to ask them, and that he took some comfort in. The piss-skins would not take that from him. They could take his fingernails, they could keep breaking his bones only to heal them again for the next breaking, they could cast whatever hellish mind-magic they could on him but he would not break.

It still remained to be known what purpose their torture was for, and it seemed all the more likely as the sessions went on that they were simply doing it because it was something to do. A punishment only for being human, a round-ear. But soon, soon he would slip free of his binds and he would show them what Jorwen the Bear could do. Suddenly, a spear of white-hot light shot forth from the darkness and stung him in the eyes. He recoiled and turned his face away, and he heard a voice that was very much not an Altmer's. But it was Mer. “Up, Red-Bear.”

As his eyes burned to adjust to the light, he saw ashen-skin and chitin plates through a film of wetness. This did not make sense, he was a Legionnaire fighting the Dominion, why was an ash-skin spitting orders at him? He rose, nonetheless. The ash-skin had to look up to meet his gaze, and at least that was something he took comfort in. The lack of fear, though, that would not do. Had his hands not been bound, he would have broken the mer's eyes out of their sockets with a fierce and violent clap on either side of his puny, shaved head. He would correct this. After a few moments, the spear of light grew to a doorway as the metal door keeping him sealed away in that dark place opened. They should not have opened the door. He rushed towards it, a fierce and single-minded grin on his face, or baring of teeth more like. Then his chains stopped him in his tracks, snapping taut and sending him tumbling forward to a hard landing on his side.

He felt the metal cut into his wrists and things shifted around painfully in his right hand. The Dunmer burst out laughing before regaining himself after a long while, “You should watch your step, Red-Bear, have you forgotten how to walk in only five days, you old s'wit?”

The only thing Jorwen did was struggle to look up at the mer, who only kicked dirt in his face. Jorwen spat and gave his baring of teeth again, seeing the plate of food tossed at him break along the ground, the thick slime that would be his meal made up of Gods knew what now on the stone floor. He looked up at the mer again, who smirked, “Enjoy your meal.”

Jorwen only gave a growl of a laugh, “I will come for you one of these nights.”

“Sure you will-”

“Sleep light!” And with a sudden violence that made even the mer flinch and his smirk waver, Jorwen took another vane lunge toward him, “I'll have your throat for a fucking meal!”

“Fuck you, you barbarian!” The mer slammed the door shut, leaving him in darkness once more, but still he screamed.

“Do you have kin? Have you sons or daughters? I'll be looking for them!” He screamed with such fury it made him cough and heave, strings of thick spittle hanging off his dry and crusting lips. He whiled away his time slurping the thick soup off the ground, having no shame left after the things done to him over the past days. He lay there, still, his hand throbbing, until he grew tired of it and yanked at his shackles. He felt his bloody wrist slip a satisfying millimeter out of the metal cuffs and he bared his teeth once more. He would have his meal soon...

Hours passed. He did not sleep anymore, for he found no rest in it, only sat with his eyes closed, biding his time, but with a purpose now. A glorious, fulfilling, bloody purpose. One he had not had in a very long while, the binds of a peaceful life in Whiterun struck loose. Vengeance may be in the hands of the Gods, but they had given him the means as he had begged and prayed for. Finally, the spear of light came again, but he kept his eyes shut, “What's with that fucking smirk?”

“Get the hell up, Red-Bear, food's here.” So, the first one was shaken so strongly he had to bring a comrade to taunt him with, if only they could grasp the irony as they laughed at him, “Your favorite.”

One of them stepped forward, the dull rasp of a blade sliding free of its sheath was heard. All the good it did him. Jorwen listened, counting the steps, his smirk growing to a baring of teeth. He roared once the footsteps got close enough, making the mer freeze. He barely had time to lift his sword before Jorwen reached up and had his grip on his neck. He squeezed so tight, growling and snarling and smiling, he felt middle finger almost touch his thumb around the scrawny knife-ear's neck. He tossed the short thing aside. Standing and gawping at him, the other mer, the one with the shaved head from the day before was rooted to the ground. He quickly came to his senses and tried to run, but only tripped himself up and found himself on his back, looking up at Jorwen.

“You should watch your step.” Jorwen's grin cracked his lips again, making them bleed, it grew so wide. He flexed his hands into fists, “I told you I would have mine.”

---

Raelyn walked through the Argonian camp, casually ignoring Argonians begging for food or coin, deftly dodging the odd Argonian who attempted to actually reach for her coin purse, and generally acting like the camp held no walls to her. She couldn't remember the last time she took a wall, border, or law seriously. She had come there to seek assistance in what she referred to as her "Operation", but hadn't found anyone suited to the task of assault and thievery. She'd played a game of cards and had, in circumstances surprising to even herself, managed to win in a hand of cards the actual cards themselves. While she would have rather had the gold, the thought of actually taking the card game was so funny to her she let the gold slide. That and the Argonians were in dire straits enough without her taking all their money. Now, owner of an entire deck of cards, which she wasn't quite sure what to do with. She couldn't pawn the deck, as it was worth nothing but her own amusement. She could attempt to gamble her way into the townsfolks gold, but she'd felt that tricking these poor goat herders and trowel shufflers out of their hard earned coin days before was somewhat mean spirited, if funny. So this left the obvious option: actually play cards with some of the people in the mercenary company and gamble her way into their purses. Or just talk to them, nothing hurt from making a few more allies in this mercenary company. It had saved her life earlier, hadn't it?

There he was, that Khajiit pacifist who she kept confusing her with his damned shapely ass and suggestively agile movements, Do'Karth. She approached him, who didn't seem to be doing anything of importance and seemed to be walking off to do something that was. Not on her watch! In one swift movement, she sidestepped around and appeared directly in front of him, holding five cards between her fingers by slightly bending them. "Do you play cards?" she asked, grinning.

Things happened quickly; one moment, Do'Karth was lamenting the loss of his friend and needing to clear his mind, and the next Raelyn, the bard that had joined the company for reasons he could only guess at was suddenly standing before him, a disarmingly sudden appearance from someone that he had not spoken to before. After the encounter with Leif, Do'Karth was somewhat on edge about people approaching him unwarranted. He blinked slowly at her inquiry, to his recollection, it was something he hadn't been asked since his time in Hammerfell. "Uh... it has been a few years?" he responded tepidly, not exactly sure what to make of the situation or how long it had been. Was there an ulterior motive to the question? Someone didn't survive as a mercenary if the only skill they had was singing, and Raelyn seemed to be a bit too sly for his tastes. "Depends on the game, Do'Karth thinks." he looked around to see if there was anyone else waiting on Raelyn. There wasn't. "Look, now really isn't-"

Raelyn put up one hand and said over him, "No, no, I understand. After a hard day breaking every bone in Leifs body, I too might also need some time to think about my actions." Though from Leif's reputation, Raelyn could only guess that her thoughts would be something along the lines of how could she do it again. She smoothly re-aligned the cards held in her hand back into a deck she somehow produced out of Do'Karth's sight. This she stuffed into her furred vest. She threw her other hand to her breast, lowering her head obsequiously, "I feel for you, I do, but would silent contemplation really help your loss?" She moved the hand on her breast to a gesture more indicating pointing to herself, "I myself have found that drink, companionship, and a game of chance much better at easing woes than the dim lit corners of an inn!" She paused, then added, "That and I have nothing better to do. Do you?"

"This one was trying to find a weapon vendor." Do'Karth explained, exhaling slowly through his nose, knowing he was in a situation where no wasn't going to be an option. Rubbing the back of his head and looking around for a possible escape but seeing none, he resigned himself. "Fine, a game or two. Where to?" he asked.

Raelyn's grin widened, radiating an uncanny amount of good cheer, "Why, what other place than the Inn?" She gestured to the establishment itself. "If you have anyone else you'd like to drag along, feel free to bring them as well, though I do have another player. Are you familiar with a man named Weasel Strand? She slipped to Do'Karths side in a surprisingly quick movement, put one hand gently to his back, and nudged him along, "Not his maiden name, of course, though I'm sure if you saw him you'd understand why he has the moniker. He tells me he's a fisherman, which seems like a likely sort of work until you consider he's more often near the shore than the port. Men and their mysteries!"

"This one does know anyone who plays cards." Do'Karth shrugged, looking over at the woman when she mentioned a 'Weasel Strand'. People with aliases always had something to hide, it was something he knew full from personal experience. He allowed himself to be gently pushed along, listening to Raelyn explain the details about this Weasel individual, which he decided to take with a grain of salt. Although, he bad could a fisherman be... if he actually was one. Raelyn did an adequate job of shining doubt on even that.

They reached the inn in short order, the establishment reeking of spilled liquors and the body odour of far too many individuals, prompting the Khajiit to wrinkle his overly sensitive snout. It was what found the refuge from the blizzard that saved the Windhelm refugees, albeit with Falmer entanglements, but at least you could fight Falmer. The weather was a less tangible thing to battle. He'd heard stories of how the Dovahkiin was once able to clear the skies with his voice alone; what a marvelous talent that would be!

Finding an unoccupied table, a rarity in itself, Do'Karth and Raelyn took a seat. "So, where is this Weasel of yours?" the Khajiit inquired, drumming his claws in sequence across the hardwood table.

Raelyn smiled, "Oh, he always seems to pop up-" and suddenly Weasel was behind her, saying in a voice that was comically shady and reeked of trustworthiness, "When you least expect me, yes." Raelyn had almost jumped out of her seat with surprise.

He put both hands on the back of her chair, leaning close to her ear, "What made you decide on keeping a house cat?" He gave Do'Karth a leer.

Raelyn said, "This is the man that broke every bone in Leifs body, or so I've heard."

Weasel froze and looked to Do'Karth like he had seem him for the first time. He stood up straight then followed with what he probably thought was a respectful bow but seemed more like he was going to throw his back out. He gave a mockery of a sophisticated accent, which through his slimy growl just sounded ridiculous, "I must apologize for my previous statement." He said in a tone that indicated that not only was he not sorry, but he'd do it again behind Do'Karths back. "If I knew I was speaking to a damned hero, I'd have had the decency of bringing you up to a lion!" He said, with an almost painful lack of sincerity.

Raelyn was happy with this outcome. She had been worried to speak to this man as she suspected he was a liar, which he certainly was, and now having Do'Karth along brought certain assurances. She now knew, if Weasel were to try to hurt her, Do'Karth would maybe not kill him but leave him in such a state that he would wish he were dead. On the side, she suspected Weasel would play bad hands and be generous with his money when they played cards, if only to not piss off Do'Karth. She wasn't entirely sure the man might not betray her and play an actually good hand, which was incompatible with her goal of fleecing people for money. Now that she thought of it, she was certain that Do'Karth would be easy to push into most situations. I mean, she'd barely had to wheedle to get him to come somewhere he clearly didn't want to be. Today was going to be great!

"There is nothing to apologize for." Do'Karth replied dismissively, glancing at Raelyn. Something told the Khajiit that she wanted him here for something more than a game of cards. Had news of his duel spread so quickly? Do'Karth didn't fancy himself as an enforcer for someone he barely knew. Still, it helped to know exactly what he'd unwittingly found himself in. "And how do you two know one another? Is this one amiss in noting that there is a certain tension between you?"

Weasel snorted and sat down, "She suddenly appeared when me and my fishermen boys were in that Argonian camp. You know, to ask for fishing advice. Cause they're lizards."

Raelyn giggled, "Yes, swamps are a known hot spot for fishing." She smoothly began to divide the deck of cards between the players, in a series of hand movements so effortless and quick it was clear she had dealt cards often.

Weasel looked at his cards, holding them in front of his face like a fan, "Yeah, then she asks if she could buy some fish. I tell her I already sold all the fish today, but we could bring her along to catch some next time we went to sea."

Tornn was known to Raelyn as a man who was found dead floating by the docks, after having agreed to travel along as a fisherman with Weasel. She suspected foul play, but the man was drowned with no sign of stab wounds or mystical artifice.

She said, flicking the cards towards Do'Karth with alarming speed, "I sadly had to decline the offer, as a proud member of Ashav's illustrious and fine reputed mercenary company, I couldn't give them the time of an entire fishing trip. That and many men find the smell of fish repugnant, so no."

The Khajiit snatched the cards in a deft flick of his own hands, keeping pace with the young woman. "This one has found ships and boats and just the ocean in general to be a terribly inhospitable place. It is rather remarkable that people make a living off of it. Do'Karth has never spoken at length to more than the two Argonians in the company on a rare occasion, so he will have to take you at your word in regards to their fishing prowess." He said, looking at the hand he was dealt. "What game are we playing?" he asked, realizing that the introductions had left little time for rules or format.

Raelyn grinned, holding her cards, "Mudcrab Sling. It's fairly easy to play. The trick is to lay down the highest hand. Barring that, just lay down card hands until you figure out which ones are highest! There's also a round of betting before this. Usually septims, sometimes personal affects. Like maybe one of your fishes, Weasel!"

Weasel narrowed his eyes, not sure if fishermen just carried around fish. "Yes. Like one of my fish."

Raelyn turned her head, looking at Do'Karth like she was trying to stare through him. "I'm going to bet my hat!" she removed the foppish article from her head.

"Do'Karth is not betting clothing. This is not going to be one of those games." he said, pulling a pair of coins from a pouch and tossing them carelessly on the table. He wasn't exactly enthused with his hand, but it certainly wasn't the worst.

"It's a hat, not my leggings Do'Karth. Unless Khajiit have a thing for hair?" She leaned in, with curiosity, "Do they?" Raelyn looked at her hand with the same loose smile she kept on pretty much all the time. Internally, she was swearing like a sailor. She was pretty sure she was going to lose her hat. She said, "I'll fold."

Weasel said, following directly after Raelyn, "Fold." His gave one glance to Do'Karth before quickly flicking away.

With a shrug, Do'Karth laid out his cards on the table. Considering it was the only hand left in play, it won by default. "We are covered in hair, so yes; smooth skin is peculiar. You may keep your hat, if you wish. It isn't Do'Karth's style." he said, offering a palm for reshuffling all of the cards. He looked quizzically at Weasel. "You felt your hand wasn't worth playing?" he asked. Something definitely was going on that he was barely picking up on, but what?

Raelyn retrieved her hat, saying "Very charitable of you! I'll consider it a donation to the arts" she turned her head to look towards Weasel.

Weasel took this as a significant look and said, "Yeah, had two jester. Can't make anything out of two jester. I owe you a fish, by the way."

Raelyn added another card to the middle of the table, changing what cards could be dealt, and laid down about fifty septims. Weasel in turn, set down about twenty five, less willing to give away any amount even for a higher turnout.

Looking at the pot on the table, Do'Karth set his cards down. "This one cannot play for those stakes. He needs his coin for other purposes... mercenary pay is not all that alluring." he said with an apologetic smile, drumming his fingers once more and looking for a polite way to excuse himself from the situation. He promised Sevine he'd buy her a new axe, and he sure wasn't in a hurry to waste what little earnings he had gambling with strangers.

Raelyn's smile twitched for but a moment. Her "scam Do'karth out of a large sum of money by pretending to be bad at cards" plan wasn't going as well as she planned today. She blamed Weasel for being incredibly bad at lying.

"Well." she said, "How about I add another say, fifty septims to the pot. That leaves us at one hundred-and twenty five. Then you can bet a favor." She grinned.

The Khajiit glared at her. "Vague and suspicious favours in exchange for a fortnight's worth of pay? How alluring." He replied dryly. "And what would that be, exactly?"

"Generally the idea of a favor is I can ask you for just about anything later, though if specific details make you feel better, how about showing up for the murder investigation for Vurwe Highorin that's going to occur tomorrow? That is, unless you really want to head to whatever battlefield Ashav is going to ask you to kill in."

It wasn't an unreasonable request. If he won the hand, he'd be able to afford a nicer axe. If he didn't, well... he would have to reconsider putting in for a transfer to another assignment. He'd have to talk to Sevine about having her request not heading out to sea again on account of her injuries. "That is not unreasonable. Do'Karth does not wish to become a thug or indebted into something that goes against his morals, you understand." Picking up his cards once more, laid face down as to not reveal the hand until the others were played, he said, "This one accepts."

Raelyn laughed, "Don't worry, I'm a very moral woman." She laid her cards down in the open.

Weasel looked to her and did the same. His hand was actually awful, only able to win in the most lenient of circumstances

Should have went with your gut, Do'Karth. the Khajiit thought, setting his cards down face-up. Raelyn's hand was one of the most uncommon and valuable in Mudcrab Sling, and as such only two other hands could have feasibly beat it, neither of which were residing immediately before Do'Karth, his cards staring back at him mockingly. "Unfortunate." He'd remarked, tossing his hands up in mock surrender. "This one owes you that favour, he supposes. He trusts it will not be a malicious one."

Raelyn slapped her palm on the the table in a merry fashion, "Oh, nothing malicious has ever occurred from some circumstance of fate leaving someone in the middle of something they hadn't expected. There's the Hero of Kvatch, disappeared into some part of Oblivion I believe, The Nevarine, supposedly who is sending all those Kamals after us, and the Dovahkin who..." Raelyn paused. "Well, as far as I'm aware, they were all benevolent and lived long and fulfilling lives. So much so, two of them convinced armies to fight for them in battle! I don't know what the Hero of Kvatch does. Plays dice with Sanguine, maybe."

The claws continued to rap upon the tabletop. "Do'Karth does not see how his situation compares to legendary figures. The Gods obviously had some hand in their success, they don't meddle in the affairs of your typical person. If that were the case, this one could solve this Kamal crisis with the flick of his staff and send them all back to Akavir and have a giant statue erected in his honour. Likewise, they won't prevent you from trying to call in a favour that is... less than reputable. Do'Karth understands the Gods. You, less so."

Raelyn waved her hand dismissively, "Think of it as a mystery! Even I don't know what will happen. That's the fun part!" She tipped her chair back, arms behind her head, her feet against the table the only thing keeping her upright, "Maybe you can bring Sevine along, convince her to show you her mysteries. I heard solving a murder often leads to that sort of thing!" She pushed her chair back into rest position, then leaned forward, "And, well, maybe you'll learn more about me."

That prompted a bashful response as the Khajiit looked away, embarrassed. "This one wouldn't know. And what would Do'Karth possibly need to know about you? He barely knows you, and so far it hasn't lead to any curiosity. If this one were to peel the onion that is you, he does not think he'll like what he finds."

Raelyn smiled wryly, "You wouldn't find anything too important! Anyway, I enjoy my privacy." Though her enjoyment of privacy often didn't extend outside of a bedchamber. "You know, I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."

Weasel chimed in, "I'm still here you kno-" Raelyn leaned towards him and put a finger to his lips. "Shhhh, later."

Raelyn continued, gesturing to the cards on the table, "In either case, the cards have been dealt and fate smiles on both of us, I think!" Though that would be hard to tell, death tended to beam his tombstone teeth where he wasn't wanted.

"We shall see, Do'Karth supposes." he replied non-noncommittally. Normally, he was quite keen on giving people the benefit of the doubt and to overlook their peculiarities, but something about the entire past fifteen or twenty minutes gave the Khajiit a sense of foreboding usually reserved for sailing. Setting his cards down, he stood from the table. "Thank you for the game, but this one has errands he needs to run still before the vendors close up the shop." Looking to Weasel, he glanced back at Raelyn. "Will you two be fine in one another's company?"

Raelyn nodded, "Oh yes, Weasel and I will be getting along great." She looked to Weasel in a significant manner while pulling the gold towards herself, "I'm sure with what we've earned today, we could have quite an evening, couldn't we?"

Weasel looked from Raelyn, to Do'Karth, then back to Raelyn who was now giving him a look that suggested he said yes. He grunted in affirmation.

It was good enough for the Khajiit; if Weasel lived up to his name sake and tried anything in a crowded tavern, there were more than enough people to put him in his place, and Do'Karth suspected that Raelyn was the kind of woman who came more than prepared for any situation. He had a sinking feeling the evening's events went exactly as she planned them, which sat rather uneasily with him. "Well, allow this one to wish you both a pleasant evening. Until we meet again." he said, slightly bowing before turning and heading towards the door, to freedom. He wasn't entirely sure what he was leaving behind, but the idea of cards no longer held an appeal. If anything, it gave him something more than the war to worry about. Between Leif, that new Khajiit, and now Raelyn, tonight was not going according to plan. With a sigh, Do'Karth refastened his budi and headed towards the makeshift market in hopes of finally finding that damned axe. Suddenly, such a simple task seemed almost as daunting as fighting the Kamal. With a soured mood, Do'Karth pressed forward, not daring make eye contact with anyone else, lest they too have something else in store for him.

Solveig ran her fingers through her hair, pushing past the tent flap and inhaling the salt of the ocean. The bath had made her feel anew, not only would she keep herself from smelling like shit from the bottle she'd almost finished by herself and just the general stench of being on the road, but there was something therapeutic in baths. To sit and think, but as with anyone who'd lead a similar life as hers, too much time to sit and think wasn't always good. "Where are you off to, my little Thane?"

She turned to see her mother returning from the vendors' stalls with fresh food, she was probably making soup tonight. As for the woman herself, in a matter of hours, the news of her husband had made whatever years time's hands were holding back to come crashing down on her. Her voice was but a reedy whisper, and her shoulders slouched forward rather than proudly back as they usually were. Even on her father's longest times away, they'd never done this to her. She returned her own smile at her mother's sad one, one she could tell she was putting tremendous effort into keeping. Part of Solveig wanted to tell her that she didn't have to try so hard at keeping her happy, then the rest of her made her realize the smile her mother had wasn't for keeping her daughter together, it was for herself.

"Just... going out for a stroll." She smiled. "I'll be back-"

And with a quickness she'd never seen from her mother, she stepped forward and clamped bother hands around one of her wrists, "Please."

"Pleas-"

"No more, Solveig. No more going around being a mercenary, please." She reached up and her mother's fingers traced along her bent jaw and the notch cut out from her bottom lip, "I noticed. Your father never told me, but I knew."

Solveig took her mother's hand in her own and returned it to her side, embracing her. She didn't have the strength to tell her mother that this was her living. She wasn't a good potter. The spear came to her better than the arts ever did. Standing in the Circle or in the middle of a battle was what she was used to now. And above all, she couldn't tell her mother what a stupid, stupid quest she was about to undertake with Leif come the morrow. She let her mother go, smiled, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. With that, she left for town, embarking on that stroll she'd said she would take.

She caught glimpses of the others from the Company milling about, but she kept her distance, the idea of company just not quite feeling right. All up until she caught sight of Sadri and Cilo, the former probably chastising the latter over something and she managed to crack a smile. It was too late before she realized she hadn't stopped walking while she was gawping at that old mer when she collided with something sturdy. She stepped back, realizing she'd gotten stew all over her cloak, she raised a brow, "I apologize, I should've watched where I was going..."

She trailed off as she took in the sight before her. A Khajiit with a blade almost as tall as her and bulked down with Nord-plate. The two remained like that for a moment, before Solveig opened her mouth to speak again, "I...I'd be more than happy to buy you another stew, I was heading to the inn myself."

"Are you normally this oblivious or is it just when you're traipsng around like a perfumed whore?" Khazki snarled, the slits of her eyes narrowing at the red-haired Nord. The stew that she'd been almost literally dreaming about for two weeks of foraging and trapping laid splashed across the dirt, the wooden bowl lay bottom up like a dome. Her stomach growled in protest. "I bet you are heading to the inn, all right. So clean and tidy, using up precious clean water and soaps and Gods knows what else. You a comfort woman? You're a bit rough around the edges, but what do I know? People get desperate in war times. I'll just take the coin and get it myself." she said with an air of finality. She wasn't in the mood to parlay with an inconsiderate broad who had the situational awareness of a toddler and the spine of a slug. She was meek for a Nord, that much seemed obvious. Nords never apologized.

"Now, you listen, you fu-" She clenched her jaw shut and took a breath, trying to stop wondering if she could free her knife from her sheath faster than this razor-tongued bitch could draw her big fuck-off blade off her back, "I'm not taking any cold septims out of my purse unless they're going into a tavernkeep's hands." She folded her arms, "I wouldn't try to get any out of me. I'm going to the inn to get stew, feel free to come with, I'll even let you sling insults at me like an old hag if it'll make you happy." With that, she gave a frown and stepped past her.

Khazki snorted. "So you have the coin on you? I thought you'd have to give sad felatio to one of the mercenaries before you could afford a meal." She retorted, turning and following Solveig back the way she'd come. "Not much of a fighter, are you? I was expecting a thrown punch, or the very least a slap. Did you forget where you were for a moment, or is it just my lucky day I've found the one Nord in Dawnstar who doesn't want to gut me?"

"It may be like that down in the shit-filled spat of sand you folk come from where you eat skooma when you're not gutting your own, but we tend to wait for actual reasons to draw Circles in the dirt. Bumping into a scowling fucking cunt of a rug isn't a good enough reason to me." She near kicked the door off its hinges, settling for pushing it open so hard it smacked and rattled off the inside wall, waving a patronizing hand inside, "Cunts first."

Giving a theatrical bow, with her hand on her chest and her other arm extend out behind her holding the grip of her sword which ran down the length of her arm, Khazki walked into the now-familiar tavern, immensely disliking the redundancy. "Pale skin like you wouldn't last a week in Senchal before someone took a fancy to that big mouth of yours, doesn't matter if the head was attached to the body." The Khajiit remarked when Solveig stepped in behind her. Her nose wrinkled. "Do Nord taverns usually smell like a hyena's gas bloated corpse that burst in the heat? At least you figured out basic hygene."

Not waiting for an invitation to head back to the innkeep where she placed the order with to begin with, Khazki remarked, "You strike me as someone who has a reason for trying to avoid trouble. You kick like a horse and you stared me down without hesitating, but this whole charity thing doesn't fit. So lady Huscarl or whatever, what's the occassion?"

"Ah, the raping of corpses, so what kind of sick and disgusting acts of depravity aren't allowed in Khajiiti culture?" She rolled her eyes and her jaw, wanting to land a hammer-blow on the back of that Khajiit's damned neck. When the conversation turned from insulting each other to small-talk, the transition was almost jarring. "A good Nord makes amends where they've done wrong. And my reason for not wanting to punch you in the teeth is that Ashav frowns upon his mercenaries assaulting civilians." She gave the woman another once-over, "Fucking Gods, I swear, when it comes to you cats, it's either monk's robes and a fucking twig or fifty pounds of metal strapped to your shoulders and a sword big enough to signal to everyone that you're insecure about something. What brings you to the northern end of Tamriel?"

Khazki glanced over at Solveig, blinking slowly. "You... ah, damn it all." she tilted her head back until it jerked to a stop against the steel collar of her armour. "Two for two and I'm starting to see why old Ashav was so eager to sign on any and all comers. Looks like we're collegues now; try not to look excited." she said, pulling up a chair at a table, not paying attention to the two men already seated there. She leaned the blade against the table and folded her intertwined fingers on her lap, keeping eye contact with Solveig.

"I've met your 'monk'. He isn't that; he's just dressed like every other sad sack of shit who doesn't have a coin to his name back home. Explains why he can't afford steel to fight with. And lady? Call me insecure again and I'll show you how little I regard that no punching rule you have." she said, reaching forward and stealing a tankard from one of the men, who glared at her. She responded with a wink, her claws extended around the mug. He decided against retaliation and instead turned more away from Khazki, who sniffed at the mug, grimmacing. "You sure this shit isn't fermented meat?" she asked before throwing caution into the wind and downing a portion of it.

"I guess since you're so kindly replacing what I'm owed, I'll tell you what I'm doing here. Looking for work, like anyone else. There's a story to be told about me one day, I just have to find where it is. Figured Morrowind was screwy enough with living gods and giant mushroom houses that I'd stick out, but I didn't fancy getting caught up with the whole 'Grey or Get Out' sentiment that swept the nation, kind of like your Stormcloak assholes and their irrational hatred of anyone who doesn't grow a beard that looks like an overgrown patch of pubic hair." She replied, setting the mug down and sliding it back to the man with her fingers. "Main reason I'm here here is because those Snow Demons are always a day or two away no matter where I go, so the only way I was getting on a ship was to sign up for your merry band of mix-matched cunts. You guys get someone who knows how to use a sword better than most, and I get a way off this frozen rock when the ugly brutes come knocking."

"Not all of those Stormcloaks were assholes. I wear the Blue for a reason, Khajiit, and it isn't because it's my favorite color. My father was as good a man as any and he fought for Ulfric. Or at least his Chief did." She shrugged, "And I can call that beggar with a twig my friend. My name is Solveig, by the way, but I can tell you're the type who'll just call me everything but that." When the tavern-maid stepped up, she held up two fingers, "Two stews."

She opened the same hand and inside were five septims, taken readily by the maid. "I don't suppose 'This One', as you folk say, has a name."

"Well, you are replacing my food, and I might have been slighty less than agreeable, so I'll call you whatever you want... Solveig." Khazki replied, trying the name out for the first, pleasantly surprised to find she pronounced it correctly. "I'm Khazki. No 'this one', or 'Khajiit'. Just Khazki. And you're friends with that guy? Gods, you really are charitable."

"He saved my life after a Kamal almost broke my head open during the Siege of Windhelm. It's an understatement to say I owe him a favor. Hasn't left my damned side ever since, and I'm pretty sure he was requested by my father to dote on me like a child. Ironic, seeing as I've had to stand between him and whatever better-armored fuck trying to kill the two of us." She frowned, looking up and away in a moment's thought, "Not to say he's a bad fighter. Just wouldn't stick him in the frontlines, s'all. And nice to meet you, Khazki. At least I know you'll fit in with a bunch of foul-mouthed mercenaries from our first words with each other." She pursed her lips, nodding now that she noticed the lack of similarity between the way Khazki and Karth talked, "So, how long have you been away from the sands down south?"

Khazki let out a rueful laugh. "Oh, the day I fit in anywhere is the day I'm buried in an unmarked grave with all the others who've fallen before me. You probably noticed I'm not cute and cuddly like your friend, that's partially by design, partially because it's just simpler that way. You aren't so bad, you let shit roll off you and not let it compromise your principles. I respect that." the Khajiit said with a nod. She exhaled as her gaze went to the ceiling, her face contorting in thought as she searched her memory. "I think about a decade, give or take a year. It's not really been a huge incentive for me to keep track of time, and the seasons are so different depending where you are. I just wasn't finding what I wanted out of life in Pelletine, and I sure as shit was not wasting my time with those desert nomads in the North."

"Good enough reason as any." She nodded. She gestured to the general area around the two of them, "Welcome to Skyrim, can't go five years without someone finding a reason to start a war. O'course, this one isn't our fault, I guess. Doesn't change its place on the scale from Oblivion Crisis to Civil War, seeing as it took my father." She shook her head, drumming her fingers on the table, "You have any family back in, uh, Anequina?"

"Your father?" Khazki asked, immediately regretting not thinking of the implication before opening her mouth. "I'm sorry. It can't be easy, I hope you two weren't close. My family really... wasn't that." she said, streching her fingers with her thumb in a balled fist. "Horrible as it is to say, but I don't think I'd care if any of them were alive or not. All I can say about them is they did the bare minimum to keep me alive into adolecence instead of throwing me into the Bay or drowning me in the sugar fields, but I'm not going to thank them for struggling past the basic line of decency." she glanced over. "Pelletine. Different kingdom entirely from Anequina, it would be like if I called Skyrim Cyrodiil because Bruma happens to take after Nordic culture."

"Ah, I don't find myself reading much about other places or straying any farther south than Whiterun, so..." She shrugged, "And I'm sorry your family sounds like a bunch of cunts. My father... tried his best, at least when he was around. After the tax-man took the tailor shop away, the sword came off the mantel. I got tired of his graying old arse running off to put himself in danger, so I chased after him across the breadth of Skyrim. And then the Kamal came. If two wars couldn't kill him, I'm holding out on the hope that the third one isn't the charm and he's at least alive if not well." She chuckled at herself for even saying it now that she wasn't drunker than shit, "I'm fixing to strike out and find him. Saying 'fuck this war' and going somewhere new if I do. If I don't..." She let that hang in the air, not wanting to weigh in on that possibility.

"Ah, so I was right. That's why you're keeping a low profile and didn't get physical from my provocations." Khazki said, noticing the waiter coming back with two bowls. "Don't worry, I'm not going to say anything to anyone about you wandering off. I'm not going to pretend it's a smart idea, because honestly I don't think you'll make it that far East with what's going on, but I'm not going to run off and tell people what you're up to. I don't know what it's like to care about someone enough that you'd risk everything to save them, but I guess it shows a certain character to you that you put another life above your own." She looked back at Solveig, expression quite serious. "But I don't think you can walk away from this war so easily if you do succeed. It's forced me to join the fray, and I'm a fighter. Sooner or later, those snow demon fucks are going to force everyone to either take up arms against them or be treated like cattle and submit. I'll kill any of them that try to take me, but I'm not doing it alone. Even I'm not that stubborn."

"Well, I've got another coming with me, if that counts as me not doing it alone." She said with a half-smile, "And caring about someone that much really only feels great when the sentiment isn't being put to work. Quite honest, I feel like shit. I'm torn between telling my lover and just disappearing, but I couldn't do that." She glanced down at the stew being placed down, steaming hot still. "And I give you my thanks. You are right, I can't run away and expect someone else to fight the war for me. I've got ten duels under my belt that say the contrary to that."

She sighed, grabbing her spoon and taking in a mouthful of the stew before chewing and swallowing, "About that fifty pounds of metal on your shoulders and the big fuck-off blade of yours... well, why fifty pounds of metal and a big fuck-off blade?"

"Your lover?" Khazki asked, blinking. "Look, I'm not an expert on the mushy sentimental crap, but at the very least you should ask him... or her... what they think of you doing something like that." she said as the stew arrived and was set down before them. Her stomach started to growl once more. Picking up the spoon, she greedily gulped some of it down and felt one of the few true moments of bliss she'd had in quite a while. Regaining her composure, she continued. "I don't know if you've considered this, but this lover of yours is probably going to be pretty broken up if you go away and die, and in the end, doesn't your father want you to be happy? Would he even want you to go after him? It's just a lot of risk for a maybe. That's just my take, do with it what you will." she said, shrugging the 'fifty pounds of metal'. "You said it yourself, what says 'fuck-off' better than a greatsword? I don't fight unless I have to, dying for stupid shit isn't how I plan on going about my life. The blade is a deterent, and when that fails, most assholes aren't going to get close enough before I tear into them. This," she said, rapping her knuckles on the armoured plating, "Is in case they get by the sword. If you can outlast your opponent and not tire out before them, they die, you live another day. Besides, the sword's an obvious threat. It's the subtle shit that gets them in the end that isn't as apparent as a few kilos of Skyforge steel." she concluded with a grin.

Solveig gave a grin of her own, "I like you." She let the grin go and nodded, "You're right, though. Fucking gods damn it," She leaned back and let her arms dangle at her sides, shaking her head, "He's just my fucking father, s'all, right when I get close to the Gods damned gray-head, this shit happens." She concluded with a sigh and a clench-toothed, "Fuck."

"You'll figure it out. If your old man's anything like you, Solveig, he's probably stubbornly trying to make his way back now. Who knows? Maybe he'll beat you to it. Just don't do anything without a clear head and resolve, check your doubt. If you aren't second guessing your decision, then it must be the right one. Even if it wasn't the smart thing to do, you still acted, which sometimes is better than sitting on your ass and waiting for things to sort themselves out. Go find the idiot who got smitten by you and do right by him, because otherwise you're going to hurt him worse than a knife in the back." Khazki said, standing up from the table and taking the bowl with her. "Just whatever you decide to do, try not to die. It's rare to find someone I don't want to hit. Thanks for the grub and the chat. I needed a bit of both, turns out." the Khajiit said, picking up her sword and effortlessly swinging it up to rest upon her shoulder. Holding up the bowl as if to say cheers, the Khajiit wandered off towards the exit once more, the same easy going and arrogant stride that bumped into Solveig to begin with having a bit more spring in the step.

Solveig watched her go, probably one of few people in this Company she felt like she could trust not to steal her shit while she slept. She shook her head at her retreating back, spooning a couple more mouthfuls down the hatch before leaving this place herself. There was 'the idiot who got smitten' by her that she needed to have a chat with. Sometime. Soon. When she gave this whole rushing off to find her father quest some good thought, at least. The sky was darkening by the time she got back to the fire, seeing her mother and Cleftjaw sitting at it. "Told you I'd be back." She smiled and her mother got up, dusted the front of her skirt, and hugged her.

---

Gustav was in charge for the night of the 25th. Ashav got mugged in the afternoon of the 25th by a bunch of thugs that really did a number on his face. That night, Ashav and his trusted advisers went about investigating the incident and undoing the damage to his face. Gustav was told take over and finish some paperworks Ashav started. Technically, Gustav could always take over when he wanted, as he supplied the vital funding that went beyond Skald's cheapskate excuses of wages. However, it was Ashav's insistence that made Gustav somewhat sidelined. But now, he's eager to do some hands-on work.

In the far back of Windpeak Inn's second floor was the largest deluxe room. This was where Gustav had set up; a suite of separate living rooms and bedrooms with its own miniature fireplace. The rich Nord was dressed in his fine armor, a set of polished steel plates and neatly waxed fur cloak that looked more ceremonial than practical. Gustav was not someone with a lot of combat experience, but with the invaders inching ever closer and schemes springing up in the homefront, now seems like the perfect time to bust out his favorite "armchair warrior" getup.

Speaking of armchair, Gustav is currently sitting in one and trying to figure out how to position his steel-covered ass comfortably on it. In front of him is a square table, with three more less luxurious chairs on its other sides. On the table were the files Ashav entrusted him with. There were files regarding Marcel Gawain and Elmera Sarandas, their debut performance and possible continuation of their contracts. There was also a page of messily scribbled notes regarding another Dunmer woman. Niernen was her name, and according to Ashav, she had onced worked with the company in Windhelm, but in the hasty retreat from Kamals, both her and her files were lost. While Gustav waited for Dough-Boy to summon these three individuals, he sipped on a bottle of warm spiced wine and analyzed the reports to the best of his abilities. "Just get them signed and get it over with." Ashav instrued him. Seemed like the war made Ashav desperate for fresh sword fodders.

Gustav's door opened after an excruiciating wait to 9 pm. Dough-Boy came in with the grumpy face he was sent off with. "They are here, sir." He said almost monotonously. "Can I get the sword now?"

"Thanks, kid." Gustav nodded. He sighed at the request. "Later, we're going to be busy tonight." Dough-Boy was shooed away quickly. The boy was obviously dissapointed. Ashav said to not think too hard into it. "Just an eager kid trying to punch above his weight," or so it supposed to be. For Dough-Boy's errand, Gustav promised him a real steel weapon Ashav long denied him, and that meant he would have to find some excuse to trick the foolish boy when this performance review is over.

"Come in and take a seat." Gustav waved his guests in.

Marcel had felt quite anxious after the disastrous retreat from Nightgate Inn – having fought the foreign invaders for the first time, Marcel had not expected ‘snow demons’ to be such well organized and advanced. Sure, he had experience fighting demons themselves, and snow creatures as well, but the sort that he fought never decided to clad themselves in plate armor and use artillery barrages and mixed unit tactics. A good fighter he may be, but Marcel definitely had no understanding of warfare.

But in truth it was not the siege that had made him anxious, but funnily enough, the supposed upcoming performance review. Marcel had been chided for having a different sense of importance back when he had been a child, and it was a habit that he still had. He sat on the bench, in front of this important looking room, and felt a nervous tinge that he had not felt when fighting remnants of the Oblivion Crisis near the Wrothgarian Mountains. Had Master Diarmid been here, he definitely would have slapped Marcel in the back of his head for that.

The Nord boy got out quite quickly, almost as fast as he had appeared and entered – from the pouty look on his face, Marcel guessed that his review had not gone very well, and this perceived information rekindled the cold heat of fear in his stomach like pouring water on hot coals. Inside he could see a middle-aged man, dressed quite extravagantly. Where was Ashav? He felt even more nervous.

‘’Come in and take a seat,’’ the man said, and Marcel, after some waiting for someone else to walk in, obliged out of a mix of embarrassment and a need to take initiative, getting up from his spot next to the other 'newcomers', and walking into the room in a reserved manner. He pulled one of the chairs back, and lined his eyes with the man’s to ask for permission – and it seemed that the man did not object, Marcel sat down slowly, feeling somewhat small now that he was sitting.

''Where is Mister Ashav, sir?'' He asked meekly, eyes attempting to peek behind his head to see if those who had been sitting with him had any intention of coming in.

"He had to face a rather nosy issue," Gustav absentmindedly answered as he took out three wine glasses. It was when he poured his first drink did he realize he had made a pun; Ashav had his nose broken when thugs struck his face.

The brown colour of the inn's wood appeared to almost glow as Elmera awaited to be called in. Damn it all, had she known about the performance review sooner, she wouldn't have taken so heavily to the sugar beforehand. No matter, she'd been in worse situations, though this did breed some anxiety. Thankfully, she'd chosen to inhale the substance rather than smoke it, so it showed less in her eyes and more in her fingers which refused to stop drumming on her thigh and in her eyes, which occasionally darted about the room. It took almost all of her willpower to slow down the glances such that they would appear more like curious looks around the room.

Eventually, Gustav came from the room and beckoned for them. She furrowed her brow, remembering him from her first night in the company, when he had politely bit his tongue and allowed the other members to bicker about her allegiances. Although the Dunmer wished that Ashav would be conducting the interview, she was relieved to know that it wasn't that vile retch who had tried to accuse her of treachery.

Elmera entered the room just after the man named Marcel. He was an odd one, that was for sure, but seemed to ask the right questions. What was strange, however, was how right now her moon sugar - for what else could it be? - was causing a symptom she'd never felt before. There her heart felt constricted, yet free at the same time and it felt as though her joints were alternating between being uncomfortably warm and uncomfortably cold.

"That's a shame - it's good to see you again, Gustav," She remarked, keeping up the pleasantries for one of her new employers. She looked at any sign of ornamentation on his desk, then to the back of Marcel's neck. Was there something there? No, definitely not; her gaze drifted back to Gustav as she realized how she was behaving.

"You as well, Elmera Sarandas." Gustav nodded. "I am sure Ashav will return to us in no time." Elmera's fidgeting was becoming harder and harder to ignore, so Gustav offered her a glass of spiced wine. "You appear agitated; please enjoy this refreshing beverage in the meantime."

The other female Dunmer of the company, Niernen Venim, entered the room behind Elmera with an attitude and expression on her face that couldn't possibly be any more different from her older counterpart's. Her thousand-yard stare was fixed on a point somewhere halfway to infinity and she remained completely motionless after sitting down. It was obvious she had only recently stopped crying. It wasn't until Gustav spoke about what Ashav was up to that Niernen seemed to break from her reverie and she slowly realised that she wasn't sitting across the familiar Redguard leader of the mercenary company.

Now cognizant of her surroundings, Niernen became acutely aware of an unpleasant sensation at the base of her skull -- it felt like a small spider was crawling around in the bone-plate and vertebrae. Shivering, Niernen rubbed at the spot with one of her hands and turned her head from side to side in an attempt to soothe the sensation, assuming it was probably a muscle acting up or something like that. Her eyes fell on the other mercenary in the room, Marcel, a fellow she hadn't met before, and upon doing so she felt shards of ice slowly crystallize in her sinuses. Now thoroughly uncomfortable, Niernen's intuition told her the peculiar-looking Breton was somehow responsible. Her formidable intellect soon caught up to her guts and Niernen remembered reading about the effects those born under the sign of the Atronach could have on powerful sorcerers. She couldn't help but feel an immediate dislike for the man, no doubt exacerbated by her already supremely sour mood.

"Evening," Niernen said to Gustav at last, curtly and without emotion. "What is this about, if I may ask? I was about to go to bed when your messenger summoned me." Dough-Boy had been so embarrassed by the sight of Niernen's half-naked form upon entering the elf's chambers that he had failed to explain the purpose of this meeting.

Gustav had been staring at Niernen long before Niernen looked back. Niernen's face was tired, and Gustav was none too happy to see it. "I believe you have expressed the interest to rejoin our company." Gustav quickly explained. He pushed the second wine cup to Marcel, w
ho took the cup enthusiastically but refused it politely with a gesture upon sniffing alcohol in it. Before doing the same for Niernen, he tried to gauge if the Dunmer was fit to drink. "Did our less-than-competent messenger disturb you? I will discipline him if necessary."

Finally, Gustav decided to give Niernen her wine after all. Zoned out as she was, a little alcohol might just keep her head in the game, or that's what Gustav thought. "Ashav said your last name is Venim, correct? Much of the company's documents have been lost since WIndhelm." Taking his time to slowly savor a swig of his drink, Gustav tapped his quill at the topmost sheet of paper. "We have nothing left regarding your work records, but Ashav and many contractors spoke highly of you. Is it true that you and Do'Karth complement each other quite well?"

"Yes," Niernen said immediately before looking away and swallowing hard. She held the cup in her lap and, looking down at it, could see how her knuckles turned white as her fingers clutched the vessel of wine tightly. She did not want to think about Do'Karth right now, but it was pointless to tiptoe around the issue with Gustav. He wasn't inquiring about their personal relation, after all. "He is very good at distracting an enemy and keeping them occupied," Niernen added. "That creates opportunities for me to use Destruction magic to take them down." She thought it wise not to mention how she had almost set Do'Karth on fire twice.

Gustav gave Niernen some time to answer, and when she had done so, he scribbled down notes on the page. "Let's take a step back; you were captured by Morrowind soldiers. We have to know if you are truly committed in the ongoing conflict against Morrowind, and what would you do if you encounter a former ally as opponent?"

This time an answer was not immediately forthcoming from the Dunmer. Niernen considered the question to be audacious at best and insensitive at worst, but the reasonable side of her interjected that it was necessary for Gustav to properly determine her reliability in the company. He was probably not aware of her personal situation in this war. "The Nerevarine is my sworn enemy," Niernen said eventually. "As for the other Dunmer... we already encountered Ashlanders within the Dwemer ruins of Bthamz and they were very surprised to learn of the Nerevarine's treachery. I would like to convince as many of my kin as possible to see the light and defect to our side. That said, if such options are not avalable..." Niernen trailed off, remembering the Armigers that had captured her and sold her to the Kamal without a second thought. "Use of deadly force will not be an issue."

Gustav scratched his neatly trimmed beard in thought. There was a lot of thoughts inside his head, but none felt quite right to be put on paper. Thankfully, another person could provide clarification from a similar position. "You will be fighting Dunmer too, Sarandas; what do you think about Niernen's words?" He pointed his quill at Elmera.

Elmera stared into the glass of crimson liquid. Was this man trying to poison her? Or, rather, was this somebody else's blood? Some kind of macabre pact to join the company for life. The Dunmer sneered for a brief moment, she hated cliché metaphors like that. There was only one way to find out - she would look paranoid if she didn't at least try to act casual. The woman finally looked up and nodded to Gustav, "Thank you, for the drink, I mean," She stated, gesturing with the glass before taking a sip. She blinked behind the rim of the glass - oh... It was just wine. Of course it was.

After a momentary pause, Elmera pushed back some of the short hair which had fallen in front of her eyes. "If you're asking me about Niernen here," She began, glancing to the other Dunmer briefly, "It sounds like she speaks true. However, if yo-" The sound of a floorboard creaking caused Elmera to pause as she looked back to the door. Was somebody watching them? Listening? "What was..." She started to mumble under her breath before realizing - she was doing it again. Cut it out.

"I'm sorry, what was I saying..? Right, the Dunmer... I completely concur; Anybody who chooses the wrong side deserves to be cut down, myself included. I have little, if anything, left in Morrowind. I'll gladly lend the company anything I can if it'll help."

Elmera's lack of focus did not went unnoticed by Gustav. He thought it could be the wine that was repulsing everyone, but upon a careful whiff in his cup, he decided that there was nothing wrong with what Dough-Boy brought him. "The spiced wine is not to everyone's liking?" Gustav asked. "Perhaps water would do better?" He went for a pitcher further in the room.

While Gustav left his seat, his papers were briefly left in plain view. Should anyone bothered to look, they would see files on the three company members. Elmera had the most written about her. Her initial impression was noted favorably by Ashav, as a ruthless and determined woman with nothing to hold back, but with something to hide. Her later assessment was not so much positive, because she was critically injured immediately in the engagement. Marcel was described as a polite individual, a skilled combatant and someone willing to follow orders. Ariane wrote remarks about Marcel having disruptive effects on the flow magicka, which meant absolutely nothing to the magically-inept Gustav. Daelin was supposed to be reporting the forest fire mission, but the Bosmer's words were messy and distracted; he only deemed Marcel's performance as "reasonable". Finally, notes on Niernen have been scarce. Ashav only put down jot notes on the voyage, and these being "strongly motivated by anger: mentally and physically unstable".

When Gustav returned with the water pitcher, he chose to shift focus to Marcel. He wasn't impressed at Elmera, and made it clear with a cold glare at her. Upon briefly reviewing Marcel's files, he suddenly realized that the cause of the Dunmer women's distraction could be this alleged "magic disruption". "Marcel Gawain," he spoke and offered water at the same time, "what is your opinion of the forest mission? I understand that there were certain difficulties."

‘’Thank you, sir,’’ Marcel replied to Gustav’s offer as he took the cup of water in his hands, but he did not drink. The Breton spoke to Gustav with a clearer tone now that he had a question at hand – it was obvious he was more comfortable speaking when matters were of a tangible nature, with clear definitions. ‘’The perpetrator’s reasons were somewhat surprising, and indeed we received some harm thanks to unfortunate events, but, truth be told, I would argue that the results were expected. I do not wish to speak ill of any of my compatriots, for we solved the problem together, but it seemed that they were not properly equipped to deal with threats of a magical nature,’’ Marcel said softly. ‘’Then again, the disparity is likely because of our differing occupations.’’

"How intriguing." Gustav began to put some of the Breton's account to paper, and when he had done so, he turned back to the Dunmers. He asked his next question with the expectation of clear answers. "Marcel Gawain here has a rather unique effect on mages; do you ladies feel anything peculiar?" He checked their profiles again just to make sure; Elmera and Niernen were indeed magic users.

"Water... might do better by me, I'm not much of a wine drinker and I'm still er... getting reacquainted to being on land," She lied casually with a straight face. Upon accepting the new beverage, she took a sip; what an awful time to have tried 'calming her nerves.'

Elmera could hardly be bothered with any concern for Gustav's impression of her. She'd been hit by a stray bolt, she knew that the injury reflected poorly on her in the first mission. She also knew that she had still proven helpful in the naval battle, considering her injury was still bothering her at the time. What was more disconcerting was how Gustav addressed her, or rather their, discomfort. She furrowed her brow and sucked the inside of her cheek for a moment, "Yeah. It's... pretty uncomfortable," She remarked, placing a hand over her heart for a brief moment, "I can't really describe it, but it feels like my heart is racing and beating slowly simultaneously. So yeah, the room feels pretty off."

She paused for a moment, then sighed, "I'm sorry, Gustav, I don't mean to be rude, but... what does that have to do with the review? Considering the effect he's apparently known to have on people with our particular skillset, wouldn't it be more effective to keep the meeting a little bit shorter? I can hardly think straight with this uneasiness," She explained, trying to push the blame for her distraction entirely on the discomfort, to keep the moon sugar's symptoms from being so obvious. Marcel's presence, admittedly, was a pretty convenient relief.

Despite Niernen's state of emotional exhaustion she couldn't help but feel a slight twinge of satisfaction at having accurately guessed that Marcel Gawain was the source of her physical discomfort. She was strongly reminded of her time studying with the Redoran war-wizards and a comfortable memory flashed through her mind's eye; a dimly-lit chamber with the characteristic arched walls of Dunmeri architecture, the small smile that played around the lips of one of her mentors and the barely-veiled looks of envy her fellow students cast in her direction.

"I agree with Elmera," Niernen said, now taking her turn to glance at the other Dunmer's direction. "It's a very unpleasant sensation." She paused for a second, realising that she didn't really feel like throwing one of her fellows under the wagon without giving him a fair chance, and added: "But I am sure he will be very useful in combat against other mages." Niernen gave Marcel a small smile in an attempt to hide her instinctive disdain for the Breton.

Seemingly satisfied with Marcel, Gustav turned to his attention to Elmera. He frowned slightly in reaction to Elmera's impatience. It wasn't hard for the Nord to compare Elmera's reaction to Niernen's; the former was antsy while the later is a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. "Very well, Marcel Gawain." He flipped through the stack of papers again. "Now, Sarandas, you appear to be unfocused. Your, well honestly, inadequate performance at Bthamz seem to indicate a trend."

Gustav then shuffled around in his chair; adjusting the uncomfortable armor wedge under his butt, reinking his quill, drinking more wine and let his words sink in with Elmera. "We have concerns, Sarandas; is there anything critical you are hiding? Anything that may diminish your capabilities?"

Elmera sucked the inside of her cheek, watching Gustav carefully. "I might be unfocused, yeah, but haven't we covered the cause for that?" She asked, trying to measure her words now, careful to not snap at him. "And I'd like to point out that you weren't at Bthamz, Gustav. All due respect, sir, but I was only struck by an incoming bolt because a heavily armored shield maiden in front of me dodged the attack and my leather wasn't nearly as sturdy as her metal. I"m not blaming her, I'm pointing out that I would have dragged the group down by continuing in that state."

Don't grind your teeth... Don't bounce your leg... Therew as no sound... Her mind was actively fighting the symptoms of her Moon Sugar. As she processed his final question, she blinked in realization. He was implying her addiction, wasn't he? She wasn't a throat-scratching, fix-hunting rat who lived in squalor to maintain her sanity. Leaning forward, she held Gustav's gaze firmly.

"If you're referring to what I do in my free, recreational time before being informed of an important business meeting, no. There are no critical secrets which would physically or mentally impede me on the battlefield or under the charge of others. If you look more closely at the chain of events and speak to Leif about it, you might get a different perspective. His burns, his injuries, were more manageable thanks to my hanging back to help him. Not to mention, despite my injury, amidst a sea skirmish, I still manned a ballista."

She gave a sigh and shook her head, "I'm sorry, Gustav, if I had an awful run of luck our first time out, but I think it's a reflection of my character that I'm not only willing, but rather excited, to return to the field." Her fingers drummed softly on the arm of her chair, itching to rise and leave the room.

Gustav couldn't help but crack a tiny smile at Elmera's behavior. His suspicion of the Dunmer woman keeping secret was proved by her defensive speech. Gustav scratched down several of Elmera's heated moments and had to cough to hide his smug grin. "Noted, Sarandas." He reaponded simply, meeting Elmera's gaze as briefly as possible and withdrawing.

"I am merely concerned for your well-being, not trying to pry into your personal life." Gustav claimed with little intonation to back it up. "We as a group want everyone to succeed and excel, and if that means you require certain necessities from us, myself and other officers will do our best to provide you with such." This statement was addressed to all three mercenaries, but Gustav was certain to linger on Elmera longer than he had to. "However, we can only help you if you are honest with your needs." Gustav finished with an overdramatic flourish of quill on his page.

Perhaps she had been rash... Elmera resigned to her seat, focusing on the perturbing feeling caused by Marcel's presence. She had to resist it, but the distraction helped her stave off her Moon Sugar's symptoms. She would have to apologize for the outburst, but to be fair, Gustav had been a little out of line asking her such a question in front of the others - her dirty laundry was none of their business.

"This brings me to you, Niernen." Gustav said. "I understand that you may need personal support in trying times like these, and I am glad to say that Jarl Skald has transfered a chaplain to our company; this individual should be ready to assist you tomorrow." He checked the official letter; Skald must have thrown this priest over to make up for the missing pay.

"Before you re-enter your contract, I must know, for your own safety, Niernen, do you feel ready to re-engage mentally and physically after your ordeal in enemy captivity?" Gustav questioned. Ashav wouldn't care for such details of personnel, but Gustav was insistent on having only the top notch employees.

Niernen's eyebrows raised perceptably upon Gustav's mention of a chaplain. Was he unaware of the Dunmeri religion? A chaplain of the Eight Divines was hardly going to be of any spiritual use to her, but she decided not to say anything and just nodded graciously in a show of gratitude and responded to Gustav's question instead.

"It would be nice to have a proper healer take a look at my broken bones, but other than that, I am ready. In fact, I can't wait to cook those Kamal n'wahs alive in their armor," the sorceress hissed and clutched the cup of wine so hard her fingers turned white again. Trying to stay in control of her emotions, she finally took her first sip and eyed the cup's contents for a second. "Not bad," she mumbled eventually.

Niernen's determination was unnerving to Gustav. He blinked confusingly at the Dunmer woman, still not sure how to deal with her headstrongness. Niernen was clearly tense, and Gustav leaned back into his chair out of instinct. He flashed a wavering smile as the sorceress started drinking, feeling vindicated in finally having someone appreciate his beloved beverage. "Well then, I am happy to offer you this opportunity for vengeance, Niernen Venim." Gustav slid an empty contract across the table, alone with his quill for signature. "Make them burn." Gustav emitted his best macho growl, which doesn't have the exact output he desired.

"Marcel Gawain, I am hereby approving your promotion to full-time contractor, on Ashav's behalf." He passed another copy of the same contract to the Breton. "By signing this contract, you will accept three months of service." Gustav recited out of Ashav's procedures. "Oh, and you can still resign at this moment," the man added, but the Breton dismissed the possibility as 'most ungentlemanly', as he took the contract with a soft yet firm hand and looked for an inked quill to sign the paper with.

Passing his quill to Marcel, Gustav noticed Elmera had eased up, which was strange given the supposed root cause of her unease was still present. "Sarandas, your contract will continue uninterrupted, as long as your conducts and contributions continue to be acceptable." Gustav stopped there, but he would certainly keep an eye out for Elmera's suspicious behaviors.

Elmera nodded, "Thank you," She stated professionally, rising from her seat. "If that's all, sir, I'm going to take my leave and get some rest. Can't go into the field tired, can I?" The woman asked rhetorically, placing a hand on her hip, taking a brief moment to study Gustav. He wasn't the easiest man to read, but she'd have to be even more careful than she already was. With that, she left the room.

Niernen signed the document without another word. Despite the thoughts and worries that assailed her upon signing the contract that would make her an enemy of Morrowind for a long time to come, she felt like she was doing the right thing. She just hoped that Narzul would come to see it that way too. After Elmera had left, Niernen got up from her seat and nodded towards the two remaining gentlemen. "Good evening, seras," she said and followed her fellow she-elf.

Foxey and Durvs wrote this

25th of Sun's Height, 4E205, 20:23…

The orange wings of a Monarch Butterfly turned into a fine powder beneath the mortar in her hand. Beads of sweat formed along the crown of her russet tresses while her jaw clenched in concentration. It had been almost years since she last created a potion of any sort. She decided that instead of wasting her coin on a health potion, well she could just make her own. Now that spring had come, several flowers bloomed from the snow melting and from the increase in temperatures. For her, luck was on her side. She scavenged around Dawnstar, searching for any blue mountain flowers. Sevine found a few, enough to make a potion that is. With these in hand, she made her way to The Mortar and Pestle. Her last visit here, she came with Roze, where she acquired the peculiar perfume of Troll’s Snot, if that was the name.

Nevertheless, with a great deal of patience Sevine ground both the petals of the blue mountain flower and monarch wings into bust. Now all she had to do was brew the damned thing. That was easier said than done. A few years with no practice since Leif taught her how to handle the alembic devices left her more than puzzled. She felt more like a babe just learning how to crawl, let alone walk or speak. After several minutes of tinkering, Frida, the owner of the store joined Sevine at the alchemy table.

“Would you like some help, lass?” She asked.

“Ah,” Sevine glanced up from the bottle in her hand, “Yes… actually. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this. What am I supposed to do now?” A hot flush spread across her cheeks and raced down to her toes.

“Let me show you. I wouldn’t want you to break anything. Not that you will.” The elderly woman said, “Parts are hard to come by, that’s all.” Then, for the next thirty minutes, she instructed and guided Sevine on how to brew a potion all over again. Once the bubbling concoction began to steam, Sevine settled in for the lengthy process of waiting for the bottle to fill. She watched the moisture collect in the tubes and slide down one drop at a time. A painstaking process, but it saved on coin when she didn’t feel like spending much nowadays.

Two hours later, Sevine made her way from the Pestle. It was early-to-mid evening. She clutched the bottle full of red liquid to her chest, worried that she would drop it from carelessness. Passing through the market area where the vendors were just closing up shop, Sevine took note of their weary faces. Everyone was on edge. Word had spread far and wide about the siege at Windhelm, and now, the attack on Nightgate left many without much sleep. Her thoughts turned to several people, the first being Do’Karth. Eventually, she was sucked into wondering about Jorwen. Not knowing if he was alive or dead tormented her. Part of her was wracked with regret at the idea that he could still be alive, captive, but still alive. As she emerged from the other side of the vending area, Sevine noticed a peculiar figure heading straight for her. A Khajiit in Nordic armor with a greatsword strapped to her back. Though she did not realize it immediately, Sevine had come to a complete stop and stood slack-jawed, gazing with her eyes wide at the curious woman.

The Khajiit noticed the Nord woman with fiery red locks of hair standing and gawking at her. She let out an exasperated sigh. “What in Alkosh’s name are you staring at?” she demanded of the woman. “I’m not into girls, much less humans.”

Sevine realized her rude behaviour almost without delay, so she closed her mouth and eyed the Khajiiti woman once more. “I’m sorry, I meant no offense.” She said. “It’s just… I don’t think I’ve seen many Khajiit women like you. What with the armor and all.”

Khazki crossed her arms, stopping in her tracks. What was with these bashful Nord maidens? The Khajiit probably figured they’d heard enough stories from the Great War about Khajiit raiding parties that they didn’t want to risk rousing a feral beast. “And exactly how many Khajiit women have you seen?” she asked pointedly.

Her brows furrowed at the question, “Well… outside of the War, maybe twenty or so? Most of your kind that I’ve met here travel with the caravans. And the two men I know… well, even they are nothing like you. Not even my partner.” She managed a shy chuckle.

The Khajiit’s lips pursed back distastefully. “You’re fucking a Khajiit? Ugh. Gross.” she stated, continuing her walk up the path. “So you saw a bunch of outcasts who would sell the clothes off their backs for a few coins or a hit of Skooma and you decided, ‘Hmm, you. I think I’ll bring you to bed.’ That how that went down?”

At first, Sevine’s heartbeat quickened at the insult. “Is that any of your business?” She thundered, her hands curling into fists. Not willing to let someone walk all over her without so much as defending herself, Sevine chased her down. Like hell she was going to let her get away with it. “And for your information, no, Do’Karth and I met during the siege at Windhelm. He’s not some outcast scavenging for coin. What the hell is your problem anyway? I didn’t say anything to offend you.” She finally caught up with the Khajiit.

Raising her hands pleadingly up to the sky, Khazki declared, “Oh, why him? Two hours. Two fucking hours I’ve been here and I can’t get away from Do’Karth, the stick twirling bodyguard of the Mane who everyone frets over because he’s too stupid to buy armour. Raise your standards, lady. Guy like that lacks conviction.” Turning to face the Nord woman, noticing the balled fists, Khazki’s lips pursed into a smirk and her eyes narrowed pointedly. “Oh, hit a nerve, did I? Did you catch something from him you didn’t anticipate, parents don’t approve? And you did the most offensive thing of all; you wasted my damn time and creeped me out with your flat face and small, fragile hands. What were you planning on doing, punching me?” she asked, gesturing at the blood stains and visible bandages. “I can see where that got you so far. Care to try your luck again?”

Sevine saw red, her chest heaved with rage. Her mind took her to the mindset of entering battle. How dare this Khajiit dishonor Do’Karth with her impertent words! She stepped in front of the Khajiit woman and squared her shoulders, being two inches taller than her, she certainly had some advantage in height. “You speak as if your shit doesn’t stink like anyone else’s. So let me be the better person and apologize for, how did you put it? ‘Creeping you out with my flat face and small, fragile hands.’ I apologize for being curious to see someone like you.”

“You really need to get out more. I’m like any other asshole around here, just with better hair.” she glanced back at the town before returning to the Nord seething in front of her. “And lady, let me assure you my shit stinks, worse than most. The difference is I’m not afraid to admit it and I don’t hide behind smiles and kind words to try and soothe the fact that I don’t like people. I really don’t care for an apology, much less an insincere one, so just cut the crap. So, what exactly is ‘someone like me’ to you, hm nammu sera?” she said, throwing in a form of Dunmeris address at the woman. Let’s see what you make of that.

“The people I don’t care for know damned well that I don’t, I don’t beat around the fucking bush if that’s what you believe. I give everyone a chance, because that’s what everyone deserves in life. Couldn’t you agree on that? That someone ought to give you a chance, just once?” Her hands settled onto her hips, she wasn’t going to move, not an inch. Not until she had what she wanted out of this cat. No one could be so hateful and not care deep down inside. “For all I know, you wear this hulking set of armor and carry this great fuck-off sword to cover up whatever problems you’re trying to mask. And this whole attitude of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ is one giant charade. So why don’t you take your own medicine and cut the crap of acting so rough and tough.”

Khazki snickered. “You know, the whole ‘you carry a big sword and therefore a small cock’ argument only works when you actually have a cock. This isn’t about covering up my problems, it’s about keeping the problems out,” she said, tapping on her breast piece, and then lifting her sword to her shoulder to rest. “And getting rid of them, respectfully. I don’t give anyone a chance until they prove that they’re not a worthless bag of bones that hides all sorts of nasty thoughts behind smiles and kind gestures. Word of advice? People always want something out of you. Your body, your money, whatever you have on you. Travel around a bit; you’ll see what I mean.” stepping closer so she was almost face to face with Sevine, her amber eyes cut right into the green orbs glaring back. “Trust me. I don’t act. I’m the most sincere and honest person you’re ever going to meet. You won’t need to guess where I stand.”

A silence fell between them as Sevine regarded her words. There, a smile crept across her lips, part of her softened at the Khajiit’s final words, mainly because there was truth in them. There was no need to preach to her. After all, isn’t that what she had been doing for so long in her life? Sevine stood on a thin line between liking the woman, and disliking her, but as of right now, she leaned towards liking her. Though, she could change her mind in a second. “Would I be careless to ask you to join me for a drink by my campfire?”

That caught the Khajiit off guard. She gave off two slow blinks and stepped back. “Okay, what?” she asked, at a loss for words. “What is with you Nord women and gearing up for a fight and suddenly offering to feed me? Remember how I said I’m not into girls?” she asked pointedly.

She gave a deep laugh that rolled out of her, causing her to double over, “Trust me.” She righted herself and wiped away a tear that lingered in the corner of her eye, “I’m not into girls either. So how about it?”

Khazki considered it for a moment and shrugged. “One condition, you stop gawking. So, why? I just finished saying everyone wants something, and here you are being sweet as a roll and offering a drink like the last three minutes didn’t happen.”

“I’ll stop gawking, you have my word. Consider it as a peace offering between two warrioresses. Besides, I like people who are honest and speak the truth.” She shrugged in return, she held out her hand to indicate the direction they should head. “Shall we?”

“Sure, fine.” she pointed a finger at the discarded bottle. “You probably want that, unless it’s a jar of piss.”

“Might as well be a jar of piss,” Sevine chuckled as she stooped to reach the aforementioned bottle, “It won’t taste too pleasant.”

Later on at camp, settling down into a cross-legged position, Sevine handed the woman a brown bottle of Nord ale. The expanse of stars overhead were blanketed with the occasional cotton-ball cloud drifting across the heavens. She had consumed her potion, and as she expected, it tasted worse than piss. The fire before them provided a satisfying glow of warmth while casting long dark shadows. She pulled the cork on the bottle in her hand and brought it to her lips, she took a long draught before sticking it between the arches of her boots. Her eyes lingered for but a moment on Khazki before they shifted to the fire.
“Where are you from?” Sevine asked, deciding it was best to start off on a benign question. No need to raise the hackles anymore this night.

For her part, Khazki was slouched against a log, her boots, pauldrons, bracers, and breastplate off and stacked beside her. While she was used to slogging around the weight, it didn’t mean it wasn’t the best feeling in the world to take it off after a long day. She’d not realized how exhausted she truly was; this was the first time all day she’d actually let herself relax. Taking the bottle from Sevine, she stared into the fire, ankles crossed over one another. “Senchal, Pelletine. About as far South as you can go on the mainland. Palm trees, salty air, and temperatures that would probably make you melt. Streets smell like piss, garbage is everywhere, and half of everyone you meet is wanted by someone somewhere for some crime. In short, still a nicer place than most of this ice cube you call home.” she replied, taking a claw and plucking out the cork, which she lazily tossed into the flames. “I take you aren’t a local here.”

“Sounds like an extremely warm version of Riften.” Sevine said, and it did. Save for the salty air and trees that had palms. “No… Dawnstar isn't my home. Falkreath is. Only thing noteable that is the massive cemetery. My folks preferred a quiet lifestyle, it's just my sister and me now. She's married.” She stopped speaking to reflect on what she said. “Liliana… just a young lass of eighteen years and already married.” And what of her? Six and twenty years, and just now finding a potential mate.

“What about you? What brings you so far north anyways? Running away from something?” Hell, Sevine still felt as if she were running away, from life, from the Kamals, from her regrets that haunted her.

“I washed my hands of my family, I hope they got robbed.” Khazki replied bluntly, knocking back the bottle, emitting a pleased hm as she pulled it back to look at the label. “Eighteen’s plenty of life to have made a choice like that. I was around that age when I left home and decided to find an adventure of my own, something that people would write and sing about for years after I die. Life’s not that romantic, turns out. I’ve just been living day by day and trying not to give my hopes up. I was in Morrowind for a few years before this, quite liked it there before the whole Living God Dictator decided to be a disastrous cunt. Made my way West, and now it feels like I’m just keeping my tail ten steps ahead of the Kamal at all times, but they’re gaining ground. So yeah, right now I’m running.” She pointed to the Kyne’s Tear. “And that’s going to be doing the leg work.”

A crooked grin split her face, “Yeah… you motioned at, well this,” she swept her hand over the bloodstains and bandages, “That's the Kamal. Sometimes… no. It doesn't matter.” She was about to mention her Name, but thought better. Khazki didn't know who she was, so why bother? “The only way you’ll get aboard any ship is by talking to Ashav. Our company enlisted the services of the Kyne, word is that the next mission is headed for Bleakrock.” Her eyes drifted up to the sky again, star-gazing always made her feel so small and unimportant. It made her aware that there was more to life than what was going on before her.

“I never pictured myself being a merc. But it keeps me busy. I’m not one to sit around at home knitting sweaters, my hands are better wrapped around my axe and shield, or knocking an arrow on my bow. I get restless. Nevermind that, tell me about Morrowind.” She opted, she hadn't really spoke much to Sadri on the matter of his homeland, or Elmera for that matter. Niernen, well that's another matter.

Reaching into her armour beside her, Khazki pulled out the folded contract with a pair of fingers. “It’s almost like I know who you’re talking about. Looks like we’re going to be fighting together. Aren’t you happy you didn’t punch me yet?” The Khajiit asked mirthfully, returning the paper to its spot. “Only reason I signed up is because when I do run into those Snow Demon bastards, I’d rather not be on my own. What I’ve seen so far, I might as well be.” she said, resting the bottle on her arched knee. “You sure are curious. I’ve seen Dunmer walking about here, you never asked them what it’s like breathing in volcanic ash and sleeping inside of houses shaped from giant fungus?”

“I actually haven’t had the chance. Each mission that I’ve had I haven’t been in their company to ask, take for example, this last mission. All of the Dunmers were at Bthamz while I was out investigating forest fires here in the Pale. I’ve actually dueled with one of them. The old Dunmer, Sadri, he might be missing an arm, but he can make even me submit to him.” Her voice trailed off at the last sentence, “So houses shaped from fungus is actually true.” Sevine chuckled to herself before sighing.

“I’ve never ventured outside of Skyrim, and if it weren’t for the civil war, I would’ve have stayed home in Falkreath. I’ve seen every corner of this land, but not once have I stepped foot outside her borders.” she said with a haphazard shrug, “Maybe one day I’ll get that chance... and aye,” a grin split her face, “I am glad I didn’t try and sock you one.” A silence came between them, soliciting an occasional glance from Sevine at the Khajiit woman, it was strange to think that by offering a drink allowed her to relax as she saw her now.

“How did you manage it?” Sevine asked, she waved her hand in the air as if to indicate the Khajiit’s past experiences, “Being alone and traveling, I mean. Weren’t you lonely?”

“I’ll take a mental note; the ones with less of a body fight like they have more to lose.” Khazki said in regards to the crippled Dunmer who was apparently skilled enough to take down an able bodied Nord. Either it spoke volumes to Sadri’s skill at martial arts or Sevine’s lack of talent. For once, the Khajiit kept her mouth shut. She’d been antagonistic enough to this woman, and even then she still extended a hand in friendship. It wasn’t to say the Khajiit trusted this Sevine, far from it, but there was enough of a comfort to share a drink and a few tales, along with shedding the armour. Being social wasn’t her strong suit, but it made for pleasant diversions every once in awhile.

“And yes. Morrowind might as well be a plane of Oblivion compared to most of the rest of Tamriel, at least from what I’d seen. There’s signs of normality there, like trees and rocks and lakes and the such, but it does take time to get used to seeing mushrooms that are bigger and tougher than some houses, flying jellyfish like netches and the like. The Dunmer tend to be agreeable enough, provided you aren’t Argonian. They weren’t really sure what to make of a Khajiit for the most part, but I found my share of people who were willing to look past that once I proved my worth.” Khazki said earnestly, reaching over to grab a long stick to prod a collapsed log closer to the flames. The fire would need more wood soon, and her ankles and feet were too tired to let her move readily.

Khazki looked over at Sevine, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “You’ve never had a curiosity to see what the rest of the world is like? Think how poor your life would be if you’d never left Falkreath. Perhaps this war has some hidden blessings for the odd person like yourself. I presume this Do’Karth has spiked an interest in what lies to the South for you, perhaps you’ll find the warmth and the salty air of the tropical seas are what your soul has been craving.” She paused at the tail end of Sevine’s question, searching herself for an answer that didn’t sound trite.

“Truth is about me, I used to be a much more wide-eyed and optimistic woman, despite growing up in a town full of smugglers and pirates and other shits I believed in the good in most people, and perhaps I’d find it in lands outside of Elsweyr.” The Khajiit exhaled, irritably as she stared towards the flames. “Then reality came swooping in like a vulture and I’ve learned the hard way that most people are as cruel of monsters as any ogre, alit, or troll, only they’re smart enough to know better and have more devious aims than to eat you alive. The particularly vile ones pretend to be friends, like you are now, and try their luck when you’re asleep or drunk.

“As such, I don’t let people get too close and as soon as my ways part from others’ destinations, there’s no regrets or remorse and away we go, no looking back. I’ve killed my share of people who held a hand out in friendship while holding a dagger behind their back. So yeah, it does get lonesome at times, I’ll admit. I even enjoy these little chats and have no issue with being perfectly candid with strangers because I probably will never see them again and there’s no real consequences that way. When people offer things, I take it unless they’re being suspicious, and I’m always ready for a fight. I live off the land, trap small game, cook up the meat, sell off the pelts, forage fruits and nuts, and generally try not to worry about what tomorrow brings. It’s not an easy life, but it’s my own.” Khazki said, finishing off her bottle and tossing it carelessly into the sand beside the fire.

Rising to her feet, Sevine headed to the side of her tent where a few logs awaited their fiery demise. She grabbed two, along with another two bottles of ale, and returned to the fire. There she added the logs to the fire, and passed another bottle to Khazki. She contemplated her words with great care. As her father always said, ‘Think before you speak, lest you make a fool of yourself.’ .

“I’ve dreamed of adventuring away from home, I won’t deny that. However, what kept me home was my family. Or rather, the lack thereof now. When my sister was born, we lost our mother in childbirth. So then our family unit became Pa, Lili, and me. A week before I was set to return home from the civil war, my Pa passed away. Now, it’s just Lili, and me. As I mentioned, she’s married, and I discovered recently that she’s with child.” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’ve no aunts or uncles, no grandparents, or at least none that I know of, and now that Lili has a husband and a little one on the way… well, I think I have my chance to leave this land behind. That’s the reason why I haven’t traveled outside of here.” Sevine uncorked her second bottle of ale, holding it out to Khazki.

“A toast then, to our future adventures, and being independent women with a mind of their own.”

Taking the bottle, Khazki held hers up. “Here’s to drinking.” she said, slinking back down into a comfortable slouch with the bottle nestled in her hands. Today wasn’t so bad, she decided. At least there were two people she could tolerate on this assignment. It made Skyrim seem just a little bit warmer.

25th of Sun's Height, Sunset - Windpeak Inn

---

Sagax arrived back at Windpeak eventually, but he probably took more time than Piper would have liked. He had spent a good while simply walking the streets of Dawnstar, trying to get all his thoughts together. He had questions, questions like "Why the hell has my sister left the Imperial City?", and "What am I going to do?". Unfortunately, he would only receive an answer to the first question. Sitting down with Piper, Sagax spoke before she could even flinch.

"Why did you follow me here, Piper?" He tried to make himself sound as stern as possible, something he had tried and failed at before with his sister; she was simply sterner, not to mention hard-headed. The Imperial had already abandoned the possibility of getting Piper to go back home, but he at least wanted a straight explanation for her actions.

Leaning back in her chair with arms crossed, Piper responded simply. "I heard you guys were having trouble up here, so I thought I'd come and help." She looked around absentmindedly, focusing on nothing in particular. One of her tells, of course, which Sagax was very familiar with, and she his. Not always an indicator that she was lying, but perhaps simply not telling him everything.

"Right...so you waltzed all the way up here, to the very end of Skyrim, just because?"

"Yes! That's exactly fucking it!" Piper shouted irritably. "Like I said, I'm here to make sure you can come back home in one piece! What, am I not allowed to give a shit about you or something!?" Glancing around at the curious eyes of the other patrons, Piper's voice rose further. "What the hell are you looking at!?"

Getting Piper's attention and signaling for her to quiet down a bit, Sagax responded calmly. "Alright, alright I get it, and I'm happy that I got to see you again, but you didn't have to come down here armed to the teeth! Seriously, we're fine. I'm fi-"

"Bullshit!" Piper said in a half-whisper, gritting her teeth and smacking the table with her palm. "I know what happened at Windhelm, Sagax! Everybody in Tamriel knows about the Demons!" Leaning in closer, she continued in a voice that mocked the calmness of her brother's. "I've also heard some stories. One that really, really stuck out to me was about some crazed man in Cyrodiilic leathers making a mad dash towards a frigate, just before it mysteriously exploded...have any idea who that was?"

After a few moments of silence, Piper spoke up again. "Why don't you just start from the beginning, when you joined this company of yours?" Not really seeing any way out of his situation, Sagax began to retell the recent exploits of the merry band of mercenaries he signed on with. Piper's jaw seemed to drop lower and lower with every sentence. It didn't help that she kept asking for more details about everything; what could have taken ten minutes ended up stealing an hour away from them. When the tale was finally finished, Piper just rubbed her eyes and groaned. "What am I going to do with you, Sagax..."

"See, I could kind of tolerate your hobby of climbing anything that was tall enough to kill you if you fell, but bombs, Sagax? I mean where did you guys even get those things, those arcane charges or whatever you called them?"

"I don't know from where specifically, Ashav just told us they were for breaching the Forsworn gate. We didn't use all of them in the assault, and it would have been a waste to just sell them off..."

"But why are you using them?"

"Well, they've come in handy, and the company comes across a lot of very...problematic situations-"

Sighing, Piper interjected. "No no no, Sagax, why are you using them? I mean you specifically. Why the hell do you keep getting sent off to do shit with those exploding death plates?"

"Well..." Sagax began, "I'd say because Ashav not only values my skillset, but also knows how to make good use of it, so he sends me to sabotauge the enemy...which just so happens to mean 'use arcane charges to blow their ships sky high'." If one listened closely, they would make out a hint of pride in the man's voice.

"You're a madman, Sagax, I swear. You belong in the fucking loony bin." Piper responded with an exasperated laugh. "Values your skillset? My ass. He's just using you, even if he does throw a coin your way every other blue moon. Don't even get me started on that bitch from earlier...these people aren't your friends, Sagax. Not a single one. The only people in this world that care about you are father, mother and I. You shouldn't trust these people with anything...bunch of liars, crooks and thieves they are." Piper's tone seethed with vitriol, something her brother had gotten used to a long time ago. She was just so filled with hate, and it never seemed to die down. Did her temperament worry Sagax? Sometimes, but he believed that if she would just let more people into her life, or give them a chance at least, she would be so much happier. So far, though, attempts to get Piper to open up had been entirely unsuccessful. Wouldn't stop Sagax from trying some more, though.

"You're wrong, Piper, like you always are about people. The men and women in this company are a good sort. Harp on about whatever faults you find all you like, it won't change the truth, or what I think about the people around me." How many times have the two of them argued about this sort of thing? The tally was probably in the hundreds, and it ended the exact same way every time, with neither of them budging from their points of view. Sagax could cut with a knife the frustration radiating from Piper, and she could no doubt feel his judgmental eyes on her.

After a solid minute of silence, Piper spoke suddenly. "It's getting late, we should get some sleep." There was always something to break off from the argument when it got awkwardly quiet, and Piper was always fairly good at finding it. "I've got us both rooms. I didn't come with much, but it was enough for that, at least. Right next to mine, just over there."

Whether he liked it or not, Piper was there to stay, and there wasn't anything he could say or do to dissuade her. Choking down his desire to argue further, Sagax retired, getting a surprisingly quiet night of sleep. Perhaps the old man was too busy to pay a visit.

---

26th of Sun's Height, Morning - Windpeak Inn

---

The sun was out, birds were singing, and wind quietly rattled the window of the room. It seemed to be a gentle morning, stress-free, and for that Sagax was grateful-



Jolting upright, still half asleep and out of his armor, the Imperial was less than ready for the sudden noise that blasted through his door. Then came the banging and shouting for him to get up; it was Piper's voice, filled with a distress not common for her. Slipping on his boots and cloak, Sagax strode over to the door and flung it open hurriedly. Piper, in her own set of casual wear and with greatly disheveled hair, immediately grabbed her brother by the arm and lead him just outside of the inn. She then shoved a bit of paper into his hands and pointed to a specific area. "Read it!"

"It" was the latest edition of the Tamrielic Gazette. What in the world was printed on the harmless piece of paper to make Piper's voice quake as it did? As he read, the answer became very, very clear to Sagax.

Caius Speculatus' wife, Equa, was taken into custody by the Penitus Occulatus. Official press briefing states the move is for Equa's own safety, as the suspected vampire Caius could be plotting to turn his family. However, some believe the move is to draw out Caius and the Seventh Estate from hiding.

"They...they have mother!" he whispered unsteadily. Looking up, Sagax met his sister's frantic eyes. "What are we going to do? What can we even do!?"

"I don't fucking know!" she responded, putting her head in her hands. "The caravan I got here with is gone, and it'd take me weeks to get back to the Imperial City on my own...fuck! Fuck, fuck...fucking fuck!" Seething silently for a few moments, Piper spoke up again after she was able to calm herself enough to speak sensibly. "Shit, even if I did go back, what the hell would I be able to do? I'd be thrown into a cell too! For her safety...bullshit! Who knows what those pig-heads are doing to her right now? And Varulae...they'll go for her next, I'm sure of it!"

Piper looked back over to her brother for a moment, before gripping him by his shirt collar with both hands and nearly lifting Sagax clear off the ground. "I'm staying here; I won't lose you too, Sagax! Who the hell are you signed on with!? Ashav? Where is he!?"

"He-he's busy! Besides, it's too late for you to sign on right now anyway! The investigation-"

"What investigation? Who ordered it? The...Jarl, or whatever it is Counts are called here? Would they have me?" Releasing Sagax from her death grip, Piper allowed her brother to speak.

"Um...well, I suppose he might? I've heard talk of the Jarl hiring on independents. You wouldn't be associated with our company, so you would most likely take orders from the Jarl himself and his representatives, but I would assume you'd be paid all the same and..." Before he could finish, Piper was already heading back inside Windpeak.

"Grab your gear, Sagax! We need to be presentable!"

---

26th of Sun's Height, Late Morning - The White Hall

---

With their first steps into the longhouse, Piper and Sagax could already feel watchful eyes upon them. Both kept their hands as far away from their blades as possible as they presented themselves before Jarl Skald, whose uninterested gaze turned into a scowl at the sight of Piper's shield. Skald's Housecarl, Jod, began a very warm welcoming speech.

"You stand before the Jarl of Dawnstar, Skald Felgeif the Elder. While in his city and home, you will show him the proper respect befitting a Jarl. Keep your distance, your blades sheathed, and speak only when spoken to. The Jarl's word is law, and you will respect the law for as long as you remain in Dawnstar. Am I clear?" After a confirmation of understanding, Jod allowed the pair to come a few inches closer to the throne.

"And what do you want, Imperial whelps?" The grumbling voice of the Jarl was filled with obvious disdain, in particular his emphasis on "Imperial". Perhaps purposefully not giving his guests a chance to respond, Skald almost immediately began speaking again. "Well? I haven't got all day! You Imperials, you spend too much damn time gawking when you should be getting on with your business..."

Stepping forward, Piper bowed slightly out of begrudging respect. "My lord, I wish to lend my skills to you for the upcoming murder investigation. I have equipment and the training to match, and I have the skill to hunt down and drag the culprit to your throne begging for forgiveness."

"Oh goodie, another Imperial meddling in Dawnstar's business...fine! With any luck, maybe you'll end up the same as that accursed piss-skin..." Clapping his hands, Skald shouted at a corner where a tired-looking man stood. "Bulfrek! Get over here! And bring me my quill! The good one!" Before he began writing, and without even looking up at Piper, Skald addressed the lass. "Oh, and it's Jarl to you, Imperial. There are no lords here in Skyrim, sitting in cushion-filled castles eating candies all day long..."

After a few moments of scribbling, Skald handed off a sheet of paper to Jod, who then gave it to Piper, along with a dingy quill. "Sign at the bottom there, on the line. Your pay's listed at the very end of the terms...you do know how to read, don't you?" A very charming man, Skald was, and Piper was warming up to him oh so well; she even shared a friendly glare with the Jarl. She wanted to argue about her pay, which was an absolutely paltry sum, but figured she wouldn't get very far with the old codger, so she quietly signed her name. "There, congratulations, you're hired. Bye-bye, so long, farewell...no, really, get out. Or my Housecarl will escort you."

Both Imperials left quietly and made their way back to Windpeak. Neither spoke much more; Piper was still seething about the recent news, while Sagax simply felt dejected. Would the situation get better at some point?

Sagax felt pessimistic about the odds.

---

The trek down the hill and into the village of Dawnstar was, for the most part, uneventful. Of course, there were the critical eyes of the guardsmen as their glances shifted toward her, almost as if they were expecting her to be arriving. The latest liaison to the Saxhleel refugee camp had likely alerted the rest of the guard of a newcomer; of a priestess and healer from Whiterun's Temple of Kyne, but apparently also that she was an elf, for they did not greet her with any particular kind of graciousness or hospitality. Still, needless to say, they performed their due diligence according to their responsibilities, so she had to give them credit for their work ethic. She wordlessly walked past them with her chin held high, and likewise, they left her alone as well. They respected each other's status, but that was as far as the pleasantries went. She looked down at her hands and was surprised to find that her knuckles were white. She took a deep breathe and eased the clenching of her fists, bringing a sense of calm to her body.

As she passed through the gates, the reason for Dawnstar's bustling activity became more evident. The ship that was docked at the town's piers was ravaged and had dock worker's crawling over every inch of it, and within spitting distance, a military encampment. Part of her wondered if the cause for this kind of damage was because of the Akaviri the Saxhleel told her about. The vicious sort that attacked Windhelm, the Kamal, as burly as giants and as deplorable as Daedra, for they sailed in on soul-powered vessels. She seemed to hear constant stories of the Akavir, but she has never actually seen one – one the after effects of their savagery, so those stories could only cement her image of them as terrifying and abominable monsters. Whats more, such a war brought on strife, which invited another problem: she was low on supplies. She needed herbs and medicinal bases in order to make medicine, and those were bound to be in short supply in even dedicated apothecariums. In addition, the costs... the costs!

Oblivion damn Tamriel's cursed machine! In the traditional regions of Valenwood, commerce went as far as the barter system. It was because of the Green Pact – there was no killing beyond reason, they took what they needed, and did so only to such lengths that nature could replenish what they've taken. Taking care of each other was the only way to live side by side with nature, but the type of commerce that the Empire and the Dominion were so fond of... she understood the concept of it and she understood the value of it, and it wasn't without reason – by Zenithar, bless him – but Gods, if she didn't she resent it. Burdening oneself with heaping amounts of septims, worthless chunks of gold with a man's face stamped onto it, in exchange for an actually useful product, it just all seemed so futile to her. All this, is of course, to say that she was pathetically low on such septims, and was not anticipating the costs that came with going on a pilgrimage. Her lofty ideals of such a venture did not take into consideration the price of sustenance, only the adventure and potential for enlightenment.

This was a sort of enlightenment she wasn't expecting. Perhaps enlightenment was less the reward at the very end, and instead the experiences one required along the journey... huh. Good material. She might have to save that for someone.

Spiritual fulfillment notwithstanding, there was still the matter of finances that had to be taken into account. Her skills went as far as healing and preaching. Her oaths required her to perform her healing duties out of generosity and selflessness, so she couldn't market them. She couldn't just squat here in town for a while – she had to stay on the move for her pilgrimage, so she probably had to do odd jobs for whomever for a flat sum, or... whatever duties this hold required of her. Wylendriel sighed. This didn't leave very many choices, but it did mean she knew where to go. She looked toward the jarl's longhouse and trotted forward. Whatever the jarl or their steward had in mind for her, if they wanted her at all, wasn't likely anything glamorous or enjoyable, but she was on a mission and had no other alternatives at the moment.

Her first few steps into the building and she found herself in a quaint little atmosphere. It felt more like an empty tavern than a jarl's longhouse like Dragonsreach. Still, it had its own sort of bustling activity, and she welcomed the dry warm air – though the smoky, oak smell of the fire place put her a little on edge. A number of Stormcloak soldiers were audibly discussing the attack on Windhelm in a room quartered to the side of the main hall where the infamous Jarl Skald himself sat, speaking with his stewards and a Stormcloak commander. Some of the guards in the room looked at her as she entered the building, but the important looking folks seemed too preoccupied to worry themselves with a new arrival in the building. When Wylendriel tried to continue forth, a guard raised his arm and blocked her path, and she whipped her head around to look at one who stopped her with an almost insulted gaze. Ahead, the commander seemed to have concluded his business and walk away, and as if on cue, the guard put his arm down and let her continue. One of the stewards ahead looked as though he was whispering something into the jarl's ear.

Before Wylendriel could even get within proper speaking distance, the old jarl bellowed at her from across the room with a weak and weary voice, as expected from a man his age.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, but the pleasantry of his words was betrayed by the harshness of his tone. He was apparently not pleased with her being here. “I've got enough trouble on my hands without an elf making it worse. Are you Dominion or Empire?”

“Neither, my lord. I am with the Temple of Kyne.” Wylendriel told him.

“So I heard you've said.” Skald said. He scratched the scruffy beard on the side of his face and pointed a finger to the amulet around Wy's neck in the shape of her lady's icon. “Why should I believe that? Could you not have killed a son of Skyrim for that necklace?”

Wylendriel felt her temper flaring up and she felt a slight urge to get up close and personal to the jarl – but the sounds of leather stretching snapped her back to reality. The guards were anticipating on Skald goading her into doing something rash. Waiting for anything to give them an excuse to slay an elf, priestess or not apparently. She took a breath to calm her nerves, and looked to the grumpy old jarl and smiled coyly at him

“With all due respect, Jarl Skald,” she jeered tactfully, “I doubt that tiny Bosmer lass such as myself could pose any sort of a threat to any mighty nord.”

While she felt slightly sick to her stomach, the jarl seemed to have gotten quite a kick out of her self-degradation. “Quite true, quite true.”

“I am a healer – and quite a good one, might I add,” Wy inserted, “and times of war invites strange decisions, but I've given them no reason to regret admitting me. I am as skilled and devoted as the next of Kynareth's faithful.”

“And apparently as arrogant as the next elf.” Skald muttered. He threw his hand out in resignation. “Fine! Fine, what do you want from me?”

“A job, my lord.”

“A job!” Skald quipped. “What happened to being a priestess in Whiterun?”

“I am on pilgrimage, my lord. Supplies cost septims, so septims are what I need.” She explained.

“For supplies.” Skald repeated.

“I assumed that was suggested.”

“This is beneath me; commander Frokmar, come back for a moment. Give this tiny elf lass a job, will you?”

The jarl delegated the duty to someone else, and apparently trying to offend Wy in the process by echoing what she had said about her self, but she remained composed. Skald apparently went back to whatever it was he was doing before, and the commander who was just previously in the room had returned. The man was cloaked in a bear's hide, had his hair pulled back, and wore these terrifying spike gauntlets. He barked at her with an authoritative tone in his voice, “this way, elf.”

Wylendriel obediently followed after him into the room he had just emerged from, and upon entering, noticed that a number of soldiers were leaning over a table with a map of Tamriel and beyond lying on it. A number of statuettes stood in key locations, red markings and so on, and some of the men and women in the room seemed particularly distressed. Looking at the map, she saw Windhelm highlighted entirely in red, as well as some island resting far north of Skyrim and the entirety of Morrowind. Confusion swept over her – what part does the dunmer play in all of this?

A mighty paw suddenly slammed down onto the table. Startled, Wy turned around to see commander Frorkmar glaring at her. She closed her hand under the tablespoons , and the green glow of her hand that had began to appear faded away just as quickly. “Listen here,” he said, “I know who you are, and I don't give a damn. I ain't got the time to be fussing over small odd jobs like exterminating skeevers, because in case you haven't heard, Skyrim is at war. There are two things you should know: the Kamal are the tall bastards that'a taken over Windhelm, and you ain't a Stormcloak soldier – you're an elf – so the only people I'm gonna trust you with are mercenaries. Ashav's company. Am I clear?”

“Crystal.” Wy responded, meeting his tone.

“Good, let's make this quick: what can you offer?”

“My oaths prevent me from healing out of self-interest--” she tried to explain, but was quickly cut off.

“I'll put you in the book as a chaplain, then.” Frorkmar said with a suggestive wink. “A lot of atrocity comes out of war, yes? Healing ability is a good bonus, but also need folks keeping the soldiers' nerves steeled... uhuh... now let's discuss pay rate.”

“I should mention that I'm on pilgrimage.” She inserted. “All that I ask is for protection--”

“--which you'll get.”

“Right... and assistance. I can't reasonably expect command to suddenly delay whatever plans they have in store, but if possibly, can be given direction and escort to any shrines of the Nine Divines when they're reported to be nearby.”

“Strange request, and I would say no, but I'm not your commander. You'll be working for Ashav, the mercenary. Whether or not he wants to help you is up to him. Is that all for your pay? I should remind you that working for free is the same as slavery.”

“I only require enough for living expenses.”

“...To be decided. By Ashav. Ashav is in the big tent outside the big ship you saw at the piers, Kyne's Tear. Ashav chartered the boat, but its captain is Karena Wave-Rider. Remember that. Known background information already supplied by the guard, and...” with a final flourish of his pen, he signed his signature and turned the paper over to Wylendriel, “go then with this letter and leave me be.”

The Kyne's Tear? How appropriate! She left the cranky officer in his room and made an irritated glance toward jarl Skald before she left – thank the Gods they didn't make eye contact – and was greeted by the bitter air again. She tightened her robes and trekked ahead towards the Kyne's tear, unsure if she was shivering from the northern ocean breeze or from the anticipation. Regardless, she approached the encampment in no time, and when she finally entered the largest field tent, she found an important-looking redguard man behind a desk and tending to his wounds. It looked like an easy fix to her, but he was treating his injuries rather gingerly. His eyes looked up and he breathed a deep sighed and stood up. He didn't seem necessarily pleased with what must have been another interruption.

“State your business.” He droned, as though he had been saying it a hundred times today.

“Wylendriel Greensky; priestess of Kynareth. For you,” She greeted and handed him the letter that Frorkmar had written for him. On the parchment was an assessment of her capabilities, suggested job within the company, history – it had only gone as far back as her joining the Temple of Kyne some time ago, as well as whatever special requirements or services that had to be expected, but it wasn't as in-depth as it sounds. Frorkmar Banner-Torn was pretty brisk and rushed the process along quickly, and that was evident even in his handwriting. The man must not have taken Wylendriel's enlistment very seriously. She decided to take what she could get, and if that meant being a chaplain to a few - ugh - mercenaries, then so be it. Despite the paltry amount of leverage Frorkmar has provided, she made sure to stand where she was as calmly as able. She took a moment to silently meditate where she stood, simply being aware of her own breath – breathing in and out – she maintained a serene appearance, and if she was lucky, perhaps that was all it took to convince him that she had enough nerve in her to work the job.

Ashav looked over the papers with tired eyes, setting them down on the table neatly. "And what use is a priestess to me, exactly?" he asked, intertwining his fingers together on the wooden surface. "The battlefield is no place for the devout. There hasn't been a god I've seen that's stopped arrows or bleeding out. Do you know how to fight? What sorts of skills do you have?" the Redguard asked, not unkindly.

As an answer, Wylendriel looked at him with a "may I?" sort of glance and reached out slowly, almost cautiously, towards his battered face with a hand that gradually became bathed in a bright light. Ashav did not reject her advance and instead seemed to concede to her touch, one that burned slightly when her finger met with his open wounds - like a light tap with the back of her index - but it was not long until that pain was numbed as a powerful restoration spell stitched together the cuts on his face, dispelled bruises, and the flesh rapidly regenerated where it was once gone. When she pulled away, his skin was smooth and bore scars far fainter than what would have been if left to heal naturally. She folded her hands back together in front of her, resuming her humble posture.

"Commander Frorkmar also suggested that any men and women under your employ who might be struggling to cope would appreciate having a chaplain to comfort them." She added.

Ashav's fingers traced where the open wounds used to be, and lifting a polished dagger he had sitting on the desk, he looked at his reflection, pleasantly surprised at the recovery. "You've made a fair point." He stated, setting the dagger down in its place. Wylendriel smiled and bowed her head graciously. Ashav continued, "A good healer is always something a combat outfit could use. The chaplain services are an additional bonus. I will not lie to you, what we have faced in this campaign has shaken morale across all ranks. If you feel you can offer services to those who require an affirmation of their faiths and beliefs, then I shall not hold you back from your work. I trust you provide non-denominational services for those who are not of your faith?" the commander asked, intertwining his fingers once more.

"My faith is in life, sir. Kynareth bears her bounty for skeptics and the devout alike." Wy assured. "Rain falls - we drink."

Ashav gave a curt nod and pulled a parchment from a stack of ledgers, not looking up as he began to write, his penmanship surprisingly exquisite with the quill and ink. "I see." he replied, noncommittally.

"I actually have a question of my own, commander. Let me explain... I'm not without faculty. I'm a survivor, but I'm not under any illusions of being a warrior. So, with all due respect, how confident are you in your outfit? How can I be sure that they'll preserve me as hard as I may work to preserve them?"

The commander did not look up. "If you are inquiring whether or not being a mercenary is a safe occupation where physical and mental preservation is guaranteed, you are inquiring for the long line of work. That is why we pay a competitive wage for our fighters, there is risk involved and we are at war, which makes conflict unavoidable. I do not doubt that the vanguard will make efforts to keep their support personnel as protected as can be reasonably expected, but there is a chance you will become injured or even killed in this line of work. A stray arrow or bolt, a cavalry charge that breaches the line, an expertly executed ambush, these are all risks we can mitigate but not eliminate. You are not the only person to know restoration magic in this company, and most of those that do are also accomplished warriors. From a financial standpoint, they are more valuable assets than someone who can only provide restorative healing but depends on the protection of others. Is that fair to say? Perhaps, but it doesn't matter. If you want work, it is on my terms." Ashav said definitively, sliding the parchment over to the Bosmer.

"This is a written contract that outlines the same stipulations as every other new recruits go through, including being put on probationary roster until your talents have proven to be of use, at which point your pay will increase from 80% of the standard rate to the full compensation. Sign it, and you will be enrolled in my service. If this does not sound to your liking, then the contract will be torn up here and now and we part ways without hard feelings."

Wylendriel took the contract in her hands and looked it up and done with an appraising eye. Ashav's words didn't inspire much confidence in his troops, but she was at a crossroads. It was this or scrounging for scraps without allies, and she didn't want to have to shed blood along the way. She set the paper down and looked back at Ashav. "To clarify, I've never depended on anyone," she said. Sort of a lie. She did rely on mercenaries once before, and they stabbed her in more places than just her back. But since then, trust wasn't freely given. Skyrim has been just as fair to mer like her. "Just curious in your faith in your troops."

Wylendriel took Ashav's quill and wrote her name on the line in a comparatively sloppier font. She set the quill back down and turned the paper over to her new commander. "Don't take it the wrong way - I'm your chaplain now, too. I only wish to see them go as far for each other as I will."

Taking the section of the form for records, making a clean incision to separate the document in half, Ashav offered the bottom signed part to Wylendriel. "You'll excuse me if I do not entertain gossip and speculation about my mercenaries to just anyone. All you need to know is that this outfit is a professional one that allows for individuals to take initiative as they see fit so long as they follow commands. It has been a long campaign and we've lost a number of good men and women to this war, but those who remain I wouldn't trade for half an army. I trust that is to your satisfaction?"

"That's all I need." Wylendriel said. Then something told her she was forgetting something - her pilgrimage. So far, Ashav hasn't given her the impression of being accommodating, so she doubted he would ever consent to such a favor. She wondered if it was a racial issue, since the redguards has had Valenwood under siege for some time now. She'd be lying if she told herself she didn't feel even a little resentful. It was natural... right? Regardless, she had her own mission and she couldn't forsake it. She buried her worries reassured Ashav with a smile and said, "Thank you for your time. I apologize if I came across as harsh. If you would, may you direct me to our troops? If any are injured, I can begin my services immediately."

"You can meet most of your comrades in the Windpeak Inn. Some may require help. Rhasha'Dar is in critical condition. There's Niernen, a dunmer woman with a bad leg. Others might just need some first aid... Elmera, Leif, Tsleeixth."

The last name had especially caught Wylendriel's notice. "Tsleeixth, you say? You also wouldn't happen to have a Daxainos, would you?"

"Yes, he is one of our marksmen." Ashav replied.

"Interesting." Wylendriel muttered to herself. She bowed her head to the commander and bid her farewell to him before ducking out of the tent and began heading toward the Windpeak Inn. If these were the same Saxhleel that Tzinasha spoke of - no, they certainly were, it was no coincidence both names were present in town - then it meant that it wouldn't be quite as hard to find a place among these mercenaries as she thought. She wore Tzinasha's feather in her hair. A respected elder accepted her into his nest. Surely, that had to mean something to them. Still though, she had other responsibilities to fulfill as well. The khajiit, Rhasha'Dar, was presumably in poor condition. The dunmer, with a bad leg, wasn't going to be of any use to the company. Tsleeixth and Daxainos would have to wait in favor of more urgent matters.

As she finally arrived and pushed open the doors to the inn, the usual smells came to assault the preistess' senses. The smells of aged alcohol, savory foods, and what was probably piss and bile that soaked into the floorboards. This wasn't her sort of scene, and she was quite obviously an outsider while she navigated through the hustle and bustle and scanning the crowds. Now, she didn't want to stereotype her new comrades, but if she were looking for mercenaries, where would be the first place she'd look? Her eyes darted to all four corners of the room until they finally fell on a young-looking dunmer woman sitting in a chair with one of her legs poised in a way that betrayed her poor condition, and looking particularly distraught and anxious for one reason or another. That was probably the Niernan who Ashav had mentioned. It was best that Wylendriel began with her while she was in her sights before she looks for Rhasha'Dar. It was doubtful that someone so supposedly injured would be present in such mayhem.

"Mercenaries..." Wy sighed. It looked like this was her life now. First she sold her soul, now it was her service. She wondered if she was jeopardizing her pilgrimage in this decision. Wondering if every step she made was a step in the wrong direction, and wondering if the decision was even of her own making.

---

Keegan only heard it when the third plea reached his ears. Apparently his pace was too swift, and the jumbled words urged him to reduce his celerity. He did not stop. He was beyond caring at this point. He went fast and furious like he was running for his dear life. He was essentially doing just that; trying to forget the anguish he received an hour ago. Then the completion drew near; Keegan came to his finale in two and a half blurry minutes.

"Stop! You can't-"

These words felt like ribbons holding back a charging bull. If anything, Keegan felt challenged and emboldened by them. He only gripped on tighter and let out the frustration accumulated in many months. His ending was fleeting, and the aftermath threatened to remind him that he was far from satisfied; the entire act was meaningless at the end.

"Was that good for you?" Almad smiled from beneath. He gasped from breath and fanned himself. When Keegan didn't not respond to him, he began to push the Altmer off.

Keegan nodded just for the sake of politeness. "Uh, yes, thanks."

"No need to thank me; it is to Dibella that you owe your gratitude. I am just her humble servant, and this session makes one of many layers in my profile." Almad nodded in return. "However, compensations help me spread the love, and there would be extra-"

"Oh! Uh..." Keegan rolled off the padded cot as soon as the consequences hit home. He scrambled for clothing in the suddenly stuffy and musky tent. Putting on pants became the hardest thing he had ever done. He heard Almad complaining behind him, and becoming ever agitated.

"...not included the package. What happened must be-"

Suddenly, a tail peeked into the tent. Behind the tail came the most silly Argonian voice. "Cleaning, eh? I have something for you. Here, polish my sp-" Came the sing-song of an awkward Argonian. In his hands was a maid costume and a...strap-on tail?

"No, Pump-the-Stump; I said I cannot fulfill your request." Almad dismissed the unwelcome guest. Sparing a glance behind, Keegan noticed that Almad had somehow already donned his pants and an open vest.

"But we have plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of-"

"No more role-playing!" Almad screamed. "Guards! There is an Argonian in town!"

The time it took Almad to throw out the Argonian must have been sent Auriel himself, because in this timeframe, Keegan managed to put on his basic articles of clothing and took hold of the rest of his belongings. He took off just in time for Almad to come back, and due to a small line forming in front of the Redguard's "service center", he wasn't able to chase Keegan down. Another blessing; Almad wouldn't be impressed if he found out that Keegan had no more coins in his pockets.


Keegan was staring at a pinned Gazette ten minutes later, and was feeling like the gods took a supreme shit on him once again. The world sucked, its people sucked and the things they do to each other sucked big time. Just what the crap happened back in Alinor, and why was Keegan giving a damn? Maybe it was because now he began to understand how intricate Dominion politics were. He was sheltered on the summer island, almost confined to a cage single-mindedly shaping him into an architect. How much went above his head, how much was decided behind the backs of people like him, and how ignorant could he have been? He knew there was the Thalmor, the supposedly symbolic monarchy and people of varying opinions. What he didn't know was the power struggle taking place away from the common folks, and now, the conflicts have been brought to the common folks themselves. Does it mean a revolution have taken place? Not likely. The new regime wanted to uphold the Dominion, and that likely meant keeping Keegan on their treason list.

That fateful letter somehow found its way into Keegan's palm once more. It was first there an hour ago, making its way from Dough-Boy, who relayed on behalf of Gustav, who received it in Ashav's absence. Turning the envelope that Keegan never got to throw away, the mail-in date of the 19^th stared an uncomfortable pit in Keegan's eyes. That was the day before they set out, and it must have been sent in the same mass of letters Rhasha, Sevine, Sadri and everyone else received. So why was he left without his correspondence? This folded pocket of paper felt heavy as lead when Keegan flipped back to its front. There was a detail he missed upon initial opening, when the sole interest was to discover the content within. Now cooled by a huge disappointment and a gust of wind that picked up out of nowhere, Keegan saw there's two layers of wax. One small puddle underneath was barely covered by a larger mix on top. These weren't the same shade of red; the bottom was a darker shade, while the top was still fresh like a bleeding wound. Nested immediately below the first layer and partially obscured by the second were messy notes, they appeared to be scribbled with little care, and after painstakingly clearing out dried wax with his nails, Keegan could discern two words: unconforming and destroy.

The conclusion chilled Keegan to the bone: Ashav had read the letter for Keegan and planned to destroy it. Heat then replaced the chill, as the shame of exposing such a personal and vulnerable correspondence intermixed with the rage directed at Ashav. Keegan desperately wanted to scream profanities and punch the Redguard commander square in his jaw. How dare the man violate his most sacred privacy? How dare he throw away something so vital on a whim? And most importantly, as Keegan had figured from his month-long service, how little did Ashav care about his men? Looking at the staggering casualties so far, it was clearly very little. All Keegan saw was Ashav drinking himself dead in a sorry tavern somewhere. Perhaps Farid was right. Perhaps it's simply the old man's age catching up to him; after all, human years add up like dog years. Perhaps there's more sickness than whatever rasped Ashav voice, and if Keegan was to guess, it was probably witbane. Whatever it was, Keegan was not confident in the current leadership.

Of course, there's still the letter itself.



The only thing that could screw up Keegan's day some more was combining his two complaints together, and that's exactly what he got; Dumhuvud walking in out of nowhere. The Nord brute snatched away Keegan's letter before he even saw it coming. Dumhuvud's terrible breath perforated into Keegan's nostrils, even though the Altmer stood slightly higher. Accompanying the foul-smelling breath were equally foul teeth, and following the foul-looking sneer were the most foul-sounding words. "What are you up to, huh!? Are you fucking conspiring with them!?"

Keegan's hands flew back towards the letter before he knew it, and before he knew it, the Cat-Kicker had grabbed one of his arms. His other arm went to free the first, but for some unconscious or unintentional reason, Keegan slapped Dumhuvud with his free hand. In a whirlwind of motion, Dumhuvud pinched Keegan's still captive hand and flung the Altmer over his shoulder. Keegan landed hard on his back, with kicked up dust clouding his vision.

The shape of Dumhuvud pierced through the dust with a maddening yell. "Don't you fucking lay a finger on me!" He crumbled up the letter and threw it into Keegan's face. Then crouching and dragging Keegan up to meet his fuming eyes, the Cat-Kicker thumped the axe on his side. "Lucky you're not one of these cats or that prick Beleth," he drew a mocking cut across Keegan's neck, "or I would've cut your worthless head off and-"

"Eat shit and die!" Keegan spat.

The reaction when spit touched Dumhuvud would have been amusing, but Keegan's amusement was to be extremely short-lived. The Nord let out a beast-like roar and jumped to his feet. Then one of those steel-toe boot clad feet flew forward at Keegan's midsection. The impact behind the kick flipped Keegan over. He found himself doubled over on his knees, clenching his stomach and feces had been literally kicked out of his rear. When he looked up again, he saw Dumhuvud wiping the spit off his face and repaying the favor. Keegan was spat on twice, thrice and four times to count. Dumhuvud shouted all throughout, but as far as Keegan has heard, only barb-sounding phonemes were spoken; there was not a single cohesive word.


Keegan didn't know how long he blacked out for, or how he blacked out in the first place, though he suspected that it might have been related to Dumhuvud's boot approaching his face. He was woken up by a pair of guards, who rudely poured urine on his face and told him squatting was not permitted on roads connected to the jarl's longhouse. There was really no debate to that particular brand of wisdom, as Keegan had enough of dead end debates and one-sided wisdom in this frosthole. He didn't even spare the guards a glance before reverting to his favorite defense mechanism; running away. Keegan's prized staff was lost wayside, though that wouldn't be a worry until much later. The letter from his father hanged onto Keegan's coat collar, but when he discovered it, he wasted no time disintergrating it with magical lightning. Keegan cursed the damned company as he booked it out of Dawnstar; that drunken imbecile Ashav, that son of a troll Dumhuvud, that selfish coward Daelin, who was brave in ordering his subordinates to their deaths, but began crying for home and mommy as soon as reality dawned.

Keegan didn't notice the environment until he cleared the city limit. The Argonian camp loomed as a dreadful reminder of the lives outside of civilization. He didnt even notice the sun setting until now, and as it stood, Keegan would soon find himself alone in the wilderness at night.

Thankfully, a small caravan of people was just passing by at that moment. Apparently Almad was murdered for refusing a client's request, and the guards were now rumored to be planning a purge. Some Argonians were sick of waiting and decided to find a ship in Solitude, some Khajiits were going back for a supply run and the rest were just plain scared. Since it was good enough for them to cobble together a caravan, then it must be good enough for Keegan to tag along. So with almost the last of his pitiful saving, Keegan bought himself a ledge on a rocky cart. Why was he even here selling his life for people he didn't care, and for people that didn't care about him? Whatever the reclusive answer might be, Keegan decided to fight no more demons for a sliver of gold, no more trying to prove himself as the warrior he never meant to be. As Keegan settled in for another bumpy ride, he stayed awake clinging to the hope of a solitary cabin in a bountiful meadow.

If Keegan stayed awake enough, he might just be dreaming, and if he dreamed long enough, he might just see himself with the impossible. These impossible dreams were so perfect that they confused Keegan on what he truly desired, and in the end, he made sense of it all by gazing heavy-eyed into the darkness.

---

For all the trouble that Skyrim had been going through, there was at least one person who seemed unperturbed by the whole mess – Horvald, the ‘overseer’ of Dawnstar Jail. Horvald had been Dawnstar’s jailer for the last fifteen years – always a portly man, his latest post, having been gifted to him for losing a foot to an infected wound and for having served the Dawnstar Guard for almost thirty years, had bundled up with every other element of his ‘promotion’ to turn him into a downright corpulent brute.

Horvald wasn’t the staunchest adherent of Stendarr – neither was he an entirely honest man, having had mistresses and escapades throughout his marriage, amongst other things (he had, nonetheless, cried very sincere tears of sorrow when his faithful wife had died). While this meant that you could earn yourself some privileges through information or valuables in Dawnstar Jail, he wasn’t downright corrupt either – you couldn’t buy your way out of Dawnstar Jail. He wouldn’t exactly understand anyone who would want to get out of Dawnstar Jail, either. Old Horvald had spent so much time in this dimly lit basement that, for him, this torturous abode had become as warm and welcoming as his mother’s arms.

For now, there was naught but an Imperial jailed for lollygagging in the cell, and, to the other part of the room, away from the Imperial and chained to the wall was an Orsimer, who was apparently a Kamal collaborator. Horvald had learned the details from Jod, who had brought the lass earlier today, alongside a bunch of young guards (ah, where were the guards of old, like him and Sven? No criminal could get away those days). He knocked on his peg leg instinctively as he turned the page on the book he had been reading for the last five years. At least he had gotten to the second volume earlier this year.

Before starting up on reading the new page, he took a moment to contemplate the time. The interrogators were meant to arrive earlier. Had something happened? Horvald thought of going up and asking the Captain of the Guard, but then again, waiting wouldn’t hurt, unlike having to hobble all the way out of the jail and then going up the stairs. He took a sip from his flagon of mead.

‘’Oh, for Mara’s sake, I said I was waiting for a friend! For how long do I have to stay here, you damned, lawless barbarians?’’ The Imperial shouted suddenly, clanging the shackle around his ankle to the ground. The ringing, crude sound echoed through the jail, making both the Orsimer lass and Horvald grit their teeth. Leaning back on his chair, Horvald let out a hearty, frustrated roar.

‘’Don’t make me come in there and break your legs, you blaspheming little twit! Shut your mouth, you hear?’’

‘’Oh, it’s all because I’m an Imperial, isn’t it? Bloody Nords, can’t tell a sailor from a thief! Then again, ain’t no difference for you on that matter!’’

‘’You keep talking and I’m going to grind your knee to a pulp!’’

‘’Like you did with yours, eh?’’ The Imperial retorted slyly, and an enraged Horvald slid his chair back, and grabbed the crutch that had been leaning against his table to get up on his feet quickly. Hobbling towards the cell door with the best of his ability, he grabbed one of the iron bars to balance himself as the fingers on his other hand fumbled to find the correct key.

Nearly foaming at the mouth, Horvald managed to frantically get the door open, before almost sliding off his feet and falling on his rear. The Imperial let out a defiant chuckle, and Horvald kicked into the cell, throwing his crutch in. ‘’You bastard, I’m going to choke you, you bastard-‘’

‘’Horvald! What in Oblivion is going on here?’’ Roared out a woman’s voice, assertive, yet tired and obviously frustrated. The Court Wizard, Madena, had arrived, with two guards holding her tools for writing. Late arrivals they were, but they had come just in time to save the Imperial from a thorough beating. Horvald fumbled to find a proper excuse, and, failing, instinctively fell back to his grumbling.

‘’Milady, this damned Imperial’s been pokin’ fun at my bum leg again, won’t let me read, the little shit-‘’

‘’That’s enough. Go take a break at the inn, Horvald. I do not wish to be disturbed during interrogation.’’

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Horvald left, glaring angrily at the grinning Imperial.

---

A few hours later the interrogation, Horvald came back into the Jail, holding a tray of food carrying two bowls of soup. Obviously mellowed out from his bout of drinking, he seemed almost amiable, whistling a tune to himself as he opened the door to the cell and brought down the tray. The Imperial lashed ravenously at the bowl, obviously hungry, and Horvald replied by spitting a huge, snotty mouthful of spit into one of the bowls. Smiling contently, he put that certain bowl of soup in front of the Imperial, making sure to forget giving him his hunk of bread. ‘’Enjoy yer meal, lad,’’ he said, feeding off the Imperial’s brewing hatred.

He turned to the Orc afterwards. She had been quiet throughout her incarceration – a collaborator she may be, but she’d been respectful to the laws of his jail. He slid the tray in her direction, leaving her with a bowl of hot soup and two lumps of stale bread.

‘’Uh, Barzag, right? I’ve got good news and bad news for ya,’’ he said as he walked out of the cell. ‘’Good news is, this is your last night in the Jail. You’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.’’ He shut the cell door and locked it before continuing.

‘’Bad news is, you’re off for the mines. You’ll be kept there for labor until further orders.’’

---

"Hey!"

Ashav was doing just fine before he met them, though he drank too much (and that's an issue), but he's alright. He would tell their friends it was nice to meet them, and hope to never see them again...

Wait, did he just think up some song lyrics? And did he just run into a robbery? In any case, things were about to get closer.

---

They snuck about in a quick and obsequious manner that put their entire group slightly ahead of Ashav.

One of the robbers burst out in front of Ashav and another behind. Ashav bumped into his chest, bounced off, and was caught by the man behind him. "Hey," the man in front grinned, "you're right fucked about now, you pompous prick." He proceeded to punch Ashav straight in the nose, the crisp sound of crunching cartilige rang in his ears. Ashav was dragged down by the man behind, and he took a knee. Ashav's hand almost reached for his scabbard, but the ugly brute gave a swift kick to his side, knocking the breath out of him.

The same criminal was too confident when he taunted. "Ah ah ah, wouldn't want that, would we?" He removed the glass longsword from its scabbard himself, looking it over. "For shame, someone could get hurt with this!"

Another pathetic lowlife snatched Ashav's coinpurse along with the paper stack formerly tucked under his elbow, "Lookey what we got here!"

Their boss grinned, "Why, that looks like perhaps the key to his quarters!" He clasped his hands together and looked to his lackeys. "Rough him up a bit so he ain't likely to come knocking, then meet me and Grimvar."

That's when Ashav saw his chance to counter attack. Turning his back and handing off Ashav's sword was going be a mistake the top thug pays dearly. They must thought Ashav was done for, as whoever was holding him from behind couldn't wait to get his hands inside Ashav's purse. With no one restraining him, Ashav lunged for the thug holding his sword.

Surprised shrieks and screams scrambled the thugs. Ashav had knocked one down and snatched back his weapon in an awkward backhand grip. The man with his coinpurse reacted first, without even putting away the loot, he came after Ashav with a flimsy dagger. Ashav didn't have the time to swing around for a proper defensive stance, so he simply pointed his longer blade at the dagger wielding man and let momentum do the work for him.

Malachite pierced through flesh before resistance and recoil kicked in. The thug charged too fast for his own good, because he found himself firmly impaled on Ashav's sword. Even Ashav couldn't yank his sword out of his opponent's belly, and when the wind of a swinging arm sleeve closed in on his neck, he pushed off against the sword grip and ducked sideways from an incoming punch. The experienced mercenary regained his guard in the time his attacker swung around. Ashav blocked the second roundhouse coming from the thug's dominant hand, then a sloppy uppercut followed up, which Ashav took to trap the entire arm and kicked the thug back into one of his buddies.

"Someone could get hurt for sure." Ashav remarked.

"Enough, time to die!" Another thug kept coming, with another poor excuse of a knife. Ashav let him run in, pivoted at the last second, and saw the knife stab harmlessly between his left waist and left arm. The Redguard clamped in his left arm hard, pinching the knife wielding hand past his torso. With his right hand, Ashav palmed all his might into the knife-wielder's elbow. Crack, clank; the arm broke and the knife fell away. Ashav might have stopped there, but his adrenaline already made the next move for him. An overhead fist bashed atop the thug's skull, setting up a knee straight to the face. The thug collapsed; either dead or knocked out, both of which were fine with Ashav.

At last, Ashav has thinned out the herd enough to see past the mob of thugs, and saw guards rapidly approaching. He decided to hold his ground and shout for attention. The thug boss, one of few unhurt criminals, had enough and took off to cut his losses. "Stop them!" Ashav tried to yell, but his voice was choked down by his rasp and a clout of blood he wasn't aware before. It was when he wiped his face did Ashav find his features pockmarked with broken and bloody things.

The Redguard sat down tired. He collected whatever he was able to get back; his sword, his keys, his coinpurse with most of the cash inside, but unfortunately, the thug boss made off with a good chunk of his documents. Ashav had to take record of they had stolen, because he was in no shape to chase them down, and the guards were already several steps behind when they arrived on scene.

---

---

It took Ashav more than an hour to get back to camp. He had to give testimony about his "incident" to the guards, who were absurdly clueless when it came to dealing with witnesses. Then he had to find someone to stop his nose from bouncing around like a mammoth's snout. This was not the worst the Ashav had been injured, but it was certainly a bizarre event. He had been ambushed before, and even dealt with the occasional assassin, but he had never been brazenly robbed in bright daylight. There's no way the thugs happened to pick him out of all the people to rob, because robbing a heavily-armed and fund-starved mercenary should be the worst in terms of risk-reward balance. So that meant the thugs were either really stupid or hired by someone else. It was probably a bit of both, and Ashav was already betting on Mehm for the latter. He had never seen or heard the Vanguards acting like robbers, but in these desperate times, nothing can be ruled out of moralless minds like Mehm's.

The camp was busy as usual. Edith was studying the folding bow schematics from Bthamz, which she claimed would be a massive boon for the company if she could realize the design. Ariane brought in a horde of Winterhold mages to talk about continuing arcane bomb production, contacting (non-existent) reinforcements with dreamsleeve and how the cataclysm of Winterhold matched the ancient descriptions of Tsaesci weather control magic. Finally, Daelin was at his worst. The Bosmer scout was torn both physically and mentally. He was showing regret Ashav had never seen in him. Daelin tried to find counsel with Ashav, but Ashav waved him off with his own wounds and told him that "there are more important businesses". He would regret ignoring Daelin later that night, when the Bosmer announced his resignation (in order to seek forgiveness of his tribe).

Ashav put his lieutenants to work immediately. He told Edith and Dumhuvud exactly what had happened, but chose to keep it vague with Ariane and Gustav for now, as he had yet to trust these two. Dumhuvud got to check internal security leaks, which meant inspecting every single mercenary one by one. However, Dumhuvud ended up taking his anger out on Keegan Vasque and forgot about the rest of the task. Edith followed the guards arresting thugs near the dockside warehouses. The guards said they cleaned up the entire gang and the only robbers left were the Argonians in the refugee camp, but Edith and Ashav were not so certain. Edith asked around a bit and found a few unoccupied warehouses. Hearing this, Ashav assigned her Daixanos and Elmera, two of the most loyal mercenaries, to kick in warehouse doors. To their surprise, Edith found a knife like the thugs' in one of the warehouses, along with heavy dragging marks on the floor and a freshly minted Septim coin. This coin bore the design of Cyrodiil, as most local coins had undergone "Nordification" under the Drgonborn's reign and appear distinct under examination.

Meanwhile, Ashav cross referenced his missing documents with his records. The thugs mostly took ledgers of Gustav's funding and the company's finance records. Another vital piece of paper missing was the mission planner, which had the detailed rosters of who went where, and a speech Gustav wrote (for Ashav) to "inspire an invigorating sense of confidence and courage". Suppose Ashav needs to make up another speech and another roster on the spot, something he prefered over formal briefings anyways. He'll also have to distract Gustav somehow; an unnecessary "performance review" sounded just like the perfect distraction. To conclude, the losses were concentrated on Gustav-related documents, which meant it was a negligible loss for Ashav.

For now, Ashav will have to meet and greet a bunch of random people. Maybe it will do him some good to have a social life.

Maybe...

Dawnstar, 24th Sun’s Height…

“By Talos, I never thought I’d feel sorry for a damned High Elf, but… damn. In her sleep?” Dag asked, one of the two guards stationed to inspect the crime scene mentioned, looking over the deceased Altmer with mixed feelings. Part of him was morbidly curious at seeing a dead High Elf up close, but the other part of him was wracked with pity. The girl had a carved bone dagger lodged in her abdomen after her having had her throat slit and five puncture wounds along her abdomen. Vurwe’s open yellow eyes stared lifelessly towards the ceiling, and while expressly ordered not to touch the body until it could be examined by professionals, or the very least the company that had loosely employed her, he could not help himself but to run his hand over her eyes, closing them for good. It felt indecent and wrong to leave the young elf on display like this. Or was she old? It was impossible to tell with Altmer, they aged so strangely.

“Mouth like hers, I’m surprised it took so long. Apparently her compatriot was discovered in a similar situation tonight, Gunnar’s looking into it.” His partner, Gunhild said, sitting down at the writing desk chair and taking a drink from her water skin, her head rolling back as far as her neck would permit. “So, where are we at for evidence? There’s red circular imprints and pictures on her neck, cheeks, and arms that resemble board claw points, the knife was fashioned out of bone, and a pair of eye witnesses by the docks swear they saw a pair of Argonians take off out of this building in a hurry, which the guards on patrol and watch vehemently deny, saying that if any Argonians snuck out of camp, they’d know about it. What else could it be?” Gunhild pondered allowed, tapping her foot idly as she pondered out loud, feeling somewhat restless about being ordered to standby in a room with a corpse. Even so soon after the fact, bodies began their decomposition rather rapidly, and with it, a stink.

Dag knelt beside the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin upon his knuckles. “So if not the Argonians, what about the cats?”

Gunhilt tilted her head forward and gave a slight negative shake. “Of the three we have in town, one was well documented to have brawled with another member of his company and was accounted for in the inn playing cards and has a reputation for being firmly against bloodshed, another has an alibi for having come in with Daelin’s lot and having been seen publicly for most of the evening as well as having a reputation for being a charitable healer, and the newcomer has drawn a lot of bad attention to herself, but she would have no way of knowing who this Vurwe girl was unless she’s a Thalmor assassin, which honestly… I don’t think anyone buys that idea.”

Dag nodded. “And cat claws would leave narrow lines, wouldn’t they? These are almost as wide as my little finger and are straight punctures.”

“Yeah. That to.” Gunhild agreed, rising up suddenly as the door opened. The shift’s commander, Gunnar, stood in the doorway, helmet under his arm, letting his long braid hang loose. He looked exhausted and miserable. “Jarl’s orders just came in. The two Argonian mercenaries,” he said, holding up a parchment so he could read the names in the light. “Daxiannos and Tslee… I’m not fucking going to try to pronounce that, are wanted for questioning in connection to the murder. Given the very limited evidence we’ve gathered, these two fit the profile of likely suspects until proven otherwise or Jarl Skald gives them pardons. Three guesses on where he stands on that.” Gunnar said, knowing full well his comrades well understood the Jarl’s distain and distrust towards Argonians.

Dag and Gunhild shared a glance before looking back at the commander. “Won’t this provoke the mercenaries? Part of why we let their beast-kin members in the town is so they help us fight if the Akavirii attack, if I recall. We sure it’s wise to accuse any of their ranks?”

The older Nord sighed, running a meaty palm over his mouth and through his bushy beard. “Gods, no. But orders are orders, and you will follow them if you don’t wish to be labeled as an insubordinate, or worse, traitor. Gather information on their routines and whereabouts, do not let them leave town, and when you’re confident you can bring them in without incident, do so. Get to it.”

~ ~ ~
2am, 26th Sun’s Height…

Things moved quickly, giving the Dawnstar garrison something of an appearance of an efficiency that was not usually warranted. Watch of the Argonian camp doubled, and any exit to the town was closely monitored and those passing were often questioned and sometimes pulled off to the side for inspection. Daixanos and Tsleeixth were both apprehended by three or four guards a piece and quickly whisked away to the dungeon and unceremoniously deposited in the cell next to the Imperial and across from Bhazark. However, given that some of the guards felt that the pair were innocent and their orders were simply more of the Jarl’s outrageous profiling against Argonians, a number of creature comforts were brought to the pair with the promise of release as soon as the sorted mess was squared away.

Others, however, made it pretty clear that unless more convincing suspects were brought forward in the murder of Vurwe situation, either or both of them would very likely find themselves as the scapegoats who would take the fall for the crime. Justice in Dawnstar was a dangerously under-oiled machine, especially in days like these where everyone was suspect of being allied with the Kamal or Dunmer invaders.

Equally fast was Dough-Boy, who brought the news of the Argonians’ detainment and was subsequently dispatched immediately to round-up a number of the company who weren’t immediately scheduled to depart to Bleakrock on Kyne’s Tear in the near-future. And so, the lad certainly got his cardio in for the day, rounding up Marcel, Leif, Solveig, Sagax, Marcel, Raelyn, Khazki and Rhasha’Dar in impressive time and having them attend an emergency meeting with Ashav, who very well could have been on his third hard drink of the night. He looked somewhat less presentable than usual, and he made no effort to conceal his mounting frustration with the situation at hand.

“As I am certain each of you are aware, there is a volatile situation that is rather delicate, putting it mildly.” Ashav began, hand inching towards his goblet once more but deciding against it. Instead, the commander interlocked his fingers on the table in front of him. As the saying went, idle hands did Sheogorath’s work. “Over the last two nights, there have been a string of murders that Jarl Skald has deemed the Argonians accountable for, although he isn’t picky as to which ones were responsible. As a result, I’m sure you’ve either witnessed the arrest of Daixanos and Tsleeixth.” Ashav paused, taking in measure of those assembled to gauge their reactions.

“The dead include Vurwe, whom I am sure many of you had… reservations about her, but she was still one of ours, and her assistant, Gordo. Vurwe was felled by knife wounds and strangulation from what it looks like, and Gordo was slain in a fight with two Argonians, accounts differ on whom was the aggressor. Others dead are Almad, whom wasn’t with our company for long so I do not know how well any of you knew them, the captain of the Steelhead, and perhaps most alarmingly, the Pakseech of the Argonian camp was also found slain, and the Argonians are quite readily blaming the guards. However, the timing of this string of murders is suspect, as are the uncanny similarities of the manner of the deaths. Seeing as we are welcome defenders of Dawnstar and are separate from the hold guards, in addition to having a vested interest in proving the innocence of our men, Jarl Skald has graciously permitted us authority to conduct an independent investigation to clear their names and find the real killers.” If for no other reason than he does not wish to spare a single sword if the Argonians strike first. Ashav didn’t add.

“I trust I do not need to stress that this is situation is of utmost urgency, it is a fuse that has been lit and if it goes before we unravel it, Dawnstar will erupt in a situation not unlike the riots we’ve seen in Windhelm prior to the Kamal taking the city.” He said, rising from the table and picking up a wrapped bundle he had sitting next to it unraveled what looked like a dismembered Argonian tale, but instead of a bloody stump at the end, it looked as if it were carefully tailored shut. He handed the tail to the closest mercenary seated to inspect and pass around. “A fake tail, albeit with what is likely to have been actual Argonian leather of an unknown and unwilling donor. One of the guards who had been in pursuit of one of the suspects attempted to tackle them and ended up pulling the tail free quite freely, which heavily suggests it was a part of a disguise. This is not something that we are letting become widely spread news as to not alert those responsible that we have a lead, as well as to not unwittingly profile another group altogether.

"Perhaps we are looking for Armiger spies, or more collaborators as Daelin’s group and the Braves had encountered to the South. Regardless, keep an eye out for Argonians that look off, be it physically or how they move, and see what you can discover. Discuss the situation, I leave it to you to decide how you wish to handle this investigation.” With that, Ashav nodded and took his leave, disappearing through the tent out into the early morning darkness.

Khazki was investigating the stump, taking in its scent. “It smells like rich leather, which isn’t far from an Argonian’s scent, but it’s definitely been treated, like a pair of boots or gloves. There’s a vague scent of whoever was wearing it, but not enough to even tell you if it were man, mer, or cat.” She said, passing it on. “I think I’m going to go look for tracks and scout out the Argonian camp from a distance, since I can see in the dark. I’ll have better luck making out the details of an individual than any of you would unless you got close. Someone should check with the docks and the Steelhead crew, maybe there’s something there. I’m curious if anyone noticed one of our fake Argonians trying to swim away or thought it was strange that they didn’t.” She said with a shrug, tugging gently on her whiskers.