Prologue

Windhelm, 5th of Frostfall, 4E201

A great cheer rose from the Ruby Ranks as Windhelm’s outer gate splintered open, submitting at last to the power of the battering ram that had been assaulting it for thirty minutes. Among the phalanx that now swept into the city was Captain Hector Sibassius, sword in one hand and the standard of the Imperial Dragon in the other. He glanced up at the fluttering banner, finding comfort in the familiar sight, and mouthed a quick prayer to the Eight Divines. This was it.

It had been snowing heavily since the night before and General Tullius had seized the opportunity to attack the city under the cover of the blizzard. Hellish conditions to fight in, but it meant that the sentries on Windhelm’s walls didn’t see the Legion approaching until they were already on the bridge that crossed the large moat surrounding Windhelm itself. Protecting themselves from Stormcloak arrows with their shields over their heads the Legionnaires had quickly set up the battering ram and began the siege. Standard tactics so far, but the reason Hector knew for certain that they would win the war today was the unique force multiplier that General Tullius had told them about in his speech the day before -- the Dragonborn had sided with the Empire.

Hector had heard the great dragon Odahviing overhead during the siege but the snowfall and low, heavy clouds had prevented him from actually laying eyes on the monster. A shadow had passed over them accompanied by a loud whooshing sound and a terrible roar that made Hector’s skin crawl. The idea, as Tullius had explained it, was that the Dragonborn and his dragon mount would attack the city from the sky during the siege as a distraction. Hector had understood that to mean that the Dragonborn and Odahviing would lay down some dragonfire here and there, swooping in and out of sight -- just enough to divert the Stormcloak’s forces without putting themselves directly in danger. The sight that greeted Hector as they entered Windhelm spoke of an entirely different story.

Windhelm was on fire. Entire houses went up in flames, burning so fiercely Hector had to avert his eyes. Citizens were scrambling through the streets, some covered in horrific burns, others merely in soot and ash, wide-eyed and terrified. Stormcloak soldiers were among them, but -- in typical Nord fashion -- Hector saw no fear as they turned to look at the Imperial soldiers. They bellowed their challenges and their infamous battlecry, ’Victory or Sovngarde!’, and charged with wild abandon. Before Hector had recovered his composure and managed to shout orders in return he became embroiled in a frantic melee. He ducked low to avoid the swing of a battleaxe and returned the favor with a swift thrust to the gut. The Stormcloak dropped to the ground with a gurgle, barely audible over the incredible noise of the battle, and another stepped in to take his place.

“To me!” Hector shouted at the top of his lungs while he backpedaled away from the frothing Stormcloak warrior, his powerful voice cutting through the din. “Rally to me, soldiers of the Emperor!” Within seconds ranks were reformed around the Captain, the banner flapping wildly in the inferno’s winds, and the desperate and unorganized Stormcloak charge was repelled. The fact that the gates had been breached had now sunk in among the civilians and the streets around the Imperials became deserted as they fled to other parts of the city.

Far above, Hector heard a human voice shout something in an incomprehensible language, swiftly followed by a bright flash and a furious peal of thunder. The heavy snowfall inexplicably turned into a torrential downpour, smothering the flames in heavy rains, as lightning began to strike all around them. Hector could see that the Legionnaires were struck by fear and awe at this display of the Dragonborn’s unnatural power. “Steady, men!” he yelled and raised the standard higher. “The Dragonborn is on our side! The gods favor us today! In the name of the Emperor, forward!” The soldiers cheered again, solidified their ranks and began a swift march in the direction of the Palace of the Kings, passing the burnt-out Candlehearth Hall on the right side. That said, Hector couldn’t help but flinch at the tremendous noise and shocking impacts of the lightning storm, and when one of the bolts struck the ground so close to the battalion that it threw him off his feet he cursed loudly. Was the Dragonborn insane? What kind of man unleashed the power of Skyrim’s thunder with such disregard for the ordinary mortals he was supposedly fighting alongside? Hector angrily asked himself these questions as he climbed to his feet, the leather soles of his boots struggling to find purchase on the wet stones, but pushed them aside. Now was not the time.

Another Shout came from the skies and Hector clenched his jaw, fearful of what magic would follow this time. Much to his relief, however, the lightning and the rain ceased and the clouds broke. Suddenly the soldiers were bathing in sunlight and they came to a halt, looking up with wonder, smiles on their faces. Hector realised it had been a calculated strategy all along -- raze the city to break the defense, douse the fires with rainfall before Windhelm burned to the ground entirely and then clear the skies. “Praise the Dragonborn!” one of the soldiers yelled and the others swiftly echoed the sentiment.

What if we had been struck by lightning? Hector thought, looking up at the blue sky himself. The dragon and its master were nowhere to be seen.

He returned his attention to his surroundings as the battalion resumed its march, joined by reinforcements that had entered the city behind them, their ranks swelling. The damage to the city was severe. Many of these buildings were ancient, Hector knew, and it would take years to rebuild. A large price to pay for rebellion… It felt wrong. An ordinary siege would have worked too, eventually, and with far less damage. The soldiers were singing as they marched through the deserted streets, evidently not concerned with the same questions Hector asked himself, but their voices fell flat as they came upon dozens of charred corpses packed tightly in one of the alleys. The walls were black with soot. Looking up, Hector saw deep gouges in the rooftops of the houses. Had Odahviing landed there and roasted these people alive, caught like mice in a trap? It certainly looked like it.

“Great gods of nowhere,” a soldier muttered. “I’m sure glad that dragon is with us. Poor bastards.”

They didn’t encounter any further Stormcloak resistance until they were almost in the Palace’s courtyard when, suddenly and without warning, fur-clad warriors bellowing their last assaulted them from all sides. The Legion responded by forming a circle immediately, shields raised and swords at the ready. Hector found himself protected by a wall of soldiers eager to defend their commander.

“We’re surrounded!” a voice yelled behind Hector.

“Good!” came the reply. “That simplifies things! Attack!” Hector recognised the voice as belonging to General Tullius and glanced over his shoulder to see the man on horseback, his face as austere as ever, eyes scanning the battlefield in assessment.

Another great cheer rose from the Imperials as they counter-attacked, the circular phalanx spreading outward as they challenged the Stormcloak’s ferocity with their own. Hector handed the Imperial standard to another and drew his own shield, eager to get into the thick of it himself. He led the charge towards the courtyard, rubbing shoulders with Legionnaires on either side. This is what he had been training for his whole life -- an honest victory purchased with honest blood. He blocked a blow from a Stormcloak woman with his shield and struck her down with a powerful slash.

“For the Emperor!” Hector bellowed. “For the Emperor!” his men replied.

The courtyard was swarming with Stormcloaks, evidently ready to die defending the Palace’s gates -- Ulfric would be inside, of course. The Legion carved a bloody swath into them, superior numbers and cohesive unit tactics overwhelming the Stormcloaks, though Hector had to admit the Nords fought like men possessed. He saw many of his comrades killed by the berserk warriors before they were laid low, but one especially slaughtered Imperial after Imperial without being defeated -- a towering Nord clad in bear-fur, wielding an axe so big Hector wondered if he could even swing it. It was an awe-inspiring sight, so much so that the ranks of the Imperials receded whenever he charged forward.

His name was Galmar Stone-Fist. The Dragonborn killed him instantly.

Descending from the sky with such blistering speed that Hector barely had time to leap backwards, Odahviing landed in the courtyard with an earth-shattering boom, crushing several Stormcloaks beneath his claws. The Dragonborn, clad from head to toe in thick armor that looked like it was made from bone, slid from Odahviing’s back and onto the ground. Ethereal magic swirled around him in the shape of a dragon’s horns and hide and he carried a greatsword in his hands that made Galmar’s axe look like a child’s toy. The Stormcloak general turned his back towards the Imperials to face this new threat, the Dragonborn and Odahviing having landed between him and the Palace. He opened his mouth to say something, no doubt to issue a challenge, but the Dragonborn cut him off with three curt words that were immediately followed by a huge plume of fire. The Imperials fell even further back, desperate to stay out of the flames’ reach, and Hector almost tripped over his own feet. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of Galmar was a pile of black bones.

A few tense seconds of silence followed. The Ruby Ranks parted for General Tullius and his horse, who joined the Dragonborn and dismounted. The two exchanged a few words, too quiet for Hector to hear. Meanwhile, Odahviing towered over the remaining Stormcloaks, who -- their spirits finally broken -- sank to their knees and laid down their weapons. The dragon growled.

Tullius turned back to the gathered soldiers. “Praetorian guard, with me. Legate Rikke, secure the streets. Captain Sibassius, take your men down to the docks and lock down the Argonians. Captain Ordaun, you are to set up a perimeter around the city…”

Hector saluted and turned on his heels, his men following close behind. He did not need to stay and see what the Dragonborn would do to Ulfric Stormcloak. As they left the courtyard Hector glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the Dragonborn Shout the Palace gates apart with such force that they disintegrated into a thousand pieces on impact. The sheer volume of the thu’um made Hector’s stomach drop and he winced. Now he truly understood how the Nord hero had destroyed Alduin and the vampire lord Harkon.

As they marched for the docks Hector heard the men eagerly talking among themselves in low voices. They were young lads, all of them, and Hector assumed they were merely impressed and excited by witnessing the Dragonborn’s might at work. Hector could not help but concern himself with the ramifications of having such a powerful monster do the Empire’s dirty work. What kind of message did it send that the Empire struck down rebellions not just with a decisive military victory, but the near-destruction of a prized and ancient city?

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Hector muttered.

Falkreath hold, 21st of Sun’s Height, 4E202

They had found the barrow’s entrance hidden at the bottom of a ditch in the forest floor behind thick undergrowth, exactly where Sjara had told Hector where it'd be. She had been the one to discover the undisturbed tomb during her rangings and had shared the discovery with Hector over a mug of ale in the inn's common room a few nights ago. It hadn't taken long to gather a party of willing and able-bodied men and women to go dungeon-diving after that. Upon their arrival Hector had decided they would set up camp in the shade of the ditch for a little while to catch their breath and have something to eat. A full stomach was a necessity before exploring ancient ruins and Hector's insistence on leaving Falkreath at dawn probably left more than one person hungry and without a chance to eat their breakfast.

It was around noon and Hector was gazing at the stone door set into the damp earth. There was no obvious locking mechanism he could see, but no way to open the door that was immediately apparent to him either. Grooves, both geometric and circular in shape, were cut into the stone. He stroked his chin with his gauntleted right hand for a few seconds while staring, his eyes following the grooves, but merely assuming the pose of a thinker wasn’t enough. He -- or someone else -- would figure it out later. No rush. He looked over his shoulder and observed the group for a little while; they were gathered around a campfire fueled with wooden logs that Skall had expertly chopped down into size, eating game that Sjara had hunted down for them, and the Imperial was pleased to hear them talking amongst themselves. Interaction was good for morale. His eyes lingered on Cyrus Vensor IV, wondering what to make of the man and his Stormcloak officer's fur cloak. Hector would recognize that look anywhere for the rest of his life.

He suddenly became aware of the Dunmer's presence, Balen Oril, hovering over his shoulder. Hector looked up at the elf's face and resisted the urge to laugh at his large, bulbous eyes. That would take some getting used to.

"This is the place," Hector said in a low voice, "but I'm not familiar with a door such as this. Are you?"

The colossally tall Dunmer did not mind Hector’s reflexive and immediately hidden smirk. It was not unusual for people to be unnerved by his prominent gaze; Balen too knew that its intensity could create an almost molesting effect, and he was no exception to its discomfort. Even he himself could get startled by his gaze on occasion, after unexpected encounters with mirrors.

Taking a bite from the smoked sardine held by the fingertips of his left hand as an answer to the Imperial’s question, the Dunmer began chewing on the bite, while eyeing the door with an inspective, determined gaze that made him look like he was heavily focused on deducing its secrets. Occasionally, he exclaimed a detached ‘hmm’, as if on the edge of telling Hector the answer. Yet instead he kept looking further, taking his time. Afterwards, he took another bite from the sardine and began chewing it, again, all too slowly. After an eternity spent reducing the bite to an easily gulpable mush, he swallowed it and turned to the Imperial with a smug expression; an expression that one could surely claim betrayed his triumph over the door.

"There’s no lock," the Dunmer said, nodding slowly as if to strengthen his claim.

Hector's eyebrows slowly rose while he waited for the Dunmer to speak and make his observations clear. His gaze flitted from Balen's face to the sardine he was devouring, to the door itself, and back again. When Balen shared his brilliant deduction at last and nodded sagely, the Imperial remained quiet for a few seconds and stared at Balen expressionlessly.

"Quite right," he replied in a languid tone. "But I was hoping for something a little less obvious, Balen. I'll ask the Khajiit about it if you think the workings of this door are beyond you," he added. The corners of Hector's mouth curled into a faint half-smile and betrayed the jest in his words.

"Oh, I thought about it myself, but then again, there is no lock. Thus, she is not necessary at this point," Balen replied to Hector, his voice slightly more passionate as to not annoy the Imperial further with his monotone musing, and entertain the man’s obvious wish to stir him up – Balen was certain that Hector had added that last remark about the cat-woman to poke at his pride and get him to actual work. He put his right hand under his chin to think for a moment, and then twirled the tips of his whisker-like mustache afterwards.

"I see two, or rather, three possibilities. One is that those grooves on the door can be activated by pressure. The second is that it is opened by magic, or perhaps a word, but then again, I expect that there would be a riddle if that were the case. The third is that there’s a lever and we haven’t found it yet."

Balen raised his left hand up to his face, looking meditatively at the remainder of the sardine, lost in deep thought. He then turned his head to Hector, raising his eyebrows for a moment. "The first theory is the easiest to put to test, isn’t it?" he asked, then, having given his advice, threw the rest of the sardine in his mouth.

"Ah, pressure plates," Hector said and nodded in understanding. Quite advanced for such an ancient society, he thought, but being confined to history had never stopped the dwarves or the wild elves before. He reached out and began feeling and pushing against the grooves and the smooth stone inbetween, methodically working his way down the door. About halfway through something gave and, accompanied by the grating noise of rock-on-rock, the door split down the middle and opened, an unseen mechanism pulling the two halves aside.

It was pitch black inside. The daylight did not seem to penetrate very far into the corridor that lay beyond, and the air that wafted out was musty, thick with dust and dry as a desert. Hector covered his mouth with his hand, coughed, and averted his head before taking a big gulp of crisp forest air. "Well," he said, and slowly turned back to look into the darkness. "That worked. Thank you, Balen."

"We all do what we have to do," Balen replied, seemingly not come any closer to the door, most likely in hopes of waiting out for the crisp forest air of Falkreath to cut through the sickly air of the tomb with its sharp, pine-flavored gust. And indeed, he kept standing still for a few moments after, looking at the ground with his jaw resting on his hand, and then raised his head back at Hector. "You don’t want to go in so quickly," he said knowingly. "Let’s wait for the air inside to be refreshed. Hundreds of years of death in there, at the very least. It gets you dizzy without you knowing it," he said, turning his head slightly the campfire behind him, gauging his colleagues from the corner of his eye. "You’d be surprised how easily it clouds your judgment and your footing."

Hector looked a little skeptical at Balen's explanation at first, still unacquainted with the nature of tombs and dungeons, but decided to take the Dunmer's word for it and shrugged. "Very well," he said amicably and turned his back to the darkness that awaited them for now. His eyes went over the gathered party and he thought about each of them in turn.

Skall was, should he remain in control of his faculties, very useful to have around. The Nord's great size and choice of weapon reminded Hector of Galmar Stone-Fist, a positive comparison for sure, and Hector hoped that the Thirsty would prove himself just as fearsome in combat. The moniker was a slight source of concern, however.

Raelynn was a healer and healers were worth their weight in gold, but Hector had already noticed her upturned nose at the filth of the forest floor and the simple, rustic food. Her robe seemed far too beautiful and fragile to be worn by a field-mage and he wondered if she wasn't better suited for a life of comfort and security in the high spires of some fortified institution of magical learning. Only time would tell.

Daro'Vasora was a Khajiit and Hector still associated their race with trouble and thievery, but they were as skilled as they were mischievous and Hector hoped the Khajiit would behave enough to make her inclusion into the party worth it. Other than that he found her hard to read, unused to their facial features and expressions, and honestly did not really know what to expect.

Lord Cyrus Vensor IV... a peculiar man, and Hector once again fixated on the bear that his fellow Imperial wore over his armor. The war was over and Hector had never held any hatred for the Stormcloaks and their rebellion. He understood their emotions but did not agree with their methods. Weakening the Empire would only weaken them all. Skyrim would not be able to defend itself from the Dominion should the Empire fall. All Imperials knew this, or so had Hector thought. Either way, it was good to have another soldier with heavy armor and a thick shield, if only so the rest of the party had someone to hide behind.

Sjara, the "Elf-Daughter", the one who had found this tomb in the first place. She seemed reasonable, if a little restless, and Hector had smiled at her eagerness to get this mission underway. The skill of the Bosmer with the bow was legendary and Hector was sure he would appreciate her markswomanship in the dangers to come.

And last but not least, Balen Oril. Hector glanced up at him from the corners of his eyes. He was the most puzzling person in this party, for sure, and seemed the most out of place, but Hector knew that appearances could be deceiving. Especially when it came to the grim and reserved dark elves. Hector had a gut feeling he would find himself relying on the Dunmer's advice and knowledge quite frequently.

Hector cleared his throat and stood up straight, grabbing the party's attention through sheer projection of authority. "Good news; this is indeed the place," he said, and gestured at the open gate behind him. "Balen thought it best to wait a little while for fresh air to cycle through and I'm inclined to believe he is right. It is very dusty in there now. So, enjoy your food for now. Rest while you can. Become acquainted with one another. We leave in thirty minutes."

The grating of stone that had not moved in far too many years caused Daro’Vasora’s ear to pivot first, followed by the rest of her feline face. So they’ve figured it out. Good for them. she thought, looking over at the now open portal of pitch darkness that promised some valuable that hadn’t been espied by mortal eyes for Alkosh-knows how long, collecting putrid, stale air and dust all the while, likely set down by someone with the intention to come back for it before some great calamity came and its owner never returned for it. Perhaps the Draugr had moved it, some semblance of their mortal lives breaking through like the tiniest ray of sunlight on a stormy day that prompted their curiosity, but Daro’Vasora had yet to witness anything resembling curiosity or intellect in their withered husks. Whatever remained in the bodies was tortured and mutilated beyond recognition. She hated them, that much was certain.

Perhaps there would have been pity for their souls had they not tried to murder her on far too many occasions, but for her own sake, anything that dwelt above ground had a soul, anything that dwelt below was some soulless contraption of flesh or machine that only experienced mercy when they were removed from Nirn with extreme prejudice. And so the Khajiit never lost sleep over the amount of times she’d shoved a burning torch into the drooping mouth of a Draugr or left a goblin with a broken femur, screeching bloody murder while she made off with some shiny trinket it coveted. She didn’t fight or kill unless she had to, or a spell of anger clouded her usually sound judgement; you can’t cash out on some miraculous find if something better than you with a weapon is gnawing on your bones because you grew cocky.

In her padded hands was a hunk of roasted venison that the Bosmer that had improbably claimed Falkreath has home had brought down, dressed, and quartered with morbid and curious efficiency that if Daro’Vasora had not known any better would have assumed she’d run back to town and picked it up from a butcher. However, deer in Falkreath were about as common as the flies and already she’d proven herself to be rather resourceful. It was a skill the Khajiit was glad someone in this motley crew had; she certainly did not. “Sjara. Sjara.” She’d worked the name in her mouth as if chewing over a particularly gamey piece of meat. A wood elf who claimed Nord culture as her own made Daro’Vasora ponder exactly how that came to be, but not care enough to go over and ask. She’d politely thanked the elf for the meal and was currently working through her portion slowly, peeling back each slice as if she were slicing a potato with the moonstone dagger that had been her constant companion since leaving home, keeping her hands and mind occupied as the tempting open door called to her like a Daedric Prince. If Skyrim was to be commended for anything, it was that its wild game was absolutely stellar.

Hector had returned then, Daro’Vasora’s current client and an Imperial who could be commended for being able to look past his initial base instincts about her race and make a judgement call about her based on her promised skills and markedly formidable knowledge about the various tombs dotted around Skyrim and what to expect. She never hid that she was an expert with picking locks, she did literally wear them on her sleeve, but she’d found early on her adventures that people were way more willing to take you at your word if you maintained an air that you had nothing to hide. In truth, she didn’t. She said what she meant, and meant what she said, and if given the chance demonstrated her worth without much fuss. Of course, most of her work was solo, but from time to time, someone such as Hector had made an offer that seemed worth her while. Daro’Vasora also appreciated the company; it got rather lonely at times travelling alone and if for no other reason than to remember that not all people on the road were wolves in sheep skin, she liked to remind herself that things tended to be much more pleasant in the right group. The jury was still out on this one, and if Hector was competent enough to keep everyone invested and trusting of his leadership.

Balen’s advice to let the air circulate was born more out of quality of life concerns rather than for health risks, Daro’Vasora thought. She’d been through a number of ruins and tombs after cracking the door and other than stale air; there wasn’t anything like a miasma present. They were like caves, in all honesty. Some even had been sectional collapses or exfiltration that allowed both fresh air and moisture into the ruins, which was a mixed blessing. On one hand, it often gave some light and refreshing air to breathe. On the other, standing water often brought mold, which could be toxic in a number of circumstances. She finished her fill of the meal and pulled out one of the sections of ribs to place between her teeth, which she began to subconsciously grind. Half an hour was going to feel like eternity, she thought.

Grabbing her gear, she stood up and tossed her back over the top of her head and pushed her arms through the straps in a singular motion, tightening the buckles to the right length with an ease that made it rather apparent she’d done that countless times. Daro’Vasora wouldn’t go in until she was told to, no sense in giving the impression of being uncooperative, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t at least take a look at the door and study its mechanisms for future reference. Plucking her journal from one of the external pockets, she began to trace her fingers along the door, searching for the exact mechanism that Balen had triggered to open the door. “You sure you don’t want me to take a quick look ahead, make sure there’s no hazards?” she called out to Hector, flipping pages in her journal until she reached her section on the Nord ruins.

Skall took another deep draught of rich amber ale from the flagon in his fist, the powerful muscles in his throat clearly visible as he gulped the liquid down. He was, in truth, thirsty in more than just name at that moment in time. It had been a long and difficult hike through the woods of Falkreath hold that morning and once they had got here he had spent the next half hour splitting logs for the fire. But was really splitting was his head. An early start coupled with a later night than most left Skall seeking the hair of the dog almost as soon as he had a chance to rest.

Luckily he had been wise enough to spend a septim or two filling this flagon before he had passed out next to the hearth in the Dead Man's Drink, either that or Valga had been taken pity on him, knowing he would be in need of it in the morning. It wasn't too strong, not enough to get Skall blind drunk, but enough to sooth his nerves and still his shaking hand. He put down his drink beside the stump he sat upon and wiped his mouth, smearing the beer foam into his lustrous beard. For a moment Skall considered the events that had led him here.

It had started, as many things in Skall's life started, in a tavern. Skall had been drowning his sorrows after a long day at the mill. Adventuring hadn't been going so well recently, so he had been hewing logs since Second Seed at the Deadwood Lumber Mill. Bolund, the foreman, was a miserable milk-drinker but Skall was in need of coin. He was always in need of coin. The common room had been busier than usual that night, with many strangers and travellers who had come in off of the road. The talk had turned to adventuring and someone had spoken of a undisturbed ancient Nord barrow - a rare thing these days in Skyrim. The rest got a little hazy after that, but apparently at some point after than and before waking up in a hedge the next morning - Skall had offered to join them.

Adventuring was a fine thing, many of the the greatest Nord heroes had spent some time doing it. But it was lonely. With a party like this that wasn't so much the case, but perhaps there was a little less glory when it was shared with others. Certainly though there was more glory in this than in chopping wood for Bolund, that was for sure. But who exactly were these companions that he would share this adventure with? He was the only Nord amongst them he noted, though Skall wasn't too prejudiced in that regard. The Imperial, Sibassius, had the bearing of a soldier, as did the older man in wearing Stormcloak furs. There was a Gray Elf, a Wood Elf, a Cat and a pretty woman. Perhaps he would have preferred some sons and daughters of Skyrim, but beggars cannot be choosers.

It was at that moment that Sibassius spoke to them, telling them all that the door was open and they would be leaving in thirty minutes. Thirty minutes eh? Enough time for another drink in that case. Skall retrieved the flagon from beside him and took another long swig, it was beginning to approach empty by this point. He set it down and again, took out his knife, and leant over toward the fire to help himself to a large slab of the venison that was roasting above it.

"So the-" Skall began before suddenly stopping, distracted by his meal almost slipping off of his knife as he moved back to his seat. He readjusted his blade and used his other hand to support the venison before taking a bite. Grease and meat juices ran down his chin and fingers as he began to chew.

"So then... " He continued in his booming voice, mouth still half full. "I think we have time for a story then. Anyone have a good one?" Skall liked stories, he liked listening to them almost as much as boasting about his own. "Have I ever told you about the time I won a drinking contest against Torbjorn Shatter-Shield? We both ended up so drunk that we spent half the night chasing an Argonian around Windhelm because we thought he was a dragon! Ha! That was a night to remember!"

He laughed and slapped his knee. It had been one of the more memorable nights he had spent as a Stormcloak, though it may have also been one of reasons he had not been one more than a season. Skall went to take another drink, still chuckling to himself before his brow furrowed. The flagon stopped half way to his lips, his laughter died along with it.

"I forgot about Windhelm..." There was a sorrowful note in his deep tones now. "I suppose he's dead now most likely. Bloody business, all that. Ack, shouldn't speak of dead before going down there." He pointed with a thumb towards the black stone portal that led to barrow below. "What about you, old man? Why does an Imperial wear Stormcloak gear? Must be a story behind that, or how about you, Pretty Lady?" He gave a broad smile to the Breton mage, there were bits of meat still stuck between his teeth. "You have a good one?"

Although Raelynn had spent time in Falkreath and had travelled through it, actually setting up camp out was new. Sitting around a campfire with such a large group of characters was also new. Her last foray into the wilds of Skyrim had taken her through a small set of ruins near Dawnstar, with a smaller and more intimate party. It was simply herself, a Nord female, and an old Imperial swordsman. Despite absolutely loathing the cold, the snow, and the hardy people that often inhabited such zones, these were the places that Raelynn found herself in most often. So to presently be in the moderate (if not a little damp) climate of Falkreath was a refreshing change.

Dressed in a plush velveteen robe she felt a little overdressed for the occasion. The collar of said robe was adorned with crushed shells and intricate stitching in blue threads that drew up around her neck like waves. Against the deep plum of her robe was the contrasting white pelt of the snow fox, gracefully draped across her shoulders. It’s small size the perfect fit for her dainty frame. Her hair was so light that it would have almost blended to the fur, if not for the ash shades speckled through, peaking out from her tightly woven braids. This evening she had created a two section twist that went all around her head, with a long single fishtail braid hanging from the bottom and resting on her shoulder, her hair was so long that the tip of her braid rested on her thighs as she sat. No matter where she was travelling, she made the effort to look as a Lady should, it was one of the few true pleasures she had.

She had been staring into the crackling flames of the fire, ignoring most of what was going on around her for some time. Her blue eyes had begun to water and sting from the heat and smoke as she stared so intensely into the dancing flames, the scent of the crisp, charred edges of venison as it turned on the spit filled her nostrils and drifted around the campsite.

She accepted her portion of the meat, only taking just enough to sustain her. Unlike the Nord who was sat beside her, who seemed to have taken enough to feed an orphanage - half of it still poking through his teeth, the juice dripping through his beard, splattering and combining with the splashes of ale that flew from his flagon to create a sticky pool on his armour. That explains the stench… she thought to herself as she looked him up and down, trying to hide the disgust with a smile and quiet chuckle in his direction.

He might be the drunkest, and possibly the smelliest colleague on this adventure, but he was also the biggest and had the largest and most lethal looking weapon of the bunch. In any case, it seemed that this Nord was her best chance of not being attacked by a Draugr or… by whatever else may be hiding in there. She began to wonder that if any gas trap was triggered, if Skall might be able to inhale the lot through his horse-like nostrils. She found herself chuckling at the imagery she conjured up. It would likely not do him any harm, seeing as he was a walking tower of putrid intoxication already.

The older gentleman intrigued her, with his Stormcloak attire so visible. She remembered Windhelm like it was yesterday. With just a thought, a tiny thought, she could instantly recall the horrors of the aftermath - the scent of burning human flesh, of blood on steel, of sweat and desperation. The next mouthful of the deer she took almost didn’t want to be swallowed. She had not seen this man when she had been in WIndhelm, not that she would have remembered any faces except for the faces with skin and flesh melted down to bone, their eyeballs burst and bloody. Even without eyes and faces she had still been able to make out the expression of screaming that the scorched skulls made. Every single one the same. Mouth agape completely, almost unnaturally. Being burnt alive with Dragon fire, no less, was the most painful way of death that Raelynn could comprehend.

She took another look around at everyone, and finally set her gaze onto her own lap. She already knew what they thought of her - they likely underestimated her, they were likely expecting her to scream at the sight of the first frostbite spider. Maybe she would.

Already it seemed like some were itching to get into the tomb. The one called Hector was tampering with the entrance until the Dunmer helped him out. Maybe he wasn’t all that clever, but something told Raelynn that he was intuitive, and that she ought not to attempt to manipulate or extort him. She loathed working with such people - with people who were hard to wrap around her finger like the drunkard to her right would be. Luckily for her, she could sniff them out quickly.

Something about the Khajit unnerved her. She began to wonder if Daro’Vasora was as manipulative as she was… Something else she loathed, it meant she might find herself being out-maneuvered for more of the spoils. By a Khajit no less… I have to get close to her… She thought to herself again.

As she chewed through the venison she couldn’t help but think that it would be a far better and less wasteful use of the meat to have at the very least braised it in wine with salt and herbs. But that was not how these folks, these wildlings, chose to eat. It had also been a very long time since she had eaten that way too. Her mouth watered as she thought about the joy of a dipping handfuls of a freshly baked loaf into the leftover juice of some braised venison.

She took a glance back at Skall, who was now plowing through a leg, tearing the meat from the bone with his teeth with ease, guffawing at his own stories. It completely repulsed her, but she gave him another smile and a purposeful soft bat of her eyelids. “What a fantastic story…” she said, finding it difficult to fake enthusiasm and encouragement.

He mentioned WIndhelm, and Raelynn’s smile dropped and she looked away from him awkwardly. She heard and acknowledged the sorrow in his voice, but something told her that he wasn’t there. Maybe it was that he said that he’s forgotten about Windhelm. Nobody who was there would ever forget it.

Skall was able to grin mere seconds after being sorrowful, the stupid drunken oaf. Probably didn’t even know what he was saying or feeling, he probably couldn’t feel anything. In fact, she could probably bonk him on the head with the handle of his own axe and he would remain there, shoving venison into his maw completely unaware. Then he called her “Pretty Lady” tell me something I don’t know was her immediate thought, not that she would say such a thing out loud. His request for a story from her was met with the following short response;

“I travelled and I saw things, and I travelled and saw some more…”

Collab between Hank, Ink, and Dervs

“You sure you don’t want me to take a quick look ahead, make sure there’s no hazards?”

Hector looked up at the sound of Daro'Vasora's question. His brow creased in thought and he observed the Khajiit for a few seconds while she flipped through her journal before replying. She looked immensely capable, decked out in supple leather gear and covered in pouches and her tools of the trade. If anyone were to scout out ahead, Hector would want it to be her, but he didn't like the idea of letting anyone out of his sight for too long. Not because he didn't trust them, mind. Hector believed firmly in the concept of 'safety in numbers' and a handful of different scenarios that would result in Daro'Vasora's untimely death flitted through his mind's eye; traps, draugr ambushes, unstable structures...

He decided to respond with a question of his own. “How much experience have you had exploring ruins such as this one, precisely?” Hector asked and gestured towards the barrow. His tone was inquisitive, not accusatory, and he kept his expression open and neutral. She'd mentioned that this wasn't her first rodeo, so to speak, but Hector did not yet know the specifics.

Daro'Vasora pondered the question for a few moments, closing her journal around her finger to save the page before turning to Hector. She'd figured he'd have questions about her credentials sooner or later, and she didn't fault him for wanting to know who he was working with. As so she replied with an even, unhurried manner.

“I've been doing this since I was seventeen, pretty much an adult by then. From there, I spent three or four years as an apprentice to my associate out of Imperial City and I've been running largely solo ever since, periodically partnering up if it seemed prudent. There's not much of Cyrodiil I haven't seen, and I've crossed over the borders of Hammerfell and Morrowind on a few occasions, small day trips away from roads to avoid attention. Skyrim's been on my plate for the past seven months, of which I've delved into four ruins that weren't traveler hot spots.” she said, grinding her teeth around the bone.

“Doesn't mean they weren't largely picked clean. That's the thing about this line of work; nobody tells you it's largely trial and error with very rare payouts. But what you do find...” she trailed off, smiling to herself slightly, taking a moment to reflect on the good fortunes she did have. “So long story short, I know Alyeids about as well as if they were still around, been in enough Dwemer ruins to know that clanking means you're in peril, and Nordic ruins are rather fond of some pretty sophisticated, if crude, traps and undead nasties that aren't fond of you stealing their master's goods.”

The Khajiit gestured to the barrow opening. “So if you're worried about me not knowing what to expect, don't be. I know what to look for, and I'd rather not have someone who doesn't step on something they shouldn't that I could have marked. It's why you hired me, Hector; I'm an expert for a reason. It's safer for everyone if I look ahead rather than the group stomping through like some obnoxious tour group.” Daro'Vasora concluded, offering her journal for Hector to look through. It didn't contain anything she hadn't already seen or considered truly confidential, and if there were, she doubted he was going to read it page by page to try and figure out her trade secrets. Her map, however, was a different story. It contained the potential locations of a lot of untapped ruins that she intended to get around to. “I know it's one thing to say I'm good and another to witness it, but I don't doubt that this will help ease your concerns.”

The Bosmer huntress they had tasked with leading them to the barrow in the first place chimed in, her tone not as thoughtful as Hector’s in the matter of the conversation. Her intersection in the conversation was sudden but perhaps not unexpected given the circumstances. “I may be no expert in dungeoneering, but it doesn’t seem wise to be stomping all over the bones of the ancestors without caution and without strength in numbers. If we are to undertake this task we need to leave bullishness at the campfire. Is this not an unknown barrow and not one ‘picked clean’ as you are familiar with?”

Daro'Vasora raised a curious brow to the Bosmer, biting back a sarcastic retort and instead angling for logic. “Nothing wise about it, but there's a right way to do it and a wrong way, and just like nobody's going to criticize how you went about getting our meal, it's the same thing with what I do. Only instead of a group scaring off game or distracting your shot, a group's far more likely to step on a trap or wake up the Draugr. It's not unlike why the Legion uses advance scouts; a handful of talented individuals can do far more good for the unit if they can figure out what's up ahead. Besides,” she said, looking towards the door with arms crossed. “Ain't my ancestors. Way I see it, some rather rich and probably awful people had these places built to horde their wealth that could have been used by someone else and took away how many other lives to populate it with Draugr? Taking stuff that's going to collect dust for eternity and selling it has more historically significant value, anyways. Collectors pay a fortune for old artifacts, and I know quite a few people who pay top coin for good finds.”

Sjara nodded, not contesting the point the woman had made; though it didn’t mean she liked it any less. For the Nord-raised Bosmer there was a smell about Daro’Vasora that bothered her, though she couldn’t quite place it. Her comment about the wealth in the venture was unsurprising given her profession and other mitigating factors. She didn’t trust her, sure, but if her skill as a dungeoneer was equivalent to Sjara’s skill as a hunter then she felt like she should be left to do what she set out to do. Sjara crossed her arms as she looked over the dungeon entrance with an unimpressed look of sorts. “Fair enough, but as you said, there is a right way and a wrong way. That includes being cautious in a hallowed tomb, ignoring that just to rub two septims together seems rash. But I’m just a veteran hunter, you’re the expert. What do you think, Sibassius?”

Hector had passively listened to the exchange between Daro'Vasora and Sjara while he skimmed several pages of the Khajiit's journal. Doing so served to assuage his concerns, as it quickly became apparent that she hadn't been lying when she said she was prepared and knew what she was about. He didn't speak until spoken to by Sjara, upon which the Imperial looked up, paused for a second and then cleared his throat. “I think that, while both of our concerns are justified, Sjara, we should give our friend a chance to do what she does best. If she speaks true about her abilities, and I believe you do, Daro'Vasora, I would very much appreciate not having to step in traps that otherwise could have been avoided. I am a man of many skills but dungeoneering is not one of them. Feel free to scout ahead and mark safe passage.” He smiled and quickly added: “But don't go too far. I want to be able to yell orders to you.”

Sjara nodded, not opposing the order given. “You heard the man.”

Having expected some resistance, if not outright rejection, for her proposal, Daro'Vasora found herself quietly surprised to find that that Hector was a thoughtful and considerate man in both appearance and action. He had listened to both points of view and decided based on merit, and perhaps willingness to trust. Daro'Vasora blinked in quick succession, composing herself given her newfound respect for the Imperial. If he was fair for all sorts of volatile personalities under his wing, he may very well be a natural leader. It endeared him to Vasorsa, who found herself rather driven to impress the man and show his trust was well placed.

“Rule of 3, boss; no more than 3 sections ahead and wait at doors to report. I'll never be out of earshot, I promise.” And she meant it. “I'll go gather some leaves to leave as markers. Nobody can miss natural greens in a place of death, I hope." Letting the statement linger, the Khajiit ground the ball of her foot in the dirt, working up to her question. “How long have you been doing this leadership thing for? You seem to have a knack for it. Most I end up partnering with tend to be a tad more... demanding.”

“Good. Leaves will do just fine,” Hector replied and nodded, and looked pensive after Daro'Vasora's question. “About fourteen years, I'd wager,” he replied, and then lowered his voice. "I was a captain in the Legions. I had a reputation for being agreeable, if I remember correctly. But don't tell the others just yet. I don't want it to become a problem that I was on the other side in the Civil War." He eyed both the Khajiit and the Bosmer with an austere look and it was obvious he expected obedience in this matter.

“For what it's worth, Hector, I'm from Cyrodiil too. From where I stand, you fought for the only side that mattered. You've nothing to fear from me; I'm not one to spread gossip. I'll leave it for the others to figure out, or for you to tell them. I'm just here for the job, not make your life difficult.” Daro'Vasora said, turning to carry out her assignment. As she passed, she touched Hector's shoulder reassuringly. “I trusted you to look at my private work. You can count on the same thoughtfulness from me in regards to you asking for trust in turn. You're in safe hands.” She promised, heading off to one of the handfuls of leafy trees in the clearing, sliding her journal back into its secure space.

“Gossip is for fools and bored nobles.” The Bosmer’s eyes narrowed as if remembering a significant moment of it, her voice less blade-edged as she contemplated the Imperial’s request. “The Civil War was a mess on both sides. As a native of Skyrim I saw firsthand what it did here. But you did what you had to do; it’s not my right to tell others you fought with the winning side, though I imagine they might put two and two together in time. Our group doesn’t seem to be witless.”

It was easy to forget that Sjara was a daughter of Skyrim and not a product of Bosmeri culture. Hector looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the shape of the Nord within in the contours of the elven woman. “I resigned after Windhelm," he said quietly, almost apologetic, and rubbed his forehead. “I was there.” It looked like he was about to say more but the Imperial bit his tongue and averted his gaze. His steel-clad fingers traced the rough, ancient stone of the barrow’s door and his face assumed a neutral expression. “Thank you for the spoils of your hunt,” was what Hector eventually settled on and looked towards the campfire. “Come, let us enjoy the company and the fire before our quest begins.”

Sjara nodded before moving close enough to the Imperial group leader and moved her voice into a hushed whisper so only the two of them could hear. “I’m not sure if I trust her. She’ll desecrate anything for a spare septim. It’ll bring the wrath of the divines upon us if we aren’t careful.”

Hector nodded slowly. Nord culture was a superstitious one and it made sense for Sjara to believe the same things they did, but he had to admit he didn't really believe any of the Aedra took an active interest in the events on Tamriel. Not anymore. "We will be respectful," he assured Sjara, his hand on her shoulder. He thought he'd seen the Khajiit's eyes light up when he placed his trust in her, but Sjara's words threatened to rekindle his belief in the stigma against Daro'Vasora's people. He shook it off. "I don't want to disturb the dead any more than necessary."

With that, he smiled at her and walked away from the barrow's entrance to join the others by the fire, listening in silence to their conversation.

---

---

Collectors pay a fortune for old artifacts, and I know quite a few people who pay top coin for good finds.

The words of the Khajiit dungeoneering expert cycled in Bosmer’s mind as she pressed her back and one foot against the trunk of a fallen tree, her eyes narrowed in on the group that found their comforts around the campfire. It was a tactical advantage to keep her ears and eyes open for any beasts or bandits that could have been lurking in the forests. Though if she was being honest with herself she would recognize that the Khajiit’s words had unearthed something in her spirit. The thought that someone could trample over bones just to rub two septims together wasn't just unfathomable to Sjara, but also morally questionable. It brought back thoughts and feelings she had not felt in many years such as the knowledge that her birth parent’s likely had similar beliefs and motives. She didn’t like the nerves that came from such reminders. She would have to be additionally cautious and diligent. The barrow had great potential for adventure yet she now had to worry that the Khajiit and possibly other members of the group were nothing better than grave-robbers who sought no glory or honor in this venture.

She let out a light breath as she looked back towards the barrow, where Daro’Vasora was likely prowling through the ruins of the ancestors of Skyrim, disabling traps and divines know what else. Whatever the days ahead would have for her she knew she would need to have her wits as sharp as her arrows. She didn’t like it. But she had been drawn back to Falkreath for a reason and finding this barrow on a routine hunt had to have been divine intervention. Ysmir had willed it. She could feel that in her bones.

It did not take long for Sjara to move from her moments of such contemplation back to the group at large; the thoughts causing her to return her glance back towards the campfire as her thoughts came to what she knew about the group beyond the Khajiit who had earned her distrust almost immediately. It was a group of many, and she had to think on them as not only adventures but also people.

The Imperial leader, a former soldier who served against Skyrim during the rebellion, a fact he wanted to keep hidden for the time being. An aged Dunmer, who she assumed was good with books and little else. A hardy Nord who towered over the group and boasted about his exploits. An Imperial who looked as if the Daedra were sucking out his soul. A female Breton who looked clean and untested -- it was hardly an adventuring group of the likes of Skor, her mentor, had led that much was for sure and the sense of honor and motivation was hard to gauge; especially from afar. Sjara pushed her canines against each other as she considered the information she did have and how she could use it to her advantage. How could she trust any of them? Could she trust the Nord to be honorable and righteous as she expected? or was he a bigoted drunk who could barely swing his axe?

She moved her hand to the canteen attached to her belt, drawing the cool watered down mead she had stored inside to her lips. There was one question as she continued to think. One. ‘Who are these people, really?’

Lord Vensor hated early departures. They said that a man began to wake up earlier and earlier with age, but him? He had spent much too long fighting in the night in the last year. It had been the logical choice at the time and he could be sure that this was one too, though for different reasons. But even while he understood the decision to leave at dawn, much too early to have a bite to eat... his body did not appreciate that one bit, that was for certain. If there had to be something positive said about this, at least it was not raining. And thank the gods he had brought appropriate tinder for the fire. Wood shavings were fine and all, but sometimes it was for the better to use old linens for the job.

It had been a while since he was last camping, even though he had promised himself to stay out of view of the legion for much longer, he had caved in to the simple pleasures of somebody else preparing the meals and bed for a simple exchange in coin. Yet some discretion had remained, so he had had the sense to change his inn of choice every so often, which was how he found the jobs that kept him fed too. Now here he was, fulfilling the old promise of his in a way. But to be honest, nobody would say this counted. And neither did he.

On arrival the fire had been set up with the help of the smelly Nord fellow who seemed to be a man of good heart... or maybe he was just seeing his old compatriots in him. If nothing else, he shared some of their mannerisms, even with some of them going to the excess. This was a man he would most likely be able to trust to do what they promised. And if one went there, this Bosmer among them strangely carried a similar air of trustworthiness around herself. She had brought them the food their fire was cooking for them and what little he could hear of her speech, she sounded like a Nord all right. The superstitions and the general attitude... he couldn't be sure how, but she didn't remind him of a typical Wood Elf, that she did not. And then there was this... Breton, yes, that's what she was for certain. Her garments and well kept skin screamed her being someone of high birth. Not too dissimilar to him, but if she still took as much care of herself as she exhibited now, she had to be new in this trade. Or maybe she was simply persistent, one of those people that would tunnel through a rock and climb up a tree arse first just because someone said they couldn't. He would surely learn more about her though in due time.

Then there were the rest, those that he had not quite had the opportunity to study yet. The employer of theirs hung around this Dunmer, and without knowledge of either of their background, Lord Vensor found himself wary of approaching the two. And with the few sideways looks he had noticed through his full helm being aimed at his cloak by the fellow Imperial, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know them that much better. But then again, they might know some news from back home. One never knew. The Dunmer on the other hand... another robe wearer and a lanky one at that, to be hired in a group such as theirs they had to be a mage of some sort. Their muscles told another story though, or what little he could see of them. Hard to place a finger on that one, it was. Other than that, they didn't stand out as anything too special from the residents of the Gray Quarter he had dealt with back in the day. And the Khajiit... he had bad experiences with the Khajiit. His first encounter with one had been a highwayman attempting to cut his throat open for the few septims he had and it hadn't gone much better after that. Skooma, moon sugar and other damnable substances left and right. And now they let her into the ruin on her own. Sure, what could possibly go wrong?

He let go of the other end of the piece of meat he had in his hands and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. 'Get back to your meal, you oaf, you've only got half an hour left!' he told himself, cursing how it was hard to eat such a heavy meal as the first one of the day. He sighed to himself, but suddenly gained a distraction as the man known as the Thirsty, Skall by their name, began telling a story. So the man was, or at least had been a Stormcloak before? And spoke so openly of it? The fact about his forced resignation brought understanding to the old Imperial, who joined in his sorrow as Windhelm was brought up again. The northern lands had lost a great leader that day, and... wait, were they already changing subject? Now it was about the rest of the lot, all out of a sudden. He even addressed him in his ravings, requesting to know of his cloak. The mention would have brought a smirk to his face with an old memory rising to the surface, if he was not so dumbfounded by the man's absolute lack of any and all tact.

He stared at them an with a dumbfounded expression for the whole duration of Raelynn's response, not managing to register any of her words, but recognising that she was speaking nonetheless. When she was done, he decided to calm his nerves with another bite of his belated breakfast. After carefully chewing and swallowing, he turned back to the Nord who had asked the question and shook his head. "You remind me of a certain Stone-Fist, who asked a question much of the same kind when we first met. But before we go on, let me remind you: My name is not old man. I am Lord Vensor the fourth, and you would do well to remember that. But I guess my story has to begin somewhere, since a fellow once-stromcloak asked", he opened up, shifting slightly on the fallen tree he had chosen as his seat.

"I hail from a noble family in Cyrodiil, but after the Thalmor had their way with my beloved empire, I could not stand behind them any longer. My outspokenness was deemed a threat by the elves and they arranged to have me executed, yet as you can see they did not quite manage to do so. But for my reasons... Talos, the first emperor, was betrayed by the very people whose home they founded. I chose not to have anything to do with them." That was his story. With the telling of it out of the way, he gave the others a moment to have it sink in and returned to take a careful bite of his meal.

The sound of the Imperial and the Bosmer returning from the entrance to the barrow piqued Raelynn’s interest and she raised an eyebrow at the absence of the Khajit. Of course, it was just like a Khajit to be first to skulk off into the tomb. Entirely like a Khajit. It looked, from a quick glance that the Bosmer was feeling similarly about it. After all, this tomb had been her finding - she had a lot of stake in this run. It was her discovery - it was hers. Raelynn believed very strongly in ‘finders keepers’… Part of the reason she didn’t like Daro’Vasora running off first. The thief would probably pick the place clean and fill her boots with Septims, jewels, and all manor of treasures and claim the barrow to be empty.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the Bosmer, Sjara, she was very beautiful - for a Bosmer. She wasn’t as harshly angled like some, she didn’t have the bony limbs or bedraggled hair and a protruding brow. She was soft. Something about her showed on her skin and in her demeanour that there was more to her than she was letting on to the others. Of course, she had given the explanation that she was a ‘Nord-Raised’ Bosmer - whatever that meant, Raelynn had almost dozed off during her introduction to the group. The only one of the group that had stood out to her was the drunk and the only reason for that was the god awful stench of alcohol.

She hadn’t even made a great introduction herself, she was of course polite and warm as she could be, told them her name and credentials and that was enough. Why the extreme formalities and effort to get to know a bunch she would be spending a few days at best with? Besides, you learn what makes a man (or woman) when you’re underground in the caves, surrounded by Skeletons, Draugrs, and Bandits. The true self lunges forth when life is threatened. That is, it either lunges forward bravely or crumbles away like old bones. There are no airs or graces in the heat of battle. She would soon see what each of her companions were made of - and they would see the real her too.

Hector, the leader of this group was casting his eyes - like everyone else, at everyone else. It seemed this first meal together was full of intense gazing - as if trying to suss each other out intuitively - getting insight into each other from body language and the way they ate food, how they drank, even how they were sitting - where they were sitting even said a lot about a person. She herself had chosen to sit on the log furthest from the others - even if she was sat next Skall, her log had the most distance from everyone. She chose to perch very gracefully on her seat too, unlike Skall who sat comfortably, his legs spread open with an arm resting on his knee. He sat like a mans man. Dominant and alpha in style. His posture said “I’m HERE” very loudly, and very disruptively.

She could see that the Imperial was taking it all in, perhaps he was as perceptive as her on these matters. Does he really trust us all? Can I trust him? were the next thoughts that sprung into her mind as she stirred a pot of simmering water, sat close to the fire, taking from her belongings a small pouch with the other hand.

She fished out a selection of dried petals from the cloth pouch and tossed them into the water - a good handful of blue mountain flower and lavender toppled down through the steam - landing like paper on the surface of the water. It immediately illuminated, a swirl of blue then lilac rose as steam, dispersing a sweet and floral scent with it. It quickly fizzled back to being just steam. She carefully lifted the pot, stirring it still, slowly as she stood up this time, pot in hand she went round in a circle, pouring out into each and everyone of their mugs, flagons, and cups a portion of the water - no matter what had already been in there. She had already noticed that Hector had nothing in his hands, and so she knelt down by their supplies to pick him up a small cup which she filled with the last of the liquid, before bringing it over to him, a smile playing on her lips.

“I know what you’re thinking…” she said softly, so only he could hear “but it’s not a potion, it’s just brewed flowers, it will rejuvenate you for when we enter. It’s warm too so it will help you to feel fuller…” She held out the cup in both hands, presenting it to him to take, her eyes locked onto his. “It’s a shame the Khajit doesn’t get to have the benefit of a healers preparation… If I’d have known she was to enter early I may have had time to prepare her too… I guess she just won’t be as ready as we are…” her smile flickered to a smirk, back to a sickly sweet smile. She didn’t want to be entirely rude to Hector (not just yet, anyway), but she wanted him to know that she disapproved of him sending in party members without at least consulting her.

“This will go down a treat, I’m sure. Keep your strength up…” as she spoke she freed her left hand to give his arm a gentle touch; it was faux comfort, and served only as an extra bite to her previous comment.

Hector accepted the offered cup of flower-tea with a nod of gratitude, but Raelynn’s words and quick smirk were a little off-putting. He was about to dismiss her concerns out of hand but hesitated and decided against it, not liking the idea of immediately telling their only healer he wasn’t about to consult her on how to use the members of the party and their respective abilities. Raelynn didn’t strike Hector as someone who could handle a snappy comeback so easily. Instead, he chose a more tactful approach. “My apologies,” he whispered in return, looking suitably chastened, but made no promises. Hector took a sip of the water and found himself appreciating the taste. It had a certain zing to it. His gaze lingered on lord Vensor once again, having heard the man’s story, and the ex-Legionnaire found it difficult to believe. A noble of Cyrodiil that gave up his station for his beliefs and became a Stormcloak, of all things? Those Nords didn’t even want foreigners in their lands, the way he’d understood it. Hector shook his head and returned his gaze to the cup, clearing his mind of stray thoughts and focusing on the task ahead.

After he had finished his drink Hector took another look at the time, squinting up at the canopy, and figured it was about time to get going. He got to his feet and dusted off his greaves and cloak, and a veritable shower of pine needles fell to the ground. “Let us be off,” he said and smiled at the group before him while he gave the cup back to Raelynn. “Make sure you do not forget any of your belongings. Daro’Vasora has kindly offered to scout ahead and mark safe passage. If you see a green leaf anywhere, be wary that it has been placed there to indicate the location of a trap of some kind.”

Hector paused briefly and his mouth moved silently, as if he was doing a head-count, and then he continued. “I will take point,” the Imperial said and grabbed his heart-shaped steel shield from his back. He inspected the sharp spike that protruded from it while he talked. “Skall, please stay close behind me and keep your axe at the ready. Sjara, I know you need line-of-sight and maneuverability to do what you do best, so I will leave it up to you where you feel you need to position yourself. Master Oril and lady Hawkford, please remain behind us and out of harm’s way. Lord Vensor, I would like you to protect them and guard our rear.” It was a sensible request, seeing as Hector and Cyrus were the only members of the party with heavy armor and a shield, and both ends of the column were protected this way. No opposition was forthcoming. “Very good,” Hector nodded.

---

Even though the tomb had been open for an appreciable amount of time Hector still had to suppress the urge to cough often in the dry and dusty air. His formidable steel longsword was in his hand now, the weight comfortable, and his shield held in front of his body while he warily advanced into the corridor that stretched out before them. The rest of the party followed him in, some as tentative as him, others with enthusiasm and fearlessness. One of the more magically inclined adventurers behind him cast a Magelight spell and illuminated their surroundings. Hector’s eyes scanned the rough walls, hewn from the stone of the earth itself, for any strange markings or indications of danger, but there were none -- for now.

The corridor was tight and the party had to walk single-file. It was also winding, and Hector found himself peeking around many corners with trepidation. After the third corner and a solid ten seconds of staring into the darkness ahead, Hector decided he saw no danger and stepped forward.

Something crunched underfoot.

The Imperial’s heart leapt in his throat and he stepped back, looking down to find a squashed green leaf on the dusty floor. Hector muttered a short prayer of thanks to the Divines -- and Daro’Vasora, truth be told -- and scanned the walls again while his heartrate recovered. Hidden inside the natural seams of the rock he finally spied two thin slits. Looking even harder, the edge of a blade of some kind gleamed at him from within the walls. A hanging-axe trap, perhaps. Looking down, now aware of what he was looking for, Hector could discern the shape of a tile, slightly elevated, in the floor. “More pressure plates,” Hector mumbled. Cunning.

He warned the rest of the group and gingerly stepped over the plate. Nothing happened. Satisfied, Hector continued. They went on like this for another ten minutes or so as the corridor continued to slope downward into the earth, and encountered three more of the Khajiit’s leaf-marks, each warning them of some variation of the same trap they’d encountered before, though one of them used a tripwire instead of a pressure plate.

Hector breathed a sigh of relief when the corridor opened up into a large, circular chamber, though the moment was short-lived as he realized that the walls of the chamber were lined entirely with sarcophagi, save for a large stone door on the other side of the room. The Magelight spell flew over his head towards the center of the chamber, and Hector looked up to see that the ceiling was entirely carved into a beautiful -- if somewhat primitive -- depiction of a looming dragon. After a few seconds Hector decided that the beast’s malevolent glare was oppressive and averted his gaze.

Daro’Vasora was there, on the other side of the room by the door, and there was a trail of green leaves on the floor, one every three feet or so, that marked a meandering path to the other side. Balen appeared over Hector’s shoulder but the Imperial already knew what the Dunmer was going to say. “Yes, more pressure plates. I see them,” Hector whispered pre-emptively. Suddenly aware he’d lowered his voice so much for no reason, he cleared his throat and spoke up. “Daro’Vasora has marked safe passage over the floor. Follow the leaves.”

The crossing was uneventful. The party advanced slowly, making sure not to trip or misstep, and Hector felt a slight twinge of pride at their discipline. It had momentarily escaped him that Skall had been drinking mead at the fire, however, and when they were all nearly by the door -- Hector greeted Daro’Vasora with a smile and a firm handshake -- the burly Nord stumbled ever-so-slightly over a loose rock and missed the path by an inch or two.

Several things immediately happened at once.

The sarcophagi sprang open with great force, ejecting their stone lids several feet forward, and tall, gangly, rotting corpses clad in dark, pitted armor, wielding weapons of the same make, stepped out. Their eyes were as blue as the sky and burned in their sockets with an unnatural light and focused on the intruders with focus and intensity that surprised Hector unpleasantly. It was like they were still alive and sentient. “Form up! Vensor, Skall, with me!” Hector yelled and motioned urgently for the others to get behind the melee specialists.

Simultaneously, a fierce wind blew through the chamber from an unknown source, extinguished the Magelight spell and silenced all use of magicka, something that the arcane-attuned members of the party would find to be a highly unpleasant experience. Torches that lined the walls suddenly sprang to life, so they weren’t bathed in darkness, but the baleful red light of the flames was a lot less pleasant than the approximation of daylight that the Magelight spell had been and the backlit Draugr looked like something straight out of a nightmare. Hector counted them frantically and saw there were nine, though one of them looked bigger than the others and carried a greatsword so large it gave Hector pause.

“Stay calm, stay together,” Hector said in an even voice as the Draugr approached almost leisurely. “Let’s put these bastards back into their graves!”

While the others remained behind so the barrow could air out, Daro’Vasora stepped into the dark mouth of the underworld and gave herself a few moments once shrouded in the dark to let her eyes adjust; one didn’t simply fumble around blindly for several moments too many in a place like this. With her gear snug and fastened to her lithe frame, the Khajiit moved forward, slightly hunched over as a reflex from years navigating entirely too tight places. It only took a few times to bash your head off an unseen outcropping to begin to exercise caution, even if the ceiling is much higher than you are. And with one leather sole in front of the other, Daro’Vasora stepped forward to do her duties and prove that she was worth every Septim she’d be pulling in from this job.

The corridor was angled much steeper than she had anticipated from prior experiences in Nord ruins, eventually making several hard turns. This is where one had to be careful; tripwires and pressure plates were often lurking just out of sight when you round corners, and the Khajiit moved meticulously forward, keeping an eye on stones that looked out of place, cracks that were darker than the others, lengths of wire that were concealed just at ankle height. How the Draugr ever navigated these corridors and never stumbled across the traps in hundreds of years either spoke to some higher intelligence in their macabre undead skulls or a routine that was so deeply ingrained that it managed to navigate the same corridors to a precise step after another. Perhaps some scholar should take a look into it, the Khajiit thought. She didn’t want to spend any more time than she had to around the creepy bastards.

Before long, the first pressure plate came into sight, extremely obvious for those who knew what to look for. Taking a few of the leaves she’d gathered before heading into the barrow, she set them gingerly across each end to show the extent of the trap before carefully stepping around it, taking notice of the dark recess nearby that housed the blades that were still under extreme tension and ready to come crashing down when the mechanism was tripped. It was utterly incredible to think that after so long and exposure to time that these surprisingly sophisticated death traps were still capable of functioning like when they were installed. It wasn’t Dwemer level of ingenuity, but it still impressed. Having marked the first of the traps, Daro’Vasora continued on, each step a cautious one as she reflected on the people waiting for her above. Normally she worked alone, but this wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence for her. Doubtless she’d be distrusted by most for being what she was, an inescapable thing of her birth, and whereas normally she’d pocket valuables she found along the way, Daro’Vasora would lay whatever she found outside of their containers for others to pick away at, cementing her claim for something she actually wanted later on. In her experience, giving a little could get you a lot later, and besides that, one didn’t fill their pack with mediocre finds that could be used by something exquisite, like one of those gemstone dragon claws she’d been reading about, or something that was owned by some ancient hero that the right people would pay absurdly high coin for. The bone rolled between her teeth in anticipation; something in this musty old hole would be worth her while, she was sure of it. She’d just be sure to ask Hector permission first; she doubted he knew where to sell off rare artifacts for the appropriate buyers, but she’d been surprised before. He was organizing a group of treasure hunters, after all. There was more to her client than she gave credit for, she thought. After the simple gesture of kindness and trust, one that obviously wasn’t shared by Sjara, she wanted to do right by him. Mutual gestures of appreciation tended to harvest a very productive working relationship, and the Khajiit learned to appreciate people who looked past her race and took her at her word. Trust was a rare commodity in this strange world.

Eventually she came across an open chamber and resisted the urge to stretch out and take advantage of the wider space. It took a moment for her eyes to register the stone caskets lining the walls, and it didn’t take one with any sort of imagination to know what they contained. It is fine, Daro’Vasora; they are asleep and as long as you mark everything suspicious, you will not have to face them. she thought, feeling a sudden chill as she rubbed her hands up and down her arms nervously. The undead were one of the few things that truly bothered Daro’Vasora, and while she’d been able to start subconsciously profiling the Draugr as ugly magical beings, there was still an unsettling presence about her that made her deeply uncomfortable and the tendrils of fear trickle in through the back of her mind, threatening to snatch her self-control from her. It was a fear she could work through, one driven more by training and experience rather than total instinct, but one had to often face what scared them to prosper in this line of work. Breathing deeply and counting silently down from ten, the Khajiit calmed her nerves enough and focused on the task at hand; finding the traps that were surely hidden around this room. With a forced step forward, she began her meticulous work.

It had only been a few minutes before the rest of the party arrived that Daro’Vasora had allowed herself a breather by the large ornate door that she noticed the incredible dragon carving high into the ceiling. She’d been so focused on the ground; she hadn’t taken the opportunity to look up. When a magelight sailed silently into the opening, it allowed her a clear view of it, making her wonder if she’d ever find an intact dragon skull; it would be one of her finest discoveries, and maybe even one she’d keep… if she found a way to transport it home. As the others began following her markers, Daro’Vasora’s tail flicked nervously, as each clumsy footfall was not as careful and controlled as her own. The Bosmer was about the only one she trusted to be careful with her steps, but to her relief, the first of the party eventually made it across the chamber, and she allowed herself a sigh of relief and a slight smile when Hector approached, and she was surprised and flattered to be offered the handshake; a genuine sign of respect. She took his hand, so smooth and alien compared to her own, and felt a kinship with the man already. She was right to listen to his adventure pitch and agree it would be worth assigning her talents to.

The warm feeling suddenly sucked out of her chest like a vacuum when the thunderous booms of the heavy stone lids began to spring off their housing and the Draugr began to pour out of their tombs; Daro’Vasora found her limbs beginning to tremble subtly and her fur sticking up at the nape of her neck. This was exactly what she had hoped to avoid, and would have if she’d been doing this alone.

The Draugr still resembled their mortal Nord forms, and it was easy to imagine who they were when they were sealed away by Dragon Priests of old, and it just made their gaunt, wrinkled skin and glowing cyan eyes that much more unnerving; the humanity that made them recognizable was nothing more than a stain on their ghoulish façade, and whatever was left had been robbed from them so long ago. Now something of malice and hate lumbered forward with impossible dexterity, and they would be upon the living without remorse or compassion. A hiss escaped between the Khajiit’s clenched teeth, one she hoped sounded fierce as she found her mace upon her hip and pulled it free, a comforting friend in her hand.

“Stay calm, stay together,” Hector’s voice called to the others, an impossible calm considering the situation. It helped braced Daro’Vasora’s nerves, and she allowed herself to breathe. This one is not alone. She has fighters. This is why they are here, yes? she thought to herself, mentally speaking in her native manner, one she tried to hide from others who would only take it as an opportunity to slander her trustworthiness further. The Draugr approached, and soon, they were upon the group.

Brandishing her weapon and letting out a cry, the Draugr closest to the Khajiit approached, an old shitty axe in hand. Even if it weren’t sharp, it would be capable of crunching bone and tearing skin if it made purchase. It swung at her, which she ducked under, her mortal body far more limber and swift than the dead, and she brought her mace as hard as she could manage with both hands, shattering the exposed and body kneecap with a ferocious blow that caused the Draugr to collapse onto its side, suddenly finding itself unable to balance but without the accompanying cry of pain that the living would have. With a final shudder, the Khajiit shouted once more as she brought her mace overhead and brought it down hard into the damned thing’s face, caving it in, its mockery of feminine features disappearing as it gave way to the heavy steel weapon’s mass, bone cracking loudly. In moments, that threat was gone, but there were still many more, including the big one.

This one is not foolish enough to try and risk that. she thought, staring disbelieving at how much larger it was than the others.

Balen used his spare time in waiting for the air to clear out and the others to gather to do two things: to eat another smoked sardine, for the man he had bought them from had done a very good job in preparing them, and to reassess his previous observations on his colleagues, for first impressions could be deceiving. But, as it often were, it seemed to him that his first impressions weren't really wrong. They were all brought together by a need for money (although Balen liked to tell himself that his pursuit was borne out of a scholarly concern, and maybe, just maybe, a slight need for adrenaline), which meant that they were either banal or despicable. For a moment he evaluated whether the two were different or not, but realized that his snobbery and ego had not swollen enough for him to actually believe that banality was despicable. He found it relieving to see that he had not yet become a complete ass.

He looked over the bunch by the campfire. An Imperial, a Nord, a Bosmer, a Khajiit and a Breton sitting together; the sort of diversity you'd only see in an adventuring party, or a joke about stereotypes. Of course, the fact that the party indeed looked true to stereotype did in fact seem funny to Balen; the Nord had taken his lineage to heart by being coarse and oafish, the haute-couture Breton and the Imperial looked like they could cut themselves at any moment to prove that they bled blue, the Bosmer was not much more than a solitary predator and the Khajiit... Wait, where was she?

“You sure you don’t want me to take a quick look ahead, make sure there’s no hazards?”

“Isn't she a gem,” Balen thought to himself, staying out of the conversation. It was directed at the other Imperial, who was stereotypical in his own way, that being of the Legion. Not that he could criticize that; uniformity was key to organized armies, and the Legion was likely the finest example in recent memory. It would be foolish to expect a defective, unique product from an organization whose defining strength was hammering everything to strict shape and order.

The Khajiit was unique in that she actually used personal pronouns unlike most other Khajiit, but aside from that, she didn't strike him as much, aside from 'useful'. Balen dismissed her proposal to venture before everyone as either material or emotional greed; either she wanted to take a peek inside for any potential loot that would be just laying there, or she just wanted to look good in the eyes of the group so she could fulfill her desire for attention or have a good reason for asking for a bigger share. “Maybe she genuinely wants to help,” Balen thought for a moment, but then again, it was the Fourth Era, and he had plenty of good experience to be pessimistic. Plus, it was the crux of his world view that everything and everyone was terrible - it was almost heretical to actually expect someone to do something out of the kindness of their hearts, and not get punished for it. Then again, that could be the case. “Let's see what Hector says. Maybe I'm right and she's a bitch, or maybe I'm right and she dies.”

He pitied himself for having to rely on being right all the time (Balen pitied almost everything for a plethora of reasons, but he himself took the brunt of it, being the main object of attention in his life), or deluding himself with confirmation bias to make things right in his perspective. Being right, knowing the truth; these were almost the only comforts of his existence. The fact that his happiness and interests could be summed as such, that he could be devalued to such simplicity was truly insufferable.

“Such is life, Balen. Just go along and bear it.”

In the meanwhile, Hector had taken to evaluating this volunteer's capabilities through verbal questioning. The Khajiit claimed that she had experience in this sort of matter. Balen was at a win-win situation when it came to the possibilities; either she would help disarm any possible traps, and make the journey easier, or she would die and Balen would be once more proven right that good intentions got you killed (it'd require some wishful thinking that she was really a good person if that were to be the case, but it's not like Balen found her unique enough to try and learn about her after her death).

Then suddenly, another joined the conversation. As if there was a challenge on who was the most fleet-footed, the Bosmer had come to passively challenge the Khajiit's offer with concerns. Balen wasn't sure which he favored more; the Khajiit struck Balen as a person who talked the talk but could walk the walk, and she seemed to respond well to the Bosmer's questions. As they talked and the topics changed, Balen wondered if he should eat another sardine or not. He decided not to; he didn't feel very hungry and it would likely leave a bad impression.

It was decided that the Khajiit would go forward; Balen sensed enthusiasm, and within that enthusiasm a desire to impress, in the way she acted after Hector gave her the opportunity. A faint smile crept up on the edges of his mouth as he listened to the Legionnaire's politically correct and diplomatic answers to the Bosmer's statements. In a way it was like watching an acrobat's performance - picking the right footing, trying not to slip up. He found the inertia too strong as Hector went with the Bosmer, Sjara, to sit by the campfire. For a moment or two he stood still, but standing out like a sore thumb in the presence of others who sat and relaxed felt awkward and possibly challenging - an impression he did not want to leave. He sat down in the spot where he had been standing up, watching the Khajiit disappear deeper into the tomb.

He thought of the sardine again.

---

For some reason, being inside the tomb felt less tense than waiting to get inside the tomb; whereas they had been waiting on the edge of possible danger, now that they were within the tomb, the possibility had become a likelihood, and there was a certain serenity in knowing that, in accepting it as a workplace hazard. Of course, there was now the tension of misstepping, or the tension of stumbling onto some deadly trap or inhospitable occupants, and it was not much different, but Balen had prepared himself mentally, and it was not as if he was entirely inexperienced in this line of work. As he followed the party and the trail of leaves both, he realized that he'd been stuck amongst the 'snobs' of the party, as it were. “Am I a snob?” Balen thought to himself. “Do I look like a snob? Do I leave the impression of a snob?”

He found himself less troubled by the question now that the architecture of the room had changed to something more majestic and intimidating. He took a few steps forward to better see it, standing behind Hector, and momentarily raised a brow with an almost inaudible 'huh' upon seeing some unorthodox tiles hurt the uniformity of the floor. Before he could voice his concerns, however, the Imperial gave a preemptive answer; this made Balen retroactively realize that he wasn't going to voice his concerns anyway. He kept quiet as he followed the group, still thinking whether he was a snob or not, although a part of him hated himself for bothering his mind with such inane questions.

Thankfully, the Nord gave him a definitive answer for his lingering question; he politely reminded to Balen that this was not the place to think of such things and focus on the mission, because now something bad was going on, with pieces of masonry being thrown around loudly, accentuated by the bellows of the barrow's inhabitants. And all this, the man had managed to do with a simple step. Balen realized just how prejudiced he was about the man's intellectual capability, and thought to congratulate the man on how cripplingly effective and simple his rhetoric was, but feared that his sincere and heartfelt appreciation could be misjudged in the heat of the moment, and thus merely kept quiet and unsheathed his 'dagger'. The new sources of light in the room gleamed malevolently off the cheek of the wide blade. He could see his own reflection in it, and for a moment felt empowered by just how scary he looked in torchlight.

Balen composed himself. This was no time for contemplation - there were eight undead Nords and one big, ugly bastard of an undead Nord moving in to deal grievous harm, and he was amongst their potential targets. Balen let out a sigh of relief, now that the possibility of him fucking up was overridden by someone else, and the danger of death was no longer a potential but a certainty; he could die without fear or guilt, even though he did not plan to do so in the near future. A wise smile creeped up on his face as he gauged his admittedly slow and unnerving opponents, although the tension was suddenly broken by the Khajiit engaging the fight and absolutely wrecking one ancient Nord warrior. They were almost pitiful-

Narrowly dodging the blade of a slack-jawed Draugr, Balen found himself engaged in combat sooner than he had expected. Pissed off at the undead for trying to take his life, Balen sprung his sword arm back, almost stuffing the Breton mage's belly with a debilitating elbow of Dunmer muscle and bone in the process, and plunged the wide blade deep into the once-Nord's guts, piercing right through his ancient armor. The Draugr let out a rather disgusting bellow, and lurched back with Balen's Goliath of a dagger stuck in its stomach. “Sorry!” He exclaimed to the Breton right afterwards, not wanting to be the guy who almost knocked the wind out of a colleague and didn't even apologize, and quickly moved forward to take his blade back from the Draugr's stomach.

Unnaturally protective of a blade tearing its guts apart (then again, what wasn't unnatural about the undead?), the revenant tried to push Balen away, but the Dunmer would have none of it. Before the Draugr could retreat to amongst its comrades and leave him unarmed, Balen grabbed onto the hilt of his blade and began pulling, although it seemed that the blade was lodged in too deep and in a rather awkward angle, scraping against the laminar plates covering the Draugr's torso. After tugging back and forth for a moment, the Draugr slapped Balen with a backhand, which really set the Dunmer off.

Bringing his left arm back and swinging his meanest hook, Balen scowled as he came face to face with the baleful, and perhaps a tad dull, gaze of the long-undead Nord. His fist bashed strong against the Draugr's cheek - perhaps too strong, as with the impact came a cacophony of breaking bones, and the Draugr's neck jolted askew, its head hanging off nearly behind its shoulder, its spine shattered. It took some awkward steps forward, likely about as confused as the one who dealt the strike, and dumbfounded. Balen was unsure whether to feel approving or disgusted of the sight, and wanting for it to end, pulled his blade back with a stronger, uninterrupted effort, freeing his blade, and the Draugr's intestines, from the oppressive regime of the revenant's armor and stomach. Black, almost goo-like blood spilled forward from the Draugr's lower torso, and with that, its cut-up, rotten guts splashed onto the stone floor like some sacrificial offering. Completely disemboweled and with its spine shattered, the forces at work that kept the Nord's life bound to the desiccated body let their grasp, and the revenant first fell on its knees, and then collapsed face-first onto the floor over its spilled guts, its neck flailing forward with the forward momentum and hitting the floor a moment after the rest of the body.

Balen retreated and tucked himself back into formation in slight disbelief, his weapon's blade black with antediluvian blood.

"Ysmir was a great hero! You do him honour in your dedication to the cause, old man! And I will drink to that!" Skall raised his flagon in a toast before throwing his head back and draining it empty. As he did so he felt his vision blur but for a moment... perhaps he had been a little over hasty in that. No matter, it couldn't have been so long, he would still have time to take a piss, maybe find a stream to drink some water from to clear his head a little. It would be fine. Skall tossed the emptied flagon to the floor behind him, its usefulness to him now outlived. His huge hands went to his knees as he began to get up to follow through on this notion when the calm and authoritative voice of Hector Sibassius rang out through the clearing.

"Let us be off," Oh fuck it then, looks like there wasn't any time, what was the worst that could happen?

Skall was to be at the front of the party with Hector, a position he was happy to take, more glory to him. The Cat had gone ahead of them and they were supposed to be looking out for green leaves - though Skall did not think it would be that important. All this sneaking and avoiding, it wasn't the true Nord way. Real Nords faced their foes head on, they didn't skirt around them. He wasn't scared of any traps they might find down there. He hefted his axe and held it at the ready in both hands, as long as he had this and his courage, he would prevail.

Through the great stone portal they went and began their descent into the dark bowels of the earth. The air was close as the stone walls rose up around them. The light of the morning behind began to fade to nothing, until it was replaced by the unnatural and eerie glow of the Werelight of mages. Skall had seen little magic, but this he knew. Still, it unsettled him. In many ways he would have preferred the smoke and fumes of a burning torch. Magelight somehow seemed cold, seemed... dead.

Slowly, they wound down and around the corners of the rough-hewn rock passages. Skall stood behind Hector, and almost walked into the back of him when he suddenly stopped at one of the turns. A trap, pressure plates on the floor. Skall stepped over it with his long stride, trying his best not to stumble as he did so. He made it over safely. Now he was down here in these tight and confined tunnels he didn't know if he wanted to face every foe. Maybe Sibassius had it right and caution was the best option. It was too tight for both him and his axe, he wanted space, space to breath. He wanted to piss as well, but by Nine Divines he would not stop to do it here!

Onward they went again, and time and time again they came across more of these traps. Pressure plates, tripwires, Shor knows what else! As he gingerly made his way over one, Skall took note of a gap in the rock, no wider than a hand span. Inside he could see the glint of a steel blade almost as tall as a man. Was that what would come swinging out if he lost his footing now? There was no way of avoiding such a thing in such a small space. His chest felt tight, he needed space, he needed it now.

And then the walls opened out. The tunnels gave way to a large circular chamber. Skall barely heard what Hector said in his haste to get away from those awful narrow tunnels. He followed him across the chamber to where it was safer, as they approached the other side, he realised just how badly he need to piss. As Hector shook hands with the Cat he clenched his bladder, and as he did so his foot skipped over the edge of a rock he had missed. He stumbled, and his foot landed a few inches from where he had meant to put it. There was low grinding sound as Skall felt the pressure plate sink beneath his weight.

"Shit..." He muttered to himself as the crash of stone falling to the floor echoed throughout the hall. A blast of cold air extinguished the Magelight and Skall turned to see the Draugr advancing from their sarcophagi, all drenched in the red light of the ancient torches that had also returned to life so suddenly. Sibassius called for them to stay calm and stay together. But the mixture of fear, surprise and alcohol in Skall's mind had the adrenaline pumping. This was what he was good for, this he could cope with. Battle, face to face fighting. This was was what Nords did. This was what he did. For the first time that he had entered the caverns, Skall smiled.

"VICTORY OR SOVNGARDE!" He roared, and launched himself into the fray.

He charged past the Dunmer who was beginning his engagement with a single Druagr, his blade deep in the creatures guts, and dived into a group of three. Furiously Skall launched a series of long swinging attacks with his two handed weapon. The papery skinned and corpse like monsters wielded swords and axes, they were horrifying, but none could get inside his reach. He drove them back towards the centre of the room before one was not quick enough and lost the hand it held its axe in to his blade. The limb flew away as the bones cracked with sound dry sticks being snapped over the knee.

Skall closed the distance instantly and kicked the stumbling Druagr to the ground by planting his boot into its chest. As he did so a sword blow grazed against his fur bracer. The Druagr towards the centre of the room swung again and Skall only just caught it on the haft of his axe. He let out a roar and pushed back against the bind with his superior strength, overpowering his undead opponent. He used the rear of his weapon to strike at its face and it fell back away from him.

He span on his heels as the Druagr behind him thrust at his exposed back, a second later and it would have run him through. This was sheer luck. The Gods looked kindly on babies and drunks they say. It was true this day. He sidestepped as the edge of the blade ran along his unarmoured bicep drawing a thin line of red. As the blade moved past him, Skall hooked it with the curved blade of his battle axe and pushed it to the floor. The sword fell from the Druagr's grasp and it was now defenceless. Skall raised his axe above his head and brought it down on the Druagr's head with sickening crunch. The exposed skull split with ease and a foul smelling black liquid that must have been whatever was left of the creature's brain began to leak out as its eyes went dark.

Skall took a breath, the battle haze clearing, when suddenly a great weight smashed into him and almost brought him to his knees. There was a Draugr on his back. One arm hung uselessly over his shoulder, ending at the elbow, whilst the other clawed at his throat. Its skeletal fingers dug into his neck. He couldn't breath. It had his throat. He couldn't breath! Bucking and shaking like a wild ass, he tried to dislodge the unwelcoming hitchhiker, but couldn't. Skall fell to one knee and felt his grip slipping on his axe, his vision going dark as his air supply dwindled.

No. He would not died down here in the dark, he couldn't. He wouldn't just another dead adventurer no one would ever know or care about. He had so much more to do in life. So much more to show the world. To show the them that he was worthy. In his delirium he though he heard laughter. No! Skall's elbow flew back and smashed into the leering face of the Draugr choking him.

It fell to the floor and Skall fell on top. His axe tumbled to the side, forgotten as they began to grapple. Skall was heavier and pinned the undead monster to the stone flags. One arm was over its throat, holding back its mouthful of biting teeth. Its breath reeked of death and decay. His other arm struggled at his side looking for his dagger. He could not find it. The Druagr worked its arm free and began to claw at his face again. Skall let another battle cry and forgoing traditional fight methods, slammed his head into the Druagr's face. He did it once, and again, and again, and AGAIN! The room span, his vision blurred. The Druagr's skull was a broken pile of bone and black ichor. The foul smelling substance was smeared across his forehead and face. But he was alive and the Druagr was not.

Skall turned back to see the fighting as his hand reached for his fallen axe.

The drunk had decided to drink in the name of the now forbidden god. A great act of defiance. Cyrus did not hate this man, though nor did he really like him. They had conflicting qualities, that was for sure. A drunken oaf with the shortest attention span he had yet had the questionable joy of witnessing on his travels, though they still did not quite match some of the men he had had to deal with in his youth, but their heart was in the right place and they weren't afraid to act accordingly. He allowed a slight smile cross his face while Skall was emptying his flagon down his throat... in a way, though a long shot by all means, the man reminded him of himself. Ideals. Those were what was worth fighting and dying for.

Nobody seemed to have anything to say to him for a good while after that so he kept his focus on his meal, trying to get as much of it into his digestion as possible before they would have to move. He missed the many glances tossed around the campsite, but since he had been more than aware of that sort of thing going on, he could be certain he was on the receiving end of quite a few of those just as well. But for all that it was worth, the man chose not to care. They had already agreed to work together, so they would. Best they could do was prepare for themselves, not scrutinise how the others were doing it. Even if he did not agree with the methods of the Thirsty or the decision to send the Khajiit alone into the dark, he would not bring them to question. He had not been asked, so whatever they did would not concern him much. He had his own ideas on how to handle everything, of course, but he was not the leader this time.

What shook him out of his unresponsiveness was Raelynn mixing something at the fire, a puff of coloured smoke puffing forth from her pot. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at the sight and just as he had lowered it and taken another bite it was time to raise it again as she poured some of the liquid into Skall's flagon. He stumbled a second to get his own cup out and received his share with a nod. A slightly unsure "Thank you" was uttered and once the breton had moved past the imperial took in a whiff of the steam rising from his cup. It didn't smell bad, quite pleasant in fact, so he braved a sip of the liquid. Not too bad. Now that his concentration on his meal had been broken though, he followed the short exchange between Raelynn and Hector. He couldn't make out a single word, but it did seem like she was either flirting or passive aggressively complaining about something. Judging by Hector's face, it was the latter. He shrugged and turned back to his meal. None of his business.

He had barely managed to finish eating when the order to march on was sounded. He would have appreciated the chance to relieve his bladder, something unknowingly shared by the fellow proud former Stormcloak, but unlike him he could still hold for a fair amount of time. It was simply something he had learnt: Always take care of base needs before entering hazardous environment. But since they were busy, he decided to let the matter be for now. The grease that was on his face was wiped away into his hands, which were then wiped against his trousers. Gauntlets were donned, helmet shaken empty of anything that might have climbed or fallen in and placed on his head. He had everything he needed. The marching order was clear cut enough and he took his point at the back, giving a hopefully reassuring nod to the people of the back rank as he warmed up his shield arm.

In the tomb, the group were supposedly following the trail marked by the Khajiit, not even bothering to look around for valuables. A shame, for most nordic tombs were full of those that had once worshipped dragons and remained after as vile undead. There was no idea in leaving money behind for creatures like that when it could be better used to fund further righteous assaults on them, but it was not like they would be likely to find anything anyway. If he had his grasp on Khajiit correct, most would nick whatever shiny appeared before them as soon as nobody was looking. Perhaps Hector knew this too. Every now and then he thought he saw something glint in the pale light of the spell that illuminated the hallways they were passing through, but he could not be sure.

When it came to the traps and the markings left behind by their scout, Lord Vensor had to admit that there was nothing he could do to see them. Way too many people marched in front of him, so he simply chose to follow in their footsteps. If they had not triggered anything, he would not trigger anything. At one time most of them stopped to gawk at an axe in the wall, but he found it no point of major intrigue. Sure, it was in remarkably good shape for its age, but it was just another trap meant to end the existence of the poor sap who stepped into it. Had to be morbid curiosity driving the lot to do that. Yet as far as he cared, any trap that had not been triggered was a trap one should not trouble themselves about. It would lead to less nightmares about 'what if' situations. He had enough of those already.

The next room they marched into was peculiar in design. It looked like some sort of an arena with a dragon carved into the roof of it. Vensor stared at the dragon carving, biting his lip under his helmet. He had fought one of those creatures once. Peppered it with arrows from a distance, unsure if he was landing any hits at all, but also managed to avoid the brunt of the ice breathing creature's wrath. An experience he would rather forget. In that moment, he had been but an insect in the grand scheme of things. Helpless and insignificant. Feelings he would rather not experience again, but in this trade... he knew he was bound to encounter them again. He could only delay them for as long as possible.

And then the infernal racket began. He was immediately shaken from his thoughts and his hand grasped the handle of his axe. A quick turn was in order, his shielded arm guiding the others to move up towards the next door as he himself took a few steps back, the ranks rearranging themselves spontaneously around him. Hector called for him and Skall to join him, but... there was something off about one of the draugr. Lord Vensor was just about to shroud himself in an aura of Sun magic when the gust of something pushed through the room, sapping him of his magicka and plunging the arena into total darkness. Dammit. Not a good start.

When the torches flared to life, and the others attacked, he was left slightly behind. With over half of the back ranks already zipping through the enemies front rank, he decided to abandon the shreds of cohesion this plan had once held and hopped up a few steps of the stairs, seeking clear line of sight to the most threatening figure, which he indeed got. He crouched down, placing his shield and axe on the steps immediately to the back-left of him and drew his heavy bow from his back. An arrow was drawn and nocked, and aim was taken at the undead would-be commander wielding a greatsword in its cold, dead hands. "Abomination...", the Dawnguard veteran muttered to himself. The shot was clear. He let the arrow loose and prepared to back further if the situation required it while already moving to pull out another arrow.

The fate of the made shot could not have been clearer though. It flew straight into the draugr's shoulder, puncturing the withered flesh and tissue, as well as shattering most of the bone directly around the impact point. That strike had to have busted a joint... it would not be swinging that sword again soon, that much was for certain. He quickly assessed the development of the situation and found the prowess of his allies to be satisfactory. The enemy was losing quite a few of their 'men' while they had yet to take a real casualty. Excellent.

Something about the way that Hector responded to her ‘concerns’ was off-putting. Almost like he had taken the entire interaction to sniff her out. She had been right, that he wasn’t to be trifled with. Not only was he their leader, but he just had the look about him that he had seen some shit. Deciding against further pressing him, she would instead focus on the Nord to do her dirty work, and observe this interesting Imperial individual. She all of a sudden liked him, and that was not something unusual for Raelynn, she had met many people on her adventures that she liked which made it easy to resist slipping a cunning hand into their coin…

He seemed capable, if not nervous, and yes - like he had seen some shit. She trusted him as a leader, and she trusted the sword he had at his side more so. Imperials were not shy to swing.

She had an immediate respect for Lord Vensor. He wore the Stormcloak colours even now, and she had been at the aftermath of the Windhelm sacking. She had seen some shit too. She bet that of all of them, Lord Vensor had seen the most.

She then began to think about her most recent life choices that had led her to being stood at the entrance of a Nordic barrow. It had all begun with the patrons of a Tavern in Morthal starting to refer to her as the “little cunning septim swindling shit of a mage.”

After that, she knew she had to travel south and let that reputation blow over for a while, and so she wound up in Falkreath sat at the table with this rag-tag bunch of misfits. For all of her beauty and pizazz, she was a misfit too. Perhaps more so than some of the others. They were all in this together now, and were all bound by having one thing in common;

That they’d all seen some shit.

On her way through the tomb, she first noticed the stench - if it could be called that. It was just a very dry must in the air - a staleness, a reeking of death and bodies. Preserved bodies that lie in tombs smelled much different to fresh bodies, that was for sure. It’s less unpleasant of course, but she’d rather be smelling roses than Nord corpses. She had been relegated to the back of the line with the strange Dunmer - of whom she had no opinion, as he had seemed to keep himself to himself - as Dunmer often do. ’I have to trust Hector… He knows what he’s doing…’ she thought to herself as she gracefully tiptoed through the narrow corridors of the tomb - watching her feet on the traps which in fairness, the Khajit had marked out very well. It was hard to shake away the feeling though, that they were all just one happening away from killing each other. Nobody trusted anyone except themselves. The only way to live in Tamriel, surely.

The line was mostly silent, save for a few grunts from Skall, and the sound of their footsteps. Raelynn noticed that some were lighter on their feet than others.

They finally approached a much larger room, and so came the end of the single file squeeze - for which she was thankful for. The air was particularly rancid when you were travelling downwind from a belching drunken Nord. She had very little time to compose herself and catch a breath when a trap was triggered and everything went wrong all in a split second. She looked up in horror at the dragon on the ceiling. Such creatures terrified her and she found herself almost shrinking away from it, a sharp gust catching the room and dimming the lights - only to illuminate more dark and sinister lighting - they seemed to light up the dragon in the ceiling - it’s eyes now a burning red and the way the light flickered made it look like there were flames dancing in it’s open mouth. She gasped and panicked, wanting to travel back into the corridor only to find the access closed off.

And then the thud and shattering of sarcophagi in the room. All of a sudden the venison wasn’t sitting in her stomach too well and she shrunk further against the wall as the Draugr’s burst forth from their beds, weapons in hand and eyes shining a contrasting blue to the red of the room. She couldn’t count them, the panic set in and it felt almost as though she were seeing double, the room was tilting from side to side and the dragon above her was swooping down and roaring.

But - that wasn’t the dragon - it was Skall, he had lurched forwards yelling at the top of his lungs into the cavernous room "VICTORY OR SOVNGARDE!"

Next up, Raelynn was subject to the elbow of Balen slipping back, just a fraction from hitting her in the stomach, and so she ducked back, her foot catching on a rock with such force it was enough to land her on her rear. There was too much happening. It was all well and fair for Hector to yell out commands to stick together but what it really looked like was a bunch of random adventurers who didn’t know each other that had been confronted by a series of Draugr, and none of them really had any clue how to rely on each other to make this quick and easy; and Raelynn hadn’t even noticed the largest undead...

Whether it was the stench, the fright, or the commotion - or that her Magicka had been blocked from her, she began to feel faint and struggled to climb back to her feet from her position. She felt glad that she was at the back of the room so that the party couldn’t see how she’d already fallen apart at the very first sign of danger. “Get it together!” she said aloud, taking the rock that she had fallen on into her right hand. She pulled a vicious looking scowl and pelted the rock with all of her strength into the centre of the action and she watched as it clipped off the jaw of the smallest Draugr, causing it to fall into Skall - who didn’t really notice anything as he was knee deep in action.

The one person who Raelynn would be willing to put her trust into getting them out of this scrape was the Nordic girl… No, not a Nord, a Bosmer. She was a Nord raised Bosmer and this was HER archeological finding. She seemed the type who would know more than she let on. Still shaken and panicked, Raelynn reached out to Sjara and grabbed her wrist, forcing the girl to look her in her eyes; “think girl, think. We have to find a way to unblock the Magicka, and the safest route out of here. Something. There has to be something that you and I can do to assist…”

Four draugr were already down, courtesy of Balen, Daro'Vasora and Skall, who made good use of his (and his weapon's) size and took down two of the infernal creatures by himself. Hector had felt Vensor's arrow whizz by his head and saw how it struck the largest draugr beautifully in the shoulder. Its huge sword now hung uselessly by its side. Not one to be left out and eager to capitalize on their early advantage to end the fight quickly, Hector entered the fray himself. Not dramatically, like Skall, or agile like Daro'Vasora, or with the lanky strides of Balen, but instead the practiced march of the Legionnaire -- sword at the ready, shield raised, and measured steps. One draugr turned to face him. "Dir volaan!" it said, squeezing the sound out of its rotten throat, and swung its axe at Hector. The blow glanced uselessly off of Hector's shield.

"Sorry, what was that?" the Imperial asked casually and retaliated. He stepped forward with unexpected speed and drove the steel spike mounted on his shield into the draugr's chest. It gurgled and reared back its axe for another strike, but Hector beat the slow, shambling monster to the punch and drove his sword through the draugr's face. The instant the tip of the steel longsword touched the draugr's brow the blade's enchantment sprung to life and fire spread from the wound, briefly setting the draugr's head ablaze. It sank heavily to the floor.

Behind him, Sjara was too distracted by the panicking Raelynn to notice that one of the draugr had, in its own lowly cunning, seen an opportunity and struck the Bosmeri huntress from behind with its sword. It was a glancing blow because Raelynn's grasp pulled Sjara closer to her and away from the draugr, but it still drew blood, and Hector's head whipped around at the sound of pain. He quickly ran the draugr through with his longsword, flames licking at its torso, before it collapsed to the ground and extinguished. He checked on Sjara quickly -- she wasn't seriously hurt -- and left her in Raelynn's care with a quick nod that said 'You know what to do'.

As he returned to the fight, the effects of the silencing gust of wind wore off and magicka could freely be used again.

Now there were only three draugr left and the adventurers had them surrounded, including the big one. It had dropped his longsword and picked up one of its fallen comrade's one-handed swords to use with its remaining good hand and was now swinging it threateningly at the living. "Faaz! Paak! Dinok!" it said. Even in death, Hector could hear its anger. The Imperial looked around and locked eyes with the others. He pointed his blade at the draugr commander. If they took it down now in a swift and decisive multi-pronged attack, the other two draugr would be a piece of cake.

"Attack!"

With ragged breaths, Daro'Vasora looked up from the pulped face of the Draugr she'd finished sending on its way to the death it had been denied for, by the divines, centuries? The Khajiit wondered why her mind wandered to places such as that in the middle of life or death situations, but perhaps it had something to do with the small fact if she slipped up at all she'd be out of time to contemplate her mortality and the irrational fear that if she died in a place like this, she'd be stuck wandering the tomb as one of the putrid ghouls that populated it. She'd never walk the Sands beyond the Stars if that were the case, and perhaps the ghost stories the kids back in Leyawiin used to tell one another about the swamps and marshes of the surrounding region tickled a primitive and superstitious part of her brain. Regardless, she perhaps had more incentive than most not to lumber around like an idiot in these Nordic barrows like the one that smelled of stale sweat and booze that his oafishness had failed to guzzle down his pitcher plant like bearded maw who threw himself into the undead bodies of what was likely his distant relatives of a very, very slender family tree.

The group had dispatched most of the Draugr, which was the least they could do considering they pulled Daro'Vasora into this incredibly distasteful situation. Of what remained, only three of the average specimen remained, and... the big one. her mind helpfully filled in the words as she gazed up at the behemoth. She wondered for a moment who he had been in life and why on Nirn he'd allowed this fate to befall him, but she supposed it was up to the group to help him along. She'd be doing a good deed and taking one more undead abomination out of the world, a net positive, right?

A scream of pain pulled the Khajiit's attention to the Bosmer-Nord who had tried to discredit her earlier and she wasn't even ashamed of the smug sense of satisfaction that came from the event. She wasn't dead; just humbled. Maybe next time she decided to run her mouth, she'd think better of trying to leave her track.

"This is what happens when you bring tourists down here, Hector." Daro'Vasora muttered, returning her gaze to the big bastard once she saw that the Breton woman was tending to her, only to find that one of the smaller Draugr seemed rather intent to finish its boss' dirty work. An annoyed hiss escaped from Daro'Vasora's teeth as she half-jogged to intercept the mealy-mouthed asshole before it decided it felt peckish for mortal flesh. The Khajiit didn't know if Draugr ate anything at all, let alone the living, but it was yet another irrational fear chalked up to too many ghost stories around campfires.

"Attack!" came the order, which momentarily distracted Daro'Vasora as she prepared to swing her mace into the smaller Draugr's gut, prompting her to raise the mace in defense with both hands as she caught the cleaving swing with the shaft, keeping herself from being dug into with iron that was older than probably seven generations of her family. "Wafiit!" she exclaimed in Ta'agra, pivoting her weapon as if she were turning a valve to bring the heavy mace head into the jaw of the Draugr, leaping back to avoid the now freed sword. Before the beast could regain its composure the mace struck once more, cracking the skull hard enough the neck snapped from the impact, dropping the Draugr in a heap. The Khajiit spat towards it before returning her attention to the big one; she was on the side that was rendered flaccid, so she felt a bit more confident confronting the Draugr, especially considering its attention was focused squarely on Hector and his shield. She hoped she didn't bugger up the plan by addressing the lesser of the threats first; the big one seemed like he could wait a few moments, no?

In and out. Daro'Vasora commanded herself, sprinting towards the Draugr, winding up her mace for an over the shoulder swing, she loosed her weapon as she bellowed, "Salidiith!"

When the sight of blood occurs - action must be taken, and Raelynn was quick to act. It had been a sword strike from behind. Away from the spine, and away from the organs. Sjara would be fine, she knew that much. Her clothing had taken the brunt of the blade and it was surely little more than a nick, even if it was a painful one. She knelt to Sjara’s side as the Bosmer lurched forward from the force of the strike, placing a hand carefully, and gently over the wound. She could feel that Magicka was swirling through her now, but in her years using magic, she knew that it did little in the way of help for blood wounds. It would revitalise the body and lift disease and curse, but flesh? it could not fix flesh so easily.

The cure for flesh wounds was fast action, and time. It was a small cut in the skin in what Raelynn knew to be a painful spot to take a hit, it was that area on a woman where ribs curved out to hips. That beautiful area of flesh that was womanly and soft. Men didn’t have it, men had hard bodies, and Raelynn imagines that while a woman’s skin was soft and supple, a man’s might be tough and stringy. She knew that wasn’t exactly true, but it seemed logical in her mind.

She let the magicka flow through her and into her palms - the palms that were resting on Sjara’s soft hip. The huntress would feel warmth flow through her, and the pain would be eased. She would feel energy circling through her system with a calming effect - like how a soft ocean breeze feels on an excruciatingly hot day, or how it feels to get inside and by a fireplace after a day out in the cold. It felt good.

The rest of the party were on the attack - finishing off the Draugr. “We’re winning…” she said softly to Sjara as she let her cool blue eyes dart over to the action, she focussed on Hector, and then the Khajit. Skall was making a ruckus, as he continued to stumble drunkenly around this strange arena, his axe peppered with torn shreds of undead flesh.

The action was not yet subsiding. They were winning, but the race was far from finished. She watched as the large Draugr heaved around, swinging it’s skeletal frame around and taking charge. She also spotted that some of the smaller creatures were trying to take a swing at Sjara and herself while they were at the back. Not on her watch, she wasn’t going to get any of their disgusting slime anywhere near her, with her left hand on Sjara’s wound, she waved around her right - conjuring forth an ethereal wolf - her Familiar. It stood in front of its Mistress and Sjara, ready to take down any rogue undead which dare step into it’s space. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would sure be long enough to get Sjara back on her feet - and hopefully it would buy them enough time for the rest of the party to clear the foes.

"We're not dead yet, are we? I'm not dead either. Well shit, better look alive."

Balen, admittedly, did not have much experience with combat - aside from the occasional fighting off the hungry dog with a branch or such, he definitely did not have much experience fighting beings that used weapons. While he had killed before, it had been two pirates who were trying to carry a chest, which made things quite easier - physically, at least. Even then it had been quite simple, just some stabs and simple bleeding out (for people who grow up in Morrowind, stabbing people when they are helpless isn't very hard). Nothing like shattered spines and disembowelment. Or whatever the fuck was going on in the 'front' of the party with angry Nord noises - he hadn't even dared to look there, and just delayed the advance of a Draugr on the flank by looking angry and feigning thrusts. In retrospect, it was possibly more entertained rather than intimidated. Well, laugh they could (could Draugr laugh?), they were shambling corpses, and the group was making short work of them.

While 'Victory or Sovngarde' wasn't as appealing as 'Victory or tactical retreat' to the Dunmer, he'd still admired the foolhardy way in which the cry's source launched into battle, even sporting an unintentional smirk upon witnessing the man bash into the group of revenants. But now, things were packing up - Hector was cleaving through with fire and sword like he was wielding the damned Goldbrand, and it seemed that Balen had to do something other than look scary, keep the dead away and anxiously contemplate his surroundings.

"Attack!"

And with that, it was made official. He was going into the fray again. As he moved cautiously, he eyed his opponent, the 'big one', who'd been thankfully taken down a notch by an arrow. While using a bow and arrow in surroundings like these felt foolish to Balen, he was no archer, and he found the facts more satisfying than his nitpicking assumptions. There was no need to be an armchair tactician, not in the midst of a life-or-death battle.

Moving left as to stay away from its blade wielding arm, Balen was momentarily startled by a 'woosh' of purple light behind him, and looking behind he saw a wolf - a familiar, he assumed from the disturbing hue it gave away, and the fact that the mage and the Bosmer were behind it as if it were a barrier. He turned back and saw the Khajiit bash her mace into the Draugr. "You go, girl," he thought to himself as he had a moment of paralysis, unsure on what to do; feeling a tang of shame at standing still, he began a sudden sprint and plunged his sword in the general direction of the Draugr's neck, hoping it would sever something important.

---

---

Sjara cursed under her breath. Not only had she allowed herself to be caught off guard in the heat of the battle, she had allowed herself to doubt herself. The bosmer’s brows narrowed in focus despite feeling the pain in her bones and flesh. When Raelynn called upon her familiar, Sjara reached out for her own means of defense and while she was more used to her bow her instincts caused her to reach for her sheath—the sound of cold metal sliding from its casing making a sharp sound in the dark crypt she found herself in. Skall’s words kept freshly in her mind, almost like they triggered something in the red-haired wood elf. For anyone watching, they would witness Sjara return to her feet almost as quickly as she had tumbled to the ground before.

A harsh snarl left her lips as the spectral wolf met the draugr’s blade and Sjara herself lunged forward with sword in hand.

Sjara didn’t pay no mind to the tactical awareness of a situation, even as help came to dispose of the draugr threatening her and the Breton woman. Sjara’s thoughts were nothing but echoes of Skall’s own words. Victory or Sovngarde. Victory or Sovngarde! Victory or Sovngarde! Maybe she should have hung back and analyzed the situation, but instinct worked just as well. As the draugr turned to respond to Balen’s own attack from behind Sjara instead aimed for his legs. Even if the draugr was a foe of necromantic origin, it still needed its legs to be efficient. Sjara was going to make sure that if it blocked the strike to its neck it would have no legs of any kind. Even in this state, Sjara knew not to stab the creature, ‘les she caused harm one of her comrades on accident. As much as she did not care for her newfound companions, she did need them. Even acting on impulse she knew that.

Victory or Sovngarde.