---

---

Daixanos had not gone as far ahead as Sadri and Narzul. More at the behest of the party rather than his own wishes. Despite his loner tendencies, he was still apart of a coherent team and planned to keep it that way, so he merely walked at fore as the vanguard rather than as the scout. Though he regretted not insisting on it earlier, after hearing the telltale crack of the bridge ahead of them and ducking down as he saw the relatively large group of Amigers coalescing around the toppled structure.

Daixanos strung his bow, placing the tail end of it on the ground and pulling the top part downward with one arm, his cable-like muscles prominent and bulging as he did so with relative calm and ease. His other claw drew the bowstring up and strung it, before placing an arrow from his quiver onto the string and at the ready. Dumhuvud had gathered the group together and gave a quick thinking plan that they would be fools not to take.

At the sound of the charge, Daixanos headed out of cover with his bow drawn and arrow nocked. However, he was a fraction too slow. For his teammates rushed past him, blocking his bow shot and causing him to curse. He wasn't about to loose into them, and after two more attempts at aiming, only to deem it too risky, he placed the bow on his back and unfastened his Battle Axe.

"For the Hist!" He cried, usually not so gung-ho about battle-cries other than bestial hisses and roars, but recent stresses having caused him to revel a bit more in martial pride and bloodshed (which was saying something for the combat-oriented Argonian), particularly against Dunmer and followers of the Akavari invaders. He held his heavy weapon at the ready, running and nearly catching up with his fellows.

His powerful legs pumping, Dax reached a climax of a rise in the ground and leaped far higher than most would have thought possible from such a heavily armed and stocky warrior. Daixanos cleared his own lines with his leap, landing amid the Amiger throng. Before he could be overwhelmed, he swiped his tail, knocking two away in a small stumble and blocked a sword chop with the haft of his axe.

Daixanos shoved his opponent backward, a surly Dunmer with a flamboyant vest and a quick swiping Scimitar, instinctually hacking back, barely missing Dax's head. The Dunmer stabbed and thrust his sword like a duelist, adding twisting cuts in an attempt to confuse his opponent. Dax knocked aside three of the Scimitar's whirrling slashes, and chopped at the Dunmer. The Axe blade was caught on the Dunmer's defense, but with a powerful yank of the haft, the blade sliced downward across the Dunmer's collarbone with a pull-cut.

The Dunmer cried out, and Dax found an opening. He shoved the off-balance Dunmer once more, and when the Dark Elf was further away, Dax redirected his Axe in a wide sweep, taking his opponent in the neck, fully beheading the Amiger in a fountain of blood. Its disembodied head fell limp onto the ground, its body swaying only a moment before topping as well. The Argonian turned around, eager to find more prey.

_{featuring yours truly and @Dervish}

There was a perverse sense to Duhumvud sending Sadri and the newest member of the company, Narzul, up ahead as both scouts and potential vanguard, seeing as they were Dunmer and if they weren’t seen with the rest of the team, there was a chance, slim as it may be, they would escape much in the way of scrutiny. It was strange knowing that Narzul was Niernen’s brother, the two couldn’t have been more different in bearing. Niernen was compassionate, warm… her brother was as rigid and regimented as the military that spawned him, and it was very clear that he didn’t take kindly to the news of his sister’s thoughts of the Khajiit. And so, Do’Karth kept his distance and stuck by Sevine as much as possible, not only to stand by her when the time to fight came, but also to try and cement that she was where his heart lied. It was an awkward situation that Do’Karth had never anticipated coming to pass in a thousand years, but here he was and he had to make do with it, under the command of vile Nord that was infamous for kicking one of Do’Karth’s kin to death.

He rolled his jaw, reflecting on how much he truly loathed this war and everything that came with it. He was a man who sought inner peace and tranquility, and the past several weeks had done a lot to break that shell and put his limits to the utmost test. He would have given anything to take Sevine and run from this damned place and find somewhere that had never heard the clash of steel in ages, where the food was plentiful and the sands were warm. There were too many faces that he’d come to love in the time he’d been with the company, only to have them disappear one by one.

Do’Karth thought Niernen was lost forever, a woman he’d grown to greatly respect and admire, but she came back as if trying to defy what was expected of the fools who signed up for this stupid, stupid war. He tried to picture Jorwen’s face, but all that crossed the Khajiit’s mind was his imposing stature and great fiery beard. For a moment, shame filled Do’Karth’s heart; Jorwen’s memory deserved so much more than a lapse from an overly tired and frustrated Khajiit. He thought then of Solveig, and the promise he kept to Jorwen. How would he ever be able to make things right by him? He was just a foolish cat with a stick who was playing at a game that had impossibly high stakes. Why was he even here? Perhaps it was Mara and S’Rendarr’s way of punishing him for trying to find happiness for himself by choosing Sevine rather than devoting himself to others. It was a glum feeling that left him feeling empty and the most lost he’d felt in such a long time. The amulet about his neck felt like an unbearable weight rather than a source of strength. More than ever, he needed guidance and reassurance that what he was doing was right. No voice filled his consciousness, just the constant patter of footfalls of his companions and him as they marched into the unknown on the forebodingly named Bleakrock Isle.

A sharp crack and cries of alarm snapped Do’Karth out of his melancholy and with a sinking feeling of dread he knew that the bridge up ahead that he’d heard Sadri and Narzul crossing gave out under them. Resisting the urge to sprint forward to try and rescue them, he knew he couldn’t be reckless and give away his position. The group advanced with some urgency and were stopped at the sight of ten figures who were immediately apparent as the Armigers, the very enemies they were sent to confront. Do’Karth took a few moments to close his eyes and slow his breathing, allowing himself a moment of meditation before battle, expelling his pain and doubts with each breath as he found his center, and his purpose. He was a warrior, it was in his very soul. And it was this soul that was being called upon to act to protect the lives of his comrades and the innocents of the mainland.

The command to attack came suddenly, and Do’Karth’s eyes sprung open, wide and attentive as he charged his foe, who had turned to face the oncoming adversaries with his weapon at the ready, a pickaxe. Do’Karth was still simmering with anger and hatred towards this Dunmer and he projected all of it into the vessel of an elf before him. With a ferocious snarl, Do’Karth lashed out with intent to maim with his staff, his normally calm and collected manner of combat forgot in a ferocious flurry of blows that the Armiger managed to largely deal with, even going so far as to catch Do’Karth’s staff in his hands and pull him forward, causing the Khajiit’s grip to slip as he stumbled, trying to regain his balance. The Armiger stared down at Do’Karth with disgusted red eyes, and the Khajiit knew then that it wasn’t his skill that had failed him, it was his turbulent emotions. Much like his foolish drive to try and find shelter in the ice storm the week prior that had almost gotten him consumed by a Charrus, the turmoil that rocked his soul had made him reckless and clumsy. And he would pay for that foolishness when the pickaxe came crashing down into his skull.

Where turbulent emotions were nearly the cause of Do'Karth's downfall, they simultaneously drove another member of the Company to new heights of disgustingly successful violence. Niernen, furious and terrified for her brother's safety after watching him plummet into a ravine with Sadri, almost found herself ignoring everything and making a mad dash for the ledge to see if her brother was still alive. Much like Do'Karth, however, she didn't, and instead followed Duhumvud's command to attack -- or rather, she was going to kill them all and Duhumvud happened to agree with her course of action. She stayed behind the melee specialists and drew upon her respectable magicka reserves, chest heaving and face contorted with rage, and her hands were quickly simmering with wicked flames. Tears filled her eyes and she resisted the urge to scream as her emotions almost completely overwhelmed her. Was she even fit for combat anymore? What if she couldn't do this? What if Narzul was dead?

She blinked away the tears and realized that Do'Karth might be next if she didn't intervene, the sight of him at the mercy of one of the Armigers shocking her back to her senses. Using both hands Niernen fired a salvo of screaming fireballs that slammed into the Dunmer from the side with such force that he immediately lost his grip on Do'Karth and stumbled backwards. Liquid flames spat out in all directions, some sizzling drops passing Do'Karth by with a mere inch to spare, and fire enveloped the Armiger entirely. Dunmer are resistent to fire magic, of course, but the volcanic wrath of a sorceress scorned was too much for even the Armiger to handle and he screamed his last as he fell to his knees. Niernen approached him, gathering a final spell in both hands, and blasted her fellow Dunmer foe apart into several burning pieces with a close-range discharge of scorching heat akin to an explosive cannonball, the sound of which carried across the field like a peal of thunder. Was it overkill? Definitely. Satisfying? Definitely. After a few seconds Niernen finally took her eyes off the scattered remains of the Armiger and turned to look at the Khajiit.

"Do'Karth, are you alright?" she asked, her voice quivering, torn between fury and concern.

The display of power was incredible, and even though it wasn't the first time Do'Karth had encountered near-incineration at the hands of Niernen, it was no less petrifying. The oxygen around him was consumed in the inferno and the Khajiit was gasping for air and his skin and fur felt agonizingly hot as he tried to crawl away from the fire, not sure if he was burning or not. Everything about him hurt, and it became apparent that there wasn't an Armiger left when the spell finally was extinguished.

He barely heard Niernen's voice, his senses were so rattled. Looking around in frantic, jerky motions, Do'Karth's eyes locked on Niernen, trying to reconcile that she had saved him from his fate with the very visceral feeling of nearly brushing with an agonizing demise once more had she been even a little less precise. Turmoil was certainly what consumed Do'Karth, but even that seemed to be too mild a sentiment. "This one... this one is fine." he managed, fumbling for his staff, if it even survived. His hand managed to grip it, the treated wood having resisted the heat as well. "Do'Karth owes you thanks. He was careless." he said after a moment, realizing it was probably what Niernen needed to hear. It was a foolish temperament that got him into this mess, and once more it came to a friend to pull him out of it.

The she-elf felt her stomach twist when she saw the fear and shock in Do'Karth's eyes as it dawned on her that she had almost burned him alive too. Again. The absurdity of the situation made her laugh involuntarily. "I'm sorry, I don't think it's funny," she managed to stammer and patted the Khajiit on his warmer-than-usual shoulder. "That's the nerves laughing. Come on, I'll help you up--"

Her sentence was cut short by abruptly by a yelp of pain. After a split second, Niernen realized it was her own, and subsequently became aware that she was falling over. Sharp pain began to pulsate in her leg -- her bum leg, the same one that had been broken so recently. She hit the ground with a rather anticlimactic flomp and rolled over on her back to see what had attacked her, her breath coming in sharp bursts and her hair unhelpfully clouding her face. It was an Armiger with a wicked-looking chitin spear and tribal Ashlander tattoos spiderwebbing across his face. Of course it was; the fight wasn't over. Shouldn't have stopped to chat. She raised her hands in defense but the pain was so fierce and blinding she couldn't concentrate enough to draw on her magicka.

"Help!" she screamed.

---

“Good afternoon! I hear you’re working for… who?” a petite, feminine voice called out. Khazki turned to look, not immediately seeing the speaker until her feline eyes angled slightly down to behold a mousy-looking, freckle-faced Bosmer who had an air of earnest, if entirely misplaced, determination about her. Absolutely nothing about her looked dangerous, and from her evident emergence from the Argonian camp Khazki had been watching after Sagax, Bucket, and herself had made the breakthrough at the mine, she was mostly here as a habit to clear her thoughts and ease her consciousness that she left nothing to assumption. Maybe there was something that was missed at the camp, although she sure as hell wasn't going to actually go in the Argonian camp; that's how one risked catching some tropical disease in the permafrost plane of Oblivion known as Skyrim.

"Who's asking? I'm not for sale, unless you have a better ship." The Khajiit replied dryly, staring back with arms crossed. Both women were completely away from where they should be, namely somewhere where the temperatures stayed above freezing year around, but these were interesting times.

"I'm asking." Wylendriel answered, noting the subtleties of the khajiit's accent. It was like a thin blanket of Nibenese was layered atop of Elsweyrian. Frankly, neither one belonged in Dawnstar. It supported the assumption that this one worked for Ashav like she had, which might've been enough to convince her in other circumstances, but... this was Tzinasha's body and his people she is protecting. It was too personal. She pressed the issue, trying to subvert the sense of an interrogation by masking it as a conversation as she did so many times before with nords that were too ashamed to confess. She said, "I hear the Kyne's Tear was quite reliable."

"No idea. I'm new in town." The Khajiit replied, eyes darting around, looking for something to use as an excuse to get away from whoever decided to be friendly. "Who'd you hear I was working for, one wonders? Enough to wander up here and speaking coyly rather than spit it out. I'm not one for word games, I'm sure your Argonian buddies just love 'em."

She was starting to get on the priestess' nerves, judging by the irksome expression on the bosmer's face. Wylendriel was silently talking herself down from a ledge, and that was apparent in how she briefly pursed her lips, eyes closed, and took a sharp sigh as she reconducted herself. She continued, now tired of politely playing this little game.

"As a priestess, part of my responsibility is to protect the remains of the deceased, especially if their family is still mourning. These people are vulnerable. They've been hurt enough, so I cannot allow you go any further. If you're here to investigate the pakseech's death, then I can't tell you anything unless I know I can trust you. I need to know if we're working for the same cause. So who?""

"By the Divines, you are dramatic--"

"In case you've forgotten, there are good people being murdered." Wy snapped.

"I don't give a skeever shit about the shit lot the Argonians have, but if you must know, I'm looking for anything that will cut the ties between them and the string of murders that's gotten two of the company's guys tossed in a cell because they happen to be Argonians when the culprit is most likely a Dunmer." Khazki allowed, tapping her foot inpatiently. "Look, Priestess, your god isn't going to stop me from doing what I need to do, and neither are you. If you know something, now's the time to share, if not, you're wasting my time."

Wy's fingers twitched as she let the khajiit spreal her piece. 'I could kill her,' a voice in her said, 'I could kill her right now while she's yammering away and not expecting a thing. Border clashes along Valenwood and Elsweyr - it would be totally justified.'

The priestess' eyes were shut tight as she tried to ward these thoughts away, taking a ragged breath inward and holding it for a moment - slow exhale. She was better than her impulses. She had to be. She wasn't going to concern herself with the cat's judgement - 'she'll think I'm weak' - her judgement didn't matter. Tzinasha. He matters. He's what matters now. As for the cat...

It was after an awkward moment of pause before the bosmer finally replied. "...In interest of putting the investigation first, I'll ignore your... contumely. The company's saxhleel are in Ashav's service. That means we are in this together."

'Unfortunately.'

"You cannot imagine my joy." Khazki murmered under her breath, her ears pulling back and eyes narrowing into slits. Her expression might as well have well been a stone mask. Just when this one thinks her day cannot get any more tedious.

"So," Wy continued irritably, "I've already followed the lead and we've determined that the evidence does not follow the regular M.O. of the other murders, hinting at the possibility of another killer, or a dunmer agent trying to create confusion."

She pointed at the bushes behind the camp. "Jazechniim heard rustling from over here. I was just on my way to check for prints in the mud. If there are any, maybe they could lead us to where the killer is hiding."

"Uh-huh." Khazki said, half-listening as she set off towards the indicated brush. As she briefly glanced to the side, she saw the priestess keeping pace with her. At least they were going somewhere instead of verbally dancing around the point like some bad spy theater play. The Khajiit felt like the Bosmer was getting in way over her head; what was she planning on doing if she stumbled across the killers, pray them to death? Khazki buried those thoughts and focused on the task at hand; she knew all too well the costs of underestimating the wrong person. Life didn't suffer fools free reign for long. If this Bosmer was working for Ashav, she had to have offered something worth his while. It was an avenue worth looking into another time.

"Several murders taking place in a tight time frame, being unrelated? I find that unlikely." Khazki said after mulling it over for a spell. "Unless there were copy-cat killers, excuse the unintentional pun, but if that were the case, someone would have slipped up badly by now. You don't take advantage of simmering chaos and alerted guard presence to settle scores without it being incredibly impulsive."

"Impulsive..." Wy mused. "Remember where you're at. If one of these nords wanted to act on their hatred without repercussion, they have a conveniently placed killer to blame it on. Even if it wasn't one of them... I think it would serve the likes of us well to tread gently." The bosmer shot Khazki a sideways glance at the mention of the likes of them. It seemed that even after their bitter disagreement, she was still trying to find common ground between themselves. She must have figured that one place as good as any would be how the nords here probably hated the both of them.

"Like I said, impulsive. Nords generally aren't the stab you in the dark kind of people. They tend to make their displeasure become very, very public." Khazki noted, gesturing at the camp of Argonians to the side.

"Generally."

"So who's 'we'? The Argonians?"

"Yes," Wy answered as she crouched down and began tracing her fingers along the dried, caked dirt, "some of them were once the dunmer's slaves. They provided some useful insight."

Careful inspection of the mud didn't immediately reveal any footprints - it looked like a smeared mess with a dip in a ground, as if a child was previously playing in thick, sloppy mud. There was a deep groove nearby with a similar sort of swiping marks, nothing that looked natural. She has seen this before back when the parents were teaching the next generation how to survive, herself included. The reason bosmers made such excellent scouts was because they learned how to hide and track and survive in the thick wilds of Valenwood at a young age. These marks on the ground were weak attempts at covering your tracks.

'How would I get away with murder?' Their boots were sinking into the ground. Before they made their move, they filled those deep prints with mud and smoothed it out... just not well. 'I wouldn't have made these mistakes.' Wy briefly squeezed her eyes and refocused. They weren't used to this sort of landscape. They'd have to make a quick escape. Perhaps they planned an escape route to avoid the mud on their way out. She looked around, looking for patches of grass or rocks. Wy turned around, staring at the ground and lost in thought as she hopped from one light foot to the other, deliberately avoiding the dried mud - she stopped at one stone protruding from the ground where there was an outline of dirt and dried mud roughly in the shape of a boot. No treading on it. It must have come from a flat bottom that was meant to leave fewer and lighter tracks.

"I think I found something." Wy alerted Khazki.

The Khajiit headed over to where Wy was crouched and joined her, folding her tail over her lap as to put it out of the way and not disturb the ground. She studied the impression on the ground, noticing its typical shape. "Looks like whoever it is decided to ditch the stupid and morbid Argonian get up. No claw-like indentations. I also found this when investigating the mine earlier." Khazki said, pulling free the chunk of hard ash to show the Bosmer. "This is an ash shell, something the Ashlander tribes pioneered. Given that I doubt any of the miners know that spell and Morrowind's in bed with the Kamal, I'm pretty sure that's what we're looking for."

Wy looked at the ash shell, not dismissing the evidence the khajiit provided. Wuska had figured it out, but Wy didn't know what it looked like before now. Now she knows what to look for.

Khazki's eyes followed up ahead, looking for an obvious trail. It was pretty clear that before long, it would disappear when they got to rock, of which the Pale had plenty of. "My guess is whoever it is probably isn't staying in town and only comes in and goes out under the cover of darkness, regardless of when the killings occur. That means they probably have some means to hide in town... perhaps an accomplice among the townsfolk?"

"--an accomplice--" Wy said at the same time as Khazki, then held her tongue to let her finish. She snorted slightly in amusement, despite the very troubling possibility that there was someone betraying the town. For some reason the thought didn't bother her as much as she thought it should. Wy scratched her chin with her long, pointed nails thoughtfully as she imagined the path the assassin would take. If there was an accomplice, they could have ran into town under the cover of night without going too far in the open, but wouldn't be able to stay for too long. She, and Khazki too apparently, were both new in town and had no way of knowing who in town would be a Kamal apologist. The idea that there was an accomplice at all was still only conjecture.

"They'd need somewhere to go outside of town." Wy muttered, then looking to Khazki. "There's much I still don't know about Skyrim. If someone wanted to lie low outside Dawnstar, where would they hide?"

Khazki snorted, looking up at the horizon. The answer for the Bosmer's question was pretty much 'anywhere and everywhere'. Between caves, barrows, old ruins, and everything in between, anyone halfway crafty and willing to put up with mild discomfort could make camp wherever they wished. Most of Skyrim was empty and untouched wilderness. "Long answer short, anywhere's a hiding spot if you aren't looking for luxury. There can be any number of caves, maybe an old ruin or fort. Hell, set up a tent and cover it with snow or branches against a cliff face and you'll never see it. If someone wanted to, they could be so well hidden that you could walk right by them and not know they were there.

"Given that they managed to slaughter the entire workforce down in the mine and got out without anyone having a clue until someone decided to take a peak tells me that these aren't careless chumps. Only reason I found the shell was because I think one of them got hurt and sealed a wound. Of course, there was so much blood in there, the entire mine smelt of copper." Khazki lamented, a bit of a solemn tone to her voice. "What I wanted to know from the Argonians is if they noticed someone who looked off, or none of them recognized. I know these bastards were using a disguise because when I took this assignment, I got to look at the taxidermied tail."

"I'm sorry I-- I'm sorry, what?" Wy stammered, confused. She was just about to apologize for getting in the way of her own investigation, but then... well, Khazki said something rather left-field. "A taxidermied tail?"

Khazki nodded, evidently undisturbed by the finding. "Mmhmm. Ashav provided the evidence after one of the guards make pursuit of one of the Argonians, tried to tackle him, and a tail came off. It's legitimate leather, or at least the most convincing approximation I've ever seen. I'll just go ahead and say it; somebody killed an Argonian and taxidermied the body into a disguise. Coming from someone who's been threatened to be converted into a rug or coat liner on several occasions, I can't say it's all that shocking. People can be rather monstrous when the mood strikes and they don't think the law and civilization apply."

Her last point struck a small chord in Wy and she went silent for a moment. She then said, "Yeah, I know."

"Dunmer. I don't think I've met very many of them - met Niernen though, she was sweet." She thought aloud as she looked back at the tracks, shaking her head. Though that was a lesson that Wy kept on learning, wasn't it? It didn't matter who they were or what they looked like, there was a capacity for wickedness in everyone - the faces of the mercenaries came to mind, and so did the presence of that cold pit that sat in her stomach along with Torvald's lifeless face. She suddenly felt overcome with melancholy. She looked back at Khazki somberly. "Evil comes in many shapes. You may be right in not trusting anyone."

"It's part of my charm; I assume everyone's awful until proven otherwise. You can't be disappointed when they turn on you if you don't give them the benefit of the doubt." Khazki said, rolling her neck in a series of quiet cracks. "Well, I'm not going to go stomping around the wilderness aimlessly, and it sounds like if the Argonians knew something, you would have heard it, so that just leaves keeping an eye on the town where there's something to eat and drink. After the day I had, I need one."

"A drink, huh..." Wy muttered thoughtfully. She doubted that Dawnstar supplied any rotmeth or jagga. The other races usually dare not even try it. Though the more she thought, the more she realized that going to the tavern might actually be their best lead at this point. "Loose lips sink ships. I wonder if we might find or hear of someone who doesn't seem bothered by the murders."

It was happening again; her abrasiveness was becoming something of a trial that ended up with people growing a comfortable familiarity with Khazki, and she really wasn't sure what to make of it. It wasn't entirely unwelcome, although she still didn't really know or trust any of them, be it Solveig, Sevine, or even the damnable Do'Karth, but here was a tightass priestess who wore her bleeding heart on her sleeve trying to help a refugee camp of Argonians and hunt down murderers latching onto arguably the least approachable person in town. This one is losing her edge. Next someone is going to try scratching behind this one's ears.

"I doubt it, but it's better than standing around at here wondering." The Khajiit said, switching her sword between hands and working out the stiff muscles in the now free arm. The guards had seen her enough that they probably didn't care to confront her again. "So, what brings you to this polar piss pot?" Khazki asked. "I assume it's not the climate. Refugee?"

"I was - am - on pilgrimage. I ended up working for Ashav because it turns out that pilgrimages were more expensive than I thought." Wy answered half-truthfully as she walked. How she ended up in Skyrim was far too long a story to tell, and she doubted that she wanted to hear even half of it. She looked up at the much taller khajiit and said, "My name is Wylendriel. I serve Kynareth as well as Y'ffre."

"Pilgrim, huh? If you ask me, you took a wrong turn somewhere." Khazki replied, glancing over. "You kind of bumbled into a war; you don't exactly strike me as the mercenary type. I assume you're some kind of mage, given the lack of stabbing options visible on your person. I'm Khazki. Nothing to know about me other than I want off this rock before the Kamal catch up."

"Khazki." Wy repeated. "Maybe, but this whole time I thought all I had to do was pray to each of the divines at their shrines. The shrine of Dibella south of Dawnstar was the reason I'm here, but now I'm wondering Talos led me here for a different reason. I don't know if helping the people here is what it takes to earn Talos' blessing, or if the Divines don't really care if I visit their shrines at all. Perhaps my place is with helping others."

The priestess sighed. "I apologize, this must be of little interest to you."

Well, you're not wrong... Khazki thought, holding her tongue as to not inflame the already terse working relationship they established. Normally she'd be quite content to be blunt since she'd never have to deal with a person again, but if she was going to work for Ashav for the forseeable future, she couldn't jeopordize her spot on the ship. Even the Khajiit understood the use of compromise when it called for it.

They crossed into the town past the gates after a few moments of silence before Khazki spoke up. "So you say you servce Kynareth and Y'ffre, but Talos is the one that guided you here? Don't you elves hate Talos on principle for being a heretic false divine that was forced upon you by the Septim Empire after Tiber Septim slaughtered a bunch of the elves and conquered your lands?"

Wy made an amused huff. She gave Khazki a sly look and said, "If I judged sons and daughters for their father's sins, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Besides... the Thalmor already made it even, didn't they?"

The way the priestess disdainfully spat out the word 'Thalmor' didn't indicate any particular love for the group, instead inciting some of her ire. After a moment of stewing, she continued, "When on pilgrimage up north, you visit the shrines of each of the Divines. I live in Skyrim now, yes? I thought that maybe I owed it to the nords as an elf to at least get to know Talos. It'd bring us one step closer to mending the wounds inflicted by the civil war."

That was half of the truth. She was on a time limit, so it wasn't like she could afford to let elven pride get in the way of saving her own damned soul.

"Either way, I prayed to Talos at one of his shrines and he led me here. It'd be ungrateful of me now to deny his divinity."

"Well, if that's what it takes. I've never really trusted the whims of gods and Daedra, how can people matter when we're there and gone in the blink of an eye?" Khazki asked rhetorically, shrugging. "It won't be divine intervention that will find these killers, it'll be a lifetime of hard-earned skills and steel, and that's gotten me this far. Come on; let's see if the inn's been drained of anything that doesn't taste like fermented piss."

'Ironically enough, fermented piss might be the only thing there I'd be mandated to drink.' Wy thought.

_{A collaboration of @Peik & MiddleEarthRoze}

---

---

Deeper into the hallway, with nothing but his lantern lighting a path forward through the almost impenetrable darkness, Marcel could not help but feel a tinge of caution. He had walked through the illusory wall with his silver sword in hand, expecting threats from supernatural elements rather than anything human, but as he walked further, this expectation blurred. They were here to find assassins after all, and if anything, they had walked straight into their element. Marcel’s normal job was not much different than this, but then again, most beasts, due to their nature, often recoiled in irritation from his presence, and he himself was so much used to scanning the environment for elements that he’d often forget to focus and use his ability honed by his master to detect the inherent magic laying in living beings, which betrayed their position, no matter where they were.

It suddenly dawned upon him, as the hallway gave way to a large chamber, that he had forgotten that this time around as well.

''Hold on, Rhasha,'' Marcel advised to the Khajiit trailing behind him, and closed his eyes for a moment, welcoming a mostly unnoticed sense beyond the five that he normally used, feeling the presence of his large, furred comrade.

And others, too.

''Back!'' was all that Marcel was able to say as a warning, before instinctively lunging away from the edge of the oversized blade that had come swinging with the intention of lodging itself inbetween his shoulder blades. The rays of the sole source of illumination in the chamber danced weakly across the walls as the lantern in Marcel’s off hand shook with his swift movement, and the glaive meant for the Breton found itself striking the stone floor of the chamber with a sharp clang. He could not see much with his eyes, aside from the lantern light glimmering off the blade. He thrust his blade forward instinctively in the general direction of the magick he felt as to sway his foe from a follow-up strike and earn himself a moment to gather his senses.

''To your left!'' Marcel shouted to Rhasha'Dar in that moment, in hopes that his words could guide the Khajiit's strike through the darkness.

Despite Marcel's warning, and Rhasha's own natural skill of seeing things in the dark others normally wouldn't, the Khajiit did not act quickly enough to deal with his hidden foe. The thought of two attackers was for some reason shocking to him, simply because he hadn't even considered it an option during his excitement of finding a hiding place for their serial killer - he had assumed a lone wolf, a single psychopath bent on hurting others. But of course, there was more than one... of course there was some kind of motive.

His attacker lashed out before Rhasha could properly react, and the Dunmer's blades made contact with his uncovered face. One nicked the side of his cheek, while the other raked down his face, thankfully missing his eyes, but carving a ridge on the flesh above and below to his jawline. Falling to the floor with a painful hiss, Rhasha rolled backwards as he avoided another speedy attack from his opponent. Now, Rhasha had some advantage. The Dunmer had lost all elements of surprise, and the Khajiit's night vision could pick out his outline clearly in the darkness. Replacing his spear with war-axes hanging by his side, Rhasha charged his foe, cleaving in a brutal upwards strike with his axe and clipping the Dunmer on his shoulder.

A hollow shriek added to the cacophany of fighting sounds in the dark room, accompanied by various Dunmeri insults such as "S'wit" and "Fetcher", amongst other foul words. As Rhasha raised his axes to land a second blow, a wave of fatigure suddenly washed over him, and he staggered to his knees. Blood dripping into his right eye, he wiped it away with a now shaking hand. While he had never suffered this before, Rhasha knew well what these symptoms were down to after years of research in alchemy. The bastard had used poisoned blades.

Not knowing how virulent the poison was - or how long he may have left - Rhasha got back to his feet and swung his axes again, with as much strength as he could manage. They landed with a dull squelching noise into the chest of the injured Dunmer, and after gasping a moment, he fell to the floor. Whether the blow had killed him or not, Rhasha didn't particularly care. The wound would be fatal in a few moments, and there was another foe to be dealing with. Peering now with blurry eyes towards Marcel and the other Dunmer, Rhasha scrambled sluggishly to find his discarded spear on the shadowed floor.

In the meantime, things had not gone as well for the witch hunter. Despite having some innate advantage against the assassin in the darkened light, Marcel had not been able to properly gain initiative, and the Dunmer’s lengthy weapon, combined with his skilled usage, had made it almost impossible for the Breton to get closer than the weapon’s reach and put in a strike strong or well-aimed enough to get through or bypass his would-be killer’s armor.

With his candle lantern having almost consumed its air supply in the constant flinging, Marcel found it harder and harder to parry or dodge the Dunmer’s strikes, with the glaive’s weighty blade putting too much strain against his blade. Too busy with his attempted murderer to notice how his Khajiit comrade had been doing, Marcel could only find the strength to gain initiative in himself after noticing the faint glow of somebody’s life force seep down and form a puddle on the ground. Fearing that the Khajiit had been fatally wounded, Marcel let out an unexpectedly aggressive cry and lunged forward, swinging his silver blade downward.

His cry was cut short by the sudden pricking feeling of something biting into his windpipe and a sudden feeling of breathlessness. The Dunmer had managed to strike true; Marcel choked, almost vomiting because of a pool of blood forming in his throat, and his knees gave after a couple of clumsy retreating steps, and convulsing moments of attempted gasps for air. Had it not been for his gorget, the strike would have most likely cloven through his neck, perhaps decapitated him. It was debilitating, and almost fatal; nonetheless, this was a preferable alternative to certain death.

Despite desperately trying to get back on his feet and continue with the fight, Marcel found it increasingly harder to attempt as the shock of the wound passed and the adrenaline rush lost its immediate effect. Blood was pouring out of his neck like rainwater would from a roof gutter; his lungs were crying for air, his face had gone purple from being unable to breathe, and his eyes felt like they were on the verge of popping out of his skull. His skull felt like it could explode any time from the sheer pressure. It seemed like a definite, if not fatal, defeat.

Slumping onto the ground, he weakly tried to at least get back on his knees, attempting to push himself up with his arms, yet they felt more like a burden than support. He weakly turned his head, and felt someone’s life force closing the distance. No doubt, he thought, it was the Dunmer, coming in to finish what he had started. He opened his mouth in a subconscious attempt to make noise; whether shout, curse or yelp for air, Marcel himself did not know, but the result was no more than a gargle and a mouthful of blood spat onto the ground.

There was nothing Rhasha wanted to do more than to fly at Marcel's attacker, cleaving him down before he could harm the Breton further, and to then heal the poor man. But unfortunately for the intrepid pair, Rhasha's strength had all but ebbed away. Shadows seemed to flicker at his periphery as the world began to swim around him, and the cut on his face seemed to burn stronger than the wildfires he had escaped from only a week ago. In his dying sight, he could see the stumbling Marcel, and the Dunmer bearing down on him. A low, rumbling noise filled Rhasha's ears as the poison numbed his senses, but thankfully, the cat still had his sense of touch. Probing fingers along the floor finally fell upon a familiar wood, and his hands grasped the smooth shaft of his spear.

Walking seemed to be an impossibility, but with the length of his weapon, Rhasha had a slight advantage. The second dunmer - seemingly uncaring about his still dying fellow on the floor - had either forgotten about Rhasha, or dismissed him as a threat entirely. A foolish mistake, especially when one had the upper hand in a fight.

Propping himself up with the last vestiges of strength, Rhasha launched himself towards his foe from a crouching position, allowing his own weight to carry him forward and put enough force behind his spear thrust. While his mark wasn't true - he had been aiming for the Dunmer's heart - the point of his spear pierced flesh, and the man let out a bellow of pain. Both of them fell to the floor; Rhasha in utter exhaustion, and the attacker in agony. While his heart and lungs were quite safe, Rhasha's spear had been driven almost entirely through the attacker's midriff - gut wounds were rarely immideately fatal, but they were quite agonising. If the Dunmer didn't find medical aid soon, he was sure to die from blood loss... or septic shock. The latter was painful beyond words, but it was to be expected when one's digestive juices suddenly poured free amongst your organs and blood.

As the dunmer wrenched the spear from his back and staggered out of the room, Rhasha weakly tugged on Marcel's sleeve. In his hand was a healing potion - several more were in his bag, but he was barely in any state to blink, let alone stand up and go rummaging amongst his possessions.

"Ta...ke..." Was all the Khajiit managed to utter before totally succumbing to the fatigue poison. It had been pointless him drinking it anyhow - whatever poison had been used on him was fast - much faster than a simple health potion, that was for sure. As unconsciousness began to take hold, Rhasha wearily scolded himself for not making a cure poison potion earlier.

It would not be too extreme to say that the Breton was far too heavily debilitated by his wound to realize what the Khajiit had done for him; despite the fact that the cat-man had saved his life, Marcel was too concerned with his throat and his friend's apparent paralysis to actually appreciate that fact. He could feel beads of sweat gathering on his forehead from the pressure, although things were painful enough for him that he might as well have been sweating blood. He barely heard the Khajiit say something, and felt something tug on his arm, trying to push himself back before reflexively before understanding it was his comrade. Marcel propped himself onto his knees and hobbled forward on them and his hands like a baby's attempts at walking, occasionally slipping up on blood. A few moments later, Marcel's hand eventually stumbled onto the Khajiit's palm, and in it a wooden bottle.

Marcel was far too gone to try and think what it could be. The pain had overridden his mind to a point of animal instinct; he didn't even have the mental capacity to hope that it was a potion, he just simply grabbed it, sloppily opened it and then poured it down his mouth, some of it pouring down his mouth and onto his neck. He felt the liquid pool in his throat for a moment, barely fighting an urge to vomit, before feeling his throat clear up from the liquid pressure and twitching with rejuvenation and a relaxing sensation. While he still did not have the strength to do anything aside from crawling around on his knees, he felt that his muscles and brain weren't losing any further capacity. It was a relief, although there wasn't really much time to feel relieved, considering how they were now confirmed (harshly) to be in hostile territory, and how the Khajiit seemed to be... losing strength?

Marcel crawled over to the fellow, tracing his wounds with his finger, deducing that they weren't really all that deep, compared to the fluctuations in his comrade's life force. For a moment he thought that the Khajiit just had very low pain tolerance, but then it dawned upon him that their opposition, being assassins, could've likely poisoned their weaponry, as Marcel himself often did when hunting. Suddenly feeling a panicked concern, he quickly began going over his belt, touching the satchels to recognize what material they were made of (Marcel used containers made of different materials to be able to recognize his potions in a pinch or when in darkness). Feeling the smoothness of a lacquered bottle, he immediately pulled it from its spot and popped it open, pouring its poison-eating liquid down the Khajiit's throat, hoping it would be effective, and that it was indeed poison and not something else that was eating away at the cat-man.

With how the poison was affecting him, Rhasha wasn't entirely sure as to whether or not he had truly lost consciousness at any point. The darkness of the room they laid in, paired with his swiftly numbing senses, easily gave one the impression that they were knocked out. Whatever the case, the first sensation to come back to Rhasha was one of a cool liquid, running down his throat and settling in his stomach. It seemed icy-cold to his body, already running a dangerously high temperature - but wherever the liquid went, it seemed to douse the fires within. Eyes that had been half-closed opened fully now, with Rhasha's lucidity rushing back to him, alongside a good dose of aches, pains and thankfully, his night vision.

The concerned face of Marcel was the first thing he could make out amongst the fuzziness of the darkness above, and the Khajiit's first thought was that of relief - clearly the health potion had done his comrade some good. Otherwise, the pair of them might be dead.

The remnants of the poison's effects still clung to Rhasha'Dar; he felt weak and shivery, like someone who had only just fought off a particularly bad flu and was taking the first steps of getting better. Slowly propping himself up on one elbow, then sitting up all the way, Rhasha faced Marcel.

"This one... thinks we should leave." He managed to pant out quietly through laboured breaths. Marcel didn't seem too incapacitated at the moment, but the pair of them likely couldn't track down and fight their surviving attacker. The threat of more assassins in the fort was entirely possible, and besides, Rhasha didn't feel up to fighting a cold, let alone an angry, weapon-wielding Dunmer. He could always drink a few stamina potions, but who knew if that would be enough?

"Unless... you have... other plans?" He asked the Breton man, wondering if he had a few more tricks up his sleeve alongside a cure poison potion.

Marcel's reply was no more than a simple nod of rejection. "...Enough," he managed to spurt out in pain, "We... know enough. Out." He eyed the entrances nervously, hoping that there wouldn't be any other surprises, as he offered a hand to the Khajiit.

Rhasha'Dar couldn't agree more. Taking Marcel's hand gratefully, he unsteadily got to his feet. Pausing only momentarily to retrieve his weapons (His axe took a bit of tugging to remove from the dead Dunmer's torso, but Rhasha had no intention of leaving any part of his brother's parting gift behind in this wretched place.), he followed Marcel out of the fort and they began their descent down the snowy bank of the hill. Hopefully there would be a guard or two near the border of Dawnstar to deal with this newly found threat - Rhasha and Marcel were certainly in no state to do so.

Mr. Frizzle, Turdman, and I did the do.

---

Dawnstar, half an hour after the encounter at the Tower of Dawn…

Time was of the essence. With the hideout discovered and already a man down, Valyne had made quick time back into the town for what was likely to be her final time. Under the cover of darkness and using the foliage of the hardy trees that somehow thrived this far North as concealment, the Dunmer assassin knew she had to make haste and eliminate her mark and leave Dawnstar vulnerable to her allies’ fleets. The Jarl’s residence, The White Hall, was as conspicuous as any building of its statue could be, especially alongside the number of single-story residences that made of the majority of the hold, lifted upon stilts to keep out moisture and preserve the heat. She’d become rather accustomed to the streets the past several days, lurking about unnoticed as her and her team plotted about how best to destabilize Dawnstar and what chords needed to be severed to make the townsfolk play the Dunmers’ tune. Piece by piece, it came together, but just as soon, it started to unravel. It became apparent to the guards that the Argonians weren’t responsible for the string of murders, and word got around it might be Dunmer. The pressure made them rash, not nearly as sure footed, and now instead of a methodical elimination of the Jarl, Valyne and her team had laid their lives down in one final desperate attempt to complete their mission. Though she likely would die, she would succeed at any cost, the Dunmer decided. She would bring honour to her Ancestors and to the Tribunal, any other outcome with inconceivable.

The two guards standing watch outside the front doors of the White Hall weren’t attentive to the shadow that had creeped out of sight and were quickly set upon by the assassin as she leapt past the first guard, dragging her blade across his throat as she grabbed the mouth of the second, her hand becoming entombed in ash as she forced the Nord to the ground, filling his lungs with hardening ash and preventing him from screaming as he suffocated. Both men died without making a peep. The Dunmer waited and listened for any sign she was noticed. Azura smiles upon me this night. she thought with a grim smile, flicking blood off of her blade as she stood, straightening out her tunic before opening the heavy wooden door and slinking inside.

Outside, just down the road from the White Hall, boots thudded against the cobblestone as the Speculatus siblings strolled along. They had reported their findings from the mine, and were currently stumped as to how they would continue their investigation. Sagax heard whispers throughout the streets, but nothing conclusive, while Piper had little luck with her shakedowns of citizens deemed "suspicious".

"Not a damn thing since the mines...these fuckers must drink invisibility potions like mead for all the traces they've left behind." Piper said, punting a stone down the hill bordering the road. "The others better have found something too, or we're shit out of luck."

"I'm sure everyone's found at least something. Apart, they may not amount to much, but when we convene and put everything together, I think the pieces will paint a clear picture." At least, he hoped so. Sagax knew how unlikely it was that they'd find the killers, but they still needed to try. It was better than to put in an effort and find nothing, than to sit idle while evidence could be hiding right under their noses. "We just need to...keep...looking...?" Voice trailing off, the Imperial's eyes were fixed on the doors of the Jarl's longhouse. It didn't take long for Sagax to notice the two dead guardsmen. "Piper...!" he whispered, trying to direct his sister's attention to the scene.

"Motherfucker...!" was the only word to leave her mouth before Piper ran to the scene. "What the hell happened here!?" She yelled aloud in exasperation, desperately trying to find a single trace of the killer.

Alim crouched, his hand inching toward his sword hilt on instinct, even if he somehow doubted he'd need to use it at this time. There was something about the scene that didn't fit right with him when the two figures appeared before the bodies. If they wanted him to think they didn't commit these murders by acting it, they had really good eyesight to see him in the dark, and for some reason felt it was necessary to kill guards but not him, and instead convince him. Not likely, so for the moment he assumed they were being earnest in their sudden exclamation of surprise.

Still, they spoke as if they knew something that was going on, and unfortunately for Alim, he was often too curious for his own good. He crept closer, padded feet silent over the snowy earth as he came up the rise. He began to get a better view of the two who were gauging the state of the (assuredly) fresh corpses. A thin Imperial, a thief if Alim had ever seen one. And he ought to know, after all. Next to him was a somewhat plain but attractively shapely Imperial woman.

They didn't look apart of the Thane's retinue, and nor did they look like murderers to his eyes from their appearance, even if he had deduced this wasn't their doing already. Sighing, he decided against silently following them. He didn't want suspicion on him either. He decided to announce himself.

Standing up, he began to move toward them, letting the now audible footfalls of his approach announce himself for him. The Redguard hybrid unlaced his veil, and called. "Well met. If I may ask, what by the Nine is going on?"

The commotion was drawing, and Khazki took quick notice after Bucket's exclamation pierced the winds. She was walking towards the tavern with Wylendriel when the Imperial's voice caught the Khajiit's notice. Feeling that danger was afoot, she looked at the Bosmer, grabbing her by the arm. "Go find the commander, or whoever, and bring them back here." as if to cut off any further protest, she concluded, "I don't give a shit if you think you're good in a fight, you're more useful to more people if you don't get caught up in a fight that's over your head. The Argonians trust you and you're a healer, that makes you uniquely valuable to this town. Go!" With a shove, Khazki took off towards the door, sword in hand and her heart pounding, anticipating a fight.

It wasn't long until she came across Bucket and some Redguard that she didn't recognize, along with two dead guards. Given the baffled expressions on both humans' faces, they weren't the ones responsible. Crouching beside one of the bodies, the build up of ash around the mouth told her all she needed to know. "Damn it all, did I not tell people what to look for?" She snarled, looking up at the two milling about. "Why in Oblivion are you both gawking here? The Jarl's in danger!"

Standing suddenly and brushing past the gathered pair, Khazki flung open the heavy door, heading inside. She'd never been inside the hall before, as most had not, she suspected, and the smell of blood lingered in her sensitive nose. Listening carefully, she took off to the left when she thought she heard some form of footfall, hoping she'd be on the right track.

"What-hey! Wait for us, furball!"

Piper wasted no time. Sprinting through the door after Khazki, she made a hard left after seeing the cat-woman's tail flick past the corner. Piper had only ever been in the main hall when signing her Investigator's Contract, so she had to rely on Khazki's lead. Sagax, having been left behind in confusion, was the last to enter the White Hall. The Imperial kept going straight, hoping in vain that he would catch up to the others and find the killer.

Alim was struck speechless for once in his life, the finger he held up fell, just around the same time his open mouth closed. "Yeah, I'm not missing this." He said aloud, skeptical but far too intrigued at why these two not only expected something like this would happen, but ran into the great hall without announcing themselves. His light footed trot caught him up to them relatively quickly, his sword now drawn, though he made no move against them.

"I take it one of you knows what is going on?"

Khazki didn't bother slowing or to look at the man. "Yeah. Some bastard's about to kill our payroll. Find the Jarl and shut it; this person is one of the ones that's been behind the string of murders the past few days and obviously doesn't care who gets in the way."

A body of one of the servants was laid carelessly out in the front foyer, his throat slit in a single crimson gash, and a shout from the right caught her attention. Khazki followed the sound, skipping over the legs of another felled guard until she found an open chamber, the Jarl pinned in the corner, sword held with both hands in front of him, while a Dunmer with a wicked looking dagger stood in the middle of the room. Khazki stood in the door frame, noting the assassin's dagger was dripping with blood.

"Move and you're dead." She stated bluntly, sword held at the ready. Khazki was not about to take chances on the assassin.

Valyne glanced back from the cowering Nord to see a Khajiit of all people standing in the door frame, who was joined by a Redguard and an Imperial moments later. So I'm out of time. So be it. so thought, weighing her options. She could kill the Jarl and complete her mission before the intruders caught her, but they'd be on her in an instant; death was assured. However, if she turned and fought, she still risked a fatal duel without completing her mission. Her life would be spent in vain, as would Hlavora's, Bovis, Malur... they all gave their lives to the cause when they were ordered by the Tribunal. Even the most trusty dagger could break with use, and she wasn't about to let that noble sacrifice be for nothing.

Without a word, things happened in an instant.

Valyne darted across the room, diving across the Jarl's bed to tackle the man, her blade immediately sinking into his heart. Skald's eyes went wide and his mouth hung agape, uncomprehending what had just happened to him. Knowing she'd never free the dagger in time, she grabbed the sword the Jarl had tried feebly to defend himself with, the man likely having not swung the thing with intent in decades. The wound would be fatal, if not from the puncture, then from the potent poison it was coated with; a final gift of Hlavora's. The Khajiit was upon her then, the massive greatsword too large and clumsy to be used to its true capacity in a confined room like this, and with the flat surface of the blade, the Dunmer parried the strike and closed in the range from her assailant.

Khazki tried her best to maneuver in such close quarters, but the assassin was exceptionally skilled, quickly having turned her exposed position with an unfamiliar weapon into an increasing offensive where soon Khazki found herself entirely blocking and back peddling, not able to get room to bring her spells into play, or free the dagger on her hip. Stupid. You know your sword is inadequate for this fighting. she thought bitterly, teeth grit in determination as she looked for an opening, anything to put her back on the attack.

Suddenly, a hand broke through her defenses and a violent electrical shock coursed through Khazki's body, which immediately went rigid to the point she couldn't even scream. Somehow managing to keep on her feet, the Dunmer then thrust the sword forward, the Khajiit's limbs too inflamed and tense to react in time and the point buried into the shoulder under her armoured plate. Without the electricity, Khazki screamed out, but retained enough of her wits to grab the sword's cross guard to prevent the assassin from pulling the blade free easily, something that would prove to be fatal if the Dunmer had the opportunity to strike again. It was an opening for Alim and Piper, who now faced an unarmed opponent.

Heart pumping from the adrenaline pulsing through her body, the knightess lashed out with a scream as soon as she had a chance. Her aim, though, was unsteady, and her blade was sent across the thigh of the assassin. She would have preferred for something more lethal, but Piper simply couldn't calm her body. She had always envisioned her first real fight against a living, breathing person to be a simple affair, with her the clear victor after a decisive and fatal strike. What was wrong with her? She was perfectly willing to kill, it didn't matter if her foe was anything from an assassin to a common bandit.

Body still shaking, Piper quickly stepped back and raised her shield with a wavering confidence. Keeping a hyperactive watch on the Dunmer, she anticipated attacks that never came, twitching in response to her own imaginings.

While Piper threw her dagger, Alim waited a split second to see if the wound would be fatal. But it seemed the Knight's nerves had gotten to her. Willing himself forward while simultaneously questioning why he was even here, Alim's sword sang as it was pulled from his scabbard. Aggressively, he charged as the assassin fumbled for her sword. She managed to get a grip on the blade, and yanked it out of Khazki painfully. The cry from the Khajit only brought back bad memories of his time in Elsweyr, and his sword swiped at the assassin's hips. Valyne managed to swing her blade around, but Alim twisted his blade and momentum, driving it upwards out of her block, to slice across the lightly armored woman's collarbone, biting into her throat.

Her eyes widened, and she desperately tried to fumble for her sword as she felt the wet, warm lifeblood seep out of her. Alim stood back, lowering his sword as he watched her begin to panic, her own sword slipping from her weakened fingers. The Redguard hadn't exactly been the best at aiming the cut, but as it happened, Valyne's throat was not completely slit. Her breathing came it gasps, but it came. Alim winced, never enjoying having to hurt a woman, even an assassin like this one. Still, he had the frame of mind to kick her blade from her and point his at her chest.

The Khajiit's vision was unfocused with the bursting of star-like spots from the acute pain, and for a moment she feared she might have been poisoned. Realizing the pain wasn't getting any better or worse and she wasn't getting drowsy, Khazki nevertheless found that her left arm screamed in agony to move, a tendon or muscle was likely severed. Her right hand began to glow in a soft yellow-white light, a startling contrast to her slapping the hand against the wound and gritting her teeth as she tapped into her limited magicka reserves to mend the damaged tissues. As the pain lessened, she looked at the subdued assassin, gripping her own slit neck; she wasn't likely to have had her windpipe severed, but there was a chance that the blade that stopped her nicked the artery. The three stared down at the Dunmer, and the Jarl's fresh corpse didn't exactly make anyone feel particularly triumphant for stopping the assassin's escape. "Ashav will want to talk to the bitch." Khazki stated, stepping over to Valyne, crouching before her and locking eyes with the crimson-visage of the one who cut her. "Bad luck, hm?" she stated, looking at the blood seeping between grey fingers. Khazki clucked her tongue. "You probably want to die, don't you? Unlucky for you, I want something to show for a dead Jarl and my fucked-up shoulder." She said, a menacing tone under her raspy voice.

The assassin didn't respond, but her eyes widened when Khazki pulled away the woman's hand and shoved a pair of fingers into the open wound in the neck. Quickly, a hard grey-brown substance began to build out of the wound and spread across the Dunmer's neck. Khazki stopped when the spread was just starting to creep across Valyne's chin. "Don't look surprised; this is how I knew it was you, scuttlehead." Looking to the others, Khazki asked, "You two brought her down and probably saved my life, so care to do the honours?"

Alim glanced at Piper, and then at Khazki. After a moment, he sheathed his sword and bent down to unceremoniously haul the weakened and drowsy assassin over his shoulder. He knew fell well she wasn't completely asleep, so he did well to keep her limp arms away from his sword hilt. The redguard straightened his back, glad he had stretched earlier. "So you work for Ashav?" Alim asked them casually. "What's he like? Think we'll get hazard pay out of this?"

"If you like drunks, he's your guy. If you want to be properly compensated for risking life and limb, don't expect much." Khazki replied, picking up her sword and returning to healing her shoulder. She took in the carnage of the Jarl's hall, shaking her head. "I'm pretty sure our contract just died."

---

Roze winced at every crash and thud the falling bridge - and two Dunmeri - made as they hit the bottom of the chasm. The sound seemed to reverberate into the night air, and the rogue knew immediately their chances of continuing this part of their journey stealthily would be impossible. Especially when a near-dozen Armigers showed up, looking equal parts confused and suspicious at the destroyed bridge. Had Roze been in charge, she would have recommended a sneak attack on the group. There were a fair few decent archers amongst them, alongside those who knew plenty of ranged spells. That way they could dispatch their enemies and retrieve their fallen comrades without making too much of a racket, and potentially gaining more unwanted attention from their foes on the island.

Naturally, Dumhuvud had a different plan.

The Cat-Kicker rushed forward before anyone else could get a word in edgeways. Roze groaned inwardly at his brashness, but at least she could appreciate that there wasn't time to dither about what to do. Not with two of their own possibly already incapacitated and needing help. Still, Roze couldn't help but be reminded at what an idiotic idea it was to place Dumhuvud in charge of a stealth mission. Following the others from their hiding place, the Breton nocked an arrow and scanned the field, waiting for a target to present itself. By now, Roze had learnt to keep her distance from the middle of a fight. Too many close calls at Windhelm and Bthamz had just reinforced the fact that she was no warrior, and sneaking would do no good when out in the open like this. She'd be far better picking off her enemies further away - Roze only hoped that her aim was a bit more true than last time. A pang of guilt hit her as she reminisced; an arrow of her own had scratched Sagax in the Dwemer ruin. He'd been gracious about the potentially fatal mistake, but it was not so easily forgotten for Roze. Especially after the last time they had spoken. Roze powered forward, pulling a face as she tried to squash her feelings down. Now wasn't the time. Not when there were friends in front of her being injured.

Sevine was clearly struggling with her foe, and Niernen had just fallen with a screech of pain to a Dunmer with a spear. Before Roze could even pick which companion to aid first, a new target caught her attention. Roze seemed to have caught the Armiger's attention too, for he was already sprinting at her, bellowing and grasping a particularly heavy looking hammer. She supposed it made sense, in the Dunmer's eyes, to take down the ranged attackers first. Still, she wasn't particularly happy about it. Nor was she going to let him be successful.

Deciding to forgo Dumhuvud's order of "try and keep them alive", Roze had pulled back her bow; her face calm and hands steady, but heart hammering away with adrenaline and fear as the Dunmer swiftly approached. As she loosed her arrow, the effect on the attacker was darkly comedic, in a way. As his left eye socket became home to her arrow, his steady sprint descended into a slow stagger, and he gave a few sloppy, confused swings of his hammer before toppling to the floor only a yard from her feet, a most peculiar expression of bewilderment on his face as he died. Roze stepped over his body, convulsing due to the foreign object now embedded in his brain, and nocked another arrow and found her second target. None of her friends would be dying today; not if she could help it.

---

---

The visceral spray of arterial blood from the lopped off Amiger's head showered Dax as he turned to survey the battlefield. His senses heightened due to his combat fueled adrenaline, he read the battle raging around him like a book. The Rogue's arrow had felled one, the corpse still lazily swinging as if it was too stubborn to die. Sevine was grappling with her foe, but it looked like she was gaining the upperhand, as were most of the team if only Dax could keep more Amigers from flanking them.

Dax kicked the headless, stumbling corpse of his foe over before he rapidly advanced to higher ground, reaching a rise in the uneven terrain and scrabbling up upon a large rock, his clawed feet finding perfect purchase as he retrieved his powerful hunting bow. Knocking an arrow into the weapon, he aimed down the shaft and gazed around the battle.

The wind whipped lightly, causing his small frills to sway as his tongue snaked out. His keen eyes adjusting to the light and distance within moments, and soon he found an Amiger that seemed a promising target. It was an Altmer with dual hand axes, lithe and graceful, but strong of arm and he looked as if he knew how to use them with deadly efficiency.

As Roze's opponent was felled, the Amiger saw the Breton keep her ranged weapon out. The Amiger crouching like a hunting cat, watching her with every measured step as he approached, hoping to catch her off guard to make an easy kill. Hoping to do exactly what Dax was doing, routing out the flankers so to turn the tide of battle in their favor.

Unfortunately for him, Dax merely waited three heartbeats before the twang of his bow shot into his eardrums, and the loosed arrow punched into the Amiger's rising head, fully slicing into his skull. The foe died immediately, and thumped upon the ground with a despicable twitching, his axes now fallen from his nerveless fingers. Daixanos was positive Roze would have seen the Amiger in time, but they were apart of a team.

He had to keep telling himself that. He and Tsleeixth were apart of this team. He needed to tell himself this, or else his anger would give way to prejudice, and he did not know what would happen then...

Spoops and I wrote dis

It was in the middle of conversation, one that had turned unexpectedly pleasant following their rocky introduction. As Wylendriel's small frame fought hard against the resistance of the much larger khajiiti woman's arms to no avail, the warrior's words were able to reach through the panicked haze that had enveloped her mind: " I don't give a shit if you think you're good in a fight, you're more useful to more people if you don't get caught up in a fight that's over your head. The Argonians trust you and you're a healer, that makes you uniquely valuable to this town. Go!"

At first it fanned the flames of her temper. It was frustrating being denied what she wanted, but as she gave it further thought, she was able to calm down and control her breath. A chill crawled up her spine, and the memory of the awful daedric laugh followed her like a bad itch. She felt troubled by how quickly and easily she lost control of her emotions, but despite that and despite the desire to pursue the murderer remained, Khazki was right. She had her own job to do. The priestess nodded hesitantly to her, then turned on her heels and ran swiftly towards the opposite direction with the picture of Ashav clear in her mind. Her feet pounded against the rocky ground, kicking up dirt with trademarked wood elven speed. She focused on her commander's face. Perhaps that way, she could try ignoring the alien thoughts in her head that wished for her comrade to leave enough of the assassin left for her.

The priestess' mad sprint brought her to the front of Ashav's tent by the docks, where she ripped open the front curtain gasping for breath.

"Ashav...! Ah... Ashav!" Wy cried out, her chest heaving with each gulp of air she took.

I'm in need of better guards, it would seem. Ashav thought bitterly, his eyes refusing to open as he was roused from the sleep he did not recall setting himself down for. "I trust there is a reason for you barging in here uninvited." He remarked, his mouth tasting acidic thanks to how dry it was. He needed water.

"The... the assassin!" She blurted out. "They're in the White Hall! Khazki and a few others went in after them!"

That jerked the Redguard awake, he sat up and headed to grab his sword. "Come, lead me the way. Are you certain?" he asked. He didn't trust the Khajiit's judgement, but if she was right...

"There were two dead guards right outside the door." Wylendriel simply said as though that was proof enough. She peeled back the entrance of the tent for her commander to follow. She continued, "The jarl is in danger either way."

Given the circumstances surrounding what had been happening in Dawnstar recently, it was not something that could be afforded to be ignored. Ashav followed Wylendriel out of the tent, his heart, and head, pounding. Both arrived at the White Hall in short order, where a crowd has begun to be gathered. A Redguard that Ashav did not recognize was carrying a slumped form over his shoulder, flanked by either side by the two hot-headed new warriors he'd recently taken in his employ, the Khajiit Khazki and the sister of Sagax, Piper. Khazki was wounded, but none of them seemed to be on particularly high alert; the threat was evidently apprehended. "What happened?" Ashav demanded, moving around to look at the unconscious Dunmer. "Is this the one responsible? Where is the Jarl?"

"Dead. She got him before we could stop her. Nearly got me, too." Khazki winced, her shoulder still suffering from having had a blade buried in it. Wylendrel looked at her wound and made a mental note to take care of her soon, but first she approached the redguard carrying the assassin. She mostly ignored him and instead grabbed the unconcious dunmer by the hair and lifted her head to take a good look at her face. The priestess' face twisted into a disgusted scowl. She took a deep breath and let go, stepping away without a word.

"Get the assassin to the dungeon. I want her guarded by our people, since the guardsmen will likely not take the news of this with good faith." The Redguard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, his alcohol-induced headache pounding his skull. "There's no way to keep the news from spreading, is there?" he asked rhetorically, looking around at the gathered populice. A fuse had been lit.

"Unless you want to cover up a jarl's murder." Wy said sardonically, looking over at the distasteful, bloody mess slumped in the corner of the longhouse. Her face softened and looked back at Ashav. "If you wish, I can hold a public ceremony for the jarl and say his final rites after I finish treating Khazki. The nords will want to honor their dead."

Ashav nodded, heading back towards the exit of the Hall with his mercenaries in tow. "There will be no cover-up, it'll only make the wound fester. Find whichever local priests you can, we'll ensure all of the dead are treated with dignity. It would do Dawnstar well to see calm and decency prevail. I will see if there's anything to be done about leadership in the meantime, it is paramount we maintain order. Go to it."

The priestess nodded obediently and looked over to her wounded cohort, and as she walked over to the steps in front of the White Hall, she sat down and said, "Khazki, let us take care of you first."

"I'm fine." The Khajiit replied, glancing quickly at the Bosmer before darting her eyes elsewhere. She wasn't. "Don't worry about it." she said, her own hand covering the wound, the magicka ebbing between her fingers and the blood that had seeped through and into her fur. It wasn't easy keeping focus on one's own spell when you were dealing with a fresh puncture wound. "Didn't Ashav give you a job to do?" she asked dryly.

"I told him I would do it after I finish treating you." Wy asserted. The tone of her voice sounded harsher than usual. "Sit down. Now."

Khazki stared back with a slow, tired blink. "You know I just got stabbed by an assassin who murdered the Jarl, right? It's going to take more than a teacher's tone with me to make me take you seriously right now. I've got bigger shit to deal with."

The priestess got back on her feet, biting her lips and closing shut one of her eyes as her head was now throbbing as she fought to keep herself and her thoughts in check. She was already frustrated over not finding the assassin first. Now she had to deal with this without snapping. The taste of blood filled her mouth as one of her teeth cut the inside of her lip, and the sting of pain brought her back. Wy took a deep breath. She had to do something before she loses it.

"Ashav understands that my job, first and foremost, is to fix up ungrateful oafs such as yourself... before your wounds get infected and your arms fall off and you can no longer swing your over-sized letter-openers!" The priestess huffed and extended her hand, which over the course of her ranting, was now surrounded by an onimous aura of green. "So if you won't sit down, I'll have to make you."

Khazki rolled her eyes. "I doubt you could even make a dog sit, but if it makes you stop shrieking like a vulture, fine. I accept your help." She said, reluctantly setting herself down with her good arm on the steps. "You know, for a priestess, you're kind of a bitch."

"Sounds like the pot is calling the kettle black." Wy retorted, the green glow around her hand now dissipating. She looked at the source of the bleeding, which was between the plates of Khazki's armor. It was a long, deep cut, but not very wide. The assassin had a thin blade. It was incredible that they were able to slide it through that small of a space. Her finger wouldn't even be able to fit in there. She started taking off the pauldron off of Khazki's by undoing the straps as she had so many times before on Dominion soldiers. She looked back up and said, "You know, usually it's only children who complain about doctors."

The Khajiit let the woman take her pauldron off, not feeling particularly comfortable with the sensation of being left vulnerable to the priestess. "It's usually the children who have a reason to be afraid of the clergy. I never pretended to be a nice person; I don't offer the Divines as an empty comfort when they're sick and dying. That's your job, I suppose." She winced, gritting her teeth together. "Speaking of which, how bad?"

'I hold her life in my hands.' The priestess shook her head.

"I've seen worse." She responded. The injury was ugly and deep, and the blade probably got caught in the joint which must've been why she had such trouble moving it - but it wasn't a death sentence or anything. Still, the warrior might be feeling aches and pains for a while even long after it was healed. Wound didn't seems to have any discoloration, so she probably wasn't poisoned, but she had to cover her bases. Wy asked, "Do you know if the assassin was using any poisons?"

Khazki shook her head, staring up towards the evening sky with countless dazzling stars, probably with worlds with their own problems. Bad luck was universal, wasn't it? "Doubt it. If that were the case, I'd probably not have a clear head right now or be feverish. I imagine assassins would use something that's quick acting so their victims don't have a chance to get medicine." She sighed, trying to ignore the fact rumours were already flying in the town. "This whole situation is just going to get worse. Skald was an awful leader, from what I understand, but even a bad leader is still something that people can focus on and count on for some kind of direction. I've seen what happens when there's a void in times like this. It's not pretty."

"Well... if I know nords half as well as, uh... as well as I think I do," Wy said as she set aside the piece of armor, "then I don't think that's going to stop them. Power vaccums don't last very long here. Skyrim has a long history of, um, trading leadership. They've pulled through every time."

The priestess' hand was suddenly surrounded by a warm, restorative light and was placed against the open wound in Khazki's shoulder. The spell slowly tailored the wound shut as it stitched together the strands of muscle back over the bone and the skin regenerated overtop. 'Another indebted soul.' She looked back at the khajiit's face with a steely expression and said simply, "You are going to be feeling some aches and pains for a while after this. Especially if it's cold. On the bright side, you'll know if it's about to rain."

"I always wanted to be a barometer. Thanks." Khazki replied, testing the motion of the arm. It was leagues better than it had been. "I can deal with a bit of pain; it's much better than it was." The Khajiit wished for a drink at that moment, realizing it was where they left off before the evening's event happened. "Let's find our way to that tavern, and look... I'm sorry you weren't there to stop Skald from getting murdered, for what it's worth, I'd rather be the one to have taken the blow than you. I don't think anyone could have gotten there in time."

Wylendriel was quiet for a somber moment like she was buried deep in her thoughts. The next, she faced her with a look of acceptance, a drastic change from the troubled attitude she was displaying earlier. "There's nothing any of us can do in the end. The cycle of life claims us all, no matter the means." The priestess looked at her hand and how they were stained and reeking with Khazki's blood. She disinterestedly rubbed her fingers together to get some of the old, stained, outer layer of skin off. Peering back up, she said matter-of-factly, "After I prepare a proper nord funeral for Jarl Skald, I'll see what I can do to help... tempt the assassin into helping us... if you're interested in joining me. I'd assume you have a vested interest in repaying the favor?"

Khazki shook her head. "After spending a few years on the road, you don't hold grudges. I've lost track of the number of people who've tried to kill me, and I imagine there's more than a few out there who extend me the same courtesy. She did her job, I did mine. There's more fights to come, and right now, I want to make sure I'm ready for it." Rising up, her body aching and sore now the danger had passed, Khazki was ready to turn in for the night after she managed to find some grub. "If you want my advice, don't get involved in whatever's going to happen to that Dunmer unless you're ordered to. You probably don't want it on your conscious, and even if you did, it won't make you feel any better." With that, Khazki stepped away with a lazy wave of thanks and decided to leave the remaining troubles for tomorrow's Khazki.

---

Radsie Vallis had seen such fire before, before she was Radsie Vallis. When she was merely a hired thug to some house kinsman in Morrowind, she had heard all about the fire that swept through the Dres heartland as Argonians rampaged through former plantations. When she was traveling through Skyrim, she had heard of the nationalistic fire that the Nerevarine had rekindled upon his return. It was the same fire that had consumed everything in its path, and one that often incinerated the innocent rather than the target. She often told her new family that they didn't start the fire, and it was always burning since the world's been turning. It was, and always will be, a fire of anger. Radsie knew it all too well as she called upon the same fire to avenge the demise of her birth family.

Her new family was different; they were suppose to be cold and rational. They computed the arithmetic of human life, where a death was a value to be exchanged for another value. But deep inside of Radsie was a desire to burn again, to once again kill for the passion instead of a contract. She had held these urges back for years, but time and time again, she would let such emotions run free in the heat of battle. Such was the feeling when she tore through scores of Armigers on a beach to the east. She felt the rush of settling an old score, something she had probably done more than enough in the past, but never ceased to appeal to her in the present and future.

At the very least, Radsie appreciated having a family again, albeit one of spilled blood over born blood. It was the second most comforting thing for her, and the most she will ever receive. So Radsie felt many feelings upon seeing La'Dansharr reunited with her brother on the shore of Winterhold. There was jealousy, warmth and understanding. Most of the Brotherhood recruits were merciless killers that were more than eager to ditch any trace of their past behind, and the first to go were often their families. Some even claimed they have murdered their relatives in order to impress her (which did not impress Radsie in the slightest).

When La'Dansharr told her that she was secretly tracking Rhasha'Dar, Radsie wasn't even surprised. In fact, she almost expected the Khajiit assassin to keep a close eye on her brother. It's what the ghost of Lucien would have told her, it's what Alisanne's spirit would have advised her, and despite their conflict years ago, keeping one's family safe would be what Astrid have done as well. In turbulent times like the Akaviri invasion and the Armiger incursions, one often lose sight of individuals in favor of the bigger picture. Radsie made that very mistake; she prioritized her own rise of power at the peril of relatives in Morrowind. So Dansharr, in her caring behavior, brought relief to Radsie's constant itch of anxiety. After all, one could never watch their back (and the backs of their loved ones) too often when they just assassinated the Dragonborn.

The problem now was that Dansharr had not seen Rhasha since he went to the outskirts of Dawnstar. Dansharr kept track of the mercenaries, and as far as she knew, none of the mercenary officers sent her brother out to missions. In fact, the mercenary command appeared to be fairly directionless, with their boss sailing off and the businessman taking over in the most unhelpful ways. Dansharr didn't blame them much, and Radsie did not blame them at all. Managing people's hard, fulfilling contracts' hard, and putting these two together made a leader's life extra hard.

However, someone else in the merc company was available for now. The same Argonian they met on the Armiger beachhead, who was actually an agreeable fellow in contrast to that pin-headed Nord axe murderer. Yes, the same lizard with the tongue twister name, the one that just got out of jail for a crime he did or did not commit (assuming it even was a crime), and the same guy that half of the town wanted dead. Well, Dansharr saw that last part coming ever closer to reality.

So there they were, prowling the streets of Dawnstar for Tsleeixth, hoping to get to him before the angry mob does.

---

As of the late afternoon of the 27^th, most people in Dawnstar were having a bad day. The news of their jarl's death circulated rapidly through the citizens, making people confused, scared, angry and looking for a target to vent their frustrations. For one group of Neckbeards (a bunch of Nord nimrods fashioning themselves as the "longer" Greybeards), this was their perfect moment to shine. Having spent the past few weeks brooding in their dank basements, fabricating conspiracy theories and getting mad with far-fetched opinions in their echo chamber of hate, it finally came an excuse to put their plan to action. For this group of roughly fifteen people, three Stormcloak veterans and a dozen purposeless young Nords with nothing better to do than hating on everyone else, they saw Skald as a victim to his own leniency. Letting Argonians into the hold was a mistake in the first place for them. The Dunmers only struck because of the Argonians, whom the group deduced as the ultimate target of the Dunmer assassins.

"Dawnstar townspeople died because of their soft hearts and soft spines!" said Thuth, one of the Stormcloak veterans.

"The Argonians brought the Dunmer scourge to our doorstep." One of the young Nords piped up. "We scorn upon the elf invaders, but we despise the lizard slime-mongers!"

"So we must make them pay in blood, and the whole town shall follow us in justice!" Malfrid, another old soldier, proclaimed to the thunderous applause of her fellow Neckbeards.

With the bunch all fired up, they marched out onto the streets to take out their anger on the first Argonian they could find. It didn't take more than five minutes for them to come across Tsleeixth, who was minding his own business (and perhaps too intently in his own business), and pounced onto him from all sides. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Argonian fell to the ground, suffering non-stop kicks, punches and spits. He might have cried out for help, but the Neckbeards were swift to gag him and continue the beating. Soon enough, a crowd gathered, guards came, but everyone merely stayed and watched on the sidelines.

"Stand aside, friends." Thuth ordered the mob to leave an opening for the observers to see. As Tsleeixth's bloodied face appeared in public view, he hoisted the Argonian onto his knees and spat on him. "See for yourselves the filth of our city!"

"And now, he dies!" Malfrid unsheathed her dagger and pressed it against Tsleeixth's neck. Pointing her finger to several combat-capable members of the spectators, she rallied. "This is beginning of their end! Let us destroy the lizard infection once and for all!"

"Not so fast!" A voice came from the crowd. As if on cue, Malfrid froze in a aura of green energy. A figure of red and black leather emerged between guards and citizens. "Let him go!" She demanded.

"Go to hell, lizard lover!" Skag, the oldest Neckbeard, came bellowing with his mace flinging. But he did not manage a single step, as a Khajiit surfaced from invisibility behind him. Also clad in assassin's leathers, Dansharr grabbed Skag firmly by his shoulder and head. When the old Nord attempted to swing his mace behind in surprise, his neck was snapped around with crisp crack.

"This one would drop your, uh," Dansharr appraised the various improvised weapons of the Neckbeards, "tools, weapons, whatever, and go home. No need for further bloodshed."

"Fires of Alduin! Kill them!" Thuth shouted to his Nords.

A few hesitated upon seeing their oldest member drop dead in a heartbeat, but most were more than enraged to launch into a frenzied attack. As the closest Nord swung his shovel at the Khajiit, he was tackled by Aventus Aretino, and then had a knife plunged into his left eye. The next Nord swung her meat cleaver high, but only resulted in her stomach being sliced open by Dansharr. Thuth himself bore down upon Radsie with his sword drawn, his coarse battle cry brought all of the Dunmer's focus out from paralyzing Malfrid.

Releasing her telekinetic grip on Malfrid, Madsie rolled away from Thuth's Nordic sword in time. In the same instance, Malfrid had recovered and joined in beside Thuth. Blood ran hot in Radsie's veins, as not one, but two adversaries confronted her the same time. In her peripheral vision, she saw Aventus and Dansharr holding their own against the horde of Nord ruffians. Most of these so-called Neckbeards were sloppy fighters, with techniques derived from street fights rather than proper combat training. Her own opponents were a different case. They came at her with efficiency on top of ferocity. Radsie was accustomed to striking from the shadows; she enjoyed the rush of swift kills. But this lopsided battle was draining, because each dodge, parry and block felt heavier than the last. Fighting a fair fight was never Radsie's strength, and the current fight was an unfair two versus one. She needed something turn the tables in her favor; lest she fell to two thugs in full public view, and not to mention in front of the adopted son that she so often lectured to. No, Radsie had to win; her pride demanded it.

As she was backed ever closer to the spectators, Radsie realized that she had nowhere else to retreat. In a sudden dash backwards, she grabbed the closest thing that could shield her; a Nord townsfolk. The expressions on her opponents' faces were shock and hesitation. Perhaps they didn't want collateral damage? From their speech, Radsie knew that the Neckbeards needed the people of Dawnstars to stand with them. So threaten another Nord must be the leverage she needed.

"One more step and he dies!" Radsie exclaimed. Her casting arm seized the Nord by the neck, while the other pressed up the Blade of Woe to his temple.

The crowd gasped and cried in shock. Citizens parted further back, leaving only a small detachment of guard standing near Radsie. The looked to each other, to Radsie, to the hostage, to the Neckbeards in the standoff, and finally back to each other again. The guards didn't seem to be interested in intervening, but their commander decided to do so regardless.

"Alright, this show's over." The highest ranking guardsman warned. When neither Radsie nor the Neckbeards stood down, he ordered his men forward. "Cyneburg, Torbald, break them up!"

"Shor's beard, I just got up after the night shift." Cyneburg grumbled and stretched her shoulders in annoyance. "I'm sick and tired of this shit."

"We should just let them kill the lizards." Torbald grumbled back. "Less trouble for us to deal with."

It was apparent that the guards, in their half-hearted attempt to keep order, went after Radsie rather than their fellow Nords. While they approached, Radsie shared a look with Dansharr. The Khajiit and Aventus Arentino had defeated half of the dozen young Neckbeards. Radsie shook her head and nudged slightly to the direction of the sanctuary. It was time to leave, and no matter how unfortunate it was for Dansharr's brother, they could not risk bring down the wrath of the entire town.

"Just let him go and no one gets hurt." Cyneburg called out to Radsie from just outside of weapon's reach.

"You hear that?" Malfrid added with a taunt. "You're done, knife-eared bitch!"

Gritting her teeth together, it took Radsie all of her restraint to not lash out. She spun around halfway and shoved her hostage to the guards behind. As expected, Thuth and Malfrid came charging in not a second too late.

"Die, die, die!" Thuth snarled and twirled into an assault. His dark cloak twisted around him like a black cloud, spinning along his twin blades in a deadly dance of soul reaping. His facial features solidified together into a killer's mask. All around Thuth, death blossomed, or so he thought. No matter what, Thuth embodied the sharpest lord of edge.

To Radsie, though, Thuth couldn't have made himself a bigger fool.

Shaking her head at this pathetically ornate maneuver, Radsie unclipped a ice gray bag from her bandoleer. Powdered frostbite venom was the content, specifically prepared by Babette to poison the Dragonborn. Ultimately, Radsie had to resort to something more potent for a man with the soul of dragons. But for a man spinning himself dizzy, frostbite poison more than does the job. A generous poison dose thrown onto Thuth froze his murder face right into a comically suspended gasp, complete with the deer-in-carriage-light eyes and a big gaping, O-shaped mouth. For the rest of Thuth's body, they became similarly paralyzed. However, the centrifugal momentum he had already build up continued to propel him. Without commands from his nervous system, Thuth careened hard to his left, where Malfrid was moving to flank.

Thuth collided hard with Malfrid. His blades did so even harder; they cut Malfrid in half.

Finally, Thuth tumbled and fell. He collapsed just between Malfrid's upper torso and her lower half. He stared, then a moment later, the sheer shock shook him out of the poison's influence.

"No! This is my curse!" Thuth wailed. Tear streamed down like a waterfall. His breathing became increasingly ragged until he was hyperventilating. He pounded the ground with his fists, he rocked his head so violently, that it looked like a drowning man clinging for air. He searched his vicinity for the people that ruined his painstakingly planned moment, but all he saw were the red leathers and Tsleeixth getting further and further away.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

"It was an inside job! The Argonians are behind this! A hundred blood for one!"

Sadly, people believed him.

---

Edith should have gone after them sooner.

The 27^th had been both the easiest and the most difficult day for her. Ashav sent her to inspect the company's supply. The inspection took no more than five minutes, because there wasn't any supply left. Of course, this meant that she had to get more, which meant pestering Gustav to divulge some of his legendary wealth for a few sharp blades and a sturdy suit of armor. It really went as well as Edith expected, which did not go anywhere at all. Gustav had been burying his nose in letters between himself and his prophet. He was trying to figure out why the prophet had stopped corresponding for more than two months, and why it stopped at such a critical time, after repeated warnings of a looming invasion. Gustav nodded when Edith came in and promised her what she came for, but as soon as she left, Gustav had all but forgotten about her. If it were up to Edith, she'd throw away this prophecy nonsense and focus on the matters at hand, like how Marcel and Rhasha'dar still haven't reported back from their morning investigation of the tower, when it was past noon. She had to persuade Ashav, whom was in the middle of contemplating the possibility of Skald reneging on their payment, and the danger of some Argonian called Leather-Face (a known psychopath that had been set lose after the Pakseech's death) killing random people with a sawtooth sword. Edith assured him, in her typical optimistic prediction, that everything was going to alright. Rhasha and Marcel was just taking an extended lunch break, and the town of Dawnstar would be perfectly fine.

Oh, how wrong she was.

For starters, she found Marcel and Rhasha both collapsed outside of the tower, with a thick blood trail behind them. They were barely alive, and had she not swiftly summoned the new chaplain/healer to their aid, the Breton and the Khajiit would have been as good as dead. When Wylendriel finally stabilized the wounded, and when Edith had shaken off the feeling of being followed, more of the mercenaries had returned with the news of Skald's death and a Dunmer prisoner. There was also a meddling Redguard that had apparently helped against the Dunmer (though he didn't help Skald live), a person Edith could not care less about at this time.

Then came the best part. Three masked individuals, a Dunmer, a Khajiit and a young human, dragged back a badly beaten Tsleeixth. What Edith meant by the "best" part was the part that absolutely baffled her. The peculiar and somewhat frightening appearance of their red leather almost caused Edith to attack on sight, but that was immediately halted when a barely conscious Rhasha'dar and the masked Khajiit recognized each other as siblings. This was followed by the Dunmer woman removing her mask, revealing her angular features and supposed non-hostile intention. Of course, it had to be the Dark Brotherhood, the sworn enemies of the Morag Tong (the organization Skald's killer belonged to), and someone they had already encountered from their mission to Winterhold. Edith wasn't on that mission, so it meant she could shove this up to Ashav and deal with something less convoluted.

"You have to understand, Dawnstar is coming apart; there are literally mobs marching out there to kill each other." The Brotherhood leader warned Edith, but she gave them her back and went for Ashav.

"We are trying to help you!" The human teenager added.

"Sure you are." Edith retorted.

"This one may not care about you, but she does very much care for her brother." The Khajiit assassin chimed in. "If you are half the leader you pretend to be, you would know to pull your men out of danger."

As they walked to the command tent, a throng of torches appeared in the distance. These torches were headed to the Argonian camp. The Argonians themselves appeared to be mobilizing as well, as their fighters have formed a defensive perimeter around the more vulnerable. The loud, blood-roiling screams emanating from the distance were unmistakable signs of people getting ready to kill each other. Perhaps the most disturbing sound was from ahead; the silence in Ashav's tent. Ashav was last seen interrogating Valyne (Skald's murderer) and planning to self-medicate with a bottle of Summerset Reserve (expropriated from Vurwe's possession after her death). Ashav was not a quiet interrogator nor a quiet drunk; he was noisy and animated for both.

"Wait," Edith said, "that's not-"

"Get back!" Radsie warned, jumping in front of Edith just as she pulled open the tent flaps. Not a second later did a dagger fly out, stopped by telekinetic magic and sent back to the exact location it came from. A pained voice screamed from within. Radsie dashed into the tent as soon as her spell worked its effect, with Dansharr unsheathing her weapon and following tightly behind. They found the dagger pierced through Valyne's stomach, and pinning Skald's killer to the ground. Right beside her was Ashav, legs broken, hands grasping the choke marks on his own neck and gasping hungrily for air.

"Don't even think about it." Radsie stomped on Valyne's hands, one after another, stopping the attempt to remove the dagger. "What are you-"

Valyne's story would end for good then. A sharp bite of canine teeth into each other released a tiny, but deadly, poison capsule. Her last ditch attempt to kill had failed, and so would the interrogation. All that's left was a corpse foaming at the mouth, and a drunken, battered and nearly dead, Ashav.

---

That night, Dawnstar turned into a meat grinder. Nords and Argonians fought under torch light until dawn, and when the sun crested upon the horizon, only the Nords were left standing. The city guards, following their captain's order to not interfere, watched from the palisades as the slaughter unfolded. A hundred lizards died, while a surviving few fled into the wilderness. Some of these survivors would launch a revenge attack a few days later, taking many innocent lives in a suicidal rampage. Civil order broke down completely in Dawnstar. The guard captain became the ultimate authority, whom declared a lockdown in the entire hold. The only activity afterwards was dumping bodies into the sea.

As far as the mercenaries were concerned, none of them would miss Dawnstar. Their compensation for the investigation was gone, due to the fact that treasury access was disputed and the Pale was too indebted to afford the cost. The Kyne's Tear sailed out for Solitude two hours after Valyne's death. Edith didn't need the Dark Brotherhood's convincing anymore, Ashav had more than enough of this shit hole, and Gustav wanted to track down his prophet's messenger in Solitude anyway. They had to depart so hastily that some of the company was unaccounted for. But there were already portions of the mob setting their sights on the mercenaries, and it was entirely possible that their bloodlust did not sate after the Argonians.

The only worry left was the Bleakrock group. Of course, the ship they departed on was Dawnstar property, and their charter required returning to the same port they left from. However, in Gustav's inventory was a dreamsleeve communication crystal, one that Ariane gave him as a sample of her prowess. With a simple ritual, Gustav could send Arianne a short message despite the distance between them. Gustav never tried it before, but it was the only hope the mercenaries had to reach their comrades. The dreamsleeve message instructed them to sail for Solitude at earliest instance, and should the Steelhead crew prove troublesome, a mutiny would be acceptable. Because the alternative would be accepting the losses, and none would see their friends as acceptable losses.

---

For about ninety-eight percent of the time leading up to the Armiger fight on Bleakrock, Ariane Fontaine was distracted. To everyone who didn't know her (which was basically everyone), she was daydreaming between pages of convoluted content. To everyone who did know her (basically only herself), she was extrapolating upon probable theories, which, for all intents and purposes, was daydreaming. Inside the simple minds of sailors and mercenaries, there was none but the concurrent fluttering of sails and the upcoming clash of steel. But Ariane saw herself above such mundane masses. Why bother with the muscle work when she could achieve the same result with the snap of a finger and a surge of magicka? Therefore, Ariane contributed little on-board the Steelhead. Instead, she studied obscure records of Akaviri weather magic that could supposedly call up tsunamis at will. Uriel Septim V's expedition eastwards was plagued with unnaturally adverse weather conditions. One of Uriel's mages was lucky enough to bring his theories and observations back to the College of Winterhold in the third era, but unluckily, these notes were soon forgotten and it took a lightning storm to shake them out of their dusty shelves.

Three days after they left port, Ariane was bored and ran into a dead end on her research. She switched to reading tall tales of the northern coasts. One of the more fascinating tales was a northern sailors' legend of the "golden slug". Another was, wait, her communication crystal was glowing.

She blew on the crystal to cool it down, set it on a barrel near the porthole and went back to reading about the golden slug. However, her crystal started to vibrate and smoke began emanating from its heated surface. That was when Ariane remembered that it should have only done so when the other one, in Dumhuvud's possession, called in an emergency. Which meant...

---

Dumhuvud was amazed at how little went wrong. The Dunmer dickheads somehow survived a bridge collapse and the rest survived combat with the Armiger patrol. Sure, a couple of them useless twats got themselves hurt, but the brains that none of them used remained intact and unused. The Armigers, the few of them that had the common sense of running away, ran before Dumhuvud could exact vengeance for pummeling him in the head. Of course, Dumhuvud is very much someone who held grudges (and knowing something like not letting the fleeing Armigers warn their garrison), so he naturally ordered an immediate pursuit.

The chase that ensued turned out to be several hours in length. Initially, Dumhuvud thought the enemy was simply trying to lose him in the woods, but as the chase came to an end at the sight of the sea, it suddenly dawned to him that the Armigers were alerting other outposts along their way. This was apparent with the Bleakrock Village ruins abuzz with Armiger activities (something very unusual in the current predawn time). There had to be over a hundred bonemold clad warriors angrily pointing sharp and hard objects at Dumhuvud and his dozen or less mercs. Realizing that he was hopelessly outnumbered, the Cat-Kicker turned around, only to find another hundred from other parts of the island (that the mercenaries were suppose to sneak through), equally angry and ready to kill. There was a third way, except that it was watery, cold and salty.

Before flattening the mercs from two sides, the Armiger leader emerged from his horde. His armor was a mixture of white and black, black on the top and bottom, with a wide band of white in between; some kind of white fluid dripped off him.

"I am Captain Orio Dihp, and you are trespassers sentenced to be wonderfilled with death. Bring forth your champion and let us duel for honor in the name of the high king, the Nerevarine, the Godkiller, blessed be his name, the gracious, the merciful..." Orio Dihp then went on reciting the honorifics and epithets of his god-emperor as a particularly intimating warrior stepped up with an intricate sword twirl.

"For fuck's sake, let's just rush them." Dumhuvud grumbled.

"Kicks-Cats, no!" Eirik stopped him. Before meeting the Armiger in single combat, she whispered. "Call for help with the crystal while I distract him."

And so Eirik the paladin would fight, win, die to a second opponent, and be replaced by another mercenary. The duels continued back and forth, with several mercenaries learning from Eirik's demise and tagging someone else in before being slain. Narzul fought particularly fiercely, defeating two opponents and had to be dragged back by Sadri for his own safety. All the while, Orio droned on, and Dumhuvud vigorously rubbed the communication crystal (as Ariane had taught him), for a whole palm-scraping hour.

---

"The bae of salt, the spinner of fidgets and the Cov'fe'f'e." Orio breathed a sigh of relief and took a long sip from his water container. He folded the booklet of Names that he produced twenty minutes ago and replaced it with his weapons. "Why in Oblivion are they still alive? Whatever, now that's finally done, it's time for you all to die!"

At the same time, Dumhuvud had stopped rubbing the crystal. It was obnoxiously hot and his palm more calloused than ever, but nothing happened.

"This is a fucking waste of my time!" The Cat-Kicker threw the crystal away and took out his axe and shield instead. The sound of a ship's horn immediately interrupted him. Cruising into the harbor was the Steelhead, firing its twin ballista. Explosive dwarven bolts tore through a docked Armiger ship and split it cleanly in half. Panic and confusion took hold of the Armigers as Captain Orio changed priorities from killing mercenaries to firefighting and coastal defense.

"Plan B; cut your way to the ship and destroy everything in between." Dumhuvud grinned like a madman. He took down a torch bearing Armiger and proceeded to throw the torch into a nearby tent. That stupid crystal worked and now he gets to smash stuff; everything's going to go so swell.

---

It had all gone to shit for Sadri.

This was the primary thought that kept Sadri's mind preoccupied from the chaos on the deck - which, aside from being set on fire and getting shattered to hell and back thanks to Armiger magic and arrows trying to cut down on their hastily made escape, was also littered with his battered comrades, laying on deck, too exhausted and afraid of getting caught unaware to go down deck and sleep. He himself was lucky to be alive, having gotten smashed in the face by a block of the ship's rigging that came loose in the Armiger bombardment, and almost fallen overboard with the impact. He had woken up with a jagged pain in his nose and lips, a crimson taste in his mouth, and a warmth in his breeches thanks to his bladder coming loose in an unconscious bout.

It was not as if it had gone any good for anyone else. Most of the landing party made it, but the head count didn't feel right and someone might have been left behind. Everyone was injured to some degree, though they did manage to destroy quite a bit of Armiger properties en route.

---

A sense of pride and accomplishment swelled in Ariane after convincing the captain to mount a successful rescue of the mercenaries. It, however, was short-lived. Amid the destruction of three Dunmer ships was the counter-barrage, and amid the counter-barrage was a dreamsleeve message. For the first time since signing on with the company, she felt afraid, helpless, as her life rested in the hands of the sailors. However, Ariane barely had any time to dwell on her feelings, or even see the mercenaries make it on-board, before attending to the transmission.

"What's next?" Dumhuvud stumbled into her quarters, one bloody hand grasping the bulkhead and another covering a wide gash on his thigh.

"Solitude." Ariane read out the message, not exactly clear about it herself. Apparently civil war erupted in Dawnstar and Jarl Skald is dead.

"That's not where the captain's going." Grunted Dumhuvud.

"Then make him go there."