---

---

Once upon a time, in a city far far away, a hired sword swallows his sorrow in the company of liquid toxin. In a city of Solitude, in the mansion of a wealthy man and in the mind of a jaded Redguard, drama of the Aurbis unfolded. The great battles against the frost demons, the sinister betrayal of a god-slayer and the struggles of his men finding humanity within each other and themselves. Oh, what pain, what torment, what injustice, what...

Burp.

“Urgh, hgnhh, hmmm.”

The great Ashav stirred, and with a gasp and a rising feeling in his throat, he was awake from his drunken slumber. Immediately, he seeked a container, immediately, he puked in Gustav’s laundry basket. Dumhuvud Cat-Kicker and Edith Bright-Wings observed from afar, far away from the stench of vomit and far away from the delusional ranting of Ashav’s dream.

He was drunk every single night since arriving in Solitude, and yet, he did not regret a single minute of it.

Running his sandpaper like hands through his scalp, and silently cursing the fact that he no longer had the luscious hair that he had in his dream, Ashav stumbled around until he found a water basin; he dived right in. The water brought him back to reality like the salty waves of the Ghost Sea. He didn't want to, but a gaze to a conveniently placed calendar told him otherwise. Today was the fifth of Last Seed. Today, they would be back out to sea.

With one of Gustav’s finer shirts (one that didn’t smell of his own vomit), Ashav wiped his face clean of his misery. Dumhuvud and Edith were still waiting for him in the exact spot they were before. They were worried, for none had seen Ashav so somber and lacking in self-control. Ashav himself, however, had only one question.

“Where is he?”

“Gustav went to get breakfast.” Edith answered.

“Go find him, and Dough-Boy, and leave me alone.” Ashav slumped back to the couch he had fallen asleep shirtless, with only his metal greaves on. His lieutenants left soon after, with Edith going to the forge for the last bit of supplies, and Dumhuvud no doubt going to pick on Sadri or Keegan. Ashav sat there, listening to the symphony of his stomach grumbling and praying for Gustav to hurry back with the most important meal of the day.

Gustav arrived within a few minutes, having found his way after being informed by Edith that Ashav was looking for him. The Nord man entered the cabin and immediately had his nose assailed with the rancid scent of vomit, quickly tracing the offending scent to the last place he wished to discover it.

“Ysmir’s beard, Ashav, get a hold of yourself, man!” The financier growled, his immaculately groomed figure and expensive clothing clashing significantly when paired against the human shipwreck that was Ashav. “This could not wait until you cleaned yourself up and had someone see to that disgusting mess you’ve left in my damned laundry?”

The last entrant of the cabin was a hyperventilating mess, his face red, with beads of sweat dripping down his despite the cold climate of Skyrim. Propping his torso up by placing his palms on his thighs, Dough-Boy raised his head after a few seconds of catching breath. “Ye were asking for me, sire?” He asked in between his breaths, rubbing the back of his hand against his brow to swipe off sweat headed for his eyes.

“Lucky you, Goose-Tough, here is just the boy, man, whatever, for your laundry needs.” Ashav pointed his finger at Dough-Boy, but not actually sparing the young man a direct look.

“Oh, and where’s the food, hmm? I could use something like a bagel, salmon, orange, or, how about some fresh water?” Ashav’s already raspy voice was extra raspy, which, combined with his slurring, made him barely legible. “So thirsty after a hangov-, you know, self-treatment session.”

Looking down upon himself, Ashav promptly realized that he was still shirtless at this point. Grabbing Gustav’s shirt-turned-towel, he quickly donned it, albeit backwards and awkwardly stretching at the seams. Now properly dressed, Ashav let out a sigh at the inevitable conversation to come.

“I know you got new recruits,” Ashav rasped, “and so do I. In fact, Dough-Boy here’s got a list of them, losses and gains, and a couple of promotions for you to pay as well.” The Redguard cleared his throat, to no avail, due to the lack of water. “First, you feed me, and maybe the kid too.”

Actually regarding Dough-Boy for a rare moment, Ashav asked. “You ate yet? Can’t keep asking for a sword when you’re too thin to swing one.”

“I've, uh, had a few things for breakfast, sire,” Dough-Boy stammered in reply, happy that at least someone found him too thin to be able to do something properly. He wasn't sure if he needed to put on some more weight for swordsmanship, for at least some fellows in the Company were thinner than he, but he still appreciated it.

“Business first, then meal.” Gustav replied wearily, standing his ground. It would be his small revenge for Ashav’s abhorrent behaviour. “And aye, there’s a few new names on the payroll. Wars have a funny way of bringing out willing swords from the woodwork.”

“Nooo...” Ashav whined. Gustav was being extra assertive of himself this morning. Normally, or at least when he thought of the times in Dawnstar, Ashav was the one bossing Gustav around. Perhaps it’s because the Nord man was at his home turf, or maybe the fact that Ashav himself appeared absolutely pathetic in his full post-intoxication glory.

“The list, then,” Dough-Boy said for the sake of not letting the conversation hang like that, checking the pockets of his tunic before finding it stuck into the side of his breeches. Offering the list to Ashav in a somewhat restrained manner, he looked at the laundry basket from the corner of his eye, wondering if he could find someone else to handle it.

“Fine.” Ashav conceded, eyeing hungrily at the package brought in by Gustav. “Eirik’s dead, Elmera is missing in action, and Solveig’s, well, gone.” Ashav announced as a matter of fact, as he had done way too many times in the past.

“On the bright side, if anything can be considered bright.” Ashav continued. “That Imperial kid, the one even thinner than him,” Ashav motioned to one of the few notable aspects of Dough-Boy, “dragged in his sister; Piper’s her name. The Dunmer knight that went with our Bleakrock group also wanted to tag in. And Keegan, that Altmer clown, came back. I didn’t want him, however, Ariane Fontaine insisted that I do. Of course, you insisted on me having Fontaine in the first place.”

“I’ve always had an eye for talent.” Gustav interjected, arms crossed. “If she wants someone, her word is gold as far as I’m concerned.”

“Promotion, too.” Recalled Ashav. “My old scout quit, so I am promoting Sevine the Huntress for that position.”

“You can give the money for our no-longer-present members to our new members; seems about even.” Passing the list over to Gustav, the Redguard scratched a sudden itch in his crotch.

The Nord took the parchment gingerly, wondering exactly what horrors it had endured in Ashav’s hand. He’d be washing his own afterwards, that much was certain. He skimmed the names, feeling a pang of remorse for those who were no longer with the company. Damn the war and its hungry maw that never seemed to be satisfied with how many good people it consumed. “What do you make of the recruits? We’ve lost a number of veterans.”

“The new guys aren’t too bad. They’re good enough for the next mission or two, until they’re inevitably killed.” Ashav collapsed back onto the couch, sinking as low as he can from the world and decided to let Dough-Boy have his fifteen seconds of fame. “Right, boy? You tell our nice, ignorant, money-man here what you think of our mighty meatbags.”

Gustav looked at Dough-Boy expectantly, although not unkindly. “It’s alright, lad. Your word is welcome here. You probably see things better from your station than we do up top.” he said, glaring at the somewhat prone form of Ashav. For whatever reason, Gustav was feeling rather irritable towards the commander today. The laundry wasn’t even an isolated incident.

Dough-Boy propped himself up for a proper reply, wishing to show that he appreciated this unexpected attention from his higher-ups with all his being. ‘’Well, I'm sure experienced men and women like you have no doubt noticed what I've noticed, but if you've asked…’’ Giving himself a moment to think, the baker's apprentice raised a finger, as if he found a spark of inspiration, and began.

“The Bosmer one, her name is A-daisy, I think?.. She looks like tough stuff, with that giant saber of hers. She looks too intense, though. I'd say she's either constantly on the lookout for danger, or she's afraid of something.” He had thought of a few other options, admittedly, such as her being a complete nutjob, or him looking too appealing as a target for sword practice, but those did not feel as plausible as the ones he voiced. Plus there was no need to make such ridiculous claims in front of the entire chain of command.

“Wait, what?” Ashav was completely surprised. “Bosmer? I heard her name’s Adaeze at-Djer, and that’s as Redguard as it gets.” Looking confused between Dough-Boy and Gustav, Ashav began to ponder. “I met at least two Adaeze’s in just Rihad. There’s got to an error somewhere, or maybe, maybe she’s sent by Mehm!”

“Did I ever tell you about conniving Mehm is, Gustav?” Ashav suddenly rose from his slouch. “What’s this Adaeze like to you? Any ulterior motives?”

The Nord shrugged impassively. “She’s definitely Bosmer, just born and raised in Hammerfell, aspires to her homeland’s culture and all of that. Think of her like an Altmer who’s been in Imperial City their whole life.” He set the food tray he’d been carrying down at the table, sitting down on the table itself with his foot resting on a chair as he plucked an apple from the tray, inspecting it for rot thoughtfully. “We’re not exactly picky for who we pick up, or rather, we can’t be picky. As long as they look like they can hold a sword and follow orders, the rest we will have to work with.” He took a large bite out of the apple, chewing it obnoxiously for several seconds before muttering through half-opened lips. “She seems to have a chip on her shoulder. Might be a pain in the arse if she’s too prideful.”

Ashav did not say anything first; he simply indulged in the taste of bread and egg. Wiping his hand on Gustav’s finest tablecloth first, Ashav proceeded to chew loudly and ate with crumbs falling onto the carpet. Followed up was a several gulps of milk to wash it all down. “Milk’s not bad.” Ashav remarked. “I thought you Nords have something against it, but you prove me wrong, Gustav. You are the best milk-drinker I’ve seen.”

“Ugh.”

Satisfied with the food and the mess he made, Ashav went back to the topic beforehand. “Fine, but know she, Adaeze, is confused about who she is.” Commented Ashav, now speaking firmer and clearer. “She’s just like Farid; ripe for propaganda bullshit. That’s how Mehm operates; he exploits your insecurities and offers you a cause to throw away your life for.”

“I’ve been in this line of work for almost three decades, and I know exactly I fight for. Not glory, not honor, not some altruistic crap. I fight for this,” The Redguard flipped out a single gold coin for seemingly his rear, “gold.”

“I also know what I can and cannot do.” Ashav continued, only taking a momentary pause to finish the jar of milk. “I keep my men organized, I whip them into fighting shape, but I never stab them in the back, no matter how important my personal belief is. Either we all get paid, or none of us do.”

“Even he knows what he does.” Ashav stared expectantly at Dough-Boy. “Go ahead, tell Gustav why you’re here.”

Finding the question perhaps a little too unexpected for the situation and his own position, Dough-Boy stuttered for a moment, unable to gather his thoughts, before replying. “I... I suppose amongst you folk was the only place where I thought I could m-make a man o' myself. And now with those demons we're fighting against, it feels good to be able to actually do something that matters. Skyrim's me homeland, in the end.”

“That’s right.” Ashav agreed.

“So tell me, why are you doing all this? Why are you spending all your time and money on my company.” Ashav leaned forward, pointing the milk jar at Gustav like a general’s baton. “Surely you’ve figured out by now that this isn’t being profitable, so what are you in it for?”

Gustav crossed his arms defensively, biting back the urge to respond sarcastically about his costs being kept low because Ashav keeps killing or otherwise losing most of his payroll. He decided to play it with a safe answer that didn’t exactly satisfy the man’s curiosity, and maybe give the man a reality check. “Do you think I acquired and squandered my wealth by investing in a private fighting force? There are side benefits and objectives of mine that made this the smart choice, although there are times I wish I’d taken more time looking for suitable freelancers. For all your brag and bluster, Ashav, you’ve provided little result for the pay at times and unless you start leading by example, you may find the day coming where you’ll have to find someone else to line your pockets as I look for someone more… profitable.”

“Lead by example; you’ve got to be kidding me!” Somehow, Gustav couldn’t help but spew stupid shit out of his mouth. Ashav wasn’t surprised at this stage, but he was nevertheless amazed. Ashav’s veins started to bulge as anger set in.

“Have you fought a Kamal face to face? Have you ever seen one? Actually, I don’t think you fought anything.” Shaking his bald head in anger, the Redguard fumed on. “War doesn’t work the way it does in books. You don’t survive by charging snow demons head on. You don’t get things done just by thinking about in your living room. You certainly don’t just come into my company and tell me what to do, who I should let in and how ‘profitable’ I am!”

“Ugh, forget it.” Ashav resigned, massaging his suddenly burning face. Gustav embodies stubbornness, and Ashav needed to abandon his own in order to stop wasting his time. “I’ll figure something out for our new members, even that old cat. I’ll have the Imperial girl carry your fancy luggage, the Redguard sneak dump our wastes and the old cat polish those sparkling shoes of yours.”

“Go sort out his laundry, boy.” Ashav ordered. “And grab Dar’Jzo, the Khajiit, if you need help. You are in charge of our new laborers; make sure you get to know them.” Ashav dismissed Dough-Boy with a wave, then immediately regretting giving him authority for the first time.

Dough-Boy nodded with unexpected discipline, not wishing to piss off his employer with any doubt he could possibly show in the tense room, and immediately procured to himself the empty basket on the side of the drawers for the sake of taking the victimized articles of clothing to whoever he could pass the laundry on. After filling the basket, and thus emptying the drawer with care as to not get his hands dirty, Dough-Boy grabbed the flax basket from its handle and left the room with haste, leaving the two bigwigs alone.

Once Ashav’s alone with Gustav, he let out a sigh, not one of relief, but one with more tension then he had prior. The Redguard pondered his words, his thoughts, and gazed upwardly at the flawless chandelier. He didn’t grow up a wordsmith, but decades of commanding made him a practical, though unrestrained, speaker. He never wanted to take a job of this caliber at all, and yet, here he was, sitting in the home of one of Skyrim’s wealthiest. Suppose Ashav should be grateful; grateful of the Dovahkiin’s contracts, grateful of the easy year he had with 204, and grateful of Gustav for picking his company up at their worst. However, Ashav couldn’t possibly conjure up a single ounce of gratitude when he knew that he would have to fight this terrible war for long as possible. Being a mercenary was all he knew, and it was a career that conferred no retirement benefits; the mercenary fights until he or she is dead. Ashav wanted no more fighting; he had long gotten the excitement of combat, and he wanted a few years of peace before the Far Shores.

Of course, he wouldn’t say any of that to Gustav. He wouldn’t show his doubt.

There was one thing he had to ask.

“What is your plan when we get to Jehanna? What happens when we do find your prophet?” Questioned Ashav. He picked up a green apple, rotating it slowly in his hand but not eating it. Examining the fruit helped calming him down. “You only told Edith, Dumhuvud and I about your soothsayer. I’m sure you understood that my men are, well, concerned about your direction.”

Gustav put up his hands in a gesture of disarming. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that earlier. Tensions have been high for weeks now and you are not the easiest of men to work with.” he said, pulling up a chair to sit across from Ashav, placing his hands on his shins. “I’ve never been the kind of man to put his faith into what soothsayers and prophets and what have you have to say, but who could have predicted an Akaviri invasion? Who could have found a way to keep a step ahead against the storm? Imagine if we had beaten them to the College and gotten all of the mages out, or warned the Jarl of Windhelm to stock up on firesalts and prepare sea defences? This prophet, if they are who they claim, maybe they could provide an insight into what’s to come and we could act preemptively instead of reacting. We find them, and they are true, then maybe we can still find a way to win this war and save lives.”

“Well,” Ashav said uncertainty, “alright, you have a point there. Go on.”

Gustav leaned back, massaging his temple with a pair of fingers, a headache was coming on, he could tell. “I’ve kept it to the leadership for now because you know as well as I what rumours turn into amongst a crowd. I also don’t want to give anyone’s hopes up, so if this turns up to be horker shit, no one loses faith in a long shot and we’re still in a position to recruit mages that should, excuse the play on words, provide us with the firepower we need to fend off Kamal and just about every other nasty brute that the Akaviri can send our way. I like to keep my options open.”

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Ashav laid out, “and say that I still have doubts. But you are right about our personnel, and we have to keep them in the dark for their own sake.” The light cast from a nearby window was making Ashav uncomfortable warm at this stage, and he realized that this meant he didn’t have much time to sit there; he needed to prepare.

“Suppose that prophet is the only path we have.” Admitted Ashav. Standing up to stretch, he also pocketed a napkin from the table.

“There’s no contract left with the Dragonborn and Skald dead, and everyone else is busy crawling back to the little hole they came from.” Politics never worried Ashav too much, however, it was hard not worrying about Skyrim’s current state of affairs. “Both you and Dumhuvud grew up here. Not sure about you, but he said this whole thing with Elisif nearly assassinated and Erikur being a Boethiah cultist is more messed up than Ulfric shouting Torygg down. You Nords here sure like drama.”

Gustav offered a terse smile in response. “Well, considering people still sing songs about Ragnar the Red in taverns nightly, we Nords do aspire to be a part of a good saga or song. It’s hard to earn a name if someone’s beat you to it, so passions lead to stories like we are speaking of now. I do admit, it gets rather exhausting going from one crisis to the next wondering who’s going to pull the stones out from the fragile foundation of peace next. “

Ashav walked back to the guestroom Gustav gave him, where he changed into cleaner clothes, making him appear less like a homeless drunk, and more as a grumpy old man. He returned to the living room musing aloud. “I miss Madura now. As clumsy as he was, that dark elf used to be our news source to the outside world.” The thought of the journalist brought out a snicker from Ashav. “You did figure him out from Sadri Beleth, did you?”

“Har har. Even I can tell when a dark elf is missing bits and pieces.” Gustav replied, sharing in the humour with a hearty chuckle. “Madura was a pain in the arse, but he was good at his work. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until his papers find their way to port, aye? But I must take my leave of you now, I’m sure you’ve a busy day ahead with the new blood and I’ve my own affairs to attend to. Here’s hoping High Rock still has it’s shit together.”

---

The mercenary company, now rested and recuperated, was loaded onto the Kyne’s Tear. The lines and anchor have been cast off, and the ship was rolling out of port. Ashav stood just below the quarterdeck, surveying the bustling ship deck under an overcast sky. Just five minutes into their voyage, Karena and Hargjorn were already arguing over the wheel. Mercenary warriors and specialists were settling in, finding places to sleep and stowing their equipment.

Speaking of stowing, Gustav must have contributed half of the stowed luggage. Ashav lost count of how many bags, boxes and crates that belonged to Gustav. Dough-Boy and Piper Speculatus spent hours hauling these things from Proudspire Manor to the ship. The porters had just finished their work, and at the same time, Gustav emerged from somewhere that Ashav couldn't see before.

“Is all that really necessary?” Ashav asked, puzzled. “I thought you left your stuff in Jordis’, your housecarl’s, care.”

“The day I find a Kamal wearing my finery is the day I summon Mehrunes Dagon to finish what he started.” Gustav replied, deftly evading explaining how much he didn’t trust a potentially rioting wartime populace of the former Imperial stronghold in Skyrim and for his estate to go unmolested. For most people, belongings were just things, for Gustav, it was an accumulation of his life’s work.

“You are tiring the poor boy out; just look how exhausted he is.” Ashav beckoned Dough-Boy over.

“Word of advice, Gustav, us mercenaries get by packing light.” The Redguard pointed out several mercs, most of whom had nothing more than a bag of personal possessions. “And bonus advice; you better get Dough-Boy a drink of those expensive wine that he carried for you. It pays to reward those sworn to carry your burdens.”

“It’s a good thing I have you lot to fight for me then, aye?” Gustav replied with a cheeky grin. “And don’t worry, I always reward those who do well by me. Say, Dough-Boy? When we hit port, I’m getting you some quality time with a lady of the night. Then you might be called Dough-Man, aye? And what I said goes for the rest of the company, continue putting in work, and I’ll make sure the coin flows better when I can reach some of my contacts and arrange for some lucrative work. There’s no shortage with those Bretons, they’re always at each other’s backs with schemes.”

Satisfied with giving Gustav advice, Ashav left the Nord businessman alone with Dough-Boy (and not giving the former a chance to shoot back smart retorts). Instead, he went to where Dumhuvud and Keegan were having an unpleasant conversation. Gods know what kind trouble they stirred up this time.

The boy, with his cheeks having practically gone red with embarrassment and excitement at their backer's suggestion, found the sudden silence caused by Ashav's departure rather awkward. He was going to be a man. He was going to be a man. “That’ll show them, Antti and Fjuhl and all those others back in the neighborhood,” he thought to himself, as he tried to come up with something smart and worldly to make himself look better in Gustav’s eyes. He had to make sure he didn't mess this up. He had one shot.

“Y-You don’t actually go for the navel, right?”

_{Featuring the immaculate @Spoopy Scary skeletons.}

Two days ago, on the 3rd of Sun’s Height, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
Aboard the Kyne’s Tear

“Is this going to leave a scar?” Narzul asked, frowning as he looked down at his abdomen in the dim light of the ship’s hold. The cabin was small and cramped, filled with barrels and sacks of goods and provisions that left room for only a small bed upon which the Dunmer sat. Niernen hovered over him, having gingerly unwrapped the bandages she’d applied, and prodded her brother’s wound with her fingers. It was the only blemish on his muscular torso. Niernen had always admired (and been envious of) her brother’s dedication to his physical prowess and he somehow looked even bigger than when she left Morrowind a month ago. Niernen sighed at the thought; she was thinner than she’d ever been.

Focusing on the here and now, Niernen continued her work. She would have gladly let Do’Karth (the company’s official combat medic) tend to Narzul, were it not for him protesting so venomously to the idea of being touched by ‘that filthy cat’ that it clearly wasn’t an option. She had swallowed her retort. Narzul’s racism continued to infuriate her, but she spared him her anger while he was injured. It was enough humiliation for him that he had to be rescued by Sadri on two separate occasions during their misadventure at Bleakrock Isle and she knew better than to try and teach Narzul anything while he was upset. That had never worked.

“Probably,” Niernen replied, and smiled apologetically at Narzul’s sigh of frustration. It had been a point of pride for twenty years that the Redoran warrior had gone through life almost entirely unscathed, but that streak was coming to an end. Niernen had been able to stop the internal bleeding and prevent the wound from being infected, but properly mending everything back together was beyond her skill. During the ritualistic duels that the captain of the Armiger outpost had them conduct, Narzul had fought and killed two of the enemy in succession but sustained a heavy injury in doing so. The second Armiger’s spear had punched through Narzul’s iron plate armor and made quite a mess. “If a real healer had been there when it happened it would have healed without a scar, but now…” she added.

“If I had some real armor then this wouldn’t have happened,” Narzul said, and stared darkly at the mismatched suit of iron and steel that rested on the bed next to him, the different pieces stacked on top of each other. He was used to wearing the finest protection the Redoran smiths could offer; the ebony armor he wore in Black Marsh would have easily stopped the Armiger’s spear. Niernen shrugged, straightened up and began to unwrap the bandages around Narzul’s right arm. He winced but she shushed him to be quiet.

Pleased with her handiwork there, Niernen smiled. This was the wound Narzul had sustained earlier, when he was fighting an Armiger after tumbling down a ravine when the bridge that crossed it had collapsed. “This looks much better, though. I don’t think you’ll see much of a scar on your arm once Wylendriel is done. You can at least go sleeveless without embarrassing yourself,” she teased. She took a look at the scrape on Narzul’s brow (from the aforementioned fall) but that minor wound had healed perfectly, leaving no trace.

Narzul scowled. “Not funny.”

There was a light knock rapping at the cabin door, capturing both of the siblings’ attention before the door was opened, revealing the short stature of the Wylendriel who was wrapped up in her typical green and brown robes comprised of wool, furs, and leathers. She slowly stepped forward before the two of them, looking at Narzul with an expression of unfamiliarity and glanced between the siblings, as if trying to find the resemblance between the two.

“Lady Venim.” Wylendriel addressed in a breathy and faintly trembling voice with the slight bow of her head. She then looked to Narzul, “Ah… Sir Venim, I presume?”

The priestess didn’t know of the proper dunmeri honorifics, and based on what little she has heard of this fellow from his sister, she had a feeling she was going to learn what they were very soon. She stepped closer and leaned in, appraising handiwork of the bandaging without touching. They were suitable and served its purpose she supposed, if a bit sloppy. It wasn’t of the same tidiness like the bandages Niernen was wearing when they first met in Dawnstar. She heard that perhaps they thought it would be best if it was Niernen who kept at his bedside, but in the end, it wasn’t her specialty. Wylendriel only hoped that her brother’s racial pride would at least allow another mer to take care of his injuries.

Narzul narrowed his eyes at the sight of Wylendriel, then glanced at his sister. She had neglected to inform him that the priestess was a Bosmer; a race that Narzul had very little dealings with, and plenty of prejudices about. “Serjo Venim,” he corrected her, his voice sharp.

Immediately exasperated, Niernen slapped Narzul’s shoulder and hissed at him to behave, then smiled at Wylendriel. “Thank you for coming, and don’t mind him,” she said and waved a hand at Narzul. “He gets cranky when he’s injured.”

Her brother tensed up and his irritation was clearly written all over his face, but his desire to be healed was stronger than his frustration and he exhaled slowly. “Indeed,” he muttered, “so be careful.”

Niernen almost slapped him again, but thought better of it. “Go ahead,” she said softly to Wylendriel and made room for the bosmer priestess to tend to Narzul, shuffling closer to the door. The priestess nodded and closed her eyes as she focused her magicka into her hands. They were soon aglow with a soft white light with a disease curing spell so that her hands were disinfected, before a harsher, brilliant yellow light consumed them. Wylendriel took a few steps closer and sat on the chair beside his bed, looking intensely at her latest patient’s injury.

“Take a deep breath and try tensing where it hurts.” She said, trying to give him a toothy smile. “It helps the muscles stitch themselves back together.”

Upon seeing Wylendriel’s sharp teeth -- all of them -- Narzul winced, despite himself, and pulled back from her touch. “Ayem’s mercy,” he hissed, eyes flitting between Wylendriel and Niernen. “You people eat each other!” Narzul shook his head and threw up his hands. “I can’t go along with this, Niernen. Find me another healer. This one… who are you a priestess of, anyway?” he asked, his tone venomous.

Wylendriel’s head swiveled around, her eyes shooting daggers at Niernen and paired with a sardonic smile. Quite obviously unamused and annoyed with her new patient’s attitude, she took in a deep breath and slowly sighed as she tried to maintain her temper and control her urges. The audacity! This mer was on the brink of being bedridden for the rest of his damned life, and he’s getting fussy with what kind of healer he gets? She looked back at Narzul and feigned as understanding a look as best as she muster, but ultimately it came off as condescending.

“I worship my lady, Kynareth, and the Storyteller, Y’ffre.” She affirmed. “And I do follow the Green Pact, but cannibalism has fallen out of common practice for as long as since the Second Era. I’m not going to eat you, roth vendan.”

Niernen mustered her best apologetic look. Now that she had made room for Wylendriel to tend to Narzul she was out of range to slap him again -- not that it would matter, she realised. He was so stuck in his ways. It must have been the difference in their education and the proximity to their father that had caused their beliefs to diverge so strongly, Niernen thought, and wondered if she would have turned out like her brother if their positions had been reversed.

“Very well,” Narzul muttered after a few seconds and moved back into position, sitting up straight so that Wylendriel could properly heal his abdomen. He tried to remember which one Kynareth was (Y’ffre he had never even heard of) and settled on the deity of life and death. It seemed most appropriate for a healer. In Morrowind the Temple priests were responsible for both physical and spiritual healing and the cremation of the dead, so Narzul assumed that was the case with the western gods too.

He still had to resist the urge to flinch when her glowing fingers touched his side. It felt wrong, unclean, that he was being touched in such a vulnerable place by what he thought to be a race of woodland savages. “So which one of your parents is the Imga, your mother or your father?” he asked and sneered at the thought.

A burning, seething rage was welling up in her chest, that kind the almost makes you sick to your stomach. In the middle of this procedure, there was no way for Wylendriel to cope with it using her usual methods - usually taking her hands back and clenching them into fists for as long and tight as she could - so she felt her fingers began to twitch. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt that it would serve this mer right if she set him in his place right here and now while he was vulnerable. At the same time, part of her felt bad for even thinking of it.

“Both of my parents are Spinners of Valenwood and they deserve respect.” She grumbled, her voice slightly trembling.

Narzul could see that he was getting a rise out of Wylendriel; carried away by the momentum of his supremely sour mood and his distaste for the whole situation, he ignored the furious gaze of his sister warning him to shut up and said: “That may be, but you still haven’t told me which one is the Imga.”

Wylenriel’s eye twitched for a second, then glared at Narzul dead in the eyes, not sparing a single glance at Niernen this time. Venomous words at the tip of her tongue, but she held them. There was a split second where she thought about all the things she could do to him at this moment, and part of her really wanted to make this as painful a process as possible for Narzul… but she decided against it. Not while Niernen was here.

The priestess lost her temper all the same however, and suddenly stood up from where she was sitting and planted the open palm of her left hand against Narzul’s chest. She was forcing him down with all of her weight as the yellow glow that was surrounding her hand slowly began shifting into green. While her right hand continued healing his wounds, the other felt like it was slowly sapping away his energy and stamina.

While her brother’s eyes widened in anger and, though he’d never admit it, a twinge of fear, Niernen recognised the magic Wylendriel was using and barked out a laugh.

“Niernen!” Narzul hissed as his limbs lost their strength faster than he could resist. “Stop this!”

She shook her head. “Oh no, brother-mine, you deserve this. Now shut up and stop being such an n’wah. Wylendriel is a friend and you will treat her with respect.”

Her brother fell silent, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was as if by sapping his energy Wylendriel had also drained him of his anger. He clenched his jaw and tried to ball his fists, but his fingers failed him. “I’m…” he began, but stopped. While he still didn’t much like the idea of the wood elves, he realized how childish and stupid it was to insult one to her face. “I should not have said that,” he managed.

“I think you’re right.” Wylendriel said sardonically, still not relieving him of her hand. “What was that you said before? You’re what?”

Niernen crossed her arms, frowned and smiled at the same time. It was both amusing (and gratifying) to see her brother in such a state of helplessness for a change, but there was also something discomforting about it. He had always seemed invincible to her when they were younger. It was sobering to realize that even Narzul was just another mortal.

“That’s all you’ll get from me, witch,” Narzul replied, his voice flat and strained. His eyes moved to meet Wylendriel’s again and he held her gaze this time. They stared off at one another for a brief moment before the priestess sighed.

“Well, in that case…” she began as she pulled her hands back, the magical auras that once surrounded them now dissipating, “that’s all you’re getting from me. Your injuries are mostly healed now, you’ll just have to settle with the aches and pains for a little while longer.”

She turned around with her mind apparently set on the matter and started walking toward the end of the room where Niernen, giving her an apologetic expression that was somewhat tarnished by her temper, characterized by her lack of eye contact. Only after a moment of hesitation did she say, “I apologize, there’s nothing more I can do for him.”

“Don’t apologize,” Niernen said, her voice low so that Narzul couldn’t hear. “You’ve done more than he deserves right now. I’ll talk with him and make sure this never happens again.” She put a hand on Wylendriel’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you.”

For his part, Narzul kept his tongue and remained where he was while his strength slowly came back to him. If his wounds were healed, that was good enough. The aches and pains would serve as a reminder of the failure of his sword-arm and the failure of his temper, and perhaps that’s what he needed right now.

Wylendriel recoiled a little bit at Niernen’s touch at first, but after a brief moment of hesitation, she closed her eyes and took in every second of the moment. It was as if she wasn’t just squeezing her shoulder, but also wringing out the stress and the tension that’s been building up inside her. She hasn’t felt the same ever since they left Dawnstar, so she had to try every moment she could to find some semblance of peace. The priestess took in a deep breath and sharply exhaled, finally opening her eyes and looking up with a slight smile on her face at the taller dunmer woman.

Placing a hand of her own on top of hers, she said with an awkward chuckle, “Can’t say it was my pleasure, but you are more than welcome to come to me for anything. Thank you for your kindness.”

As she brushed past Niernen and opened the cabin door to the deck of the ship, she bemoaned, “Well... another hour, another wound. Let me know if you’d like me to teach you that trick I just did. Maybe it could come in handy for you.”

Niernen couldn’t help but smile widely at the offer. The joy she felt at the simple, honest reprieve of interacting with a kind soul was writ upon her face. “That would be great! I’ll let you know when I’m ready, we’ll carve out some time and sit down for it.” She waved at Wylendriel as the Bosmer made her way topside, then turned around to face her brother.

“You! Narzul Venim, I swear to Azura, you are unbelievable.”

Narzul rolled his eyes. “Here we go…”

_{Featuring @Father Hank}

Noon, 3rd of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
The docks

After Wylendriel had begrudgingly tended to Narzul’s wounds as soon as they arrived in Solitude, the Dunmer had gathered up his belongings and made his way to Gustav’s warehouse. There he had found a suitable bed (though a far cry from the comforts of home) and stashed his gear. He had left most of his armor squirrelled away in a chest, and (now dressed only in his traditional Dunmeri tunic and his heavy iron boots) marched back down the docks in search of a spot for some silence and contemplation. His feet stomped down the stairs to the piers, thunk-thunk-thunk, the sound carrying far through the wooden platforms. Fishermen, traders, and merchants that had set up shop by the waterside turned their heads to look at the Dunmer approach, but he paid them no mind. He stretched when he reached the area of the docks where the Kyne’s Tear was moored, scanning the pier for a place to sit. The Tear was the only ship at this end of the docks, so strangers wouldn’t have any good reason to come this way. Narzul’s physique, normally hidden beneath the bulky shape of his hodge-podge armor, was clearly contoured in the thinner, well-fitted tunic, and he rolled up his sleeves to reveal a pair of powerful forearms. The Redoran warrior found a crate that looked reasonably comfortable and sat himself down, scarlet eyes squinting in the fierce rays of the midday sun, and looked down at the object he carried in his hands; his sword.

The ebony blade made a gritty rasping sound as he drew it from its plain, leather scabbard and Narzul held the weapon up in front of him, checking the edge for damage. It was the first time he had properly inspected the sword since Dawnstar. Niernen had confined him to a bed for a while until Wylendriel tended to him earlier that day (and even then his sister had double-checked -- nay, triple-checked him to see if he was truly well before she let him go). Ever the warrior, Narzul had decided to use his newfound freedom to immediately carry out some maintenance. He was pleased to see the sword was in near-perfect shape. While it was extremely heavy compared to every other material in Tamriel, that was one of the major benefits of ebony; strong enough to go edge-to-edge with any weapon and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway. Narzul spotted some small imperfections when he pressed the blade almost up to his eyeball. Or maybe he just imagined it. Either way, he was looking for an excuse to pull the whetting stone from his pocket and began sharpening the blade’s edge -- it was an exercise he always found relaxing. He, too, had dreamed poorly, like so many others on this ship. The taunting grimace of the twisted helmet of the Smiling Lord, a foe long vanquished, had plagued the halls of his mind during the night. Narzul’s face contorted and his vigorous whetting drew sparks from his sword at the memory.

“Got to make sure it's sharp, no?” Sadri quipped to shake Narzul out of the concentration he had dedicated to his task, as he approached the crate the Redoran was sitting on. “It doesn't hurt to keep this sharper, though,” Sadri added as he tapped his forehead with the index finger of his metal arm. “One may find his blade failing him, but it's a much more unfortunate sight to see one failing his blade. And one much more prone to occurence, as I'm sure you can attest.” He smiled as he placed his foot on the side of the crate the Redoran was sitting on, resting his torso on the now raised knee. “I hope you don't mind my constant quipping, Serjo Venim; you see how close this line of work keeps people to meaningless deaths. It is a way to relieve the tension of such stakes, I’d like to believe. Plus, having saved your life for the... second time now, I'd like to think I have the privilege.” From his voice, one could easily tell that he liked rubbing in that Narzul was not as infallible as one would have thought, yet, it was certainly not antagonistic.

Sadri grinned as he stopped speaking for a moment to gather his thoughts. “But I digress. I'm glad to see you two out of that scrape alive and mostly well. How fares it with you and your sister?” He asked, with a much more mundane tone, suited for a less banter-oriented conversation.

“And I see that you, master Beleth, have found the time to add another disfiguration to your appearance,” Narzul retorted and pointed at the contusion that was still visible on the side of the older Dunmer’s head. He paused, blinked, and immediately regretted what he said. Sadri had nerve, but he was Narzul’s elder and as much as he hated it, his words were true. Narzul had failed his blade when he hesitated in his duel with the Armiger down in the ravine and then again when he lost his temper during the bizarre, insane duels the Armiger captain had them perform. Both times Sadri had been there to pull him to safety. Narzul looked down at his sword. He opened his mouth to speak; to say ‘thank you’, to admit that Sadri was right, to apologise -- but his lips refused to form the words.

He settled for answering Sadri’s question. “Better. I think being injured in combat made it easier for her to forgive me. She has been… very kind to me, these past few days,” Narzul said, the brief pause halfway through his response caused by the incident with Wylendriel. Niernen had not been very happy about that. He looked up to meet Sadri’s eyes again when he was finished. The Redoran didn’t know why the mercenary had such an easy time getting him to open up, or (apparently) to goad him into childish banter even after being humiliated because of his barbed tongue just a few hours ago, and that frustrated him. “Why do you ask?” he added, though it was obvious from his tone that he had wanted to say ‘why do you care?’.

Sadri grinned like a hunter with his prey in his sights upon hearing Narzul's response - the fact that he had managed to get the normally uptight nobleman stoop down to his level for a response was certainly satisfying, plus, he knew that he could read this as a sign of growing camaraderie as well, with the two exchanging words in a closer 'frequency'. While he noticed how Narzul's expression bundled into quiet introspection, Sadri decided not to prod further just yet, instead keeping to his 'mostly bothersome, barely tolerable, totally indispensable' act. But, from the way he looked at Sadri, it seemed that the Redoran himself was not in the mood to stick to the charade. Sadri could not help but feel sad for the poor bastard. In a way, he was no more than a petulant child, frustrated with the fact that the world did not work the way he wanted it to. Yet nonetheless, the Redoran was still lacking in emotional eloquence, and did not seem very cooperative with all that was going on around him, obviously flaws that could be fatal for any involved, in circumstances such as these. He could help him learn, Sadri thought - he just wouldn't pull any punches.

“It is certainly a mystery that a fellow of wits as sharp as yours cannot seem to understand concepts as base as empathy, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “Perhaps it is a phenomenon experienced solely by us lowborn.” Scratching his chin, he rubbed a finger over his receding tooth gums before continuing.

“Although I could not help but notice the lack of the usual confidence in your tone as you replied; perhaps you noble folk merely stick to hiding it, for all the good it does you. We're comrades, whether we like it or not. It is only normal that I'd be concerned with one another's worries. As they say, no man is an island entire of itself.”

Narzul did not reply immediately. Where he had been idly fidgeting with his sword before, and the occasional scrape of the whetstone punctuated their conversation, he now stopped moving entirely. His eyes were fixed on Sadri’s face, drinking in the older mer’s expression, listening attentively to what he had to say. He blinked once, and then twice, but still did not move. The birds cried overhead and the bustle of the city at the height of midday rumbled in the distance.

For a brief second, he was reminded of his father; how the old elf would tower over him, talking and gesturing. Narzul did not remember the words, but he remembered the sentiment. How it was to be admonished.

The silence between them stretched on for several long, long seconds before Narzul spoke again. “You are lowborn,” he said, his voice heavy with restraint. “It has defined who you are and what you do. So uncouth, master Beleth, is your barbed tongue, and so unrefined your manners that you do not know just how misplaced your words are.” The tendons on the back of Narzul’s hand betrayed the strength of his grip on the hilt of his sword. The Redoran took a sharp breath and continued. “However… capable you are, we are only comrades through happenstance and misfortune. If it were not for my sister, we would not be having this conversation. Do not mistake me for an equal,” he said, his voice dropping lower, his stony-faced expression unrelenting. “One bad day does not bridge that gap.”

Narzul knew that Sadri was aware of his achievements in Black Marsh, and resisted the urge to bring up his victories and rub them in Sadri’s misshapen face. He did not need to stoop that low. Nor did he truly want to foster bad blood between them, so yet again his mouth opened to say something… sympathetic, or agreeable, but his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he remained silent, his jaw working and his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt.

“Oh, fret not, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied from behind a venomous smirk after a moment of pause. “Merely your merit in combat alone has proven to me over and over that we indeed are not equals.” As he spoke these words, Sadri's smirk drooped down to a less pronounced shape, just as how a blade would become harder to see as its edge came cutting down towards its target. “It is certainly a joy to see that your psyche is not as easily wounded as your flesh, though, coming from the way you provide your usual compliments; I don't know if bearing your emotional burden would be as tolerable as bearing your highship's bleeding body. I should say that, however, despite ample evidence that we would never be equals, I cannot help but witness some potential in you possibly becoming more... welcoming towards the concerns and thoughts of the great unwashed. Surely such a capability would be of tremendous help to you, a proud and dignified member of House Redoran, whether in your future duties as administrator or current duty as warrior.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” came the immediate response, blunt and decisive -- or so Narzul liked to think. Truth be told, it was petulant, born from the overwhelmingly frustrating idea that if Narzul had simply been surrounded by Redoran warriors instead, his own people who knew their place (and, more importantly, Narzul’s place), and that if he had a proper suit of armor instead of the low-quality disguise he had stuffed into his chest with disgust, Bleakrock Isle would have been a completely different story. The Armiger’s spear would have glanced off an ebony cuirass and left him unharmed instead of gouging a deep wound into his abdomen. More importantly, nobody would have forced him to be at the vanguard of the party, crossing unstable bridges with mercenaries that looked like they should be dead four times over. He had been a general, for crying out loud, but Dumhuvud had reduced him to a ‘tin can’ without a second thought.

He could see from the look on Sadri’s broken face that the older Dunmer knew all that and was guiding him towards the obvious truth; he was not surrounded by his Redoran allies. Narzul was going to have to learn to make due with what he got and to accept his current place in life. Ashav had made it perfectly clear when Narzul went to properly sign up with the Company that he was just another soldier now, a member of the infantry, and no more. But Narzul’s innate reluctance to accept this was exacerbated by Sadri’s inflammatory tone and extremely disrespectful sarcasm. At the same time, Narzul realised that the only reason he was even listening to Sadri was because the latter wasn’t sugarcoating his words. Niernen had already told him the same things, but he didn’t listen to her. And so it dawned on Narzul why Sadri was so successful at prying open Narzul’s facade; his candidness. Nobody he cared about had dared to be so blunt with him since his time at the garrison as an ordinary guardsman, twenty years ago.

“Perhaps,” Narzul said eventually. His body language softened as he laid the ebony sword across his lap and he glanced away, avoiding Sadri’s face -- he did not need to see the look of triumph that would undoubtedly flit across it. “There’s an old saying that goes as follows: ‘One must row with the oars he has.’ I suppose it’s true,” he added and stared out over the sea.

The smug smirk on Sadri's face was wiped clean and replaced with an enthused and elated smile upon witnessing Narzul cave. “There, there, now we're making progress, aren't we?” He asked, deciding to hop on the crate Narzul was sitting on, and sit on one above it, as to come across as less confrontational, but still keep the 'higher ground'. Leaning down to his knee, Sadri came somewhat close to Narzul's ear, but finding the lack of physical distance awkward, he turned his head the other way. “You've fought in formation before, no doubt, Serjo; surely you know that not acting cohesively in, say, a shield wall, it creates an opening in it that is prone to get exploited. You would say your training would keep you safe, provide you with privileges withheld from others; that may be so, but then, even if you weren't torn down, the foes would push your comrades back through the gap you created, and that would leave you surrounded.”

Looking back to the sea that extended all the way into the horizon beyond, Sadri appreciated the dread he felt from finding himself, and other lives, so small and insignificant in face of such absolute and unchanging things.

“What you said is correct. One must row with the oars he has. Yet one must also remember that he himself is an oar in the larger scale, and often an oar that is off balance with the rest finds itself whittled down to a more suitable size and shape, if not outright discarded. It is not the material of the tool that matters here, but the intent of the owner who wishes to use it.”

He sighed. He didn't know why he even bothered, but yet there was something that forced him to try and help.

“Your sister is a nice girl. And she's troubled, like most of us here, no doubt because of the circumstances. You should try and approach her less as Serjo Venim of House Redoran, but as her brother. Both of you are far away from any Redoran settlement worth a damn. Your adherence to noble etiquette may prove more a burden than a privilege in such a situation.”

Narzul gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Your advice is practical, but there is more at stake here than just survival. You say my sister is a ‘nice girl’ -- I think she’s a fool. We talked about this before. I don’t agree with anything she has done after leaving Blacklight. I didn’t even agree with her leaving in the first place. The situation has… escalated, and without the means to persuade my sister to leave there is damnably little I can do about it. Perhaps I’ve come too late and there is no way back for her. Or for me, after Bleakrock Isle.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. The very thought made him feel sick.

“But despite all of that, what really separates my sister and I from the ‘great unwashed’, as you put it, if we abandon all of our principles when faced with hardship? I don’t suppose this is the case for someone such as yourself, but my ancestors are watching. I can’t imagine Bolvyn Venim, Archmaster of House Redoran, who died fighting the outlander that would become the Nerevarine, would be impressed by me setting aside my station and my heritage to… become an oar, in a manner of speaking. You are asking me to admit defeat, and not just my own, but the defeat of my entire bloodline -- that the dynasty ends here as I become one of you.”

By the time Narzul was nearing the end of his rant the sound of desperation was evident in his voice. He glanced up at Sadri and for the first time since the two elves had met there was an empathic look in his eyes, trying to get his point across. “We do not share similar struggles, you and I. Do you understand?”

“Last I heard, 'blood' was not a principle, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “It is true that our struggles are not the same, and it is indeed true that I do not carry the weight of my ancestors' expectations upon my shoulders.” Sadri rubbed his mouth, swiping his recently grown mustache to the sides of his lips. “But that is not to say that I am not a man of principle. One should not stay stalwart in face of hardship for the sake of his blood, or what is expected of him, I would say, but solely for himself. A man is what he makes of himself, not what he's groomed or expected to be. Would you have bowed your head and lived a laborer or kwama miner, had you been born to such a bloodline? You surely are a great warrior. But do ask yourself, how much of it comes from your blood, and how much of it comes from your heart? It is the heart that pumps the blood in your veins.”

He took a deep breath, and continued.

“I mine my principles and valor from a different lode than my blood. My passion, my will to live. What I feel is right. You are Narzul Venim, of House Redoran, yes, but how much of that name and title do you deserve, if you cannot do anything for yourself? You do not reach heaven by adherence, Narzul. You reach heaven by violence.”

It would have been easy to dismiss Sadri’s message as plebeian convictions that were suitable for someone who came from nothing and had everything to gain, but Narzul was taken aback by Sadri’s last sentence. He knew the words, echoing in the memory of his childhood lessons with his family’s private tutor. Vivec, old god of the Tribunal, now revered as a saint, had written that in his Sermons. ”Reach heaven by violence.” Narzul had never understood the meaning of those texts before, obtuse and poetic as they were, but it was as if Sadri had cut through the bullshit in one fell swoop and explained that Sermon’s meaning to him.

Ironically enough, if Narzul remembered properly, that particular Sermon was often interpreted as a message to the Nerevarine. An outlander who came from nothing, allegedly destined by prophecy to become the Nerevarine… but who had become so much more. If any one person Narzul knew could be said to have reached heaven by violence, it would be him. He rubbed his chin and frowned. Sadri seemed to imply that nothing Narzul had done had been done of his own volition, because it was something he wanted. That felt wrong -- Narzul knew what he wanted. He always had. Or had he truly merely adopted his father’s wishes for him, and nothing more?

Either way, Narzul looked at Sadri and saw him in a new light. This maimed cripple wasn’t just a thoughtful peasant out of his depth in his line of work, as Narzul had first assumed, nor merely a capable veteran with a penchant for being unkillable, as he had later learned. No, Sadri was very specifically and most importantly another thing: free.

“I don’t know, master Beleth,” Narzul said at last. “You’ve made your point and I understand your philosophy, but…” He trailed off and ran his fingers up and down the spine of his ebony sword. “I am Serjo Venim of House Redoran. I want to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. Is it not possible to do that for myself? Becoming who I was groomed to be?”

Sadri was momentarily taken aback by how heavily Narzul's current indecisive and contemplative demeanor contrasted against his usual, clear cut self; while he had been trying to get him to this point, he had not expected that the effects would be this profound. But, it was only normal that the sudden absence of something one would be so accustomed to would touch deeper than something one would already accept as fleeting. After all, wasn't that why earthquakes were much more unexpected, and often much more traumatic experiences than storms at open sea, shaking one's very trust in the firm ground under one's feet?

“You could, sure,” Sadri replied nonchalantly, sounding as if he himself was unsure as to where to take the conversation. “But I don't know if Serjo Venim of House Redoran would fight to the death for his sister's sake, against those serving underneath the flag of his High King, as I have seen you fight. He would see her, rightfully, as an outlaw, a traitor to the land. For that is indeed what she is, to King and Country. I would not hold it against you if you chose to be that man instead of something else. There is comfort in familiarity and privilege. But I would have to tell you that perhaps you would not be best fit to stay amongst us, were you to decide to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. You would be better off amongst those you were so keen on butchering on that thrice-damned isle.”

He took a moment of pause, to let the words sink in, and to catch his breath. He hadn't expected to do mentoring of this sort when he'd signed up for this line of work.

“Or you could be whoever you want to be, whether that be Narzul Venim, or anything else. What matters is this,” Sadri said, pointing to Narzul's sword. “You are what you do. Fighting for what you believe in, and not what someone else does, does not make you any less a man of integrity.”

Sadri’s harsh words about the nature of his sister had almost caused Narzul to interrupt him with vehement protest, but he kept his mouth shut -- Sadri was right. Niernen was all of those things to the country he had always professed his loyalty to. And he had hesitated, back in Morrowind, when he saw her name on the list of traitors. It had been his father that practically yelled him out of the house and onto the road. The same father that had drilled the Redoran code of honor into him for as long as he could remember. Even when he defied his High King, it was because of a choice he had not made himself.

“It was never my plan to stay among you for very long,” Narzul said. “I’m still only here to bring my sister home, and then to find a way to obtain clemency from the High King.” His voice had regained its confidence and resolution. It was evident the moment had passed; Narzul was Serjo Venim once more. He got up from the crate, satisfied with the state of his weapon, and returned it to its scabbard. “That’s what I believe in; to protect my family without abandoning my country.”

“Very well then,” Sadri replied, his tone content albeit formal. “I can only respect a man who decides to become part of a larger structure, if he claims it is done out of his own free will. I pray you do not find cause to regret it.”

Narzul looked Sadri in the eye one more time and nodded -- however stiff, it was a sign of respect -- before turning around and walking back the way he came.

The crashing of the waves.

Whooooosh... ssss..

No matter where one was at in the world, the mother moons were always a constant. They pull at the very oceans of Mundus, and it was those very waves that battered against the jagged rocks along the shore of Haafingar, spraying salty mist into the air and giving it the same taste and smell as the ocean. To some, it smelled like home. While the stinging bite of its coldness was sharp against the lungs compared to the warmer, gentler, and thicker air of Senchal, there was no doubt in the old khajiit's mind that it was the same ocean smell he remembered and that made his trip on board this miserable boat slightly more bearable.

It was just enough to stifle the sour smell of his new commander's vomit that spilled all over that uppity and frolicking snoot's laundry basket before him. He never trusted such figures, if for no other reason than because of the authority they imposed. Who was any one man to lead the life of another? The lives of many? Emperors, Kings, and Manes - it did not matter. Being favored by the gods did not mean favored by mortalkind as gods could see potential but mortals could not. They'd have to prove that potential to them, and so far, Dar'Jzo did not see it. He only provided a service in exchange for payment.

Though Dar'Jzo maintained a stoic and stony disposition, he leered again into the basket and bristled his whiskers. He felt his stomach turn at both the smell of grisly task laid before him and the bobbing of the ship on the water. This was not the kind of labor he meant. He was no enemy of hard or dirty work and he couldn't say that he was above of such labors, no - he has sunken far lower before - but today of all days? He simply did not have the stomach for it. It was only just the other day did he hear from a local just outside of Solitude that they saw another khajiit matching Saddi's profile with a human girl on a travel carriage heading westward toward High Rock.

Supposedly the road led to Jehanna, and that was when he learned of this mercenary company heading in the same direction by boat. If he had a senche friend with him, he'd be catching up to his grandson in no time. Now? He just had to take a rickety old boat and hope that the smell of vomit, bobbing on the water, and the sense of trepidation didn't work together to make him lose his breakfast. Every time he looked down at the job expected of him, he'd return his gaze straight ahead and steel his nerves. His composure was impressive - anyone else would just see a quiet, mysterious, and gloomy old cat. They never would've known that it was taking everything from him just to keep himself together.

His scrawny companion across from him seemed less reluctant in diving into the mess, furiously scrubbing away at one of the garments inside a bucket of clean water. The sooner it's done, the sooner it's over with, he'd say. When one of the crew called him Dough-Boy, Dar'Jzo must have preferred that instead of his actual name, since he had long since forgotten was his real name actually was. Dough-Boy was hard at work while Dar'Jzo seemed at ease in his meditation. He sat on the deck with his legs crossed, hands rested on his knees, and leering at everything with squinted eyes - wordlessly. To be honest, it was getting on the young man's nerves, yet the strange old cat made him feel a tad too uncomfortable to really say much about it. He found him off-putting even during their first meeting, for he was not much for chit-chat. He said his name was Dar'Jzo, and that was it for introductions. When pressed to share more about himself, all he said was that "this one works and he hunts".

You know what he has done so far ever since he told him what their shared responsibility for today was? Sitting in the same spot, expressionless and speechless, and staring at him the whole damn time. To be honest it was starting to get a little creepy. Whoever this Dar'Jzo guy was, he was unsettling, and it was getting on his nerves that he wasn't doing a damn thing to help! Meanwhile, Dough-Boy just spent all morning hauling cargo and now he was cleaning someone else's vomit for Stendarr's sake!

"Uh... Dar'Jzo?" The young man says nervously. The old cat didn't move his head or any other part of his body, only aiming his feline eyes at the young man. Dough-Boy averted eye-contact and continued, "Would you mind giving me a hand? The commander put me in charge of you new bloods, I can't just let you... well, do nothing."

"Yes." He answered simply. A brief moment of quiet had brewed between the two for a while. Both silent, both unmoving - until Dough-Boy broke the silence with, "Uh... yes as in...? You'll help? Or you do mind?"

"No."

"Right..." The young man continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand - before suddenly realizing that he had been using that hand to clean vomit and quickly recoiled, wiping that hand dry on his shirt. His eyes darted uncomfortably between the laundry and Dar'Jzo, trying to think of something or some way to get his authority across.

"This one cannot help you." Dar'Jzo said. Though he sent his message across plainly in his gravelly old voice, he could practically feel his soul screaming inside. His stomach was wrenching itself, his brain was slamming itself against the inside of his cranium - and Dar'Jzo couldn't help but think, 'Please kid, do not make this worse for yourself than it has to be.' He just wanted a bit of silence so that he could focus on not turning inside out, but Dough-Boy's sense of responsibility, while admirable, was something of a hound that wouldn't stop humping his leg.

Great, now he had that image stuck in his head. Dar'Jzo just felt himself getting sicker, but not an ounce of it showed on his forever stoic face.

"Don't, uh, take this the wrong way and... like, stuff..." He started, growing increasingly both nervous and irritated as the creepy old khajiit just kept on staring at him with his sunken eyes, "and I mean no offense... but if you can't help me do laundry, then..."

Dough-Boy threw his arms out, gesturing to the entire ship around him. Then he huffed, hanging his head low. "You know what? Never mind. I don't know why I try."

"Dar'Jzo did not say he will not. Dar'Jzo will, but now he cannot. Only when the time is right."

The young man leaned in curiously, as if trying to decipher some kind of hidden meaning behind the elder's words. When the time was right? What could that possibly mean? Was... was he testing him? What if this entire time, this mysterious stranger was... maybe he was secretly a monk or something? Silly, yes, but... what if it was true? What if he was on some kind of nomad on a spiritual journey? Could he... could he train him? Be his master? Help him perfect the art of an ancient hand to hand combat style? Antii and Fjuhl wouldn't see that coming. He must know!

Dough-Boy leaned in closer, his voice hushed as he asked, "What do you mean when the time is right?"

"After this storm comes to pass." Dar'Jzo replied, deadpan as always.

Dough-Boy looked around the ocean skies. It was clearly blue as far as the eyes could see. He looked back at the khajiit and asked again, "What storm?"

Dar'Jzo did not answer, only staring ahead - almost through Dough-Boy with the same grim expression. His brows casted shadows over his bagged eyes, and the breeze whistled through the tribal-looking beads adorning his dreaded black beard and dreaded black mane, only intensifying the mystical aura which seemed to surround him. Then, for a split second, his face moved. His eyes widened, ever so slightly - then he bowed his head and hunkered over the laundry basket without warning, depositing even more vomit on top of the clothes than there was originally. The cat didn't even spray it or anything! He just bent over and, gosh, it just fell out of his mouth! Dar'Jzo returned to his original position, his expression finally taken over by one of weariness and nausea as his brows hung low. Some leftover bile collected in a small patch of fur underneath his bottom lip.

Dough-Boy reeled back the moment it had occurred and watched with horror as Dar'Jzo contributed to the disgusting mess that had to be cleaned up. His face was replaced by a look of disappointment as the old cat single-handedly crushed his daydreams with a swing of his neck and a handful of cat barf. Of course. He should have expected something like this. He took a deep sigh and shook his head, now in understanding why Dar'Jzo was telling him why he couldn't help him. He waved a dismissive hand at the new-blood and said, "You know what? Don't worry about it. I'll take care of this. Just see if you can't find some ginger for yourself."

"Dar'Jzo is fine." He lied. "He does not need the ginger."

He could about feel himself reeling. His chest heaved for a brief second, but he was able to keep it down. Nearby, a much shorter woman watched with a long drawn-out sigh. Her green and brown fur and leather robes indicative of her status as the company's one and only priestess. She had to admit that she felt indifferent toward the few of the crew who had not yet found their sea legs when she thought she should have been feeling more empathetic. Curious how some people would seem to pray more often while on a boat than when nursing whatever wounds they had. Her magic and healing ability was the real reason these people came to her. They weren't looking for someone to tend to their crises of faith like Ashav said they might. They were less willing to confront the wounds in their faith than in the wounds in their bodies.

Let the actual "medic" deal with their upset stomachs. She wasn't going to waste any time on ills mundane.

Wylendriel shook her head and kept on walking, make her way around the boat, watching the deckhands and the mercenaries hard at work. She was supposed to be keeping an eye on them and making sure they were in good and stable health. Perhaps she should be looking inward toward her own turmoil, but she buried it deep like she did many things. She hadn't felt the same since they left Dawnstar - ever since Tzinasha's death. It weighed heavily on her mind, and on her heart, but probably not for the reason it should. The dunmer assassin they captured ultimately decided that killing herself was preferable to giving up information... no, that wasn't it. That wasn't the fact that was bothering her. It was that she took the coward's way out. It was that she stole her opportunity to get back at her. She stole the life of her friend and stole her opportunity for revenge. She stole from her.

The priestess' fists clenched and slowly, she tried to control her breathing.

This wasn't right. Whatever this is that's happening to her, it isn't right. She has to get herself in order before she loses her self-control. She just hoped that there were places in High Rock where should could continue her pilgrimage. Surely the bretons had a chapel to at least one of the Nine... or one of the gods from her own people's Pantheon - she wasn't sure if it hardly even mattered who she prayed to anymore. Her thoughts returned to the moment she had signed herself up for Ashav's company. Part of her wished that she was more upfront with what she wanted from him. If she could've gotten him to agree, then he'd be beholden to his word.

By Y'ffre's hairy feet, she wish she had a pact-hostage in him right about now.

No. No, actually, she wished she had a way to bleed this feeling of anger out. No matter what she did, she felt like she was trapped inside her own head.

Gods, this was going to be a long trip.

The white, silty sand was hot beneath the bare-feet that tread across the beach’s surface. While the location would have seemed a tropical paradise under other pretenses, a storm was approaching from the East, bringing with it large waves that had begun to swell in the distance. Time was of the essence, and not just on account of the weather. Standing in two orderly rows, as if receiving a delegate, were a trio of hulking figures that were completely bundled in leathers, crude iron armour, and furs; they were the Kamal and through the spectacled visors that adorned their great helms, pairs of bright blue eyes stared back hatefully. But still, they waited. They were creatures that remained frozen for much of the year until they were afforded a few months of time to continue their fated conquest. Like winter, they were repelled every year, but the threat of them lingered. Time was on their side, and like living glaciers, all they required to thrive was an absence of warmth. While each year for centuries they had only known defeat, all they required was victory once and everything would end. They truly were monsters, an unstoppable force.

And yet they waited.

He walked past the towering sentinels, barely paying them mind even though their glaives and axes could cut him in two without much effort on their behalf; he had witnessed them do just that in Windhelm. While he carried only a quarterstaff and a sense of purpose, it was enough. The Kamal watched, their feet planted as if they were statues in the sand. They were here to bear witness to what was to happen next.

A pair of figures stood at the end of the beach, light figures backing onto the black and green sky of the storm that threatened to envelop them all. The first drops of rain fell, and upon a padded palm, they felt cold as ice. The Kamal stirred, as if reinvigorated. The implication was clear; there would be no escaping from this winter. It has come to claim harvest. He walked purposefully towards the two figures, a pair of familiar and pale faces, one adorned with hair of crimson fire and the other with hair the colour of sod. The fire-haired woman was on her knees, her hair clutched in a fist by the man, a handsome Nord whose eyes were filled with irrational, drunken hate. In his hand was clutched around a familiar axe, one that was purchased for the fire-haired woman not long ago as a token of respect and love. About her neck was an amulet of Mara that had been crafted in the deserts of Anequina, symbols of Jone and Jode represented with moonstones and the amulet itself enameled sandstone.

He stopped not far from them; the staff was planted in the sands. The wind picked up, the rain felt like needles, and in the distance, lightning flashed in a spectacle of light that was beautiful in the way only that which was truly dangerous was. The man’s face was cut and bruised, badges of the last time he had confronted him over the fire-haired woman. His pride was his weakness, and his mind was not sound. Amber feline eyes regarded the Nord through narrow slits, pity having given way to cold resolve. He had gone too far; this would never happen again.

“You took her from me!” The battered sod-haired man screamed, pulling crimson locks tighter in his fist. The axe was clutched dangerously close, the blade leaving a scarlet crescent as it traced skin. Still, he did not move. The man continued to pant, rationality having left his fair features. Leif Raven-Stone was gone; a feral animal was standing in his place. Still, there was no more pity left for this man, no chance at redemption. He would do what needed to be done.

“Do’Karth, please… don’t.” The woman pleaded, but not to the man who held her hostage with her own axe. “Don’t do this.” She knew what he planned to do, and what it would mean. Still, he would press on. That decision was made long ago.

“The choice has been made.” He replied calmly, pulling the staff out of the sand. A foot-long moonstone blade was affixed to the end, lightning cracked dangerously close. The waves began to lap up the beach, soaking his feet in ice. Still he remained still, looking at the new blade expectantly, as if remembering.

“You’ll never have her! You hear me, cat?” Leif screamed, spittle flying from his lips. Furious, rabid. Pathetic.

The spear was lifted, and with steps and a sense of momentum that he had not felt in years, the weapon left the feline’s paw, sailing through the air. The weapon’s flight was true, and the blade buried itself into the man’s ribs, cutting through white cotton as if it were the air itself. Leif dropped to the ground, sucking air through a punctured lung. The feline walked to his prone body, grabbing the spear, preparing to drive it in further. The crimson-haired woman sobbed, clutching at his legs, begging him to stop through a choked voice. This gave him pause, as if he had forgotten something. He looked to her emerald eyes, trying to remember the connection.

“Do’Karth… what…” Leif spoke, but the voice was not his own. He looked down at the feral Nord and instead found a different face staring back at him, and Ohmes with fair features and tattoos to give the Bosmer-looking Khajiit more feline features to connect him spiritually to his people. “Who are you…” the voice trailed off and the light left his eyes.

He looked down in horror. S’Razza lay dead at the end of his spear, felled not blocking the Mane, but for being alongside the woman he loved. He stumbled, stepping back in horror, his hands clasping at his face as he let out an anguished scream. He knew the blades were coming next, the penance of Dar’Turga’s failed assassination. He prepared for them to pierce his calf, his flank, his chest…

The blades did not come.

Turning around with petrified eyes, he looked back towards the Kamal, who stood right behind him. They reached up to their masks and helms, pulling them free and dropping them to the sand. Lightning struck the beach, blinding his eyes and deafening his ears. When he looked upon them again, Khajiit stood where the Kamal did, faces from his past with murderous eyes. The elder approached, holding a silver dagger with a red ribbon, the same that had been left on his pillow the night before the assassination. The elder took his hand, placing the blade in his palm. The Suthay-Raht smiled.

“Welcome home.”

---

Eyes jolted open and the entire world lurched, and Do’Karth grabbed the fabric of his hammock, digging his claws into it in alarm. He was panting, the vivid images that had just filled his mind being slowly replaced by the fog of being forced of sleep. The Khajiit was not used to the motions of ships, nor did he particularly care for them. Sinking and drowning in the cold Northern waters in all honesty terrified him, but it was his duty to press forward. Others depended on him, and on this ship were his friends and lover. Do’Karth looked over at the sleeping face in the hammock next to his; Sevine slept soundly, not a trace of the anguish she had endured in his thoughts across her peaceful and beautiful features. Sitting up and planting his feet firmly on the deck below him, Do’Karth bent forward, massaging the back of his neck with strong fingers and the comforting racking of claws as he borrowed from his meditation rituals to ground himself.

Focusing on the wood beneath his feet, the fabric of the hammock, the motion of the ship as it rocked gently in the Solitude harbour, the sounds of the sleeping crew breathing and snoring amongst the hold, Do’Karth took it all in and let himself become rooted in the moment. The raw emotional toll he felt from the nightmare had passed, and soon the Khajiit opened his eyes, realizing the sleep would not come to him for some time. He stood, stretching his sore limbs, especially the leg that seemed to always hurt, and he quickly decided that fresh air would do him well. The Khajiit never appreciated being below deck; if the ship ran into a crisis and began taking on water, the last place he wished to be was somewhere where he could not escape. At least on the deck, all you had to do was swim up. That luxury was not afforded to those down below who had only limited air to find the ladder or stairwell above to salvation. He’d heard one too many tales of people definitely not finding it.

Walking over to Sevine, he brushed the hair out of her face and gently pressed his forehead against hers, not wishing to wake her but to feel her presence. He would speak to her later, he decided. She needed rest as much as anyone else. And so, Do’Karth headed to the stairwell to the levels above, stopping as his hand grasped the railing to look back at Leif’s sleeping face, finding it contorted in an amusing shape as he snored obnoxiously in the night. Under other circumstances, it would be amusing for the Khajiit, but now he only felt guilt and apprehension. It was the push that he needed to head topside to try and forget.

---

It was close to midnight and Niernen sat on the railing of the ship, her legs dangling off the edge. Copper eyes -- the color of which had always mystified her parents and remained, as far as she knew, unique -- stared out over the Sea of Ghosts, watching the moonlight reflect and refract in the ever-moving water. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The waves quietly lapped against the coast and the ship’s hull below, a salty breeze toyed with her hair and the cries of far-off seagulls carried through the air. Her gray cloak was wrapped around her torso, providing warmth against the chill of Skyrim’s summer nights. It was peaceful, serene, and by all rights a moment that Niernen should have enjoyed.

But she didn’t. Her hands lay trembling in her lap, fingers interlocked, searching for support. She could still feel the fear in her stomach that she’d woken up with, gasping for breath, and the last image of her nightmare was still burned into her mind: the dark, foreboding undercroft of a Temple of the Reclamations, where the Dunmer kept the ashes of their ancestors, and the terrible knowledge that the four corners of the room were full of troubles - but when she looked, all Niernen saw was the shape of the Nerevarine lurking in the gloom. She wanted to go to Narzul’s bed, wake him up, tell him about the dream and curl up in his embrace, and she almost did, but he had never been that kind of big brother. Narzul cared, and always had, but he was stiff and aloof to a fault. So instead she’d gotten dressed, left Gustav’s warehouse, wandered wherever her feet guided her while she struggled to calm herself down, and found herself sitting here, on the Kyne’s Tear. Gods knew she needed her sleep.

“Niernen? What are you doing up at this hour?” A Southern-accented feline voice asked behind her. Do’Karth approached, finding a position near the gunwale next to her, finding comfort in friendly company. Perhaps she could help him put his mind at ease, or at least make sense of the growing uncertainty that seemed to be following him more and more each day. He had hoped that leaving Dawnstar behind and ideally escaping the Kamal would give him peace he had long forgotten, but his mind seemed to be a siren, singing all sorts of songs that would head him to his doom. Still, he forced a smile, hoping not to betray his thoughts. Niernen had suffered greatly the past several weeks, and she did not need more burdens placed on her. This one is Do’Karth. He helps others, he is not the one from his dreams. he reassured himself, looking to the sky above.

“Do’Karth always loved the stars, the night sky in general. It makes him feel wonder, even back when he was a cub. They’ve always been something so tranquil and detached from the troubles below.” he observed, hopefully striking up something of a conversation. Considering everything that had happened between them and recent revelations, such as a very hostile older brother with a penchant for over-protectiveness entering the scene, it was a dance one had to practice delicately.

The she-elf almost jumped out of her skin when Do’Karth spoke up and she had to grab the railing with both of her hands to prevent her from tumbling forward and into the sea below. Niernen’s heart thudded in her chest like a galloping Guar and it took several seconds for her breathing to resume. She looked aside to see the Khajiit making himself comfortable next to her and smiled as he talked, glad that he did not seem to have noticed how badly she had been startled. She followed his gaze to the sky and nodded in agreement.

“Me too. I came here for some fresh air but also to see the stars,” she said and swallowed heavily as she thought about the reason she was awake and up here. “I had a nightmare,” Niernen added in a smaller voice, and looked at Do’Karth, her large eyes full of emotion. “Even in my dreams, the Nerevarine haunts me. It’s like he and his minions are always breathing down my neck.” She wallowed in the feeling of the dream for a second, of being watched and judged from all sides, afraid but unable to move, and then shivered. “I don’t want to be captured again.”

Do’Karth listened, feeling somewhat ashamed of feeling grateful he was not the only one dealing with haunting dreams that seemed to bring the past to vivid and wretched light. Even so, he knew Niernen had suffered greatly at the hands of her own people. The betrayal must have shaken her to the core.

He stared into her copper eyes with sympathy, reaching out to take her shoulder. “Do not fear. Do’Karth will do everything he can to make sure you stay free and safe. Everyone on this ship would stand up to those who would do you harm, this one promises. We are sailing West, away from all of that. Besides,” he smiled, amused. “Do’Karth feels as if your brother would tear an entire fleet apart on his own if anyone came for you again. This one feels that a sibling’s love is a powerful thing, no?”

Niernen allowed herself to enjoy the touch of Do’Karth’s fingers on her shoulder for a second while Sevine slept below. “Yes, it is,” she said, answering his question. “But he loves and hates in equal measure. He traveled all the way to Dawnstar, risking the whole life he worked so hard for back home, to tell me that I’m a fool, that everything I’ve done since leaving home is stupid, and that I should go back with him. He hasn’t gotten his wish, as you can see, and I don’t know what he’s going to do. He was so angry when he learned that I… well, that I like you. That we’re friends, even.”

There it was again, the affection she felt that he’d never be able to reciprocate. Do’Karth removed his hand, interlocking his fingers in front of him against the wooden rail. He felt a flush of embarrassment for confusing the situation with the sensation of touch, it just was one of those things that came naturally to him. The Khajiit knew all too well that Narzul might as well have been the Red Mountain when it came to the built up hatred and fury he likely had for the cat his sister fancied, and Do’Karth hoped it wouldn’t end up like another situation like Leif’s drunken idiocy and challenge for a duel. He did not expect the Dunmer warrior to have any sense of formality or honour in confronting Do’Karth about his sister’s affection, and there was always a chance he’d attack armed when he had him alone. He would have to tread carefully. Do’Karth sighed, unsure of what to make of the situation he found himself in.

She bit her lip and looked away. “He’s a real ash-blooded Redoran with a stick up his ass and he looks down on everyone that isn’t a Dunmer. You should have seen how he talked to Wylendriel, who’s another elf, for crying out loud, while she was healing him! I was so mad… I can’t stay mad at him for very long, though. He did come all the way out here just to protect me. I just don’t know if he’s…” Niernen took a deep breath and sighed. “He got wounded pretty badly on Bleakrock Isle. That’s never happened to him before. He doesn’t seem as stable or as forceful as I remembered him to be.”

Do’Karth nodded. He was all too aware how grievous injuries could change one’s life in unexpected ways. His being here was a testament to that fact.

Suddenly aware of how long she’d been talking, Niernen groaned and scrunched up her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rant. Enough about me and my troubles. Why are you up here?”

“Please, do not worry for voicing what troubles you. Do’Karth would be a terrible friend if he did not listen when a friend needed his ear, no?” he replied with a reassuring upturn of the lips, before his expression grew downcast. “It is a difficult thing what Narzul has done for you. His honour towards family means more to him than his homeland, but it does not mean it is not a difficult choice to make. It was still his decision to choose you above all else, so do not forget that he was willing to sacrifice everything to be with you. Be sure to honour him for that, and this one will keep his distance if it helps the… transition.”

His tail flicked, and his nails dug into his wrists somewhat as his ears folded back, a visual tell that something was bothering him.

“Nightmares chased this one up here, dreams that seem to be conjured up from a past best left buried. It is difficult, and this one is apprehensive for what they might mean. You need to understand that the Khajiit you admire was… troubled. He came from a dark place and he was without Mara’s love or S’rendarr’s mercy, and because of that he did a terrible thing.

“To even speak of this makes Do’Karth fear that the Khajiit he wishes to be erodes away like sandstone in the desert winds, his sense of self worn away to reveal the one he was before in his past life. All you need to understand is that Do’Karth has taken a life in that life, and it was still too many. Since then, this one has wandered Tamriel, trying to do well by those he meets and afraid to form lasting attachments in case he is forced to make a decision he cannot make.” he began to wring his hands, his breaths drawing deeper and more frequent. “These nightmares. They’ve followed this one for many moons since this war began, and more and more frequently. Do’Karth is afraid that what they represent will break through the veil of wakefulness and sleep and consume him.”

While initially surprised to hear Do’Karth say such things about himself, Niernen then smiled ruefully -- it seemed everyone on this cursed ship had a dark past they were trying to escape from. She could have known. Still, it pained her to see the kind, confident Khajiit suffer from anxiety and doubt. Niernen was reminded of the first conversation she and Do’Karth had shared, back in Windhelm, after they had defeated several Kamal invaders together. She had told him of the things she’d done in Black Marsh and how she felt she didn’t deserve to be called a hero. Now it seems their roles were reversed.

“I’m sorry to hear you say that,” she said. Now it was her turn to place a comforting hand on Do’Karth’s shoulder. “Leaving behind your past is hard. Really, really hard. I understand how you feel -- the idea that the person you were and the things you’ve done are still inside there, somewhere deep, buried but ready to strike. If you were capable of murder once,” she paused and took a deep breath, “or terrible war crimes, what’s to say you won’t do so again? What if you hit your limit and snap? Well, that’s where this,” she said and pointed at Do’Karth’s head, “and this,” she added and pointed at his heart, “come into play. I think it’s pretty clear after everything that’s happened since Windhelm that we mortals are not the masters of our own destinies. But we are the masters of our minds. I don’t know exactly what you’ve done and I don’t need to know. But I do know that your soul is pure and your heart is in the right place. If you don’t want to be consumed by the specters that haunt your nightmares, you won’t be.”

Niernen gathered her lands in her lap again and looked down at them. Her fingers weren’t trembling so badly anymore. “That’s what I believe. It’s what I have to believe, because if that’s not true then you and I are both doomed.” She then laughed and playfully elbowed Do’Karth in the side. “But we’re not. You’re not. Alright?”

The image of driving the spear into Leif’s chest flashed through Do’Karth’s mind, a scenario where one life or another would have been lost depending on his choice. How could he express that that was the thing that was haunting him? After everything he’d experienced since the war started, it almost seemed like such a scenario was all but inevitable. Still, he smiled back. “Perhaps you are right. Do’Karth knows where his heart belongs and has the gods to watch over his steps. Perhaps we just need a vacation somewhere warm, where everyone is too fat and lazy to know how to lift a sword.”

“Oh gods, yes,” Niernen said and laughed. “I would kill for that. Pardon my language.” She fell silent and fidgeted for a bit before asking a question that had been begging to be asked for a while now. “How are you and, well, Sevine?” She kept her gaze averted from Do’Karth’s face and cleared her throat. Get it together, woman, she said admonishingly to herself.

He’d feared this was coming, and Do’Karth was at a loss for knowing what he could possibly say without causing a rift. Was it impossible to spare Niernen hurt while being honest? Mara knows, he thought. He drummed his claws against the wood, his jaw rolling in concentration. Realizing he was probably sending the wrong message with the pause, he chuckled apologetically. “Please pardon Do’Karth, he’s had a lot on his mind. Things are well, this one is happy. You just reminded him of Leif for a moment, this one is quite thankful that he’s seemingly found his senses once more. Do’Karth considers himself quite fortunate, but… he’s afraid. In his dream he was forced to kill Leif to save Sevine, he had lost his mind while Do’Karth felt nothing. It was a cold, efficient. What someone else would have expected from him long ago.”

He shook his head, looking over to meet Niernen’s eyes. “Do’Karth is truly sorry for the pain he has caused you. Emotions are a strange thing, and he has spent so long trying to keep everyone at an arm’s length to prevent him from having to deal with consequences of attachment, but perhaps Mara has other plans for him. He’s never felt like he deserved to be loved after… well, let’s just say the point this one truly became Do’Karth was a very sudden and painful transformation. How does one spend years trying to atone and feel like he doesn’t deserve lasting happiness and then finds himself looked at with such affection from two women? It is… strange. He does not know how to mend this.”

Eyes widening apologetically, Niernen stammered a reply. “N-no, no, Do’Karth, don’t say that! I don’t blame you for anything. It’s not your fault. It’s just…” She took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Sevine was there, I wasn’t. A cruel twist of fate, perhaps,” she said and laughed mirthlessly, “but I understand that what’s done is done. You two belong together now.” Niernen tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She thought she mostly succeeded.

A pair of arms wrapped around her in a caring embrace. “It is true, perhaps the timing was wrong, but you are a hard person not to like. Perhaps with what you went through, seeing a caring face made you feel stronger than you would have. This one appreciates you, truly. There can be no romance, but you do not have to feel alone. He will be there when you need him, and he will help you heal. Do’Karth cannot imagine what you’ve endured, but not all wounds are physical, he knows this well. Can we remain friends?” he asked, releasing the embrace. Gods, what was he doing? The Khajiit had no idea how to handle situations such as this, he’d never even kissed a girl until a week or so ago. Not for the first time, he was thankful that he was incapable of blushing. Part of him wished to hop over the gunwale and swim away, swifty, from the issues in his life that couldn’t be resolved with a quarterstaff or sewing needle.

Despite herself, and gods knew that she didn’t want this, Niernen wiped away a tear from her cheek after Do’Karth’s arms pulled back and withheld their love from her. The finality of his words, ‘there can be no romance’, had still broken her heart a bit. “Of course,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, and conjured a wan smile. “It would be so much worse to lose you as a friend as well.” She grabbed one of his paws and said: “Sweetheart, you need to know that you deserve to be loved. I think you were a product of your environment, whatever that was, but you were never meant to be that way. You’re good. And don’t feel bad about me. I’ll be alright.”

She sniffled and buried her face in her hands. “Actually, you should feel bad about me a little bit, I’m pathetic,” she said and laughed through her tears and her fingers.

They were words of validation that did much to alleviate the anxiety and fear he’d felt even just a few moments before. You were a product of your environment… you were never meant to be that way. he chewed the words over in his mind, letting them seap in like rain into parched soil. He smiled, taking Niernen’s hand from her face and wiping away a tear with the back of his finger from Niernen’s dark skin. “Pathetic? Never. You’re a strong woman, one who is here against incredible odds and circumstances. Do not be ashamed of your emotions and how you feel, but this one will never pity you. Besides, think of all the times you’ve kept me warm in the middle of a fight. It leaves quite the impression.” Do’Karth said with a hearty chuckle, squeezing the hand reassuringly. “Thank you, for everything. You’ve found words that found a way to calm this one’s soul. You have quite a talent for stating things the eye sometimes cannot see.”

Honest laughter rang like a china bell when Do’Karth brought up all the times that Niernen had nearly burned him alive. “Don’t mention it,” she said reassuringly as her tears dried up. She yawned, and then excitedly interrupted herself halfway through. “Oh, look! I’m drowsy! That’s a good sign. Thank you, Do’Karth.” Niernen swung her legs back over the railing and stepped down onto the deck. She felt much better -- crying always helped, and kind words even more. “You should rest too. Here’s my advice: give Sevine a kiss and look at her face until you fall asleep,” Niernen said and winked.

“Of course, rest well, Niernen. Perhaps sleep will find us both well. This one will stay up here for a little while longer, but he will take your advice.” He replied, offering the Dunmer a reassuring smile as he watched her head back towards the gangplank. Turning back to the horizon, he stared at the darkness in the distance. A single bolt of lightning cracked through the sky far in the East.

^{Featuring @Gcold and @Frizan}

---

Despite its cosmopolitan nature, Argonians still were a rare sight in Solitude; as such, Tsleeixth found himself the target of a few quiet glances from a citizen or two. Normally this wouldn’t have perturbed the Argonian, in fact it would usually have gone completely unnoticed, but after the events that had transpired in Dawnstar, Tsleeixth had found himself possessed of a streak of nervousness that had never manifested before. It wasn’t too evident when he was with members of the company, he knew and trusted them, but when he was alone, if one had spent time with the Argonian, one would notice small ticks that gave away his perturbed state. Furtive glances to each side, a tendency to immediately turn his head when he heard shouting, freezing for a split second when he heard voices shouting in anger.

As such, the Argonian spellsword was keenly aware of the furtive gazes that a few of the Solitude citizens threw his way. It didn’t matter that such gazes were drawn by curiosity and that there was no ill intent in them, for Tsleeixth those gazes instinctively spelt danger. A part of him knew that he was being unreasonable and paranoid, and that this attitude of his was pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. It was all too easy for him to imagine the citizens of Solitude, loitering around going through their lives, as the mob in Dawnstar that had mauled him to near-death and which had left him with permanent damage on his left knee. As such, without meaning too, the Argonian began to speed up his pace, making his way towards the warehouse were Gustav had settled in the company for their short stay in Solitude. Hurried as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t notice when he bumped into someone on his way to the warehouse “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience sir, please, if you let me be on my way I won’t be any more trouble.” He spoke immediately, fear evident in his words to his great shame. “Coward, you are a coward.” His own voice rang out in his thoughts, admonishing himself as he waited for whoever he had bumped into to speak.

“Oh, it’s no worry friend, I wasn’t watching where I was going…” the Imperial turned to face the stranger to find himself in front of none other than Tsleeixth. Sagax still remembered how he was able to talk down the Pakseech in Windhelm, preventing a massacre. The beastman looked worse for wear, and for good reason, he knew. He had heard what happened shortly before the company’s departure from Dawnstar.

“Long time no see, Tsleeixth. Haven’t really had a chance to talk to you since Windhelm, and we both know how Dawnstar went…”

Cutting the awkward small-talk short while he was ahead, Sagax decided to ask a real, honest question. “So, how are you holding up?” An innocent enough inquiry, but one that came from the heart. The events of the past few weeks had to have some effect on the amicable Argonian, and it wouldn’t do for him to hide all of his troubles. That lead to dark, dark paths that Sagax couldn’t imagine Tsleeixth walking down. “Anything I can help with? I’m all ears, friend.”

“Oh, it’s you Sagax…” Said Tsleeixth, visibly deflating, as some of the anxiety that had taken a hold of him evaporated slightly in the presence of someone he knew. However, this proved fleeting, for as soon as Sagax mentioned Dawnstar, the Argonian visibly flinched before relaxing once more a moment afterwards. “I’m…” He started to say, thinking to lie and say that everything was fine but stopped upon further consideration. Sagax was an intelligent man, he’d figure that something was wrong with him, especially after his display at the mere mention of the town of Dawnstar, and he seemed earnest in his desire to know how he was doing. “To tell the truth, I’m not doing well my friend.” He said with a sigh, some of that old nervousness returning to him again “Could we...could we return to the warehouse where we are staying? I think it’d be better to discuss such things there, no?” He said, hoping that he’d sound convincing. In truth, he just wanted to return to the sole place in Solitude were paranoid thoughts of being beaten up by a mob weren’t near-constantly cropping up in his brain.

In the end, Tsleeixth didn’t give Sagax much of a choice as he began quickly making his way back to the warehouse at a quick pace, although one that soon slowed down as the injury in his knee began acting up and he began limping. Luckily the warehouse wasn’t too far away and so they arrived fairly quickly but, unfortunately, by the time that they got there Tsleeixth’s left knee was acting up once again, pain radiating from the crippled knee and spreading around the area “So, here we are, seems like a much better place to talk no?” Said Tsleeixth as he sat on a nearby crate, his left hand instinctively massaging his left knee while he waited for Sagax to talk again.

“Oh, I agree.” said Sagax as he pushed himself up to sit on a length of railing. “Strangers need not indulge in our woes. Speaking of…” he added tentatively, “You said you were unwell.” Even as a child, Sagax was fairly good at reading people’s emotions. He didn’t really have a method or technique to it, it simply manifested as a gut feeling. Sagax just assumed that it was a gift Mother Mara had given him at a young age. “Even if you didn’t tell me, your body language gives some clues. You’re all...scrunched up. And I’m not talking about your leg.” It was strange, like Tsleeixth was scanning every corner and alley. What was he expecting to find?

“So, what’s eating you, Tsleeixth?” He asked with a tone that he hoped would vocalize patience and understanding. Sagax didn’t want his friend to feel uncomfortable or, even worse, like he wasn’t actually interested in listening.

“I knew you’d notice, even if I hadn’t said anything.” Said Tsleeixth in response to Sagax’s comment that, even if he hadn’t told him, he’d have figured it out due to his body language. “What’s eating me? How should I put it…” Began the Argonian, letting out a soft sigh as he gathered his thoughts. “You do know what happened at Dawnstar….my beating at the hands of the mob, the little….souvenir they gave me.” Continued the Saxhleel, pointing out to his left knee when he mentioned the souvenir that he had gotten at Dawnstar. “Ever since then I’ve….I’ve been scared, to put it bluntly.” He said finally, shaking his head slightly. “This fear has gripped my mind tightly, it wasn’t too obvious when we were travelling aboard the Kyne’s Tear since I trust the people in the company, but ever since we’ve come to Solitude my mind has constantly gone back to the beating I received in Dawnstar.” Said Tsleeixth.

“I keep expecting to, I don’t know, the people around me to turn into that same bloodthirsty mob that tried to kill me.” He admitted to the Imperial, letting out a bitter chuckle “Pathetic, isn’t it? I’ve fought Kamal, Falmer, and all other manner of foes far more terrifying than an unruly mob of Nords...and yet fear grips my heart like it had never before when I venture out into the streets of the city.” He finished, letting out a sigh and looking down at the ground unable to meet Sagax’s gaze.

“Gods, Tsleeixth, after something like that I don’t think it’s too odd for you to feel that way.” It was hard for Sagax to imagine being in Tsleeixth’s shoes. Surrounded by strangers on all sides, eyes full of hate and their words coated in vitriol, ready to kill just for the simple fact that you were different. Because you committed the crime of not being them. Even harder to envision was being one of those people. Being consumed with such hatred that it overtook him entirely, pushing him to hurt someone that had done absolutely nothing at all to anybody...it twisted Sagax’s stomach into a knot.

“I’m not going to say you’re wrong for looking out for yourself, Tsleeixth, because you’re absolutely right after what happened. All I’m advising is that you don’t let it pull wool over your eyes.” After a second’s thought, Sagax swiftly added to his advice, “...Also, it’s absolutely not pathetic that you’re a bit scared. Fear is a natural instinct, Tsleeixth. It warns us against things that might hurt us. It’s just important that...we don’t let it rule us.” There were those words again, about not being ruled by fear. They rang in his head every day, as if he were subconsciously repeating a sacred mantra.

“It...might sound a bit silly and ineffective, but might I suggest prayer, friend? I was just at the chapel in Castle Dour, praying to Mother Mara. It always makes me feel better. Perhaps pray to Stendarr, as well? His influence may just keep you from harm.”

Just entering the warehouse was Keegan Vasque, with a bag in hand and a smile hidden behind his blank features. He had just quit as an entertainer in the Winking Skeever and given the owner a piece of his mind. No longer would he be juggling big balls under the alias “The Shifty Banana”, and now, he was back to to his slightly less shitty old job.

With the slightly less shitty old job came the slightly less shitty co-workers and customers. For all that he did not like about the two individuals standing in the warehouse ahead of him, Keegan preferred them over the rowdy patrons of the Winking Skeever (whom often threw mead on him and asked him to “juggle their balls”) every single day. He had overheard some of their conversations on the way in, and like they were about to do, he was just at the castle chapel. He wanted to pray to Auriel there, but the response from the Nordic priests were frowns and “we don’t do that”. Normally, and more logically, he would have known the Nords’ merphobia. Today though, having feeling the best (and somewhat delirious, due to spiking his tea with mead) he had in months, Keegan thought the chapel was closed.

“I was just at the chapel,” Keegan jumped in, “and I’m afraid they do not offer services today.”

“Oh...I see, thank you Keegan.” Responded Tsleeixth. He wasn’t sure why, but the fact that the chapel in Castle Dour was closed hit him harder than it should have; his people didn’t had never shared the faith that the Imperials held, and yet the thought of prayer seemed strangely comforting to the Argonian’s mind “Maybe we can find a chapel once we arrive in High Rock? It will take a while, but better late than never, no?” He said to Sagax before his mind briefly stopped as it finally dawned on him who had just delivered the news of the chapel not offering services today. “Keegan?” The Argonian said the name, slightly dumbfounded. He was sure that he had heard that the Altmer had left the company shortly before the whole mess in Dawnstar had forced them to leave the city “I thought you had left the company, no? How come you’ve decided to join us again?” Asked the Argonian, puzzled by this turn of events. He was glad that Keegan had returned to the fold, but was still confused as to why he had decided to return.

“I, I,” Keegan began stuttering involuntarily, the sudden response from a question he did not answer. He wouldn’t tell them the truth; Keegan’s pride ensured he did not divulge such an embarrassing experience. “I have nothing for you to worry about.”

“Yes, please do tell, Keegan. It’s been a while, how’ve you been getting along?” he didn’t know the Altmer all that well, but Sagax saw no harm in being friendly. “Also...I don’t believe chapels just...close. Are you sure you didn’t get, well, gypped? Honestly, I think they were lying to you.” He honestly had never heard of such a thing before. A chapel? Closing like some common grocer? Sagax had the sneaking feeling that perhaps Keegan’s beliefs didn’t exactly match that of those running the place, so in truth, he was simply scorned.

“Really, I’m pretty surprised you’re back. You seemed none-too chuffed about things when you left. Surely, things couldn’t have been worse over here?”

“Fine, Sagax, if you insist.” Keegan resigned with a sigh. He briefly rolled his eyes at the nosiness of this Imperial kid, then decided that he could spared them the details without necessarily lying. “‘Tis but a break and a detour. Well, uh, Ariane Fontaine convinced me to return; I wanted to go to High Rock.”

Realizing how weak his reply was, Keegan decided to share a bit more of what they could all agree on. “Dawnstar was, how would you say it? Coarse, rough, and the hostility gets everywhere. I heard even Skald himself was killed. Was it really that, execrable?”

“And, gypped?” Keegan rolled over the unfamiliar slang on his tongue; it tasted like sewage. “I’m sure they-” The realization of what Sagax implied became somewhat clear. If he wouldn’t be admitted, then there’s very little chance that Tsleeixth would be as well.

“There must be some problem with the chapel,” suggested Keegan, “but I did hear the company has hired its own chaplain. Perhaps you may seek her service?”

“Bah, there’s no need ‘s no need to mince words about Dawnstar, the place was a dump, I doubt you’ll find many people in the company with fond memories of the place.” Tsleeixth spoke, surprised at the bitterness in his words “But, yes, things got considerably worse shortly after you left.”

“Seeking the chaplain that Ashav hired sounds like a good idea.” He added shortly after that, eager to shift the topic away from Dawnstar “Truth be told I have no desire to venture into Solitude again, unless absolutely necessary, and, well, I think it’d be best to talk with someone who knows what actually happened in Dawnstar, and not whatever it is that the newspapers are saying.” He said, nodding to himself after thinking over in silence for a few seconds “Yes, I think I will do that, thank you for your suggestion Keegan. And thank you for listening in as well Sagax, it did me good to get this out of my chest.”

“What kind of friend what I be if I didn’t listen to the troubles of my comrades? I’m always available for a chat.”

Catching a glimpse of Piper out of the corner of his eye, Sagax got back to his feet. She was carrying two large and, presumably, heavy boxes, and looked like she needed a bit of assistance. Giving a short salute, the Imperial bid farewell to Tsleeixth and Keegan. “It was good to catch up with you both; hopefully next time won’t be so far off! Gotta scoot now, though. Duty calls!”

“Very well, see you on the ship.” Keegan waved goodbye, wondering what acts of stupidity will he see Sagax perform on the ship. With that kind of enthusiasm, probably the really stupid kind.

“You're welcome,” Keegan acknowledged Tsleeixth, “and hopefully the situation will improve for us; it's surely hard to get any worse than Dawnstar.” The Altmer sounded with optimism, partially from genuine hope, and partially to convince himself that returning to this mercenary company was a smart choice.

Jogging off to meet with his sister, Sagax lifted one of the boxes out of Piper’s arms and began walking alongside her. Their conversation couldn’t be clearly heard, but Sagax nodded towards his fellow mercenaries and spoke with a grin. Looking over at the Altmer and Argonian, Piper’s raised eyebrow began to furrow when she met Keegan’s gaze, but turned into a glare as she locked eyes with Tsleeixth. Snapping her head back to her brother, the two kept on walking, now seemingly arguing about something.

---

Sea dried and well worn leather boots tapped to an off key song, toes indecisively pointed in different directions just outside The Winking Skeever. The musty smell of the city carried on the crisp sea breeze, the sun shone dully through overcast skies and while it was a considerably warm morning some would still find it chilly. Behind the pair of boots was the distinct rattling of a thin tin pan just outside the Inn’s entrance.

“I hear the sounds of a kind heart with a heavy pocket, please let me help you relieve you of that.” A beggar asked of the Redguard woman loitering outside the doors. “If only to afford breakfast.”

She turned her bright green eyes on him, sweeping an observant eye up and down. With hair black as the sea on a starless night, barely tamed into a twist at the left side of her head. Silver studs winked from her earlobes, while her dark green cloak wrapped at her collar. It looked to be in good shape, tenderly mended with practiced hands. She wore a rich maroon red jacket with a long skirt, it hugged her torso. She bent down to her hunches crouching to speak to him directly, the full force of his smelly stale unwashed body and the strong soured smell of mead hit her. He smiled kindly, hopeful for her acknowledging his existence. Noticing the purple bags under her eyes, looking as if she hadn’t slept a wink even at the Winking Skeever. “I will not offer coin but I offer you instead is far more valuable.”

He was puzzled until she roughly patted his shoulder - a point he would go onto complain to his friends later. His expression soured immediately.

“Good luck, perhaps you will feel better after washing up at the Temple of the Divines.” She said not unkindly.

He glared, “Oh, fuck off.”

She stood again, walking away with a shrug. “Mayhaps you will find coin comes easier if kind patrons weren’t keen to your mead-rich body odor.” She tapped the side of her crooked nose.

He grumbled to himself, waving her off to go away.

Maj Noor was well out of earshot to hear him and in a state of excitement. After joining a mercenary company speaking with a young decorated Nord, Gustav - clearly the backer of the successful company. Gustav couldn’t help but highlight some of their latest work. He seemed impressed by her bravado and seemingly larger than life exploits as a Corsair, she told him tales of danger, excitement and rich rewards with booty aplenty. Conveniently skipping over what the fate of the Scarlet Harpy currently is. He saw value in her skills as a mage, he decided to recruit her then assigned her under a breton named Ariane Fontaine. Miss Fontaine coldly shooed her away after finding out what Maj’s expertise lied in. None to interested in speaking further than gathering very base information. Maj was confident they were able to pay their employees reliably after seeing Gustav and Ariane, both dressed finely and speaking just as fine.

Maj was looking forward to seeing Skyrim for the first time, her time there cut short as they would be sailing to High Rock instead of staying within the province. Over the past days before Kyne’s Tear was scheduled to leave she frugally spent what coin she earned on her voyage to Skyrim, stocking up and taking in the sights of Solitude. As a coastal city, it was large and bustling in the best way. Everything Maj hoped for, it provided convenience in the shops and a slice of Skyrim’s culture.

While the bed was soft and clean at the Winking Skeever, the food freshly bought and prepared. Maj still had a difficult time adjusting to being back on solid ground. The entertainment there was mildly depressing to watch on the other hand. An Altmer juggler being jeered while he juggled large balls, she felt the waves of misery rolling off him. It had the former corsair excusing herself from witnessing the pathetic display.

She intended to visit the Temple of Divines before shipping out, early as it was. While she rarely prayed, sparing one for Kynareth would have been prudent considering the name of the ship. The brisk walk to the temple helped energize Maj, the sun warmed her face even if the considerably warm breeze had her pull her cloak tighter.

She stepped into the great stone Temple, stone arches smoothly led down toward the altars. Some were kneeling before them while priests and priestesses dotted the Temple going about their day-to-day. Her footfalls making little noise as she approached, sunlight was just beginning to peek through the windows - bright shafts casting upon the sacred arrangement of altars. A few were in front of Kynareth’s altar praying. Maj found an empty pew with clear sight of the altar. She removed her sketchbook flipping to a fresh page. While her thoughts wandered as she sketched, she silently offered up prayers. She prayed for safe winds to fill Kyne’s Tear's sails - swift but sure currents to carry them to Jehanna. Finally she prayed for her mercy if she were to conjure a storm and the tide to be kind to their arrvial. It felt nostalgic to be in the Temple and praying to Kynareth. Maj so often joined her stepmother - Annalise in her prayers if only to spend more time with her. One of the Nord priests approached her after a couple of hours, the details were taking shape around the drawing.

“Hello child, how do you fare this blessed day?” His hood was drawn up and sleeves rolled up. His hands were soft as was his voice.

Maj paused, “Well enough.”

He curiously looked over her shoulder at the sketch and murmured approval. “A wonderful impression of our Lady Kynareth’s altar.”

“Thank you.” Maj said nervously hoping he wouldn’t be interested in seeing what else she had drawn. Maj had a good understanding of structure and shape for objects. While she excelled at drawing anatomy, however that anatomy was often without clothes.

He asked anyway, “Have you other pieces of art of our Lady Kynareth?”

“Uh-” She began he was already reaching to turn the page back. “No! No!”

He flipped back to a page catching a glimpse of her nude lover drawn in a depiction of Kynareth, a bird delicately drawn in her hands, beautifully depicted but blasphemous to the eyes of a holy man. His mouth popped open in shock. Maj snapped it shut, “Good day, thank you for the compliment - must be going. Have a ship to catch! Goodbye!” She escaped the pew and left the agape priest behind. She quickly stowed the sketchbook into her backpack legging it to the docks.

---

It was easy to find the ship floating at the docks. Maj dodged past busy fishermen, travelers and sailors all with somewhere to be. She climbed aboard the Kyne's Tear, shoulders back her chin in the air taking a deep breath in through her nose. Cargo was being loaded, final preparations for departure being made.

She grinned at the sight, feeling immediately comfortable. She spied the leaders of the company at the stern of the ship. Taking an honest look over everyone she saw present merc or otherwise. She sat at the railing feet hanging off the sides, she pulled out an apple shining it over her opposite shoulder. There was a fairly decent mix up of men, mer and beast. A couple Khajit and Argonians. Nords, imperials and even redguards. She spied the pair of bosmer, one looking the part of a warrior while her extreme opposite was a priestess. The few Dunmer ranging from various attitudes by just one look. And the orc! He stuck out like a sore thumb, smiling and talking. She tried to guess who some of vets were - name dropped previously by Gustav. One face she recognized was the gaunt one of the juggler at the Skeever, she suddenly found her apple to be far more interesting averting her gaze.

It wasn’t long before they launched, the anchor being dragged up from the dredges of Solitude's bay. Sea breeze whisking at her hair, Maj found it increasingly difficult not to smile. The Sea of Ghosts welcoming her back.

---

"It'll ease your nerves, at the very least."

"I really don't see how it's going to help. They never really have before, that's not their way-"

"But have you ever really done it with sincerity? Token offerings will be met with token blessings, after all."

"Fine, if you honestly think it'll do something..."

"I do. Come on, there's no one else here yet. We'll be done and out before you know it."

Opening the chapel doors let out a pleasant fragrance of lavender and incense, the caretakers just having set up everything for the day's services. The braziers still burned warmly, providing light where the still-struggling sun could not. Priests and priestesses wandered, performing their morning duties while chatting and praying quietly to themselves, though a few gave Sagax and Piper friendly smiles as they passed. Piper averted her own gaze as they went by, looking her best to appear like she was very interested in the ceiling. Sagax could tell his sister felt uncomfortable being around so many strangers and a definitely bit vulnerable without her armor, so he stuck close by as he would in their youth.

"So, who will you pray to today? Maybe all of them?"

"All? Uh, no...no. I don't think Mara would care too much for my prayers, and Dibella...I don't particularly enjoy the 'blessings' she's given me. No, Stendarr will be enough for me." Shaking the focus off of herself, Piper returned the question. "What about you? Mara like usual?"

"Of course. I haven't prayed to the Mother in a while." Adding jokingly, "I've been a neglectful child." he said as he smiled.

Letting Piper make her way to Stendarr's altar on her own without any further pressure, Sagax knelt in front of the statue of Mara. Yet something felt...wrong. No, he felt wrong. Looking down, he noticed that he still had his sword fastened to his belt. He'd grabbed it instinctively before leaving for the chapel, something he couldn't recall doing before; such a thing had never been so automatic before joining the company. He always remembered his personal rule: No weapons near Mara's places of worship, now it seemed his principles were starting to slip.

After very sheepishly setting the blade aside near the chapel doors, Sagax knelt again before Mara, the feeling of shame now gone. Sagax first and foremost apologized for his sacrilege before beginning proper.

"Lady Mara, across these past weeks I have begun to feel myself...slipping. Dark thoughts enter my mind, and I act out of anger instead of compassion. I...I fear that I may have pushed away a very close friend because I did not, could not, restrain my tongue and clear my thoughts of impurities. I left innocents to die, so that we could strike a blow against the Ice Demon invaders...and I do not know if the decision was right.

I feel that, as the days pass, I hold on to my blade ever tighter. I'm...scared, Mother. Scared that the darkness that has taken over so many men before myself will soon devour me as well. I do not ask forgiveness for my actions, I only ask that you guide me away from whatever dark path I may travel. Whatever happens, I hope that I will ever continue to follow your light." Pausing for a moment, he quickly added another prayer. "Ah, and as always...please, help my sister find happiness. It isn't becoming of her to be so bitter."

Letting a long sigh escape his lips, Sagax felt his anxiety drain away. With his next breath came a calming warmth that blanketed his body. He felt...well, he felt better, at the very least.

As Sagax prayed, Piper stood staring at Stendarr's altar, trying to think of something to say. She shuddered, feeling eyes upon her. Glancing around her, she saw nobody but Sagax, and heard only faint whispers coming from other parts of the chapel. Looking back at the altar, she couldn't shake the sensation of being stared at. The phantom gaze felt like it was expecting something, but it felt patient as well. Waiting for her to speak, to say anything at all.

"...I...I come to ask for your blessing, merciful Stendarr. So that I may continue to protect those I love from harm and help them lead healthy, wholesome lives." Piper stopped and went to turn around to leave, but she felt the gaze again. Her prayers ceased, but it knew she had more to say, that she needed guidance. In her head rang words that her brother had said to her frequently: "You just need to let it out, Piper. If you keep your feelings caged up, they'll fester into something horrible."

Sighing, Piper bowed her head and began praying in earnest. "Please...help me steel myself for events to come, whatever misfortune fate may bring to us. When hard times strike, let my mind be clear and my heart without bias, for without either I will tread the path of the fool. I don't want anyone to be hurt because of my negligence or ignorance. Above all..." she paused, looking back to Sagax. "Keep my brother safe. And grant mercy to my father and mother, for they have done no wrong yet they are punished as villains." As each word left her lips, Piper became more confident and emboldened, like a great fire was being kindled inside her. "If harm must come to anybody, let it be me. My parents, my brother, Varulae...they have done nothing to earn any of their suffering. If nothing else, just let them be safe. I can take anything the world could possibly throw at me."

As the Imperial left, she didn't feel the gaze any longer, as it had been replaced by a feeling of strength that went all throughout her body. She felt...happy? Yes, happy. What a strange feeling.

"Ah, all done then, Piper? Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't finish sooner." Sagax said as he came to his feet and followed his sister back out of the chapel, not forgetting to grab his sword of course.

"Well, I just was thinking is all. You told me to be sincere, so I was."

"I see." he said, pleased with his success. "So? How do you feel?"

"Amazing!"

Well, that's what she would have said if Piper hadn't stopped herself. She didn't see the need to give Sagax that level of satisfaction. "...okay. I feel pretty okay now."

"Well...better than nothing. I certainly feel better."

"Lovely. Feel like expending any of that energy helping me move those boxes? That Gustav fucker is having us unload his whole damn house it seems like."

"Oh, I'm sure you've got that covered, sister dearest. Besides, there's a few things I need to see to."

"Uh-huh..."




It felt like he had perused every shop in the city, but Sagax found nothing he needed that he could also afford. A peddler tried selling him a necklace made out of Ysgramor's teeth(which in all actuality was just a useless bit of string holding together smashed up skeever bones) which he said would grant the Imperial limitless strength, but he "politely" refused. Sagax had also come across a jeweller's stall selling amulets of the Nine. Unfortunately, being the delicately-hand-crafted pieces of art that they were, the amulet of Mara Sagax had been eyeing was simply too expensive. It would have been trivially easy to swipe it as the stallkeep turned around to advertise his wares to passersby, and it would have been incredibly dishonest for the former thief to say that the thought hadn't crossed his mind even for a second.

Store after store, stall after stall, Sagax passed by every place in Solitude that conceivably sold somethig. Hell, he even looked at shoes, but he found nothing, neither valuable supply or friendly face. Yet there was one man that looked vaguely familiar, someone that the Imperial swore he had met before. Giving his best guess, Sagax gave a stab at greeting them.

"Frald? Is that you?" he asked cautiously, afraid he was about to make a fool of himself. As the man turned around, their eye widened with pleasant surprise.

"Well, look who it is. One of the Furies of Windhelm graces me with a visit!" It was Frald indeed, but he looked so different! Or perhaps a better word would be clean. The guard's hair had been tidied up, and his face was relatively dirt-free. Most shocking of all he looked, well, awake. A far cry from the man Sagax parted ways with in Dawnstar, with heavy bags under their eyes and soot and dirt dominating their body.

"Furies of Windhelm?" Sagax asked, a quizzical expression on his face. "That's a new one."

"Aye, it's a name we decided to give you and your Breton friend...hasn't spread much, but a few others have taken to it. I think it's catchy myself!"

"So, What brings you to Solitude, short one? Here to join the force?"

"I'm afraid I won't be joining you here, no." Sagax said, shaking Frald's hand firmly. "My company is here from Dawnstar. We set sail at noon. Heading to a city in High Rock, I believe."

"Ah, I see. A shame, we've got a lot of yellow-bellies here...could use someone with your level of..." Frald's face froze in thought, trying to find a more polite word. "...of courage. Yes, courage." Sagax grinned knowingly; he understood full well what his friend meant.

"Well, at least they'll have you here to whip them into shape!" However, taking note of Frald's civilian clothing, he withdrew his assumptions. "Oh, um, or am I mistaken? I'd imagine after Windhelm, you weren't too eager to jump back into things..."

"No, no, you're right. I tried retirement for a few days, but it just didn't feel right. You know, with those demons out and about right now. Though I am on leave at the moment. Alarik's in the training yard, I believe, and I'm sure Vori's pacing along the walls somewhere."

Ah, Frald's fellow guardsmen. Sagax remembered them. Alarik had the look of a brute, but was very soft-spoken. Vori was, uh, the drunk one. The very drunk one. "I had a feeling you guys would keep together. I should probably see Vori, I don't imagine she'd be happy if I stopped by and never said hello..."

"Ah...about Vori..." Frald said slowly. There seemed to be a hint of embarrassment in his tone. "Well, what you have to understand about Vori is that she's...hm, how do I put this? She's very skittish, I guess you could say. Remember before we left, I joked to Vori about the tavern wench she was infatuated with before you?"

"Of course, though I don't think she thought it was all that funny admittedly."

"Well that's because it wasn't a joke. Really, I suppose it was an honest question, but I know her too well for it to have been anything other than rhetorical." Pausing for a moment to gauge whether or not the Imperial understood, he continued. "She's found someone else. In truth, she's forgotten all about you.

Sagax was...surprised to say the least. Vori seemed really genuine in her words and actions. Was she truly so flighty? "Um, I see...that's a little disappointing, honestly."

Frald shrugged. "That's just how she is; always been that way. Trust me...I ought to know." He ended his words quite bitterly. Sagax didn't have to think very hard about why.

"Oh well, I suppose it can't be helped. As they say, there's plenty of fish in the sea. Do you know who she's with now, out of curiosity?"

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Frald's tone changed from bitterness to frustration. "Some damned milk-drinker who says he killed a dragon. Vori goes crazy for stories like that, she was so enamored with his stupid story that she didn't even look at the idiot's 'proof'. For Talos' sake, it was a mammoth tusk! He tried passing it off as a dragon's fang. Bought it hook, line and sinker though."

"Wow, really dodged an arrow there then." thought Sagax.

"She's a decent friend, but gods above she can be very shallow. I wouldn't feel too bad about it, Sagax. You deserve someone more loyal anyway. Maybe a bit less crazy than you, though." Frald smiled and lightly slapped Sagax's arm. "Someone has to hold the leash, right?"

"Ha! I don't know, I don't think many women would be able to handle my tendencies to hurl myself at danger like I did back at Windhelm. My sisters tries, but Mara knows even she has a hard time with it."

Their banter continued for a while, talking about the various events happening around Tamriel until the sun reached high into the sky. Remembering that the company was going to be taking off soon, Sagax once again parted with Frald, and they wished each other good fortunes as they went their separate ways. Frald made his way back to Castle Dour while Sagax headed for the docks and the Kynes Tear

---

"Need a hand?" quipped Sagax as he whisked one of the two boxes out of Piper's arms. "Sorry I'm a little uh, late."

"Pfft, a little late? These are the last to be loaded, you dork!" Piper responded with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "Well, I don't think you would have been able to help much anyway. I've been hauling some pretty heavy stuff." Shifting her grip on the large, clanking crate, the Imperial woman continued. "Where've you been, anyway? You said you had things to do?"

"Oh, just to a few shops. Nothing I needed, and the things I did need I couldn't really afford..."

"Right, you guys didn't get paid."

"Yeah..." Deciding against getting onto the reliability of his employers, Sagax shifted the topic. "I bumped into a friend after my little shopping non-spree. Name's Tsleeixth, he's a pretty nice guy. Well, there's Keegan, too, but he's kind of a 'true' Altmer."

Glancing at the Argonian and elf for a brief moment, Piper snapped her head back with a scowl on her face, but not entirely directed at Sagax. "You shouldn't hang around that kind of crowd."

"What? Why? I just said, Keegan's alright and Tsleeixth's really nice..."

"Sagax, one's a High Elf, so that should say enough-"

"What about Varulae?"

"An exception to the rule! And the other one is..." Piper paused to make a sound of disgust. "An Argonian."

"Piper, if you would just take the time to talk to him, you'd find him to be pretty pleasant-"

"People are always nice at first, Sagax. But then they take off the mask, and you see them for how they are in the dark..."

Sagax just shook his head. "There it is again. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Whatever you say, but the first damn thing out of you mouth when I save your sorry ass from getting mugged better be 'oh thank you Piper, you're the best sister in the world and you're always right'!"

"And if that happens I will definitely say that...but it needs to happen first."

"Oh, it will, I'm sure of it." By then, the two had gotten to the Kyne's Tear, where they set down their cargo with the rest.

"Sweet merciful Stendarr, finally done..." Piper said with a sharp exhale as she wiped a waterfall of sweat from her face. "Come on, let's get our stuff, I think we're casting off soon."

Hauling their own gear on board, the siblings found a comfortable place to chat on the top deck before the company finally set sail. Hopefully where they were going, the grass would be greener so to speak.

^{ft. @Father Hank and @Chicken}

Noon of the 5th day of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
Aboard the Kyne’s Tear

While the rest of the mercenaries, able-bodied men and women all, carried their belongings (if they weren’t already there) and supplies onto the ship, Niernen had made herself comfortable on the deck, sitting cross-legged on a crate, reduced to watching the proceedings unfold. She was useless when it came to heavy lifting. Her meager belongings were already stowed below, so she supposed that she could have helped a bit with telekinesis, but it was draining to have to lift something as heavy as the mercenaries’ chests and barrels of goods and she preferred to have her magicka reserves fully replenished when they set sail. Her time at sea hadn’t exactly been uneventful so far -- the Dunmer sorceress had been involved in two-and-a-half naval battles just in the past week. You never knew when you needed to hurl fireballs at opportunistic pirates or, gods forbid, the Kamal.

Word had come through the grapevine (i.e. Dough-Boy telling everyone who wanted to hear about it) that some new recruits had signed up with the Company. Niernen had already spotted one, a Khajiit, but he looked like he didn’t feel very well so she left him alone. She thought about the people that had died or vanished so far and sighed. Valen’s demise, especially the look on his face as the dying Kamal dragged him into the waves, was still etched into her mind. Niernen hoped that the worst was behind them now and the new sign-ups wouldn’t have to endure the same hardships.

A dark-skinned Hammerfell warrior started past the ship, but stopped and peered back at it. The warrior turned back and started toward the vessel, heading up onto the deck, his - wait, no, her - padded cloth just a bit too bright and red, and the chainmail decorated with a tabard of what must have been some Redguard symbol of some kind. Certainly, though, the fighter was a little short for her race… Niernen squinted at the approaching woman and spied some of the same facial features she recognized from Wylendriel.

Wait, was that a Bosmer? She was tall for her race. The dark-skinned elvish woman stepped up aboard the ship, then focused her attention on Niernen with haughty, sharp amber eyes. She removed her helmet, tucked it under her arm, then shook her head so her dreadlocks waved from side to side. Niernen returned the Bosmer’s gaze with a mixture of trepidation and politeness. Odds were that this woman was one of the new recruits, but Niernen’s anxiety made her wary all the same.

“You work for Ashav,” the odd elf said. Her tone was matter-of-fact and allowed no argument. “Tell me where my quarters are.”

Surprised and bemused at the Bosmer’s tone, Niernen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But based on your outfit I’m guessing that you’ll be joining the infantry, so probably with the rest of us on the first level of the hold. What’s your name? I’m Niernen, the company’s resident battlemage.”

“Are not battlemages normally hale and hearty?” mused the Hammerfell warrior. She gave Niernen a scrutinizing look, peering up and down at her. “You are barely in a shape to walk, let alone fight.” Then she let her wrist rest idly at her side, and she bowed in a cordial, formal fashion to the seated Dunmer. When she spoke again, it was with pride: “I am Adaeze at-Djer. I am Ra Gada.”

“Charmed.” Niernen frowned and bit her tongue -- her own pride was hissing at her to inform this callous Adaeze woman that physical prowess was irrelevant when it came to incinerating her enemies, but she didn’t. The Bosmer would eventually learn that Niernen was just as dangerous as the rest of the mercenaries. Actions speak louder than words, after all. But she couldn’t resist a prying question about Adaeze’s own appearance, and said: “And you look a little elvish to be calling yourself that, Adaeze.” That brought a twitch to the Bosmer’s eye. “I thought the Ra Gada were Redguards. Isn’t it --”

“I am Redguard!” snapped the elf with a hiss of a tone. Her eyes were narrowed in a glare, and at a second glance it appeared she was gripping her sword’s hilt. Niernen was a little taken aback by this and her sour expression made way for one of surprise. It took a very visible effort - an effort seen on Adaeze’s face as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath - to pull her hand away from her sword. The dark-skinned elf exhaled, then snapped her eyes open, regarding Niernen with a stony expression.

“I am Redguard,” she repeated, her voice shaky. “And it besmirches my honor that I nearly struck at you. You have my apologies. But,” she added in a warning tone, regaining her composure, “do not mistake my apology for allowance to repeat your insult.”

“Ayem’s mercy, woman,” Niernen said, her tone slightly exasperated. “And I thought my brother was prejudiced towards Bosmer.”

“I’m not prejudiced,” protested Adaeze, folding her arms over her chest. “I’m merely speaking truth. I am Ra Gada.”

Can you not be Ra Gada and Bosmer at the same time? Niernen thought but she didn’t vocalize the question out loud, lest she taunted Adaeze into actually striking her down with that sword of hers. It was a dangerous looking sword, to be sure, large enough to slice someone in twain, and with a silvery sheen.

“Enough of that,” the Hammerfell woman said. “I should know when we mean to set out, and whether you know what manner of deeds we’ll be committing in High Rock. Tell me that, if you will.” Her words were clipped and terse, and she stood a few steps further back than she had before she exploded.

“Very well,” Niernen acquiesced, glad that the confrontational moment was over and eager to move onto a less offensive topic of conversation. “We are to set sail today, as it so happens. I don’t know what we’ll be doing in High Rock. That shall depend on who becomes our employer. We served the Jarl in Dawnstar before this so I imagine that Ashav and Gustav will offer our services to the local authorities first. And it’s High Rock, you know what Bretons are like,” Niernen said, attempting a moment of camaraderie in being condescending towards a race that wasn’t one of theirs. “Always scheming.”

“They’re a squirmy lot, to be sure,” Adaeze mused, peering off toward the ocean. “But as much as we’ve fought in the past, they’re at least better than the orcs. Their unique style of swordsmanship is well-suited to fighting armored foes as well. I look forward to learning what I can while we’re there.” The warrior paused, then looked back at Niernen.

“Are there any aboard this vessel whom would duel, should the mood strike them?” The dark Bosmer tapped the sheathed sword at her side. “I look forward to testing my mettle against that of seasoned mercenaries, and it would help prepare us for the coming days.”

Niernen immediately pictured Adaeze facing off against Narzul and his ebony sword and failed to suppress laughter at the thought. She had no way of gauging the skill of this Bosmeri Redguard, of course, so it wasn’t the forecome conclusion of the outcome that she was laughing at, but it seemed a stretch to assume that the elf would fare well against Niernen’s brother. Even so, what she was really laughing at were the barbed insults that Narzul would undoubtedly taunt Adaeze with, if his encounter with Wylendriel was anything to go by. Normally Niernen didn’t take kindly to Narzul’s racism but Adaeze’s apparent inclination to rise to the bait of such venom made for too much of an amusing mental image.

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you,” the Dunmer clarified immediately after.

“Then what are you laughing at?” demanded a once-again sour-faced Adaeze.

“Ah, well, it’s just such a forward question, you know?” Niernen lied, improvising another plausible reason for her laughter. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met that’s immediately inquired after potential sparring partners upon meeting new people. Nothing wrong with that, just unexpected. Now, let me think,” she continued and tapped her chin with her index finger.

The words seemed to mollify the Bosmer. She calmed, closed her eyes, exhaled - a refrain to the previous deescalation - and then finally waved her hand in a ‘go on’ sort of gesture.

“Though I have never seen him do so, you might find one of our Khajiit, Do’Karth, to agree to a sparring match. He’s a very agile pacifist that fights with a staff. Quite unorthodox. There’s also a Nord woman on board named Sevine.” Niernen swallowed hard and suppressed the emotions associated with that name. “Nords love a challenge. Oh! Daixanos, one of the Argonians, is a very skilled hunter and warrior, and I believe he acted as a champion in a duel before. I don’t know the full story, wasn’t around for that, but you should ask him.”

Then she sighed. “And then there’s my brother, Narzul. Redoran warrior. I would stay away from him for the time being if I were you, though. He’s… really, really Dunmer. Know what I mean?”

“He wears bugs?” asked the wood elf in a confused tone. Apparently, that passed as ‘really, really Dunmer’ for Hammerfell folk.

Dumbfounded, Niernen took a second or two to answer. “What? No. No bugs.”

“I am misinformed,” Adaeze mused, then peered about the ship, as if to try and spot the crew Niernen spoke of. “And who among all those people you mentioned would be the most handy with a blade? I wish to face the best this company has to offer. If I win, I shall understand the limits of what I will learn from my compatriots. If I lose, I shall have a goal.”

“That would be Narzul,” Niernen replied without hesitation. “But let me clarify what I meant before when I said ‘really, really Dunmer’: he will not only call you a Bosmer upon seeing you, he will also incessantly insult you for being one -- not that I’m saying you’re Bosmer! But he will say that. Most of my people are… well, pretty racist. I try not to be. He makes no such efforts.”

“I see,” mused Adaeze. She reached up with one hand and stroked her chin, seeming deep in thought. Perhaps reason had found purchase. Perhaps she wouldn’t go and immediately-

“I should like to fight him right away,” the wood elf decided. “Perhaps when he is beaten he will learn some humility.”

Niernen nodded slowly. “I see. We tried that before and it didn’t work, actually.”

“I have a way with swords,” the wood elf said. “He’ll see my viewpoint.”

“If you insist,” the Dunmer replied, thinking quickly. “I’ll go find him! You wait here, alright?” Niernen waved a quick goodbye as she hopped off the crate and set off as fast as her sore legs could carry her towards the stairs down to the hold, determined to find Narzul and insist that he did not, under any circumstances, duel Adaeze. Or engage with her at all. She didn’t trust him not to aggravate her too badly, and she had enough of dealing with the social mess Narzul made.

As she fled away, Adaeze simply smiled contentedly. “What a helpful woman,” she said to herself.

“You handle yourself like a Jaqspur before the hunt,” said the sound of an amused feminine voice. Adaeze's first instinct was to grip the hilt of her sword, alarmed that someone could have sneaked up o her. It came a couple of feet away from Adaeze’s side and, upon investigation, it became clear it had come from a shorter bosmer woman dressed in green and brown robes made of various furs, wool, and leathers. She was leaning against the taffrail around port side of the main deck, crossing her arms, and a bemused look seemed to liven up an otherwise weary face.

Adaeze didn’t speak immediately. Indeed, she didn’t do much at all but raise her eyebrows and stare in a sort of dumbfounded manner at the other Bosmer woman. As the uncomfortable silence fell, the only word that escaped the Hammerfell woman’s mouth was “Jaqspur?” in a bewildered tone.

The smile on the priestess’ face turned back into a frown for a moment, then almost into a look of pity. She rocked her head to the side and sighed, “I thought not. It’s a shame to see a daughter of the Earth Bones born so far from home.”

“My home is Hammerfell,” said the other elf matter-of-factly.

At first the priestess shook her head, apparently not agreeing with the claim Adaeze had made, but there was a moment of hesitation where no words or argument came out. Instead, she merely dipped her head out of respect, clearly seeing that she has offended and showed her apologies through this simple gesture. Looking back up to face Adaeze, her tired yet welcoming expression became a touch more somber. It was a look of disappointment as much as it was one of understanding.

“Ah… sorry then.” She said. “I suppose I was hoping for some familiarity here. Skyrim has been… inhospitable.”

“The land is frozen, the sky rains ice, and the people that dwell here are walking bears,” muttered Adaeze. She absently rubbed her hands together for warmth. Her hand was away from her sword for once! “I will rest easier when we arrive in High Rock. The Bretons can be disagreeable, but the land itself is comfortable, if rocky.”

The woman just smiled and stifled a bit of laughter, trying instead to keep her composure. She nodded and said, “Yes it’s cold, but that’s nothing you can’t get used to.”

She stuck out her hand to Adaeze and greeted her with a warm expression, saying, “My name is Wylendriel. I’m this company’s chaplain.”

Yet Adaeze didn’t answer immediately. Her attention was focused on Wylendriel’s smile - or, more specifically, her sharp teeth. A frown slowly drifted onto her face. “Of course,” said the swordswoman, not truly having heard the other Bosmer’s words.

Wylendriel retrieved her hand and absentmindedly held her arms together close to her body, raising an eyebrow at Adaeze. Her curious look became more scrutinizing as she said, “Did I offend?”

“What?” The warrior’s stare flicked away from Wylendriel’s teeth. “Offend? No.” She spoke in a clipped tone and swept her left hand to the side, then let it rest on her sheathed sword at the wrist, just as she had earlier. “You are what again?”

“A chaplain.” Wy repeated. She studied Adaeze more closely now, making note how her eyes would quickly flit one way then back to eye contact - one way, then back to eye contact. She was looking at her own mouth, leer intently at her eyes, perhaps to the sides of Wy’s head; her ears? Though the priestess was previously self-conscious and guarded, her disposition softened, as did the manner of her countenance. “By Y’ffre,” she cooed, “poor thing. Bela fara, don’t tell me you’ve never met your own kind before.”

Something about the way Wylendriel spoke sparked a fire in the darker-skinned elf. Adaeze scowled at the other woman, and seemed about to retort. Her right hand rose up, one finger raised, and she seemed ready to burst. She stopped, however. Instead, the Hammerfell warrior lowered her hand, and said in a level (but cold) tone, “I believe I need to settle in.”

That was all. Adaeze started marching away from the other elf, down toward the lower decks. Wylendriel watched, puzzled and slightly worried, as the proud warrior left her view with an angry scowl dressing her face. Part of her wanted to grab the collar of the lass and yank her back like the child she was and get to the bottom of her haughty attitude, sitting her down by force if she must! But the more she thought about it, the more perturbed she felt about what had just happened. The first time she got to see another bosmer in Skyrim, and she looked at her like she was an alien, then left with a cold shoulder to her own devices. She felt the heat of her ire welling into her chest, but it suddenly sank low and heavy. Cold.

‘Why does this keep happening to me?’ She thought. ‘Is all of this my fault?’

The priestess looked off to the side to see the old khajiit once again, next to Dough-Boy who was hard at work at cleaning the laundry that Ashav must have appointed him to. Poor kid. The new blood was distracting himself with meditation, and though he was difficult to read, it seemed not even he could hide the signs of a bad case of nausea. Perhaps another day she would have greeted them - helped them even, but with one failed meeting already under her belt, she didn’t feel up to any more disappointments for today. With a word on the tip of her tongue, she closed her lips and remained silent. Instead she meandered off elsewhere, continuing her rounds around the ship.

Noon, 5th of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
The belowdecks of the Kyne’s Tear

The ebony longsword cut through the air with a heavy fwush. The Dunmer that wielded it abruptly halted the blade’s trajectory when it almost cut into a wooden support beam with less than an inch to spare. With a satisfied grunt, Narzul took a step back, raised the weapon in an offensive stance, and then repeated the slash once more. A hair’s breadth, this time, was all that seperated the edge from wood.

Narzul had sequestered himself away in one of the Tear’s many nooks and crannies after stowing his belongings, unwilling to mingle with the rest of the crew topside. He had dressed down to his breeches and began one of the manifold practice routines his old drillmaster would have him perform for hours on end. His torso glistened with sweat -- the elf had been at it for a while already.

“Boethiah,” he whispered, and ducked low to swipe at the support beam (his makeshift ‘dummy’ for this training session). Ebony touched wood and Narzul grimaced.

“Long is your arm, and swift is your blade. Deep is the cut, and subtle is the poison.”

A flurry of thrusts barely missed the support beam in the span of a second -- high left, high right, low left, low right, the flat of the blade passing so close to the wood that the space between was imperceptible. He inhaled and exhaled sharply, bouncing on his feet, and brandished his sword with a flourish.

“Worship, o faithful; pray your death is short.”

Deft footwork carried him in and out of striking range, dashing closer and hopping away, his body and mind fully immersed in the phantom fight, blade dancing and whistling. Then Narzul froze, breathing heavily but his sword perfectly steady.

“Worship, o faithful; pray your death is quiet.”

Like a coiled snake Narzul sprang into motion, pivoting and parrying an imaginary attack, before resuming his unbridled assault on the support beam. Now his arm did not falter; ebony did not strike wood again.

“Know that battle is a blessing; know that death is an eventuality.”

His face had contorted into a snarl, brow heavy with thunder, teeth bared, hair whipping around his head. Where his movements were silent before, he now grunted and growled with every slash and thrust.

“Know that you are dust in the eyes of Boethiah.”

He saw the Armiger now, the one that had wounded him on Bleakrock Isle; watched in his mind’s eye as the spear evaded his defenses and struck him in the abdomen. Narzul felt pain flare up, the soreness and aching in his body reliving the moment, and gritted his teeth.

”I am dust!”

And with that Narzul lunged forwards and drove his war-sword into the support beam, unyielding ebony splitting wood with a loud crack, all the way up to the hilt. His breaths came quick and ragged, his shoulders rising and falling with every gasp, and his lips trembled with exertion. A whirlwind of emotions raced through him; frustration, shame, wrath, even the fear of the unknown path that lay ahead.

But he held, and in a slow, graceful motion, he straightened up from his almost horizontal posture, drew the blade from the wood and returned to a defensive stance. Narzul felt his mind clear as he did so, all the weaknesses he had allowed to float to the surface leaking away, and he savored the sensation with closed eyes and a deep breath. He felt another, familiar presence in the back of his mind, and it expressed approval… but not explicitly so. As if it expected… more.

More of what?

“Worship, o faithful; worship the glory that is Boethiah,” Narzul whispered and bowed his head in reverence.

“What are you doing?” a voice suddenly asked, and Narzul’s head whipped around to see his sister standing in the doorway of the cabin. Niernen had her arms crossed and her head tilted; a sight he had seen many times before, back when they were children in Blacklight. She would appear to watch him train, just like this.

“Praying,” the elder sibling answered eventually, meeting Niernen’s inquisitive gaze levelly.

Niernen chuckled. “You pray like that? It looks exhausting. I sit still and meditate when I pray for Azura’s foresight and guidance,” she said and shrugged. “Much easier.”

“Easy does not equal adequate,” Narzul said and bent down to pick up his scabbard. “It seems to me that there are many things your Prince hasn’t foreseen lately.” Niernen’s face turned sour, but Narzul continued. “I know it looks exhausting, dear sister, but I feel stronger now than I did before.” He slid the ebony blade of his sword into the sheath and nodded, as if to reaffirm his own statement to himself. “I believe that’s why I faltered back on Bleakrock Isle; I had not seen to my faith adequately.”

Niernen sighed. “Perhaps. Either way, I came here to ask something of you. There’s a new recruit on the ship, a Bosmer -- I know -- who desperately wishes to challenge you to a duel.”

An initial look of surprise on Narzul’s face turned into a sinister smile that bordered on the malevolent, and Niernen held up a finger to cut off whatever he was going to say. “No, brothermine, I know what you’re thinking and no. I haven’t forgotten what happened with Wylendriel. This woman, Adaeze, looks like she grew up in Hammerfell and was very insulted when I didn’t refer to her as a Redguard. I fear she might actually try to kill you if you talk to her, let alone actually duel her. I strictly forbid it.”

Narzul’s face darkened with indignation and Niernen, realizing her mistake, backpedalled. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to order you around. Just… please don’t agree to a duel. Just blow her off and try not to talk to her. Alright? For me?”

“Hmph.” Narzul pulled his tunic over his head and did not say anything else until he had finished, fidgeting with his sleeves until they sat around his wrists just-so. “Very well. I won’t humor her. But I’m insulted that you think I would repeat the..” He almost said ‘mistake’, but cleared his throat instead and averted his gaze. “Look, you don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want to be around your mercenary friends anyway. That’s why I’m down here.”

Niernen narrowed her eyes at him but saw only sincerity in his face -- sincere disgust, she knew, but that was useful right now. Her gaze softened and she smiled. “Thank you, brother.” Without another word, she turned around and left.

Narzul continued to stare at the doorway until long after she’d gone, his brow furrowed. “B’vek,” he growled. How had he let things get so far that his own sister was grateful he was avoiding everyone aboard?

^{Featuring @Spoopy Scary}

Late Afternoon of the 5th Day of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
Aboard the Kyne’s Tear - Chaplain’s Cabin

Shortly after Sagax had left, Tsleeixth bid farewell to Keegan and went in search of Wylendriel. Unfortunately Tsleeixth didn’t knew where the priestess resided or much else about her, in the chaos of the events that had transpired at Dawnstar there had been little time for introductions and, as such, he hadn’t had time to meet her, so he had to make a few inquiries to some of the members of the company about where he could find her. As it turned out, and luckily for himself, he didn’t had to go very far, as the Kynareth priestess was staying in a cabin of her own aboard the Kyne’s Tear.

Inside the cabin, there indeed sat a priestess. On her knees, head hanging low, and hands folded before a small shrine within a dimly lit room. Two flickering candles, the faint spark at the tip of a stick of incense, and the orange afternoon llight streaking through the cracks around the door was all that illuminated the interior. The thin wisps of smoke were disturbed from their natural flow by Wylendriel’s breathing, and the faint words being muttered from her lips, "Come to me, Kynareth, for without you, I might not know the mysteries of the world, and so blind and in terror, I might consume and profane the abundance of your beautiful treasures."

It was a prayer she has spoken many times before, and it usually brought her some measure of peace. So often, in fact, she could probably recite the ritual and perform all of its steps in her sleep; but now, it was bringing her no such peace. She’d retrace her steps - breathe in and relax. Invite her in, let her heal you from the inside, let her be your breath… then exhale. Return her to the wind. It was second nature, but when she breathed in, she could not bring herself to relax. No amount of breathing was releasing the tension from her body. She breathed in once more - this time she held it. She held it for as long as she could. It was sacrilegious, trying to contain Kyne’s breath, but like a child she was reaching and grasping for a mother and would not let go. She was pleading for her comfort and her touch, trying to keep her close for as long as she could.

But the longer she tried to contain her breath, the wind fought harder and harder to get out. Her lungs were straining, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth clenching - but finally, the wind broke free and the priestess released a sharp exhale. The panting which followed stirred the smoky air in her cabin, as she looked longingly into the icon of her goddess.

Why couldn’t she find her?

“Miss Wylendriel?” She heard a voice say, followed by a knocking on her door. Outside, Tsleeixth’s tail was twitching slightly as anxiety took a hold of him. He had never talked to the priestess, or any priestess or priest for that matter, and as such he was unsure on how to proceed. Wylendriel did not jump to answer, but instead was in a rush trying to recompose herself - patting down her hair, slowing down her breathing, and straightening away her affairs as she heard his voice once more. “My apologies for bothering you, but I understand that Ashav hired you as a chaplain and, well...truth be told I am in need of some counseling. Is it ok for me to come in?” He said after having knocked for a second time, still unsure of himself.

That voice. There was something peculiar about that voice, Wy noted. Were they saxhleel? As though she was reminded, she immediately looked around the shrine where she had been praying and locked onto Tzinasha’s feather, placed in front of Kynareth’s icon and parallel with the line of candles and incense she had laid out. She took the quill, and although her hair was currently unbraided, she made sure to slide it through the hair behind her ear. At least that way, it would hopefully stay put. Now, then…

It was a few moments after Tsleeixth knocked on the cabin door for the second time. It seemed as though that nobody was home, until his ears caught the gentle footfalls against the wood inside. The door clicked and creaked open, revealing the short-statured priestess that was nearly a foot shorter than he was, who looked like she was hiding behind the barely opened door as if she was using it as her shield. At the sight of the argonian, she seemed to relax a little bit and leaned against the door frame.

“Oh, of course.” She said. The tenderness and cordiality of her voice sounded a little forced, and as she continued it became more obvious that she was meeker than what she was attempting to present herself as. “It’s about time one of you decided to see me. Ashav’s fighters are a proud lot, I’ve learned. I was getting afraid I wouldn’t be earning my keep.”

“I truly do hope that I’m not being a bother, miss Wylendriel.” Said Tsleeixth with a light frown. The way that the Bosmer had seemed to relax when she noticed him hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, but by that same token the forcedness of the tenderness and cordiality in her voice also hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Oh, we definitely are a proud lot.” Commented the Saxhleel with a light chuckle before he let out a sigh. “But I think more and more of us will seek your counsel...things haven’t gone well as I’m sure you have noticed.” He said as he entered the cabin. “As for why I’ve personally come…” He started before pausing as hesitation took a hold of him.

“You….You were with us at Dawnstar, you know what happened there.” Tsleeixth spoke, hesitating at first before his voice took on some confidence. Wy subconsciously touched the feather behind her ear. Tsleeixth continued, “The mob, the destruction of the refugee camp that my people had made.” He listed before pausing for a second “I’m...I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but one of the members of our company was beaten by the mob...me specifically.” He admitted, his tail twitching in anxiety as he recalled the events that had happened in Dawnstar.

“Ever since then, fear has gripped my soul. When I went out into the city I constantly looked over my shoulder in fear, waiting for the Nord citizens around me to turn into that same bloodthirsty mob that beat me to near-death.” He continued, his voice wavering as he spoke of the fear that had overtaken him. “I….I don’t know what to do to overcome this, and so I turn to you.” He finished, voice still wavering, uncertainty and fear plain in his eyes as he waited for Wylendriel’s response.

At first there was no response, there was only the priestess’ thousand-yard stare as Tsleeixth retold his story. Though she tried to put herself in his shoes, to imagine herself in his situation, but each and every word he spoke threw her back into her own memories. It alarmed her to realize that it had nothing to do with her not being able to imagine or sympathize with the saxhleel’s hardships, but with the fact that she has already lived them. The hand that held the door open trembled a bit, but the priestess held her breath and steadied it with her other hand. She looked up at Tsleeixth with a look of sober understanding, then pushed the door open wide enough for him to enter the privacy of her room.

“Come inside.” She softly invited. That was all she could bring herself to say in the open for now, and her eyes moved to scan all of the Tear’s crew and company fighters behind him. She didn’t want anybody being nosy or prying where they didn’t belong.

The stare that the priestess directed at Tsleeixth surprised the Saxhleel, who was afraid that he had said something that had upset the Bosmer. The silence stretched for a few seconds before he noticed the fact that Wylendriel’s hand was trembling and Tsleeixth was about to speak up when he noticed the look of sober understanding that crossed the Bosmer’s eyes.

It him him in a second that the priestess in front of him had gone through something similar to him, and guilt began gnawing at the Argonian’s mind. He didn’t want to make the priestess relieve an experience as horrible as the one he had lived through, but before he could say anything she fully opened the door and invited him inside. “Thank you.” Was all that the overwhelmed Saxhleel could say as he entered into the cabin .

“Miss… Miss Wylendriel.” Tsleeixth spoke once he had settled inside of the cabin and the door had been closed.

“Please, you may just call me Wy.” She interrupted as she moved through her room. She found some more candles and lit their wicks with the candles that were already lit by her alter, and set them around the room for more light.

“Wy it is then.” He said, taking a deep breath before he continued, “I...I don’t mean to be presumptuous, or to pry into your personal issues, but I believe you went through something similar as I did, didn’t you Wy?” He asked her softly, concern plain in his voice.

Tsleeixth’s question caused her to pause for a moment in the middle of her hurried pace, but it was only followed by more silence. She straightened the setup of her altar and replaced the stick of incense before it. When she finally gave him his answer, it wasn’t to the question he asked, but a question of her own.

“Are you still injured?”

The silence of the priestess didn’t surprise him much, after all the question that he had asked her had been one of a personal nature and one that wouldn’t be freely answered to someone she had just met even if they had went through the same sort of experiences as he suspected. “Yes but I’m afraid there isn’t much that can be done to mend those injuries. My left knee seems to have been left permanently crippled you see.” He answered her question, “It causes me to walk with a limp and, occasionally, it causes me pain still.”

“Have you been treated by an expert restorationist before?” She asked matter-of-factly. While the words she spoke would’ve normally sounded arrogant in any other context, she spoke them with a gingerness and with such humility that it betrayed her vulnerability. “I can’t recreate your tissues, no, but I can help alleviate some of the long-term pain.”

“No, I haven’t been treated by an expert in restoration before. Amidst the chaos in Dawnstar and our voyage to Solitude there wasn’t much time.” Admitted the Argonian.

The priestess reached over her bed and grabbed a feather pillow, tossing it onto the floor next to Tsleeixth. She ordered, “Sit down and roll up your pant leg.”

He nodded in response to Wy’s orders and sat on the feather pillow that was on the ground. He stretched his left leg and rolled up his pant until the knee was visible. “Thank you for this, I know it won’t fully heal the damage but I appreciate you helping alleviate the pain.” He said quietly, biting his lip slightly as he pondered whether to speak again.

Wylendriel sat down next to him and carefully inspected his knee, poking and prodding in spots to see what exactly was wrong with it. She felt around for possible broken bones, torn muscles, tendons, or ligaments. She remained wordless.

“I’m...I’m sorry if my previous question was tactless.” Tsleeixth said in the end, deciding to speak. “It was just that, well, by the look you gave me it seemed that you understood what I’ve been through.” He finished, deciding to omit the “as if you had lived through something similar” that was going through his mind.

She looked up at her patient and sighed, shaking her head. Finally, she said, “You misunderstand me. I…”

But the words couldn’t come out. The truth was that she didn’t know what to say to him. She didn’t know if there was anything she could say, but she knew that there was something she could do. She just had to confront her fears in order to do it. She hesitated at first, but eventually she raised her fingers around where her neck was and undid the top bone-crafted button of her robe, revealing a small portion of her neck. She undid these buttons until she was halfway down her robe and the upper half was falling off of her shoulders.

She was wearing a black wool top underneath it and it was sleeveless and exposed a portion of her midriff, but that wasn’t what was supposed to catch his eye. It was the exorbitant number of scars that were littering her body. From long scratches, to gouges, punctures and lashings, but most noticeable was the long scar that went across her throat. Wy found herself still feeling subdued and haunted by her body - this would’ve been the first time that anybody else has seen anything other than her face and hands since then.

“I was on a pilgrimage to the Eldergleam Sanctuary when I was betrayed by my own escorts.” She muttered. She uttered a silent prayer to Y’ffre under her breath with closed eyes before her hands were suddenly aglow with bright yellow restorative energy and were applied to Tsleeixth’s knee.

Tsleeixth was, at first, confused, not to mention embarrassed and flustered, by Wy’s act of unbuttoning her robe, but those feelings soon gave way to shock as he caught a glimpse of the first scars when her bare shoulders were revealed once the upper part of her robe was unbuttoned. His shock only increased as more of the gruesome scars became readily apparent on the length of her arms and on her midriff. Any and all words that he might have had died in his throat as he beheld the scars that the Bosmer priestess carried. It wasn’t the scars so much that left him speechless, he had plenty of scars himself, but the realisation that whatever it was that Wy had lived through, it was much worse than what he had lived through by magnitudes.

Even so, part of him wanted to help the priestess. To give her a sign that he understood her pain and to comfort her in some way, fully understanding that she was exposing herself to him and the vulnerability of the moment. Yet no words came to his mind and his body remained in place as Wy worked her magic on his knee.

“You came to me for my council,” Wy said somberly, keeping focused on his leg, “but I’m afraid to tell you that I have none to give. I don’t mean to scare you or dash your hopes by saying that I still haven't found the answer myself. From what I can tell you, it doesn’t just go away. It’s nothing that words or actions can fix. You just… learn to live with it. It takes time.”

The glow coming from her hands slowly faded away and she retrieved them. Her hands immediately went to hugging her own arms close to her body, subconsciously covering a few of the scars.

She continued, “But, if it’s any small comfort, I can give you the knowledge that you aren’t alone. That there’s someone close by who understands how you feel.”

Wylendriel’s eyes fell on the altar to Kynareth exhaled a sigh, feeling a minor sense of relief of her own. She thought, ‘Lady knows that it is to me, at least.’

“It’s a great deal of comfort for me.” Admitted Tsleeixth, his voice wavering, as he gingerly placed his hand on Wy’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze “Maybe… maybe it’s preposterous of my part to say this but, if you need to talk, know that I’m here.” He offered to the priestess. He couldn’t imagine what the Bosmer priestess had went through, but he knew that she was suffering just like him, if not even more, but he was willing to help her however she could if she’d seek his help.

In a way, she agreed that it was sort of preposterous - it almost brought a smile to her face. Tsleeixth was here because he was seeking her help, and when she tried to in the only way she knew how, he’s trying to go out of his way to turn this therapy session on its head. It was perturbing to her that about every saxhleel she has met so far had such big, good hearts, and yet Dawnstar was somehow able to find a way to tear them all down. She was about to turn Tsleeixth down before her memories reminded her of Tzinasha and his wisdom.

“There's no shame in accepting help. Accept it when you can. The rivers we swim in have jagged rocks, there is no telling when we may find it again.”

Now Wylendriel was smiling in earnest at the memory of her late friend. She looked back up at Tsleeixth and sat up straight. She said, “I appreciate it. Back to Dawnstar, though…”

Her eyes flicked over to the side as she withdrew the saxhleel feather from behind her ear. She layed it flat across her hands in front of Tsleeixth for him to see.

“I lost a dear friend while we were there.” She said, the fondness of Tzinasha’s memory quelling the rising anger at being reminded of the assassin. “His name was Tzinasha, are you familiar with him? He was the pakseech among the refugees. He said something very wise, once. He said: it doesn’t feel good to open the wound, but it would do us ill to linger on it. Focus on the scar too much, and we forget it to be a sign of healing."

Tsleeixth’s eyes widened when he saw the saxhleel feather in Wy’s hands. “Yes, I heard about him, he was the Pakseech amongst the Dawnstar refugees.” He said with a smile once he recovered from the shock. “To my great shame I didn’t have time to meet him. Shortly after we returned from Winterhold we were sent to explore a Dwemer ruin and, well, you know what happened afterwards.” Tsleeixth said, falling silent as Wy continued.

“He was a wise man.” Answered the spellsword when the Bosmer repeated what the late Pakseech had told her. He fell silent for a bit as he thought on the meaning behind the words of the late Tzinasha, his tail flickering slightly as he tried to link what Wy had told him and their present situation. “Are you suggesting that, maybe, the fact that we are still here, able to talk about this, is a sign that we… we are starting to heal from what we went through?” He offered tentatively.

“We’re still here.” Wy repeated with a nod. “It hurts now, but you mustn’t linger on it. We mustn’t linger on it. Let the wounds heal.”

Tsleeixth fell silent for a few seconds, pondering Wy’s words in his head, before he gave the Bosmer priestess a nod, “Yes, you are right.” He said, a smile forming on his face for what seemed like the first time after the whole fiasco in Dawnstar. “I can’t express how much help you’ve been Wy, nor the depths of my gratitude for your counsel.” Spoke the Argonian, “I also reiterate what I said before, if you need someone to talk with, know that I’m here.”

“I only get paid to do one job on this boat, don’t you try stealing it from me.” The priestess teased, probably marking the first sign of a sense of humor since Ashav invited her into his company. She pulled her robes back over her shoulders and stood up, also giving Tsleeixth her hands so that she could help him to his feet. Once he got up, she smiled and said, “The Hist still watches you, Ts… slee… uh... Tslee.”

Tsleeixth laughed as Wy teased him, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it a secret. Wouldn’t dream to steal your job.” The Argonian retorted back, smiling a little. He accepted the hands that the Bosmer priestess offered to him and he stood up with her help.

He smiled once more as she told him that the Hist still watched over him, a chuckle escaping his lips at her troubles in pronouncing his full name. “Don’t worry, you are not the first person who has troubles with my name.” He said, still smiling. “First time someone has given me a nickname though.” The spellsword teased.

She only smiled and lifted her hand to place it against his chest, as it glowed with a brilliant light for only a brief moment, but that was all it took for a surge of strength and energy to swell within the argonian’s body. She took back her hand and bowed her head, saying, “A blessing in the name of my lady; Kynareth watches you, too. Rains at your back, Tslee.”

Tsleeixth was a bit surprised when he felt Wy’s hand on his chest, but smiled when he took notice of the light that emanated from there for a brief seconds. “My thanks Wy.” He said in response to her blessing, his smile widening when she bid him farewell with an Argonian expression. “And may friendly branches shade your path, Wy.” Replied the Saxhleel in return, bowing slightly to the Bosmer priestess before he left her cabin.

---

4th Day of Last Seed - Early Night

The Huntress made her way through the streets of Solitude. She told Do’Karth that she needed to finish running errands after their quiet picnic on the cliffs above the harbor. She had a letter to send to Liliana, a short update on events, wishing her sister and Lodjolf the best of health, and inquiring after the child she carried. The sun had sunk low past the horizon, already the last remaining light had started to slip away, while the black veil of the night crept across the eastern horizon.

She replenished her supplies with what little coin she had left, stocking up on a health potion, and cure poison potion, the rest went to food. Mostly dried jerky, bread, and honeyed treats. Sevine took to the path through Solitude’s graveyard, noticing the abundance of nightshade blooming. She paused here for a moment to revel in the silence of this holy place. For a second, Sevine thought her eyes played tricks on her. She could have sworn she saw a shadow moving along the stone wall. Naturally, she held her breath, eyes narrowed into slits as she tried to focus on the figament.

“Leif?” She couldn’t believe it. There he was, leaning against the wall with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand. He was a pitiful sight. The moonlight stole him from the shadows, the most forlorn look etched across his face as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. He turned at once to avoid addressing her, but she couldn’t help it. Even though he acted like an ignorant bastard, and was quite thick in the head, she still felt a kinship for him.

Sevine closed the distance between them, catching up to him in a few short strides.

“What do you want?” When he spoke, Sevine could tell that he wasn’t drunk, but his words were thick with anguish. As if a knife had been driven through his heart.

“I… We need to talk. About everything.” She started. What could she say?

“There is nothing to talk about.” He shirked away from her outstretched hand.

“Please.” It was that word, that single solitary word that made Leif lock eyes with her. This had been the first time since the beating by Do’Karth that he had looked her in the eyes. Gods be damned. Gazing into her pine needle green eyes brought a searing hot pain in his chest. He loved her. He always would. But the scorn she brought upon him that day ached like a freshly healed wound.

Sevine had his attention for now, and so she took his unoccupied hand in her own, pulling on it so that they could sit with their backs against the wall. Leif sank like a sack of flour being dragged across sand. When they were seated, Sevine bowed her head, searching for the right words to say.

“I’m sorry, Leif. I truly am. I never meant to cause you so much pain. I thought you knew… I didn’t understand how you felt… I feel as if I should have gone about this entire situation in a better way.” As she spoke, her words like music in his ears, Leif said not a word, but listened in dutiful silence. The wine bottle in his hand was unopened. For the past few days, drinking had lost its appeal as he struggled to move past the incident back in Dawnstar. Work kept his mind off it, and when he wasn’t working is when his thoughts took hold.

“I brought this on myself, Sevine.” He said, she had yet to speak again, he knew she was having trouble finding the right words to say.

“I was an idiot. I thought I could make you love me. And I didn’t respect that Do’Karth,” he pronounced the Khajiit’s name without venom, “and you had formed a special bond.”

Silence filled the air between them as they entered into a thoughtful reflection.

“I really do love him… I know it seems unconventional, but I do not care what others call me. You know me best of all. Do you remember what my father told me?” Sevine sighed as her father’s words echoed through her head.

“Mara gives us love in our time of need.” Leif answered, she spoke highly of her father, always had, and kept a level head with her beliefs in the Goddess of love.

“Mara gave him to me, Leif. She gave me Do’Karth in my time of need. When this burden in my heart could not be quieted…” she ran a hand through her hair, “I never wanted this Name. And I regret everything I’ve done to earn it.”

“That officer almost killed you Sevine.” Leif returned his voice no higher than a whisper. He never thought he would have the chance to sit beside her again and talk, it felt strange. A welcoming feeling, but bittersweet.

“Well he didn’t, thanks to you. But I killed him in cold-blood. Murdered him for revenge. There is no honor in that.”

“That is the nature of war. Killing one another. Murder.”

“No. Not like that. Not by killing a defenseless man in the midst of taking a shit in the woods.”

“So what of it?” Leif asked, unsure why Sevine told him this.

“...if I had never killed that man, I wouldn’t be known as The Huntress. People would not call out to me in the streets. I would just be another Nord woman… would you have loved me then?” She instantly regretted the words, wishing she could take them back. Why had she asked him that? Her heart beat fast, she thought she would faint. Leif shifted towards her, his calloused hand gripped her chin, turning her face to look him in the eye. She shivered at the touch of his rugged hand against her smooth cheek. It felt foreign, though familiar.

‘Is he going to kiss me?’, she wondered, thinking of what Do’Karth would say, or how he would react. Would he hate her for confronting Leif? Would he feel relief that Leif had come to terms with their relationship? Would he feel jealousy.

“I would have loved you still, as I do now. Your heart is full of goodness, warmth and kindness. You are fierce, proud, and wise beyond your years. I could learn a thing or two from you.” His hand fell away, though his gaze remained firm.

“Can I ask… why?” Leif needed to know, it was the only question that he needed an answer for.

“Why what?” Confusion crossed her features.

“Why Do’Karth?” His question caused her to draw away, her back resting against the cold stone slabs.

“One day, when you become Leif the Noble, or Leif the Bard, the excitement of your Name will wear away, just like a winter that lasts too long. You will wish it to end, to see the next spring, to begin anew. When I told Do’Karth of how I earned my name… he did not judge me. Nor I him. He did not see me as a woman of fame, but as an equal. He is gentle, patient, and a soul that is pure of heart. Do’Karth… is everything I’ve wanted. I want you to understand Leif, for I feel this is all my fault… I never took your advances seriously. I thought you were jesting. We were friends, and you openly pursued other women. How could I have taken your words to heart, when your actions dictated otherwise? It is like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. It looks like a sheep, walks like a sheep, but it does not smell like a sheep. For that I am sorry.”

Leif knew what she spoke to be true, and while it hurt to hear, part of him felt as if a weight had been lifted. He knew that his actions had betrayed his words, though why he thought she wouldn’t mind his other pursuits made him feel equally terrible. He almost didn’t hear her next question.

“Can you forgive me?”

“What is there to forgive?” He sighed, his shoulders sagged.

“Forgive me for this miscommunication. Let us make amends. Let this scar heal. I understand if you cannot, maybe in time, but I never meant to hurt you.” He could smell her scent, lavender, her favorite flower, the delicate scent of the ocean lingered on her skin, and honey. He wanted nothing more to wrap her up in his arms and carry her far away from this war. Far from the Kamals, to retreat into the mountains, and live out the rest of their days together. But that idea was far from reality, and he needed to face that.

She rose to her feet, perhaps it was wrong to ask him to forgive her, she stooped to collect her things when he rose to stand beside her. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her right against his chest. Sevine didn’t resist. Leif needed to heal his heart.

“I have to let you go. You belong to him, and he belongs to you. My heart of hearts breaks when I see you with him, but time will mend this.” He cupped her face in between his hands, searching her eyes for anything that would give him a hint at what to do next. Leif pulled her back against him, his arms enveloping her in an embrace that he would not forget. He turned his face into her neck, where he breathed deep, fighting through the hard lump forming in his throat. And then, he planted a kiss upon her cheek. A soft, tender kiss.

“I wish you all the happiness in the world.” His words cracked as he stepped away, taking in the sight of this beloved fiery haired woman, before turning around altogether and slipping away into the shadows.

---

_{A collab with @DearTrickster and @MacabreFox}

Solitude - 4th of Last Seed - Night

His mind was a whirlwind. Leif’s encounter with Sevine just moments ago tore at his heart. His feet carried him straight for the Winking Skeever. The night was young, and while the bottle of wine in his hand begged to be emptied, he could think of nothing else but what just transpired. Never before had he felt so lonely. Leif yearned to hold someone tight in his arms, to let out his anguish in pained tears. His chest rose and fell, his hands felt cold and clammy. He felt sick.

Leif pushed open the door to the inn, and stepped into the warmth of the tavern, patrons filled nearly every table, except for one near the window along the farthest wall. He made his way over to the table, where he sank into the wooden chair, his legs giving out from underneath him entirely. Some patrons glanced his way at the strange sight of a Nord man sitting alone that was bent doubled over, clutching at his head.

He gritted his teeth, grinding them as he covered his ears. It took several minutes for his racing heart to slow. Eventually he sat up, his eyes studying the wooden knotwork in the table.

One such patron was a visiting redguard woman, small in stature and finishing off the dregs of her dinner out of a bowl. Wiping her mouth she considered her tall tankard of mead, knowing full well she’d need to drink plenty more than her coin could cover in order to pass out for a few hours. Still, she stole a quick sip then pushed up from her table enough to wet her whistle. Having exhausted her stories earlier to other patrons she decided to approach the downtrodden Nord. Perhaps he’d be willing to listen, distract from his very apparent broken heart. It was apparent to anyone with eyes, some of those she sat with shook their heads at her.

Standing up from the chair, she grabbed her cloak and the mead. She draped her cloak behind the seat across from the Nord and put down the tankard of mead before him.

“Ahoy, mate! Drink up! Drown out that broken heart and listen up. Lend me your new ears and I’ll spin you a tale of danger!” Maj began with a hearty laugh, she fanned her hand out for dramatic effect. “ Excitement and reward await in my stories.”

She leaned against the chair with a big grin, “No need to mope by the window with good company about.”

“Whatta ya say?”

The woman before him caused Leif to release his head to look her over. He was puzzled at her approach, why would a woman of all people approach someone like him? His blue eyes blinked unsteadily at her, perhaps he could use the distraction from the bitter reality that consumed him.

“The seat is yours.” He said, his gaze shifting to the tankard.

“Good! I would be hard pressed to take no for an answer.” she replied. “Name’s Maj, Maj Noor by the by.” She dipped her head in greeting before taking her seat. “Expert conjurer and illusionist, former corsair mage turned mercenary. Try not to be too impressed.” She dusted off imaginary dirt from her sleeve. “What’s yours, friend?”

“Before you ask, the mead is safe. See?” She took another sip to prove it’s legitimacy. “Freshly poured from the casket.”

She made him smile, even though he didn’t think he could at a time like this, he couldn’t help but smile at this eccentric Redguard’s approach. On her insistence that the mead was safe, he accepted the fermented honey drink, overly sweet for his taste, but the warmth in the pit of his stomach was a welcoming one.

“Leif Raven-Stone. Former corsair, eh? I sailed on the Courtesan for eight years. Where did your travels take you?” He asked, surprised to have met another sailor, and a woman at that.

“Ah! A fellow sailor! Then I’m sure you’ll appreciate what I have to tell you. The ship I called home was named the Scarlet Harpy, a unique crew completely made up of women, with heavy emphasis on mages. We sailed all along the western coast of High Rock, Hammerfell, and as far south as Summerset and Cyrodiil. Proudly apart of the Republic.” Maj said, she was proud - ploughing by the past tense she used, Leif didn’t look the part to hear her troubles. “Good to meet you Leif Raven-Stone.”

He had a difficult time keeping pace with the rush of words coming out of her mouth, he did his best to keep that from showing on his face, however, a ship full of women, who would’ve thought?

“In fact, this is my first time in Skyrim, by the gods is it cold. I was warned too. Only a little upset this is my last night here in the frigid province before heading back to High Rock. The food is warm the drinks are delicious. Would visit again given the chance.” Maj said. “Where did the Courtesan sail?”

“You wouldn’t have enjoyed sailing aboard the Courtesan then,” he gave a soft chuckle, “Our ship carried goods across the Sea of Ghosts, sailed from Windhelm to Dawnstar, and from Dawnstar to here. If you’re not careful, the ice will freeze you in solid.” He swirled the pale amber liquid inside the tankard. Leif’s eyes rose to settle on Maj, studying the woman now that she sat across from him.

She had striking features, dazzling bright green eyes, a hooked nose that suited her face well. She had two scars, one on her brow, the other on her bottom lip, splitting the natural lines of her full lips. Her skin was dark, common for a Redguard, as was her hair, though she kept it off to the side.

“What has you headed for High Rock?” Perhaps the threat of the Kamal had frightened her enough to send her home.

“Aye, I reckon that’d be too cold for me.” She agreed with Leif, she was by no means accustomed to anything colder than Wayrest’s temperate winters. “I joined this mercenary company headed for the Rock tomorrow. Hoping to earn some decent wages, I’ve got some plans of my own but that is an entirely different story that would surely turn you blue.” She waved off that idea, she was happy to get even a small chuckle out of him. Not all hope was lost.

She couldn’t be… no… she had signed on with the company? Their company… the one he held a contract with, God’s no. Leif forced himself from admitting he too, was contracted with them. He wanted to enjoy the moment and not think about the possibility of seeing her die like so many others had.

She coughed into her fist, a wicked grin spread across her face. She picked up the candle at the table lifting it up for added effect. Summoning a little magicka in her hand, passing it through the flame. “So- my story tonight is the Wailing Stones of the Blue Divide. It’s a ghost story.”

Adding with a cheeky remark, “Let me know if you get too scared.”

He mustered a half smile, and waved a hand, “Enlighten me.” From the sound of it, he hadn’t heard this tale before.

“For some history, the tale of the Wailing Stones is a infamous shipwreck area. They protrude from the sea taller than you could see past the crow’s nest. Ships are mysteriously pulled into its waters and bashed-!” She slammed her fist on the table making the tankard shake spilling a few drops of mead. “-Against the rocks!”

Quietly she said, pulling the candle back up, “...Gone forever in one swift current.”

Her commotion drew some eyes, but their attention now was on the story she told, Leif’s own gaze fixated heavily upon her.

“On quiet nights when the waters are calm and the wind blows gently,” She blew gently on the flame of the candle. “If you sail near those stones you can hear the cries of previous shipwrecks. You hear them clear as if they’re standing right beside ya.” She was looking directly at Leif. “Mark my words, I’ve heard these ghostly cries for myself.”

“There ain’t no lie about it.” She said solemnly. “The first time I heard about it I called bullshit, ghosts don’t exist!”

“The night I heard them was after we plundered a uh-” She looked around at the largely Nord and Imperial crowd, catching eyes of a few argonians as well. “Aldmeri Dominion, wiley bastards were transporting some goods back to Summerset.”

That got her a nod or two of approval. She stood from her chair putting one foot on it and pointing at Leif. “Sweet fruit and fresh food in our bellies we decided to head back to Hammerfell. The twin moons were pale slivers, a cool fog rolled in behind us as we passed the stones catching sight of them. Our Captain not the superstitious sort, she gave the stones plenty of berth regardless.”

“I was starboard side, watching the dark stones as we passed. Strange shapes gave the base of the stones a sort of spiky silhouette.” She whispered behind a hand toward Leif, “Three guesses what the spiky bits were.”

She continued, “I squinted through the fog and suddenly felt like I was being watched.” Pausing as she looked at Leif then a few listeners.

She acted it out, looking confused as she turned about at her waist. “There was nobody around, everyone had been below decks or aloft keeping an eye out for trouble. I felt the hair on my arms raise up as if someone walked over my grave.”

“I backed away from the railing, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Something kept me there. That’s when I heard them…” She said trailing off, changing the tone of her voice to something withered, sad and desperate, “‘Please… Please! Help us… We are hungry… Cold… Lonely…!’ They pleaded, right into my ear.” She said. “Scared me half to death.”

Some listeners chuckled nervously, Leif as well. She had a knack for storytelling, as evidenced by the hair on his forearms standing on end. He rubbed his arms vigorously.

She resumed her ghostly voice, “‘Spare us, turn away, don’t draw near…’” She turned her back to the crowd feigning as if she was crying herself. “I couldn't take it! I ripped my gaze away to turn around.” In her hands she started up an illusion spell, she looked to Leif winking. The very fake ghostly visage appeared in front of her person. “When I did… A ghost stood right there!” She turned sharply around hopping up on the chair. “Dead as dead!” She appeared as a gruesome ghost with an axe buried in her head.

She startled a few, some gasped while others jumped out of their chairs. She chuckled good naturedly, snapping her fingers the illusion disappearing to reveal herself once more. “We sailed away and even when I fell asleep that night I dreamt of the voices.”

A smile crossed his lips as the tale came to an end, he drummed his fingers against the wooden table top, before letting out a long and slow whistle.

“You’ve got a knack for storytelling, lass. Ever think of it as a profession?” He enjoyed a good story, “

and Maj had certainly delivered with her eccentric theatrics, the illusion magic added a certain quality not often found amongst entertainers.

Relaxing a bit, Maj replied, “Thanks, there’s only so many times you can rehearse that one.”

“I’ve got better shit to do. I’ve got a few good stories in me but you won’t see me running over to the Bard’s College for lessons.” Maj sat again leaning into her chair. “It’s just for fun, presentation is two thirds of what it takes to be a corsair. You have to back it up of course and I do.”

She shrugged easily, “I’d rather earn my keep.”

“Fate is a fickle thing.” Leif sighed when she mentioned earning her keep, “The company you spoke of, I’m contracted with them as well.”

Her brows shot up, clearly surprised. “Why didn’t you say so? Not that it would effect the story… Tell me about what it’s been like. Gustav highlighted some of the exploits but never went into detail.” She asked.

“I wanted to forget… and listening to your story helped.” Leif shook his head before leaning back in his chair, raking his fingers through his long brown hair.

“We’ve lost so many. I don’t know how we’re all still alive either.” He racked his brain searching for the right words to say, because that was just it. There was just so much.

“Ask me what you want to know, that would be a better place to start.”

Turning to a serious note she asked, “These Kamal I keep hearing about. Ice giants, monsters out of stories. Are they true? Describe them to me.” Maj gave him a hard stare. “Don’t sugarcoat it. I want the truth.”

He nodded solemnly, “It’s all true. They’re the beasts of nightmare. Taller than any man, eight to ten feet tall. Terrifying creatures. They travel on ships made of metal, and they themselves wear seemingly impenetrable armor. Though they’re not all invincible, they do have a weakness towards fire. Fire salts, fire magic, anything with a flame can help kill them.”

Maj nodded, sitting back in her chair thinking. “I can conjure one mean flame atronach. Are their minds susceptible? Can we manipulate what they see and how they feel?” She paused. “Has anyone tried?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.” Leif shrugged, it was an interesting concept to say the least.

She tapped the table. “Are there other mages in the company? Mages that can bring the heat?”

“From the new recruits, and the old company combined, there’s one that comes to mind. Niernen Venim. Dunmeri lass that comes from Morrowind. Other than that, the rest of us are your typical grunts, foot soldiers, sellswords and the like. There are a few other mages, but none specialize in Destruction really. There’s Ariane, and Marcel, they both have a knack for mysticism. Don’t quite understand it myself. Tsleeixth, an Argonian, he can sling around some lightning. Other than that, it’s just restoration, alteration, conjuration and illusion I’ve seen used. Most of those who were skilled enough in destruction either left the company, died or are missing.” When he finished, he reflected on what he had just said. Most of the company didn’t have the fire they needed to handle the Kamal, but they had been creative nonetheless. Sevine and him had constructed the sling on top the wall back in Windhelm where they helped launch fire salts, and flaming pots of oil. Of course, that did little to slow the entire Kamal assault, but it did help in giving those on the frontline a chance to scamper back through the gates.

She nodded decisively. “Good. Good. I’ll be of use, if we can figure out how to crack their minds open like a melon we’ll have another advantage.” Not showing her fear in the slightest, Leif needed some hope as she was sure others did as well. Fresh blood to relieve the war weary. She gave herself more credit than that, while there were quiet and sweet moments aboard the Scarlet Harpy their livelihood was fighting and violence. If the vets in the mercenary company needed a breather she was more than happy to comply. Revelling in the chaos she was capable of creating.

“Worry not Leif! The bigger they are the harder they fall! Words to live by, especially for the small.” She clasped his shoulder. “With the might of a sword and the whisper of a spell we are well equipped for monster and disaster.”

He shook his head at her words, a half smile on his lips, “Why? Why join the company?” She was such a peculiar woman, he couldn’t help but wonder as to why she had put the quill to the paper in the first place.

Without hesitation she replied, “Gold of course! There’s opportunity in war. It’s a tad more complicated than that but as I said earlier, it is a very blue and sobering story. One not for the ears of a man hoping to distract himself from such things. Believe me.” She smiled to herself. “I am not so easily scared away, when one bounds Oblivion to their will monsters are a regular occurance.”

“We can certainly drink to that yes?”

“I suppose I can.” Leif nodded in mutual agreement. He had half the mind to invite her to his bed for the evening, nothing intimate, unless she so desired. It had been a few months since he had had the companionship of a woman, and he would much like to hold someone in his arms again. He took a swig of the mead before pushing it across the table towards her, grimacing at the overly sweet taste.

“So… Maj… have you a partner or a suitor?” Why not? He might as well ask.

Maj eyed him then took a swig of the mead. She leaned across the table to pat both of his cheeks, “While you have humoured my story tonight, you will not be humouring me in bed Leif Raven-Stone. You will not find a mend for your heart in me.”

“And you lack the proper… Uh set up.” She gestured at him generally. A crimson hue spread across his cheeks, at first he misunderstood her, but then it lighted upon him like candlelight in the darkest hours of night. “How about you tell me a story from your days on the Courtesan?”

“Perhaps another time, there’ll be many an hour aboard the Kyne’s Tear on our way to Jehanna. Best get some rest lass, we’ve a long voyage ahead of us. And, well, thank you for being an admirable storyteller.” Leif rose from the table where he dipped his head towards her. Part of him was truly exhausted, and the other part was shame. What could he say? He needed to clear his head with a good night's sleep.

_{A Collab with @Dervish and@MacabreFox}

---

5th of Last Seed - 09:30

Sunlight filtered down through white clouds, warm golden rays shimmered across the surface of the harbor. The last time Sevine passed through Solitude was for the Civil War. Do’Karth sat next to her. They had found a moment to spend together in peace, without being interrupted or pressed for time with the next mission. They sat on a patch of grass, on a cliff overlooking the bay. From this vantage point, Sevine could see their ship moored at the dock.

She leaned into Do’Karth, finding comfort in his presence. He was her rock, an immovable stone of support. Sevine could smell his masculine scent as she rested her head on his shoulder, like a mix of sunshine, the earth, pine needles, and something she couldn’t quite place. Her mind drifted, so much had happened in such little time. Leif had grown incredibly distant from her after losing the fight to Do’Karth. He avoided eye contact, and tried his hardest to keep from crossing her path, or Do’Karth’s for that matter.

Sevine broke the silence that had grown between them, “Do you remember when we met?” She asked softly, stroking the fur on his forearm. Her eyes drifted out to the water in the bay, watching the golden rays shimmer on the waves. She tipped her head up to gaze at him. In the sunlight, his eyes, a deep amber-orange colored, glimmered and danced like fire, his pupils narrowed into slits.

“How could Do’Karth forget? You were running from would-be assassins and quite hurt. Jorwen thought this one could be of assistance. You wished to touch this one’s ears.” He replied with a slight smile as he watched the water dance far below, his hand resting upon her knee. “It was a peculiar request, but it was one that made quite a lasting impression.”

Sevine chuckled at the recollection, “Mm, I remember. Still the softest ears, if I might add.” As if to emphasize, she reached up with one hand and stroked his left ear tenderly. He tilted his head receptively in receptively

“Oh, how many ears have you experience with?” he teased, a slight rumble escaping his throat.

“Hmm, let’s count…” she held up one hand, where she extended her forefinger, “One… and… that’s it.” Sevine squeezed his knee.

“I was just thinking of how much has happened since you and I met. The adventures we’ve been on, the people we’ve met, the people we’ve lost… the battles we endured… I never thought this would happen.” Sevine sighed, her finger drifting in a circle around his kneecap.

Do’Karth let out a long sigh shaking his head slightly. “It is hard for this one to not think about Jorwen. He was this one’s friend, he looked out for him and showed compassion where others had none. Do’Karth promised to watch over Solveig, but how is he supposed to do that with her gone? So many good people have been lost, this one regrets not having known them better.”

Her throat tightened at the mention of Jorwen, Sevine remembered the night when the Kamal swept through the area, she still didn’t know if he was alive or dead, and part of her felt that Solveig’s disappearance was linked to her desire to find her father.

“We cannot protect everyone, all of the time.” She added softly, she understood his pain.

“You could not protect me when we were separated, you in Bthamz, and I, in the Pale…” That much was true. “Leif was furious that you couldn’t protect me from being hurt. But what could he do too? He was with you on that mission. And just the same, you cannot protect Solveig when she is gone from us.”

“No,” Do’Karth agreed quietly. He continued to stare at the water below, resigned. “Do’Karth regrets not asserting himself to have not been assigned to the same team as you. He does not think Sevine needs protection, but he would be more comfortable if we were to stand side by side even in the most dire of circumstances. Were something to happen to either of us while we are far from each other, only learning the news days later? Neither of us would be able to forgive ourselves.

“And yes, Solveig made her choice, and she resented Do’Karth’s attention on behalf of her father, this one knows this. Still, she forced this one to abandon an oath, and it leaves a bitter taste. Now Do’Karth’s obligation is to you, and for a time, he thought he could manage both duties. It was foolish to believe so.” he reflected, pulling his sugar pouch free from his budi. There had not been much time for reflection, and today of all days seemed to be making up for lost time. “Leif has hardly been rational, and Do’Karth wishes for you to know that he truly did not wish to fight him. He is a good man with perhaps too large a heart, he leaves himself open to so much pain because he chooses not to see what his eyes already do.”

An uncomfortable silence crossed over them as Sevine shifted away from Do’Karth, her fingers ripping away tendrils of grass. She would have to tell him about her encounter with Leif the night before. She didn’t wish for secrets to be kept, especially not from Do’Karth.

“I saw him last night.” She said softly, feeling guilty for pursuing the encounter with Leif. She could have walked away, but Sevine felt the need to clear the air between them without Do’Karth by her side.

Do’Karth nodded. He looked over at Sevine, his eyes warm and expression soft. He knew she probably thought he had suspicions, but he trusted her. Nothing she had done he had done had instilled him with doubt about where she stood in regards to her longtime friend. “It’s okay. This one trusts you.” he said, pulling her head gently towards him until their heads touched.

The touch was comforting, she felt reassured that he would not abandon her out of spite. She let a sigh roll through her before she continued with his confidence, “Last night, when I went to finish my errands, I stopped near the graveyard. I thought… I thought the shadows were playing tricks on my eyes, but I saw him. Leaning against the wall… I thought he was drunk. I called out to him and… I just wanted to talk to him. I wanted to clear the air about what’s happened between us.”

“At first, he didn’t want to talk. But I begged him to talk with me. So we sat there against the wall, and I apologized to him. I told him that I was sorry for the miscommunication… that I was sorry for all the pain I caused him, and for how I never took his advances seriously. I also explained why I never took him seriously, how could I when his words told me one thing but his actions said otherwise.” Her brows furrowed together as she spoke, drawing her head away from him, but turning her body so that she could face Do’Karth and look him in the eyes.

“He apologized too. And apologized for his lack of respect for the both of us.”

“He asked me why, why I had chosen you out of everyone else. And I let myself be candid, I told him about how you did not judge me, nor how I was a prize because of my Name…” Sevine faltered in her words, she left out some non-consequential exchanges that Leif and her had shared. She felt Do’Karth didn’t need to know everything in exact detail, unless he wanted to know she would tell him.

“In the end, I asked him to forgive me. And before we parted ways… he told me that he had to let me go… and that he wished us all the happiness in the world.” She chewed on her lower lip in a pensive manner before adding, “And since I’m being honest about this, I wanted you to know that before we parted ways, he gave me a hug, and kissed me on the cheek.” There. That was all of it.

“It took great courage for you both to face one another; for him to learn to let go and accept himself, and for you to try and mend what you must have thought was a irrevocably damaged friendship. There is a history between you two, a strong bond. The only crime is you did not see one another the same way, but now he respects your wishes. Do’Karth hopes you are not rattled; thank you for telling him.” The Khajiit said, taking Sevine’s smooth hands into his furry, padded ones. “You need not worry about what this one thinks, for he believes that you love him and would let nothing change that. It is… not dissimilar to this one’s situation with Niernen. She’s admitted she has feelings for Do’Karth, and he has gently guided her away from those feelings because Do’Karth is spoken for. She is a lovely woman, but Do’Karth feels that she might have grown attached to him so quickly because of her capture and remembering her partner in Windhelm as a way to cope with the horrors. She wishes us well, but this one can tell it hurts her.” Do’Karth shook his head, looking up at the sky as if they had the answers. “He cannot figure out why he’s suddenly found himself surrounded by women who wish to be with him. He does not even wear perfume or have coin.”

Her eyes watered at his words, “It is because you have a heart of gold. And that is more valuable than anything else in this world.” She cleared her throat, blinking away the tears that came, concern filling her over Niernen.

“Does she… does she despise me because of… us?” Sevine really wanted to know if Niernen was a threat, as in a person that would do either of them harm. Rejection could be a hard drink to swallow.

That caught the Khajiit off guard. “What? No, of course not!” he exclaimed suddenly, before realizing his tone might have been taken as defensive. He placed his hand on her back, a gesture of solidarity. “Just… sad, this one thinks. She’s tried to encourage this one to not take you for granted and make the most of the time we have, despite the war. She is a good person, compassionate. Do’Karth just doesn’t know how she’s handling all of it in private. He wants to be a good friend, supportive, but without crossing the line that gives unfortunate impressions.”

He slunk back into the grass, laying up facing the sky, his arms spread wide. He felt flustered and defeated, and not for the first time he recalled how much simpler things were when he didn’t linger any one place for more than a couple of weeks with people coming and going from his life like a breeze. Sevine reclined back to join him on the grass, resting her head on his stomach.

“I’m glad she has a friend in you. Time heals all wounds.” Her thoughts wandered to Leif, wondering how he would handle the next days, weeks, or even months to come. “I pray that Mara shows her kindness.”

“All wounds but decapitation, perhaps. That tends to be somewhat more tricky.” Do’Karth replied cheekily. “And Mara always shows her love, one just has to be looking for it.” he reached down and touched the amulet around Sevine’s neck, the one he had given her back in Dawnstar. It had been his constant companion and source of comfort for quite a few years, but now it marked where his heart was. “Do’Karth knows where to look.”

---

_{a collab between @Sofaking Fancy and @Dervish}

4th of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
Gustav’s Warehouse, sometime before noon…

Solitude was a city that to the discerning eye seemed quite out of place compared to the other cities of Skyrim thanks to its striking presence atop a towering natural arc and architecture that looked like it was ripped out of a fairly standard Imperial design rulebook. Large and immaculate stone houses, numerous luxury stores, and what had been a fairly typical Imperial Legion garrison that had defended the city rounded out what would be most people’s first impressions of the place and its wide cobblestone streets, and despite the Stormcloak victory, much of the populace still resembled the cosmopolitan populations and fashions of the South, the supplies having been brought in the large harbour far down the cliffs that had once been the Skyrim headquarters of the East Empire Company. Things had certainly changed, but not as drastically as one would expect from a people who had boldly declared that Skyrim belongs to the Nords. It was impossible to know what would have changed in the long-term, but it gave the impression that some things would have been timeless.

Nestled somewhere in the sprawl of the city streets and away from most of the residential buildings was a warehouse that Gustav owned that he had volunteered for the company’s use. Supplies were stored, acquired, and transferred in and out of the building in a fashion only the bean-counters understood, and many of the company elected to stay in the warehouse while they were laid over in the Northeastern Skyrim capital. While Do’Karth kept to the Kyne’s Tear, partially to try and work through his unease of sailing and partially to avoid unwanted scrutiny of the emboldened Nord populace that thought Khajiit didn’t belong in their cities, he only came in to do his assigned task, which was simply medical procedures that didn’t require the intensity of restoration magic.

Set assigned for this purpose was a small room that had probably once been something of an office without windows and a wooden door that had a couple of cots that worked as makeshift medical beds, as well as an examination table and a variety of equipment, including scalpels, bandages, and a small alchemy set for mixing simple potions and poultices. Do’Karth had seen three patients today, setting one’s sprained ankle, treating a minor burn, and giving another stitches for a head gash. He wasn’t sure what was going to be walking in the door next, but he called, “Next, please.”

---

Civilization and Dael got along like bread and butter. Wilderness and Dael also got along like bread and butter. There was not a place where the orc ever felt estranged. Well, except maybe around a large gathering of his own kind. He lacked the grit and knowledge to fold into them. The one place he should have been welcome was the one place where he was an outsider.

Solitude was no Markarth, and it showed. The buildings were less a welcoming enigma and more a bulwark of civilization. The people here held themselves a bit taller and let the swish of their robe dance along their ankles. It was also quite cold here, which Dael did not mind. He was a large orc, prone to wearing heavy armor and a lot of layers. He actually breathed a bit easier here than he ever had on his pilgrimage. There was a cosmopolitan of people, and while some averted his gaze—others pointed him towards the warehouse in which he was heading to.

A woman cried, flush to a building but still obviously in the streets. Dael, the sort that couldn’t avoid such things, approached her. She glanced up, scraping her eyes down his form before returning her gaze to her moistened palm.

“What is wrong?” Dael asked.

“Why do you care, orc?” the woman got out between sobs.

“I’m a follower of Dibella, and a priest of the Nine. I just ask out of commitment and courtesy.” He looked down at her. She lowered her hands and met his gaze. Her eyes were beet red, fingers covered in tears and mud, and her dress was in tatters.

“You’re very well spoken for an orc,” she said. “But—I—recently lost my mother. She was the one person in Tamriel that made me feel important. Now, I’m just some servant that cleans. There’s nothing more to my life.”

“Is there, though?” Dael asked. “I never knew my mother, but I had a mother in many different forms. So, I cannot attempt to understand the loss you are feeling. Yet, I understand the importance of a matron in your life. She guided me. She walked me through so many hardships. And when I had to be let go, she did just that. I am sorry that she is no longer with us, but she’s transcended anything we could believe. Her soul has floated away, happy and loved by you. Wouldn’t it make her sad to see you as such?” He gripped his necklace for Dibella. “But don’t think she’s left you, entirely. Have you watched the sunset?”

The girl shook her head.

“If you’re thinking of a loved one, sometimes it winks at you.” He nodded. “I’ve known many that have died, and I can see them in the miracle of nature. Watch the sunrise, sunset, the falling of snow, the curl of tides, or anything that is given to you. Maybe it is an odd turn of silk. You will find your mother’s face there. She knows your struggle. She knows you miss her. But she doesn’t want you to be sad. My child, her existence is honored by you finding her in your work. And in your joy.”

The woman looked over the orc for a moment before scurrying into a house. Dael didn’t know if what he said had resonated or not. Yet, he stood there with a map. “Ah, Sanguine’s shit, I was supposed to ask her for directions.”

Inevitably, he made himself towards the warehouse and into a line. The orc slid through it easily enough until he was greeted by a khajiit that was quite deflated from their occupation. The orc paused. “I’m in the wrong place,” he said. “I was invited into the mercenary’s group, and I thought this was the communal meeting ground. No, this is medical attention.” The orc stood awkwardly in the man’s presence. He looked the other over. There was a fatigue there, whether from repetition or sadness, it was hard to tell. The orc sighed.

“I am joining the boat heading away from Solitude.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe to make this not so idiotic, you can just check me for the regular problems.” The orc cleared his throat. “I am Dael gro’Gone. It is a pleasure to meet you! I have been around many khajiit, you put my storytelling to shame. You’re amazing speakers and personage.”


Do’Karth listened to the Orsimer with a polite smile, thankful from the reprieve of medical fixes he’d been assigned to. More surprisingly, however, was how polite and complimentary this one was towards the Khajiit; it was rare to meet someone without built-in prejudice. He offered a bow of the head. “This one has the pleasure of being Do’Karth, and he is at your service. He can see how one might have mistaken this for the recruitment line, the warehouse isn’t exactly labeled for this sort of thing. This one is not sure if he is a fine speaker or a storyteller, but he thanks you all the same.” he gestured to a stool for Dael to take a seat. “You’ve at least found the company, we are setting sail soon. Just stick with the crowd and you should be able to find your way. Is there anything Do’Karth can assist you with?” he asked politely, dipping his hands into a sanitary basin that had a strong scent of alcohol.

“Do’Karth,” Dael said. “Such a strong khajiit name. It’s my pleasure to meet you.” The orc gave a smile, going to clasp the other’s hand in his own, but then remembering that people didn’t really like that. The pilgrims enjoyed being touched and they loved touching. People outside of it were unsure of contact in any form.

“Yes, sorry, I kept asking about a warehouse, and I was directed towards this one. That’s my fault. I’m not quite knowing of Solitude. I’ve been traveling quite a bit, and I am not the best with tight-knit directions. Point me towards a mountain, I’m fine. Tell me to take three lefts at various shrines and merchant shops, well you have a lost orc.”

He smirked, sitting down and glancing over the khajiit as he sterilized his hands. Right. They were going to make this visit not in vain. “Very well, I have a bad hitch in my left knee. My running is already at a loss.” He patted his soft belly which hung forward and rested on his thighs. “But this is quite the new problem.”

“Or is this not a thing that you look after? Honestly, I have never been a mercenary before. I’m just a pilgrim. My faith is my only map. It’s not the greatest of maps—really. I will admit. But it sounds better when you commit your failures to faith.”

“Fret not, Do’Karth is no to Solitude and he has not been in Skyrim for long. Just long enough to feel like the war was waiting for his arrival before starting. It has taken some of the joy out of new discoveries, no?” the Khajiit replied, sitting down opposite of the Orc, eyeing the much large man with friendly curiosity. “Oh, this one looks after all manner of minor wounds and injuries, he is one of the few who knows non-magical healing, a necessity Do’Karth learned on the road. He has some experience with alchemy, mostly for minor healing potions and pain relief, things with disinfecting properties. Would you like Do’Karth to take a look at the injury? He is sure he could help.”

With consent given and the area cleared, seeing it wasn’t a rash, scrape, or cut, he headed up to the workbench and began to soak a clean bandage in alcohol and mentally recalled what he needed to ease tense muscles. As he worked, he spoke,

“This one was not a mercenary before this, either. Do’Karth was, and is, a nomad. He wandered, much like you, just without any clear purpose, just a sense of wonder.” he said graciously, kneeling before Dael to sanitize the knee. “Faith is a wondrous thing, it has been the compass that has kept Do’Karth on a sensible path through life, and usually when he asks for guidance, the gods listen. Mistakes are how we grow and learn through life, it’s just regrettable that oftentimes, mistakes can be rather costly and painful. Just do not let yourself become consumed with regret for what you did or didn’t do; you just need to find your footing and continue forward with a clear resolve. That said… Do’Karth has his share of doubts and mistakes that linger from his past. It can be difficult to reconcile what you know what must be done and actually doing it.”

“I’ve also not been in Skyrim for quite some time. Grew up here, and I left. When I returned, well let’s just say everyone’s brows are knitted a bit tighter than I remember.” He smiled at the khajiit. “Of course, let’s make all that waiting in line and testing of your patience worth it. I study a bit of medicine, myself. Just things I picked up from pilgrims and gypsies. Most of it isn’t curative, though.” Dael didn’t go into detail. There was no point in telling a complete stranger about if you get a certain mixture of flowers, distill them in some liquor, and the ingest them—you have a powerful aphrodisiac. Then again, it might be because liquor makes everyone content with appearance and open to love.

Dael was far more interested in Do’Karth’s story than what he was doing. He trusted the khajiit to know his practice. The mercenary outfit seemed smart and efficient. There was no doubt that they appointed one of their best healers to this task.

“We have quite a bit in common, Do’Karth.” He brought his hand forward. There was a moment of hesitation, where he considered resting it on the other’s shoulder. But the orc had to remind himself that he was not around a company that wouldn’t mind a bit of physical interaction. Maybe later, he mused. “I learned from a young age, that the bad things and the mistakes you make wear you down. But not in the way that would decimate you, but more so like the wind over stone. It shapes it into what it was always meant to be. Like you said, it’s easy to know what to do enhance the sculpture of your existence but enacting on it is an entirely different matter.” He nodded.

“I am glad to find another one of faith. It’s so hard to come by nowadays, especially with certain factions waging war against it. No mortal has the right to say what gods exist and which ones don’t. Worship a potato if you will. And know that when the potato gods rise up from the ground, you’re going to be the only one that lives.” Dael chuckled, finding his joke amusing. He’d actually heard tale of a man who was assured that vegetables were becoming as surly as wild animals—not wanting to be eaten. “Tell me, where did your travels lead you? And do you have a place… or a person… you call home?”

“Faith simply is a part of one’s soul; some do not listen with their hearts, and it is their choice. Do’Karth will ask S’rendarr and Mara to watch over them all the same.” The Khajiit affirmed, finishing with the alcohol wiping and heading to the mortar and pestle he had surrounded with bowls filled with a number of ingredients. A number of powders and flowers were tossed into the pestle with nimble, absent-minded fingers and were soon being mulched into a salve. “This one was once from Anequina, but it is not time for him to return. He has found someone that his soul has become intertwined with, and where she goes, Do’Karth will go. She is his rock.” The Khajiit said, smiling in recollection, imagining Sevine’s face in the afternoon light when they had confessed their feeling in Dawnstar. “But before Do’Karth came to Skyrim, he had mostly wandered Cyrodiil and Hammerfell, he likes it where it is warm, and when you go from village to village, offering your services in exchange for food and a place to lay one’s head, you hear whispers for where to go next. He cannot imagine staying in one place for long, the world is simply too big to wonder about.”

With the salve ready and with a clean rag, Do’Karth returned to kneeling before the Orc and rubbing in the vaguely sage-scented concoction against the bent knee. It would tingle and numb, but it would make the pain ebb away as it worked its way into the tissue. “And what of Dael? What brought him all the way to Solitude?” Do’Karth asked.

“Ah Stendarr and Mara,” Dael said, nodding. “I’m a follower of Dibella, myself. But I love all the divines. I even have their symbols on my person. One can’t just be a singular part of the whole part.” He eyed his knee as the other went to make a poultice. Honestly, it was probably fine. But he’d waited in the line and now he was having quite the conversation with the khajiit. It would be rude just to dismiss the other’s effort and stories. Not to mention, he loved stories.

As the khajiit mentioned that he had someone to tether him and become his home, Dael clutched his amulet of Dibella. “That is beautiful,” he said. “We all need someone to anchor our boats in the storm. I am glad that you have found someone like that. I believe people are more a home than an actual building, which makes why I am doing this… quite silly.”

The orc nodded. “I traveled all over Cyrodiil, as well. I understand. The changing of stars is a beautiful thing. Seeing the sunrise from different locations in a pure exhale of joy. Yet, it’s also very isolated.” He sighed. Honestly, he wished home and travel was more inclusive. Yet, they weren’t. He loved the tower of mountains, and he also loved the soft song of the sea. A house couldn’t give him both. Yet, it could give him an anchor. By Dibella, he needed one.

Dael felt his knee go numb, and a soft scent waft against his nose. He looked down as the khajiit rubbed ointment on his hurt knee. “Thank you, I feel renewed already.” He smiled, but it faded at the other’s question. “Just the welcome arms of septims. I wish to build a house. I want to settle down—with a spouse.” He didn’t label gender because he didn’t think it was important. He’d been with an Imperial woman that teased him perfectly, and a Redguard male who had so much to offer beyond how his lips move over words. “The world is so chaotic, that this was the best avenue for funds. I want to raise livestock, however complicated that is. And get fat and happy far away from all the war.” He snorted, patting his belly. “Well, more fat but very happy. What about yourself?”

Do’Karth chuckled, although there was a tinge of melancholy to his voice. “If you wished to be away from war, you’ve come to the wrong place. The North is not a safe place for anyone, but Do’Karth does suppose there is some money to be had in this line of work. It was never his motivation, truth be told. It just seemed to be the safest way to travel in these lands where Khajiit are all looked at to be thieves and skooma dealers. Some temporary employment, even if it means being forced to fight another’s war for them, seemed to be the most prudent choice Do’Karth could have made. He wanted to see dragons, instead, he found Snow Demons and far, far too much death.” he said sadly, finishing up his task and taking a seat with a sigh.

“Pardon this one’s manners, he did not mean to put a dark cloud over his words. There has just been a lot of trials the past few weeks he is unsure of how to manage in his heart. You mentioned wishing to build a home? What a lofty and wondrous goal. This one supposes it helps secure one’s future, but he worries that he would not like where he set his roots, if at all. If there is a perfect land, he has not found it. Do’Karth had thought the deserts and badlands of Anequina were home, but he has found purpose and love in this cold, harsh land. What is he to make of that? Physical comfort but spiritually devoid, or physical suffering but spiritual contentment? Surely there’s equilibrium somewhere, but where?” he asked rhetorically, blinking slowly. “Do’Karth sincerely hopes your road here leads you to the future you seek. Everyone deserves fulfillment.”

“I would hate to leave my beloved Skyrim again, but I might. I saw many places in Cyrodiil worth the breeze and the cool water.” Dael nodded as the other spoke, his amber eyes lowering and glancing at the other’s hands as they worked. There was a sadness to the khajiit that spoke of old bones in a body far younger. The orc figured there’d always be that ghostly rattle to Do’Karth’s voice even when he was trying to be lighter. It was sad. Dael’s life had been marked with so much joy. He always felt like he’d taken it away from other people. “I do understand those stereotypes,” he said, leaning back. “I didn’t grow up in a stronghold. I don’t have the grit and the aggression of those that share my blood. Though, people think me far less studied than I am. Which can be at my advantage.” He sighed. “We are far more complicated than people see us. Though, Nords truly love their Talos. I feel that isn’t even a stereotype.”

The Khajiit smiled. “Most stereotypes, this one feels, are rooted in some manner of truth. There is always some grain of culture that stands out to outside eyes, and the imagines they conjure are always based on not comprehending why some people are who they are. Many Khajiit become thieves or are perceived to be thieves because in our society, personal property isn’t quite the same concept as it is for other people. If something is unattended, it is unwanted or needed. It’s almost expected that someone make use of it. An unlocked door means that one’s company is welcome, and if one needs a roof over their heads, then they are expected to stay. For Orcs, it seems your people have had to fight for your right to exist since the dawn of time; Orcs do not have a province of their own, and each time Orsinium has risen, it has fallen all the same. With nowhere to call home, and the distrust of others who see themselves as more fair and beautiful, how could one expect Orcs not to rely on their strength and isolation to flourish on their own terms? The Nords came from the Northern seas and found treachery at the hands of elves. The god who rose from their ranks is very much a symbol of what they are as a people and what they have endured, so one could understand why many in Skyrim chose to rise up for Talos when foreign elves try to tell them not to worship their man-god. One only needs to listen at a drunken fire or tavern to hear the true soul of the Nords. There is so much misunderstanding in this world, yet so much beauty if one keeps an open ear and mind.”

“That’s beautiful, Do’Karth,” he said. As the other sat, Dael straightened up. He inspected his knee, lifted his leg, and flexed his foot. The orc nodded. “Do you believe those things to be mutually exclusive, Do’Karth?” He leaned forward, finally placing his hand on the khajiit’s shoulder. “I think contentment of the soul should come first. Even if you don’t care for all the snow and dragons, there’s always a warm hearth and a one to love that can be your Anequina.” He smiled. “Even in the plains of Cyrodiil, I was at Markarth. Even among pilgrims, I was with my mother, Yashta. I think contentment of the soul means that you can be here, physically, but everywhere spiritually.” He gave the other’s shoulder a slight squeeze. “But that’s me assuming I know your journey. I do not, but I would love to hear about it sometime.”

He nodded as the other spoke of fulfillment. “My friend, we all do. You included. Maybe you most of all.” He slid from his seat. “I do hope we end up working alongside each other. I would like to learn more about medicine, and I would like to know more about you.”

Do’Karth wasn’t sure what to make of the sudden contact, it was alarmingly personal for a stranger to do, but Do’Karth felt that that was simply how Dael showed affection and solidarity. He made no effort to discourage the Orc’s gesture. “No, they do not have to be, but contentment of the body and soul requires specific circumstances for each person. Do’Karth believes that one will know their balance when they find it, but it is a journey that not everyone will complete. This one believes that the only way to find this completion is to find the balance in your body and soul; to be here, and now, and not yearning for lands far away or things that had been lost. Do’Karth may never return to Anequina, but as his people say, ‘may your roads lead you to warm sands’. He will find his, some day. But for now, he is certain we will have plenty of opportunities to work together in arms, and he looks forwards to our next encounter.” the Khajiit bowed his head respectfully. “This one always appreciates words of wisdom when he hears them.”

“Ah, but you are a fount of wisdom yourself, Do’Karth.” He nodded his head at the other’s bow. Bowing was not really a gesture he’d learned, and so he didn’t want to mock it. Yet, he also wanted to honor it. He slid off the chair he was seated at and landed with his knee feeling quite workable. “Hopefully our next meeting… and the one after that is filled with even more revelry. You are an amazing soul, my friend. I will make it my mission to see it flourish.” Dael patted the other on the back with strong swipes of his hand. “Thank you, again.” He made his way out the exit, with a moment of hesitation before he chuckled to himself and found the exit.

_{Featuring @Dervish and @Father Hank}

---

3rd of Last Seed, 4E 205
Solitude, Skyrim

He was alone.

Before him stood three friends, and he was alone. Before him stood three friends, yet he was alone. Before him stood a bottle of spiced wine, a skin of flin, -carrying some trace of her lips still, all the more valuable for it- and a satchel of moon sugar. Before him stood his salvation. His sole companions, his lifelong friends, beckoning him to share his burden, his suffering. Always the same, unchanging, even in the face of Oblivion. Before him stood his damnation. His weaknesses, his vices, his cowardice. Before him stood an escape, a path to set him free. Before him stood a pit that led to nothingness.

Before him stood three friends. Yet she wasn't there.

He could feel his blood pumping against the walls of his veins, as if trying to burst free for release. The inside of his head was aching outwards, just alike. His right eye was once more red, filled with blood that felt as if it'd leak out of his tear ducts; his shirt felt as if it were glued onto him, damp with sweat. The straps that held the artificial arm attached to his stump felt as if they were cutting into his shoulders and his armpit. He wanted to dunk himself in the cold waters of the sea, yet there he was, barely able to move, single atop a double sized bed.

He grabbed a glass from one of the drawers and put it next to the wine bottle.

"Gods be damned," he muttered to himself with a sigh.

---

Some hours earlier

The conversation with Narzul had gone quite well, in Sadri's opinion; he was right, as was often the case, and that only made him feel better as he walked through the town, his chest flared up with confidence and joy. He'd been a coward in Dawnstar, having been too afraid to talk to her; now, he figured, was the time to make amends and make the most of what little time they could have together. In his hand was a bottle of spiced wine, bought from the elderly woman near the town entrance, and back in the Winking Skeever was a room meant for the two of them only. While he hadn't thought of anything salacious, he hoped that they could just enjoy some alone time with each other.

With a gait heeding to the tempo of a tune that only made sense to Sadri, he walked down the stairs to the docks; that's where the Dawnstar party was stationed, he had been told. He had also been told that bad things had happened at Dawnstar while they were gone. He hoped that Solveig was fine, somewhat concerned with what could have happened to her with her hot-blooded and aggressive attitude, but this was no time for bad thoughts. For all he dared to care, right now, he was riding merrily along to his darling. A fine trot, with spurs that jingle jangle jingle.

Yet below by the docks, where their employer Gustav had converted a part of his warehouse to act as a clinic for his mercenaries, he found the place strangely lacking. Lacking in Solveig, lacking in that bitter beauty who deserved to be loved, and to be happy. He wandered around a little, going through where the wounded of Dawnstar were located; and while he saw some that he knew amongst those who were bedridden, such as that weird little Breton and that large Khajiit, Rhasha'dar, he did not see Solveig. While it was not unexpected that she would not be wounded, for she was quite adept with the shield, her absence nonetheless propped up some unpleasant alternatives in his mind.

Trying to hide the blooming worry inside himself, he kept on walking around with a slow pace and a pretend relaxedness, looking for someone that could lead him to wherever she had gone off to.

As if on cue, a feline voice asked from behind the Dunmer. “Sadri?” Do’Karth came up behind him, carrying a bucket of soiled rags that he’d changed on the wounded over the past several minutes. “Are you unwell?”

“Hm? No, no, I’m fine, catty man,” Sadri replied to the Khajiit in his usual manner. “Just came down here from town. Must’ve been some awful stuff you’ve bothered with here,” he mentioned absently, pointing at the bucket, before continuing. “You know where Solveig is, perchance? I haven’t stumbled onto her yet,” he asked, in actuality not really concerned at all with what Do’Karth had been up to until this point.

“It’s nothing serious, the restoration mages have dealt with the worst of it. Do’Karth is simply picking up the slack. One gets used to seeing what normally resides inside the body outside when you decide to heal people.” Do’Karth replied, setting the bucket down, “Perhaps you should come with this one, this is best discussed in private.”

Leading Sadri to his examination room, Do’Karth took a seat and gestured for Sadri to follow suit. From the look on the Khajiit’s face, Sadri likely gathered it wasn’t good news.

“Do’Karth has no idea where Solveig went. She disappeared shortly before the Tear began loading bodies, supplies, everything to make for Solitude. He has tried to look for her, and she never came to the clinic, and he never saw her while onboard… granted, this one wasn’t particularly looking. Even others this one has spoken to have not seen her; it is as if she vanished while everyone was distracted.” Do’Karth said, leaning against his wrists, knowing the words must have been cutting like daggers; he knew exactly how Sadri felt about Solveig. It wouldn’t be all that different of a sensation if Do’Karth found Sevine missing.

“Do’Karth is sorry. He has tried to find Solveig, and he fears she might have gone back for Jorwen.”

Sadri did not respond. For a moment, he was sitting in the makeshift clinic, facing Do'Karth; the next, he was sitting underneath a tree by the outskirts of Dawnstar, facing Solveig. He smiled faintly. Then the moment passed, and he was there in the examination room again, nothing had changed. Except that somehow, the room, and everything and everyone around him, was now hell. He looked at the torturous tiger demon standing in front of him with little wonder, and rose up from his seat of damnation. Despite its mundane looks it was quite adept at stabbing poisoned daggers into Sadri's back like a treacherous Shadowscale.

He walked out of the torture chamber, wrapped in an iron maiden made of his own flesh and blood, feeling strangely hollow. The insides of his eyeballs itched, and his teeth felt as if they were imploding. There was a faint sensation in his throat, as if he had been force-fed a sea urchin which kept him from breathing, but it did not hurt as much as the emptiness inside his belly. It was rather surprising, and all the more hurtful. Everything felt like a blur of pain and suffering. He'd loved, again, and again, his love was gone. His cheekbones ached, as if they could cave in any moment.

Before he knew it, he was back in that room in the Winking Skeever, naked save for his long underpants and the strapped sleeve that kept his arm in place, looking at the three objects of vice standing in front of him, his brain lurching and burning inside his skull like molten lava. An hour later, he was twitching and crying on the bed, his nostrils and mouth painted white with moon sugar, and spiced wine dripping from the side of his mouth like blood would drip from the mouth of a recently fed monster. A few hours later, with the combined efforts of spiced wine and moon sugar, he was eventually subdued, and sent sinking into the arms of Vaermina, as he giggled softly atop the pillow wettened by an obscene amount of tears, and quietly fell asleep.

---

Somefuckingtime Somefuckingwhen
Where the fuck am I anyway

He woke up to a knock on his door.

“Beleth? Beleth, is that you there? Beleth? Are you awake?”

Truth be told, he'd been awake. The sugar, the divine sweet that he had only consumed in distilled form so far, had offered him far different types of sensation upon getting ingested through the nose, through the mouth, and mixed with wine respectively, and with this divinity flowing through his veins, he had become awake. He had soared above the sky and the land and the realms, and the membrane between the realms, above the petty grievances of mortals such as he, above the petty sorrows of relativity. Here, there, for a time, it had not mattered; he'd perspired outside his skin, and his moisture had made sweet love to Kynareth in the clouds and rained down upon the mortal coil. His flesh had been consumed by Namira in ecstasy. His bones had been ground up and blown four ways into the winds of time by Akatosh. He had become part of something beyond Sadri.

Now, in the flesh, and all the more weak for it, he was asleep again. Asleep in the waking world, and mad with sanity. He felt the claws of his weak 'Self' pierced deep into his brain like nails, sizzling and injecting him, poisoning him with selfhood, time and space. As this weakness leaked back into his head, he felt himself become mortal, temporary, and deathly cold once more. Thrice-damned sensation tinged back into his limbs, and with it came a smothering feeling of sweat and dehydration. He tried to raise his voice as to shut up whoever it was that kept knocking on the door, but all that came out was a slur that quickly died down. Every knock echoed in his brain like the rumbling of thunder. Trying to pull himself up from the bed, he placed his numb feet on the floor and pushed himself up with his iron hand, and immediately fell on the ground with an audible thud.

“Beleth, what's going on?”

The young voice behind the door was yet insistent. He managed to gather enough spit and strength in his mouth to slur out something that made sense.

“I'm here, for fuck's sake! Shut the fuck up!”

The voice went quiet.

“...Thank you,” Sadri huffed out in relief. Crawling on the ground until he felt enough strength in his arms once more, he pushed himself up and propped his torso against the edge of the bed to get to a sitting position. With sensation, also came back information. Memory. He slowly began remembering what had driven him to this binge, and that began pooling in his stomach like black ichor. A wholly different sensation took over. Pain, but not of the aching, burning sort. Pain of loss, a coldness that could freeze even Dagon's realms over, gaping within his torso. He raised his head up, looking at the table.

“Sweet Sanguine.”

An empty bottle of spiced wine, its mouth glistening with sugar. Lines of sugar atop a broken mirror shard. A few other bottles, all empty. A still life of earthly delights, a fine representation of vices, and what they leave after the high. The skin of flin was nowhere in sight, save a dribble on the table's edge with the drink's distinctive orange color. Not even an echo of her lips would stay with her, it seemed. He took a deep breath, although it felt almost poisonous to breathe. He grabbed the mirror shard and licked the Moon Sugar off it, rubbing it into his gums with the tip of his tongue. It made his teeth ache, but it was also an immediate jolt that sparked some more energy into his limbs.

The door knocked again, softer this time.

“Um, Beleth? Look, it's just me, Dough-Boy. I-I didn't mean to be a bother, it's just that Edith asked me to gather a roll call. You were nowhere in sight the last day and, well, that's not a good thing. They expect everyone on the ship in a few hours, so there's that."

“...Isn't it the Fourth?”

“It's the Fifth. The Company will be heading off today.”

Sadri sighed.

“Right. Tell her I'll be down at the docks shortly.”

---

Noon, 5th of Last Seed, 4E205
The Kyne's Tear

The speed at which he had gotten himself ready had surprised even Sadri. He'd gotten clothed, bundled up the rest of his Moon Sugar into a tight packet, let Mora suck off some of the excess blood pooling in his eye, drank an obscene amount of water to hydrate himself, and bought a metallic bottle of vermouth in no more than forty minutes. Now, here he was, looking like a desiccated mummy forgotten on deck, but here he was nonetheless. There was a damn invasion going on and he'd been with the group through the thick of it, they had to cut him some slack. He wiped some cold sweat off his brow, rested his back against the chest that kept his belongings, and took a sip from his bottle of knock-me-down. Life was shit and she was gone. Yet there he was still.

“Great gods of nowhere, Sadri,” a concerned voice piped up to his left. Niernen approached him and sank down on her haunches next to him. “You look… well, you look like shit.” Her wide eyes and raised eyebrows spoke volumes of the worry she felt at the sight -- she had heard by now that Solveig had disappeared before the Company left Dawnstar, and this was the first time she’d seen Sadri since then. She resisted the urge to ask if he was okay. He obviously wasn’t. Instead, she just gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Sadri, having casually ignored Niernen until the point where she asked him what happened, turned his somewhat swollen and confused looking eyes to her face, his head leaning backwards a bit, and opened his mouth to reply, but at first all that got out was a slur as his tongue rolled around inside his mouth, as if searching for words behind his cheeks. “Well, uh, there ain't much to talk about, uh, is there?” He asked, with a sincerely confused tone. “I'd, I didn't just expect that to happen, you know, just, uh... Yeah. I wonder... Uh, I wonder.” His head suddenly fell forwards, slumped.

“Fucking Hell, Niernen,” he suddenly raised his head and opened his eyes in almost terrifying alertness, “Is there not a fucking chance for me to have something good stay in my life? I know we weren't all that close, Sol and I, but it uh, it felt as if we wanted to love each other, you know? Give it a chance. Maybe that's why I tried. Because, well, kindred spirits, that's what I felt. She's like me. She deserves better. Then I fucked it up.” He breathed out of his nose, and then breathed in as sharply as he could, in search of refreshment.

Her heart almost leapt out of her throat when Sadri suddenly snapped into focus and she had to had to catch herself before she fell backwards. After she’d recovered from the shock, Niernen’s face fell as Sadri blurted out his words. It was obvious when one looked at his face and the various bits and pieces that were missing elsewhere that Sadri’s life had been one of incredible hardship. She remembered her talk with Sadri, when they were on their way to Bleakrock Isle, during which she had encouraged him to tell Solveig how he felt. She’d been happy for him. He deserved happiness. Narzul had told her in a few choice words about the things Sadri had said to him two days ago. Niernen was smart enough to read between the lines of what Narzul was saying and realize that Sadri had been trying to help her brother come to his senses. Sadri’s heart was in the right place, she knew, which made it all the more gut-wrenching to see him reduced to this state now, once again alone. “Oh, Sadri,” she sighed and bit her lower lip. What could she do?

“You must not lose hope,” Niernen said, remembering something her mother had said to her once. She decided to sit down next to Sadri and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, comrades-in-arms. “This war is rotten. And I know what you’re going to say, you’ll correct me and say the world is rotten, and then I’d say that I understand you have good cause to argue that point. But it’s not all bad.” She paused and swallowed hard. “It's okay to… grieve, you know? Just don't lose yourself in it. Solveig would've kicked you in the head for that. I'm glad to see you're still here, with us.”

Sadri slumped back down. “Right, right,” he replied, somewhat irritated. “Easier said than done, innit,” he mumbled to himself as he took another swig from his large bottle of vermouth. “I'd rather if she were here to kick me in the fuckin’ head, y'know,” he continued in a confidant and hushed tone. “Amongst all those damned Snow Giants and all that other shit going on out there... I know I won't be seeing her again. I know.” He put the bottle down, resigned. “Suppose that's another reason to fuckin' kill 'em all.” He sighed. “Never shoulda come to Skyrim. Last I took on a contracted job here, I ended up amongst fuckin' cannibals somewhere near fuckin’ Atmora,” he continued, chuckling. “Wonder how long it'll last before we end up fightin' one another for a fuckin’ piece o’ corpsemeat.”

Niernen visibly shivered at the thought but latched onto the moment of humor, devoid of levity as it may have been. It was better than letting Sadri wallow in his misery. “I give it a month,” she whispered in an equally conspiratorial tone of voice and winked. “Who do you think we should eat first? I think the Altmer looks pretty tasty. What’s his name again? I thought he was gone too but I just saw him arguing with Duhumvud.”

Sadri didn't expect Niernen to turn his weapon of wallowing onto him and make it into an actual topic of black humor. Impressed with the girl, this time he chuckled not at himself but at the joke. “I expected you'd have better taste in men,” he replied, smirking at the innuendo. “His name's Keegan. I thought he was gone myself, but I guess he couldn't resist the charm of enjoying Dummyfoot's company.” He took a breath, and raised his brows in contemplation. It was hard not to think about Solveig. “As for the meat... You know, I hear Bosmer can actually be a delicacy. Maybe we should make friends with that priest while we have the chance? She looks like she'd be an easy chew,” he added, picking at one of his front teeth with his thumb nail. “Or maybe your brother,” he suddenly blurted out, with the impression of a crazed man on his face. “Would be an easy spitroast with that stick already up his ass.” He chuckled wildly.

Even if the joke was at her brother’s expense (or maybe because it was), it was reason for Niernen to laugh along with him. “Ha! True, but he would be hard to cook properly, being ash-kin and all that. But I’ve burned Dunmer to death before. It should be possible.” She grinned ear-to-ear and squeezed Sadri’s shoulder. It felt as good to see him laugh as it hurt to see him suffer. She had ignored some of the things he said, like that he’d “fucked up” something regarding Solveig, and decided to leave it that way. “What’s that you’re drinking?” she asked and pointed at the bottle in his hands.

“Vermouth,” he replied, suddenly sullen again with the laughter wearing off. “Light stuff. Don't think I should be touching anything heavy after the last couple of days.” His gaze went down, pointing at his belly. His head went down accordingly not long after. “You're a kind lass, Niernen. You can be a fuckin' sociopath, but you're nice. You still don't have to babysit my sorry ass,” he confided. “This sort of thing doesn't just... go away. Caring about it won't make it any better. It just, well... hurts. You've already got enough on your plate with your brother and, well, the fuckin' war. Don't worry yourself about it. I've gone through worse.” In truth, amongst the varieties of pain that Sadri had experienced, few hurt as much as the loss of a loved one. But still, by some wicked circumstance, he'd become accustomed to it, as with most of those other pains; that old familiar feeling.

“Still, I appreciate it. It's not like you're obliged to lift the spirits of everyone in this damn company,” he continued, offering the bottle to the mage. “Want some?”

Niernen thought about the offer for a second -- but only a second. “Gods, yes,” she said and took a long, grateful swig. She thought herself to be wise beyond her years, but Sadri’s words showed that he still had her beat in that regard. It was true that she couldn’t make everyone’s suffering go away with a moment of kindness and some shared laughter. Niernen sighed at the realization. “Life isn’t fair,” she mumbled and gave the bottle back to Sadri. “I’ll still worry about you, I can’t help that. But if you say that you’ll be alright, I believe you.” Her coppery eyes turned to look at him sideways, trying to discern his emotional state, but she also felt a little disturbed that he’d called her a sociopath. Was she slipping that far?

Sadri agreed to her passing remark with an enthusiastic nod; for all he knew, it was part of the condition of existence; that it would not be enjoyable, nor fair. Not even the afterlife he could trust. What little he'd read on the matter had some rather disturbing implications. “You can trust me on the matter, really,” he replied, smirking with disbelief, eyes laden with dejection.

“Besides, what else can you do about it than to believe?”

5th of Last Seed - 05:45
Solitude, Skyrim

"GET OUT! PLEASE!" came the harsh and cracking voice of the bar owner as he tried to make himself larger, a failed attempt of course as the Redguard woman had at least half a foot on him in height. He waved a broomstick at her, jabbing the sharp bristles into her ribs as she staggered towards the door. Shakily, she turned on her heel - almost collapsing with the movement. She turned to face him. From what she could make out, his expression was pained and exasperated. This was a man at the end of his rope.

She couldn’t quite make out if there was two or three of him stood before her. They seemed to be blurring together. She bit her lip in concentration as she tried to count the multiplying balding barmen in front of her. “Soommmeee straaange en-chaamen is at work here, my fren” she slurred, and for a moment the barman pulled back the broomstick, removing it from her being as he waited for whatever else she was about to babble out at him “I thing your twin brother has another twins and he has twins too…” she whispered (not very quietly) before giggling, and belching. It was that dangerous kind of belch which may or may not soon be followed by vomit.

The broomstick came up again and prodded once more - away from the suddenly volatile torso region, instead he started whipping at her legs with it. “Be gone fiend!” he slapped accidentally caught her bottom with a slap of the broom, which made her shriek and start up some coy laughter “had away with you!” as he managed to herd her out of the door at last.

The Redguard woman just laughed at him, in a shrill and unflattering drunken roar. It was at this point that two of the Solitude Guards had gotten involved. She had only come for a good time, not a night in jail - so their presence prompted her to make her tracks. She could hear the barman explaining to the guards “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life….”

She seemed to be walking with a slight limp, and under one foot could feel the sharp ground - but the other she could not. She looked down to see that she was only wearing one of her boots, and then she remembered and noticed that she was carrying the other boot in her hand. She laughed again and continued staggering away, watching the people of Solitude start their day as the sun started to rise.



5th of Last Seed - 12:30
Solitude, Skyrim

It was the smell that woke her. The smell of bread baking drifting along the light breeze almost on purpose to her nostrils. She took it in, and started to open her eyes. The first thing she noticed were the trees looking at her. Judging her. Did I fall asleep on forest floor? she thought over in her head, trying to make sense of her surroundings. It felt like she was lying on something soft, albeit itchy. She ran her hands through it. Hay. She had collapsed into a hay bale. Well, it was better than a body of water. Or up in a tree. Both legitimate places she had found herself the morning after the night before in the past…

She pulled herself up and recognised the shaking sensation throughout every limb, and the pain in the spot above her eyes. Oh how it hurt. She had landed in a hay bale, but had mistakenly picked a hay bale that was really in position for the bright light of the sun.

“I need water” she croaked, her throat hoarse and dry. It felt like she had spent the night screaming and attacking her vocal chords with complete overuse. She rolled herself off the hay bale, landing with a heavy thud on the hard ground. At least it had been grass. She needed to make sense of where she was so she could locate herself some water. She was incapable of getting herself to her feet, and chose to crawl across the grass in search of anything to drink.

Drink! Drink! Drink! was a chant she was hearing over and over in her head. She’d been here before. This was a memory that was bubbling up to the surface to remind her of just how much a fool she had made of herself. Something else was bubbling to the surface too… She had no choice other than to open her mouth and let it fall out. The contents of her stomach splashed onto the grass. A small pile of stomach acid. The smell. The smell was enough to make her want to wretch again. She crawled around it. Carrying on toward Solitude, she could see it now. Just off in the distance.

Before she made it too far, she seemed to feel that one foot was colder than the other, so she took a look. To see one foot comfortably in it’s boot - and the other was bare and now slightly dirty. She focussed back on the hay bale, and recognised the other boot propped up against it like one big fat joke. She sighed heavily and turned around to fetch it.

After a few minutes of desperate crawling in the direction of Solitude, she made out the sound of running water to her left. Flowing water! Off she crawled over to it, the thought of quenching her thirst gave her a slight second wind to make it over there. She dunked her head in, feeling the cool splash wake her up she took a mouthful of it. It was as refreshing as she had hoped, and it gave her the strength to pull herself up to her feet at last. It didn’t last long. She sat back down almost immediately after she had felt the entire scene before her spin. “Not ready just yet…”

She gazed down onto the surface of the water. Just able to make out her own reflection. Her hair piled atop her head, sprigs of hay poking out from in between her thick dreadlocks. She plucked at them to get them out, another intrusive thought entering her mind as she tried to just relax by the water, and pull herself together;

She could remember herself dancing on top of a table. No, not dancing, just jumping up and down on it. But why? There didn’t have to be a reason when alcohol had been involved.

She took another sip of the water, and began to cling to a rock in some vain attempt to stop everything spinning. This feeling, this illness, drinking too much and suffering the next day was less amusing now that she was on her own and not with her bandits, or with Bjogar. She had nobody else to laugh at. Now, she was the only joke here. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh again. Solitude was not the Falkreath Hold, and Ashna was no longer a bandit. She pictured in her mind the gaping crack in Lisia’s head, illuminated by moonlight, spraying her with blood. A violent thought to have burst into her head today. She vomited again.

Some time passed along, and still Ashna clung to the rock, hanging on by a thread. She had remembered some more. She had been chanting some nonsense, and had been joined by a seedy bunch of men who were also drunk - perhaps not as many sheets to the wind as she had been, but they had enjoyed her jumping up and down, telling the stories of Bjogar the fierce Nord sailor. That’s right, they were Nord men. At some point they had all raised their tankards to Bjogar. Maybe more than once. Maybe it had been a handful of times.

That was right, she had just been jovial… At the very top of her lungs. Which explained the hoarse throat. Didn’t explain the boot thing though. That hadn’t come to her just yet.

She was going to have to leave her spot soon. She had to make it to the harbour very soon to her new life. A spontaneous journey to take, to join a group of mercenaries - full of strangers, full of people other than Nords. She had seen Khajit and Dunmer there, even an Orc. All of the races she had seen before - never had she worked with them. She was apprehensive about it. She did worry about how any other Redguards would take to her. She wasn’t exactly a traditional one - save for the very, very Redguard appearance. It would only take her so far though. She hoped they would be nice about it.

Using every bit of determination in her body, she pulled herself up. The shakes taking over again, but it was time to move or she would be missing the boat - if she hadn’t already.


5th of Last Seed - 15:00
Solitude, Skyrim
The Kyne’s Tear

She had made it.

The trek down to the harbour had been interesting. She couldn’t walk straight, let along sprint straight. But she had made it. Now, she sat on the deck, legs dangling through the railings, her face resting against the wood, smushing her cheek. She couldn’t quite face everyone yet but she listened passively to what was happening around her. Promising that this would be the last time she got so utterly drunk. She had managed to piece together much of the previous night. It had been all merriment, singing, arm-wrestling, dancing, drinking, telling stories, drinking, cheering, drinking. What she liked about drinking was that people who wouldn't even share a glance in the street would become best friends after an ale or two. It brought people together! Sometimes it tore people apart, but if that happened it would just be another ale until a make up.

All the thought of drinking knocked her sick again, and she could hear somewhere on the boat that others were toasting, and drinking. Glass bottles clinking against each other. She groaned, praying it to stop before- too late, her stomach turned on her once more. It was quiet though, and she decided that nobody would have noticed that the hunched over, pathetic looking Redguard woman had just chucked over the boat and into the sea.

She looked down at her feet. Something was coming back, a memory about her foot. She could distinctly see herself tearing off her boot, and slamming her bare foot onto the table of the bar while a Nord man ran off to grab something sharp and ink.

Oh.

OH!

She had dared a Nord man to tattoo the bottom of her foot. That had been why she was kicked out of the inn. That was why he was so repulsed. Her size and volume level would make her intimidating too of course.

She had to find out if there was anything there, once again she found herself ripping off the leather boot, lifting her leg to look at the skin. She held herself in an elongated silence, and then for the first time all day, she let out a laugh, which set off an avalanche of raucous laughter from within.

She may have been the only joke now, but the joke was at least good.

---

Keegan decided that Ariane was right; all Nord men were indeed the same. Ariane said there were multiple Nords that that tried to get too close to her in taverns, and she had to cut off some of their arms with her bound sword. On the listening end, Keegan wasn't sure what's creepier, the fact that so many Nords had bothered Ariane, or how she casually cuts off their arms. What he was sure was that the Nords here on this ship, the shit eating bastard Dumhuvud, the rich snob Gustav and the whining brat Hargjorn were all petty, rude and flat out confrontational. Still, they were professionals, unlike the drunks at the Winking Skeever. It also helped that these Nords payed him (in theory); the Skeever customers rarely tipped him, even though they practically threw coins at Nord entertainers.

Being an Altmer born and bred on the Summerset Isles, Keegan was no stranger to strict rules. However, those rules of the Altmeri society derived from certain reasons, no matter how absurd the reason was, there was also one. This mercenary company, on the other hand, had no reason what so ever. He had experienced it first hand with Dumhuvud, having been the victim of random scoldings, and a savage beating, in the last month. Of course, one of the first person Keegan met returning was none other than the Cat-Kicker himself.

Was it too much to expect an apology? Maybe something along the lines of "sorry I took your letter" or "I shouldn't have given you a concussion by kicking your head with a steel-toed boot". No, he was welcomed back with the suspicion of being a spy. Really? Him, the awkward juggler of this company, a spy? It was so absurd that Keegan actually laughed in front of the Cat-Kicker's face. Dumhuvud didn't find it funny, and if it wasn't for Ashav's timely intervention, he would have lopped off Keegan's head with his axe.

That wasn't the end of Dumhuvud on the 5^th, oh no, he was just getting started. Gustav asked him to check on his laundry, and as the Cat-Kicker soon found out, said laundry was not getting any cleaner, it was getting dirtier. He glanced between a tired Dough-Boy, who had been exhausted to the bone running errands, hauling crates and now vigorously scraping vomit in front of a seasick Khajiit. Dumhuvud was no genius, but it didn't take a genius to put the pieces together.

"What the fuck is wrong with this ass licking cat?!" He yelled at Dough-Boy and Dar'Jzo. Before either had a chance to reply, he was already shoving Dough-Boy out of the room.

Coming back a second later, he found Dar'Jzo still as dizzy, and useless, as before. "So you want to be a lazy prick, huh?" Dumhuvud hissed. Out of nowhere, he punched the old Khajiit square in the jaw, knocking him over. Then grabbing Dar'Jzo by the back of his head, the Cat-Kicker smashed the Khajiit's face straight into a bulkhead, and down into the floor next. As he fumed with rage, Dumhuvud dragged Dar'Jzo over the soiled laundry basket and threw his bloody face straight down onto it. Like everyone else, Dar'Jzo instinctively reared up for breath, but Dumhuvud stopped him by stepping on his head, forcing the Khajiit down and giving him a face paint of blood and puke.

"I hope you're finding motivation now." Dumhuvud sneered. "By the way, welcome to the company."

---

Keegan had seen it go down. It was bad. He almost felt sorry for the new Khajiit. However, his own seasickness was sorry enough for him to deal with. Unlike the Winterhold rescue journey, Keegan managed to hold in his food for at least six hours. He did eventually puke on the night of 5^th, and then two more times the following morning. Thankfully, he did not have to do any work. For some reason, the leadership flagged him as an infantry this time around. It made no sense, as other "infantry" were strong, thick and armed to the teeth. Keegan knew he wouldn't last long on the frontlines with his dwemer staff and his barely protective clothing. He dreaded the thought of actually fighting enemies such as the Kamal, and it almost prompted him to ask Ashav to change his rating. What kept him was the fact that the combatants of the company had no labor expected of them on the ship, so Keegan supposed he would enjoy the quiet and switch roles when they near a battle.

A day since they departed, on the noon of the 6^th, Keegan was finally getting used to the sea. His stomach settled, his nausea lightened, and he could finally catch up on the sleep he should have gotten last night. So he slept through the second half of the 6^th in a beat up sleeping bag, in a secluded corner of the common quarters.

On the early morning of the 7^th, a great quake woke Keegan.

---

The days were long and nights were short in the northern summer. Combined with the calm weather on the 5^th and most of the 6^th, the Kyne's Tear was able to sail fast and continuously. The sun shone bright for eighteen hours in each of the first two days, accompanied by a steady breeze westwards. It was the ideal sailing condition, that was, until clouds rolled in late on the 6^th. By the time Magnus had set at midnight, the entirely sky was overcast. Wind picked up speed and changed direction to southeast. Soon, rain started to pour, waves rocked the ship back and forth more than anyone liked. Karena and Hargjorn, the captain and first mate, respectively, of the Kyne's Tear, decided to find a place to drop anchor for the night. The sailors and mercenary laborers had been taking shifts to ensure they moved west non-stop, and they wanted a break. However, there was no port towns between Solitude and Jehanna. The closest harbor was a secluded cove used by smugglers. Karena announced her intention and her familiarity with the cove, which was quickly followed by Hargjorn accusing her pirating pasts (and going on his typical tirade of how Kyne's Tear once belonged to him). Ariane found it amusing (and hypocritical) that her "assistant" was none other than a proud pirate. She left the senior commanders to argue among themselves and returned to her own cabin.

Ariane hasn't had the chance to speak to her assistant much; she only asked Maj to sort her notes and soul gems. Some saw her as cold and distant, but in reality, she was just busy. She didn't expect the brutes to understand any of the magical weather theory, or how there seems to a grain of truth to sailor's tales of the "Golden Slug" (aerial travel and the manipulation of sea creatures are more plausible than one may think). Ariane did try to strike up conversations during dinner in the officer's dining room. That didn't work, because only Gustav stayed and chatted. Being a businessman, Gustav mostly talked in ledgers and transactions. That didn't mean he was an average man, no, it was him that soothed the crew of the Steelhead when they complained about mercenaries hijacking their ship. Not only did Gustav talked the Steelhead into forgiveness, he somehow also obtained one of their two ballistas at a bargain price. Ashav, Edith and Dumhuvud, on the other hand, were busy doing whatever they had to do. The newly promoted lead scout, Sevine, whom Edith spoke highly of, preferred to spend time with the company medic.

When nautical twilight of the 7^th came, Ariane had spent all of her short night attempting to perform research. The sea didn't let her; it rocked the ship with increasing force. The storm, thunder and waves were especially violent in the last hour, that led to her putting her work on hold for the night. Ariane went to check in with Ashav before going sleep. As she spared a quick glance outside of her cabin porthole, and saw the narrow entrance of the smuggler's cove on both sides of Kyne's Tear. The cove was protected by tall, jagged and mossy cliffs of ten storeys high; they hang apart like a gaping maw. The lagoon inside contained dark water, above which blanketed mist so thick that the navigators could barely see several meters ahead. It was a claustrophobic setting, but a welcomed reprieve for those tortured by the angry sea. Ariane was fortunate to not get seasick, and could sleep rather well in the comfort of a private cabin. In fact, Ashav objected to her sleeping too much. She sighed; she'll have to let him how vital sleep is to the regeneration of magicka.

As she emerged onto the deck, Ariane felt mist vapor clung to her robes and the pungent smell of sea creatures assaulting her nostril. Lamps were lit to help with steering, but even then, the Kyne's Tear barely avoided several jagged rock formations. Leif was up at the crow's nest, trying his hardest to spot danger in the fog. Hargjorn steered the ship, with Karena right beside him. Both of them were tense, yet they still managed to argue like an old couple. Gustav stood right underneath the bridge, fully decked out in steel plate armor that appeared way too shiny to be practical. He was worried, but he smartly got out of the sailors' way and let them do their things.

A tall wave suddenly splashed onto the deck, nearing Ariane. She raised her arm and repelled the salty water with telekinesis. Kyne's Tear keeled to the side, and as Ariane grabbed onto the side railing to steady herself, she could swear she saw a giant red jellyfish, the size of a medium length crate, float by. She continued forward carefully, with one hand gripping tightly to the railing and another holding her hood over her head.

"Where is Ashav?!" Shouted Ariane, as she came near Gustav. Despite her shouting, what she said was drowned out by the water and wind. Gustav said something in response, which was equally lost to the ambience.

Ariane repeated herself, determined to find the company commander. "Where is-"

Thud.

Boom!

An explosion ripped through bow of Kyne's Tear, stopping the ship's forward momentum and tipping it starboard, the opposite of where the explosion occurred. Both Gustav and Ariane were knocked onto their back. Panicked screams reverberated throughout the ship. Thankfully, someone reported that the damage was moderate. The Kyne's Tear was reinforced up front with steel plating, designed to break ice during winter months and ram vessels of hostile intents.

"It's the jellyfish!" A sailor came running towards the bridge. "We smashed into it and it blew up!"

"Wait, how?" Gustav puzzled. He attempted to stand up, but was put back down by his heavy armor and the slippery deck.

Ariane got to her feet without too much struggle. Once she was on her feet, she cast a feather spell on Gustav to make his weight less bearing. They both scrambled toward the staircase leading up to the quarterdeck; questions abound in their heads and concerns clear on their faces. Meanwhile, Edith had emerged from her quarters, Dumhuvud roused sleeping mercenaries below deck and some were wondering where Lead Scout Sevine was.

"Keep going!" Ariane could hear Karena shouting.

Hargjorn immediately shot back. "You're kidding me, stu-"

Then the calamity was abruptly interrupted with a piercing beam of light from above. A deep mechanical whirl echoed off the walls of the cove. To those that had experienced Bthamz, it was just like the dwarven steam engines. All of a sudden, it was as if the waves and wind themselves stopped in anticipation. Sailors and mercenaries froze in their tracks and gazed further in and above, where the strange presence drew ominously closer. Hargjorn furiously wrestle the wheel (and cursed), but his beloved ship was slow to respond in the aftermath of the explosion. Besides him, Karena silently gazed upwards with a spyglass.

"Tsun's balls..." She lowered the spyglass, disbelief overwhelming her.

"What's happening?" Gustav asked with fear in his voice. He and Ariane were now on the quarterdeck. They could see better here then below, and as they turned to where Karena was pointing, something colossal flying out of the mist blocked the faint moonlight that barely gave way to their sights.

It was a giant balloon, with an equally sizable gondola attached underneath through cables, ropes and beams. On the nose of the gondola was the search light that initially shone at Kyne's Tear. A pair of back swept wings of wooden framing and canvas skin were located on the rear of gondola, faintly moving with the wind. Several dwarven pipes emitted steam exhaust from the back. The gondola itself appeared wooden. It was clad in metal, not in dwarven brass, but in what seemed to be plates of pure gold. It initially flew above the cliffs, but as it loomed near Kyne's Tear, the object descended so that it fit neatly in the cove.

The exploding jellyfish, the airship, it all made sense to Ariane now. They were all signs of the golden slug, and if recent tales were to be believed, what came next could only be...

Chains. Four great golden chains shot out from circular openings on the airship. They smashed into Kyne's Tear, clawed tips burying themselves deep within the sailing ship's timber. All of Hargjorn's maneuvering became weak once the chains settled. Kyne's Tear was no longer leaving, instead, it was being dragged further into the cove.

"You hold the wheel, pirate scum. I'm going to untangle us!" Hargjorn spat. He unsheathed his falchion and marched down the steps. Sailors were already at work removing the chains, though their efforts were severely hindered by the weight and sturdy build of the chains. As Hargjorn tugged on one claw of solid gold, a chittering sound above became increasingly louder, coercing him to stop in order to pay attention. Then the source of the chitter nearly knocked him flat on his ass; a chitinous claw smashed down alongside the golden chain, narrowly missing his head.

Four-legged beasts with sharp teeth, claws discharging lightning and glistening chitin shells dropped down onto the deck of Kyne's Tear without regard of height. Their plated skulls almost uncannily humanoid and emotionless. Hargjorn recognized them as land dreughs, except these particular ones seemed to be outfitted with golden prosthetics. As members of the crew prepared to face against the half-crustacean and half-insect monsters, a shrill, sickly howl came from above and led both parties to pause in fear.

A werewolf leaped down from the airship, piercing the mast and sliding down from it with one clawed hand,. It landed on all fours atop an unlucky crew member, crushing the lad's chest in the process. The beast was rotten and waterlogged, made into an undead thrall, with its claws replaced by blades of gold, and its snout linked to its ears via golden chains, almost in a macabre allusion to Elsweyri belly dancers and Minotaurs of the Alessian Empire. Veterans of Windhelm would recognize it as the werewolf form of Relmyna Vibato, somehow acquired and made into a personal plaything by whatever it was that mastered the airship above.

After a moment of both parties gauging one another in reservation, the werewolf jumped into the Tear's crew with an ear-piercing roar, leading the dreughs to charge in in its wake, and painting the entirety of the top deck into a scene of gory combat.

"The lupus mortuis is punctiliously synchronized to a negatively effervescent nexus above." Ariane suggested to Gustav amid the chaos. "We should sever this link."

"I agree." Gustav waved her off. While he was a well-read man, Gustav had no idea what she just said. "You go do that; I'll get Ashav."

While Ariane marched to find her assistant, she also thought about the exploding jellyfish from earlier. There were a few floating not far from the ship; they could catch these with sticks and nets. As long as the jellyfishes weren't pierced, they should not explode. Then it would only take delivery specialists to transport their improvised explosives up to the airship to destroy it. It would be just like the strike against the Kamal frigate, and she could even use the same personnel; Sagax and Roze. Ariane only wished they still had the much more stable arcane charges. Oh well, not everything goes perfectly.

---

Ashav left the door to his quarter half ajar, the meager light of a dying candle glowed within. Upon entering, Gustav found the Redguard laying in front of his bed, with his legs propped up on the bed itself. A bottle of Blackbriar mead, one that looked suspiciously like it was out of Gustav's locked containers, nested in his hand. The room smelled foul, but the most foul matter was the sorry state Ashav resided in. Gustav was more than a little irritated to see Ashav absolutely not combat ready. Hell, the man was in his underwears; his pants had a large brown stain on it. To be fair, Ashav had the right to be whatever he wanted at this hour, as he was usually sober by noon. However, as Gustav sat Ashav up against the base of his bed, he had to snatch that bottle away for the commander's own sake. Alcoholism destroyed lives.

"Fuck off, mate." Ashav pulled the bottle tight in defense.

"Cut it out," Gustav went after the mead again, "we're under attack!"

"But I've almost achieved CHIM..." The Redguard commander whined.

"You're not Talos. Get yourself together."

Gustav grabbed the bottle forcefully, but Ashav ripped it the away and swung it at Gustav face. The Nord jumped back.

"You keep saying how out of touch I am, and here you are, drinking yourself dead in our hour of need." Gustav slammed his armored fist into the bed table. "Why don't you actually do something?!"

Ashav's reply was throwing the bottle. It was too sudden for Gustav to dodge it. Glass shattered against his chest plate, and if weren't for his reinforced collar, some shards would have buried into his neck.

"Fine, so this is how you want to do things." Gustav huffed and nodded angrily. He took a breath of the toxic air in this horrid room and thought back to what his prophet had always told him; those who see misfortune in situations will lose from them, while those that see opportunities from them will benefit. It was hard right now to see anything but misfortune from Ashav, but Gustav had to act; somebody needed to be out there directing the battle.

"I'll do it myself, and you're fired."

---

The deck was pure chaos when Gustav marched back outside. Men, elves and beasts battled dreughs and the reanimated werewolf. Although the dreughs were dangerous, the mercenaries and sailors handled them reasonably well. Undead Relmyna, on the other hand, was a problem no one had figured out. Armed with razor sharp golden claws, it had already killed two and was well on its way to increasing the tally. Werewolves were already freakishly strong and fast, and undeath only made this one stronger and faster. Killing it was near impossible, though Ariane suggested that a necromancer on the airship was enhancing the werewolf. If they go up there and kill the necromancer, the werewolf should be weakened, if not dying altogether.

Hargjorn had already settled on climbing the chains before Ariane did. He couldn't detach the chains, the dreughs kept dropping down and they were slowly being pulled to gods know where. He tried the ballista; it couldn't be angled to shoot up that high, and using it to shoot the chains may damage his precious ship by accident. Up was the only way to go. He was used to defending the Tear in boardings, and this was only a matter of translating horizontal tactics to vertical ones.

"Let's take the fight to them!" Hargjorn rallied those around him with a coarse roar. He would rather die than see this ship taken by whatever monster laid above. "Climb up the chains. We must ascend from darkness!"

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Tsleeixth made his way to the deck of the Kyne’s Tear, after his conversations with Sagax, Keegan, and Wy the Saxhleel had found it difficult for sleep to come to him. And, as such, he now found himself on the deck of the ship that carried them to Jehanna, the chill breeze of the early night buffeting against his skin. He breathed in the cold wind, a sense of nostalgia suddenly overcoming him; for the first time in nearly three decades he’d be leaving Skyrim behind. A sense of excitement and anticipation surged through him and, surprisingly enough, he also felt a poignant sadness within himself as well. Despite all that had occured in Dawnstar, there was still a part of him that clung to the idea of Skyrim as his homeland, despite the fact that what had happened in Dawnstar proved that such an idea was nothing more than a fantasy that’d never come true.

Shaking his head, the Argonian made his way through the mostly empty deck. He gave a brief nod in acknowledgment to the crewmembers that he passed by, but what he was mostly looking for was a quiet, undisturbed, place where he could think, that is until he saw another figure, one much more familiar, in the deck. “Dax.” He thought, guilt surging inside of him shortly after he had recognised his fellow Saxhleel. They both had been imprisoned concurrently and yet he hadn’t made an attempt to talk with his fellow Argonian, then he had been sent with the other group of the company and in the ensuing chaos that came with their hasty voyage to Solitude, further complicated by the fact that they had travelled in separate groups, meant that he hadn’t had time to speak with Daixanos in a long time. Deciding to remedy that, Tsleeixth approached his fellow Saxhleel and gently tapped him on the shoulder “Also looking for a secluded spot to think brother?” He asked softly, wondering what had brought Dax here.

Daixanos had heard Tsleeixth approaching from a ways off, his hunter senses always upon the edge of a knife. Beforehand, however, he had been in quiet contemplation. He simply allowed the scent of the sea fill his nostrils as he brooded over the events that had transpired the past few months. Even after having bled and fought alongside the mercenary group, he felt much akin to an outcast. When he had joined, he had stayed merely to fight the Kamal. And when the news from Blackmarsh had circulated, he had still remained behind to protect the other Argonians from oppression and slavery. But as the ship traversed the waves of the deep, he wondered why he had decided to step upon the vessel and take the ship into the west. A part of him wished he had simply disappeared into the wilds of Skyrim as he had done for years, and traveled the old path back to Blackmarsh.

“I look for a secluded spot to be secluded,” Daixanos said, turning to look at Tslee. His small nod showed that he did not mind Tsleeixth’s company however. Merely newcomers or those who never truly had gotten to know him. He had made friends, to be sure. Do’Karth and Sevine, along with Ashav, Gustav, and even the ever complaining Keegan. But as it had turned out, Tslee was his closest friend, though his fellow hist brother was still unsure of the ways of their people. “I have thought far too much these past few hours. I would rather get there, to this home of the Bretons.”

“Ah, I see.” Said Tsleeixth, nodding in response to what Dax had told him. “From my question it should be obvious that I’m looking for a spot to think.” Spoke the spellsword before he sat next to his fellow saxhleel. He listened in silence as Daixanos spoke, “Is something the matter brother? You seem troubled, and if your comment is any indication you wish for a distraction from your thoughts.” He spoke, stretching his left leg as the pain in his knee began to manifest again. True to Wy’s words, the pain on his knee had lowered but it still remained present.

“As for me, truth be told, there is much that I need to think about. The last week...it has left ample themes for me to contemplate.” Tsleeixth said, wincing slightly as his mind briefly returned to the events in Dawnstar “But, enough about me, there’s something that’s bothering you. Maybe it’s not my place to ask, or to offer this, but I’m here if you wish to talk about this.” He offered to Dax, hoping to help his fellow Argonian deal with whatever was troubling him. He knew that he was no counselor, like Wylendrield or other chaplain might have been; he was merely a spellsword, but he still wished to help his fellow Hist-brother with whatever that was troubling him.

Daixanos sighed, a juttering sound escaping his gullet as he did so. So unlike the others in the group, or the Nords in Skyrim, a fact that had brought death and pain to the refugees in Dawnstar. “I lived alone with my thoughts for four years in the wilderness, and with the invasion I joined the group. Now I cannot trust my mind not to question why I am here...I feel I should be. My dreams tell me so, from what sleep I gather.” He let his comment end there, and he breathed in deeply. “I am perhaps not used to such closed in spaces as this. I will feel better in the land of the Bretons, I think.”

Dax turned to Tslee. “And you, brother. What do you contemplate?”

“Hmmm, I see. Maybe it’s the Hist telling you that you are on the right place? I’m no Pakseech, and my dreams as of late keep turning towards recent events, but perhaps you and I are meant to be here rather than in Blackmarsh with the rest of our brothers and sisters?” Offered Tsleeixth. Speaking as if he knew what the Hist intended left a bad taste in his mouth, he had no greater knowledge of Argonian culture but, as of late, he no longer had that dream of the Kamal army invading Blackmarsh. He doubted that it was a sign that the invasion of the nation of his birth had stopped, but maybe it was a sign that he, and Dax too perhaps, were in the right place?

“As for what I contemplate…” He said with a sigh, letting the silence stretch for a few seconds. “The events that happened in Dawnstar, my beating at the hands of the mob and the massacre of our brothers and sisters, have left me perturbed.” He admitted to Dax, “Before that day I...I considered Skyrim my homeland, it had been the place where I had grown most of my life after all, but now I know that was nothing more than a mere fantasy of my mind. I could never call Skyrim my homeland in truth, and yet…” He continued, falling silent once more as he gathered his errant thoughts.

“I...I feel lost.” He admitted finally, his shoulders sagging as if he had been defeated “Skyrim is no homeland of mine and, yet, I’m not sure if I can call Blackmarsh my home either….I’m a Lukiul, the deeper mysteries of our people elude me.” Tsleeixth explained himself, shaking his head. “I’m as a leaf gliding in the waters of a river, always in movement with no place to truly call my home. At least, that’s how I feel.”
Dax felt there was a certain irony with Tslee’s words. Daixanos felt no real divide between him and Skyrim as a whole, for he considered the very land itself as home, in a certain way. He had nothing against the Elk or the trees, or even the people of Rorikstead, whom he remembered fondly. However, he still felt as if Tsleeixth was more alike the landstriders than Dax could ever be, and in a foreign land that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“The Northern cities were the closest ones to the Kamal invasions. They’re scared...confused. We should not tolerate oppression or imprisonment, but the landstriders have always been confused and driven by their base desires. That is the gamble we take with spending time with them, even if many are admirable and can grow to be friends, like those here on the Kyne’s Tear.” Dax placed a strong hand on his friend’s shoulder, and he looked at him with driven eye. “I merely confuse myself with my place. But never forget that Blackmarsh is the home to all of our kind, not only through location. But our very blood and souls. It will always be your home, whether you have seen it or not. One day, perhaps we will both go there.”

“I suppose that is true, but...it was like seeing through a veil that had been cast over my vision. I’m not naive, I’ve always known there was a division between our people and the...the landstriders.” He began to speak, pausing for a second to collect his thoughts. It felt weird to refer to the other races as landstriders, he had never even considered them like that even though he had heard both his father and the other saxhleel workers in the Riften fishery use the term plenty of times, but yet part of him found it appropriate to use the term. “But I never expected the divide to be this deep, or for there to be such hatred waiting in the depths of said divide.”

He was surprised when he felt Dax place his hand on his shoulder, a smile drawing on his face. “Thank you brother.” He said once his friend was done speaking. He fell silent once more as he, again, gathered his thoughts, trying to explain how he felt to Dax. “I would like to go there with you, to Blackmarsh I mean, I think it’d do me good to see the homeland of our people...and yet, I can’t help but be unable to shake this...this fear that I’d be a stranger there.” He tried to explain himself to Dax, “As out of place as if an Imperial suddenly arrived there and decided to leave in the depths of Blackmarsh.” He said, slightly frustrated with himself. Why was it so difficult for himself to explain how he felt? “Do you understand what I’m trying to say brother?”

Dax nodded, driven as always. “I do.” he said, knowing Tsleeixth only needed encouragement. In truth Daixanos did understand. He would feel a small trepidation going back himself after having been gone near six years. “But we are not so different from the landstriders, when it comes to social cues.” Dax breathed in deeply. “We are all children of the Hist, no matter what. And that can never be undone. Never forget.”

Tsleeixth listened in silence as Daixanos spoke, nodding along when his fellow Hist-brother was done speaking. “Yes...I...I suppose that is true, thank you brother.” He said, his tone contemplative as he mulled over Dax’s words “Thank you Dax, you’ve given me a lot to think about...to contemplate about of my place in this world.” The spellsword said to his friend, smiling before he stood up. “I think I’ll take my leave now brother, but I once again thank you for your words.” Spoke Tsleeixth, bowing slightly to his friend. “But, for now, I think I’ll take my leave and try to get some rest. I do hope that you’ll feel better soon brother, but if you need to talk don’t be afraid to look for me.” He said before he left the upper deck of the ship, returning to the lower decks and to the hammock that had been assigned to him.