The cloak that Alim had given her still wrapped around her, Anifaire left the inn she’d been staying at for the market just outside. This time, she stuck to the crowds, not wanting to have a repeat of before in an alleyway. The Altmer had just eaten lunch, and she was heading across to a book shop she had been familiar with while she attended the university, since it was in sight of the inn.

Anifaire hopped up the steps and reached for the doorknob as she heard someone on the street let out a shout. She turned around, confused, and noticed the shocked mutterings of those around her. Shadows saturated the area. Following their gazes, her eyes landed on the massive, flying ship above. Seconds later, Dwemer automata began pouring out of the colossal creation, and the merchants and shoppers both began to flee the area, some rushing into their shops and others sprinting down the street towards their homes. Anifaire toppled backwards off the steps in astonishment, backing away more slowly than the others. A patrol of guards rushed past her, drawing swords and hurrying to meet to automations.

The expedition… Does this have anything to do with…? Barely able to believe her eyes, Anifaire finally got her legs working and abruptly bolted in the direction opposite the incoming forces, though they were moving at an astonishing pace. Taking a sharp left turn, Anifaire found herself on another street of shops, people fleeing and guards fighting all over the populated square. Which way is Rhea’s house? she wondered.

Out of nowhere, a Dwemer sphere rolled too close to her for comfort, and she jumped back out of the way as it spotted her. She raised her hands, her mind rushing to come up with a spell to cast but drawing a blank in fear, but instead, an armoured city guard stepped out from behind her and caught the creation’s thrust on his shield.

“Run! Get inside, find somewhere safe!” he shouted at her as he engaged the sphere. Anifaire took a few steps back, wishing she could do something to help, but fear overpowered her and she ran. She rushed into a side alley, making it about halfway to the next street before another construct turned into the alleyway, blocking her way.

As the construct was approaching, Anifaire looked around urgently for somewhere to hide. Above her, she noticed a balcony, on the lower side but not quite high enough to each. She clambered up onto some nearby crates, glancing backwards at the oncoming Dwemer creation which had yet to notice her, and gulped before jumping for the railing. Flying through the air for a few feet, her arms caught the railing and with an adrenaline fueled effort, she pulled herself onto the balcony. It was cramped, but she felt much safer above their line of sight.

The Altmer lay down flat against the balcony floor, peeking over the edge to watch the unaware construct pass, wondering how she was supposed to get out of this mess.

---

Alim shoved his sword into one of the few weak points in the Dwemer armor, and he was relieved to feel his blade sliding into flesh. That, and the cry of pain helped him realized they were indeed mortal and killable. The intensity of their attack and the other worldly weapons had him intensely worried. But if they were of flesh...they could be killed. Even the constructs could be destroyed if hacked enough, though he would need to enchant his sword before he even attempted to do such a thing.

The Dwemer fell to his knees, and the collapsed. Alim faded back into the shadows of the alleyway with a light step, his senses on high alert. If a contingent of the once-extinct mer stumbled upon him, he probably wouldn't survive. He was even loathe to fight one on even terms with their strange arms and armor, though he still felt he had a fighting chance. But caution was key. Remember, stay in the shadows or rooftops. Remain incognito. His resolve solidified. Nothing, not the screams of dying children or the chance of ransacking a hoarde of treasures would have him take any unnecessary risks. Alim was a rock. Unchanging. A solid-

As he turned the corner, he saw the Dwemer construct advanced upon the attractive Breton woman, who was trapped between a wall and death.

He stepped out into the open streets and leaped into the path of the Dwemer machine, his blade locking with the construct's swipe with a loud clang. "I think I have a problem." He said to himself.

With a sudden clash, and a splatter of yet more guts, Raelynn found herself face-to-face with a stranger - a swordsman. She had drawn her own staff, and was midway through conjuring her familiar. She lowered her staff slightly, as she watched the blood droip from the blade of the swordsman. It was thick like a syrup - slick. She'd never seen something like it - this amount of bloodshed.

There had been only one other time she had seen such chaos - and that was when the Dovahkin sacked Windhelm - and she hadn't even been there, just for the aftermath but the scene was the same. Pools of blood.

She returned concentration to her spell - and with a sudden motion of her staff, an ethereal wolf sprung forth at the Dwemer. "SHIT" she cursed as she saw that blood had splattered over the buttons of her cloak. A thing to find annoyance in, of course.

She listened to the boy mutter to himself, amongst the chaos she was able to pick up every word and even gave him a response; "we BOTH have a problem if we stand for one more second here..." she flavoured her tone with deliberately with fear - the tone of a damsel in distress.

Alim ran his free hand gliding along the blade of his sword. From where his skin touched steel, sparks of lightning crackled and zapped, coming alive with the enchantment of the storm. If nothing else, it revealed his dual expertise with both sword and sorcery. The dashing swordsman pivoted his foot and stepped within the guard of the construct, and slammed his blade into its midsection while simultaneously ducking under a clawed swipe.

The Wolf leapt up and pushed down on the claw, pushing it back from the swordsman as he ran his sword once more through the belly of a beast.

The Dwemer creation buckled and weakened under his blow. Behind him, an idea sparkled within the Breton.

Now that the Dwemer was weakened enough, the familiar dove on the crumpled body and finished it, giving both Raelynn and Alim the time they needed to escape.

This nobody could provide her with a meat shield in case she found herself in another unfortunate situation - and he seemed happy to play the part if she just kept batting her eyelashes enough.

"There has to be somewhere we can go, please? Do you know anywhere at all?" she widened her eyes and took a light step towards him, looking him straight in the eyes. She started to wonder if she really was manipulating the situation - or just so desperate for help she would truly do anything.

Either way, Alim had already allowed his obsession with danger and his anatomy get the better of him. He wasn't a stupid man, but, riches, sex, and risks were what life was for, after all. Plus his friends, he reminded himself. He felt a pang of guilt for letting Anifaire leave his side so soon. He truly hoped he didn't see her corpse in the streets, later.

"I have an idea if you'd follow me," he said, holding out his arm for her to take. His smooth voice was only matched by the sly glint in his dark eyes. He had a definite way out, though if he told her what it was, it would ruin the surprise, because it was a somewhat desperate move. "This way."

She had no choice, and so took his arm and stepped over the body, her right arm outstretched with her staff - ready for action. She had noticed in his eyes that he was an easy target for any damsel, clearly. He had that twinkle that would probably work on other women (or men, whatever was his fancy...). It seemed he wasn't aware he'd met someone whom that kind of nonsense wouldn't work on. That said, if the two of them could get out of this sticky situation with their lives - she would be grateful and go her own way once more.

Alim took them across them street at a quick pace, guiding her through the alleyways. A few times they had to step over corpses; mutilated and shorn through bodies of Imperial citizens. Alim was used to death, but to see civilians treated in such a manner was still an unpleasant sight. He guided her toward the next street, before yanking her back into the alley as a patrol of Dwemer prowled by, alien eyes scanning ever crevice.

The spellthief hugged the wall, and though he seemed wary, he didn't seem entirely afraid or unhappy. As if he were born for this sort of thing.

Once the coast was clear, he motioned for her to follow and he led her across the street toward the very edge of the Imperial city.

"Just where are we going?" she asked as she was ushered through the paved streets - the once clean and pristine paved streets ran with blood now. It seemed to seep between every cobblestone and stain into it's setting. Up until now, she hadn't really put thought to just why the Dwemer were back. It had been adrenaline up until now - and while her heart still raced in her chest, her brain began to tick too.

At any minute, it could be her being skewered at the end of a sword, and bleeding into the street. She wouldn't know why, or how. She would just be another crumpled body to be burnt by the survivors. She had been in scrapes before, but nothing on this scale. It was a stark reminder of how alone she was. If she did end up being one of those bodies in the pile, she would become just a face - just a victim. Just a fair maiden slain on an unusual day. Death overshadowed by catastrophic events.

No. That would not be her, she was going to get out of here - and with such a thought she gained second wind to move faster - she didn't have time to wait for his response before she was suddenly the one dragging him along - and she was heading toward a manor-like home, away from the screams. To find shelter - and a way out of this nightmare.

Alim felt her hand grab his arm and begin to essentially guide him towards a manor he had seen. It wasn't where he was going to lead her, but it was a long journey to the walls, and they needed shelter. Perhaps they could rest there and then pass through the building after a short while? The thought of valuables in there also piqued his interest. He decided to not fight against her urging and go with her, though his eyes were keen and his sword was out. The street seemed clear for the moment, however.

The manor was three stories and made of good Imperial stone by its foundation. The door was oak and heavy looking, though it looked locked. Alim reached into his pocket and withdrew a lockpick in his nimble fingers, inserting it into the knob. For a few brief moments he worked at it while the sounds of weapon fire and screams drew nearer, until a telltale 'click' and the door unlocked. He pulled her inside.

She followed in after him, taking a mental note of his lockpicking. He had looked every bit the thief when he had appeared before her; but this was a little bit of proof of it indeed. She raised an eyebrow and smirked behind him, out of his sight. She could hear talking inside the manor; panicked voices just up ahead.

“Alright, we’ll find a few packs -" came the soft voice of a female, with a pause hanging at the end - “who knows - place again.” Some of the words got lost to her ears, drowned out by the noises outside. She couldn't really make sense of it. But then came a voice much clearer to her, followed by the arrival of a.... Was it really? A Khajit! She couldn't quite make it out in the distance. She pinched at Alim's arm, and pointed to the shadowy figure in the distance. She could make out a tail and and distinguishable ears...

“You three go on. I’ll wait down here, see if someone else arrives.”

"I... I don't feel so good..." she feigned, letting go of the rogue's arm and stumbling forwards. She was suddenly surrounded by people who were going to be hightailing it by the sounds of it. She wanted to join them - but she knew what people could be like in these parts - at a time like this. She had to do something desperate to make herself less of a potential threat to them.

So she staggered forward just a few steps, twisting on the ball of her right foot, tripping herself up from the left until she fell to the ground - letting out a dramatic, but yet soft sigh. A "faint". A technique she'd used many times before, but never in such a situation as this...

"W-..." Alim didn't have the time to express any emotion before she was falling. Of course he was quick with his hands and caught her so as to lighten her fall. Once he patted her cheek for a moment, he sighed. "Come on," he whispered to her, and lifted her up in his arms. If he was a lesser man he would have taken advantage of such a beauty in such a state, but despite his weakness for women, he also had a streak of manners and good nature that he found annoying at times.

"Well, time to introduce you to the team." He said aloud with a helpless grin.

The same door that Daro’Vasora, Brynja, and Judena entered creaked open, and through it slunk Meg, which the Khajiit was somewhat surprised about. While she had kept an eye on the door in case of others arriving, she honestly hadn’t expected anyone to make it; partially because no one had seen the building before, and mostly because of the chaos outside. She ushered the Nord through towards the library where the passage was located and returned to her post, which was accompanied by a bottle of wine that Daro’Vasora hadn’t asked permission to commandeer. Within the hour, other arrivals had made it, including Solandil, Alim, Raelyn, and Gaius.

Soon, the group was gathered in the library, where the curtains had been drawn to prevent anyone or anything from peering in. Rhea had gathered the supplies with Judena and Brynja, and a few travel packs were laid out with the supplies divvied up evenly between them; if something happened to one member of the party, it wouldn’t mean a total loss of provisions, medical supplies, survival gear or even a change of clothing. In total, there were 4 packs and 2 satchels, and there was a fair deal of jewelry and coin, along with a few other small valuables that Rhea reasoned could be bartered in a worst-case scenario, and it was hard to argue this didn’t qualify. The Imperial woman seemed rather conflicted about the whole ordeal; it was her family and her life’s work that was being plundered and subsequently abandoned, but she had to save these people and do the right thing, knowing full well a lot of what filled the halls of the manor were the result of exploiting people in need. She wasn’t going to be like her parents, as much as she loved them. This was a challenge in her life to do better as she always wanted to, and so Rhea buried the doubt that nagged the back of her mind and stepped up to lead; she had a job to do. People lost a lot more than a few valuables today.

“I’m glad to see you’ve made it safely, it stills my heart.” Rhea said to the newcomers with a tired smile. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind for the gathering this afternoon, but we are alive and that is what matters. It should serve as some form of reprieve for us to know that there is a way out in this very manor, which will get us to the harbour, but from there I fear we are stepping into the unknown.” She said, heading to a table where a map was laid out, its corners weighed down by books in the library. She gestured to where the manor was located. “We are here, and the tunnel exits here…” she said, tracing her finger southwest towards a point almost halfway between the large gate that barred the port from the city proper and the great Western bridge that connected the island to the mainland to the small hamlet of Weye on the other side of the bridge, which mainly housed an inn for those who didn’t want to pay the full price of accommodations in the city proper.

“The exit is connected to a storm drain that’s fallen into disuse since the Great War, but the passage is clear. We will make our way to the grate, and hold there until nightfall, when we have the best chance of making it across the lake without being seen. Don’t worry; we’ve kept a row boat in the tunnel for the smuggling days and the grate has been secured by locks from the inside that have kept the manor protected from prying eyes. Once night falls, we will land South of the ruins of Fort Virtue on the Western banks. There we will head into the forests where we can lose ourselves in the night from patrols and anything from the sky. From there, we make our way towards Skingrad, and pray that our luck holds against the Dwemer having not made their way down there. Any questions?” Rhea concluded, looking at those gathered around the table.

Judena was the first to pipe up, “I am sure with enough wit we can safely cross, perhaps we can make use of some minor illusionary spells to help cloak ourselves. I am rather worried they would train light on the bay surrounding the city to discourage such escapades. I hope they are more focused on raiding than cutting escape.”

Judena’s nails tapped across the table. “What lies in Skingard, Rhea? If I remember correctly it is a town famous for its wine and cheese. A good spot for shoring up on supplies, but… I hate to ask because our escape is what we should be focusing on…” Judena said, hesitantly peeking at the others. “What then after Skingard? With the Imperial City raided where do we take what we know? Surely there is someone who we need to tell of our discoveries. Jerall Mountain-”

Looking to Rhea, “Jerall Mountain is connected to this invasion.”

That caused a bit of a silence, a speculation that everyone feared that they were somehow responsible for this, and none more so than Rhea. As much as she wanted to refute it, deny it, wash her hands of the ghastly truth, it rang true and ate away at her ever since the first night at camp after the situation during the expedition. It wouldn’t do to have anyone see how much it bothered her, so she decided to focus her attention on more pressing matters. “One step at a time, Judena. My main concern is getting everyone to safety. Skingrad is the closest city, other than Chorrol, but it’s closer to the Southern border, close to Valenwood. The Dominion isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s my hopes that it can act as a deterrent for the Dwemer, and it gives us some flexibility for our next step… which I don’t rightfully know yet.” she admitted. “For all I know, there is no next step, we are not a military Legion, fighting a war. We are a group of survivors who happened to work together to escape peril and now we’re faced with something truly incredible and horrifying. Let us get to safety first, then we can as individuals decide what’s best. Until we know what’s going on and learn more about the invaders, we cannot take action.”

For her part, Meg had been silent, simply listening to the others, almost reveling in the simple sound of their voices, despite the fact that they were conversing about something very important: how to escape and survive. Still, there was nothing that would erase the relief she felt when she saw the Khajiit and then reunited with the others. They were alive which was more than what could be said for the poor souls strewn about the city like fallen leaves from a tree.

"I havta agree with Rhea." She finally broke her silence, casting a glance over the others before looking back at the table with the maps, scrutinizing the map of Cyrodiil in particular. "But Judena’s gotta point too. Even if we don' go an make a long detailed plan, it'd be comfortin' to know there's another direction we can think in, in case things ain't what we expect in Skingrad."

Gaius tched, clearly displeased at the idea of going anywhere near the Aldmeri Dominion. For all that, though, there was little for him to debate; it was most definitely the best option. He put his chin in his hand, thinking for a moment before stubbing a heavy finger upon the map, a little ways south of Skingrad. “If Skingrad proves inhospitable, then the Strid River is our next best option. It winds through a fairly difficult-to-climb canyon, so monitoring it isn’t the greatest use of resources. Get to it, and we could boat down to Anvil and into the Abecean.” He paused for a moment. “If we must, at least. Let us hope that Skingrad is safe.”

He pondered for a moment before sliding his finger several inches across the table, to an unlabelled bit just east of Cyrodiil. “It might be wiser, though, to head for Morrowind. More space to get lost in, and as long as we hug the southern border and cross the Niben at Bravil, we should be as safe as we can get.”

Brynja grunted, “Out of the time we’ve wasted shooting the shit, we could’ve made it out of the city by now. Skingrad, Morrowind, Bravil, who gives a rats ass? We need to get a move on before it’s too late.”

Gaius tossed her a sour look. “Brynja, you do not succeed by running out and hoping you can construct a plan as you go. Yes, we want to get out of the Imperial City as soon as we can, but before we do, we need to know where we’re going. Calm down, and think before you speak.”

She scoffed, and grumbled under her breath, “Can’t construct a bloody plan if we’re all dead.”

Daro’Vasora, silent up until now, cleared her throat obnoxiously to cut off the argument. “As much as I admire your Legionnaire calves and the prospect of marching around Lake Rumare and Northeast to Morrowind, I’d like to point out that that much of Morrowind is either filled with hostile Argonian forces in the South that aren’t too fond of the Empire, increasingly desperate Dunmer in the North, and a climate disaster that’s keeping people from surviving off the land. On top of that, we can all agree that it’s Dwemer, correct? Morrowind is absolutely filled with Dwemer ruins, and that’s where they were last seen at the Battle of the Red Mountain.” her eyes darted around for something to chew on, her teeth grinding. “I can’t say I want to march all that way, exhausted and probably starving, to find that they set up camp there. There’s no way to know where they’re coming from past conjecture that they’re spilling out where we activated the device.”

Gaius winced, nodding slightly. “That’s true. Going to Morrowind would be entirely counterproductive, wouldn’t it?” He sighed, dropping his head slightly. “I’m no tactician. Skingrad it is.”

“It’s temporary, I assure you.” Rhea cut in, trying to wrangle in the group before they lost focus. “I’m not going to pretend to be your fearless leader, I’m just someone who hired you for a job that went horribly wrong, so allow me to try to get you all out of this in one piece. Just follow my lead until we get to safety, then we can all do what we feel is best.” she glanced at the window, light still trickled in from the drawn curtains. “We have some time to plan this all out. Let’s get to it.”

---

Hours had passed, and while they had discussed the plan a half-dozen times, covering exactly what each person was to do, there was still an uncomfortable amount of waiting in the tunnel’s mouth, waiting for the sun to dip below the horizon and allow the group to slip into the lake hopefully unnoticed. Most of the group would be clinging to the raft, half-submerged in the water while kicking with their legs only as to not break the surface of the water to create splashes. At the bow on either side would have Brynja and Gaius leading, with Rhea behind them, and Judena and Alim at the back. Daro’Vasora, being the only one who could see in the dark, would act as look out at the bow, and Meg, being light and nimble, would be keeping everyone instructed and aware of what direction they needed to head in. Raelyn, the newcomer, simply got a free ride to head off protest. The gear was secured in the boat, and while there doubtless was some grumbling about the two who didn’t need to swim, it was simply too risky to switch up. Daro’Vasora volunteered to lead the group through the forest and find somewhere to camp for the night, and her and Meg would find material for a fire and hopefully something to eat. With the plan more or less agreed upon, the group had set out through the tunnels, the excitement of escape quickly tempered by the tedium of waiting. Everyone waited on either side of the row boat for the sun to vanish. And after a small eternity, it eventually did.

Brynja had removed every last bit of steel from her body, stripping down to her leathers with a bit of apprehension. She didn’t quite like the idea of swimming across Lake Runemare in the dark, but if that’s what it took to get out of this forsaken city with its endless mazes of structures, then she wasn’t going to complain about it. As she tossed a canvas over the armor, to help keep water off it, she looked back to Rhea, gesturing at the boat, “I follow you.”

The grate was opened, oiled by Daro’Vasora well before opening to prevent it from creaking, and despite years of being unused, it still managed to move freely. She held it up as the others took a hold of the rope tied around the boat and carried it out, everyone stepping carefully to avoid cracking branches and twigs underfoot. The soft whirring of the engines of an airship were heard, but it was impossible to tell how close they were, save for a distant searchlight not unlike what they had encountered down in the ruins. Soon they were crossing the beach, the sand muffling their steps, allowing them to move more swiftly before reaching the edge of the water unimpeded. Taking careful steps to not disturb the water more than necessary, the group stepped into the cool water, the waters still fairly chilled from the winter months prior. With great effort and each unintentional splash sounding like a thundercrack to their ears, eventually the boat was floating and most were in the water up to their chests, allowing Meg and Daro’Vasora to climb aboard, carefully moving across the benches to avoid rocking the boat. Now that everyone was aboard and ready, and at Meg’s instruction, the group began to kick off, the combined effort of several feet helping propel the row boat fairly quickly. Surprisingly, it was an effectively quiet way to traverse the water.

Daro’Vasora, once the group was well out into the water, chanced a glance backwards and noticed that other survivors in the city had a similar idea of escaping in the cover of night. However, only a few seemed to take the same precautions they did to avoid making noise. A few eager souls hit the water too fast, and the noise they made might as well have been children playing. Shouts were heard, although from who it was impossible to hear at this distance. It didn’t matter for long because a cascade of shots came from the upper walls, raining down upon the beach and water, and people fell where they stood. Several of the other groups had managed to get out into the water, and caution was thrown into the wind as they tried to get out of range, and it became a race to avoid the approaching searchlight as the airship began to make its way treacherously towards the ruckus.

Brynja shivered from the cold waters, but also from the paralyzing thought of being discovered. She struggled to quell her trembling limbs as she kicked her legs. Brynja clenched her jaw hard, it almost felt as if her teeth would crack. She didn’t even want to breathe a sigh, fearing that quietest of sounds would bring them all their death.

The airship had reached its destination, as evidenced from the periodic shots coming from the bottom of its hull and the telltale twang of crossbows. By now, those in the water were scattering, but it was encouraging to see that some were at least slipping through the net they found themselves caught in. Others, however, weren’t so lucky. Screams began to fill the night, some getting cut short after each report. Some of the more brave souls who happened to be mages begun to fling spells up at their attackers, and while it was likely a suicidal gesture, their act of defiance was emboldening. Those brave souls had probably bought the group, as well as many others, their escape. Mage lights were flung up at the hull of the ship, and some of the shot was silence, the gunners silenced as the bright lights temporarily blinded them.

As the group paddled, far enough away that Meg and Daro’Vasora took over with the oars so the others could rest, the walls of the city grew smaller and the sight of the airship was gone completely. Some of the other boats were out in the water with them, keeping roughly abreast, but it looked as if a number of people managed to escape from the Imperial City. It was a start, at the very least. Soon, feet touched silt below, and the exhausted group began to pull the boat ashore. The boat was quickly unloaded and the group geared up, those who had been in the water were quickly wrapped in blankets. Not needing the boat any longer, it was left where it was, and the group set out into the dark woods, relying on Daro’Vasora’s nighteye to see them through the dark.

From the positioning of the twin moons and that exhaustion had begun to take its toll, it was agreed upon that it was time to take up camp. There was no sign of pursuit, and they’d long since lost sight of anyone else. And so, with the two tents that were packed, a camp was set up hastily and a fire started and a very late supper was prepared by Meg and Daro’Vasora, who elected to dig into the rations rather than trying to forage in the dark.

The city was behind them, and Skingrad waited ahead.

With the issue of food having been taken care of, Meg couldn't help but cast an eye over the rest of her companions. She was almost reminded of the night before the expedition, when they had been sitting around a fire as well, learning each others names and about them in general. It was a little disheartening to see not all of them were with them. Though Meg had not cared much for the older Altmer, she wouldn't have wished upon him death by the hands of a dwemer soldier. The same could be said for the much better liked Balroth. Her shoulders fell as she let out a slow breath. And what of Latro? She could still remember the drunken prank they had played by drinking all of the beer in Brynja's pitcher... Speaking of, Meg spotted her fellow Nord and decided it would be best to spend her efforts on those who were there before her rather that remenisce and sadden herself with the memories of those missing. As she did, she pulled off her cloak, offering it to Brynja.

"How're you doin'?" she asked.

The warmth of the fire did little to chase away the chill she felt in her body, she would have preferred to remove her clothes and let them dry properly, but that was not a luxury she had now. She found comfort by leaning up against a tree. Megana's voice filtered into her mind, and when she lifted her head, breaking her cemented gaze from the dancing flames, she saw Megana before her. The young Nord held out her cloak, an offering, Brynja regarded it momentarily, before she claimed the cloak with trembling hands.

"Trying not to freeze my tits off." She said through gritted teeth, trying to force a smile, "How are you holding up?"

Meg let out a humourless chuckle, "Not as cold as you." They were from Skyrim, cold was something they were used to, so Brynja had to be extremely cold to say that. There was a small tinge of guilt that crept into her heart about having been able to stay dry and afloat while her companions had to spend their time shivering in the water. She didn't say any of that out loud though; she had spent enough time with the group, save the one named Raelyn, to know that they would wave it off. Brynja managed a grin at her words.

Taking a seat next to Brynja, Meg turned so that she was still facing the Nord. "I know what you're askin' 'bout though." A soft breath left her as she looked down, shaking her head; her voice was quiet as she continued to speak. "Truly? I don' know. I'm half scared the Dwemer's gonna be there in Skingrad too, an all of this caution's for nothin'. An' then..." Her hands clenched. "What if it's all 'cause of us? What if they're chasin' after us?" Thoughts she had been silent came tumbling out of Meg before she could stop herself.

Brynja didn't know what to say, she wanted to comfort her counterpart, but she didn't know Meg that well. What could she say? The truth.

"It probably is our fault. But the way I look at it, if it weren't for us slinking around in those forgotten ruins, whose to say that some other folks wouldn't have found it sooner or later?" Ok well that sounded horrible. Brynja rushed to soften the blow of her words, "I doubt they'll be in Skingrad, out of all the cities they went to first, they chose the Imperial City. They must've had a reason for it."

"I doubt they'll be interested in chasing us, it's not like we have anything of theirs that they want." Brynja added before a grin spread across her face, "Although, I'm not looking to die without my first kiss, so I've got something to keep on fighting for. What about you Megana? Don't you have someone sweet on you back home?"

Meg looked up, surprise written clearly on her face at the sudden question. "I uh... I don' rightly know," she replied, managing not to stumble too badly. "Could've been, but I'd never've known. I know I didn' much fancy the lads back in Whiterun, an' I'm pretty sure Pa would've scared 'em off with his hammer or sommat..." She chuckled at the thought, though it faded as her thoughts seemed to head in another direction.

"I did have someone I liked- not that he even knew, but he's not around anymore." She reached at her neck and pulled out the amulet of Mara for a couple of seconds before stuffing it back in. "Gave this to me once after treasure huntin', told me it was high time I found someone..." She shrugged a little before smiling wistfully. "Pa wouldn't've approved anyway, but some things your just can't help... 'sides, ain't like I like his wife much, but she makes him happy... that's enough for me."

She was quiet for a small moment before raising an eyebrow at Brynja. "What 'bout you?"

She grinned, a silly stupid grin at Megana’s words. It warmed her heart knowing that someone had taken a fancy to her. Enough to make tears fill her eyes. She let out a long, slow whistle. Brynja found comfort in Megana's presence, something like an old friend coming to chase away the wintertime blues and tell tall tales around the hearth. Maybe the reason why Brynja liked Megana so much, was the fact that she reminded her of Elyse, her youngest sister. She was a spunky girl, much like herself as a child, and while she kindly abided to their mother's wishes, there were many late night conversations where Brynja soothed Elyse's frayed nerves.

”Never was. You see the size of me? Most men think of me as some great beast to conquer. That, or I’m something terrible to even consider as a partner.”

She fell silent for a moment before adding in, “I thought I loved someone. Thought him a noble man. Thought the whole bloody fuckin world of him, and in the end he was just as bad as these other walking pigheads. There was a woman that...” Brynja’s words faltered, was she certain she wanted to bring that up?

”No...” She shook her head, “Tell me about this lad. What made him so special in your eyes? Couldn’t have just been a pretty trinket, mm?”

J'raij wasn't the easiest subject for Meg to talk about, but she could tell that the subject of special persons was harder on her companion that herself. "I actually met him when I was like... this high?" She put a hand up to show the height of a young child. "Back in Riften. Pa wasn't 'round much an' it was boring just stayin' in the city. I headed out an'..." She looked slightly sheepish. "Never met a khajiit before that. J'raij was nice though, nothin' like the people would say of his kind... well, 'least I thought so." A chuckle escaped her. "Did teach me how t'pick locks an' pockets. He left soon after though. Didn't think I'd meet him again, but when I finally left Winterun, I met him once more on the road. We'd become partners, go treasure huntin' and tomb raidin' together." Unknowingly she had started swaying back and forth, a small smile lingering on her lips. "It was fun while it lasted."

"Seems like how that always goes, doesn't it? We fall in love, and we're willing to do anything to help them." Brynja gazed on steadily at Meg before her shoulders drooped. "I don't think I've ever told anyone this... it was when I served under Rorik as his Housecarl...I won't deny that I had feelings for him. He was a handsome Nord, tall, kind, adventurous... I followed that man everywhere, and I would have followed him to the ends of Nirn. I was sworn to carry his burdens after all. We did the Jarl's bidding. We exterminated rabid wolves terrorizing farmer's flocks, we reclaimed lost treasures, hell, we even once killed a Hagraven together. Nasty blights they are." She paused in remembering those years past, it was as if she were swimming in uncharted waters now, falling off a waterfall she would never be able to climb up again.

"Suppose I didn't know him that well. One day, the house was up in chaos as we caught wind that we were to prepare a feast. And I remember that day just like it was yesterday. I was out in the garden picking lavender for our cook. She wanted to make pastries, and needed fresh lavender. I can still hear how his voice called my name. I remember standing up, and I looked right at him. I watched him come right over to me... and he kissed me, Megana. That was the first time I've been kissed. Gave me a rose as a token of his affection." She sighed, not out of nostalgia, but about what she was going to say next.

"That night, as I lay awake in bed, someone knocked on my door. When I went to open it, I saw this young lass, perhaps no older than yourself... and she asked me to take her back home. Made me swear not to tell anyone. I never questioned it. She was one of the guests from the feast that day, so I just assumed she must have fallen asleep and missed her carriage ride home. I took her back to Windhelm, and by dawn I was home in my bed again. I thought that was the last I would see of her..." Her throat tightened, tears stinging her eyes again. That unbearable lump formed in her throat.

"That was until three months went by, and Rorik sent me to Windhelm to fetch the lass along with a priest. When I claimed her, I could see that... she was with child. I knew what happened then, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happened. When I returned, Rorik and Iona were wed. That was her name, Iona. And..." Brynja's chest heaved as she fought to keep her composure. If the world was ending by return of Dwemer and their giant fuckoff airships, then she might as well get it all out before she died.

"I thought that I would get along fine with Rorik marrying this woman. He was doing the right thing after all, marrying her out of wedlock. It's what I would expect from my brothers if they had done something similar. I was charged with helping Iona, anything to ensure that she would bring Rorik a healthy child. I helped bathe her, rubbed her swollen feet; I even helped prepare potions to help her with the nausea. It wasn't until another three months later when she asked me one night, something that haunts me to this day. She wanted my help... to end her pregnancy. Iona told me that the night of the feast, her parents had been in attendance. They purposefully left early so that Iona and Rorik could be together. Iona told me that Rorik was drunk that night, and I knew it as well. He forced himself on her, she didn't know what to do. She didn't even want to go to that feast. She had someone she truly loved back in Windhelm. Someone her parents didn't approve of. She wanted me to end her pregnancy, and elope with her lover... Alezzio was his name."

"I... I don't know why I did it, Megana. I should have told her no, that such foolish fantasies would never come to pass. But the look on her face... I knew she wouldn't be happy under that roof. So I did what she asked of me. I used a bottle of Essence of Nightshade. I remembered back in the war, there was an Altmer woman, Cerys was her name, who taught me how to heal outside the use of magick. I remembered her using that bottle to help ease the pain for the wounded soldiers, and even to knock them unconscious. There was a rhythm she taught me long ago, and I fucked it all up that night. I was suppose to give Iona four drops of nightshade... and instead I gave her seven." Brynja covered her face with one hand, her face twisting in anguish upon reliving that horrible night.

"There was so much blood... I didn't know what to do... I just held her... Rorik wasn't home, and all the other help were either gone or retired for the night. When dawn came... I cleaned up what blood I could..." She was a shaking mess by now, "I didn't dare dream of going to sleep, instead I went into the garden to wait for Rorik to return. I didn't say a damned word about what I had done. I let them all believe that she had miscarried. We buried her soon after and Rorik went into mourning... I started to resent him by then... I couldn't stand him anymore. The more I watched him, the more I saw that he didn't give much a damn about Iona. His head hovered in the clouds, and he started chasing women. I never once saw that man cry after we buried her. It was like Iona hadn't existed at all. He remarried not before long. Said he was ending my service because he didn't want to cause any conflict between Ethelred and I." Her trembling had eased, and a profound calm came over her. How long had she bottled that up? How long had she held onto that dark secret. She sought for something to say now, but she couldn't find any words. Part of her questioned whether or not Megana would turn against her.

For a moment Meg remained as she was, quiet and motionless, eyes cast to the ground. Yet she couldn't remain that way for long, her heart aching for what Brynja had been through. She didn't hesitate, reaching out to take hold of the other Nord's hand, giving it a small squeeze. "I'm sorry Brynja." How hard must it have been for her to hold something like that inside for so long? All those feelings... how hadn't they burned a hole through the woman already? Meg's eyes stung just thinking about it.

"I'm sorry you had t'go through somethin' like that," she continued softly, shaking her head. "I know... people go through all sortsa shit, but still... don't mean it's any less." She bit on the inside of her lip, catching herself from becoming too emotional. "But... thanks for trustin' me enough to tell me. An'... well... I'm kinda glad you're not there no more, y'know? 'cause that means you're here. I mean... well, I'm not glad we're stuck in this situation... but at least I know someone like you's got my back." It was a rather awkward attempt at a compliment, so Meg decided to pipe down thereafter.

Megana's hand around hers was unexpected, though Brynja welcomed the gesture. She sniffed, and with one hand wiped away the tears. What a sight she must be, a massive Nord woman almost seven feet tall crying her eyes out. She could only imagine the social strain she must have placed on Megana, she sighed, as if she couldn't quite catch her breath.

"Sometimes, we do stupid things for love." Her storm-blue eyes locked with Meg's, "And don't you worry lass. I'll always have your back." Her eyes scanned the area, there were faces missing from the original party.

"I hope Solandil made it out alive.... he's quite a bit of a handsome fellow." She mused, a small smile spreading across her face before she winked at Meg. "What do you think? Who do you think is handsome in our group, eh? Alim?"

For the second time, Meg was caught by surprise, though this time she didn't stumble, letting out a small chuckle instead. "Hm..." she murmured, putting her free hand to her chin as if she was actually giving a serious thought to the question. "It'd be a lie to say most of the lads here ain't pretty." Her lips twisted into a smirk as she cast a glance over the rest of those gathers. "So few of 'em too. Not too sure whether they'd be keepers though." She could help but snicker. "Seein' least one of them brings tag alongs." She looked to Raelyn, still quite unsure about the Breton.

"She looks like she's got a stick up her ass, that one, " She said nodding at Raelyn as well. It was like Anifaire, but as a Breton. Brynja hoped that the newest member to the company wasn't entirely useless. Though to be fair, she hadn't even spoke a single sentence to the Breton.

"Well if I were an entire foot shorter, some of the might look my way." She chuckled, "Some bloke once boasted that he'd like to climb me like a tree. So I poured my ale over his head." Her eyes shifted, "Latro wasn't too hard on the eyes either. And I suppose Gaius isn't half bad looking either, at least he's aging well." She caught sight of Rhea by the fire.

"I'm not too particular with my choices in a partner, but Rhea is one fine woman. Though I guess you're right. I doubt any of them would be proper to bring home to Ma." She let out a low chuckle, in her mind's eye she pictured how her mother and brother would react if she were to waltz through the door of their home with anyone on her arm.

"I never thought of a lass for a lover," Meg mused, speaking more to herself than to Brynja, though it was loud enough for her to hear. "I don' rightly know what Pa would think of that though I'm bettin' he's open to anythin' so long as they're no khajiit or argonian." She shrugged her shoulders. "He still has the wrong notions 'bout them, an' it ain't like he'd listen to reason..." She blinked. "He's not bad though! Just kinda..." She shrugged. "Set in his thoughts."

“Aye, I’m not sure how my mother would take to me bringing home a woman either. Though, I don’t think her or my father were stuffy about race or gender. Heck, I think they’d just be surprised in general!” Brynja said mulling over the idea. “Maybe he wouldn’t be so hard in his ways if you brought home Judena? She’s got a tender heart, and of course, a soft head.” She chuckled, giving Meg a gentle pat on the knee.

”He’d probably be in an uproar if you brought home Daro’Vasora in that case.” She added, her gaze shifting to the forlorn Khajiit sitting by herself.

”You mentioned him earlier, the one that gave you the Amulet. J’raij? Was that his name?”

"That's right," Meg replied with a nod. "J'raij. I thought he was a merchant when I was a child. Well..." She laughed once more. "I s'pose he was, just not the honest kind. As for the amulet, I don' really need it... not really lookin' for anythin'. I like keepin' it though, like my sword and chest piece. Reminders. They don' make me sad- well, a little sometimes, but mostly just grateful? That I knew 'em even if they had t'go."

It felt different though, when she didn't know if someone was still alive or gone. Not for the first time that day, she silently prayed that Latro and Balroth were safe, wherever they were.

Brynja nodded at her words, "You have your trinkets to help your remember, and me... I have my bottles to help me forget. We all have our ways to cope." She paused again, looking Megana over, she wanted to ask more about J'raij, but maybe now wouldn't be the best of times. She peeled away the cloak, and handed it over to Megana.

"Best get some sleep while you can, lass. It'll be a long day tomorrow."

The fire cackled in Daro’Vasora’s perhephrial vision, a dancing pale orange and bright yellow light that flickered across the trunks of trees and across leaves as the smoke ascended into the canopy above. The fear of the Dwemer tracking them seemed to have faded, and no sign of any other survivors disturbed the night. The Khajiit reckoned that the invaders were more concerned with holding the city than hunting the countryside for stragglers, so as far as she was concerned, they were free and safe. The same couldn’t be said about everyone, however.

She knelt alone in the dirt holding a private vigil that she spoke nothing of to the others. Judena would understand, but this wasn’t the time for an absent minded Argonian who probably didn’t recall why this moment was necessary. Spread out in front of the Khajiit were Zegol’s memoirs and mementos, things that had held significance in the Orsimer’s life from the time they’d spent together. She stared at the words on the pages, hearing his voice with each trace of ink across the yellowed parchment, his infliction coming into her mind as readily as if he were reading them aloud sitting next to her. The faintest of breezes gave the impression that it was true, and reflexively, her hand lay upon her shoulder, imagining his own squeezing reassuringly as if to say that it was okay. She stared at the hole she had dug just beyond.

There had been no time for a burial, and Zegol presumably still lay dismembered on the hardwood floor of the store he had loved so much, that he had spent the last several years of his life turning into a reflection of his life’s work and passions. It was impossible to walk amongst the artifacts and trinkets that they had both accumulated and not feel his essence and joy for each and every thing on display. He had been an accomplished adventurer in his youth, a man who had travelled the world and done incredible things and his name was attached to recovering some of history’s most famous artifacts. It was why Daro’Vasora’s father had send her to the Orc; if anyone could have shaped her ambitions so productively and skillfully without her turning to a life of petty crime and mischief, it was Zegol.

Ra’Rinjo had called in a favour to his long-time associate, and before long, an ungrateful little brat was at his doorstep, wondering why she was being forced to live with an ugly old man who clearly had no idea of what to do with a teenager. But they found common ground quickly, as Daro’Vasora recognized several of the artifacts Zegol had collected. It didn’t take long for the two of them to spend many long nights talking excitedly of tales of quests and relics, history and politics. They were kindred spirits who never would have known the other existed if it weren’t for the Khajiit earning the dubious honour of her honourific. Under him, it became a source of pride. Following his lead and learning the skills he had accumulated over decades of adventuring, her name meant something and she came to love him as family, as he did her. Zegol had never settled or found a wife, let alone had children, and in a way Daro’Vasora filled that void that he had felt empty for so long.

She brushed a forearm across her eyes, her fur wicking up the tears and water running from her nose as she heard his laugh, saw his smile, the look of approval when she dropped something truly incredible on the workbench he kept out back. Wrapped around her hand of that very arm was an amulet that Zegol’s sister had crafted for him when they were both young, a bit younger than her when she came to him. He often held it like this when he was concerned, lost in thought, or just missing his family. It was near and dear to him, as were the other baubles she had laid out on a handkerchief, one he had kept in his breast pocket as a part of his formalwear. Now she was considering burying it all in this unmarked impromptu grave for his spirit and soul to make amends for being forced to leave him behind. Her heart was tearing itself asunder, and she hoped nobody could see her.

“Vasora?” A quiet voice came behind her. The Khajiit’s face twisted into a snarl, but she didn’t turn around.

“Fuck off.” She spat, not caring if her vitriol hurt. This was a private moment, and there was no chance in Oblivion that she’d let someone see her in a moment of weakness.

Still, footsteps approached, and soon Rhea came into view, sitting cross legged a respectful distance away, close enough that they could converse without needing to lift their voices, but angled in a way as if to say that she wasn’t trying to snoop. “We haven’t had a moment to talk since we got back to the city. I’ve noticed your disposition’s changed.” The Imperial glanced towards Daro’Vasora with sympathetic eyes that weren’t met. “I can tell you lost someone, and well, I didn’t think you should be alone.”

Daro’Vasora looked up, jeering. “Oh, sympathy. That will bring him back, or make you not meddle with things you do not understand. I warned you. I told you that it was a bad idea, but you had it in your pretty little head of yours that the device would be our salvation. That choice cost thousands of lives, do you understand?” The Khajiit bored into her, staring venomous daggers into Rhea. “Everyone on that expedition who died on the mountain. Balroth, Latro…. Zegol.” She said, deflating as she stared down at the papers in front of her, her hands clutching the amulet protectively.

“I know.” Rhea replied softly, not defending herself. “I’ve been living with guilt of it all since I made the choice for everyone. Every life lost since that day, I feel as if I’m the one who handled the weapon. There is no atonement for good intentions, but knowing what I do now...” she trailed off, her eyes not wavering. “I would have made the same decision again. I chose to save those I promised to protect, and while it haunts my very soul to know what came of my actions, I kept my word and you are all here and not at the mercy of the Falmer. I know you weren’t fond of that prospect.”

“Fuck you.” Daro’Vasora repeated, her teeth grinding. “You are not going to manipulate me into thanking you for sparing me from what those monsters would have done to me. But…” she struggled with what she was about to say. “I do not think I would have chosen differently. I am a selfish cur and I won’t apologize for it, and I’m a damned hypocrite. I’m never going to forgive you for what you did, but… ugh. Alkosh damn it, I understand it. However, you’re always going to be the reason that I lost him.” She said bitterly, her eyes clenching even tighter, her claws’ points digging into her palms, eight little daggers that hurt, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel the pain.

“Do you think he would have made the same choice?” Rhea asked, catching Daro’Vasora off guard. A momentary flare of fury filled her before the rational part of her mind was choked by the question. The realization, and the shame, hurt her.

“No. Zegol… he was a softie.” She said, mostly to herself. The playful teasing words about the kind, selfless spirit of the man that she often came back to her, and she choked on the word. The realization that he was always a much better person that she’d ever be, and that he wouldn’t have hesitated to sacrifice himself to save her burned like her heart was turning to ash in her chest. Daro’Vasora curled over, shaking, her body rocking with quiet, restrained sobs. He would be so ashamed, he should hate me, he should- her mind began to race, but a hand was placed on her shoulder, and then arms wrapped around her protectively. Despite her misgiving, her loathing, Daro’Vasora reached out and grabbed the arm for support, accepting the support.

Rhea didn’t say anything until Daro’Vasora had stopped shaking, a series of sniffles escaping her muzzle. “I… shit. I don’t know.” The words came without thought or care, but the caustic tone she had carried largely dissipated.

“What were you planning on doing with his belongings?” Rhea asked quietly, letting go, but returned the grip Daro’Vasora held. The Khajiit stared down at the papers, her tears having wet them like raindrops. “I couldn’t bury his body. I wanted to give him a burial. I don’t know how.” She managed, the words coming like staccato sentences. Her defences crumbled; she felt like a cub again. “I never learned about his culture, not really. I don’t know how to send him off. I don’t want to make a mistake.”

“Whatever words come to your heart, they will suffice.” Rhea said, reassuring her. “You don’t strike me as a temple-goer, and if he wasn’t either, I think he’d just be happy to know you’re safe and thinking of him. Just say the words you never could.” She moved the Khajiit’s hand to close upon the amulet again. “The choice is yours, but if you’ll take the word of a fool, hold onto his affects. That way he’ll always be with you. I promise I’ll make proper arrangements for a funeral in Skingrad for him.”

Daro’Vasora nodded slightly, her gaze locked onto Zegol’s words below.

“I’ll make sure no one bothers you, Vasora. You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for, and that you grieve for someone you love tells me that you loved him as much as he loved you. I think Latro saw that about you.” Rhea stood, placing her hand on Daro’Vasora’s shoulder once more. “Come to the fire when you’re ready. I’ll make sure there’s some food for you if you want it.” She said as a way of parting, carefully tracing her steps back to the fire, leaving Daro’Vasora to her own devices.

As she carefully folded the pages once more and slid them back in the leather envelope that they had been kept in, she felt as if a strong set of hands were guiding her own. She looked up, at Massar’s light above. A familiar laugh that only she could hear sounded in the night.

---

The small fire crackled invitingly, large enough to keep feet warm and provide just enough light. Judena stretched out her long legs to do just that, warm her feet. Boots at her side she flexed her scaly toes. Having eaten her small portion of rations, she indulged in a pickled treat to help ease the hurt of the day. Her mind may not remember in the morning but her heart would ache still.

She had finished writing her notes for the day, understandably others around the fire were hard pressed to distract themselves or to try to sleep. The new face of the finely dressed breton woman caught Judena’s attention, she carried herself with surely bred nobility and a higher station of life.

Curiosity was at least the most simple distraction for the likes of the argonian.

Judena slipped on her boots then circled around the fire approaching Raelynn.

Raelynn had been glancing over at the Argonian between sips from a small cup of tea brewed from some wild flowers she had managed to pick up from around the campsite. She left the pot simmering beside the flames of the fire to keep warm, and she wrapped her cloak around herself just a touch tighter. The journey across the waters had chilled her to the bone. She had already thrust a cup of the tea into the hands of Alim. She was only slightly more fond of him than the others.

“It’s blue and purple wild flower, it’s not much but it’s the best I can offer to you. May it keep you warm, friend…” she let the enunciation roll off her tongue on the final word, she had noticed him eying her over while they were in the face of danger - and even though that was acceptable then, for now it simply wouldn’t do. She couldn’t be seen to be cosying up to this one in front of his group.

Certainly not now that she had spotted the older Imperial gentleman, anyway. His presence was commanding in the way that only a true Knight’s was. With one look up and down she had read him like a book, and was excited at the prospect of getting to know him in the near future.

As she gazed over at Gaius, she spotted in her peripherals the Argonian making way over to her. She clutched her hands around the cup a little tighter and did her absolute best to crack a smile. She had clocked that the creature had done the decent thing and put her boots back on…

For Alim’s part, he didn’t seem very forward compared to how he presented himself during the rescue. He often had a flair for the dramatic and was more addicted to high stakes actions than most were. As the danger had abated, so had his libito for the most part. Oh, Raelynn was a pretty woman, but Alim was merely glad to see most people had gotten out safe. He worried for Arinfare though. He should have stayed with her…

“Ah, thank you.” He said, accepting the cup from Raelynn. Well, at least he had saved someone during the invasion. He might have heard the inflection of her voice at the end if he wasn’t lost in thought. Alim took a sip, and it did indeed warm him. It was slightly bitter, but still good considering what limited ingredients they had. Jude approaching perked him up however. “Jude!” He said brightly. “Let me introduce you to a pretty woman I picked up in the city.” He gave a wink. “Raelynn, Jude. Jude, Raelynn.”

Judena cracked a classic argonian smile, all lips and no teeth. “Good evening, Raelynn. Judena Callisar.” She beamed at Alim. Taking a seat on the other side of Raelynn, “I am glad you could join us in relative safety, with Alad to thank. He is quite sneaky and very proficient with sword in hand. I cannot remember why I believe that but I have a good instinct about these things.”

“You dress in fine thread, were you a noble? You speak quite well.” Judena asked, she shuffled her logbook out of her shirt ready to commit their conversation to memory. Feeling like something was off she discreetly flipped back a page and reread it. “Apologies, Alim forgive this dusty mind of mine.”

“Charmed…” she responded slowly, making eye contact with Judena as she sat down beside her. Raelynn’s brow raised slightly as she took a sip from the cup drinking in every word from Judena’s mouth. At least she had taste, she could see that Raelynn was dressed well, and perhaps it was this sincere and curious observation that softened Raelynn’s composure and warmed her ever so…

“This? This was… a gift of sorts, a thank you for a favour…” The moonlight cast a glow on the Breton’s face, and the warmth of the flames had finally brought a touch of pink back to her face. She smiled and brushed a loose strand of her behind her ear before continuing; “I am not a noble by birth - but I was fortunate in life to have good parentage…”

“Your threads are…. Interesting, are they special?” She could see that Judena was dressed in mage robes. She did wonder what kind of magic she practiced. As she made looked up at Judena,, she took note of the golden colours speckled throughout her eyes. They were actually rather beautiful in the combination of moonlight and flame.

“My mage robes? There is nothing special about them. I thought of enchanting some clothing to help support my alteration spells but never remembered to visit the local enchanter. They were what I was wearing before fleeing the city, always have a spare set at the University.” Her smile dimmed considerably, looking down to the pages. “Assuming the University is still standing. It survived the Oblivion Crisis and being sacked during the Great War. I believe it can survive the Dwemer as well, beings of logic would not destroy a place of great knowledge.”

“True or not, in that I take a small comfort.” Jude replied, she returned her attention to Raelynn. “I had been hoping to celebrate my naming day on the twenty-eighth in the city. Walk to Ulrich’s Bakery, spend the day at the Arboretum, perhaps buy myself a bottle of wine.” She sighed wistfully, realizing how arbitrary her complaint may have sounded, “Please do not mistake me, I am grateful knowing I will survive to see my naming day this year. Many cannot say the same.”

It didn’t sound arbitrary at all. In fact for some reason it was when Jude said it that Raelynn really began to take in what had happened, and responded with a sharp giggle. “I’m sorry… I don’t mean to laugh… I just…. I don’t really know how else to react…” It was a combination of shock and horror, and yes, not knowing what to do. The fair Breton composed herself, but took one glance at Alim to the left of her and started up again.

She didn’t mean to be offensive to anyone, but she couldn’t control it.

“I mean, really, Dwemer?!”

“Whole city - destroyed and sacked.”

“Thousands dead…”

Her laugh slowed to punctuate the last words from her lips, and then she looked down. Her entire being felt hollow. Like the lightest touch would shatter her into pieces. “...All of them dead…” she said quietly, returning to her tea, eyes on the ground.

Alim had simply sat in silence, happy that their new addition and Jude were really seeming to enjoy one another, oddly enough. But it was nice.

The adventurer patted Raelynn’s shoulder lightly, giving her a nod. His look was surprisingly soldierly, as if he was helping a fellow comrade in arms rather than a (seemingly) frail woman. It was best to encourage; to show feelings needed to be controlled rather than suppressed. Alim might enjoy pretty women for obvious reasons, but he was an adventurer and soldier of fortune, first and foremost. He was a professional, and he learned to cope with loss a long time ago. Of course, this scale of attack was even beyond him. But the Dwemer would pay for this. Right now, they all needed to cope and find their footing.

He turned to Judena, and managed a smile. “We’ll just need to get you a bottle of wine elsewhere.” He said, giving a wink. “You didn’t tell me your birthday was coming up, anyway.” His next question was a sincere one, because he had no idea. “How long do Argonians live?”

“The Empire and its Imperial City has risen from the ashes of war and I believe it will again.” Judena said reassuringly to Raelynn, not perturbed by her laughter. It was a another form of sadness.

Judena looked to Alim, beaming at his suggestion of wine. “Name Day,” She corrected. “We certainly do not live as long as Mer but we live longer than Men. I will be sixty one. My father lived until he was one hundred and forty seven, which is about a decade longer than we expected him to live. Argonians do celebrate the day of their birth with their Hist, give thanks but some years it is not as easy to travel back to Argonia.”

She folded her hands over the pages of her logbook, “I have lived a fairly exciting life, I have found passion and work for what I can do and have travelled to see all the great provinces of Tamriel. I take my day of birth to reflect as best I can, every year I wish to be a little braver than I was the year before.” She reached for her bag, filled with unopened letters - all from the same person. “May be forced to do so before I am ready this year but such is the world we live in. Certainly will not be the first time any one of us have been pushed into deeper waters before one is ready to swim.”

She pulled at a smile, clutching the bag. “Thankfully I am quite good at swimming.”

Alim smiled too, truly feeling a warmth for his friend. “You’re good at a lot of things.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

---

Once Alim had left Raelynn and Jude to their own devices, he decided to take a breather and head to the edge of camp. He needed some fresh air, and the fire ruined his night vision. The dark was swiftly approaching and he still felt he played the role of vanguard and experienced adventurer of their troop. Might as well continue to play the part.

Alim stepped off the rise in the ground and with a few agile steps over a few oddly placed rocks embedded into the ground, he made it to the tree line. However, as soon as he got there he saw the faintest flicker of movement to his left. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw the Khajiit, Daro’Vasora leaning against one of the sparse trees near camp.

“Not feeling sociable?” Alim asked.

“Whatever could have offered that observation?” she replied tersely, her arms crossed tight across her chest. She hadn’t moved from the spot since Rhea had come to speak with her, and she was not ready to laugh or joke or join in the speculation of what on Nirn was going on. Her mind stewed upon so many things, too many things, and the intrusion bothered her.

Still, she realized that she was being unfair. Alim hadn’t done anything to earn her ire, and there were worse things than people checking to see if she was holding up or falling apart. In truth, she didn’t know what the truth of that was yet, either.

“There’s a lot on my mind. I handle things better when I’m on my own.” she replied, her arms sliding forward so her wrists were resting on her knees. “Why are you here, looking for better company?”

“I suppose I was here for the same reason you are.” He admitted, grabbing one of the low branches of the tree he stood next to, simply letting his legs and body unwind as he held himself up by his grip. “Normally I would leave you alone, but if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I was wondering what part of Elsweyr you were from. I don’t know if I’ve told you but I spent some time there.”

“I’m not.” Daro’Vasora replied, more warily than blunt. “Born and raised in Cyrodiil, even come from a wealthy family. Do you assume all Khajiit come from Elsweyr, or do you just assume everyone fits tidily into their ancestral homelands?” she replied, taking a stick she had whittled down the bark and sliding it between her teeth.

“Well I was raised in High Rock, so not particularly,” he said with a grin. He doubted Daro would be able to tell he had some Breton blood, but even if she could, he still very much resembled a resident of Hammerfell. “I simply thought you’d been there, or at least feel ties to it. I always felt like Hammerfell was home, even if I didn’t visit it until I’d become a man.”

“Wealthy families aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they?” He said, more talking to himself. Of course, he knew you were lucky when it came to financial needs. But sometimes there was a lack of care or pragmatic closeness between family and friends.

Daro’Vasora shook her head. “No. Never been there, don’t care to. Deserts have never interested me, nor do tropical diseases. Sure, there’s some interesting ruins that are remarkably well preserved in the North, but getting to them would be quite a bother and the nomads would not take kindly to an outsider plundering their heritage. So if you aren’t of Hammerfell, why dress the part? Cultural appropriation?” she asked, stretching her legs out before her. Her teeth worked their way through the stick.

“Are you insinuating I have issues with my family?” she asked, as if trying to lead Alim into stumbling over himself. If he wanted to pester her, she was going to enjoy herself at the very least.

Alim shrugged, though he gave an easy smile. “I lived there for a time after I left High Rock. I might have been born there, according to what I was told. Thought I’d go back and see where my mother was from. Plus, it was on the way to the center of Tamriel, I’d need to go through it eventually.” He laughed. “It was actually fun, even though I never did find her. But the experiences outweighed the disappointment.”

At her question, he pushed off with his feet and swung under the tree branch he gripped to give him a small amount of air before he let go, landing casually and pointing at Daro’Vasora. “Hey, you said it, not me.” He joked. Though his face sobered enough quickly. “But I suppose we don’t all have the same family, even if they have similar means.”

“You never knew your mother?” The Khajiit asked, blinking slowly. She recalled how comparatively normal her family had been compared to many she had met on the road. She could see how the absence of a mother figure in Alim’s life probably led to his current flamboyant attitude. “So, dysfunctional and absent family with a lot of money. What’s the story behind that? How did you come to be talking with women in the brush instead of, I don’t know, revelling in some lucrative family trade?”

Alim took a moment to respond, opening his mouth and thinking in real time. “A bastard never feels at home, I guess.” He said, crossing his arms. “I acted out as a kid. Then when I grew addicted to it...I suppose I enjoyed taking risks because why stay home when you’re the second rate son? I wanted to succeed and do glorious deeds. I got my wish, in a way. It cost me a few things, and I have a regret or two. But since I left High Rock, it’s been one adventure after another.”

“I could never live with myself as the family clerk. It might be the warrior blood of Hammerfell, or me hearing too many stories of the Knightly Orders of High Rock as a kid. But staying still and safe just never sat well with me.” He grinned at that, as if happy at a joke he had with himself. “And what about you? What led you into the depths of a Dwemer ruin if your home life was fine?”

“Oh, it was fine. Just dreadfully boring. My mother’s a highly positioned member of a count’s court, my father’s a seafaring merchant. Never wanted for anything growing up, never really felt challenged. Like you, I acted out to see what I could get away with. The thrill of doing things I wasn’t supposed to made me feel an excitement I was lacking in my life, and it’s the reason my honourific is Daro… tends to happen when you get caught doing something stupid when you think you’re more clever than you are.” Daro’Vasora explained evenly, her expression unshifting.

“Anyways, long story short, being under house arrest in a castle cleaning chamber pots and dusty shelves let me have access to a rather sizable library full of rather creative tales and tomes about this historical figure and that and some clues where something valuable was still waiting to be found. My father decided to help me channel this sudden passion of mine and sent me to…” she trailed off, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, her hands working in and out of fists as the memories came flooding back. Zegol’s face filled her mind and she fought the urge to have an emotional break in front of this nosy shit that had no concept of privacy.

“Look, I’d rather not get into it. I don’t know you, and for all I know, after we get to Skingrad, I’ll never see you again, so why the sudden interest in someone you’ve barely spared three sentences for before?” Daro’Vasora asked tersely.

The tone gave Alim pause. He hadn’t felt as if he’d been intruding. He’d known a few hard asses in his time, and he supposed he should have figured she would be one. Maybe the Dwemer attack on the city muddled his head more than he first thought, and he couldn’t read people as well at the moment. What he needed was a long sleep.

“I didn’t mean to pry, sorry.” He said, holding his hands up. “I just never made a friend without findin-...ok that’s not true. When I was a sailor I made a few friends without actually talking to them. But as a traveler on land, when there’s nothing to kill but time, why not talk?”

Daro’Vasora shrugged, looking back towards the group, the fire. “I’ve never been one to get attached. People come and go, more often than not, they stab you in the back. If you assume everyone’s an asshole, they can’t let you down.” She replied, sighing. Her eyes met Alim. “I don’t know if I should apologize or not. I just… I lost someone in the city. It’s fresh.” Her teeth bought into the stick and it snapped between her teeth. The Khajiit spat it out, hating the feeling of being exposed and vulnerable. “And Latro’s been on my mind. I invited him to my mentor’s place, they’re gone now.”

Her words sunk in, and Alim nodded. He could empathise, though he had been so busy cheering up Jude and Raelynn that he hadn’t had the time to absorb it. “You know I saved Anifare before the attack even happened,” he recalled, sitting down and gazing inwardly. “I gave her my cloak and I escorted her to the library and then...right after we separated, the Dwemer invaded. I should have stayed with her, but...I haven’t seen her since.” The Redguard twiddled his thumbs. “I didn’t know her that well, but from talking she was a sweet woman. I began to consider her a friend and now she’s...probably dead.”

He sighed and looked up at Daro for a moment, and then looked away again. “I think we all need some time. I’m just a man of action. If I sit still, I dwell.”

She sat in silence for a moment in contemplation. “I know I should feel guilty for surviving, but I don’t. The entire camp, gone. How many in the City? I kept my personal world small, and I form attachments with a few people and look where it gets me. I liked Latro, he’s the reason I escaped the Falmer. He was willing to give his life to save me and… I don’t know if I ever felt that. I saw him searching for a lute in the marketplace, so I took him home to give him one of mine. I never found out how he liked it.” Daro’Vasora sighed, wrapping her arms protectively about her waist. “I suppose it is a similar thing for you and Anifare. You walk a lonesome path for so long, you never realize how much you actually crave companionship. I’d like to think they’d survived, or escaped, but I know better than to hold onto hope.”

“As do I” Alim breathed, and a short silence grew between them. It was a hard fact of life than companions died along the way. There had only been a few occasions Alim had thought one dead and found out otherwise. Usually, it was the opposite…

“Then again,” he said, and gestured between the two of them. “Hope is sometimes founded on truth. You and me? We’re proof of the contrary when it comes to a lack of hope. I’ve survived a few things some didn’t believe I would. I have a feeling you’re the same. Not to mention the Dwemer attack. That will probably make it into the history books.”

He clapped his hands on his knees and let out a long breath, before hopping up. “It’s up to us to make sure those history books are Imperial.”

“It will, and some day, someone just like me will be plundering the ruins and catacombs of those who had fallen eras before and selling off their history for a few coins. History is cyclical; the actors change, but it rhymes enough that things like this aren’t that surprising. The Atmorans destroying the Snow Elves, the Reman Dynasty overthrowing what seemed like eternal elven rule, the Aldmeri Dominion rising up to prey on a weakened Mede Empire. None of this will matter before long, something else will rise to rule formerly Imperial lands, and maybe it will be the Dwemer.” Daro’Vasora noted with a scowl.

“They just never tell you that when you’re living history, it hurts and tears you apart in ways you never knew you could feel. The Dwemer may or may not make their presence last, but I’m going to make them hurt. I don’t know how, but I will find a way to tear into their weaknesses and pay them back for what they did to me and the very few people I care for. It’s a good thing I’ve spent a consider amount of time studying them; their toys might have changed, but I’m willing to bet they haven’t. They will remember me when I’m done, either as victors or their vanquished, and it will be a scar that will never heal.” Daro’Vasora was animated, almost livid; her hands were tightly wound fists and there was a fire in her eyes, the raw emotions of the day coming through.

The mixed breed spellsword wasn’t often angry. In fact he was easy going through most situations. Wars happen. Famines and plagues occur. People are born and pass away...usually he did his best not to let it bother him unless something harmed one of his friends. But he had to admit that was exactly what had happened here today. And all of those innocents…

Alim held his hand out to clasp Daro’Vasora’s arm, and he gave a nod. He held no jest or mirth in his eyes, only confirmation. “We’ll make them pay.”

“Yeah.” She agreed, not knowing what to make of Alim. “So, is there any food left? Hard to plot an insurrection on an empty stomach.”

The spellsword rolled his eyes, and produced a biscuit out of belt, indicating he stole an extra one. “As far as the others know, no.” He handed it to her.

Brought to you in part by, @Dervish and I.

4th Second Seed, 4E208, outside the gates of Skingrad…

It had been slow going on foot through the woods, the group spent several days roughing it in the forests, and through the fields with only each other for company, and not to mention the insufferable springtime insects. However, the journey wasn’t entirely without charm as fireflies and the rare Will O’ Wisp illuminated the night skies, the weather had proven to be quite mild. By the time they managed to reach the road heading towards Skingrad, it was almost easy to forget that the Dwemer had forced them out of the city, and why they were on the road to make for a distant city. A wagon happened upon the group early one morning, the driver and his wife, along with their daughter made a simple and effective offer; the group wouldn’t have to walk if they would keep them safe for the remainder of the trip. And so, exhausted and probably filthy, the group climbed aboard among the supplies and for many, immediately collapsed into sleep.

The distinctive towering walls, and steepled roofs of Skingrad came into sight two days later in the midmorning. The air was chilled, and drifting gray clouds hinted at an early morning rainstorm. Outside the walls stood a veritable tent city; a great number of Imperial City refugees had fled from the attack, finding their way to the city, just as the group had done, and yet, it would seem that all newcomers were denied entry. Leaving the remainder of the company behind, Rhea, Daro’Vasora and Brynja took it upon themselves to uncover the reason behind it all. The tent city proved a mangled, writhing mass of chaos; babies cried, children clung to their parents, and the adults were grim faced. There was little order amongst the refugees, save for the new muddied paths emerging from that morning’s rainstorm. All three were footsore, and in need of a hot bath, the cries of distraught children did little to soothe Brynja’s frayed nerves. Rhea led the way through the masses, sparing sympathetic glances at mothers comforting their children. These people were terrified. Plain and simple.

Stopping to speak with some of the refugees, Rhea discerned that they all had arrived, more or less, within the past couple days, and only two days ago, the gates to the city closed, denying entry to those seeking refuge. Many city residents that ended up in Skingrad were uncertain of their livelihoods, where would they go from here, and just who exactly were those in the airships? Asides from that, Rhea and the others were able to glean little information from them, and decided to find someone in charge to speak with, whether it was a city guard or even a city official.

On their way over to the main gate, a relatively short, and stocky Imperial man caught sight of the trio, and approached them with a wave of his hand, “Well look at you lot!” He called, slipping past two men looking rather upset after being turned away from the gate. Brynja’s hand traveled to the hilt of her sword as Rhea turned to address him. She could see that he was much older than her, perhaps a couple years past his fortieth name day. His scalp gleamed in the mid morning sun on account of baldness.

“Don’t suppose you’d be keen on joining our militia?” He asked, eyeing the three women before him.

“Militia?” Brynja responded, her brows knitted together.

“Aye, we’re the Colovian Rangers. Guard ain’t doing shit about what happened with the Imperial City, and I don’t think they quite believe these folks,” he swung his hand to indicate the refugees.

“Uh-huh. You sure you aren’t just trying to cull the population before they do something stupid like storm the walls before hunger sets in?” Daro’Vasora asked the man dryly. If he was frustrated or offended, he didn’t show it. The man had a resolve to him that even the Khajiit couldn’t dismiss off hand as a mindless dreamer.

“You’re a perceptive one, friend, but you’ve gotten the intention wrong.” He said, looking over to Brynja and offering a placating hand to gesture to keep her sword sheathed. His hand swept towards the encampment of people, the guards on the ramparts, and the growing sense of unease. “You don’t have a good chunk of the Capital’s population show up at your gates and let them in; there simply isn’t enough food or shelter for all of the people. Count Hassildor is a good man, even if he’s a vampire who’s been in office for hundreds of years, he looks after his people and he’s certainly trying to figure out how to deal with the thousands of people suddenly at the gates. I served in the Great War; I’ve seen what happens to people when they begin to starve, when no purpose guides them except for survival. So on that count, yes, I’m trying to get people away from here.” he smashed his fist into a palm, his gauntlet ringing with metal on metal. “I’m going to give them a purpose.”

“Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Brutus Denian, an associate of the Fighter’s Guild. It’s my duty to protect the populace, slay monsters, and eliminate potential threats that upset the balance of peace, and I’d like to think, taking the fight to a bunch of pompous bastards who came from the sky is in line with my duties, even if the good Count can’t spare his men to fight. So, with that mandate in mind, I’ve been looking for folks who look like they’re capable and haven’t been broken by these new invaders. There’s no pay as we’re a group of volunteers, but there’s always the glory. We’re going to find out where they’re weakest, and cut, and rip, and tear them apart. Stories of how Argonians repelled the Daedric invaders during the Oblivion Crisis tell an important lesson; it doesn’t matter how fierce and numerous your enemy, if you know your homeland and use it to your advantage, you can keep even the worst enemies at bay. If we can show we can hurt these invaders, well… it won’t be too hard to convince any of the Counts to lend a hand, will it?” Brutus grinned. He pointed to the North, where a series of tents apart from the others were being set up. “That’s where we’re assembling and arming up. I’d appreciate your arms and spirit, ladies, but I can understand if you aren’t eager to look for more trouble. But if you are, spread the word. They struck the first blow, we’ll make damn sure we strike the last.” With a polite nod, Brutus headed off to approach another group.

“Well, that was an interesting proposal.” Rhea observed, looking to her compatriots. “Thoughts?”

Brynja shifted uneasily, glancing between Rhea and this disappearing figure of Brutus. “Personally? I’d like to move as far away from here as possible. But,” she nodded at Rhea, “if you’re fixing on going. Then I’ll go too. After all…” she bit her lower lip. Should she say it?

“I feel like we’re the ones responsible for this whole shitstorm. So we might as well see what we’re up against.”

“Vasora?” Brynja asked, she was still clueless over what happened with Zegol, but she could tell from the past days of travel that something was eating at the Khajiit, and for once, Brynja kept out of her way.

“The Dwemer took everything from me, only fair I’m doing the same. Even if that guy isn’t on the up and up, I’m still going to make them bleed.” The Khajiit replied tersely, looking towards the camp. “I don’t care what you do, I’m going. If it’s a load of shit, I’ll move on and do it myself.”

She nodded, though uncertain exactly what it was the Dwemer took from her, Brynja turned her attention back to Rhea, “I’ll go with Vasora.”

“I’ll meet you back at camp then. I need to speak with one of the guards.” Rhea explained with a nod of her head.

Rhea continued on her path to the main gate, she had to see what she could do to get in, while Daro’Vasora shrugged and headed towards Brutus’ encampment, not initially acknowledging Brynja’s expression to join her. After a few steps, she stated, “We escaped. You don’t have to keep following me. The job’s done, we can scatter to the winds now. So why?”

The harsh question struck a painful chord in Brynja, and she wanted to tell her the truth, that, for so long, she had relied on others telling her what to do, and where to go. She had served so long as being a protector, that now, she didn’t feel needed. And by the Nine, she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“Why does it bother you?” Brynja countered, remembering how strongly the Khajiit disliked their original conversation, though she regretted the question instantly. Vasora had told her that she asked to many questions and didn’t share enough of herself.

Another shrug. “It doesn’t. I’m just used to people coming and going as soon as a job’s done. I’m not exactly your friend, whereas Rhea’s tried to be a friend to all.” The Khajiit replied. “I’ve not exactly been kind to you, so are you interested in Brutus’ sales pitch or what?”

She sighed, “Maybe… I just don’t know what to do with myself. So I keep doing the same thing over and over again until I can’t. And part of it is guilt.” She trudged alongside her.

“Our group was the one that explored the depths of the mountains and set this whole thing in motion. If no one else wants to help, and be responsible for what we’ve done, then I might as well.” It crossed her mind now.

“Did… Zegol make it out of the city?” She asked tentatively.

Daro’Vasora nearly snapped, do you see him with me?, but held her tongue. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing slowly. “I’d be with him if he did. He died protecting a couple kids, I found the bodies probably not long after the fact.” She stated in a very matter-of-fact tone, her eyes bored right ahead. The tears had already been shed, anger and malice had evaporated her sorrow into a maelstrom of hard emotion over the past few days. “I’m not going to feel guilty about what a bunch of dead monsters decided to do with their reincarnation, everything they’ve done is on them. I am not going to let them go after what family I have left.”

Gods no. Brynja couldn’t believe her ears. She didn’t say a damned thing as she listened to Vasora speak. Shame followed the last of her words, leaving Brynja to rake her mind for something to say.

“I am sorry Vasora. I truly am, and I understand your pain.” Her mind wandered to the Civil War, and how she lost much more than what she was looking for.

“There was a family dispute during the Civil War. My father and eldest brother supported the Rebellion, while my other brother aligned his ideals with the Legion. My whole family was split in two. For the first few months, I had to help my mother patch up the wounded soldiers that came into the city. And then a letter came. It was addressed to my mother, but I opened it anyways. My brother, Ivor, who served the Legion, was marked missing in action. I didn’t want it to be true, so I stole away one night, and set out for Solitude. They put me on as a healer, so I had first hand encounters of the dead and the dying. I don’t know how long I searched for him, but every soldier I crossed, I made sure to ask for him.” She shook her head, “I found him, alive, and for the most part, well. He was in Markarth. But what I didn’t know, was that my father and my brother Jorrid, had died months ago on the field of battle in Riften. I never had the chance to say goodbye.”

“I wish I could say I couldn’t relate, but it’s a bit fresh. My family found me to be an embarrassment and a liability, so they sent me up river to Zegol because he owed my father a favour. I still love them, and I still worry. Now, especially so with what’s going on.” Daro’Vasora admitted, her teeth grinding. “You have my genuine condolences about your family, it should be something that remains, if anything, the one certainty in life. What happened with Ivor?”

Brynja nodded at Vasora’s words, perhaps they were far more similar than the two women could begin to comprehend, “You would think so.” She gave a soft sigh, “Ivor… I’ve not wrote him in years. Mostly from shame. The last I know, he still lives at home with our mother and sister, though I’m certain Elyse, that’s my sister, has finally found some lad to marry. Far as I know, she even has a child or two by now.”

“Why was your family embarrassed over you? I mean, I’m certain my own mother felt embarrassed when her first daughter was taller than both her sons by fourteen. And more so when I refused to become a lady.” Brynja pondered the thought, wondering what Vasora could have possibly done to bring that situation upon her family. She shook her head, adding, “You don’t have to tell me. After all, we’re just strangers.”

Daro’Vasora looked over and locked eyes with Brynja, mentally weighing the Nord in her mind. She’d been mostly kind and genuine as far as Daro’Vasora was concerned, her questions seemed to come from the heart rather than finding weaknesses in her armour. She sighed, glancing around before speaking, noticing they’d entered the field between the tents of the refugee camp and the tents for the Colovian Rangers. “Daro’ isn’t my name, it’s an honourific amongst my people, kind of like how you Nords have your earned names. It means ‘thief’, or ‘clever’ roughly. I came from Leyawiin, my mother works for the Count and my father is a respected merchant, both gave me everything I could have wanted as a cub due to a respectable amount of wealth and influence. My family’s fairly well regarded down in Leyawiin, but I found it terribly boring and it doesn’t matter what race you are, if you’re a teenager and you’re bored, you act out in stupid ways.” Brynja listened close as she spoke.

“I decided to not be a good and proper young woman who knows proper court and dining etiquette, I wanted excitement. So, I began stealing small things from shipments, not because I wanted or needed them, but to see if I could. Turns out, I had a knack for that and the thrill it gave me was intoxicating. Long story short, I pushed my luck too far, got caught when I got stuck on one of my father’s boats heading off into Topal Bay for trade, and thus La’Vasora became Daro’Vasora, a prefix from her father’s mouth. I then got stuck working as a cleaner in the castle while mother was working and had no freedoms to speak of, and it became clear that staying wasn’t an option. Daro’ can open a lot of doors for you in some circles, but any that require a sterling reputation? Well, let’s just say that when your family fancies themselves more Imperial than Khajiit, you’ve basically branded yourself for life.” She explained, deciding to get it out on the table as plainly and quickly as possible. Sometimes it was better to just pull out the needle instead of leaving it in to fester.

She couldn’t help but laugh, not a loud boisterous laugh, but a soft-hearted chuckle, “I think our mother’s would have a grand old time wagging their tongues about how their daughters didn’t quite become the darling ladies they so hoped.” She blew out air across her lips, not quite a sigh, but an expressive mannerism. Her mind wandered to the first night that they had made it out of the city, and how she had revealed to Megana her sole reason why she drank. She hadn’t treated Brynja any differently, which she was grateful for. And, in this situation, Brynja presumed that she shouldn’t treat Vasora any different.

“There’s the tent.” She pointed ahead, they had finally wound their way through the masses of people, and had arrived at the aforementioned militia tent. She could see Brutus, bald head gleaming. “Well, should you ever need a blade, or a healer to tend to your wounds, I’ll be there. Now let’s go see what this razzle dazzle scheme is all about, eh?”

---

Rhea headed back to the group with grim news. She wracked her thoughts on what to say. They had come all this way just to get away from the Dwemer, and now they couldn’t even step past the city walls. She ground her teeth as she strode, her pace heavy with frustration. She felt like she was failing in all areas of her life, as a leader, as a comrade, as a friend, as a human.

“Look, I can’t let you in unless you have documentation.”, protested the guard she heckled.

“And what kind of documentation do I need, exactly?”, she pressed. Rhea wasn’t going to allow herself to be turned away so suddenly. The guard sighed, it was clear that he had a rough day handling angry refugees.

“You need a letter bearing Count Hassildor’s name, along with his royal seal stating that you are, a citizen of Skingrad.”

“Bring me your superior. I want to speak with him directly. I have vital information related to the invaders, the Dwemer” For several tense seconds the guard and Rhea held one another’s gaze, each unwillingly to bend. However, the guard broke his gaze first, leaning over to his counterpart and whispered in his ear.

“Right. You stay here. No funny business.” He said before slipping away. Minutes passed before an Imperial man in steel armor approached Rhea, the guard she hassled trailing behind him like a kicked puppy.

“Captain of the Guard, Petronius Lepidus, at your service. Marius here tells me that you are quite earnest in speaking with me? I would hope that your protests are nothing trivial?” Rhea had to admit, Petronius, as he called himself, was quite a handsome man. His jaw was square, with an aquiline nose that bore a slight hook to the left. His eyes the color of cornflowers, and he kept his brown hair cropped close, everything about him spoke of a clean-cut soldier. Even his face was devoid of facial hair.

“I have a group of highly skilled, and talented people that escaped from the Imperial City. We could be of use to the city. We could help organize this chaos. All we ask in return is entry to the city, or at least give us supplies.” Rhea put her hands on her hips.

“As much as I wish I could do that, I simply can’t. It is the orders of the Count, and it is his orders I follow. I assure you, we have the situation entirely under control. Now-” She didn’t want to hear it, especially from a pretty face like him.

“Do you even have rations going out to the people? There are women, and children out there that are terrified, hungry, and tired. Is your Count so foolish to turn a blind eye upon them? To ignore their cries for help? We can help, if you could only grant us an audience-”

“As much as I wish I could help, I cannot grant your wishes. I can pass along your message, but it would be in your best interest, if you dispersed. I follow Count Hassildor’s orders.” His hand traveled to the sword at his side.

“You’re making a grave mistake.” Rhea said, before turning away.

The grey clouds that lingered in the sky earlier that morning had all but disappeared now, leaving brilliant blue skies overhead. It did little to mask the atrocities they survived, and it only further compounded Rhea’s attitude of failure. She rounded the corner when she spotted two Thalmor agents addressing an overly large family. One was a woman, a spidery looking thing with spindly arms, and much older than her counterpart. The other reminded her of Petronius, but as an Altmer. He was exceptionally tall, passing nearly six and five feet. He had skin the color of burnished bronze, and lush locks of blond hair that was pulled back from his face into a high ponytail. Curious, she drew closer, though not close enough to draw any direct attention.

“I assure you, we hear your plight, as your Count does not. As he sits upon his throne, hiding behind these walls, Runil and I are working constantly to aid those met with such a fate. This is what little grain we could spare.” The spider woman passed a small canvas sack over to the man. Her fingers were long and knobby, and from where Rhea stood, she could see that she had equally thin features, a nose far too thin for her face, and lips that were barely there. She had platinum blonde hair piled high atop her head in an ornate braid.

“Yes… Arawen and I are doing everything within our power to lend a hand to your… children.” She watched as the one called Runil, his upper lip lifted in disgust though he tried to smile through it. Rhea noticed that a black eyepatch covered his right eye. He appeared immaculately dressed despite the current muddied streets. “We have sent letters to Anvil so that our embassy officials will take action.” The father and mother thanked the two representatives before they turned away. Rhea averted her gaze as they passed by her.

“What filthy creatures.” Runil commented, “They act no better than pigs in a pig pen.”

“My heart aches for any of our brethren trapped outside these walls, Runil. Truly, it does.”

“As does mine, Arawen. As does mine. If I had the power, why, I would extend special grants to our brethren.” Their words faded as they disappeared into the thick of the crowds.

Rhea returned to the camp moments later. Nearly everyone was present. Brynja and Daro’Vasora had yet to return from the recruiting tent. She bit her lower lip, casting her eyes towards the ground. This moment had come, and she needed to be a figure that they could rely on in this chaos, if they wished it. Clearing her throat, she began to speak.

“It appears… that all refugees are denied entry until further notice. There are no established rations going on, so what food we have… is all there is. To pass through the gates, we need a letter bearing the name of Count Hassildor, along with his royal seal to prove that we are citizens of Skingrad.” She paused briefly, “There is a volunteer company just north of the tents, they are seeking anyone willing to lend a hand. There is no pay, unless you seek revenge, then there is plenty of that. Daro’Vasora and Brynja have gone to give what help they can. They’ll need all forms of help. Healers, swords, archers, mages, everyone. If you wish to help, speak with Brutus Denian.” She turned back to the city walls, scowling. “In the meantime, I’m going to find a way to get an audience with the Count and get us into the city proper. I can understand if you all wish to part ways at this juncture, but I refuse to consider my responsibility for you all through until I know you’re safe. But for now, we need somewhere safe to rest and resupply if we’re going to move on to try our chances elsewhere.”

4th of Second Seed, 4E208 - Skingrad

---

Judena wasn’t overly bothered by the days of travel, tired much like everyone else by the time they arrived to Skingrad. Using the promise of a soft bed to give herself something to look forward to. She tried day in and day out to do her best to remain informed while sensitive. Her memory naturally gaped on the events of the Imperial City. Each day she awoke to a heavy heart, unsure why until confirmed with her logs. Eventually her mood would brighten with the rising sun, keeping strides with some of the personalities she had grown fond of in their little group. Their youthful energy, ideas, and thoughts helped the time pass easily.

They even took a moment to wish her happy name day, she was warmed by the acknowledgment and their sharp memories.

Brynja, whom she finally nailed her name reliably, helped her with preparing their evening fires. The nordic healer was stronger than the majority of their group they saved plenty of time with wood collection, able to hold several logs in her strong arms at once. It allowed for Judena to prepare each meal quickly. Meg was patient in reminding her where they were heading or pulling her back if she wondered too far from their troop. Alim’s easy charm and stories were a comfort at the nightly campfire. Even Raeylnn’s company was pleasant, she tried her best to help her feel welcome in their little group. It was difficult to judge how well Raeylnn took Judena’s mistakes in pronouncing her name, having never said a word. They were strange iterations, like trying to get the attention of a Ryon, Riley, and Ragala.

Even Jude wondered how and where such inventive names came from.

She was pleased to travel without the dreary altmer Durantel, but she was concerned for Anifaire and even the stoic Solandil. The young Altmer woman was reserved but at least not outwardly rude, she would have been valuable to speak to for observations notes in regards to the Dwemer. While Solandil was the odd one out, they hadn’t spoken more than two words between each other. She hoped for his safety as well.

In Gaius she shared their woeful feelings of the Imperial City. It was his home and where he had his family. She fell asleep peacefully when he was on watch, trusting the imperial soldier’s vigilance.

Slowly, she approached Daro’Vasora lightly at first and trying not to treat her differently than before. Her empathy renewed each day for her friend. Jude knew she’d resent it if she walked on eggshells around her. She was careful nonetheless, wishing only to give her space to grieve.

Now more strongly than ever did Judena believe in Rhea. She kept her chin up, marched and led them away from the city. It was no easy feat and the argonian did not envy her of her current position, shouldering responsibility for their survival. She held faith in the charismatic imperial woman.

While the dynamics of travelling with the group was sufficient distraction, Jude was pulled back to the letters nestled in her backpack unopened. Curiously lifting them up to the sun to read through the parchment but barely able to read a word. Tempted several times to read them but instead rereading her oldest logbook, revisiting why it would be a bad idea to acknowledge whatever her ex-wife may have written. There was no trusting her seemingly sweet and sincere words. But what would the purpose of bringing the letters with her be even if she still didn’t read them? Valuable space taken up in her pack that could be made for something more important.

Conflicted, the argonian was conflicted. She rarely found herself feeling this way, she believed she had long moved past their separation. The letters were there, threatening to reopen an old and healed scar. She resolved to get an outside opinion on the matter, perhaps she was in need of some perspective.

When they arrived to Skingrad, it was clear they were not the only ones in dire need of a safe haven. The refugee crisis was at the city’s gates. Rhea returned with some options, offering up the chance for others to move on if they so pleased. Judena saw no sense in splitting, she trusted in them.She maintained she did well with them regardless of the danger that seemed to follow them like a bad raincloud. Strangers were far more risky or carrying on alone.

Judena stepped up beside Rhea smiling down at their leader, “I am sticking with this group, I maintain that we are best suited together than apart. I would like to volunteer to resupply our foodstocks. Fishing, looking for vegetation. Unfortunately I would hinder a sneaky attempt into the city, I am difficult to hide.” She held up her pack, “However, I would trust some of my valuables for bribery to the right person. Someone who can haggle. I saved them for just this sort of occasion, it would relieve some of my pack space for more food.”

“I would also ask if someone were to be so kind to accompany me, as you are all aware I am far more reliable with a spotter. If you are weary from the journey please know I do not mind taking up the brunt of the work, all I ask is for your help to keep me on track.”

Her eyes turned to the side, squinting at the strange but unique make up of three tall Altmers heading their way. Solandil, Anifaire and begrudgingly Durantel in tow. Judena grimaced. “It seems we are rejoined by Durantel, Anifaire and Solandil once again. How… wonderful.” Her tone of voice was strange, almost akin to sarcasm.

While she was pleased to see Anifaire and by extension Solandil, she had grown used to being free of Durantel’s sharp tongue and glares.

“Fortune is with us on this day.”

While the walk through the woods had been long and tiresome, it wasn't actually the physical activity that had Meg a little down, rather the idea that at the end of the journey they could very well end up back where they started. If it had simply been her, it was likely she would have despaired and run off... somewhere. Thankfully the company of the others helped more than a little, and she found herself smiling when she thought she wouldn't. So it was with better spirits that she reached Skingrad with her companions, only to have said spirits dampened when she saw all the refugees outside the gates of the city. Meg had never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet it wasn't the sheer amount of folks that made her heart sink. Children, adults and elderly all had the same expressions of fear darkening their faces.

As Rhea, Brynja and Daro'Vasora headed through the crowd to hopefully figure out what in Talos' name was happening, Meg decided to do a little wandering of her own, though she tried not to stray too far from the group. Whether the others liked it or not, she felt a sort of kinship with them now. They had been through much together, events that would take more than a lifetime to forget. Meg felt more comfortable around even the snippier members of the group than she would with her own stepmother and brother.

Meg blinked. Her stepmother was someone who often poked about in her memories, but her little brother was hardly someone who made an occurrence. Looking away from the ground she had been concentrating on as she walked, she caught sight of a rather large family with many children. She paused in her steps before moving to the side, not wishing to be in anyone's path or being jostled by someone who didn't care. Still, her eyes remained on the family, spotting a young lad who looked no more than three or four years. I wonder how old he is now? It seemed like forever ago when she had met her little brother. Did he even remember her? "Huh." Meg scoffed at her own foolish thoughts. She could hardly expect the child to think of her when she hardly did of him, and while that did sadden her, it was a small relief as well. One less person to miss her if she didn't make it out of whatever this was alive.

Her father though... Scuffing the ground with her boot, she tried to ignore thoughts of him, but with everyone so preoccupied with their own worries, there was no one to steer her away from her grim thoughts. I wonder if they know what happened to Jerall Mountain back in Whiterun. Or what happened in Imperial city... For all her father knew though, she could very well have been treasure hunting in some snow-covered caverns under Winterhold. At least, that's what she hoped... there was no sense in him worrying about her.

I really should go writin' him a letter soon- Meg's thoughts were interrupted, her eyes shifting away from the boy to two newcomers who were addressing the parents of the many children. "Hm..." Even from her distance she could see the barely hidden disdain in their words and expressions. Unknowingly her hands curled into fists, her irritation barely contained when they passed by her, especially when she heard the spiteful words they had to say about the family. It took every fiber of her being not to say something scathing to them; perhaps it was actually the sight of Rhea that caused her to change her mind.

To say she was shocked by what Rhea had to say would be a lie, even if it was a rather unpleasant bit of news. The choice to follow after Brynja and Daro'Vasora was very tempting as well, but Judena's words also meant something important to her, something she had just been thinking about. Once more the idea of having more bonds with this group than her own family pulled at her heartstrings.

It took quite a lot of chewing on her lip before she finally spoke aloud.

"I wanna help people too, but..." She let out a breath. "I havta agree with Judena. I don' quite feel ready t'leave this group yet... So I'mma stay. I'll help you, Jude, if you're fine with that."

Meg turned to smile at the older Argonian, but she too ended up distracted with the sight of the three familiar Altmer. "Well... huh." Now that was a surprise.

What would happen now, with the mountain blown apart? Would the metal creatures dwelling within remain guarding the halls of their dead masters, or would they spill into civilisation with the way open for them? The thought of the behemoth that had stalked the stone ceilings crawling over innocent cities was spine-chilling. Sol was hardly a champion for the people, but to leave anyone to a fate such as that would be abominable. Not that there was anything he could do by himself about it... for now, all he could was follow instructions given. Relax in the city for three days, and then meet up at Rhea's house for payment.

As if Solandil could relax.

It was unsettling, walking those unwelcomingly familiar streets again. The scars of war had mostly vanished from the spick and span city, but Sol could still taste the scent of smoke and blood on the air as if he were a soldier again. This was his first time back in Imperial City since the death of his beloved brother and his abandonment of his people and army. Suffice to say, Sol was eager to take his payment and get the hell out of the city. Where to, he didn't know - with luck he could pick up a new contract before his departure and then be on his way for future job prospects.

Due to his payment being delayed by another three days, Sol made do with the cheapest inn he could find, The Bloated Float. Despite his aversion to swimming, he'd always found the bobbing of ships on the water quite comforting, in a way. Even when sailing away from Valinor in a crammed navy ship, he'd caught better rest there than some nights in his own regal home. Still, the events that had transpired only some hours before meant for restlessness, no matter how dog-tired he felt. After settling into his modest room on board the ship, Sol dwindled while perched on his bed, long pale fingers drumming his bent knees idly. He had three days to entertain himself without spending too much money. That meant no drinking at the inns, no matter how tempting it was to whittle away his time there. He had no patience to lend himself to the fighting pits, certainly not in his current state. Too fatigued, and still sore from his most recent adventure gone awry.

Thumbing his last few septims that lay in the palm of his hand, Sol scowled at the meagre amount. Just 12 left over from the nights paid here (Sol had managed to haggle the innkeep down from 20 to 15 for two nights, after a brief look at the somewhat dilapidated quarters, and an intimidating glare that soon followed.). Sighing and pocketing the remainder of his money, laying back on the creaky bed and closing his eyes. It had been a long day.

Most of his first day was spent holed up in the small room, sleeping and keeping to himself. He had no desire to go out and mingle with the others in the inn, nor did he want to be tempted to throw his money away on alcohol. It was also easier to avoid the chatter from within about what had happened in the Jerall Mountains. News travelled fast, and people had already been talking about the disaster when the group had arrived in Imperial City. He had no patience for their theories about what may have happened, especially when he knew the truth. Well... some of the truth, anyway. He still had no idea what had really created such a cataclysmic event, nor what the purpose behind such a construct was. All he knew was his employer's - and by default, his - hands in it. Suffice to say, Solandil was ready to take his pay and never encounter Rhea again. While he held nothing personally against the woman, this job was turning out to be far too much trouble than it was worth.

After spending several hours in isolation, Sol spent the law few hours before meeting up with the others stretching his legs, and eating the last of his food. It was nothing too expensive; some bread, cheese, even an apple. Having packed up his belongings and vacated the Bloated Float, Sol wandered around the waterfront, finding it surprisingly calm. The ghosts of his past seemed to dwindle as he made his way around the docks. Despite the hustle and bustle going about the boats there, there was an odd serenity across the bay. He hadn't ventured into this area during the war, so the peaceful water and scenery was untainted by his memories. Settling himself on the sand with his food, Sol almost found himself relaxing as he lounged and watched the world go by.

Almost relaxed, that is.

Just as he'd finished his last bite of bread, screams from the city captured his attention. Looking up into the still green-tinged sky, Sol watched on in horror as great ships descended from the sky like creatures of Oblivion.

"Oh, for the love of-!" Scrambling to his feet, Sol's swords were drawn before he'd even gained his balance. Whatever the attacking force was, they seemed to be ignoring the docks for the most part, though he knew it was only a matter of time before they'd turn their attention towards modes of transport. The waterfront would be a hotspot, and Sol very nearly turned to flee in the opposite direction before he paused, gritting his teeth. The group he had been with... it was about an hour before they were due to be at Rhea's place, but some of them could still be there. If not that, they'd definitely still be in the city. His interactions with them had been slim, but something stopped the elf from leaving the city boundaries. Faces of those he had trawled through the darkness with flashed across his mind, and Solandil grimaced. Maybe the more-than expected treacherous adventure had formed bonds he hadn't anticipated.

"I still need paying." He muttered darkly to no-one in particular, before sprinting towards the gates to the Temple District, ready for a fight.

---

---

As he stalked through the shadows of the great Imperial City, Mortalmo lips moved fervently in silent, desperate prayer. Syrabane and Magnus, keep his connection to the mystic strong against the coming trials. Y’ffre, ensure that he remain swift and sure-footed when the time comes to flee or to charge. Xarxes, teach him the sagacity to make only wise decisions in the face of uncertainty. Mara, though they are far and scattered, keep those few he still holds dear safe from harm. Phynaster, in his absence, safeguard his home and its inhabitants from the growing threat. Stendarr, grant him the courage to always walk the right path, regardless of darker temptations. Trinimac, lend him the strength needed to overcome any obstacle the tumultuous future should place before him. And Auri-El, guide his every step so that never does he stray from the divine plan. The words repeated themselves in Mortalmo’s mind over and over again as he sought divine protection and guidance from his gods. Yet even as his mind raced, his eyes were sharp and steady, his muscles taut as he crept along. Agitated as Mortalmo was, the incessant prayers did much to drown out the anxious and panicked thoughts that endeavored to arise within his psyche. So he continued his journey, hurrying as fast as he dared while attempting to avoid the detection of the dwemer constructs. He had to find Anifaire, and quickly.

The two of them had spent a large portion of their first day within the city in one another’s company. The poor girl had seemed utterly lost mere moments after stepping within the city proper. It was his simple duty, then, to accompany her until she gained a sense of comfort. The two had shared a lovely stroll through the gardens, reminiscing together on the virtue of their homeland. It was a comfort for Mortalmo to know that, green as she was, Anifaire was still armed with cultural pride befitting of her station. That was days ago now though, and the subject of their next meeting would be far more grim. If the gods were good, Mortalmo thought, there would be a next time. As he approached an intersection in the roads, he paused to consider what route would get him to what he hoped was Anifaire’s current location fastest. An ominous hiss disrupted his thought process, however, and it was only through the use of a hastily casted ward that a dwemer sphere’s blade slid harmlessly off of the magical barrier, rather than digging deep into the Altmer’s flesh. Cursing, Mortalmo rose to his full height, extending an open palm to his side as a purple blade, shimmering with ethereal energy, found purchase in his grip. Deflecting another stab, Mortalmo dispelled the ward before swinging at the construct with cold fury.

---

---

As he re-entered the city, Sol realised several things. Firstly, he didn't recognise the attackers. They had with them machines very similar from the Dwemer ruins, even wearing armour that was of Dwemer design. This sent a cold shiver down Solandil's spine, but he was too busy evading capture and fighting to pay much attention to connect the dots. It was here he realised the second thing: He was better at sneaking than he'd realised. Although not great enough to avoid complete detection (And having to put down several attackers, all automatons), he was able to sneak quite far into the city. Thirdly, as he found himself in a very unfamiliar Market District, Sol realised that he didn't know the City as well as he thought, and was quite lost. Finding the others in his group seemed a pointless endeavour at this point, and the Altmer was about ready to leave when he caught sight of a very familiar face.

"What are you doing up there?" He shouted incredulously to Anifaire, seeing her clutching at the balcony above. The girl was either hopelessly lost or just hopeless. Either way, he couldn't believe she'd been allowed on the expedition what with being so green.

"Solandil?" Anifaire scrambled to her feet, gripping the balcony rail until her fingers turned white. "I'm... I'm stuck. Sort of. There were a lot of Spheres." She glanced around the balcony for a handhold to climb back over the the crates. Finding one, she swung a leg over the rail, looking nervously at the ground. "I'll, uh... come down, now." She stepped out precariously, gripping a windowsill, and finally landed on the stacked crates. From there, she scrambled back down to the street, nearly losing her balance once, but managing to catch herself.

Well, she didn't look very stuck, which was Sol's first thought as he waited by impatiently, looking all around him as he waited for her. Their foes could spring from anywhere, and the pale Altmer was visibly ansty about sticking in one place for too long; bouncing on the balls of his feet, partially crouched and hands gripping his sword hilts tighter than a miser holds his purse. Sol wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but it didn't take much thought for it to connect to their business in the Jerall Mountains. The two events were too close to one another to not be related.

As Anifaire stumbled to his side, now off the balcony, Sol pondered momentarily as to why he had stopped to help her. As much as he liked to pretend he was a self-serving, save-your-own-skin type, he couldn't stop himself from playing the hero. Telling himself it was just because he knew her face, Sol shrugged off his self-doubts and scanned the streets before looking to the younger Altmer woman.

"We need to get out of the city." He said quietly, as if their very conversation was enough to draw unwanted attention amidst the chaos of the battles on the streets. Going back the way he'd come seemed like the best idea, but it was a long way back to the Waterfront. Finding the nearest exit would be their best bet, and then finding whatever group they could to survive in.

Of all the companions Anifaire could've run into, Sol was probably somewhere in the middle of the road. She hadn't talked very much with him, and he was quite funny looking, but he was an Altmer, at least, so there was some commonality. It could've been a stranger, who may have totally abandoned her when he saw how useless she was in a fight. She spared a thought for those she'd become more accustomed to in her travels. Durantel, had he left the city? Or Judena, the strange Argonian. Alim? Instead of pondering her new.. companions, she turned her attention to Solandil, wondering if they were even going to get out of the city. Was she going to die here, after surviving that expedition?

"Do you have any idea how?" she answered.

"Of cours-" Sol began blurting out the words before he stopped himself, looking around him. Could he remember the way out? So focused on his sneaking and survival, Solandil once again found himself lost in the city. Strange, how it was so familiar in this time that he could almost be back to his first and only visit - but also so unfamiliar that he couldn't attempt to find his bearings. The wilderness would be easier and safer to trek through than the maze of increasingly bloodied stone that surrounded them.

Still wheeling around in an attempt to avoid danger and find an exit, Sol paused as he forced logic into his panicked mind. Think. There were only certain exits in the Imperial City, and all of them could be found on the towering marble walls that surrounded the area. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he locked eyes with Anifaire.

"We'll make for the walls. Whichever way we go, we'll find a gate, and after that, our group." Though he still had no idea how to find the group, he felt it appropriate to add it to the plan. Perhaps Anifaire had some kind of magical trick up her sleeve to help in this.

"I hope you know the way around," Anifaire replied. I've already been lost a few times. It was really impossible to tell that she'd ever lived in the city. With someone else to rely on, she felt less panicked and gestured for Sol to lead the way. She tried to keep her head clear and figure out if there was anything she ould do to help them out of the situation, perhaps make them invisible? But no, she didn't have enough of a grasp on the spell to be confident in that.

In her head, she weighed the possibilities of just how bad things could be. Falmer, or Dwemer and automations? Somehow, she thought she'd rather go back to crisping Falmer. That, she thought she might be able to repeat. But the automations were metal, and she doubted fire would do them in very quickly.

Not bothering to answer Anifaire - because the answer would be a very embarassing 'no' - Solandil beckoned for her to follow as he began skirting the edges of the buildings, swords still drawn ready. He wondered if the others in the group would have an answer for what evil had befallen the city. It was connected to their excavation for sure, but how was it connected? Questions Solandil didn't have an answer to, nor would he if they died in this city.

By sheer dumb luck, Solandil and Anifaire hadn't even made it to the city walls before coming across another of their group. Surrounded by the same mechanical monstrosities that had attacked Sol earlier, Mortalmo stood in the streets alone. Whether others of the group were nearby, Sol couldn't see any either dead or alive - but it was a relief to see another face he knew.

"Durantel! Have you met any others?" Calling to his fellow Altmer, Sol continued scanning the area for more foes. They were literally descending from the sky, so he didn't have the time to let his guard drop for even a second.

The older Altmer grunted as he forced the blade of the automaton away from him, before swiping his own weapon clean through the machine's narrow midsection. The thing clattered loudly to the stonework in two severed pieces. Mortalmo released a thin sigh as his sword faded into whisps of violet smoke. The single construct hadn't been more than a trifle, though a group of those things posed an undeniable threat. There were surely enough roaming the city to overpower any lone warrior. It was only then that he properly noticed the source of the inquiry cast his way moments ago. Peering towards the pair, creases of relief appeared across his face as he glanced in Anifaire's direction, before fixing Solandil with an even stare. Eyes glancing around warily, Mortalmo began to speak, approaching the two elves. "I was looking for this one," He said, extending a hand in the direction of the fairer Altmer, before reaching out with the same hand towards Solandil. "Though it is just as fortunate to see that you are well."

"It is good to see you are safe, Durantel," Anifaire greeted. She felt somewhat better about the situation since the other Altmer had arrived, and was grateful he had been seeking her. Surely, he would know how to get out of the city. She subsided, leaving the decision making to the others as she was accustomed to doing when in her homeland. If it wasn't academic, she rarely spoke out of turn, and especially in a tense situation such as this one, she found comfort in the normality.

"Aye, it's good to see you as well." Judging by Durantel's answer, he was alone in his battles. At least now the three of them together had a fighting chance to get out of this godsforsaken city in one piece. "We need to leave, as soon as possible. If there are others in the group still alive, chances are that they've fled the city and are probably making for the nearest safe haven." Thinking from the top of his head, there were several cities roughly the same distance away if one didn't factor in terrain. Cheydinhal, Chorrol, Bruma and Skingrad. Looking once more to the green sky, Sol shuddered lightly.

"North... seems like a bad direction to go in. Skingrad to the south seems best." He added grimly, wondering if the other two held the same hunch he did. To the north were the Jerall Mountains, and if these attackers had anything to do with their venture there, it would likely be a poor descision to head back that way.

Mortalmo nodded his head, a slight motion that was as much assent as anything. "To Skingrad then." His tone carried with it all the poise and self-assurance that it had been known for; yet, a growing pit in his stomach betrayed, even if only to himself, any true sense of confidence. He cast a quick glance at the sickly sky, and shuddered. What had they released within that mountain? In Mortalmo's mind, there was no doubt that the ill-fated expedition had played an unwitting role in preparing the attack that was now causing havoc throughout the city. "I have made it this far taking a subtler approach," He gestured to the ruined automaton at his feet. "This one was the first to discover me. I suggest that the three of us strike a balance between stealth and rapidity."

Anifaire, relieved that her party sounded certain about their route, hoped they would be able to stay hidden. She had never travelled to Skingrad, or really many of the other cities they mentioned, and her knowledge of foreign geography was sparse, so she had no sense of where they would be heading. She hoped it wouldn't be a long walk on foot, as she wouldn't be very prepared for that. Still, present difficulties being Dwemer automations, it was of little concern yet. Nervously, she moved to follow the rest of the party, sticking close behind Durantel. The Altmer briefly considered their expedition and its relation to the massive ships in the sky, and opened her mouth to ask about it, but shut it instead. It wasn't the time to begin a discussion.

---

---

The cautious trek through the city towards the bridge gate was as quick as they dared to move - three Altmer's together did attract attention, but with the crowds of people scattered screaming throughout, the trio were able to avoid much detection. As there had been no guaranteed way for them to get across Lake Rumare, the bridge leading from the Talos Plaza District had become their main goal. As luck would have it, the three only encountered a handful of enemies to dispatch before making it to the gate before it was overrun. Amidst the chaos of guards attempting to stem the flow of the attackers, Anifaire, Durantel and Solandil were able to slip out with a few other citizens and flee to the west. No significant attempt was made to follow the escapees... clearly, taking the city was the main goal of the Dwemer-cladded attackers.

The farther the group journeyed from the city, Anifaire slowly became more at ease. It took time for the tension she felt, the anxiety that a Dwemer automation may be around the corner, to ease. Though her feet became sore and blistered as they walked the road to Skingrad, she felt better with every step farther from danger. Still, the same thoughts picked at her the she wondered if her two companions were thinking: Had they done something to cause this on the expedition?

It was Mortalmo then, that finally voiced the thoughts that had been plaguing Anifaire's thoughts so. "Though the two of you may have reached other conjectures, there is little doubt in my mind that whatever it is that the expedition trifled with while under that mountain... is in direct correlation to the recent attack. Perhaps even causation." Beneath the matter of fact tone he spoke with, there was subtler sense of consternation tinging Mortalmo's speech. "If that truly is the case... Auri-El forgive us." And, for what hadn't been the first time upon leaving the city, and certainly would not be the last, the centuries old mer lapsed once again into muttered, barely audible prayer, eyes scanning the group's surroundings warily. As for Solandil, he chose to remain silent, face hidden by his helm. He'd already reached the same conclusion, but found no point in praying to anyone. The Aedra had never answered his prayers before, and he certainly didn't expect them to now.

Unsure how to reply, Anifaire muttered in agreement, uttering her own prayer. She glanced back at the city, dread in her heart. Would they expand, from there? She considered asking Durantel, but looked at the ground instead. "Auri-El save us."

---

---

The journey passed slowly, for Anifaire. Each night, as the party set up a small camp to get some rest, the woman was unable to help. She would collect a bucket of water and rewrap her blistering feet, thankful that she wasn't alone. Durantel and Solandil were competent at their tasks, far more accustomed to travel than she was. When she had previously been on the road, she'd had a carriage to sit in or a horse to ride, aside from the also tiring trek back to the Imperial City after the expedition. She wished now for her home and family, her father and mother's protection and the warmth of her childhood bed.

Still, seeing Automations working and up close was an amazing thing. The farther they were from the city, the more she was able to appreciate the wonder of what she had experienced rather than only the terror. And those flying ships? What a feat of engineering. If only the Dwemer hadn't attacked. Anifaire would have been interested in speaking with one. Though, they did enslave the Falmer, so it wasn't a surprise, exactly.

She wished they had remained archaeological research subjects for her.

As he had had been when he left the city, Solandil remained mostly silent during the journey to Skingrad. Each slow trek and rest-stop made him clench his jaw in impatience, as he was eager to get as far away from the capital and towards safer civilisation as soon as possible. But any sour expression was hidden from the others by either his scarf or helmet - and no matter how paranoid he became at each and every stop the three made, Sol couldn't bring himself to abandoning them. He had no doubt that Anifaire was stronger than she looked, and even then, Durantel would have no issue in looking after her. But he was bonded with these people by what they had fled together... and what they had done deep in the Mountains. None of them had activated the mechanism that had (most likely) started this fresh hell off, but everyone in the group would be equally as responsible.

That's how Sol saw it, anyway.

Not particularly wanting to speak or hypothesize about what exactly had occured, Sol kept himself busy with foraging for food, though with no skill in hunting or having access to any ranged arsenal, failed to find a filling meal most nights. He also took his turns in keeping guard at night around a crackling fire, allowing Anifaire to get more sleep than was equal simply because it seemed she needed it the most. Durantel too, ensured that the youth had adequate time to rest. Clearly the younger Altmer wasn't used to travelling as they had, so doggedly as if the Dwemer automatons were nipping at their heels.

For Mortalmo's part, the flight from the Imperial Capital was par for the course for him. The ex-justiciar had many a time found himself chasing desperate fugitives across the land; they had always tired first. Though this time, it was he that was the prey fleeing from a threat far greater than what he and his two companions were capable of facing. It harkened back to a time centuries ago, when the daedra first spread their foul taint into Mortalmo's homeland. Fleeing doggedly on horseback, his baby brother clutched carefully against his chest, the young Mortalmo had sworn to never again be in a situation like this. To never again run from a foe. It was a naive thing to promise, Mortalmo knew that now. He had learned it more times than he would like to admit, during his military service. Perhaps that was why the role of a justiciar suited him so. Nobody, not a single soul, had the upper hand over a justiciar.

Not that he could claim to be a justiciar any longer. That honor had been lost to him nearly a decade ago.

The presence of Solandil and Anifaire both acted as no small comfort to Mortalmo. Despite the albino's physical discrepancies, he was a capable warrior and a stalwart travel companion. Anifaire too, unaccustomed to such conditions as they found themselves in, steeled herself admirably against the trials she faced. Not once had she cried aloud in complaint, despite the visible discomfort that sometimes etched itself upon her countenance. When Mortalmo considered the alternatives, he shuddered. Better an albino and a young lady than a cat. Or worse yet... a lizard.

---

---

Six days it had been. Six days of prayer, tense nerves, and uncomfortable silence. Some might describe what happened next as the work of Talos, or Akatosh, or perhaps even Auri-El. For Mortalmo's part, he cursed Lorkhan. Ahead of the three altmer, a collection of familiar faces stood. The oldest of the mer found his eyes resting on an argonian that he had never desired to see again.

Mortalmo stared ahead, entirely aghast at his misfortune.

"Stendarr have mercy."

If there was one thing that Raelynn hated, it was to travel by foot.

Traveling by foot for more than a few hours.

Yet, here she was traveling by foot for what seemed like days. She longed for a horse, for a carriage to sit and rest in. Such luxuries would not be found in this time of tragedy and chaos. Her new cloak already looked to have seen better days. Right in the center was a line of blood, from her stomach to her neck. A reminder of her escape, a reminder that she still lived. The blood was not hers after all. Her spirit seemed in a perpetual state of misery. The outlook was foggy. She wanted to leave this party of companions who all seemed to be as silent in terror and shock as she was, or powering through it with mindless chatter to one another.

She did not see much of Alim as they trekked. He was no longer her protector, for he had to be his own. They all were, sure, safety was found in numbers - but she got the distinct sense that at any moment a lot of them would skip away. She knew that she would. In the silence she let her mind fall to fantasy. She though of a roaring fire in an inn, with a duckdown bed, and Autumn outside. Falling leaves creating a canvas of burnt orange, burgandy and yellow - like watercolour, like a painting. Picturesque romance.

She could smell lavender, honeyed mead, and game meat roasting against the flames. Her mouth watered. She had been living off of jerky and foraged goods. She imagined herself laid out on the furs and blankets seductively, naught but a silken slip to cover her curves. In the doorway she pictured a strong man, muscles rippling - he was a little sweaty, hands dirty. A beard and piercing blue eyes. He would take off his armour piece by piece, licking his lips at the sight of the Breton biting her lip at him. She was picturing him removing his trousers when she was rudely dragged from her fantasy by the abrupt sound of weeping, of screaming, and of talking - a discordant orchestra of pain and anguish. If she could put a sound to how she felt inside it would be that.

The had arrived upon a camp of refugees, and one by one her companions slipped away to find something to do. Their leader, the Khajit, and the knight seemed to go together.

She couldn't spot Judena or Alim, and so she was left to let her eyes travel over the scene. To drink in the landscape of sorrow. Something caught her eye more than anything else. It was a small child, she was stood crying against an abyss of nothing. Her eyes glazed over, filling up with tears. She watched the tears roll one by one down each cheek, leaving a red stain behind each one. An ocean of tears cascading endlessly. She noticed that the girl was bleeding too, there were clots of blood on her around her forehead, scratches and scrapes on the soft skin of each arm. She was wearing one shoe.

Raelynn choked back tears of her own. Tears she didn't know that she had in her. The child was her. Innocent, blonde curls falling to her waist, blue eyes like sapphires. Clothes made of fine silks, but torn and shredded away from her tiny body.

She then took her role in the camp, like the rest of the party had drifted away to do. She knelt down to the child - coming eye to eye with her. Immediately the girl stopped, and bit down on her lip, short sharp breaths replaced the bellowing. Raelynn took her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Shhh now princess, you're safe now. You're safe..." she offered the girl a smile and rubbed her thumbs in soothing circles on the backs of her hands. She let go of her hands to start examining her forehead. She found a cut there - luckily not too deep, but she would need to clean it which might cause the girl some pain. So she began to sing to her

"Quiet little Princess,
All will be fine,
For I am yours and you are mine.

Close your eyes and dream away
For this will soon be yesterday

One day you'll wear a crown
Upon your pretty head
So for now just dream away
And sleep inside your bed..."

As she sang, she cleansed the wound - using torn cloth soaked in warm water to wipe away the blood. She pressed gently and began to clean her arms too. Finally, she took another dry cloth and ran it softly under the girls eyes, and offered her another smile. "Now, where is your Mama and Papa?" she asked, taking her hands again. The child glanced to her right and pointed a finger at two shapes on the ground. Two shapes covered with white sheets.

Raelynn's lip began to wobble and it was all she could do to stop from crying. She picked up the girl and walked her away from the bodies, bringing her to a campfire and sitting her down beside some other adults. She explained what had happened and started to walk away. She found herself listening to the conversation with Rhea, Brynja, Daro'Vasora, and some self appointed ranger named Brutus. It was soon after that even that group seemed to split. However, she had heard elsewhere that volunteers were needed.

She wanted to get out of the camp, she didn't want to be confronted any more with this shit. With more orphans, with sick children, with dead bodies. She wanted to move, to run away from it. Staying meant dealing with it now, and she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. She took a look back at the girl, there was no fire inside of her now, she was dead behind those beautiful eyes. Raelynn couldn't stay here around that. Her heart ached enough from just the sight of her. Any longer and she would be dead behind the eyes too. She didn't want to get wrapped into caring for every single poor soul here. She didn't want anyone to see that weakness in her, any vulnerability.

She was going to help the Colovian Rangers. She was going to get out of here.

_{By @Dervish and I}

5th of Second Seed, 4E 208

The Colovian Rangers, were not entirely rangers, so to say. The volunteers came from all walks of life, there were, however, a good percentage of the group that consisted of scouts or archers. Daro’Vasora and Brynja were amongst them, along with Solandil, and a peculiar woman by the name of Raelynn. They assembled outside of the large canvas tent in the grey hours of dawn, the chill from yesterday’s morning rain and overcast skies, left Brynja longing for a fire to chase the chill from her bones. Within an hour the group set out, heading north north-east.

The head scout, whom they first met back in Skingrad, trekked leagues ahead of the group with three other Rangers. His name was Kylian, a young Breton man with dashing good looks. He had sandy blond locks that fell to his jaw, though he kept his hair pulled back from his face with a leather tie. He sported a set of earth colored leathers, an olive green jerkin, tan trousers, and brown leather boots, along with a matching set of gloves and cloak. While most women would find him highly attractive with his angled ears, and delicate features befitting a bard, were he one, Kylian possessed a shy disposition. He avoided any unnecessary conversation, preferring to let an awkward silence fill the air. It didn’t seem to bother him much, though his habit of speaking softly made his cheeks turn red when someone inquired him to repeat himself. However, Brutus was the polar opposite of their head scout.

Brutus had a boisterous nature, and reminded Brynja much of a donkey. Not that he was daft, but that he brayed loudly, and for no apparent reason. Or a pig that refused to stay out of the cabbage patch. Despite that, he seemed to have a clear head about the matters at hand. He placed the slowest of the Rangers at the front of the group so as not to overwhelm and exhaust them. From what she could glean, quite a few Imperial soldiers joined the Rangers.

“Alright, listen up; first off, I want to welcome the newcomers to the ranks. It takes real courage to experience what we have and immediately sign up to take the fight back to them, and I know many of you are probably scared and apprehensive about what’s to come, but to push forward in spite of that is what it means to be a hero. And that’s what each and every one of you are; all of those people who escaped the Imperial City need to see ordinary citizens rising up to show that even bastards who come from the sky can be beaten. Heed my words, Rangers; they can be beaten. And we will show the rest of Tamriel how.”

From a crate, Brutus pulled out a Dwemer spider that had been stripped of its weapons and its legs cropped down to half their normal length to reduce the risk. The soul gem on top was removed and kept in a separate pouch. “Pollux, if you would do the honours. Explain your findings to our team.” he said, gesturing an Imperial mage with an immaculately trimmed beard and a healthy glow to his olive skin, unblemished saved for crows feet around his eyes while a pair of heavily calloused hands protruded from his Imperial Arcane University robes. He looked to be in his mid-40s, and only a smidge of grey peppered the long black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail.

“I captured this specimen from the Imperial City, and I had managed to disable it with a generous application of a shock spell. I was able to extract myself across the Western bridge using an invisibility and a feather spell that had allowed me to carry the disabled spider without much difficulty. Given the chaos, it would seem our guests didn’t pay much notice to one of their contraptions levitating.” he allowed himself a self-amused smile.

“So, to cut out the mundane details of how I acquired this specimen, I’ve done a bit of testing with the assistance of those whom would form the Colovian Rangers under Brutus. Drinks-Many-Rivers, if you would lend your strength for a moment.” Pollux called to a heavily built Argonian carrying a kanabo, a one and a half meter long wooden club that was carved into a hexagon with iron studs lining the upper third of its length and a leather wrap around the rest of its long grip. Drinks-Many-Rivers looked to be the kind of individual that could lift Daro’Vasora with a singular hand and have little issue besting an Orcish warchief in a wrestling match, his green and black scales, along with the rows of horns protruding from his chin, gave him a suitably intimidating appearance. His heavy armour came with a reptilian scale covered plates that were layered over each other in a scale pattern to disperse the blows, reinforced by chainmail and steel weave to give the large shirt he wore extra protection and flexibility, and upon his right shoulder was mounted a troll skull, along with a few smaller ones worn as a waist belt. He evidently was extremely confident and proud of his martial prowess.

Drinks-Many-Rivers pulled the spider out of the box and set it on the ground. He took the offered soul gem from Brutus and pulling open the top cage, inserted it into the gem slot and the automata sprang to life… as much as its handicapped form was capable of moving. Without the long legs or pincers, it was incapable of jumping or pinching its prey. The beefy Argonian drew back his kanabo and with a heavy overhead swing smashed it into the spider’s frame, battering it around, but doing little more than breaking a few of the more fragile joints and cracking the soul gem; the body was still functional, despite a few hefty dents.

Pollux took the opportunity to continue his explanation, “As you can see, the Dwemer alloy is remarkably robust, and the large suits of powered armour you’ve likely seen them deploy are made of the same materials, only scaled up considerably. If Drinks cannot appreciably damage the main body of the spiders, you can be sure that trying conventional means to destroy the larger Dwemer constructs will be a fool’s errand. You will need to pierce joints or crush pivoting apparatus with blunt weaponry, however, there’s an easier method.”

Drinks stood back as Pollux approached the spider that was limping towards him pitifully. Frost formed at his fingers and soon, the legs became enshrouded in ice, immobilized. “Frost magic seems to do wonders at freezing the oils and other lubricants used in the automata. If any among you are mages, I’ve managed to acquire a few cheap spell tomes for Frost and Shock spells from our Thalmor ‘friends’, who still have access to Skingrad.” the way he said friends was evidently so drenched in sarcasm, Pollux could have choked upon his words.

The Spider still struggled to move in spite of this, and a bolt of lighting shot from the mage’s fingertips, causing the free parts of the spider to shake violently before stopping dead. The soul gem shattered, having already suffered a major fracture from the Argonian’s efforts.

“I have discovered that this Dwemer alloy seems to be especially susceptible to Shock, and I have reason to believe that if one were to apply enough electricity to any of the Dwemer contraptions, you could in theory disable them entirely, or at least isolated components. Therefore, what I propose is we… liberate a few of these armoured suits the Dwemer have possession of. Use Frost to immobilize the limbs and weapons, and shock to disable the wearer and possibly the soul gem. The only problem is getting close enough to do this. This is why I’ve enlisted the help of any enchanter I’ve been able to press into service to craft as many staffs as they could the past two nights; they aren’t anyone’s finest work, but enough of them should do the job.” Pollux concluded as Drinks put the spider back into its box.

Brynja scoffed at the display, not that she didn’t appreciate the new information on how to effectively handle the spiders, but at how she lacked such skills to aid further in this conquest.

“I guess now would’ve been the time to have taken my lessons seriously as a girl.” She grumbled. Daro’Vasora stood beside her, the two women had formed a silent partnership throughout the first half of the day trekking, both remained stoic, each lost in their thoughts, yet their pace alongside one another did not break.

“What do you make of all this?” She asked.

A bone from the past meal jutted out from Daro’Vasora’s lips like a pipe, keeping her oral fixation satisfied so her mind could work. She could understand Brynja’s reservation, but the Khajiit was never one to decide something was impossible until all approaches had been exhausted. “We’re further along than we were even a few minutes ago. I’m not a mage, but I can tell a number of these folk are, and now we have some tangible proof that the Dwemer armour has a few chinks. Remember, not everything they have is impenetrable, so it’s not like spitting into a lake and hoping to raise the shoreline. I’ve killed spiders and spheres like this, albeit a lot less refined. The key is the soul gem, if you can get that dislodged, the whole show stops. I remember there being some sort of bucket shape on the chest of those large suits; I’m willing to bet that’s where a soul gem is housed, and they can’t run indefinitely. From my studies and expeditions, I’ve not come across much evidence the Dwemer really valued mages. It would be interesting to see if that changed.” she remarked levelly, her mind mulling over what she knew with what she had recently experienced. The grief she had suffered had largely passed, and now she had a mission to focus on. It was therapy of sorts.

She nodded at the clarity of Vasora’s words, “When you put it like that, that makes a lot more sense than fancy pants over here.”

The Khajiit raised an eyebrow to her companion. “Which part of that explanation was complicated? Shocky bits fry contraptions, freezy bits stop them. I thought it was adequate so we aren’t fumbling around like idiots who will die by the dozen until we figure out the secret to success.”

Brynja said, shaking her head, “When I was a girl, the lessons my mother taught me didn’t stick as well, but when my brother or father helped, it made better sense. I’m not saying that it was complicated. I’m saying that your explanation helped make the situation clearer. People over-complicate explanations, too much jargon, and look at those around us. There aren’t but a small handful here who use magic. To them, what Pollux said makes sense. Clear as water. To me, it’s murky as a puddle. I know the water is cloudy because of the mud, but I know not why or how, or even why it matters. I’m not stupid, y’know, people learn differently is all. Take it as a compliment. You just helped me better understand our enemy.” She shrugged her shoulders at the end.

“How metaphorical.” Daro’Vasora let the corners of her lips upturn into a slight smile, feeling pleased by the compliment. Her relationship with Brynja was certainly becoming less strained, and for whatever reason, the Nord seemed to be loyal to her and without judgement. A sensation of guilt had crept into her consciousness the past several days, especially since Zegol’s passing, that made Daro’Vasora regret some of her snide remarks from the earlier parts of their acquaintance. “Thank you, I suppose. It’s strange, isn’t it? I’m outside of my element doing this sort of assignment, I’ve never been much of a fighter, and here I am being some use to you thanks to some technical knowledge I’ve buried away in my head.

“I’ve never really known many warriors or soldiers for that matter, just a few sellswords, but most of the people I’ve associated with have been those cut from a similar cloth as myself. There’s a certain amount of knowledge and a specific set of skills for those of us who plunder history for profit, and a healthy amount of distrust and competition. I’ve rarely encountered someone who is quite as straightforward and honest as you are, I never gleaned a hint of ulterior motive or greed from you. You genuinely seem to care about my well-being, and you’ve stubbornly endured my caustic tongue to still stand alongside me.” the Khajiit paused, turning to look towards Brynja. “I should apologize for all of that. Trust is a hard thing for me to come by, and because of my way of life, I’ve learned to distrust everyone to the point I expect betrayals like it’s a part of the game. Usually being snarky and getting under people’s skin is a way for me to turn someone over in my mind, like inspecting a trinket or gemstone to see their true colours. It doesn’t make me an easy person to like. So… thank you, Brynja Whitehand. It’s nice to know that there’s someone who isn’t a morally bankrupt sload out there.”

Daro’Vasora’s words sank into her mind, like dry soil soaking up a fresh summer rain. She shifted uneasily on her feet as a million responses to the Khajiit’s words rushed through her head at a frenzied pace, before she tucked her hands under her elbows.

“All I’ve done since the war is protect and serve. I think that’s the first time I’ve been thanked for just being myself.” Her eyes studied the Khajiit, almost uncertain if what she heard was a farce.

“And you’ve no need to apologize, that distrust, it’s what keeps us alive in the end.” The crowd around Pollux had thinned out, she overheard Drinks saying that they were to make camp for the night here.

“Let’s get a tent up. Kylian has yet to return with the other scouts, we’re going to need all the rest we can get.”

For the remainder of the evening, Brynja and Daro’Vasora entertained one another with tales of their adventure, Brynja with her quests with Rorik, and Daro’Vasora with the esteemed treasures she had found over the past several years.

---

6th of Second Seed, 4E208, Early Morning

Brynja roused herself from sleep at what she thought to be the chill in her body, the campfire must’ve gone out throughout the late hours of the night. As she pushed back the flap on the canvas tent, she could see that the grey light of dawn broke through the darkness. She could hear murmuring at one end of camp, and much commotion. Others were roused from their sleep, and soon enough, word had spread that the scouts had returned with news. They had located a Dwemer outpost.

“Half day’s march to the North, a small detachment.” Kylian reported to Brutus, something Daro’Vasora picked up on over a bowl of baked beans. The commander nodded and began issuing out orders to his lieutenants. Within 20 minutes, Brutus announced to the camp, “Gather your gear and break camp; we set out in an hour.”

True to the young scout’s words, the Rangers had come across the Dwemer outpost, the two large cylindrical balloons of docked airships visible through the treeline. Brutus had everyone leave their non-combat equipment behind, concealed in the brush, and soon were moving stealthily through the forest. It didn’t take Daro’Vasora long to realize where they were.

“This is Elenglynn,” the Khajiit explained to Brynja in a hushed tone. Sure enough, the two airships were docked above the white stone of an Ayleid ruin that was little more than a series of rubble these days; only a few distinct pillars and the general foundation of the subterranean ruin remained intact. “I came here my second or third year tomb raiding, didn’t find much; centuries of looters more or less picked the place dry.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it if we survive. Never studied the Ayleids.” She muttered to Vasora.

Brutus was nearby, making his own observations. “I’d wager they’re using it to store supplies and to use as a barracks. If we could take down those airships, they’d be stranded…” he trailed off, moving to confer with Drinks-Many-Rivers on the feasibility of such an act. In the meantime, it was all anyone could do but watch and wait.

Scattered around the ruins was a detachment of 17 visible Dwemer, including 3 in the power armour that had seemed ubiquitous in Imperial City. While automata like spiders and spheres weren’t present, it was also impossible to know how many enemy soldiers were present down in the Alyeid ruins themselves. While no mages were visibly present, there were scones with soul gems in them that some of the Rangers would have known were something like perimeter defences that let out nasty electrical shocks. The Dwemer themselves were in a mix of medium and heavy armour, most opted for decent protection without being fatigued or slowed down, and outside of conventional weaponry, four of the Dwemer were using the staff-like firearms. It was hard to say how well they’d penetrate armour, since they’d only really been witnessed engaging civilians, but suffice to say, it would be ill-advised to test one’s luck.

Brutus gathered a group, instructing them to pass the word along. “We need to lure those mechanical suits into the forest to draw them away from the camp if they don’t leave on patrol. They’ll tear us apart on their terms, especially if they have infantry support. If we get them on their own without alerting the rest of them, we can use our mage and staff squad to immobilize them so we can remove the soul gem powering them. I want to capture at least one of them for intelligence purposes, maybe even find a way to use them. Nobody acts until Pollux’s team does, understood? While that’s going on, we need most of our manpower to prepare to storm the camp, overwhelm the defenders before they can get reinforcements from within or take to the airships. They take off with those and our mission is a failure. Let’s make it worthwhile, Rangers. Akatosh is watching over us.”

After a few hours, the sun began to dip lower into the horizon and cast upon the decrepit ruins an inviting orange glow, casting long shadows from the trees and the old crumbled pillars that remained of Elenglynn. To everyone’s surprise, two Dwemer mounted up in the suits and were flanked by 8 soldiers from the ruins who had emerged specifically for the patrol duty. With curious blue lanterns in hand that emitted a fairly strong glow, the patrol set off to the Southwest, leaving the camp behind. It was the best opportunity they were getting.

“Let’s get this done.”

vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/elderscro…

---

5th of Second Seed, Back in Skingrad…

Rhea had spent the better half of the morning, and the latter half of the afternoon circling the exterior of the city. At each gate, guards patrolled the area with a degree of severity. She admired their dedication to the Count and his orders, but she struggled to overcome her inner anger at the same decision. Hundreds if not thousands of refugees now had arrived at Skingrad seeking safety from the Dwemer, and Count Hassildor simply barred the gates against them.

She rose early that morning, long before Daro’Vasora and the other members of the group left with the Rangers on their scouting expedition, and set her own mind to finding an unguarded way into the city. Her search proved fruitless. Those that remained from the original company needed supplies. They needed food, water, and even medicine. Yet the impenetrable walls loomed over her, casting dark shadows in the morning light. She grounded her teeth in frustration. Convinced that the morning patrols were heavy, Rhea decided to try her luck at nightfall.

As she made her way back around the far end of the city walls, she wondered what would motivate the Count to keep the refugees out. Surely, an influx of refugees coming from anyplace would put a strain on food and other supplies, but there was also coin to be found in benefitting from the people’s needs. Prices on food and essentials would skyrocket and the locals would profit monetarily.

So lost in her own thoughts that she paid little attention to her return to the refugee camp, her feet guiding her back to the area where the group had made camp. Just then, a voice broke her train of thoughts.

“You’re looking for a way inside, aren’t you?” A whispery, snake like voice caused her to turn and face the owner. A tall Dunmer with dark red eyes watched her, his thin brows pushed together. He had shoulder length hair, black as night, with a beak like nose. His lips were thin, as if he had eaten too many lemons. His entire ensemble was black, from cape and gloves to belt and boots. But it was the way that he held himself that drew her closer.

“Why do you ask?” Rhea took a step towards him, her own eyes narrowing at this Dunmer before her. He held his hands clasped behind his back, with a rather rigid stature.

“Many people have looked for a way inside. But I… I know a way inside. I don’t assume… but the way that you carry yourself, and those that arrived in your company… know a way around a blade, yes?” His words reminded her of a snake slipping through the shadows without a sound, ready to pounce on its next unexpecting victim.

“We do. Why does that matter? I need to get inside, we need-” He cut her off before she could finish.

“Supplies. Yes. We all do.” He paused in his speech, his dark eyes sweeping over her. “I can get you inside the city, as I won’t take any fools stupid enough to get caught, and I can get you the supplies you need… for a price.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a grin before it vanished.

She considered his offer, and swallowed hard, “What price do I pay?”

“That isn’t an immediate necessity, as I will get my payment when it is time… You may bring one or two others to help, but that is all.” He kept his voice low so as to avoid others around them from over hearing.

“When? When can you get us inside?”

“Tonight. When the moon is highest in the sky, come, and you will find me along the south wall.” He turned to leave when she grabbed his wrist.

“Tell me your name, at least.”

“Severus Favarani, but you can call me Severus.” He pulled away from her and slipped into the crowds, leaving her standing alone.

Once at camp, Rhea took a seat on an old wooden stump. She chewed on her lower lip, and if she chewed any harder, she wouldn’t have a lower lip at all. Did she really want to use Severus as a way to get inside the city? Could the group make it without the needed supplies? The more she debated, the more her mind decided that she had to do this. Even if he didn’t name a price, which certainly put her on edge, she would have to do it. The question is, would anyone want to take that chance?

She lifted her head, taking in who was still present and rose to her feet. Clearing her throat, she called out to them.

“I can get us the supplies we need, I have sat and debated, and we cannot forgo those necessities. There is a man willing to help us get inside, but I can only bring two of you. You do not have to come with me and take this risk, as his intentions are unclear. This could be a trap, and that last thing I want is to put any of your lives in danger after all that I have put you through. I will try speaking with Petronius, Captain of the Guard here, and see if he will grant me an audience with Count Hassildor. I can offer the Count information about the Dwemer, and in exchange I will get us lodging. But in the meantime, I cannot sit around and let you all starve despite your hunting efforts. There are other refugees out hunting, and game will soon be scarce if we stay here any longer. If you want to come with me, I leave when the moon is high.” Rhea said after a sigh. She had to speak with Petronius again, he had yet to send anyone for her.

Night, Skingrad

Rhea made ready, remembering Severus’ words that he would be along the south wall. She turned to those gathered around the campfire, and approached the flames.

“If any of you are to come with me, I leave now.” She waited, nodded her head and turned to leave, beginning the trek to the southern wall.

The moon shone bright, though clouds drifted across the silvery disk on occasion. Stars twinkled like diamonds embedded in a swath of black velvet. A quiet breeze made the grass bend and shift, carrying its sweet scent.

It took no less than half an hour to reach the southern wall at the pace Rhea set. However, she did not see Severus immediately. She stood firm, eyes scanning the wall for any figure before venturing closer. She heard his voice then, that same snake like whisper again, and he stepped out from a hidden alcove in the towering wall.

“I’m glad to see you made it… come… before the guards see.” He beckoned them to enter, and once inside, he pulled back the layer of vines that had grown over a metal gate, where he procured a ball of magelight in his hand.

“This tunnel has long been without use, but tonight, it will lead us into the city, and I can get you the supplies as promised. Keep your voices low, as the tunnel will carry your words.”

26th of Rain's Hand, 4e208, afternoon...

The soft rays of sun through curtained windows eased Latro's eyes open. His muscles tensed in a morning stretch, taking up a fistful of bedsheet in one grasping hand and his pillow in the other. He wondered at the time as he sat up in bed, then wondered where he even was. Memories tip-toed back to him to whisper faintly behind his ear. A tavern, there was a pitcher, a flash of Meg's smiling face and the hulking form of Brynja swaying. Then he remembered the lute and his heart almost stopped as he looked for it, eyes darting immediately to the corner where it sat, as if waiting for him to awake. He sighed, running long fingers through his locks. A hand almost made him flinch when it sensually found its way on top of his. He looked to its owner, who was still swaddled in the sheets, smiling. He struggled to recognize the face but came up short, “Good morning.”

“Good...” Something brought the soft staccato he'd been hearing since he'd awoken to the forefront of his mind and a curiosity overtook him. Was it parade drums? Soft thunder? Latro's visage contorted in confusion as he wasted no time in throwing the blankets from himself- an errant realization that he was still naked tossed to the back of his mind- and he threw the curtains aside for his eyes to take in a scene confusing as it was gruesome. There were bodies splotched with crimson littering the streets, as if they were spilled like grain from a sack. One in particular was split in half from shoulder to groin, armor torn through like silk. “What...” The woman brought a shaky hand to her lips.

“I don't know, we have to go.” Latro was already slipping his legs into his pants. He had just finished buckling his belt and grabbing up his lute and weapons. When had the city been attacked? By whom? What in the name of the Divines was happening here?

Latro threw open the door, axe in one hand and this stranger's hand in the other. He realized he was inside this woman's home and not an inn as he first suspected, but that hardly mattered now. He didn't bother himself with soft footfalls as he seemingly careened through the halls and down the stairs with the woman only barely keeping in step with him. His hand left hers and rested upon the doorknob, the last barrier until they were among the carnage and not hiding from it behind a window. He swallowed, taking his moment. “What are you doing!? We need to go!”

He cast an annoyed glance back at her before twisting the doorknob and pushing the door open. The street was quiet, save for the soft staccato still, and the newly found sound of crows gathering for the feast. He couldn't help but let a shiver run through him at the sight. And the smell, Gods, the smell. He heard his companion retch behind him and he could not blame her, he wanted to do the same. Still, he stood before the doorway, feet refusing to move.

He ground his teeth, trying to call some ounce of dagger-eyed Reachman back to him to at least take the first step onto the streets. He drew in a breath and let it out through his mouth, corpse-stench and all. “Follow.”

“O-okay.” Her voice was already trailing off by the second syllable as he moved, quiet and nimble as the ghosts of the dead around him.

“Guide us to the gates, the closest one.” he said, sharp eyes scanning the streets and wasting no time in the formality of eye contact as he spoke.

“That'd be-”

“Shush,” He whispered harshly, “Point, no talking.”

Almost taken aback but nevertheless cooperative, she pointed down the street they were peering down. Latro nodded and they continued that way for several more streets, using the backalleys at every possible opportunity. The last time he had to escape from a city he was a few years younger and very much more hot-headed, prone to frustration and recklessness. He would not be the same now. He did not like the fact that what was once a soft staccato had now developed into near crescendos and screams could be heard following the closer they got to whichever gate outside this city this woman was taking him. Even so, if it meant freedom, he would take the chance.

Latro skidded to a halt before breaching from the cover of the alley they were taking when a pair of Khajiit sprinted past the sliver of street the alley's opening gave them. Almost immediately after came the thunderous cracks and the death groans. Latro eased back from the alley's opening onto the street, keeping a hand out behind him to let his companion know to do the same. When towering, armored things not unlike the automata he'd seen in the Dwemer ruins came into view from the alley, he drew in a sharp breath. He grew cold all over and froze in place besides himself. The woman, on the other hand.

Her shrill cry and pounding footsteps made bronzed helmets turn his way, the lifeless, shadow-black pits carved as the eyes on the deep-scowling faces on the helmets bore into him. The automata raised their big staffs in his direction, but there was no thunder, only lightning in his muscles before everything went black and void...



He woke up. An odd thing to note, hadn't he just done that? Was that a dream? Is this a dream? He couldn't hear and he wiped what felt like sand away from his ears, but even his forearm felt like there were stinging particles of gravel upon it. His body itched with it and then he realized his legs were weighed down by something. He looked down to the ground on which he lay, cobble street. The gutter next to him ran with crimson, dark as wine. He followed the stream to its source and saw the broken face of what might've been the woman he awoke next to that morning. Eyes stared into the fog of nothing beyond life's edges. His mouth dropped open and he made to get up before he remembered the weight on his legs. Rubble, a huge piece of rock. He looked up at the building that made up the alley, now a ruin. He pushed the huge piece of storefront from his legs and all at once it seemed his senses had returned. He jammed his mouth into the crook of his elbow as he screamed, feeling the unnatural grating of bone that comes with a broken ankle.

He struggled to his feet and almost fell when his left leg buckled, tears down his cheeks and still running from his eyes. He limped forward, of a sudden noticing the sky was that much darker than it was before he... awoke. The city- it had been attacked... by... Gods, he wrapped a hand around his mouth. No. No, no, no. He forced the shock away from himself and continued onwards, much less nimble and quiet now that bad foot was dragging along behind him. He needed help, he needed to not be alone. At the mouth of the alley, a barely consoling sight was one of his daggers and the lute. Miraculously unharmed, he noticed as he picked both items from the dusty ground and replaced them on his person.

He seemed to have wandered an eternity before a voice was heard from another alleyway, “Oy, you, boy.” Latro's eyes darted around the growing shadows dusk had brought before settling on a pair of eyes in an alleyway not far from him, “Follow me, there're others. Come.”

Latro was hesitant at first, then he decided to take whatever life put before him. Even if it was, ironically, death. A slumber without end was tantalizing compared to this hellish host of throbbing, sore, jagged pain. It seemed he would get his wish. The ground rushed to meet him...



4th of Second Seed, 4e208, somewhere in the Great Forest...

“Wake up, young one.” A soft, but assuredly male, voice called. Then again, “Come on, open those eyes, Brother.”

Brother? Was he now finally dead? And delusional? He'd have thought the afterlife's greeting to a newly freed soul would be more grand than a soft voice telling him to wake up. He then heard the sound of snapping becoming more impatient with each one. Out of annoyance, his eyes shot open and he gripped onto the offending digits quick enough to make their owner flinch. He realized his eyes were wide and his teeth were bared. He cleared his throat, releasing the man's fingers and easing himself back into his laying position. “Apologies.”

“No need, my friend.” The man smiled softly, “It was the goal to get you up. My name is Kylian.”

“Latro.” He pursed his lips and looked around his meager surroundings, a tent, as it were. “Where am I?”

“Away from the city, from those ships.” Kylian said. “With the Rangers.”

“Ah, Rangers.” Latro nodded, as if he was already privy to the importance of Kylian's words. “What am I to do with this information?”

“Whatever you will. You seem quick and healthy enough to snatch my fingers quicker than I could move them from you. A mind clear enough to not break them off, though that was a hell of a face, friend. You've been out for two days, our healers had some steady practice with you, alright. Figure you've two choices now; You can go on your own, seeing as you're healthy again, or healthy enough.”

“Or?” Latro asked, sighing. The thought of being alone on the road of a sudden not much more a grand prospect than a flux.

Kylian smiled. “Can you stand?”

Without a word, Latro found himself to somewhat shaky legs outside of the tent as he followed Kylian into the cold outside air. Arrayed before him like any merry band of misfits in the woods, in varying forms of rest were men and women in ranging garb- as the name would suggest. “Or you could stay with us.”

“We need able bodies with as much fortitude as yours, and a vendetta wouldn't hurt much either, son. You were walking those streets ragged as a Wayrest cur when we found you and we'd been eyeing you a while to see if you were hopeless or not.” A bald man of burly stature stepped up to him, his very existence an affront to Latro's personal space, though he stood an arm's length away still, “I guess you answered that riddle. Brutus.”

“Daro'Vasora.”

“That's not what you told me.” Kylian's eyebrow cocked, “His name is-”

“Khajiit. She gave me the lute with me. Where is she?” Latro asked, fearing the worst.

“Not with you, or us.” Brutus shrugged, “I'm sorry. Not many remain alive after that day.”

Latro nodded, looking away from the pair of Rangers and swallowing something in his throat that made him trust his voice less than he'd trust a murderer at his door. Less than he'd trust the feeling in his bones now at the news of Vasora, or at least the implication. The feeling that everything he'd done to make himself peaceful was for naught. He could either lay down and let his friends die only to be forgotten or he could give them justice. He felt that their names would be spat upon if he'd do anything less than vengeance, or at least die seeking it. He swallowed, put his tight fists away instead for hands limp at his side. What could they do against an enemy that slaughtered the Legion in their great bastion? That slew the Empire's subjects at their Emperor's doorstep without a single thought towards being retaliated against?

If Latro were dead at the hands of these marauders, what would Vasora do? Or Francis? Surely, the murder of all those in the White-Gold city was the most righteous reason to visit violence upon those who'd perpetrated the grand crime. “Able bodies?”

“And a vendetta, lad.” Brutus frowned deep.

Latro looked to Kylian then Brutus. He took his moment. Brutus took his hand and shook it with a nod.



5th of Second Seed, 4e208, dusk...

“What do you make of that?” Latro pointed to the sky from where he sat in the tree, amongst the canopy of the Great Forest. They had been making good time so far, staying ahead of the rest of the Rangers. It was yesterday morn that Ronimo had spotted airship movement and it took them a bit of time to suss out that the airships had a clear route. They'd followed one particular route, waiting for any signs of activity so they could follow the ships back to their depot, no matter how slow in the sky those fantastical things seemed, even Latro couldn't keep up. They'd been putting together this particular route piecemeal out of several airship sightings throughout different times of day and night.

Kylian nodded to Ronimo, a Bosmer that made up for his lack in height with breadth, red warpaint adorning his cheeks and a loose mohawk that flopped from his scalp over one side of his head. Ronimo nodded back and made quick work of the climb from the ground to the highest branch, where Latro had perched.

“Airship.” Ronimo squinted, “Airships.”

“Good.” Kylian said. “We're getting closer to one of their depots. Every front has a supply line.”

“An army marches upon its stomach.” Ronimo added before descending the tree as quickly as he had come up. Latro managed to make good time on his own descent, though his ankle still pained him at times. As of yet, he hadn't let it slow him down, much to the liking of Kylian. By the moon's precipice in the night sky, they had surely found their mark. Following bootprints left by wayfaring patrols into the forests, they'd come upon an Ayleid ruin none of the three knew the name of. Of course, they were not here to plunder ancient trinkets, they had red work on the mind.

“Ronimo, Latro, keep tabs on the goings-on. Guard rotations, airships docking, everything.” Kylian said.

“Will do.” Ronimo nodded.

“I'll report this to Brutus, high time we'd gotten something.” Kylian patted Latro's shoulder encouragingly. Truth be told, Latro had no idea what use the shoulder pat was for. If Kylian was looking for excitement in his eyes like that of a hunting dog, he should look elsewhere. Revenge is man's sport.

26th of Rain’s Hand, Imperial City - 4E208

The day had started for Jaraleet as it did most days; he got up early in the morning, prepared his breakfast with what little food he could buy based on his meager incomes, and then go towards the docks present in the district. Once there, he’d help to unload one of the many ships that came to the dock each day and, preferably if possible, he’d help transport the cargo from the docks towards its destination inside of the city. It was a simple routine all things considered, but it was extremely important for the Saxhleel to follow it to the letter for it allowed him to wander around the city and, in some lucky occasions, get inside buildings normally closed off. And this, as an agent of the An-Xileel sent to spy on the Imperial City, proved invaluable, after all it’s much easier to collect info if one is to be expected inside a building and generally ignored as most workers are by everyone, with the exception of their superiors that is. In this last part, Jaraleet wasn’t all that different from the dock workers in truth; after all he was often ignored by most people but his superiors still kept tabs on him, the only difference lay in what his true work was. This routine went on for two years and it showed no signs of changing or stopping at all, that is until this day.

As Jaraleet was returning to the Waterfront district, the first sign that something was wrong was when the sun suddenly darkened before being followed by a cool breeze. The second sign were the number of screams and other assorted sounds of surprise that emerged from numerous passersby, who pointed towards the sky in apparent shock. The Argonian spy followed the direction of the pointed hands, his eyes coming to rest on what could only be described as a flying airship. The design of the flying contraption seemed oddly familiar, but Jaraleet didn’t stay to analyze the ships any longer in an effort to determine why they seemed familiar; he knew that whoever, or whatever, was piloting those ships presented a threat and, as such, Jaraleet did the only logical thing and ran. This decision proved to be the correct one as screams soon began to emerge from the area where he had stood but a few moments ago, quickly followed by war cries from who he guessed where Legionnaires.

“Good, good, this gives me more time.” The Haj-Eix thought as the sounds of combat drifted to his ears, more and more faintly as he sped away from the combat scene. Of course running away wasn’t a foolproof solution, as more and more enemies started to invade the city. It was only when his path was blocked by one of the mysterious assailants that Jaraleet recognized who they were. “The Dwemer…” He said breathlessly as he gazed upon one of the Dwemer’s famed Animunculi. He was by no means an expert, but he had read about the automatons that littered the Dwemer ruins, a courtesy of the education provided by the An-Xileel, but he had never expected to encounter one in-person, and who else could be controlling them if not their ancient and, until now, disappeared masters?

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Jaraleet dodged away from one attack from the automaton. The automaton, a sphere model, didn’t gave the Argonian much time to think, as it lunged towards him once more with it’s sword arm. Jaraleet knew that, unarmored and weaponless as he was, he stood no chance against the Animunculi and that his best bet was to escape.

To do this, he did something unexpected and charged towards the automaton. The sphered shot towards him with it’s crossbow arm, grazing his shoulder, but Jaraleet was able to slide under the extended sword arm with which he had been attacked before. Once he had gotten behind his mechanical foe, the Saxhleel spy continued his mad dash towards the Waterfront district in an effort to lose his enemy. Once he had managed to shake away the Dwemer Sphere, Jaraleet continued at a more slow pace, trying to evade any enemy patrols or other citizens who could give away his position. In the end, he managed to get to his home in the Waterfront district through a combination of skill and sheer luck.

As Jaraleet entered his home, he analyzed what little he had seen. The ancient Mer had appeared without making any sort of declaration or demands, and their forces butchered everyone they came across in the streets regardless of race or, apparent, wealth. Quietly cursing in Jel, Jaraleet moved the table in which he usually ate before removing the rug that was under that particular piece of furniture. With the rug out of the way a latch was revealed and inside of it stood an old travelling pack and, under it, a set of armor and two blades. The Argonian spy quickly put on his leather armor, then the metal vambraces with which he protected his wrists, before he took the sword and dagger that he had kept hidden. “I was wondering when I’d get to use these again.” He muttered as he attached both scabbards to the belt of his armor before slinging the rucksack over his shoulders and then closing the latch.

“Only one thing left to do.” The Argonian said as he approached the oil lantern that he kept near the entrance to the house. Grabbing the lantern, Jaraleet smashed it in the middle of the room it’s contents pooling in the wooden floor. With that done, he grabbed the flint he normally used to start a fire and used it over the small pool of oil; a spark flew and made contact with the easily ignited substance, a fire starting almost immediately afterwards. Jaraleet turned his back and exited the house, closing the door behind him as he started to move away from the Waterfront district and the carnage that had taken hold of the Imperial City.

---

4th of Second Seed, Skingrad - 4E208

In the end, Jaraleet had found himself joining with a group of refugees that had managed to escape from the Imperial City who were heading towards Skingrad. With no other plan in mind, and realizing that it’d be best for him to stay with a group for the time being, the Argonian joined the group in their march towards the southern city, lending his expertise in combat when it was needed to protect them from beasts, bandits, or monsters that roamed the countryside. The march had taken them days, a fact that didn’t bother Jaraleet all too much, but they had eventually reached Skingrad, relatively, safe and sound only to be turned away by orders of Count Hassildor.

The group itself had dissolved shortly afterwards when more and more refugees started arriving, to look for any surviving family the assassin guessed, but none of that mattered now. Laying on the ground in front of him was an old Argonian, his breath slow and steady, that Jaraleet remembered from the Waterfront district. It seemed that, amidst the escape, he had been shot by a strange weapon that the Dwemer possessed and while the wound had been bandaged, the exertion imposed upon the wound due to the days of travel meant that it had reopened and, worse of all, become infected. None of this would usually matter for a Saxhleel, they were known after all for their prodigious resistance to diseases and poisons of all kinds, but the days travelling, coupled with the scarce resources amidst the refugees, meant that the old Argonian was most likely to die, either from the blood loss or the infection.

Jaraleet had done what he could to make the old Saxhleel comfortable, getting a blanket for him and using his rucksack as an impromptu pillow. Now, he sat in front of the old man in what were likely his final hours on Nirn. “Are you comfortable Talen-Ja?” The assassin asked, getting a nod and a small smile in response from the older Argonian. They both knew that he was going to die unless he could get medical help, well more than what the refugees could provide that is, and so the only thing left to do was to wait the end.

The silence stretched on for minutes until Jaraleet began to hum quietly, in an effort to make Talen-Ja’s last hours more pleasant. It was an old song in Jel, he didn’t remember where he had heard it but it always helped to calm him down and, apparently, it had the same effect on Talen-Ja, who was smiling peacefully as he heard Jaraleet. The hours stretched by until, eventually, Talen-Ja went limp, his head lolling to the side as his soul left his body.

“Return to the Hist, honorable Raj-Deelith.” Jaraleet said as he closed the eyes of the old Argonian before taking his rucksack back and covering the corpse of the old man. Standing up, he turned to look at the walls of Skingrad and then towards the gathered refugees outside of the city. The sight didn’t bother him, he knew that Count Hassildor had made the right call to protect his city and that his fate didn’t lie with the other refugees. Walking through the rows of refugees with a cold stare, Jaraleet made his way to where he knew Brutus was; he had heard of the so called Colovian Rangers that the man had formed and he wished to join them. It was, he had surmised, the perfect way to turn this disadvantageous situation into an opportunity for himself. The return of the Dwemer presented many possibilities, and Jaraleet was determined to exploit them to further empower the An-Xileel and Argonia.

As he began to approach the place where he knew Brutus to be, Jaraleet began to play the story he had crafter inside his head over and over; he was a small time mercenary who’s comrades and friends had been butchered by the Dwemer, and he wanted revenge. Soon enough he was brought before the leader of the Rangers. “Please sir, let me join you, these bastards need to be taught a lesson.” Jaraleet said before Brutus could speak, his voice filled with apparent rage at the Dwemers. Brutus smiled at him and motioned for him to continue, all that Jaraleet had to do now was to convince the man but he had a good feeling that he could do so. It took some time but, in the end, Jaraleet managed to convince Brutus to let him into the Colovian Rangers. Now, all that he had to do was to continue on with the charade and attempt to find what opportunities he could to take advantage of the situation with the Dwemer.

---

Stendarr have mercy. That was the plea that had escaped from Mortalmo’s lips in the moments leading to his reunion with the lizard. With a few final parting words to Solandil and Anifaire, the elder of the three altmer steeled himself, before forging ahead towards Judena. It seemed that for whatever reason, the gods had brought him to her once again. By Oblivion, the divines were inscrutable sometimes. Reaching the argonian, and resisting the overwhelming urge to gag, Mortalmo began to extend a gloved hand in her direction, then thought better of it. The arm fell limply back to his side. “I will admit... I did not expect to see you again.” No. Rather, he had actively prayed for her demise. He swallowed, the barest of smiles twitching onto his face. “It is a testament to your... tenacity.” Even the lowliest of creatures were capable of impressive acts, when driven by the most basic of instincts: the will to live. Eyes sliding to Judena’s left, they came to focus on the diminutive nordic figure of Megana. Indeed, Mortalmo towered over the youth by a significant margin. “You and I did not speak much, but, Megana, is it? Clearly, the gods have gathered all of us here together for a reason.”

What that reason was, Mortalmo couldn’t say. Though he misliked this odd fall of fate. He liked the lizard even less. Perhaps there was something to be done about this. Perhaps.

“Yeah, it’s Megana, though Meg’s fine too.” The young Nord was surprised to see the eldest of the Altmer had decided to come her and Judena’s way. “Nice t’see the three of you.” Nice perhaps was pushing it a little, but it was fair to say she was happy they were alive. Keeping the expression on her face pleasant, she looked to the older Argonian, wondering how her companion would take this surprise meeting.

Judena braced herself at his approach, unable to discern why Durantel was seeking them out. They arrived after Rhea’s initial assessment of Skingrad. Her ‘beard’ was wrinkly and flat against the base of her neck, a red scaled hand gripped the staff of her spear. It saw more use as a walking stick as of late before it was used to hunt. His general pleasantries were unexpected while Judena had grown to dislike his company initially, there was no call to outright ignore him. “Hello, Durantel. Well met, alive and in one piece. Meg and I were about to leave to restock our food stores. Hunt for remaining game, forage for anything else we can find. There is only so much sunlight left to the day so we must be going.”

Any extended conversation was still beyond her interest. “Come my young friend, we can hopefully set some lines while we find a ripe berry bush.” Judena patted Meg’s shoulder, squinting pleasantly at the nord. “I trust we will be successful.”

“Mhm,” Meg agreed, glad for the chance to skedaddle and shorten the awkward meeting. “Berries sounds lovely just about now.”

Well. This was to be expected, Mortalmo supposed. Judena’s reception to his statements hadn’t quite been icy, but her behavior was cold nonetheless. “Wait,” Divines. What was he doing? “I have misjudged the both of you. Especially you, Judena. I chide myself. This is not Alinor. To expect golden eyes and faces everywhere the head turns is beyond foolish. You both handled yourselves exceptionally within that mountain, and your presence here before me is yet another testament to your abilities. The attack on the capital was both swift and brutal.” Mortalmo resisted the urge to clench his hands into tight fists, lest the knuckles crack and pop. What nonsense was he spewing? The lowliest of cowards are capable of flight. Even a lone skeever can become formidable when joined with the rest of its clan. The wretches he spoke to at current were nothing. Yet, all he did was bow his head a slight. The barest inclination of shame. Let them think he felt some degree of remorse for his prior vitriol. Let them think that it pained him to the bone to admit fault. So he tensed his shoulders, allowed the difficulty of his utterances to spread across his countenance. Painful it was, but not for the reasons he hoped they would suspect. “Whatever truths I may hold within my heart, I cannot deny that trying times are indeed upon us. I wish to foster a more productive relationship. Allow me to join the two of you. Long have I ventured Skyrim with little but my own thoughts for company. I am certain that the two of you will be grateful for my assistance.”

Durantel using her name respectfully grabbed her attention anew, Judena looked up to the Altmer he was stiff and tense, he would not be easily brushed off. More importantly he was taking this seriously. She only took a moment to think before replying. “The flight from the Imperial City was truthfully not without loss. Now that you, Anifaire and Solandil have rejoined us I am hoping to share notes of the attack with Anifaire. She was a valuable source of information during the expedition on Jerell Mountain.”

Judena gestured to him, her tone was even - if not a little hesitant. “More so, I appreciate your brooching for civility. I have travelled across all the great provinces of Tamriel and you are not the first Altmer I have met who struggles to work with others, judgement based on mere existence is a familiar theme.” She pat her chest, gesturing to her person. “While distrust of Mer is a familiar theme among my people. We must all make strides to reach beyond preconceived notions, yes? If you sincerely wish to join us to help find food today, I will not object.” She inclined her head then turned to Meg. “If you object Meg, I am sure we can come to a compromise if you feel otherwise but if we are all to stick together we must first take these steps together.”

“I believe Durantel is being sincere.”

“If you’re fine with it then so’m I.” Meg smiled at Judena before looking to the Altmer. The smile remained, though her eyes were uncertain, as if she was sizing him up and trying to read into what he was really thinking. She truly wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but after what she had witnessed earlier in the camp, the sheer disdain the two Altmer had for the poor refugee family… well, she was having a rather hard time being generous with her good will. Meg had never been the sort to judge others by their race, but continuously witnessing unpleasantries was forcing her to wonder if that was simple naivety on her part.

Still, she was stubborn; the last thing she wanted was to change the way she looked at things because of others. Maybe all the misfortune and tragedy that had occurred had actually given the Altmer a different perspective on life. She would give Durantel a chance to redeem himself in her eyes… eyes which would be scrutinizing the way he acted towards her friend.

And that was how Mortalmo found himself venturing into the woodland, foraging for food, in the company of animals. It was almost too easy, how willing they were to accept his company. Even if the nord did not seem entirely convinced. It was only natural, given the relationship between men and mer; rarely did a predator fraternize with its prey. Yet, that was exactly what Mortalmo was doing. Food they would find indeed. Perhaps the lizard herself would become a meal for the worms.

---

“Judena,” Mortalmo began. The trio had been walking in a silence that was barely a stone's throw away from tense, and the mer decided that perhaps polite conversation would go a long way towards easing the pressure in the surrounding air. “I beg a thousand pardons if I speak not from ignorance, but forgetfulness, yet I am curious, just how long has this world been known to you?” He glanced sidelong at the argonian, her vibrantly crimson scales in a sharp contrast to the rusty red coloration of his own patchwork cloak. He decided that at the soonest possible convenience, the purchase of a new cape would have to be arranged. Indeed, Mortalmo’s attire as a whole, though not unclean, was drab and worn. All the better for maintaining anonymity, though it did little for his pride. He busied himself then by scanning the surrounding greenery, listening for Judena’s reply.

The odd trio was making a ways away from the refugee camp heading into quieter forested woods outside Skingrad. Judena struggled to remember if they had passed a stream on their way here, fishing was among her strongest skills besides Alteration, of course. Her logbook was tucked into her shirt but the way was untrodden and it wasn’t prudent to check notes while she needed to be surefooted.

She glanced to Durantel, “No need to beg for pardons, curiosity - as my former colleagues once taught me - should never need forgiveness. Pursuit of knowledge is a reward in of itself!” Judena replied with a bit of cheer. “It was my Name Day just this past twenty-eighth of Rain’s Hand. It is difficult to tell with Argonians, but I am sixty-one.”

“May I ask how long you have lived, Durantel? It is difficult to tell for Argonians but next to impossible for Mer.” She commented, “If you do not mind sharing, of course.”

“No, I do not.” His voice had grown the slightest bit quieter. “I was but a boy when the Oblivion Crisis ravaged Tamriel. When that foul thing Mehrunes Dagon staged his otherworldly invasion.” He spat the words out, voice rising and then falling. A long sigh seeped out from his lungs. “My mother and father both fell to the demons, but my baby brother I was able to save. I am aged two centuries, two decades, and five years.” He turned to look at Judena properly, amber stones boring through her. “This strife with the automatons worries me more than you know.”

Jude nodded slowly, “It would not take much imagination to understand why the Dwemer’s invasion would worry someone such as yourself.” She said. “Living and breathing witness to history.” She lifted some passing bush with the butt of her spear, checking for blossoms but none bearing fruit. She added gently removing the spear, “I am glad you did not lose your entire family.” Mortalmo resisted the urge to snort. His father was a fool, throwing his life away for nothing. And his brother, too, was little more than a sniveling whelp before Mortalmo whipped him into proper shape. No kin of his would disgrace the new regime. Now, Calcinor was a source of pride, acting as Valentha’s right hand. His mother, though... She, he still missed.

Thoughts of the stream drifted back to her and she asked Meg, whom was a few paces ahead, “I cannot recall if we passed a stream on our journey here. We should head toward it to check for fishing prospects. Please lead the way, my friend.”

Meg stirred at being addressed; she had been listening to Judena and Durantel talking, finding it somewhat fascinating. There was much she didn't know, and this was especially true for knowledge outside of Skyrim. Knowing these two were so much older than her made it even more obvious that before them, she was no more than a mere child. If she had thought Judena was elderly... well, Durantel was as old as a dusty tome in a temple.

"Aye, there was a stream, we passed it a li'l while back." Meg paused in her steps, turning around and pointing with her bow. "That way, not too far from here." She cast a glance at the Altmer, still wary about why he of all people had decided to join them.

No gettin' lazy, she scolded herself. As interesting as their talks were, she had her own responsibility of making sure Judena didn't head the wrong way, and she wasn't going to shirk in it.

“I have not given the future much thought as of late, the Dwemer’s return is unprecedented. The only outcome I am sure of is the Imperial City will never be the same. This is far different from the Great War.” Judena remarked sadly. “I hope the Arcane University remains in tact.” Humming lowly.

“Thalmor bravery, with the grace of Auri-El guiding them, beat back such an invasion before. Their superior tactics and dogged tenacity was instrumental in closing shut the jaws of Oblivion. They will prevail again, I assure you. The Dwemer are no match against the forces of Alinor.” Mortalmo spoke with conviction of an absolute nature.

Judena squinted at Durantel, the Thalmor spin and credit for the ending Oblivion Crisis was objectively false. She knew the part her people played in the Crisis, she safely assumed Durantel was never taught otherwise. The argonian considered, would it be worth it to enter into a debate of facts to a Mer who lived during those times himself, would brooching it be insensitive? She rumbled in thought. A historical debate would also be a huge distraction. They had food to search for. Perhaps at a fire or when there was time to pass. She glided over the subject, “The conflict was a brave effort on many fronts, naturally there are different perspectives on a singular story. Every Tamrielic culture has remnants and scars still from the Crisis, the largest one by far is the one across Cyrodiil.”

“I have spent time appraising artefacts with dremoric origins in my time, fascinating pieces.” She said scratching at her ‘beard’ thoughtfully.

“I have seen those ‘artefacts’ up close. Vicious blades and twisted plate mail. I cannot claim to find them as intriguing as you.” The lizard’s interest in dremoric artefacts was, in Mortalmo’s opinion, rather juvenile. In fairness to Judena - and it begrudged Mortalmo to admit this, even if only to himself - it was long before her time. He supposed that if he should be in her shoes, the fascination would be far more understandable. “Although,” He began carefully. “I suppose my childhood memories would be ancient history to you.”

She chuckled, a throaty sounding hiss, “True enough, pieces of history no matter their origins are always fascinating to me. History I can hold in my hands,” She brought her hands up imaging a bit of pottery. “To reveal their hidden secrets and stories is a lifelong passion of mine.” Judena felt confident this positive turn in conversation was a good sign. If they could share an interest in history, it would prove a step in the right direction.

“Apologies, Meg I do not mean to exclude you from the conversation. It is far too easy to have me start on historical topics.” Judena said her lips pressing into a smile. “Naturally if anything caught your attention I would be happy to elaborate. Nordic ancient history is rich with folklore and oral stories, bards do well to remember them. I believe I have some written down somewhere.” Stepping up and over a fallen tree, lifting her tail above the wood, she continued to Meg, “You are an experienced explorer - adventurer of Skyrim. I imagine you have a far better understanding of nordic culture than I will ever have. It is only natural. One is most familiar with their homelands.”

"Oh, don' be silly, don' apologize!" Meg chuckled, turning back to look at Judena and then Durantel. "Honestly, it's all real fascinatin' to me. Most of what I know's of the now, 'less it was somethin' I was goin' after to find in a tomb. J'raij- my partner, he liked givin' each treasure a tale that could've been the truth, but pro'ly wasn't." She paused in speech, eyes looking for the marks she had periodically made on the trees the trio had passed so that they would be able to easily return to refugee camp once they had finished foraging.

Spotting what seemed an obvious notch in a tree trunk, she nodded her head and started forward once more. "My Pa, he was from here. Well, not here here, but Cyrodiil. Imperial City." She shrugged her shoulder. "He didn' speak much of it though. All I knew growin' up was that somethin' terrible had happened a long time ago. He was more concerned 'bout makin' money than speakin' of the past, I guess. It's nice though... I mean, learnin' more? Knowin' about what was? Kinda makes a person more 'preciative of what they got now… Huh... I wonder if years from now they're gonna tell the tale of when the dwemer came back..." I hope we're the ones who live t'tell the tale…

Judena nodded along to Meg’s remarks, listening, curious to know her thoughts. Admiring the way she freely spoke of her lack of understanding, in Jude’s field of academia no other would admit to their personal ignorance. Jude recognized in Meg a hunger, an important drive.

A visible sneer had rose and fell across Mortalmo’s face over the course of Megana’s statements. Though, he said nothing, a mask of implacability soon enough sliding across his visage. Let the nord remain unaware of the harsh truths of history. Surely ignorance was bliss, and such a small token of fortune was beneath his heed to snatch away.

"Ah, over there." Meg pointed out with her bow, but the sound of the water would have been easy for the other two to hear. "Here's the spring you were rememberin', Judena." She smirked at the argonian. “I don’t think you’re as forgetful as you think!”

Judena came to a stop, struck by Meg’s sincerity. She brightened immediately at the sight of the water. Quietly she walked up beside Meg, “Thank you, my dear friend. You are far too generous and kind with your sentiment, I appreciate it.”

She carried onto the shore searching the waters for movement. She rubbed at her chin, considering the spring, “I will set a line with some bait, I don’t see any fish near the surface right now but we will need to lure them.”

She removed her pack from her back, gently shifting letters and books aside to pull her sewing kit free. Small spools of cotton thread for mending, tucked beside it was a spool of twine. Judena set her open pack aside, she dug some of her dried meat free unspooling the twine.

Deftly tying knots around the small pieces of meat. “The meat will lure the fish close for me to spear them.”

When the length of bait was prepared she set it aside, stepping out of her boots rolling up her pant legs well above her knees. Feeling the grass between the webbing of her toes. Stepping into the water slowly wading in she bent low to tie the line to her toe, letting it freely float several feet deeper into the water. She became still as a statue watching the water.

“It would be prudent for one of you to continue the search for food, but I will need one of you to stay with me. I can focus on fishing but I fear I will forget why I am here in the first place.” Judena asked, her back turned, poised with the spear.

It would seem Auri-El’s grace had not yet left Mortalmo’s side. All that was needed was to draw Megana away from his position - far away - and then he would have free reign to deal with his... lizard problem. “Though I am not unaccustomed to life on the road, my particular set of skills have always been more useful in ensuring coin so that I might purchase a meal, rather than aid me when foraging for one became necessary.” He paused briefly, as if weighing in his mind two options, before speaking again. “Megana, you seem... quicker than me. Though I am confident I could hold my own while isolated, in the event of trouble it seems only logical that we do our utmost to unify. If one of us came across a potential threat greater than our own mettle to face, surely you would return to us sooner.” He spoke matter-of-factly, and not with disdain or contempt, but with the voice of one familiar to taking command.

“You are clearly the best choice to venture deeper into the wood, Megana. Just as I am the best choice to remain here. And... in the odd chance that you should come across some game, you do possess a bow with which to make use of such an opportunity.” He looked between the two of them then. “I would call this matter settled. Or, do you possess reservations?”

Jude turned slowly from her spot, “I have no objections. Meg, have no worries. Durantel and I are okay here for a little while. It is far more important we see to collecting enough food for everyone. You know where to find us, should you run into any problems.” Jude said, giving her friend a reassuring nod. Even if Durantel became sour between now and the time Meg returned Judena felt confident she could deal with his more unpleasant mood swings.

If it was simply her and Judena, Meg wouldn't have thought twice of leaving her and heading deeper into the forest, especially since she would be able to find her way back, and well, the argonian wasn't exactly stealthy or inconspicuous. Durantel was what made her wary. He was a smooth speaker, that was for sure, but she had lived quite awhile among wielders of silver tongues.

Her eyes shifted between the two, uncertainty clear in her eyes, though she finally let out a resigned breath. Judena had spent more than enough years on this world and had traversed more than her through Tamriel, whilst she was really just a chit of a girl in comparison. If the older argonian thought she would be fine, then Meg would trust in her.

"Hmph... well aight then." She looked from Judena to Durantel, green gaze hardening as she tried to figure out why he was so willing to spend time with someone he had previously been openly distasteful toward. "I won' be too long though. Take care, Judena."

Mortalmo looked at Megana with interest that he made no effort to hide. Let her make of it what she would. “I am appreciative of your willingness to cooperate. I have made efforts to assert my goodwill; it is only fitting that you do the same.” Now, perhaps the little skeever should get on with it. He did, after all, have some business to resolve with the scaly wretch between them.

Meg's eyes narrowed even more before she gave way to a softer expression. Perhaps he was right after all. If she wanted and in some way expected him to get along with others, then the same was expected of her. Her doubts were still there- it would take more than a walk and smooth talking to remove those, but her remaining stubborn would prove she was as bad as those she would scorn.

"Right then, a short farewell to y'both." She nodded once at the two older folks, waved her bow and started back into the woods. Maybe I should start praying more to Mara...

---

It was difficult to tell how long Meg had been gone, Judena would glance periodically up through the trees to try and discern where the sun was but seeing Durantel off the shore was a visual reminder of what she was to do. She held her post - fish were edging closer but still not close enough. She was patient, never moving an inch. There was no reason to chat, quiet was needed to concentrate and not scare any potential prey away. The meat was soaked through, any flavour leached away.

Mortalmo moved in a quiet, lazy half circle around Judena’s position, eyes to the forest surrounding them. In the event that Megana should return, it would do best for the altmer to look the part of one keeping watch. Eventually, however, fatigue and boredom set in, and he sat himself down on a stone a short distance away from the focused argonian. His back was to her. “Judena,” Mortalmo began softly, so as not to scare away the fish, or disturb the lizard’s focus. “Do you pay credence to the gods?” His own mind was full to the brim with thoughts of his own worshipped deities.

Judena glanced to the side, mulling over the strange question. She answered truthfully, “I do not. The Hist is what I believe in. You would not be the first to attempt to convert me.”

“My wife wanted a traditionally blessed marriage, strange to me as it was. Bretons have almost no customs in common with traditional Argonian ceremony.” She explained, “This of course came as no surprise.”

She glanced at her bag with the letters, deciding best not to dwell. “She is dead, so it no longer matters.” Returning to her task she felt the question was sufficiently answered.

“I do not mean to convert you, scaled one. It was only an inquiry. Nothing more.” Mortalmo tilted his neck back, staring up at the treeline. Speckles of golden light filtered in from between the leaves. They were far from camp, this deep into the forest. Megana, too, would be far away. He sighed. “Do you miss her? Your wife?”

Her gaze returned to the bag, lingering this time. Something in her gut twisted, “I miss her memory, I knew her before my accident and she remains there... forever young.”

“I empathize.” The words surprised him even as they were spoken. He scowled. Empathy for an animal? Just how low had he fallen? Had the years travelling in solitary truly addled his mind to such a foul a degree? And yet, he spoke them all the same. “There is one I hold dear to me. She is separated from me by time and distance. It is likely that she thinks me dead.” A bitter chuckle escaped from Mortalmo’s throat. “There are many I hold close to my heart, separated by both time and distance. I have traded them for isolation, and in turn traded that isolation for... the present company.”

She turned at the waist to fully regard Durantel the best she could as she was. “It is… difficult to continue living when you are severed from the ones you could call home. You could always feel home no matter where you ended up with them. I have always moved from one place to another but with her there was never feeling like we were rootless.”

“It is difficult to discern what home means, even decades later.” She said quietly, her own golden eyes never strayed from Durantel as she spoke, sincerity unmistakable.

He turned to face Judena then, his back now to the woods, rather than to her. Amber eyes met with golden. He held her in regard for a moment, before finally speaking. “It does not get easier, Judena. When you love someone,” And he paused, his lips pressed into a firm line, before finally continuing. “When you love someone, and you are unable to acquire some degree of closure, that love will always find a way to manifest itself.” Mortalmo’s tone held a degree of fatality to it, as if he spoke of some ill, unavoidable fate.

“I am... sorry for your pain.” This time, he did not sneer, did not scowl. His face was set into a stony frown, and he gazed at Judena with something akin to concern, but, too detached and too aloof to be called such.

Judena’s grip on her spear tightened, she noticed a shift in him unlike before. “As I am sorry for yours as well. There are no words to mend. Time is all the likes of us can hope for.”

“You asked about paying credence to the gods, you pray to statues and I have prayed to the Hist. There will be a day I return to the very pools I was born in, my soul will rejoin the Hist and perhaps my prayers will be answered then I will remember everything.” She said, solemn conviction. “Until then, no other gods would care to hear my prayers.”

“The afflictions of the mind and of the body cannot harry the soul.” He spoke in volumes just louder than that of a mutter. “You will be freed from your terrestrial afflictions. Your soul will escape its physical confines, and go to wherever it must.” The dagger hanging around Mortalmo’s belt suddenly felt very heavy. This entire encounter reeked of wrongness. What a fool he was, conversing with a baser creature as if it was an equal. Still he carried on. To speak of Faewynn and of the others he had lost, even if only indirectly, was like a great burden being lifted from his shoulders. This thing, Judena, knew something of loss. She understood, even if only to the smallest extent. Because truly, what were decades when matched against centuries? Judena would grow and wither and die and rejoin her beloved Hist. Still Mortalmo would remain.

Maybe though, he could expedite the process for her.

“You said before, Judena, that it is at times difficult for you to go on as you are.” He spoke with greater focus now, even as he coiled with apprehension from within. “How great is the weight that bears down upon you, scaled one?”

The fish was forgotten, she glanced away - ashamed to acknowledge what he was suggesting. What was tethering her in this life? She nervously reached for the ring at her neck, looking to her pack this time seeking comfort from her logbook but her feet were like two heavy stones. “It is fine. There is no weight to a stone carried in the river, not when the true burden is with the water. I have learned how to cope, to move with it.” Lacking all conviction she held earlier in her beliefs, she now barely believed what she said. “There is no cure, nor any hope for it.”

“I wish I was born this way, then perhaps I would not have had known what it is like to live with a whole mind.”

Mortalmo watched on as Judena fidgeted in her place, discomfort evident in her tone. It seemed to him that the argonian was scarcely convinced by her own words. “Stones sink, Judena,” He began to respond, his voice growing more gentle. Almost a cooing. “The river may carry them for a time, but they always come to rest upon that river’s bed. Do not wish for things to have been different. Who you were has grown into who you are now. You would not exist without your affliction.” There was an impercibtle tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yet you do not wish to exist with it. If you hope for an afterlife free of your current ailments, why continue to pursue this avenue of existence?” He leaned forward.

“What is your purpose, Judena?” He frowned. What was his?

Jude heard what he was suggesting, internally recoiling at the thought. He was asking a simple question, but he was failing to understand one very simple fact. She could never drown even if she sunk to the bottom of the river. She looked down to her reflection in the water then up to the Altmer.

“My purpose is to see myself to the end of the river properly. There are no shortcuts, Durantel.” Her feet felt free once again, it was clear to her as the unblemished reflection of herself in the spring. “Who else can write history as I do?” She cracked a classic, gums showing argonian smile.

Ah. So it seemed her mind was made up then. As it happened, so was his. Mortalmo rose from his seat upon the stone, and approached Judena, stopping just shy of two feet away. “I deigned to accompany you and the... nord, to aid myself in resolving something that had been troubling my mind. For quite some time now, the thought had niggled in the back of my head.” Any trace of past benevolence had drained from his cadence. Replacing it was something dubious and inscrutable. “Instead, I found myself disturbed by further confusion, with nary a relief in sight.”

He slowly descended to one knee, so that he and Judena were nearly eye to eye. “Now, however, I believe I have reached some form of consensus with myself.” The hand that had been lingering tantalizingly close to his simple blade’s sheathe extended itself in the argonian’s direction... empty. “I will not endeavor to cause you any further strife.” The statement was as simple as it was genuine. Mortalmo felt something crack and break inside himself. He did not much care for the sensation.

Judena searched his eyes, moments passed. Taking his outstretched hand, giving him a firm shake. “Thank you, Durantel. I believe I will never understand why you felt the need to do so in the first place. Perhaps while we walk on common ground we can also accept we are two completely different creatures.” She gestured to her pack. “If I do not write down our conversation right now, I will likely lose it entirely by dawn tomorrow.”

“By all means.”

---

Foraging for food wasn't hard. While Meg herself normally spent the gold she earned from selling trinkets for food and a warm bed, there had been many times when the rocky ground had been her bed, the sky her blanket, and the wilderness her food. The forest first wielded a couple of bushes of berries, from which she gladly partook before hacking off a couple of branches and sticking the under her belt. They wouldn't be enough for the group back at the refuge camp, but there was nothing stopping Judena and even Durantel from enjoying the taste of the sweet and tart berries.

She continued on her trek, keeping to a steady pace. Roots and rocks were nothing to one like her who had been sneaking all of her life, be it as a child climbing over walls or under bridges in Riften, or tiptoeing past deadly traps in long forgotten crypts and catacombs. Yet, the worry in her mind seemed much more than it had been in the past. Her hand tightened its grip around her bow; she paused in her step and pressed her hand against the closest tree trunk, letting out a strained breath. Worry, irritation, and then worry once more. For Judena, for Brynja, for Latro... all of her companions.

"Tch." The sound was low, not really audible to Meg's own ears, yet it caused her even more annoyance. She had told herself after J'raij had died that she would keep herself from bonding with people, with growing ties that would inevitably break. Yet she had gone against her own words from that first day at the dwemer excavation site. Finding common ground, making friends, worrying about others- maybe others could turn it off, but it had never been the case for Meg. Companionship and friendship had been something she had sought since as far back as her memories could go.

Focus. It never did good to dwell on the past. None of that would help her find food or find safety. Thoughts were for late night when sleep had disappeared and she was left staring at whatever as above her.

Straightening, she carefully wiped off the small dust and debris that had clung to her free hand. As she did, something caught the side of her eye, causing her to sharpen her gaze. Hah. A medium sized rabbit had ventured into a good few feet ahead, its little nose twitching as it crept towards a small patch of grass, ever wary of prays. It was nothing big, but meat and meat and a rabbit in a stew would feed at least those who were remaining in the refugee camp. Cautiously Meg reached back, silently pulling an arrow from the quiver. In a fluid movement she had it nocked and aimed, watching the rabbit, waiting for the right moment.

Its head lowered, nibbling at the grass; Meg released the arrow and it hit true to her aim, killing the rabbit almost instantly. Smiling, she stepped into the tiny clearing, reaching down to pick up her kill.

"That there was mine."

Shit! Meg swerved around just in time to see a man jump off a low branch of an old, sturdy tree, landing squarely on his feet.

"You sure 'bout that?"

"Aye."

By the way he looked, he looked a lot like a refugee, what with his disheveled hair and beard and the state of his ragged clothes. Meg reckoned he was hungry so she shrugged her shoulder and motioned towards her kill with her head. "Take it then, I'll just shoot 'nother one for myself."

"How about I take that pretty bow of yours too?" The man stepped forward, a lopsided smile on his face.

"Heh... no, I don' think so." It seemed trusting Durantel had made her senses a little foggy, or perhaps it was the tiredness from the trip the Skingrad, but Meg really hadn't thought the man would end up brandishing a knife at her. "Woah- you sure you want to do that?" A frown found its place on her face. "Take the rabbit an' get goin' 'fore I change my mind!"

"Now, now, don't be greedy." The man took a couple of more bold steps towards her. "I saw that group you came with. You probably have gold stashed somewhere, and I'm betting you'll be headed into Skingrad while the rest of us rot outside."

"You're wrong there, but that ain' here or there." Meg nocked another arrow to her bow and aimed it at the man. "Y'lost you're chance t'get free meat. Now get lost 'else this arrow's gonna find its way in you." Her voice was calm and even, but it was clear by the look in her eyes that she was dead serious.

"Fine, fine," the man drawled out, stepping a few paces back with his hands in the air, one still wielding the knife. "Just gonna warn you though, I know where you lot are. Don't think you're safe, girlie-"

And arrow hit right between his feet, the arrowhead embedded in the dirt a testament to how swiftly it had flown. "One more word an' you're gonna wish that arrow got you. Get. Lost.

Meg stayed as she was for the next few minutes, a new arrow nocked. The man had left, slinking away and probably planning his next ambush, or perhaps a stupid vendetta against her. It was true what her father had once said: hard times brought out the best and worst of people. She didn't know which sort of person she was, but she did know if someone threatened her or her group, she wouldn't hesitate again to take them down.

It was after shooting another rabbit that Meg finally decided it was time to return to the stream. She had wasted enough time as it were. How were Judena and Durantel getting along? Hopefully the Altmer was still calling her by her actual name and not any demeaning slurs-

A sudden sound to her left had her turning, just in time to see the man bear down on her, knife aimed to strike. Unable to counter the attack, she lifted her arm to stop the blade, hissing in pain as the knife stabbed into her forearm. "You piece of shit." Her free hand had already reached for her sword, pulling it sharply from its sheath, and with the same momentum slicing at the man. "You idiot. Shoulda tried t'kill me from far."

Meg pulled her sword away from the man and stepped back, breathing heavily. He wasn't dead yet, but she had sliced his abdomen, and from the foul smell she could tell his intestines hadn't been spared. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the knife out of her arm. Hopefully someone can fix this up...

By the time she had bandaged up the wound and picked up the fallen rabbits, the man was dead. Meg barely spared him a glance as she started back on her trail, ignoring the searing pain in her arm as she followed the notches she had made in the trees. When she could finally hear the telltale sound of water, she smiled, albeit tiredly.

"Nice t'see you lot again.”

Judena looked up from her logbook, a few pages later of written account including her thoughts and feelings. She looked down and the bait was still tied to her foot. “Oh… Oh Meg I am sorry, I did not catch anything. I simply could not put off writing something down. It is no one’s fault but my own.” She looked significantly to Durantel. Unsure whether to share any details. The barest shake of his head was the only acknowledgement cast her way.

She finished a sentence then snapped her logbook closed to stand. “It seems you were far more successful than I. Excellent work!”

"Aye, thanks," Meg replied, looking at the two, a little surprised but pleased. At least they were both safe and sound.

“I was keeping an eye all the same. The fish were not cooperative today.” Mortalmo looked Megana up and down. “You are injured. Is the assailant dead?” He assumed the wound could be attributed to some altercation, rather than simple stupidity on the part of the nord. Although, he would not be entirely surprised to hear she was the victim of her own carelessness.

“Very much,” Meg replied, a look of annoyance crossing over her face as she took of the man who had tried to rob her. “Didn’ have t’be that way but he chose t’be stupid.” She cast a glance towards the stream before continuing. “We can come back for fish t'morrow, maybe even head further down the stream, maybe take 'nother path or somethin'?” For the time being though, she really wanted her arm properly taken care of.

“I agree, let us head back… Where is back again?” Judena asked, looking between her two companions.

“I can lead the way, Judena.” Mortalmo gestured vaguely in the direction that he knew would take them back to camp, before heading that way himself. He said, “I believe Megana had also been marking trees during our travel. We are unlikely to find ourselves lost.”

A blonde young man sat on a log before a little girl whose haunting thousand yard stare hid an ocean of grief. He plucked at the strings of his lute a few times, trying to get a sense of what kind of melody he should be playing – he was wracking his brain, the cogs were turning, as he tried his best to formulate some lyrics on the spot. Finally, as if someone had flipped a light switch, his face lit up and he found a rhythm on his lute. Strumming away at the strings, it was a moment or two of a beautiful melody, if a bit quaint, before leaning in as if to talk directly to the girl and the boyish charm of his voice smoothly entered the song.

“Oh, girl, I see you sittin' there
Tryin' to be strong
'Cause life ain't fair, but darling
It won't be long
These people tryin' to tell you that
Big girls don't cry
So you try to keep a straight face, but
It still hurts inside

Well, let me tell you a secret I learned
Long, long ago
When I saw my brotha' for the first time
Cryin' in the snow
He was a soldier, he was a man
He fights the good fight when he can't even stand
When I asked him why don't he shy
He told me the weakest men hide
While the bravest men cry

So darling
There's no need to hide
Darling, feel free to cry
You gotta know how you feel
When you're alone, deep in the Weald
Darling, feel free to cry
And let the blue birds fly,
Let the blue birds fly, fly away”

It didn't take much for the first couple of tears to start running down the young lass' cheeks, but it wasn't until the end of the second verse when the waterworks started running a full throttle. He was forced to finish the song early by the end of the first chorus when the little girl had herself latching onto the bard's side, and burying her face in his shirt and soaking it with her tears. He hesitated for a second, honestly surprised his song was able to reach her so profoundly, but his face softened and he set his lute down. He wrapped his arms around the girl and somberly held her there. Her body was shaking with grief, and her sobbing was slightly muffled and muted in his side. It wasn't long before the melancholy came over the bard as well.

This wasn't an unusual case. In fact, this girl was just one of many. Barely even ten years of age, and she had already lost everything. Merchants, accountants, politicians, homebodies and busybodies alike were all displaced and shared a similar sort of story. Some might have been lucky to have one or two members of their family still alive, but they had all shared this loss together. Their homes were taken from them. Everything they once owned was lost and meaningless. Titles, power, and wealth – it meant nothing. The long journey along the Gold Road had worn everyone down, and the hope that these refugees had to find security in Skingrad was taken from them. The Count was apparently a popular fellow, but it would seem that even he had to take care of his own people. There was no right decision to be made – only one that would hopefully end in less total suffering. Unfortunately, that meant condemning the refugees to even greater suffering.

“Hey, Calen!” A voice barked from behind. Curiously, the bard turned his head around in response. A tall, surly man with an unshaven face marched up and confronted him with his arms crossed. “What's this all about? What did you do to get Lessia cryin' again? Girl, I thought we talked about this.”

The girl, Lessia, just looked up at the approaching man and sniffled, trying her best to rub her face dry with her dirty sleeve.

“Oh, hello Cezare!” Calen chirped. “Are you Lessia's father, then?”

Cezare's face fell somber. “No, I... he--”

“No, Lessia lost her family, didn't she?” Calen asked rhetorically. “That's quite a thing to happen to a ten year old girl. Let's give her a chance to grieve.”

“Calen, you know I respect you and the help you've given us, but now is the time to be teaching our kids how to be strong. Not breaking them down.”

“What's so strong about being emotionally constipated?” Calen asked, catching Cezare off guard with the sharpness of his words. “It's good to let her process these emotions. Not only will it teach her how to cope with them in the future, letting all of the grief out now will help her become more focused later.”

“You know what? Never mind I said anything. I thought you Skyrim nords would have more balls.” Cezare muttered, rolling his eyes as he walked away from him.

“Oh, that must be some of your world famous respect!” Calen called after him.

“...I'm sorry.” Lessia's little voice piped up. Calen felt his heart wrench and his face softened again.

“Oh honey,” he said gently, “you've nothing to be sorry about! Tension is just high around the camp right now. Nothing is your fault.”

Lessia just buried her face in his shirt again.

“Did you like my song?” Calen asked. He felt her nod, and he had to resist wincing as her chin dug into his rubs.

“Will you remember it for me? Whenever you're sad, will you remember the lyrics?” He asked again. He felt her nod again – ow, ow, oww.

“That's good! I'm glad you liked it. Remember: brave girls cry. There's no shame in it.” Calen repeated. “I have to go check up on Danish now, okay?”

Lessia pulled away from Calen and nodded. With a pat on her head, he pulled a few strands of hair out of her face and stood up and began walking. Everywhere he saw were people he had become somewhat familiar with – not too much, only a few conversations he had with them on the road. They were people who he had at least worked together with to make sure everyone survived the trip from the Imperial City to here. They weren't the first ones to arrive either. There were others waiting outside the gates, a few who the people from his own group recognized and were grateful to the gods to find them still alive. Freya, the one he had been flirting with on his way to the Imperial City from Bruma, had reconnected with her mother and hadn't done much speaking to one another since. He couldn't blame her after nearly losing her, and he was willing to give her all the time and space she needed.

Others became even more dejected when they still hadn't found their own friends and family. The last few days has been an exhausting carousel of emotions. Those who felt they had nothing left or wanted revenge against the dwemer joined up with a recently formed militia group called the Colovian Rangers. It sounded not too different from what Murtagh would've done, but Calen knew where his value lies, and it was not with them.

A minute of walking brought Calen to the other end of the camp where the stables would've been. The local stablemaster was a little more generous than the city of Skingrad was, but at the same time, the stablemaster didn't have dozens upon dozens – possibly a hundred – of horses arriving at his doorstep like the city had people. There were fewer to accommodate, and Danish? Well, the short pony didn't take up much space. He has been... surprisingly calm. He'd remember the commotion of Solitude being enough to shake the pony's nerves enough to send him running, but the couple years being driven on the road must've steeled him a little bit. Enough to at least tolerate the young boy that was currently on his back.

The kid seemed rather disappointed in Danish's less-than-enthused disposition, who was more interested in eating the grass than giving the child a joy-ride. He wasn't reined or had a saddle on him or anything, just his halter. The kid probably had no idea how to ride a horse. Amused, Calen strolled up beside Danish and the kid sitting atop of him and greeted him with a smile. “Hey there, would you like me to help?”

“No.” The boy replied indignantly, crossing his arms. “Stupid horse just won't move.”

“Now, now, don't call him stupid – he hasn't deserved it yet.” Calen insisted. He picked up the piece of rope that was attached to the bottom of the halter and put it in the kid's hand. “You probably already know that if that touches the left side of his neck then he'll turn right.”

“Uh... yeah.” The boy replied, applying pressure on Danish's left neck. Danish himself made an impatient noise but started turning on the spot towards the right. Calen smiled, and kept himself on Danish's left side and away from his rear end.

“And the other side...”

The boy let go of the pressure on Danish's left neck and let the rope touch his right neck. The pony followed the cue and started turning left.

“This is called neck reining.” Calen beamed with a smile. Though hesitantly, the boy started to smile back at Calen. The bard reached into his pocket and procured a small handful of dried oats, immediately catching Danish's attention. From then on, the pony started ignoring all of the cues the boy on top started giving him and focused solely on Calen, who had put the hand of oats behind his back.

“Danish, kiss!” He said with kissy sound, leaning his head in to the pony. Danish lifted his head to gently tap Calen's face with his nose. “Kiss!” Calen said again and Danish repeated the gesture. “One more time,” Calen asked, making the kissy sounds again. Danish nuzzled him a third time.

“Good boy! What a good boy!” He praised, extending out his hand and letting Danish eat his prize. The whole act had captivated the child riding atop the pony who was grinning from ear to ear with an awed-like expression, bringing an even greater smile to Calen's face.

In times like these, it was important to be patient. Especially with Tamriel's most vulnerable. Lose it, and well... what else did you have?

6th of Last Seed, 4E208, Early Morning
Somewhere north-east of Skingrad

“Are you a knight?”

Lost in thought, Gregor looked up from his breakfast into the green eyes of the young man sitting opposite him at one of the communal campfires that were scattered throughout the camp of the Colovian Rangers. The heat of the flickering flames was a welcome reprieve from the cold night and the lingering chill of the grey dawn and Gregor hadn’t been able to resist its lure. He had kept his distance from the rest of the Rangers until then, having only talked to Brutus to ask him if he was welcome to tag along. Brutus had taken one look at the heavily-armed Nibenean and gladly accepted the offered help from “a real warrior, by the looks of it!”, and that was that. He had marched at the back of the main body of Rangers and ignored the inquisitive looks he received.

“Not really,” Gregor replied truthfully, and lifted a hand to wipe the stew he was eating out of his beard.

The boy shrugged. “You look like a knight.”

That elicited a chuckle from the older Imperial. “Yes, but there is more to a knight than his armor. Real knights are part of an order and uphold a code of honor and chivalry. I’m just a… concerned citizen,” Gregor said. He held the boy’s gaze for a second or two before returning his attention back to his meal. “Eat up. I expect we’ll be leaving soon.”

“How do you know?” the young man asked and raised his eyebrows, before quickly glancing over his shoulders to see if there was something happening behind him that he’d missed.

“Because the scouts have returned.” Gregor pointed the boy in the right direction with his index finger. “Look there, between those tents? You can see that people have gathered. Brutus, the big Argonian… the only thing important enough to warrant that kind of commotion is--”

“The scouts,” the boy said and nodded. He looked excited. Gregor estimated him to be around his eighteenth year, but only just. “My name is Tiber,” he said as he turned his gaze back to Gregor.

It was a bold move by Tiber’s parents to name him as such and Gregor smiled. He didn’t want to think about where they were now, or why Tiber was seemingly out here alone. “A fine name. I’m Gregor.” Tiber returned the smile, but it the moment passed quickly as he averted his gaze and fidgeted with his fingers. It looked like he didn’t want to think about that either. Gregor slowly took a deep breath and a look of pity passed over his face.

He got to his feet, dusted off his cloak and handed the now-empty stew bowl back to the Ranger who had generously given it to him. “Stay safe, Tiber.” Gregor nodded curtly in his direction before turning on the spot and walking back the way he’d came.

The call to pack up and move out followed swiftly. Gregor trailed behind once more, looking over his shoulder every so often to see if they weren’t being followed, his left hand resting uneasily on the pommel of his silver longsword as he walked. The confrontation with Tiber, presumably orphaned, had reminded Gregor that they were actually at war. It seemed so absurd that he’d momentarily forgotten the reality of the situation. As they reached Elenglynn, the Ayleid ruin, Gregor silently sat down against a tree and waited for their next set of orders. He wasn’t much use as a tracker or a scout -- during his time in Skyrim, he’d mostly relied on the Vigilants to do that for him.

Hannibal’s bulging eyes and trembling lips flashed in his mind’s eye and Gregor clenched his jaw.

His eyes fell on a Nord and a Khajiit, both women, that were quietly talking amongst themselves. Their backs were turned to him as they stared out over the ruins and the Dwemer that inhabited them, allowing Gregor to look at them with impunity, and he distracted himself by imagining different scenarios that had brought the unlikely companions together. That was effective enough to let him close his eyes for a bit, and a bit turned into a while, and a while turned into--

“Let’s get this done.”

A hand on his shoulder awakened him, and Gregor saw Tiber looming above expectantly. “It’s time,” the boy said. His voice sounded small.

Gregor got up, allowing Tiber to help him, and found himself straightening out the collar of Tiber’s chainmail. “For the Emperor, Tiber,” Gregor whispered, and a bit of courage returned to the lad’s eyes.

“For the Emperor.”

The orders had been given by Brutus and Pollux, their words still rang fresh in the ears of those they had gathered. Brutus had gone to gather the raiding party while Pollux had remained with the initial group that was now tailing the mechanical suits and the eight Dwemer skirmishers, four of which were armed with the single-shot rifles, and the rest were armed with sword and shield with light armour.


Leading his Rangers quietly through the brush to set up along the path the patrol was embarking down, lamps lighting their way, the night was silent except for the thumping of steam-driven pistons and the heavy weight of the power suits marching in formation for what seemed to be a routine patrol; while the escorts seemed vigilant, they appeared to be relaxed, as if they had done the exact same route dozens of times already and they were not anticipating trouble this far out into the wilderness. Indeed, the soldiers seemed to be somewhat in awe of their surroundings, as if this were a vacation for them rather than an occupation of hostile territory.

“Wait until they are far enough from camp that they might be outside of earshot. We need to buy the others some distance and prevent reinforcement.” Pollux instructed. “We will strike from behind and cut off their retreat. I am willing to wager that those suits are not overly swift at turning around.”

After several minutes of tense silence, Drinks pulled a pair of mages close to him. “Get ahead of the column and fire off magelight directly at the heads of those suits. Blind them. That will begin our attack.” Nodding, the two mages scurried off through the hills while the remainder began to form a U formation around the column. Now the trap was set; all that was left was to wait.

Looking at the Dwemer up close and in detail the others who didn’t happen to be Khajiit stirred up a few rather unpleasant emotions within Daro’Vasora. She wasn’t a fighter, and as much as she wanted to take down a few of the bastards on behalf of Zegol, she also wasn’t in a hurry to die. Instead, she studied the giant mechanized suits like a puzzle to be solved. It’s not unlike a barrow, isn’t it? Some sneaky mechanism to open a door or trigger a trap. Someone has to get inside that thing, and I’m willing to bet they don’t do it on their own. she thought, her teeth biting into a stick that she plucked off the ground. Armed with a sleeve of lockpicks, a pry bar, and her ever trusty mace, she looked for a way to pry open the suit like a clam to get at the meat inside. And the soul gem that runs the entire thing is the pearl, she reflected, smiling in spite of herself.

Suddenly, a pair of blinding white lights caused her to shield her eyes and the Dwemer troops exclaimed in their Dwemeri tongue that Daro’Vasora could only make out a few words of. The effect was obvious, however; the battle had started.

Pollux stepped out from his concealment with the contingent of mages and staffs with frost magic and began to close the gap on the suits, shards of ice spikes flinging towards the lightly armoured infantry while streams of frost began to encase the limbs, starting to slow down the suits, which were having difficulty seeing with the mage lights directly in the faces of the headpiece. With a roar, the fighters joined the fray and charged into the fight while archers looked for targets of opportunity. Revenge would be sweet.

Unlike the other Rangers, Jaraleet didn't let out a roar or any other war cry as he charged towards the Dwemer forces. Such displays in battle were, in his opinion, useless, it was best to save one’s energy rather than waste it in something as trivial as a shout. Still, regardless of the silence with which he approached the battle, Jaraleet nonetheless joined the other Rangers in their fight for the suits that the Deep Elves used, his blade clashing with that of one of the shield wielding Dwemer.

He dodged an attack from his opponent, using his swordbreaker to keep the blade locked down while he tried to stab at his enemy with the long sword. Unfortunately the soldier blocked his attack and managed to free his sword before charging towards Jaraleet. It tried to once more slash at the Saxhleel, but like before Jaraleet managed to block his opponent using his dagger; however, the sword attack had been merely a feint as the Dwemer soldier bashed Jaraleet in the chest with its shield. Jaraleet stumbled back, staggered by the shield bash, and barely managed to avoid a thrust directly into his chest, albeit he still received a glancing blow to his shoulder.

Deciding to go on the offensive, Jaraleet charged towards the Dwemer soldier. His sword was raised in an obvious overhead strike and his enemy bought the faint as it raised its shield to stop Jaraleet’s attack with the long sword, however in that moment Jaraleet plunged his swordbreaker into the exposed side of his foe. The Dwemer staggered backwards, moving the hand holding his shield to clutch at his bleeding abdomen. Jaraleet took the opportunity and charged again at the Dwemer, the soldier was too slow and this time Jaraleet was able to strike him cleanly in his sword hand with his blade going through the Mer’s wrist. After that, the battle was practically over and Jaraleet soon put an end to the Dwemer by driving his sword through its throat. With that particular foe taken care of, Jaraleet turned his gaze towards the wider battle once more and began to look for his next target.

Gregor, his enchanted claymore in hand, decided to stick close to the mages and act as their last line of defense against the Dwemer infantry. If the Deep Elves were smart, and he had every reason to believe they were, they’d prioritize the enemy units that were most effective against their own trump card; the power armor. The two towering suits of brass were definitely at the top of the list of the wildest things he’d ever seen, but now wasn’t the time to stop and gawk. He focused on the here and now (a mental trick he’d had a lot of practice with over the years) and scanned the fray for ambitious enemies. Gregor’s decision was quickly vindicated as one of the Dwemer foot soldiers, armed with a real fancy-looking spear, broke away from the incoming rush of Rangers and made for the circle of sorcerers. “Not so fast,” Gregor hissed and stepped in-between them and the Dwemer, who yelled something in him in a language he didn’t speak. The elf’s face was hidden behind a disapproving visage of wrought metal but Gregor imagined that his real expression wasn’t much different. The Imperial swung his his blade upwards and arced it down towards the Dwemer’s head, who blocked it with the shaft of his spear -- all according to plan. The claymore’s enchantment sprang to life and shock magic traveled down the spear and into the Dwemer’s arms. The following involuntary muscle contractions, exacerbated by the fact that the Dwemer simply hadn’t been expecting an enchanted weapon, were enough for him to drop his spear by accident. Gregor wasted no time and punished the fatal mistake with a well-placed thrust to the gut.

His fingers twitched and a red hunger flashed in his eyes. It would be so easy… but no. Gregor was surrounded by people who would immediately recognize the rushing noise and bright flash that would follow. The Dwemer expired and fell to the forest floor, limp and useless, without having to fear for his soul.

If the Rangers were terrified about going up against their hated and feared adversaries, it certainly didn’t show with the ferocity with which the men and women of the Colovian Rangers charged into the fray. Perhaps with the mechanized suits being somewhat handicapped without proper visibility and the frost magic managing to greatly slow down the limbs, death didn’t seem as certain as it had been before, and the escort group seemed to be scrambling to try and react to the sudden organized attack. Daro’Vasora did not charge in; she stayed back and watched the fight unfold before her, knowing her own strengths, which decidedly weren’t in the ‘kill professional soldiers’ category. She watched a large Argonian she had seen around the camp engage and slay one of the more traditional Dwemer fighters, and the ones with the rifles were taking pot shots at shapes they could loosely see. Some shots had found their marks; from where she was crouching behind a tree, five of the Rangers had been killed, some by shot, the others by sword. Meanwhile, the frost mages struggled to keep on top of the suits. She knew it wouldn’t last forever.

When a trio of arrows brought down one of the gunners, Daro’Vasora realized she had a clear shot towards the rear suit, whose back was turned towards her. The limbs kept cracking the ice, which was immediately recoated with more magic, and it was clear that it was going to be a battle of attrition. Taking a deep breath and tossing the stick in her mouth aside, the Khajiit scrambled out of concealment, hopping over a Dwemer body and hoping that the Dwemer were too distracted to notice her, or care overly much, about a singular figure who wasn’t actively trying to murder them. When her claws hit metal, an all-too familiar alloy pressing against the pads of her hands, the Khajiit quickly found some foot and handholds in the suit’s armour; a surprising amount, largely due to the flexibility the monstrosity needed to just move around. She hoped that something wouldn’t shift and crush her hands, or that a spinning gear or gyro wouldn’t pull her into the machine.

With a few long reaches and well-honed climbing skill, Daro’Vasora was on top of the suit, riding it like the most comically unsuited knight on the most improbable steed. Now it was time to really get to work; she quickly studied around the headpiece, trying to find some kind of release lever or similar mechanism that would unseal the pilot’s head, and she ended up finding a keg-shaped bar near the suit’s “chin”. Reaching to grab it, the head turned to look directly at her, giving her a bit of a chill given the cold and emotionless stare carved into the Dwemer design. She yanked the keg towards her, and she heard the turning of gears within along with a more vertical direction of travel; the helm was loose.

As ice loudly started cracking around her, the Dwemer inside struggling to get free to kill her, Daro’Vasora grabbed the pry bar she had secured to her belt and shoved it under the opening by the release mechanism and grabbed the head by the brow and pulled it backwards, the entire assembly pivoting backwards towards her as it gave way, nearly causing the Khajiit to lose her balance. When she grabbed hold of the shoulder, she was face to face with the grey-brown skin, dark curly hair and golden eyes of a Dwemer; the sight was too weird as her brain scrambled to rationalize that it was just a very sick Dunmer rather than a historical relic that very-much wanted her dead that she’d been studying for years. She made out a few of the rather hateful words that seemed weird to hear allowed. Instead, she grinned and waved at the face that was sticking out of the mechanical monster and said, “Bõlü!”

Before the exchange could have gone any further, Daro’Vasora grabbed the prybar tightly in her hand and jabbed the pointed end into the Dwemer’s eyesocket, jerking it up and down to ensure that the death came quickly and hopefully relatively painlessly, since she’d seen all too well what a less-than-stellar hit with a mace could do, leaving someone to die slowly of brain trauma and a collapsed skull. The head slumped forward, blood leaking out of the destroyed socket as she pulled her tool free, and the suit came to a stop. Daro’Vasora didn’t like killing, especially when she made a special effort to just maim to get away, but Zegol’s death still was fresh in her mind. “Welcome back to Tamriel, asshole.” she spat scornfully.

”LOOKOUT! “ came a cry from in front, and the first of the frost staffs had lost their charge and the lead power suit was beginning to break free of its prison. With a massive spiked axe for a hand that had gone free, the arm swung into a group that had ventured too close and disemboweled two Rangers with the massive bladed weapon, and impaling another with the meter-long spike between the dual blade. The Khajiit grimaced; she wasn’t likely going to be able to pull the same trick.

Shock spells rang out, causing temporary shorts that didn’t do too much to fry the Dwemer suits’ armour so much as make it look like a spastic and jerky beast with a neurological disorder that screwed with its limbs. Its massive arm gun was freed next and it fired randomly, three shots digging into the earth and causing a thick tree trunk to splinter, the collapse causing some of the Rangers to have to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed. Gregor was among them and stopped for a second to catch his breath, the adrenaline surging through his veins causing him to marvel at his close brush with death instead of recoiling in fear. He’d never fought in a war before and he had to admit this was some of the hairiest combat he’d ever seen. Reorienting himself, Gregor realized he had moved too far away from the mages and returned to their side.

Pollux called out, “Aim for the basket on its chest! The soul gem is likely inside there! We need to shatter it.” A thunderbolt escaped his fingertips, the crack so deafening it caused Daro’Vasora’s ears to ring.

After his brief fight with the Dwemer soldier, Jaraleet had taken advantage of the chaos of battle to retreat back towards the trees were some of the Rangers were still in. His forte wasn’t in open combat and, as such, he retreated back to the shadows of the trees so as to not be spotted by his next victim. An opportunity presented itself when he noticed one of the riflemen taking aim towards a Khajiit woman who was holding onto the other Dwemeri suit, one that she had disarmed single handedly from what he had seen.

Jaraleet took advantage of the concentration of the riflemen and made his way towards the Dwemer, his focus briefly shifting towards the remaining Dwemer suit when it freed itself before returning to his new target. The concentration displayed by the Dwemer marksman proved to be advantageous to Jaraleet, as the Mer didn’t took notice of his presence until the Saxhleel’s sword was starting to be embedded in its gut. The Dwemer tried to resist, but the Haj-Eix put a quick end to that by driving his swordbreaker into it’s throat. However, before he had time to contemplate anything else, Pollux gave the order to attack the basked in the suit’s chest.

In this, Jaraleet was at a disadvantage. Sword and dagger would be of no use against the suit, nor would his poisons have any effect against it since he had no way to expose the Mer piloting the suit to them. With little to no option left, Jaraleet did the only thing that seemed logical and picked the rifle dropped by the recently deceased Dwemer; the only things that the Argonian assassin could identify were the obvious Dwemer design on the weapon itself and it’s crossbow-like trigger at the bottom of the strange weapon. Still, Jaraleet had no other recourse except try and use the strange Dwemeri weapon if he wanted to contribute and, as such, he tried to remember what the other riflemen had done before letting loose their weapons deadly payload. Taking aim towards the basket on the suit’s chest, and once more going through what the riflemen had done in his mind, Jaraleet pressed the crossbow-like trigger and hoped for the best.

The singular shot deflected off of the thick armour plating of the suit’s left shoulder and imbedded itself into the gearwork that allowed locomotion of the arm, preventing a full range of motion of the ranged weapons as the mechanical suit tried to turn to face its aggressors, the mages and the Argonian that had turned the weapon on it. It would likely take dozens more well-placed shots to disable the joints of the suit; the armour was simply too thick.

The shock magic, however, seemed to be doing a bit more damage, but the suit itself was protecting the user. It remained to be seen if anyone could get to the soul gem encased on its chest; it seemed to be the best bet of how to stop it in its tracks.

Drinks-Many-Rivers smashed his kanabo into the shield of one of the heavier Dwemer escorts, his immense strength driving the Dwemer back into a defensive stance that was struggling to keep his shield up under the barrage of blows. The Argonian bruiser changed tactics when he grabbed the side of the shield, pulling it towards him as the Dwemer stumbled, attempting a feeble thrust to attempt a quick incapacitation of his foe; it was simply too awkward of an angle and too slow, and with one hand, the kanabo smashed behind the Dwemer’s knee, the sound of bones snapping filling the air along with a blood curdling shriek. Another blow came down on the sword wrist, maiming it horribly as Drinks finished the job by smashing the heavy blunt weapon repeatedly into the faceplate before him, buckling it in with finite brutality. It was probably for the best that it concealed the damage.

The large axe of the suit was halted by a precise shock spell from Pollux, causing it to drop before it gained momentum enough to impale the Argonian, who looked at the face of the power armour contemptuously. He shouted towards Jaraleet, “Brother, I need to to take care of the soul gem’s cover. I’ll keep this thing’s gaze. I need frost magic on the limbs, now!”

As if abiding by his willpower, what remaining mages who still had frost charges returned to the original tactics of trying to immobilize the limbs, which was still far less effective this time around. Still, it was enough; the alloys and the weaker metals under the framework began to buckle and crack under the blows of Drinks’ studded club, which broke through the ice and began to cause some minor structural damage; the weapons, at least, weren’t going to be nearly as effective.

“Go!” he yelled.

Jaraleet cursed as his shot failed to hit it’s intended target but, at the very least, he had done some damage to the Dwemer’s contraption. However, the assassin didn’t have much time to ponder his failures as the suit turned in his direction and that of the mages that had been hitting it with shock spells. Jaraleet was poised to retreat into the treeline once more and pick another target when Drinks-Many-Rivers voice brought him out of that particular line of thought with his orders.

Nodding, Jaraleet began to follow after Drinks at the same time as the mages resumed their barrage of ice spells. The Saxhleel assassin quickly closed the gap between himself and the dwemer suit while Drinks was keeping the pilot of the suit distracted by attacking it’s limbs; once he had closed the distance, Jaraleet quickly found out that, through the course of the battle, the cover of the soul gem had come loose enough that it seemed poised to fall off if enough force was applied. In fact, the cover was wobbling slightly with each movement of the suit and this caused the lid to slightly open; taking advantage of this fact, Jaraleet thrust his swordbreaker into the opening and began to use his dagger as an impromptu crowbar in an effort to pry loose the cover in its entirety.

The piece of metal seemed to come more and more loose the more strength that Jaraleet applied, and it was only a matter of time until he pried it loose on his own. However, time was a luxury that none in the Rangers could afford and, as such, Jaraleet scanned around himself to find help so as to expose the soul gem powering the suit of armor faster. His eyes landed on Daro’Vasora and, using his free hand, the Saxhleel pointed at her “You there! I need your help to get this loose!” The Argonian shouted over the din of battle, motioning from Daro’Vasora to the metal cover on the suit and then back to her. The Argonian only hoped that the Khajiit understood what he meant as he once more turned his efforts and undivided attention towards prying loose the metal cover.

The Khajiit had already managed to scramble to the ground and away from prying sharpshooter’s eyes when the Argonian shouted. Looking around to see who he was calling for, it dawned on her that he meant her.

“Wonderful. Now I’m the honourary super suit killer.” she muttered under her breath, sprinting over to the very much unrestrained set of piloted machinery that she’d seen murder more than a few of her compatriots. It was not a tantalizing prospect.

Rather than risk getting her hand caught, she grabbed onto a plate as the machine bucked around and she reached out, grabbing the Argonian’s wrist to pull her the rest of the way up onto the thing’s chestplate. She could see the glow a soulgem through the slit that was pried open thus far. As she prepped her pry bar, she looked the Argonian in the eyes. “Did you think to look for a release lever? They have to change these things somehow.” she remarked tersely, shoving the prybar as far down along the seam as she could manage. “Just make sure I don’t fall. I don’t fancy getting crushed today.”

Bracing her feet against the flat surface and grabbing the bar with both hands, Daro’Vasora began to pry back with as much strength as she could muster, the basket straining against its restraining latches against the mechanical force. With a defiant and loud yell of exertion, the basket suddenly came free, but without anything to support her, the Khajiit fell back and hit the ground hard, winding herself in the process, her vision blurring as stars danced around her eye.

However, the gem was exposed, but the mech was still moving. One step in the wrong direction and Daro’Vasora would be crushed.

Jaraleet ignored the terse words from the Khajiit, the battlefield was no place for complaints or critiques even if they were true. If they both survived unscathed, then he’d take the time to listen to Daro’Vasora’s complaints, but for now the sole focus of the Saxhleel was in getting that soul gem out of the armored suit. Giving the Khajiit a nod, Jaraleet observed as the nimble Cathay pried open the basket in which the suit’s source of power was held.

Unfortunately, with the basket coming loose, Daro’Vasora had nothing to support her and she fell to the ground. Doubly unfortunate for her was the fact that Jaraleet wasn’t bothered by this fact, as his focus had shifted onto the soul gem once the basket had fallen away. With the power source now unprotected, Jaraleet reached with his hand towards the soul gem and, with a rather brusque yank, he pulled it free from where it lay in the mechanisms of the armored suit. With the threat of the second Dwemer suit neutralized, Jaraleet turned his gaze towards the fallen Khajiit.

She had seemingly hit her head when falling to the ground and so Jaraleet doubted she could get back to safety on her own. Crouching down, the Argonian easily picked up Daro’Vasora and slung her over his shoulder before he hurried back towards the, relative, safety of the area where the mages, and the lone warrior who had remained behind to protect them, were. Once there he lightly deposited Vasora to the ground and turned to look at the gathered mages, “If anyone has any skill in restoration take a look at her, I’m going back to the fight.” He said, motioning to the Cathay.

Gregor, who had extensively dueled before finally cutting down another one of the Dwemer infantry while the Argonian and the Khajiit had wrestled with the power armor, heard the question and quickly made his way over -- the fight was nearing its end, but the mages had exhausted themselves against the suits of power armor while Gregor’s magicka supply was still fresh and untouched. “I’ll take care of her. Go!” he said encouragingly as he sank down on his knees next to Daro’Vasora, hands already glowing with the golden light of Restoration magic.

Jaraleet looked over as the warrior approached him, saying that he’d take care of Daro’Vasora.”Then I’ll leave her in your hands.” He said to the Imperial, nodding towards him. Without another word, the Saxhleel returned to the battlefield once again to help defeat what few enemy soldiers remained.

The fuzz began to fade from Daro’Vasora’s vision and she was vaguely aware of being manhandled away from the mechanical suit, but it wasn’t until she heard a voice calling for a restoration mage that Daro’Vasora came to her senses. She was placed against a tree, and reaching behind her head, she was pleasantly surprised it didn’t come back damp. At least she didn’t hit anything hard on the way down. She watched the Argonian step away before rubbing her temples. “My hero.” she remarked sarcastically to herself, staring daggers at the departing Argonian.

Gregor had propped her up against the tree when he realized that she wasn’t bleeding all over the place, but head injuries could be insidious. Fortunately, she came to pretty quickly, and Gregor leaned forward so that she could see him. “Welcome back. How’s your head?” he asked and put on his most reassuring smile while he intently watched her pupils react to the flashing lights of the battle behind him.

“Like the morning after payday,” she groaned, rubbing the back of her head. “I’ll live. Just had the wind knocked out of me, is all.” she replied, finally taking in the face of the man who had come to her aid. His smile was disarming, and she sat up straighter out of reflex. “I’m guessing everything went according to plan?” she asked.

"I think so,” Gregor replied. Her eyes pupils looked normal and she seemed lucid. “You're good to go. Give me a shout if that headache gets any worse. My name is Gregor.” He straightened up and offered a hand to pull Daro’Vasora to her feet.

The fight seemed to be more or less over, both suits were out of commission (only one seemed to be well intact, however) and there was shouting as the last of the surviving Dwemer were being hunted down by the victorious survivors. She got to her feet, standing still for a few moments to make sure she wasn’t faint, and past a dull throbbing headache, Daro’Vasora wasn’t any worse for wear.

She returned to where she fell and found her prybar quickly enough, along with the soul gem that the Argonian had pried loose after her fall. Scooping it up, she noticed the size of it; it was big enough that it required both hands to carry comfortably. More discerningly, it had a very distinctive black tinge to it.

She was carrying the soul of some person whose body had tied presumably not all that long ago. Disgusted, she dropped it into the dirt again and decided to step away before she decided to do something stupid with it. Her thoughts turned to the encampment ahead. How were the others making out?

Behind her, Gregor silently knelt down and slipped the black soul gem into his rucksack. His eyes bored into Vasora’s back as she walked away.



A commotion came from the woods to the West, and a bright light shone through the trees, causing the Dwemer sentries to take notice, visibly preparing for something. Brutus knew it was his turn to shine.

“Rangers, it’s time! Secure the ships, secure the ruin’s entrance! Let’s show the Deep Elves a warm welcome back from the dead! DEATH!” The Imperial cried, and a chorus of warcries filled the treeline. Arrows and ranged spells shot out in volleys, connecting with the closest of the Dwemer, felling a pair of them who weren’t armoured enough to withstand the vital shots that hit them. The sole remaining power suit took defensive position and a roar of shots escaped from its right gauntlet, biting into the treeline where the Rangers were positioned. The shots were near misses, thanks in part to the darkness that shrouded them, but as the Rangers hit the ruins themselves, the only protection they’d have would be the ancient granite that made up the ruins.

Kylian cried out, “Hit the suit with shock spells, hurry! We don’t need that one to survive!”

The twang of crossbows and rifle fire filled the air, cutting down several of the Rangers who were caught in the open. A rifleman popped above his cover, being rewarded from an accurately placed arrow in his unprotected face. The Dwemer fell dead, leaving the young scout to continue providing covering shots for his comrades. Despite how terrifying their enemy was, he couldn’t shake how strange the sensation of fighting Dwemer felt.

Concealed amongst the shrubbery and trees, and in the dark crooks of the ruins, mechanical scuttling came to life, and a series of spider and sphere automata sprang to life to greet their foes in the field. The sphere seemed to have a difficult time moving through the vegetation filled terrain, so stayed to defend the ruins themselves while the spiders raced towards their prey without hindrance.

Latro had pressed himself tight against the ground as if he was trying to squeeze himself through it. The odd cracks and zings that came when the Dwemer used their thunderstaffs still set Latro on edge. You could see regular magic coming towards you, as terrifying as that still was, but with these staffs, you couldn’t tell anything but the sound of it.

Still, as proof that the staffs killed with something more than sound, stinging puffs of dirt and splinters of trees showered onto him during the first volley. The Rangers barely had time to breathe and ready themselves before scuttling spider automata burst forth from the edge of the tree line, leaping into their prey. The man Latro had chosen to stand shoulder to shoulder with let out a high scream as a pair of spiders went to work on his head. He turned to see Ronimo ten paces in front of him with his throwing axes readied. Latro cringed, shielding his face and ducking as Ronimo sent one spinning towards him.

When he regained his composure, he looked up to see Ronimo with an amused smirk, holding out a hand to him. Latro rose on his own and pushed Ronimo, who stumbled a few chuckling steps back while pointing behind Latro. He fancied a look where Ronimo pointed and not five paces from him, a Dwemer spider struggled across the forest floor with only its two legs. Latro put it all together, but still frowned at Ronimo. Together, the two rushed ahead towards the outer edges of the ruin, taking cover behind a felled pillar.

The sound of Dwemeri was close. Peeking his eyes above the ruined pillar, he caught sight of two Dwemer huddled behind their own cover, not unlike his and Ronimo’s- a tumbledown granite wall, rather than a pillar though, but not more than ten paces away. Latro looked to Ronimo and they both nodded grimly, the other eerily in tune with the bloody work at hand. No automata, no soul gem, just flesh and blood.

Ronimo and Latro worked their way around the Dwemer, who were pre-occupied at suppressing whoever was still in the tree-line and completely unaware of what the next few moments would bring on them. Ronimo struck from the shadows quick as a viper with Latro shoulder to shoulder with him. Almost in-sync, they were upon the Dwemer. Ronimo had no difficulty in pouncing on the mer like a panther, the head of his axe biting deep in the unarmored neck of the mer, snipping his ties to the mortal realm in a choking death.

Latro was upon his own mer, having wrestled the mer to the ground but as he looked into the frightened eyes of the elf, he couldn’t bring himself to chop into his face with his axe. No matter the anger and pain he’d felt that these elves had killed so many, his friends among them, he could not take this life. As if a punishment for his weakness, the Dwemer cuffed him in the head and he found himself on the opposite side of the advantage- his axe-hand pinned by a boot as a thunderstaff was leveled in his face.

Before the consequences of his weakness were brought to fruition and his head turned to jelly, Ronimo kicked the staff to the side, Latro closing his eyes and flinching as dirt stung his face, ears ringing painfully and head swimming. He felt his collar grow tight in a fist and he was hauled to his feet, Ronimo’s eyes full with anger, “Pull yourself together! I won’t be killed because you lack the bones in you to do what has to be done, you cur!”

Latro drooped, looking to the two dead mer. He bent down dejectedly and grabbed up his axe. Ronimo was already moving, uncaring whether Latro was with him or not and probably thoroughly disappointed that Latro’s red words of vengeance held no weight anymore. Latro felt no different. He swallowed and shook his head, taking a breath and trying to close the distance Ronimo had put between them. Next encounter might not be so fortunate for him if he couldn’t even defend his own life, much less take another. Shame crept up his spine and swallowed his thoughts. Anger soon after, he would not be the weak Reachman he once was. Or he would be dead.

Brynja cut her way through the flurry of spider automata, sending a swift punt into one of the machines where it spiraled high into the air, and came crashing down topside, crushing its inner mechanisms, legs twitching before all movement ceased. She was long gone by then, working her way across the open field before reaching the outer wall.

Solandil had no idea what had gotten into him lately.

As soon as he, Anifaire and Durantel had finally arrived at Skingrad, they'd been met with a refugee camp filled with desperate folk who were just as hungry as he was. And yet, when reunited with a great number of their original group - of which Solandil had been filled with relief, but yet again, failed to understand why - he had joined several of them in the attempt to take back Imperial City. He had no love for the capital, nor it's people, nor the country it represented. He had no real desire to go back and fight the Dwemer, for he had seen how easily the guards had been cut down when he fled with his fellow Altmers. And yet here he was, travelling with Brynja, Daro'Vasora, and a group of people he had never met to save an entire city.

Part of him insisted that he'd gone mad from the fatigue of his journey (Even though he'd traveled longer and more grueling distances in far more hostile environments), and another part of him reasoned that he had to leave the camp due to the presence of the Thalmor (Even though the camp was large enough to avoid them entirely). Technically speaking, Solandil was a deserter of the Altmer Army, and therefore a traitor to his people. But they had been eager to be rid of him, and the only person who hated him enough to even bother pursuing him was his bitch of a sister. Even then, she did a piss poor job of it. Hadn't even hired a respectable assassin group to get the job done. Still, if this quest was as suicidal as he thought it was, then his sister's wish would finally come true.

The first encounter with the Dwemer didn't do much to instill any hope of victory in Sol's heart, but he remained with the group regardless. He looked out for himself, but fleeing now would be an action too cowardly for him to live with.

As soon as their leaders started barking out orders, Sol had decided which part of the attack he'd be most - and least - effective in. Having absolutely no magic to his name (A high embarrassment for an Altmer, as if his albinism wasn't enough), he'd resigned himself to ensuring the airships were captured, and any Dwemer that got in his way were cut down. It seemed the Nord warrioress had the same idea, and Sol found himself side by side with Brynja momentarily before she met the spider abominations on the field. Solandil was not far behind her, swords having been drawn at the ready long before they were brought down viciously on the dwemer machines. Even with his lack of magic and blunt weapons, the sheer brute force of his action cracked the metal frame of the spider and shattered it’s soul gem. The next to scuttle towards him met its end upon the heel of his boot.

Shaking the remnants of metal spider guts from his boot, Sol sprinted to catch up with Brynja, pressing himself against the sun-bleached stone in hopes of not being noticed by more of the automata. Brynja glanced at the sudden appearance of Solandil alongside her, eyebrows raised, both in surprise and relief.

“Well I’ll be.” She said, a small smile spreading across her lips. “I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.”

“Of course.” He replied with a grim nod, catching her eye and briefly wondering about her surprise. Perhaps due to his “closeness” to Durantel, she had been given the impression that he shared the same xenophobic thoughts as the older Altmer? Gods knew he was alien enough in his homeland to dislike other races. “Let us move on. The last thing we need is one of those bastards getting to the airships before us.” An airship getting away meant the almost certain possibility of said escapee bringing back more reinforcements.

“Right.” She said, and took several deep breaths to steel her nerves. She regretted not refilling her flask before setting out with the Rangers, she could use a stiff drink right about now.

Scanning his surroundings for anymore offensive machines, Sol had only taken a few steps towards the ships when he noticed a very large golden blur in the distance doing the same. It was a Dwemer, making a beeline for the airships and cutting down Rangers as he went. Even with Solandil’s awful long-distance vision, he could gauge the size of the mer. And the size of his weapon.

Realising how close he was, Sol brandished one of his swords in the direction of his target, so that Brynja knew to follow him. Hopefully she had noticed the motion, as he was tearing across the field in no time, raring to kill. That dwemer couldn’t get close to those ships, no matter the cost. Brynja followed close behind him, two giants closing in on their target.

Despite how effective Solandil and Brynja’s size had been before against the spiders, it seemed their next foe was far better suited to fight them. Easily standing at their height or perhaps even more, the armour the Dwemer donned was as thick as a wall. Sol wondered how on Mundas this fellow was carrying such weight, but quickly abandoned all distracting thoughts as he only just missed a swipe of the Dwemer’s greatsword. Even with the size of him, he was quick.

Parrying the next swipe with a snarl, Sol spun away from the offending weapon, bringing his own down heavily on the shoulder joint of the heavy armour. However, failing to find the gap, his blades clanged off the metal heavily, leaving only a small dent and jarring both of Sol’s shoulders. Hissing in annoyance, Sol steadied himself and made for another attack… only to be surprised by the Dwemer’s speed once more and barely saving himself from a vicious strike by the greatsword. The sheer power behind it actually sliced through the straps of his iron chest plate, and just by the sheer luck of stumbling and falling on his arse, suffered only a painful slice to his now unprotected chest. It stung like hell, but was better than the fatal alternative.

Not bothering to even check himself, Sol swung his right longsword into the knee of his foe with a roar, and finally receiving a roar of pain in return. At last, one of his hits had landed.

She couldn’t let Solandil take too much of the fighting brunt, he was injured, and she had to step in.

“Hey buckethead!” She roared, even though the Dwemer now suffered a knee wound, he still turned to face Brynja just as she brought her long sword down, their swords locked for just a few seconds before she forced his blade to the side, swinging again. The Dwemer fended off the blow, but how long could he fend off the two of them? It was swing after swing from Brynja, and each time their blades parried. Losing her footing, she slipped, and the greatsword clipped the back between her armor, slicing into her bicep. She swore loudly and rolled away from the next blow, this time scrambling to her feet. She had to take a chance, on her next swing, Brynja rushed the Dwemer, and put her shoulder into him, causing him to teeter unsteadily on his feet.

“Solandil!” She cried out, “Finish him!”

Still lying low on the floor as he hastily tied his broken straps together, Sol watched on as he saw Brynja take their attacked head on without fear. He’d certainly never met a woman like this before, and it was refreshing to see such a brutal force on the battleground. He was certainly glad she was on his side.

Crouching at the ready, Sol brought his blade back across the Dwemer’s legs, cutting deep behind the knee as he staggered and severing the tendons there. A muffled shriek could be heard from within the helmet, though it didn’t last long as Sol drove his other sword through the eye slats, the metal being weaker between the eyes and giving way to his thrust. Yanking out his blade, it was accompanied by a few spurts of blood as the Dwemer twitched, and fell to the floor.

“Nicely done.” He panted to Brynja, wiping blood and brain matter onto the grass beneath him before standing up with a wince.

She nodded, sweat stinging her eyes, “Aye.” Her gaze traveled to his chest, and gestured, “How bad is it?”

He replied with a light shrug. “I’ve suffered far worse. I’ll live.” There was no point in whining about how it stung to Oblivion - the pain wasn’t enough to distract him from the job at hand, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was enough to distract him for the moment. The cut would need some form of medical attention sooner or later though. Sol looked to Brynja, eyes travelling her face and body to see if any of the blood splatter present was hers. A stream of crimson seemed to come from her arm, and he gestured towards it. “Yourself?”

“Just a flesh wound.” She turned her arm up, and grimaced.

“I’ll bandage you up after this. Last thing you need is an infection.” Brynja gestured at the airship. “We need to get that secured first.”

The offer of first-aid was a surprising one, though certainly appropriate. He was no fool to think that just because the wound wasn’t deep, it couldn’t eventually be fatal. He wouldn’t put it past the Dwemer to poison their blades. “Secure it, or bring the blasted thing down.” The alternative he offered would certainly be a cathartic one to anyone on his side of the fight, in his opinion.

There was a temporary path laid before them, nearly all other Dwemer and Rangers were locked in combat, leaving a clear path for them, but they had to act quickly. Brynja led the charge on the airship, only when she reached the airship did she see a flash of metal. Spiders! Four of them had crawled out of Gods know where, and descended on her.

An axe cut through the air and pinged off of the hard shell of one of the spiders loudly before another one found its mark and sheared the two front legs off of the same spider. A girthy Bosmer tumbled into the fray, smashing the wounded spider with the head of another axe and scooping up the one he’d thrown. He stood at the ready with Brynja, fierce eyes flashing. Another Ranger joined them, white-knuckle gripping the haft of his hand-axe, long locks billowing out of his hood in the wind. A leaping spider was met with the heel of the Ranger’s hand, metal pinging as if hit by stone. A fierce stomp ended the thing and the threat had vanished as soon as it appeared. The hooded Ranger with fists of stone stood opposite Brynja and Sol. His hooded head cocked as the Bosmer fell in with him.

“I know you.” The shadows of the Ranger’s hood might have concealed his eyes, but it did nothing for the near-beaming grin he now wore. Brynja’s eyes narrowed, the voice sounded familiar. Almost as if it…

“Latro?!” Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small “o” shape.

Having barely recovered from their fray with the dwemer giant, Sol had had barely any time to react as the spiders descended upon Brynja. Thankfully help was on hand to tear the beasts away from her before she was further injured, and Sol felt deep relief as the last one died - finding himself searching Brynja’s face and body for injury again, and feeling further relief in finding none. Turning to the Rangers, Sol focused on the more dainty of the two. It took him a few moments even after Brynja’s realisation to recall Latro from the Dwemer expedition.

Latro removed his hood, revealing his smiling face completely. The sight of Brynja lifted at least a small amount of weight from his shoulders. “Who else but?” He chuckled.

He didn’t have a chance to fend her off. She swept him into a crushing embrace, lifting him off the ground, forgetting about the wound, laughing with joy. Sol winced in the background, wondering if it was common for Nords to show such personal - and pulverising - contact in reunions. “We thought you were dead! By the Gods… we’ll need to talk later. Vasora will be happy to see you! And the others.” She set him back down on his feet, and gripped his shoulder.

“We’ve got an airship to destroy.”

3rd of Second Seed, 4E 208

The sun shone through the drifting clouds, she could smell rain on the wind, the Gods surrounded her. Kynareth would bring life anew with each droplet of rain, and it was through Azura’s love of mortalkind that the sun rose, and the moon set each day. She took her time picking her way east across the land. Rhona Amoretto was in no rush, and she certainly wouldn’t be rushed for anyone or any cause. Not even the rain. She had arrived in Anvil only three weeks ago, and had stayed long enough to earn back the coin she spent coming from Rihad. Too long had she been gone from the green hills of Cyrodiil, and while the warm sun in Hammerfell provided her with an easy winter, she yearned to see familiar land once again. Being back on Cyrodiilic land brought her enough peace, even the air smelled sweet. She stopped for midday lunch, pulling out a hunk of hard bread, and settled down on an embankment, the grass serving as a natural cushion for her tired legs. Rhona offered her thanks for the sustenance, and ate quietly, humming to herself as she tore apart each piece.

“Baaa.”, the sound came to her left, and when she turned, she saw a brown and white goat plodding its way over to her, picking its way through a meadow of flowers.

“Hello friend.” She smiled as the goat pushed its nose into her bag, sniffing for food, “Here. You won’t find much in there.” Tearing the rest of the bread in half, she offered it to the goat as a gesture of kindness. Surely an animal like this would be hungry. It lifted its head up, and bleated once more before taking the bread from her. Together they ate in silence, each chewing thoughtfully on the morsel in their mouths. She finished her lunch, dusted her hands off on her dress, and set off down the path, her leather boots in one hand as her bare feet slapped against the dirt path. When she glanced behind her, she could see the brindled goat plodding along behind her, its ears flopping with each trod of its feet.

“Kynareth, are you blessing me with a companion today?” She asked aloud, smiling to herself.

She continued on down the path, humming as she gazed on in wonderment at the surrounding nature, “Can you believe it? We walk this world, and we are surrounded by great beauty. Just look at the trees, do you see how Kynareth’s graces them? Do you see how they bend with her caress? Ah, and what a breeze it is, such a cooling wind. And Azura, of course we must thank her for causing the sun to rise. For I can see miles in the daylight, but when Azura sets the sun, and raises the moon, it is Nocturnal that gives us light in the darkness. For the stars shine bright on a cloudless night. What do you-” She turned to address the goat, but it had long since disappeared.

“Farewell to thee my friend.” Just like friends and lovers, even temporary companions came and went.

Skingrad, Night

Rhona arrived late in the evening, just as the moons had begun to rise over the eastern horizon, spilling silvery light across the land. As she came into view of the city, she could see the glittering of campfires outside of the city, and white tents shining like beacons in the darkness. A festival perhaps? What merriment that would be! It had been quite some time since she had attended a festival, yet for the life of her, she couldn't remember what the celebration could be for. When she reached the outer edge of the tents, Rhona realized that something was wrong, and as she stopped to speak with the harried souls that wept, they spoke of tragedy. Airships had arrived over the Imperial City, people were slaughtered mercilessly, those that could escaped with their lives and made it to the city. Her heart pained for them, she could barely imagine the tragedy they endured. The cries of terrified children filled the night. There were several injured people, and while she wished to comfort them, to heal them, she knew that her experience in healing was not enough for the wounds they suffered. However, as she wandered through the throng of people she received more troubling news, Count Hassildor closed the gates to these people. While she knew he meant well for his people, she couldn’t help but feel that he had made the wrong decision. These people needed him, even if he couldn’t provide for them. They needed comfort, to know that they would be safe should those that bombarded the Imperial City arrive here. There was nothing she could do, and so she settled on the outskirts of the camp. She gathered what wood she could find, pitched her tent, and added tinder to the wood pile. With a careful flick of her fingers, she set the pile ablaze.

“Blessed are you Kynareth, and blessed are you Meridia.” She pulled her cloak around her, and settled down for the night. She had a small dinner before sleep took her entirely.

She didn’t remember the fire dying down, or even falling asleep for that matter, but morning came nonetheless. Rising with the first rays of light, Rhona set about her morning ritual. She grabbed her rucksack and headed off for the woods. She found the stream she sought, and set about bathing her body. The water felt cold against her hot skin, and soon the water swirling around her legs had become dirtied from the excess build up of dirt. When Rhona had finished, she rummaged in her rucksack, and removed her tinctures, and from each bottle, placed three drops under tongue. Then she rubbed lavender oil on her neck, under her armpits, and on the back of her knees. Rhona pulled out her pipe, and packed it full of her dried herbs, where she lit it with a flame from her fingertips. There she inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill her mouth, and exhaled through her nose. She felt the first wave of relaxation hit her, and inhaled again. Her shoulders drooped as she continued puffing. Her mind wandered, what of her mother and sister? Or Cezare for that matter?

A sudden wave of dread filled her as she realized that Cezare could have done well to return to the Imperial City after her run in with him months ago in Chorrol, and if he had survived the attack, and made it out of the city, he could have well headed here for safety. Her limbs began to tremble at the thought. After all this time, there was a chance she would find him here. She tried to chase the fear from her mind, and decided that she would set out through the camp and see if her mother and sister were here.

“Meridia, gave me the energy to make it through this day. Mara, I ask, give me kindness and love.” And so she set off back to the camp, curious to see if she recognized any familiar faces among the desperate.

When she returned to her tent to leave her rucksack, Rhona discovered a curious sight. The goat from the day before sat beside the fire pit, his head resting upon his legs. She grinned, “Kynareth, it seems you have returned to me a friend lost.” Rhona stooped to stroke the goat’s head, it opened its eyes and blew a poof of air out of its nose.

“I think I shall call you Tobias, little one.” When she turned to leave, staff in hand, puff of herbal smoke curling around her head, Tobias rose to his feet and trotted after her. She passed many weary faces, but none were among those that she recognized, at least not yet.