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_{A Collab by @POOHEAD189 and I}

Midnight, 5th of Second Seed Inside Skingrad

Severus could have passed as an Altmer were it not for his light grey skin, his features were severe and stern in the glow of the magelight. He swept his free hand over Rhea, Alim, and himself before nodding, satisfied. Were it not for the orb in his hand, Severus’ lithe figure would have blended into the shadows.

“Your footsteps are muffled, keep your voices down. The last thing I need is us being found out and thrown in the dungeons.” He hissed, voice low and harsh. Rhea shifted with uncertainty, glancing at Alim. Her own stomach worked itself in knots, Alim had put his life in her hands, and she wouldn’t forgive herself if anything happened to him.

“What kind of supplies can you get us?” Rhea asked, following behind Severus as he turned to lead them on again.

“What do you need?”

“Food. Flour and meat mainly. Medicine. There are sick people in the camps-”

“So we are clear, I will not help you carry anything. You will have to carry what you can manage.” Severus cut her off, he still had yet to tell her what the price of sneaking in would cost.

“Fair enough.”

The time to reach the end of the tunnel only took half an hour before they came to a stop at an iron gate. Severus extinguished the magelight, and waited several tense minutes, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. Just when she thought of asking him what he was waiting for, Severus procured a key, slipped his arm through the iron bars, and inserted the key into the lock. With great care, he turned the key, a soft clicking from the inner mechanism, and then the lock popped open. Severus claimed the lock before it clattered to the ground, then pulled the gate open, a squeaky grating noise indicated that the tunnel, had indeed, not been used for quite some time. Severus turned to look at Rhea and Alim in the darkness, eyeing the two of them before settling on Alim.

“I presume… that you are the one with a deft skill set?”

The Redguard mutt nodded, a dagger twirling within his dexterous fingers before finding its way back into his sheath as if by the wind. Though despite the small boast, he had to admit he admired Rhea’s skills himself. “That’s why I’m here.” He said, and the spellsword looked to Rhea to get an indication that he should move forward. Back in Highrock, hell, back in Hammerfell, women were often seen as dainty and subordinate. Many of them actually preferred it from what he’d seen, wanting to have themselves being waited on hand and foot or not wanting the responsibility on their shoulders. But it was actually nice to see a woman leader, Alim thought. He respected everyone with the will and skill to operate a team like theirs.

Once she gave him the go ahead, and he crept forward with silent footfalls, his sword out just in case there was a large rat or a weevil looking to take a bite out of his leg or hand. He had cast the enchantment of the storm upon it, to aid in its effectiveness and to give off a very faint glow they could be guided by. So far, the tunnel seemed empty. Bare rock mingled with old ruins, and more than once the spellsword had to step over rocks jutting out of the ground.

But after a short while, they made it to the very end of the tunnel, and a basement doorway above them that Severus had designated to be the entryway. Alim turned to them and placed a finger to his lips, before opening the door slowly, dust falling in billowing waves as he lifted the block of wood to its zenith, before catching it so it wouldn’t fall and hit the ground with a clack. Once he hopped up, he held out a hand to help Rhea up, whereas Severus simply looked at his hand with disdain and clambered up his own way. Rhea took his hand and entered the basement, Severus just feet away from her.

“No one has set foot in this house in twenty years,” he whispered, “The last occupant was a Thalmor supporter. The people here didn’t take to kindly to his indignant ways, and the Count locked him away in the dungeons below the castle. It has fallen into much disrepair since then. The guards must not have examined the house too closely or else this tunnel would have been sealed off.” With a ball of candlelight in his hand, he surveyed the basement, a simple layout where a stone staircase led into the inside.

They made it through the house without any hindrances, dust covered the floorboards, while thick cobwebs hung in the entryways like ethereal curtains. Severus brushed them away without a care, and made his way to the front door.

“Unfortunately, the key I have does not work on the doors of this house, just the gate.” Severus turned to Alim again, the Redguard proved useful in these situations.

Alim took his cue, and reached within his pocket to fetch a lockpick, one of the many useful items he had procured from the Imperial City as it fell into ruin. He lamented such a beautiful city being ransacked, and its citizens butchered. But what rogue would he be if he didn’t capitalize on it just a bit? With moderation, of course.

Alim undid the latch after a few moments of careful maneuvering with the pick, and a small ‘click’ announced his success. He then opened the door slowly, poking his head out slightly to see if the coast was clear.

They followed Alim out onto the streets of Skingrad, Severus guiding them into the shadows as he explained, “By Count Hassildor’s orders, a registry of citizens have been compiled to ensure that no one has gone missing or rather, anyone has slipped inside. They’ve drawn up identification papers with the Count’s seal. We could all be jailed, or worse, if we are caught.”

“Then what of you? Are you a citizen?” Rhea asked, wondering how severe the situation could become were they caught.

“Of course I am.” Severus snapped, as if insulted by her question. “The warehouse I’m taking you to is heavily guarded, but there is an old entrance that they’ve overlooked. Redguard, we’re going to need your skills again. This entrance might not be heavily used, but it is still under heavy lock and key.”

As they slipped through the shadows, Rhea trailing close behind Severus, he suddenly held out his arm, forcing her to a stop as he pushed her down. He dropped behind a crate, and waved Alim down. The sound of footsteps carried through the empty streets as torchfire illuminated the darkness. Steel helms glinted under the orange light as two guards rounded the corner patrolling the streets.

“...it’s hard to say. Do you think it really is the Dwemer like the refugees say?”

“I dunno… they spoke of floating ships in the sky, maybe the water was tainted with skooma?”

“You idiot, then everyone would have had a different hallucination. Don’t you know how skooma works?” The two guards passed without so much as a glance at the shadows. The three of them waited several tense minutes before Severus gestured for them to rise.

“There is an enforced curfew here as well. Everyone must be in their homes at sunset. If not you can face a tax, and in these times, a tax of any sort is the last thing you’d want.” Severus explained.

“It would seem that the Count is profiting from the situation.” Rhea commented.

“The people don’t see it as so, most still believe that he operates within their interest.”

Alim smiled to himself, slightly amused that despite the different cultures of the world, many things still seemed to stay the same wherever he went. Even his father would sometimes take advantage of the common man, though Alim had seen he was a bit more lenient on his leadership and wealth than most nobles.

They passed through the streets without a sound, the trio keeping their ears peeled for any sign that could threaten their livelihood, if they were caught now, all would be lost. Before long, a squat gray building came into view. Rhea picked up on the distinct noise of chatter coming from the opposite end of the building, most likely the entrance to the warehouse. Severus guided them into a darkened alley where a tower of wooden crates and barrels barricaded a weathered wooden door.

Severus turned to Alim, his crimson eyes seemingly black in the shadows, foreign and alien, “Pick the lock if you can, but wait for me to return. Do not enter until I return.” He said, his words frigid with a degree of severity. With that, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Rhea and Alim alone in the dark. She sighed, and began to pick her way around the crates until she reached the door.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

Alim still beside her after vaulting over a crate or two, he grabbed his unbroken lockpick once more. He gave her a sympathetic look, nodding. “Stealing is an acquired taste,” he said quietly. “At least for most. I started very young, and sometimes it even leaves a sour taste in my mouth...depending.”

He began to pick the lock as he continued, feeling the small pins within the mechanism giving way. “I try to put my talents another way. Stealing from a tomb is far more lucrative and less harmful to the conscience than stealing from a middle class merchant.” The lock suddenly clicked, indicating the door was now open. “Though don’t fret over this. We’re in need of supplies. It goes to a good cause.”

“A good cause…” she mumbled under her breath. Just then, the sound of light padded footsteps approached, Severus had returned. He climbed down beside Rhea and nodded.

“The coast is clear. There are just two guards watching the front, and one inside asleep on duty.” He settled in beside Alim, and pushed opened the door with a soft hand. Nocturnal seemed to be guiding them on this night.

“Take only what you can carry.” Severus slipped inside, not wishing to open the door more than necessary.

They entered the back of the warehouse as Severus had said, this half was darkly lit, there were crates, barrels and sacks of food. Fearing that a noise would give them away, Rhea took to looking inside the sacks, opening them with shaking hands. She settled on taking what flour she could, filling a sackcloth she had brought with her, her hands covered in the white substance.

The sound of a guard snoring echoed softly throughout the warehouse, and by the sound alone, he was in deep sleep, and so long as they didn’t break anything, they could get away with pilfering the supplies they needed. When she had filled the sack, Rhea crept to another crate, checking each one as she went, lifting the lids, and taking a handful of fruits and vegetables, stuffing them in her rucksack.

“I can carry quite a bit.” Alim quipped, grabbing a dozen apples and slipping them into his rucksack, biting into an extra one. With it stuck to his teeth, he grabbed about seven potatoes, and four pounds of dried meat. However, when he saw the ale he nearly unloaded some of it. “I can make it fit…” he said to himself, and grabbed three bottles of fine ale. “That is what she said.” He declared aloud, and shoved two bottles into his rucksack, with one under his arm.

He made his way around the crates silently and expertly, almost comically stepping over near impossible obstacles with his arms and sack full, showing rather impressive upper and lower body strength traversing through the room. Once grabbed a few more items, he found Rhea again, giving her a wink. “I think we are good.”

Her eyes widened at the sight of Alim stacked full with supplies and then she grinned, she just pointed over her shoulder at the exit, and lead him back to the doorway. When they emerged on the other side, and Severus had shut the door behind them, Rhea turned to him, brows furrowed.

“We still need medicine, and there wasn’t any in there.” She said, frustration painting her words.

“What do you expect me to do?” Severus huffed.

“We need supplies. Healing potions, bandages, and plenty of them.” Severus regarded her silently before shaking his head.

“You ask too much. If you’re thief can get into the place, you’ll have free pickings. But if you’re caught… I’ll have to oust you as intruders. Understand?” He looked from Rhea to Alim.

“Do you want to take that risk?”

Alim nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Luckily, the apothecary was not far off. Down another alleyway and into the next street, Severus pointed Alim out to a modest shop made of timber, with a nondescript door under what had to be a gaudy and massive green sign that read Roots and Stems with the symbol of a brewing concoction underneath it. Alim placed a hand on Rhea’s shoulder and said. “If anything happens, just get the hell out. I can take care of myself.”

She sighed, what he asked was hard, but she nodded, “Healing potions and bandages.” She patted his shoulder, and crouched down in the darkness.

The spellsword gave her a grin that showed all was well, and then ducked out of the alleyway and across the moonlit street, appearance as if but a passing shadow from a bird flying overhead. His footsteps were as silent as death under the porch, and in the shadows of the structure, he seemingly vanished. Rhea would only see the door suddenly open after a moment, and remain open for a few very tense minutes. It almost seemed as if someone had perhaps discovered him or he had been captured, before the door closed again. Alim then appeared within the street, as bag of items in tow and a twinkle in his dark eyes..

“And you doubted me,” he said, shaking his head. A potion of healing appeared in his hand, as if he plucked it out of thin air. She smiled at him, relieved and he had made out unscathed.

“Let’s get back to camp.”

Severus led them quickly through the streets of Skingrad and back to the vacant house they had used to slip through. Rhea and Alim were ladened with their pilfered items, making the return trip slow and filled with extra caution. It took them another hour to slip through the house and out the tunnel before the reached the outside.

Rhona turned to Severus then, “And what of the payment?”

He held a finger to his lips, a devilish smile crossing his lips as he stood in the entrance of the tunnel, and said, “I will collect that when it is due.” And he let the vines fall into place, leaving Rhea and Alim to make their rest of the way back to camp with nothing but the graying skies of dawn to light their way. They reached camp not even half an hour later, as the excitement carried them quickly, when they reached the camp, Rhea unpacked the items, careful not to rouse anyone from their. The campfire had dwindled low by then, and she added but a log to keep warm, her thoughts keeping her from sleep.

Alim aided her in the endeavour, keeping silent as she and making sure that everything they had requisitioned from the city was still here. He might be a thief, but he wanted to make sure everyone got their due.

Scratch, Scratch, Scratch

Nanine sat on a hill overlooking the main gate to Skingrad, the familiar sound of her ink quill pen moving across paper filling the air. Her armor was still on, as she was expecting the Dwemer to arrive any day, and her sword carefully kept in its sheathe, for all the world another mercenaries unnoticeable worn blade. She didn't want to attract the kind of desperate attention openly carrying ebony would bring her. Her backpack remained beside her, as she had no tent of her own to use and didn't trust the honesty of scared and hungry people. Down below, another group of those same people were turned away, their relief and hope turned to crushing despair and fear. Another group of scared civilians adding to the tent city outside the walls of Skingrad. A tent city that was growing larger, more chaotic, and more desperate by the day. She shuddered to think what would happen if the Dwemer reached Skingrad in its current state.

The massacre that would ensue would make Imperial City look like a mere game. She understood the logic behind denying this many refugees entry. It was doubtful that Skingrad could even protect itself from the coming threat, much less sustain and protect the hundreds that were seeking safety there. Still, if you're going to be defeated anyways, there is no sense in being defeated and known as the cruel bastard who let the innocents get slaughtered outside his walls first. She could only guess that the Count had a plan that he thought would save the city, or at least himself, when the Dwemer came. And that plan didn't include the refugees.

Her pen finally stopped, finishing with the latest drawing in her book. It was a Centurion from the assault on the Imperial City, a modern one she supposed the term would now be. Rather than a pure drawing (though she had several in her book of those), this was an analysis of what she had seen and remembered during the invasion, her blessing and her curse of memory allowing her to easily recall the screams, the airships, gleaming metal, blood, and the burning stench that filled the air whenever the Dwemer or the Centurions would fire their strange new weapons. Notes surrounded the drawing, pointing out differences between the old and the new, asking questions to look into, and expanding upon things she noted upon having time to reflect rather than run away through dark tunnels and shrouded woods, after she had lead as many civilians as she could to Galius, the sergeant of the Imperial guard who promised a secure route to the lake.

Her summoned Daedroth swimming through the water with its powerful limbs had attracted some concern from those running with her, and the attention and some pot shots from the Dwemer behind her, but everyone was too concerned with saving their own lives and the lives of their loved ones to be too bothered, especially when she banished it back to Coldharbour when they successfully made it to the other side. And so it was she had made her way to Skingrad with many of the other survivors, only to find that the Count had locked his gates to them,and had no intention of letting anyone inside.

Now all Nanine could do was wait, with the rest of the desperate refugees, and hope that either the Count suddenly had a change of heart or the Dwemer decided Skingrad wouldn't be worth it. Somehow, she doubted either would happen. Looking down at her clinical drawing of the enemy, she felt a strong sense of despair and doubt wash over her. There were no historical records to study for this. No ancient wars and battles to draw preparation and counter strike ideas from. Not even a modern culture to guess combat tactics from. The Dwemer were back, even more advanced than before, and no one was ready to deal with them. There was nothing to even prepare for dealing with them. Right now, looking over the sea of hopeless people, with the ruins of another invaded and destroyed city at her back, this felt like the end of the Empire. Perhaps of all the independent nations of Tamriel.

She shook her head, forcibly dispelling such dark thoughts. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the tree, lifting one hand. Lighting crackled in her finger tips, leaping from finger to finger, as she drew on the comforting presence of magic to calm herself. "Focus. Focus. If they can bleed they can die. If they can die they can be beaten. There's a way. There's always a way." She dispelled the lightning as she opened her eyes, looking back down at the drawing. "You could use some color, and I could use some practice." Reaching into her backpack, she drew out a petty soul Gem, the gem gleaming with the trapped energy inside. Placing soul gem on the drawing, she muttered to herself. "Alright, remember the enchantment, let it fill you on a primal level." She always felt silly talking to herself like this, quoting a book that only covered the bare basics of enchanting, but it did help her focus.

"Now draw on the power of the gem, and use it to make your enchantment work." She felt the power in the petty gem surge into her, spreading out onto the page, taking the shape she desired, bringing to life the magical effect she had chosen. It was working! Maybe I am getting the hang of this. Its not so bad no- Her feelgood inner monologue was stopped as she felt the energy of the gem freeze. The gem itself shook. Oh no. Nanine hurriedly tried to refocus, regain the control she had over the spell, but it was too late. With a loud crack the gem broke, and the enchantment failed, leaving her with just a broken pretty rock and a feeling disappointment. "I really thought I had it that time." Nanine shrugged, reaching back into her pack. It wasn't like she had anything better to do than try again.

Another three broken petty soul gems later, Nanine's disappointment gave way to irritation and she looked over towards Skingrad with a scowl scowling. "If I had access to the Arcane Enchanter in there, there wouldn't be a problem. But noooo, the count has to seal the gates because he's got the spine of a rabbit and the intelligence of a Horker!" She threw her latest failure onto the ground next to the other two, huffing. After a few minutes of silent frustration and trying to glare her drawing into taking the enchantment she wanted, she sighed heavily. "Well, that concludes today's practice. Might as well see if I can help anyone in the camp. Better than sitting here, wasting soul gems." Collecting the three broken ones and shouldering her pack, Nanine made her way back down to the camp, aimlessly picking a direction and part of it to wander into. It was filled with refugees, someone would surely need at least basic first aid, or perhaps what hunting she could do with her magic.

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A Collab by @Spoopy Scary and @MacabreFox

Skingrad, Refugee Camp

Rhona wove in and out of the crowded footpaths, the grass underfoot trampled into the dirt, quickly turning to mud from that morning’s rain. More survivors from the attack on the Imperial City continued to arrive by the hour. There had to be well over a thousand people setting up camp outside of the walls. She passed by a tent searching for volunteers to lead a scouting mission, something called the Colovian Rangers. She moved past the tent, fighting and sleuthing through the shadows was not her expertise, so why put herself in danger? Tobias kept close at her heels, seemingly content with claiming her as his new master, or at least for the time being. An animal had its own will, and if it wished to leave, she would not hinder it. Each being deserved to be free.

When she turned along the path, she kept her eyes fixated on the faces of the people. Perhaps Holbert, Lysanna and her mother had had their backs turned to her when she made her rounds the first three times. Yet she didn’t see a familiar face amongst the weary and tired, she had spent the entire morning and afternoon searching. However, as she passed a group of men gathered, she overheard concerning conversation and stopped to listen. They paid no heed to her, as they were deeply enveloped in their emotions.

“I’m tellin’ ya, I was just here two weeks ago for business, there’s no reason why the Count would close the gates of Skingrad, save for him being a greedy sonuvabitch. We need food, and shelter. I don’t give a bloody hoot if these folks believe that he works for their interest, it’s not what’s best for us.” There were welcoming cheers among the men, Rhona figured that they had consumed quite a bit of alcohol to be so rowdy during midday.

‘Mara give us peace.’ Rhona thought with a shake of her head. Just as she stepped away, an iron-grip crushed her forearm, and spun her around. Her heart plummeted, and the blood in her hands drained away. She couldn’t breathe. Towering over her like a phantom of years passed, stood Cezare, dressed in black. He had grown a beard, neatly kept, and his hair still had its same lustrous brown waves. But his cheeks were gaunt, the skin stretched tight over his face. His blue eyes were as cold as ice, as he began to pull her away, holding her tight against him, his pace quickened so as to avoid any prying eyes from stopping them.

“After all these years,” He whispered in her ear, “and my wife finally shows her face.” At his words, a fire flooded her veins. NO. This is why she left. Why was she letting him lead her? She dug her bare feet into the mud, trying to free herself.

“Let go.” She countered, trying to make her tone just as cold.

“Oh no, I won’t be doing any such thing. After all, we’re still married. You are mine.” He yanked hard on her arm, trying to get her to walk straight.

“I said let go!” She stuck her foot out in between his ankles, causing him to trip. He broke his grip, and she swung her staff up at his head. The wooden stave connected with his skull, a loud crack resounded. Rhona bolted, slipping once in the mud from the panic. She could hear Cezare behind her, the anger in his voice would have paralyzed her, but her instincts told her to run. Run fast, run far, and don’t look back.

“Rhona Amoretto!” He bellowed, his voice striking her core. She ran blind into the throng of people, Tobias beside her, she needed somewhere safe to hide. Somewhere Cezare wouldn’t find her.

While these events were unfolding, the affairs of a certain bard were being put back in order. Calen had urged the child away for the falling sun forecasted the rising of the moons and dusk would soon be upon them. Though truthfully, it was more for the sake of Danish’s nerves and his own physical well-being. A foot accidentally touching the pony’s haunches was enough to spur it into action, but the reactionary tugging on his halter by an inexperienced rider gave the pony mixed signals and caused him to rear back. Though Calen managed to wrestle the rope away from the boy atop of his beast of burden -- whether that meant the beast carried his own burden or the beast was a burden in and of himself, that was still up for debate -- the agitated pony whipped around, putting Calen behind his hindquarters. Danish bucked, kicking Calen square in the chest with both hooves and throwing the boy off of hisbare back in one fell swoop. Though they had the fortune of landing in a soft patch of grass that Danish had not yet the opportunity to ravage, no such fortune was able to prevent the wind from being knocked from the young man’s lungs.

The evening had otherwise been pretty fruitful, the bard figured, even as he tried to rub the aching soreness out of his chest and looked down at the spooky pony with some measure of resentment. To think that damn animal nearly went the whole day without incident! He sighed in resignation as he finally led Danish to the stables outside Skingrad, making sure to (this time, securely) tie the rope to his halter to one of the posts next to the stall where he’d be kept and closed the gate behind him with a loud, metallic screech.

‘Ugh, they need to oil these gates.’ He thought to himself.

As a chill wind swept through clearing, Calen looked to the sky. The coming night must be a chill one. Danish was accustomed to the winters of Skyrim, but perhaps it would be best if he prepared for whatever came in these strange times. Walking just a few paces from Danish’s stall, he climbed into the back of his wagon and procured a key from one of his pockets to unlock the trunk and withdrew a large woolen blanket. Slamming the trunk back shut, he marched back to the stall and draped it over the gate in front of his pony -- and that was when he heard the wrathful cry of one of them men back at one of the refugee camps.

“Rhona Amoretto!”

Her eyes scanned for any place to hide, someplace where he wouldn’t find her. It was then that she reached the far end of the camp, when the sight of a stable caught her attention. She made a beeline straight for the edifice, trepidation consuming her. She slowed her pace enough to keep her bearings, that’s when she spotted a blond man standing outside of a stall door. She ran to him, meeting him with a mousy face and a look of terror.

“Help me please,” Rhona begged, “I need to hide!”

Calen met her with confusion and alarm. At first he was disarmed by the beauty of her face, but then he realized that there was a look terror marring her countenance, and moments ago he heard the wrathful yelling -- and then it clicked. He didn’t know the full story, who was right or who was wrong, just that there was a young woman who needed his help. He looked to the gate of Danish’s stall -- no, no, that wouldn’t do. He looked the woman and her clothing up and down, and his face lit up as an idea came to him.

“Just bear with me,” he said to her in hurried, hushed tones. He grabbed her dingy grey cloak and quickly draped it around her shoulders, folding one end and looping it back underneath itself. He craned his neck around to see if anyone was coming -- no one yet -- and pulled off his brown outer shirt over his head, revealing the white undershirt beneath, and haphazardly coiled it around her head in a fashion that resembled what he knew of the alik’r and pulled the folded part of her cloak up, opening it up to form another hood which he pulled over once more.

She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but she put her trust in him, if he was willing to help this much, she might as well give him the chance.

Time was quickly running out, Calen felt, but for the last second finishing touches, he reached down and dug his fingers into the dark, rich soil and grab two fistfulls of dirt and rubbed it into the skin on her face -- ‘Stendarr’s mercy, she’s going to hate me’ -- and onto her hands before throwing the rest of the dirt down and dusting off whatever landed onto her clothes. The sound of a goat bleating caught his attention, and he looked down to see just that: a goat. He gave the animal an incredulous look, as the damn thing would be a dead give away. He quickly grabbed the blanket he brought for Danish, whipped it open, and threw it on top of the goat prompting the creature’s muffled bleat.

“Hey, Calen!” By the Gods, he found her. Rhona squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m looking for my wife, I saw her run off this way.”

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Calen said, initially talking over the angry Imperial, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to get to Sentinal from -- oh!” Calen feigned a look of surprise to Cezare, but then a real sense of trepidation came over as he was struck with a realization. “Hey, uh... your wife?” Rhona remained still, her head swimming with panic. Would he oust her?

His eyes flicked down to Rhona, but back to Cezare. “Didn’t you tell me your wife left you a couple years ago?”

“Yeah well that cunt finally showed her face. She’s in this goddamn camp somewhere. She’s short. Pretty. Brown hair. I swear to the Gods, Calen. If I get my hands on her again, she’ll realize what a fucking mistake she made leaving me in the first place. You just tell me if you see her.”

“Yeah, who would want to leave you…” Calen muttered under his breath. Then he cleared his throat and spoke loud and clearly, “I don’t know, my friend, I was just putting good ol’ Danish away. I thought I heard one of the kids running past, but if she’s short like you say she is… maybe? I guess? She might be circling the city walls.”

“Yeah? I’ll take a look, she can’t have run far.” Cezare huffed, and strode off. No more questions. Not even a consideration about the woman before Calen. Nothing. Rhona breathed a sigh of relief, she had stood so rigid, that when her shoulders drooped, she began to shake like the last leaf clinging to a branch before the arrival of winter. Tobias, from underneath the blanket Calen threw over him, made a muffled bleat once more and headbutted the side of Calen’s knee, prompting a restrained yelp of pain as he hunched over and puffed out his cheeks to keep himself from crying out too loud.

“Is he gone?” She asked, her voice quiet, as if speaking too loudly would bring Cezare right back.

“Uh… yeah, actually.” Calen responded, aiming another resentful glance at the second animal to have wronged him today. He slowly let go of the tension he was also holding in, but it steadily dissolved into nervous laughter as the whole dramatic irony of it all unfurled before him until he he was bent over and holding onto his knees and the laughter became more genuine.

“Are you kidding me! That actually worked!” He cried out. Then he looked to Rhona with a look of awe. “And you! You’re here with the rest of the refugees! Did you really live in the same city under his nose for two whole years?”

She shook her head, not finding the humor in his words, she unraveled his handiwork and passed his shirt back to him, “No. I avoided the city like the plague.” When he had reclaimed his shirt, Rhona wrapped her arms tight around herself, her way of controlling the trembling.

“I left for a reason, and in my eyes, we’re not married. Not under the eyes of Mara, mother bless me.” She lifted her head to look him in the eye, offering him a small smile.

“Thank you, for your kindness, and bravery.”

“Oh, there was nothing brave about it!” Calen said chipperly, brushing off her compliment as he slung the shirt over his shoulder. Bravery! That was a new one… but there remained a question which itched the back of his mind. “But uh… if you’re not from the Imperial City, then what are you doing here? Bad timing?”

“Mm. You say that now. But you catch him on his bad side, and you’ll see what I mean. But no. I was in Rihad for the winter, and I decided to come see Cyrodiil again. I just came from Anvil when this all happened.” She gestured at the sea of tents stretching in an endless wave of white.

“And you? Are you among the afflicted?”

“Ah… not really.” Calen replied somberly. “I happened to pass by in front of the city as it was under siege. Just in time to help the citizens evacuate.”

“So it’s true? What the people have said? There were ships in the air?” She soaked in the information, Tobias bumping his head against her. She reached down to pat him on the head.

“Yeah. They were there. I couldn’t believe my eyes.” Calen explained, but then he hesitated for a second as if he had remembered something, then his eyes looked apologetic. “Oh, uh, hey -- um, sorry about… you know, the dirt. I just, uh, tried to sell the whole Redguard thing and, well…”

“I am not upset,” she smiled readily, reaching up to touch her face, “It is a blessing to receive the touch of Kynareth.”

“How… do you know Cezare?” Her brows furrowed, realizing that Cezare had called to him by his name, “Calen yes?”

“Yep, that’s it.” He confirmed. “Trust me, we’re not old drinking buddies or anything, he just happened to be one of the evacuees I helped; and you must be Rhona? He mentioned your name once or twice on the trip to get here.”

She nodded solemnly, “Yes, I am. I’m… not surprised he did. Though for his sake, I wish he would forget me entirely.” With one hand she began to wipe away the excess dirt tickling her nose.

“How does that look?”

“Well, I say you’d look beautiful even covered head to toe in skeever dung, but since that doesn’t help you now… I heard from some of the others that there were some ponds and lakes just a short jog north if you’d like to wash off. It would also take you away from the city for a bit”

She contemplated the offer and gave a shrug, “I don’t see why not.”

As promised, it was indeed a short jog to the ponds just to the north. Rhona felt right at home in her element, away from people, in tune with nature. She set herself down on the water’s edge, washing the mud off her feet, and then focused on her face, using the hem of her cloak as a towel. She hummed quietly to herself, and splashed cool water on her neck before wiping her hands off on the front of her dress.

“You’re not from here, are you?” Rhona asked, spreading her cloak out and took a seat. Tobias had set to munching on cattails near the water. She rummaged through her rucksack and procured her pipe, packing it full of her dried herbs, and lit it afire with her fingers tips. Long tendrils of smoke curled above her as she returned the pouch to her sack, and reached for the lavender oil, rubbing some on her neck.

Calen sat in the cool grass beside the cloak, having long redonned his shirt since he had it returned. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her use of magic. A mage then? But the question got him thinking for a moment, which lead him to an amused smile on his face. He asked in turn, “What gave it away? Was it when I told you north and started walking south?”

She smiled, pulling the pipe away from her mouth, “Something like that. And the fact that most Imperials would demand payment for any help. And you… you just helped me without asking anything in return.”

“It was the accent.” Calen added in with a humored quip. “You don’t get this smooth voice like honey mead anywhere this far south, eh?”

It was nice, to have someone to talk to, even if she preferred the company of trees and insects. His cheerful attitude lifted her weary spirits.

“If you want to call it that,” She chuckled, “My father was from Skyrim. He talked like you. From what I can remember that is.”

Calen laid his back against the ground, hands behind his head and closed his eyes as he let the last few hours of the sun’s warmth soak into his skin and clothes and a sense of peace washed over him. Taking in a deep breath, he sighed and idley said, “My father always told me to do right by others and they’ll do right by me. When you came to me, I had to make a decision then, do what I thought was right. I think I did right. My old man is old-fashioned, but he was right about a lot of things. Life’s too short to be angry and bitter. That stuff’s exhausting. I don’t know how your poor bastard of a ‘husband’ does it.”

She shifted uncomfortably at his words, taking another puff on her pipe, and then touched her arm where Cezare grabbed her. It burned like fire and ice. Rhona didn’t want to look at it, but she knew it had bruised. A pain she thought she had left far behind years ago.

“A lot of drinking. Squandering away your inheritance and running into debt will do the trick.” Carefully, she rolled up her right sleeve, and peered down at her forearm. A colorful display, one Nocturnal would approve of, bathed the muscles in an array of blues, purples and black. She huffed. It would fade. “Your father sounds like a sensible man, at least.” Rhona drew the pipe away from her lips, offering it out to Calen.

“Would you like some?”

Calen cracked open one of his eyes, and those she was aiming the pipe at his face, it was but a blur to him as his eyes focused on the colorful bruising on the arm behind it. The smile on his face turned into a frown. He sat back up and absentmindedly accepted Rhona’s offer, placing the end of the pipe between his teeth, an uncharacteristic air of seriousness came over him now that his attention was on her and her arm.

“Did Cezare do that to you?” He asked.

“Don’t inhale the smoke into your lungs--” Rhona’s warning came too late as Calen abruptly start coughing and spitting, causing the pipe to fall out of his mouth. The effects of whatever it was that was in her pipe had immediately gone to his head and made him dizzy, and the spasms in his chest that caused his coughing suddenly gone tight, stopping his coughing fit and causing him to heave for air, but little of it actually entered his lungs.

“Gods damn it, Calen, you idiot!” Calen hoarsely croaked to himself, as his eyes went wide and sweat began to bead on his forehead. How? How could he forget? How could he forget the one thing he was supposed to be mindful of at all times? ‘You’re an asthmatic, you milk-drinking idiot!’ He looked down at his hands as they began to tremble, and he clenched his eyes shut as he tried his damndest to focus on them. His heart was beating against his chest and his lungs felt like they were in agony. Slowly, but surely, a familiar weak yellowish-white glow radiated from his hands he hurriedly cupped them around his face. Suddenly, a rush of air abruptly filled his lungs as Calen gasped for air, and a faint yellow glow could be seen emanating from underneath his skin, trailing down his neck.

Rhona’s eyes widened in shock at his unexpected coughing fit, one that led him to cast some type of healing spell on himself. She reclaimed her pipe, shaking her head as she did so.

“I am sorry. I should have asked.” She watched him for a moment before asking, “Are you better?”

“Y-yeah..! I’m fine!” Calen said hoarsely between deep, heavy breaths, causing his voice to crack a bit. ”And… y-you! You’re fine too!”

The young man took in a couple of long, deep breaths before deciding to talk again. “You’re fine, really! That was my fault! You offered... I took it. I guess I just… wasn’t thinking! Distracted. Pheeww… hah… anyway…”

“Here. Have some water.” She untethered her water skin from her rucksack and handed it out to him, a sympathetic smile on her lips. Calen eagerly took it and gave her an appreciative nod, before taking a couple of sips. Reclaiming another breath, he looked back at Rhona, pointing the waterskin at her arm. “As I was saying… did Cezare do that?”

She had hoped he would have forgotten about that in his coughing fit, but he seemed relentless on letting the matter lie. Rhona gazed at him, a peculiar expression on her face, one mixed with pain and remembrance.

“Yes… it’s… he did.” She moved her left hand over her right forearm, shifting her gaze away to stare fixedly on the water’s surface.

“Big mammoth-nosed son of…” Calen sighed. He crossed his arms. “Well I guess I don’t have to explain myself anymore thanks to my skeever brain, but I can try helping with it if you’d like me to. I mean, I’m not actually super good at it, but I can give it a shot. It’s just a bruise.”

She gave him a half hearted smile, “I’m not very good at healing either. But go ahead. Maybe I could enchant something of yours as a thank you?” Rhona extended her arm out to him.

“Maybe you can enchant this daft old noggin’ of mine to be a touch more mindful?” Calen joked as he leaned his with an ear to ear smile. He set his hands an inch over Rhona’s arm, and it took a few moments of visible effort on his part to call upon the same magick he had used on himself a minute ago. When the slight light began to appear around his hands, the effects didn’t seem as steady as it did before, the light flickering in and out before it fizzled completely and leaving Calen out of breath once more.

“Bah, Stendarr’s eye!” Calen swore. “I guess I’m dry…”

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.” Rhona said reassuringly, patting his hand before staring hard at him, as if she had just realized something.

“What even brings a Nord like you all the way down here? You’re not a bard on an adventure seeking new tales to sing, are you?” Part of her joked, but she did wonder why he had come all the way down to Cyrodiil.

For a moment, Calen stared at her like she had sprouted another head on her shoulders before he hesitantly answered, “Well… that was the idea.”

Her eyes widened, before she grinned, shaking her head, “An entertaining life I’m sure. One that must be filled with arduous affairs of the heart, countless bottles drank under starry skies… Mara, bless me with such wonder.”

Though Calen was initially caught off guard by her terribly uncanny insight, her musing had brought back some memories of his travels across Skyrim. Indeed, there had been many nights where he felt blessed, and many an affair that was led by his heart -- whether or not that was the message she intended to convey -- and her words had also come to remind him of the two bottles of Solitude’s famous spiced wine locked up in the chest on his wagon. There was nary a better way of ending the night that he could think of then getting drunk off some good wine with the company of a beautiful lady!

“Indeed it is, Rhona, indeed it is!” Calen agreed in a sing-songy voice. “Might you be looking to be entertained?”

Her eyebrows rose at the invitation, she hadn’t expected one from him, half expecting the pleasantries to end between them. But he had brought such good cheer to her, that part of her didn’t wish to have it end. And more importantly, she didn’t want to be alone in case Cezare found her.

“My heart could use the cheer after such a fright.” She nodded her head in agreement.

And so, the two of them, with Tobias in tow, set off back towards the camp, Calen keeping her entertained with animated conversation. Yet her thoughts wandered as she listened with half a mind, Rhona couldn’t chase the feeling of fear from her heart, what if they ran into Cezare? What if he came back to look for Calen and found her with him? If anything, she had her staff in hand, she could certainly strike him again, or at least set his britches on fire. Yet while she worried about this, Calen’s soothing nature put her at ease. He had a carefree attitude, and it made her think of Aurelia, and her friends. She absent-mindedly placed her hand over heart, as if it caused her physical pain. She swallowed a hard lump in her throat, shaking away the thought. At least Aurelia would be safe in Valenwood.

Not long after, they arrived at the stables, however, Calen guided her to a carriage. And with her help, they erected a tent over it with some canvas and wooden poles which were procured from a chest that was kept and bolted down just behind the driver’s seat. Her hands moved with haste and it reminded Calen to quicken his own pace as they fitted the poles into their respective slots and finally draped the canvas over the top, sheltering the two from the outside world.

As Calen stood, partially hunched over due to being unable to stand at his full height underneath the tent, he fastened some of the loose strings stitched into the fabric around the poles, and idley spoke to Rhona in a passive voice. He said, “I hope it’s not too inappropriate of me to offer a frightful widow a place to sleep tonight. I imagine it’s safer from prying eyes than any other place I can think of.”

“A frightful widow…” she whispered under her breath. It was strange to hear, but it resonated with her. She smiled to herself, a tender one as she peeked inside, watching him make the finishing touches.

Rhona cleared her throat, “I think… Mara has brought you to me for a reason.”

“Mara?” Calen mused with an entertained smile on his face, gesturing to Rhona to come inside and make herself comfortable. “Me, an agent of the Mother-Goddess? Rhona, you honor me! What makes you think that?”

She laughed as she took a seat beside him, resting her elbows atop her knees, “Well… I meant it more as… Mara works in mysterious ways when it comes to my… friends and lovers I’ve come across through the years.”

“She… has been a complicated mistress to me.” Rhona shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well then, how about...” Calen began cheerfully as he dived back into the chest of his belongings, shifting some items to the side as he sifted through and randomly handing off a lute and drum to Rhona as he continued his search, “in celebration of our friends and lovers… and all of the friends and lovers to come…”

Finally, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, and withdrew two green glass wine bottles adorned with straw that was weaved around the base and a pillow. It was the last of his spiced wine from Solitude -- one was full while the other, from what little light was inside, was only half of its contents left. He pushed the full bottle into Rhona’s hands and took back his lute as he sat back against the bench on his side of the wagon while propping his feet atop of the other.

“We share a health to the company!” Calen proposed, idley strumming once over his lute. “For it’s as Dibella says --” the bard thumbed the amulet around his neck, “Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship and seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love!”

She widened her eyes at the mention of Dibella, but popped the cork on the bottle of spiced wine, she took a tentative sniff, never had she tasted wine from Solitude, but she brought the lip of the bottle to her mouth, and took a hearty sip. It was sweet, spicy mostly, but sweet nonetheless. Not overbearingly so, but just enough to settle well with her.

She took a smaller sip this time, and passed the bottle back to Calen, her eyes landing on the amulet around his neck, “Are you a follower of Dibella then?” Rhona asked, nodding at the trinket bearing her distinctive mark.

“Nah, I just like wearing her jewelry.” He joked with a cheeky smile. “I kid -- yes, absolutely! The Lady teaches us that love can be as fleeting as it is immortal, and that's okay -- and love, in all of its various forms, is equally significant whether its between two friends sharing a drink…”

Calen gestured around them.

“...or two lovers intertwined.”

Calen threw back the bottle for a long sip, then continued, “Every friend and every partner I've ever had -- I love them still to this day. I hold them close to my heart even if they don't feel the same.”

She listened in silence, and when he had finished speaking, Rhona let the brevity of his words sink in. She covered her mouth with one hand, shaking her head slowly, and with both hands moved them over her face as if to crush the inner turmoil.

“Gods… I envy you. I…” her throat tightened, feeling hot tears wetting her cheeks, voice cracking as she spoke, “Everyone I have ever loved….” She gave a soft laugh, her heart aching as she recalled the vivid memories of waking up that morning in a field near Chorrol, expecting to find Sayyid alongside her, but he had disappeared, with her belongings, and Aurelia… left without a goodbye, and it made Rhona feel cowardly for not having the courage to go with her to Valenwood. And Cezare… well she never really loved him.

“They leave me with a broken heart.” She tried to smile, rubbing the back of her hand against her forehead. Rhona blew out air between her lips, and brought her hands away from her face, her hand extended for the bottle. She could use another sip of spiced wine to quell the wave of emotions rising up.

Calen gave her a sympathetic smile to match the sullen air of melancholy which has enveloped Rhona. The countless heartbreaks were plain to see in her hazel eyes, and such was a sight he has seen too often in his paltry twenty-three years, and his own heart ached for her as it did for a dozen other friends and companions he has met on his journeys. He gingerly handed the bottle of spiced wine back to Rhona -- he suspected she was going to need a lot more of it before the night was over -- and reached into his trunk one last time and brought out an old, battered journal.

"I take that energy and turn it towards something productive," he said. Calen moved from his spot and crawled over next to Rhona's side, placing the journal in his lap. As he began thumbing through the pages, revealing page after page of entries, hand-drawn portraits of old friends and lovers, poems, he eventually stopped at a page depicting in meticulous detail a beautiful robed woman which he had captioned, "Illia". He continued, "When I think about past loves, I don't think about what I lost. I think about what I gained. The love I felt in those moments were real, and those moments are valuable to me. So the memories don't hurt me that much. More than anything, they feel... fulfilling."

She cradled the bottle of wine in her arms, holding it against her chest as if it were a newborn babe, she watched as he flipped through the pages. He had a knack for drawing people that much was true. When he came to the page with the woman depicting Illia, she smiled, he had said her name with such tenderness it reminded of her Sayyid, “She’s beautiful. You were lucky to have known her.”

His eyes broke away from the page and faced Rhona, a brief moment filled with a sense of longing sobering Calen from his usual, whimsical disposition. He cooed, "That's why they're still so dear to me."

Rhona took a long draught from the bottle, shivering involuntarily as the liquid raced through her body. When she looked up, she found his eyes upon her, and perhaps it was the wine starting to get to her, or perhaps it was the sentiment thick in the air, but she reached up with one hand, and cupped his cheek. His words had struck a deep resonating chord with her, how much grief did she still carry in her heart? And more importantly, why was it so hard to let go for her? She had tried to forget with Aurelia, she had kept her mind focused on other tasks at hand. She pulled her hand away, and took another drink, then slipped the bottle between them. She then shifted her weight, resting her head against his shoulder, and sighed. She could smell his scent, of hay and horses, of earth and sweat, it comforted her.

“I can’t believe it worked. He didn’t even question who you were talking to. And Tobias,” she started laughing, “you just threw a blanket over him.”

Calen joined Rhona in laughter, throwing his head back as if that was the funniest thing he’s ever heard and set his journal back in his lap. He cried out, “I know, right?! And the whole, oh I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t know the way to Sentinal -- I didn’t even know what I was going to say at first, that was completely unrehearsed!”

After a drink of wine from the bottle they shared, Calen reached for his lute once again with his free hand. Though since Rhona was resting on his other shoulder, his arm on that side reached around her waist and held the neck of his musical instrument. She had expected him to shift away from her to accommodate the lute, but he didn’t. It felt good, to be close someone again. A quick swipe over each of the strings to make sure they were tuned properly was all he needed. “So,” he began, “we’re drinking, we’re merry; what do you say about hearing a merry drinking song about drinking and being merry?”

“Well I’m not going to say no, look you already have your lute. Play on.” She grinned, her cheeks flushing red.

The young bard played on, beginning with a quaint if uncomplicated and slow tune. The rhythm was simple and easy to follow as many classic and memorable drinking songs are, but it was peaceful almost like a lullaby would be. When the melody came to a pause, it picked right back up with Calen's voice in tow.

"Kind friends and companions,
come join me in rhyme!
Come lift up your voices,
in chorus with mine!
Come lift up your voices,
and share a health, my friend!
For we may or might never
meet here again!

So here's a health to the company,
and one to my lass!
Let us drink and be merry,
all out of one glass.
Let us drink and be merry,
all grief to refrain.
For we may or might never,
meet here again!

My footsteps may falter,
my wit, it might fail.
My course may be challenged
by the worst northern gale!
We'er fortune prove to be friend or me foe,
you'll always be with me wherever I go."

When the song returned to its chorus for the last time, Calen ceased the strumming of his lute and replaced it with intermittently tapping against the wood of his lute, allowing his voice to carry the rest of the song out to its very end.

"So here's a health to the company,
and one to my lass!
Let us drink and be merry,
all out of one glass.
Let us drink and be merry,
all grief to refrain.
For we may or might never…
meet here again!"[/i]

Rhona could feel his words and the melody vibrating through his body and into hers with each strum of the lute. She closed her eyes as he sang, and when Calen had stopped, she lifted the bottle to her lips, took one sip, and looked at him. She didn’t know why she did what she did next, but she leaned over, and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you. For everything today.” Rhona said, pulling away.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

From Night Comes a Light

The Rangers had secured the two piloted sets of armour, one intact, the other heavily damaged and would likely have to be scuttled if they could not find a way to fix its range of motion. Daro’Vasora was interested in spending more time studying them in detail to see how it held up to her journal notes on Dwemer designs, particularly the formidable Centurions, of which the few times she’d encountered them she thanked herself for having a lithe and quick body that was able to get in and out of dangerous situations with a degree of aptitude that it was a wonder she’d avoided being seriously injured thus far. She, however, was more preoccupied by the black soul gem she’d discovered was powering the suits earlier and the implications they brought. She’d never definitively found if Dwemer, renown for their general scorn of the arcane arts, had employed mages to create soul gems, but what if they started soul trapping in their exile? Was it a sign of desperation or cruelty? A grand soul like from a troll would have been one thing, but a person left a sour taste in her mouth. Much like the Falmer, the thought of being soul trapped and used and discarded for eternity frightened the Khajiit to no end. She was a pragmatist and not particularly spiritual, but she’d seen enough evidence that souls were tangible things that could be harnessed and used in her time that she didn’t question such a fate was possible. It bothered her immensely.

Daro’Vasora and the others had made their way back to the ruins of Elenglynn in a fairly prompt amount of time; going was much faster when you weren’t skulking through the woods like a predator after an enemy. She ran her hand across the Alyeid stonework, admiring the ancient masonry. The Wild Elves were one of her first scholarly interests, and she’d been here before. She just never thought she’d return to find it occupied by a species of elf that had predated the Dunmer.

Looking around impassively at the faces of the other Rangers who had fought for the ruins and secured the airships, along with the carnage that had gone along with it, the Khajiit tried to find Brynja in the mess of wrecked automata and Dwemer bodies; those of the Rangers were in the process of being collected and sorted, likely to either bury graves or make a pyre, it was uncertain what would have been the agreed upon choice. However, her search didn’t take long at all; Brynja found her first.

“Daro’Vasora!” She bellowed, a grin stretching across her face when her eyes landed on her.

The Khajiit crossed her arms and shifted her weight to a foot. “You seem awfully cheerful for someone who just got out of a nasty bit of work.” she replied. She offered a slight nod of relief. “I’m glad you made it through; I wasn’t fancying the prospect of trying to make new acquaintances. So, what happened?”

“By the Gods,” she shook her head, “I’ll explain on the way. I’ve something to show you.”

Daro’Vasora scoffed. “I doubt there’s much I haven’t already seen today, but I’ll humour you.”

“You’ll change your mind. We secured the airships. I have to go heal Solandil. Got a nasty cut on his chest.” She explained hurriedly, forgetting how long her legs were compared Vasora’s. She slowed, and then the sight of him appeared.

“There you have it.” She gestured, “Alive and in the flesh. Our Latro.”

That stopped the Khajiit in her tracks, her eyes widening as they followed Brynja’s hand towards a figure that was seated on the ruins. Coming from the very familiar lute in his hands was a familiar tune, a knowing smirk on Latro’s lips as a clue to what it was. Finally, as he bent the strings on the last note, it was clear- Wayward in Wayrest. The last song he’d played for her before all of this.

He put the lute down by his side and sighed, interlacing his fingers in his lap with a small smile that whispered of deep melancholy, “It’s really been some time, Sora.”

The words didn’t come immediately; seated before her as if nothing had happened was a specter. Walking tepidly towards him, moving ahead to face him head on to make sure that this wasn’t some cruel illusion, her hands were wrung together on her chest. When she found her voice, it was barely a whisper. “I thought you were dead. How is this possible?”

“I thought the same of you.” Latro smiled. The two of them stood before each other for a few moments, not knowing what to say. After all this time, Latro’s tongue would not obey him. It had felt like years since he’d seen Sora. He wiped a sleeve at his eye and cleared his throat. Latro broke the silence, “I’m glad I was wrong.”

Wordlessly, Daro’Vasora crossed the distance and flung her arms around Latro, burying her face in his neck, tears flowing freely down her face. “Me too. I thought I lost everything, gods, I did. I couldn’t help but feel after everything with the Falmer, and that afternoon in the city, things were going to turn out okay. I… he’s gone. The day after you met him. I thought the same happened to you. How… how are you here? You never made it to Rhea’s manor.” she asked, her words coming out in a staccato. She gripped him tighter, his scent and the fabrics of his clothes making him something more than a ghost after all.

He gasped at the quickness of it all. He was not expecting Sora to be so forward and he found it somewhat humorous in light of everything that after all this time, it was him being bashful. Even so, his arms wrapped around Sora as hers did to him. Slowly but surely, he sank into the embrace. First nuzzling into her shoulder with his chin, then when the lump in his throat burst forth in a single choking sob, he buried it in the folds of her clothes and her neck. The sobs silently jerked his shoulders in her arms and he wasted no thought on his composure. After a tearful few moments, he withdrew his face and spoke.

“The Rangers found me wandering the city. I was almost dead when they found me, now all that haunts me is pain and…” he thought of the carnage at the White-Gold city, the face of the stranger he woke up with, the Dwemer, “Pain, all the same. When they told me you were not with me or them… I’m glad the worst has not come to bear.” Gathering himself fully, he gave Sora one last squeeze before stepping back, a hand lingering on her arm before it slowly came away, “I’m sorry about your mentor. If I had been there, I would have said some words over his grave.”

Daro’Vasora glanced back towards where Brynja was strolling towards Solandil, some kick to her step. The reunion obviously hit a chord for the Nord; the Khajiit shook her head, taking a seat on the cool ancient stonework. “I was going to arrange a funeral for him in Skingrad, even if his body is lost. I managed to reclaim a number of Zegol’s effects after… finding him.” the words didn’t want her to spell it bluntly; it was still hard for her to think of the man that had been like an uncle to her being truly gone, particularly due to something she had a hand in orchestrating. Her arms crossed protectively about her waist, her teeth grinding somewhat. “Looks like that’s getting delayed indefinitely due to all the damn refugees. For what it’s worth, I’m proud that despite what happened, you chose to act instead of wallow around walls like a clueless lout. Most everyone made it out from the expedition group, some are back at the Skingrad camp doing… something that isn’t making the Dwemer regret their return.” she added bitterly, looking up at the Breton’s face. It was like something of one of the stories she’d read a dozen or so times in Castle Leyawiin. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, her eyes darted away.

“I wanted peace in my life, but,” Latro shook his head, “I know that if ever there was a good enough reason to kill now, the White-Gold city is it. I wanted to bring justice for your names. When I found Brynja and Sol, I had some hope.”

When he met eyes only just long enough to know that Sora’s were caught lingering on his, he too looked aside, somewhat embarrassed. They still stood less than an arms length from each other but both made no effort to add to the distance. He scratched at a teary cheek, a few days’ worth of unchecked stubble adding grit under his nails. “I’m glad to know everyone is still yet among the living.” He said, “But I don’t hold it against them if they don’t wish to fight the ones who stilled the heart of the Empire so easily. I had my reasons to.” He looked at her.

“I told Rhea not to meddle with things that no one understood. So what if it conveniently helped us escape the ruins? It could have just as easily turned the room into a gas chamber or been a return beacon for that crawler that we saw. Instead, we enabled the return of a bunch of assholes who I much preferred reading about and pilfering their artifacts for a bunch of Septims. I’m not going to apologize for surviving, but I’m not going to pretend that everything’s okay. I was there at the beginning, and I am going to be there in the end when they realize that returning and murdering my family is the stupidest thing they could have done since meddling with the literal heart of a god.” Daro’Vasora replied venomously, her slit-shaped eyes might as well have belonged to a viper as she stared back at Latro.

Just as soon as the cold rage came, it subsided in a few long breaths. She leaned forward, her head resting against a pair of fingers that squeezed her temple. “I just don’t understand how anyone can just sit back with the other clueless idiots and hope for someone better than them to resolve the worst bloody crisis since, what, the Great War? You’ve seen what the Dwemer brought with them. Imagine what they’re holding in reserve. We need to understand them if we’re going to do anything but be forgotten to history.” she said, standing suddenly, walking towards something that had caught her eye.

“Not everyone holds the same convictions we might. Even so, I’m glad to be alongside you in this.” He sighed, “I’ll admit, there might be some measure of guilt that guides me in this, being there when we did… whatever in Dagon’s name this all is. I’ve fought an overwhelming force before, I can do it again.” He let it go unsaid that he was run out of the city he was fighting for and ostracized for the whole ordeal, but he had fought.

Vasora turned from him and looked towards something with far too much interest to not ask, “What is it?”

The Khajiit crouched next to a body, one of the Dwemer soldiers, and began to look over the armour with clinical curiosity. The elf’s sword was in the grass next to him, and she picked it up without much ceremony, not to wield it, but to examine it like she was appraising what it was worth. “It’s the same.” she murmured, turning it over in her hands with a slow blink before offering the handle to Latro for his own inspection.

Latro took the offered sword, placing his hand on the fuller of the blade and holding its point to he sky, his careful eye running along the length of it. It was true, how many times had he seen the exact design from the archaeology samples? The weight was the same, the balance, taper of the blade down its fuller to the thick point of it. “You’re right…” he whispered, handing it back to her.

“The design, the manufacturing process… it hasn’t changed in thousands of years. They forged the ingots first, and then let the form follow the material, and then rarely deviate from it. Once it’s cast, that’s it. It’s not malleable like steel or even moonstone. Why, out of all of the elves, were the Dwemer the only ones that never seemed to figure out how on Nirn to make a curved blade? Something designed for efficient cutting? Everything is in such precise angles. Everything that they have, as superior as the materials they are forged from are… they’re incredibly basic. It’s functional, and that’s about all you can say about it.

“As incredible as they were at metallurgy and mechanical aptitude that no one else seemed to have even come close to comprehending, everything they built follows the exact same form, every single time. They were incapable of innovating or reshaping their designs in more elegant ways, and that’s why past personal engravings, you can end up in opposite ends of Tamriel and find almost an identical sword. Why is it the one in your hand looks exactly the same as something a Chimer could have looted from his foe? Where is the refinement, or the incremental improvements in designs?” Daro’Vasora couldn’t contain the excitement in her voice, she looked back to Latro, hand running along the blade.

“Do you understand? Latro, the Dwemer have barely changed, they haven’t advanced. They’re throwing the most unconventional weapons they have at us to keep us off balance, to instill fear of the unknown. Why is it that the same ones we’ve just fought look like they’re only a few years removed from when they last were seen here on Nirn? For as much of an advantage as they have with their technology, they’re still using the same tried and true processes that they’d been using for thousands of years. It’s like they stagnated.” she grinned. “They haven’t learned many new tricks.”

“As smart as this all is, how do we exploit it? Their alloy may not have changed but it’s still a damned task to fell them.” Latro shrugged, “A valuable thing to notice, either way, I’m sure. We should bring this to the Rangers.”

“When we find more adequate proof, agreed. This is all speculation so far.” Daro’Vasora said, her hands going behind her head to hold the back of her neck. “Are we still at a disadvantage? Certainly, unless we find some way to fly like their airships. But we can plan around what we know; we know spells work, and we can estimate their capabilities knowing that even if we see new automata or machinery, they should in theory follow a similar set of rules. All this means that for all of my years crawling through their ruins, there might be some valuable insight to be gained from what they left behind. Assuming, of course, they didn’t reclaim it all when our backs were turned.”

Latro smiled, somewhat exhausted, “I would say I doubt it but, well,” he swept his hand across the scene before them, “I don’t know what I can safely doubt now. At least we know as well as they do now that they’re not infallible.”

Latro crosses his arms and sighed, surveying everything before him. Tearful words said over graves, a couple Rangers carrying Dwemer dead to a pile of corpses, more Rangers looting or milling about, the timeless art of looking like doing something but not. His eyes settled on Sora after he picked up his lute and retook his seat, “I can’t express how much I’m glad you’re here. I’m not letting you out of my sight after all that’s happened.” He chuckled, plucking a few strings as he talked.

One of her rare smiles crossed her face, she glanced away for a moment sheepishly. “Well, it’s a reciprocal sentiment.” she murmured, taking a seat next to Latro. She sighed contentedly; at least she didn’t lose everything as she turned her gaze to the lute, its strings vibrating subtly as the cavities allowed a song to breathe into the air. “Sorry to prattle on, hardly makes for a sentimental moment, does it? I’m not much of a fighter, and I’m still trying to make sense of the world right now. But here you are, against all odds with the very same instrument I gifted you. I guess it meant more to you than simply a kind gesture.”

“Music is something I hold dear. It’s the one constant in my life that has never brought me anything bad. When I lost my instruments, I lost some of myself.” Latro said, “So, it is more than a gift. It is a gift, but more than an instrument. We wouldn’t have made it out of those caves without each other. Never found the way out of it.”

His fingers broke into a flourish of notes, “I never would have made it away from my old choices without music. I never would have made it away from the caves without you, I would’ve sat without picking a direction. This new war of ours,” he bent the strings up and then finished a flurry of strumming on a few notes before letting it fade out on its own, “You and me, the rest of us. Let’s pick a direction.”

She frowned, recalling the horrors of the Falmer. There wasn’t much in Tamriel that unsettled Daro’Vasora to the core, but the Falmer were certainly among them. “I still get nightmares about what they would have done to me if they caught me. You kept me focused, made me feel like there was a way out. I was terrified beyond my wits, but you kept me sharp and safe.” the Khajiit gripped her hands into a ball, resting forward against her chin. “It’s strange, you know? Normally people come and go out of my life, but as soon as everything we know is threatened, I’m afraid to be alone. Brynja’s been too kind to me considering how I’ve been to her, and in the short time I’ve known you, things have felt like they’d work out somehow. Whatever direction you think we should take, I’ll be there with you. I’m not a good person, but I’m trying to do the right thing. I just don’t know what that is anymore.”

“Perhaps we’re doing what’s right for us. Let everyone else do what they will, but we’ve picked this path. I feel right.” Latro shrugged. “There’s not much else to do but run. I wouldn’t feel right doing that, either. I can wander from their borders for as long as they move them, but what happens when I’m staring at the ocean horizon with them breathing down my neck?”

“I’ll admit, I never liked the taste of war or death. It’s too bitter, and I’ve spent my life seeking a peaceful place to set my coat down where I’m not constantly tested against a knife edge. Where I don’t have to tear my meal from the dead’s hands. I don’t like violence, but this just feels like being pressed to defend myself, or else.” He sighed, fingers running along his knife and axe beside him, “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse for what I’ll have to do.”

She considered his words for a few moments before speaking. “You’ve always struck me as someone who learned to be capable the hard way, as if it weren’t much of a choice. Not so different than where we’re at now.” Daro’Vasora pointed out. “They can’t be everywhere, they aren’t endless. I’m sure you or I or anyone could just wander forever, pretending like they aren’t here. But what kind of life is that? All I know is I owe them back for what they took from me, and if they ever got down to Leyawiin and I didn’t try to make amends for our mistake… I’m not a coward, nor an idiot. I’m not going to be winning any wars on my own, and probably won’t be making a shit of a difference, but at least I can live with myself.” she sighed, leaning back until she was resting upon her elbows, staring up at the earliest stars prodding through the shroud of the branches above. “I just wish I knew what they were after.”

Latro nodded, chewing on his bottom lip, “Whatever it is, they’ve got an odd way of asking for it. They won’t parley, they don’t set terms, they arrived wading through blood from the start.” Latro frowned, “Whatever it is, even I won’t stand by. I can’t. My mentor would do the same, that’s enough for me.”

Daro’Vasora’s ears perked up that. “You mentioned your mentor before. What was he like? I feel like we’ve barely really touched upon each other’s lives. Might as well sort that out, yeah? You met Zegol, so you know where I come from.” she propped herself up on her elbows to get a better look at her companion.

“He was the best fighter I’d ever seen in all my travels.” Latro started off, eyes going somewhere distant, “I remember being in an inn after… things happened… in Wayrest. Nothing good for me was there and I was stripped of everything I once had, from my septims to my pride. I was sitting in that inn, playing to no one and he sat near me at the hearth. When my song finished, he handed me the second flagon he’d been holding onto.”

Latro laughed, more of a bitter huff of air through his nose, “I told him nothing good ever came of accepting drink from strangers. He respected that, we talked for the night and he was intelligent, worldly, gentle. He was unlike everyone I’d ever met in my life. When he made to leave in the morning, I asked to follow him.”

“He was a duelist and a sellsword, I learned. On our third night of traveling together, we’d run afoul of some drunk thugs for the mere offense of being there,” Latro chuckled, less bitter now, “He set them all down on the floor without ever drawing his blade. That was all after trying so damned hard to calm everyone down. He had every right to kill every one of them when they drew weapons, but he told me he refused. He hated violence, ironic for a duelist.”

“He explained the purpose of dueling is a contest of styles and technique, not bloodletting. He’d never sold his sword to a person who would see it bloodied. He never told me why, but I didn’t need to know why to know that I liked that. Being violent never did me any kindness but he said the lamb may be good but the lamb is useless when the wolves come. I asked him to teach me, so he did. Now my knuckles are scuffed and my palms are callused, I know my way around blades short and long, my feet are quiet, I know many unpeaceful things,” he frowned, “He always told me violence was the first tool of simple minds, so I learned poetry, songwriting, instruments too. I learned the good things in life as well so I can learn to detest the bad. I use my knife and my axe only when I am desperate.”

Latro sniffed, curling his hands into balled fists, “He told me peace was always the highest virtue, so when peace is shattered, to never be content. My enemies are no more demons than I am, so I am to take up arms with sorrow and compassion and enter battle gravely. To be sullen in bloody victory.” Latro nodded, “Killing is brutal and violent and terrifying, as it should be. If it weren’t, it’d be a weightless thing on the conscience. I’ve refrained from violence ever since I met him.”

The Khajiit sat upright and took Latro by the arm, showing solidarity. “He sounded like quite the man, someone who gave you purpose and direction that you needed. One doesn’t carry a blade unless they know it may be used some day, but you cannot hold yourself accountable for the actions of others. If you’re forced to use lethal force to save yourself or another, what of it?” she asked quietly. “I can’t tell you how many bones I’ve broken, and I’ve killed my share of rivals, monsters, and otherwise indecent folk in my line of work, almost all of it entirely preventable if I’d just pursued a passion that was mundane and boring.

“He sounded like a man who was wise to times of peace, but war doesn’t let us chose; it choses for us. You’re still a poet, a bard, a man with a soft and gentle soul who wants to make the world a better place than he left it. It’s part of why I have such a curiosity about you, but you shouldn’t hold yourself accountable if someone forces your hand to violence. Does a hawk apologize for eating the hare? Or the tortoise for letting the wolf starve by protecting itself? Sometimes, we need to be willing to do the unpleasant things to ensure what we care about survives. I’m a historian, and let me tell you, history is a bloody swath of reprehensible people, but there’s also a lot of nobility there. Most people who have their names remembered were ones who were forced to make the hard choices. It didn’t erode their sense of decency.” the Khajiit explained gently, not wanting Latro to feel wracked with guilt over being forced to spill the blood of monsters that came from the sky. Zegol’s dismembered body flashed through her mind; her grip tightened somewhat and her teeth clenched. Wolves, indeed.

“We’re of the same mind, Sora. I hold no qualms in seeking to restore the relative peace I once had. I would rather have weapons and never use them than have them be called upon and want for them. Too many think that not having claws at all is the same as being good. Ask those slain in pogroms what good that monks and pacifists turning the other cheek did for them. As my mentor said to me long ago,” he picked up his lute and set his fingers to the task of tuning it, “These invaders have shattered the peace. Until they are dead or surrender, I will not be content. It is up to them which to choose. Until they do, I will kill them wherever they are until peace is attained again. Their blood is not what I want, it is peace.”

He sighed and frowned, “the farmer takes no pleasure in killing wolves in his manger. I am no lamb,” He spoke gravely, “And this is a land of wolves now.”

Despite herself, Daro’Vasora allowed herself something of smirk. “Wolves, farmers, sheep. We’re getting much too metaphorical for my tastes after risking life and limb to steal a couple of those suits of theirs. Whatever we might be, let’s not forget to live along the way. Don’t let the music stop.” She leaned over, placing a hand on Latro’s chest and kissing him on the cheek before breaking off and standing with an audible stretch with her lithe frame reaching for the sky and her back curving. Something in her leg definitely popped. She grinned at her partner. “Now that you’re back, no more making me think you’ve died. Agreed?”

“I apologize, I can wax poetic-“ his tongue seized there as he felt Sora’s lips on his cheek. He placed a hand there, staring ahead and then glancing up at Sora as she stood. At the mention of leaving their fates a mystery to each other, he nodded at first, only because his tongue still refused his commands, “Sure,” he smiled almost dumbly, “Like I said, you and me. Pick a direction and I won’t stray from it.”

Daro’Vasora winked at Latro. “And yet you can still be caught off guard from an innocent gesture. Right now, I’m picking the direction towards the boss; Brutus might like to hear some of the ideas I’ve run by you, and I wouldn’t mind heading down in the ruins, for old-time’s sake. Other than Welkynd stones, there’s probably surviving Dwemer and some equipment we can salvage.” she smiled, feeling like some of the heavy weight she’d carried the past few weeks lift considerably. She was ashamed to admit to herself she felt almost like a little girl again with a stupid crush.

Oh well, life was a mixture of highs and lows. She’d learned to appreciate the highs, even if it was vapid and perhaps born out of emotional stress due to the insanity of the situation they were surviving. It didn’t change the fact that Daro’Vasora felt joy at Latro’s return, and a comfort in familiarity in times that both were in short supply.

Turning to leave, she offered him a parting wave. “I’ll catch up with you later, mister wolf.”

---

A Collab by @Rtron and @MacabreFox

Nanine and Rhona, early afternoon, 5th of Second Seed

Nanine cursed quietly under her breath as the petty soul gem broke. It was the second one on this attempt. The mother and father in front of her smiled patiently, simply glad anyone was helping them, and that she had managed to get their child’s clothing enchanted. It was a simple enchantment, one designed to keep the wearer warm. A threat that would become more and more pressing as time wore on. Which was why she was here, helping them. But now she apparently had lost the focus or feeling or whatever it is that she had when casting the spell previously.

Nanine would go through two more soul gems before she felt someone who wasn’t the parents looking at her. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing another Breton woman staring at her in something like second hand embarrassment. The woman seemed to be actually cringing at Nanine’s attempts.

”I take it from the look on your face that you’re more experienced at this than I? Would you like to get this done so they don’t have to wait on me and I don’t have to lose any more soul gems flailing about?” Nanine called, a self-deprecating smile on her face.

Rhona came to kneel beside Nanie, a smile on her lips. She had woken early from her evening spent with Calen, finding herself curled around his backside, her arm cast over his hip, and untangled herself from the warmth of his body. They had drank far too much spiced wine that last night, but Rhona had some important tasks to accomplish. She set out that morning while before he woke from his slumber, Gods only know where Tobias had gone, and set out back to her own tent, before making her rounds to see if her family had arrived yet. By early afternoon, on the way back to her tent did she happen to stumble upon Nanine, struggling to perform an enchantment. She set the pair of clothes aside, and cleared the ground below. Rhona bent her head to the ground and kissed the dirt beneath. She rose up, and with a practiced hand, drew out the enchantment with her fingertip. She returned the clothes to the center of the redrawn grid, and placed the soul gem on top.

Energy crackled along the grid as the soul gem glowed red before shattering into tiny shards and dust.

“There. That should do it.” She said with a confident grin.

Nanine raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t comment as the woman kissed the dirt. The woman had her own methods, and Nanine certainly didn’t have any room to talk considering she had lost another three soul gems in the attempt. As the woman confidently and quickly drew out the grid and focused, Nani knew that this was someone far more experienced in the art of enchantment than her.

When the gem shattered into shards and dust, rather than pieces and failure, Nanine grinned. ”It worked. You should be kept warm for when it gets cold, at the very least.” The two parents took the clothes gratefully, profusely thanking Rhona and Nanine, before retreating to their tent. Nanine pulled herself to her feet and stuck her hand out. ”Nanine Tilhart. Pleasure to meet someone of your skills. I was beginning to tire of fumbling through that.”

”I don’t suppose you give lessons?” She said with a smile, only half joking. If this stranger was willing she wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity, and it wasn’t like she had anything better to do during her time here. She had no strings to pull to get inside the city, and there wasn’t any foes for her to protect the refugees from. All she could do was practice. But it was doubtful someone would teach another person they just met, especially after such a poor showing.

Rhona raised her eyebrows at the proposition Nanine gave her, they shook hands, “Rhona.” It felt strange using Cezare’s surname, and she didn’t want to take the chance of having him overhear her in case he happened to be close by.

“Ah well, I’m nothing of a teacher…” and while Rhona would normally have avoided the responsibilities associated with teaching someone how to better their enchanting skills, she couldn’t tell Nanine no.

“But what would you like to know?” She offered weakly.

Nanine smile grew wider with excitement. Finally! Someone who could teach her how to not be absolutely terrible at enchanting. ” Well, considering all I know is self-taught basics, and wartime camps are very good for those at all, and what The Enchanters Primer could teach me, anything you’d like to teach.” She unslung her pack, opening it. ”Before we begin though, what’re you charging? I’m afraid I don’t have any septims to give you, gave all I had to another family when I first got here, but I have some soul gems and skills that could be bartered in return for lessons?”

”Alternatively, I’m very good at destruction magic, pretty good at conjuration and pretty good at fighting, if you’d like to trade lessons for lessons?”

“I charge no fee, Mara would frown upon me for acting with kindness.” Rhona chuckled, “I’ll keep that in mind for later. But for now… let me teach you the most important lesson as an enchanter.” She set her rucksack on the ground, and rifled through it before pulling out her wooden tablet and charcoal stick.

“Think of enchanting as… sewing an article of clothing. Just like sewing you need a pattern, yes? Well it is no different. You have to know which elements you are incorporating into the enchantment. For example…” She cleared the board of dust, gesturing for Nanine to take a gander at what she was about to do, “With the Soul Trap enchantment, you need to draw out the proper grid. And use the associated symbols for life and death. Be careful not to confuse them with the symbols of light and dark. But as you can see, the center of the grid leaves a space for your item to be placed, and then you place the soul gem atop the desired item. It isn’t needed to place your hands on the outer grid lines… here,” she pointed to the exterior line of the circle, “unless you are a performing a major enchantment, such as enchanting a breastplate, a large weapon or when you are using a grand soul gem. For the smaller enchantments, simply setting the soul gem on top of the item will cause the grid the lines to crackle with energy and enchant the item.” She stopped to looked up at Nanine.

“Does that make any sense?” She often forgot that there weren’t many experienced enchanters, so she often got lost talking about enchanting, and how soul gems and grid lines and patterns worked.

Nanine shrugged. ”Your choice.” If Rhona didn’t want to be paid, Nanine wasn’t going to push for the unnecessary need to spend some of her resources. She watched intently as Rhona began to briefly make and describe enchanting. But as the woman got carried away, and the passion became more clear in her voice, Nanine looked up from the circle to stare at Rhona, a light smile on her face.

She loved hearing people talk about what they were passionate about. It brought out a whole new side of them, and lit up their faces. People seemed to glow when they talked about their passions.

Nani strove to memorize the moment, the way Rhona seemed lost in talking about enchanting and its inner workings, the way her eyes seemed to become warmer, and the enjoyment of her craft seemed to infuse every inch of her body.

A few moments after Rhona’s query, Nanine realized Rhona was expecting a reply. With a small start out of her intent study of the other woman’s face, Nanine replied, ”Yes, sorry! I was….nevermind. It make sense, though I must confess never hearing about the symbols, or drawing your own grid. Every time I have done it without an Enchanting Table, I usually just draw the enchantment into my mind, and try to focus it through the crystal onto the object.”

Nanine gestured ruefully to the broken soul gems in her pack. ”As you can see, that method has, shall we generously say, mixed results. Your way is much better. Would you mind drawing a few more out for me, and going over the symbols? If that isn’t bothering you too much, that is!”

Rhona dipped her head in agreement, “Of course, let me get my journal out.” She dove into her rucksack before pulling out a dark brown journal, well-worn from time and use. She thumbed through the pages before handing it over to Nanine, “I picked up enchanting when I was just past my sixteenth name day. I had a tutor, Vanozza, and she once told me, ‘A woman’s worth is not based on how many children she bears, nor how many dresses she owns, but her set of skills to offer.’, in other words, make something of yourself and don’t rely entirely on men.” She stopped talking afterwards, her mind fixated on two subjects, drawing out the next pattern, one for fortifying health. Yet her mind was also occupied with the events of the day before, hadn’t she relied on Calen to help her hide from Cezare? She chewed on her lower lip, did that make her weak? Rhona knew she lacked the courage to face him, no matter how she tried to justify her actions for leaving Cezare in the first place, she still felt cowardly.

Rhona focused wiping the board clean, and then retracing the familiar patterns of the fortify health enchantment. She remembered most basic enchantments like the back of her hand, it was with the more complex patterns that she had to draw out her journal.

“This is fortify health, very helpful when applied to something small like an amulet, a circlet, a pair of gloves or even a set of bracers. It uses the symbols of life, just like the one with the soul trap, and the symbol of earth, and also the symbol of fire. Because the earth gives us healing, while the fire provides vigor and strength, and the life is the main structure for this enchantment, that is why it is placed at the top, like so.” She rocked back onto the heels of her feet, now realizing that she had also left her boots in Calen’s wagon.

“I learned just a few years ago that one does not need an enchanting table to perform enchantments. Using a tablet such as this, or even the earth beneath our feet will work just as well. However, you must be extra vigilant not to break the lines you draw, or else the enchantment will fail. And if favorable, find a flat space where the dirt is plentiful to perform enchantments.” She finished speaking, her eyes focused on Nanine. She could tell that Nanine was a Breton, she had the distinctive features as such. She had a small straight nose, and a pair of magnifying stormy grey eyes. Her brown hair appeared well kept, and Rhona could spy a pair of blue pearl earrings too.

“Did you come from the Imperial City?” She asked quietly.

Nanine gratefully took the journal, flipping through the pages and taking a moment to memorize what was on each page. She would record them in her own journal later. For now, she would just store them in the back of her mind. She only raised an eyebrow at the mention that someone had to tell her that her value wasn’t in just how many children she could pop out. That she wasn’t already informed of that by her parents. Not that I have much room to judge, given how my parents told me that my value was decided by how well and how long I served the Empire. In a bittersweet way she was lucky that it was Willnven who had raised her, and not her father. Even if the cost was her parents and her city. She could still remember those days, helping with accounting in the caravan during the day and studying the Thalmor (or Daedra if she could sneak a book past Willnven) during the night. The memories brought a smile to her face.

Stopping her reminiscing, Nanine watched intently as Rhona went over another example, fortify health, and all the things it could be most efficiently applied too. Something that would be very useful to have in her growing repertoire of enchantments, as most people would like to have a healthier body, especially in these trying times. She began to work out how to best practice this new form of enchanting. I’ll have to keep an eye out for private, flat, places to practice. It’ll take a bit, but drawing out the grids of these shouldn’t take too long or be too difficult. Just need a good stick or to be really careful with my finger in desperate times.

She nodded in response to Rhona’s question. ”Yeah. I was there looking for work. My last contract as adventurer for hire had ended a few months ago and I needed a new...quest I suppose the term is.” She cracked a grin at Rhona. ”Like I’m some wandering knight back home, going to bring honor to my order.” She shook her head at the ridiculousness of the image, then continued. ”Anyways, I arrived the day before the Dwemer did. When they showed up I was just leaving a guildhall, empty handed in funds and quests. I thought to myself ‘Kynareth send me something.’ That’s when the Dwemer ships started filling the sky and their troops started falling to the ground. I guess my prayer was answered, but in the worst possible way.” She quieted a moment, remembering.

”I saw terrible things while putting down the Stormcloak Rebellion with the Legion and helping stabilize Skyrim afterwards. Necromancers and Vampires holeing up in caves and abandoned forts, their victims and prisoners rotting in cells. The horrors of the Falmer, deep in the caves. Stormcloaks refusing to yield despite certain death, and being butchered. But nothing quite compares to what the Dwemer did. It wasn’t the fact that they were murdering civilians, or that they have strange and powerful weapons.

It was the coldness. Most people, when they’re fighting a war, you can see emotion. It might be restrained and controlled, as with veteran fighters, but you can still see it. Rage, Fear, even an insane Joy in a few. With the Dwemer? Nothing. Dead eyes, precise movements, a very machine like air. That wasn’t a fight or the beginning of a war to them. It was a massacre of rodents, a reminder to every race beneath them that they were inferiors and their true masters have arrived. They had nothing to worry about, nothing to fear from anyone in the city. They weren’t beginning a war. They were just doing what they had to do. As if they were just cleaning up. When I finally had a moment to think and process, that wasn’t what scared me the most, their sheer arrogance and confidence. What scared me the most is that they just single handedly changed the face of warfare. They just single handedly altered war in Tamriel for centuries to come. If they get defeated or not, those staffs of theirs are going to be copied by the other nations, and it is the group who makes a successful copy first who will be in the greatest position of power.”

Nanine was quiet a moment more before shaking her head. ”But enough of that, I’m sure you don’t need to hear me go on about things you already know. Where did you come from? I’m going to guess it wasn’t from Imperial City.”

Rhona remained crouched beside her, her full attention on the Breton woman beside her. She furrowed her brows as she listened, she found the news about the Dwemer hard to digest. How could they be so cold and unfeeling in the face of adversity? Was it sheer confidence? Or was it something more malicious?

“I would have never thought that we would see the day where the Dwemer lived and breathed amongst us…” Rhona shook her head before saying, “I spent my winter in Rihad, I left for Anvil just a few months ago, and I spent the early spring building up my finances before I set out to come here. I’m still… surprised at the turn of events. I arrived here but two days ago, and all of a sudden I find a sea of tents outside the walls.”

”Pray you’re in the city before they come here then. If they come here.” She briefly scowled in frustration, irritated at the unpredictability of the Dwemer. If she had any idea of their motives or modern culture she could at least make an accurate guess on what they might do next. As it was, she could only make wild speculation based on what other races might do, and how accurate was that with a race that had disappeared from Tamriel centuries ago?

Shaking her head, Nani turned her attention to Rhona, and the other woman’s reply. Her eyebrows rose briefly. Rhona was quite the traveller. Even more so than Nanine herself, and Nanine had made a point to go as far around as she could.

”Apparently those finances ran out quick.” Nanine looked pointedly at Rhona’s bare feet. ”I have an extra pair of boots in my pack. We might be the same size, and can pad the inside if my feet are slightly bigger. I’ll be wearing my armor for a while yet, and I’m used to wearing it for a while besides. This isn’t anything new.” Nanine gave a wry smile, before setting about searching her pack.

”I don’t suppose you know why the Count suddenly closed the gates do you? I tried searching for information, but most I got was rumors or the angry opinions of desperate people.”

“Oh no thank you,” Rhona smiled softly, “I left my boots behind. It is a joy for me to feel Kynareth kiss the soles of my feet. There’s nothing better than having your feet covered in the tender earth blessed by her.”

“As for the Count… I have not the slightest idea.” She added, “If I had any clue, it’s probably to keep his citizen’s safe until he can figure out how to take care of the refugees. Count Hassildor is a good man, even if some of his decisions are questionable. He’ll do what is right for Skingrad.”

Nanine chuckled. The woman’s devotion was admirable, if not practical. ”Well, hope it is only Kynareth that kisses your feet. In camps like these hygiene is a very low priority. Your feet might end up covered in more than just the tender earth.” She smiled as she teased the other woman, before sighing.

”That’s the problem with being a leader, isn’t it? Being a good man for your people doesn’t always mean you be a good man for anyone else. These refugees need a good man. And so do the people of Skingrad. In times like these, someone is going to end up disappointed.” She closed her pack, handing Rhona her journal back. ”Thank you for the lesson. I’ll put it too good use throughout the day, I’m sure. You could tag along if you’d like. If not, would you mind terribly giving more lessons if we run into each other? Provided it’s not too much of a pain! I don’t want to impose upon you any more than I already have.”

Rhona returned her journal to its rightful place, and looked up at Nanine, she smiled, “If the winds of Kynareth blows in our favor, then I shall surely teach you again what I know. May your skies be bright and free of troublesome weather, Nanine.” She rose to her feet, and bowed her head.

“I’ve some errands to finish, but I am certain our paths will cross again.”

---

A Collab by @BurningCold and @MacabreFox

Skingrad, 5th of Second Seed - Late EveningThe Forest

Little streams of wind whipped at Mortalmo’s ears as he strode from the camp; an irritated cacophony of shrill whistles to exacerbate his already troubled thought process. While the creases forming across his visage betrayed only agitation, his psyche was churning with black thoughts. Ever since the odd confrontation with Judena, he had secluded himself from contact with others, deigning instead to pray. His cries for guidance had fallen on deaf ears. Now though, Mortalmo meant to pursue a different avenue of convalescence. He needed something familiar, something to allow him to exert some measure of control. To that end he ventured beyond the shantytown clinging to Skingrad, and off into the woodland.

He made sure to avoid the route previously taken with Judena and the Nord.

Upon coming across a suitable clearing, Mortalmo extending his arm out carefully, palm held wide open. Purple flickers of arcane energy flitted between the tips of his fingers. A single moment of concentration came and went, and then the spell was cast. Glowering before Mortalmo was a hulking mass of grey flesh, the skin marked by cruel red paints. A violet longsword shimmered into Mortalmo’s still outstretched hand a moment later. The Mer pointed the blade at the Dremora before him.

“Try to kill me.”

---

After leaving Nanine, Rhona headed out to the forest, she needed to replenish her water skin, and running water was freshest. She kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Cezare hadn’t found her. She wondered where had Tobias had run off too, but she knew that Tobias was not a pet, he had chosen her for company and if he wished to leave, she wouldn’t stop him. She picked her way through the trees until she arrived at the stream she had found two days ago. Kneeling, she let the water flow into the leather skin before she closed it off.

“Kynareth, I thank you for giving me this water. Let it nourish my body as your rain nourishes the land.” She kissed the water skin, and rose to her feet. She set off to return when she heard a curious sound not far from her. It sounded like someone was… fighting? Curious, she made her way in the direction of the commotion until she arrived at a clearing.

Mortalmo ducked beneath the swinging arc of the Dremora’s warhammer, delivering a swift cut to the back of the creature’s leg, causing it to drop to one knee. In the next moment, Mortalmo’s ethereal blade had removed the Dremora’s head from its shoulders. Breathing deeply through his nostrils, he watched dispassionately as the corpse toppled to the ground even as it began to fade into ash. The thing had posed a greater challenge than the three that came before it, yet still, for the next fight Mortalmo decided to eschew the longsword in favor of a smaller and more mundane armament. He began to reach for his dagger’s sheathe then, when an interloper made her presence known to him. He narrowed his eyes at the figure across the clearing. Slight, shapely, and with features both rough and fair. Perhaps of Breton descent, at least partially. Certainly she was no pureblood.

Mortalmo raised a hand in greeting, the sharp steel hanging from his belt momentarily forgotten, and took a few steps forward before calling out, “Girl! What is your business and from where do you hail?” His tone was incredulous and rife with irritation.

She startled at his tone, flinching as if she had been struck. Oh what had she gotten herself into now? She took a step forward, but dared not another move. She had to answer him, despite the churning in her gut.

“I came for water, and I heard you…” Rhona gestured at the clearing, indicating that his antics had caught her ear.

He glanced down to the area surrounding him. Several piles of dust and ash dotted the glade. He looked back up at the woman, his expression softening by the barest fraction. “It seems the sounds of my training caught your ears. Now, I shall be more specific in my line of questioning. Do you originate from the camp bordering Skingrad?”

“Well yes… I’m not a refugee though. I came from Anvil just a few days prior.” She had the feeling he preferred short and curt answers, he looked so severe for an Altmer, and he was far older than her.

“I see. What are you called, girl?”

“Rhona Amor-” she caught herself, “my name is Rhona. And what of you, sir?” Her grip tightened on the wooden staff in her hand.

Mortalmo’s eyes narrowed then, and a smirk played across his lips. So she was hiding something. How adorable. In another time, that little slip would have had her dragged kicking and screaming into a dungeon. Now though, he couldn’t afford to care. “You may address me as Durantel.” The irony of the situation was not lost on him.

“Durantel then. A pleasure to meet you.” She gave a slight nod of her head, when a most peculiar thought ran across her mind. Would he even consider it?

“Can you teach me? How to fight like that?” Rhona asked, thinking of how useful it would be to become far more physically capable of fending off Cezare should be lay hands on her again. Her forearm still bore the angry colors he had left. And more importantly, from what she had seen of Durantel, he had had efficient training.

Now that was certainly interesting. Teaching the wretch before him might have been beneath his station... but even that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He was walking ground that he had never once before tread. To the Thalmor he would be a disgrace, to those beneath the Dominion’s boot he was a villain. His true identity was dead to the world, and now he assumed the alias of a common drifter. Confiding in someone for the first time in nearly a decade... and it was a thrice damned lizard.

What was he? What was she?

Surely Breton. Trace amounts of Mer blood already put the girl in higher esteem than the rest of Lorkhan’s spawn deserved.

“I am an enchantress… I could offer my services to you as payment.” She added softly.

He gazed at Rhona appraisingly. “I will teach you what I can, to the best of my abilities. I have no use for an enchanter at present, however.” He paused, a muscle in his neck spasming. His lips twisted into a grimace. “It is of no matter. You will find some other way to be useful.”

Rhona shifted uncomfortably, she wasn’t sure what he meant by finding other ways to be useful, but in the current situation she needed to know how to defend herself proper. Viras had taught her what he knew, but it was little in regard for actual defense.

“Very well. I… know a few destruction spells, and my staff can set things aflame. My staff is how I fight. I just… hit people on the head with it. But I want to know more. I need to know how… to hurt someone. How to intimidate them. To get them to leave me alone forever.” Her chest tightened at the words she spoke, not realizing that her knees were shaking.

The smirk found its way back onto Mortalmo’s face. If he didn’t know better, he would say that he’d already taken a shine to this wretch. At the very least, she was intriguing. A darkness crept into his voice that hadn’t previously been present. “It sounds as if you are not asking for typical combat lessons.”

Her brows rose at his suggestive tone, what was she trying to accomplish exactly? She wanted Cezare to leave her alone, for good. But did that mean she wanted him dead? Rhona couldn’t
bring herself to answer the question directly.

She lowered her gaze, staring at the tips of her bare feet, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip, “There is someone… I am afraid of. My… husband. I left him two years ago to find freedom and peace… and after all these years… he’s here. He’s here in this camp, and he found me. I won’t go back with him. No matter what it takes, Durantel. I won’t.” Her throat tightened, she shook her head before lifting her gaze again.

He felt a pang at her words, sharp and swift. A wife fleeing from the husband that she so greatly feared. What had this man done to her? His mind drifted to Faewynn, and a deep scowl came to twist across his visage. “It is reprehensible, his actions. He has mistreated you, this is apparent. And then... he came looking for you?” Something fiery wrapped itself around Mortalmo’s heart.

“Yes, I will help you Rhona. I will teach you what I know, and in turn you may teach him.” He fixed her with a dangerous stare. “Teach him to fear you far more than you ever feared him.”

A hopeful smile crossed her lips, “Truly, this has been a wondrous day. Azura smiles upon me.” She took a step towards Durantel, and bowed at the waist, it only seemed proper.

“Thank you, for your kindness.”

Azura? That certainly warranted further questioning at some point. Mortalmo remained impassive though, for the time being. “I once knew someone, someone dear to me, that was in a plight similar to your own. It grieves me to say that I was unable to help her. Auri-El as my witness, I won’t fail another soul that has been wounded in such a way.”

The words he spoke sickened him. The sincerity with which they were uttered nearly made him gag.

Her brows furrowed at his words, her heart went out to him, women that suffered at the hands of men made her heart weep with sadness. She remembered the tragedies Aurelia spoke of from her own husband. Rhona could feel the hard lump forming in her throat as she remembered how she wept in her arms. Rhona could do little at the time to comfort her, and so she let her cry until she could cry no more.

“It is… more common than I would wish to believe. I am sorry… that your heart has known such pain.” She shook her head, digging the end of her staff into the soil below. Rhona shifted her weight with unease, “Cezare and I… our parents arranged our marriage. My mother believed that our union would be prosperous, but alas, such was not what Mara intended.”

Mortalmo gestured to the overturned log that he had been using to catch his breath between fights. “Sit with me,” He said, acquiescing to his own request. “And tell me about Cezare, if you are willing. I would appreciate knowing what sort of man I have been tasked with helping you... deal with.”

As commanded, she took a seat next to Durantel, placing her staff beside her. She locked her fingers together, and considered his request. With a heavy sigh, she shook her head, “Where do I start?”

“From the beginning I suppose is best.” Rhona answered her own question, and nodded solemnly, “I was nineteen when we married, he was but twenty-three. I had had my heart torn to pieces by a lover from my youth, Sayyid was his name. He convinced me to run away with him, only one morning in a field near Chorrol, I woke up and found him gone. He had taken everything I owned. I was but sixteen then. It was a year later when my mother arranged the marriage. At the time, Cezare was away fighting in the Legion. She set a date, three months after his end of service. He was handsome, and I suppose some would consider him to be as such still.” Rhona began to subconsciously wring her hands, but continued speaking nonetheless.

“He never told me what happened in the war, what he did, or what he saw… but he started drinking. More than what I would consider normal. This carried on for a few years until one day, as I was balancing our ledger… I noticed some discrepancies… so I went to the bank, and asked them to show me their records. And Cezare…” She could feel hot tears on her cheeks, “he had spent all of his inheritance. He started gambling, we were in debt, and he had taken loans from the bank, none of which he paid back in full. And when I confronted him that evening…” She took a deep breath, that caused her entire body to shudder, “I shouldn’t have asked him. I knew better than to ask him anything when he was drunk. He was always so angry, and that night was no different. But he was so angry, Durantel.”

And so came the tears, “He threw a chair at me, and I fled up the stairs. I locked myself in our bedchamber but he broke down the door. I thought… I thought I would die that night.”

“Fear gripped my heart after that, I walked with muscles tensed. I felt that if I so much as did anything wrong, it would send him into a rage, and it often did. Gods forbid if I ever forgot to supply the house with alcohol, or have supper prepared for him. So I started to pocket my coin, I hid every piece of gold from him… I refused to keep living there with him. And so I left.” She used the backs of her hands to wipe away her tears, a strangled smile appearing.

“And yet here I am, blathering like a fool to you about my estranged husband, who I am utterly terrified of.” She turned to face him, “You must think me weak.”

For a long time Mortalmo was silent. He stared away from Rhona as she spoke, searching the sky above them for something that he knew was not there. When at last he came to look at the Breton, his face was aghast, and his eyes were wet. He blinked the moisture away, and waited a few more moments as his expression regained some semblance of composure. Why should he care for the petty squabbling of animals?

Why indeed.

When he spoke, his voice was steady, though quiet and hollow. “How vile. How absolutely wicked.” He inhaled and exhaled deeply. “You may be weak, girl. But you are not foolish, as far as I can tell. You fled his presence, which was clearly the only intelligent option afforded to you.” His words took on a harder edge then. “If you are weak now, then I will see to it that you become strong.” His eyes searched hers as he spoke, a mixture of determination and compassion evident in his stare. Something else lingered there too... was it regret? Perhaps guilt.

“Mara has brought me many curious people into my life as of late,” She reached out and patted his hand, “and surely, you are amongst them.” Mortalmo’s eyes darted to his hand as she touched him. He remained still, however.

Rhona drew her hand away, and shook her head, “I just want him to know that, no matter how hard he may try, that he must leave me be. That I am no longer his to claim.” Her hand moved to cover the dark splotchy bruise he had left, “Never will I return with him, and when I die, it will be into Arkay’s arms I go.”

“You will be free of him, this much I can guarantee you.” He frowned at her. “I do have a number of conditions to lay before you. Firstly, I suggest that you make arrangements to prepare whatever tent or bedroll you may have near my own small camp. I do not desire to scour the entire miserable shantytown for you should I have wisdom to impart or an important topic to discuss. This may also be good for your piece of mind, should Cezare discover your exact location. Secondly, if you are indeed intent on entering my tutelage, it is likely that you will come to meet some of my associates.” He paused, looking at Rhona very carefully.

“And this is of the utmost import. Nothing that we discuss in this glade will be known to them, or any other individual that you should come across. I need your word that you will swear our arrangement and anything else we might have discussed here to secrecy. Your own history, of course, you are free to disclose. Thirdly, I will help you with your difficulties with Cezare. In return, I will need to be able to rely on you for assistance should I wish it.”

Rhona consider his terms of agreement to training her, they seemed somewhat reasonable, though she did have one question, “If I am to relocate close to your campsite… what should I tell your associates about my sudden appearance, should the question arise?”

“Tell them that our goals happened to align. That I’ve... taken you under my wing, in a sense. A word of warning, I am not well liked among the brunt of them.”

She nodded dutifully, then this was it, “I agree to the terms and conditions then.”

“Excellent. While we remain here, we might as well begin your tutelage in earnest. As a sign of good faith between the two of us.”

Surprise filled her, Durantel would keep his promise, and so they would start now, it would seem. Her brows furrowed, from a bit of confusion, “What would you have me do?”

Mortalmo’s eyes lazily followed a hare as it bounded across the clearing.

“Let’s start with something small.”

---

A Collab by @MiddleEarthRoze and @MacabreFox

After reuniting Daro’Vasora with Latro, Brynja picked her way through the carnage, and while her chipper attitude might have come across as unusual, or even out of place, she couldn’t help but feel that way. However, just like fog in a field evaporating with the rising sun, so did her brief moment of joy. There were the dead and dying to be taken care of, and the first one on her list was Solandil. As promised, she told him she would take care of that flesh wound, and she intended to keep it. She found Solandil not long after.

Nodding her head, she spoke, “It’s time. Let me take a look at this flesh wound of yours.”

Following the destruction of all the Dwemer present at the ruin, and their strange airships secured, Solandil had found himself checking the mangled remains of the metal constructs, ensuring each of them were well and truly dead. With the living, one could check for tell-tale signs of life. Faint pulses of blood, a rising chest, and if that failed, the clouding of metal when held against their mouth from dying breaths. With metal, things became more complicated. The best he could do was kick away their soul gems after wrenching open carcasses, provided it hadn’t been done already. The Rangers had certainly done a thorough job.

Starting slightly as Brynja spoke up behind him, he turned to look to her, surprised. Last he’d seen she’d still been at Latro’s side, rejoicing that he was still alive. He’d just assumed she had forgotten about his injury and moved on with her friends.

“Ah.” He paused, feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden. “... I’m sure there are far more grievous injuries on the field to be tending to.” He couldn’t really understand his discomfort, before he recalled that it had been a long time since someone had willingly gone out of their way to make sure he was alright after a battle. The past mercenary jobs had never held such compassion.

“Nonsense.” She said, waving her hand for him to remove the armor. “You first. There are plenty of healers among our ranks.”

It only took a look at her face to understand the Nord woman wasn’t going to waver in her decision to help him. “Very well.” He replied stiffly, fingers fumbling at the clumsily repaired strap of his cuirass. Outwardly, he could have appeared ungrateful, whereas within he was just unsure of how to tread in this unfamiliar territory. There didn’t appear to be any ulterior motive in Brynja’s desire help him, and she didn’t owe him any favours. After a lifetime of being distrusted himself simply for his appearance, Sol was having a difficult time in trusting too.

Despite the hasty repair made in the midst of battle, Sol’s cuirass and pauldrons soon clunked to the floor beside the pair, and his lip curled in annoyance as he saw his bloodied undershirt. That had been his last good one, and with no payment from Rhea and a lack of entrance into Skingrad, he was going to be stuck with it for the foreseeable future. Not that it was much use with a bloody great big rend through the material. As he shifted the shirt over his head with a wince, Brynja would see the scarlet of his fresh wound peppered across his chest, still in the middle of clotting. Against the paleness of his skin the red of blood stood out as brightly as a fire, and the older wound from the Falmer still remained on his shoulder, the once purple bruising which surrounded the cut now giving way to a vivid collection of blues and greens.

Brynja took note of the older wound on his shoulder, part of her chastising how she could have missed this injury. After all, out of all the skills she took pride in, healing was her forte. As her eyes traveled across his chest, she couldn’t help but take a closer look at his torso. Her face coloured darkly despite her furrowed brows.

Thankfully, Brynja had gone to retrieve her rucksack after leaving Vasora, “I’ll clean this up. It’ll hurt, so… grit your teeth.” She said, and took a deep breath. Unravelling the leather thong that kept the water skin closed, and opened it enough so that the water wouldn’t spill everywhere. With practiced hands, Brynja guided the water skin to the glaring red wound on his chest that stretched from his right shoulder down to his left pectoral muscle, and began to pour the water along the length of the wound, washing what blood she could from the wound. She had to admit, Solandil was… very fit, and she struggled to maintain a proper stature.

Indeed, Brynja wasn’t wrong. As the liquid splashed against the cut, Sol inhaled sharply, eyes squeezing shut and gritting his teeth as suggested. While it was hardly the most painful experience of his life, it still stung like a bugger. One thing he’d noted with wounds involving cuts was that the shallower they were, although less fatal, always burned more than a deep wound. Whether that was typical for everyone or just him, he didn’t know - but his minor wounds had always brought to mind a far more fiery pain than others.

Opening his eyes and glancing down, he realised that for once he didn’t have to look down all that much to see Brynja’s face. It was rare to see a human of this height, particularly a female one. A nice change, in his mind. A tall height in human women was seen as a physical disadvantage from what he’d seen, though he couldn’t understand the basis behind such a thought. They were lesser, because they were taller? Silly men. Brynja was clearly an extremely capable woman on the battlefield, and her height only aided her in this.

Suddenly, Sol came to the realisation that he’d been staring at her in silence for a few moments now. More specifically, her red hair. It certainly captured his attention with ease, and he watched as a few stray tresses blew in the breeze. Altmer’s never had hair with such vibrant beauty within it.

Deciding that was quite enough ogling before Brynja noticed, Sol cleared his throat, still wincing here and there as the water trickled down his chest. “What of your arm, Brynja?” He couldn’t tell whether she had already tended to herself or not… surely, she hadn’t put him before herself? The very thought brought a flush to his cheeks, and he bit the inside of his cheek in embarrassment. He hated when he blushed. It always stood out too much on his white face.

“It’s nothing but a scratch. I’ll take care of it later.” She said quietly, she shifted to her rucksack beside her feet and rummaged through it before she pulled out a simple cloth, and wet it with her water skin. She applied the cloth to the wound, removing the blood that had dried, she did her best not to cause him too much pain.

“I’m sorry…” She glanced up at him, their eyes meeting briefly, was he blushing? And she hadn’t noticed the color of his eyes before, a pale grey, like a cold winter morning when the sun had yet to rise. She averted her eyes quickly before she continued, “...if this hurts. It doesn’t look too deep, which is good.” Brynja moved her hand along his chest, and again her cheeks flushed. Gods, what was wrong with her, it wasn’t as if it were her first time seeing a man without his tunic on. She turned her face away for a moment, her top teeth sinking into her bottom lip before she faced him again, continuing her work with a dedicated diligence. She finally put the cloth away, and nodded.

“This might feel uncomfortable, but tell me when you’re ready.”

Sol had almost forgotten the sharp pain in his chest as he locked eyes with Brynja, noting her expression curiously. It swiftly came back to his senses as she began wiping with the sodden cloth, cleaning the wound and the skin around it thoroughly. As she kept her head ducked, Sol was once more drawn to her hair. It seemed so warm. As if it were giving off the heat of a fire that shared its crimson tones. Even her skin, pale by human standards, had more life in it that his. Looking down to his chest, the contrast between their skin alone was obvious, even when streaked with blood. Once again, he questioned her motives for helping him out, though he grew increasingly more trusting of her actions.

Meeting her gaze again, he nodded in response, though briefly wondered what he had to be ready for. Stitches? Cauterisation? A brief bit of panic filled him at the thought of the latter by way of a fire spell, before he recalled Brynja was about as proficient in destructive magic as he was. He still had scars from when far less sympathetic mages had healed him in the past. Sol certainly wasn’t used to such careful first aid.

She rocked back on the heels of her boots and turned her hand palm up. A pulsating orb appeared, glowing with white and golden light swirled in the center of her palm. She rotated her hand towards Solandil’s exposed chest, as if the orb was liquid, and she didn’t want it to spill. The light flowed out towards his skin, inching along his wound until the entirety was consumed. Slowly, the broken skin began to knit itself back together, like how a mother mends the torn fabric on her child’s torn sleeve. She had never much enjoyed the sensation of her skin pulling itself back together, it itched like a scab she wanted to pick. There, she had done it.

Brynja pulled her hand back, closing it into a fist, where the healing light was quelled. She raised her eyebrows, admiring her handywork. There would be no scar, that much she knew.

“And there we have it.” She smiled, rising up to stand. She stretched her arms behind her head, her shoulders cracking. “I think we’re needed to destroy those airships.”

Restoration magic had been the last thing Sol had expected. Perhaps leftover prejudices against the Nords from his life on Alinor, or the knowledge that she hadn’t know destructive magic, but he had just assumed that Bynja didn’t know any magic whatsoever. The surprise was so great that he didn’t even notice his discomfort, instead enraptured by the gentle ebbing glow of the healing spell, and the concentration upon her face. “So that’s why she’s known as ‘WhiteHand’...” He thought to himself, touching the new pink flesh as she finished. The colour would fade eventually, leaving no mark upon his snow-white skin.

Still feeling somewhat awestruck, Sol simply nodded in response as Brynja’s back-to-business attitude returned with a smile. He couldn’t find any words to thank her just yet, so instead cracked a rare smile in return. Though small, it still lit up his face.

6th of Second Seed

Within hours of ridding Elenglynn of the Dwemer, they had secured and destroyed the airships from the brute strength of Solandil and Brynja. By early evening, they had buried their dead, and began the trek through the forest to Skingrad, Brutus explained that it was best if they left sooner rather than later in case reinforcements came. They had started with fifty or so Rangers, and after the fight in Elenglynn, they had buried over a dozen men and women. The sky had remained clear, allowing the numerous twinkling stars to emerge in the eastern horizon. Night came like a gentle veil descending, turning the sky from a red hue into a blanket of indigos and violets. They were coming home with less people than with what they had started out with, and it saddened Brynja greatly, though she expected this, from her experience in the Civil War, she knew that when Men came to blows, death followed close behind.

She kept to herself on the journey back to Skingrad, allowing Daro’Vasora to keep Latro company. She had wanted to spend time with her thoughts anyway, reflecting on what had come to pass since fleeing the Imperial City. Moreso, she wondered how her companions were doing. She thought of Judena, Megana especially, Anifaire, Alim, Rhea, and Durantel. Brynja’s gut told her to not to be shocked if anything had happened while they were away. But if they were all and well, their faces would bring some cheer to her heart.

For the most part, the journey back to Skingrad was uneventful, the nervousness that they had set out with had dissipated, for now, the threat of the Dwemer reaching Skingrad or any other part of Cyrdoiil had been halted. In two days’ time, they had reached the outskirts of the forest, the sight of the sea of tents gave Brynja a twisted sense of comfort.

Meanwhile…

8th of Second Seed, Skingrad
Back in Skingrad, Rhea and Alim had taken to making supply runs every night. They stole what they could, and for the time being the guards hadn’t caught wind. Together the two of them had created a small stockpile of supplies. Altogether, they had a dozen cabbages, a dozen potatoes, three bags of flour, somehow Alim managed to sneak out an entire case of cheap wine, there were various dried meats they had pilfered, including salted venison, dried jerky, and lamb. The two of them were utterly exhausted, they stayed up each night until the moons were high in the sky, and then they snuck off to meet Severus at the secret entrance, only returning when the grey light of dawn had broken the spell of darkness.

It was early midday when the Rangers returned to Skingrad.

Brutus dismissed the Rangers, encouraging them to rest up, and that there were plans for another scouting mission, and should anyone wish to partake, then they ought to be close by for convenience. However, Brynja did not linger around the tent, no, she headed straight for the campsite, she wanted nothing more than to have something to drink, and to rest her aching bones.

It didn’t take her long before she found the campsite, along with her old companions. She settled into the camp, shirking off her rucksack. It wasn’t long before Latro, and Daro’Vasora also arrived soon after. By dusk, Brynja had built up a blazing campfire, fixing up some stew in a pot over the fire. It was then that the one called Raelynn appeared with two strangers in tow, along with Durantel who had a strange female companion. Moreover, there was a blond man with a goat by his side. It seemed that everyone had returned, including Rhea and Alim, and as well as some new faces.


Hubris, incompetence, disappointment.

The words danced like fireflies in the cold anger that could best describe the mood walking among the Ayleid ruins and the bodies of fine Dwemer warriors who had been cast down by parties unknown. They had been left where they’d fallen, some stripped of equipment, and sowed around the evident battlefield was the remnants of the automations that had been designed to reduce the very real cost of Dwemer life in war. General Falinar’s blood began to boil, feeling very much like the scorching steam that powered the Dwemeri cities. Above him, two of the airships were still burning while the ones that he’d come in on were searching the area, unlikely to find the culprits who were long gone.

The outpost had gotten careless and sloppy, and let a group of primitive men make a mockery of their superiority. Had they forgotten the success of the sacking of the Imperial City? The Dwemeri forces had barely sustained casualties and had completely destroyed or routed the defenders. However mighty as you may be, you were still vulnerable when you were careless; if you leave your gates unbarred, do not be shocked when assassins slit your throat in your sleep. Falinar would give the commander a reprimand and corrective assignment, but it seemed that his head had nearly been cleaved off with a battle axe. A pity; survival would have meant experience to put towards future endeavors, and it was much harder to field the inexperienced. Perhaps the failure here would lead to renewed efforts in other detachments. The people of Tamriel might have been barely above floundering in their own muck and superstitions, but it did not mean they did not outnumber the Dwemeri forces considerably and have a degree of martial ability and a savagery that could not be understated.

Retaliation was required. But what?

“General, quite the mess that was left behind. Shame about the loss of equipment,” A voice said from behind. “And the men too, I suppose. Captain Nychulak and I never did quite see eye to eye. Something about him finding the practice of magic detestable and me being a weak toad for pursuing it. Alas, someone has to. His lack of respect made him and his warriors pay the price.”

Falinar let an irritated grunt escape between clenched teeth. He turned to face Vvarnoc, the High Magister of the Central Dwemer Command, and found the mer holding a piece of armour that had cracked. That surprised him. The only thing that differentiated Vvarnoc from the rest of the warriors were that his armour was accented by a blue loincloth over the hybrid armour he wore; it was mostly the medium-range armour that those in the piloted Centurions typically wore with the more cumbersome aspects removed. Vvarnoc had to travel a lot, and since he was not one to be on the front lines in interest of maintaining the supply of soul gems the Dwemer forces required for operations, he wasn’t interested in running ragged with more weight than necessary.

“Now is not the time for your personal squabbles, High Magister.” Falinar grabbed the strut out of the mage’s hand, examining it. That definitely wasn’t normal.

“Thermal stress. When your devices run off of hot steam and are built for gradual heat exchange, it makes it particularly brittle when suddenly it’s plunged below the freezing point. The enemy figured this out and used mages who utilized frost magic. Did you really think we were invincible, that they would keep running into your cannons with swords in hopes of a valiant success?” Vvarnoc asked rhetorically, an infuriating smirk crossing his features. Falinar collected himself, remindinging his incandescent rage that he was technically the commander of this impudent stooge. Perhaps the magister, as infuriating as he could be, offered keen insight that most of the rest of the Dwemer army lacked.

“Is there a way to prevent this sort of damage from occurring?” he asked.

“Apart from training a cadre of mages in ward spells to protect the heavy units or enchanters to add resistance enchantments to them, nothing comes immediately to mind. I’m all to aware of how you feel about mages, but if I may be so crass, look what that train of thought brought the dearly departed captain.” Vvarnoc mused, although his tone was far from the snide veneer from earlier. He was genuinely contemplating. Despite their ideological differences, they had been able to work together to a reasonable degree and were capable of coming to an understanding on most matters, so long as the concessions requested weren’t too asinine.

“So, magic then. We lack the numbers to do that ourselves. What of the prisoners we’ve gathered?” Falinar asked.

The magister thought on that for several moments. “It’s possible to coerce some of the mages into working in our service. If they understand that we are here to stay and they have a bright future of being alive under our rule, then I imagine that it wouldn’t be difficult to press a few of them in service. Threats against family tend to be effective, as is the promise of proper lodging and food. You could ask Governor Rourken how she handles these dilemmas?”

“Ugh. No, I’d rather not consult her on these matters. Very well, see to preparations. If not, you do need to acquire a new source of soul gems since our supply of Welkynd stones have been stolen from us here.” The General replied. He turned his attention to the two burning airships. “Now, to deal with the rodents that bloodied our nose. Fetch me Major Stovin; we’ve got ourselves a camp to construct. Let’s see what happens when we dangle an irresistible carrot for them to bite.”

Of Life, Death, and The End of the World
A collab with @Stormflyx, @Mortarion, and @Father Hank

The battle had been mostly a blur to her, she had remained at the back in the treeline, out of the action. There was no way she was putting herself closer to any of those creatures than she needed to. It’s not to say that the Breton wasn’t pulling her weight in the chaos - in fact she was rushed with injured bodies, wounds of the flesh, contusions of limbs, fractures of bones - rolling in one by one. She barely had time to treat before another ranger flocked to her.

Some of them she had to send back; “that’s naught but a bruise, get back out there and return to me with a puncture!” she would say, to the younger rangers. The volunteers, the youngest of the fighters. This wasn’t a place for them to be. She was in the middle of pulling a thread loose from her cloak when another explosion of ice and storm happened, debris from the field sprayed to the back, a streak of mud hit her cheek but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. She had a ranger losing a lot of blood, slumped against a tree. He was holding his arm and Raelynn could make out tears in his eyes, a white look on his face and his mouth was agape while he struggled to breath through the shock.

There was only one way to snap him out of it. She pulled back her right hand and flung it with force to collide with his cheek - an almighty crack that almost sounded like it could have been lightning too gave those in their vicinity a fright. “Pull yourself together soldier! I’m going to fix you up and have you back out there with two shakes of a dogs tail do you hear me?” he didn’t respond as he reacted to the slap, she barely gave him time to process it before she put her face just inches from his “DO YOU HEAR ME?!” she repeated, louder - and in his face. A far cry from the compassion she showed the orphan girl.

But this was compassion, in a way. She knew the signs of shock and she knew how to shake him out of it. She could tell that the other Mages and healers around her found her to be callous and abrupt - but lives were on the line here. She had already watched one young mage deplete her energies by not pacing herself. If any of these fighters fell, they would be the next ones to fall. She wasn’t going to die here. Not in a forest, not in such an undignified manner.

She pulled from her hair a sharp looking clip, curls of her ash blonde hair cascaded around her face as she did so. “This isn’t a needle, but in the face of emergency we have to make do. This is going to hurt boy but it will save your arm, I promise you that one.” With ease she wound the thread collected from her cloak through the hair clip. This wouldn’t be the first time she would have performed this. Perhaps a sign that she should carry a real medicinal needle around…

Jaraleet slowly but surely made his way towards where he knew that the mages had gathered in the aftermath of the battle to treat the wounded. The Saxhleel’s movements were slow and limping, the result of the wounds he had received during the course of the battle; after he had left Daro’Vasora in the hands of Gregor, the assassin had returned to the battlefield like he had said to the Imperial. The few remaining enemies hadn’t been much of a threat but, even so, they still had put up quite a fight before finally dying, it’d have been easier to handle them if the soldiers with the strange staves had been eliminated beforehand but that hadn’t been the case unfortunately.

His first wound, aside those he had accumulated at the start of the battle, had come from a stray shot from one of the strange staves which had, mercifully, hit only the left side of his abdomen and not the middle of it. This had started a cascade event as the wound slowed him down, allowing what few close range combatants that remained to score in a few hits with their weapons before they were dispatched. In spite of his accumulating wounds, Jaraleet continued to fight on, ignoring the pain, until all the Dwemeri soldiers were finally dead, albeit he was hit one last time by the Dwemeri rifles, the shot connecting fully with his left arm and leaving a gaping hole in it.

And so, with the battle now ended, Jaraleet had headed towards the mages in search of someone with knowledge in restoration magic. Unfortunately all the mages that he had come across with seemed either occupied with men and women much more gravelly wounded than him or out of magicka after their exertions in the battle and its aftermath. The Haj-Eix shook his head at the sight of the wounded men and women, a brief look of sadness and nostalgia passing through his eyes for a brief second before he steeled himself. “This is our role and the price that we must pay for it. To be wounded, to die, this is to be expected for those of us who dedicate ourselves to protect others.” The assassin thought as he continued to wander through the mages.

The sound of a loud crack reverberating throughout the, now quiet, clearing caught the attention of the assassin, who began making her way towards its source. To his surprise he found a small woman, of Breton origin if his guess was correct, with long ash blond hair that hung loosely around her face treating an injured Ranger with what seemed to be a clip used for holding hair. Intrigued, and hoping that the woman was a skilled healer, Jaraleet stood there, waiting for the blonde woman to finish treating the other Ranger while ignoring the pain and increasing feeling of dizziness that spread through his body.

“Let me take a look that,” Gregor said as he approached Jaraleet from behind, with the same disarming smile on his face as before. If it weren’t for the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the loose strands of hair that had come untucked during combat, he looked like he could have merely been out on a stroll and come across the Rangers by happenstance. Combat had been far kinder to him than many others, which was by design: Gregor refrained from heroics and risky behavior in general. After the battle was won, he had remained with the mages and the influx of wounded and made himself useful where he could. The Imperial was reasonably competent with Restoration magic (though less experienced in healing others than himself) and could heal small injuries entirely, or if the wounds were more severe at least staunch the bleeding until a real healer could tend to it.

He motioned for Jaraleet to make himself comfortable and sank down on his knees next to the Argonian. Prodding the wound with his fingers, Gregor hummed and hah’d, and his charming smile turned into a frown. “Such strange weaponry,” he mused, more to himself than to Jaraleet. He glanced up at his patient’s reptilian eyes. “I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt,” Gregor said apologetically, now speaking directly to Jaraleet, and quickly dug his fingers into the wound before he could react or protest. He found purchase mercifully fast and he pulled out the bullet that had buried itself in Jaraleet’s flesh. “Aha!” he exclaimed and almost brought the small object up to his face to inspect it before remembering what he was doing; the familiar golden glow of Restoration magic lit up their faces and Gregor bit his lip in concentration.

“Hm,” Gregor grumbled as he beheld his handiwork. “Well, the good news is that it’s not bleeding anymore, but you should really let an expert finish this. I don’t have the skills to properly knit your scales back together.” He looked up at Raelynn, trying to catch her gaze so he could gesture for her to attend to Jaraleet, but she wasn’t looking at him just yet.

Jaraleet tensed instinctively as he heard Gregor speak behind him, but the Saxhleel relaxed slightly when he recognized Gregor’s voice as that of the Imperial he had left the Cathay woman with before returning to the fray. He nodded in agreement when Gregor motioned for him to make himself comfortable, sitting with his back against a nearby tree as Gregor knelt besides him.

The Saxhleel stood motionless as his wound was prodded by the Imperial man, the only indication that he was still conscious being the nod that he gave upon Gregor’s comment about the weaponry of their enemy, “Xhu, they resemble mage staves but I feel that is a poor comparison.” The assassin said, falling silent when the Imperial glanced at his eyes. He didn’t react to his words, nor when he dug his fingers into the wound to pull free the projectile that had embedded itself in his flesh. The only sign that the Argonian gave that he had felt any pain was the slight twitch in his tail but he quickly stopped doing that the second after Gregor had began searching for the bullet inside his wound.

The familiar sense of Restoration magic spread throughout his body once Gregor had retired the bullet from within his arm, but it seemed that the skills of the Imperial weren’t enough to heal him fully. “Hmmm, yes, that seems like a good idea.” The Saxhleel agreed with the Imperial man, turning to look towards Raelynn at about the same time Gregor did. “I should mention, there was no need to apologize to me, I barely felt it when you extracted that strange projectile from my arm.” Jaraleet said in an amiable tone before he shifted to get more comfortable. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of introducing each other properly, my name is Jaraleet.” The Argonian said when it became apparent that the blonde woman was still distracted with her other patient, deciding to pass the time with small talk while Raelynn continued to ply her trade.

Gregor was impressed that Jaraleet seemed so unfazed by the procedure. “You’re made of tough stuff, Jaraleet. Pleased to meet you. I’m Gregor.” He decided to take a minute’s reprieve and sat down properly, moving his cloak out of the way with the careful movements of someone who cares about his attire and tucking his loose strands of hair back where they belonged, confirming that his vanity wasn’t just restricted to his outfit. “The Khajiit you delivered to me will be fine, by the way. She regained consciousness almost immediately.” Before Jaraleet could reply, Gregor looked up to see Raelynn approaching, finally done with her last patient.

Raelynn made her way to the wounded Argonian, and her eyebrow immediately raised. On her way, she dipped her hands into a bucket of water that had been left for washing hands. It wasn’t exactly clean now - but this was the battlefield. It did it’s job of rinsing off the blood from her fingers. She truly hoped that this scaled soldier wasn’t going to expect her to stitch him up too.

Without saying a thing, she knelt down and examined the wound; “well, you’re not going to die.” She pressed two fingers to either side of the wound, feeling the heat flushing to the surface. “I can’t stitch this one up, not without a specific needle. I’m afraid that your skin is, well, it’s leather. It’s much too tough for my clip I’m afraid.” She stood back up, and looked into the Argonian’s yellow eyes. “Even if I had the needle, I don’t have the thread...”

She hadn’t noticed just yet that he wasn’t alone - she hadn’t noticed the Imperial male stood beside him, but all of a sudden she felt his presence. She let her eyes look at him from head to foot - taking in every detail of his custom armour, the pristine and untarnished condition of his cloak - the way he obviously groomed his hair and beard. He was refined - unlike the peasants throwing themselves around the battlefield.

It was like love at first sight - if it were possible to fall in love based on a purely intuitive feeling that this gentleman was a Noble or at least had some kind of ambiguous status. That said, she was good at this. She could sniff out someone who was worth her time from a mile away, and right now there was a person of interest right in front of her.

She turned her attention back to the Argonian, taking a warmer approach than she had just seconds ago - “I can fix this, it depends on whether you’re happy with a scar - or if you’d like your skin to be perfect again…” she offered him a warm smile while she tucked the strands of hair back behind her ears. “That scar would be in a nice place too… It would tell a story. It’s up to you though…”

The Saxhleel looked up at Raelynn as she made her way towards him, remaining silent as she explained to him that she didn’t have the appropriate tools to stitch up his wound after examining it with her fingers. He would have spoken then and there if it hadn’t been for the brief lapse in which the Breton healer turned her attention towards Gregor for a brief moment before once more focusing on Jaraleet.

The sudden change in demeanor to a more warmer one didn’t went unnoticed by the assassin, and it didn’t took him long to connect the dots. “She’s trying to impress Gregor, make a good first impression to try and get in his good graces.” He thought as he looked at the warm smile that Raelynn was offering him. “Clever girl, I’ll need to watch out for this one.” He concluded before speaking again. “I’m more than fine with a scar, there’s no need for you to waste extra magicka to try and make my skin perfect again.” Jaraleet said in response to what Raelynn had said.

“It’s a bit late for that anyway….” The Argonian added as he grabbed the hem of his leather armor and pulled it up slightly. While this would allow Raelynn a better look at the wound that the Dwemer rifle had inflicted on the side of his abdomen, it’d also allow her, and Gregor as well if he was paying attention, a look at some of the numerous scars that dotted the Argonian’s body. Slash scars crisscrossed across his abdomen and it was evident that, in some areas, Jaraleet had been burned with what seemed to have been a piece of hot iron, along with these, if one had seen such a thing before, scars left from magical attacks could also be seen snaking upwards. “As you can see, I’ve already have more than a few mementos engraved in my body and the stories to accompany them.” Jaraleet said, letting out a dark chuckle, his free hand touching the wound on the left side of his abdomen left by the stray shot. “With that said…” The Argonian continued, turning to look at the wound and then back towards Raelynn. “One more scar wouldn’t hurt, would it?” The Argonian said with an amiable smile, the gesture taking on an eerie quality on account of the discussion at hand. “It’d be merely another memento, the mark of yet another battle survived. It’d tell a story, as you said before.” He said, his free hand drifting from the bullet wound towards the other visible scars before Jaraleet brought it to rest on the ground as he waited for Raelynn to treat his wounds.

“Tough stuff indeed,” Gregor said and whistled appreciatively at the manifold scars Jaraleet put on display when he pulled up his armor. His gaze didn't linger on the Argonian, however, as it hasn't escaped his notice either that Raelynn seemed taken in by him. Gregor had been quite the ladies’ man in his younger years and it still happened often enough that a woman saw more than just a roaming knight in Gregor. He'd indulged a few of them in Skyrim, when the nights were particularly cold and lonely, and he'd felt guilty every time the next morning as he thought of the amazing woman he'd left behind in Cyrodiil; his wife, Briar. Still, he couldn't help but notice that Raelynn was beautiful, well-dressed and capable. Her authoritarian demeanour and calculating eyes betrayed a stronger will than her dainty appearance would suggest, not to mention that she'd kept her cool as the wounded came pouring in. Gregor returned her blue gaze with a polite smile but said nothing of it.

Of course she could have laid her healing hands and been done with it, but this wasn't life threatening - not to an Argonian. Perhaps to a man, but not to Jaraleet’s anatomy. She held back from magic at times like this. Her magicka was her own lifeblood after all. When she used her spells, she shared a piece of her own energy with her recipient. It was almost spiritual. Such a sense of pride was lost to many, who threw their healing hands around for any scratch or knick. But not Raelynn.

She had been keeping a long rod of iron in hot coals, and she could see it’s tip glowing orange. Ready to be put to use. Now wasn't the time to listen to his stories and smalltalk - she had a job to do and that was to close his wound, and to do that she would have to hurt him some more.

As she pressed the metal against the first opening, she would imagine her patient felt the skin tighten and harden, and of course get very hot. She performed it in such a way that wouldn't be overly painful to him though. She was quick, precise, and careful. In the zone. She placed the hot tip into the same water bucket she had rinsed her hands in, steam formed up around it and it hissed loudly.

“Well, I suppose if you can take the heat like that I can spare a spell or two to soothe it now…” she then placed her hands against the wounds, feeling her magicka flow through her body as she focussed it to her palms, placing the energy against the tough, leather-like skin. This time, she knew that her patient would feel an immense sense of calm that didn't just sit on his wounds, but would travel through his whole body. A gentle wave of warmth and serenity.

“All better then…”

Jaraleet looked on as Raelynn retrieved a heated rod of iron, his eyes following the orange tip as the Breton healer moved the rod towards the wound on his left side. The sensation of flesh being cauterized was one to which the Saxhleel had become accustomed a long time ago and, as such, when the heated metal made contact with his flesh, Jaraleet showed no signs of discomfort or pain as the wound was cauterized and remained perfectly still.

What came next he hadn’t expected, as he felt Raelynn press her hand against the recently closed wound followed shortly by a sensation of calm and warmth that spread throughout his body. The Saxhleel let out a soft sigh as he relaxed, smiling towards Raelynn after she had been done casting her magicka. “My thanks, miss….” Jaraleet began, only to pause when he realized that he hadn’t had the forethought of asking her name. “My apologies, it seems that it slipped my mind to ask you for your name.” The Argonian began, bowing his head slightly towards Raelynn. “My name is Jaraleet, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And, once again, let me thank you for your help.” The assassin said, letting his hand touch the freshly closed wound. “It’s certainly a boon that we have healers as skilled as you, the weapons employed by the Dwemer are unlike anything seen before in Tamriel.” He said, frowning slightly as he began thinking. “Why, I don’t think we’ve faced an enemy such as this one since the Oblivion Crisis. I’m afraid that your services will be in high demand during the coming days.”

“I think you're right about that. This situation seems only to be escalating - we will see troubles for some time yet. But now there seems to be a moment of peace for which we can all take a breath and, dare I say it, relax.” She let her icy blue eyes travel across the scene, she saw people coming together to defeat the threat of the Dwemer, many of them just normal citizens who had been forced into it. She had found though that there wasn't much a mortal man couldn't do when it came to life, death, and the end of the world.

“Ah, but of course, my name is Raelynn Hawkford. It is a pleasure to meet you as well. I wish it were in better circumstances though. When we make it back to camp, I will brew you a tonic which will help you in the coming days as you heal, and before you tell me that you are okay, believe me I insist on you taking it. I will even brew some for your friend here, a bottle of courage and vigour would not go amiss in these hard times…” She motioned to Gregor, who had been relatively quiet while she had worked on Jaraleet.

“Hmmm, yes, the situation is quite dire.” Jaraleet said in response to Raelynn’s comment that she wished they had been able to meet under better circumstances. “And I’m afraid that the situation will grow more dire as time goes on.” The Argonian said grimly, his eyes briefly darting to the battlefield. “Unless we find a way to stop the seemingly unstoppable forces of the Dwemer that is.” He continued on, letting out a sigh before he shook his head. “But that’s enough grim talk for today, we’ve survived todays battle and that’s good enough for the moment.” The Saxhleel said.

He smiled at Raelynn’s offer, bowing his head once again towards the Breton. “I offer my thanks once again Raelynn, I’m not that stubborn to not acknowledge the severity of my wound and any aid that will expedite my recovery is appreciated.” He said, smiling slightly. “After all, we all will need to be at our best for the days to come.”

“We will indeed…” she uttered softly, knowing that the trip back to the refugee camp was in order.

the 5th I’d Second Seed, At The Skingrad Refugee Camp...

When the Altmer met up with their previous companions again, Anifaire was surprised to find she was glad Alim was there, though his safety didn’t come as a surprise. Despite the murky, muddy ground and humid weather, Anifaire immediately knelt beside their small campfire, without saying anything to Sol or Durante’s; she didn’t have the energy, but mentally made note to thank them after just a quick nap...

Anifaire woke a few hours later, curled by the fireside. It wasn’t yet dark, and it struck her that she had no tent of her own, like most of the others had set up. She looked around for someone she knew, but found most of their group gone or otherwise occupied.

She stood up, her dress dragging in the mud and her cloak half wet. Disgruntled by her state, she struggled to find a comfortable way to wear the cook she’d been given, but ultimately hung it up beside the fire to dry.

Her stomach rumbles violently and she recalled the thin rations she’d been eating. Was there somewhere here she could get food? Hopeful, she headed out of the camp area, worried about getting lost but attempting to note landmarks as she went.

She tried to stick close but eventually reached the edge of the camp. Finally, she saw a man rolling up a couple
Of tents and gathering gear from a campsite. Was he leaving? She couldn’t tell. His items appeared to be an eclectic mix, gathered rom different parts of the camp.

Anifaire approaches the gruff looking man, notic My that there was a pot of something on the fire by where he was getting the tents. The dirty Imperial finished rolling up the tent before turning to
Look at her.

“Wha’ do ya want? Food?” He eyed her, and she was grateful the mud obscured any quality her dress may have been before the journey.

“Yes,” she cleared her throat. “And I need a tent.”

“Oh do ya?” He stood back, arms crossed, and nodded his head at her neck. Confused, she looked down. She was wearing one of her necklaces - gold, sapphire, and emeralds. Her hand reached up to touch it. “That real gold?”

“Oh course it is!” Anifaire blurred out, offended. The man smiled and held out his hand. Anifaire gripped the necklace. Her mother had given it to her. She frowned, but unclasped it and handed it over. He grabbed it happily and shrugged.

“Take what ya want, it ain’t mine anyway.”

“Hey!” Anifaire exclaimed. “You can’t just sell what isn’t yours!” But the man was already leaving.

Huffing in irritation, Anifaire swung the tent over her shoulder and grabbed the cooking pot of - perhaps slightly old 1 stew. It was heavy, and she had to walk slowly, eventually almost dragging the tent behind her.

---

“Was it the Bosmer family with the sick boy?” Anifaire muttered to herself, trying to navigate through her landmarks back to her group’s campsite.

She’d turned herself around a few times, panting heavily in an attempt to carry everything. The stew was cold. She looked around, trying to distinguish the ragged tents and sock people.

“The hanging pole!” She realized, noting a pole she had noticed before, which had rope and linens hanging from it. “That means.. left?” She guessed.

She turned uncertainly in the direction and he foot caught on the tent she was dragging. She tumbled over into the muck, the pot of cold stew flying out of the pot and spilling all over her and the ground. Disheartened, she turned to look at the tent, which had caught on a stray log and torn wide open.

Her efforts for nothing, Anifaire left the empty pot and torn tent where they were. The mud and water clinging to her clothes made her shiver as she continued.

Dragging her feet along the muddy pathways, by the time Anifaire found camp, she was wishing for a change of clothes and new boots.

Having reached the camp as empty handed and empty bellied as before. Anifaire grabbed her half-dry cloak and wrapped it around herself next to the dying fireside.

The flames were almost entirely gone, but she wasn’t sure how to rekindle one. She lifted the poking stick left beside the fire and shoved it into the coals. The wood on top tumbled down and a gust of smoke rose above.

Anifaire looked around, finding a bit more wood and tossing it on the coals, but no flames suddenly appeared as she had thought they might.

“Oh!” Anifaire exclaimed. I can use magic to do it. She’d forgotten, as she’s never used her magic for this type of purpose before.

Conjuring a few flames, Anifaire managed to relight the fire and at least gain a bit of warmth as she huddled beside it, miserable. She’d never experienced conditions such as these in her life.

Skingrad Refugee Camp, near the Colovian Rangers’ encampment, evening of 8th Seed 4E208CE.

As much as Daro’Vasora hated to admit it, but she was actually enjoying seeing everyone again. The last time they’d all been together and not fearing for their lives had been up in the expedition camp on the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, and while that felt like a lifetime ago, she had grown to know and appreciate members of her party and reaffirming her unlikely friendship with the likes of Judena and Latro, and perhaps most shocking of all, Brynja. She had the lute she had given Latro back in Imperial City in hand and was idly strumming to some of the songs she was most acquainted with that didn’t require much in the way of technical prowess; it was mainly to fill the air with song and help set people at ease, including, ideally, Durantel, the haughty Altmer prick that she half expected to replace his broken flute by pulling it out of his ass. Somehow, he even seemed less insufferable than usual, and against all odds and probability, actually seemed to make new acquaintances of his own, such as a Breton girl who had some Nord-like fairness to her. She apparently had a goat, brought to her by a blond Nord, they seemingly had met before as he took a seat beside her, even handing her a pair of boots, though he certainly oozed of charm and a degree of sleeziness, and another Breton girl that wore armour and looked like she was quite out of place amongst the riff-raff. The Khajiit didn’t bother inquiring who these new faces were, she was sure they’d make themselves known in time if they weren’t temporary additions to the camp.

Daro’Vasora had been quite thrilled to present Latro back to the group as a whole, explaining he was a Ranger and had managed to save the lute she’d given him. She didn’t bother trying to hide her fondness for him and they sat close to one another, and to show even she wasn’t to be shown up by Durantel, she invited Gregor and Jaraleet to join them since the kindly Imperial healer did take concern for her well being after her daring defeat of two of those piloted suits, and Jaraleet was… well, capable. He didn’t say much and seemed to just come and go as he pleased.

Rhea was keeping largely to herself, although she caught her glancing at the people she considered her own with a look of… what, exactly? Guilt, anxiety? She seemed bent on ensuring everyone was safe and looked after to atone for what happened since the ruins, but here she was, probably having all of that catch up to her. Nobody heard much of Count Hassildor over the past couple of days, and even the guards seemed to be less assertive than usual. Maybe it was the calm before the storm, or everyone was finally admitting to themselves this refugee crisis wasn’t going to resolve itself. The Khajiit didn’t care, overly much; the Rangers managed to secure fairly regular supplies from people in turn for their efforts, which included handing out supplies that they had “liberated” from the Dwemer out to refugee groups, and showing those interested the newly captured technology, including the two suits Daro’Vasora took credit for capturing. She barely thought of the Mer she’d blinded and killed in the one; bastard had it coming, along with the rest of his shitty cronies. She just was giving them a taste of what they’d already been doing, it wouldn’t cost her sleep.

By Baan Dar, she was going to take credit for her actions. It felt good to do something, what, heroic? Who knew? Who cared? The Khajiit was riding a high, and she knew that wherever Zegol was, he’d be smiling down on her for picking herself up and getting things done. Daro’Vasora was not someone to sit around when opportunity knocked.

“So, not sure if you guys noticed the two fancy Dwemer suits over there? I did stop them, with help, of course. A bunch of frost mages and a pair of particularly strapping Argonians later, and out comes the soul gems, but my, it was exciting. It felt good to get a few licks in, to show those Dwemer assholes that they aren’t as invincible as they want you to believe. We even went down the ruins after them, flushed them out one by one. For people called the Deep Elves, they sure were inadequate at holding off the Rangers. The rest of you should sign up, beats festering in this depressing dump. By the way, who are those guys?” she pointed with her toe towards Rhona, Nani, and Calen. “I’m not sharing my rations; Brynja already eats enough for three of us, she’s a growing woman who needs to crush a few dwarf necks.” Daro’Vasora said, scrumming out the chords for A Daggerfall Mistress, which was a bawdy tavern song out West that made its way to the capital, to lighten the mood somewhat.

Brynja grunted as she passed a bowl of stew into the hands of the newcomers, “I’d rather drink a barrel of ale than eat a gallon of stew.” Once everyone had a bowl, Brynja settled down onto the ground, waiting for her stew to cool. She had little spices to cook with, salt and mugwort that came from the Breton with the goat. She claimed it was used as a seasoning, and Brynja had to admit, it did give the soup an aromatic flavor.

“Don’t forget that Solandil and I destroyed the airships with our bare hands.” Brynja nodded at Rhona, she had met her on arriving back at camp right away.

“Remind me your name again, lass.”

“Rhona. I’m an enchantress by trade.” She offered a half smile, and raised the bowl of soup up towards Brynja, “Thank you for the stew.”

Rhona turned attention to Calen where she whispered, “Thank you for bringing my boots to me, and for looking after Tobias.”

“My pleasure.” He responded with a wink.

“Mm.” Brynja’s gaze shifted towards the Breton besides Rhona, “And you? Who are you?”

Nanine looked up from her stew, having been in the process of devouring it. Though she wouldn’t admit it, it had been a while since she had eaten as she’d given her rations to a family that had none. ”Nanine Tilhart, former Imperial Battle Mage turned adventurer for hire. Rhona has graciously offered enchanting lessons to increase mmy meager skills. My appreciations for the stew.” She glanced over at the Khajiit.”I don’t suppose you managed to grab their strange staves did you? The ones that shoot small projectiles and tear through armor.”

“I’m curious as well. It’d be quite beneficial to have some of the weapons used by the Dwemer, if only to learn how to best defend ourselves from them at the very least.” Jaraleet chimed in from his position next to Raelynn once Nanine had stopped speaking. He too was curious if Vasora, or any of the other rangers for that matter, had managed to get their hands on the strange armaments employed by the Deep Elves. “Ah, but where are my manners, my thanks for the stew.” He added, turning to look at Brynja as he spoke. “My name is Jaraleet, former mercenary and, for now, Colovian Ranger, pleased to meet you all.” The Argonian said before turning to look at Daro’Vasora. “Gregor here had told me that you recuperated shortly after I left you in his care.” He said, motioning towards the Imperial before continuing. “But it is nonetheless good to see that you are in good health.” He said to the Khajiit before turning his attention back to his stew. He wouldn’t admit it, but the march back to the refugee camp had tired him greatly and, as such, the assassin was grateful for both the hot food and the campfire.

Gregor smiled and nodded graciously when he was mentioned and gestured towards but said nothing just yet. He had never been the type to interrupt a conversation for something as trivial as an introduction -- that could wait. Instead, he simply looked at Daro'Vasora, for it was her turn to respond.

“I was winded, not bleeding out of my ears. Thanks, though.” Daro’Vasora replied, glancing up at the Argonian for a moment. “You might have been a bit too eager about the whole damsel in distress thing.”

“Ah, I see, my apologies, I was unsure what kind of damage you might have suffered when you fell after prying loose the hatch that kept safe the power source of that Dwemer contraption so I thought it best to leave you in the hands of the mages so they might take a look at you.” The Argonian said. “I apologize if the manner in which I carried you out of the battleground produced discomfort, it seemed the most efficient way to take you out of harm’s way at the moment. And there is no need to thank me, it’s the duty of each and every soldier to aid their brothers and sisters in arms.” Jaraleet said before continuing to eat his stew in silence.

Judena stood empty bowl in hand, having finished her portion. She nervously looked to all the new faces, Brynja asking for their introductions was a good sign they were in fact, new but she desperately hoped she was not misplacing them. She crouched down beside Meg, her hunting and gathering partner. Settling on her haunches. Jaraleet spoke adequately and clearly, she hoped he hailed from Argonia. It had felt like a long time since she had been among other Argonians. To speak freely in her native tongue was a little slice of home.

Since the strange day Durantel had joined Meg and herself, she harboured fresh pangs of courage to read the letters. He held true to his word, he never once spared a glare her way nor rattled mean spirited words her way. Mostly avoiding her outright. Judena felt it was curious behaviour but took no offence.

Latro rejoining the group was indeed spectacular news, those who joined the rangers had returned in one piece and it was truly a relief. Suffering more losses would have been unreasonable after all they had gone through together. She settled her bowl down beside her leg, “Latro it is an enormous relief to see you once again. Fate has a funny way of drawing us all together.”

“To the new faces, I sincerely hope you are new, if not - I deeply apologize for not recalling our first meeting. Please, try not to take offence. My name is Judena Callisar,” she removed her logbook from inside her robes. “For decades I have found joy in appraising ancient artefacts, scouring for history, and using my skills in alteration to discover the past.”

“Daro’Vasora, when you have a moment I would like to hear your thoughts on the dwemer constructs you dealt with first hand. Very valuable observations, I am sure.”

The Khajiit smiled in return. “Tomorrow, when there’s light. I’ve got a pair of walking trophies I’d love to show you. Don’t worry, Judena; I will remind you.”

It was hard to wipe the grin off Meg's face, even while she sipped at her bowl of soup, green eyes watching, taking in the sight before her. Four days. She had to keep reminding herself it had been only that long since she had last seen Brynja and Sora, even though it felt like so much longer She was thrilled to see they were back, and with Latro nonetheless. A sure tear -or was it a few?- had found its way to her eyes, which she continued to blink away even now. She'd had faith she would see Brynja, Daro'Vasora and Sol once more, but Latro? While the small glimmer of hope had remained in her heart, it had been covered by the dark cloak of reality.

Even as she listened to Judena, grinning slightly at her apology to the newcomers, Meg looked from the familiar faces to the less familiar ones, including some she had briefly met in the refugee camp when she wasn't out in the forest. The Nord waved her hand, the look on her face calming slightly as her grin shifted to a smile, though her legs continued to shake excitedly, as was their habit.

"Megana Corvus' my name, but y'all can call me Meg, nice an' short." Though those who had met her in the camp would surely know her name, she was quite sure she had never seen any of the new faces that had accompanied her friends from the Rangers. "Nice t'see you lot." If her older companions trusted them, she would as well. From what it sounded, it seemed quite a lot had happened. Meg couldn't help feeling a little envious, even though glory was never what she was after... rather the adventure.

Mortalmo stared down at his stew as the others exchanged greetings and conversed. He had accepted his portion from the Nord cow reluctantly but without incident. Pride only went so far, and for now, he needed to eat. He lifted the bowl to his lips and paused before taking a sip of the lightly steaming broth. It was... adequate. He took another sip then, eyeing Rhona, and on either side of her, another newcomer. To her left sat the Breton that had introduced herself as Nanine Tilhart, though the more concerning of the two was the figure to Rhona’s right; a Nord pretty boy that looked several shades too slimy for Mortalmo’s taste.

He looked away then, and instead chose to focus on finishing his stew. It was none of Mortalmo’s concern who Rhona chose to consort with. The wretch already rubbed shoulders with a goat, why not a Nord dog? Unfortunately, it would seem that his staring had caught the Nord’s attention.

“I don’t bite, friend!” Calen chirped, extending out a hand from across the way for him to shake. He had hoped to diffuse any awkwardness amongst the group. “What brings the pleasure of your company?”

Mortalmo stared hard at the Nord youth. He glanced down at the outstretched hand and sniffed, before drawing his eyes back up to meet the Nord’s own. “Never have I heard of a dog that did not bite. You may be the first.”

“I only bite if it's asked of me.” Calen said back to Durantel with a wink, though withdrawing his hand nonetheless.

Nanine snorted quietly. Durantel was a typical High Elf, but Calen certainly seemed able to handle it and then some.

Brynja stretched her legs out before her, and groaned at his words, “Don’t pay him much mind,” she cautioned, before glancing at Durantel sideways, “Still haven’t forgotten that you called me a cow, Durantel. And yet you eat my stew without a complaint.” Her eyebrows rose at him, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile. Her gaze shifted to Rhona who procured a wooden pipe, and packed it full of herbs. A stream of fire leapt from her fingertips igniting the pipe, where she blew the smoke out her nose as she tipped her head back, seemingly avoiding both Nanine and the Nord.

“A cow that can cook is certainly something worth commending.” Mortalmo quipped back. “Your stew was palatable and for that I am grateful.”

Her expression turned to surprise at Durantel’s unexpected compliment, “Well… thank you.” She cleared her throat, avoiding any sentiment, and turned her attention back to the blond Nord, “So, what do you call yourself? And moreover, what’s a fellow Nord doing all the way down here in Cyrodiil?”

Anifaire took a seat next to Durantel, grateful for the hot stew that was available. Without even considering the flavour or those around her, she sat and began to eat quickly. Manners stuck with her, and she tried to slow down after a few bites to be polite. She was simply grateful for the hot meal, as, with the others ducking in and out of camp and her lack of cooking skills, she’d had sparse full meals and a lot of bread in recent days.

“Calen,” he responded, “Calen Smallwood -- family name, that; not an earned one. Mayhaps hoping to change that. Ah, but jokes aside, I was just hoping to see more of Tamriel. Then, well… I guess I got roped into this mess at just the right time when people were trying to escape. Helped to get them here, as much good as that did ‘em. At least they're alive, though.”

“Calen!” Gregor suddenly exclaimed, a roguish grin on his face. “That's it. I'd forgotten your name. Nice to see you again, but unexpected, so far from home.” The heavily-armed Imperial raised a hand in a proper greeting and tucked a loose strand of hair back behind his ear with the other. He'd already finished his stew by now, his silence having allowed him to eat as fast as possible without staining his beard, and he figured now was a good time to make himself known. It wasn't everyday he ran into old acquaintances from his time in the North. “Do you remember me? My name is Gregor. I made use of your carriage service a year or two ago.”

He then turned to look at the rest of the assembled Rangers, mages, travellers and oddities and inclined his head in their direction. “Pleased to meet you all, by the by,” Gregor added, his grin having diminished into a warm and genuine smile.

“Gregor!” Calen repeated aloud, throwing his hand across the clearing once more for good shake with a look of remembrance and a huge toothy grin. “The Vigilant if I'm not mistaken! And here I thought Tamriel was hiding a great, wide world on the other side of those mountains. It would seem that it couldn't be smaller!”

Gregor’s face betrayed nothing. “I worked with the Vigilants, yes, but close enough. Good memory.” Calen looked like his first introduction with war hadn’t changed him a bit. It was nice to see some unbridled enthusiasm in the midst of this sudden and devastating conflict. “Small world, indeed. Glad to have you here. Either way, I’ll stop hogging the limelight. Once again, nice to meet you all,” Gregor said and leaned back a little, emphasizing that he was done talking.

Raelynn didn't want to eat the stew. It was filled with an assortment of foraged foods of questionable quality. The entire thing just sat in the bowl taunting her. She'd eaten worse, sure, but looking into the miserably desperate bowl made her appetite disappear. She dragged her spoon back and forth through the now starchy broth. She longed for something real. To be at a table with people of her stature. Dignified individuals. She longingly imagined how it would feel to sit on an actual cushion, to drape herself in fabrics.

She took a few pathetic mouthfuls of the stew before placing the bowl at her side. That would be it. If anyone were to ask she would simply explain that she was tired and felt too sickly to eat it. Or she'd tell them that fresh manure would have been preferable - depending of course entirely on who would ask her why she was leaving such a full bowl. Stew is for peasants with no teeth! she thought to herself as she got up to take a wander around the camp.

Everyone was seemingly occupying themselves with idle chatter, she rolled her eyes at it all. It was all so ridiculous. Here they were, in the middle of a catastrophe and yet they found time to sing, gossip, and scoff down bowls of shite. She wanted out of here, she wanted a bed, a real fireplace and some privacy. It was all starting to grind on the Breton mage. Her hair was looking frazzled, her cloak all but destroyed, she hadn't eaten food with flavour since her last morning in the Imperial City.

She retreated out of sight of them into shadows and started… crying. But she was crying silently. Just long empty sobs with no sound. She kept it in but felt the hot tears well up under her now dull and overtired eyes. She felt haggard and ugly, like she was going to waste away. She slumped down onto her knees and stayed that way while she continued to weep, in the only slightly private spot she had found herself in.

Jaraleet had continued to eat his bowl of stew in silence, but continued to pay attention to the conversations around him. It seemed that he had found himself amidst a group that had travelled together for quite some time, if the banter and atmosphere of familiarity where any indication. The scene brought on a sense of nostalgia to the Haj-Eix, as he remembered his fellow brothers and sisters who still remained in Argonia and, in some cases, scattered throughout the rest of Tamriel.

Any further thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that Raelynn leaving the perimeter of the campfire. It hadn’t taken him too long to notice that the mood of the Breton healer was heavy, a fact that was rather evident by her apparent lack of appetite and silence throughout the conversation. He briefly pondered whether or not to go looking after her, but in the end decided against it; they hadn’t known each other for too long and he doubted that his presence would be welcome, not to mention the fact that, in truth, the assassin didn’t care all too much for how Raelynn felt. He was grateful towards her for healing his wounds, but asides from that the Saxhleel hadn’t much attachment towards her.

He thought about chatting with Gregor, the only other person with whom he had exchanged more than a few words aside from Raelynn, but the Imperial seemed busy chatting with Calen. The self-proclaimed Imperial Battlemage seemed rather busy….staring at a few of the individuals gathered near the campfire. A strange thing to do, for sure, but Jaraleet decided not to bother her, although it did make him suspicious of Nanine. “It is a pleasure to meet you Meg, and you as well Raj-Deelith Callisar. It is always an honor to speak to one such as you.” Jaraleet said, deciding to join in the conversations happening around the campfire. “I don’t recall having seen either of you amongst the Rangers, I take it that you two stayed here?” He asked both women curiously.

"Aye, we stayed here," Meg piped in, looking at the new Argonian. She had seen Argonians in Riften as a child and later as a wanderer near Windhelm, but she'd never actually had the chance to make a proper conversation with more than a couple until now. Judena had been the first she had grown close to, and it was a nice thought that she could make another acquaintance of the same race.

"We decided t'go foraging' an' help out with those who stayed behind," she continued. "I gotta say though, sounds like y'all had the adventurin' of a lifetime out there!"

Judena perked up at Raj-Deelith, she flapped her hand at Jaraleet, “Honoured Elder! Please you may call me Judena or Jude. There is no need for honorifics here, I am simply happy to see you. As Meg said, we spent our time here collecting food - scarce as it has been. I decided to stay behind and Meg joined me to keep company. Would not have been half as successful without her.” She grinned at the Nord, “I am relieved to see those who joined the rangers returned safely.” Raelynn’s departure from the fireside did not go unnoticed. Perhaps the stew did not agree with the kindly breton?

"Aye," Meg agreed, setting down her now empty bowl. "Sure am glad t'see them again. Who'da thought four days felt like four months, eh?" With that said, she looked to Jaraleet. "Uhh... what's that word y'called Jude? Ra- er- somethin'?"

“Raj-Deelith, it is a word in our native tongue of Jel to refer to honored elders.” Jaraleet replied in response to Meg’s inquiry, smiling towards the Nord woman. “My apologies, I sometimes forget that our native tongue isn’t so widely known.” He said, bowing his head slightly as a sign of apology before turning to look at Jude.

“I’ll try and remember that Raj…..Judena.” The assassin said, just realizing midway that he was referring to Jude with the honorifice once again. He had to admit that he felt embarrassed, something that he had not felt since he had been a small hatchling and his trainers chastised him for stupid mistakes. He shook his head to clear his thoughts before continuing to speak, “Aye, many of us managed to return safely thanks to the help of the mages amongst the Rangers. But others were not so lucky, and I am sure that most of us are returning with new scars. I know I do at least.” He said grimly, his hand moving to his left side and hovering over the cauterized wound. “The Dwemer are a terrible foe, but the victory today proves that they can be defeated.” The Saxhleel said, smiling towards both Jude and Meg once he was done talking.

Meg was reminded of her own wound, caused more by stupidity and far less exciting story than she believed was the cause for Jaraleet's wound. Still, at least it was healing, and mostly it was a dull pain now, serving only to remind her to be much more vigilant from now on.

"Sure's nice t'hear that," she said as she stretched out her legs towards the fire. "The day they came to the city... I just ran. As hard as I could." She shook her head. "Still kinda surprised I didn' get killed in all that chaos."

Judena patted Meg’s shoulder comfortingly. She addressed Jaraleet, “Do not fret Jarheap. Even if you were to forget I would not hold it against you.”

Jaraleet was confused by the way Judena had called him, but thought best of bringing it up and merely nodded towards the elder Saxhleel with a smile. “You shouldn’t be ashamed Meg.” He added in response to the comment made by the Nord woman. “We were caught by surprise, there was nothing we could do. I too was forced to run from the Imperial City, so do not be ashamed of your actions that day.” He said, offering the woman a smile. “Plus, I’m sure that you’ll have plenty of chances in the days to come to repay the Dwemer for forcing us all to flee from battle.”

"Heh..." Meg appreciated both Judena's comforting pat as well as Jaraleet's words. "I'm countin' on it... those bastards gotta pay for all this." This was accompanied by her hand motioning towards the refugee camp in general. "I'm just... I'm still stumped. I mean... first dragons, now dwemer... what next?"

“It does not matter.” Jaraleet said quietly in response to Meg’s words, looking down at his empty bowl. “Don’t mistake my words for indifference of what you are going through, it is natural to be confused in such times.” The assassin continued to speak, looking at Meg directly in the eyes. “Yet, all the same, it doesn’t changes anything. We are soldiers right now, no matter what we were before the Dwemer came, and our sole purpose is to defeat the Deep Elves and protect the rest of Tamriel.” He spoke with conviction, settling his empty bowl down and reaching for his backpack. “But, that doesn’t matters for the moment.” He said as he retrieved a bottle from the pack.

He uncorked the bottle and took a swig of its content, letting out a contented sigh. “Would you like some? It’s Theilul, a type of Argonian rum. I managed to salvage this from my home before fleeing.” The assassin said with a smile, extending the bottle towards Jude and Meg.

Meg thought about it a moment before allowing her grin to return. It seemed like forever since that drunk night in Imperial City. "Why not?" She reached out and took hold of the bottle, not in the slightest bit worried that it may be too strong for her to drink. Bringing the bottle to her lips, she took swig of the Theilul, blinking as she swallowed. "Huh, that's different." She took a quick second sip before offering the bottle to Judena, though she was unsure if her friend would partake or not.

Judena declined. “Thank you, Jarnolle. That is kind, but that rum has not sat well with me ever since I was a youth. I found nord mead and wines to be a bit more preferable.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. But I suppose that only means that there’s more for me, and for Meg if she wishes to drink more.” The Argonian said with a smile, hiding his confusion, and slight discomfort, at the fact that Judena seemed unable to recall his name after such a short while. He took the bottle of Theilul and took another swig before offering it to Meg once again, giving her a quizzical look alongside of his offer of the bottle. A sort of unspoken question about Judena’s confusion about his name.

Taking one more swig, enjoying the drink with every gulp, Meg noticed the look on the other Argonian's face. "Ah, Judena kinda forgets stuff, but ya just gotta remind her an' she'll do her best t'remember. She writes down lotsa notes as well, bloody useful t'be honest. I'm sure she'll write down your name when she gets a chance." She took a smaller sip this time before holding the bottle out for Jaraleet to take.

“Ah.” Jaraleet said as he took the bottle, taking a small sip of its content before speaking again. “My thanks Meg, I’ll endeavor to remind Judena of my name in case she forgets about it again.” The Argonian said, taking yet another drink of the Theilul before offering the bottle again to Meg. They continued to share the contents of the bottle until it was empty, with Jaraleet listening in on the other conversations going around the campfire in silence.

Nanine settled back next to Rhona, enjoying the smell of the woman’s pipe even if she herself didn’t smoke, as the conversation swirled around them, her empty stew bowl beside her. With nothing to add to the conversation, she turned her efforts to remembering particular faces she wanted to draw later. Meg, with her slightly wild grin and visibly vibrating with excitement, like someone had trapped lightning and it was just so happy to be here. Nani had to smile at the sight. It was cute.

Durantel, with his disdainful facial expressions and words, was cold, but not cold enough to hide something that lurked just behind his eyes, like a glacier on top of the flooded ruins of Winterhold, hiding deep secrets. Was it longing? Regret? Nanine couldn’t tell. Perhaps she was just imagining it, wistfully thinking that life imitates the stories.

With Gregor it was far easier to tell what emotion was in his eyes. The thing that kept his charms from fully reaching his face. The man was driven, and driven harshly. Something bore on him, something he couldn’t escape, like a violent thunderstorm gathering atop a mountain, ready to bring ruin to the small village beneath it. His secrets were his own, however, and Nanine’s interest remained artistic.

The other Altmer, the younger one, looked out of place. It might have been her general demeanor, that of someone who had just recently been thrown into circumstances like this, or perhaps it was how she tried to retain her manners despite being just as hungry as Nanine herself had been. Regardless, she reminded the Breton mage of an ornate teapot, left out in the middle of the woods.

The Khajiit brought a wry smile to her face, looking like...well, like a cat who had just caught its prey, and was smugly laying in the sun and enjoying its victory. Nanine had to wonder, however, if the possible consequences for destroying and airship and stealing the suits even crossed the other woman’s mind, or if she was too busy basking in the glow of victory to think of the future. Nanine’s eyes almost unconsciously shifted between these five people, striving to commit their expressions and body language to memory. It was a strange, and doubtlessly creepy, way to start her first interactions with them, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Lady, you’re being creepy.” Daro’Vasora confirmed, handing the lute over to Latro so she could accept a bowl of the stew herself. “So what kind of maiming is on your mind? Rug, fur coat, boot liners? Try me, I’ve heard everything. The only people who stare like you do either want to murder someone or screw their brains out. Sometimes both, I don’t judge.” She sniffed the bowl before shrugging and taking a spoonful. “Much.”

Nanine gave a start, realizing she’d been staring too long again. Embarrassment colored her cheeks, and she floundered. ”Oh, by the Nine, I did it again. Shit! I told myself I wouldn’t do this.”While she struggled to articulate, Rhona spoke up.

Rhona chewed thoughtfully on the stem of her pipe, smoke rolling out of her nostrils. She gave Nanine a sideways glance before turning her attention to the Khajiit, “I’m certain Nanine means no harm. After all,” she swept her hand out, gesturing to everyone gathered around the campfire, “it is a curious sight to see so many different faces seated around one such place. From my travels, Mara has brought many a curious face across my path, and sometimes… those people become our allies, even if for a short time.”

“Yup, we were all brought here out of Mara’s love, and not the totally far-fetched idea that there’s thousands of people from a city in one place who’ve been displaced by a Dwemer invasion. I wish I had your optimism, or whatever drugs you partake in.” The Khajiit replied deadpan, carelessly eating the contents of the bowl. “My apologies, but allies is a strong word for someone I’ve never even seen before. What do you do, exactly?”

She pulled the pipe out of her mouth, considering both Daro’Vasora and her words carefully, before turning her pipe upside down and tapping it against the ground, removing the ashes effectively. Tobias had wandered off into the darkness behind her, most likely finding himself something delectable to munch on.

Rhona shook her head, a ghost of a smile appearing before vanishing altogether, “Forgive my broad words, but I meant those here, present in this circle. Not the thousands of troubled souls beyond this fire. Think what you will about me, I cannot change the winds of Kynareth, it is her breath that guides me across the lands. The first path I crossed was that of Calen’s, and here he sits--” Calen waved his hand, “--I next crossed Nanine’s, and here she sits. Then it was Durantel, and he is a part of this group. As you were with the Rangers during these last few days dealing the Dwemer a deadly blow, I had the opportunity to meet your fellow companions, Megana, Judena, Alim, and Rhea. And here they all are.” She shrugged a bit haphazardly, “And now here you are.”

“I said it before, but in case you didn’t hear, I shall repeat myself. I am an enchantress by trade. I’ve travelled across Cyrodiil and beyond for the last couple years.” Rhona blinked slowly, before turning towards her rucksack, rummaging around until she found what she sought, she refilled her pipe, relit it, and stuck it back her mouth. Before her eyebrows rose, “Would you care for some? It’s just Mugwort and lavender. It has a natural relaxing effect.” She extended the pipe towards her.

“I never realized that an invitation for a meal and a fire was divine intervention. Perhaps I should have blamed lady Kynareth for the lack of attendance at my childhood birthday parties.” The Khajiit replied, turning down the pipe with an extended palm. “So, enchantress, huh? Are we talking making men walking weapons of destruction or faire trinkets that allegedly improve your sex life while lowering your appetite? One of which would be useful in present circumstances, the other if your name is Durantel and want to be somewhat appealing towards courting a woman.”

“How about the stew? I thought the stew was great.” Calen awkwardly interjected, trying to diffuse the tension.

“It’s not bad. Could use more skeever chunks, those little shits are everywhere.” Daro’Vasora said agreeably.

“At least someone likes it,” Brynja nodded her thanks to Calen before turning to glower at Vasora, “Well you don’t have to eat it, y’know.” She resisted the urge to knock the bowl out of her hands, but thought better of it. This was just how Vasora was, it would take her time to trust anyone, much like herself.

Nanine focused herself, a sheen of frost covering her gauntlets as she connected with magic to calm her flustered nerves, grateful that the conversation had moved on.

Rhona shook her head, laughing softly, “Over 9 years of experience enchanting weapons, amulets, circlets, rings, clothing, and armor. There’s only a few enchantments I’ve yet to learn, but yes, turning men into walking weapons I can do.” Her tone changed, “As for helping men court women, that is outside of my expertise. Love is… not my forte, I can’t enchant the hearts and minds of men.”

“I beg to differ.” Calen muttered beneath a barely contained smirk. Rhona glanced at him, her cheeks turning a rosy shade of pink, and then quickly turned her attention back to Daro’Vasora.

“Oh hush, Brynja, it’s just fine. I might even get seconds if it lasts that long.” Daro’Vasora assured the Nord. She pulled the mace from her belt, holding it out so it caught the firelight. “So, let’s say I wanted this enchanted to cause paralysis after smashing someone’s kneecap. Is that something you can do?”

“It’s not one I’ve done often, but I know it, and can do it, if you have the coin of course. Soul gems aren’t cheap.”

Daro’Vasora pouted. “And so much for being allies. We’re supposed to look after each other.” she said with a wink. “Tell you what, I’ll think on it and see if I can’t find something worth your while. I’ve spent my time around Tamriel the past few years digging up artifacts and selling them off, I know what’s worth more than a few coins for your trouble. I might like you after all.”

Rhona nodded in agreement, “Fair enough, you find me something of value, and I’ll enchant that mace of yours. Same goes for the rest of you.”

“A dagger with the potential to paralyze an opponent would be a most welcome utility.” Mortalmo sized Rhona up. Was this asking too much of the Breton? How much she valued the services he offered would remain to be seen. “Perhaps I would have use for an enchanter after all, girl.”

She shifted uneasily, Durantel had proved a most dutiful teacher in the past few days, and what he had taught her was helpful already. In her eyes, the least she could do was to fulfill a simple request as his. Rhona took a puff from her pipe, smoke seeping out from the corners of her mouth, “But of course.” It dawned on her then, that since she hadn’t seen Calen in three days time, she had no idea if he had seen Cezare again. She swallowed hard.

The Altmer bowed his head. “I am most thankful. And be assured that I will earn this boon.”

Alim poked his head into the small clearing, leaves and a twig in his thick mane of hair. They had decided to have a party without him? “Oh…” he said, squinting. “I see how it is.”

Judena glanced around at the rustling nearby, Raelynn still on her own but the sudden appearance of the rogue had Jude waving Alim over, “Come Alim, the bush is no place to get dinner. We would know, having already checked ourselves!” Cackling a little at her own joke, knowing he would appreciate the attempt.

Nanine had finally managed to stop her embarrassment, the frost dissipating from her gauntlets. She needed to explain herself before Daro’Vasora’s narrative took hold.”I apologize if I made anyone uncomfortable, earlier. I draw in my spare time, and like to draw specific moments in my journal later. Like an adventurer lightly strumming a lute, eager to brag about her victories over an enemy not seen in centuries, basking in the glow of victory and the warmth of a campfire. So I tend to unconsciously stare at people or things in those moments to try and capture every detail, even though I only need a few moments to remember things perfectly. So no maiming on my mind and no screwing for you I’m afraid.” Nanine smirked lightly. ” You’ll have to find someone else’s private life to judge.”

Gregor had followed the conversation with no small measure of amusement. Daro’Vasora’s caustic wit and devil-may-care attitude reminded him of some of the smarter Nords he’d met during his time in Skyrim, and wasn’t characteristic of her race at all. It was always funny to see people defying stereotypes. The male Altmer was predictably condescending, but beyond that there was a sharpness in his gaze that Gregor had only seen in the most cunning of people before. And so his thoughts went round the campfire’s attendees, forming first impressions, creating opinions… but there was a part of him in the back of his mind that rendered far more sinister judgements, like a whisper at the edge of his hearing.

Not a threat. Not a threat. Might become a threat. Not a threat. Dangerous, be watchful. Not a threat…

“So, Nanine,” the Imperial said after clearing his throat and smiled. “What do you make of this handsome mug of mine, eh?” Gregor’s tone made it clear that he was jesting, following in Calen’s footsteps when it came to keeping the mood light, but only half. He really was curious what someone so experienced in observation would make of him now. After everything.

“Hope you don't mind settling for second best!” Calen immediately pitched in, raising his mug of whatever mystery drink they were serving and winking at Gregor with a humored smile. This earned him a sharp look from Durantel, though the elf remained silent.

Nanine paused a moment, smiling at the banter, as she studied Gregor’s face. “You’ve certainly been blessed with good looks and an eternal youthfulness that elude most, but age is beginning to catch up with you. It is small, a wrinkle here, a grey hair there, but it exists. You’ve the build and easy movements of an adventurer, as with most of us here.” She paused, chuckling lightly. “And the easy charisma of someone who knows he’s blessed with good looks.”

Her voice became quieter as she moved onto the shadow that hung over him. “Unlike the rest of us, however, there’s something else. Something in the way you move, something in your eyes. You move as if you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, and as if it never quite leaves your mind. It prevents your smiles from filling your eyes, your laughs from being as loud as they could be. You move as if you’re being chased. Whatever it is, it’s not as simple as the death of a loved one, or a betrayal. People driven by that have different looks, a smoldering rage or a burning desire in their eyes. The look behind your eyes is...intense. And unyielding. Like steel.”

The easygoing half-smile on Gregor’s face slowly disappeared as Nanine talked, his dark eyes locked into her grey gaze. It was the first time someone had paid sufficient attention to him to read between the lines since he’d come back from Skyrim. A dark look fell over his features, their beauty briefly stolen by melancholy and the very steel that she spoke of, and Gregor finally averted his gaze when she was done talking, her judgement rendered. He briefly opened his mouth, as if to speak, but appeared to think better of it and closed it again. Gregor felt the eyes of the others on him now while images of the horrible things he’d seen and done raced through his mind.

Suddenly, and without warning, he climbed to his feet, brushing the leaves out of his cloak before his hands went over his various sheaths and holsters, absent-mindedly performing the same gear check he had done a hundred times over. “That was… quite perceptive, Nanine,” he managed, the act of getting up to leave returning some measure of control over the situation back to him that allowed him to speak. “We all have our demons. If you’ll excuse me, I have to…”

Gregor trailed off and gestured vaguely with his hands towards the rest of the refugee encampment behind him. He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and, after a final curt nod, set off at a brisk pace into the gloom.

Nanine watched him go, murmuring, “Perhaps it’d be best if I stopped talking the rest of the night.”

Mortalmo watched the Imperial take his leave with narrowed eyes. That one warranted caution.

A silence filled the camp at Gregor’s departure, one that made even Brynja feel unsettled. She cleared her throat, and turned her attention to Alim, “Well it’s about time you got here,” she grunted as she climbed to her feet, where she filled a bowl of stew, and handed it off to him before claiming a bottle of ale for herself. She settled down beside Daro’Vasora, where she uncorked the bottle.

“Where’ve you been, Alim? Off chasing skirts again?” She took a mighty swig from her bottle, and pointed it at him, her eyebrows raised as the corners of her lips turned upwards.

Alim had his mouth half full of one of the chicken legs that was roasting on the fire, and he nearly choked on it when she spoke. The spellsword banged on his chest with his fist as he swallowed what he could. “I take offense to that, I don’t chase skirts!” He declared. Though you could tell he wasn’t truly hurt. He opened his mouth to clarify, but it took him a moment to find the words. “I just enjoy flirting... and if the flirting bears fruit, then you know I won’t complain.” He placed his hand on his chest for emphasis.

“Besides,” he began. “My true passion is shiny things, adventure, and then women...in that order generally. Unless the woman happens to be interested in me too, then the others take a back seat.” He spoke matter of fact as if it was the natural order of things. “All three are preferable however...ANYWAY, enough about me. What has been happening here while I was napping?” He asked. Without warning, it looked as if he plucked a flute out of the air, though quick eyes would see he had grabbed it from his pack at this side. He didn’t play just yet however, instead wanting to hear the answer first. He’d only give a tune to keep the hearty vibe going, anyway.

Brynja shrugged, “The newcomers were introducing themselves. We’ve Nanine, Rhona and Calen,” She gestured to the trio seated together, “Then you just missed Gregor, and there’s Jaraleet, both from the Rangers… and by the Gods! Latro is alive!” She leaned forward suddenly, double checking to make certain he still remained at Daro’Vasora’s side. She nodded, and then leaned backwards again.

“It is a pleasure to meet you Alim, from the familiar tone I take it you are part of this group rather than a recent acquaintance, no?” Jaraleet interjected at the mention of his name, giving a slight bow of his head in the direction of the Redguard.

Alim listened to Brynja, and then gave a smile at the mention of Gregor. They hadn’t been properly introduced but even that small glimpse, he could see the man had been somewhat flustered. But then, an Argonian! “Ah, tis a pleasure sir.” He said, and held his hand out to shake. He wasn’t sure if that was the correct gesture to give to one of the Black Marsh peoples but he was certain Jaraleet would find it polite. “Always good to have an Argonian on board.” He said. From his experience, they were often very skilled at whatever they put their minds to, and Alim valued skill highly.

Jaraleet smiled and shook Alim’s outstretched hand firmly. “Ah, you are too kind.” He said with a light chuckle at the mention that it was good to have another Argonian on board. “I’m a mere recent acquaintance, I’m not sure if I could be considered to be ‘on board’ as you put.” He said, scratching the back of his neck slightly as he pondered on Alim’s words. “Though, truth be told, I wouldn’t be opposed to the notion, given the present situation.” He added before chuckling once more. “Ah, but that is not for me to decide, is it? You’ve already shown me a great kindness by inviting me to share in your food, it would be impolite of me to request more.” Said the assassin with a smile.

Mortalmo eyed Jaraleet appraisingly. “What are your capabilities, scaled one? This ensemble has faced significant peril in the past few weeks alone. It would not be in the best interest of one lacking worldly experience to go down any road with us.” The lizard did not appear incompetent as far as the Mer could gauge, though it would never do to overestimate a mere animal.

“Well, I know my way around a blade better than most I’d say.” Jaraleet spoke in response to Durantel’s inquiry, patting the sheaths in which his sword and dagger rested. “But, aside from that, I’m also adept at sneaking by enemies should the need arise. Quite useful for scouting ahead of battle, in my opinion.” The Argonian continued on. “I’m also proficient in making alchemical concoctions, which could prove useful in the days to come.” He said, deciding to omit that his knowledge of alchemy was rather confined to the making of poisons rather than any of the more beneficial concoctions for which most alchemists were known.

“Very well. I do not claim to be the leader of this assortment by any stretch, though I believe I speak for all here that possess sense when I say that I suspect you would be an asset, rather than a hindrance.” Maybe Mortalmo’s words would ring true; if he had to guess, the time for the Argonian to place some substance behind his statements would arrive soon enough. Surely this group was a beacon for strife.

“Thank you for your kind words.” Jaraleet said in response. He knew that the Altmer’s words weren’t said out of mere kindness, not after the display he had done when Calen had attempted to be friendly towards him, but the Haj-Eix had no desire to be confrontational with him, especially if he had been travelling with this group for long. The Altmer had proclaimed that he wasn’t the leader of the group, but his words still could carry some weight behind them and, as such, Jaraleet preferred to be polite. “I know that my words aren’t sufficient to earn me a place amongst you, after all trust is a precious commodity that shouldn’t be squandered. Especially not in times such as these ones, but, if you give me a chance, I can promise you that it’ll be worth it.”

“If you can swing a blade as good as you say, then you’ll be of use to us.” Brynja nodded her head in agreement. After all this time Rhea still hadn’t said a word, she figured that she must’ve been exhausted. “It’s always good to have another blade around.” Durantel nodded his assent at Brynja’s words.

Anifaire had finished her stew, and was looking at the pot, her stomach still unsatisfied. She found was less uncomfortable in the presence of these strange people than she had been at first, even with the new additions. It seemed this was the way her life was, now. She was glad Alim had arrived, and wondered if he would play his flute.

Durantel’s speaking had drawn more attention to their side of the fire than she would have liked, and she shrunk a bit away from him. She felt self conscious, both because of the new faces and that she looked far from the noblewoman she was, her skin and clothes uncomfortably filthy and torn up.

“Among other strange things we have witnessed, that we have no doubt seen the last of.” Judena commented, scratching at her ‘beard’ as she spoke, she glanced at Anifaire. “We are in no short of capable minds to match our brawn. We need to confer, share thoughts and expertise. Anifaire,” Judena looked to the downtrodden Mer, perhaps she would appreciate some distraction. “Is one of the experts on Dwemer, she specializes in studying them. Was it culture you focused on or technology?”

Anifaire looked up in surprise when Judena spoke, but the topic brightened her mood. “I studied mostly language in particular, but of course, language impacts and is impacted by culture, so it is wider than that.” She paused. “What do you study?” She still found it odd that this Argonian was studying something so in depth.

“That is amazing! Perhaps with your help we can try to understand what they are saying, Anifaire. Demystify them.” Judena enthused. “I simply study and date artifacts. Find out how old they are, where they are from, who was once connected to
them. Then I remove those centuries, restoring them back the best I can discovering things hidden by age. If you want my dear you are invited to sit and watch as I work. Piece restoration is truly inspiring.” She said happy to see Anifaire engaged. Truly it would take a dedicated team, resources, and workspace to continue their study of the Dwemer in depth but they could make due by crafting theories while on the road.

“I would love to watch some of your work,” Anifaire replied.

Nanine perked up at the mention of Judena dating and restoring artifacts. She’d have to see if the old argonian could verify her family’s stories about her blade.

Mortalmo rose to his feet then, glancing about those still gathered around the campfire. “If you would all be so gracious, I think I will take my leave of your company now.” He glanced up at the darkened sky. “The night drags on, and I must say my prayers.” The Mer turned on his heel then, and retreated from the soft glow that the fire provided. Rhona watched him leave, she would need to rest soon, he had promised to continue her training tomorrow.

By the time Solandil had sorted his errands for the day and found his company, he found several had already retired for the night - and they were also joined by newcomers. Some were still eating, and upon seeing a still bubbling pot of stew over the fire, Sol felt great relief. Since the Ranger’s arrival back to camp, Sol had spent several hours trying to find an affordable blacksmith to repair the broken leather strap on his chest-plate. Of course, in a camp such as this one, any kind of labour required payment. Even if he had had money available, all people wanted was food and water, each of which he had sparse amounts that he was unwilling to part with. After several rejections and failure of intimidating folk into doing it out of goodwill, Sol had simply haphazardly knotted the two frayed ends together, leaving the plate lopsided, but steady. For now, anyway.

Joining the circle of companions, Sol slumped into a sitting position beside the young rogue Meg with a sigh, dumping his battered armour beside him. His shirt still remained damaged and leaving his skin to the open air, but at this point Sol was far too hungry and tired to give a damn. Glancing at Brynja, his fingers traced his chest absent-mindedly, reminded of the wound that no longer sat there.

She rose to her feet, and filled a bowl of stew, part of her wondering just how they ended up with so many wooden bowls. Brynja handed the bowl over to Solandil, a small smile on her face, “It’s about time you got back. We’re almost out of stew.”

Meg had just been about to stand up, a yawn smothered by her hand when she noticed Solandil had sat down next to her. It had indeed been a long time since she had seen him, and if she was being honest, he was a much more appealing sight that Durantel. Sure, the other Altmer wasn't as insufferable as before, but she was still slightly iffy around him.

"Long time no see!" she greeted. "Glad t'see you're in one piece." She looked to Brynja as well, smiling. "Same's for you too, y'know. I missed you 'round here!"

Brynja nodded at her, “It’s nice to know you’re all alive and well. I hope you didn’t get into anything too dangerous while I was away.” She narrowed her eyes at Meg before winking.

“Uh…” Meg blinked before glancing sideways, sheepish look finding itself on her face. “Not really! Been pretty quiet ‘sides the obvious.” She did not want to be scolded for her little misadventure!

“Mm, well that’s good to hear.” Brynja said through a stifled yawn. The hour was late, she’d have to get some rest soon.

Meg chuckled at Brynja, seeing the other Nord was as tired as she was. "There's lots I wanna catch up with both of you, but I'mma leave it 'til the morn when we're all rested an' not talking slurred an' eyes half closed." She gave a friendly pat to Sol's shoulder as she came to a stand, stifling another yawn with her free hand. "Sleep well y'all." Waving at everyone in general, she trotted off in search of her bedspread and sweet dreams.

Judena watched Durantel’s departure, eyes on his back. The pages of her logbook remembered their strange day, she dug the butt of her spear into the ground pulling herself to stand. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, Durantel. We will see you on the morrow.” Her tone was pleasant but her eyes burrowed. While it may come as strange for her to address the Altmer now, perhaps she would share what had happened with someone. Another perspective might clear the clouds surrounding it. As she was, she was content spending time by the warm fire light and commit new names with their faces to memory.

Mortalmo stopped momentarily in his tracks, now nearly entirely shrouded by the blackness of night. Without turning around, he called back, “And you as well, Judena.” His voice was strained, though with each syllable spoken, the something made an effort to snag some of that tautness away. “May you have a satisfactory slumber.” Then he was gone.

Jaraleet observed the interaction between Judena and Durantel in silence. The departure of the Altmer, and particularly his comment on how late it was, reminded the Saxhleel of how much time it had passed since he had gotten a good night of rest and, as such, he decided to retire as well. “I think I’ll follow in Durantel’s footsteps and retire for the night. My thanks for the stew, and for allowing me to join you as well.” He spoke to the gathered members of the group, “If it’s acceptable to you all, I’ll pitch in my tent close to those belonging to you.” He added, waiting for an answer before picking up his rucksack and stepping away from the campfire to pitch his tent.

“By all means,” Brynja said, nodding her head in approval at the Argonian, “and I’m off to sleep as well.” She rose to her feet, stretching one more time before she departed from the warmth of the campfire to her own tent.

Nanine watched Durantel leave with curiosity. She found it odd that the Altmer would be even moderately civil to the Argonians of the group, but call Calen a dog. Usually people hated the beast races more than they hated the others. Something to think about later.

“It appears the night is drawing to a close. Thank you again for your hospitality and, if it is not too much to ask a bit more from you, I’ll be sleeping next to the fire.” Nanine began her nightly ritual, undoing her earrings and carefully storing them in her pack, before bringing out a brush to take care of her hair. The motions were automatic by now, and she hummed lightly to herself. She’d take care of her sword later.

Calen set the wooden bowl by his foot; it was licked clean of every drop of stew that was served in it, and he looked up at the battlemage as she packed her belongings together, thinking with careful consideration if he wanted to--

“I have a covered wagon.” Calen said abruptly. Not so careful, evidently. His disposition was nonchalant, matter-of-factly; his proposition was one made out of generosity less so than it was out of any lecherous intent. Gesturing to the rest of those who remained around the campfire, the bard continued, “It’s warm, private -- and the offer’s open to any of you, if you don’t have a place to rest your head or anything. It’s no big deal.”

Rhona stood up, taking the gesture from those that headed off to bed, that it was time for her to do so as well. Tobias’ head swiveled up at the sound of her getting to her feet, and trotted over to her. He let out a small bleat as he rubbed his head against her leg. She stooped to pet him, and sighed, “I’ll be going to bed as well, goodnight.” And with that, she slipped into the shadows, Tobias trailing behind her.

Anifaire huddled as close to the fire as she could manage once the others had headed off. She wasn’t sure if anyone had noticed her presence by the fire at night. When Nanine had mentioned she would be sleeping by the fire, as well, Anifaire first instinct had been panic. That was awful close for a stranger to be sleeping. But the panic faded quickly. All of her experiences these past few days had been uncomfortable, and she’d basically resigned herself to not experiencing a comfortable setting again anytime soon. In order to get out of here she needed money, and for that, she needed a bank - which would be inside the city. And there were the Dwemer to contend with.

Usually not one to speak up, Calen’s offer of the wagon was too good to refuse. He had made it clear to be an open offer, and Anifaire stuttered over her words for a few moments, starting sentences and then rephrasing, before she finally spat out, “I would appreciate the shelter for the night.” Her face was red with embarrassment as she looked at Calen, though through the crusted mud and grime it was unlikely to be visible. She would simply be grateful to be off the ground.

“Not just for the night,” Calen added, “for as long as you need. The nights are getting colder, right? I don’t know how many of you have slept outside during a Skyrim winter, but a chill like this never bothered me anyway.”

“Winters in Skyrim are the worst. Especially when you’re on watch in the middle of the night. Thank you for the offer Calen, but I’ll let Anifaire take the wagon. It’s a nice night at anyrate.” Nanine gestured to the sky.

“Thank you… both,” Anifaire said. She gathered her cloak around herself tighter, still covered in mud, but about to sleep off the ground. In all her life, she never thought she would be so grateful for something so small. She’s never even considered she might have to sleep on the ground, let alone doing so coated in mud.

“I have a spare blanket in my pack, and a change of clothes. They might not fit you right, but they’d be better than the mud caked things you have now, at least until they can get washed.” Nanine offered, neglecting to mention that both were her only others. She’d buy more in town if necessary.

Anifaire turned to face the other woman in surprise. “I… really? I would love to wash these. Thank… you.” The generosity around her was both foreign and unexpected. At home, these things had been provided for her without question, and she’d never considered what it would be like to even lack them. Suddenly, she felt like she should have been more grateful to her family’s servants.

“No problem at all.” Nanine said cheerfully, pausing in her brushing of her hair to ruffle through her pack and gather the blanket and spare change of clothes. She got up and handed the folded pile to the High Elf with an earnest smile, before heading back to her pack and resuming brushing her hair.

---

Skingrad, 15th of Second Seed, 4E208

The Rangers set out once more from Skingrad on the 11th of Second Seed, Kylian and other scouts had uncovered a Dwemer presence to the north-east. Brutus gave the order for the Rangers to prepare, and by early afternoon, they headed out, Daro’Vasora and Brynja amongst their ranks, along with other familiar faces. It would take them a day and a half to reach the edifice the scouts had described. What proved more disturbing was the fact that the scouts reported that the structure seemed to hold prisoners, and furthermore, they had witnessed prisoners being taken out of cages, where they were slaughtered without mercy by two Dwemer overseers. Whatever it was the Dwemer were doing, it seemed that they were harvesting the souls to fill soul gems. Though they couldn’t determine the reason why. The unsettling news prompted Brutus to lead a rescue mission, and here they were, trekking through the woods once more on a mission to liberate the prisoners. The feeling of triumph couldn’t last forever. The success against the Dwemer at Elenglynn proved fleeting. Brutus sketched out a plan, the Rangers would enter the camp at nightfall, and under the cover of darkness, free the trapped prisoners.

Nothing went according to plan.

Kylian and his scouts explored the surrounding area for any sign of Dwemer, yet they found nothing. When they returned to Brutus, he gave the signal to infiltrate the camp. A dozen or so Rangers crept into the campsite, the rest waiting hidden in the tree line, and the Rangers in the camp began breaking off the locks on the cages. They had freed eight prisoners when a blood-curdling cry came up from the rear of the group. Dwemer metal glinted off the sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

Brynja didn’t remember much of what happened next. She remembered crouching next to Daro’Vasora when she heard lightning crackle behind her. A terrifying clamor rose from the Rangers, there were Dwemer behind them, slaughtering anyone that came across their path. Brynja turned to fight when another cry rose from the internment camp. Dwemer spilled out of the structure that must have acted as their command center, and made short work of the Rangers that had stole away into the camp. She couldn’t see how many Dwemer there were altogether, but there were too many to fight them off. Brutus knew this all too well, after suffering a loss at Elenglynn of over a dozen dead, they were in no position to fight off this many Dwemer on either fronts. He gave a loud bellow, sounding the call for retreat.

“Run!!”

The Rangers scattered like the leaves in autumn on a gusty wind. They ran every which way trying to escape the onslaught from the Dwemer. And Brynja? She ran blind into the forest, the screams of those being slaughtered filling the night. She knew that if she could just make it back to Skingrad… she had a chance of surviving.

By the morning of the 14th, those that had survived had found each other on the retreat through the woods. They started the mission with over fifty Rangers, they had replenished their numbers with new volunteers, most feeling reassured at their success in Elenglynn, and now… there were few survivors, Brutus, Kylian, Pollux, Gregor, Raelynn, Jaraleet, Latro, Daro’Vasora, Solandil, and Brynja were all that remained. The return to Skingrad proved harrowing and pressed for time, fear filled their hearts as the Dwemer appearing behind them at any given moment lingered as a possibility. They continued without stopping, only to relieve themselves, not even for sleep nor to eat. They didn’t have the time. The only thing that kept them coming was getting back to Skingrad where safety was found in numbers.

They arrived hungry, and tired in the early evening on the 15th of Second Seed. The atmosphere surrounding Skingrad had changed considerably, though it was hard to pinpoint what exactly had happened until they arrived at the Rangers tent. They stopped to rest when Pollux swore under his breath.

“What in the Gods… the Dominion is here?” His words caused their heads to turn. Sure enough, a group of five Dominion soldiers swept by, as if on patrol.

Brynja surveyed the scene, contemplating what had happened, she shook her head, “C’mon the lot of you, Rhea would know what’s happened. Plus there’s food, and water.” She shouldered her rucksack and set off for the campsite with the others in tow.

As they made their way through the refugee camp, it was evident to see there were a lack of Skingrad guards. The refugees themselves appeared… exhausted and tired, but quiet? They passed by the main gate where an assembly of Dominion soldiers stood guard around a wagon laden with supplies. A line of refugees formed in front of it, where the soldiers handed off rations, more generous than what the Count had given. Brynja’s head swiveled at a distinct conversation.

“Rumor has it that no one has seen the Count in four days. And look there, that’s Captain Petronius, he doesn’t look as stiff as before.” She turned to look at the commenter, a gruff older man with a dirtied tunic.

“I think it’s a bit odd, to be honest, Count Hassildor would have made an appearance… does he still hide behind his walls?” The speculative conversation was concerning at most. What exactly happened since the Rangers left? Rhea would know.

“If my mouth wasn’t so damned dry, I’d spit in the dirt.” Daro’Vasora remarked to Brynja as they passed the conversation, looking around with slitted eyes that conveyed contempt for the people milled around, gossiping like old hags. “Looks like the Count sold Skingrad out to the fucking people who cost my father his leg. Do you think they’re going to let anyone come and go as they please? This is an act of war.”

“We need to get to Rhea.” Brynja said her words strained.

They reached the campsite within minutes, and what an odd sight to behold. Those that had remained behind, were helping load a wagon with the supplies that they had gathered. There was Calen, in the bed of the wagon, helping to arrange what the supplies were left, Rhona and Megana passed off the items to him while Alim and Durantel handled the larger items. There was Rhea, grim-faced and notably irritated. On seeing her, the remaining Rangers gathered around her as Daro’Vasora and Brynja sought for answers.

“Rhea, what’s happened?” Brynja started, her brows furrowed, hand sweeping towards the scene behind them.

“I’ve hired Calen’s carriage service to get us the hell out of here.” She said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not safe for any of us here, there’s no reason to stay and starve.” Rhea shot back, the bags under her eyes telling a story of a hagrid woman who had not been looking after herself. Tears in her clothing and bandages told of hardship and struggle in the time the Rangers had been gone, and the glances she gave towards the Dominion troops brought a dark cloud to her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly through her nose and composing herself. “We’ve only a small window to get out before the area is locked down and fortified. Skingrad is now a vassal to the Aldmeri Dominion. The new Count saw to that in exchange for providing relief to the people of Skingrad and the refugees. I’ve been assured free passage if we leave immediately before nightfall.”

Daro’Vasora cut in, “New Count?” she demanded.

“We waited for you as long as we could. Now you’re here, we leave.” Rhea responded, walking back towards the wagon, leaving the Nord and Khajiit to share a look.

Brynja shifted uneasily, she didn’t know what to make of this, but she trusted Rhea, “I’m going with her, Vasora. I’m not going to stay here and get caught up in this mess. And yourself, will you come with us?”

“Staying here with the unwashed masses or managing to get somewhere where I can find my footing isn’t a choice at all.” The Khajiit replied, grinding her toe in the dirt. She was exhausted, the battle was all too fresh in her mind. “I don’t trust Rhea, I’m starting to think she’s incompetent. But I’ll follow this road until it’s over, then who knows? I’m still a bit battered and jumpy after, y’know. What happened. We got lucky the first time, and now we’ve escaped what should have been certain death twice because we thought we could win. I’m still, what’s the word? Processing?” she asked rhetorically, readjusting the pack on her back and looking to the wagon. “I just don’t know what’s the smart thing to do anymore. Death seems to be lingering around me like a miasma that everyone around me is breathing too deeply.”

“If there’s anything I learned from the war, Daro’Vasora, it’s if you stay too long in one place, death will find you. The key is to keep moving no matter what. Even if you are afraid. And trust me, I am very afraid.”

“So keep running until you’ve run out of places to run? That does not sound inviting.”

“It’s better than dying.” She pointed out.

A voice thundered across the camp, turning, the two Aldmeri Dominion ambassadors she had spotted their first day in Skingrad now stood on a makeshift podium, triumphantly looking across the sea of people. Standing with them was a familiar Dark Elf to Alim and Rhea; Severus.

“Good people of Cyrodiil, we come to your aid not as conquerors, but as liberators! Where was the Empire when you fled your homes from the onslaught of the invaders? Where was the Empire when you turned to your neighbours and direly required aid? You came to this city, to Skingrad, and Count Hassildor turned his back to the people of Cyrodiil who called to him your most desperate hour, and so that creature of darkness who has ruled for centuries has been disposed of in favour of a Mer who has suffered in quiet indignity for decades, someone who understands that his fellow citizens in Skingrad would prosper as a member of the Aldmeri Dominion, bridging the divide between the worlds of Men and Mer that led to the catastrophe of the Great War. And so, it brings me great pleasure to introduce the fine people of Skingrad and the citizens of Cyrodiil to Count Severus Favani, the new ruler of Skingrad and an emissary between our people and yours.” Runil announced, the male Altmer immaculate in Summerset finery and a glass sword upon his hip, stepped aside to allow Severus to take center stage, his posture erect, his hands behind his back in military fashion.

“I look upon you and see a mixture of emotions; confusion, hurt, loathing, hope… all of you are entitled to the injustices you have suffered and many of you are loyal to the Empire that has let you languish in suffering outside of Skingrad’s walls. It was an injustice that I could no longer tolerate, and Count Hassildor neglected to assist a single one of you because of a pitiful devotion to the Empire.” the Dunmer let this linger for several moments, letting his eyes scan the crowd around him. “Let me ask you this, my friends and compatriots; what on Nirn has the Empire done for any of us? We swear devotion to an Empire that was founded from the bones of the Septims, who in turn conquered all of Tamriel, our ancestors, with a weapon of damning power; the Numidium. It was a weapon of Dwemer construction powered by blasphemy of the greatest order. None could stand against it, and soon all of our ancestors bent the knee to Tiber Septim, who looked upon all of our people as fruits for the harvest.

“That is what the Empire is, a malignant tumour that could only tolerate peace so long as it subjugated each and every one of us. Now the Dwemer are back; how long do you think it will be before they unleash a new Numidium upon us all, and will Emperor Felix Mede decide to use this new weapon upon Tamriel once more to cement his own legacy in hopes of becoming a new Talos? I do not know about you, but I prefer to stand on the right side of history. The Dominion will ensure our safety and not capitulate to the whims of the Deep Elves. Each of you now stand with the charity of Summerset, the Valenwood, and the Khajiiti Kingdoms in your stomachs, your veins, your hearts; they have provided the food and medicine each of you desperately needed. Before that, I orchestrated supplies to be snuck out of Hassildor’s clutches to help the most needy. You are safe because I wished it so, because I wasn’t afraid to break with tradition because the people matter to me more than an allegiance forced by a tyrant centuries ago.

“I understand that many of you have reservations about this new order, and for many, the wounds of the Great War may never heal, which is why those of you wishing to return to the Empire will be permitted to leave until sunrise tomorrow, where the Dominion will be forced to entrench to protect the populace against aggression. Supplies will be offered freely, and we encourage you to make use of them. For those who wish to remain, we will ensure that you are all adequately fed, sheltered, and protected, and together we will ensure a bright future for us all. Thank you.” with that, he stepped away from the stage, and it was difficult to gauge the overall reaction from the crowd, past perhaps disbelief or confusion.

Rhea scowled, holding her arms tightly around herself, “That’s why we need to go. Understand?” she said. And so her group along with the surviving Rangers began to break up camp, preparing for departure from an ever tightening noose. It would seem that another front for the war was soon to be on the horizon, only no one believed the Empire had enough in it to withstand both.

Before the break of dawn, Rhea roused the group from their sleep as the grey light of morning crept across the land. Like a curtain being swept back from a window, the rising sun brightened the eastern horizon, chasing away the heavy blanket of night. Unbeknownst to Rhona, Cezare had found her on the morning the caravan set out. He couldn’t believe his eyes, there she stood, smiling and chatting away with Calen, of all people. The blood boiling in his veins at the blatant betrayal, he set out to gather some friends that would aid him in his conquest of regaining his estranged wife. He decided to play it safe, with such a large group and well armored, he would need to catch her when she was alone. It didn’t help that a particular Altmer hovered nearby when she wasn’t close to Calen. That rat bastard. Cezare would make certain he would pay as well. Rhea had slept little that night, her mind heavy with the consequences of her choices. Part of her wondered if Alim struggled in a similar fashion. Nevertheless, as the morning sun ascended, the caravan headed westward. Many in the group had to walk as the carriage held most of their supplies, leaving Calen to drive Danish along the western road. For once, the weather yielded plentiful sunshine and warm breezes fragranced with the smell of sweet meadow grasses, and blossoming flowers. With such amicable weather, it felt like a lie to Brynja, with everything that had happened, did they even deserve pleasant days like this? So many had died and continued to suffer, yet here they were, making their way across Cyrodiil towards Anvil. The end of the first day on the road was spent in remote silence, no one having the stomach to say much, but by the afternoon of the second day the caravan’s spirits had lifted.

The remainder of the journey proved uneventful, no bandits, no wild animals, nor foul weather. It felt almost too easy. Rhea had kept quiet for the majority of the journey, only speaking when needed. The thoughts swirling around her mind were dark and troubled, she struggled to rationalize and reason with herself over the choices she had made. Hadn’t she done what any sensible leader would have done? She had done what was necessary to ensure the livelihood of those under her care, but was it the right thing?

Brynja spent her time keeping to herself, even though she helped act as a guard for the wagon by taking to the front of the group. She noticed Daro’Vasora spent more time around Latro, and that didn’t surprise her in the least. She had noticed the two of them drifting closer together, and to be quite frank, it didn’t bother her in the least. She felt… happy, that Daro’Vasora had someone to turn to. Though, the more she thought about the two of them together, the more it crushed her spirit. Brynja tried not to engage in her own self-pity, while the small amount of alcohol did little to soothe her fraggled mind. One night, Brynja had found sleep particularly hard to come by, and as she left her tent, she caught sight of Rhona leaving her own tent. Their eyes met, and Rhona smiled.

“Can’t sleep?” She asked softly so as not to wake anyone. Brynja shook her head.

“Come walk with me.” She offered, waving her hand. Together the two set off into darkness. They hadn’t wandered far before Rhona took a seat amongst the meadowgrasses, patting a spot next to her. For hours on end, the two of them shared Rhona’s pipe until Brynja had become too drowsy to stand, and so they returned to camp, where Rhona bid her a farewell, and slipped into her tent. Rhona had warned Brynja of the effects of smoking mugwort, and for once, she had the deepest of sleeps with the most vivid dreams, something that revolved around her mind like a water wheel.

---

Anvil, 21st Second Seed, 4E208…

The crown jewel of the Gold Coast loomed ahead like a shining beacon in the late afternoon sun as the caravan approached, they were exhausted and footsore after a weary five and a half day march and camping expedition. The climate held a warm, almost subtropical atmosphere, largely in part to the same currents that made Hammerfell a hot arid climate, and even allowed Summerset to enjoy the same lush climate that was said to always be warm and inviting. For those in the caravan, Anvil was safety, and arguably the most beautiful thing they’d seen in a long time. While Anvil received a number of people who had fled the Imperial City, along with the subsequent influx of those coming from Skingrad to escape Dominion influence, the city held a peaceful and relaxing aura, nothing appeared out of place or amiss, save for an increased Legion presence. The Legion ranked up their establishment of wartime defences, and a number of Imperial warships acted like guardians in the harbour.

Word had reached Anvil about the fall of Imperial City along with Skingrad’s capitulation to the Dominion, rattling those loyal to the Empire; the Legions were still stalwart defenders of the Empire, its crack soldiers and daring officers were second to none, but only a fool would fail to see that they’d suffered heavy blows that severely limited their options; they couldn’t move on Skingrad without risking leaving Anvil and Kvatch exposed to a Dominion encirclement. They couldn’t move on the Imperial City without risking everything due to the unknown danger the Dwemer posed; all they knew was that they were incredibly advanced with technology and made such short work of the Imperial City’s defenders that many believed them invincible. Morale, needless to say, was very low across the board.

And so, the Legionnaires of Anvil implored any new arrivals to share what intelligence they could about the happenings to the East, and the Dwemer.

Daro’Vasora knew that this was the end of the road for the band of companions she’d been a part of for entirely too long for her liking. They were safe, or as safe as that word could possibly mean in this climate. Seeing this as an opportunity to break free of Rhea’s meddlesome grasp once and for all, she turned to the Imperial woman. “All of this is your fault, you know. Nothing you’ve done the past few weeks has been anything except a vanity project of yours to glue the shattered vase back together, only you’re missing most of the pieces because they’re no longer alive. You meddled in things you never understood, you clung to each of us like a mother hen who was possessive to the point of suffocation, and I don’t know what in Oblivion you did in Skingrad, but I saw the way you looked at that Dunmer and the Dominion troops. You had your hand in that, didn’t you?” she stepped away with a dismissive push towards Rhea. “It doesn’t matter. You didn’t pay any of us, and we all made it just fine without you lording over us. Good riddance, and go fuck yourself. I’m done.” she stepped away, beginning the walk towards the Legionnaire captain who was called for information.

Rhea didn’t say anything in response, a darkness had crept over her features. Instead, she resumed walking towards the gates of the city, as if daring anyone else to pick sides or to abandon her like the insolent Khajiit. “I did what I had to.” She said to no one in particular. “At least you’re all safe.”

The group made it through the gates of the the city, the white walls and red tiled roofed buildings were a distinctive mark to the city, while oil lamp posts gave the coastal port a somewhat vacation destination vibe. The populace appeared relaxed, and everyone continued their daily routines; merchants hawked wares in the streets, the smell of roasting fish came from restaurants, and entertainers performed on the cobblestone pathways for coin. Considering the desolation and soul-crushing despondency they’d come from, it was a bit of a shock, like all of the horrors that had seemed to follow them didn’t exist here, like a nightmare that had been so hard to wake up from.

“Well, port towns like this are a good place to look for young and eager fighters. I’m going to see about gathering some recruits.” Brutus mentioned, the remainder of the Rangers still standing by his side.

“You’re going back?” Rhea asked, incredulously.

The balding Imperial nodded. “Fight isn’t over yet. Just because the calm exists here doesn’t mean it will remain that way. I’m an old soldier; peace has to be earned and maintained by fighting for it. The Rangers aren’t in any condition to fight right now, but the war isn’t going anywhere. It’s waiting for us. It’s been an honour.” he saluted the group, and the Rangers departed into the streets, likely to find a tavern to pay tribute to their fallen comrades.

“I could use a drink right about now.” Brynja said, part of her wondered if she could get away with another drinking contest like she had back in the Imperial City. She turned to Rhea, speaking softly, “You did what you had to do. And you brought us here despite all of the travesties we’ve endured. If you ever need a blade, check any tavern, and you’re bound to find me.” Brynja bowed at the waist, and when she rose up, she looked Rhea square in the eye. She grunted with a nod, and left.

Rhona on the other hand, was incredibly familiar with Anvil, as she had just come from there not even four weeks ago. She turned to face Mortalmo, her words soft spoken, “I need to raise some coin, I’ll be off enchanting items in the street if you need me before the day is over.” By then those remaining had begun to fizzle out, they said their goodbyes and drifted off into the sea of people.

Anvil, Harborside - 21st of Second Seed, Midday


Rhona

The city of Anvil bore a familiar atmosphere all too well for Rhona. It had been a little less than a month when she left for Skingrad. The weather hadn’t changed much since her departure into Rihad, or even when she left for Skingrad. The air still held the salted scent of the sea mixed with warm air, spices, and now, honeyed flower blossoms and the faint smell of tobacco smoke drifted like a thin blanket. The sights, sounds, and scents of Anvil made her feel sleepy, as if she needed to take a century long sleep before she could shake the tiredness from her soul. Her mind strayed to Durantel, he had taught her so much in so little time, and yet her tutelage was far from over. She thought of Cezare, and of Calen. Part of her wondered if he had escaped from Skingrad before the Dominion tightened its grip on the city, or if he had managed to become caught up in the fiasco. She hoped for the latter. She wondered about Calen, would he pay homage to the temple of Dibella? Rhona had avoided him as much as necessary, she had resigned herself to a degree of pleasantries, that’s what she told herself at least. After all, Aurelia’s leaving was still a fresh wound in her heart that she was still trying to mend. Rhona had rationalized it in every way possible, but it always came back to the fact that she was too scared to set foot outside of her known world, and to place faith in Aurelia, and her friends. But was it different with Calen? Were they just friends? Yes. That had to be it. And it wasn’t necessarily the fact that she didn’t like him as an individual, but rather, she didn’t want to hurt him. What if Cezare found her again? Or rather, what if he found her, and she was with him? She shuddered at the thought alone. His anger, that unbridled rage, especially when inebriated, Gods it terrified her. She endured that pain for so long, she couldn’t bear the thought of bringing anyone else into his destructive path, even for a piece of temporary happiness.

And that was it. In every blinding way, every deceivable concept, in those quiet regions of her heart that she buried deep inside, Rhona believed that she had made the right choice… even if it meant for her to make a sacrifice for her own satisfaction. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? Her mind darkened like a storm cloud brewing on the distant horizon, no, Calen was a follower of Dibella. She had let herself be weak in his presence, she had sought comfort in him like she had Aurelia. Didn’t she know better? Her throat tightened. Perhaps she was too naive for her own good, or at least too much of a coward to admit it out loud. Gods, she was a fool at heart. A hopeless romantic, easily swept up in the tides of passion, and temporary love. And that was that. Besides, she had her training with Durantel to focus on as well. He had taken her training seriously, and he certainly had no fondness in dilly-dallying. She appreciated the Altmer for his diligence and tenacity to see her training through.

She hadn’t realized that her train of thoughts consumed the time spent walking to the docks, but it didn’t take long for her to sit herself down and spread out her belongings. She began to hawk her own wares at passerby’s. Rhona recognized a series of familiar faces dotted amongst the crowds, and some even stopped to say hello. By early evening she had enchanted half a dozen swords, amulets and trinkets. She had enough coin for a room at the tavern if she wanted, plenty for food and wine, and more importantly, enough left over to buy some charged soul gems. Now if only she could find the vendor again… Rhona gathered up her belongings and set off into the city, searching for the man that had supplied her with soul gems on her last stop. Her feet were sore from the five days spent traveling, and all that was on her mind now was, find some soul gems, and then get some hot food in her belly, plus a nice hot bath if she could spare it. Not to mention a soft bed to rest her head.



Brynja

The Flowing Bowl

She always surprised herself in the least, finding a tavern without any prior direction had its uses. Like a bee to a flower, Brynja found herself crossing the threshold of The Flowing Bowl. The structure appeared as old as the Oblivion era, if not older. The floorboards protested under her weight as she headed for the counter, Brynja lowered herself into a barstool, her gaze sweeping across the patrons around her. Her arrival caught the attention of the barkeep, a tanned man with black cropped hair. He was much older than her, at least ten years her senior, but he still had his good looks about him, she would give him that. He sidled on up to her, stretching his massive bear-like hands across the counter/

“What’ll be for ya?” He asked, her ears picking up on the distinct dialect between someone from the Imperial City and Anvil. His words were softer, and slower, with a bit of a twang.

“Gimme a bottle of your cheapest ale.” Brynja fished out what coin she had left. Her gaze focused on the gleam of the gold septim as she slid it across the counter towards the barkeep. Money was always a fickle thing when she wasn’t looking to sell her blade, and with the entire incident of Rhea being unable to pay them accordingly, Brynja needed a way to make some more coin, and fast. She watched as he claimed the septim, and proceeded to fill her a mug of ale. When he returned with it, she welcomingly accepted it. Finally.

As he turned away, Brynja called out to him, “Say, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

He turned back around, an eyebrow raised, “Oh? And what’ll that be?”

“Well, it looks pretty slow around here, and with as many people that are filtering in through Anvil, I’m surprised that you’re not packed to the brim.” Brynja commented, taking a sip of the frothy ale.

“Aye, it’s not busy during the daytime hours, as the soldiers are busy with work, but during the evening, they all come crawling here. So what’s this proposition?” She could tell he was curious.

“I know I could draw a crowd. How about some good ol’ fashion dueling? No fight to the deaths or anything, just a simple bet. Two fighters. Me against someone else, the patrons would come and place their bets with you. You keep a percentage of the septims earned-”

“And for yourself?”

“Simple. The bets placed against me, I keep. Plus a free room, and as much ale as I can drink.”

“...You’re a big lass.”

“Aye.”

“You’d drink me dry.”

“Never. Think of all the gold that would come flowing into your pockets. I’ve done this before and it works out quite well for both parties. You attract more patrons with thirsts needing to be quenched, and me, I get a roof over my head, plus something to drink.”

“How good are you with a blade?”

“Look-”

“Marius.”

“Right, look here Marius, I served as a House Carl for the Thane of Windhelm for nearly eight years. I was a healer in the Civil war, brother of mine taught me how to fight. What more could you want?”

“Gods be praised.”

“Aye. So we’ve a deal?”

“Aye. When will you start?”

“Bring me another ale, and let your patrons know. I’ll be ready by late afternoon.” Brynja said. She almost couldn’t believe her luck. Here she was, finding another willing innkeep who would to her have free room and ale by helping attract patrons via a sword fight with anyone that had a desire to put their blade to hers. Part of her felt like an idiot, like an attraction part of a troupe, but she also couldn’t shake the feeling that this was an exceptional idea. What could go wrong?

An hour later, Brynja found herself standing outside of The Flowing Bowl, her entire suit of armor and sword at ready. A crowd of curious onlookers had assembled, mostly drawn due to her towering height, and curious to see who would challenge her. She owed it to Marius, he had done as she had asked, and spread the word like wildfire. He even enlisted the help of a serving maid to help fill the mugs of thirsty patrons while he beckoned to the onlookers.

“Step right up! Who wants to challenge this fierce and deadly Nord warrior from the icy lands of Skyrim? Don’t be shy! Just a simple dueling matching, no killing allowed. C’mon folks!”

Daro’Vasora got to work immediately, and within a few short hours, she’d sat down for a chat with the Legionnaires, telling her of her experiences going as far back as the Imperial City, her findings and Elenglynn, and sharing some of the information from her notebooks and speculations. A scribe wrote furiously to try and keep up with the young woman who had managed to both fight and survive the Dwemer, as well as had a background studying their artifacts and ruins. She was all too happy to accept the fresh food they provided as she recounted her story, told of weaknesses she’d noticed, and the curious observation that on the whole, there didn’t seem to be any functional improvements on the Dwemer designs. For her troubles, she was given a surprisingly hefty coin purse and a Legate began to relay instructions to scholars and the combat engineers that populated the outer works. For her part, Daro’Vasora felt somewhat validated after the failures she’d endured since this whole mess began. Maybe people who were trained for this sort of thing could make use of what she knew.

For now, the first time in Alkosh knows how long, she was alone and not beholden to a group or another’s whim. What was going to be a lucrative contract turned out being an endless nightmare that cost Daro’Vasora her mentor, her home, and very nearly her life. She felt vulnerable and lost, but it wasn’t the first time she had to start from scratch. Zegol’s loss was the hardest, but she still had family back in Leyawiin. Maybe it was time to visit them?

One step at a time, Sora. You don’t have to decide anything today. she reminded herself, walking through the city gates and into the deceptively tranquil city proper. After the past few weeks, anywhere that wasn’t in the midst of a crisis seemed to be impossibly normal. Vendors were set up, mostly with wares designed to lure in tourists, and a few enterprising fishermen even brought up their catches from the docks to be the first ones people would run into. Jewelry was common, but what she really needed was some new clothing; most of hers was positively ravaged since Imperial City.

Walking the warm-breeze infused streets in search of a suitable place, Daro’Vasora’s eyes caught a sign that looked like it was likely copied from a dozen more successful businesses, and when she entered the shop, the clerk behind the desk appraised her disdainfully. Her words followed suit, to her credit. The Khajiit hated when people minced words.

“Beggars aren’t permitted here.” The greying, crow-eyed Breton’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Please leave before I call the guards.” She stated.

Daro’Vasora didn’t heed the words, instead approaching the counter and slapping her mace down on it carelessly. It had obvious signs of being recently used. “People tend to look this way when you’ve been on the road and fighting a war you probably don’t think exists in your perfumed cadaver of a body. Look, I’ve been on the road since Skingrad, kindly pull that, ‘I wish I was highborn so I’m going to act like I think highborn behave’ act out of your ass. I’m a paying customer, although I can easily take my coin elsewhere and laugh when this place can’t make rent next month because lady, you need the business.”

The shopkeeper leered at her, appeared to consider saying something caustic, but between the mace, the Khajiit’s disposition, and the coin purse that was held aloft, she relented, instead offering a pen-thin smile that opposed her actual thoughts. “Very well, what can I do for you?”

After twenty or so minutes, Daro’Vasora managed to trade 45 Septims and one of her Dwemer-made bangles for a sleeveless embroidered scarlet tunic with black trim, a pair of simple black trousers, and a pair of sandals. Most of her coin from the guard was gone, but wearing something that made her feel like a person again was invaluable. It put her in a good headspace, she felt. Her old boots and more rugged clothing was now in a bag, carried in the same hand as her mace. Now she had to find somewhere to sleep for the night and find herself a bath to wash of the offensive reek that she was sure lingered in her fur.

There was a public bathhouse that the Khajiit recalled from one of her earlier visits to the city. Deciding that she could spare a few coins for the chance at some fresh water that wasn’t a lake or river and maybe, Divines willing, some soap, was worth it. It took another hour to find the place, and gladly walked inside, paying the entry fee of 5 Septims, shoving her belonging into a footlocker while picking up a bathrobe, a bar of soap and a key on a rope about her neck and heading into the large open-air, circular basin and stepping into the perfumed water, letting the grime and stress wash away as she sunk into the water, allowing her head to submerge for as long as she could fight her natural buoyancy. It was a sensation she’d gone far too long without, and almost symbolically, she drowned the road, the war, everything awful with it and emerged anew when she broke the surface to take in air.

After a few minutes of scrubbing down, a voice descended upon her. “Is that Daro’Vasora? My, it’s been quite some time.”

Knowing immediately who it was, her immediate loathing of Rhea was put aside in favour of the all-too-familiar piece of shit who was approaching her to the left. A ruggedly handsome Breton man with slicked back blonde hair, a square jaw with a neatly trimmed beard and an impossibly white smile to compliment his sea-blue eyes settled next to her, like nothing absolutely rotten happened between them. “Fuck you, Roux. I prayed to Baan Daar that you shattered your femur or got consumed by trolls, but I can see the Divines don’t give a shit about justice. Leave me in peace before I decide to claw your eyes out.” Her voice dripped with enough malice to stop a charging bear, but Roux wasn’t a bear. He was so much worse.

“That was so long ago, my dear. I can’t say I regret leaving you behind to claim the spoils myself, but I’d like to think the lesson was one that served you well. Can you say you’ve never done the same?” he asked.

“I’m not you. We both would have been rich off of that scepter, and it was my research that got us there.” She replied, remembering all too well that this was the same man who taught her the hard lesson about being able to cut ties, to expect betrayals, to never drink enough to lose your judgment. She’d learned a lot of hard lessons from Roux, and she got a damn lot more talented at her trade because of his betrayal. In a way, she became as talented and effective as she was because of him. She sunk down in the water deep enough that only her eyes were above the surface, a series of irritated bubbles popping in front of her.

“True,” Roux conceded, “But alone I was quite a bit richer. You grew from the experience, I trust. I’d apologize, but we both know that would be empty. However, in my recent expeditions, I’ve discovered that good partners are hard to come across, so while we can’t change the past, perhaps there’s a way to alleviate the indignation at my hand. I’ve a proposition for you, if you’re willing to suffer me a few moments. I’ll make even speaking worth your while.”

“Leave me alone, you’ve got nothing to offer me.” Daro’Vasora shot back, ears folded back and teeth bared. “You’re a backstabbing piece of shit who can’t do anything without riding off of others’ success.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. What isn’t deniable is that I’m wealthy and well connected, but here isn’t the time or place to speak of business. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, but I trust you need a place to stay tonight?” he raised a hand to cut her off from retorting. “I’m not offering to share a room, or a hotel. Simply offering a small concession for your time, is all. Meet me at the Frisky Dolphin in two hours. I hope you’ll permit me the chance.” He said, departing Daro’Vasora’s company by departing the bath and gathering his own robe. She hated that she was even considering what he had to say.

---

Daro’Vasora walked through the doors of the Frisky Dolphin and seated at a corner table was Roux, who was with a pair of associates who met his gaze and stood up to leave, passing by the Khajiit on their way out. He raised a heavily ringed hand in greeting; knowing him, every single one of them were enchanted. Daro’Vasora pulled up a seat, and a waiter came over immediately, placing a glass of brandy in front of both of them. True to his word, Roux shoved a large pouch towards her. Opening it revealed a mixture of gemstones and coins, the value would be quite substantial.

“There’s more where that came from, provided you agree to what I have to say. I’ve heard about what happened to Imperial City, and I see that you’re here alone, so I wanted to offer my deepest condolences and hope that this stipend could help you find your footing again. I am truly sorry for your loss,” he bowed his head respectfully. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken or running to inaccurate conclusions, but you’ve lost your mentor in the attack?”

The Khajiit nodded slowly, mixed feelings filling her heart. Roux, to his credit, actually looked genuinely crestfallen. “I’d feared that, and couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you today. I’d hoped you’d been on a new expedition when the attack happened, but I can see in your eyes you were in the middle of it all. I won’t pretend to know the pain you carry, and I’ve never wished you ill or ruin. I was selfish, and I can’t say I wouldn’t make the same decision today, but I always felt you were far too trusting. Greed got the better of my judgment, and since then, we’ve often competed for the same prizes.” He grinned ruefully. “It’s been a compelling and lively rivalry, wouldn’t you agree?”

“The only difference is I’m better than you ever were. I just never cared about the coin like you did.” Daro’Vasora stated, her fingers drumming irritably on the wooden table, her nails clicking with each tap. Roux’s grin didn’t falter.

“Perhaps you are. Regardless, I’m pleased you’ve become quite capable. It’s that capability that I’m counting on. You’ve always been something of an expert on the lost elves, whereas my specialty has been the world of men. What if I proposed to you that I’ve a lead on one of the first great Yokudan settlements in Hammerfell, and that I’ve reason to believe that it may contain artifacts belonging to the Sinestral Elves?”

“Why should I believe anything you’ve got to say to me?” Daro’Vasora replied warily.

“Because I believe in second chances, and I’ve tried to present myself in as good faith as possible. I’ve been honest and didn’t lie about my past actions to try and alleviate the blow.”

“You literally said you’d likely pull the same stunt again.” She retorted.

“True, if we were in the same position we were in back then. Now I’ve begun to see value in how you always sought accreditation rather than pursuing wealth, and after enjoying the spoils of my finds, and other partnerships over the years, I’ve come to realize that wealth on its own can be somewhat mundane; experience and knowledge are a far more valuable resource. I wasn’t actively searching for you in particular, but I’ve been in need of someone who understands lost elves better than most, and I’ll be damned if you aren’t one of the best at navigating ruins. What I propose is this; should you join me, I will give you claim to all of the Sinestral elf artifacts that may be present, and if not, you may have your pick of any of the Yokudan artifacts present. It would be my way of apologizing for earlier in a tangible way, and perhaps open the doors for future partnerships.”

The Khajiit grunted, staring off towards the room’s central firepit. “I don’t trust you, and I’ve just come out of a rather disastrous partnership. My trust doesn’t come easily.”

“Of course, and that is why I will give you three days to decide. I have a modest ship, the Cypher, docked. At sunrise in three days, I will be departing with or without you. If it helps you, you may bring any associates of yours you may have that you trust.” He exposed the palms of his hands, as if to reveal he was concealing nothing. “There is nothing more I can do to express my intentions. Consider my proposition at your leisure, but in the meantime, I will leave you to your own devices.” He stood, raising his glass. “To Zegol and our potential partnership.” He toasted. He drank the glass back, whereas Daro’Vasora didn’t touch hers. Roux straightened out his tunic and gestured to the clerk.

“I’ve taken care of your accommodation for the next three nights, I told the clerk I don’t wish to know the room number and only you will know it when you tell him your name. I’m staying aboard the Cypher should you require me for any reason.” With a bow, he departed, leaving a small stack of Septims on the table to presumably pay for a meal. Either he was genuinely trying to help, or flaunting his success. It wasn’t until after he departed that Daro’Vasora waved the barkeep over, saying simply, “Menu, please.”

Meg had never felt more like a leaf being tossed about by the wind until their journey from Skingrad to Anvil. Yes, she was a traveller, a wayfarer who was always on the go, but there was always an end result to that travelling, one that would leave her feeling satisfied and accomplished. Yet now... or rather, since the failed expedition under the Jerall Mountains, it seemed to her as if nothing was panning out well. From Imperial City to Skingrad and now to Anvil.

There were no more end results save surviving, or so it seemed, and this thought depressed her.

The start of the journey itself was somber, and for the most part Meg kept to herself, her increasingly darkening thoughts causing her habitual smile to linger only for instances rather than most of the time. It was a shame, and sometimes she scolded herself for this change of attitude as well. There was always positive to see in current events, at least that had been her way of thinking since she was a small child. Alas, it seemed the world had changed since then, darkening in both a literal and figurative sense.

Though she didn't realize it at the moment of travelling, the one good thing her quiet and solemn mood had brought about was that she was observing her surroundings even more than usual. The land was so different from Skyrim, the temperature warm and almost stifling at times, and yet so green when compared to the grey and white mountains of her homeland. The closer they got to Anvil, the more Meg could feel her dour mood lift, and though she still felt at a loss, she was beginning to appreciate the fact that even if she was just moving along as if she had no real path to follow, there was still much to appreciate.

It was Daro'Vasora's words to Rhea, however, that caused her to realize what a fool she had been. Disaster had struck and she had been affected... but who hadn't been? The fact that she was in this group with more than a couple of others proved that, the refugee camp proved that... Imperial city proved that. Everyone had lost something when the dwemer attacked. She was no one special to sulk and brood about being lost in life... not when she had a life where many others no longer did.

You're sure stupid, Meg...

And so, the very much alive Nord decided it was time make the best of the situation and take the opportunity of having a close look at what Anvil had to offer. It was a far cry from the refugee camp outside Skingrad, that was for sure. A mean-spirited person may have been envious that people here were enjoying peace and prosperity while others suffered, and the inkling of that thought did scratch at Meg's mind. However, the smell of food that wasn't cooked around a campfire was enough to push those musings to the side.

Before she could eat though, there was something else she needed to do first. In fact, she decided she wouldn't eat at all until she completed her self imposed task.

Who knew sending a letter home could be so daunting?

An hour or so later, feeling much lighter than she had in days, Meg found herself wandering up to a tavern. She wasn't lost, thankfully; having learned the usefulness of maps from Judena, she had made sure to draw out the path she was taking so that she'd at least be able to find her way back to the city gates. It was a rather crude map, the writing on it probably indecipherable by most, but it made sense to her.

"Right," she muttered as she added in the tavern, "time t'eat an' drink... if I can get in!" What in the name of Talos was going on? Both curious as well as pining for a drink, Meg pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring angry mutters that came her way. She only came to a stop when she reached the front of the line, just in time to see someone more than familiar.

Huh... now this ain' surprisin' at all... "How 'bout a fight then?" she called out, eyebrow raised, a hint of a grin dancing on her lips.

Nanine had been helping another refugee family when the Dominion arrived. Panicked voices and cries drew her attention to an approaching force. Expecting an attack, she hurriedly told the family to take shelter before heading over to the commotion with her hand on her blade. Instead of finding a Dominion army cutting its way to Skingrad, she found the High Elves handing out food and supplies to the needy and attempting to bring calm to the chaos. It nonplussed her, stopping her in her tracks. This was a Dominion trick, obviously, but how would this help them? Count Hassildor still held the walls of Skingrad, and while the refugees could be stirred into a mob, they were no soldiers. Nanine would get her answer only a few hours later, as it was announced that Skingrad had capitulated to the Dominion and was now firmly under its control. With no other familiar sight around the camp, and no one else she could truly trust at this point, Nanine fell back to the camp she had spent the night at a few days ago. She found them in preparations to leave, and leave quickly, only waiting for their members who had gone with the rangers. When those haggard few arrived, it was with more bad news; The Dwemer had laid a trap for them, and killed almost everyone.

When given the choice to leave or stay in Skingrad, Nanine went with Calen's wagon. She didn't trust the Dominion, and the group seemed to have a better plan than simply 'head a direction that is away from both the Dominion and the Dwemer.' So it was that she walked with them too Anvil. She was mostly quiet during the trip, contemplative. As much as she disliked the Dominion, she had to admire the boldness of the move. Too come as saviors instead of conquerors and pretend to be interested in helping the refugees against the callousness of the Empire and the cruelty of the Dominion was a stroke of brilliance. Their claims that they can defend against the Deep Elves were concerning. Either they Dominion arrogantly believed itself strong enough to beat back the Dwemer with their strange staves and mechanical creations, or they had something up their sleeves that ensured the Dwemer wouldn't attack.

Nanine wasn't sure which was worse.

As they got ever closer to Anvil, Nanine found herself regretting her choice, designed for Skyrim's cold, and her armor. The heat grew steadily more uncomfortable until she was forced to remove her armor. Getting out of her armor provided some relief, but not all. She would need to buy clothes more suited to the climate when they reached Anvil. The city was a much welcome change from the panic of Skingrad. Everything seemed under control and calm, with the expansive presence of the Legion doing much. News had already reached the city about Skingrad's fall, however, and tension was beginning to rise. The Legions could take on one foe, certainly. But two? One of whom had already almost beaten them, the other a completely unknown factor? People's faith in the Empire was beginning to strain.

The legionnaires in Anvil were desperate for any news. Nanine provided what information she could, readily. While she could only provide limited information about Skingrad, beyond a name and an accurate representation of its new count and what she had seen the Thalmor doing in the refugee camp, she could provide more information about the Dwemer and their constructs. She was only with the Legionnaires an hour, much of her information already being covered by Daro'Vasora, but her drawings and notes on them were readily taken by the Legion, if met with a bit of skepticism on how accurate she claimed them to be. Given a small pouch of gold coins and thanked for her service, Nanine headed out into the city to buy more weather appropriate clothing, and to stock up on some of the supplies she had lost in Skingrad and on the trip.

A few hours later, her pack restocked with supplies (including a new blanket, some extra clothes, and some more soul gems to practice with) and her clothes switched for something designed to let heat go rather than keep it in, Nanine carefully stored half of her remaining gold in the bottom of her pack. She would use the rest to wander the city, and see if there was anything interesting it had to offer beyond food that wasn't cooked over a campfire and a sense of normalcy. Securely tying her coins to her hip, Nanine headed into the city to see what it had to offer.

As the idyllic countryside lifted their spirits and they resumed talking amongst themselves, there was one among them who remained silent until they reached Anvil.

Gregor had escaped death narrowly, fighting his way out of the Dwemer counter-ambush back to back with the Argonian, Jaraleet -- the pair had encountered each other in the frantic melee by coincidence and, being both experienced in small unit tactics, stuck together instinctively. It had been extremely hairy and Gregor owed his survival to the fact that his will to live had been firing on all cylinders, allowing him to resist the mortal terror that overwhelmed so many of the other Rangers amongst the carnage. He had seen Tiber die. The young lad had screamed for help while he tried to push his guts back into his abdomen. Gregor had locked eyes with the dying boy for a split second but he could not go back for him without risking being cut down himself… so the Pale Reaper had left Tiber for dead. By the time Gregor and Jaraleet had put enough distance between them and the Dwemer not to have to fear for their lives anymore, Gregor found that he was positively covered in Dwemeri blood. It was… shocking. He’d seen and done horrible things but this simply stunned him into silence.

After a day of walking and thinking since their reunion with the other survivors, Gregor realized it wasn’t because it had been particularly gruesome or brutal. It had been, of course, but the Imperial necromancer was desensitized to violence and death by now. No, it was something else: the fact that he had lost. Unambiguous, total defeat. That was new. Gregor didn’t care for it at all. He still hadn’t been able to take a Dwemer’s soul and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t want the soul of a simple footsoldier anyway. He had expected the Dwemer to rely on their automatons entirely, to think combat beneath all of them, but that wasn’t true. There were ordinary Dwemer too. If his offering to the Ideal Masters was going to impress them at all, Gregor wanted the soul of a real Dwemer -- the tinkerers and metaphysical architects that had lingered in Tamrielic legend for so long.

But that seemed to be a pipe dream now. Gregor’s time walking was spent between worrying about his family now, as it seemed there was nothing to spare them from the wrath of the Deep Elves if their army moved further south, and agonizing over how the hell he was going to achieve his goal. Gregor had never backed down from any part of his quest ever since he had embarked on it ten years ago, but he had to admit that the full might of the Dwemer was an enemy he could not fight. It made sense to retreat to safety but at the same time they were walking away from what Gregor needed most: a dying Dwemer lord with a soul to steal. Still, the sight of Anvil in the afternoon sun was a welcome reprieve and Gregor swiftly made his way into the city after pausing to observe the falling out between Daro’Vasora and Rhea. He didn’t know the latter but the Khajiit’s words were venomous enough to make him immediately wary of the Imperial woman. Once inside, Gregor cleared his mind and set out to deal with the most immediate issue: the state of his clothes. He, too, visited the bathhouse and the annex where he could wash his clothes -- he spent two hours scrubbing all the elven blood out of his cloak and cleaning his armor until it shone again. It was good to have something to occupy his hands with and the physical labor calmed him down a little, helping him regain his focus. After he had washed himself and redressed he found he had made his choice. He would continue to pursue the soul of a Dwemer, but not by returning to the front and simply trying the same thing again, like Brutus wanted to. Gregor sought him out and politely resigned from the Rangers, pretending to be too shell-shocked to continue fighting, and Brutus dismissed him after a disapproving glare and a heavy sigh.

No, Gregor needed help. He had to be smart about his. Prepare, research, recuperate, regroup. Who could he turn to, however? He wandered through the city, his eyes barely taking in the sights, his mind twisting and turning this way and that. Sometimes people grasped him by the arm, asking what news he brought, but Gregor shook himself loose from their grasp and carried on without a word. He wasn’t going to spend his time on these people. There were more important things to do.

While Jaraleet had traded some banter with his travelling companions as they gained distance from Skingrad, the Haj-Eix, much like Gregor, had remained mostly silent through large portions of the journey to Anvil.

For one, he had barely escaped death at the hands of the Deep Elves thanks to Gregor's help. The chance encounter in the frantic melee that had ensued once the Dwemer had sprung their trap could have very well spelt the end of the assassin's life, but thanks to the help of the Imperial warrior they had both managed to escape with their lives and make their ways back to Skingrad. The staggering loss of life was something that bothered the Hidden Scale little, indoctrinated as he was since he was but a hatchling, and as such wasn't the cause of his silence throughout the vast majority of the trip towards Anvil. No, the cause for his silence laid in the sudden appearance of the Third Aldmeri Dominion in Skingrad. What did the Dominion stood to gain by offering its aid to a group of refugees? Jaraleet doubted that all citizens of Skingrad were happy with Count Hassildor's removal from power, especially when his replacement was openly backed up by the Dominion. The more he thought about it, the less the actions of the Dominion made sense to him; what value would Skingrad possess, surely the Dominion was made aware of the situation in Cyrodiil prior to taking over the city? Not to mention the fact that they surely must know that the Imperial Legions wouldn't take such an act without some retaliation of a sort?

These thoughts and more swam through Jaraleet's mind throughout the trip and the only conclusion that the assassin came to was that he needed to report on the sudden development to the An-Xileel. The return of the Dwemer and the interference of the Third Aldmeri Dominion were vital pieces of intelligence that the leaders of the Argonian people must be aware of, of this Jaraleet was certain. He knew that there was a safe-house in Anvil, the agent had stopped on his house in the Waterfront District on his way to the port-city, which was his motive for sticking with the group so far. When they got to the port-city he was present to hear the venomous words that Daro'Vasora slung to Rhea, a fact that made the Argonian wary of the Khajiit woman. While her words did have merit, it hadn't escaped Jaraleet's notice the way Rhea reacted to the announcement of Skingrad's new count, Vasora's words seemed far too driven by emotion for him to put too much stock in them. "I know I haven't been part of this group for too long." The assassin said to the Imperial woman, "But I believe Daro'Vasora is wrong in her accusations. While I'm not certain what happened at Skingrad while the rangers were away, I am certain that Vasora doesn't knows the full details either and, as such, she is in no position to judge you. You did what you had to do to keep this group safe and those are the actions of a good leader in my mind." The Argonian continued on, "If you have need of me, I'll be in Anvil for a while so don't hesitate to seek me out." He finished, bowing slightly to Rhea before heading into the city proper.

With that matter resolved, Jaraleet's next step was to approach Brutus. The use of the Colovian Rangers was spent for the Haj-Eix, and so he looked to disentangle himself from the militia. It didn't took him too long to find the leader of the Rangers, to whom he presented his desire to leave the militia. Brutus' reaction to that was evident, one of frustration and disapproval, but Jaraleet was able to convince the man by lying that he had relatives and friends living in Anvil and that he wanted to make sure that they were prepared in case the Dwemer mounted an attack on the port-city. Freed from any obligations towards the Rangers, Jaraleet turned towards his true objective: finding the safe-house of his fellow agent. It took him a long portion of the day, but eventually Jaraleet found the location of the safe-house. There he relayed all the information that he knew about the Dwemer, about the composition of their forces and of the technologies at their disposal, and of the Dominion's annexation of Skingrad, along with this the Haj-Eix also turned in all the information that he had gathered while living on the Imperial City. He knew that the information that he had gathered wouldn't be of much use at present, but it could very well give Argonia an edge once the invasion of the Dwemer was thwarted.

With all the information that he could provide already turned in, Jaraleet made one final request. He asked that a request be sent to the An-Xileel stating his intention to remain as a field agent during the duration of the Dwemeri invasion so that he could try and recover some of their technology, so that the Saxhleel people could benefit from the return of the Deep Elves. This request was met by some scepticism by the other Haj-Eix, but he promised to deliver his request as soon as he was able to do so. With his duties towards his people complete for the moment, Jaraleet left the safe-house and headed once more into the streets of Anvil.

---

The trek had been hard going and full of trudging, but sometimes life had to be that way. Alim was no soldier, but he knew that war time meant marching. What was problematic was his back. It was sore everytime he awoke and went to sleep. In fact walking seemed to help it, but he had no flat surface to stretch properly for awhile, and his old injury bothered him a bit. He was amused to think how others would react to he, Athletic and always ready to flip, had an injury in his spine that needed tending to. He'd never announce it unless he had reason to.

He hadn't had the chance to speak to Anifaire yet even all this time after the Imperial city, he would try to soon. But he was just relieved she had been safe after the Dwemer attack. Same for everyone, he had to admit. For a group, they proved to be about as resourceful as people often though he was, which was a high compliment he expected. Perhaps the nine had plans for them? He hoped. If this was going to end the way he imagined, half would be dead before the next summer, and he would have to bury more companions.

It was no wonder he sought adventure, riches, and entertainment. The reality of life was grim, as always. Though the Breton in him admired the group's honor and conviction. Despite the underworld of Skaven's best efforts, knightly ordeals still held true in Alim, thief or no. As he contemplated, something caught his eye in the distance, only to realize his gaze had been lead to Raelynn's fine hips swaying extravagantly. He admired her rump for a moment, and then gazed around at the other women traveling with them, speaking to himself aloud (albeit quietly). "How come I have not hit on any of them yet?" He supposed slaughter, starvation, and hard travel distracted him. But still!

He remained relatively quiet except for a quip or two as they made it to the gates of Anvil, relaxing as they entered the city. The smell of the sea was a welcome sensation to his senses. It reminded him of his days as a sailor, and where there was a port town, there was fine food, exotic people, and gambling. He could capitalize on all three. As he let the possibilities whirl in his thoughts, Daro'Vasora snapped at Rhea.

Alim had no real qualms on discontent, and he enjoyed Vasora. He had always felt a certain kinship with Khajiit from his time in Eleswyr. But his hand did stray to the hilt of his sword, more to have it prepared for a bluff than anything. He was behind the group however, out of eyesight. Once the verbal thrashing had been delivered, and the Khajiit walked away, Alim shook his head. Some people could not deal with stress correctly.

He approached Rhea and patted her shoulder. When she looked at him, he gave a reassuring nod. "I'm with you," he told her simply, and headed off into the crowd to see if he could win at throwing knives with the local gamblers. Turned out, he COULD win at throwing knives, and by Akatosh, what he didn't win, he stole! Until he got hungry, and realized maybe he could find Ani this time. Off he went to the Inn...

---

---

The Flowing Bowl - Anvil, Evening 8:00pm

The small shower of rain outside covered Alim’s cloak in a vibrant, glistening cape as he entered the warm Inn. He’d been at Anvil before during his travels, once. Though he had only deigned to stay for a few days. Back then he had been traveling north swiftly, and he didn’t have time to appreciate the architecture or the people.

Once inside, he slipped off his cloak to reveal his sporting, rakish attire of Redguard clothes over his fit body; his long black hair tied at the back and a small goatee forming around his fine caramel chin, though it still looked far more like a 5 o’clock shadow at this time. He glanced about the room to see where he could find some service. He was pretty parched, not to mention he had not had a truly well cooked meal since the Imperial City attack.

She sat at the far end of the counter where Tobias had settled down by her feet as she waited for Marius to return with a key to her room. A bottle of wine, still fairly full, occupied her attention. Her fingers traced over the woven netting, watching as the liquid seemingly black under the green glass swirled like a contained maelstrom. Her thoughts wandered over the events of the day, at least she had found the vendor that peddled soul gems, she had made roughly 75 septims in her services over the day, not to mention she still had her other coin stashed in he coin pouch. Every few minutes, she glanced over her shoulder, unable to shake the uneasy feeling she felt.

Alim looked around for a waitress or someone to attend to him, but they all seemed busy. If only he-
Hello
The spellsword’s eyes passed over a lovely woman, something he saw often enough. Only this one he recognized, and he did a double take. It was the new member of the group, Rhona was it? He did wish to find Anifaire, but it was getting late and perhaps she was asleep. As he realized just how lovely Rhona was, he decided he would catch Anifaire tomorrow. Instead he approached the woman, now idly sipping some wine.

“Hi,” he said, his lips curved into a cordial smile and his eyes friendly. “Room for one more? If I’m not intruding, that is.” Alim’s words were unexpected, causing her to flinch hard, as if struck by lightning. She turned to look at him, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she were expecting someone else, then softened.

“...No, of course not. Take a seat. Alim, is that right?” Rhona found it exceptionally hard to trust Redguards after the heartbreak Sayyid left her, but from what she had seen on the journey, and perhaps it was her naïveté speaking, Alim appeared to be a decent person, not to mention exceedingly handsome, that was besides the point of course.

“Would you care for some wine?” She offered, sliding the bottle over to him as her gaze lingered.

“I’d love some, thank you.” He said, a light and playful tone to his voice. He caught the bottle and poured himself a glass. “Also you’re quite correct. I was only at the fire for a short moment so you must have a good memory or I made quite the impression.” He joked, smiling and wiggling his eyebrows. Rhona blushed, mostly out of confusion. He gave a chuckle and shook his head. “I was hoping to get to talk to you since we hadn’t been formally introduced. I didn’t think I’d find you here in such a comfortable format. What brings you to the group?” He took a sip of the wine, savoring the taste before adding as he held a hand up ‘if you don’t mind my asking.’

The face of any Redguard is hard to forget., is what she would have said if it didn’t sound so condescending. She shifted on her seat so she could face him better. With care, she contemplated his words, as such, a long pause came between them from hesitation.

“Durantel is my mentor. He… is teaching me how to defend myself proper.” She chewed on her lower lip, before continuing, “And, until now, there is safety in numbers. For the time being, I would rather be in the company of such a large group, than be alone on the roads.”

“That is a wise policy” he admitted with respect, raising his glass to her.

“And yourself?” Rhona asked, relieved to direct the conversation back to him.

Alim took another sip of his wine, and he laughed lightly, almost embarrassed. “My reasons are far less pragmatic. Or at least they were initially,” he admitted. The Redguard spellsword placed his wine down, and with a flourish of his hand, an iron dagger appeared, and the quick gesture that made it rise to land upon his fingertip as he balanced it by the blade almost seemed to defy gravity. “I’m partial to danger, which is why I took up the career of adventurer. The title sounds extravagant but I essentially explore wilderness and dungeons and sell the loot or bring back the bounties I find, or I take scouting contracts.”

He snapped his fingers and the dagger spun twice before he caught it by the hilt, sheathing it once more. “I’m also an accomplished musician, thief, and tomb robber, but I try not to advertise two of those three.” His grin showed his teeth.

Alim had an eccentric personality, and rather charming at that, her gaze focused on the dagger dancing between his fingers. Her shoulders drooped, the tension slowly subsiding like a rainstorm on a summer day. She found herself smiling, and shook her head, “I’m certain the ladies love you just the same.” Rhona reclaimed the bottle of wine from him, her eyebrows raising as she did so.

Alim had to admit she had a charm about her, smiling with an amused look. She had a very calming but attractive way about her. “One or two, but honestly I usually don’t really have much time for women other than a bit of flirting, even if it might be fun.” he said. “My main interests are taking jewels and getting into danger, which is about as intelligent as it sounds.” He swirled his wine in his drink. After a moment, he asked “How do you like the group, so far?”

Tobias slipped out from between her feet and butted the sole of Alim’s boot, causing Rhona to look down, she smiled, “Tobias… come now.” She reached to the small loaf of bread on the counter before her, and tore off a hunk, giving it to him.

“It’s larger than I expected. I traveled across Cyrodiil for a couple years with my old lover, Aurelia, and her friends. Just the five of us. That’s when where I learned most of what I know now… and now I just offer my enchantment services to those who have the coin. I enjoy the freedom, but it’s nice to be surrounded by those who are strong, and can handle danger. It’s relieving, though I haven’t had much time to spend with the others, and now I don’t know what will happen since Rhea left.” She sighed, a bit crestfallen.

“I’m just trying to make it through the day alive without…” she shook her head, turning the direction of the conversation again back to Alim, “How did you find them? The group I mean.”

Alim was too busy grinning and scratching Tobias with his foot as she spoke to look up at her, until she turned the conversation to him. “The group? They’re as fine of a group as I’ve ever joined. I’ve been contracted to do a fair amount of work for various organizations, but there were only one or two companions in each. However everyone here is a friend at least, if not more.”

He grabbed a hunk of bread as well and decided to tear off a piece. “By the way, I’m a little put off at you.” he said with a smirk.

“Put off?” Her thick brows furrowed together, what had she done? She had barely spoke more than necessary to him.

“Well after talking to you a bit, I kind of want to buy you a drink but you already had wine here.” he said matter of fact, “How am I supposed to break the ice without buying a drink first?”

Her eyes widened, the heat returning to her cheeks again like fresh coals receiving fuel and wind to catch flame. Was he… was he trying to flirt with her? She swallowed hard, turning to her glass of wine for help, drinking the remaining contents.

Alim leaned forward on his arms and grinned, peeking out from under his thick hair. “You alright?” he asked her with a chuckle. “I wasn’t rude, was I?”

The wine helped calm her heart that started to race, he was so close she could smell the peculiar scent of cinnamon. What was wrong with her? She cleared her throat, and gestured to the bottle, now more than 3/4ths gone.

“Well… if not a glass, how about another bottle?” A slow, playful smile crossed her lips. She topped off both of their glasses, leaving the bottle now empty.

Alim’s eyes met hers for a bit, and he smiled, giving a wink as he slipped away to the bar, buying the best wine they had. It was a Valenwood wine, something they had in short supply. Alim didn’t mind, he had extra money and he felt a certain interest in this girl he hadn’t had felt in awhile. He’d see where it would lead. Flipping the bottle and catching it by the top, he gave a nod to the bartender and headed back over to Rhona. He poured her a glass, and then set the bottle between them after he poured himself some. It tasted...far better than he expected.

Her brows rose at the bottle he brought back, and especially when he poured her a glass, she took a tentative sniff, and then a sip. “This… is from Valenwood.” She had only had it once before, but the taste was unforgettable.

“Is this what you do Alim? Smooth talk women, and treat them to expensive bottles of wine?” She took another sip, relishing the taste, “Because if you do, it’s working.” Rhona couldn’t help but laugh at herself.

“I do flirt often, but I only buy drinks for women I consider...maybe exploring something with.” he admitted embarrassed, and he shrugged helplessly. “I’m an adventurer, I often need to rely on instincts to survive. I guess I do the same with women, but” he held his hands up. “No pressure at all. I’m just interested and I want to show I am. Plus Tobias seems trustworthy,” he joked, reaching down and petting the small goat. “_{Hey, little fella}” he said softly.

Her eyes focused on the wine inside her glass, she swirled the crimson liquid around, contemplating his words. There were a million thoughts racing through her head, but this was all too much for her to think of right now. She sighed, the smile returning to her lips, “I guess we’ll have to see where the night takes us. And if he hasn’t eaten your boots yet, then he must really like you, which says a lot in your favor I must admit.”

Alim raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I see. The perfect wingman,” he joked, and he handed a peice of bread to Tobias as if he was paying a bribe. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here,” he whispered to the goat, patting his head as the creature happily nommed.

After that, he casted feather on another piece of bread so the food floated above Tobias’ head for a moment before slowly falling at a snail’s pace as Tobias watched it hungrily. “Just be patient little guy...got it!” Alim congratulated the goat when Tobias stood on his hind hooves to grab the bread.

“Where did you find this fella?”

Rhona laughed at Tobias’ and Alim’s antics, “Kynareth must have brought him to me. I was headed for Skingrad after leaving here, just walking through a field when he came up to me. He does as he pleases. He can leave when he wishes, as every animal ought to have the right.” She mused quietly.

Alim respected that outlook quite a bit, and Alim took another sip of the Valenwood wine, leaning back on his chair, his dark eyes meeting hers. “Well, Tobias and I have something else in common. We know a good woman when we see one.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the comment, the smile on her lips faltering, was she a good woman? She would like to think so, after all, she hadn’t done anything inherently evil, right? She tried to make an honest living where she could, and she certainly enjoyed the benefits and freedom that came with it. Surely that didn’t make her a bad person?

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She lifted her glass towards him for a toast, “To good men and women.”

Alim toasted with her, giving a wink and taking a long drink of the wine, relaxing in his chair and spinning the now empty cup on his pointer finger. The glass spun almost naturally into the palm of his hand, and he set the cup down. Even tipsy he had a way with his hands. “I’m quite hungry, might I also buy you dinner?”

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Rhona said, laughing heartily, “Be my guest, all I’ve had today is this bread… though you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

Alim blinked, at a loss. He thought she just found him amusing but… hello there. He gave a grin that showed his teeth. “Well that explains why you’re so slim, now that you’re with our group you’ll need to keep your strength up. Excuse me-” Alim hailed over a sprightly young barmaid, “Ham, apples, and cheese if you’d be so kind.”, the barmaid took a moment to register what he said, then gave a ‘right away’ as she headed off to fulfill the order.

“Hope the order was alright. I figured you’d want a hearty meal, I know I do.” he patted his fit stomach, hardened from his many years of scaling walls and bouncing around dungeons. He wasn’t a bruiser, but he had a very tone, almost somewhat muscled look to him.

“Please!” She laughed hard, her head tipping back as she covered her mouth with her hand, “I… thank you. But I assure you, I don’t just eat bread. It’s all of the walking I do.”

“Well it’s night time I was worried!” he exclaimed, but he was laughing too. He shook his head. “Don’t worry, I believe you. I guess I have a fast metabolism...no in fact, I know I do.” As he finished, the food was placed before them with a ‘clack’ of the plates on the wooden table. “I admit...this is where my manners flee me.”

She laughed again, “I might have been raised to become a lady, but I know that hunger makes us all one in the same, Mara bless us.” Rhona turned to her own food, not realizing how fast she had eaten until the last of the ham, bread and cheese were gone. She settled on washing her meal down with more wine. For Alim’s part, he had grown up as a ne’er-do-well bastard son in HighRock, and when he went to live in Hammefell he quickly lost what manners he had when it came to eating. Soon the ham and apple was gone on his side as well. He did his best to not muddle his face, though. Rhona’s face felt particularly warm and she knew it to be from the wine. Rhona giggled to herself.

“I don’t know how I ended up with such great company with the likes of yourself.”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. He took a sip of his wine. “I’m the surprised one though. A beautiful woman laughing at my jokes and blushing, this night was worth it. I hope I see a lot more of you soon.”

Part of her didn’t know what to say to his compliment, but she smiled nonetheless. Gods, Alim was particularly handsome, and she just couldn’t help herself, nor the words that came out of her mouth next, “Oh I’m certain you will, you’ve lifted my spirits and help shed some much needed light on a day like this. I appreciate that.”

Alim stood up and took her hand in his, kissing it. The fire of a lamp danced in his eyes. “Likewise to you. See you around, pretty girl.” he said. When she looked up at him, he was nowhere to be seen. As if by magic.