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A collab by: @Greenie & I

22nd of Second Seed 6:00pm, Anvil

Rhona rose long before Brynja awoke, leaving the sleeping giant in her bed. By the way she snored, she judged that Brynja wouldn’t wake to the sound of her bathing, so she took a gamble and prepped the bath water. She made quick use of the hot water, scrubbing every nook and cranny she could reach until the water became cloudy. She dried herself off, still impressed that Brynja had yet to wake, and dressed herself. Rhona used a scrap piece of paper to leave a note for her, telling her that she was leaving to offer her services down by the harbor.

The air felt heavy from the moisture, but it didn’t bother her one bit. She opted out of wearing her leather boots again, not minding the hot stone against the soles of her feet. Today, she had switched out her linen dress for her tunic and trousers, the change of clothes allowing for her to remain cool in the daytime heat. Rhona found a little niche along the harbor walls where she set up a space to offer her enchanting services again. She laid out her cloak to sit upon, and delved into her rucksack, pulling out her enchanting board, journal and chalk, and setting out a few petty soul gems to indicate what she offered. Tobias had tagged along as usual now, the goat didn’t stray far from her these days, and she felt it almost odd to be without his company. He appeared well-behaved for a goat on some regards, perhaps he had once been someone’s beloved pet?

For the most part, the day was slow and she had had little customers. An older woman stopped to ask her to enchant a silver amethyst ring, and a young Khajiiti youth brought her a pair of boots to fortify them with sneaking, but other than that, she spent her morning and the better part of the afternoon resting against the wall. Her mind was preoccupied with Brynja’s words.

You want to free that heart of yours? Be honest. Be honest with your heart, and with others… your heart will thank you for it. She knew she needed to find Calen, and at least offer him an explanation on why she had been avoiding him. It was the right thing to do. She gathered up her belongings, and in a short time, shouldered her rucksack, leather boots in one hand, staff in the other, sticking her pipe in her mouth and lighting it with the tips of her fingers.

"Oh, fancy seein' you here. Rhona, right?"

“That’s right.”

After spending the rest of the afternoon after lunch wandering about Anvil and filling in her map, the Nord had finally decided to head back to the harbour. She wasn't tired as yet, but a little relaxation sounded good. The humidity was still stifling compared to Skyrim's crisp air, but she found herself slowly getting used to it. It helped that her clothes were no longer thick and winter combatting.

Smiling, she approached the familiar woman, someone she had seen quite a bit of on the journey from Skingrad but unfortunately hadn't had the opportunity to talk to. "You been here 'fore or this's your first time too?"

“No, I’ve been here many a time before. Uh… Meg right?” She asked, chewing on the end of her pipe, “Where are you headed to? I was going to head back to The Flowing Bowl.”

“Same,” Meg replied, glad that she got her name right. “And aye, m’name’s Meg. Been stayin’ here since we arrived.” She waved her grubby map a little before carefully folding it, not wanting it to fly away with the evening breeze. “Been goin’ round an’ addin’ to my map. Not that you’d be needin’ one, I s’pose” She nodded towards Rhona, curious. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Ah, well let’s walk together.” Rhona said, drawing on her pipe, a curl of smoke rolled out of her nose, “I’ve offered my services today, I’m an enchantress of sorts. Been a slow day, really. And yourself? Meet any interesting people?”

"An enchantress, eh? Sounds pretty fancy, never was any good at magic an' that sorta thing myself..." She paused a little, watching the smoke escape Rhona before continuing, "Interesting people? Depends on what y'mean by that. But on the whole, 'sides havin' a nice meeting with Jaraleet, it's been quiet."

“Jaraleet… oh the Argonian. Yes yes.”

She paused for a moment of thinking, then continued, “So... have your services for the day ended or...?" A hopeful tinge in her voice, Meg hoped she wasn't imposing.

“Ah? Not necessarily. Is there something I can do for you?” Rhona asked, pulling the pipe away from her mouth to give Meg her full attention.

It was clear that Meg was uncertain, and there was reason to that uncertainty as well; she had never actually owned an enchanted anything . Chewing on her lip for a few seconds, she finally spoke. “Well, I don' have it here, but my chest piece- d’you think there might be some way t’make it… I dunno… stronger?” It was old, older than she was, but the Nord didn't feel like parting with it any time soon.

Rhona brought the stem of the pipe back to her lips, it was empty now, but she chewed on the end, her brows furrowed together as she wracked her mind, “Stronger as in...reinforce the structure? Or make you stronger?” She rocked back and forth on her heels, Tobias had taken to sniffing around Meg’s boots, before bumping her with his head. Nothing to be alarmed over, just a gentle nudge.

Meg looked to the ground, surprise showing on her face. “Ah, a goat.” Grinning, she reached down and very lightly patted the back of his neck before pulling her hand back and looking to Rhona, slightly sheepish.

“Don’t worry, Tobias is harmless, took to me like a newborn fledging.”

“Ah, sorry, forgot m’self there for a bit. I mean the actual armour. It belonged to my Ma, but it’s old… I’ve been takin’ care of it but it could use a li’l extra help, y’know?”

“Is it… light or heavy armor? I might be able to help actually.” Rhona said, her brows raising. Yes that’s right, she ought to have a enchantment inscription for light and heavy armor in her journal if she remembered correctly.

"Heavy armour," Meg replied immediately. Leather or studded would have suited her better, but there was no speaking sense to sentimental value. "Banded iron- I got it in m'room in the Flowin' Bowl, I can go get it for you!"

“On second thought, I’ve a room over there too. Let’s walk together, no sense in two women walking alone through these streets. It might not be the Imperial City, but there are people who would still do someone harm.” Rhona said through a sigh, and then gestured with her staff, “Right then, let’s get to it!”

The stroll back to the Flowing Bowl proved enjoyable, one that Rhona personally enjoyed, the hot humid air had begun to cool considerably, lessening the effects of the suffocating moisture. It felt odd, walking through these streets again with Aurelia by her side. Her spirit suddenly fell as she thought about those that had come and left. She thought of her mother, and Holbert. Even Lysanna. She felt a twang of guilt as she realized that she had spent little time thinking or even searching for them. She thought of her father, Asbjorn, and her brother Uthred. She hadn’t seen either of them since she was a little girl. What of Sayyid? That dastardly Redguard that stole her heart when she was sixteen? Or what of Vanozza? She knew her tutor had long since retired, but she had lived in the Imperial City. And then there was Eranas, Asirelle, and Viras. Did they still travel with Aurelia? Had they parted ways? Megana had such a vibrant personality, it helped distract her from her early morning thoughts. No sense in letting her thoughts sour the mood. After all, Meg had asked her for help. They had come in sight of the tavern when Rhona directed the conversation back to Meg, she knew she was a Nord, but she was curious about her family, “Tell me about your family Meg. And yourself. Are you from Cyrodiil?”

“Me,” Meg started, “I’m from Skyrim, like m’Ma was, born in Riverwood like her too.” She smiled at the thought of having been born in the same house as her mother; when she thought of it like that, it made her feel closer to her Ma. “Pa’s from Cyrodill, but he’s not been there in… ages. Rhea’s dwemer ruins was the first time I came here…” She motioned about to nothing in particular with her hands. “All this? All new for me. Skyrim’s what’m used to… not that I don’ like bein’ here, ‘cause I do. Just kinda wish it wasn’ just cause a buncha should be dead people are tryin’ t’kill us.” She rubbed the back of her head before shrugging. “It’s kinda surprisin’ how calm people’re here. On the one hand I’m glad, on the other I’m kinda…” She made an awful face before chuckling. “Petty.”

By the time she finished, they had reached the Flowing Bowl. Meg pulled the door open and nodded to Rhona to enter first.

“Not many folks can say that they have known both of their parents. My father, he’s from Skyrim, I don’t know where. But he met my mother in Camlorn. When I was little… my mother ran away to be with my stepfather. I have a brother, Uthred, but I haven’t seen him nor my father since my mother left with Holbert, that’s my stepfather. I was brought up in Bruma, but when my mother married Holbert, we stayed on in the Imperial City.” Rhona admitted half-heartedly as she crossed the threshold, “Family has been a complicated matter for me. But, never pay that any attention! Let’s have a look at the armor of yours, hm?”

Meg couldn’t not to pay attention to that, truth be told. Having lived in Whiterun from her teens, she’d always been a little jealous seeing the children there with their parents, wishing she had a mother around to coddle her even a little. What Rhona had mentioned forced her to realize that she was indeed one of the lucky ones. At least she knew who her Ma and Pa were, and for as long as she’d lived, her mother and father had been together and much in love.

It was hard to remember the blessings of Mara sometimes.

“Right,” Meg replied as she entered the tavern behind Rhona. “Won’ be but a bit!” With that said, she quickly headed off to her room to fetch her armour, which was currently set in a wardrobe that came with the room along with her sword and bow. For a moment the wild thought of having her weapons enchanted tried to tempt her, but Meg easily combatted it, reminding herself that the only reason she even had gold at this moment was because Brynja was a lovely person who could have easily kept it for herself.

“Here ya go,” she called once she returned, setting the chest piece on a table, while Rhona moved over to join her. Taking note of the surprisingly lack of people in the tavern, nevertheless, she turned to her rucksack, and pulled it off her shoulders. She pulled out her enchanting board and laid it flat beside the breastplate. She rummaged around some more until she found what she was looking for, a charcoal stick, a greater soul gem, and her leather bound journal, all of which she set atop the board, flipping through the pages, her eyes sweeping back and forth across the black ink depictions.

“Ahhh. Here we are.” In one hand, she held the book open, and with her free hand cleared the board. She claimed the charcoal stick, and with a careful, but steady hand, began to draw out the inscription for the breastplate, fortify heavy armor. It was one she had rarely used.

When she had drawn out the inscription, Rhona closed the journal, returning both the charcoal and journal to her rucksack. She moved her focus back to the armor, and set it directly over top the enchantment pattern. Rhona let her hands fall away, seemingly lost in her own thoughts before she muttered under her breath.

“Meridia, come to me now, in my hour of need.”

She picked up the soul gem, and placed it gingerly upon the armor. At first nothing happened. Rhona closed her eyes, whispering, “Maybe if the sun doesn’t set…” and just then, a flare of blueish purple light crackled out from the soul gem, encasing the armor entirely, the charcoal pattern glowed brilliantly, attracting attention from some of the patrons before the soul gem burst from the energy consumed. The crystal exploded in a cloud of shimmering dust that settled over the armor. Rhona opened her eyes, a smile spreading across her lips as she turned to Meg.

“Well there you have it!” She wiped off the crystalline powder onto the floor, and presented the armor to Meg.

Having watched Rhona's process as diligently as a student, Meg very carefully took hold of the armour, holding it out before her so that she could see it properly. "Now that was amazin'," she finally said. "Never seen anythin' like it!" She smiled and set it back on the table, thereafter reaching for her money pouch. "How much do I owe ya?"

Rhona regarded Meg’s proposition, part of her didn’t want to take any money from her, but she had used her only full greater soul gem on the armor. She chewed her lip, considering what price to say, and then sighed, “I’ll make you a deal, 75 septims.”

Meg paused a moment before nodding. Luckily she had enough left in the pouch Brynja had won. Picking out a few coins from within, she set the pouch with septims on the table for Rhona. “Should be ‘nough in there,” she said. “Go ‘head an’ count just in case though.”

“Mara tells me to put faith in people. I trust you.” She said, then continued, “Well if there is anything else I can do, tell me now. If not, then I’m headed off to find some food.”

“Should be all,” Meg replied. “T’was nice finally gettin’ t’chat with you.” She gave the enchantress a nod. “Hope t’see you again sometime soon!”

“I’ll be back here tonight, if I see you this evening then we should get a drink. Good evening, Meg!” Rhona collected her belongings, shouldered the rucksack, and then slipped outside into the approaching darkness. She had seen a particular tavern called Frisky Dolphin on the way out to the harbor, and remember stopping there with Aurelia on her last travel to Anvil before the group disbanded. With her staff in hand, and Tobias trotting beside her, her thoughts traveled elsewhere, her gaze turned down to the cobblestone under foot.

When she next lifted her gaze, the sign of the Frisky Dolphin came into view, and that was when she heard a soft whistle coming from the alleyway. She stopped, wondering if her ears betrayed her. She stared into the shadows, straining to see the source of the sound. Rhona was about to continue on when she heard it again. Was it a trick of sound by Nocturnal, her beloved mistress of shadows? She took a step forward towards the alleyway, and halted. The whistle came again, and for whatever reason, the call reminded her of a bird. Was it injured? She took another step, still hesitant.

Just then, a gloved hand snatched at her tunic, pulling her into the darkness. The same gloves hand covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming, she tried to bite at the hand but froze when she heard a voice all too familiar.

“Did you really think you could run forever?” Darkness enveloped her.

_{w/ @Father Hank}

---

Noon, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E208
Town square, Anvil

A quick visit to the city’s bathhouse and a spot of breakfast at a bakery had seen Gregor refreshed after his tumultuous encounter with Raelynn the night before. His wounds were healed, her scent washed off his body and his stomach was comfortably full. It was another warm, pleasant day on the Gold Coast and, despite all the unfortunate news that came pouring in from the rest of the province, Gregor saw many happy and relaxed faces on the streets of Anvil. Just like he had done the first day they arrived, Gregor went for a walk and let his feet carry him where they might while his mind continued to process recent events. He tried not to think about Raelynn too much but her sultry gaze and pained whimpers kept intruding -- it was hard to focus on something else when his whole body was still satisfyingly sore from the experience.

He looked up from his reverie when he heard a voice that he recognized. Gregor’s legs had brought him to the town’s central square, a bustling place of commerce and community, and it was there that he came upon Calen, the dashing young Nord whose carriage they had used to travel from Skingrad to Anvil. Gregor had already met him once before, however, way up north in frigid Skyrim, and it had actually been his conversation with the lad that had prompted him to return to the Imperial Heartland. A small crowd of spectators had gathered around Calen as he performed and Gregor joined them, watching him with his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face.

“...When Elves lost Nirn to Man,
Akatosh gave the stone
To Saint Alesh in token of
Her right to sit the throne.

Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
The heart and soul of Men.
Red Diamond! Red Diamond!
Protect us till the end.”

As the song met its ends, some of the locals who had stopped to watch him perform clapped and cheered, dropping a coin or two within a bag that was at his feet, and carried on with their day. Those with nothing better to do decided to say and see what else the bard would sing for them. Chim-El Adabal, he learned, was a hit with the local Imperials. The song was rife with its history, and while the Red Diamond has been symbolic to all of Man through the ages, it held particular significance here in Cyrodiil. What’s more, they almost seemed to look to the song as one of hope for as long as the Imperial City remained under the shadow of the dwemer.

As he greeted each person who wanted to give their thanks or compliments, his eyes eventually landed on a rather tall and imposing figure amidst the people, as grim a sight as ever if he ever saw one -- and Calen greeted him with a smile.

“Ah, Sir Gregor!” He chimed. “What brings you? Come, sit! Join me! Can you carry a beat?”

The Imperial graciously accepted the offer to sit with Calen, the same smile still playing around his lips. “Hello there, Calen. What brings me? Naught but the whims of my feet. It’s good to see you again. Your song lifted my spirits, as I think it did everyone else,” he said and some of the other bystanders that still remained nodded in agreement. It was obvious that Gregor was a strange sight even in his homeland and he received many lingering stares, mostly focused on the various weapons he carried on his person and the unique set of armor he wore, but he wasn’t here to distract Calen’s audience. “Carry a beat? Oh, I don’t know. Fruits of a misspent youth. I’m afraid I have no talent in the arts. Why do you ask?”

“Because, my friend,” Calen began, grabbing a drum at his side and began gesturing it towards the older Imperial, “I hope to persuade you into joining me!”

Gregor blinked. He looked around and saw that several people looked at him expectantly. He
opened his mouth to say something, to protest, but closed it again. Hell, why not. He grimaced in resignation and accepted the drum, holding it beneath one arm like he had seen so many bards and minstrels do before. Almost immediately he could feel his pauldron stab into his shoulder so he continued to fidget with the drum’s position for a few seconds while Calen watched with a smile until it sat comfortably against his waist.

“Well then,” he said, trying to remain optimistic. “What are we playing?”

“Shall we start with something easy first?” The bard proposed. “If you’ve ever been to Whiterun, then surely you’ve heard of Ragnar the Red. Or would you prefer something more original?”

“Ragnar the Red!” Gregor exclaimed and laughed. “Oh boy, you bet I’ve heard that one. But I think it’ll be original enough for your current audience. What, uh…” he began to ask, unsure of how to phrase it. “What tempo are you looking for?”

Calen chuckled a bit before standing up and taking a step towards Gregor’s side, and he didn’t realize until this point that the two were of the same height. The knight had a presence about him that made him feel taller than he really was. The bard refocused and said, “Well first of all, here’s a tip: play with your fingers, not your whole hand. It’s easier to control the volume that way and…”

Calen rolled his fingers over the top of the goat skin, creating four quick separate beats.

“...it’s easier to control the speed. The pitch gets higher the closer you hit to the rim.”

Gregor followed Calen’s example. The concept of being able to control the pitch of the drum was new to him and he had to admit to himself that he’d never noticed the difference before. He really wasn’t very musical. “Use fingers, higher pitch close to the rim. Got it. Any more advice?” The Imperial looked Calen in the eyes with a pleading glance. He wasn’t bothered enough with public perception to seriously fear embarrassing himself, but he wasn’t actively looking to make a fool of himself either. Either way, he could tell that Calen was amused and that was enough for him. The lad was… endearing, and reminded Gregor of how he had been as a young adult. Before everything. The brief moment of being lost in thought was not lost by Calen, however, he didn’t seem to give any indication of noticing.

“Actually,” Calen began, “let’s try something a little different. An original, I’ve been meaning to show you it. Could you give me a one, two, pause; one-two, three, pause; one-two-three, pause; repeat?”

The idle strumming on his lute began to pick up as the bard began looking for his rhythm, and once he did, a folkish melody came to life from his fingertips. He looked to Gregor expectedly, humming to himself a song, but wasn’t prepared to begin until the Imperial was able to find his beat.

”One-two, one-two, three… one-two-three…” Gregor muttered the rhythm under his breath while his fingers tapped along. It took him a few tries to get into the groove without mixing up the order or getting the timing wrong, but after he did he looked down to Calen with a smile (still muttering) and a nod. The bard returned the gesture with an impish grin as he sped up the melody before his voice entered the song,

“It started with a flagon,
drinking in my wagon,
when the sight of him came to view.
The likes of who was between far and few,
when it hit me like a brick,
his enormous...”

Calen stopped playing his lute for a moment as if to allow the crowd to fill in the blank themselves, before giving them a cheeky smile and finishing, “...personality.”

The crowd laughed and clapped and Calen continued strumming, before aiming his cheeky smile at Gregor beside him. Gregor faltered for a second as he joined the crowd in laughter, surprised and impressed by Calen’s hitherto unknown (to him) songwriting abilities.

“His name was Sir Gregor,
a man full of vigor,
piss and vinegar,
a bottle of liquor,
and when the fair maiden came by, he would...”

Calen stopped playing once again, this time allowing the crowd to shout suggestions at him, most of which were lewd and foul, but Calen leaned his head in and corrected them with a smile, “...greet her respectfully.”

The contrast between Calen's finisher and the suggestions made by the crowd was enough to warrant another uproar of laughter among both the men and the women watching and listening, and he looked to Gregor once more and started slowing down the pace of his lute as a sort of signal to slow down the beat as well. Gregor complied, a wide grin on his face. The song almost seemed as though it was finished, until the crowd's disappointed silence gave way to what almost sounded like a stage whisper of a prayer, “Come to me, Dibella, for without you, my words must lie dull and leaden without the gilding of grace and sagacity to enchant the reader's ear and eye."

Then the pace began to pick up once again, but this time, on a more somber note. The melody was slower and there were more frequent rests, and when Calen's voice joined the strings, it was soft and gentle.

“Let's set aside all distractions, my friends,
and face a simple truth.
There's two sides to every septim,
just look to me for proof.
This knight's no exception,
don't you make no mistake.
The burden of vigilant shoulders,
is the lives of a hundred strangers at stake.

“Tell me, love,
would you sacrifice your right to be free?
To suffer Oblivion a hundred times
to save a family you'll never see?

“O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
To devote himself to Mercy,
yet to save no mercy for he!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Running a race against death
until his last breath!
O, the tragedy of Sibassius!
Find humor in irony young lord,
for if not you,
then your memory will outlive the last of us!”

The crowd must have applauded and cheered, for the song was good and Calen’s voice beautiful, but Gregor did not hear them. A chill ran down his spine. Without knowing, Calen had sang a haunting song about the truth of his life and his quest. The young Nord had only referred to Gregor’s work with the Vigilants of Stendarr, he realized, since that is what Gregor had told him about (in some detail; Calen had been an eager listener) when the two of them traveled through Skyrim aboard Calen’s carriage, but it hit every beat of the real struggles he faced. Oblivion -- not the Daedric realms, but the actual void of amnesia -- was coming for him. He was, in the very realest sense of the words, running from death. The scars that crossed out Arkay’s face on Gregor’s chest itched. The grin had faded from his face and he looked away as a shadow fell over his features. And yet another thing was painfully true: there was a very real chance he would never see his family again. Between the Dwemer, his line of work and his precarious dealings with the Ideal Masters, Gregor knew he was walking on a razor’s edge every day. As for mercy...

“No,” Gregor heard Hannibal whisper in the back of his mind. “Don’t. Please.”

He looked up to find the crowd gazing at him expectantly and he conjured a wry, self-aware smile. “Aye, it’s a hard life,” Gregor said, playing off his reaction as an ordinary moment of reflection for a warrior and witch-hunter. “Well sung, my friend.” He meant it and tried to convey a sense of gratitude to Calen with a glance and a nod -- if not for the unfortunate accuracy of lyrics, the fact that Calen had created and dedicated a song to him was nothing but flattering and sweet.

“Thank you so very much!” He beamed graciously, bowing his head -- partially to hide the rosy-red flushing of his cheeks, but he popped back up with a wide grin full of shining teeth. He continued, “I make a habit of remembering as many of my patrons as I can, but you hardly made it difficult! The story of the vigilants has gone unappreciated for so long, and having the opportunity to hear yours inspired me. I was hoping that you would be the first one to hear it. I hope it wasn’t too dour!”

“Not to worry,” Gregor said and Calen’s infectious grin lifted his spirits a little. Still, he was reminded of his family and all of the associated fears for their safety now that the Dwemer had invaded Cyrodiil. “I just hope that all of my work to save my family won’t be in vain if the Dwemer attack Bravil…” Gregor added, trailing off towards the end. It was a realistic scenario and one he felt utterly powerless to stop. He looked at Calen and wondered if the grim reality of the situation would even make a dent in the young man’s optimism.

Calen’s eyes darted between the spectators, some of whom were walking up to drop a few coins into his bag, and Gregor himself, whose apprehension was not lost to the bard. A quick moment of decision-making, and Calen swiveled back around to the crowd, and threw his arms out.

“Thank you for your patronage, everyone!” He announced. “That will be all for today! Again, thank you all so very much!”

Between some applause, disappointed groans, and a few satisfied comments, those who didn’t wish to tip the musician for his services dispersed, and the others soon followed. It was in this time, that Calen waited anxiously for a moment of privacy with the knight whose praises he just sung. When he finally felt like he had a moment alone with him, he asked, “Can you not go to them?”

Gregor stared at Calen for a few seconds while he absent-mindedly placed the goatskin drum on the ground. “I…” he began, uncertain, as the truth of the matter rang in the back of his mind -- I can’t return home until my task is finished, lest I cannot find the strength to leave them again -- but he quickly found a more general, less personal reason. “I don’t think travel is safe, no. We don’t know where the Dwemer army is moving and the road to Bravil runs close to the Imperial City. The alternative is traveling through Elseweyr but I do not trust the Thalmor either, what with the moves they’re making.”

Calen nodded in understanding, and said, “I’m not so worried about the Thalmor, but trying to cut through Valenwood and Elsweyr… haven’t seen those places myself, but from what I understand, they’re not… heh, hospitable.”

The Nord thought about carefully a few moments longer. There didn’t seem to be any easy answer to trying to find and retrieve his family, nor was Calen of a tactical mind -- and surely the knight has thought of more in depth ways to recover them in all the time he has spent in Cyrodiil since the attack on the Imperial City. Finally, he sighed.

“You can always visit the Great Chapel of Dibella.” He resigned to saying. “She’s no Stendarr, but the Queen of Heaven is still a Divine. If not for mercy, then pray for a blessed life of love and happiness for you and your family. That is a type of mercy, I think.”

The Imperial averted his gaze and bit back a wretched laugh. The Divines… then again, his family had been no part of Gregor’s crimes. Maybe they would protect his family not for his sake, but simply their own. “Perhaps... “ Gregor said and rubbed his chin, his eyes finding Calen’s again. “It seems like that’s the best I can do at the moment. Thank you.” He placed a comradely hand on Calen’s shoulder and smiled. “The gods will provide. They always do,” he lied.

Before Dawn, 24th of Last Seed, 4E208
Chapel of Dibella, Anvil
_{ft. @Stormflyx}

Gregor stared up at the chapel towering over him in the twilight with an inscrutable look on his face. During his time in Anvil the chapel’s unavoidable spire, its height far exceeding any of the other buildings inside the city walls, had been a constant source of irritation. It was a stark reminder of Gregor’s strained relationship with the Divines and of the precarious state of his soul. Undeserved, Gregor thought grimly. Once he had achieved his goals and attained immortality for himself and his family, the deaths of the innocents he had slain by mistake and the Vigilants that had threatened to destroy everything would not be in vain. He would have an eternity to set things right.

But while the gods condemned him and his actions, Gregor’s family was innocent of his crimes. He worried for their safety now that the Dwemer had invaded Cyrodiil but returning home to try to save them wasn’t an option. He was afraid that if he saw them now, he would not have the strength to leave them again while his task was not yet complete. And besides, the path back to Bravil was not one Gregor believed he would survive. So, after a mostly sleepless night, Gregor had decided to follow Calen’s advice after all and found himself on his way to pray for their safety. He wasn’t sure if the Divines would hear him but he had to try, even if it was only for his own peace of mind. He took a deep breath, pushed open the massive door slightly and slipped inside.

It was even cooler inside the chapel than the crisp morning air outside, but instead of enjoying it Gregor just felt uncomfortable. The air had that stuffy quality one only ever found inside old cathedrals and libraries. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he looked around warily for a few seconds before he caught himself doing so. What was he afraid of? It wasn’t like Arkay himself was going to lunge at him from behind a pillar and drag him down to the underworld, and the chapel was empty this early in the morning. Even so he could feel judging eyes stare at him from the shadows between the pillars and the pews. Ridiculous. The Imperial muttered a quiet admonishment under his breath and walked over to the shrines, the clink-clank of his steel boots echoing in the sacred silence.

Raelynn walked quietly, her hands placed in front of her in a relaxed fashion, resting against her abdomen and brushing against the silk like fabric of her dress. She couldn't sleep well and had found herself awake at such an early time in the morning. The sun barely even rising yet. It was unusual for her to be unable to find sleep. She thought to finally visit the Chapel of Dibella and place an offering there - in her mind hoping it would help to bring her some clarity as to how to move forward and which path to choose. To stay with the current company and assist them. To stay with Alim, or to return to High Rock. She imagined that the Chapel would be all but empty at this frightfully early hour. She wanted to slip in, leave her offering and just take a contemplative walk around the grounds.

She rarely took moments to just breathe and appreciate everything around her. To take a moment to stop and be present without having to think of how to act, what to say or what to do. The moment that Raelynn had shared with Alim just days prior confused her still, and lay lingering in her mind and resting on her conscience. She partly wished she hadn’t bothered tending to him. The way that he had reacted to her. He barely knew her. How could he call her a friend with such sincerity?

She had already exchanged some coin for a bunch of magenta peonies earlier in the week, knowing that she would come to the Chapel finally. They smelled exquisite and fresh, and it brought a smile to her face to inhale their scent. She felt very unlike herself in moments like this, in private moments. Maybe she would take one or two of the flowers and dry them out later as a keepsake. As she grew nearer to the chapel, she saw that it was indeed quiet, she could hear only faint sounds of ocean waves lapping against a still and quiet shore and the birdsong over head. As she breezed by, she noticed someone kneeling in front of the shrine inside. A figure she instantly recognised. It was Gregor.

All of a sudden she felt her heart race in her chest, unsure of what to do and how to act. Maybe she could wait a moment or two and allow him to do whatever it was he was doing. Would that not make it more awkward? Would that not in some way be more disruptive? No. She wasn’t going to wait, and instead she crept quietly through the door that he had left ajar, the flowers stacked in their bouquet in her arms she took quiet footsteps towards the shrine herself. Words already forming in her mind for when he inevitably noticed her presence.

“Dibella, I come not for myself today but for my family,” Gregor whispered as he knelt by the altar, his face cast down and his eyes closed. “I implore you to provide them with a happy life full of love in these times of conflict. Gaia, Marcus and Julia are their names. Should the Dwemer attack Bravil… please. I know you won’t help me, but please help them. That’s all.” He remained where he was for a minute longer, motionless until his hand reached out to touch the stone edifice. It was cold and unyielding. No answer or warmth of a blessing came. His hand balled into a fist and he was about to say something decidedly heretical when he heard footsteps behind him and looked over his shoulder to see the last person he expected inside the chapel: Raelynn.

Gregor got to his feet and turned his back to the altar. “Raelynn… what brings you here?” he asked. His tone was not entirely welcoming.

She was taken slightly aback at his obvious tone as she came upon the altar herself, choosing not to stop and greet him with her eyes because of it. “Well, I’m doing the same thing that you are perhaps. In this public space…” If she had not been so tangled up in her own thoughts, she may have had a more biting response for him. The best she could do was ignore him in the way of sidelining him entirely. “I could ask you the same question, I remember you telling me that your relationship with the Gods is less than favourable.” She hadn’t really meant to say it, but it felt right -- to give him a sharp reminder of what he had told her.

With her back to him, she began placing her flowers down across the altar methodically, one-by-one posing them and brushing their soft petals with her fingers to arrange them as neatly as possible. She bit her lip as a slightly frustrated sigh slipped out and she stopped moving momentarily. “I’m sorry,” she realised that her comment was harsh and that she needed to smooth it over with something else to turn his attention from it, “I… gather that you thought you could go without seeing me again after our night together then?”

“That is usually what happens, yes,” Gregor admitted, but the hard edge in his voice had disappeared. He moved closer to Raelynn and leaned forward a little, lowering his voice so that they couldn’t be overheard in case anyone decided to enter the chapel at that moment for their own early-morning prayers. “You’re right. I don’t enjoy being here. I came here to pray for my family’s safety. The Divines have no love for me anymore but my family has done nothing wrong, so I hope that Stendarr will keep an eye out for them all the same. I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m the one that should apologize.” He almost reached up to touch Raelynn’s shoulder but thought better of it. The sight of her now, seemingly so innocent, wearing a dress and laying down flowers, was such a far cry from the depraved temptress of before that Gregor’s trepidation melted away.

That's more like it… she thought to herself, feeling him draw closer to her with his apology. Instantly she found herself warming to him again, she could sense his intensity behind her. As she finished with the flowers she turned around to face him, lured immediately to his eyes. She gave him an enticing smile, “I must confess, if I had been the first to wake, I might have done the same to you... “ She eyed him up and down, knowing what was under his clothes quite well. “It was a shame we didn't wake together. I don't think I was done having fun with you,” admitting that to him almost brought a blush to her cheeks. She stopped smiling and returned to a serious composure once more, not allowing herself to slip straight to tempting him like that. She allowed her eyes to fall to the floor, “I think it's very honourable of you to do such a thing for your family Gregor.” Her voice was quiet, a gentle whisper in the cold marble hall.

He laughed, but there was no mirth to it. “Everything I do is for my family. This is nothing by comparison.” Gregor looked at her, even when she averted her gaze, and he wondered what she wanted from him now. It had seemed like she was trying to woo him back to bed for a moment but now he wasn’t sure. He had left her because he thought that, while their night together had been extraordinarily enjoyable, it was a distraction that he didn’t need, and it had brought out a side of him that Gregor tried to suppress and hide as much as possible. But was it really right to dismiss Raelynn as entirely unvirtuous based on one encounter? Maybe that had simply been what they both needed to unwind after the danger and tension of the last few weeks. Perhaps someone like Raelynn, who did not judge him immediately when the veil was slightly lifted, wasn’t so bad. The long years on the road had been so lonely...

Nobody was as good at manipulating Gregor as Gregor himself.

“Look at me,” he said softly and stepped in even closer. His eyes glanced around quickly, ensuring that the place was still empty. “I’m sorry I left. It’s… complicated.”

“You don’t need to explain,” she began, pulling her hair to one side - revealing her neck to Gregor in a casual manner as she lifted her eyes back to him now. He was not going to be so easy to crack this time, she would have to take a step back in order to step forwards with him. She slowly sunk down to sit on the steps of the altar below him. “I’m here for my family too, in a way. I had hoped being here would bring me some clarity and help me make a decision on something.” As she spoke, she twisted lengths of her hair around her fingers and looked up to him from her position. “I was unsure of whether or not to return to High Rock, or stay with the company. This war…” she took a breath in through her teeth, releasing her hair and wrapping her arms around herself, “it scares me.”

She sat pensively for a moment, before smiling, “you must think me foolish and cowardly,” once more she looked up to him, beckoning him with her eyes to sit down beside her, inviting him to be near her.

This was a side of her that Gregor had not seen before. He did as her eyes requested and sat down, taking care not to sit on his cloak (as always), and thought about her words for a bit. His gaze went around the chapel again and he smiled faintly. It was a fitting environment for such confessions. Was she a coward? He had thought Daro’Vasora was a coward when she expressed her lack of enthusiasm to stay engaged with the war. But the Khajiit was a different type of person with a different set of skills. Raelynn was a healer, not a warrior. Gregor wouldn’t expect Julia to march to war either.

“No,” he replied, his voice warm and comforting. He draped his arm across her back, his hand resting on her hips, and playfully pulled her a little closer. “It is far from foolish to fear war. If you wish to go back to High Rock, I don’t blame you. I just don’t think this is something any of us can run from. If the Dwemer overran the Imperial City like that, imagine what they’ll do with the rest of Tamriel. Sooner or later we will have to stand our ground. And if you care about this company, maybe you should do it with us.” He looked her in the eyes and almost added with me but caught himself in time.

Raelynn indulged in being closer to him, and thought about placing her head on his shoulder. Not yet. Instead she just listened to him. His argument was much like Alim’s, but she found herself more swayed by Gregor, especially as he ran his hand over one of her souvenir bruises. She smirked a little, before placing her hand on his comfortingly. “You make a solid case for it, and I can't argue that you're right about it. I know that I would be… needed by the company…” she looked back into his eyes, almost drowning in them. He was as hypnotizing to her as she was trying to be to him.

She found herself preparing to strike, like a coiled snake ready to pounce on its prey. She ran her hand across his again, moving it to his thigh and squeezed it gently, not wanting it to come across as overly sexual, but more a touch of acknowledgement and appreciation. “Thank you Gregor…”

The sensation of Raelynn’s hand on his thigh was enough to make his heartbeat quicken.. “You’re welcome,” he murmured. Her presence so close to him and her gaze locked into his were as enchanting as always, and her vulnerability and openness had surprised and disarmed him. She wasn’t just the succubus he had thought her to be. There was a real, endearing woman sitting next to him now. And now that he had relaxed… even if her touch was not improper, there was something about her that he just couldn’t resist.

She felt the energy around them was palpable, it was as it had been just a night ago. She sidled closer to him, pressing her body to his, she was now drawing out circles on his leg, looking him in the eye again, she bit her lip flirtatiously, fluttering her lashes ever so and lowering her gaze. “How do you suppose I stay and help the company when I…” she paused for a second, tempted to turn her face away. But she wanted him to watch her mouth when she said her last words. She was ready to strike, and so she leant in closer, the location spurring her on. It was an unholy statement to make, but she had worn him down enough to soften him up - to reach the point of no return once more. “How can I be of any help to anyone when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your--” she spoke in a hushed and honeyed tone, a sultry purr, under Dibella’s altar, leaving the end of her words to Gregor’s ears only. It was like making an offer to a darker God.

Gregor bit his lip and closed his eyes when Raelynn whispered the last few words in his ear. It was such a heady feeling to have her say these things to him here, of all places, and an intense surge of lust felt like it was going to burst out of his chest as something electric singed through his limbs. He could feel the sinful heat of her rosy cheeks as his face brushed against hers until his lips found her mouth. He kissed her and pulled her close, his hands pressing roughly on her body through the fabric of her dress, resisting the desire to rip off her clothes and desecrate her there and then inside the empty chapel.

“Not here,” she moaned while pulling out of his kiss as she enjoyed the sensation of his hands grabbing at her body desperately, “I have a room at the Inn. I bet that we can sneak in unseen at this hour...” Her head was filled with all manner of images of lust and longing, the various things they could do, although as insatiable as she felt, this place was wrong. She took him by the hands and got herself to her feet to begin leading him away from the Sanctuary of the Chapel and to her bed.

The short walk back to the Inn would feel excruciatingly long, she was thinking of ways to make it longer - to draw out the tension and prolong their craving for each other. As she lead him away from the altar, she turned back to look at him over her shoulder -- her eyes wide and innocent, but the smile that began to creep over her lips was anything but. She would have him begging for her by the time they made it to their private space.

Gregor slowly rose to his feet and followed Raelynn at a languid pace. He knew what she was getting at -- well, two could play that game. They left the chapel looking the very picture of proper decorum: a gallant knight with a fair lady on his arm, taking a leisurely stroll through the streets. It was just as quiet outside as inside as the eastern sky began to colour orange with the impending dawn, leaving Gregor free to cast glances of undiluted desire at Raelynn. “I wonder if you look perfectly innocent again underneath that dress, or if it's still evident that I had my way with you,” he said to her softly, as two lovers might whisper and giggle in public.

“I may have left something to remember you by,” she said with a smug smile as she continued to walk with him. It was just in the same manner as they had walked together towards the Tavern for their first encounter, only this time they of course had their secret. “If I recall, I may have left some marks of my own on you… I can see that my favourites are gone.” She licked her lower lip as she brought up her hand to stroke his neck ever so, using the opportunity to tuck back his rogue strands of hair behind his ear. She liked people thinking that she was just straightening his appearance like that. She wondered what they would think if they could hear her thoughts. She wondered what Gregor would think if he could hear them too.

“Sorry about that,” Gregor replied with a wry smile. A delightful chill ran down his spine when her fingers touched the skin where she'd bitten down on and clawed him. The wounds might be gone but his body hadn't forgotten. “I don't normally come back for more. You're the first woman in ten years to achieve that.” He said it casually but the implication was much stronger than his tone suggested. Was it a good idea to admit that to her? Gregor didn't care anymore. There was something special about her and she deserved to know. He, too, raised his hand and gently touched her cheek with his fingers. It would look sweet to anyone who saw it, but Raelynn could see in Gregor's eyes that it belied a far more ferocious hunger.

She didn't know whether to feel honoured by such a statement. It had been by pure chance that their paths had crossed again, there was always that Gregor just never saw his past lovers - like he had tried to do with her, for what reason? She gave him a smile regardless, and placed her head against his arm, clinging tightly. “Well I don't ever really happen to act in such a manner in the first place…” she knew there was a good chance he wouldn't believe her. But it was true, she could count on one hand the lovers she had taken - including Gregor - it had never been all that interesting, truth be told. But the chemistry was undeniable between the two of them, it had outweighed anything else and now she was hooked on it. They approached the Flowing Bowl and Raelynn gave him a flirtatious look, stepping ahead just ever so. Not wanting to wait much longer.

That elicited a chuckle from him. “In a hurry, are we?” Gregor asked laconically, but he hastened his pace to follow her inside all the same. If there was anyone else from their party inside the Flowing Bowl Gregor didn't notice them, nor did he care. His eyes were fixed on Raelynn’s back, on the nape of her neck, on the movement of her hips. He followed her upstairs without another word and as soon as they stepped inside her room, Gregor closing the door behind them more quietly this time (as he was determined to cause no further structural damage to the inns of Anvil), he picked up Raelynn and threw her on the bed, a fervent look of desire on his face. He undid himself of his cloak and gear, letting it drop to the ground around him, until he was bare-chested, his tattoos on full display in the blossoming daylight that filtered in through the curtains.

She landed softly on the spread, and immediately positioned herself on her side, propping up her head with her hand, her long hair falling around her. In the dark of the room, the amber waves of dawn sunlight that did spill through made her usually ash toned hair shine like strands of gold. As she watched Gregor strip down in front of her, she placed her free forefinger into her mouth and bit down seductively. The Breton watched the muscles of his chest, paying attention to his tattoos - drawing herself free from the atmosphere -- unable to stop herself from making a comment about it. “Is that a statement, or purely an accident…?”

She had learned very early on that he was quite reserved when it came to matters of his past. She didn't know whether she wanted him to stay in this mood - the mood where he seemed genuinely happy and smitten, or flick the switch to his primal other self. The one she had met only nights ago. At the moment, she herself was smitten with both.

Gregor looked down at his chest, following Raelynn’s gaze, and quietly mouthed ‘oh’ when he realized what she was referring to. That. Arkay, his head crossed out by two diagonal scars across Gregor’s sternum, was artfully etched into his skin with black ink. It must have been a pretty bad look, combined with the Daedric symbol for Oblivion on his upper arm, if Raelynn was a devout and pious woman. Fortunately, she wasn’t. “Yes, it’s a statement,” he said in a low voice and slowly crawled on the bed with her on all fours. His face was austere and there was iron in his eyes. Despite that, he gently ran a finger across Raelynn’s bare arm as he contemplated his next words. How could he explain that he was a man who had betrayed allies and murdered innocents in a blind rage, all in the name of a cure for himself and his family? He knew what people were like. Nobody would understand that he was justified. The things that happened were… regrettable. But good men make mistakes and his intentions had always been noble. The Divines couldn’t see that, rigid and devoid of compassion as they were.

“I have done terrible things for a noble cause,” Gregor said at last, his voice now barely more than a whisper. “Some lives were lost for the sake of others. The gods condemn me for it, they withhold their blessings and are dismissive of my prayers. They don’t understand that my intentions are good, and I know that Arkay will not be kind on my soul if my time should come.” His nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply and his fingers dug into Raelynn’s arm. “Fuck him. I won’t submit to his judgement.”

Terrible things? she wondered as he began to get closer to her. The same look in his eye that she recognised from their first night together. She was slowly learning more about him, and to many, this would be a red flag to get away, to run. That, and the grip that he had on her arm. It was an enjoyable feeling that unnerved and prompted a soft whimper of pleasure from her. It turned her on. The thought of escaping crossed her mind, some part of her was telling her to ask him to leave -- but that was a small and insignificant voice. Nothing but a timid whisper, drowned out by the incredible lust and attraction to him she felt. It was crossing a line to be with him, but that made it so much more satisfying. He had such a darkness around him, he was the perfect storm and all she could think about was taming him for herself. She let him wait in silence and drew out the tension while he obviously waited for her to respond to his confession. Whether or not she would accept him as he was, or judge him.

It came to her -- once again she found herself in the position to pounce, smiling provocatively, she leant up to whisper into his ear, “I wouldn't expect someone like you to submit to anyone, Gregor. Fuck Arkay indeed.” She sat up and lifted her dress over her shoulders, tossing it to the floor on top of his clothes.This was it, she knew that she was now more involved with him than she thought she would have been, but knowing his secrets and seducing them out of him was a high she was now addicted to.

Her words were like moon sugar to him. The validation, however ill-informed, satisfied an aching and bruised part of Gregor’s soul that had been tormented by his conscience for years. His grim expression was replaced by a terribly insidious smile, fueled in equal parts by redoubled lust and relief. A part of him knew that he shouldn’t have said what he did and that her reaction wasn’t right, but his mind was so clouded by desire that he put those thoughts aside and moved on top of her. It was then that he noticed two bruises on her hips in the shape of his hands and he laughed, grabbing her there where she would still be awfully sore and pulling her body against his. “So that’s what you kept,” he purred as his fingers pressed hard into her flesh, his eyes staring into hers, their faces a mere inch away from one another. He wanted to see her pain, and her delight.

As his hands once again found their way to her hips, the sensation she felt was like nothing else. A mixture of pleasure and pain that excited her and gave her a rush. She felt it throughout her small frame as Gregor towered over her. But yet, she relaxed into him and into the moment, placing her lips against his, saying nothing. The quiet voice of concern muted entirely as his dominating presence gazed intensely into her eyes. She knew he would once again have his way with her body.

Morning, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E08
_{@Dervish & @DearTrickster}

---

Anvil had done very well by its citizens and visitors, easing peaceful night sleeps with the security of the Legion, offering comfort in more ways than Judena was aware of. Taking what she could haggle, spare gold she was holding onto since their departure of Jerell Mountains, Jude had replaced her mage robes. She bought a warm bed and a few meals she had no help in cooking, restocking her fresh fruit and fishing for fresh meat - drying and preserving what she could.

Even having enough time to scrub away the road, treating herself to floral oils. Her scales shined unlike they have had for a handful of weeks. Refreshed of mind and body, Judena left the inn behind to go for a morning walk down to the markets. While some of the merchants gave her a glare or ignored her inquiries it only took a brief reading reminder as to why they were as cold as they were. Much to Judena’s dismay.

Over the crowds she spotted a vaguely familiar Khajiit head perusing the stalls as well. She turned her head and Judena saw a stick poking out of her mouth, recognizing her immediately. She waved enthusiastically at Daro’Vasora.

“Daro’Vasora!” She said moving her way forward, gently excusing herself past other shoppers.

An ear pivoted in the direction of the voice, followed by the turning of a head. Despite herself, Daro’Vasora smiled, setting down a bracelet she had been looking at on the same velvet pad that the vendor had presented it on. “Judena, glad to see you’re well. You’re looking quite youthful this morning.” She gestured to the Argonian’s attire. “The outfit suits you.”

Smiling as well Judena replied, “You are too kind, my friend. I feel refreshed as if I have found a center. A small sliver of stability has profoundly positive effects for me.”

“Speaking of which. How has Anvil treated you? It has been a little while since we have had a chance to speak.” She paused, adding, “According to my logs, of course.”

“I have reported my findings and submitted my reference guide for Dwemeri artifacts to the Legionnaires. It has… been difficult to come to terms with simply stepping back.” She admitted.

“It’s been a couple days since we last spoke,” Daro’Vasora confirmed with a nod. “I always enjoyed the city; I cleaned the grime of the road away, purchased a new outfit to replace those tattered rags I was in before, even had a friendly chat with Gregor and Latro. Have you spoken to any of the others?” The Khajiit asked, giving Judena ample time to check her notes. She knew her friend’s condition well, and as such knew the system that she used to give herself the most normal life she could. Daro’Vasora wasn’t overly patient with many people, but she respected and appreciated Judena, and the slower pace of their interactions often gave her time to reflect. It was an appreciated change of pace some days.

“Mm…” Judena did just that - referring to the past few days, she hummed in thought while she read. “Yes, I have spoken with Jaraleet - my protective fellow Argonian and helped appraise a sword for the…” She flipped the page, “Nanine, the young breton woman, fascinating family history. We have-” She gestured vaguely searching for the right word to describe them generally.

The patience Daro’Vasora showed Judena was not lost on the Argonian. She wholly appreciated it, every little bit of understanding Judena received from others was more than she could ever hope knowing how her mind carried a burden for those around her. Especially those who choose to do more than tolerate.

Dodging a shopper’s basket. A glare followed by the shopper. “If you do not mind, my young friend could we possibly move away from the market?”

She leaned down to whisper, “I- erm… Caused a bit of a scene here the other day and some of the merchants here do not appreciate my presence.”

That prompted a surprised blink. “You’ve never been one for mischief.” Daro’Vasora replied quickly, looking for a quick way out of market stalls and somewhere quieter. “Might I ask what you did?” she asked, placing a gentle hand on Judena’s shoulder and helping guide her through the route she had mentally picked out.

Judena winced with embarrassment, allowing Daro’Vasora’s guidance. “Oof. I humiliated myself by getting into a very heated argument with a merchant, he was attempting to sell very fake dwemer pieces recovered from the Imperial City. I saw through it immediately, naturally. It turned into a spectacle that I had to walk away from, defeated.”

Jude sighed patting her chest, “I blame my sour mood and temper getting the better of me. The stress of travelling from one disaster to the next had finally taken a toll on me.”

“If people want momentos for other people’s suffering, let them be swindled.” The Khajiit replied, deciding that they were out of the scornful gaze of the merchants that weren’t overly fond of Judena. “Passions can run high, I understand, truly. We’ve been through a lot, and it’s not like those idiots will matter to us in a few days from now. Besides, the way things are going, very real pieces will be hitting the market in overwhelming supply in a few months. How do you think people are going to react when they find out they spent a month’s worth of savings on knock off crap they didn’t verify?” Daro’Vasora reasoned, offering a wink. “Way I see it, if you’re buying priceless artifacts from a street vendor, you don’t deserve the coin you’re spending.”

“That is very solid reasoning and it lightens the embarrassment two fold. Thank you, Daro’Vasora. They should not concern me as they have had.” Judena said warmly, perspective shifting once again. “You always know just what to say.”

They walked on, comfortably enjoying the other’s company. “I have something I wanted to discuss truthfully, and I understand the nature of our friendship has never been one to pry into our respective lives or pasts.” Judena began, “You and I share that common thread of keeping attention away from our hurts.”

She paused thoughtfully, “If I am wrong you are free to say so, my friend. I would never want to jeopardize our friendship.”

It was one way to look at it, the Khajiit supposed. “It’s more you don’t have pain if you move away from what hurts you. What’s this about?” she asked, not sure if she liked where this was going.

Digging into her shirt she pulled free the wedding band she wore as a necklace, it was silver with a topaz gem. She held it up for Daro’Vasora to see, “In light of running from one disaster to the next it has put some old hurts into perspective. Caring about those who are not here.”

“I am... Confused. I have been travelling with decades worth of letters written by my ex wife. I have not read a single one and never considered to read them until now. If we wake up tomorrow to our final day, I would die wondering what my ex-wife had to say.” Judena said with a small amount of wonder. “Would it be apologies? Anger? Hurt? Celebrating her new life with someone else? I have…” She said hesitated patting her chest where her logbook was. “Spent many sleepless nights wondering those very things.”

“I want… I want to know but I also do not. Does that make any sense?” She clenched the ring in her fist holding it close. “I carry with me a heavy weight.”

Daro’Vasora stepped closer to Judena, reaching out to put her hands over Judena’s, feeling the leathery scales beneath her own. Such different bodies on the outside, but very relatable fears and guilt on the inside. “If you never know, you control the narrative that suits how you wish to feel. If you wish to have courage, she left you kind words. If you wish to feel validated in your separation, they’re cruel. But as soon as you open the letters, you secede control. But you said it yourself; you may be at the end of the path, and you wish to know before your run out of time. You need closure, now more than ever. Pain fades, but even with your affliction, you need to reach an end.”

Judena closed her eyes, “I-” She nodded furiously. She wanted to close it. Shed it away like an old skin. It was old, it was tired, it was painful. “Daro’Vasora - thank you. I knew my ex wife before -” she tapped her head. “Before this, with many other memories she remains there sharp and clear. It is a terrible tear to remember and to not. Split down the middle. It feels like being trapped in a pocket of time.”

She nodded furiously again, “I hope, I truly hope the letters will release that - that...” She searched for the word. “Tangled line, the knot.” She gestured at her chest.

Daro’Vasora’s heart broke listening to Judena’s moment of vulnerability; she rarely considered the everlasting toll her memory must have extracted, and Judena’s perpetual kind and endearing nature were for others’ benefit. She was strong and selfless, and the Khajiit felt a pang of remorse for her own behaviour in contrast to Judena. Still, she pulled the older woman in an embrace. “You aren’t alone, and I’m not going to leave you without a friend. Do you want me there when you open them?” she asked quietly.

“You would do that for me?” Replied, quiet as well, she returned the hug. “I would not know how to repay you for such a thing, my friend.” She held Daro’Vasora for a few moments before disengaging holding her out at arms length. “Anvil is not our little group’s final resting place but perhaps in the down time while we are on the road I will ask for your company while I read them. It gives me soaring comfort knowing I will not be alone.”

“Comfort is coming from such strange places as of late, even Durantel back in Skingrad offered his own... version of support. I find myself rereading that day in an effort to understand the dreary Altmer.” Noting the look of confusion in Daro’Vasora’s expression, Judena clarified. “Durantel offered to help Meg and I in gathering food and we had a very strange but respectful conversation.”

She chuckled lightly, “With further hindsight, simply calling it strange is quite the understatement.”

The tale was dubious, to say the least. Judena was no fool, but she also seemed to give everyone the benefit of the doubt when none was merited. Durantel was about as trustworthy as a deal with Sheogorath and with none of the charm. He didn’t just “help” people, that was for damn sure.

“Look, it’s nothing, Judena. You’d have offered to do the same for me long ago if our positions were reversed… but Durantel doesn’t just offer to help people, especially when he’s a racial purist. What did he say?” Daro’Vasora asked.

She held up a talon, flipping knowingly back to Skingrad. “Well, I am glad I mentioned this to you because it is puzzling. Durantel especially is very difficult to read.”

“We began to speak of religion, as you know quite well I am a staunch believer in the Hist. I was surprised he brought it up at all, possibly to help time pass while I fished. He volunteered to be my spotter while Meg - as we agreed - was quick of foot to continue searching for food while I waded into the spring.” She read from the page, finger following the lines of her neat and clean handwriting. “He kept referring to me as ‘Scaled-One’ which I suppose was not nearly as offensive to what he would be far more inclined to use.” Judena shrugged. “I mentioned my ex wife and he asked if I missed her.”

She hummed at her previous decision at opening up about it to Durantel. “I said I missed the memory of her. He told me he missed someone dearly whom he assumed she thought he was dead.”

“The conversation crept into stranger territory he asked how much my affliction weighed on me. He inferred that I did not want to live anymore with it. Suggesting that… An afterlife would be free of it. Then asked what my purpose was.” She said, there were notes of how shameful she felt at the time being asked that. “I wrote how ashamed I was to even consider his words. Then answered I would carry on as a river carries us all. He said, ‘I will not endeavor to cause you any further strife.’ Before offering his hand to shake, in which I did.” Judena said, “I am condensing the conversation down quite a bit, my notes observed my feelings and some of my thoughts naturally but the confusion still stands as to why Durantel spoke with me of such things in the first place.”

She shrugged slightly, closing the log. “Your thoughts?”

A chill ran down Daro’Vasora’s spine as she weighed the new information. The entire exchange was morbid and there was a sinister overtone to it, but Judena either seemed at peace with it or oblivious to the subtext of Durantel telling her that death would solve her issues. She didn’t want to upset her friend more than she already was, but she certainly didn’t want the Argonian to be caught alone with the Altmer again. “Don’t spend any more time alone with him, alright? Durantel is dangerous and I’m pretty sure he’s a fanatic, people like him don’t associate with people like us out of the goodness of their hearts.” Daro’Vasora cautioned, feeling quite uneasy. “I don’t think he would hesitate to harm you if he felt he could get away with it.”

Judena stood a little straighter, nodding solemnly at Sora’s warning. “I will, my friend. I will employ my mage armour and remain cautious. He has been avoiding me as of late I would be led to believe he does not want to be alone with me again either.” She patted her chest, pursing her lips. “I am not a warrior but I can defend myself if need be from sword and spell. Not a frail leathery sack quite yet.” Judena joked elbowing Sora gently.

“Even when I do eventually lose my stride you will have to argue tooth and nail to convince me otherwise. Ha!” She laughed feeling the lingering indecision dissipate, realization striking her once again. “Daro’Vasora, you have been kind to listen to me today. The same is offered to you, I would understand if you needed to ease your conscious or unbottle certain things. Some of the best secrets are kept with someone who cannot remember them.” She offered in return, “It would not be the first I have offered as much to others.”

Oh, you know how it is, you have a friendly chat with the ancestors and learn that you don’t know what you’re doing with your life, I’m having an identity crisis, and I have this fantastic ability to hurt people I actually care about while burning bridges between people who mean well so thoroughly that it ensures I can never count on anyone for support. Not a big deal, I always figure things out. Nothing to ruffle your frills over, my Argonian friend. Daro’Vasora thought while shrugging impassively.

“Oh, you know me. Nothing keeps me down for long, moving forward constantly means you don’t look back. I’m fine.” she lied, her impassive face as disinterested as ever. If there was one thing Daro’Vasora was good at that didn’t come out of a book, dodging deadly situations and picking just about every lock ever conceived, it was keeping her emotional state well concealed from the world when she didn’t want to appear vulnerable. Judena was sweet, but she also didn’t need to worry about the problems of a young and troubled women who made it extremely difficult to approach her earnestly. Daro’Vasora was an island, and she certainly didn’t keep the port open for long for others to reach her. She just learned how to deal with the isolation and bitterness that came with it.

You need to do better. Was this not exactly what you were told to change? she thought, finding herself smiling at the Argonian.

The words were caught in her throat, and never leaving.

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Judena shared a thoughtful gaze, she hoped Daro’Vasora would always be faster than her problems. Could she truly outrun them?

“I will be here when you are ready.”

Mortalmo’s heart ached as they made their flight from Skingrad. The Dominion was truly a beacon of hope amidst the turbulent times hoisted upon them all by the Dwemer. The new count spoke true, for what indeed had the Empire done for these people? Pitiful as they were, those in control of a nation owed it to their citizens to tend to them in times of strife and peace alike. Count Hassildor had failed in that regard miserably. Yet the Dominion was taking care of these degenerates as if they were their own kin. Surely this Count Favani’s heart was touched by Mara. How Mortalmo longed to be among the noble justicars no doubt keeping peace throughout the newly acquired city.

And yet, as this change had been implemented, he had kept out of sight, never straying far from the fringes of the camp. There was a reason for this, the Mer knew that. He was terrified of what he would face. Humiliation? Demotion? ...Death? He could not bear to imagine the disappointment he suspected Valentha might feel, or the shame he might bring his brother’s name. If Toriseth and Vertemnis had benefited from his sacrifice as he so deeply hoped, then the legacy of Mortalmo was that of a martyr, heroically giving his life for that of his own charges, loyal to the Thalmor to the very end.

The truth was far less flattering.

Fool enough to be taken alive, and cowardly enough to evade Thalmor presence even upon escaping, Mortalmo was little better than a common deserter. Here he was now, a decade and then some later, forming alliances with lizards and teaching a Manmeri how to kill. Even if the transgressions surrounding his capture and eventual escape could be forgiven, the events of the past years could not be wiped away so easily. Mortalmo felt a traitor to his race.

Surely, eventually, there would be an opportunity to redeem himself. Indeed, for what other reason did he still walk Mundus, if not to regain his previous station. What other reason could there be?

And so he went along with the group that he had tethered himself to, mind numb and chest tight.

---

The trek to Anvil allowed Mortalmo some much needed time to recuperate from the melancholy that had tugged at him since leaving Skingrad. He kept to himself when he could, though spent well enough time with Rhona when she wasn’t off dallying with the Nord dog or some other similarly distasteful companion. He had ceased his avoidance of Judena, though found himself unable to stomach little more than simple small talk with her, or in fact, with most individuals.

Not that his aloof nature was anything out of the ordinary, though there was a certain haggardness to his mannerisms that the Mer could not always fully disguise. It seemed, however, that the further the party traveled from Skingrad, the more Mortalmo’s state improved. His time for redemption would arise. The gods be good, he would redeem himself. In the meantime, what harm was there in making nice with at least a few of the lot surrounding him? There would be an opportunity to wash away his sins.

That was what he told himself, at least.

One day whilst on the road, having set up camp for the night, Mortalmo pulled from his pack a small mirror, and gazed upon himself for the first time in weeks. He did not like what he saw staring back at him. His hair he had neglected to trim for some time now, and the silvery locks now reached just beneath the nape of his neck. Long enough to tie back into a tail. Mortalmo did so. His unkempt stubble too, the Mer decided had to go. Though it had been some number of years since last he shaved, personal grooming was a practice that he prided himself upon, and the fine edge of his dagger was an adequate stand-in for a proper razor.

He studied himself then, before smiling into the mirror. He looked a little closer to the man he had once been. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

---

At last, the jewel of the Gold Coast was in sight. Mortalmo found himself in a more pleasant mood as of late, despite the black thoughts still plaguing his mind. He made an effort not to dwell on them. Still, he couldn’t resist sneering at certain members of the band, particularly that weaselly Calen, and found no reason as to why he shouldn’t. Maybe he was somewhat gentler in his dealings with Rhona, perhaps he had begun to ease out of the discomfort that Judena brought him. Nord scum was still Nord scum. Even if the cow among them could cook.

Passing into the city proper, Mortalmo spared only the smallest moment to acknowledge Rhona for her offer of company should he seek it before he went off on his way. He had a desire to purchase for himself some gear and clothing that didn’t make him out to be a common thug. And a new flute, too. It had been too long since he’d played a good tune.

However, the meager sum of septims clinked within his coin purse resentfully. It was no matter in truth.

There were ways to remedy such a quandary.

---

It had been a long time since Mortalmo had been within such an establishment. A place where the upper echelon of society gathered to drink and mingle. Nobles with black hearts and clean hands, laughing in tones far more hollow than the clinking of their glasses could ever be. In the darker corners of the propriety cloaked men could be seen conversing in hushed tones. The rich glow emanating from the dangling chandeliers scarcely illuminated their dark dealings. Brasher folk gathered there too. Youths with far too much coin and far too little to do gambled away their wealth in high stakes games, only to return the next day with freshly filled purses.

Mortalmo eyed one such youth carefully, leering subtly at the boy from his position at the bar. He remained seated at the counter slowly nursing his second drink; all he had been able to afford. It was some fruity swill that forced him to stifle a grimace after every sip. How he missed the fine wines of Alinor.

“Hah! Eat your hat then, you dolt!” The young man smirked then, the curl of his lips displacing alcohol reddened cheeks. “I’ve won, again.” Mortalmo slowly rose the glass to his mouth. “My coinpurse is nice and fat now, perhaps I had best be off.” The lad’s eyebrow rose suggestively. “Give the rest of you lot a chance to pick at my scraps.” Mortalmo began to drink.

“Aye, piss off then!”

“Yeah, bugger to you Willem!”

A chorus of booing and cheering followed the arrogant noble as he sauntered out the of The Count’s Arms. Mortalmo downed the rest of his beverage, placed the empty glass gingerly on the counter, and began to slowly make his way for the exit.

---

The footfalls of Mortalmo’s prey echoed quietly throughout the mostly abandoned streets of Anvil. The Mer’s own steps made very little sound as he slinked forward, keeping close to the shadows. The occasional pair of guards on patrol would hinder his progress for a time, though it was easy enough to slip into an alleyway or door frame and wait for the patrol to pass. On the whole, he advanced upon his target unfettered.

Mortalmo found a bit of humor in the young man’s apparel; a red velvet doublet paired with brown tights that gave off a smooth sheen. He peered carefully into the darkness. An alleyway was peeking out ahead, and his senses caught neither sight nor sound of an incoming patrol. Lips twisting into something between a smirk and a snarl, the once Thalmor inquisitor began to close the distance between him and his septims.

It was done in a flash. Just as he reached the backway, a gloved hand wrapped around the youth’s mouth from behind while a second smoothly slid a dagger into his soft throat. Mortalmo carefully dragged the corpse deep into the alley before cutting the fat sack of coins free, fastening it about his own waist. The bloodstained leather gauntlet he tossed down atop the remains. Then, thinking better of it, cast the clean gauntlet so that it fell adjacent to the body. Let the guards think it meant something.

The Altmer made his way to The Flowing Bowl then, significantly richer. The smell of the salt carried from the sea reminded Mortalmo of home, and he fell asleep with a gentle smile upon his face. His dreams were plagued by images of fire and demons, and the shrieking tones of a dying woman.

---

It had been a productive day, Mortalmo decided. Maybe even a good one. The money that last night’s exploits had earned him had certainly been enough to make the purchases he longed for. His arsenal for both social and martial purposes had been significantly revamped. In place of his worn, battered leather armor he sported a new pair, sturdier and somewhat more impressive in its appearance, dyed a dark grey. The cheap furs and cloths that passed for his leisurewear too, had been replaced. Now he donned dark blue linen pants with a short, soft black tunic cinched about the waist by a dark leather belt. Accompanying him with or without armor was a fine yet sturdy hooded cashmere cloak of a deep crimson. A truly suitable replacement for the filthy patchwork thing he had been forced to make due with for the past decade.

A new flute too, Mortalmo had acquired. It was wooden, and like his old instrument, simple in the design despite the fine tune it produced. He intended to perform with it for the patrons of The Count’s Arms.

On his way to the inn, he noted with a mixture of pleasure and revulsion that he had begun to turn some heads. Within the establishment while playing his flute, he noted the gambling partners of last night’s victim.

Their faces were creased with worry.

Mortalmo smiled as he paused between songs, brought the flute back to his lips, and lost himself in the music.

Nanine and Judena

@Rtron and @DearTrickster

Afternoon, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E08

Nanine headed through Anvil, walking through the crowded streets, a cautious hand on her sword. While she trusted this city to offer shelter and food, she didn’t trust it to offer complete safety from the day to day dangers of pickpockets. And while her sheath and hilt gave the appearance of a simple, worn, steel sword, she didn’t trust the desperate to not go for it anyways. She was looking for a bookstore. While she had her own stories planned, and had a whole book of stories safely placed in her pack, she was always looking for new literature. Who knew, maybe she’d find something new on the Daedra, Dwemer, or the Thalmor while she was there.

As she rounded the corner of the street, she saw a familiar argonian in the distance. Recognizing Judena, the older of her two most recent Argonian travelling companions, Nanine made her way through the crowd towards the older woman. She hadn’t gotten a chance to have the appraiser date and confirm her family’s stories, what with how busy they had been fleeing the Dominion and the Dwemer, and was unashamedly eager to have Judena look at it now that she had a chance. ”Judena! I’m Nanine, from the caravan you were on recently. We met roughly two weeks ago, in Skingrad.” She hadn’t forgotten Judena’s condition. It was simultaneously terrifying and alluring to Nanine. On the one hand, the idea of having memories, things she was so used to having easily at her beck and call, slip through her hands to be forgotten forever no matter how hard she tried to keep them scared her. On the other, there were many nights when she wished she couldn’t perfectly recall how Wayrest smelled and looked as it burned, or the stench of her brother’s blood as he bled out in her hands, weakly grasping her arm.

No matter. She had other things to focus on right now. ”You said you were an appraiser of artifacts, yes? Would you happen to know anything about Imperial weapons and artifacts?”

While Judena had found herself spending a great deal of time by the bay, finding a center and shamble together some form of a routine. She had enough money to afford a stay at an inn, working in a nearby shop. “I am terribly sorry… Nanine? May I verify our meeting? I simply cannot recall your name but your face is vaguely familiar.”

She held up a finger, shuffling her logbook out from inside her shirt. She silently read back to when she travelled with the caravan and made a small ah-ha! Sound reading the descriptions of Nanine and others. “There you are. Yes, I am an appraiser.” She said proudly. “The best one you will meet this week, I can promise you. History, technique in metalwork, how old it is and I offer restoration services as well. Depending on how fragile the piece is, of course. If the dirt I intend to remove is what is keeping the piece together than unfortunately I cannot help in restoration.”

She explained, happy as ever to ply her skills. “Depending on your budget, anything related to Dwemer - has a relatively steep discount due to the urgency for more information.”

“May I see the sword to evaluate the cost of service?”

Nanine smiled at the pride in Judena’s voice, and how she puffed slightly and stood taller with it. It was always enjoyable to see someone in their element. Her eyebrow raised at the mention of it being a sword, however, and she looked around. She wasn’t about to pull the sword out here, where anyone could see it and mark her as a potential target. ”Not here. Would you mind terribly following me back to my room at a local inn? It’ll make sense when we get there, I promise.”

Nanine looked up at the Argonian as they headed towards the inn. Judena had lived a long time, and likely spent most of it as an appraiser. She would have stories to tell, if she could remember them, and Nanine was eager to hear them. ”So, Judena, how did you get into appraising? The Black Swamp doesn’t strike me as particularly...safe, for artifacts to be preserved throughout the ages. And how did you know the Imperial artifact was my sword? It could have easily been something in my pack, or my armor.”

“Ah! That is my mistake, I assumed it would be the sword you have been carrying and holding close. My notes mentioned it briefly but it has always been sheathed. With an observation of that nature I would go on to assume it is more precious as opposed to seeing practical use.” She commented holding up her hands, hoping not to offend. “If you wish for discretion I do not mind striking those observations away. I understand not everyone would like their actions being recorded by me. Rest assured it is all written in Jel and for my eyes only.”

She chuckled a throatily. “Many landstriders do not know of the secrets hiding in the depths of our swamps and home. Fortunately for many objects they do not factor into the local food chain.” Judena joked. “Mud, sap, roots. The difficulty certainly increases when you strive not to disturb the dig site when recovering historical pieces. I very much dream of the day when Argonia can share her secrets without fear of generational repercussions. Perhaps one day.”

Nanine’s curiosity was apparent as Judena spoke. Many scholars were always hungry for more information about Argonia, Black Marsh. Shrouded in mystery.

“I lived in the cosmopolitan coastal city of Soulrest, fortunate again to be exposed quite early to the various cultures and peoples. I was once a guide to those very secrets for a group of mages. Their expertise and wildly interesting stories of exploration captured my imagination. They brought me with them to the Imperial City where I learned everything I would need to know. As such, became an expert.”

“If you doubt my skills and ability to service, know that I have been appraising and collecting history-” Judena leaned down to Nanine, poking her nose. “Since before you were born, young one.” She smiled, showing gums.

Nanine gave a poorly suppressed giggle, smiling back at the Argonian as Judena’s nose poked her own. ”Oh, it’s nothing important enough that I demand it be struck from your journal. It’ll just be prudent that I don’t whip it out in the middle of the street. You’ll see when we get there, I promise.”

She held up her hands in mock defense. ”I would never doubt the skills of someone as enthusiastic as you, Judena. That’s not even considering how well aged you are. I was merely curious as to what gave away that the artifact might be my sword.” She gave a wry chuckle, hand on the hilt of said sword. ”I suppose I should consider next time that my over protectiveness might be the very thing giving it away as something worthy of stealing.”

She shrugged lightly, confident in her ability to defend it, before turning back the conversation onto Judena. The woman was a wealth of information and she wasn’t about to waste this opportunity. ”So you must have been all over Tamriel in your time, no? Any stories or regions of particular note you’d like to talk about? I’ve only been in High Rock, Skyrim, and central Cyrodiil. Which, I realize, makes me already far more travelled than your average person, but they tend to be very similar in everything except culture. And temperature, if you get even slightly north in Skyrim.”

“I have been to every province, the most I am familiar with to recall is that of Cyrodiil and my home Argonia - referred often by landstriders as Black Marsh. While I am quite the excellent appraiser for historical pieces, every piece is new to me. I was taught the hows and whys something could look and feel the way it does based on hundreds of variables. I would need to read from my logbooks if I were to recount anything exciting - truthfully my dear Nadean.” She explained, gently trying to help the youthful mage understand the limitations. “I was thankfully not born with this affliction but my decades of travelling are only remembered in the logs.”

“I apologize, Nabine.”

Nanine internally cursed her overexcitement. Of course Judena couldn’t tell her anything, her memory required the use of her logbook for anything not very old or very recent. And here Judena was, apologizing for something she couldn’t control. Nanien found herself being endeared to the sweet older woman. ”No, no. You don’t have to apologize Judena. It was my mistake for forgetting. And my name is Nanine. Nani, if you prefer.”

She gestured to the door of an inn it was one of the poorer ones, more of a large house with extra rooms than a proper inn. This is where I’m holed up for now. Didn’t have much money after leaving Skingrad, and the Legion didn’t give a whole lot for what information I had. Follow me, if you would?”

The moved through the smoky building, its only other inhabitant a cheery old nord woman, calling hello from the kitchen. In short order they were in Nanine’s room, a simple affair of one bed and a dresser, and she carefully closed and locked the door. ”Here we are.” She drew her sword, presenting it with a hand on the blade and the hilt too Judena. The white inscription seemed to glow, as the black of the ebony seemed to draw in light. ”This is my family’s blade, The Eternal Vow. My brother wielded it, and our father before him, and his father before him, and on to the era of the first Septim Empire. One of our ancestors earned this blade by serving Septim faithfully and saving his life.”

Nanine shrugged. ”Or so the story goes. All I really know is that it’s been in my family since before my father, and it is absolutely slathered with enchantments to increase its endurance and keep it strong. I could, technically, leave it in the bottom of a river for a year and it would be ready to use the moment it got pulled from the muck. I believe it also has a Soul Trap Enchantment designed to draw souls of the slain into it, to power the enchantments, as I’ve never needed to use soul gems on it. I was hoping you could date it.”

Judena sidestepped around it, from her pocket she flicked out some cloth gently cradling it. Her expression growing intense in concentration. She weighed it carefully in her hands eyes scanning the length of the blade and the hilt - clearly two different pieces from two different eras. Bringing it over to the desk she gently laid it down, in her hand she casted magelight, squeezing the orb in her hand dimming it considerably she let it go to float freely over the blade giving her more light to see the darker planes of the ebony. The sword itself showed its age in the way it was forged - there was a very good reason why smithies moved onto better methods to shape ebony weaponry. Judena wanted to get a better feel for it - allowing magika to pour into the palm of her hand she let the raw energy glide over and interact with these enchantments. Someone in her family had mind to ensure the hilt would not detach again by enchanting it, was this the result of generational work or the hands of one such master enchanter?

“There is a seed of truth to great tales.” Judena began. “This sword however is not from the First Era. It would not have seen past a couple generations of ceremonial use and the occasional fight if it had not been enchanted the way it has. The technique used to forge it is old but not that old. In fact,” She ran the tips of her fingers down the length of the blade - feeling out the ridges, scratches and tiny imperfections, “The technique for forging a blade this way began to decline quite steadily when the Septim Dynasty was established. Few pockets of rebellious Dunmer factions kept the ember alive but time saw to the erasure. In favour, to logically strengthen the durability capably seen in ebony as a material.”

Judena removed her hand and magicka pointing to the hilt. “The hilt is not the original.”

Bringing the light closer to show the fine seam at the base. “See? It was done with skillful hands but such a fix leaves visible clues. It is a far more modern piece by comparison to the blade itself. Third Era, definitively.” She picked it back up eyeing down it. “The inscription was added after as well, covering another, older one. The current Cyrodilic script on the blade wasn’t used at the time of forging.

She spoke as if to herself, “As for a date the blade was originally forged? I would narrow it down between year one hundred and ten third era and eight hundred and sixty second era. Further examination would be needed to get an exact date. Delving into your family tree and history would help connect the dates to the evidence found within the blade.

Nanine shouldn’t have been surprised. A blade that had been around as long as The Eternal Vow was claimed to have been would have undergone changes in its long life. Plus, the odds of her father’s stories being 100% true were very slim. As proud as her father was, they were still simply a relatively well off commoner family, with nothing to verify their claims but their pride. Still, she found herself blinking in startelement at all the details and mistakes in the story Judena pointed out.

She saw the line that indicated a repair, now that Judena pointed it out. As the examination completed, Nanine found herself wondering about the sword she had been devoted to keeping protected. Where was the other piece? What inscription was written over, and why was it changed? Questions for later. For now, she owed Judena for her services.

”Thank you, Judena. Here, take this for all you’ve done. It's been very enlightening.” She handed the argonian a pouch of coins, letting Judena out of her room. ”I hope our paths cross again.”

---

Anvil, 22nd of Second Seed

---

Anifaire woke up in the middle of the day. She'd taken full advantage of the room Brynja had given her and slept well through the night and the following day, dozing in and out of sleep, finally fully relaxed. She took the time to fully wash up, even washing and hanging her clothes to dry. She scrubbed everything she owned, leaving herself to wait, nude, until they dried, but it was worth it. She finally felt as though she didn't smell like a horse.

By the time she left her room, it was dinner time. She didn't have a cent of money for food and wasn't about to go asking for anyone's generosity, so she sat with a mug of water - she wasn't sure if she was supposed to pay for it or not, and she was afraid to find out.

The idea of remaining in Cyrodiil didn't seem as daunting as it had the previous day. A portion of her fascination with the Dwemer invasion had returned, but fear still overwhelmed her. Would they continue to expand, or were they after something else?

She wondered if she should've remained in Skingrad. The Dominion was there, taking care of the people. There would be Justicars. Those people, she could trust to know her name and see her home. Still, she'd left. The group she was with was... kind. People here had been generous to her, and every time she'd left the group's company, strangers had harassed her. She felt safer around them. She touched the cloak she wore; she still thought of it as Alim's. It was kindness. She had never expected it.

She felt as though she hadn't been thinking clearly since the Imperial City attack, but waking up this morning was as though the shock had finally worn off. She felt like she was waking up from a dream, snapping out of a stupor. She wondered where Durantel had gone off to. Would he help her return home? He was from Auridon, she thought.

Return home to Auridon. Where she would sleep in her room, at her parent's home. Each day, she would practice magic, which she isn't good at. She wondered if she would ever improve.

She gazed into the bottom of her mug, and tears stung her eyes, sliding silently down her cheeks. She stood up quickly, retreating back to her room so that no one would notice her sadness. The emotions she'd always been told to avoid were beyond being hidden.

Once her tears finally dried, she felt no less lost. She watched people do business from the room's window, wishing she had such simple concerns. She corrected herself. Did she truly want a boring life? She'd lived one, and she left it.

Would she really return so quickly?

Yes, she thought. She was a coward.

---

Anvil, 23nd of Second Seed, Dawn

---

Anifaire woke at the break of dawn feeling restless. She left before breakfast, the in still quiet, and made her way for the port. Fortunately, Anvil was a bit easier to navigate than the enormity of the Imperial City.

Ships were already loading up their supplies and trade goods. Sailors had early mornings. The closer she came to the docks, the more people she saw. There were fewer ships than she'd expected, but nonetheless she began searching around for someone in charge.

The Altmer pulled back her hood, this time wanting to be noticed for what she was. Altmer had a reputation for being good with magic, after all. She doubted she could live up to it.

"Excuse me," she started, too quietly, and to no one in particular. She stood at the center of a crowd, uncertain of who to speak with.

"Excuse me," she said louder. "Are there any ships heading towards Auridon?"

A gruff looking man bumped into her, knocking her backwards farther into the crowd. The bustling people jolted her in every direction.

"I need to get to Auridon. Is anyone going that way?" she tried.

"I can make your cargo lighter to carry, so you can load your ship faster," she called louder. No one responded to her. She got bumped back and forth until she found herself at the edge of the crowd, trying to get somebody's attention as she went.

When she finally found herself on the edge, she sighed in defeat. She had no idea how to find the right people to talk to. She'd never even hired a carriage driver on her own, let along found board on a ship.

A tap on her shoulder surprised her. She spun around to find a gruff looking Breton woman, with a tall, feathered hat. She almost jumped back, intimidated by the woman's appearance.

"Can you really do that? Make cargo lighter?" she asked.

"I... can," Anifaire replied. Can I? What if I fail?

"Look, sweetheart, if you can do that, I'll pay you gold for it."

"Do you know if any-" Anifaire began, but the woman interrupted her.

"Darling, you're not getting a ship to Auridon today. No one's trading that way. Everyone's unhappy about what happened in Skingrad."

Unhappy about Skingrad? Anifaire wondered, but the woman continued to talk before she could ask.

"My ship's over this way. You want the gold or not?"

Anifaire hesitated, but she hadn't eaten in a day, and she wasn't about to turn down such an offer.

As soon as they arrived, Anifaire was put to work. She did spell after spell, featherweighting cargo boxes as the woman's sailors hurried to load their supplies on board. To her great surprise, the sailors, while rough-looking, were extremely grateful for her help. One of them even shook her hand, though she wasn't glad for it, since he seemed rather dirty.

The ship left before any other in Anvil, ahead of the crowd, leaving Anifaire at the water's edge with a bag full of gold.

She made her way back to the inn, feeling proud of herself. It was the first time in her life she'd done something for herself. She'd never been paid before, nor had she needed to be.

Somehow, the plate of chicken and potatoes she ate upon her return to the inn tasted better than anything she'd eaten in her life.

21st Second Seed

Rather than things improving like they had almost seemed to be in their first successful counter-attack against the Dwemer, the next few events went greatly downhill, particularly for Sol. While he avoided death or injury in the second attack with the Rangers, the journey back to Skingrad had been a harrowing one. Barely anything to eat or drink, and not a second wasted on sleep in the hurry to return to the safety of stone walls. A false hope really, considering how easily the Imperial City was taken... but it was better to forget that fact when the relief washed over you as you spied the castle in the distance. This was how Solandil felt, despite his exhaustion - exalted to be back to a city he didn't know nor care for, just for the false safety it provided.

Of course, this relief swiftly ebbed away as he caught wind of it's newest protectors. Before the word "Dominion" could even come from Pollux's mouth, Sol's facewraps and helmet had taken up residence on his his head once more, hiding a very stricken, pale face. These coverings stayed there for the next 24 hours and beyond, out of sheer paranoia of being recognised by any of the soldiers patrolling Skingrad. He could only find relief in that fact that his group were all leaving for Anvil on the morning, but even so, he couldn't relax. He failed to find any sleep that night, despite his exhaustion, and didn't rest until the group were well away from the fallen city. Sol couldn't quite balance the two schools of thought running around his mind - that the Dominion never gave a shit about him in the first place so wouldn't waste time and effort on bringing him to justice, or that they'd do anything to put down the abomination he was.

The arrival at Anvil finally prompted Solandil to free his head from hiding, and breathed a weary sigh of relief for it. Several days with his skin and hair utterly covered had left him sodden with sweat, and all he truly desired was a bath, a soft bed, and something beyond scrappy barbecued meat to eat. Unfortunately, those three things weren't going to come to him without money. As Daro'Vasora had so promptly put, the group were not going to be paid their promised amount. Sol could have threatened Rhea for his payment as he had with reluctant employers in the past, but he just felt too tired to do so. Rhea looked too tired to even feel intimidated by him. In fact, everyone he looked at seemed tired, barring the blase Anvil residents who hadn't been affected by the budding war so far. Hopefully they wouldn't be too frightened of a grubby snow-white Altmer asking them for a job. Whether they were involved or not, war always made people skittish.

As the group dispersed, Sol left wordlessly, picking a random direction and not looking back. He was surprised to find himself disappointed. Though he hadn't spent much time with them, the group had been a good one to travel and fight with. It had been diverse, and filled with capable men and women. One woman in particular had struck him more than the others, but now he supposed they wouldn't cross paths much again. Once more, disappointment hit him. Attempting to shake off the feelings, Sol affixed his usual grim visage as he entered the nearest tavern. Bartenders had plenty of word of mouth about tasks around the city, and looking like a forlorn pup wouldn't do him any favours in getting any.

---

---

22nd of Second Seed

Trudging along the muddy backstreets of Anvil, Sol's lip curled as he squinted at the piece of parchment in his hand once again. This had been one of a dozen odd-jobs he'd picked up in the past two days, and was still being paid a pittance for it. Some old lady had lost a ring while out walking her pet rats, and had employed him to find it. He didn't even want to know why she had made such awful creatures her pets, and was fairly certain that one of them would have just gobbled up a shiny object if it had fallen in front of them. Whatever the case, he had nothing else better to do than to trawl back alleys for something of the ilk. Chances were the decrepit Dunmer would just find it in her jewellery box or something.

As the alleyway emptied out into a modest courtyard, Sol took note of the two men standing at the other entrance. They were lingering in the dark, and as he made his way forward, noted with narrowed eyes as they copied his movements. The slightest noise behind him caused his head to whip around, and there stood another man, stepping out behind him. Clearly, it was an ambush of some kind.

"Yes?" He sighed, coming to a halt in the center of the courtyard as the men formed a triangle around him. A particularly ugly one stepped forward, offering a grin that was missing several teeth.

"We've been lookin' fer you." So... not a random attack due to bad luck then. Sol didn't really need two guesses as to who had sent them, and once again, he was very disappointed in his sister. Even after all this time, she found the lowest of the low to try and kill him. Not once had he had a Dark Brotherhood or Morag Tong pay him a visit - just mercenaries who had happened across his bounty papers, of which several had been randomly sent around the continent from Alinor. She just didn't seem to learn.

Sol regarded the three uncouth attackers with about as much interest or alarm as he would a bird pecking at the floor for scraps. The three were leering and jostling their swords foolishly, possibly in the hopes of intimidating him but only appearing more inept as time went on. Their grip was flimsy, their manner thuggish, and they all reeked of filth and pickled... something. Fair to say, Sol wasn't exactly shaking in his boots.

"Let's get this over with then. I've had a long week." He said in a bored, tired tone as he lazily drew his swords. All he really wanted was a warm bed at this point, but didn't exactly have the money for it, even after all of the jobs he'd taken on. He brightened up slightly as he realised that these idiots would at least have some coin on them. If not, there'd be plenty of merchants in the streets that he could hawk their items to. The trio looked at him uneasily, but still advanced with a hearty bellow. Sol stayed unmoving, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

---

Naturally, the fight hadn't lasted very long, but Sol was still displeased with the lack of money the three had carried between them. There was enough for a room at an inn for perhaps three days, food and drink included. Not enough left over to send a certain package back home to his dear sister, to yet again remind her of her pathetic failures to end his life. He pondered between comfort and petty revenge, and logic eventually won the former choice. He'd have to wait until next time to send her another broken toy. After counting up the coin, Sol took the men's swords and knapsacks, sighing heavily as he continued on his way towards the closest inn. Hopefully, wherever it was had a bath. His once silver hair was beginning to turn black.

---

---

23rd of Second Seed

Half-submerged in a steaming tub laid Solandil, enjoying his second bath of the week with a content smile. The Flowing Bowl had been more than accommodating to him despite the filthy state of his body and fresh blood on his swords. A room with a steaming bath had been provided swiftly, along with some well-earned hot food and wine. His first bath had quickly turned brown with the layers of grime on his body, and the luxury of his room was quickly forgotten as he fell into a soft bed, still half-naked from being too bone-tired to get dressed. The next day, another bath was called and paid for, and this time Sol made sure to enjoy it as much as possible.

Bathing was nearly always a luxury for adventurers and mercenaries such as himself. Spending so long on the road meant a lack of resources for such a thing, and if one was in a city long enough to enjoy one, they clearly weren't earning enough money from work. But especially for Sol, he couldn't even enjoy bathing in rivers or waterfalls in the wild. Self-conscious of his own body, along with the paranoia of someone noticing his unique colouring and the Dominion receiving word of it. This meant bathing in private was almost impossible for the Altmer. But not now, in his own little room.

As he reached for a glass of wine he had left nearby, his eyes were drawn to the knapsack he had taken from his attackers yesterday. A cursory look through had revealed food, a tinderbox that was nearly empty, and a sheaf of bounties, some of which had crudely been crossed through. Ironically enough, they had crossed his out... far too prematurely, as their corpses would show. Reaching from the tub and grabbing the strap, Sol tipped it upside down on the floor beside him, looking through the remainder of rubbish that the thugs had accumulated. They truly seemed to have picked up every little thing they had come across. Scraps of paper, shiny rocks, wooden ladles, a rusted old dagger... nothing of any use.

Just as he was about to turn away, a small item glinting amongst the rubbish caught his eye. Brushing away a pile of feathers, Sol's expression turned incredulous as his long fingers delicately picked up a golden ring, embedded with an emerald.

"Well, I'll be. Looks like the old woman was right." He murmured, turning the ring over and over his palm as he examined it. It definitely matched the description she had given him, and he'd even found it in the alleyway where she had claimed to have dropped it. It appeared that the looting of his thugs had been far more lucrative than he could have ever imagined. In no time at all, Sol had sought out the old woman with her missing heirloom, returning to the bar of the Flowing Bowl with reward money in hand and feeling more content than he had in days.

---

Anvil, 23rd of Second Seed
She awoke, disoriented, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim lighting, while the side of her head throbbed something fierce. She felt nauseous as her stomach turned, while her mouth watered at the threat of upheaving. Rhona forced herself to sit up, her breathing rapid and shallow, and much to her surprise she found herself in a strange bedroom, one that wasn’t her rented room in The Flowing Bowl. Panic filled her as she heard the distinct sound of approaching footsteps from outside the room, her eyes widening in terror as she watched the door swing open.

“Ah, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” his words were smooth like that of a serpent. The towering figure dressed in black lingered in the doorway before Cezare crossed the room, and came to sit beside her on the bed, a tender smile stretching across his thin lips, “How does your head feel?” He asked, reaching a hand out and turning her head to the side. His touch alone made her want to recoil, but he was the snake and she was but a mouse in his hold.

“Where am I?” She countered, trying to find any strength to steel herself against him. His blue eyes twinkled in the candlelight, but she knew better than to trust him or his words. Rhona could have sworn she detected the scent of… what was it? Spice and citrus? At this moment it made her stomach twist, protesting at the overwhelming scent assaulting her nostrils. She noticed that Tobias was nowhere to be found. What had happened to her goat friend? She prayed that he had run away, perhaps he had followed Megana. Or perhaps he had found Danish.

“You’re safe. You’re with me, Rhona. What could make you happier?” His hand drifted to her chin, where he held it tight, forcing her to keep her gaze locked with his. She had wanted to believe that the Cezare she encountered in Skingrad was but a figment of her imagination. A terrible dream that she hoped would fade. Those were the last words she wanted to hear coming from him, least of all him reassuring her that she was safe.

“Being away-”

“Choose your words carefully, my love. I find that my patience with you has grown exceptionally thin.” The corner of his mouth drew up into a smirk as his fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence, and so she dropped her gaze. He still wore his black garb, tunic, trousers, and boots. Like a harbinger of death. “Now, come and join me downstairs for your midday meal, you’ve slept long enough and you’ll need your strength for the road.”

...midday meal?, Rhona thought, is it really the next day? How long have I been asleep? What even happened? The only thing she remembered was heading off to the Frisky Dolphin to find a hot meal for the evening, when she heard a peculiar whisper coming from an alleyway. She thought it had been an injured bird…

Cezare leaned in, and she drew away instinctively, he smiled despite his words that followed, “You are still my wife, and I still love you Rhona Amoretto. Downstairs in thirty minutes. I’m quite eager to share a meal with you again like the good old days.” She dared not resist him as he planted a kiss on her cheek. “Put on the dress over there too, I won’t have you dressed as a boy at my dinner table.”

Like the good old days…, she thought bitterly, when were there any good days with him?

When he left, Rhona scrambled from the bed, searching for her belongings, and discovered that she had none, Cezare must have taken them. She then checked the solitary window in the chamber, where she tried to lift it, but found it nailed shut. She could chance breaking the glass pane, but that wasn’t a wise idea. The sound alone would draw Cezare’s attention. Rhona was in the hands of the man that she feared. She rested her forehead against the cool glass, her breath slowly fogging up the window. She could see that the building was two-stories, and found herself looking at cobblestone below; a hard fall if she were to break the window and jump. She would surely break a leg, or worse. Rhona thought of using her magick against him, the problem was, she never mastered holding a steady flow for long. She could only use it in spurts, and it often tired her out tremendously. She thought of using her staff, but he would see it coming, and Cezare could certainly overpower her without much force. Not to mention she had no idea where he had taken it. The only resource she could fall back on was Durantel’s lessons. Then the question became, could she actually use it against him? Could she actually find the courage to rise up and strike him down now that they were face-to-face?

Rhona sighed with a heavy heart, Arkay take her now. She would rather die than carry on with Cezare. But for now, she would placate him and join him for food. Her attention shifted to the dress he mentioned, and like a moth to a flame, she drifted towards it. She examined the dress, simple in nature, a cream-colored linen dress with short sleeves. At least he had some sense for fashion in this sticky heat. She peeled off her clothes, and folded them, placing them on her before heading out of the room.

“No nonsense now,” A voice to her left nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. She turned to see a brute of a man leaning against the wall. He appeared older, tell-tale signs of age from the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, with a short crop of grey hair indicated he was possibly in his forties. “Best hurry on downstairs. Cezare doesn’t like being kept waiting.” Rhona thought to question him on who he was, but she decided that he was right, better to move on before she angered Cezare. Rhona emerged onto the lower level and followed the smell of food. She soon found herself in the dining area where Cezare sat at the head of a long table. He smiled on seeing her in the dress, his blue eyes sweeping over in an approving fashion, but like a kicked dog, she came to take a seat beside him.

“You look lovely. The dress fits you well. I’m happy to see that you’ve kept your figure.” He said, reaching out to take her hand in his, he kissed the top of her hand. The pit of her stomach twisted. She didn’t say anything, though her eyes followed him as he reached for a bottle of wine on the table, and proceeded to fill two silver goblets, one of which he passed to her.

“Where am I?” She asked, her eyes studied the red liquid for any indications of poison, not that she could see any, but she had her suspicions.

“A friend’s house.” He said with the most causal air. He took a sip from his goblet, and set it on the table. She doubted that he knew anyone in Anvil, but she dared not badger him on that subject. “You should eat, you need to keep your strength up.” Cezare encouraged, gesturing at the plate of food set before her. A chicken breast, bread, cheese, and an apple tart. Her stomach knotted, she knew his generosity to be a facade, an attempt to lure her back. Her hands trembled as she reached for the fork and knife, and cut into the meat. She ate a piece, her mind still searching for signs of treachery, but only found seasoned chicken. She swallowed nervously, and made slow work of eating her food, her eyes flickering to Cezare every now and then. His entire demeanor, one of content, she knew to be a lie; she watched as he ate without a single regret.

Halfway through her meal, Cezare set down his silverware, his gaze cemented on her, “I have to admit, you’ve done remarkably well since leaving me. I thought you died long ago, or at least ran off with someone else. Imagine my surprise when I laid eyes on you for the first time in what...two and a half years? My goodness, it was like a waking dream.” Rhona could feel fire boiling in her veins as he tried to play off what he did to her back in Skingrad, the bruise had long since faded after she healed it on her own accord, her hands curled around the silverware.

“How did you find me?”

“How? Oh my darling Rhona, you’re really not as clever as you think.” He smiled, though his eyes betrayed him, she saw something more… sinister, “I know who Calen is. A weak pathetic boy if I ever did meet one,” The color drained from her face at the mention of Calen, it was just as she feared. On seeing her expression, Cezare grinned wickedly, leaning closer towards her, “and when I discovered he left the stables, I was curious to see where he had gone off too, lo and behold, he brought me right to you.”

“I saw you leaving with that awfully big group of mercenaries, and I just couldn’t resist following you. So my friends and I, I’m certain you’ve met Silus already. He’s the one standing guard outside your room in case you decide to test me. There’s Pavo, Quintus, and Eduard. Charming fellows really. Anyways, you know how much I’ve missed you, so I decided to follow you all the way out here so I could take you home with me. Although we certainly cannot return to the Imperial City now, not with the Dwemer. But that’s a minor issue to overcome.”

“You fucking-”

“Ah, ah, ah. Watch your words. I’ve Pavo and Eduard keeping an eye on your precious Calen. I’m looking forward when I get to drive a blade right through him. You’ll be there to see it all happen.” He sank back into his chair, and propped his feet upon the table. Rhona couldn’t stand the smug expression etched on his face. The fire boiling in her veins came out.

“You’re a fucking monster!” Hot tears spilled forth as she leapt up from her chair, her hands balled into fists.

“Sit down. Now.” He swept his feet off the table, and grabbed his knife, driving it into the wooden surface of the table.

“No, I won’t let you hurt him! You’re a monster, Cezare! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

“Sit down.” He said, his tone hard and firm like a steel blade. Rhona had no choice and sank into her seat, her hands covering her face. “Quit crying. You’ve always looked disgusting when you cry.”

“I hate you.” She sobbed.

“Rhona, you’re my wife. And a good wife obeys her husband. Now quit crying before I give you something to cry about.” His tone changed into one of agitation, if she didn’t change her demeanor, it would cost her.

She didn’t listen to him. She didn’t care anymore, “I never loved you. I never wanted to marry you. I-”

“Goddamnit woman! You want to cry?!” Cezare flew out of his chair, he swept the food and silverware across the room where they crashed with a great crescendo. In all truth, Rhona was utterly terrified. She was scared, and she didn’t know what to do. All she could do was cry, harder now. An iron-like hand grabbed her upper arm, hoisting her up and out of her chair, it clattered backwards as Cezare pulled her to him.

“You are mine. Rhona. You think anyone is coming to save you this time? You cannot escape from me. You will bear my children, and we will be a happy family. Do you understand me?!” He shook her violently until she saw stars, her vision spinning.

“Stop it. Stop! Just let me go.” She cried aloud. He gave an angered huff, and threw her backwards with such force that she hit the floor before having a chance to catch herself.

“Get out of my sight!” He roared. Now she had done it. She had angered him to the point of no return. Cezare grabbed the bottle of wine off the table, and flung it at her head. It shattered against the wooden floorboards where crimson liquid and green glass shards glinted off the candlelight. She didn’t need to be told twice. Rhona clambered to her feet and rushed up to her chamber where Silus paid her no attention.

She slammed the door behind her, and collapsed against the door. Rhona wrapped her arms around her chest. Only if Brynja was here… or Durantel. Gods where had he been? Her body shook as she wept, sinking down to the floor, unable to control the wave of emotions rising up within her. She felt as if she were living back in the Imperial City with him all over again. She squeezed her eyes shut.

I should have stayed near the inn. Vaermina please, please, if this is a dream please wake me from it. Rhona tucked her face into her arms as she drew up her knees against her chest.

Hours later…

Rhona had resigned herself to defeat and climbed into bed, her back to the door. This was it. This was her reality. She was trapped with her worst nightmare. And she couldn’t wake up from it. No one could help her now. No one could hear her cries. No one would come to save her. There was no Aurelia. There was no Calen. There was no Durantel. And all she could do was cry. Gods, how much she hated herself at this moment.

You’re nothing but a coward., she thought to herself. You should have left with Aurelia. You would be safe in Valenwood now... You wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have put Calen in this position- Her thoughts were interrupted at the sound of glass shattering. She sat up in bed at the sound, her ears straining to hear over the stifling silence that followed. There it was. Footsteps. Heavy. Footsteps. She swallowed hard at the sound, her heart began to race. It was like a daedra being summoned from the planes of Oblivion. She could hear indistinguishable shouting from the far corners of the house, and it grew louder as did the footsteps. Soon the words became clear, and she knew it was Cezare. And he was coming for her.

“Does she think she can fool me?!” Another crash. More broken glass. “Let the Gods be damned, I want that bastard found! How hard is it to find one pathetic bard in this whole fucking city?!” She could hear the creak of the stairs under his weight.

“She’s my wife. I’ll show her how a husband behaves!”

Rhona flew out of bed, scouring the room for anything she could use as a weapon in self-defense. The footsteps began to climb the stairs, and though his words were slurred, Cezare would be at her door in moments. Her hands began to sweat and shake with fear.

“Rhona!” He bellowed like a great beast. His boots reached the landing. She decided that the best course of action was to feign ignorance. Not having found a weapon, she returned to bed, and climbed under the covers. She sat up when the door flew open. Cezare’s inebriated figure sagged against the doorframe. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, and his black tunic, now loosened, hung off one shoulder. She knew he was drunk by the way he swayed on his feet. He smiled at her, she was unsure of his intentions.

“Cezare?” She asked, feigning a tired air.

“Ah, my love. Did I wake you?” He crossed the room, and sank onto the edge of her bed. His hand reached out, caressing her face in a brusque manner.

“Forgive me *hic*, I couldn’t stop thinking about you… about your beauty…” the pads of his thumbs drifted across her lips, “about those lips…” He pulled her to him, and while she stiffened in his arms, trying to pull away as gently as she could, his embrace tightened, crushing her against him. She dared not protest. He forced a kiss upon her, his lips nearly bruising her own. She turned her head away as he tried to force her mouth open, his tongue meeting a wall of clenched teeth. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her head back so that he could look at her proper.

“I will make you love me.”

“Cezare-”

“I will.” He said earnestly, and pulled the blanket away. She still wore her dress he had ordered her to wear. Rhona remained still, a mouse still in the clutches of the serpent's coil. He bent his head, and kissed the exposed part of her neck, his rough lips drifting down to her collarbone. She shut her eyes, her lips pursed into a hard line. If she weren’t being forced under lock and key, she would have struck him. She would have pushed him away. She would have done something. But he had her under his control. He was taller, and far stronger than her. His hands came around her waist, exploring the contours of her hips, his breath hot against her skin, and then he pushed her down underneath him. One hand cupped her cheek, and again the smile on his face came. It was as if he was entirely oblivious to her discomfort, and more so, to the pain he brought her. He never cared for her. Not even now. He hadn’t changed. And she still hated him.

“You are the only woman I have ever loved. And I want you to love me like I do you. You are my wife… let me be a good husband to you. Let me love you.” He rocked backwards, and tugged off his tunic in the clumsiest manner, where he cast it onto the floor. Part of her couldn’t help but notice that, he too, had maintained his figure. Despite being an alcoholic, Cezare’s body still held a degree of lean muscle, his chest still covered in smooth straight hair that tapered into a thin line before disappearing below his belted trousers. But then she remembered where she was, and her stomach turned.

Arkay, strike me dead.

Cezare knelt to kiss her again, when he stopped, and turned his face away from her as he let out revolting burp, and collapsed beside her, “...*hic*... I’ll make you look at me the way you look… *hic* when you talk about that idiot boy.” Rhona laid still, until she heard a soft snore rise from him. Had he really passed out? She twisted herself to look at him, and sure enough, he lay flat on his back, reeking of alcohol, but asleep nonetheless. She decided to play it safe and remain where she was for the night, though she couldn’t think of anything else except what morning would bring.

7:00am - Anvil, 24th of Second Seed

Rhona awoke to find Cezare gone from her bed. She had survived the night unmolested by him. But would she survive this day? A knock came from her door and then it opened, Silus peered inside at her. “Miss, your husband says you should join him in the dining area.” She sighed, but nodded. Rhona made herself ready and headed down the flight of stairs where she entered into the dining area. Much to her surprise she discovered Cezare dressed as if he were to set out on the road. He wore the same black tunic and trousers, though now he had a cape buckled around his neck, and leather gloves fastened on his hands. At his side hung a shortsword buckled to his belt. He smiled on seeing her.

“There you are. I trust you slept well?” He came around the table, and embraced her, planting a kiss on her cheek. It took every fiber in her being not to shirk away from him, survive, do not antagonize, “Now, I’ve readied your rucksack.” Cezare plucked the leather satchel off the table and passed it to her.

“What’s happening?”

“We’re leaving the city. And today is the day that you’ll watch me kill Calen.”

“Cezare-”

“Ah, ah. It’ll be good sport to skewer the lad, and a good lesson for you. Come. Pavo, Quintus and Eduard have gone to find him, they gave me explicit instructions for us to be in the market square when the time comes. And then? We’ll sail for Rihad or Gilane. Cyrodiil isn’t safe for us anymore. Not if we’re to start a family proper.” He took her by the hand, leading her to the door. Before he opened it, he turned to look her in the eye, “If you scream, I’ll cut out your tongue. And I do hate the idea of you not having a tongue, but I will if you test me.” With her hand in his, he led her from the house and into the city.

There was a peculiar air that hungover the city, Rhona could see it in the people around her. They scurried from place to place, they looked anxious, on edge, even afraid. But she had no idea why. They made their way to the market square where Cezare ducked off into a darkened alleyway. The sky overhead was thick with dark grey clouds, threatening rain. He had given her back her staff, unknowing of what it was capable of, and together they waited in the shadows. Rhona prayed silently to Nocturne to keep Calen hidden from Cezare’s goons. She would only blame herself if anything happened to him. The sound of approaching footsteps made her heart race, please…, she thought, her hands curling around her staff. Entering the alleyway were two Imperial men. Calen was not with them.

“We can’t find him.”

“Well keep looking! I’m not leaving until he’s found. I want his blood on my blade.”

“Right away.” And with that, they took off into the throng of people. Rhona gripped her staff ever tighter, her eyes focusing on the smooth cobblestone until her eyes were in a state of tunnel vision.

“I have to say-” That was it. She had had enough. She couldn’t stand to hear another word come out of his mouth. Not anymore. Not while she had a chance. And she wasn’t going to waste it. Her lessons from Durantel came flowing back to her, and she reacted instantaneously. She felt like she moved through molasses, time slowed, her heart skipped a beat. Rhona swung her staff low, and drove it with great force where the wooden stave connected with Cezare’s kneecap. He howled as he clutched at his knee, dropping to the ground in pain.

“You fucking cunt! I’ll-” Cezare didn’t finish his sentence as her staff came crashing down on his head. The last expression on his face showed complete surprise as she struck him. She swung again. And again. And again. She kept swinging until she could hardly breathe. Her lungs burned with fire, and her limbs stung from the blows delivered. When Rhona stopped to catch her breath, she realized then what she had done as she stared at the carnage before her. He wasn’t moving. Cezare’s face resembled a bloodied mess. Blood had pooled beneath his head, while brown curls stuck to his face slick with crimson. The walls and surrounding cobblestones bore witness of what she had done, splattered with dark red droplets. She looked down at herself, her eyes widening at the sight of bright red blood showing starkly against her linen dress. Her hands, and wrists held evidence, and she presumed her face as well. Her breathing came in shallow waves. Gods. Did she kill him? She needed to go. She needed to get out of here. As she turned around, she came face to face with Daro’Vasora.

The Khajiit’s eyes were wide, and for a moment, words were stuck in her throat at the sight of the unassuming Rhona covered in the blood of a man she might have just bludgeoned to death. “Shit, that’s… tell me later. We need to leave, now.”

“I… Daro’Vasora… I swear… it’s…” Rhona couldn’t find the words as she stumbled towards her, her hands slipping on the wooden staff slick with blood, “I didn’t mean to… he… he threatened to kill Calen, and I… I couldn’t let him.”

Daro’Vasora gripped Rhona by the shoulders. “Look, I’ve crippled men for life for less, I don’t know what your business with that asshole is, but the city’s under siege and unless we move we’re all going to be trapped.” she released Rhona and wound up a heavy kick into the prone man’s abdomen, prompting an ejection of blood from Cezare’s mouth. “There, he threatened to kill a friend, I hit him after you did, you’re morally off the hook. You can tell me on the way, but now isn’t the time for being conflicted or scared, you understand?”

“I…” she paused, her head swimming, “yes. Let’s go. I…” A dizzying wave came over her as she stumbled forward, crashing into Daro’Vasora.

The Khajiit steadied Rhona, shaking her head. “Piece of shit did a number on you, didn’t he? I’ll take care of you when you’re safe, but be strong for a bit longer, alright? One foot after the other.” She said, as she supported the injured enchantress, leading her out of the alley way.

---

On the horizon, before the first light of dawn kissed the lands, a trio of bright orbs burst forth unto the sky above. On land, another three burst from within the dense coastal forests. For those in the city who were awake to witness them, only a few understood their significance, but for the Legion, it is a sign of terrible things to come.

They were coming.

Anvil - 24th of Second Seed 6:30am[

“You know, when I asked if you had companions who would be interested in my proposal, I wasn’t quite expecting you to be quite so popular.” Roux pointed out, setting down what was likely the last of the crates to be loaded before the Intrepid would depart its moorings and set sail to the North, leaving the Gold Coast behind, and presumably, the war that had gripped Cyrodiil. Daro’Vasora glanced over her shoulder at the man as she checked over an itinerary and list of her companions that had agreed to come along, along with those who didn’t. The important thing was that they knew what ship was offering free passage if they had a last moment change of heart, but overall she was pleased with how successful Latro, Brynja, and herself had been in locating everyone over the previous day to let them know of the potential “job” and a chance to start somewhere without so much heavy baggage for them all. For the first time in a long while, Daro’Vasora felt hopeful for things to come. Even though she planned on ditching Roux at the earliest opportunity, she still felt that Hammerfell was where she was meant to go. For what reason, however, she couldn’t guess.

“A deal’s a deal, these people have been through a lot, and if you want me to join you on your expedition and begin to trust you again, you won’t question it.” The Khajiit replied, most of her own gear stored away. In truth, she always enjoyed sailing and the respite from life on land, this was one of those few opportunities to approach things with a fresh body and mind. It was always easy to forget about the troubles of the world when all around you was just an endless blue horizon and the most breathtaking night sky.

“Of course.” Roux replied with a smile, letting one of his crew members deal with the crate he’d carried aboard as he approached the Khajiit, “If they’re friends of yours and need a way to get away from the troubles of Cyrodiil, it’s not as if it’s trouble to take a few extra bodies for the voyage. We’ve the space for it, and I always make sure there’s enough supplies to last a long while in case of unforeseen circumstances like poor weather, or Kyne forbid, the ship bottoms out and wrecked. Hopefully most of them decide to lend a hand; we’ll all be richer at the end of it.”

“Right.” She replied, whether agreeably or dismissively, Roux couldn’t say.
The din of lookout bells began to toll, ringing out across the harbour from the watchtowers as shouting from the garrison suddenly broke out in alarm.

“What’s that about?” Daro’Vasora asked. Instead of replying, Roux grabbed his spyglass, looking out towards the western skyline.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Ships?”

The Breton nodded, handing the spyglass over for her to look, “Looks like the Dominion wasn’t content to gobble up Skingrad without a fight. They’ve only been itching for a war for the past thirty bloody years, the Dwemer invasion was too good of an opportunity to pass up. We need to prepare to sail, now.” Roux urged, barking orders at some of the crew on deck, who immediately began preparations. He turned back to Daro’Vasora, “Were you expecting anyone else?”

In truth, only a handful of those she managed to contact the day before were here; others, she assumed, weren’t coming. However, if there was a chance to find any of them, it was at the Flowing Bowl. The only person she knew wouldn’t respond well to seeing her again was Rhea, and as much as she didn’t care for the Imperial, she felt that the Imperial deserved to be given the same courtesy that she extended everyone else. As much as Daro’Vasora didn’t agree with Rhea’s methods, one thing was clear; she did everything she thought she had to save those under her care. It was a great strength, and it would be wrong to abandon her because of bad blood.

Great, I have a conscience now. Damn.

Brynja had set to helping those joining the Intrepid, find a sleeping space for the duration of the voyage. She resurfaced just as the bells began to toll, it was unnerving in the least. Brynja picked her way across the deck, and managed to catch the last bits of conversation between Roux and Daro’Vasora. She frowned at the news of Dominion ships on the horizon, and just as he asked the Khajiit if there was anyone else, she couldn’t help butting in, “Aye. Sora, I’ve not seen Rhona in the past two days. She lent me her room at the tavern, but I’ve not seen her since. I spoke with Megana, and she said Rhona was going off to find some food for the night on the 22nd. I can’t leave her behind, we need to find her. And…” Her words faltered, the thought of leaving Rhea behind saddened her. She had done so much for the group, couldn’t they at least return the favor? “And I want to find Rhea, at least give her the chance to come with us. She’s looked after us the best she could, she got us this far… let me ask if she wants to come with us.”

“She deserves that much. Go, find her. I’ll head to the Flowing Bowl and see if I can find anyone else. She’ll be much happier to see you than me, and we don’t have time for that shit.” Daro’Vasora said, grabbing her mace and turning back to Roux. “You better not fucking leave without us,” she warned before turning to sprint down the gangplank and head back into the city proper. Things were about to go to Oblivion in a hurry, and she wanted to get ahead of it.

---

The bells continued to toll, their metallic echo spreading across the city and rousing many of the residents from their slumber. And in particular, Rhea herself. The cacophony of the bells had shook her from her sleep, and brought her out onto the balcony. Her gaze swept over her surroundings, trying to find the source for the alarm. And there, black pinpricks on the horizon over the water. Her brows furrowed in confusion, what in Oblivion could that be… Her mind jumped to Skingrad, thinking of what Runil and Arawen had said.

No…, she swallowed hard as a chill crept over her, they weren’t lying. The Dominion? Her hands gripped the railing, trying to find the courage to breathe. Nowhere was safe anymore. She turned to head back inside to pack her belongings, knowing full well that when the Dominion docked their ships, chaos and panic would spread across the city, and when they seized control of the city, the gates of Anvil would close, preventing anyone from leaving, much like with Skingrad.

“Rhea!” A familiar voice drew her attention to a figure below in the streets looking up at her. It was Brynja.

“Brynja?” She called, a bit confused. The Nord giantess hadn’t come to seek her out over the past few days, and she wondered if she had harbored the same feelings towards her as Daro’Vasora.

“We have to go!”

“Go where?”

“We have to leave the city, there are Dominion ships on the sea. If we don’t go now, we’ll be stuck here.”

“We?”

“Yes!” Brynja said, trying to keep her exasperation under control, “We’ve a ship, and we’re not leaving you behind.”

Hot tears stung Rhea’s eyes at her words, all was not lost. Her throat tightened, leaving her speechless, “I’m coming!”

Within minutes, Rhea had thrown her belongings together in her rucksack, her hands trembling as she fastened the strap. A final tug to secure it, and Rhea headed to the door, giving the room one last final look before descending the stairs. She emerged onto the streets below, and spotted Brynja looking particularly anxious. Many residents of Anvil along the harbor came to their doorsteps, and spilled onto the streets, curious as to why the bells rang. They could see ships on the horizon now, but those without a spyglass, none could tell that the ships belonged to the Dominion. At least not yet. Brynja turned her attention to Rhea as she approached, her worried expression softening into a half-smile.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Rhea. Let’s get going before it’s too late.”

“Right.” They set off at once, until a thought crossed Rhea’s mind, “Whose ship is it?”

“It’s a friend of Daro’Vasora’s. Said he would help get us out safely.” At the mention of Daro’Vasora, Rhea bit her lip.

“Did she send you?”

“Doesn’t really matter, but we’re not leaving you behind. You got us out of the mountains, out of the Imperial City, and out of Skingrad. Personally, I signed that contract saying that I would protect you and my fellow companions at all costs.”

“But I said you could part ways in the City-”

“I know. But you didn’t give up on us, so I’m not giving up on you.” Brynja admitted, as she wove through the people spilling out onto the streets, clearing a path for Rhea behind her.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Brynja said, more focused on weaving her way through the people.

Both women made their way back to the ship Brynja had mentioned, seemingly in the nick of time. Ahead, Daro’Vasora busied herself with helping a rather traumatized and blood splattered Rhona up the gangplank. She clung to Daro’Vasora’s arm sobbing loudly, while Gregor and Raelynn were just beginning to board. The air carried a desperate sense of urgency mixed with shouting as fighting broke out between Dominion infiltrators and the city guard, even some of the local populace had taken up arms. Sailors aboard the Intrepid stood at ready with bows and crossbows, taking the occasional shot at any of the invaders that were causing chaos in the streets. The Khajiit caught sight of Rhea and Brynja breaking their way through the unrest, and gave Rhona a reassuring push upwards onto the deck, she would be fine, though she didn’t let on much with why she was in the state that she was; Rhea couldn’t help but smile. Maybe Daro’Vasora had started to understand.

The Khajiit raced towards them, ducking under a bound sword’s blade as a Bosmer mage in plains clothes attacked her. She drove her mace into the woman’s gut as an arrow from one of Roux’s men felled the Dominion infiltrator. Without missing a stride, she rushed towards the two, “Come on! You two are the last ones, everyone else is aboard. The Dominion’s trying to secure the harbour, and we won’t get out if those ships get here!” she urged.

“Right, let-” Rhea started, and suddenly a sharp pain filled her chest as she noticed a look of horror on Daro’Vasora’s face. Her vision briefly blurred out of focus, and she tried to speak, managing only a raspy hiss instead of the words that… what was she going to say? She looked down and saw jutting out through her chest a gleaming spike of ice, covered in her blood. The realization was immediate, and she struggled to breathe, her lung must have been punctured. She heard Brynja yelling that she couldn’t get the spike out, and a healing spell washed over her, easing the pain, but from the look on the two women's’ faces, it must have been fatal.

So this is it, then.

Her legs no longer supported her weight, she felt like her limbs were failing, a cold numbing sensation spreading over her. Daro’Vasora caught her, saying, “No, no… please, no. Brynja, help me!” Together they supported Rhea, carrying her aboard the ship.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Stay awake!” Daro’Vasora yelled, but Rhea wasn’t listening, not really. Her gaze turned towards the horizon, watching as the pretty blue waves crested without a care in the world. Despite herself, she smiled, her eyes growing too heavy to hold open anymore. There was still beauty in the world after all.

---

The Intrepid hit the open waters not long after, the ship too swift and manned by an experienced crew for the large and cumbersome of the Dominion war galleys to make chase, arrows and spells struck the waves far short of their target. Along with a handful of other vessels, many of Anvil’s privately owned ships made it to open water, escaping the Dominion’s clutches that now gripped Anvil. Roux had taken as many people as he could onboard, citizens and contractors alike, putting twin-massed black ship at capacity as it sailed into the open waters heading Northwest. With the help of Brynja, Raelynn and a few other members with the knowledge of burial preparations, they wrapped Rhea Valerius in linens and sealed her fatal wound. She had passed before even making it aboard the ship. After something of a brief memorial for the Imperial woman, those that had known Rhea parted ways for the voyage and Brynja went to look after a wide-eyed Rhona, leaving Daro’Vasora kneeling at Rhea’s side, surprised to find tears filling her eyes.

“I thought I hated you. Why does this bother me so much?” she asked the deceased woman quietly, looking the most at peace as she had since the expedition departed in the Jerall Mountains a lifetime ago. Gods, she deserved better than that; they all did. The weight from all of Rhea’s choices must have weighed on her until the very end, and Daro’Vasora felt guilt from her outburst when they arrived in Anvil. Was that what finally shattered Rhea’s will, did she feel like everything really was her mistake?

No answer or thought brought comfort, only more painful realizations. She had her hands cupped in front of her mouth as if praying, but the reality was it hurt to breathe. Nobody had to suffer for her own actions, Alkosh, why on Nirn did she stay with these people? She should have left as soon as they were out of the Jerall Mountains, ditched them like she always did. Or after they escaped from the Imperial City, or stayed on in Skingrad, or not tell them about her plan to leave Anvil.

“What did you do to me?” she asked again, inhaling sharply through her teeth, her eyes clamping shut on the tears that fought to break through. “Why do I give a damn what happens to any of them, or myself? Zegol died because of your impulsive stupidity, am I supposed to forgive you for any of that?”

The tranquil woman didn’t answer, leaving the Khajiit doubled over, her arms wrapping around her waist, and clenched her teeth so hard they hurt.

As if feeling Shanji-ko’s toe under her chin, she looked up again, feeling a breeze across the portside of the ship; she could see Jone and Jode just above the horizon and felt warmth. She knew in her heart what she felt deep inside, but never paid heed to. Placing a hand over Rhea’s, Daro’Vasora said, “I will look after them, no matter where the road leads us. I hope you found your peace, but the burden is no longer yours. I will take it if I must. Thank you, for doing your very best. I was a fool not to appreciate that.” Leaning down, Daro’Vasora kissed Rhea’s cold brow.

“Until we meet again.”

She left Rhea’s side, and found Roux standing not far off, leaning against the gunwale, staring at the moons, his face remarkably sombre. “I didn’t want to intrude.” he promised.

“You didn’t.” Daro’Vasora said, standing next to him and looking back towards where her ancestors could find her. “So, what awaits for us next?”

“Hammerfell. There’s some people I think you should meet.”

---

30th of Second Seed 10:00am

The voyage to Hammerfell proved a stark contrast to the disorder and havoc that ensnared Anvil in an iron claw. Kynareth smiled favorably upon the Intrepid, the winds carried the ship swiftly over shimmering turquoise waters, the sky above bore no promise of rain or foul weather while the air warmed considerably. For once, Brynja shirked her armor, finding the humid air almost unbearable. And for six days, the Intrepid made record time sailing across the open waters. From the ship on certain occasions, those aboard the ship could see the coastline of Hammerfell, a drastic change compared to anywhere in Cyrodiil or Skyrim for that matter. By mid morning of the 30th, the city of Gilane came into sight. It was unlike anything Brynja had seen. The architecture alone was different from anything Skyrim had to offer; high sandstone walls with curious domed roofs that were adorned with light catching materials that brought out brilliant hues, with many of the more wealthy looking homes even electing to use what appeared to be gold. Sweeping curves dominated the style, with inviting windows and archways, and beautifully intricate stained glass. While the Nords preferred simple and practical designs that were as robust as its people, with ample use of timber and cemented cobblestone, many of the Redguards lacked access to an abundance of forests and masonry had to come from local sources, which often were buried within constantly shifting sands, along with short and robust foliage.

It was an opposite world to what Brynja knew; mountains gave way to endless seas of sand, the forests for only a few small hardy palm trees that struggled for what little water was available, and muscle crippling cold to skin scorching heat. For those aboard the ship who weren’t used to such climates, the interior of Hammerfell was going to be extremely dangerous and dehydration was a threat that many to the East with its vast rivers and lakes would have failed to appreciate. Best to stick near the coast for now, the Nord thought, the tropical ocean breeze both invigorating and somewhat ominous. The oceans gave life; leaving its side would bring peril.

Standing beside her was Rhona, the enchantress had long since discarded the bloodstained dress in favor of her own linen gown. Her eyes were wide, empty, and stoic, as if she weren’t really seeing what lay before her. The night of their escape, Sora had tried to broach the subject of what happened with the man in the alleyway, but Rhona couldn’t handle it at the time. She could do nothing but cry, and when she wasn’t crying, she refused to eat, much less sleep. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and she refused to take care of Tobias, pushing the goat away when he approached. And by the fourth day onboard, Brynja decided that enough was enough, Rhona was going to tell her what happened whether she liked it or not. With some gentle coaxing, and offerings of wine and cheese, Rhona opened up, her words not making any direct sense, leaving Brynja to piece the puzzle together.

Brynja had taken to Rhona then, effectively keeping her under her wing, and giving anyone that wished to speak with her a death glare. The young woman needed to work through her actions on her own time, and come to terms with what she had done. She made sure the enchantress ate, and watched over her while she slept. And on the last evening spent aboard the ship, Brynja sought out Calen. If there was anyone that could help lift Rhona’s spirits it had to be him, where she encouraged him to speak with her when he had the chance. But this was a new day, and the city of Gilane was now in view.

“Everything will be fine, Rhona.” She said, an attempt to reassure her.

“Mm.” Was all she could muster, it was as if her eyes weren’t really seeing anything at this point.

The port was fast approaching, the Intrepid making towards an open mooring on the elaborate dockwork that allowed for larger vessels to offload passengers and cargo without the need to anchor far offshore and row in, tide permitting. The port seemed to be bustling, with sailors and dock workers, as well as visitors prowling the expansive network. The city seemed peaceful, and somewhat inviting; however, everyone knew that peace was a fleeting thing. It seemed that no matter where they went, disaster seemed to follow. It put a bit of a damper on the excitement of travel and leaving the troubles of Cyrodiil behind.

Roux pulled Daro’Vasora aside as they watched the helmsman navigate his way towards their destination. “There’s no expedition, I thought you should know.” he said.

That prompted a curious look, “So what’s this, then? Trying to get me back into your life with no follow through?” she asked.

That prompted a single grunt of a laugh, “Not quite. Running into you was something of a random circumstance, but a fortunate one. I’ve been going back and forth between Gilane and Anvil for the past month now, trying to find people who are knowledgeable about what’s going on in Cyrodiil, the Dwemer situation.”

The Khajiit’s ears folded back. “And what do you know of the Dwemer, Roux? Just stories that scared travellers babble to you?” she asked, a threat of menace in her tone.

He gestured towards the mooring, where a robbed figure and a pair of armoured figures approached; even at this distance, Daro’Vasora could recognize the profile; the Dwemer were here. Her heart sank, and she stared at the Breton beside her with accusing daggers. “Why did you bring us here? They’ve slaughtered thousands!” she demanded. “We are all going in chains if we dock!”

“Things aren’t that simple, Daro’Vasora.” He replied softly, letting out a sigh. His eyes looked tired. “They’ve been here for longer than the news of the sacking of the Imperial City. After dispatching armed resistance and ensuring riders and ships couldn’t pass word of what happened, they moved into the cities of Hammerfell and began to set up provisional governments. After the news of the Imperial City made its way back, they permitted travel once more and things are business as usual for most citizens. The city guard is still mostly Redguard, with Dwemer patrols and officers enforcing curfews. Citizens are allowed to keep personal weapons, but use against any official is met with immediate capital punishment and those who are detained are either never seen again, or sent to the arena. The new Governor enjoys her bloodsports.” Roux shook his head, his eyes meeting his feline companion, “I’ll explain more later, but know that as long as you and the others keep a low profile and don’t openly defy the Dwemer, you’ll be fine. But that’s not why I brought you here.”

Daro’Vasora was tired of the word games, “Okay, enough. What do you want from us?”

“This past week I’ve gotten to know everyone you brought in from your group, every single one of them has experience with Dwemer invasion and occupation. You’ve fought them, you’re knowledgeable and have motives to see them through. The insurgency needs allies, and people who are capable and willing of doing what needs to be done. This peace, this quiet… it’s under an iron thumb. I won’t say that Hammerfell’s had it like the butchers of Cyrodiil inflicted, but every one of us has lost something, someone.” He looked down, away from her, his hands white knuckled as they gripped the railing.

“I had a wife and daughter. Had. After you and I parted ways in the worst possible way, I was suddenly beset with wealth and fame, and it got me into some circles that I never thought I’d be a part of. I met Valerie and we had something, you know? Little Elodie was along shortly after, and it was when she came into the world I knew I had to be a better man than I was. I always meant to apologize if I’d seen you again, I was young and foolish. It doesn’t excuse what I did, Daro’Vasora. I could see it in your eyes the way you looked at me when I first found you in the bath house that I’d left my share of scars, and I honestly had no idea until that moment. I don’t ask forgiveness, just… understanding. I’m not that man I was, and that Valerie and Elodie were on one of those ships that tried to get away when the Dwemer first came to the city. They never found the bodies.” he said softly, a hand cupping over his mouth as he struggled to maintain his composure.

For once, Daro’Vasora didn’t know what to say. Roux clearly had pain inside he was keeping down, and she could see that same haunting look of loss she’d seen on so many faces the past few weeks. The man she’d known wasn’t this sailor who selflessly waited until everyone the Khajiit came with to the city was on board, who kept Rhea’s body immersed in salt and wrapped for a proper burial instead of tossing her out to sea to prevent illness and decay, the one who spoke frankly of having loved and lost at the hands of the Dwemer. It was a moment that put in perspective for Daro’Vasora that she wasn’t the only one who’d lost a loved one since the Dwemer returned. She steeled her resolve; the past was the past, and if nothing else, both shared a pain and cold drive for vengeance against the Deep Elves. It would be enough to start some sort of working relationship.

“I’m sorry.” She managed, as the ship was coming into dock, “I’d like to hear about them when you are able.”

“Thank you. It’s more kindness than I deserve, to be frank.” The sailors tossed lines of rope over the port side of the ship, and dock workers tied them off to the cleats that lined the deck. Roux cleared his throat, and the amicable facade resumed, “The Dwemer waiting down below are just customs officers. They’re mainly looking for contraband, like weapons, drugs, things of that nature. They might question you about the Dwemer items in your possession, but they’re old relics. They might just confiscate them if you present them and your documentations, but don’t hide anything. Stick to being a scholar and an explorer, be friendly and cordial. Make it seem like you like them. These Dwemer tend to be fairly lenient and even kind when they aren’t challenged, but if they suspect you were actively fighting and killing their men, everyone on this ship could be in peril. Understand?”

“Weylkend clear.” The Khajiit replied with an irritated huff. Taking a few moments to compose herself, she watched as the dock workers worked to put a ramp onto the Intrepid. Roux and Daro’Vasora went down to greet the three Dwemer that came aboard.

“Welcome to Volenfell, travellers. You are the captain, I presume?” The robed elf asked, not unkindly. His robes were purple, and a curious side arm was affixed to his belt. However, it looked more there as a symbol of authority rather than malicious intent. His companions carried more of the firearms that Daro’Vasora had seen far too many times before, but the design was different. Even their armour looked to possess a different design philosophy behind it, and it appeared lighter than the heavy warrior plate; their heads with ornately braided hair was left uncovered. Their skin was a light tan-grey complexion that wasn’t entirely unpleasant; they looked like antiquities come to life.

Roux smiled, and had his papers ready, “Yes, Inspector. I am Captain Roux Dupris of the Intrepid, registered merchant vessel. We sailed from Anvil, which was besieged by the Aldmeri Dominion. No cargo, just passengers, and one body that needs a proper burial.”

The Inspector took it in stride, “News of the attack has reached us far sooner than you might suspect. A Dominion vessel arrived late yesterday to speak with Governor Rourken. I do not intend to keep your passengers held for long, just long enough for us to do our inspection. Do you have anything to declare?” he asked, his eye catching Daro’Vasora and her Dwemer jewelry. She felt her throat tighten as the Dwemer regarded her.

“Might I inquire where you came across the Dwemer craftsmanship in your possession?” he asked.

“I am a scholar and researcher, sir.” she replied, doing her best to seem friendly and open. She presented the remaining bangle and necklace to the Inspector, who looked them over with a curator's eye.

To her surprise, he handed them back with a smile, “Remarkable. As much as I would love to own such a piece of history for my own collection, it is not my duty nor ethics to confiscate pieces of our ancestor’s culture from private ownership. You’ve studied our people, Khajiit?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. For at least the past 8 years, Dwemer and Alyeids are my area of scholarly interest.” she answered, offering her notes from the expeditions for his inspection. The Inspector carefully thumbed through the pages, his eyes wide with interest. Thankfully, he didn’t go to the later pages, where her notes on the modern contraptions came up.

“Simply wonderful. There is much from our history that is lost to us, and we hope to relearn it. Thank you for keeping our civilization alive through the many long years of our absence. If you are willing, please take your findings to our cultural center in the palace grounds. You will be compensated for your contributions. Please excuse me, I’ve a ship to inspect before I can release you to the city proper. Thank you for your time.” With a respectful nod, the Dwemer carried on with Roux at their side, leaving Daro’Vasora blinking in confusion. What just happened?

---

After half an hour, the inspection was concluded, and a coroner’s party was sent to retrieve Rhea’s body to bring to the Temple of Arkay in the city with directions of how to reach there, as well as the time for her funeral service. The Inspector and his guards bid the passengers farewell, and gave them each a metal token that granted them access to the city. Guides immediately made themselves available, as well as vendors, and soon they crossed the threshold into the city gates and found themselves immediately surrounded by a bazaar with shaded vendor stalls carved out of the side of long buildings, hawking wares with enthusiasm and intensity that suggested a fairly lively populace. It was an oddly familiar sight, even with the occasional Dwemer patrol walking along the streets, even a few of the vendors were Dwemer, selling all sorts of interesting culinary wares, mechanical contraptions, and other odds and ends. It almost seemed like both the native Redguard populace and the newcomers were integrating rather well; they didn’t seem like they were brutally suppressed and in a moment of surreality, someone bumped into Daro’Vasora, and before she could snap something indignant to the inattentive prick, she looked down and saw the face of a Dwemer child, who stared up at her with wide eyes. She’d never seen a Dwemer child before, and he had three friends, or siblings, who all gawked at the newcomers. A ball sat at her feet, and a harried woman with a Redguard-style set of dreadlocks but decidedly Dwemer features came hurrying over, “I am terribly sorry! Please pardon my son, you know how children are. They’ve just never seen a Khajiit before, it was hard to explain your people to them.” she explained in a hurry, looking both flustered and embarrassed. Without thinking about it, Daro’Vasora bent down, picked up the ball, and handed it back to the child, who continued to stare in disbelief.

Brynja grabbed Rhona by the shoulder, whispering in her ear, “You stick close to me, you hear?”

“Thank you, kitty lady! You’re pretty!” the child beamed, and went to reach out to take the ball back. “Can I touch your fur?”

“Uritz!” The mother snapped aghast, “Manners, young man!”

The boy’s hand recoiled. He looked back to his mother, the Khajiit, and then took off with a drawn out, “Byyyeee!” as the kids took off again with the ball. The mother apologized again and took in pursuit.

“Everything about today hurts my head.” She muttered to Judena and Latro.

“Dwemer children…” Rhona whispered. What a sight that was to behold. Never in all her life did she imagine she would have had the opportunity to lay eyes on a living breathing Dwemer child. And Brynja shared the same unspoken thoughts, although it put her more on edge to experience the Dwemer living and breathing so casually after what she experienced not only in the Jerall Mountains, but the Imperial City, and the raid on Elenglynn. She had her own suspicions, but she kept her mouth shut, better to stay alive than end up dead.

The group carried on until they reached a junction that took them away from the sprawling bazaar and the crowds until Roux lead them to a fairly large hotel called the Three Crowns Hotel, a surprisingly luxurious place that couldn’t have been cheap to stay the night with balconies off most rooms, a large fountain in the front, and a courtyard bathhouse that was in reality supplied water from a complex of ancient Dwemer piping and machinery; the entire city of Gilane was built around an ancient Dwemer settlement, Daro’Vasora knew. Still, the group was lead inside and through the halls until reaching a red curtain flanked by a pair of armed guards, who looked at the approaching group suspiciously.

“The Ra Gada stand proud and ready.” Roux announced.

Evidently, it was a passphrase of sorts, as the group was then ushered in by the guards and told to make themselves comfortable on an assortment of luxurious furniture, including a number of flow pillows and rugs. A pair of hookahs sat open and ready, and wine pitches sat near a wall of assorted bottles of different vintages. After a few minutes, another curtain opened and a portly, albeit fatherly, Redguard man with a well-trimmed black beard and a a flowing white ensemble with a golden waist sash came into the room, where he greeted Roux with an embrace and the pair kissed one another on their cheeks as a greeting.

“I am pleased to see your travels kept you safe, and you’ve brought friends with you. It warms my heart to see you, Roux.” the man said.

“Likewise, these are all people that I know would have something to offer our cause. They are no friends of the enemy; they’ve fought them in Cyrodiil and bring both knowledge and experience of affairs outside of Hammerfell’s borders.”

“Splendid.” The man clasped a pair of meaty hands together in a loud clap and studied all of the faces in the room. His disposition was warm and inviting, like he was hosting a house party. “My friends, welcome to Gilane and my establishment, the Three Crowns. You may call me the Poncy Man until we’ve come to build a relationship based on trust and proving ourselves to one another, but know that I am a leading member of the Hammerfell Merchant Guild and I have balked at the occupiers since their arrival and wish to see my city streets free once more. It has been my considerable finances that have enabled men and women like you stand up to tyranny and demonstrate to my countrymen that we have nothing to fear from the occupiers as long as good people are willing to stand up for what is decent and right.” He said, slapping his fingers into a palm to emphasize the last few words. He smiled apologetically, stretching his arms out invitingly.

“I must apologize, you all must be exhausted from travel. You are all my guests in this establishment, and since there are others like yourself here who are a part of the cause, we have set some rooms for your group that you may share to act as a home base, as it were, while here. I speak frankly and openly to you, as word has reached me of the trials you have endured in Cyrodiil. We are brothers and sisters bound by a shared struggle, and for that it is my genuine pleasure to offer you some comfort as long as you assist the resistance to the best of your abilities. Should you wish to join us in our quest for liberty, you are welcome and honoured guests who will be using this establishment as a safe house. You will appear to be customers and vacationing guests, so it will not arouse suspicion as you come and go. But for now, we have four suites set aside for you, please divide yourselves by sex in respect to the privacy of the women. Rest for today and tonight, tomorrow we will speak again and if you wish to pursue a partnership with us against our enemy, and we shall plan our first moves together. If you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to.” He bowed slightly. “Welcome to Hammerfell, please enjoy what Gilane has to offer in the meantime.”

With that, the Poncy Man turned back, leaving the group to their devices. Deciding the only fair way to divide the lodging accommodations was to draw names to sort the rooms, Brynja called out the names.

“Ladies first room, Megana, Anifaire, Nanine, and myself. Second room for the ladies, Rhona, Judena, Raelynn, and Daro’Vasora.” Putting that cup down, she picked up the second cup with the men’s names. “And for the first men’s room, Jaraleet, Solandil, Durantel, Latro. And finally, Alim, Calen, and Gregor. Try to behave yourselves, we’re guests here.” she said with a hint of warning. The guards escorted the two groups down separate hallways, and led them to their accommodations.

Their quarters were sprawling, each with four beds separated by wooden privacy barriers and a number of padded benches and chairs, a dining table, private dressers and a wooden chest at the foot of each bed. Floor-to-ceiling curtains concealed a balcony with cushioned seating and side tables. All considered, it was surprisingly luxurious considering the accommodations everyone had endured for the past several weeks, save for the brief days in Anvil.

Now free of obligations for the evening, the companions were free to discover Gilane at their own leisure and decide where their paths would lead.

When Gregor had thought the situation in Cyrodiil could not possibly become any more dire, the Aldmeri Dominion decided to prove him wrong. The sudden and violent assault on Anvil sent Gregor and Raelynn scrambling to get dressed, rudely interrupting their equally violent activities after their chance encounter at Dibella’s chapel earlier that morning. Gregor made his way to the docks with his electric claymore in hand, Raelynn following right behind him -- a good thing, too, since he had to cut down two of the Aldmeri infiltrators that were wreaking havoc in the streets. The truth was that Gregor hadn’t really taken to Daro’Vasora’s proposal but lack of a better plan had driven him not to decline. That decision was now fully vindicated, and he was profoundly grateful for his place on the Intrepid. The blond Breton captain, Roux, had the looks of a snake charmer about him, but Gregor found him to be perfectly affable when he personally thanked him for their rescue. As they set sail and escaped from Anvil’s harbor and out onto the open sea Gregor sank down on the damp wooden deck, his back against a barrel, and stared at the sky for what felt like hours.

They were going to Hammerfell. He was leaving his home, his family and the Dwemer and their souls even further behind. The Gods were cruel, Gregor thought bitterly. The Redguards were a notoriously narrow-minded people when it came to the arcane arts: Hammerfell was possibly the absolute last place he’d think to go when it came to his quest to become an undead lich. On the other hand, they were fantastically capable warriors, having been the only (former) province of the Empire to bring the Aldmeri Dominion to its knees during the Great War, so if the Dwemer decided to expand their conquest westwards Gregor expected the people of Hammerfell to put up a hell of a fight. That was still a potential opportunity for him to get what he wanted: the soul of a powerful Dwemer. The perfect offering for the Ideal Masters of the Soul Cairn.

The six days they spent sailing on the Intrepid passed by agonizingly slowly. Much like during their journey to Anvil, Gregor spent most of this time processing what had happened and planning ahead. He was, if nothing else, a methodical, deliberate and cunning man. Still, he had his weaknesses, and one of them was walking aboard the same ship the whole time. Whenever they thought nobody was looking, Gregor and Raelynn gave each other furtive looks to confirm that their, ah, business in Anvil had not yet been concluded. The ship provided no privacy to continue their session, however, so nothing came of it. In fact, they didn’t even talk to one another, at most acknowledging each other during a larger conversation or in passing. But that wasn’t unique to Raelynn; Gregor kept to himself mostly anyway. His only friends on board were the aforementioned Breton seductress, the young Nord lad Calen and the Argonian soldier Jaraleet. Brynja’s death-stare when Gregor gave the obviously distraught Rhona a look of concern was a warning that Gregor heeded without having to be told twice, so he avoided both of them. He had talked to Daro’Vasora before, of course, but she appeared to be taking on the responsibilities of a leader and looked too busy for further conversation. It was during this time that Gregor learned that most of the group had been together for many weeks now, that they had met during a Dwemer ruin excavation gone wrong and that Rhea Valerius, the woman Daro’Vasora had so venomously insulted outside the gates of Anvil, had been their employer initially. Even after Elenglynn, Skingrad and Anvil, Gregor still felt like an outside to these people, and he wondered if he would ever feel truly at home with them. Did he even want to?

All of these thoughts were abruptly and irrevocably cast aside when they arrived in Gilane. Gregor watched the conversation between the three Dwemer customs officers, Roux and Daro’Vasora from the high vantage point of the quarterdeck. His nails dug into the wooden railing with such force that it hurt. A tempest of conflicted emotions roared through his heart at the sight. Every single one of Gregor’s expectations had been defied by the very idea that Hammerfell was occupied by the Dwemer already. How had the Redguards, of all people, let this happen? Had there been such a ferocious slaughter, like the Imperial City, that they had surrendered? Or had the Dwemer gone about it differently? Gregor cast his gaze across Gilane’s skyline and saw no signs, not one, of a siege. In fact, the city looked positively vibrant, shimmering as it did in the golden sunlight. His pride as an Imperial balked at the fact that he was going to have to submit to the authority of these gray-skinned, knife-eared, fancy-robed bastards. During the ship’s inspection one of the Dwemer came right up to him, a practiced eye going over Gregor’s weapons, and he had to stop himself from lunging at the elf and ripping his head off. The rational part of him slowly took over and calmed him down when they were allowed to disembark. They followed Roux through Gilane’s bazaar and Gregor saw Dwemer mingling with and apparently living peacefully alongside the locals. A thought occurred to him.

The Deep Elves were everywhere. Their souls were practically waiting to be harvested.

Gregor’s prejudice and the cold, calculating reaper that lived inside his mind prevented him from seeing the Dwemer as people and his inscrutable gaze seized them up as targets. From the mother whose child stumbled into Daro’Vasora to the armed guards that patrolled through the city, Gregor evaluated the potential worth of their soul. His gaze fell on the child as it spoke… he blinked and looked away, disgusted with himself. Children were children. Out of the question. Shaken from his predatory reverie, Gregor decided to focus on where Roux was leading them instead. That turned out to be the Three Crowns Hotel and Gregor mouthed a silent ‘aha’ when Roux offered a passphrase and they were brought face to face with an older Redguard. He had vaguely caught wind of what Roux had said to Daro’Vasora and he had been wondering when they were going to discover what the Breton captain had in store for them. This, he thought as he looked around the luxuriously decorated room, was a pleasant surprise.

He listened attentively to what the Poncy Man had to say and Gregor found his words more than agreeable. An armed resistance against the Dwemer occupation? He could hardly think of a more advantageous position from which to place himself in a situation where would be able to reap the soul of a Dwemer. He immediately thought of Governor Rourken, the new ruler of occupied Gilane, whose name Roux had mentioned, and smiled to himself. He was signing up alright. After Brynja had assigned them each to one of the rooms, Gregor turned to Calen and gave him a genuine smile. Alim he did not know, but Gregor was pleased to share a room with the bard. He would have one friend by his side, at least. He followed the guards to the room and immediately gravitated to the bed that was closest to the doors that led to the balcony outside -- the heat was oppressive and Gregor longed for a breeze at night to soothe him while he slept. He immediately began to strip out of his armor and his cloak and let out a contented sigh after he was down to his black clothes. He stored his belongings in the chest by the foot of his bed. Still, this outfit wasn’t suitable for Hammerfell’s climate, and Gregor was still sweating. Since they had the evening to themselves, the first order of business would be to acquire more sensible clothes. He looked at Alim and took note of the half-blood’s breezy, linen ensemble. “That looks comfortable,” he said to Alim and laughed. “It seems like I need to go shopping. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

While he left his armor at the hotel, Gregor kept his weapons strapped to his person when he stepped outside and made his way back to the bazaar, drinking in the sights more carefully this time. He noticed that a lot of the local Redguards and the Dwemer looked at him more intensely and longer than he was used to, or, admittedly, comfortable with. They must have heard what happened to the Imperial City. Were they worried that the heavily-armed Imperial was going to do something stupid? Gregor kept his hands clasped behind his back and adopted a slow, sauntering pace, doing his best to keep the expression on his face light and pleasant. It worked -- the Dwemer patrols averted their gaze after a second or two and he noticed less of the Redguards staring at him as he walked by. He found a vendor stall that sold the style of clothes he had seen on Alim and, after some haggling and retreating to the long house behind the stall to try on his new clothes away from prying eyes that might judge his tattoos harshly, Gregor emerged refreshed and redressed. His black, high-collared tunic had been replaced by a baggy, white, low-cut, buttoned-up linen shirt with loose sleeves, and his equally black pants were swapped out for tan breeches that were held up by suspenders. Gregor admired himself in the mirror that the Redguard merchant attentively provided and laughed. He looked like a pirate, or a swashbuckler from the sappy novels his sister used to read when they were younger. He thanked the vendor for his business and found himself stood in the bazaar, looking around. What now? The Poncy Man had made it obvious that there would be no further talk of the resistance’s mission until the next day. He thought about seeking out Raelynn but he wasn’t sure where she was, which made the most logical place to start looking the room she shared with some of the other ladies… his status as a gentleman caller would be immediately obvious to the others if he knocked on that door, and he didn’t want to cross that boundary. Their affair had remained a secret so far and that suited him just fine.

For lack of anything better to do, a drink seemed in order. The sun had dropped low in the sky by the time Gregor had finished obtaining his new clothes and the local population dispersed from their workplaces into the taverns and tea-houses that were scattered throughout Gilane. Gregor followed the crowds with the same leisurely gait as before until he came upon a large, white tent, shaped like a starfish, with a circular bar at its center. Tables and chairs were arranged in the shade and seats were quickly filling up. Gregor had traveled enough to know that if you wanted to find a fine establishment you should look for a place where the locals gathered, and he saw many weathered, dark-skinned faces here. Satisfied, Gregor sat down on a stool at the bar and immediately found himself looking up at the stern (but not unkind) face of an older, bald Redguard with a salt-and-pepper beard.

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked. His voice was deep and gravely, like the croaking of tanned leather.

“I just arrived in Gilane today,” Gregor replied as he leaned forward on his elbows, peering at the rows of bottles that were on display. “First time in Hammerfell. What do you recommend?”

The Redguard grunted and reached for a bottle containing a mahogany-colored liquid without answering. He poured Gregor a shot glass and put it down on the counter with a note of finality. “Try it,” he said, and the Imperial thought he could see a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Not without some measure of trepidation, Gregor brought the glass up to his lips and took a measured sip. His eyes went wide and he had to suppress a coughing fit as he swallowed, covering his mouth behind his fist, and the barman chuckled.

“Stros M’kai rum,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You like it?”

Gregor thought about it, staring down at the dark swill, and realized that he did. “Strong stuff, but it’s good.” He steeled himself and threw back the rest of the rum. This time he managed to keep his composure. The barman nodded in approval.

“What brings you here, Imperial?” the Redguard asked as he poured Gregor another shot.

“War,” Gregor answered without thinking. He sighed and looked the barman up and down for a second -- the older man looked like he would have been alive back when Hammerfell was still part of the Empire. Perhaps he still had some measure of fondness for the old days. “My name is Gregor, by the way. Pleased to meet you. I assume you heard about the Imperial City?”

“Karrod. Likewise. I did.” He looked at Gregor with an inscrutable expression, as if he was waiting to see how the Imperial was going to react. It was a familiar look by now.

“The Dwemer drove us south, towards Skingrad,” Gregor continued. “We had to leave there when the Dominion showed up. They infiltrated the city and installed a puppet Dark Elf as count. We traveled to Anvil next, but the Dominion followed us and attacked the city. That was… six days ago. Me and my associates were able to flee aboard a merchant vessel.”

Karrod grimaced. “So the rumors are true.” He rapped his fingers on the bar and stroked his beard with his free hand. “Sounds like the Empire is in deep shit, Gregor. I’m… sorry to hear that.”

So he was right. Gregor smiled a sad smile and shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m here now. Say, Karrod--”

Before he could finish his question, a Dwemer woman sat down at the bar two stools over. Gregor closed his mouth and stared at her. Unlike the mother from before, this woman’s hair was braided in the same style he had seen on the customs officers that had boarded the Intrepid. She wore a long, unassuming dress that was the same color as the ubiquitous Hammerfell sand, and a purple sash wrapped itself around her waist. She was… beautiful, in a way, Gregor realized. He flinched and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw that she was looking at him now with a sheepish smile. Gregor could practically hear Karrod roll his eyes and the barman walked over to service the Dwemer woman. “He’s new. Kamdida, Gregor. Gregor, Kamdida.”

Now properly introduced, Kamdida nodded at him in a polite greeting, and Gregor responded in kind. It was satisfying to see that she had the common decency to be awkward around him, as if she was aware that she was part of an invading force that had destroyed the capital city of his country. Gregor opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. The truth was that he had a thousand questions for the Dwemer (Where did you come from? Why are you here? How did your species survive a total and sudden disappearance?) but Roux’s words of warning echoed in the back of his mind. Lay low, pretend to like them, and you’ll be fine. He downed his second glass of rum instead. Meanwhile, Kamdida ordered tea.

“You don’t look like a Redguard, Gregor,” Kamdida said. She was still smiling.

Gregor, who had averted his gaze, looked up at her again. This was surreal -- was he really about to have a conversation with a Dwemer? He cleared his throat and regrouped himself. “I’m an Imperial. From Cyrodiil, you see.”

Kamdida nodded slowly. “Ah,” she said softly. She held his gaze but there was something in her eyes that made Gregor think she would rather look away. What was it? Shame? Guilt? Pity? He couldn’t tell.

“What do you think of the sacking of the Imperial City?” Gregor blurted out.

Karrod, who had been cleaning the bar, froze.

“It was your city. What do you think?” Kamdida replied and took a sip of her tea.

It was your people, Gregor thought and almost said so out loud when a sudden realization struck him. It had been staring him in the face ever since he arrived in Gilane but he hadn’t put two and two together until now. The prevalence of purple, the different methods of subjugation, even the shape of the weapons and armor of the customs officers… it reminded Gregor of the difference between the Altmer of Alinor and the High Elves that had grown up within the Empire’s borders. Same race, different people.

These weren’t the same Dwemer that had invaded Cyrodiil.

“An… unnecessary tragedy,” Gregor said, thinking quickly. “This is much better.” He gestured around him at the entirety of Gilane and, presumably, Hammerfell. “Peaceful coexistence should be possible, right? As long as everyone works together.”

Kamdida nodded again, more enthusiastically this time, and smiled warmly. “I agree, and it pleases me to hear you say so. You will do just fine here in Volenfell. Welcome.”

Karrod breathed out slowly and continued to clean.

That was it -- Gregor’s tolerance for absurdity had just been reached. He flashed a grin, reached for his septims, paid for his rum and got to his feet. “Thank you for the hospitality, Karrod. Kamdida, it was… nice to meet you. Good evening,” he said and bowed slightly towards both of them before turning on the spot and walking back the way he came, to the Three Crowns hotel. He needed to be somewhere the Dwemer weren’t.

---

After being divided up according to gender, and escorted to their living quarters within the Three Crowns, Rhona quietly claimed her bed. She would share a room with Daro’Vasora, Judena and Raelynn. Asides from Daro’Vasora, she hadn’t conversed much with either of her fellow companions. And to be frank, Rhona didn’t have the energy to speak with anyone in the room for the time being. She opened up the chest at the foot of her bed, stashing her rucksack and other belongings inside, but made certain to keep her coinpurse on her. She set out with staff in hand, yearning to have some peace of mind, and to stretch her legs after being cooped up on the Intrepid for the past six days. Now was the not the time to converse with her female companions, now was the time for her to lose herself within Gilane. She had never travelled past Rihad, and she did wish to see what the city had to offer, despite the presence of the Dwemer. That bore a strange air over the city, out of all events, she did expect that she would ever lay eyes on the Dwemer, let alone Dwemer children. For once, she did not think of Aurelia. She did not wonder where she was, or if Aurelia would have enjoyed the city and its marvelous sights to see.

Not but twenty feet from the entrance of the Three Crowns Hotel, the form of an Altmer towered over that of a diminutive Dwemer youth, caught between the throes of childhood and developing adolescence. “No, you impudent little runt, I am most decidedly not a Thalmor agent. I loathe such a foolish question, and you would do well to run off to whatever miserable excuse for a guardian you have!” With each word, Mortalmo’s low voice seemed to rise in volume and intensity, until by the last words flecks of spit cast their way down towards the subject of his anger.

The pale grey skin of the Dwemer youth turned decidedly paler, before his legs carried him with uncertainty backward.

“I said begone!”

The child turned and fled.

Her eyes caught sight of the Dwemer child fleeing from the intimidating presence of Durantel, she had decidedly avoided her mentor after the incident with Cezare, and on seeing him, her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t avoid him now. However, she did notice that he had cleaned up his appearance. He had his hair drawn back from his face into a ponytail, his cheeks entirely devoid of facial hair, and what was this? His clothes were different than the last time she had seen him, and there even hung a flute at his belt. She did her best to contain her facial expressions as she approached.

“Durantel,” she called softly, “it is good to see you… I am sorry for not having made time for training.”

Mortalmo’s head turned towards the source of the calling, his movements terse and thick with tension. However, upon studying the features of his mentee, his own irritable expression softened. She did not seem well, and the look in her eyes was one he was all too familiar with. It was the face of someone that had done or endured something terrible, and it was the face bore by many as Mortalmo led them chained to the axe.

She looked frightful, her skin had an awful pallor to it, and the rings around her eyes did little to belie what he could only assume was a number of sleepless nights. He approached her slowly, a gentleness to his gait as he raised a hand, resting it softly on her shoulder. He had grown the slightest bit fond of the wretch before him. Seeing her in such a state troubled him somewhat. “Girl,” He began, his voice a lulling coo. “What ill fate has befallen you?”

It was too much. The gentleness in his voice, the comfort of his hand on her shoulder, her nose stung as tears threatened. She twisted her face in a grimace as she tried to fight back the surge of emotions rising through her, “I… I’ve been under the weather. Would you like to go for a walk? I need some fresh air.”

Would he like to go for a walk? Hardly. What he wanted to do was find an inn or a bar somewhere deeper in the city and earn some coin with his new flute. What he wanted to do was slap this girl for showing her weakness in such a public manner. “Of course, dear Rhona.” His voice never lost its feathery tone. “I would enjoy such an endeavor.” He moved so that he stood beside her, his arm around her shoulders in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

He began walking, not so fast as to allow her to set the pace. They departed from the hotel, stepping out into the noontime sun, the intensity of the light caused Rhona to squint. She didn’t bother to remove Durantel’s arm from her shoulder. It made her feel safe, and protected, at least for the time being. They passed through the streets without a word until she sighed, an aggravated and heavy sigh, as if admitting defeat.

“I killed him.” She whispered, loud enough for him to hear. There was a degree of mixed emotion behind those three words, anger, sadness, possibly regret.

He kept moving forward at the same steady speed, sparing only a moment to glance down at the enchantress. “Do you want to find somewhere private to discuss this, or does our current arrangement suit you as is?” His voice had a bare trace of tension in its cadence.

She shrugged haphazardly, “It matters not.” She really had not the slightest concern or care where they spoke. Rhona couldn’t feel anything.

Mortalmo made no move to respond vocally to her apathy, only a nod to show that he had understood. “This has happened before we departed from Anvil, I must assume. I must also assume that he is the one that sought you out, rather than the inverse. Am I correct?”
Her jaw spasmed, causing her to grit her teeth just a little too hard, “He took me. I had just left Meg after providing an enchanting service… I went to find some dinner, when… there was a bird call from the alleyway,” Rhona kept her voice equally low, “he… knocked me out.”

Such miserable, underhanded tactics. The spawn of Lorkhan never failed to disgust the Altmer. Well, not all of them were so vile. His eyes darted to Rhona for the briefest moment. “How did his demise come about? When, and where?”

“I had been in his care, if you would call it that… from the evening of the 22nd, all day of the 23rd, until the morning of the 24th. He had… threatened to kill Calen. Out of spite. Nothing more. I was trying to protect him from Cezare,” She shuddered violently on speaking his name, moving to wrap her arms around herself as if she was taken with a chill, “He had men with him, I’ve not seen the likes of them before, and he sent them off to look for Calen. It was just the two of us that morning, in an alleyway. And…” She took a deep breath, a strangled sob escaped as Rhona try to fight it back, “he wouldn’t stop talking, Durantel. He just… wouldn’t. stop. talking. And I, I swung at him with my staff. Just like you taught me. I dropped him with a blow to the knee. He fell. And I pounced. I couldn’t stop myself. I don’t know what came over me. I was so angry. I kept swinging. And swinging. And swinging, until I realized what I had done, there was so much blood, I made a mess of his face, and… when I turned, Daro’Vasora had found me. She took me to the ship, and we left him there.” It was as if a giant gust of air had gone out of her, it was different than when Brynja had coaxed it out of her. She hadn’t wished to speak of it then, and even now, she didn’t want to talk about it, but it came easier than before. She reached up with one hand to wipe away the tears that wet her cheeks.

He was silent for a few moments, mulling all that Rhona had told him over in his head. He tossed it about and about. He once indicted a nobleman and his entirely family for treason for a single night of drinks and conversation. Only recently, Mortalmo murdered a man in cold blood for what amounted to a wardrobe change. He felt nothing for these crimes. Not one ounce of guilt. But Faewynn... his darling Faewynn... that, he knew caused him guilt beyond reckoning. Now here Rhona stood, part of her seemingly guilty for what she had done. Would Fae regret it if she had murdered him? Poisoned him? Stabbed him in his sleep? Pushed him from the balcony?

He did not think so.

Rhona’s behavior Mortalmo understood. Her emotions he was uncomfortable to discover he empathized with. The reasons for the way she felt, however, baffled him utterly. Mortalmo deserved none to feel guilty of his passing. How in Oblivion did Cezare? And Rhona, of all people, the poor girl that had endured his abuse and torment? She expressed some semblance of regret? It was something that the Mer simply could not grasp.

“You know, dearest Rhona,” He started to say carefully. “That when you are in my presence... you are safe. You know I would not let harm or misfortune carry itself to you, if I am able to prevent it. But.” His voice took on a somewhat harder edge. “What you have done... You have proven that I am not needed. You have proven that you can take care of yourself.” He stopped in his tracks, his hands finding purchase on either of her shoulders, pulling her to face him. Mortalmo gazed into her eyes, his face creasing with sorrow. Then, he drew her into an embrace, one arm about her shoulders, the other holding the back of her head gently. “You are safe now,” He murmured. “You have saved Calen, and you have saved yourself as well. Anyone that horrible man might have harmed in the future... They, too, will now never know what horrors he might have delivered.” His body trembled the slightest bit.

Mortalmo blinked his tears away. “I am proud of you.” He killed a man for new clothes. He ruined a family for drinks and sex. Gods. “So very proud.”

A floodgate opened. Just his presence, with his arms around her, made her feel as if she really were safe. Nothing could harm her here. Her tears came pouring out, a tightness in her throat mangled any sob that left, she reached up with her hands at once, she didn’t want to stain his tunic, her tears would show against the pale black fabric. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t cry. I…” Even though she tried to apologize her way out of her emotions, she couldn’t physically stop herself. Rhona collapsed against him, where she wrapped her arms around him in return, and cried, until she cried no more, all the while still apologizing.

Mortalmo held here there for a few moments longer, the strange pair clinging to one another in the middle of the street as passersby circled around them. He pulled away just slightly, the hand once resting on the back of her head now hovering before her face. He pressed the sleeve of his tunic gingerly against her visage, wiping away the tears that stained it. “It is... not wrong to cry. I think.” His own cheeks were wet, “I am finding every day that I know far less than I had once thought.”

Mortalmo planted a small kiss on her forehead. It was a delicate thing, not hastily done but by no means savored either. It would not be proper. He tried to smile then, though his eyes looked pained. He did not know what to say.

The peck on her brow surprised her, it was a display of affection that caught her off guard. She found herself looking up into his eyes, when a smile spread across her face. It wasn’t a joyous smile, but one of gratitude. She stood on the tips of her toes, and brushed away his tears just as he had done for her, a bit of a stretch. Rhona used the pads of her fingers, effectively wiping them away. He flinched, but did not pull away. She dropped back down, and wrapped her arms around Durantel once more, squeezing him tight in a bear-like hug.

Rhona laughed, “Oh what fools we look.” She pulled away then, the same half-smile on her lips as she gazed up at him, “I… thank you for listening. I’m sorry. My heart gets the best of me sometimes.”

The Altmer laughed too, a strangled sort of thing. “I am far more a fool than you think, my friend.” He caught himself then. Friend? Auri-El strike him down now. “Ah…” For the first time in what might have been decades, Mortalmo felt embarrassed. And it showed. “I do not... It is not my intent to... I have not called one a friend in nearly a decade. I apologize for my overzealousness.”

The smile fell away on his admittance, no friend for nigh upon ten years? Her heart pitied him, loneliness had a face of its own, a vicious creature that lurked in the confines of one’s mind, a shadowy being that consumed every last remaining beam of happiness. Her brows furrowed as her mouth turned down at the corners into an empathetic frown, “That’s nonsense, Durantel. You…” she reached out to take his hand, rather large compared to hers, and gave it a gentle pat, “You are a good person. If you don’t have a friend… then I will be your friend. Loneliness is a cruel mistress, and no one deserves to suffer a fate like that.”

You are a good person. The words stung his heart sharply, piercing him through. His shoulders sagged. “I... I do not know if I am a good person. Surely, surely I am a righteous one. Surely…” He had the look and sound of a man grasping at straws. He swallowed. “I am not sure you would think me to be such a good person if you knew even a quarter of my story.”

She shook her head, “Durantel, I could never judge you. It is not in my faith. No matter what you’ve done, I would never judge you. Whatever brings your heart shame, it’s not what I see. And you don’t ever have to tell me, if you don’t wish to. That matters not. What matters is that, you have treated me with kindness, and respect. You gave me the courage to face my worst nightmare.”

His beckoned for Rhona to follow, and Mortalmo began to walk down the street once more. “Rhona, the things I will tell you... I do not desire to threaten you into silence, though my instincts scream at me to do so. Do not betray my trust.”

Though he towered over her, she managed to keep up with him. His tone had changed drastically as he spoke, one that held a degree of severity, she wasn’t certain what he would reveal, and she did find herself wondering what it could be, but Durantel was entrusting her with something especially profound, “You have my word that I will take your secret to my grave.”

Deep inhale. Deep exhale. Then Mortalmo began to speak. “I first came to Skyrim a few years before the Stormcloak Rebellion began. I was to investigate rumors of insubordination, and root out heresy. The province was rife with it. I had two charges under my care, Toriseth and Vertemnis. They were quite the pair... one so inquisitive, the other so very fiery. Both equally naive.” There was tension in his voice, though a touch of warmth when speaking of his old charges. He continued, “We were ambushed by Stormcloaks while escorting a prisoner. I stood my ground and fought, so that my... friends could escape.” The words felt bitter like a lime upon his tongue. “They captured me... tortured me, interrogated me. For a year? Two? I gave them nothing.” Mortalmo spat then, glowering as he continued through the streets of Gilane, his pace quickening somewhat.

“Fucking Stormcloaks.”

An ugly snarl came to twist across his countenance. “I escaped eventually. Imperials assaulted the fort, and I fled in the chaos. So great was my shame that I never returned to the Dominion. I am not Durantel the mercenary. I am Mortalmo, former inquisitor of the Thalmor regime.” It had been years since he last spoke his name aloud, and even then, it had only been in hushed whispers. Just so he did not forget who he really was. The name felt strange in his mouth.

It was his name though. He liked it. “Please understand, dearest Rhona, that the threat of death does now rest upon your head. Do not give me cause to do something I am loathsome to even consider.”

She didn’t know how to process all of that information. Durantel was really Mortalmo? And Mortalmo was a Thalmor inquisitor? Rhona remained silent as she digested the news he bestowed on her. Simply knowing what he told her, put her very life at risk. Yet at the very same moment… despite all of the atrocities that came along with a title of being a Thalmor inquisitor, Rhona really couldn’t judge him. He had done nothing to harm her. Even as she revealed to him about her act of her murdering Cezare, he had not judged her in the slightest. Rhona looked up at him, watching the distinct expression on his face, and her heart twisted in sympathy. They were two souls, far beyond redemption, at least in her eyes.

“Durantel…” Her words came softly, like speaking to a confidant, or rather a lover in the early morning hours, but such was her nature as a woman, “I meant what I said. Even now, with the weight of your words upon my shoulders, I could never judge you.” She reached out, and wrapped her hand in his, tugging on it for him to slow his pace.

For a moment, he began to pull away, starting to extricate his hand from hers. For some reason, he thought better of it. Never had he spoken of such truth to one before. Never had he expected anything but revulsion for such a confession. He slowed down, acquiescing to her wish. His hand remained with hers. “I feel the fool for having said such things. True as the words may be, I do not believe this decision has been a wise one. I will... thank you, however. You are kind.”

“Hush,” Rhona said, keeping her voice low, “you’re not a fool. When you hold something like that in forever, it eats away at your soul. It darkens your spirit, your heart, and your mind. There is… an aching, whether you wish to deny it or not, there is an aching where you need to release that. I am well aware of the implications. And I will safeguard it with my life, whether that means facing death or imprisonment.” And every ounce of her being meant it.

He barked a laugh then. “I suspect you should only face death or imprisonment if you admit to knowingly fraternizing with a Thalmor agent. You are a curious young woman, Rhona. I think you wise, for not being so afraid of me as others might be. You are Breton, yes? And I must hope, you do not pay credence to Talos? The Dominion would welcome one such as you with open arms.”

“Only part Breton, through my mother. My father is a Nord. I’ve not seen him since my mother spirited us away to the Imperial City as a young girl.” But the Dominion? No, she could never, her life was freedom, “I appreciate the invitation, Durantel. However, I feel that I would have no business with the Dominion. My life is,” Rhona swept her arm outwards, “meant to be free of any governing rule. Mara shows me how to love, Arkay will take me in death, but for this life? I go wherever Kynareth guides me. Of course…” She paused, she almost admitted her worship of the other three Gods, but she grinned, shaking her hand as she drew hand away from his, “There is only one way to be free. And that’s to travel.”

The smile that had come to slide across Mortalmo’s features faltered somewhat. “I only mean to say... the Dominion is not going to stop with Skingrad and Anvil. They are sure to seize Cyrodiil in its entirety, and Skyrim will fall then too. I mean to find some way to redeem myself in the eyes of my countrymen. When I do, I can see to it that you are treated with fairness and respect. There is... no reason why you should not be allowed to continue traveling.

If I am able to reclaim my previous station, I too will no doubt be on the road at frequent intervals, though our purposes will scarcely be the same. All I mean to say is that some of your behaviors can be... dubious.” He thought back to her little slip weeks ago, when she mentioned her worship of Azura. “Knowing that you have my backing, however, could go a long way to prevent you from being accosted overly much.”

“Why would I be accosted? That seems like a silly idea.” She almost laughed, when she looked up at him worriedly. Why would he say such a thing?

He shifted uncomfortably. “Rhona... You are... attractive. Elven enough to be desired, but not always elven enough to be treated with respect. That aside, some of your mannerisms are sure to attract attention. Some of that attention may be unwanted. Before my fall, I was in a position of significant power. I had similarly powerful friends across several branches of the Thalmor military.” He looked down at her significantly. “Those beneath our thumbs would know that deferring to Rhona the Enchantress is in their best interests.”

She could feel a wave of heat wash over her cheeks at the mention of him telling her she was attractive. No, you ignorant woman., she chided herself.

“Rest assured, Durantel. Your offer is extremely tempting, but it would not be for me. With your lessons, I know how to take care of myself. Such power and recognition does not suit me. See? I told you, you are a good person.” She grinned at him. Rhona had no distinct opinion against the Dominion, although she did sympathize with the people of Skyrim for what the Dominion had done, she could never tell Mortalmo that now. “I don’t mean to change the subject… but did you happen to see where Calen had gone off to? I do need to speak with him, I avoided him on the journey from Skingrad to Anvil, and even on the voyage here. I need to clear the air between us.”

An aggravated sigh escaped from between Mortalmo’s lips. Stupid wretch. Stupid, stupid girl. “Ah, Calen,” His tone had gone flat. “That slimy thing. I strongly caution associating with him. I saw the two of them arriving at Skingrad together, you know. Calen and Cezare…” He allowed that statement to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “They did not seem to be at odds then. How do you think it is, exactly, that Cezare found you in that camp? How do you think it is that Cezare managed to track you all the way to Anvil? Why do you think it is that although that monster clearly had no issue finding you within the city, he decided to bring you along on a little scavenger hunt to find Calen?”

He gazed at Rhona severely, “Why did he not bring Calen to the same place you were being held? That dog has a way with words, you know that. Some might call his tongue silver but I see it for the sham-gilded thing it is. I do not trust him.” That wasn’t quite true, though. Mortalmo simply did not like him.

“Perhaps you should go find Calen.”

She stood there, having long since stopped. That couldn’t be true. Not at all. Calen… he would never do that. Except… unless Cezare had paid him. She swallowed nervously, trying to fight back the lump in her throat, the blood draining from her face from the idea alone.

“I pray that I am mistaken,” Mortalmo said softly. “But I do not think it so.”

“I… I need to go, Durantel.” She took a step backwards. Just where in Oblivion was Calen? Rhona needed answers, and she needed to find him. She couldn’t even say goodbye before her body turned, the path back to the Three Crowns acting like a beacon.

Mortalmo watched Rhona’s fleeing form as it drew further and further away from him. He sighed, turned, and began walking in the opposite direction. Something tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Gilane, Hammerfell - 30th of Second Seed

Unlike her first days in Imperial City, Skingrad and then Anvil, Meg did not choose to leave the lush and luxurious accommodations the group had been afforded by the man who called himself the Poncy man. She had barely been able to keep up with his long and elaborate welcome, save that they were here to stay as long as they wished to help efforts of freedom. At least that was what her confused and weary mind could understand. As soon as they were lead to their allocated rooms and the guards had left them to their own devices, Meg headed to one of the beds nearest the curtained off balcony, setting her belongings on the bed with a sigh. Following this she opened the chest at the foot of the bed and carefully set her enchanted armour within. She hadn't worn it since that day, and she very much doubted she would in the next few days. The heat coupled with seasickness hadn't been good for her- six days of feeling dehydrated and vomiting had not been pleasant. Even thinking about it caused her to feel weird in the stomach. Without further ado she headed to the curtain and pulled it to the side, allowing a little breeze to enter the room freely.

When she had at last pulled off her boots and set them on the floor by her bedside, Meg flopped down on the soft inviting bed, practically sinking in. Her eyes shut and she let herself get lost in the moment, if only for a little while. She had never touched anything as rich as the sheet on the bed, or the cushion that supported her head. The inns she had visited in Skyrim couldn't compare to this. The textures, the colours, the scent... everything was so different.

Meg turned around so that she was now laying on her belly, face half pressed against the cushion. Skyrim. A sudden ache filled her chest as her eyes stung; she closed her eyes tightly, unwilling to let any tears escape. A small blink was all it too to let the salty little streams loose. It was hard to admit it yet again, but here she was pining for her home country once more. The mountains, the tall pine trees, the snow glistening under the morning sun... it seemed like years since she had last been there, even though she knew that was certainly not the case. It was silly, stupid, it wasn't her. Since when had she become someone who dreaded new places and new adventures to seek?

A silent breath escaped her and she once more closed her eyes, though in a relaxed fashion. Her mind was in a turmoil, confusion tumbling in her mind just like food had tumbled in her stomach on the ship. The dwemer were here. They had run away from those murderers in Imperial City, suffered in Skingrad, escaped the Aldmeri Dominion in Anvil... and all for what? To find themselves back under the thumb of the dwemer once more? Memories of the dead bodies littering the streets of Imperial City flooded her mind. All that wanton killing, what had it been for?

They weren't the ones who killed Rhea. Her hand tightened around the edge of the sheet. After all the Imperial woman had did for them, keeping the group together and leading them to safety, she met her end just as they were about to escape yet again. Altmer, Dwemer.... who were right? Who were wrong?

Letting out a wrangled sigh, Meg jerked around in bed and sat up, elbows on her knees and forehead pressed against her palms, her fingers pressed against her hair. What was she even thinking? Altmer? Dwemer? Why just them? What about the nords fighting each other? The Imperials and the Stormcloaks? The argonians, the dunmer? Were there truly any race that hadn't harmed the other?

As much as she simply wished to sleep, Meg knew quite well that her troubled thoughts would allow no such thing. Sighing yet again, she stood up and headed to the dining table, pouring herself a drink before heading out to the balcony. Perhaps the open air and the beautiful sights of Gilane would help. And if that didn't help, maybe a few more drinks would.

30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

After the Intrepid had arrived at the docks on the southern side of Gilane and its passengers dispersed into the city, another traveler approached the Dwemer-occupied city from the north. Mazrah had departed from Sentinel more than a week ago and taken an ancient route through the desert that had been in use by the Alik’r nomadic tribes for hundreds of years, if not more. While the blistering heat and dry wind made for a tough journey, this particular path took her past a number of oases where she was able to refill her waterskin and rest in the shade of the giant palm trees that stood as lonely watchtowers in the ever-shifting dunes. With her trusty bow and arrow Mazrah was able to hunt two of the hardy, deer-like creatures that roamed the desert in small herds that the locals called oryx. She had been told it was a Yokudan word that meant ‘fool-hardy’ or ‘stubborn’. The animals were named as such for their perseverance in the deadly climate of the Alik’r. That was rich, coming from the very people who made a living in the desert, she thought. Either way, she was grateful for their existence. She skinned, cooked and ate one of them over the course of her journey and the other she carried with her, slung over her strong shoulders, all the way to Gilane, to be sold to a local butcher’s.

It was well into the afternoon by the time she came into sight of the Dwemer that stood guard by the city gates beneath a large purple parasol. They kept a watchful eye on her as she approached, quietly murmuring amongst themselves until Mazrah was within earshot. Gilane was so far south that it could very well have been the first time these Dwemer had seen an Orsimer like her. Mazrah was dressed in nothing more than a cropped, sleeveless top and a loincloth made from simple, sturdy fabric, and a pair of boots fashioned from animal hide and leather straps, leaving the rest of her powerful body bare for all to see. Tribal tattoos done with white ink covered her from head to toe, including her face, and her thick black hair stood upright in a large, messy mohawk. The beaded braids that hung down her neck softly clinked together as she walked and her skin glistened with sweat.

Soon enough the Dwemer found themselves staring up at Mazrah’s face. Her expressive eyes, the color of liquid gold, always betrayed what she was feeling to a fault, and it was obvious now that she was annoyed. One of the purple-robed Dwemer opened his mouth to say something but Mazrah cut him off with a dismissive wave and talked over him. “Yes, hello, greetings, whatever. I only have this dead animal to declare,” Mazrah said and practically threw the oryx corpse on the wooden table that the Dwemer used to inspect the wares that travelers brought into the city with a loud thud. She’d had enough experience with how the Dwemer operated to know the procedure.

The Dwemer looked down at the oryx with a weary smile and cleared his throat. “Yes, I see. Very well.” He glanced back up at Mazrah, his eyes going over the large bow and spear she carried on her back, and motioned for his colleague to hand him one of the metal tokens that they used to grant visitors access to their occupied territories. “This token will grant you access to Gilane, but first I must ask: what brings you to our city?”

“That’s none of your business,” Mazrah spat back, crossed her arms and shifted her weight on one leg in a posture of petty rebellion. She tilted her head and gave the Dwemer the fakest, sickly-sweetest smile she could muster. “Can I go now?”

This elicited a small chuckle from the guard, who seemed unphased by her attitude and unhurried in his manners. “I’m afraid it is our business. I am only permitted to grant you access to the city if you comply, Orsimer.”

Mazrah realized she wasn’t going to get her way with the imperturbable Dwemer and threw her hands up as she rolled her eyes. “Fine! I’m here to sell this meat, alright? And I’m looking for a man named Nuzir. Redguard, short hair, beady little eyes, can’t keep his grabby hands off my friends. Does that sound familiar?”

“No,” the Dwemer said flatly. “I don’t personally keep track of all the Redguards in this city. Please report any infractions of local laws to the appropriate authorities. Take this,” he added and held out the metal token for Mazrah to accept.

“Yes, yes, I’ll take your stupid token, grayskin,” she grumbled and snatched it out of the Dwemer’s hands before fastening it to the fabric of her top over her left breast. “There, happy?”

“Quite. Enjoy your stay, Orsimer.” The Dwemer’s smile widened ever so slightly.

Mazrah bit back a sharp retort, picked the carcass back up and stomped through the gates. She despised the Dwemer’s regal arrogance and how they strutted around everywhere like they owned the place after only showing up recently. She didn’t understand that the Dwemer thought they could simply come in and take over the entirety of Hammerfell, nor did she understand that the Redguards had seemingly… let it happen. She knew that the Dwemer used to live here before but that was, quite literally, ages ago, and hardly seemed like a good excuse to her. Additionally, Mazrah had been out hunting when the Dwemer arrived and did not learn the news until she was confronted with one of their patrols, and it had only been her intuition that warned her to back down that prevented her from being taken in or possibly even killed on the spot. That encounter had left a sour taste in her mouth. She had roamed these lands for years already -- if anything, she had the right to question the Dwemer about what they had been doing out there, not the other way around!

These thoughts and more were still swirling through her head when Mazrah arrived at the butcher shop she always went to whenever she found herself in Gilane. This was her first time in the city since the Dwemer arrived, however, and to her not-so-pleasant surprise she saw that it was the young assistant, Bakran, who stood outside the shop beneath the shade of a pitched tent to sell the meat. There was nothing wrong with the boy, as far as she knew, but she’d expected to see the familiar face of the shop’s proprietor, Caser.

“Where’s the old man?” Mazrah asked as she stepped up to Bakran’s stall. He looked up at her with a hint of fear on his face until he recognized her -- a common response, and one that caused Mazrah to flash a grin despite herself. It was always fun to scare the common folk a little bit.

Bakran looked around to make sure that there weren’t any Dwemer patrolling by that very second before he leaned forward, planting his hands on the few inches of countertop that weren’t covered with various meats. “He’s been taken, Maz,” he said in a low voice. “Refused to comply with the Dwarves’ new rules. Started hollering he was going to join the resistance. That was… two weeks ago. I’ve just been running the shop since.”

That soured Mazrah’s already foul mood. “Zugra crun,” she cursed in Old Orcish and bit her lip as she looked away.

“You keep your head down, you hear me?” Bakran hissed. “It’s not worth the trouble. I’ve kept to their rules and I’m doing fine.”

“Don’t you want revenge? For Caser?” Mazrah snapped as she leaned closer as well, until their faces were only a few inches apart.

Bakran visibly balked. “Not as much as I want to lead a normal life!” He raised his hands and backed away a little bit. “Don’t involve me in whatever it is you’re thinking. Just… let’s do business and then you can be on your way.”

Mazrah took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed like nobody she talked to saw things her way. Bakran was pleased with the oryx buck she’d brought him and Mazrah was compensated with a significant handful of septims that she stored in one of the pouches that lined her waist.

Just as Bakran was about to help the next customer, Mazrah frowned as she realized what he had said earlier. “Wait a minute,” she said. “So there is a resistance?”

“Excuse me miss, one second.” Bakran turned to look at Mazrah with an inscrutable look on his face and Mazrah raised one eyebrow in response. “Look, Maz, that’s just what Caser said. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Like I said, it’s not worth the trouble.”

Frustrated, Mazrah shrugged and left.

Gilane was beautiful, particularly at this time of day near the end of the afternoon, when the orange sunlight bathed the entire city in a warm blanket that caused every hint of gold to sparkle even brighter and make the simplest glass decanter look like it was fashioned from precious crystals. Mazrah found that she couldn’t appreciate it anymore. Every time she was about to begin to unwind a little bit, another Dwemer patrol walked by to remind her that nothing was as it should be. As a group of already inebriated Redguards wolf-whistled after her and called her derogatory slurs (did they want to insult her or sleep with her? Mazrah couldn’t tell) she wondered why she even bothered being upset on Hammerfell’s behalf. She liked the Redguards, on the whole, but there were far too many rotten apples among the bunch for her to unconditionally appreciate them. Like Nuzir.

Marien, one of the barmaids of the Scintillant Scarab outside of Sentinel and Mazrah’s friend, had tearfully confided in her that Nuzir had molested her one evening while she was closing the bar. Mazrah had taken it upon herself to find Nuzir and teach him a lesson and it was this mission that had brought her to Gilane. It turned out that the drunkard wasn’t too hard to find. Karrod, the bald and deep-voiced bartender of the starfish-shaped Yokudan Crown, was able to point her in the direction of Nuzir’s usual haunt; a far less reputable and upscale establishment that didn’t really seem to have a name. After a spot of dinner Mazrah set out to find it. It was tucked away in an alley close to the Three Crowns Hotel, marked only by the lit candle that stood on a barrel just outside the door. That’s what Karrod had told her to look out for.

Dusk had fallen as Mazrah knocked on the door and found herself looking down into the crimson eyes of a Dunmer, to her surprise, when he opened the door slightly. “What do you want?” the Dark Elf asked. They were a rare sight in Gilane and Mazrah took a second longer than usual to find her words.

“I’m looking for Nuzir. Is he here?” she asked and tried to look past the Dunmer’s head to discern the gloomy interior of the bar.

“What’s it to you?” the Dunmer asked and moved his head to block Mazrah’s line of sight. “You don’t look like you belong here.”

Improvising, Mazrah smiled apologetically and chuckled. “I’ve got a message for him, from a woman named Marien. He’ll know the name. And tell him it’s good news,” she said in a husky tone.

The Dunmer looked at her quizzically, but shrugged and complied. He closed the door in the meantime.

After only a few seconds the door opened again, fully this time, and the Dunmer beckoned her inside. It was everything she had expected from a back alley watering hole: filthy glasses, dim lighting, ramshackle and mismatching furniture and the heavy scent of moonsugar and skooma in the air. Mazrah wrinkled her nose.

“That's Nuzir,” the Dunmer whispered and pointed at a portly, ill-looking Redguard playing cards with a few others. Nuzir had large bags under his eyes and his wiry hair was disheveled. It was obvious he was already drunk and probably had been all day. The stacks of coins in front of him, however, did not lie. Mazrah figured he was rich enough afford being fat and lazy. But not rich enough to be a rapist, she thought. She approached Nuzir with as much sweetness and femininity in her gait as she could muster and sank down on her haunches next to him. He looked into her golden eyes with his own dark, bloodshot gaze and huffed in surprise.

“You're the one that's got the message from that bar lady, then?” he slurred and turned to face Mazrah properly, blinking slowly as he did. “Don't look like I expected. But that's okay… you've got somethin’ special to ya too.”

Mazrah was revolted and it took every inch of self control not to let it show. If Nuzir was sober he would have noticed the momentary expression of disgust that flitted across Mazrah's face before she managed to replace it with a winning smile. But he wasn't and he didn't. “I'm not here for myself, even though I'm flattered. Marien wants me to tell you… look, I really can't say with these other gentlemen present. Can we step outside for a bit?”

Bemused but intrigued, Nuzir got to his feet and stumbled, unsteadily but surely, out the door. Mazrah followed close behind. Once outside she leaned in close to Nuzir and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Listen, Nuzir. The truth is that Marien can't stop thinking about you since that night in the Scarab. She wants to know if it was just a one-time thing or if there can be more between the two of you,” Mazrah said in a honey-sweet voice.

“Really?” Nuzir asked, surprised.

Mazrah's face was suddenly set to thunder. “No, of course not.” And with that she kneed Nuzir in the balls. He doubled over, gasping in pain, and Mazrah followed that up by ramming her shoulder into him and against the wall. He screamed.

Some people in the next street over turned their heads at the commotion.

^{Thanks to the lovely @MacabreFox for her help!}

---

Anvil, 24th of Second Seed

When the word traveled among the group that there was a new job to be had elsewhere, Daro’Vasora having been the one who had found and brusquely informed him of the plans. Though he found it curious that someone so new to this ensemble of odd ducks would be so casually sought out - he didn’t think himself to be of any significant importance to any one person of the group, but maybe he left some kind of impression. What it may have been, he did not know, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity for work, especially if that opened up the possibility for more travel. He set out initially to see more of Tamriel, so perhaps he was with the right people in order to do that. So he did what he could to help. He’d wake up the next few mornings, bright and early, and help move some crates and stuff onto the ship. It was no chore he wasn’t already familiar with. Despite his inexperience with ships, he always woke up early in the morning to take care of the family’s stables and all the horses first thing in the morning, followed by pitching hay bales over a fence. Those who thought less of him at first might have been pleasantly surprised to learn that he was still a fit young man who kid keep pace with the other dock workers once he got the hang of it.

Being up bright and early every morning also meant that he was there when they first started ringing the bells. He was there when the Dominion ships crawled over the line of the horizon. He was there, running through the streets, when chaos in Anvil broke out.

He was lucky enough to avoid the Dominion agents -- most of them. When it became obvious that he was sprinting towards the city gates, looking as though he was going to escape the city, a bound weapon was conjured in an elf’s hand, but was quickly caught by one of the guards next to the city gate while the other one sunk their blade into the infiltrator.

“Go!” One of them yelled.

...

The memory of the last few minutes were on replay in Calen’s mind even as he collected as many things as he could from the wagon he had left in his stable. He packed as many things as he could into an overstuffed backpack, and then he stuffed what he could into Danish’s saddlebags. The essentials should come - septims, obviously, for if he was going to leave so much behind, he’d need every single one to recover what he lost once they landed at their destination. Soap? Can’t go sailing anywhere while smelling like a beggar. He packed his food too; half of it was left as well was a half-filled bottle of Solitude’s spiced wine. Khenarthi’s Breath, good as a backup, also has sentimental value. His books - his journal… his journal. There was no way he was going to leave without it. No way in Oblivion.

When he felt he had everything he needed, Calen jumped down from the wagon, landing on the straw covered ground with a crunch. He was just strapping Danish’s saddle on which he stopped for a moment, noticing that the sound of the crunching hay continued. The bard looked curiously around the other side of the wagon to see a familiar looking goat munching on the hay that he had set for Danish earlier in the morning. That was Rhona’s goat. Why was it here of all places? Gods, he didn’t have time for this.

“Here, here…” He whispered to the animal. As he beckoned the animal closer, the goat hopped, and ran towards him with its head low - the damn thing was charging at his knee again! The bard jumped over the goat - “Aha!” - but his cocky victory was rudely interrupted as the goat spun back around and headbutted behind Calen’s knee as he landed. He fell over and landed on the soft hay, looking up at the goat with frustration as the thing began sniffing through his pockets. Danish turned around and whinnied, his flank now facing the opening of the barn.

‘Farm animals are the worst!’

“I think he’s over here.”

Calen was immediately alert at the sound of a stranger’s voice. The sound of two pairs of footsteps were just outside the stable, two pairs of boots rustling through the grass and pounding against the dirt were coming ever closer. He immediately jumped to his feet in the crouched position and grabbed the wooden cudgel he had hanging from Danish’s saddlebag. Hiding behind Danish, who was nuzzling his face as some kind of way to extrapolate some treats from the Nord, he watched two shadows stretch across the stable.

“Well there’s his horse.” Said a different voice. It sounded distinct. Not Nordic, but not quite Imperial either. He heard a dialect like it before… in Bruma. These men weren’t elves.

Calen popped his head up from behind Danish and was relieved to see the face of two men, Quintus and Pavo. They were both at Skingrad like many of the other refugees. He sighed with relief as he looped the leather strap of his cudgel around his belt and began walking towards them.

“Thank goodness it’s just you two! I’m glad you’re safe.” He said, but then he looked to them thoughtfully. “What are you guys doing out here? Don’t you know what’s happening?”

The two men were both equal in height and girth, each being quite stout and burly. The one called Quintus took a step forward, his hand traveling to the shortsword buckled at his waist, he lifted the sword just enough out of the sheath, saying, “Well, Cezare wants to have a word with you. And he won’t take no for an answer. So why don’t you come along quietly with us?”

“Bad time for a chit chat, don’t you think?” Calen commented incredulously. “The city’s under siege -- can’t it wait?”

“Afraid not, lad.” Pavo said, mirroring his companion’s behaviour, “He’s paid us gold to bring you to him. And he’s not too happy with you.”

Calen rolled his eyes. That Cezare guy was starting to be a major pain in the ass. Didn’t he shake him off Rhona’s trail back in Skingrad? There shouldn’t be any problems. He rested his hand on his hips, “I can’t imagine why. I only helped him escape the Imperial City when that city was also under siege.”

The bard turned around and continued to fasten the buckles and straps of Danish’s saddle as he continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m worth enough gold to somebody for you two fellows to even bother, but…”

“You mean, you don’t know--”

“Shut the fuck up, course he don’t know.” Quintus elbowed Pavo in the ribs, “Look lad, Cezare has his wife back. We’re done asking nicely.” He drew his shortsword and brandished it towards him, Pavo drawing his own blade.

Calen remained still, the only sign of a reaction from him was the squeaking of the saddle’s leather as his grip tightened. He took a deep breath, though a little shaky, he calmly and slowly faced the two men with his hands above his head. He eyes darted between the two armed men. He knew them well enough that both of them were individually stronger and better at fighting than Calen ever was, but he was still wracking his brain to try finding a way out of this situation. Then he could try finding her.

“Is Rhona safe?” Calen simply asked. He hoped that they still had enough honor left to be honest with him.

Quintus laughed as he mocked him, “Is Rhona safe? Sounds like you’re a bit soft on her. She’s where she belongs. Cezare wants you alive to kill you himself, in front of her. Teach her a lesson.” He glanced at Pavo and nodded. His companion planted the sole of his boot against the side of a water barrel, and kicked it over.

“Really?” Calen replied, sounding pleasantly surprised. “So that means I’ve got nothing to worry about from you two, right?”

“Oh no, Cezare didn’t say we couldn’t hurt you, just wants you alive for himself.”

“You think you can do that?” Calen bluffed. “Haven’t you ever dealt with a Nord before?”

“My mother’s a Nord. Boy.” Pavo retorted.

“But you’re a Colovian. There’s a difference.”

“And what’s that?”

Calen, with both of his hands up, gave him a cheeky smile and slapped Danish’s flank as hard as he could, causing the pony to whinny and immediately buck his hind legs out. Two hooves were firmly planted into Pavo’s chest as he was sent flying back several feet. The sudden catapulting of his friend caught Quintus off guard, giving Calen enough time to draw his cudgel and hammer it against the side of the Imperial’s head with an effeminate yelp as his battle-cry, who instantly dropped to the ground with all of his senses dazed. Though Quintus tried to reach for his weapon, his hand only inched weakly in a random direction until his dizziness got the better of him and finally drifted away into unconsciousness.

Calen didn’t wait to even calm his pony down. He slid his cudgel back through his belt, hopped onto the saddle, and pulled on Danish’s reins to whip him around where he was able to get a good look at Rhona’s goat. It was pissing in its own mouth and spitting it on top of the still conscious Pavo who was -- now very likely wincing and spitting in disgust -- clutching what was probably a broken sternum. Calen threw up in his mouth a little bit but was able to coax it back down. What did Rhona call that thing? Tobias?

‘Farm animals are the worst.’

The bard growled to himself -- he should probably bring the damn thing along anyways. If it meant anything to Rhona, then “Tobias” was worth the energy. With a quick whip of the reins, kicking Danish’s flanks, and Calen clicking his tongue a few times, the pony spurred to action with surprising alacrity. As Danish dashed out of the barn, Calen slid partly out of his saddle and reached down to grab the goat by its horns. The momentum generated by Danish was enough to allow Calen to rock Tobias on top of Danish’s back and set him down in front of the saddle where he leaned forward and pinned the struggling goat down with his body.

With this unlikely A-Team, they were able to work together to escape the clutches of the dreaded Cezare. Though peril still awaited them behind the gates of Anvil, they were able to navigate through the chaos through luck and pluck until they were able to reach the docks where he saw some of the crew rushing onto the gangplank of The Intrepid. Among them was Rhona, being escorted by Daro’Vasora. Even in the chaos of Anvil, he could feel the tension in his body finally relax.

---

The Intrepid | Hilane, Hammerfell, 30th of Second Seed

The trip to Hammerfell was tense. Danish would be kept below deck, safe and sound, and Tobias was likely going to go wherever he pleased. Calen himself felt miserable. He didn’t have experience with ocean travel, and the swaying of the boat made him sick to his stomach - and the heat. It was worse than what it was in Anvil! Though they escaped one danger, it became clear that Rhona didn’t escape without harm. Perhaps it wasn’t visible, but she was shaken terribly and Calen wanted to comfort her. He really did want to, but he could read a situation well enough. Things were already complicated and he didn’t want to complicate things even further, and Brynja’s death glares to anyone who even thought about getting close was enough to dissuade him from even attempting. It was a few days of spending as much time as he could away from the harsh sun when it was actually Brynja herself who urged Calen to talk to Rhona, but by then, Dilane was already in sight. With no one knowing what was in store for them, they agreed that the talk should wait. This wouldn’t be the time to get distracted.

When they finally reached Dilane, they discovered that they may have made the right decision. The Dwemer were already here.

But they weren’t at all what Calen suspected. They were cordial and pleasant, and Calen followed the cue of the ship’s captain and the company’s own fearless leader. He cooperated with them, allow them to inspect his belongings, his pony downstairs, to appreciate the artisan craftsmanship of his cudgel, chatting them up quite happily -- he could’ve fooled the sharpest of them. It wasn’t hard to be amiable, but secretly Calen wondered how long this supposed peace would last. He realized that recording history was going to be far more complicated than he thought. The implications of the occupation were unsettling. It was easy enough to write down the worst of the Dwemer’s atrocities, but also the best? Their culture? Their music? How could soldiers effectively fight a war if they couldn’t effectively dehumanize them? Calen realized he had his work cut out for him and that the only way he was going to get out of this was with an open mind.

Fortunately, he apparently made enough of an impression on the Dwemer that one of them helped direct him to the stables where he could give Danish proper shelter. The pony was irritable and spooky after several days of ocean travel and all of the stress and anxiety that came with it, and the heat of Hammerfell is something that would take getting used to. He just had to make sure the pony got plenty of rest and water in the meantime. Calen himself? He felt about as exhausted as Danish did. He followed the group to Three Crowns, found the room he would be sharing with Gregor and Alim (he didn’t have time to consider all the fun he would have with Gregor and his new soon-to-be friend), and threw himself onto a bed where he fell fast asleep.

---

30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, evening

What a week it has been, the Breton thought, as walked through Gilane’s beautiful streets in a loose linen dress, running her hands across her skin. She inhaled deeply pressing her palm to her arm - feeling the Magicka work its course through each of her fingertips and onto her skin. Her sore, dry skin. Even bathing upon arrival had not made her feel too much better. So many days had been spent cramped up on the boat. The ocean salt spray had at first been exhilarating, but the novelty soon wore off and it began to feel harsh and drying. Everyone had been in a state following the death of Rhea. When Raelynn had closed her eyes to prepare her body, she noticed that they still appeared pained, terrified, and in shock even after her death. It was how it was. One couldn’t die in such a way and not be immortalised in a dark moment like that.

Everything had once again been frantic and horrid. Luckily enough, she had been with Gregor when everything had happened. They had been forced to fight their way to the boat -- or at least, Gregor had. He had torn through the Infiltrators like they were made of paper. She had followed him and only him to the boat. It was really the last few moments that she had spent with him, they hadn’t talked on the boat. All they were able to manage to do was to exchange glances and knowing looks, the way that his body would tense up in anticipation if she walked by him excited her. If they got close enough to each other at a quiet enough time she would deliberately catch his eyes and send him a longing stare. She knew even that would be enough to stir him. Their distanced flirtation was the only semblance of joy she found on the boat. Everyone else was so incredibly morose and wrapped up in themselves.

The air outside was rich and balmy, the scent of sand and spices hung around. It was thick and beautiful -- Raelynn felt better to be in such a place, even if the overall atmosphere felt incredibly tense to her. It had been a difficult week and everyone had been dealing with their own pile of shit. One such person who had been faced with troubling and difficult situations, was the Khajiit from their party, Daro’Vasora. A woman with whom Raelynn had spent very little time with so far - in fact she could barely recall when she had said even a polite word to her. It seemed that now was to be her chance to make up for lost time. She could see her just walking up ahead. Really, Raelynn just felt rather unsettled to walk alone in Hammerfell. Everything felt all too calm to her. The Dwemer were here - as if they always had been. It wasn’t right. A Khajiit would not have been her first choice as a quasi-bodyguard, but she was feeling in good spirits at least - to know she had a nice bed and dwellings for the foreseeable future in Gilane. Daro’Vasora was also unfortunately her roommate, as well as Judena and Rhona. She supposed that if she kept on the good side of her, she might be able to sway favour when it came to using the room.

She upped her pace to approach her, and as she came up behind the Khajiit, she very gently placed a hand on her elbow - just to let her know she was there, followed by a mellow voice; “Ahh, Daro’Vasora…”

The Khajiit suddenly tensed, ears folded back and teeth bared as she spun to face whoever had touched her, her claws bared as she prepared to slash for the face. When she realized it was Raelynn, her eyes widened and she pulled the offending hand into a cough.

“You startled me. Don’t sneak up on me like that, especially in a big city like this.” Daro’Vasora cautioned, resuming her stroll through the lightly shaded street. “Trying to find your way around?” she asked.

The Khajiit’s tense reaction did not go unnoticed by Raelynn, and she took in a sharp breath at her words, unsure momentarily of how to respond; “My apologies, I wasn't trying to startle you or sneak. I thought it more discreet than calling you. Well, I feel rather red faced for it now.” She lowered her head ever so, to attempt to warm Daro’Vasora to her. “I must admit, I am feeling slightly out of place here and just thought we could keep each other company for a little while…” her eyes met Daro’Vasora’s, and she offered her a friendly smile.

The last time she had really spent time with her had been while she was preparing Rhea’s body. The aftermath of her death. She could see then in the lines on the Khajiit's face she had been deeply troubled by it. She still bore the expression even now.

“I mean... “ Daro’Vasora replied, looking up at the blue sky above as if it could provide answers. Instead she let out a long sigh. “Sure, why not? Anything’s better than being left with my own thoughts right now.” she replied, continuing her pace without checking to see if Raelynn was keeping stride. She just assumed that the Breton would. The Khajiit needed a breather from being amongst the company, and a walk to both ascertain the occupier’s capabilities and motives gave her a handy excuse to bail out of the hotel at the earliest opportunity. She was trying to do well by others, to show an uncharacteristic patience, but damn was it hard. She barely knew Raelynn, but she’d seen how her and Gregor shot each other seductive glances. In the hold at night, when they thought their expressions could be concealed, the Khajiit could see everything.

She wished she hadn’t.

“So. First time in Hammerfell?” she asked, about as neutral of a conversation starter as she could muster.

“Actually yes, I seem to have been experiencing many firsts recently” spoke the Breton as she moved alongside her companion, having to keep up with her pace. It wasn't quite as ladylike and dainty as she would have liked. “I hope your thoughts aren't troubling you too much. I understand that we-- that you have been through a great deal in the past weeks of our journey. I can't say I understand your pain exactly, but you have my sympathies…” her voice became quiet as she walked alongside Daro’Vasora.

“It is most certainly a beautiful place to be, isn't it? A true feast for my eyes. I look forward to exploring it.”

Daro’Vasora’s eyes flicked down for a moment before she offered an agreeable nod. It felt strange to be sharing sympathies with someone she barely knew. Still, the words and intent were kind enough. “We’ve all lost someone, I don’t hold myself unique in that regard. It’s just perhaps more fresh than most others, is all. Everything else, though… one step at a time. No sense in dwelling on things you had no control over.”

She allowed her eyes to take in the city streets once more, and the more she walked, she picked up on irregularities. The subtle tension when Dwemer or city guard patrols passed by in the body language of the populace, the idle chatter of how late in the day it was getting with some urgency, the number of bazaars and shops that seemed to have out of place shopkeepers, it all started to paint an unflattering image when you started to get close enough to look at the canvas’ brush strokes.

“Never been in Gilane more than once myself, my travels seldom took me this far East. I always liked the culture and the cuisine here, though.” she agreed.

Raelynn felt that the mood called for her to extend more comfort to the Khajiit, she placed her hand gently on the woman's arm again, giving it a slight squeeze of acknowledgement - hoping she would appreciate the contact. “It feels like it makes no sense, but it can be healthy to let grief run its course. You don't have to hold it in for the sake of saving face.” She let go, placing her hands together comfortably.

The Khajiit tensed at the sensation of the woman’s hand on her arm, but otherwise didn’t react. She hated physical contact in general, even if it usually came from a good place. Regardless, she held her tongue and appreciated the sentiment. “I’ve grieved long enough.” Daro’Vasora replied evenly, sparing a glance for Raelynn. “No sense in looking back when you aren’t going that way. He wouldn’t want me to mope like a mewling kitten over him, he’d want me to be decisive and at my best from what he taught me. So that’s what I’ll do honour him by putting his lessons to good use.”

Raelynn inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of warm spices drifting across the air. “I must say, the situation seems… Off. There's an atmosphere, something bubbling beneath the surface. It worries me, I don't like to tiptoe and skirt around danger, Daro’Vasora. I for one, am glad to be with our company. It has been some time now, quite some time since I first arrived in your group during…” she sighed, letting her voice trail off, not needing to remind the woman of the events in the Imperial City.

“Don't worry, it was still a shitshow before you stumbled across us, I suspect that trend will continue for as long as we’re all together. However, there’s a reason everyone's stuck around, and it isn’t largely affection. We stay with what we know, and so far, it’s it’s gotten us out of a number of perils. I just wish I knew the secret for keeping it that way, for everyone’s sake.” Daro’Vasora admitted, letting a long and slow exhale out of her nose. “The situation seems off because this is an occupation by a foreign power. It looks a lot like my father and mother describing what Leyawiin was like under Dominon rule during the Great War.”

“My my what a way with words you have…” she said in response to the Khajiit’s blunt manner. As they walked, she let her fingers run through some beaded fringe curtains hanging as a shroud around a market stall. The delicate chime was a pleasant sound in her ears. “I wouldn't be so hard on the company, there is plenty of friendship there - well, even some camaraderie too from what I've seen. We all had our chance to break free and go our own ways. Give them more credit, but don't carry the weight of our safety on your shoulders alone.”

“I don't.” The Khajiit promised, ignoring Raelynn’s jab at her uncouth tongue. “That was Rhea’s job and look where it got her. I just leveraged old relations and managed to find a way to get everyone out before things got any worse.” she said, eyeing a jewelry stall that they passed by. “Speaking of relationships, I’ve noticed how you and Gregor eye each other, and I’ve caught both of your scents on each other. And don’t give me that look, it isn’t my business what you two do with your time. However,” her tone shifted to something decidedly more serious, and she stopped in the street to look the Breton in the eyes. “He spoke to me in Anvil the first night there, and he keeps it well hidden, but there is something dark and dangerous about him that you should be wary of. His carefully groomed mask slipped for a moment, but he is a man possessed by something. The way he spoke of finding a Dwemer on their own… it gave me chills. It isn’t revenge or duty that drives him, I don’t think. It was a hunger.” Daro’Vasora gripped her own wrist, rubbing her arm as she broke eye contact. “Look, I don’t know you well and maybe I misread him, but just… be careful, alright? I’ve seen that look before and it rarely ends up benign.”

Raelynn instantly became tense in her posture when Gregor was mentioned, her hands instinctively landing on each hip as she looked the Khajiit in the eyes, with an intense stare of her own; “you’re right. It's not your business.” She suddenly felt compelled to raise a hand to her, to reach behind and smash something against her face - something hard and quite possibly sharp. But she restrained herself and after a single deep breath she relaxed her composure some more. “I will… consider your observations, but perhaps after all of this trouble and strife, maybe innocent things are starting to seem sour as well. Maybe you just need to relax and get some proper rest… I can see that you're incredibly strained. You may have… a nose for the unusual, but I have an eye for ill-health.”

That was expected, Daro’Vasora thought. People seldom wished to be informed that their dirty laundry was noticed and aired, and having what was barely an acquaintance warn her about the potential danger was often taken as offense. It didn't matter if Raelynn listened today, but the bug was now in her ear. It would likely be a matter of time before something reminded her of the Khajiit’s warning. The barely concealed vitriol about Daro’Vasora’s health and appearance mostly amounted to a flowery way of saying, fuck off, cat.

“You’re the healer,” the Khajiit replied calmly with a shrug. “I will take your words in advisement.”

As she moved her hands from her hips, as if to lead them walking once more, Raelynn would feel a hand on her own shoulder -- from behind, and then a man's voice spoke out to her “the forests of High Rock sure have changed…” he said in a sultry tone, a tone that she recognised. Her eyes grew wide and she responded to his call “-- but the owls are still around.” She turned on her heel to face him, could it be? Immediately her face lit up and she wrapped her arms around him. The tall man in the purple waistcoat, with the silver hair and neatly trimmed beard. “Papa!” she exclaimed in a gasp - a voice that was the voice of a child who had missed her father dearly.

She noticed as they held each other that he had gotten ever so slightly larger around his middle, and that his hold on her was not as tight. Age. “But, what are you doing here?” in his presence her demeanor changed. She was softer, innocent almost. “I could ask you the same thing my darling, but praise be that you are -- that we are here together.”

His eyes travelled to his daughter’s Khajiit companion, who must have been rather befuddled by the situation. To ease her confusion, he held out his hand, requesting to shake hers, and he bowed his head politely. “You must forgive me Madame, how rude of me, my name is Salosoix Hawkford, but you may call me Sal… It would be my pleasure to know your name…” He offered a smile to Daro’Vasora, sincere and warm - and with a twinkle in his steely blue eyes to compliment it. The same eyes as his daughter.

Reflexively upon seeing the relation between her companion and the newcomer, Daro’Vasora straightened her posture, placing her hands together behind her back. She smiled politely as the man introduced himself and offered an apology, she bowed in turn. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. You and Raelynn obviously have spent considerable time apart, but the fondness we show for our kin should never be concealed beneath decorum. It pleases me to meet your acquaintance, Sal; my name is Daro’Vasora, formerly in the court of the Count of Leyawiin. You may call me Vasora, if my honourific is cumbersome to speak, should you prefer. My services are at your disposal.” she replied in turn, her voice clipped and proper, a sense of regal bearing to the Khajiit’s tone. She wasn’t watching Raelynn, but it was certainly a side to her that the Breton hadn't seen before.

Raelynn watched Daro’Vasora take good posture with a raised eyebrow. Suddenly wishing she wasn't here, so that she could spend time alone with her father, but she already knew what he was about to do. “Vasora, you must be hungry. It would be an even greater pleasure to invite you and my Raelynn to my table for dinner. Good company has been too hard to come by for me here. I simply must hear your stories - formerly in the Court of Leyawiin you say? You can't tease me with that glimpse. Do join us for dinner.” Salosoix stood back up, wrapping an arm around his daughter's waist, looking down at her with a smile. She was not returning one, “Papa, I'm sure that she has far more important things to do than sit at your table and amuse you for an evening…”


A smile crept across the Khajiit’s lips; Raelynn was going to hate every moment of it, the choice was obvious. “You honour me with your invitation, and I humbly accept. I have always had a curiosity about the man who raised such a compassionate and selfless healer, and it would be a delight to hear the tale of how Raelynn became the remarkable woman she is today.” she said, glancing over at the distraught face beside her. “If it would not be too much of a burden, I would be beside myself with such a courtesy.” Daro’Vasora said, beaming.

“Now now now, Vasora, please! You and I both know that is not the case for my Raelynn. I have no doubt she is remarkable at her craft, but you don’t need to pretend she is warmer than she is in her manner. I lived with her for many years -- ah, perhaps I can tell you that story when we are seated.” Salosoix watched the Khajiit’s smile grow, if he would do anything tonight it would be to regale her with his own stories, and learn something about her too.

This was one of those opportunities that seldom came, but was worth every single moment of discomfort that Raelynn would endure. What sorts of embarrassing little family secrets would come out? The Khajiit savoured the prospect, and besides, what better way to get to know your companion than forcing her to dine with one of their parents?

The Breton mage pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. Of course the Khajiit would relish the opportunity, and her father would also delight in laying on his facade for her. But for what purpose?. She needed to know why he was here, how long he had been here -- when he planned to leave. All of those were questions she couldn’t be asking around Daro’Vasora. This was Hawkford business, and she had no right to know. She managed to dress her face with a smile at last. Accepting that this is how the evening was going to play out, hoping that this was part of a larger plan by her father and that he didn’t actually want to spend time in the company of a cat.

“Well, it seems that you two are very excited about this, and I for one am quite hungry for some real food. I trust you have quite the spread readily available Papa?” Her tone was clear, but the look that she met her father’s eyes with was vaguely threatening. “Ahh, dear daughter don’t look at me that way. It has been such a long time since we had a friend of yours around our table. If we ever did of course, you were notoriously friendless…” his own sentence ended with a chuckle, and Raelynn’s nostrils flared. God’s, not a sip of wine in him and he has started. “I am staying in a made up room at a local Hookah den, it’s not quite as luxurious as some of the inns around here but it’s surprisingly quiet and allows me to carry out my work. If you ladies would be so kind as to follow me.”

And off they went.

---

Raelynn had her hand firmly clasped around the copper goblet, tightening her grip with every word that fell from her father’s loose lips. He was halfway through the tale of her almost arranged marriage to Lazenne. “-- he was a nice boy, a little slow, and rather rotund of figure, but he was nice.” Salosoix paused in his story to take another bite from his plate. Roast pork and vegetables, hardly a local cuisine. “He was beyond excited at the prospect of marrying our daughter, she was one of the most beautiful young women in all of Daggerfall. Now that -- that she gets from her mother…” he sighed, thinking about his wife back home, his eyes looking off into the distance as he pictured her. “He would bring her flowers, so many flowers. But our Raelynn, she was not having a lick of it. She decided she would rather study the arcane arts than to be the wife of --” suddenly Salosoix was interrupted by his daughter, with a tone in her voice sharp enough to cut through glass “that borish and brainless butcher's boy. Papa, instead of reliving my stories, perhaps tell my friend here about some of the things you have discovered. She has sticky fingers and an eye for value - she’ll like those stories.” She slammed her goblet down on the table, visibly irritated that Daro’Vasora knew this story now, she had always deliberately kept her past in the past - yet here she was, her skeletons hanging out of the closet - bare and exposed. By her father no less.

“You watch your temper, don’t you forget who’s table you are at. We have an honoured guest. Perhaps you should hold your tongue…” where Raelynn could shoot a retort, Salosoix was faster at it, his words held more power. He was right, it was his table. She lowered her head and continued to pick at her food. “My apologies Vasora, the women in my life all share the same hot blood.” The iron in his voice melted immediately when he returned to acknowledge his guest, and the twinkle had returned to his eyes.

The Khajiit maintained an erect, proper posture, and she had her utensils laid out in a makeshift fine-dining arrangement, where she delicately cut into the pork in thin, dainty slivers as she tried to maintain an interested and humble bearing, although beyond superficially, she was internally cackling at Raelynn’s misfortune of having a chatty father who enjoyed oversharing with strangers. Manners opened so many doors, and it would provide entertainment for days to come.

“It is as they say, fire and hot blood bring passion. Forgive me if this is too bold, but it must have been a part of what made your wife so alluring, apart from excessive beauty. If Raelynn is anything to go by, well, I would say your family is blessed with exceptional bloodlines and ambition.” Daro’Vasora said with a polite, if somewhat coy smile, as she allowed herself a bite and forced herself to pace her dining slowly and lady-like. Had she been in an expedition or the group, she would have inhaled the meal in a decidedly unflattering manner. “I can see why your daughter had a number of suitors, out of all the viable candidates for marriage, the Hawkfords must have been something else entirely.”

“Ahh it brings me such joy to speak of my family. My Roxada is such a beauty, and she did Tamriel a favour by gifting that beauty to our only daughter. Nobody quite so feminine could ever have given me sons…” there was a sadness in his voice as it trailed off, and he picked up his goblet to sip the wine from within. “But alas, I jest at her expense, Raelynn is ambitious, you are correct. She is intelligent too, she would read for hours and hours about Tamriel and its rich history. She could tell you a thing or two about our Dwemer friends I’m sure - although she would not admit it… She is not at all like me in that respect, I will talk for hours of treasure and relics and adventure! I think my daughter prefers to quietly live and observe it.” As he spoke, he reached out and stroked the back of Raelynn’s hand with his thumb, knowing that he must placate her temper with kind words. She raised her head again and raised her cup ever so towards him. “Thank you Papa, you are correct. I do keep things to myself. It’s not a bad thing to be humble, no?”

“Oh, won’t you let me indulge our new friend in one last story?” he asked, digging his thumb into her skin ever so, his eyes showing mischief in their glimmer. “I think that’s enough stories for one night. I think maybe Daro’Vasora can share something of her own with us. It is privileged to hear the private intricacies of our lives - I wish to finally hear about this Count of Leyawiin.” Her eyes turned to the Khajiit, with a stare so intense - demanding that she be the one to quieten her father at last. “Come Daro’Vasora, spin your tale for us before our dinner is done.”

Raelynn studied the Dwemer? That was an interesting bit of information that had never come up before, Daro’Vasora decided, offering a curious glance towards the Breton woman with the death glare before returning her attention to the father. “But of course, it certainly would be improper to hear such heart-warming and intimate tales of your family without volunteering something of my own. My mother’s name is Ko’Juzuni, she is the personal scribe to Count Caro and has been since before I was born. My family has been close to the court for generations, my mother’s mother, and hers before hers, they all faithfully served. I was being groomed for such an event, and I had been sent to attend to the library and catalog all of the books and scrolls.” Daro’Vasora explained, helpfully not adding why it was that she was trapped working in the library, nor that it was the nice part of cleaning the entirety of the castle as a part of her punishment.

“The access to the tomes I had helped catalog only helped invigorate my imagination and wonder of this world we live in, and it prompted me to study history to such an extent that I have since become a fairly well-regarded acquisition specialist of artifacts of historical importance for clients, be they private collectors, cities trying to have something tangible from one of their great rulers, and a number of others. History should not be trapped beneath the dirt, forgotten by all. From our past can we grow, and find inspiration in our contemporary societies.” The Khajiit concluded, allowing herself another couple of slivers of pork. “Past that? I am afraid I am not so remarkable, just a humble woman who has dreams and ambitions like any other, just on a more peculiar spectrum than most.”

“I must say, this is like music to my ears. Had I been a younger lad again - we may have been rivals or colleagues. I don’t think I’d like to be on your bad side Miss Vasora, I have no doubt your knowledge is incredible.” Salosoix moved in closer to Vasora, just ever so, his eyes on hers. He gave her a sincere smile, and a slight wave of his hand as he stretched back into his chair, exhaling loudly as he did so. Indicating to his company that he was tired. “If it’s not too big of an ask Vasora, I may have work for you while you are here. I will pay you good coin, of course. I just… think it is too good of an opportunity to pass up. I assume you did not arrive here just the two of you. I will have work for you Daro’Vasora, and your skilled company, if you choose to accept it.” He watched as the Khajiit cleared her plate of food, he would not be so impolite as to send her away without finishing her meal.

“That said, if you do not mind my new friend, but I wish to speak with my daughter alone, and it is getting quite late. I’m sure an explorer like yourself has other things to spend the night hours on.” He stood up from his seat, making his way to the door.

“But of course.” Daro’Vasora smiled, gathering her belongings and preparing to depart. “Your hospitality was most generous, thank you for the illustrious company this evening. I will consider your offer, and let you know my decision when appropriate.” Turning to look towards Raelynn, she said, “I feel enriched and privileged to be in your company. Until we meet again.” she said as a form of farewell, she allowed herself to be shown out of the door, waiting until the door was closed to fish her dagger sheathe from her back and fastening it to her wrist once more. A curfew was coming soon, and she had to hurry back before she got caught out in the middle of that. Hopefully it wouldn’t be difficult to find the hotel.

---

With the door closed behind her, and Daro’Vasora on her way, Salosoix let out a long and pained sigh. “Fucking Khajiit…” were the words he muttered out under his breath. Raelynn heard. She was also ready to confront her father, and she stomped to him, feeling the blood rise in her face, her fists clenched into a ball -- “how dare you speak of me like that to her. How dare you embarrass me in front of her --” Salosoix turned on his heel to face her, grabbing her by the wrist of the hand she was waving at him in anger. “No. How dare you. You should be grateful for what I have done.” The joy and warmth had evaporated from his tone and what was left was ice cold - like his eyes. She immediately shot back at him, her temper flaring “what you’ve done? And what, pray tell, is that?” she snatched her wrist from his grip, and watched his true face slip out. Foreboding and severe, the age lines suddenly appeared to look more harsh against his skin. “I have just spent an entire evening endearing your friend towards you. Which it appears you have not done in the entire time you have spent with her. Which I am going to assume has been a while now. A grave mistake to make, I thought I had raised you better.” His tone annoyed and impatient, he took his seat again, commanding her to do the same with a wave of his hand.

Raelynn could see her father was stressed, much more so than usual. He wasn’t ever this way. He could be serious at times, but this was another level. It would have much to do with the situation and his reasons for being here. “I don’t live like you do father. I have my own methods…” her voice had softened as she sat, placing her elbows on the table. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked him, looking at his face - trying to make eye contact, but he was too busy rubbing the coloured stones on each of his rings, deliberately refusing her gaze.

“Ahh yes, your methods. I wonder what they may be. Acting like a common tart is not looked upon highly.” He spat the words accusingly at her through gritted teeth. “All I ask is that in times like this you play your cards right. Make the right allies, and try not to make enemies. The world is in disarray and people like us have to do all we can to remain at the top. Even if that means socialising with peasantly Khajiit…”

“You are my only child. I wish to see you safe and looked after by any means necessary.” She sat quietly for a while, they both did.

“I have missed you, I’m sorry… I don’t mean to be harsh, forgive me, my Sunlight.” He reached across to grab her hand with his, “I can’t tell you everything just yet, I will send for you when it comes time. I am playing my own cards here.” He smiled at her, a little friendliness appeared on him once more. “I am both glad and distressed by you being here. But we can make this work, we Hawkfords must remain many steps ahead of our foes. I will catch you up soon enough.” Raelynn smiled at him, and placed her own hand on top of his.

“Alright, I’ll wait for that then. We will reunite properly soon. I…. missed you too, and mother.”

They finally said their goodbyes, and Raelynn made her way out into the darkened streets too. Confused and angry - both at her father’s words and strange manner, and at Daro’Vasora for indulging him in it. Now the damn woman knew things about her that she had kept secret for so long. It was mortifying. Her lip trembled as she let thoughts of punishing her run through her mind. But maybe her father was right, maybe she ought to warm up and allow others to see more than her stand-offish nature. But it made things so difficult for her. She hadn’t even spoken to Alim since their last meeting.

She sighed in frustration, and made her way through the night.

---

Alim hadn’t really had the time to process most of it. He had made it to the ship as best as he could. The Dominion showing up and taking advantage of the Imperial’s weakness was to be expected. It seemed like a doomed prospect, but despite the ravaging and the destruction, it seemed like it brought a glimmer of hope. If the Dominion ended up fighting the Dwemer for supremecy of Tamriel, perhaps they would both become weakened enough to topple by the forces they wish to subdue. His mood, being given a boost by the adrenaline, was cut down however, when he found Rhea’s body on deck.

Alim had no hat to take off, but he did give a bow in respect to Rhea, his normally amused face solemn and respectful. She had been a fellow adventurer and collector, and though Vasora had problems with her, Alim had never felt anything but admiration to the woman. It saddened him he would never have the chance to swap stories with her, one last time.

After Vasora kissed her brow, Alim silently took off his cloak. With a whip like motion, it fanned out and fell upon the body, covering Rhea did give her a bit more dignity. She deserved nothing less. After another bow, he took his leave and went to go win himself another cloak by playing dice and having a drink. Akatosh knows he needed one. The voyage wasn’t long, and he kept to himself.

It was when they sailed into port that he had his second surprise, one that shook Alim to his very core. The Dwemer being here was one he could expect. But it was the peaceful occupation that he could not fathom. That...was not the redguard way. He had not been born in Hammerfell, but he had spent a good deal of time there. It was a land of his blood. And this was not the Hammerfell he had known only a scant few years before.

He needed to figure out what happened to the other cities of Hammerfell. Surely the Dwemer had only taken control of the port towns. In Tiber Septim’s day, it took the entire might of Tamriel and half of Hammerfell to subdue the other half. The Dwemer nor the Dominion could have conquered all of it. He had to find out. Though he would be patient as well. He couldn’t ask questions like that, it would arouse suspicion, and Alim was a survivor if nothing else. He stayed quiet until he made it to the Inn with the others. Perhaps there he could find something out.

After having slipped past the inspection on the ship, pickpocketing a few pickpockets, and making it scot free to the ‘resistance hotel,’ he paid no real attention to the room arrangements. He had to grin at their location, however. He wish he had such a safe house as this back in Skaven. Now he needed to unpack his clothes and grab a drink somewhere. Despite the dire straits Hammerfell seemed to be in, it was still a beautiful place. Both rough, lush, and sexy all at once.

He truly did miss it here, and that was why he needed to see it free.

---

A @Father Hank and POOHEADED collab

---

Dusk, 30th of Last Seed, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane

The decision to return to the hotel was vindicated when Gregor discovered the kitchens and was able to procure a plate of seafood (presumably all caught off the coast; he recognized none of the ingredients) and a bottle of Cyrodiilic wine. It was a nice combination of exotic and a taste of home. He took his food, the bottle and a big glass up to the balcony. He tiptoed through the room when he saw Calen fast asleep on the bed -- the poor boy had not taken to the sea very well and Gregor understood he must be exhausted. Even after he had stepped out on the balcony he quietly put his dinner down on the table and slowly sank into one of the comfortable, cushioned chairs. He took a deep breath and sighed. Some of the tension that had wound itself tight in his chest began to unwind. A pleasant breeze was playing with the curtains and dancing through Gregor’s hair and now that the sun was setting, the temperature dropped sharply to something more enjoyable.

After a minute of just sitting motionlessly and staring into the middle distance, Gregor blinked a few times and sat up straight, picking at his food with some cutlery he had snatched from an already-made table in the downstairs dining hall. He felt old. Their narrow survival of the Dwemer ambush, the journey to Anvil, then hastily having to escape again… he remembered how he had brutalized two of the Aldmeri infiltrators with his claymore. They were sleeper agents, not soldiers, and hadn’t stood a chance against him. Still, he had now finally followed in his father’s footsteps as an enemy of the Dominion. It was a bizarre thought.

He looked around, letting his gaze wander beyond the balcony’s edge to the shimmering city of Gilane, until he -- wait, what was that?

The breeze stopped for a minute and the curtains fell back to their resting positions, revealing Alim sitting on the balcony’s railing.

Gregor exhaled slowly. “Good grief, Alim, you gave me quite a scare. Have you been there this whole time?”

“I didn’t want to say anything.” Alim replied, giving a light grin. He had been sitting on the balcony for nearly an hour now, overlooking the city. The coastal air and the Hammerfell architecture brought something to his heart he had missed. And by Akatosh, he had missed the Redguard women. Half of his balcony time was taking in those sights, truth be told. But at the end of it, he had wanted to be alone and simply ponder, same as Gregor probably. “Interrupting would have been awkward.”

Alim decided not to move off of his perch for the time being, fairly comfortable where he was. “I like the new outfit. Does it help with the heat?” Hammerfell weather took Alim some getting used to. He could only imagine how it was to someone who had likely never been.

“Yes, it does,” Gregor said and returned Alim’s grin with a smile of his own now that his heartbeat had settled again. “But I spent the last decade in that black, grim-looking outfit. It’s an important part of my looks.” He glanced wistfully at the chest by the foot of his bed in the room behind him; that’s where he had stashed his old clothes, ready to be used again whenever the weather permitted. “I look like a… pirate, or something.” He looked at Alim over the edge of his glass and chuckled before taking a sip. “But I’m glad you like it. I’ll get used to it. How are you? Glad to be in your homeland? Are you even from Hammerfell? I just realized I have no idea.”

“You know I would say the pirate comment is stereotyping but…” Alim looked down at himself, and some might consider him a corsair. He had been close to one, at one point. “Hammerfell has the reputation for a reason. I find most places in Tamriel are similar, in such ways. Reputations I mean. That’s what makes the Dwemer so difficult to determine...” He seemed to be thinking aloud for the moment, before shaking his head. “Oh, I’m from Highrock, initially. My father was a Lord there, truth be told. I was but a bastard.”

He cleared his throat. The story used to be hard for him to tell, but nowadays, it seemed simply apart of a bard’s song. “My mother was a Redguard. I never knew her…” He sighed. “I’ve given up on finding her now. But yes, I lived in Skaven for a number of years.”

Idly, he reached up to feel the bejeweled necklace given to him by Princess Savranah. A memory from years ago. Somehow he felt it a love he never did have the chance to pursue. Story of his life, he supposed. One of these days, he would need to figure out if his life was truly a tragic tale. “I see you and Raelynn have gotten quite comfortable with one another.” he joked, his thoughts going from his old flames to Gregor and Raelynn’s odd relationship. He had seen them giving each other nasty looks. They were either infatuated or wanting to kill each other. Odd how the two were so similar.

Gregor fell silent for a few seconds. He was still hiding behind his glass of wine, leaving only his eyes visible, and the look he gave Alim was not entirely kind. “So you noticed that. Very perceptive of you.” He exhaled sharply out of his nose and took a big gulp. He was too sober for this. “What of it?”

Alim raised an eyebrow, and he gave a chuckle. Not meaning to be offensive, but simply surprised at the rapid reaction. “Nothing,” the Redguard mutt said, holding up his hands defensively. “Now I am perceptive, I won’t lie. But you weren’t exactly being subtle. I mean if you have a problem with her, it’s not my place to talk about it. But she’s ok in my book. A little...greedy, but I am too.” He shrugged. Every single body movement seemed oddly comical.

“A problem? What are you implying?” Gregor put his glass down, perhaps a little too hard, and tilted his head while he looked Alim in the eye, frowning. He was tired and stressed. The last thing Gregor needed was the group's resident Casanova sticking his nose in his private affairs. “Do you even know what you're talking about? Do you know Raelynn at all? I don't think you do.”

“Well I am the one who saved her life in the Imperial City.” Alim said. He should have stopped speaking. Gregor seemed a bit too annoyed and Alim was usually the one to never let anything bother him. But then again, Alim was also one to engage and then dance around someone until he got a critical hit in. This isn’t an enemy, this is a companion. Slow down. Alim took a breath, and he spun and hopped off the stone railing. “So I have known her the longest. You are a newcomer, and hey there’s nothing wrong with that. Look, I don’t care if you like her or hate her, I just thought you’d want to talk about it. Unless you’re an angry drunk.”

“I'm not drunk,” Gregor said tersely. Alim’s casual arrogance was as grating as nails on chalkboard to Gregor and he felt anger building behind his eyes. “I saved her life in Anvil. That makes us even. Alim, really,” he continued and shifted in his seat, “what on Nirn gives you the idea that I might hate her? Or is that just because you're not familiar with the type of… dynamic that exists between Raelynn and I?” Gregor smiled again but it did not extend all the way up to his eyes. “I get it. You're young, haven't been with every type of woman there is to be with yet, and now you see how Raelynn and I look at each other and you don't know what to make of it.” He drained his glass and reached for the bottle. “You should have seen her after I had my way with her. That would really give you pause. Just stay out of my business, alright?”

Alim probably did the last thing he should do at that moment. He laughed. Not out of malice or amusement. But he was a bit too surprised at how quickly this shifted from one thing to another. “Oh I know women.” Alim said with a smile. “It’s guys like you I am new to.” He didn’t want to correct him on much, mostly because he felt like Gregor would draw his blade and Alim would either need to leap off the balcony or explain how mentioning Raelynn led to him dueling Gregor. He decided to do the responsible thing, which is an oddity for him. He stepped backwards and leaned against the railing of the balcony, for safety sake. If Gregor came at him, he knew just what window to grab after he took a small fall.

“Well…” he thought for a moment. “Maybe not. You do remind me of a few criminals I used to know. They were tough types. It’s a compliment I swear, I don’t discriminate. I’m a criminal myself sometimes...”

It would be then that Gregor would notice that Alim had the wine bottle in his hands, pouring a bit into his flask. As if to hone the point that he had a nasty habit of thieving. “Look, I’ll stay out of your business.” Giving a guilty look, he slid the wine back over to him smoothly. “But who is in Raelynn’s business is up to her, don’t you think?”

The dashing Redguard had already had a date night with Rhona, and he felt like he might wish to pursue that further if anything. He was more focused on the position of Hammerfell at the moment. But still, he had promised to help Raelynn out when need be, and Alim wasn’t the type to be bossed around unless he was getting paid.

Gregor quietly fumed at the sight of Alim with his bottle of wine in his thieving hands. He did not take kindly to being outwitted. That said, it was what the Redguard mutt said that he felt he had to respond to. “You are very far out of line to compare me with the common criminals you associate with, bastard. It’s obvious that you don’t know the first thing about me. Keep your ignorant and offensive assumptions to yourself. As for Raelynn’s business…” His voice had been sharp and reprimanding, but now it descended into what could only be described as malice. “That is her choice, of course. But she will choose wisely. You can count on that.”

Alim took a swig of his flask. He gave a satisfied gasp at the wine. Not bad. “I think that ship has sailed.” he said.

Gregor suddenly slammed his fist on the table, causing his cutlery to jump in the air. “Enough. Leave me to my dinner. We're allies and I shall bear no ill will towards you come the morning, but you have done quite enough to sour my mood this evening.” He glared up at Alim and it was obvious from the coldness in his gaze that he meant it.

The spellsword had to agree. Even if he didn’t start it, that didn’t mean he had to finish it. “You’re right.” he said, letting that sink in. “In the morning, I’ll act as if this never happened. I apologize.” He actually sounded sincere, and he found out he was. He realized he had been speaking at a haughty Knight and not Gregor. Alim had grown up among those who thought they were far better than he as purebloods, and with the bastard ‘insult’ he had taken it a bit far.

“Sorry for the wine. Have a better evening.” He said, and with a twist he planted himself onto and over the railing to fall to the otherside. He caught himself on the window sill he knew to be there, and then cautiously made his way down. It would be best to sleep on a rooftop tonight, he decided.

Late Evening, 30th of Second Seed, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, Hammerfell

If she had felt unnerved in the daylight, she felt even more so now. It was dark, and a cold breeze ran through the narrow streets. It was a wonder she could find her way back to the Three Crowns. But she had already ventured a little through Gilane earlier in the day, to pick up supplies and visit the bath house. She could still feel dampness in her hair, and she was wearing it differently too, high on her head in a two braid twist. A handmaid at the house had threaded through a thin gold coloured rope. The same style of rope which was acting as a waist belt around her dress. Everything else had been too heavy to wear, and the dress was cheap - it pained her to think of it, but she had more important things to do than to go perusing for an entirely new outfit so soon. She was looking forward to the morning coming back around to allow her to fully explore, while rested.

As she made her way through the streets, she finally saw in her vision the recognisable Three Crowns. The lights were still on, it couldn’t have been that late. It just felt like she had spent forever with her father and with Daro’Vasora. She was still angry about it all, a bitter feeling resting in her stomach. She could barely manage a neutral expression, she was showing her feelings on her face entirely. Narrowed eyes and pursed lips, arms folded over her chest - partly to stop from shivering too much in the breeze, and partly as a warning to those who may approach her, she was in a hurry to get to her destination. She eased up a little at the thought of her opulent dwellings. Even if she had to share it with Judena, Rhona, and… Daro’Vasora. It was a beautiful room with privacy. She could shut them out if she really needed to, the same couldn’t be said for the Argonian’s offensive snoring.

She came into the clearing from the market stalls and out into the open, just a short walk more until she could get inside, and to bed. She hoped not to see Daro’Vasora there so soon…

High above her, Gregor had finished his seafood dinner in grim silence after Alim’s departure. It had taken a lot of willpower not to drink the entire bottle of wine. Now he stood at the railing of the balcony, staring out over the city, going over the things he’d said to Alim. He sighed. An apology to Alim would probably be necessary, even though he was still angry with Alim’s insolent prying. It was then that his eyes caught a glint of gold walking through the streets and he looked closer. Could it be? Her hair was styled differently and she was wearing new clothes, but after a few seconds Gregor was sure of it. That was Raelynn. Something inside of him immediately tensed up at the sight, but in a good way. He watched her for a while as she approached the hotel, taking note of the way she’d crossed her arms and, once she was close enough to tell, the sour look on her face. He took a deep breath and when he exhaled, he could hear a low growl in the back of his throat. It had been a long week. He was hungry..

Suddenly, like a predator emerging from the underbrush, Gregor turned on sharply on his heel and marched out of the room, past the still-sleeping Calen, and down the stairs. He was intent on intercepting Raelynn before she got to her room, as he was still hesitant to come knocking when the other women were present.

If she hadn’t been so determined to get to the room, she might have felt the presence of someone watching her, but really everything felt slightly tense here, she was wound up and ready to leave the day behind her. For once, she wasn’t paying attention, and she got quite a ways into the hotel before she noticed him. She had been so distracted that she couldn’t help but yell out at him in fright “Shit!” she gasped, stopping in her tracks before him. “Gregor,” she began, her voice wavering vaguely “you scared me, I didn’t see you…”. She had been wanting to see him again, she really had. Even now she felt a knot in her stomach, a rush of arousal. But she wasn’t sure if she should, or even could. She began walking again, slower now. She knew already that he wasn’t going to let her just walk past him. She gave him a look up and down as she got closer to him, and she realised he was dressed differently. She hadn’t known him all that long, but she knew enough about him to know that his signature look was the black. Now, he was dressed in light garments. It gave her another surprise, enough of one to cause her to stop once more.

“I’m sorry, I… really must get to my room.” It was futile, a lie. Raelynn already knew it. It was now just her saying something that she could use later, in her defense perhaps; I did try to get to my room - but she knew she wouldn’t be back in the shared room this evening. The two of them had unfinished business.

The dim lighting of the hotel’s corridors at night cast long shadows over Gregor’s face, his dark eyes invisible in the gloom, and his expression was unreadable. He allowed her to come to a halt, to speak, but he barely heard what she said. He moved closer, one step at a time, his boots heavy on the polished floors, his posture languid, arms by his side. It was the gait of a man that knew that Raelynn was not going anywhere. And he was right; she did not back away from him. Gregor stepped right up to her until they were only inches apart, his face hovering over hers -- now she could see his eyes, and the cloying desire that burned there. His hands moved over her hips, fingers gently brushing against her skin through the fabric of her dress, until he wrapped his right arm around her waist and pulled her against him. He cupped her chin with his left hand and tilted her head back, forcefully but not brusquely. “Raelynn,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper, before he leaned in and kissed her.

In the murkiness of the room, Raelynn followed Gregor’s lead. She let him pull her close, her arms dropped to her sides -- bodies suddenly pressed together, lips touching. She moved her tongue over his lips softly, reminding herself of his taste. As she did, she could hear in the back of her mind, the voice of her father ”Acting like a common tart is not looked upon highly.” It replayed a number of times as she reciprocated her lover’s kiss.

When it got too much, when she reached the point of pulling away and taking her father’s advice, or defying them she paused. She moved out of the kiss and looked into Gregor’s eyes - they were so beautiful, so enticing, so bewitching. “Fuck it…” she whispered against his lips, before returning to kissing him, this time she wanted him to feel it, and so she bit down gently on his lower lip. Her hands working their way up from her sides to the back of his neck. “Take me somewhere else. Not here, away from here. Away from… them.” There was demand in her low voice. Being here wasn’t right - not just because they were forbidden from sharing a room, but because of Daro’Vasora. Because of what she had said. She wanted to be alone with him, completely.

“Your wish is my command,” Gregor murmured. He, too, wanted to be far away from judgemental and prying eyes. With his arm still around her waist, Gregor led her back the way she came.

---

She found herself on the floor of their room surrounded by sheets and pillows, staring up at the ceiling, catching her breath. A thin sheen of sweat covered her body and her legs were trembling almost uncontrollably. She rubbed a hand across her brow, before laughing softly and rolling onto her side to look at Gregor, and then she looked back at the bed -- at the wooden slats that had broken, lying in a splintered mess underneath it. She took the sheet from beside her and began to wrap it around herself. Why she felt the need to cover herself after that was unknown. There was just a niceness to it, to wrap up and come back together in an embrace.

She couldn’t speak, she was still busy fighting for breath - partly from exhaustion, and partly from the violence of it. She reached a hand out, stroking her fingers softly across his wrist, to bring him back around from his own state of bliss.

“Huh?” he asked and turned his head aside to look at Raelynn. His breathing came slow and deep, like a crocodile. “Oh, hey,” he mumbled, eyelids fluttering. “You come here often?”

“Not often enough…” her voice came out hoarse, and she moved over in his direction, nestling herself beside him with her head resting on his chest. She took some of her sheet to cover him from the waist down - but the rest she wanted to see - to feel. To feel his skin against hers. “I hope I was worth the wait,” Raelynn said in a breathy voice, her fingertips now caressing his torso, drawing across the outline of his tattoos.

The sensation of her body pulling up close to his was enough to rouse Gregor from the depths of his post-coital oblivion. It had been such an intense release of tension and satisfaction of his carnal desires that he felt empty afterwards, and the total, deafening silence in his mind had been blissful. He propped up a pillow behind his head so that he could look at Raelynn as she lay on his chest. “Mhmm,” he hummed. “A torturous wait, but definitely worth it. The way you looked at me while we were caged up in that ship with no way to do anything about it… awful, you know. Just awful.” He didn’t mean that, of course. The boyish tone to his voice betrayed that he was teasing her. Gregor laughed softly and sighed. “What a day. I had a conversation with a Dwemer. Can you believe that?”

Raelynn moved her head only slightly, to where she could hear his heartbeat. It was only just slowing down. It was powerful though. She smiled as he spoke, his humour showing through as he relaxed and let the blissful feelings take over. “I can believe it. I have stayed away from them, I just….” she stopped, thinking back to what Daro’Vasora had told her. Something about Gregor and the Dwemer. Well, if he was going to bring it up… “They distress me. I was taken aback to even see them here. I can’t imagine what I would even converse with them about.” Feeling at least settled enough to summon up some Magicka, she let the golden light pour in a precise manner from her fingers, and onto the scratches she had left on Gregor’s chest. “I dread to even imagine being alone with them…”

“Oh, I would pay for the privilege,” Gregor replied. His voice was deep and husky after their rough session and Raelynn would be able to feel the reverberations of it echoing in his chest. “I’m not afraid of them. They should be afraid of me.” He let his hand wander over Raelynn’s back, slipping beneath the covers of the sheet as it traveled further down. “It was a short conversation. The situation was so absurd that I couldn’t stand it for much longer. She had the gall to welcome me to ‘Volenfell’. Total disregard for the fact that this country is called Hammerfell and that the Redguards are supposed to rule it. Really, the things I would do to a Dwemer if I had one all to myself…”

It made sense, of course Gregor would be agitated with Dwemer, at the very least. He was allowed to have a vicious anger for them, to yearn to inflict pain. She didn't know what Daro’Vasora had been playing at. Should she press the issue more? She was unsure. She just knew she was enjoying his hands on her body again, even if she was beginning to feel sore now that the high was wearing off. “I think you're justified in feeling that way…” she began, her hands moving from his chest to his cheek and she looked up into his eyes. “Part of me wants to see you hurt them…” Immediately she knew that may be misinterpreted by him, it might elicit the response she wanted however, that there was something more sinister to his hatred.

The look in her eyes, the words she said, her fingers on his cheek -- it was intoxicating. Gregor’s face was as hard as steel as the deepest, darkest side of him rose to the surface, coaxed out by Raelynn’s encouragement. “Oh, I will hurt them,” he said, his voice breathless and cold. “I will hurt them in ways that extend far beyond their mortal lives. I have… powers.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Powers that can send them to a place from where they can never return, a place that will deny them the sweet release of death for all eternity. A place that will make me stronger for every soul I condemn.” The fingers of his wandering hand dug deep into Raelynn’s flesh and his eyes flashed with a ravenous, unnatural hunger. “I want to you to see it.”

His confession. The Khajiit was right to be scared. But Raelynn wasn't. She hung on each word, smiling at him, her own eyes burning with desire for it. The power. The more he said to her, the more he told her, she felt herself being worked into a frenzy. It was wrong, but so right. As Gregor’s hands worked their way across her already tender skin, a whimper of pleasure slipped from her lips and she couldn't stop herself anymore - she slid up on top of him, her face against his neck. “I want to see it too. I want you to show me.” She let her voice be soft, sultry - a coo of encouragement. Her hand moved to his chest to the place that she could feel his heartbeat. It was faster than before. He was excited or angry - or both.

An indescribable, unidentifiable emotion surged through Gregor’s entire body. They had crossed an irrevocable boundary now. She was his, and his alone, bound together by the shared knowledge of his worst secret and her approval of it. The unyielding cruelty on his face made way for something far more tender, drinking in Raelynn’s sapphirine eyes as she straddled him. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, lost for words.

Besides, they had more furniture to destroy.