Hank and I wrote stuff

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Dusk, 30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

Mazrah grabbed Nuzir, who had fallen down, by the collar and pulled him back to his feet. He hung in her arms like dead weight, screaming and crying something unintelligible, and Mazrah put one of her hands over his mouth. “Shut up, asshole,” she hissed and forced him back against the wall, “or I’ll really give you something to cry about. That was just a warning. Stay away from Marien, you hear me?”

She removed her hand and he whimpered meekly. “You broke my arm!”

Surprised, Mazrah looked at the wrist that Nuzir was cradling and saw that, indeed, his hand was sticking out of his arm at a slightly odd angle. “What the…” she mumbled. Was he that weak? Her older brother, Maulakanth, had been beaten far worse without ever breaking anything when they were still children. “Well, let that be a lesson. Touch her again and I’ll break your face.”

“I’d heed her warning; My uncle was an orc, and when they threaten to do something, well, they aren’t fond of hyperbole.” a voice came from behind. The Khajiit was leaning against a wall, peeling an apple with a small dagger and impassively watching the events unfold. “So, he got a bit handsy with a friend, I gather?”

Mazrah’s head whipped around at the sound of the Khajiit’s voice and narrowed her eyes at the sight. She was relieved that it wasn’t a Dwemer patrol, but at the same time she didn’t need people of other races to stick their noses in her business either.

“Yes, he did,” Mazrah replied and shot Nuzir a dangerous glare, daring him to deny it. He didn’t and simply stuck to nursing his wounded arm and sniffling pathetically. “A barmaid at one of my favorite taverns. Sweet girl. She was in tears about it. You hear me?” Mazrah asked and shook Nuzir by the shoulder. “In tears!” Nuzir gasped and pleaded in soft moans for the cessation of this violence, and Mazrah sighed.

She turned to look at the Khajiit again and tilted her head. “Who are you?”

“That depends on you, I suppose. For now, a spectator.” Daro’Vasora replied, cutting off a slice of the apple and slipping it between her teeth. “What do you plan on doing with him?” she asked.

“I think he learned his lesson,” the Orsimer replied and dropped Nuzir to the ground, disgust evident on her face. “Now I was planning on getting the hell out of here before those gray-skinned bastards show up.” It was obvious she referred to the Dwemer, and she momentarily assumed a typically elven posture, the tips of her fingers pressed together and her lips thinned out in a small smile, before crossing her arms and rolling her eyes. “Pompous assholes. Anyway, what’s it to you?”

“I’m new to the city, today in fact. Even so, I’ve noticed the best way to keep out of those ‘grey-skinned bastards’ sight is by digression.” Daro’Vasora pointed out coolly, getting annoyed by the portly man’s whimpering. She walked over to him, crouching down beside him, and said, “Quiet now, the ladies are talking.”

Suddenly, the Khajiit rammed the apple hard into the man’s mouth, enough carved away it acted like a gag. She stood up, her full height making her feel like a child next to the grandeur of the Orsimer. “Take you, for example. You are a wild, untamed specimen that contradicts the law and order the Deep Elves are so fond of. Everything about you demands attention, like a tornado or some other natural event that cannot be stopped. How long do you think it would be before this shitstain tells the guards what happened and for them to track you down? A volcano is more subtle in appearance.” the Khajiit said, gesturing down at the sad-looking man by their feet. “Break his jaw and force him to have a liquid diet for a month. Hard for a man without a working mouth to retell this particular tale, don’t you think?”

A tornado? That was a favourable comparison, Mazrah thought, and she grinned. “You make a good point,” she said in response to the suggestion of breaking Nuzir’s jaw and looked down at the snivelling heap of Redguard. “Looks like I'll be breaking your face after all. Not your lucky day!” Mazrah lifted up her foot and brought it down on Nuzir's mouth with significant force. A satisfying crack echoed through the alley and Nuzir started squealing like a pig being slaughtered, the trembling fingers of his good hand shooting up to defend himself from any further attacks and to gingerly touch his latest injury.

“As for you,” Mazrah said and looked up at Daro'Vasora with the gleam of amusement in her eyes, “I like you. You're very flattering. Keep talking.”

“Away from the rapist, his pity screams are nauseating.” The Khajiit replied dryly, starting to walk away when she looked at her hand, and back to the Redguard. “Oh. Right.”

Walking briskly back to the Redguard, she gingerly took the man’s hands into her own. “I would say I’m sorry for all of this, but I am a terrible liar.” she said softly, before suddenly gripping the man’s index and middle fingers in a tight grip and snapping them backwards with force, creating a loud crack that echoed off the walls that were only downed out by the man’s gurgled and pained screams. She offered the man a pithy rub on the head before turning back to the way she intended to depart.

“Shall we?” she asked the Orsimer, before gesturing and walking briskly away from the screams. Several alleyways later, she asked.

“So, what do I call the striking lady of imposing stature I found in some dark alley beating the shit out of a degenerate?” the Khajiit asked, her posture relaxed and loose, but her eyes darted around with predatory purpose, searching for threats in the dark.

Mazrah joined her newfound partner in crime, leaning against the wall on one arm, the other resting on her hips. She laughed at Daro'Vasora’s words. “My name is Mazrah gra-Durash, but my friends call me Maz. Who are you then, mysterious and complimentary Khajiit?”

“Daro’Vasora, my non-existent friends call me Daro’Vasora.” she replied, allowing the faintest of smiles. “Friend is a term that doesn't come easily to me, I prefer to assume the worst about people, but I can already tell you are more of a stab someone in the face type rather than a long term schemer.” with a pause, she concluded. “I appreciate that in a person. You must beg my pardon when I say you are unlike anyone I’ve met before.” she said, gesturing at the Orsimer’s immodest attire.

“You're right about that. I don't make plans, I just do what I want whenever I feel like it. I'm a hunter, so I can feed myself. I don't mind sleeping out in the wilderness. Hammerfell is warm enough. And if I want some extra coin, I'm good enough with my spear to kill you and all your friends. It's a good life.” Mazrah looked down at herself and smiled slyly. “You like what you see, kitty cat?”

That was a disarming way to put things, the Khajiit decided. There was something undeniably intriguing about the Orc, but it was hard to say if it had more to do with her tattoos and scars, her bold wardrobe, or her full and powerful figure. The Khajiit rarely paid women much more than a curious glance, but the giant beside her earned more than that. Was there an attraction? It was hard to say, and something Daro’Vasora considered often.

“You are a hard person to ignore,” she managed diplomatically, her expression unwavering. She’d mastered that much. “I will stay unique and unconventional things tend to catch my eye, people are no different.”

Deciding to change tact, she said more lightly, “I would prefer you refrained murdering myself and my associates. Except for maybe a certain High Elf, but he’s getting slightly more tolerable.” the Khajiit joked, looking over to study the face beside her. “You’re probably the only person I’ve heard of that describes Hammefell as, ‘warm enough’. The Nedes used to call this place the ‘Deathlands’ for a reason. From how you said it, I presume you aren’t a native to these parts?”

Mazrah kept her gaze focused on Daro'Vasora's face while she talked and she smirked at the steadfast, inscrutable expression that the Khajiit maintained. Whatever she thought of Mazrah’s body, she hid it well. Mazrah, in turn, let her eyes wander over Daro'Vasora when she switched topics and decided that she couldn't fault the cat for having a practical and decidedly less immodest outfit. There was a hint of her figure beneath the red tunic that she wore, however, and Mazrah liked what she saw. And there was enough to like about her face, too. Mazrah found it hardly a punishment to let her gaze drift back to Daro'Vasora's sharp green eyes.

“Then the Nedes, whoever they are, were sissies.” It was obvious that Mazrah hadn't exactly enjoyed a classic, academic education on Tamriel’s racial history. “Not a native, no, but close enough. I'm from Orsinium, up north. Are you from… what's it called? Elsewhere?”

Elsewhere? The mispronunciation was adorable. Had it been someone else, the Khajiit would have replied bitingly, but the slip-up struck her as the words of an earnest person who simply wasn’t well versed, giving Mazrah an almost innocent charm… if one were to overlook how she just brutalized a man.

“Cyrodiil, born and raised. I am an Imperial citizen.” Daro’Vasora replied. “Isn’t it rare for an Orsimer to leave the kingdom? I’ve never met someone from there, nor had the opportunity to visit. What’s it like?” she asked, her sensitive ears picking up commotion the way they came. She started surveying doorways, formulating a plan as they walked and needed a quick place to slip out of sight.

“Are you now? Interesting,” Mazrah mused. Not many Imperial citizens had come to Hammerfell since it seceded from the Empire. She looked at the Khajiit in a new light and saw how the pieces fit together. The eloquence, the tunic; it made sense. “Orsinium is… a good thing for our people. I'm proud to be an Orsimer but I don't like everything about how things are done there. Women aren't respected as much as I think they deserve. When my brother was exiled because he's a stubborn, prideful idiot, I decided to take my chances and leave as well. I haven't regretted it so far.” She paused, seeing that Daro'Vasora was on her guard. “What is it?”

“You are a huntress, what happens when the predators hear the wounded cry of prey?” the Khajiit replied, settling on what appeared to be a shop that had closed for the day. She pulled a lock pick from her waist cloth and set herself upon the lock. “I knew it wouldn’t be long until your friend attracted the authorities, so I’ve been searching for somewhere to duck out of sight. Two minority travellers caught out at night and a brutalized Redguard? We would be so lucky to see a jury.”

The lock gave without much issue and Daro’Vasora slipped inside, beckoning Mazrah to join her. She closed the door and locked it behind her, stepping carefully through the shop to make sure it was vacant.

Boots passed by a few minutes later, and lights shone through the curtains that concealed the store. The threat passed, Daro’Vasora found a counter to sit on, leaning against a support post.

“Societies are seldom fair in other provinces, I’ve had a number of doors closed to me because of my race. People do not trust Khajiit, even if they prove they are more educated and literate than they are. I understand all too well what it means to be cast down because you aren’t like those in power. People like us have to make our own fortunes on our own terms, I suppose.” the Khajiit replied at last, studying the Orc’s markings. “Those tattoos and scars, they’re ceremonial, are they not?”

Mazrah had followed Daro’Vasora inside without protest -- she did not like hiding from people instead of confronting them, but even she realized that it was suicide to stand up to the guards that pursued them, whether they were the Dwemer occupiers or Gilane’s own. She made silent note of the cat’s skills with the lockpick. It was impressive. Ducking low to avoid her profile being seen through the curtains when a lantern passed the window, she cursed and found a place to sit out of sight; a table that presumably displayed wares whenever the shop was opened would do. She listened to the Khajiit’s words with a scowl on her face.

“If an Ornim is beaten then they were too weak to defend themselves and deserved what happened to them. I would never have been hunted like this in Orisinium. It’s harsh. I’m not sure it’s fair. But it means only the strong survive,” she explained and sighed.

The change of topic that followed brought a smile to her face, however. “Yes, they are,” Mazrah said and there was a warmth to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “My mother bore these and her mother before her, as long as we can remember. The ink represents my mastery with the spear, the bow and the shadow, and the scars are one each for every type of beast I have hunted. Deer, elk, fox, wolf, sabercat, bear, troll… you name it. My mother passed her skills on to me and with every new achievement, the Wise Women marked another part of my body. It goes all the way from here,” she said and pointed to the top of her skull, “down to there.” Her index finger traveled down her body until she was pointing at her toes. “Do you like them?”

“They’re beautiful.” Daro’Vasora replied sincerely, enraptured by the story the Orc spun. It was like living archeology, a story told on skin instead of stone. There was much significance to the wild markings, and superficially, it reminded her of the stripes and spots of her own people. It was a mark of who you were, just this was more meaningful than what bloodline you spawned from.

“We Khajiit simply stick with honourifics to show who we are.” Daro’Vasora said with a smile. “And while I do not doubt Orsinium sees strong and decisive leaders, does it not lead to situations where only the most physically intimidating rules? Orsinium has fallen many times in the past, and unchecked strength can lead to cruelty and stifling the talents of those who could contribute in other ways.” she observed, aware she might as well have been speaking heresy to Mazrah. Deciding to change tact somewhat, she concluded, “I’d much prefer my healer or tailor spent more time on their craft without having to train themselves to fight constantly. I’d make a terrible Orc, but I’ve kept history alive. Even fighting these Dwemer in Cyrodiil, my allies have leaned on me for what I know of the enemy because of the years I’ve spent plundering their lost cities.”

“You are right, the strongest rule. I don’t know what Orcs are like everywhere else but the Ornim of Orsinium, who follow the Old Ways of Malacath, are stubborn and headstrong. If their leader cannot best them in single combat, they will not listen to them.” Mazrah snorted derisively and continued. “Orsinium has been destroyed many times because the ruhi sim, the ‘lesser-bodied’, the… weaker races, are afraid of us, but they outnumber us. Bretons and Redguards and Nords have teamed up every time to see Orsinium burned down. My people always need to be ready for total war.” She paused and looked at Daro’Vasora with a knowing smile. “But does it lead to cruelty? Yes. Is it always the best practice? No. My father was the Hand of Mauloch of Orsinium. Leader of the warriors. He was very strong but also very cruel. My brother, Maulakanth, was groomed to follow in his footsteps, which was only possible if Maulakanth killed my father in single combat. So my father put him through… horrible, horrible abuse, really. I have no other words for it. He became big and strong -- very big and strong -- and he defeated my father when the day came. But Maulakanth was twenty-two. His victory over the Ornim that had tormented him his entire life got to him. He thought he knew better than anyone else. I tried to give him counsel but he no longer listened to me. And eventually the king was tired of his incompetence and threw him out.”

Mazrah shrugged. “Perhaps it is time for a different way of doing things now. But good luck telling them that. Enough about Orsinium, though. You said you fought the Dwemer in Cyrodiil. I’ve been very disappointed that the Redguards are not fighting back, so tell me about that.” The time for swapping stories about their heritage was over. Mazrah looked serious now. If this Khajiit was really fighting the good fight against the Deep Elves, she was very interested indeed.

“If you will humour me for a moment longer, perhaps it is that perspective that has made Orsinium feared. Distrust of outsiders, thinking friends and alliances are pathetic signs of weakness, and a value of raw strength above all else. Is it not a strength to recognize your weaknesses and find ways to rectify them? Nords are incredible warriors, but they lack mages. Bretons are the opposite, and Redguards are renown swordsmen, but technique alone can’t pierce superior plating and a fearless warrior culture. They feared your people more than each other because they recognized that they had other strengths. Is that not a strength in its own?” the Khajiit asked. “It would be like if you were pitted against a Senche-raht, you’d want to even the odds with weapons and equipment because you alone are no match for something of that size and strength. Turning to others to make up for your shortcomings is a strength; you’ve utilized my skills to evade being caught in a battle you may not win. You’re welcome, by the way.” Daro’Vasora said with a smile.

She adjusted, leaning forward to stretch her legs, mulling over their mutual situation. “The Deep Elves are a cunning and ruthless enemy that have used machines and weapons that outclass anything we have. The same Imperial Legion that fought the Aldmeri Dominion to a standstill was brought down in a matter of hours to their airships and hand cannons. So far, any attempt to bring the hammer down on the anvil has resulted in the hammer shattering. We need new ways to look at everything, because the old ways don’t work.” she admitted.

Shifting and nimbly sliding off the counter, Daro’Vasora approached the seated Orc, who still was almost eye level with her. She placed a hand over her heart, her tone rigid and defiant. “My uncle was an Orsimer, and he was the man who taught me all of my skills and to appreciate the wonders of the world and the people in it, died in that attack. He died fighting to protect two young boys, and I was too late to even try to save him.

“I lost one of the very few people I loved that day, and because of that, I may not be a warrior nor particularly strong, but I will keep fighting these bastards on my own terms. I have my wits and my knowledge, and that alone has brought down their powered armour even if I wear nothing but thin leather and carry a mace that can’t can't dent their alloys. I have a group of like minded individuals, who like your Redguard, Nord, and Breton enemies of yesteryear, have joined together to fight a singular overwhelming enemy that terrifies us. I want you to witness it yourself; strength isn’t just how much you can lift or how many foes you can vanquish, it’s about admitting you’re outmatched and finding a way to win, anyways.” the Khajiit implored.

I am not good at these speeches. she thought, suddenly feeling the urge to chew on anything to keep her focused.

Mazrah kept her face under control for as long as she could but a few seconds after Daro’Vasora was done talking, she cracked a smile and burst into laughter. “Great gods of nowhere, do you always talk that much? I didn’t need that much convincing, Daro’Vasora. You’re probably right about that whole ‘working together’ thing. I’d love to meet your group. See who’s been taking it up with the Dwemer, even if you haven’t been winning. It’s better than doing nothing. And… I’m sorry about your uncle. Like I said, I don’t know much about the Orsimer of the Empire. I’d like to hear more about him some time.” She paused and got to her feet, now positively towering over Daro’Vasora, but she felt this uncle of hers deserved a salute. Mazrah placed her hand over her own heart now. “He died a voshu tumn. A good death. That’s all any Orc can ask for. Malacath is proud of him, I'm sure of it.”

Daro’Vasora felt a flush of embarrassment; she really did prattle on when she lost herself in thought, didn’t she? She cleared her throat, sparing herself a few moments to look away and compose herself. “I suppose it’s part of my charm, but yeah, sometimes, when I’m nervous or trying to make a point words tend to flow like wine.” She returned her gaze to the Orc’s beautiful golden eyes, and even in the low light they seemed to shine brilliantly. “Thank you, one day perhaps I’ll tell you more about him. He likely wasn’t at all what you’d expect, but he always did the right thing.” she sighed, shaking her head. Was there such thing as a ‘good death’? Perhaps, but she would have given anything to get him back. “You are kind to say that, Mazrah. Should we carry on?” she asked, gesturing towards the door.

“Yes, let’s,” Mazrah said with an earnest smile. She stepped outside gingerly, her long years of experience as a hunter subconsciously having activated her stalker-mode now that the guards were looking for them, and swept the street with her eyes. It was getting quite dark now and Gilane looked mostly deserted, save for a few stragglers making their way home. “Oh, right,” Mazrah mumbled. “The curfew.” She had forgotten about that. She turned her head to look at Daro’Vasora, whose grayscale fur and dark red tunic made her almost invisible in the shadows, and asked: “Where to?”

The Khajiit was finishing locking the door behind them while carefully slipping the lock pick back out of sight. “I have a place where I am staying with my companions. You’re welcome to come along if you think little old me might help you get what you want, I know we could use someone like you.” Daro'Vasora said, gesturing further down the street.

“That sounds great. I didn't have anywhere else to stay. Thanks!” Mazrah followed Daro'Vasora as quietly as she could, and added: “Just toss me a pillow and I'm golden, by the way. Don't need a whole bed.”

“Same, we can take turns using mine. Word of warning; some of my roommates are kind of tight asses. They're probably going to have a fit, and it's going to be magnificent.” Daro’Vasora replied, firing back a wink as the skulked along through the darkness. “I have to say, I couldn't have asked for a better night out.”

Mazrah grinned from ear to ear. “I think you and I are going to get along juuust fine.”

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Morning, 31st of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

Raelynn woke first. It was the sunlight pouring in that did it. They had at least made their way back into the bed to sleep - even if there was a large dip in the center from the accidental break. Her eyes travelled the room to piece together any other clues of their activities. There wasn’t much, but a painting had fallen from the wall - no, two paintings. She smirked, rather proud of the frantic mess they had made of a once modest room. Then she found herself thinking back to what Gregor had been talking about. Wanting to show her something brutal and twisted, that he had power… She knew there was truth in it by how excited it had made him to say those things out loud. She sensed his relief too. How long he had carried such a secret - for him to finally be able to share it with someone, to share the weight of such a dark burden with another...

He had shown her his gratitude.

It was time wake him up too. They had places to be today - she would have rather prefered to stay in their room together but she knew her father would be seeking her out soon. They had to get back to the Three Crowns Hotel before the others woke up. It had been nice to finally wake beside him like this, especially now. She wanted to savour the moment of seclusion and quiet just a little longer.

She began by placing her hands on his back, trailing over the deep scratches in his flesh with her golden restorative light. She knew it would feel good for him to wake in such a way - by her hands like this. He deserved some sincere kindness, and he needed it too.

A deep, elongated groan escaped Gregor as Raelynn’s healing hands woke him from his dreamless slumber. Nightmares often plagued him but he had found that Raelynn's presence by his side kept them at bay. “That's the good stuff,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He turned his head to look at her, eyes blinking away sleep, and smiled. “Hey there, beautiful.”

“There you are…” she said playfully, placing a single kiss on his shoulder. “I take it you slept well,” she didn't want to say too much to him right away, the moment was too nice to spoil with talk. She continued moving her hands across his body, removing the traces of what she had done one by one, piece by piece. He looked at peace like this, she was surprised to see this side of him.

“Yes, I slept like the dead,” Gregor said in agreement and simply watched her while she worked, occasionally turning this way and that so she could heal all of his scratches and bruises -- they were everywhere. She was similarly vandalized. Gregor smirked and ran his own hands over her body, giving her the impression he was just trying to distract her while she healed him, before he assumed the serious expression he had so often seen on his father's face when he was younger and began healing Raelynn's wounds himself. Gregor knew enough Restoration magic to take care of such superficial injuries. “Now we're even,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

It had been a while since someone else's healing hands had touched her. It was different, to say the least. Especially different to the way that Gregor usually touched her under the covers. She smiled at him, placing her head back down on the pillow, a long and content sigh left her lips as she finished her own work, erasing the marks in his neck. “I suppose we are, Gregor,” she began in a hushed purr, “we ought to think about leaving soon if we're to get back to the hotel -- to the group.” As soon as she said it, she felt the bubble burst, and she pouted playfully at him, knowing he wouldn't want to leave either.

She was right, of course, but Gregor sighed all the same. He hadn't felt this safe and comfortable in years and it pained him to break the spell. They had a war to fight. Summoning his willpower, he sat up and got to his feet, searching through the room for his clothes. Once he was dressed he looked at the shattered bed and the rest of the mess and ran his hands through his hair. “I'll be honest with you, I don't think I have enough gold left to pay for all this,” Gregor admitted and smiled sheepishly at Raelynn.

She looked at him as he dressed himself and watched him move around the room while she remained in bed. “Oh Gregor, did you spend the last of your coin on your new clothes?” she asked in a flirtatious tone, biting down on her index finger suggestively before chuckling. “I might have enough, but you know… Now I have to go without something new.” She stood up from the bed, and plucked her own dress up from the floor, sliding it over her tiny frame with a long exhale. “A shame too, I was eyeing up really a rather alluring little number just yesterday. I guess I’ll have to wait a little longer…” She smirked at him, wanting his mind to wander to thinking of her in revealing clothing, walking around Gilane adorned in the local fashion. “But yes, we must pay for this terrible mess we created…” Once her dress was back on, she got to fixing her hair. It was disheveled and in much less of an intricate style than before Gregor had gotten his hands into it. The best she could do was to comb her fingers through it and braid it loosely over one shoulder.
“That's a tragedy,” Gregor said and put his hand over his heart while he imagined Raelynn dressed like a desert princess. “But yes, it's been a while since I've had work that paid. Not since the Dwemer invasion. I hope this Poncy Man fellow will provide adequate compensation for services to be rendered…” Gregor started his usual weapons check when he remembered he left everything in his room last night, looked around the room one last time and concluded he had everything he needed on his person. “Shall we?”

After they had paid for the room (and the damage) by pooling their remaining gold together, Gregor and Raelynn stepped outside and into the morning sun. The Imperial was immediately relieved that he'd decided to buy new clothes the day before. It was going to be a hot day. “How was your day? I didn't see you at all until you returned last night,” Gregor asked as they began walking back to the hotel, arm in arm.

Raelynn tensed slightly at his question, she had been able to push all of it to the back of her mind, but Gregor’s question had dragged it back to her present thoughts. “It was,” she began with a sigh, trying to decide just what she should tell him. Surely there could be no secrets between the two of them now, and walking with her arm in his made her felt good and trusting. “I had dinner with my father,” she fell straight to the point. No sense to dance around it. “Or, I should say I had dinner with my father, and Daro’Vasora.” There was an awkward anger to her tone and she sucked air through her teeth sharply as she finished.

That caught Gregor by surprise and he cast a sidelong glance at her with raised eyebrows. Considering they were in a country that was foreign to both of them, ’dinner with dad’ was one of the absolute last things he’d expected her to be doing. And out of all the people to accompany Raelynn to dinner with her (presumably) affluent father, Daro’Vasora was also a decidedly unlikely choice. The way Raelynn spoke, Gregor assumed that it hadn’t been a great success either. “What is your father doing in Hammerfell? And why was Daro’Vasora there?”

He hadn’t talked to the Khajiit since their discussion in the Frisky Dolphin, a conversation born from desperation and exhaustion that Gregor was starting to regret. But, to Daro’Vasora’s credit, she had inadvertently led him to a place where there were opportunities aplenty to continue fighting the Dwemer. His request had been fulfilled, one way or another. Either way, he had said some things to her that he probably shouldn’t have and he didn’t like that the Khajiit seemed to be involved with everything that was going on.

“I don't rightly know yet. He can't be doing anything good.” The words began to roll out, she felt safe to speak to Gregor about it, “I was with her, taking a walk. I felt afraid to be alone and we just happened upon each other… The next thing I know, my father is there. I'm as surprised as you.” She raised her thumb to her mouth, and nervously bit down on it, looking Gregor in the eye, a flash of concern. “He is sending for me today likely. To talk in private. A good thing too because he was incredibly loose lipped last night,” her cheeks grew hot and her face flashed red as she thought of what he had been saying to the Khajiit. “I'm worried he's going to start trouble that he can't afford.. “

Gregor suppressed a smirk at the idea of Raelynn’s dirty laundry being flippantly aired by her father. Now was not the time to be amused at her expense. Instead, he focused on the fact that her father was here with a plan, apparently, one that Raelynn did not have undisputed faith in. “I should very much like to meet him,” Gregor found himself saying. “I know you’re not very enthusiastic about it but maybe he has work for me. And even without that, I want to see what kind of a man raises a woman like you.” He squeezed her hand. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“A woman like me?” she said in a spirited manner with a smile “I wonder whatever it is you mean by that…” her eyebrow raised at him and she gave him a playful nudge with her elbow - trying to change the tone of their conversation from being quite so serious and centred on her family. Of course Gregor wanted to meet him, they all would - hell, Raelynn herself would relish the opportunity to meet her companion’s parents. “Your offer is very kind, but I'm afraid he won't have a lick of it. It must have been 4 years since I last saw my father. This is our overdue reunion. I suspect he will be asking me about my companions, but he does indeed have work for us, for them.” She grew silent as they continued to walk, the tension dissipating from her posture. “Besides, I don't know if I have it in me to hear him tell you his stories about me…” she ended with a laugh and squeezed on his arm ever so.

Gregor joined her in laughter. “Why must you taunt me so? I would pay handsomely to hear him reveal your most embarrassing secrets, if my pockets weren’t so light. Very well. I offered because you seemed… unsettled by the prospect, but if this is something you must do alone then so be it.” He fell silent, having run out of things to say, and simply smiled. It was good to walk like this, to talk about meeting her father and joking about the things he might say as if they were nothing more than young lovers out on a stroll. Well, Raelynn anyway. Gregor was merely playing at being young again. “I wonder what the Poncy Man has in store for us,” he said at length as the Three Crowns Hotel slowly came into view. “I hope he knows what he’s doing. This faction of Dwemer seems more manageable than the butchers in Cyrodiil, but I am still not eager to replicate the disastrous demise of the Colovian Rangers.”

“I’m sure many would pay handsomely! Maybe one day I’ll tell you myself, on my own terms,” she placed her head against his arm “I know, and I appreciate it. I hope you understand. Maybe when he’s more settled we can see him together. He seemed very… Unlike himself last night. I suppose I will find out why soon enough.” As she saw the now familiar banner of the Three Crowns Hotel, she knew that soon she would part ways with him once more - not knowing when she would next see him, only knowing that they should still keep this a secret - even though Daro’Vasora had flaunted her knowledge of it. “I do wonder myself, he’s a strange fellow. I didn’t pay him too much attention - I was too busy enjoying my feet being on solid ground again admittedly.” Raelynn stroked his arm once more, letting her hands linger over his bare skin where the sleeves rolled up. “Hmm,” she sighed softly “I hope it isn’t quite so long a wait to see you again this time, Gregor.” A cheeky smile grew on her full lips as she once more looked up to him, to look into the piercing eyes she so adored already.

“Gods, I hope not,” Gregor said. He stopped, grabbed her by the waist and pulled her in for a kiss -- he didn’t care that they were in the middle of the street while the city was waking up. Last night had left him feeling empowered and emboldened. He was done letting his circumstances dictate his actions all the time. They continued walking and Gregor added: “We should have plenty of opportunities to see each other now that we’re here in the city. But we, quite literally, can’t afford to do that to a room every evening, as much as it pains me to say.” He playfully elbowed Raelynn in the side.

“I'm sure we can be creative about it Gregor,” she began in a seductive tone, even a playful reminder of how violent they would get was enough to spark her again. But she resisted pushing it any further, or saying anything else on the matter. She could sense in his demeanor that he felt different, there was trust between them now, an unspoken agreement wrapped around his secret. She was glad to know it, and even more glad that he seemed to be showing no signs of regret.

As they approached the stairwell of the hotel, Raelynn knew it was time to part ways, for now. She pulled away from him slowly as she ascended them, turning to face him once more, with a small but flirtatious smile, a sparkle in her eyes, “you know where to find me…”

Gregor watched her go with a heavy heart but a grin on his face. “See you around, pretty woman,” he said laconically.

A collab by: @Spoopy Scary & @MacabreFox

Gilane, Hammerfell - 30th of Second Seed

---

The black veil slowly, groggily lifted from Calen’s vision. He still felt sick, but he also felt an ache. An aching in his head - he thought he did, at least. He couldn’t tell. Everything seemed so surreal, not quite there. He knew he was being dragged, but he couldn’t quite feel it. He couldn’t feel the texture of the coarse and rocky ground of Anvil’s paved streets, but he could feel the pressure against his body. He could feel and taste something warm, wet, and metallic in his mouth. It was sticky. He swung his field of vision around to look at the two men dragging him through the street… he saw Quintus and Pavo. Oh, yes… of course… he lost. He couldn’t get away. He couldn’t find Rhona. The Dominion agents slew the guards in the streets. There were channels of blood between each and every brick in the ground, like veins coursing through the city… and the led to a single house. A manor. A castle. Castle Anvil.

He wasn’t sure if they dragged him along a long red carpet or through a river of blood, but the answer was clear when they threw in front of the throne and the ground splashed beneath him. His mouth filled with blood, but was it the river of blood? Or was it being thrown on his face, breaking all of his teeth? The river felt solid despite the splash. He felt so dazed and groggy that reason and logic flew out the window, but even in this state, he tried looking up. He saw Cezare, adorned in fearsome armor that might have once been regal and a billowing red cloak. Strange. There was no wind in here. Looking closer, the red cloak was dripping with a familiar sanguine hue. He wore an eyepatch for some reason.

“You’re a liar.” Cezare growled, taking a step forward. Calen somehow found the strength to roll over onto his back and tried crawling away from him; backwards, still facing him. Though his feet found purchase on solid stonework, he felt his arms suddenly drop and sink elbow deep into the river. As Cezare walked ever closer to him, he seemed to walk atop the river that Calen couldn’t escape. Too thick to escape, as it felt like cold molasses on his skin; but too thin to escape. Every time he tried to get out he fell back through like it was water, sinking deeper and deeper.

“No.” Calen denied, shaking his head.

“You’re a liar!” Cezare repeated. “You lied to me, you lied to them!”

“No!” Calen cried out again.

“All you do is lie!” Cezare shouted. “You love no one!”

“No!”

Three blasts of thunder shook the castle. Too loud, deafeningly loud. Like one of the Dwemer’s cannons knocking down the castle doors. Three sharp shots was all it took for him feel completely deafened. Blood dripped from his ears, and a low, dead, droning din drowned out Cezare. Though his mouth moved, no sound came from him. Calen’s throat felt swollen shut. Cezare was getting angrier and angrier that Calen could not hear him, he knew this somehow, but he was helpless to do anything about it. When he tried to speak, he felt like he was choking.

“Calen.”

Cezare drew his sword.

“Calen.”

He raised it above his head...

“Calen.”

And swung down.

Everything was instantly black. Sithis.

The sound of a rolling marble echoed through the Dread Father, and contrasting against the infinite void trailed a ribbon of red.

Rhona’s head rolled into view. Her lips moved,

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”

---

Her mind swirled and raged like a catastrophic wintry gale about to make landfall. Mortalmo’s words rang inside her head, just like the bells had tolled in Anvil. She couldn’t make up her mind, what would she do? She couldn’t approach Calen and blindside him, could she? What if she did? Rhona’s hands curled, clenching into fists as she ground her teeth. Hot tears burned her eyes as she fought to maintain her appearance. There was no use, she buried her face into the palms of her hands. Perhaps you should go find Calen.

Rhona decided that if she were going to confront Calen, she needed to wash her face, and do her best to erase any emotional distress. She made her way inside the Three Crowns and headed down the hallway that led her to their shared quarters. She recalled the way that the guards led the men, and headed further down the corridor. She had located the two rooms acquisitioned to the men, and took her chances on knocking on the first door. Not a sound came. Rhona moved to the second door, knocking harder, and called out for Calen.

“Calen? I need to speak with you.”

After a few moments, the dull sound of the floorboards creaked, followed by a few more low thuds and shuffling. Thud, shhh… thud, shhh… The brass knob of the door handle clicked, and the door creaked open. Calen leaned his face against the door frame as he mumbled his incomprehensible greeting, his blonde hair unkempt and out of place. His breathing sounded ragged, as if he was just running a race. There was a smear of drool near the corner of his mouth that he tried to wipe away. It was mixed with the faintest trace of blood. He was completely disheveled and could barely keep his eyes open and the skin around them was slightly off-color, but when his blurry vision finally focused on Rhona, they widened open with surprise and he stumbled to recompose himself.

“O-oh, uh, he… hey… Rhona! Wh… what brings you…” Calen stammered, but then he shook his head and sighed. He finally blurted out, “Are you okay?”

His disheveled appearance caught her off guard, she faltered in her words, but immediately squared her shoulders and huffed, “Calen, you have no idea what I’ve been through. And I just-” her face twisted into a grimace, hot tears stung her eyes again as she clenched her teeth, “Tell me that it’s not true. Tell me, please.” She begged, desperately trying to keep her composure.

“I…” Calen began, but the more he woke up, the more confused he became. Usually it was supposed to work the other way around. He didn’t know what she was asking of him. The truth? The truth of what? He stepped out into the hallway.

“You’re right,” he said, “I have no idea what you’ve been through. Quintus and Pavo told me Cezare found you. I’ve been worried sick, but… I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. We haven’t spoken since… since Skingrad. Brynja wouldn’t let anyone…”

Calen’s voice gradually became weaker until he finally slumped his shoulders and gave up on finishing his sentence. He was rambling. He had to get to the point.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what he did, but I should’ve been there for you. I wasn’t. I’m so sorry…”

“Shut up!” She yelled, her tears spilling forth unimpeded, her mind wouldn’t be betrayed, not after what Durantel had told her, “You’re lying! It had to have been you, or else Cezare wouldn’t have found me, and fucking kidnapped me, Calen!” Rhona felt dizzy, and so she leaned against the door frame to steady herself, her hands covering her face as she cried.

“Wh-what?” Calen stammered, his face contorted into a look of confusion, “Why would you think I had anything to do with that? I helped you get away from him. He sent two guys after me because apparently he wanted to kill me. Did Cezare tell you all that?”

She groaned, struggling to catch her breath, “Durantel… he…” Rhona brought her hands away from her face, hands curling into clenched fists, “He told me that you told Cezare where I was…”

“Durantel?” Calen repeated, “You mean the Altmer? The one that hates my guts and calls me a dog?” Calen signed, running his fingers through his already messy hair. By Talos, he was gonna need to have a word with that Mer. He seemed like the sort that would get a kick from pitting two humans against one another. It would explain why Rhona is so scared.

“Look,” he began calmly, “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me since Skingrad - and if you were, that’s fine, we can have that conversation later - but I haven’t even seen you in Anvil until we were all boarding the Intrepid. Last time before that was on the Gold Road. What could I have told Cezare? And how would Durantel know that?”

“I did what I had to do, to protect you Calen. Cezare sent his goons after you to bring you back to him, he wanted to kill you right in front of me. I had to… I had to stop him. I…” Her demeanor began to change as she realized what Calen was saying, perhaps Durantel had lied to her after all, at least suggesting the impossible. Why would he do that to her?

“So why did you believe him?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” She managed a choked out sob as she explained, “Calen… I killed Cezare. I had to because he would’ve killed you. I beat him to death, and I… I couldn’t stop myself.”

The bard’s throat clenched.

“Gods I’m so sorry, Calen. I don’t even know what to say.” Her face drained of color, the look of hopelessness consuming her features. Calen pulled her into his arms and rested his weary head on top of her’s. She stiffened in his arms, but found herself leaning into him, she shouldn’t have run from him like she did. He took a deep breath - the salty smell of the ocean still clung to her hair - and his body shuddered as he released it.

“I'm just… so relieved you're safe.” He whimpered. “You’re safe now.”

“I’m sorry, Calen. I was a fool.” Rhona wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. The warmth of his body against her own provided a much needed comfort then. She didn’t want him to let go, no, she could stay like this forever, right there in his arms. Let everything melt away, all of her worries and fears, the horrible events of Skingrad and Anvil dissipate into nothingness. “Can you forgive me?”

“Forgive what?” He muttered. “You've done nothing wrong.”

“For everything,” she whispered softly, “for the way I’ve treated you, acting like a spoilt child… even accusing you. I was afraid, and I ran from my fears, like I always do. I’m a coward, Calen. And I ran from you. You deserved none of this.”

“Don't… don't…” He choked up, but then he took another deep breath, shaking again before spitting out, “don't take responsibility for them. C-Cezare… and Durantel, they both made their choices. You couldn't help that. You have a good heart. I should've looked for you sooner.”

Rhona shifted her arms, she drew away from him, just enough so she could look at him clearly, “Calen…” she didn’t have to say another word. One hand drifted to his cheek, she stroked it affectionately with the pad of her thumb, her eyes searching his. There was a warmth in those dark brown eyes of his, even while pink and swollen with tears, something that had comforted her originally and she found it again. Rhona leaned in and pecked his cheek.

“I won’t run anymore.”

Calen stifled a smile, knowing it would only get the waterworks going again. He held Rhona’s arms in his hands. “Sorry about crying in your hair,” he said with a half-hearted laugh.

She laughed, “Kynareth would not be upset.”

“Really though, it’s probably a mess.”

Her smile slipped away, she wasn’t sure what to do now. Her brows furrowed, “I… you should get some rest. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

At the mention of getting some rest, of going back to sleep, his thoughts returned to the nightmare he just had a few minutes ago. Of Cezare. Of the sword. Of Rhona. He shook his head, both to shake out the haunting memory of it and out of refusal. He dipped in his head and touched his forehead against hers. This felt more relieving to him than the prospect of sleep.

“This is fine.” He whispered. She wasn't going to question him, her heart leapt at the welcoming sensation, it’s what she wanted. It’s what she needed.

Rhona wasn’t technically supposed to be in Calen’s room out of consideration for Gregor and Alim, but that was fine. The corner where two of the walls met at their end of the hallway was more than enough. At first they just sat on the floor together, side by side, enjoying each others company. As the hours dragged on, they found a more comfortable place with Calen’s back against the wall and Rhona as his little spoon. With his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, Rhona enjoyed the first sense of security she felt in a long time. Their little talks went on until their words were slurred and their eyes heavy. Rhona found her pillow on his chest, Calen his atop her head. For the first time in days, even while surrounded by Dwemer, the night felt peaceful.

Morning - Sunrise, 31st of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell
_{@Father Hank, @MacabreFox, @Stormflyx, @Dervish}

---

Sunlight slivered through a pair of heavy set curtains leading a line of light down the space between the beds. The first to stir was the red scaled argonian, Judena. She sat up pushing up against the soft bed digging the heel of her hand at the dry grit in her eyes. She squinted around a hand automatically patting, searching for her logbook. She counted the sleeping forms of Daro’Vasora, Rhona and.... Orc. There was an orc. The air was dry and they weren’t out in the open, confusion swept over her as it always did every morning.

She blinked then looked down at her pages leaning to the light to read, no mention of orcs or new people joining as of her last log. A light hiss she leaned over grasping for her spear, using it to pull herself up out of the bed muscles stretching out. She trudged over to the respective bed and space of the unknown new member then proceeded to lightly poked her shoulder with the butt of it.

Mazrah nearly jumped out of her skin the very second that Judena’s spear touched her and she shot up straight, eyes wide, throwing her hands up in a defensive posture, ready to fight for her life. Sleeping out in the wilderness as often as she did meant that she had to be ready to rumble every hour of every day.

“I do not care how you found yourself in here but strangers are not welcome. Please leave, now.” Judena rumbled, her ‘beard’ inflating with irritation. “Go on.”

Remembering where she was and what she’d done the night before, Mazrah breathed out slowly and dropped her hands. “Hey, lizard lady,” Mazrah hissed, trying to keep her voice down. “I came with the Khajiit, alright? The one over there.” She pointed to the sleeping form of the treasure hunter. “Daro’Vasora. We beat up some Redguard asshole that groped one of my friends and she helped me escape the guards. Then she told me about you people and that you could use someone like me.” Mazrah took another deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t touch me again when I’m sleeping, okay? Next time you might be dead before I wake up properly.”

“My name is Judena Callisar. I do not rightfully like seeing strangers here, Rhea would not have allowed you to simply waltz in here in the middle of the night and Daro’Vasora should not have assumed others here would be as welcoming as she.” She replied, not appreciating the mild death threat. She looked to Daro’Vasora stalking over poking her next.

“Daro’Vasora, wake up. Where is Rhea? Rhea would not have let a stranger inside our sleeping quarters in the middle of the night. We are sorting this out right now. Wake up.” Judena kneeled down shaking her shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

“I’m awake, I just don’t care.” Daro’Vasora replied, half-truthfully. She opened a singular eye to glance back at Judena, and then Mazrah. She sighed, sitting up in the bed, pulling her knees up with her arms. “You should check your journals when you have a moment, but Rhea didn’t make it, Judena. It’s been over a week, and we are no longer in Anvil.” the Khajiit replied, glancing back to the Orc. “I was thinking we needed allies and she need a place to stay, and waking you lot up in the middle of the night invites daggers to the gut, so I elected to follow the philosophy of begging for forgiveness opposed to asking for permission.”

Getting up from the bed, and still dressed as she was the night before, Daro’Vasora found a pitcher of water, and relieved, found it still had some in the container before pouring herself a goblet. “And for the record? Rhea literally picked a few of the people in our group along the way. Rhona, Calen, Gregor, all of them? She wasn’t the kind of person to think things through, but she had a good heart. You’re going to fault me for doing the same?” she asked, drinking back the goblet in a single go.

Mazrah watched the exchange between Judena and Daro’Vasora with growing confusion. Orsimer seldom lived long enough to experience dementia and their skulls were so thick that brain injuries were rare. She’d never seen someone with memory loss like this. Nor did she know who Rhea was.

“My name is Mazrah gra-Durash. I’m friendly, I swear,” she interjected, looking at Judena while she talked. “Don’t be mad.”

Judena backed away from Daro’Vasora, her ‘beard’ deflated shriveling back against her neck. She looked between the pair, dropping her spear. “A-A week? I-I did not read past the last log, I am - a thousand apologies Mazrah gra-Durash. I am very embarrassed for this.” She went back to her bed groping for her logbook, slight panic clear in her expression.

Pressing the heel of her hand to her head, reading the day count since Rhea’s death on the previous page. She read back further on what happened, her notes dwindled in severity but the first day after had a few pages of detailed feelings.

“I am not mad. I spoke without thought nor proper consultation. I need time after I first wake to get the need-to-know events read. I truly did not remember her death.” She said quietly, “Apologies, again.”

Now Mazrah understood. She’d sat up straight while the Khajiit and the Argonian talked, resting her elbows on her knees, and she looked at Judena with pity. “Don’t worry about it,” she said quietly. The way Judena leafed through her journal to find her notes on the death of her friend, or at least comrade… it was one the saddest things Mazrah had ever seen.

Daro’Vasora didn’t react, at least not visibly. She knew that Judena didn’t need to be pitied for what she endured, but needed to be respected for what she could do. It required patience and thought, but the Argonian was a capable woman and someone who preserved despite being held back in such a tragic way. Still, it made the Khajiit’s heart ache to have to go through this routine every day for the past week where Judena would have to relearn the news of Rhea’s death; it never got easier for Judena, it seemed, and the worst part was there was nothing anyone could to do ease the impact.

“It’s okay, Judena. I would have told you and the others sooner, but it was a rather spontaneous choice. To me, this fancy palace of a hotel is only a better smelling and providing version of the refugee camp. This space isn’t really ours, it’s borrowed, and we have a job to do if we wish to keep staying here.” Daro’Vasora explained, pulling the curtains more to the side to allow a better view at the city below. Topping up the goblet again, she stepped out onto the balcony, sitting on the edge of the stone railing as she looked back inside. “I would not have invited Mazrah back if I suspected for a moment she had any ounce of deception or ill-intent within her. We need people who can do things that we cannot, and I don’t know about you, but I am not exactly the most physically robust of people. There’s going to be a fight or two in the days ahead, and I’d rather we have someone better at it than they do.”

Judena slowly nodded, reading quickly. “Hammerfell that is why the air is so dry, the city is occupied by the Dwemer. They have their own government, even brought families with them.” Gold eyes filling now with curiosity. “Mazrah,” She penned a new line in the next day writing her name. “You look very strong.”

Making a light joke, hoping to move on from her blunder, “Robust may be an understatement, my friend.” She said to Daro’Vasora, hissing out a chuckle.

She stood from her bed, hand out now, “I am an alteration mage and historical item appraiser. Thank you for your patience.”

Mazrah also got to her feet and noticed, much to her amazement, that Judena matched her own height. She grinned and shook the Argonian’s hand. “Thank you, Judena. I’m a hunter and a warrior from Orsinium. A mage, eh? I haven’t met a lot of mages before. Some of the Wise Women know magic, but not much, and you know what the Redguards are like when it comes to magic. What can you do?” she asked, curious.

Judena smiled finally, genuinely, “I would love to discuss over breakfast, I am quite the fisher as well.” She looked around once again eyes tracking to the bedding and decorations, “This is a far more posh establishment than what we are used to sleeping in I believe.” She whispered loudly to Sora. “Are we getting paid or paid with food and board…?” She shook her head. “I will continue reading, I will find out.”

“Where is Raelynn? She seems to be missing from her bed.”

The moment that the Argonian asked her question, was the moment that the Breton walked in. “I am here,” she said abruptly, eyes immediately on the Orsimer newcomer. “The curfew… I had to stay with my father last night.” She could barely concentrate on what she was saying to Judena, she was too busy gawking at the Orsimer - who had seemed to make herself at home already. Typical! was her first thought. Suddenly she didn't feel like sticking around much longer. She sauntered to her lockbox and plucked out her journal, a quill, ink, and an apple which she tossed gently over to Judena. “If you ladies don't mind, I must do some writing.” Truthfully she didn't give a shit what they thought, and as she left out the balcony door - she gave an annoyed sigh and closed it behind her.

Seeing Raelynn return and pout her way towards the balcony, Daro’Vasora headed back inside, offering the Breton a knowing wink as she passed and the door shut behind her. Looking to Judena, she shrugged. “I don’t know if compensation is even on the table, it’s some ideological thing. That said, we have a roof over our heads. Hopefully they elect to feed us, too.”

“Good morning, Raelynn!” Judena waved as she walked by, watching her flee to the balcony. She really did value her privacy! She shined the apple against her sleeve.

Rhona stirred instantly, somehow she had managed to sleep through the chat for the most part until Jude bid Raelynn good morning. She opened her eyes, and found herself staring at Judena, Daro’Vasora and a… impressive Orsimer woman. Rhona rubbed at her eyes, and sat up with a groan, she didn’t want to wake up just yet. Her eyes were red from sleep, look a bit disoriented and confused even.

Mazrah looked at Rhona with a small frown as the Breton woman slowly woke up. She wouldn’t appreciate another admonishment and hoped that Judena hadn’t started a trend with the way she’d woken up. It would be nice if people could just be welcoming. Fortunately, it looked like Rhona was more confused and groggy than anything else, and Mazrah put on the most affable smile she could muster. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Mazrah gra-Durash, a hunter and warrior from Orsinium. Daro’Vasora brought me here last night after she helped me beat up a Redguard man that molested one of my friends. What’s your name?”

Rhona’s brows furrowed at the newcomer, she identified herself and offered a seemingly wild explanation on why she was there, she didn’t question it.

“Good morning, uh… Mazrah.” She slowed herself to make sure she pronounced her name to the best of her ability, “Rhona. I’m Rhona.” She slipped out of bed and moved to the water pitcher on her nightstand, where she poured herself a glass of water. She downed the tankard in one go before she returned her bed, taking a seat on the edge.

“‘Beat up’ seems like such an inelegant way of saying we broke a few bones.” The Khajiit shrugged, lazily slumping down on her bed, adjusting the pillows so she could lean up against the wall. “Rhona is much more proficient at that sort of thing.” She mused, glancing over at the mousy woman.

Her brows raised at Daro’Vasora’s mention, “I… did what I had to do.” She said, casting her eyes down to the floor.

“Personally, I’m proud of you. From what I’ve picked up on the road since you joined us, the creep deserved it. You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who ripped wings off of butterflies for kicks as a kid, so going from ‘I don’t hurt people’ to turning some piece of shit into a tenderized piece of beef isn’t something that you seem like you’re used to. You’ve been haunted since you did that, so I can tell you aren’t used to this yet. Most of us had practice the past several years, it gets easier. You’ll probably have to do it again, just to let you know.” Daro’Vasora replied to Rhona, picking up her pack and rummaging through it.

Casting her gaze between Daro’Vasora and Rhona as they talked, she grew increasingly more curious about what the two were discussing -- it sounded like Rhona had taught a lesson to a creep of her own. In total disregard (and, truthfully, ignorance) of social decorum, Mazrah spoke up. “What are you girls talking about? What did you do, Rhona?”

She lifted her gaze, meeting the Orc woman’s golden eyes, “I… killed my husband.”

Tilting her head and putting one hand on her hip, Mazrah looked at Rhona in a new light, her eyes twinkling with… what, exactly? Admiration? Approval? “Did you? Based on what our furry friend said, I assume he got it coming.” She smiled warmly. “Good job.”

“He was a worthless piece of shit. Alcoholic. Gambler. Abusive. I ran away from him two years ago. But he found me after all this time in Skingrad. He threatened someone I love, and I had to protect him. So I made a bloody mess of his face.” Rhona said through a terse sigh.

Even sat outside, on the balcony from behind the closed door, Raelynn could hear every word being spoken. Murder? Molesting? Disgusting topics of conversation to be having this early in the day. What were they thinking. Her lips curled into an unimpressed snarl and she sighed, heaving herself from the chair, hands slamming on the table. She burst through the door, her patience at its end. “Can you all please cease this horrendous din?” the words came out just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I can hear you from out there and it’s turning my stomach over…” She rolled her eyes, standing in the doorway, lips pursed. “Please,” she began again, a slight hint of exasperation in her voice, “we’re women and you all sound like drunkards in a tavern…”

“Are you saying that women can’t be drunkards in a tavern?” Daro’Vasora remarked with a smirk. “My, aren’t we entrenched in gender roles.” she said, pulling out her practice lock and a set of picks to keep her hands occupied as she glanced back towards the woman at the balcony.

Mazrah stared at Raelynn, incredulous at what she was hearing. She hadn’t encountered this level of snobbiness since her short trip to High Rock. Then again, looking Raelynn up and down, she saw that the woman was Breton through and through. Still, there were no excuses for behavior like this. “We’re having a moment here,” Mazrah said. “Please leave.”

She thought momentarily about engaging Daro’Vasora, but she realised that the Khajiit was just leaving bait for her to attack. It was too risky to test the Khajiit - not right now. Not after last night. The Orsimer, however, was fair game. “Leave my own room?” her eyes narrowed, and she let herself lean against the frame of the door. “Well, why don’t I just give you the clothes from my back too? It looks like you could use them.”

“I don’t fit in children’s clothes,” Mazrah said and smirked. She was used to comments about her outfit, as bare-skinned as she was, and she knew that the other races didn’t understand the pride she took in the tattoos and ritual scars she bore on her body. There was no point in trying to explain.

That prompted a muffled snurk of a choked laugh from the Khajiit before she regained her composure. “Technically, it isn’t our room, either. It’s a loan for doing the dirty work for some Redguard fellow. I didn’t pay for this room, did you? She’s here for the same cause we are, so she’s welcome here as far as I’m concerned.”

Raelynn clenched her jaw. Thinking of the ways she could bite back at both of them, but now wasn’t the time. “Well then, if it’s for the cause Daro’Vasora, I shall just disregard all of this talk of murder altogether. All I ask, is you keep it down. I have work that I wish to do, I’m sure we can keep each other content in this situation…” Behind her eyes were daggers, aimed at her Khajiit companion. She ignored the loutish Orsimer completely.

Daro’Vasora winked at Raelynn. “Well, better company than before you interrupted. You must have a lot of work about your story of a young butcher boy to put to parchment.”

Rhona wasn’t prepared for this much sass and spitfire so early in the morning, she raised her brows in surprise as her gaze shifted between Raelynn to Daro’Vasora and Mazrah. She didn’t even know what to say at this point, “Well, we have a meeting in half an hour. We should make ourselves proper, at least.”

Jude bit into her apple watching the conversation with a grin, meeting new people - especially after introductions was an experience she never tired of nor truly remembered. She considered the apple, fresh as this exchange. “Youth is so energetic first thing in the morning.”

Gilane, Hammerfell - 31st of Second Seed, The Three Crowns Hotel Conference Hall, after 7am...

“My friends, I hope you enjoyed your evening, it warms my heart to see you in attendance. Your will is strong, and although you have all suffered terribly in the trials of Cyrodiil, we will fight together to ensure that Hammerfell has a brilliant future for all of its people.” The Poncy Man said as a means of introduction, his arm sweeping the room. “And when we finally achieve victory, this land will be your home as much as it is mine, should you choose it. It humbles me that you have agreed to join the cause. Brothers and sisters, although we were all born in different corners of the globe, share different faiths and are of different skin and form, I truly believe we are all of the same heart. Now, let us begin.” The Poncy Man said as a form of greeting, rubbing his large hands together.

While some of those in attendance had found their way to the restaurant on site, a menagerie of assorted foods, ranging from baklava to tarts, lamb kebabs to custard, dates, bread, as well as lemon water and wine, was prepared for the guests, many of whom were seated either in the dining chairs or floor cushions. Three stacks of parchments were laid out side by side at the table he was seated behind.

“For this group, which will be collectively known as Samara cell, I have three assignments for you. The first is from intelligence gathered by Yath cell of a prisoner transfer that will be taking place approximately 5 in the evening tonight; the prisoners in the city jail that were not partitioned off for the arena will be transferred to a remote Dwemer prison complex in one of their old outposts that the locals have referred to as Sithis’ Vault near the city proper. Those who go in so far are never seen again, and so it is imperative we do not allow this group to be taken there. We do not know the escort force, but in the past it has been usually twelve in number, half being Dwemer, the other half being from the local garrison. I would recommend assaulting the escort force prior to leaving the city as it offers an avenue of escape for yourselves and the prisoners. This will be dangerous, I will not lie, but we will prepare you the best we can. We have procured a number of the Dwemer rifles from prior raids and as such, they will be at your disposal if you should so choose to use them.

“The second assignment is the capture of a Dwemer administrator that patrols, often alone or with up to two bodyguards, in this quarter of Hegathe. His name is Nblec Mrazac, and he often spends his time in common areas with civilians and he frequents a number of establishments as a patron. Do not let his pleasant personna and apparent fondness for the locals fool you; he is a Mer capable of great ruthlessness and the information he knows could be pivotal to our insurgency’s operations. He needs to come to us alive; killing him will only bring down the hammer harder upon us and it is his information we need, not his status as a low-level administrator. All we have so far is that he usually uses this day of the week to attend the street performers that pass through the Bazaar usually around sundown, and he particularly fancies Halla’s Chocolate Shoppe near the residential district. When he returns to the Dwemeri Embassy, he is virtually untouchable, so do not let him know he is being hunted, or make a public display of his apprehension. He is popular, and even common citizens may oppose you if they see him being brought to harm.

“Finally, and perhaps most dangerously, a group will need to infiltrate the local garrison’s headquarters in this quarter of the city and do a number of tasks; we need to obtain a few uniforms, find documentation of lists of prisoners, and any patrol schedules that may be present. The uniforms will be helpful for future assignments and infiltration, while I hope the other two items on the agenda are a touch more self-explanatory. Seeing as there are a number of armed and trained guards on the premises and you will be severely outnumbered, if you are detected, get out as fast as possible. No amount of information is worth the loss of life, or worse, your detainment.” The Poncy Man bowed his head respectfully towards the assembled group. “Just know that your success may mean saving many more lives and loosening the grip on the city, but our cause isn’t about sacrificing our people for our goals, it is about securing our future, and there will be none if there is no one left to cherish the fruits of our labour.” he smiled solemnly, before taking a measure of the faces across the room.

“On each piece of parchment, it will give you all of the information we have for each of the assignments, so please commit them to memory and do not misplace them; the last thing we wish is for uninvolved bystanders to become aware of our plots.” He cautioned, before glancing down, as if in thought. “I think that about covers it. I am sorry it is not more comprehensive, but we will assist you to the best of our capabilities. Since most of this is for later in the day, please take the time to prepare and relax. Myself and the others can assist you if required.”

With that, The Poncy Man departed to pour himself a glass of wine, leaving the group to discuss their plans with the others.

“Well, as least we’re being proactive instead of reactive for a change.” Daro’Vasora remarked, glancing over towards their benefactor before turning to the people around her. “I’m going to help with the guard headquarter situation, I’m more suited to sneaking in and out of places and picking locks, so the less I have to stick my neck out in a fight, the better. I can also see in the dark, so reading documents at night won’t be an issue for me.” she said definitively with a shrug. “But in the meantime, I’m going to be paying a trip to that Cultural Center the Inspector told me about. I want to understand the Dwemer here, and try to learn about who they are and what they’re after. We can make much better choices for ourselves if we understand who the enemy is.”

24th of Second Seed

Nanine was startled awake the sounds of Legionnaires moving outside her inn on the street. The familiar sound of armor jostling and military jargon echoing in the streets and through her window. Nanine laid in bed, a hand on her sword, listening to the group past. They sounded alarmed by something, hurrying through the town and talking in loud voices. She caught their conversation as they passed. Six orbs. The Dominion's attack was imminent. In a hurried rush, she armed and armored herself, grabbing her backback and its supplies, heading out of the inn she had stayed at and going to where she last knew her companion's too be.

Pushing her way through the fighting and the chaos, Nanine managed to reach the boat just in time, turning to release one last icy spear at the attacke's before the Intrepid left. Nanine sat wearily on the deck, out of the way, her sword and armor splattered with blood from the infiltrator's she had fought, watching the goings on of the crew and the people she had thrown her lot in with. Things had not gone well. Rhea was dead, to the grief of those who had been with her longest. Rhona looked to be covered in blood not her own. Anvil and Skingrad had both fallen in short fashion, and now they were heading to Hammerfell. Murmuring a pray to Arkay for the fallen, Nanine set about removing her armor and taking care of her equipment. It wouldn't do for her to fall off the boat and drown because she was in the steel plate, and it all needed to be cleaned anyways.

The six days to Gilane were grim for the most part. Rhona was in clear shock, but anyone who got to close to her was meet with a death glare from Brynja. Nanine didn't press the issue, instead preferring to spend her time checking on her equipment or drawing in her journal the sights of her recent adventures. Hammerfell would at least prove interesting. It was both free of the Dwemer, and was somewhere she had never been. Her father had told her stories of his time there, but they had been warped and bitter by the memory of it being where he also lost many friends and the use of his arm. It would be good to explore the province and see it with her own eyes.

As the Intrepid pulled into the dock, Nanine cursed in both frustration and begrudging awe. The Dwemer had, evidently, not only expanded this far, but conquered Hammerfell before the sacking of Imperial city. Conquered it so rapidly and effectively, that not a single word of it had escaped before Imperial City fell. The Dwemer were a far greater threat than she had initially thought. Their actions in Cyrodil were noteworthy, but only for their surprise arrival and their superior technology. As the Skingrad Rangers had shown, and the others of her group, they could be killed. Beaten even. It had been an idea that had seeped into the refugees around Skingrad, even after the defeat of the rangers. They weren't invincible. They could bleed, and they could die.

But to conquer all of Hammefell so securely? Without even a hint of the slaughter that was enacted upon the Imperial city? That was a force that even the Empire at its peak under Tiber Septim would have been stopped by, maybe even defeated by. Nanine walked over to the ship's edge, looking across the harbor as Roux, Daro'Vasora, and the customs officials chatted. Her mind worked through all the information she had just received, noting the details that might explain the stark differences. Different factions? Different leadership certainly. What could they have done to the Redguards to gain control so efficiently? The Dominion couldn't even do that when they were forcing the Legions through the March of Thirst. And how rapidly did they even gain control? There doesn't appear to have been a period of prolonged resis- Nanine's thoughts came to a screeching halt as she focused on a particular ship in the harbor. It was of Dominion make. Completely untouched and unguarded, so here of its free will and able to leave at any point in time. The fact that one of their ships was in a harbor controlled by the Dwemer could have meant a few things, none of them good for the Empire. Or Tamriel.

She was barely given a glance by the Dwemer boarding the ship, for which Nanine breathed a minor sigh of relief. She didn't want to draw any more attention to her sword than was strictly necessary. As they all disembarked, and Daro'Vasora was bumped into by a small child, Nanine's thoughts were set into motion even faster than before. Civilians? Children no less? Those are not the people you bring along with you on an invasion force by choice. Refugees? But why not bring them back to your old homes in Skyrim and across Cyrodil? So far as she knew, there were no Dwemer ruins here in Hammerfell, nor in her own home of High Rock. None of it made sense, and Nanine was, frankly, beginning to grow tired of feeling that she knew next to nothing.

She remained silent through their arrival to the Three Crowns and Poncy Man's introduction, merely nodding in appreciation and heading to her shared room once it was indicated which she would be going too. Setting down her equipment and backpack, Nanine sat on the bed and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It had been a long week. Drawing her sword, she began to take care of the weapon, carefully checking its edge and polishing the blade, humming quietly to herself. This was far more for her own sake than any actual need to take care of The Eternal Vow. The blade gleamed like it had been made out of pure darkness, her family's words emblazoned in white upon it. As she went through the familiar motions of taking care of the sword, she felt herself relaxing, the tension leaving her body.

She wasn't the only one who needed calming. Her eyes rose briefly to follow Meg's path as she sighed heavily and headed out on the balcony with a drink. Sheathing her sword, Nanine followed, leaning on the balcony next to the nord woman.

"Septim for your thoughts."

The Governor’s Palace, Gilane, 31st Second Seed, 4E208CE

The study and conference room was a tidy and orderly space with a high ceiling that was supported by a pair of ornate pillars that accented the Dwemeri construction with early-era Redguard flare, and open windows to a large balcony allowed for ample sunlight and a much needed breeze to refresh the room from the stifling desert heat. This openness allowed for natural vegetation to be planted, and a number of native and exported species from across Tamriel were arranged in an aesthetically pleasing manner in large jade urns that complimented the green tapestries in a pleasing manner. Against one wall was a large table with a map of Volenfell laid out, the corners weighed down by small jade statues, two Dwemeri in appearance and two Redguard, a scholar and a soldier for each. Across the room, a set of double oak doors would reveal a bed chamber that many visitors were not made aware of, and those outside of the Palace would not know that that was the personal quarters of Governor Razlinc Rourken, and she aimed to keep it that way.

She was seated in the middle of the room at a ornately carved desk, where the legs resembled asps, and across from her was an Altmer wearing what she had come to understand were Justicar robes of the Thalmor. Leading to this desk and the three gilded seats that surrounded it was a long purple rug with an elaborate and detailed amount of embroidery and expertly partitioned patterns that were common in Redguard cloaks and tapestries, and their rugs were simply wonders of the modern world. Upon the walls leading towards the more circular audience chamber were weapon racks containing a number of pristine and beautifully crafted weapons from different cultures across the globe. It was the Governor’s personal collection, and ever since she was a girl, she had trained how to use most kinds of weapons that the enemy of the Dwemeri people favoured. It was important to her to understand the history of Tamriel, even though she was born apart from it. Even now she barely could believe the land she now inhabited, the sun, the sky, the sand beneath her feet… it was too good to be true.

It was also the only reason she was tolerating the insufferable Aldmer across from her.

Altmer. she corrected herself, consciously making sure she maintained an authoritative posture as she studied the man across from her. Middle-aged, by elven standards, clear complexion, a neatly trimmed beard and rather fetching golden eyes that were only enhanced by his dark hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. His robes were immaculately kept, and if the heat bothered him, he was rather adept that hiding it. Perhaps he kept frost salts in the liner of his robes, she mused.

In contrast, Razlinc wore a simple, yet elegantly woven black dress with golden embroidery and inlays that helped accentuate her features while maintaining a respectfully regal appearance. Upon her wrist were a pair of golden bangles that were finely woven chord that were adorned with a pair of golden serpents biting into their own tails, and a pair of glass earrings of Altmer craftsmanship were upon her long, pointed ears. Her straight black hair was kept short and chin length, a simple golden tiara with jade inlays holding it back from her pronounced face, which suggested an elegant and refined lineage of exceptional bloodlines, and her skin was unblemished by so much as a freckle. Her eyes were emerald green, thoughtful orbs that seemed to pierce into anything she studied, and were nestled under perfectly manicured eyebrows. It was something of a deception, of course; she was not a flawless person, like any other, but a disciplined grooming and fitness routine ensured that she looked every bit as stately and noble as her position would suggest. She was beautiful, to be sure, and a face that Dwemeri craftsman had offered to craft into a visage of the line of assassin Centurions that were in development, but she declined. Her face would not be one that would carry a legacy of a war monger or brutality; it was something she took pains to ensure.

Listening to this Mer from the Dominion, however, all but ensured that the Aldmeri Dominion was every bit as ruthless and cruel as her compatriots to the East, such as General Falinar of Clan Kragen that claimed stewardship of Skyrim and Northern Cyrodiil, or the detestable Vvarnoc, whose innovations had been invaluable for the Dwemer to return, but his methods were savage and cruel. Success was essential, however, so morality took something of a hushed tone when it came to the very survival of Razlinc’s people. It left a sour taste in her mouth, and while she tried to explore less barbaric methods to success, she understood its purpose.

She would do better.

“On behalf of the Thalmor and Queen Lelyanya, I thank you for granting me an audience. The 3rd Aldmeri Dominion would like to convey that it fully recognizes the legitimacy of the Dwemeri claim of Volenfell and would like to seek former relationships between our two illustrious states.” Erincaro Syintar said, his tone clipped and proper, the result of centuries of the finest tutelage and refinement. The Altmer was a statesman, through and through. Razlinc pondered what he sounded like to those he considered an enemy.

The Aldmeri Dominion acted swiftly upon learning of the Dwemer return to Tamriel, the timing of this emissary’s arrival having come mere weeks after the travel ban was lifted for Volenfell. Considering that this same Aldmeri Dominion spent years in a devastating war with the Mede Empire only to end in a stalemate and having heard that Dwemer forces took the Imperial City and routed the Empire’s forces in a matter of days, it was likely a strategy of appeasement to avoid earning a powerful enemy when they were embroiled in conflict with their long hated foe. It was goodwill that was a mask over grave concern; the Dominion would try to appeal to their common racial heritage rather than the practical concerns of trade and strategic allegiance.

It was droll and trite to the utmost degree.

“House Rourken was always one of dialog. We will certainly facilitate dialog between our people and those of the Summerset Isles.” She replied. “And what is it that the Dominion seeks from Volunfell?”

“Trade, naturally. As we are in the process of securing the Gold Coast to ensure safe passage across the Abscean Sea, a route can easily be established between Alinor and Volunfell, and the Dominion believes our two cultures have much we can exchange to mutual benefit.

“Secondly, we pursue diplomatic relations and a military truce leading up to a former alliance. We elves and Khajiit of the Dominion recognize the ignorance and threat humanity poses to the wellbeing of Tamriel’s future, and legends of the Dwemeri resistance in the face of Nord encroachment act as an inspiration to us all. While we naturally would not want to impede upon your sovereignty, it has not escaped notice that there is a wide land the dwemer have reclaimed and the Dominion would be able to offer troops and ships in interest of helping quell any uprisings you may be dealing with.

“The third and final item is a request for the Dominion to be permitted to allow Justicars and embassies to be established in Volunfell in interest of seeking out practitioners of the blasphemous false god Talos. We find it a great insult to the Eight that men have risen one of their own to be worshipped alongside the likes of Auri-el. We will not interfere with Dwemeri matters of state, but as a good will gesture, we do make this request.” Erincaro said.

Razlinc offered a terse smile. “No.”

That clearly what Erincaro was not expecting. “No?! What in Obli-“ he began to object indignantly.

The Governor raised her hand to silence him. “Absolutely no Dominion officials will be permitted free reign of the lands and cities. It is not in our interest to allow Almer, Bosmer, or Khajiiti agents to wander our lands freely. There’s also the lingering animosity amongst the Redguard about your earlier invasion, and I cannot rightly deny them that. I represent the will of the people of Volunfell; Dwemer, Redguard, and all others alike. The suggestion we would want armed armies occupying our land is insulting, to say the least, let alone Justicars that will persecute Volunfell citizens because if offends your easily offended sensibilities.

“The Dwemer worship no gods, if you have forgotten, Justicar Syintar, but that does not mean our other subjects do not. Perhaps if you weren’t too busy imposing your narrow-minded dogma upon other cultures, you would realize that it is much easier to occupy foreign land if they do not feel their way of life is being threatened. Arresting them for believing in a Divine you do not agree with is an abhorrent practice.” She rose from her desk, slender hands resting flat against the surface. “What we will allow, however, is Dominion merchant ships to make port and sell their wares, but the crews will not be permitted past the harbour districts of any city. These are the terms you will have to accept if you wish to begin relations with the Province of Volunfell. My guards will see you to your room, Justicar. Give what I said some thought over some much deserved rest. You must be weary from your travels.”


The Justicar looked like he wanted to press the issue, anger was clearly present in his eyes, but he caught himself. He also rose, bowing. “Of course. Once more, the audience you have granted has been a generous courtesy to the Aldmeri Dominion. We are certain, in time; you will come to see the mutual benefits our people can provide.”

“Perhaps, but today is not that day.” Razlinc said as her guards approached from the doors to see Erincaro out. Her aide, a young Dwemer in his early 50s came into the room as the rather irritated Altmer was escorted out, his youthful enthusiasm abundant. He offered Razlinc a cup and saucer of stepped tea, a favorite of hers from after a meeting. His timing was such that it was still hot, but not enough to be undrinkable until it cooled. Good lad. “Make sure to have the Captain of the guard know to keep an eye on the Justicar for his stay here. I do not trust his intentions. What do you have for me?” she asked, sipping from the cup.

“A trio of travellers, your eminence. A Khajiiti and Breton pair of scholars and their bodyguard, they had turned up to our Cultural Center with reportedly credible documentation of our historical sites. They appear to be very eager to compare our current state of affairs to what they’ve deduced from their studies. If I recall, you wished to speak to such individuals should they appear?”

“Precisely.” Razlinc acknowledged. “There is much we need to learn of the people of Tamriel as they need to learn of us. An exchange of ideas is a powerful thing, is it not?” she asked rhetorically. “Please summon them for me, I have a desire to speak with such individuals to wash the taste of the Thalmor from my palate.”

---

The doors were opened by a pair of guards carrying what appeared to be a curious combination of firearm and glaive and ceremonial armour, and Daro’Vasora, Raelynn, and Gregor were permitted, their documents that they had brought with them carried in on a platter by the same aid as earlier, who set it down at the desk. Governor Razlinc Rourken stood at the mouth of the balconies doorway, staring out into the golden light of Gilane’s skyline. The trio stood expectantly by the desk in a row, waiting for the aide to announce their presence.

“Your eminence, those you have requested to be in your audience have arrived.” He said, bowing to her back and departing quickly with a swift, yet unhurried stride that must have taken ages to master.

It had been Daro’Vasora’s plan to come here, the words of the Inspector had stuck with her like tree sap to the mind. What better way to learn of the Dwemer than to actually hear it from themselves? And when the Khajiit had learned that the Governor was interested in speaking to her and Raelynn due to their fairly impressive knowledge of the Dwemer ruins that dotted the Northern parts of the continent, it was like the Divines favoured her endeavour. She recalled from her dinner with the Breton and her father that Raelynn had studied the Dwemer, which came as a genuine surprise for the Khajiit, but it also gave her the idea that perhaps the Breton wasn’t entirely useless, after all. Gregor had seemed all too eager to meet this governor, probably because he had some sick and twisted vengeance pumping through his incomprehensible mind, but he was a talented fighter and he managed to keep a very diplomatic exterior most of the time. After receiving a promise he’d behave himself and stick to the story he was their bodyguard, the three of them set out to see what the Dwemer had in store for them.

Gregor had retrieved his armor from the chest at the end of his bed before they set off for the palace. He now looked mostly the same as he did back in Cyrodiil, but the fact that he had left his billowing cloak behind and that the clothes beneath his armor were of the light and breezy linen variety made all the difference in the world. Combined with his deliberately unkempt hair, he looked exactly the part of a high-end mercenary and less like a knight of the late Third Era. They had agreed that Raelynn and Daro’Vasora would do all the talking, which suited him just fine. He was here because he wanted to look Governor Rourken in the eyes and see what kind of woman’s soul he would be offering to the Ideal Masters before long… if he got his way.

After a whirlwind tour through what seemed to be a museum made up entirely of newly manufactured artifacts and some anecdotes about the Rourken clan’s historical claims to Hammerfell, the three were summoned to speak with the governor, albeit in a fairly gentle and curious manner. And now, they stood here, looking upon a youthful looking and beautiful Mer who turned to them with a courteous smile.

Razlinc strolled across the floor, her sandals barely making a sound as she stepped, almost as if gliding across the floor. She stopped to the side of her seat, looking the three in the eyes. “I am Governor Razlinc Rourken, the sovereign of Volenfell. Thank you for answering my summons, as you can imagine, I am just as curious about other civilizations and cultures as you must be of mine. I understand that you are scholars of my people?” she asked, gesturing for the others to take a seat.

To further emphasize the point that Gregor wasn’t there to talk but simply as their bodyguard, he remained where he was, hands clasped behind his back, standing at attention in the typical wide-legged stance of soldiers and mercenaries alike. He let his gaze drift through the room with all the practiced ease he could muster, and only allowed himself to let his eyes linger on Razlinc Rourken every so often. She… wasn’t what he had expected. Rourken’s appearance reminded him of the other Dwemer woman he had met the day before. It was obvious that the governor was of far higher status but this point was made in an elegant and understated way. Rourken’s eyes revealed a sharp and calculating intellect and her choice of dress and jewelry stressed that she wasn’t fond of excess or other insensible displays. For some reason Gregor was reminded of stories about the Wolf Queen, Potema -- a woman who, while insane, was exceedingly good at getting the job done. Rourken gave Gregor the same impression of capability now. She met his gaze as she swept it across the three of them while she talked and held it for a second or two. Gregor nodded politely, but did not look away. He wanted her to remember him.

Daro’Vasora had insisted she join her for a walk to the Cultural Centre - presumably to put to test the knowledge that her father had alluded to. Not wanting to displease the Khajiit, especially after such a stern showdown earlier in the morning, Raelynn had put on a smile and accepted. Thankfully, Gregor was with them too - but something in her intuition informed Raelynn that even that was part of Daro’Vasora’s meddling scheme. The Breton couldn’t help but hark back to what Gregor had said the night before - knowing his secret gave her a feeling of rampant confidence, like she had something over her feline companion, and the Dwemer who would be there. It also brought grave concern, it played at the back of her mind what he would do - how he would act...

When it came to being in front of Rourken, she was nervous and unsure, but she did not show it on her face and maintained a calm composure. In the intimidating presence of the Governor, Raelynn bowed her head courteously. “It’s an honour to be here Governor Rourken,” were the first words to leave her lips in a polite tone that matched her body language - “I’m not so certain that a scholar best describes me, although I have read vigorously about Dwemer culture, customs, and history - none of which could have ever prepared me for this meeting.”

Sparing a cautious glance towards Gregor, Daro’Vasora took the offered seat and adjusted herself accordingly. “For most of my life, as a matter of fact. I’ve been fascinated with Dwemer ruins ever since I was a young girl, I’ve cataloged a number of artifacts, found treasures that haven’t been seen since the Merethic Era. It’s incredible that I’ve had the opportunity to meet someone from the same civilization as those I’ve come to admire for their ingenuity, but until now could only speculate about who they actually were.”

“And have your preconceptions been validated, or have they been challenged?” Razlinc asked with a pencil thin smile.

The Khajiit returned the gesture. “I still have not been decided on that yet; while initial impressions of Gilane and Volenfell are magnificent and something of a dream come true for someone like myself who cherishes living history, the reports from the East are troubling, to say the least. It is difficult to reconcile the grace and hospitality you have shown us, as well as those within your administration, with the reports of the events in Cyrodiil.” Daro’Vasora replied, hoping she did not cross a line with the governor, but she needed to find out answers from her even if they presented a certain risk.

Gregor had managed to keep his silent composure for all of a single minute by the time he felt compelled to speak up. “If I may,” he interjected, casting a reassuring glance at Daro’Vasora, “that has been a burning question on my mind as well.” He looked at Governor Rourken and took a deep breath before speaking. “Your eminence, Daro’Vasora has decided to broach the subject with diplomatic language but I hope you can forgive me for being more direct. I am not a scholar. The carnage the Dwemer have wrought in my home is more than troubling. It is baffling and cruel beyond reason or measure. I can tell that you and yours are not the same… faction, or people, or however you define yourselves, as those that invaded Cyrodiil.” He paused, his expression grim, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. “If I seem angry, please know that it is not directed at you. But I must ask, if you know: why was the Imperial City sacked? Why were its defenseless citizens slaughtered?” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it again, and then managed one final outburst. ”Why?”

Raelynn’s eyes widened ever so, but her smile did not falter as Gregor's speech of reproval was shot across the table. Slowly, and subtly she reached her arm out behind her and placed her hand on his, gently squeezing against it to pull him back to the present moment - to remind him where he was, and who was here. She turned her head to look at him, to show him she had acknowledged his words, and to show the Governor that she had acknowledged him too.

The sensation of Raelynn's touch sliced through Gregor's mounting anger like a scythe through wheat. He tore his gaze away from Governor Rourken for a second to look into Raelynn's eyes and felt an immediate calm descend over him. She was right. This was not the time for rough emotions. Gregor looked back up at the Dwemer sitting across from them and mustered a suitably apologetic expression.

Raelynn held onto his fingers for a moment more, before sliding her arm back to her own side, laying them both on the table in front of her; “Governor, I hope you beg our pardon of course, but it has been the question on our lips, I hope you can understand, our bodyguard just shows concern…” She spoke in a calm and collected manner, and nervousness she bore before had all but gone from her being, knowing that she had to dissolve the tension in the room; political nous came easily to her and her words flowed elegantly across the room to Rourken with a sophisticated sincerity. She punctuated the end of her sentence with a kind smile and nod.

Oh, fuck. Daro’Vasora thought, tensing at the sudden interjection by Gregor, who was proceeding to do exactly what he promised not to do. Was he trying to get them killed? The Khajiit began to quickly survey the room for a potential escape route when she was broken out of her search by the sound of a cup being filled.

Razlinc calmly filled her tea as she listened, her face impassive as she listened to Gregor’s increasingly tense outburst.

Knowing that she had managed to conciliate Gregor’s brewing storm, Raelynn continued to address Governor Rourken, “it is our pleasure to be here in Volenfell,” she began, tilting her head to the side as she watched Rourken pour tea. “The Dwemer are the people who settled this land, were they not? When the great hammer Volundruung was thrown to the skies -- I remember reading about it, a fascinating story of origin if I say so myself.” The Governor was still looking away, and so the Breton took the opportunity to give Daro’Vasora a quick look, telling her with her expressive eyes that the anger had been quelled.

“It is as you say, my friend; we are of different clans, and different administrations. My clan has no presence in Cyrodiil, nor do we have any influence over the other governors. We can discourage and show disapproval as much as we please, but it is up to them to heed those words or not. Regrettably, so far we have held no sway, and for that, I am truly sorry. We are not affiliated with those in the East, save for a very common objective; survive as we establish ourselves once more in Tamriel, for the place we had been banished to will not retain its form for much longer.” Razlinc replied to Gregor before offering a polite smile to Raelynn and a curt nod.

“The tale of Volundruung is true, and here you sit upon the very location it landed. This palace was built around that mighty hammer, one of our greatest tools, and it is how this province earned its name; Volenfell, Hammerfell. It humbles me that you have an appreciation of our history, regardless how long ago it was.” She explained calmly, turning to walk towards the balcony. She gestured for the others to follow.

Raelynn rose from her seat gracefully, her posture that of a noble woman. She knew it was no instance to relax it - they all had to be on their toes now. Still, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise with excitement when Rourken informed them that this very palace was where the famous Volundruung fell. Something about stepping around such a historical wonder electrified her and made her heart swell - she mused over how her younger self would feel to be here. Her smile grew as she followed the Governor to the balcony, listening intently to what she had to say next.

Gilane spread all around, and looked positively tranquil from above. The metallic sheen upon the domes glistened brilliantly in the late morning sun, and the streets and roofs were often splashes of colour against the uniform appearance of the sandstone. “This city, this very land, was our home long before the Yokudans crossed the sea to claim our empty structures for themselves. When we returned, we did not expect to find a strange race of men living in our streets and our halls, and it was never my wish to intrude upon them. You see, thousands of years had passed since we left, but where we went it had only been six hundred.” She said, letting that sink in for her guests.

“The plane we had been banished to by one of the Tonial Architects in our Jerall Mountains facility that had been attempting to fabricate something akin to a new plane of Oblivion to banish the Chimer and Nords to to ensure peace with enemies who would never accept it, unfortunately it backfired when the Heart of Lorkan was struck due to sabotage and we were all suddenly displaced to a place that was not fully formed.” she sighed, her face grim as she stared at the streets far below. “Many or our people did not survive the first two years. It is why a woman of 174 years such as myself is the surviving member of her clan and has to lead her people to a home that many have never seen before. I stand here now, as my grandfather once did, and wonder what he would have done. I wish for peace and coexistence with the people of Volenfell,”

Razlinc turned to face Gregor, looking at him with her emerald green eyes as they locked with his. “But the reality is, you do not have unexpected intruders show up in lands you feel are your own without resistance. I have stayed the hands of my generals where possible, but hard measures have been required. Every death that has been inflicted has been out of necessity, but I carry the weight with me because it is never what I wanted. You need to understand that when the gateway was opened for the first time in six hundred years, it presented a chance to save our people from extinction. We cannot stay there, for it grows increasingly unstable.

“In another two hundred, it will likely collapse upon itself and everything within it will perish. This is why my peers in the other clans have lashed out with brutality, they feel that the realms of men will never accept our return nor give us our homes back after so many years of intense mutual hatred and distrust. This is why they take the seats of power from these lands and use excessive force to achieve their goals; they feel fear and power are the only ways to ensure our continued existence. Understand it is not the way I have chosen to proceed, and I speak openly to you so you may appreciate that I do not come as a conqueror, but I do what I must to ensure that in time, all of our people can coexist in a world that is large enough for us all.”

“First and foremost, my apologies for my outburst,” Gregor and and bowed his head. “You have my gratitude for being so gracious, and for your explanation of the actions of the other Clans. I admire the restraint you have shown here in Volenfell.” He looked at Daro'Vasora and Raelynn while taking a step back to indicate that he was done talking. Everything that Rourken had just told them was exceedingly interesting and he wondered if the Governor would have been so forthcoming with this information if he hadn't been so upset. Rourken evidently cared about appearances and the Dwemer's image enough to placate him. It could be argued that he had inadvertently gathered more information this way… or, on the other hand, that they had only narrowly avoided death by the sheer good fortune of Rourken's patient character. Either way, Gregor felt uncomfortable that he had slipped so easily. He hadn't truly realized before how much the devastation in Cyrodiil bothered him. He thought of his family, and of Briar, and turned away from the others, busying himself by staring out over Gilane.

“There is no need for apologies; were our positions reversed, I would wish for answers as well. While I doubt there is anything about us that you actually admire, I will endeavor to eventually earn that sentiment, not just from you, but all people.” Razlinc replied, turning back to gaze upon the city.

Daro’Vasora, in turn, took the moment to quietly exhale and cover her mouth with a hand. How on Nirn had that gone well? She’s expected to be kicked out of the palace, at best, but the Governor appeared to be infinitely patient. Perhaps she knew that this occupation would be trying everyone’s patience and good graces and kept an impenetrable air of approachability to placate them. Even Gregor seemed to buy the explanation, which was way more than the Khajiit had expected. So Rhea did accidentally prompt the Dwemer to return when she activated the device, but the thing that really was hard to wrap her head around was the time perception difference; thousands of years had gone by since the Dwemer had vanished without a trace, but it was only six centuries for them? They must have tried sending scouts, but even if they were gone for mere days, it might have seemed like weeks, or years. Trying to work out the difference was a headache in of itself, so instead she simply said, “I am sorry for the trials the Dwemer have faced and I hope that this transition goes smoothly. Many people wish for justice to be done after what has happened in Cyrodiil, and pardon my presumption, but I feel publicly distancing your clan from the others would be beneficial in the long run.” She said, hoping that a line was not crossed.

“Perhaps, but there are two Khajiiti kingdoms, are there not? Do you feel the obligation to apologize when one or the other crosses some kind of boundary?” Razlinc asked. “Or the Aldmeri Dominion itself? It is very much the same for us; we share a culture and a race, but we are not beholden to the actions of others, even if the average citizen will try.”

Turning to face the trio, Razlinc regarded them each in turn. “It is my genuine gratitude that you all have taken the time to try and learn about my people, and in turn, I hope that I have enlightened you about our plight and intentions. In time, it would do us well to be able to exchange cultures and ideas without distrust and animosity, but this is how progress is made; small, personal steps. As much as I have an abundance of questions for each of you, I am afraid my own curiosity must wait as the weight of governance is always pressing. It would be my genuine pleasure should I encounter any of you later on, and maybe the society and justice we all hope for will be achieved. My aide will see you out.”

As if it was rehearsed, the double doors opened again and the young Dwemer appeared, strolling towards them expectantly. Razlinc offered one last parting word. “Do try and tolerate the system in place during these trying times, transitional phases are often painful and trying, but the fruits of the labour will be worth it in the end. Until we meet again.”

When the trio were escorted out of the palace and earshot, Daro’Vasora massaged her temples with a forefinger and a thumb. “Well, that was enlightening. I also found out that I can’t trust Gregor to keep it in his pants when his life is on the line, so that’s marvelous. Look, Gregor; I get it, it’s painful and it sucks and that person might have had answers, but you’re not doing anyone any favours by holding the person who can throw us in prison or execute us on a whim personally accountable for what happened to Imperial City. I lost someone too, you know. It was my home.” the Khajiit implored, staring into Gregor’s eyes. “Look, I don’t care whatever it is you both have going on between you, but I’ve got shit to take care of before tonight. Try not to get stains all over your finery.” she said as a manner of parting before taking off, disappearing down the winding streets as surely as if she were one of the locals.

Before she had a chance to react to Daro’Vasora’s words, the Khajiit had taken off - and she suddenly felt a strong grip on her arm from behind which interrupted her thoughts; “Miss Hawkford, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” The voice was quiet and sounded hollow - emotionless, “your father demands your presence immediately.” She abruptly turned on her heel to face a tall and imposing Redguard man, her gaze drawn immediately to the intimidating thick black markings around his eyes.

She vaguely recalled seeing him the night before as she yanked her arm free from his tight grip, “and I demand if you want to keep those hands of yours, you keep them off me. My father can wait, I will see to him in my own time,” her tone was impatient and sharp and her jaw clenched as she spoke to him, but he did not flinch at her response and remained in an arresting stance. “Your father has demanded to see you now,” were the words he repeated coldly, an emphasis on the last word. She grew angry at him, but did not press the issue anymore - “well then, take me to him if he is so desperate to see me. But keep your hands away from me, and maybe try to feign a smile...” She gave Gregor a nod as a farewell before she was escorted off into the streets.

He watched her leave with a knot in his stomach. The Khajiit was right. He had taken an unacceptable risk in challenging Rourken like that. It left him feeling frustrated and actually a little embarrassed, which were feelings that he did not like to dwell on. Spending some time with Raelynn would have been an excellent way to take his mind off things but now that her father had demanded her presence, he was left alone to stew in his emotions. Gregor kicked a loose pebble away across the road before setting off back to the hotel. Perhaps a bath would help him relax.

29th of Second Seed, Evening
Gilane, Hammerfell

It was cold. Shakti shivered, even wrapped in her robes and tattered cloak. She leaned against the wall, next to the door to a small, out of the way watering hole. She had spent the better part of an hour trailing a man wearing the same type of cloak as hers, albeit in somewhat better shape. The type of cloak only a former Knight of the Moon would have. Or daughter of a Knight of the Moon in her case. Israhal's contact had been right. There was a Knight here. She had seen him speak with some of the Dwemer and Redguard patrols as he snaked his way from bar to bar. Evidently he knew them or had some ties to the local government. She had finally decided that this place was small and out of the way enough for her to make her move. She did not plan for it to get violent, after all, she only wanted information. There's no telling what a drunken former knight might do though, so she kept her guard up. The door opened and a Redguard man, with his arm around an equally drunk Redguard woman wobbled out. Shakti caught the door as it swung back and slunk inside.

The smell was terrible. Like vomit and cheap but overly strong alcohol had mingled together for far too long. It was smoke filled as well, no doubt the result of several men in the corner puffing away on hookahs and pipes in the style of foreign lands. Shakti kept her cloak over her mouth as she slowly and methodically picked her way through the small but fairly crowded establishment, searching for her target. Finally she spotted him, and with one hand on her sword she did her best attempt at a swagger over to him. His back was towards her, too busy chatting with another man wearing the uniform of the city guard. Shakti took a deep breath and tapped the man on the shoulder. He turned his whole body to look at her. He was fairly average looking, not quite attractive but not ugly either. She guessed he was a Breton or Nord based on his pale skin, although pale skinned Redguards were not totally unheard of. Sentinel was on the Iliac Bay and a frequent destination for Bretons seeking knighthood outside of High Rock, which explains the high numbers of Bretons in the Knights of the Moon.

"Huh? What do you want, girl?" The man's accent was definitely foreign, but Shakti could not place it, not through the slight slurring of words that came with the nice buzz the man was speaking through.

"You are a Knight, correct?" She asked plainly.

"Might be I am. Wait- That cloak!" His eyes flashed from suspicion to realisation in an instant. "Where did you get that, girl?"

"I think you know exactly where I got it. Taren Nasaaj, what happened to him?" Her tone came out very accusatory, possibly a mistake. She did her best to contain her rising emotions. Control, control, control! She repeated in her head. She grimaced inwardly, hoping the man wouldn't totally shut her out.

His eyes narrowed. He got out of his seat. He was taller than Shakti, but she did her best to project her presence. "I suggest you scurry back to wherever you came from, girl. It's best you don't know what happened to him." His tone was dark, threatening. She did not like the implications. The room felt like a powderkeg. She saw in her periphery the man's companions eyeing her warily. Their hands were all below the table, no doubt clutched around weapons. Despite the tension in the small bubble, sounds of merriment and the clinking of glasses still radiated throughout. "Tell me what happened." Shakti insisted, as forcefully as she could. "Last warning, girl. Leave." She couldn't back down though, not now. Her pride wouldn't let her. "I've come too far to let you stop me. Tell me what happened to him and I will leave." The emotion in her voice had changed. Gone was the blunt force, replaced with deadly calm.

"Don't stick your head where it doesn't belong!" The man roared as he lunged at her. Luckily, drink had slowed him, and Shakti had enough time to dive out of the way. She half-rolled-half-tumbled to the right, narrowly missing a man carrying a drink. The drunken knight (if he even was still a knight) crashed into a table, upending it and sending the occupants scattering. Unfortunately the man's companions were not so deep in the drink and were faster. One of them was already brandishing a scimitar and vaulting over the table after her. The other had gone around to try and cut off her escape from the door. She could not fight them here, not with all these people. She pushed her way through the rapidly panicking crowd to try and make it to the door before the man could cut her off. The small door was rapidly becoming clogged with people trying to escape the fight, Shakti among them. This did have the added effect of preventing the second man from cutting her off, he himself becoming entangled in the mob, reaching in vain for her. She could hear the curses and grunts of the knight as he got up and started hurling people out of the way. Desperately, Shakti pushed and pushed at the people in front of her, stealing a quick look back at the rapidly approaching threesome of trouble.

Finally, she resorted to literally throwing her body at the stuck group of barflies, causing the doorframe to splinter and the six or seven people to spill out onto the stone of the streets. Shakti herself almost tripped and fell on the poor fools who had fallen as she stumbled out into the cool night air. As soon as she was free of the crowd she spun back towards the door., her hand on her sword. Sure enough, almost immediately the three men, all brandishing blades, made a beeline for her. The first man, the one with the scimitar advanced and swung at her in one motion. She drew her blade and slapped the scimitar away in a fluid motion of her own. She then riposted with a downward cut that the man counter-parried. She hopped backwards, anticipating a counter-riposte that never came. The Knight advanced on her, his Cyrad-style longsword drawn. This time she was the first to attack. Shakti dashed forwards, feinting to the left before swiping upwards at his heart. It would have been a killing blow had the man not blocked it and redirected her blade towards the stones of the road. Even drunk, the man was obviously well trained.

The gale wind of emotions in her heart was slowly dying down and Shakti was beginning to realise she was a bit overmatched. The third man thrust at her with a wicked-looking-knife and she barely strafed left in time to avoid a jab in the ribs. She circled the three men, her sword held neutrally at her centre. Her eyes were rapidly scanning the area for an escape, but she didn't dare to move her head, lest she give them an opportunity to attack. The Knight roared and swung a terrible overhead blow that if it had landed would have bisected Shakti for sure. If it had landed. She sidestepped the blow and in return smote him across the back with a solid chop. Luckily for his spine, he was wearing chainmail and leather and thus the blow was mostly absorbed. It did however, have the force to send him sprawling against the ground. Before she could react and finish him, she heard the whistling of a sword and instinctively raised her bracer to block it. Sometimes acting on instinct was a good thing, especially if one has honed their instincts. This was not one of those times. The scimitar cut straight through the hardened leather of the bracer and bit deep into her arm. Shakti screamed in pain and lashed out with her foot, planting it firmly on the man's chest and sending him stumbling backwards. Despite the horrible, burning, searing pain in her left arm she seized the moment and took off running, slamming her sword back into its sheath as she sprinted down the path.

She looked back and saw the three men desperately running to catch her, but she was too fast. They were rapidly fading into the darkness as the gap between them grew. Ignoring the pain and focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, the young Redguard did not notice the Dwemer patrol until it was too late. She turned and made a last ditch attempt to turn and slide between them, but the two guardsmen were prepared. One of them merely stuck his arm out at head height and brutally clotheslined her. Nearly causing her to flip over as she slammed painfully into the ground. The fall combined with the cut on her forearm was too much. The last thing she remembered was the two helmeted heads of the Dwemer soldiers staring at her.

---

When next Shakti awoke, the world was a grey fuzzy blob. She blinked twice and sat up rubbing her eyes. Her head ached and her left arm throbbed badly. She tentatively considered looking down, hoping maybe if she didn't look the wound would go away. It wouldn't of course, so she forced herself to inspect the damage. The bracer itself was split in the middle and dried blood coated it. She delicately unstrapped the bracer and pulled the torn sleeve of her robe back. She instinctively sucked her teeth. It was bad, but not crippling. It was sore when she moved her hand and arm but the fact she could move it was a good thing. Idly scraping dried blood from her arm she next inspected her surroundings. Some sort of holding cell. It was made of stone and save for a high window that let light shine in, there was only one way out, a metal door with no visible windows. She stood up and stretched. Her body felt bruised all over. She wondered how long she had been out for. It had to have been at least a couple hours, because of the light. She felt for her sword, which of course, wasn't there. Shakti mumbled a curse and then quickly prayed to Satakal to forgive her foul language. She needed to get the sword back. It was her Father's after all! Luckily, the Dwemer hadn't taken much else from her, save her knife, her food, and her satchel it was all in. She hopped up and grabbed the edge of the window with her one good arm and hoisted herself up the rest of the way with both of her arms and peered out into the daylight. Squinting, she could make out some of the city landmarks and, from what she could see and couldn't see she guessed she was in the city dungeon. A child could have figured that out! She let go of the window and flopped back onto her straw mat. Her stomach grumbled. Maybe just a few more minutes of sleep before escaping...

The metal door swung open with a crash, startling Shakti's eyes open. She sat up like lightning as her eyes focused on the two figures standing over her. "You. Get up." The voice was harsh and grating, almost inhuman. Well, it wasn't human. It was Dwemer. The figure in its burnished armour brandished a spear at her, forcing her shakily to her feet. On her way out of the cell, she noted it was dark again. A few more minutes indeed. She thought grimly. Stupid stupid stupid! The two Dwemer led her down a corridor and into a holding cell with a few other prisoners. When she dragged her feet getting into the other cell, the spear-wielding guard gave her a shove that sent her stumbling fully into the area. Shakti cradled her injury and surveyed the other prisoners. No one she recognised. Mostly fellow Redguards, though. Local resistance or just petty thieves and troublemakers? Turning back to look out of the bars, her eyes searched for her things amongst the pile of items on the other side of the room. It was impossible to know for sure, but she thought she spied the hilt of her Father's sword. She imagined herself as a powerful mage and tried to will her imaginary telekinetic powers into bringing her the sword. Worth a try. She thought, giggling inwardly. Her nonexistent magicka reserves depleted she turned back around and resigned herself to sitting back against the bars, rubbing more blood and dirt from her wounded arm with her cloak.

Hours had passed. Prisoners had come, prisoners had gone. Seemingly at random, although Shakti had a few theories on patterns amongst the prisoners. One, the ones that had been taken were all healthy. No one with an obvious wound (Shakti included) had been taken. Secondly, they seemed to take the biggest and fiercest-looking prisoners only. Perhaps they thought they couldn't handle feeding the big ones? Seemed unlikely. She settled on the theory that they were probably being separated between prisoners who could fight in the arena. It would explain why they were only taking healthy prisoners. After all, no one wanted to bet on a wounded fighter. It would also explain why the bigger ones were being taken. Shakti counted herself lucky that she had sustained a wound. If I had not been injured, I might be dead or fighting for my life right now. She silently thanked the nameless Desert Spirit and Diagna and rested her head against the cool metal of bars.

Eventually they stopped taking prisoners out, and even the influx slowed to a trickle. In total there were perhaps six of them, counting Shakti. She was getting bored and began to trace the motions of sword-forms in the air when the Dwemer guards returned and ordered everyone up and into a line. Shakti was second-to-last in line and thus couldn't see where they were going very well, but eventually they were bombarded with the late afternoon sun, still as hot as she remembered from all of two-ish days ago. Much to all of the prisoner's lament, they had to stand in said hot afternoon sun for the better part of an hour, slowly watching the sun set as the Dwemer guards argued with the local Redguard officer about something. Shakti couldn't make out exactly what they were arguing about, but it seemed like something to do with a delayed wagon. She supposed they did not wish to travel at night for fear of ambushes, but the delay was causing them to consider it. The Redguard officer was telling them to wait out the night, because they were sure to be attacked if they attempted travel, but the Dwemer counterpart was insisting on sticking to the schedule and that they would travel through the night. It seemed that the Dwemer won out and the prisoners were herded onto the wagon once it arrived and chained together so that they could not run, at least not easily.

As the wagon began to move, Shakti attempted one last telekinetic summon of her sword, which to her dismay, failed like the first. Temporarily defeated, she slumped down and settled in for the ride.

24th of Second Seed, Anvil

Alarm bells were blaring.

Anifaire had been walking through town. She had no real destination, but sitting in her borrowed inn room had gotten stale enough to send her out into the unknown. She was just beginning to worry that the inn was out of sight; she'd wandered all the way to the city walls. That was when the alarms began.

The crowd she was in began shuffling faster. A woman cried out a boy's name. She shuffled through the crowd, trying to reach her young boy. Anifaire watched the scene, bumping back and forth, in a stupor. The Dwemer, again? She couldn't do that again.

The chattering of people around her melded into one noise. She struggled to pick up any details about what was happening. The Dominion was here, she heard. The Dominion. Why is that making everyone run? she thought. She didn't comprehend it. They must have arrived to help.

The Altmer slowly made her way outside the crowd, trying to collect herself. She couldn't understand why her people brought such fear, but it was the same way when she went to the University. People believed her to be some sort of Thalmor agent and they hated her for it. What have we done wrong?

If the Dominion was there, her sister may be with them. Anifaire wondered if they would bring her home, or help her get funds, or help her go back to the University. She missed her sister dearly, heart clenching at the idea of seeing her again. She'd always admired her. Alindril had known exactly what she wanted, and sought it out from the beginning of her life. Anifaire had always been uncertain, always following her parents' leads.

Until Cyrodiil, anyway. She stepped farther away from the crowd, closer to the city walls. The Altmer didn't feel in danger; her own people were here, after all. She aimlessly touched her pouch of gold. She did that every so often, since acquiring it. It brought her an unfamiliar sense of pride. Money had never been an object to her. She rarely held physical coins, and spending was never a question. If she needed something, or wanted it, it was hers. Few questions asked.

Things were different after the Imperial City was taken. She'd been thrown out, a refugee, refused service at the bank, and had to survive through living conditions she'd never considered before.

Her few coins, truly not a lot to live off of, felt like a fortune to her.

She wondered if, after all she'd been through, she could return to her parents' home. She would live the same daily life: study magic, the Dwemer, if she had any time, but she was out of translations to work on, eat, sleep. Perhaps her parents would arrange a marriage, and she would repeat the same lifestyle in her husband's home. She would be comfortable. She wouldn't be standing in an unfamiliar city, at the edge of a panicked, bustling crowd, trying to decide if that coloured patch of roof in the distance was the inn she was staying at.

"Eh! It's an Altmer!"

Abruptly, she was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around. A large, brutish woman was gripping her far too tightly. Anifaire struggled to pull back, pushing at the woman's arm, but she held tightly.

"Get off me!" she squeaked.

"You're one of them - the Dominion thinks they can just come into my home and do things their way, eh?" the woman growled.

"I've- I've got nothing to do with them!" Anifaire shouted, finally springing free of the woman's grasp. She stumbled away from her, quickly jogging a few steps away. Flustered as she was, she wasn't looking in the right direction and bumped directly into someone - someone armoured.

"Scum," the voice grumbled. She was shoved backwards, toppling onto the ground for lack of balance. She looked up to find a lightly armoured Altmer, definitely Thalmor. She gasped, trying to get back up, but the man stepped towards her once more. She stumbled, still on the ground, to put space between them.

"I'm not-I'm- you're- I'm from Auridon," she stuttered.

"Disgraceful," he sneered. "A defector. Look at you." She thought about her ragged clothes, undone hair, and choked back a sob. She was pathetic.

"I- stop, leave me alone!" Anifaire made it to her feet with that last comment. Flustered and nervous, she hurried back into the crowd of people. As she made her way through, she took a quick glance backwards to see if the man was following her. He wasn't; clearly he had other priorities.

She hurried through the crowd before she really considered her destination. When she found herself looking down the street at the inn where she'd been staying with some of the expedition group, she thought for a moment that she should be surprised. She wasn't. Somewhere along the way, she'd found some sliver of a place there. The uncomfortable thought squirmed in her head. That group was leaving for Hammerfell.

Images of the Dominion-hating woman and the cruel Thalmor agent flashed through her mind, and the idea of staying in Anvil didn't sound comfortable.

She trudged on towards the inn.

---

Morning, 30th of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

Hammerfell was different than Anifaire expected. The climate was warm enough to remind her of home, but still felt stranger and drier. Her clothes from Cyrodiil, though ragged, were still thicker and warmer than she would like in this weather, but she clutched the remains of her only, ever paycheck tight to her chest. The Altmer dared not use it on anything but food. Fortunately, this time, her accomodations were at least taken care of this time.

This ‘resistance’ business. Anifaire wasn’t sure what to make of it. She wasn’t a fighter; she was next to useless to this cause - and she was afraid. She didn’t even see the point of it, anyway. Life in Hammerfell didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that the Dwemer happened to be Dwemer.

She had few items to unpack at the inn, so she simply left to see more of the country she’d barely been paying attention on her way in because of her nerves. Once she knew what she was in for, she both wanted the space and was curious to see more real, live Dwemer.

Not wanting a repeat of the many times she’d lost track of the way back to her lodgings, Anifaire was sure to wander in sight of the inn. Still, in her limited wanderings, she found herself almost as entranced at watching the locals as the Dwemer she saw. They were foreign in a similar sort of way. Eventually, she sat down on a bench at the edge of the street near the inn, just watching people come and go. Her clothes were hot, and she haphazardly tried to roll up her sleeves. Once, she would’ve considered it indecency, but… it seemed standards she had once considered to be of the utmost importance didn’t matter as much anymore.

Meanwhile, Alim had taken to acquiring some breakfast without having paid for it. It took him awhile, as he made sure he stole from a high end Dwemer establishment. He was fortunate that the ancient race did not look so different from other Elves, or even men for that matter. He had to admit the Dwemer and the Redguards had a very similar look in the way of facial hair. Pointed beards or well groomed goatees seemed to be the fashion, the only main difference being that the Dwemer enjoyed their sideburns.

Alim had taken his sausage links and fruit from a carriage, the notable Dwemer within having been distracted for a moment by the sights and sounds of the day on the opposite street. A quick peek, sly fingers and silent movements, and Alim found himself with a full breakfast. He now needed a place to enjoy his meal, and as usual he was going to choose an elevated position so he could look over the marketplace and the Inn. That is, until he caught a familiar sight.

His approach was hidden from within the crowds, as well as the sweptside cloth he wore over his chin, mouth, and nose to keep the sand out of his airway. Though Gilane hardly had that problem, it was more of a fashion statement. Suddenly, Anifaire would see Alim just as he sat down beside her, offering her an apple. “Hungry?”

Anifaire turned her head in surprise, immediately eyeing the apple. She hadn’t noticed before, but her stomach felt rather empty.

“Definitely,” she replied.

Alim handed it to her with a smile, his mouth already full (and closed as he chewed, he didn’t want to be rude). He bit into his apple again. “What were you out doing, Ani?” he asked. The day was already getting hot, but the apples were able to cool them down somewhat. Akatosh, he’d forgotten how tall she was.

“Need to find something in particular? I’ve passed through this city before a few years back.”

“I’ve never been to Hammerfell,” she replied between refreshing bites. She thought for a moment of Cyrodiil, and of home. It was different here. “I was watching the people.” She pulled at her sleeves again, wishing the skirts of the dress were a thinner. “I’ve never been anywhere, really. It seems like you’ve travelled everywhere.”

“Not yet,” he chuckled, and finished his apple. “I’ve been to…” He paused, making sure he got it all correctly. “Highrock, here, Cyrodiil, Elsweyr, Blackmarsh for a short second but only so I could pass northward. I’ve never been to Skyrim or Morrowind. I’d love to go someday. The Summerset Isle as well.” Mentioning that last bit, his eyes turned to hers.

“You never really think about all the places you’ve been until a few years pass, then you realize you’re different than who you were.”

“I…” she paused on his final comment, considering where she had been, even only a year prior, or two. “I’m different, now, I think. Since I left Alinor. Uh- Summerset. Even just since the expedition.”

Her apple was finished, but she spun it around, looking for any spots she might be able to get a last bite. She frowned, not finding anything but core. “I’m afraid,” she admitted.

Alim blinked, wondering what she meant. If it was the rough culture of hammerfell or any particular person he’d get the knife, but he got the feeling that wasn’t it. “What do you mean, Anifaire?”
“I’ve never left home like this.” Anifaire rummaged around for her sack of gold and pulled it out, weighing the last few coins in her hand. “I’m not… Alim, my family has money. I’ve never… this is… new. I’m not good at this. I can’t fight. I get lost.”

The gold she’d been so proud of days before was running low, and she was beginning to wonder how she would be able to contribute to their endeavour here. “A resistance…” She frowned. “Why?”

His eyes downcast as he digested what she said, he opened his mouth to speak, but then zipped his lips. For once. Just when it seemed that he wouldn’t reply at all, he grabbed her hand. “Come on.” he said, pulling her up. When she gave a puzzling look, he just winked. “I got something to show you.”

With that, he led her up the street and then turned, leading her deeper into the maze of slums and buildings that was Gilane.

Anifaire followed along in surprise, both nerves and a hint of excitement bubbling inside her stomach. It seemed like her mood had gone from high to low, but the distraction and curiosity was enough to lighten things up for the time being. Her eyes wide as she took in the streets of Gilane with curiosity, she hurried along behind Alim.

As the cobblers bartered with foreign merchants, men and women danced and sang. A few entertainers juggled as others dangled swords down their throats for extra coins from passersby. One redguard, his pants and sash belt unassuming, wore a bright crimson vest and seemingly juggled fireballs for the amusement of a small gathered crowd.

“It wasn’t what I wanted, me leaving Highrock.” He said to her as they traversed through the crowds. “It was sort of...forced on me.”

After they turned down the next alleyway, they were suddenly alone save for two men who sat within cloaks, obviously using this as a resting place with shade. “But if I could do it all over again, I would.” he said. The dashing spellsword didn’t fully pass through the alleyway, instead opening up a makeshift curtain that had been placed along the ruin of a wall, and with a nod of encouragement, he led Anifaire up a vast and winding array of carved stairs.

“Watch your head,” he said with a care. There were some lower hanging bits of wooden scaffolding, and she was taller than he. The going was a bit arduous, but soon they made it to the very top.

And with a flick of his wrist, a knife appeared in his hands. A quick cut, and a dirt ridden curtain fell to reveal the entirety of Gilane reveal itself before Ani in all of its splendid beauty. The sea covered the entirety of the southern field of vision, with the Arena and the Governor’s Palace standing tall as if erected by titans of Old. Sea gulls swooped and cawed, and the exquisite architecture merely added to the already impressive scene. “And this is one of the reasons why.” He said with a grin.

Anifaire stepped farther out, attempting to get a better look. She gasped in amazement, her eyes sliding across each detail of the city one building at a time. Cyrodiil hadn’t truly impressed her; next to Alinor, it seemed colourless in a way. This, though, held its own exotic beauty and charm. Since arriving in Hammerfell, she’d been intrigued by its own culture, but she hadn’t yet realized its full beauty. Moments later, she turned to Alim, looking down at him with an expression of wonder on her face. “It’s amazing!”

“It is beautiful,” he admitted, simply gazing out for a moment to truly appreciate it himself. He turned back to Ani, and realized that he was helping her here more than the fact she was a teammate, or that she was pretty. He remembered how scared he had been, leaving home for the first time. He might have been a bastard, but he still had wealth back then. Luckily he learned how to get some of his own.

“And somehow, the Dwemer are here.” he said, changing the subject for a moment. “And they’re occupying it. But they won’t occupy many places in Tamriel. They’ll conquer and destroy. It’s only by the grace of Akatosh or Talos or someone that it’s still standing...But the Imperial City is not, anymore.”

He’d stepped onto the ledge, standing even taller than Anifaire at the moment. His tousled dark hair flowed in the wind. A gold coin slipped out into his hand, and he flipped it with a flick of his thumb. “You can do a lot of good with us, Ani. And you can learn a lot too. See the world…” He flipped the coin again to fall into Ani’s hands. Only because her eyes were on him did she catch it before it fell off the building. “I’m sorry, I talk too much. My point is, I’d like you to stay and I’d like to help you. If you’d let me. I know how you’re feeling, but I think I can help. Do you trust me?”

He held out his hand to her, smiling.

“I don’t think you talk too much,” she blurted out. She blinked for a second in confusion but brushed it off, nodding and taking his hand. He had a point, about the Imperial City. Occupation, well, it didn’t look strange to her, but what she’d seen back there… That was something that needed to be avoided. Something she didn’t want to see repeated.

Alim blinked, and his heart skipped a beat. He smiled, and squeezed her hand. “I’ll take that as a yes.” he said.

He stepped down, and suddenly realized they’d held eye contact for awhile. He tried to play it off cool. “Now, let’s get you some new clothes. Those shoes with that top?” He shook his head. “Tsk tsk, Scandalous.”

Anifaire paused, confused. “I’m wearing a dress.” She considered it’s torn state. “Sort of.” Her eyebrows shot up again. “Is it that bad?” She frowned, looking down at the messy fabric.

Alim stopped for a second. “N-No, that was a joke.” he said. “I think you look beautiful.” He decided to talk quickly after that to change the subject. “But you’re obviously really hot. In the dress I mean! Hammerfell clothes would suit you better, right?” He said as he led her down the stairs again.

“It is warm,” she agreed, a blush colouring her cheeks from the compliment. She considered her low funds but didn’t say anything; she didn’t want to embarrass herself.

As they made it into the alleyway again, Alim stopped for a second and told Ani to stay quiet for a moment, until the sound of music wafted into the alleyway. “There it is,” he breathed, and led her out of the alleyway and into the street, past the flute players, and into one of the many catacomb-like shops that filled Gilane.

Immediately the shade blanketed them, and the breeze actually felt slightly cool for once. Out of the back popped a woman of middle years, a redguard of course. Her face was veiled by what looked to be embroidered blankets, and her form was covered in a similar fabric save for her midriff.

“Yes, hello friends!” She greeted them, her hands splayed out and beckoning them forward. “Welcome to Ferona’s fabrics, how shall I please you?”

Alim produced a precious gem, the small fragment of the diamond glinting off the vendor’s eyes as she gazed at it hungrily. “You are going to help dress me friend for the weather, and do whatever she requires. Do that, and you get this as payment. Understand?”

“Yes, of course. Yes yes...come, darling. We shall go in the back…”

Anifaire didn’t even have a second to consider what was happening before the vendor led her by the arm, beginning to chatter away.

“What colours were you thinking? A nice green would…”

The Altmer shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder, back at Alim. Excitement bubbled in her stomach: real clothes. Alim was out of sight in moments and she was led behind a screen. Used to these types of processes, Anifaire quickly began stripping of her ragged dress. She tossed the fabric aside, hoping never to wear it again. Traveling from the Imperial City had really done a number on it.

“Darling, what did you decide?” the vendor asked, an array of fabrics now piled in her arms. Anifaire shot her a quizzical look over the screen; she hadn’t been listening. She blushed as she realized. That hadn’t been polite. “Colours?”

“Oh, um, greens will do nicely. Thank you.”

The vendor beamed, holding out some billowing skirts which looked just as hot as what she’d been wearing before. “These are more similar to what you’re accustomed to,” she said, “but they won’t be in style. If you’d like them, I can adjust them.”

“No, that’s fine,” Anifaire replied. A measure of confidence leaked back into her. She was accustomed to tailors and fittings. “Give me something in fashion. That won’t be too warm.”

The vendor agreed. She waved over an assistant who helped her search through the fabrics in her arms before she finally settled on a few garments which she hung over the screen. Anifaire took them wordlessly and began sorting out how to get them on. It truly wasn’t difficult, even the scarves. The pants were billowly and long; they almost looked like a skirt until she actually put them on. The silky material was comfortable, if odd. The shirt was strange. It showed more skin than she thought she’d ever seen in her life but, who was she to complain about what was in style? The vendor was right. She’d seen others in similar clothes.

Once she was dressed, the seamstress fitted the clothes to her. Anifaire held still as she was accustomed to doing, and the process was over soon. She wondered if Alim was waiting outside - and how he happened to be able to pay for this kind of treatment.

As she was led back out to the store front by the vendor, she found herself feeling more like her old self than she had in ages. It had been too long since she was clean, well dressed, and proper. Her hand strayed to her neck, where her mother’s necklace used to sit. It had been one of many, but her favourite, and held sentimental value. She had none left, though parting with the last one had been a particularly stinging defeat. Even without it, she felt that she carried herself more confidently.

Alim leaned against one of the inner stone pillars. In fact it was the only pillar in the store, but it was one of many in the vast complex of shops that kept the entirety of the building aloft. He was worried if everything in there would turn out ok. He heard the footsteps of the two women behind him, and he turned just in time to feel his jaw drop.

She looked...really pretty. It was very high end but comfortable Hammerfell clothing, form fitting yet simultaneously loose and poofy. He realized he was staring. “I love it.” he said.

“Thank you,” Anifaire replied quietly. She wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for the compliment, for paying, or both. It was all of it, she supposed.

“Hey,” he said, nudging her. “It’s what friends are for. We’re a team. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“How did you get that diamond by the way?” Anifaire asked.

“I do a lot of odd jobs an- oh that one? I stole it.”

---

A Collab by @Rtron and @Greenie

Nanine and Meg, 10:30am, 30th of Second Seed, 4E208

Meg hadn't really expected anyone else to come out on the balcony- even in her state she could see Gilane was a beautiful place with much to discover- so she had a look of surprise when she saw someone else had decided to join her.

"I'mma take all the septims I can get," she replied jokingly, a small chuckle escaping her as well. She moved a little to the side so that she was no longer standing right in the middle of the balcony, turning away from the railing so that she could see the other woman. They hadn't talked much, and to be fair Meg hadn't said much to anyone in the last six days. That being said, after the affairs at Skingrad, she did see Nanine as a nice and capable woman.

"How're you findin' all this?" she asked, a small hint of curiosity in her voice.

”The fact that the dwemer have conquered all of Hammerfell before they even got to Imperial City and they’re not just an invasion force but apparently refugees?” Nanine asked, looking over at Meg. ”It’s intimidating as oblivion, and makes things damnably grey. It was much easier to hate them when they were just bastards in dwemer armor that didn’t look old, wasn’t it?”

She glanced over the city, taking in the sights. It was proof that the dwemer weren’t just monsters. That they could show restraint. But life under an iron fist wasn’t a life most people wanted to live. ”And now we’re being asked to help in the resistance against them. I’m going to say yes, personally. The dwemer had an option to not attack Tamriel and butcher parts of it. They decided to do it anyway. Whether it was out of arrogance or desperation doesn’t matter. They forced it to be us versus them or us under them.”

She looked back at Meg smiling lightly. ”To put it simply, I find the whole situation to be fucked to oblivion, but I’m going to join the resistance anyway.”

Meg was silent for a moment, looking at the drink in her goblet, watching the liquid swirl gently due to the unintentional shaking of her hand. Were the others as sure of their decision as Nanine? She hadn’t spoken to Brynja or Judena yet since they’d arrived here; she trusted their judgement over the others in the group, but they weren’t here right now.

“I… I dunno,” she finally muttered. “T’was terrible what happened in Imperial City. I was there that day… I can still see them bodies in the streets, all bleedin’ an’ butchered… but…” Her voice trailed, thinking of their last day in Anvil. “T’be honest, I don’ feel like there’s a real choice in what’s gotta be done. I’m pretty sure the rest’re gonna be joinin’ as well, an’ there ain’t no other place for me to go.”

She paused and took a couple of sips of her drink before continuing. “I just… I dunno if resistin’ even gonna help. All I see are more people dyin’, people I care about. Like Rhea.” Her hand clenched around the goblet rather tightly. “She shouldn’ve died.” Her shoulder slumped and her grip relaxed. “I know… it’s stupid t’think people ain’ gonna die. Still…” She shook her head, her despair from earlier returning.

”No, it's not stupid. It’s hopeful. It’s what’s needed. No one wants anyone to die. If we all had our way, we’d sit the dwemer down, talk peace, and they’d go back to their ruins and do some trade. We don’t have that choice unfortunately. And you’re right, resistance will cause more death. But there will be even more if we do nothing and let them continue to rule with an iron fist.” Nanine stopped for a moment, seeing Meg seem to slip back into whatever brought her out onto the balcony in the first place. The girl seemed more troubled than before.

”Imperial City was your first experience in a war, wasn’t it?”

Silence followed for a small moment before Meg let out a weak chuckle. “Guessin’ it’s pretty obvious, eh?” She let out a breath before downing her drink. “Aye, that’d be right. Not that I haven’ seen people die b’fore, or even killed b’fore- did plenty of that with draugrs an’ bandits back in Skyrim. Still, it’s different ain’ it? I mean… especially now. T’was easier when I thought they were just… monsters, like draugrs an’ falmers. But…” Her voice trailed and she shook her head. “They’re men, women, kids. Just like me. I dunno…”

She looked over at Nanina, searching the Breton’s face for answers. “Are you sure? About what you wanna do?”

Nanine looked out over the city of Gilane, pondering. She knew it was the right choice to make. But it was also the bloody choice. People were going to die, and not all of them were going to deserve it. But was there any other choice to make? She looked back to Meg, seeing the need for answers and perhaps reassurance there. ”No.” Nanine admitted, lightning sparking gently between her fingers as she held them at her side. ”I’m scared that it's the wrong choice for the right reasons, and that in the end it’ll only do more harm than good. I’m worried that there’s another option we’re missing, that would find a way to make enough room for everyone and make everyone happy. And I’m not certain that the price we may have to pay for this will be worth whatever victory we may win.”

She sighed, turning to grip the balcony. Lighting still danced along her hands, the presence of magic comforting her. ”But it's the only choice I see in front of me. I doubt the dwemer will just listen and agree if we send delegations demanding the return of Redguard and Imperial sovereignty and that they settle in their ruins or establish other settlements. And it’s not right, what they did. You can’t return to areas that were left abandoned for centuries or more, subjugate or slaughter the populace that had risen in your absence, and then try to make people accept the new world order like it happened naturally. The choice I’ve made is the right choice, of that I’m sure. I’m just not certain it's the best choice.

”You’re right to be worried Meg. This course is going to put us head to head with the Dwemer, and we’ve seen what they’re capable of. That being said, if we participate in this, we can change things for the better. I’m not fighting because I hate the dwemer, I’m sure they feel they have no choice either. You don’t bring your civilians to a recently invaded and conquered territory without good reason, after all. I’m fighting so that we can have real peace talks that are on even footing, and not the conquerors telling the conquered how it will be. Some people in this resistance are bitter and angry. They’ll want complete annihilation and defeat of the dwemer. I think that will create a cycle of violence that won’t end until true genocide has been achieved on one side or the other. So I’m going to be involved to hopefully help cooler heads prevail, and make peace that everyone deserves. I can’t tell you what path to to choose Meg. I can only tell you to ask yourself why you’d be fighting, and what you’d fighting for, and let that help guide you.”

Meg set the empty goblet on the balcony floor before leaning against the railing, resting her arms over it as she looked down. Why was she fighting? So far it had always been for survival against the dangers of Skyrim, and then the dangers underground. Always for herself, now that she thought about it. “Good question... “

She already knew the answer though, didn’t she? It was the same reason she had gone from Imperial City to Skingrad, and then Anvil and now Gilane. This group was her family now, and she didn’t want them to have to spend the rest of their lives on the run. Everyone had things they wanted to do rather than they needed, and that required peace and stability. It would be harder to fight now that she could see that the Dwemer weren’t just monsters, but… if she wanted her family to be happy, she had no choice. She could no longer just think about herself.

“I’m gonna need more ‘an just a septim,” she said ruefully, looking over at Nanine, giving the Breton a smile.

Nanine chuckled, then held up her hands helplessly. Megana at least seemed to be more sure of herself, if not feeling 100% better. ”Unfortunately, the events of the last few months have left me pretty poor. I can only offer you a septim. Or drawings, if you prefer. Either way, you’re not gonna get the money you deserve for the thoughts. ” She looked out at the city once more, wondering how she had ended up in such a situation. Planning to join a secret rebellion against the dwemer, who had returned after thousands of years and promptly conquered all of Hammerfell and parts of Cyrodiil. A few months ago she had just been casually looking for work in Imperial City.

”Funny where life’s twist and turns take us, isn't it?”

“Aye,” Meg agreed, a little rueful, though for the moment her darker thoughts were quelled. She looked to Nanine curiously. “Where’d ya think life was gonna take you?” The Breton had a way with words that had calmed her, and Meg only felt it fair to learn more about her companion.

”Well, first time it was that I was going become a Legion lifer and eventually fight against the Dominion in the next Great War. Then Wayrest burned down and I lost my family that survived it and my motivation to become a lifer with it, so the Legion was only a temporary healing process. When I was in Imperial City I’d figured I’d be an adventurer for hire for a few years, hit it big on some ruin or the other, and retire to occasionally teach magic and draw in my free time. Now I’m here, figuring that after this is all over I’ll rejoin the Legion to help rebuild what's left. Ten septims say that I’ll end up somewhere else instead.”

Nanine shrugged, smiling over at Meg. ”Maybe I should just follow in Rhona’s shoes, and just plan for wherever the wind takes me. Where’d you think life was gonna take you?”

“Me?” Meg blinked at the question before smiling. “Pa always said I was like m’Ma. Wanderin’ an’ findin’ adventure was what she did, though she was more a hunter. Me? A treasure hunter. Usin’ the same skills but for two differen’ things.” She let out a breath as she sat back on the cushions, feeling more relaxed than she had before. “An’ now, looks like I'm a rebel. But if I'm bein’ honest…” She looked a little embarrassed. “I always thought I'd end up like Ma in other regards too. Findin’ a nice person to wed, an head out on adventures together.” She rubbed her nose, chuckling softly. “Aye, silly thoughts. Seemed simple enough when I'd dream 'bout it ”

She sat up straight thereafter, deciding she had enough with thinking about past hopes and dreams, at least for the time being. “Seems I finally got me an appetite,” she remarked. “How ‘bout a bite to eat?”

”I don’t think they’re silly at all. Dreams like that keep the world running.” Nanine replied with a smile. Her smile widened at the offer to go get something to eat. It had been on the back of her mind, admittedly, since they had first made it to the inn.

”Oh good, I thought that was just me beginning to get hungry. This place looks like it has wonderful food, at least compared to ship dinners and on the road dinners, and I am all for trying it.” Nanine gestured. ”After you.”

Late Afternoon, 31st of Second Seed
Streets of Gilane
_{@Father Hank @RTRON @DearTrickster @MacabreFox @Amaranth}

---

It was such a wonderful night. Among friends, a purpose and mission. Far more exciting than providing basics for survival, certainly! It was outside of the aging Argonian’s expertise, something that became apparent to the other members who had seen some form of militant organization, strategy as it were. The feeling of purpose was strong but she struggled to remember why she felt as much.

The cooling night, warm stone streets - light reflecting from the ancient dwemer remnants that made up the foundation of Gilane. Beauty and history everywhere she looked. Judena crouched, blue linen draped over her head barely concealing her unique profile. Doubly so for the likes of their new Orc member, Molver. They hid for some reason in alleyways casually observing the receding crowds of people, paying particular attention to guards for some reason. Judena thought it rude to ask again as to why they were there in the first place, surely she asked before. She saw Nanine and Bryjna across the ways, she lifted her arm to wave but thankfully thought better of it. Observing guards meant they shouldn’t draw certain attention to themselves.

The alleyways themselves were inconsistent in length and size, built around aging structures compensating in space that crumbled away centuries ago. Narrowing unexpectedly while widening in others. Curiously the Dwemer spheres and larger automations avoided these areas to some degree. They patrolled the streets with no problems.

She patted her chest where her logbook sat. Gripped the shaft of her spear.

“Maeve, how much longer are we expected to wait? I am having difficulty remembering why we are here… is it a parade? Why would we come armed to a parade I wonder.” Judena began then snapped her fingers, hissing quietly, “It is because the Poncy Man asked us to be here. I would refer to my logbook but that would require proper reading light and I feel as though drawing attention would be a terrible idea.” Rudeness aside, she inquired anyways. Always better to ask than to not know - thankfully her companions understood her need for reminders. Tolerating the need was another thing.

“Rest assured I am ready to do whatever it is we are to do.” She said, earnestly.

Unknown to Judena, the three of them drew sticks to who would pair up with the forgetful mage prior to their gathering. Mazrah drew short.

Where Judena was full of optimism and enthusiasm despite constantly forgetting what they were supposed to be doing, Mazrah was growing more annoyed every second. Nanine had insisted on disguises, arguing that Mazrah’s appearance was far too distinctive, and now the Orsimer found herself wearing a light robe that covered her entire body and a sash wrapped around her face, like some common bandit. She hated it. And while she had respect for Judena and the condition she suffered from, her repetitive questions and the wildly different names she used for Mazrah (seemingly everything except ‘Mazrah’ itself was fair game) were getting on her nerves.

“Not a parade, a prisoner escort,” Mazrah corrected Judena for the umpteenth time. “We’re going to break them free. Nanine will signal that it’s time to attack by destroying the Dwemer’s weapons and armor with magic.” That was the light at the end of the tunnel, some earnest combat, and Mazrah was very much looking forward to seeing the battlemage at work. “When the signal comes, follow me and -- look at me, Judena, this is important -- free the prisoners as fast as you can, alright? Don’t forget. Free the prisoners,” Mazrah said, staring intently in Judena’s eyes, her index finger pressing against the Argonian’s sternum.

Judena nodded solemnly, the weight of her position rather heavy. Mazrah withdrew her finger and Jude rubbed the spot.

Nanine stood next to a market stall, pretending to browse its wares. She wore leather armor hidden by a set of robes, as someone standing in plate armor in the heat of Hammerfell was sure to attract attention. A small sash went over her face, her dark hair braided and tightly hidden under the hood of the robe. A steel longsword sat on her hip next to her own sword. She couldn’t bring herself to leave it out of her sight, but didn’t want to draw it during the raid.

She went over the plan once more in her head, to reassure herself.I’ll hit the escort with a lightning bolt to get their attention, then a disintegrate. While they’re distracted, Brynja and the four resistance fighters will attack and engage them. Mazrah will get Judena to the prisoners to free them, then we’ll all run like oblivion itself is on our heels and rendezvous at the Three Crowns. Simple. She was relieved that she had convinced the others that disguises were necessary, even if it had required promising a favor to Mazrah. The gleam in the orc woman’s eyes upon Nanine agreeing was a cause of minor concern, but she’d cross the bridge when she came to it.

Her eyes were drawn by the sounds of the crowd moving aside, loud voices calling for the path to clear. Four guards were clearing a path to through the street for the cart behind them. That would be their target. She turned to watch it with the rest of the crowd around her, waiting for an opportunity.

By Nanine’s insistence, Brynja had given up her steel plated armor in exchange for her tunic and trousers, her cape wrapped around her shoulders, partially obscuring her face. She wasn’t comfortable with the idea of freeing these prisoners, what with the Dwemer operating inside Gilane as they did. While she didn’t fear conflict, the memories of the Jerall Mountains, and the attack on the Imperial City had put her on edge. Not to mention the attack on Elenglynn, along with the near slaughter at the internment camp. The Dwemer weren’t to be trifled with, to make this mission a success, they needed to minimize the possibility for casualties. Her hands rested on the hilt of her longsword as her gaze stared down the cobblestone street, just barely out of sight in a shadowed alleyway. All she needed was Nanine’s signal.

The wagon creaked slowly through the wide cobble streets, the crowd of citizens ever-impeding the pace of the convoy. Shakti could tell the guards were getting frustrated at the slowness of the transport. They were already running late and these gawking rubberneckers were doing nothing but staring at the six or so prisoners chained together. The Redguard girl sat with her forearms on her knees, trying to make out faces in the crowd in the slowly-darkening evening light. It was, of course, a fool’s errand. She knew no one in the city except Israhal’s contact, who was just as likely to kill her as save her to prevent the spilling of secrets. There was also the Knight she had ‘dueled’, but he was just as likely to be leading the column. All in all, Shakti found herself in a pretty terrible position. Oh yeah. She had also just lost her father’s sword. She needed to get that back.

As the wagon passed Mazrah and Judena’s position, Nanine took a deep breath. Showtime. The crowd had finally cleared as the civilians realized what was coming through, and she had a clear view of the four guards in front of it. They were only half-alert. After all, who would attack a prisoner caravan in the middle of a city firmly in the grasp of the Dwemer? People with very low self preservation instincts. Nanine thought with a grim chuckle. Lightning formed in the palm of her hand, and she stepped out onto the street, facing the cart. The guards perked up at the sight of her, but didn’t realize what was happening quickly enough. By the time they noticed she was wielding magic, Nanine was throwing it.

Lightning crackled and roared, shooting down the street and crashing into the chest of a Dwemer with the force of a charging mammoth. He flew backwards, slamming into the cart and crumpling to the ground. As soon as the thunderbolt left her hand, Nanine started charging the disintegration spell, both hands held together. The other guards and spheres reacted almost instantly, weapons being drawn and battle cries yelled. Nanine waited a heartbeat, as the spheres became even with the four guards in front, and then released her spell. The blood red ball of mist arced through the air before crashing into the ground amidst the charging guards and spheres. Groaning and grinding could be heard as metal began to give way beneath the spell, crumbling to flakes.. The signal was given, and the fight was on.

“Go!” Mazrah hissed at Judena, pointing at the burst of magic that began to eat away at the weapons and armor of the guards closest to where the spell detonated.

“Free the prisoners!” she said one last time before dashing out of cover and towards the convoy, spear in hand. The Dwemer and Redguards had their backs to her, their attention fully focused on Nanine and her magic, but if they had been looking the other way all they would have been able to see was a gray-green blur anyway. Mazrah’s footsteps were fast and heavy on the road and by the time one of the Dwemer -- her target -- heard her approach, she was already soaring through the air. Time seemed to slow down as the Dwemer turned his head and locked eyes with the airborne Mazrah for a split second. She had leapt so high that she was sailing over his head and it was almost comical to see his eyes widen in shock before her spear lanced down like a heron’s beak and punched through his armor with ease. Mazrah pulled her spear back as she finished the arc of her somersault and flipped into an upright position, landing gracefully on one knee, the fist of her free hand slamming into the ground hard enough to raise dust in a circle around her. Now aware that they were the target of a two-pronged attack, the other guards turned to face her, yelling in alarm and gripping their weapons -- the ones that hadn’t disintegrated, that is.

They were in for a fight now. Though her ferocious snarl was hidden behind the scarf that veiled the lower half of Mazrah’s face, her eyes were alive with the ancestral berserker’s blood that pumped through her veins. She rose to her feet and brandished her spear with a flourish, inviting her opponents to test themselves against her. Meanwhile, behind her, the Dwemer guard crumpled to the earth as he bled profusely from the gaping puncture wound in his neck and gasped for breath, unable to comprehend in his final moments what had happened to him.

There was a sizzling noise and the whole wagon was bathed in a sickly blood-red light. Metal creaked and crunched as it flaked off in chunks. Shakti sat ramrod straight and looked for the source of the light. It looked to have come from an alley, but she could not tell which of the myriad of dark passages the spell had flown from. Shakti twisted her body over the edge of the wagon to get a better look at what the guards were doing. Mostly they were whipping their heads this way and that, trying to figure out who had just rusted their weapons and armour to metal-ash. If the Redguard girl had blinked she would have missed the blur that suddenly shot out from the dark, easily leaping over a Dwemer guard and lancing him in the throat. The other prisoners practically simultaneously started to attempt escape, and Shakti was no exception. She stood up and tried to hop off of the wagon, before realising that the irons around her wrist were chained to the floor of the wagon, preventing runaways. Sort of undeterred, (but slightly alarmed at the increasing sounds of violence around her) she shook the irons and wrenched at the chains with her one good arm until that one was surely bruised as well.

Judena stood gripping her own spear in one hand, in the palm of her other hand she spoke the spell for Ironflesh, magicka pooled in her palm building up into the shape of a large transparent blue diamond the cool tone brightening her face. She brought it toward her chest, it disappeared into a light that surrounded her entire body. Ready now to fight. Mazrah was right, this was no parade.

She repeated in her mind like mantra, Free the prisoners! Free the prisoners!

Avoiding combat would help her remember, but it certainly could not be helped. She gripped her spear skirting behind Dwemer backs, one particular guard advanced on Mazrah, she stuck the butt of her staff under their legs forcing them to trip. Smoothly moving past toward the end of the wagon, the rear guard having the moment after Nanine’s attack to compose themselves. A sphere now facing Judena head on, it’s golden sword arm and crossbow for its other. It raised its crossbow firing a bolt directly at her chest. Jude dodged left, the bolt stopped dead against the invisible barrier dropping uselessly to the ground. The impact felt but no penetration. A bruise surely would appear there tomorrow. Her beard expanded, she planted her foot pivoting fully expecting the sword arm to strike next. Striking out she lodged the head of the spear into its arm, throwing off its follow through. It attempted to load it’s secondary bolt.

She held the sword arm away, close now she slapped her hand against the sphere’s face plating using transmutation. Transforming the metal of the sphere to thin and softened gold. Stripping away the armour encasing the soul gem strapped into the base of its neck. It flailed it’s sword arm trying to back away. Judena freed her spear, aiming true for it’s head she pierced through it’s lower jaw, slashing the soul gem. It limped immediately, falling to the ground.

Jumping over the remains she dashed to the back of the wagon readying frostbite in her palm to chase away the Dwemer guard. The freezing spell coated the guard’s arm, trying in vain to protect their face. Hissing, she warned, “Back away! Go!” They relented the space, calling for help and finding cover on the other side of the wagon -- or at least, attempting to do so, as the guard found the orichalcum tip of Mazrah’s spear slamming into his guts as he rounded the corner. She violently jerked her spear up and out of the Dwemer’s intestines, prompting a guttural spray of blood and gore. “Crunzurga, rohi rakh!” Mazrah yelled in old Orcish and twirled her spear around her as she turned back to the rest of the guards that she had been dancing with. Revenge, lesser blade! It felt good to give them a piece of her mind.

Free the prisoners! Jude had to act quickly.

Using transmutation once again, softening the iron to gold she smashed the lock. Tugging open the door she spread the doors wide. “Please be patient while I weaken your restraints. We mean you no harm.” The faces all looked to her, races of man and a couple mer. Young and old faces, fleeting fear or defiance. She stepped into the back of the wagon, carefully stepping around the minimal space, some shrinking away at her presence others involuntarily getting her tail in their faces. “Very sorry, I will work quick!” Starting from front to back she felt the strain on her magicka begin as her transmutation softened shackles left and right. She blinked blearily arriving finally with a sigh to Shakti. The youthful Redguard woman held up her wrists, brown eyes regarding her with curiosity.

A look Judena was familiar with, gently cusping the shackles, “A strange sight to see an Argonian so far from home and stranger still in the back of a wagon, I only hope this leaves a good first impression.” She cracked a gummy smile. The spell complete Shakti pulled apart the restraints easily.

Brynja needed to provide cover for Mazrah, and Judena, there were ten guards and a Dwemer sphere, though six of the guards still had their gear and weapons in tact. Six too many. Her feet were coming down hard as she burst from her hiding spot, the four rebels along the opposing wall burst forth, their own blades drawn.

She led the four rebels at full speed, causing three of the guards to turn and face them head on. The adrenaline coursing through her veins was a familiar sensation. Brynja swung her long sword in a sideways arc, aiming at the midsection of one of the guards, where he shimmied away, just out of touch. She left the four rebels to engage the two other guards.

A black orb coalesced in Nanine’s hand, glowing with the dark energy of the Oblivion plane as she prepared her spell. She threw the summon in front of the four guards. A Frost Atronach exploded into existence, swinging its club. The already wavering guards were brought to a complete halt, and Nanine prepared her other summons, throwing it next to the Atronach. A Daedroth appeared, crocodile teeth grinning savagely down at the guards. Deciding to take the better part of valor in the face of such creatures, the four guards turned and fled through the streets and alleys of Gilane.

Nanine allowed herself a small grin, sending the Atronach and the Daedroth to help Mazrah on the side opposite of Brynja and the rebels. Before she could move closer to the fight, not wanting to fire deadly spells into the chaos of melee combat, the sound of armored boots hurriedly slamming against the cobblestones behind her caught her attention. Turning around she saw a patrol of six city guards moving towards the fight, weapons drawn. Nanine hastily threw a thunderbolt at their feet to slow them down, and turned and ran to the cart.

It was time to go.

Shakti’s eyebrows raised in surprise as the strange creature transmuted her shackles. So this was an Argonian. She had heard tales, and vaguely knew what they looked like but it was quite something else to see one in person. Still, there was the business of an escape to attend to and Shakti was not one to waste a chance like this. She stood up and nodded a quick “Many thanks, Argonian.” to Judena before hopping out of the wagon and trying to figure out which way the prison was. Stepping over the body and spilled guts (Gross!) of a Dwemer guard, she struggled to see the way they had come from through the streets and fleeing crowd. Her heart deflated slightly. She had known all along that it probably was not the best idea to immediately rush back into prison just to retrieve her sword, no matter how special. But the fact she could not even see the prison made the point hit home. Narrowly avoiding the wayward blow of another guard, Shakti scrambled around the chaos, searching for something she could use as a temporary substitute. Unfortunately, whatever had disintegrated the guards’ weapons and armour was fairly thorough and the young Redguard woman was left out in the cold, vainly searching through blood-streaked bodies for anything resembling a sword.

Nanine arrived at the wagon, glancing over her shoulder. The city guards were getting closer. “Alright! We need to get going! City guard patrol is on its way!” She yelled, turning around and throwing an icy spear at the approaching guards, it glanced off of a quickly raised shield, and Nanine cursed, gathering more spells. There was a crunch and a scream from the other side of the wagon, as her frost atronach clubbed down one of the guards facing Mazrah. Nanine threw a lightning bolt, this time causing the patrol to scatter as it raced towards them and crashed into the cobblestones.

“M, grab J and lets get out of here!” Nanine shouted over the cart to Mazrah, she didn’t need to tell the rebels twice. They had already cut down the guards they were facing, two on one being an easy fight, and were guiding what prisoners they could into the alley way and into the shadows of the night.

Using her spear to step out of the wagon, Judena stopped to catch her breath. Extensive magic still took a wind out of her, the last of the prisoners scattered to the wind darting every which way. Her allies were taking to the other guards. She felt a swell of pride unaware of a guard in her periphery. Within a split second she turned the full weight of the guard on her, a hand slamming her head against the wagon. It rocked with the weight. Such strength! Fleetingly, the briefest of admiration. The ironflesh held once again, but she felt its force weaken. Wrestling with the guard, they tugged the scarf down over her eyes, where she struggled to loosen their grip on her clothes. She hissed all the while swinging her elbow out wildly, they grasped her head again slamming into the cobblestone. The mage armour cracked and disappeared. Bewildered she brought the shaft of her spear up in defence, a boot of the guard snapped clean through the oak - cracking across her jaw.

She felt the cold and ancient weapon against the base of her neck, the curve of the blade suggested an axe and a singular look confirmed that. They swung high and she caught the axe just below the head of the weapon in her hands - squeezing fists around it. The shock of the attack rippled down her arms, sending a painful reminder to her shoulder. Her vision doubled, but her arms held steadfast the Dwemeri guard grunted against the resistance.

She croaked, “Help!”

Finally, a sword! Shakti triumphantly lifted the strange looking sword from under the mutilated corpse of a Dwemer guard and twirled it a few times, getting a feel for the weight and size of the thing. It was not too long or heavy, which was good because Shakti’s left arm was still throbbing with pain and so she would only be able to use one arm effectively. Judena’s weak cry for help caught the young Redguard’s attention and she whirled to face the sound. The Argonian who had saved her was now pinned against the wagon’s side by a bloodthirsty and angry looking guard. Shakti was not about to let her erstwhile saviour be butchered, no matter how bizarre looking they were. Springing at the distracted guard, she plunged the Dwemer blade through his sternum with a satisfying (if slightly gross) noise. The guard went limp and his axe clattered uselessly to the ground, leaving the rest of his bodyweight to fall backwards onto Shakti, who, startled, propped him up for a moment or two before heaping him off onto the ground. She tried to think of something witty to say, but gave up and silently offered her hand to the Argonian.

Following Nanine’s instructions, Mazrah ran up to Judena and Shakti, taking deep breaths to try and slow her thundering heart. Her robes were torn and covered in blood -- some of which was her own, as a Dwemer Sphere crossbow bolt had hit her in the arm and one of the guards had landed a glancing blow against her thigh, but most of it wasn’t -- and her scarf hung lopsided around her face, revealing one cheek full of tattoos and ritual scars. “Up, up,” she said impatiently and did not stop to wait for the Redguard girl to pull the towering Judena to her feet, grabbing the Argonian by the hem of her clothes and yanking her up in a single motion. She spared Shakti a single glance and was surprised to see a young girl there, barely a woman yet. “Girl, follow the Argonian, alright? You’ll be safe with us,” Mazrah said in the most reassuring tone she could muster, considering the circumstances.

“I’m not-!” Shakti began and then cut herself off. She sighed and realised it probably was not worth arguing about, not now at least. The reinforcements had arrived despite Nanine’s best efforts to slow them down and Mazrah turned to face them, her spear whirling about her body in a blur as a threatening display. “Go! I’ll distract them for a while,” she said and immediately emphasized the point by charging forward and leaping over the six guards with ease. She could hear Nanine’s conjured monsters (who were awesome and terrifying in equal measure) follow her into the fray and knew that the attention of her enemies would be divided between her and the Daedra. After she landed, she kept low to the ground and struck like a coiled viper, using the enormous reach of her spear to fire off quick jabs and thrusts without fear of retaliation. She had no interest in committing to the fight; she was just buying time for the others to flee, and then she would retreat to the rooftops, using her climbing skills to her advantage. Mazrah figured the guards would not be able to follow her there.

Judena groaned, “Muh-maybe another knock about the he-head will…” She trailed off a hand holding her jaw. Dwemeri blood soaked through her clothes, unaware to her - struggling to remain coherent her feet finding the ground for her. Grounding herself she scooped up the remains of her spear hugging it close as she cut a path down an alley following Nanine, assuming Shakti was behind her. The young Redguard woman held her new blade in a reverse-grip and trailed closely behind the two others, occasionally glancing to see if that Orcish woman was also tagging along.

This was her only chance, it was now or never. Brynja turned just in time to see Judena and one of the prisoners making their escape into an alleyway. She would bring up the rear, and as she cleared the cobblestone road towards the alley, she spared a glance backwards over her shoulder at the Orc, she could handle herself. She hoped.

It didn’t take long before Brynja caught up with Judena, noticing at once something was wrong with the Argonian, “Judena? Judena, are you hurt?” She asked, her focus on moving ahead, yet split with her companion.

Looking up to Brynja at the far away sound of her name - Judena replied, “Mhm. Cuh-can walk fine.” Holding her throbbing jaw. “I can wait.” She kept her eyes forward, focused on Nanine’s back. There’d be no use in stopping now.

For Judena’s sake, that stubborn old lizard, Brynja grabbed her by the forearm, and slid her arm over her shoulders, one hand against her waist for support. Brynja wasn’t going to take no for an answer from Judena. She wasn’t about to risk her dropping unconscious. At least they could keep up without falling behind.

“Mhmm.” She said.

Jude didn’t protest. “If you insist, my friend.”

Nanine glanced backwards, making sure everyone was keeping up. Byrnja was carrying Judena, good. The prisoner girl that had stuck with them was following, even if she did look confused. She could still sense her summons, battling alongside Mazrah, so she could only assume that the orc was still alive. Regardless, they couldn’t go back for her. More city guard patrols were doubtlessly going to react to the commotion, and they needed to be as far away as possible. They’d just have to trust Mazrah could handle herself.

As the number of remaining resistance fighters dwindled, Mazrah found herself on the receiving end of a determined counter-attack by the city guards. They attempted to encircle her but clever maneuvering brought Mazrah to a position where she was with her back against the wall of one of the houses that lined the street they’d been fighting on. She opened her mouth to say something witty but realized that the time for fun and games was over when one of the Dwemer raised a crossbow and aimed it straight at her heart.

“Uh oh.”

Mazrah bent her knees, gathering up all of her strength, and leapt up and backwards with a balletic backflip, landing on the edge of the house’s first-floor balcony The crossbow bolt missed and harmlessly buried itself in the front door below her with a loud thwack. The Dwemer yelled and hollered in dismay and alarm as Mazrah scaled the second floor like a nimble gecko and clambered onto the roof where they could no longer see her. Even the one assailant that they had managed to corner had escaped -- that must be a bitter pill for them to swallow, she thought and grinned as she dashed across the rooftops, effortlessly leaping across the gaps between the houses and shops, until she spotted her allies escaping below her on foot through the winding alleys and passageways.

Suddenly and without warning, Mazrah dropped into their midst. “Hello there!” she said cheerfully and flashed a smile, immediately keeping pace with them. “That went well, don’t you think?” Shakti did not know what to think of Mazrah suddenly reappearing in their midst like nothing had happened. This whole group that had rescued her seemed very strange. Not bad, but certainly strange. “Where are we going?” Shakti inquired, keeping her voice barely above a whisper, so as not to alert the guards or anyone around who might be listening.

Nanine’s hands crackled with lightning again, and she whirled around to face whatever had landed amongst them. She breathed a sigh of relief at the realization it was Mazrah, turning around to keep hurrying along. “Death be damned, I almost zapped you. When we get safe I’ll get that bolt pulled out of your arm and see to any other wounds you’ve got while Brynja looks over Judena. ” She spoke over her shoulder to answer Shakti’s question. “We’re going somewhere safe, for now at least, where the Resistance is being organized. These alleyways should take us straight to the back entrance, away from prying eyes. And, hopefully, away from where the Dwemer will be looking for you and the other prisoners.”

Outside of the Guard HQ, close to midnight, 31st Second Seed, 4E208CE

In an abandoned storehouse a block away from the guard headquarters, a candle-lit table sat with a number of figures in darkened and light attire gathered around, staring down at a map that was hand-drawn by one of the members of the Insurgency that had once served as apart of the city guards prior to the invasion. It laid out the buildings around the guard outpost and the floorplan of the two-story building, including the high walls and potential blind spots for patrols and lookouts.

The building’s ground floor, from East to West, was the barracks containing twenty beds which were separated by privacy walls, a privy to the North of that room, and a common area to the West, which branched off into an armoury, which was kept behind a locked door with no windows, a reception area, and a cafeteria. Adjacent to the reception area was a walled in, open-topped area that was used as a training area, and a separate entrance lead into a prison, where the upstairs was for temporary holding and prisoner belonging storage and reception, and a locked and barred stairwell down lead to a number of prison cells. The yard also contained a stable that housed a number of horses and camels and supplies, as well as prisoner transport wagons.

The second floor of the building housed a limited officers quarters, a private room for the commander of the guard, and the administration offices. It was likely where the documents were kept, although the prison itself was a likely place to look. Daro’Vasora looked around at the familiar faces around the table and mused that it almost looked like they were about to tell each other spooky stories to pass the time with the dim and haunting lighting.

“Alright, let’s go over the plan one last time. We’re not here to free prisoners, and we are going to avoid killing anyone if possible; in and out as quickly as possible without being discovered. I will unlock the front door, and someone will have to subdue the guards who may be present without waking up everyone who’s asleep. From there, I’ll get us upstairs and get those offices open and begin looking for paperwork. Someone’s going to have to find the prison keys and do something similar for the prison itself. In and out, no stupid shit.”

“What if your stupid shit, works?” Alim asked to the utter silence of the group. “Don’t answer that. Anyway, I believe I should be adequate in...pretty much all of that. I can subdue the guards or infiltrate where you like. Or both, and Anifaire can see where they might have the documents and uniforms?”

Anifaire nodded aimlessly, completely unsure if that was even something she could undertake. But, anyone could just look for documents. It must be simple enough. She looked down at the map another time, furiously trying to remember the details in case she needed them. The Altmer felt entirely out of place in a resistance mission, but she glanced over at Alim and tried to remember what he’d said to her. Her stomach churned.

"Sounds good t'me," Meg chimed in, lifting her gaze away from the map to look at Daro'Vasora instead. It had been a long time since she had snuck about in a place like they would be breaking into, but she trusted herself not to get into any trouble. "I'mma see if I can find that prison key."

“I don’t think I’m… fit for this,” Rhona said quietly, “but I uh… I can serve as a distraction. Or, I can create a distraction.”

“I’m going to say this as gently as possible,” Daro’Vasora said, looking over towards Rhona with studious eyes. “But I’m not sure why you signed up for this job after everything you went through, and if you don’t think you’re capable of this sort of thing, why be here? Go back, you’ll be safe there.”

Rhona’s brows furrowed over the way Daro’Vasora addressed her, she opened her mouth to speak, when Mortalmo took a single step forward. “She is entirely capable of providing aid to this endeavor.” He cast a meaningful glance towards the Breton, before turning his focus back towards Daro’Vasora. “And if we do not all do our part to strike at the Dwemer interlopers, I do not suspect that any of us will be... safe. Surely, furred one, you must concur?”

“It’s up to Rhona, of course.” Alim said, leaning back in his chair. “But I think she’d make a fine distraction. It’d make my job easier, at least. And then if we get into more trouble we could use her knife.” The Redguard turned to her. “That is, if she’s light on her feet.”

Daro’Vasora pinched the bridge of her snout, tail flicking. “I’d prefer we don't put anyone at needless risk as distractions or bait, but if that's what you lot feel is right, I won't object. Rhona, you stay close to Durantel, Durantel?” she looked up at the Altmer, her tone lacking its typical edge and instead seemed to carry an air of sincerity.

“Keep her safe. I want everyone to make it home tonight. That goes for everyone; if you aren't sure, stick with a partner and don't put yourself at needless risk. Each of us is worth more than the entire sum of the stuff we're after. If anyone has anything else, let's wrap this up and get moving out. Remember; prisoner manifest, patrol routes, and as many sets of uniforms as we can make off with. If any of you mages know a feather spell, you’re going to be a huge help.”

“I can do that one,” Anifaire said, her voice a pitch higher as she hurried to interject. A sense of pride rushed over her.

Having remained silent in the hushed conversation so far, Sol’s eyes darted around the group, settling on Rhona dubiously. He hadn’t seen her in action so he couldn’t exactly judge her ability - but her hesitation was worrisome. However, it appeared that Durantel had her back, surprisingly, as Sol would do so for whoever needed him. He had no magic or lockpicking skills to offer, but he could put down a soldier quietly enough… guaranteeing their life was another matter entirely. Usually when one met him in an altercation, it only ended with one party deceased.

“Put me where you need me.” He said simply, voice muffled by his headgear and nodding at Daro’Vasora. He had to admit, for someone who was reluctant to take the job, she was doing a fine job at leading so far. Even back at the Dwemer ruin, which seemed eons ago now, she had succeeded in guiding himself and the others across the foe-filled darkness. A prison job seemed like nothing compared to that.

“Alright, Solandil, you stick with me unless something comes up. Let’s get to it.” She replied.

With that, everyone began to file out of the room and before long, were creeping throughout the streets and taking it slowly, keeping an eye open for patrols and guards that would not hesitate to oppose them. Lead by Daro’Vasora, the team made good, if tepid, time. The closer they drew to the guard headquarters, the more it felt like they were about to enter the lair of a dangerous beast. They saw the structure soon enough, the second story of the building over a three-meter wall, a gate barring the way with a pair of guards stationed outside of it. They moved around the sides, where it was mostly open ground, and all were aware of the lookout tower coming out of the top of the building, one guard visible doing periodic checks on all sides, but not with any sort of routine or particularly rigid discipline; whoever was up there was likely bored and after night after night, week after week of no real issues due to the harshly enforced curfew, complacency probably was a trait the guards all shared.

One way or another, that was about to change.

The team was given a pair of grappling hooks and ropes to get over the walls; one for getting over, the other for getting down. The problem was, however, sound; using them in such a quiet night might attract attention from the guards outside. The wall, however, looked like it was pitted and worn down from the elements and years of exposure that a few of the more agile climbers could make it up without too much difficulty, but it would take time, and they would be exposed if anyone happened to see them climb up.

“I guess this is the point of no return; those two guards need to be taken away from the gates, be it by force, or that distraction Rhona was alluding to.” Daro’Vasora mused, eyeballing the walls. She grabbed a handhold, testing its support. “Well, figure it out, I’m going over one way or another.” she said, reaching above to dig her claws into a hand hold and soon was beginning her nearly silent ascent.

"I'm thinkin' might be best t'keep the dead bodies a low count," Meg muttered, looking to the others. A dead guard would be easier for the night, but who knew how that would pan out when the corpses were discovered. They would simply have to be as stealthy as they usually were, or more.

“No sense in wasting time,” Rhona said under her breath, “Right. I’m on it.” She looked once up at Mortalmo saying, “Keep an eye on me in case this doesn’t work.” The Altmer nodded. And with that, she made her way down the cobblestone street towards two Hammerfell guards standing in the glow of torchlight.

She held her staff in hand, her grip tightening in fear, knowing full well that she couldn’t let them down. She had to pull this off just right, her mood, her tone, and outward expression. If she messed this up, it might spell disaster for the group. Rhona took a deep breath, and tried to steady herself. Her heartbeat slipped and fluttered, where was this coming from? She would have never had volunteered for such a thing before. Why had she opened her mouth in the first place. But it was too late, there was no going back. The guards had spotted her, and she raised a hand in a friendly gesture.

“H-hello!” She called, her anxiety rising as her voice cracked.

“What are you doing out at this hour? Don’t you know that there’s a curfew?” One Redguard confronted her, moving his hand to the hilt of his scimitar.

“I’m terribly sorry! I’m aware, I… I seem to have lost my way! I just arrived in the city today, and I was trying to find the inn I’m staying at but I can’t seem to remember which road to take, or what part of the city it’s in.” She hoped that this would give her companions time to start moving.

---

Silently sending up a call for help and success to Talos, Mara, and any other magnanimous divine being, Meg took a small breath, steadying herself. She could hear Rhona in the distance and hardly wanted to waste her efforts. She too eyed the wall like Daro'Vasora; while she didn't have claws like the khajiit, there seemed to be enough place for fingers to grab on to. For the height of the wall, she didn't think it would take her too long. A small nod to herself and the Nord began her climb, a little unsure at first but building up speed as she went. The trick was confidence, at least for her, and of course determination. She refused to be the one to bring anyone down.

Alim grinned, and he slipped back behind cover again, having just watched Rhona go to work. She would be fine, he knew. She might not be confident in herself, but he had confidence in her. Speaking of which, he thought, glancing at Anifaire. “I’ll climb up and hook the rope up top, you can climb and follow.” he whispered to her, giving a smile and a wink. With that, he turned around, hesitated for just a moment before he began to ascend as if it was a paved road one walked upon.

Anifaire had been nervously standing behind Alim, eyeing the wall in doubt. She had no doubt she’d have never made it over. With Alim’s words, some of the tension leaked out of her muscles. A rope, she could handle. She smiled at him gratefully, which turned to surprise as she watched him scale the wall like a cat. She wrapped herself tighter in the worn cloak, clean but in bad shape, hiding her nicer clothes. She had a sudden concern they may rip.

Beside Anifaire, Solandil too awaited for an easier path up the wall to become available. While he could manage stealth on flat ground, climbing freely up a wall in his armour was just a recipe for disaster. He was no gymnast, and his cumbersome clothing would only make a difficult task even harder… and louder. Thankfully he wasn’t the only one present with failings in climbing, and he watched on as Alim scaled the wall in seconds. The man was even more nimble than Daro’Vasora, and that was saying something considering the naturally agile feline specie which she belonged to.

The spellsword vaulted over the last parapet, landing deftly and methodically untangling the rolled up rope. Placing the hook on the edge of the wall, he silently lowered the rope for Anifaire, and Sol as well when he saw his presence waiting expectedly. “Take your time,” Alim whispered, his voice only barely comprehensible, but filled with patient and care.

Anifaire grabbed the rope first, nervous to be the only one left on the group. Hauling herself over the wall took far longer than it did for the others, but there were just barely enough footholds for her to manage it. Her hands were sore and a bit cut up from the rough rope. At the top of the wall, she paused to catch her breath, giving a grateful smile to Alim through her winded panting. The height on the other side was out of her mind as she swung down, gripping the top of the wall, desperate to have her two feet on the ground again. She scrambled down, tripping just a few feet off the ground. The Altmer landed on her side with a thud that she thought would bruise later.

Waiting impatiently at the foot of the wall, Sol scanned his surroundings carefully to ensure no-one would happen upon them on the other side. Rhona was distracting a handle of guards, but there was no telling if one were to show up at the wrong place and time. Hearing a soft thud on the other side as Anifaire finally made her way up and over, Sol began his own ascent as quickly as he dared. Armour plate clinked together lightly, but the sound wouldn’t carry much in the night air. Soon Sol had joined Anifaire and Alim on the other side, but Daro’Vasora had already set off to begin the dangerous task of infiltrating the building. Squinting in the dark, Sol followed the disappearing figure of the Khajiit.

While Alim worked on fastening the grappling hook, Daro’Vasora was nearly off the wall on the other side, having pulled herself over the precipice without incident and her nimble and light frame was well-suited for this sort of thing. With feline grace, she touched down nearly silently and like a ghost, she made her way across the courtyard, her eyes looking for movement in the dark that would betray her position while her soft-soled boots touched down without sound, her heels touching down while the movement of her foot rolled across the dirt evenly until finally her toes pushed off from the ground. It was so automatic after years of practice, but it prevented her feet from creating a loud cadence of a singular impact point like a soldier on the march. Out here, in the open air, it wasn’t a huge deal even in the dead silence of night, but in a cavern or tomb even the most minute sounds echoed off of the narrow chambers. If one wanted to get in and out without incident, you had to know how to avoid trouble.

And here she was marching right into it.

Alkosh, I hate being responsible. she thought darkly, hearing the commotion at the gates with Rhona and she hoped that the guards weren’t quick to the blade. A part of her felt like she should have volunteered herself to protect Rhona, but she knew her skills were best utilized elsewhere. There was no way she would be able to handle a couple of skilled Redguard warriors in an honest fight, so it would have been stupid to risk it. For now, the best thing she could do for the others was to make the way accessible.

Reaching the front door and testing the handle, it refused to budge, much to the Khajiit’s expectations. Absentmindedly, she surveyed the lock, identifying it as one that required a more curved feeler pick and her finger traced down to the fourth pick set on her shoulder, sliding it out from the hoop. Shoving the tension wrench into the narrow lock, she felt it settle at the end of its traversal and began to apply pressure against the plug. The pick came in like a sickle, pushing up on the pins in succession, the lateral force preventing them from falling free once they hit the bottom of the channel’s cut and shearline that corresponded with the shape of the key. It only took a couple of seconds of fiddling with each pin head until they all were settled and not returning to their resting position and with a twist of her wrist, the well-lubricated plug rotated easily. The door was unlocked. Turning to look towards the others, Daro’Vasora decided to wait for backup before opening the door and confronting what might lay on the other side.

"Nice," Meg whispered as she quietly scampered over, complimenting the Khajiit’s prowess at picking the lock. Her climb up the wall had been without incident for which she was grateful, but the cynical part of her mind reminded her that this was just the start of the mission and things could easily go wayward. After a moment's decision, the Nord carefully pulled an arrow from her quiver, holding it and her bow loosely as she waited for the others. Better to be prepared; if there was someone on the other side of the door, she didn't want them getting the best of her group.

---

“And what part of the city are you trying to go to?” The Redguard’s companion spoke up, in the dark, she could barely distinguish the features of the Dwemer guard. It was the distinct facial hair that helped her identify him.

“Oh goodness, I don’t know! What is the name of the inn… let me see.” Rhona tapped her chin thoughtfully, actually trying to name an inn or part of the city clear across on the opposite side of Gilane. Nothing was coming to behind and she began to panic.

“Well? We don’t have all night.” The Redguard growled.

“I know it was near the market, close to the harbor, I found it on my way into the city after leaving the ship.” She said, chewing on her lip.

Nocturne, guide me, and my friends, she thought to herself.

“The harbor is located clear across the city.” The Dwemer commented, “It is after hours, and we strictly enforce our curfew hours. Surely the inspectors forewarned you?”

“They did, yes, I seemed to have let the time get away from me, is there any way you could point me in the right direction?” She asked, the last thing she needed was an arrest. Where was Mortalmo?

---

Daro’Vasora noticed that the situation at the gate wasn’t going entirely smoothly, and time might not be an ally for this particular assignment. “Well, I guess it’s time to wing it. Meg,” she said, turning to the mousy Nord who had joined her. She gestured at the bow. “You might have to use that. See if you can get a shot on the guy in the tower; if it comes down to them verses any of us, the choice should be pretty clear. If it sounds like Rhona is in trouble, don’t hesitate.” She turned her attention to the door. “Fuck it, here goes.”

She entered the station, her eyes adapting to the dark; only moonlight gave the reception area any light, and the Khajiit assumed that no one was at the desk because no one was going to be waiting around after curfew to take complaints and reports from people who were legally barred from showing up. All the better. It gave her a bit of freedom to skulk around in the shadows, and she found herself behind the reception desk before long and she very carefully began to pull out drawers, searching for any papers that would have been of use; most of it was typical stationary, most of it not filled out in the slightest, but there wasn’t even so much a list of names. Instead, hanging on the wall in a small locked cabinet that had a simple lock that gave way easily were a few sets of keys; not knowing which was which, she grabbed the bunch carefully, wrapping each one with paper to keep them from shifting and ringing, and brought them to the door, putting them gently down in the door frame; one of them had to get into the jailhouse.

That done, Daro’Vasora began to ascend upstairs, stepping very carefully as she could closer to the wall to give her some concealment if someone looked down the stairwell, the stone steps were also fortunate in the sense they were incapable of creaking like wood. When she reached the landing, she glanced back down and hoped that someone was capable of dealing with the armour sets they needed to acquire. Maybe she should have told them to barricade the barracks door just in case, she thought shrugging the thought off and heading further ahead.

The room opened up into an office, with a number of desks and cabinets with piles of papers, maps, and all manner of signs of working life present, like personal momentos like a little wooden horse on one, a dagger on another, a half-finished doll on another. Daro’Vasora reminded herself what she needed to look for, Prisoner transfer list, guard schedule. she knew she’d have to jot it down when she found it; if it was found that’s what the raid was going for, the guards may change everything.

Suddenly, she didn’t feel very grand about this whole plan.

Finding some blank stationary and and inkpot and quill, she set it up by a window that had enough moonlight for her to read clearly and began her search. She didn’t hear the door down the hall open.

---

Mortalmo clung to the shadows, watching silently as the two guardsmen scrutinized Rhona. It did not appear as if her ruse would be holding up for much longer, what with their harsh and questioning tones, and the way their bodies seemed to tense as they drew closer. Taking the path of a wide half circle to avoid their line of sight, he began stalking towards them. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. The dearth of usable cover made the situation further from ideal than he would have liked.

“Mm. We should just take her in, you know the rules. Any persons outside after dusk are to be taken into custody, and questioned.”

“You’re right...” The Redguard turned his attention back to Rhona. “What did you say your name was lass?”

He was nearly upon them now, and sent a quick prayer to Auri-El that Rhona’s presence was enough to prevent either from deigning to turn their heads. Clutching a sharpened dagger in each hand, Mortalmo recalled Daro’Vasora’s notion that killing should be avoided if at all possible.

Well.

Like a serpent finally uncoiling, Mortalmo rose to his full height and sprinted forward the last few meters, before plunging a blade deep into the neck of either guard. Any cries or shouts that would have escaped their mouths were quickly replaced by the gurgling of blood welling to their lips. Mortalmo unceremoniously shoved the Redguard to the ground, before doing the same to the Dwemer. They twitched and spasmed, eyes wide in silent agony. Mortalmo considered them as he began to speak. “They pose a miserable sight, do they not?”

Rhona’s brows rose in surprise at the sight of Mortalmo plunging his blades into the guards, she stared back aghast, “Mort-”, she corrected herself immediately, “Durantel what did you do?”

“No it doesn’t matter.” She sighed, “we need to move their bodies. C’mon then. You grab one, I’ve got this one.”

---

With her bow already strung and arrow at the ready, Meg didn't have to do much in preparation aside from training her arrow on the tower, and waiting. It wasn't a long wait either; she could see the guard abruptly standing up from whatever they'd been preoccupied, letting out an urgent call as he began to sound the bell. With all that racket, their mission was sure to fail. The risk wasn't worth it.

"Oh no y'don'," she muttered under her breath. Adjusting her aim the slightest bit, Meg let her arrow fly. Without waiting to see if the first one struck, she immediately pulled another one from her quiver and nocked it. The guard seemed frozen in place and the ringing of the bell came to a trailing pause; Meg let her next arrow fly, and this time she saw it hit him square in the chest, sending the guard toppling out of sight. Hopefully Durantel had taken care of the rest below; there wasn't anything else she could do from here.

As the others had already entered and headed off to their assigned tasks, she had no need to worry about someone waiting to attack on the other side of the door. Still, habit had her walking with light steps, peeking inside before even thinking to step in. Green eyes scanned the area, or attempted to. There wasn't much light aside from the moon, so she had to strain her eyes. From what she could see once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, they had entered the reception area. Prison should be t'the left then. She looked down as she lifted her foot to step inside; sure there were no tripwires or runes here, but once again there was the force of habit. In this case it wasn't a bad thing, as she easily spotted the small bundle of papers in the doorframe.

Crouching down, she reached out and put her hand on one; it was easy enough to feel the keys wrapped inside the paper. Smiling a little at the sense of caution, she felt the other two bundles; just like the first, they too were keys. Well, it seemed at least she didn't have to worry about finding the keys... then again she only need one of the sets, but who could tell which was the one she needed without seeing the door she'd have to unlock and testing the keys? Assuming for the time being that no one else needed them, she scooped up all three sets, still wrapped in paper, and shoved them under her belt. Once she figured out which one she needed, she'd try to return the other two.

Making sure the keys were secure, she finally headed into the reception area and to the west, recalling the blueprints they had seen earlier in the night. Keeping close to the walls to avoid any unwanted collision, Meg silently made her way further west into the reception area until she finally reached the closed off training area. Ah hah. Not far away would be the entrance to the prison. Slightly proud at not botching things up yet, Meg headed through said entrance and soon came to a pause, deliberating whether she ought to head up where the office would be, or whether she should first unlock and unbar the door that lead down to the cells.

Well, no use havin’ keys on me if I don’ go an’ try ‘em. With that thought, she headed for the door, carefully pulling out the first set of keys from it place under her belt and unwrapping the paper. She then resisted the urge to let the piece of paper fall to the ground, tucking it under her belt with one hand as she scrutinized the keys with both her eyes and fingers. Hm... Turning toward the door, Meg reached out and tentatively felt the lock. They didn't quite feel as if they would be a match, but better safe than sorry- until she found the right one, she would test each and every key.

The first set was a dud. 'Course it's the wrong one. Her own thoughts were dripping with sarcasm, and if she wasn't in the current situation and instead in a 'fun' tomb raiding adventure, she might have even laughed. At the moment though, there was not even a twitch to her mouth as she wrapped the set and stowed it under her belt once more. Out came the next set instead. There would be no breaks here.

Mara give me patience, growled her mind when the fifth key in the second set ended up not fitting as well. Perhaps the goddess heard her annoyed silent call, because the sixth key slid in as easily as a knife slipped into soft butter. Now the Nord allowed herself a little grin. There y'are, m'pretty li'l key. She pulled the key out without unlocking the door, and with it still in her hands she swiftly headed back to the reception area, ready to deposit the other sets back where she had found them.

---

Anifaire, trying her best to make her footsteps fall silently, but failing utterly, made her way to the doorway where Daro’Vasora and Meg had disappeared. She felt clumsy and conspicuous compared to her far more light-footed companions. Her clothes ruffled with each step as she silently berated herself for her ill-suited skillset.

Hurrying to get out of the open, she entered the reception area ahead of Alim and Sol, but found no one else in sight by the time she arrived there. She walked slowly across the room, stopping to poke carefully around at the desk.

The Altmer began reading documents and opening drawers, finding nothing that seemed to match what she was looking for. Several minutes passed. Her nerves eased more the longer she stood there without incident. When she began flicking through documents in the third drawer, she realized how stupid she’d been; there was no way the others passed through here without searching already.

She shoved the drawer shut just a bit too loudly. The wood clacked against the desk and she jumped up, standing stiff as a board. Moments passed, Anifaire afraid to so much as breathe, but no one came. Slowly releasing her breath, she moved as far from the desk as she could, backing away from the training area.

Her thoughts were moving faster than she could think them, racing away from her grasp each time she tried to grab one. Finally, she settled on one thing: she couldn’t just stand around being of no use to anyone else.

Determined, she tried to remember the map she’s studied and headed for the door opposite the training room. She turned the knob slowly, the door sliding open inch by inch without a sound. Anifaire moved as slowly as she could, dreading the tap, tap, tap of her own footfalls. Compared to the silence of the building, they sounded like an earthquake.

She took about three steps into the room, scanning each corner until she turned directly to her left. There, next to her, was a guard. She stumbled backwards in surprise. She tripped over the corner of her cloak and lost her balance, tumbling against the wall. With some success, she caught herself and stuck there, hanging onto the wall, utterly still as she waited for the guard to move.

To her surprise, he didn’t.

Slowly, she straightened herself and backed away from him, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the light snoring. As quietly as she could, she scrambled back into the reception area, swinging the door shut. With the solid door between her and the sleeping guard, she let out a huge breath, leaning her back against the door and sliding down to the ground. She stood there quietly, trying with all her might not to panic.

Alim poked his head into the room, then sauntered in, casually eating a banana. “Good job.” he said with his mouth full. He glanced at the sleeping guard, and raised his facewrap before he shook the man’s shoulder roughly. After a few shakes, the guard came to groggily, then snapped to attention. “Captain? I wasn’t asleep I-”

Alim slammed the butt of his dagger into the man’s head, and the guard toppled, falling off his perch and onto the ground. Alim’s next words were somewhat normal volume. “It’s easier to deal with them that way.”

Anifaire choked on her words, opening and closing her mouth a few times before she finally just nodded in agreement. Sol, having followed Alim into the room, looked at the dead guard apathetically, and wondered if it was even worth hiding the body at this rate. The stealth part of their mission wasn’t working impeccably so far, if the brief ringing of the bell earlier was anything to go by.

"Oh, hey." Meg had just re-entered the reception, not expecting anyone there but nonetheless glad to see not just Anifaire but Alim and Sol as well. The latter two seemed their usual selves, while the former much more perturbed; Meg suspected it had something to do with the guard guard she'd nimbly stepped over on her way here. "Glad t'see y'both're fine, unlike that milk drinker there. Here." She held out both hands, each of them holding a set of keys. "Reckon you'll be needin' 'em. Managed t'find the one for the prison."

Anifaire accepted one pair of keys, daintily grabbing it, worried about dropping them and making a loud noise.

---

Daro’Vasora’s eyes caught a parchment that contained a list of names, followed by districts and streets, she presumed. It looked to be what she was looking for. A grin creeped upon her face.

“Got you.” she said.

“Gotcha!” A voice came behind her, that certainly didn’t sound like anyone she knew. Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her shoulders and shoved her hard against a desk, rattling the contents and winding her. One of the guards, she presumed, stared at her with malicious intent. He sneered at her, “What do you think you’re doing, thief? Coming into the - ARGH!” he shouted, claws tearing into his arm enough to draw blood and loosen his grip. The Khajiit headbutted him and grabbed the parchment, shoving it into her shirt as she scurried behind some furniture, wincing at her back. She considered herself lucky the brute didn’t simply smash her head against the desk and beat the shit out of her.

“Everyone, up! We’ve got an intruder!” He shouted. Daro’Vasora’s heart raced.

Oh, fuck.

She moved low to the ground, trying to keep coverage between her and the man who was moving much quicker than she was. The sound of a sword leaving its scabbard chilled her; she knew of the reputation of the Redguards and their prowess with a blade, she simply couldn’t compare. Her mace was soon in hand, and she held her breath, slipping behind a desk and waiting for her quarry to draw near.

Footsteps were upon her, and she heard scrambling in the adjacent room. Time was short, as soon as she saw the man’s shin’s, she drove her mace hard towards them, striking the man hard in the unprotected legs; the sound of cracking bone filled the air, along with his agonized scream, which caused Daro’Vasora’s ears to pull back in pain and anticipation; nothing good was coming from this.

She drove the mace down hard into the man’s sword arm that was bracing him against the floor, and his grip released on a rather curious looking sword; it was a scimitar-like blade similar to what the other guards used, but much longer and more ornate. It looked like a family sword, or a custom order. The Khajiit immediately rebuked her mind for travelling to such trivial thoughts when her life was imperilled. She scooped up the blade without much of a thought, keeping it from the man’s hands, and sprinted towards the staircase, shouting down, “Time to go!” as she ran towards the door for the others’ benefit. They were going to be in a world of shit if the guards mobilized, and the officers upstairs certainly were about to.

---

Having returned to the prison entrance with a single set of keys, it was with relative ease that Meg unlocked and unbarred the door, feeling relatively proud of herself. With Alim and the two Altmer taking care of the prison’s upper level and the armoury, she had decided to take a little tour of the actual prison cells and see if there was anything or person that may have useful information with them. Wary of prison guards, she once more kept to the walls, keeping her steps as light and noiseless as possible. The trek down wasn't too long, and it was actually sparsely lit with torches places in sconces at small intervals. Of course, while this made it easier for Meg to see where she was headed, it also meant that her shadow could be seen slinking about for anyone who cared to pay attention.

None of that mattered however when the sound of commotion sounded from upstairs, followed by a voice she clearly recognized as Daro'Vasora's telling them to get going. Shit. As if that wasn't enough, there was the sound of someone moving towards her, probably wishing to see what in Talos' name was going on upstairs. Whether she wanted to or not, Meg had no choice this time. Grabbing her sword, she took the guard by surprise, slamming the pommel up against his face. By the sound that followed, she could tell the hit had broken his nose.

"Argh!" He stumbled to his knees, holding a hand against his nose. Taking the opportunity once more, she slammed the pommel against the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

"Hey, let us out!" Meg's eyes jerked to the cell where she could see she had garnered an audience. This was becoming more of a commotion than she had wanted. This was why she'd rather deal with undead who couldn’t talk more than a snarl here and there.

Maybe it was a good idea though. From the sounds of it, the guards upstairs had been alerted... a distraction could be exactly what was needed so she and her comrades could escape.

Within a couple of minutes, most the cells were unlocked. I'm gonna regret this the Nord thought to herself as she unlocked the last cell and turned on her heel, not waiting to see if the Redguard inside came out or stayed where he was. Whatever the case was, there were more than enough prisoners on the loose now. As she scurried up the stairs and headed for the reception door, she could only hope enough chaos was being caused so that her band of five would go unnoticed.

---

Meanwhile, Alim and Anifaire had made it to the upper levels of the prison. It was dark and filled with pitfalls and iron bars. However, Alim knew prisons (you could guess why) and oddly enough, most prisons around Tamriel were similar. The guardposts were placed near each exit and the warden’s office was above the prison. He didn’t know why. Perhaps to keep an eye on the prisoners. Either way, he was certain the armory was close. They always kept it near the outer edge of the prison, close to the guard posts. Sol followed close behind the pair, keeping close to ensure he didn’t become lost in the dark corridors. Having failed to locate Daro’Vasora (And deciding that the smaller rogue would be more than adept at finishing the job without him), Sol had followed Alim and his fellow Altmer in acquiring the uniforms. If any Redguards showed up, at least they had an extra pair of hands (and swords) available to put them down.

As they moved, Alim could feel the unease rising in Anifaire, and he grabbed her hand gently and guided her forward. “Keep low,” he whispered.

Anifaire ducked quickly, a bolt of fear piercing her chest. Her grip was tight, both on the key rings in one hand and on Alim’s in the other, knuckles slightly white. She nervously watched Alim, not wanting to stick her head into the open to check, and not daring to say a word.

It took another uncomfortable minute, but Alim found a door that looked suitable for the armory. Thick oak with iron bars riveted to it to give it strength in case of a riot. Luckily, they needn’t break it down. Merely unlock it. He unlocked the door with a simple twist of his wrist, and opened it to reveal the armory.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He was used to disappointment on missions like this, but he didn’t want that to be Anifaire’s experience. Iron and steel swords gleamed on the racks, amongst other weapons set in piles and locked in chests. Shields adorned the walls, and suits of armor were set on stands so that guards could grab them at a moment’s notice.

“Let’s get what we need and leave.” Sol said in a hushed tone to the others, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness beyond as noises filtered through the air. With the call to arms having gone up, he doubted they had much time to dither over what to take. It was a small victory having found their target, but it would mean nothing if they were caught in the middle of a dozen tired and angry Redguards. Even less so if the blasted Dwemer got a hold of them.

---

To say they had kicked the hornet’s nest would be an understatement; the entirety of the guards who had once been sleeping were now awake and getting their arms and some light form of protection on to address the situation, and it became something of a free for all to escape. Thanks to Meg, a number of the prisoners were let out of their cells, which while aiding in the group’s escape, likely allowed a number of horrors back into Gilane’s streets to prey upon the innocents. It was a bit too late to worry about that, however; it certainly helped conceal their identities from the authorities, save for the officer Daro’Vasora had assaulted. It would have been hard for the man to forget the female Khajiit that broke his arm and stole his newly acquired sword. While she made off with the guard patrol list, it was likely that it would be changed around in light of the attack, but it did at least provide a list of names. It wasn’t a grand victory.

Solandil, Alim, and Anifaire managed to bundle together four complete sets of armour thanks to the feather spell Anifaire had cast on the bulkiest of the items and Solandil’s formidable stature to do much of the heavy lifting; Alim had also managed to buy some time by blocking the barracks door with a desk. Nobody managed to find a prisoner transport manifest, but considering they managed to get back to the safehouse and off of the streets without anyone being seriously hurt or caught, it was arguably a success of sorts. Although blood was spilled by Durantel, he and Rhona helped clear a way for a clean escape for not only the group, but the prisoners, and Meg saw to the lookout not being able to say where the people of interest fled to thanks to her archery.

The Poncy Man did say that the most important thing was that nobody got detailed or killed, right?

The Bazaar, Sunset, 31st Second Seed, 4E208CE

The parade was in full swing, and Nblec Mrazac could not envision a more perfect evening. The streets were populated with increasingly familiar faces, a small bag of chocolates hung from his waist belt, and more and more, he felt like he was making real progress with the locals. He applauded and cheered with as much enthusiasm as any of the Redguards who came to marvel at the acrobats, dancers, magicians and fire breathers that made their way through the winding Gilane streets, celebrating the talent of the city and of life itself. He tried in earnest to make himself visible to the people, to walk the same streets as them, to actually get to know them. At first, distrust seemed to be prevalent, but over time and by listening to people’s concerns and fears, he came to see them as his people, and he was not a faceless and heartless automation of a foreign occupying force to many in the city. Even for those who firmly opposed the Dwemer, he was seen as an exception rather than a rule. It was humbling and a great responsibility all the same, and it was nights like tonight that made him really feel that progress was being achieved. His people would be accepted by the Redguard, and they would find a security that they had not known for centuries.

A child called out, drawing Mrazac’s attention. A young Redguard girl was looking around frantically, searching for her mother. He approached, pulling some of the chocolate out of the bag and offering it to the young girl, “Hello, little one. Did you misplace your mother?” he asked. The girl nodded, wet eyes darting between the Dwemer’s face and the offered sweets. She took it timidly, and he crouched next to her, bringing himself eye level with her.

Offering a hand out, he said, “Please allow me to help you find her. My name is Nblec, you can call me Lecky if you’d prefer.” he said with a warm smile.

Together, hand in hand with the young girl, he began to call out the mother’s name, “Dalia, Dalia! I’ve found your daughter!”

Gregor watched the proceedings, and Nblec Mrazac in particular, from a distance, lurking in the shadows of a small space between two buildings. He had changed back into his old, black clothes for the occasion, hiding his identity beneath the folds of his cloak and the shade of his hood. It was very, very warm and he stood out like a sore thumb if he mingled with the crowd, but at least people would not recognize him if he walked through the streets in his new clothes later, should this mission did not go according to plan. He hadn’t forgotten the Poncy Man’s words, nor what the objective was, but Gregor had goals of his own to pursue. If the opportunity presented itself, he would not hesitate.

He narrowed his eyes and straightened up. There. If Calen and Latro were paying attention, now would be a good moment to strike. The Dwemer was calling out for the child’s mother -- if they pretended to know her or where she was, they could lure the Dwemer and the girl away from the parade. To abduct an elf while he was trying to help a lost child find her mother again… Gregor almost felt bad.

“You know, this ain't all that bad.” A muffled voice commented just behind Gregor’s ear. It was Calen, and it was muffled because his voice had to travel through a mouth full of chewed up flatbread, falafel, and some kind of delicious and creamy sauce. His cheeks were bulging out as he peered around the Imperial’s shoulder. He was in rather stark contrast to Gregor, wearing airy and silky clothes in pastel colors against his friend’s blacks. The bard continued to comment, “I feel kinda bad actually. He seems alright.”

Gregor exhaled sharply and removed his hand from the grip of his shortsword as he recovered from the fright Calen had given him. He’d expected the Nord to be mingling in the crowd, which he thought was the game plan, but perhaps he was mistaken. He looked behind him, hard eyes staring at Calen from the darkness of his cowl, and said: “Don’t forget he’s part of a ruthless, totalitarian administration. His shit could cure Rockjoint, for all I care. Now go on and get him away from the crowd. You look trustworthy, abuse it. Alright?”

“These things take time, my friend!” Calen nonchalantly said as he casually strolled on ahead. “People are delicate. Isn't that right, Rae-rae? Let's show him how it's done.”

“Errr, my name is Raelynn. You can call me by my name…” came the overly saccharine voice of the Breton from behind Calen. She too, was adorned in pastel tones. A soft lilac bralette that was beaded and embellished with an elegant gold trim. The chiffon let her skin breathe, and revealed her shapely hips and midriff, the skirt a deeper hue with an equally revealing split up the side, allowing a view of her thigh when it opened with her movement. She let her eyes cast a gaze over the crowds, she was also holding some street food in her hands. It was a festival after all. “I'm going to weave my way through the crowd alongside the women, try and distract his guards,” she said, before taking a bite from the stick, letting a soft moan slip, “this is actually rather amazing…” her eyes widened as she looked at it in awe, not expecting something from the markets to pack such flavour.

Blending into the crowds and moving with them like a fish through the currents had come back to Latro in time. He’d come to the festival bedecked in street garb not unlike the locals, enough garb to confuse people about his gender. A long scarf draped over his shoulders he was planning to use as a mask being the only clothing with hidden motive. Beyond that, he looked like any other troubadour taking a rest from the road life.

After a while of actually going to vendors’ stalls and tasting the local food, he felt as at ease here as he thought he could. When the time came though, he was sitting beside a few others taking a rest from the loud but otherwise cheerful happenings. If only his life could be lived so simply, nothing else to rest from but a good day’s work and too much walking around a festival. He caught sight of Nblec, almost immediately recognizing the Dwemer official. It helped that he was in full uniform and was accompanied by a very official looking attachment of guards.

He wordlessly rose from his seat, trailing behind the Dwemer Magistrate at a reasonable distance. When he stopped to enjoy the goings on, his guards grew a tad more lax, but still dead set to the task of keeping their eyes out for anyone or anything suspicious. He was in the main square now, the others should be here. Soon enough, he caught sight of Gregor in an alleyway, swaddled in shadow and hooded in black. That obviously did nothing to soften the eyes’ initial response to seeing him in an alleyway. He wondered whether to nod or not and then decided against it, only waiting for his moment to set his role of the plan off.

Along with Latro, Jaraleet had also been mingling with the crowds gathered for the festival. Much like the Breton, the Argonian had decided to go dressed in garb similar to those used by Gilane’s citizens with the only exception being a hooded cloak that the assassin planned to use to hide his features once the moment to strike came.

Jaraleet was unsure if his comrades had come armed but he for his part had decided to bring his swordbreaker in case it became necessary to defend themselves, the dagger easily concealed behind the traveling cloak he wore. He had not forgotten the words of the Poncy Man about the growing love Gilane's citizens had for the Dwemer official, and as such the assassin was ready for things to turn violent at a moment’s notice. He only hoped that the other members of the group would be ready for that same possibility.

As Calen closed the distance on the administrator, he heard him yelling and calling out for someone. “Dalia,” he was saying, and then his eyes fall on the young girl at his side. Then it began to click. His eyes darted between the alleyways surrounding Gilane’s bazaar; there was no way he was willing to let some innocent girl get caught in the crossfire, and though he trusted that Gregor or Raelynn wouldn’t be so brash to endanger her, he wasn’t sure how the other two would behave. That Latro fella seemed like soft enough folk, but he wasn’t sure about Jaraleet, and it wasn’t because he was an argonian. There was something about him that Calen couldn’t put his finger on; he carried himself differently. Regardless, he had to get the girl out of the way first and foremost.

The bard strolled up by their side and began joining them in their calls for the girl’s mother. “Dalia!” He called out. Nblec looked down at Calen, who greeted him with a smile, and smiled back, before resuming in their search for Dalia. As far as Calen was concerned, this was a double whammy: get the girl to safety and earn the administrator’s trust at the same time.

As the others got to work on the plan, Raelynn kept a safe distance and meandered through the crowds watching carefully for any level of trouble that may arise - keeping herself out of harm’s way in the process. She spotted Calen again, and heard him too. The her eyes found Latro and Jaraleet. It would be time to strike soon…

“It is good to see a do-gooder like yourself!” Nblec enthused before cupping his hands around his mouth to continue calling for the child’s mother. It didn’t take long before a frantic Redguard pushed her way towards them, her eyes wide with dismay. On seeing her mother, the young girl raced into her mother’s arms. Dalia, as she was called, looked up at Nblec.

“Thank you! Thank you so much for finding my daughter. Bless your heart.” She said, holding the girl tight against her bosom before rising up to take her hand in hers. Dalia turned to lead her daughter away from the crowd when the child cried out, “Thank you Lecky!”

The time was now, Nblec was distracted with his glee at reuniting child with mother, Latro was poised and ready, and Calen was there too. The only members of the party whose location she was unaware of were Jaraleet and Gregor. She had to get in there and distract the bodyguards of the Dwemer. She knew the best way, too. Raelynn stepped through the crowd, starting from some way back with fanning off her face and she loosened strands of hair from her braid to make herself look more disheveled.

As she got even closer to them, she began to stagger in her steps, gasping for breath loudly. Those around her began to watch, trying to stop her, but she continued forward, sliding right in front of the guards. Her eyes were wide in fake shock, she leant over, panting and gasping; “It’s… too hot… I can’t… I can’t!” her voice came out as a dry squawk, and she started rolling her head from side to side, her body tilting left to right slowly, their eyes were on her. The helpless maiden in lilac, a small crowd formed around her - inadvertently pushing Nblec forwards on his path - widening the distance between the Dwemer and his guards, and Raelynn was in the centre, about to complete her act. “...I think I’m going to--” she cleverly cut herself off, and flopped backwards lifelessly, knowing that someone would catch her.

The two Dwemer guards looked at each other for a second before Raelynn fell. One of them quickly moved in to catch her and gently lowered her to the ground. “Madam? Madam? Are you quite alright? Can you hear me?”

The other guard hovered over his comrade's shoulder. “I think she's suffering from heat stroke.”

“Really?” the first guard asked and looked up at his colleague with a slight hint of incredulity. “Was it the 'it’s too hot’ comment that gave it away?” He shook his head and returned his attention to Raelynn. He knew their duty was to guard the magistrate but he also knew that Nblec would not take kindly to them ignoring a woman in need. Public relations, he called it. “Let's move her into the shade. Make way, please!”

“Egast!” Calen cried out dramatically. “Poorest fair damsel! Look what fate had befallen her!”

Gregor had retreated further into the alleyway in preparation for what was about to happen next, but he was still able to observe Raelynn's little theatre and smiled in wry amusement. His eyes sought Latro in the crowd but could not find him. Hopefully he was already moving to strike.

Latro pursed his lips at Raelynn’s display, appreciating how convincing it was for the guards. He moved ever closer while wordlessly thanking his companion for that. As he got closer, he heard Calen’s voice eek out something even he had to stop and cock an eyebrow at. Were they kidnapping a man or putting on a play for him? He chuckled and shook his head, pushing past a pair of children and quickly slipping his scarf over his mouth, covering up any trace of Latro’s identity. In the chaos Raelynn had caused amongst the guard troupe, Latro slithered past them almost too easily. One had to double-take at him before he yelled something at his back, reaching out a hand to grab Latro by the shoulder.

An almost effortless feint had the guard’s hand grasping up only air and before the guard could call out to Nblec, Latro had gently pushed a confused bystander out of his way and into the guard’s, tripping him up. It was all falling into place. Latro shoved his shoulder into Nblec’s and with a lightning quick movement his knife cut through the twine holding Nblec’s coin purse to his belt. The Dwemer grunted and with a good-natured grin he turned in Latro’s direction to presumably apologize, but the smile fell away when he locked eyes with Latro’s own. He watched him push into the crowds and checked his belt, finding his coin purse missing.

Latro slipped through the crowd just sloppily enough that Nblec could keep him within eyesight. He wanted the Magistrate to follow. “Stop!” He heard from behind him, “Stop! Thief!”

The voice of Nblec was her cue for the second part of the act of distraction. She opened her eyes slowly, once again a look of shock on her face, pretending to be roused to consciousness by the guard who had caught her, in the scuffle, she hoped he hadn’t heard Nblec call out - but she was about to make sure he didn’t move from his spot with a sudden exclamation. She yelped out convincingly; “ahh! Get your hands off me, don’t touch me there! You heathen!” Raelynn slapped his hand away and jumped to her feet, there was a clear look of confusion on the guards face that turned to embarrassment quickly enough. “He touched me! Did you see it! He grabbed at my rear, I’m simply astonished!”. The witnesses who were scattered around began to shake their heads and tut at him, taking the words of the pretty Breton woman as gospel in that moment. The crowd grew larger and louder - drowning out Nblec’s calls.

Calen turned to face Nblec, looking as simply astonished as Raelynn and indignant at the whole chain of events. He incredulous face darted between the administrator at Latro’s retreating back, “I can’t believe it! That rascal -- that scoundrel! I don’t think he knows who you are! We should give him chase before we lose him for good! Why, we’ll work the apology of a lifetime out of that man!”

Nblec rubbed his hands together and found himself nodding in agreement with Calen as he spoke and, looking back toward his bodyguards who were becoming increasingly useless as the crowd swarmed around them, he finally said, “I think you’re quite right! I’ll see to his justice myself!”

“This way!” Calen proclaimed, taking chase after Latro with Nblec close behind.

Jaraleet, much like Latro, had used the commotion caused by Raelynn’s act as a means with which to move closer to their target without being noticed. Like they had planned beforehand, the Argonian assassin had stayed slightly behind the Breton man as the latter approached the Dwemer administrator and grabbed his attention.

As soon as Nblec was chasing after Latro personally, something that was made easier thanks to Calen’s urges, Jaraleet pulled the hood from his traveling cloak over his head, hiding most of his features with the exception of the tip of his snout, and began following the administrator at a brisk pace, sticking to the shadows cast by Gilane’s buildings under the sunset to ensure that his presence wouldn’t be detected.

Everything appeared to be unfolding according to plan. Gregor had hidden himself even deeper into the alleyways, his shrouded form lurking in the shadows around one of the corners, listening intently to the ruckus in the street. He thought he heard the word ‘thief’ being called and prepared himself, drawing his silver shortsword from its scabbard -- it was easier to maneuver than his claymore in the small spaces between the buildings and he wasn’t trying to kill Nblec, just capture him. Latro ran past him and their eyes met briefly before Latro found a place to conceal himself in the few seconds that remained before Calen and Nblec himself appeared. Gregor could hear their running footsteps approach before they rounded the corner and he felt his heartbeat quicken as they came closer and closer, until--

Nblec barely had time to register what happened when Gregor burst forth from the darkness like a bat out of hell and forced him to the ground, the red-hot edge of Gregor’s enchanted blade pressed against the bare skin of his throat and the Imperial’s weight pressing on him. He opened his mouth to cry out but Gregor silenced him with his free hand, leaving no recourse for Nblec but to gaze at him accusingly. Gregor’s eyes were hard as ice, however, and he could feel the Dwemer deflate as the reality of the situation set in. “Cooperate with us and you will live,” Gregor hissed, his face mere inches away from Nblec’s. “We want information, not your life, but we won’t hesitate to kill you if you resist. Come, on your feet.” He stood up and dragged Nblec to his feet in a single motion, the battlemage far stronger than the magistrate, and pushed him face-forward against the wall. “Tie his hands,” Gregor said to Calen and Latro, while he himself made sure that the Dwemer could not move. His guards could not remain very far behind, he knew, as Raelynn’s distraction would only work for so long. He hoped Jaraleet was ready -- it was his job to dispose of them when they followed into the alleyways.

With their target secured, Jaraleet retraced his steps until he was back at the entrance of the alleyway through which Latro had run after stealing Nblec’s coin purse. The commotion caused by Raelynn’s theatrics had already quieted down, with the Breton healer being nowhere in sight, and the two Dwemer guards were busy asking some of the remaining citizens if they had seen the direction in which the administrator had went.

Instincts honed by years of training had prepared Jaraleet for such a situation and he retreated to a side-alleyway as he waited for the guards to orient themselves. It didn’t took too long for the pair of Dwemer to find where the administrator had gone, but Jaraleet had made good use of that time. As soon as he had joined the group charged with capturing Nblec, the Haj-Eix had begun preparations to ensure that the capture of the administrator, and the disposal of his guards, went smoothly as possible. Preparations which had seen him brewing several poisons of paralysis, something that was possible thanks to the fact that the Poncy Man had both alchemical apparatuses and a few of the ingredients necessary.

He had carried a few bottles of the poison on his satchel, also conveniently hidden behind his cloak, and in the time that the guards had spent questioning Gilane’s citizens he had made sure to coat the edge of his swordbreaker with the poison. When the guards passed by the side-alleyway without noticing him, Jaraleet struck in a second. His free hand covered the mouth of the first Dwemer while his dagger sunk on his victim’s throat, the poison ensuring that the guard could do nothing as the Argonian assassin let him drop to the ground before advancing on his comrade.

To the surviving guard’s credit, he quickly realized that something was amiss when he heard the thud made by the body of his paralyzed comrade as it hit the ground. Unfortunately for him, Jaraleet was quicker and the Argonian easily managed to hit him with a shoulder charge directly on his chest. The second that the surviving Dwemer needed to regain his air was all that Jaraleet needed to bury his dagger on the guard’s throat. With the poison spent on the previous Dwemer, Jaraleet knew that the second one wouldn’t go as quietly and as such, to avoid drawing undue attention, the assassin grabbed the body of the dying mer with the arm that held his dagger while he used his free hand to cover his mouth.

“There’s no use struggling now.” He said quietly as the Deep Elf thrashed in his grip, trying to free himself. “Shhhh, shhhh, it’ll be over soon.” The assassin said softly as the dying mer tried to speak, the only result being an inarticulable gurgle that was easily muffled by Jaraleet’s hand. “Before you, nothing. Behind you, the Void.” The Haj-Eix intoned quietly in Jel as the light left the mer’s eyes and his body went still. Gently depositing the cadaver, he checked that the other Dwemer was also dead.

Satisfied that he had managed to take out both of his targets without drawing attention, Jaraleet sheathed his dagger and disappeared into the shadows once more as he made his way towards the rendezvous spot that they had agreed on previously.

---

“There you are, come in, come in,” the Redguard keeper of the safehouse said as he opened the door after he and Gregor had exchanged passwords. The party and their captured bounty -- which was still trying to protest as loudly as possible despite the gag they shoved in his mouth -- swiftly shuffled inside. They found themselves in the front room of another luxuriously decorated house, not dissimilar from the interior of the Three Crowns, and a plate with wine and refreshments was ready for them on an elegant salon table. Gregor, who was still holding Nblec, looked to the Redguard for instructions, and was subsequently directed to a smaller, spartan, windowless room that contained only a table and two chairs. Nblec was unceremoniously dumped on one of them and his arms tied to the table with the same rope that kept them bound already. Gregor and the Redguard stepped outside after that task was complete and the Imperial shook hands with their host.

“Casimir, pleased to meet you,” the young Redguard said as he introduced himself while walking back to the front room. “You are the leader of your unit, I presume?”

Gregor paused. They hadn’t discussed who was the leader, or if they even had one. “We’re all equals. My name is Gregor.”

“Very well,” Casimir replied quickly and cleared his throat. “I have very bad news, I’m afraid. Reports have come in that the Dwemer are sweeping the city in search of our friend inside, going door-to-door and searching through everything. It is only a matter of time before they come here. We--” He stopped to breathe and swallowed hard, and Gregor could see that he was afraid. “Nblec cannot stay here but we cannot move him either.”

They had joined the others by the time that Casimir was finished speaking and Gregor averted his gaze from the nervous Redguard to look at his allies. This was troublesome news, but Gregor wasn’t about to lose his cool now. “You heard the man,” he said to the rest. “If anyone has any clever ideas, now would be a good time.”

“The solution to our current predicament seems quite simple to me.” Jaraleet replied calmly, taking a step forward. “We interrogate Nblec, obtain as much information as we can from him.” The Argonian spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact, tone to the gathered individuals. “Much like Casimir said, it is only a matter of time before the Dwemer find us and Mrazac has already seen our faces. If he is rescued, it could very well endanger the entirety of the Samara cell.” He said, crossing his arms behind his back. “It is not an ideal solution, but it seems the best one given our present situation. Any objections?” Jaraleet asked calmly, turning to look at the faces of the various members of the group as he waited for their answers.

Calen could only bring himself to stare incredulously at the argonian as though he had just sprouted a second head, utterly speechless. He slowly swiveled his head around to look at in direction of the bound and gagged Nblec in the adjacent chamber, then looked to everyone else in the room before his eyes landed back on Jaraleet before responding with the most indignant declaration of disbelief he could muster, “No! Shor’s bones, I think our ship has sailed off course enough as it is.”

Calen gestured in the direction Nblec in the next chamber. He didn’t exactly know what Jaraleet meant by interrogation, but Calen was nothing if not imaginative. The bard continued, “You know, I was hoping we could just slip Lecky outta there nice and easy, maybe have a pleasant cup of tea, talk about our feelings -- and he’d be all like, ‘gee, you rebels don’t seem all that bad, you must be really convinced you’re doing the right thing.’ The next thing I know, we start gagging him and you come back with blood on your clothes.”

Raelynn paced softly around the room as she listened - the faint jingle of her jewellery suddenly the only sound. She made her way to the table and helped herself to a glass of the wine. She was going to need it. She let the men speak amongst themselves, her ears pricked at Calen’s voice of concern - they way he rejected the plan of interrogation. She smirked, hiding it behind the goblet as she took a sip.

There was a few moments of pregnant silence before a soft, high voice came from a corner of the room, “Do it.”

Latro rose, taking a few steps closer to Jaraleet, “What other choice do we have? Let everything we’ve done thus far go to shit?”

Latro frowned, “These are Dwemer. I saw them slaughter the Imperial City without any notion of pleasant cups of tea. If any of you weren’t there that day in the White-Gold city,” he cast an eye over the room that was uncharacteristically angry and jaded, “Mothers were killed with babies in their arms without a notion of talking out feelings. I’m no murderer, but I am convinced that whatever we do to Lecky,” He spat, “is the right thing. Violence deserves violence.”

The other Breton surprised her, he harboured such an anger within him towards the Dwemer - she hadn’t seen much of him so far but this side was a pleasant surprise. She let his words of emotion ruminate for a few seconds before she knew that it would be the voice of a woman that should anchor everyone back to reality. “I say we interrogate him,” she began, as she moved from the outskirts of the room to the centre, her voice bore a subtle tone of confidence to it, “I am here, I can stay with Nblec to ensure no harm comes to him, and that he leaves in one piece.” Her eyes met everyone in the group as she spoke. “There are many ways in which we can get him to divulge what he knows… I have the necessary skills to safeguard him from anything fatal.”

Taking another small sip from the glass, she approached Calen and placed her hand gently against his arm, “he will leave as he arrived Calen, I will make sure of that.”

Gregor raised his eyebrows when Latro voiced his approval with such conviction, but the outburst of emotion made sense after he explained what he had seen in the Imperial City. Gregor had only heard of the atrocities committed while he was among the refugees in Skingrad; this was the first time anyone in their party had talked about it in his presence. “I agree,” the Imperial said and nodded in Latro's direction. “They are invaders. We are not here to make friends with them. I admire your gentle disposition, Calen, but the time for compassion has come and gone.”

With that, Gregor looked at Jaraleet and Raelynn and motioned for them to follow him.

“I’m keeping watch.” Latro’s eyes remained angry as he put them on the door to Nblec’s room, in which his enemy was bound and helpless. A supreme hatred of these mer that shattered his peace and threw the lives of so many to the gutter, bleeding and dead. It was the best reason to hate, in his eyes, even as gentle and peaceful as he tried to make himself be. The anger was still there when his gaze was on Calen, as if by his words he’d thrown his lot in with the Dwemer and betrayed the rest of the group. Before he reached in his bag stashed in the corner and changed his shirt and discarded his scarf and leaving, he said to no one in particular, “Good people detest violence. But good people doing nothing when it’s visited upon others is the only thing worse.” the only sound after that was the door slamming shut.

The only thing that broke the silence after was Casimir, “I, eh, I guess I will join him. Good luck, my friends.” And he too closed the door behind him. Calen was too distracted by Raelynn’s agreement to the plan and her touch paired with Gregor’s disapproval. It threw him into a deep melancholy thought, thinking about what they were saying and trying to assess why it still didn’t sit well with him even after he understood where they were coming from. It was something he disagreed with on a fundamental level

“Ever heard of Barab Okama?” Calen asked idly after a few moments of awkward silence. His arms were crossed, his back was pressed firmly against a wall, and he was looking away from Latro. When he got no response from the Breton lad, he suppressed a sigh and decided to keep on going. “He was a Redguard leader a few generations back who authored a book or two. I read some of his work back at the Bard’s College. One of them, ‘Hope’, was about his belief of pacifism within an Alik’r warrior culture. ‘Violence for violence is the rule of beasts.’”

Calen paused for a second, reflecting on the irony of the story as he added nonchalantly, “Then he perished. Killed by his own people, so maybe I missed the deeper meaning in that story. I don’t know, but I liked the message it sent: ‘an expert swordsman can rout an entire army with only his blade, but a master could rout the entire world without ever drawing it.’ I’m no soldier or warrior, so maybe my beliefs mean nothing to you or even to anyone for that matter… but I do believe in victories.”

Still, there was only silence. Calen raised a curious eyebrow and turned around to look to where he thought the Breton was, only to find the corner he thought him to be sitting in to be empty. He looked around the room -- there was nobody to be seen. Then he heard the front door creak open, revealing Latro’s pretty, if still sour face. Oh yeah. He had just left not long ago.

“Are you talking to yourself in there? Why don’t you help us by keeping watch out here instead.”

“Uh… r-right.” Calen stammered with an embarrassed smile on his face, rubbing his hand against his neck. “Sorry about that.”

“Mm.” Latro grunted tersely before closing the door again. He took his seat next to Casimir once more, the pair sharing a rug with a teapot and two cups between the two. The balcony they were on offered a decent enough vantage point with only two blind spots that could be used to assault the safehouse.

That was something that did not sit well with Latro, his eyes imagining movement there every so often. He sighed, rubbing his face at the energy he’d exerted earlier. Casimir spoke up, “Your friend. He seems weak in this task. I would not toler-“

“I will not have this conversation.” Latro frowned at the man beside him. Despite everything said before, Casimir speaking on someone he traveled with gripped him with anger, “You know nothing of any of us, Redguard.” The two sat quietly, waiting for Calen.

---

Raelynn followed Gregor into the room, Jaraleet behind her. Despite his position of complete vulnerability, Raelynn would not look Nblec in the eye. Still she had a fear of them, it wasn't an anger like Latro, it was an uncomfortable knot in her stomach that only fueled her conviction that they were doing the right thing. She said nothing, and stood in a corner, far enough away from the bound Dwemer that made her feel more at ease. This was no place for a womans tongue, and so she held it. Waiting for either her Argonian companion, or lover, to break the tense silence.

Jaraleet had remained silent as the rest of the group had spoken in support (or against in the case of Calen) of his idea. He had expected someone to protest, but the way that Latro had agreed with him, the conviction in his voice, had surprised the Argonian slightly. Still, despite Calen’s protest, this situation had helped Jaraleet to know who he could call upon for help to do what needed to be done to ensure that the group would continue to survive the Dwemer’s invasion.

Closing his eyes, the Argonian willed his mind into a blank state. Right now he couldn’t afford distractions of any sort, his sole focus must lay on Nblez Mrazac and in obtaining the information that the Dwemer held. “Raelynn.” Jaraleet spoke, tone of voice cold and detached already, as he turned to look at the Breton. “I have need of a needle, or a similar object, would you happen to have any at hand?” The Argonian asked before turning to face Gregor. “Gregor, I need you to make sure that our captive here hasn’t loosened his restraints while we were discussing what to do with him. If he has managed to do this, please make sure to tighten his restraints again.” He said before turning his attention towards Raelynn once more as he waited for a reply from the woman.

The sudden change in demeanor did not go unnoticed by Raelynn, and his request prompted her to raise an eyebrow. She unfolded her arms, saying nothing but she did look Jaraleet in the eye as she ran her hands through her hair, fingers pulling against the bun atop her head. After a few seconds she pulled two sharp pins from inside, which caused the bun loosen and unfurl around her face. “They're not needles, but they have a point and they'll do the job,” her suddenly cold gaze then met Nblec’s as an audacious smirk played across her full lips, “you may have to use more force, my friend.” Her voice was soft and innocent, a stark contrast to the sadistic words that rolled off her tongue. The increased look of terror on his face delighted her, the very thought of his pain was melting away her fears.

“My thanks, I'll repay you once things have calmed down.” Jaraleet said, accepting Raelynn’s hair pins before he turned to face the bound Dwemer. The Argonian crossed the short distance separating him from the captured mer in silence, not even bothering to address Nblec as he knelt in front of the Dwemer and began sliding one of the pins under one of his nails. It was clear at a quick glance that Jaraleet's actions were performed with a degree of familiarity and ease that wasn't found in just about anyone, as he methodically and mechanically burrowed the pin before pulling a nail. “Where do you keep your prisoners Mrazac?” The assassin asked calmly, the needle burrowing ever so slightly under the flesh hidden behind another nail to give Nblec a hint as to what would happen if he didn’t answer.

Nblec was terrified. From the moment he had a blade to his neck, when he was tied like a pig, and now as he sat in this chair. He swallowed dryly as he watched the happenings, his mind wandering to the darkest depths of his fears when he saw the lizard-man take the woman’s hairpins. He tried to gasp out a pleading ‘no’ as the lizard-man drew closer but only managed a whimper.

When the needle pried in between his nail and finger, his hand involuntarily flinched, only adding to the pain as he let out a terrified shriek, body tremoring at the pain. When he finally caught his breath, he yelled out, “I have no idea! I have no clue! Please!” His head drooped and he let out another whimper, “I-I know nothing about prisoners.”

Jaraleet slightly pushed the needle further in, looking at Nblec directly in the eyes. “What about the location of other officers? Where do they live? Who do they live with?” The Argonian assassin asked, pushing the needle further and further in until it was poised to pull another nail. “Don’t move, otherwise you’ll lose another nail. Same if you lie.” The Haj-Eix asked coldly, his eyes staring dispassionately at Nblec’s terrified face.

Nblec gritted his teeth, he’d gotten no more used to the pain in the last few seconds and it still sent tremors through his body. He sat and flailed as the needle dug in further and finally, another nail gone. Tears were streaming down his cheeks by then, he felt so weak. “Why are you doing this to me?” He asked, “Tell me why!”

He knew they were going to kill him when they found out he knew nothing. His heart sank ever deeper thinking about his little girl at home. She’d be expecting treats brought back from the festival but now all she’d be getting is a folded up flag and news of his fate. “I have a family, please. I won’t tell a soul about this if you just let me go, just let me see my daughter, please.” He sobbed weakly, face screwed up with pain and sorrow.

He threw any notion of being strong to the wind now, he’d be dead soon enough and he let the tears flow freely as he quietly shook with his stifled cries. His fingers were still throbbing with pain, “I don’t know anything of value to you. P-please, my daughter, she’s waiting for me.”

Gregor had done as Jaraleet requested and made sure that the Dwemer's restraints were still fastened tight before taking up position behind Nblec, ready to intervene in case their prisoner had any tricks up his sleeve. That didn't seem to be the case, however. Quite the opposite: either Nblec was a fabulous actor or he had truly broken. It was almost disappointing to see one of the butchers of White-Gold and conquerors of Hammerfell reduced to such a state. It seemed that they were just mortals after all. Nblec’s tearful begging and pleading to be reunited with his daughter sparked a pang of sympathy within Gregor but the Pale Reaper quickly squashed it. It was like he himself had said: now was not the time for compassion.

He knelt down behind the Dwemer and placed both of his hands on Nblec's shoulders, his mouth only a few inches from his ear. “If you cooperate, you will see your family again. You don't have to be brave. The longer you resist, the more my associate here will torment you. Think of your daughter: confess.” Gregor's voice was low and firm, treading the line between comforting and menacing. He looked past Nblec at Jaraleet and then Raelynn. It seemed like the three of them all had a much more sinister side, and he was now sure that Jaraleet had not been entirely forthcoming about his previous life. The Argonian’s cold detachment was remarkable.

“Th-there is nothing to confess!” Nblec cried out and tried in vain to shake the large man away from him, feeling his skin crawl under his touch. “I. Know. Nothing!”

Like a lamb bleating, he sobbed again, choking on his tears and holding his face away from his two nailless fingers, “I’m an administrative officer of the City’s guard. I don’t know anything about prisoners of war or other officers.” He gritted his teeth, “If you carry on with this, they’ll bring them to hunt you!”

The threat was not empty, and a quick ferocity flashed upon Nblec’s face. He knew who they would send if news the insurgency was getting more brazen and tales of their ruthlessness were aplenty within every rank of the Dwemer government in Hammerfell. “Kill me! High Command will never let it go and you’ll be hunted like dogs!” He thrashed against his restraints now, “I don’t know anything. You can either kill me or let me go. If you let me go, I’ll tell my superiors that it was only thugs, but you go on with this and they find me, it will be the end of you.”

As the Dwemer sobbed and struggled, Raelynn smirked, the more pain he was put under, the less frightening and intimidating he became to her. He became smaller and smaller to her, insignificant. Jaraleet was focused on his task and was working with an intense precision - the normally polite Argonian had gone, for now. She couldn’t help but think of the night before - Gregor’s passion and fury at the Dwemer. His secret, and she looked at him then, kneeling behind Nblec, his voice so serious. Her own stare held a sudden sinister darkness to it and she took a sharp breath in - knowing that it wouldn’t be long until Gregor was thinking the same thing - if he wasn’t already.

Jaraleet remained silent as Nblec threatened them after his little surge of bravado, pulling yet another nail free once the Dwemer was done talking. “A reminder to not threaten to us again, it can only lead to more pain for you.” The Argonian said coldly, moving the hairpin to the next finger. “And do you truly expect me to believe you know nothing? It is true that you might not know much about the wider machinations of your peoples war efforts.” The assassin continued, slowly sinking the pin under Nblec’s fingernail once more. “But you must surely know other individuals who know more than you, no? Cooperate with us and the pain will lessen.” He said, stopping the pin from sinking further into his flesh, but not removing it, so as to prove his point.

Nblec strained against the rope that bound him to the chair once more as the Lizard-Man stuck another pin under his nail. He screamed and cursed and hung his head low when the damage was done, breathing heavily. A bead of sweat cascaded from his widow’s peak to his beard as he sat silently for a few moments. “Have you no concept of information being classified?” Nblec took a long breath, wailing and thrashing was tiring work. He had resigned himself to his fate at this point, knowing that no matter if he told the truth or simply lied to end the pain, it would result in his death. May his daughter live well after all was said and done. “By next morn, they’ll know I am gone. They’ll know something is afoot, Lizard-Man.” A look of hatred upon his face as he finally met the Lizard-Man’s eyes, “Then they’ll come for you. And you will not be so cold when they visit these same pains and more onto you.”

He frowned deeply, “Nor you,” he said to the big man with an even bigger sword before turning to the woman, “They’ll make you cry out first, to soften the men’s hearts while they imagine what’s being done. Wench.” And he let go a gob of phlegm that stuck to her cheek before roaring out with a cracked and thirsty voice, “End me!”

“I know full well the pain that you speak of Nblec, I’ve lived through it more than once and have gone through worse myself. Any fear that I might have had for such a fate, or towards such pain, is long gone from my mind.” The Argonian said nonchalantly, unperturbed by Nblec’s words or by what he had said. “And you will not die, it is not up to me to decide whether you return to the Void just yet Nblec.” He said quietly upon the Dwemer’s request to end his life, taking hold of one of his fingers and breaking it painfully. “Cooperate, or only more pain awaits you.” He said, settling the broken finger back into its original position. “Tell us what information you might have, and this will be over.”

So the magistrate had some fight left in him after all. Gregor had seen that type of defiance before. As it did so often, the last moments of Hannibal the Vigilant replayed in his mind’s eye. He could feel the latent anger that simmered like hot embers inside of him at all times rise to the surface as Nblec threatened painful deaths on them all and actually spat in Raelynn’s face. Gregor drew in a sharp breath of air and had to stop himself from reaching out and breaking something important in the Dwemer’s neck. Any sympathy he might have felt for Nblec was gone now, replaced by irrational wrath, and he wondered how Jaraleet could stay so calm. How often had the Argonian carried out such interrogations? Gregor was reminded of the stories he had heard about the Thalmor Justiciars.

This was taking too long. Gregor reached a hand around Nblec’s face and firmly grabbed his jaw, preventing him from shirking away, and leaned in closer to whisper in Nblec’s ear, his voice so breathless that none but the Dwemer could hear him now. “The lizard-man is being kind to you. You don’t fear death, I see that now… but there are fates worse than that. Confess, or your soul will never see the light again.”

Wiping the back of her hand over her cheek, Raelynn removed the Dwemer’s present. She restrained herself from diving towards him, tearing at his eyes with her fingers, or from raising a hand to him. She couldn't stand to be near the revolting creature, but she would not give Nblec the satisfaction of her looking scared and shaken by his threatening words. She remained as stoic as possible for as long as she could before once again, a devilish smirk grew, she could see Gregor’s face pressed to his ear. She didn't need to know what he said, she knew it was something truly wicked.

Nblec managed a haggard, but rueful laugh, “Just end me. I don’t know anything you want, only merchant ship schedules and civilian supply caravan routes, you fucking fools!” He heaved in trenoring breaths and he didn’t know if he was shaking from the pain or the anger he felt. “I’m an administrator. I know nothing of high-level information because that isn’t my job!”

Nblec’s head whipped around as he heard a sharp crack, then a few moments later, a full staccato of the same. “They’ve come.” He grinned.

As soon as Jaraleet heard the distinct crack of a Dwemer rifle being shot a curse in Jel left his throat before the assassin regained control of his emotions. He looked at the bound figure of Nblec and then at both Gregor and Raelynn, “Gregor, stay over to guard him. Make sure that Nblec is ready to move at a moments notice.” He said as he stood up and made his way to the door. “Raelynn, I need you to come with me. We are not sure who might be wounded or how badly, so we’ll have need of your talents.” The Argonian said to the Breton woman before he turned to look back at Gregor. “We’ll return once we’ve managed to secure an escape route for us.” He said before leaving the room for good, leaving Gregor alone with Nblec.

---

Latro and Casimir had sat alone and in silence until Calen arrived, after which the silence still continued with some awkwardness. It was eerily quiet within the safehouse and Latro had to wonder if they were torturing him at all in there. “These walls are thick?”

“Enchanted. We’ve had seals placed in the corners to muffle the sounds that could’ve made it out.” Casimir said, “Useful for interrogations.”

Latro nodded and sighed, watching the view they had from the balcony. “A lot of interrogations then?”

“I was not always employed by the Poncy Man.” Casimir frowned. Suddenly, he squinted, leaning forward as he sat, “Did you see that?”

“What?” Latro asked, before he saw a light like sparks in the distance. Then a second later, he heard the crack and turned to Casimir to ask what it was, but Casimir was laying back against the wall.

Both Latro and Calen stumbled away from Casimir dumbfounded, who was leaking from a hole in his brow and a ruined eye socket. Latro immediately prepared a hasty mage-armor spell while Calen held his breath in preparation of a muffling spell of his own, before a roaring thunder of cracks followed and left sandstone raining down on them. Latro caught sight of a large group of Dwemer ascending the stairs to the balcony and readied himself, strengthening the mage armor while Calen sneaked around the side of the balcony. He stood as they came at him, counting six, fists at the ready. By the time the first one got to him, his sword-swipe cleaved only air as he snaked away from its path.

Latro’s arm lanced out, quick as a viper, and a fist dented the front of the Dwemer’s helmet in. The Dwemer stumbled back and Latro shoved him into his comrade to trip him up. Without thinking, he dodged away from a mace coming down on his head and kicked out with all his strength, shattering the Dwemer’s knee and bending his leg the wrong direction. Another foot stomped down and dented the back of the Dwemer’s helm. He sidestepped another sword swipe and grabbed the Dwemer’s arms, muscles straining in wrenching it over and blocking another blade with the Dwemer’s own. He pried the sword from the first Dwemer’s grip and sent the hilt swinging into the other Dwemer’s helm, metal panging off metal hard enough to almost shake it from Latro’s grip. Only more were coming up the stairs.

Calen was quick at work, silenced by magic, making not a sound as he undid the fastenings of a tapestry draping the side of the building and praying that none of the Dwemer soldiers would see him. When he finished, he bundled the tapestry up in his arms, hurried over the side of the balcony overhead of the encroaching soldiers, and unfurled it and draped the tapestry over their heads. Hopefully that would buy them enough time to retreat.

Wasting no more time, Latro kicked the other Dwemer he’d disarmed square in the head as he turned and followed after Calen into the safehouse, bellowing, “They’re here!”

“Yes, we heard your warnings. I left Gregor to guard Nblec.” Jaraleet said as Calen and Latro entered back into the safehouse, having grabbed his sword and dagger once again. “Do we have an approximate number of how many troops the Dwemer have sent? How many riflemen?” The Argonian asked, briefly pausing when he noticed that Casimir wasn’t with them. “I assume Casimir is dead, no?” He asked as he readied himself for the Dwemer’s inevitable breach of the inner space of the safehouse.

Raelynn hurried too, following Jaraleet out of the interrogation room. She had no idea what would happen next - how many there would be. Nblec’s words did cross her mind; They’ll make you cry out first, to soften the men’s hearts while they imagine what’s being done. She’d had some kind of power in that room, and now she didn’t. Her heart began to race in her chest as she readied herself for whatever was about to happen. There could be any number of Dwemer arriving - and only Jaraleet, Latro, Calen, Gregor, and herself. She prayed internally that they would not be overly outnumbered. “I’ll be back here, I can’t fight but if you are in too much trouble I’ll patch you up. Be careful out there…” This was the first time since the Imperial City that she was in such immediate danger - Alim appeared in her mind and she momentarily found herself hoping that he was safe, that his groups’ mission hadn’t gotten quite so off track...

Back in the interrogation room, Gregor was left alone with Nblec and began unfastening his restraints. They had to get him out of here. An idea had come to him, however, born from the darkest recesses of his mind; the Imperial stopped what he was doing and turned his head slowly to look Nblec in the eye. The sounds of combat outside intensified and Gregor knew that he had only the briefest of moments to act. Nblec’s eyes widened at the sight of the unnatural hunger that fell over Gregor’s features and before he could open his mouth and alert the others about what was going on, Gregor got to his feet and slammed the door to the interrogation room shut.

“What are you doing?” Nblec asked, but Gregor did not reply. He knelt down in front of the Dwemer, clamped his left hand over the magistrate’s mouth and gathered his magicka in his right hand. A ghastly, pale blue light illuminated the room and cast long, stark shadows on the walls for a second before it disappeared into Nblec’s chest. Gregor looked up at him and saw in his eyes that the Dwemer felt the deathly chill squeezing his heart -- the soultrap of Oblivion. He began to struggle now, desperate cries muffled by Gregor’s unyielding grip, and the Imperial shushed him while he prepared another spell. This time the room was lit up by a blood-red glow and Nblec looked down his nose, terrified, as Gregor placed his palm over the Dwemer’s heart.

“Rejoice,” the Pale Reaper said, his voice high and cold, his face a mask of iron, and drained the life out of him. Nblec’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body went slack as his heart gave out, all of his life-force stolen in seconds, before his soul swiftly followed suit. The room was filled with a bright flash and a rushing sound, like a waterfall or a hurricane’s winds, and ethereal streams of light poured out of the Dwemer’s corpse and into one of the pouches that lined Gregor’s belt. He exhaled a shuddering breath, only now aware that he had been holding it in, and loosened the pouch’s strings with trembling fingers. He pulled out a black soul gem, warm to the touch, and gazed at the dim light that shone within: the soul of Nblec Mrazac.

He laughed, a mirthless sound that echoed unpleasantly off the walls, and put the gem back where it belonged. He’d done it. He’d actually done it. The Ideal Masters would be thrilled, he reckoned. But he wasn’t in the clear yet. Gregor drew his silver shortsword, took a deep breath, wiped the satisfied smirk off his face and opened the door to the rest of the safehouse.

From the Dwemer’s belt, a pouch fell to the floor. Across the dusty tiles several pieces of chocolate rolled, coming to rest alongside their owner’s final resting place.

Like Jaraleet had expected, it didn’t take long for the Dwemer to finally breach into the interior of the safehouse. A quick glance told the Argonian that there were about a dozen or so soldiers along with the fact that some of the soldiers had decided to forego the use of their rifles in the interior of the house in exchange for melee weapons. Any further thoughts on his part were cut short as he saw the few Dwemer that hadn’t switched weapons lining up their shots towards him and the other members of the group.

“Everyone, down!” The Argonian shouted as he kicked a table over, using it as an impromptu cover to protect themselves from the rifle shots.

It all happened so fast after that, things happening all at once. The booming cracks of thunder reverberating on the walls of the safehouse disoriented him and the others. He felt someone wrap themselves around him and he began his fall. The table next to him had splintered in half and he had no idea if Jaraleet was alive behind it.

By the time he hit the ground, he heard Raelynn’s scream. He looked down to see Calen on top of him. The two rolled over and there was crimson blossoming from a hole in his shirt. Latro let go a shuddering breath as Raelynn dropped to her hands and knees beside them. Calen looked between him and Raelynn with wide eyes, tremoring hands going to his chest and touching hot blood.

Like the bleating of a lamb that gripped his heart near-still, Latro heard Calen’s wordless yelps as the pain finally found him. He looked to Gregor, then to Jaraleet, who was wiping a hand over a weeping arm wound with the same face someone would look at a splinter. Gregor was the first into the fray, carving out a Dwemer’s neck with his short sword. Latro and Jaraleet fell in step beside him while Raelynn trudged along behind them with Calen limp in her arms.

The fight seemed to have lasted hours, but in truth only minutes, with Latro’s limbs feeling like jelly and his entire body a host of aches and stinging. They hid in alleyways and even houses, Raelynn taking the small moments of rest to keep Calen stable before they moved in earnest. They finally made it close enough to the Five Crowns Hotel to be intercepted by some of the Poncy Man’s men, no doubt catching sight of them from a vantage point over the streets. They hurried Raelynn and Calen to the nearest master healer they had at the Five Crowns while the rest trudged defeated back to their dorms.

Latro sat on his bed, seemingly unable to move from it since they’d gotten back. He looked at his hands and his shirt, both covered in Calen’s blood. He swallowed, lips uttering a single curse under his breath as he sat. How did it all go so wrong?

Three Crowns Hotel, 1st Midyear, 9am…

The Poncy Man was almost too fixated on the view of the cityscape and the harbor beyond to notice the door creaking open. Even as he registered it, he only remained sitting with his back to whoever had entered, hand swirling a cup of wine, the only thing helping him calm himself from the news. His sigh brought the smell of sea to his senses, closing his eyes and letting the sound of the harbor’s bells and the seagulls fill his mind. His mentor had always taught him to take his time in all matters of importance. Choices that would shape the future ought to be treated with the weight they deserve.

“We’ve come.”

Which was why he’d waited so long to send for his most trusted people. “Good, HoonDing has at least granted me relief in one thing.”

“What matter troubles you that you’ve sent for us both?” The voice spoke again.

Finally, the Poncy Man stood from his seat at the window and took the few steps to get to his desk, upon which sat the reports from the debriefings. Only one task of the three he’d given had yielded good results. One managing to fail so spectacularly that the broken bookshelf still stood in the corner, a testament to why he tried to keep his nerves in all things and a reminder that he was all too human to do such. “Perhaps I have become too trusting and generous in my age.” He began, “Associates of an associate of mine took refuge within this hotel of mine. By all accounts, they were men and women good for the work I had given them. I’ve relied on hearsay for the last time.”

A few moments of silence swept into the room before Hassan spoke, “So, that is why.”

“Yes.” The Poncy Man nodded. He turned to the other person in the room, “My dear friend, have you misplaced your tongue since the last time we’ve been together?”

The woman wore a snakeskin cloak that concealed her form, but the Poncy Man knew that beneath the concealing leather was one of the most powerful and talented assassins he had in his employ, if not most of Hammerfell. Her short spear was seldom ever without poisons, and she could throw a blade with as much precision as any archer could loose an arrow. Beneath the veil of her cloak gazed a pair of yellow eyes that might as well have belonged to a serpent themselves.

“Words will not sway the course of this discussion. What is the mission?” she asked. Always to the point.

“Keep them in your sight. They’ll never leave it, they will live their days in Hammerfell under it.” The Poncy Man took another sip of his wine, swishing it around his mouth before finally swallowing it, “Hassan may act as my liaison to them, the hand I outstretch before them.”

He nodded to Hassan, always the more visible of the two, but no less deadly with his blade. A student of the ancient Yokudan arts of the sword both long and short. His gaze once again settled on Nadeen, “The hand they will not see, though.” His face grew grim, “You know the purpose of why I summoned you of all my people to sit here. Am I understood?”

She offered a single slow and grave nod. There was only ever one reason she was summoned, and it was justice without a voice. The cause was simply too dire to leave to chance; her authority on the matter was absolute.

“It will be painless, should the time come.”

---

The Governor’s Palace…

A cloud hung over Gilane, even though the skies were clear. Razlinc Rourken stared down upon the city like an eagle might, seeing only the resplendor and beauty of the rooftops, and not the filth that accumulated in the streets below.

It seemed only appropriate that her attempts to govern with a fair and loose hand was allowing something dangerous to fester below. This insurgency was getting bold, and already too many of her people had died by the hands of those who could not tolerate coexistence. She gritted her teeth in annoyance; so be it. The city and its people needed security, and this order of chaos that shed blood without care and let rapists and murders back into the streets would need to be extinguished. The Dwemer would see to it; they were a people renown for utmost efficiency.

“Upon the table behind me is a list of those who arrived by ship on the 30th, the Intrepid. The customs officer was kind enough to provide that documentation after reports of insurgent activity were linked to individuals matching the description of several on board. Is your taskforce prepared, Major?” Razlinc asked the only other individual in the room.

A mer dressed in a flowing longcoat adorned with epaulettes that denoted his high rank within the Secret Police’s Counterinsurgency and Counterintelligence division sat calmly in his seat opposite Razlinc’s. He forwent the traditional beard, preferring instead to bear his chiseled jaw to the world and thin lips sipped at a cup of tea. “Only give the word, Madam Governor.”

“It is given. Do what you must, report your findings and actions taken at your leisure. You have my utmost confidence.” She turned to face her most trusted agent. “Your experiment, however… the conscripts and outsiders, are you certain it is wise to use them instead of our own?”

Kerztar smirked, he’d always used the most unorthodox means and he’d always remained the most trusted and competent officer of the High Command’s Secret Police all the while. “East of here, in the Reach, when our supply caravans were being raided by Nords I took the Reachmen clans and flushed them out of the mountains to be killed or captured in the open.” He took another sip of tea, “Before that, I wanted the trust of the Reachmen clans against the Forsworn and I gave them the locations of the Forsworn’s redoubts and Dwemer weaponry and now they wield them in our name as protectors and keepers of the peace in that region.”

Kerztar nodded, “These people know the lands and the cultures as they have changed since our absence better than we ever will in the foreseeable future. The people don’t bat an eye at my outsiders.” Kerztar folded his hands on his lap, “Responding to this incident with an iron fist and storming the streets with our own will only strengthen the insurgency’s cause. We will seem as what they want us to seem, a hammer poised to smash their way of life.”

“My outsiders and I are the scalpel.” Kerztar sipped at his tea once more.

Razlinc nodded, setting herself down in her seat. “Our objective has always been different from the other clans. If we are to remain in Volenfell and Tamriel at large, we need to maintain a level of trust and respect from the populace. It’s what the other clans simply do not seem to grasp.” She said, pouring herself a cup of her own tea. “You’ve long served my agenda and shared my vision, Kerztar. I trust you will do this thankless task with distinction and secure a future for our clan.” she looked down at the sheet. “This Khajiit and Breton in particular. If you do find them, bring them here. I suspect we may have an unfinished conversation.”

“The peace kept is thanks enough for an officer of the Secret Police. Recognition is failure.” Kerztar leaned forward to peer at the document Razlinc was looking at, studying the portraits, “You’ve had them here before?”

“I believe so.” She replied thoughtfully. “The inspector took note of this Daro’Vasora’s attire and journals being documents about our people, and she possessed some of our ancient craftsmanship. The next day, she arrives in our cultural center and was sent to me for a quick chat, you know how I am about people who have an interest in our civilization. She seemed quick witted and knowledgeable, it was her bodyguard that raised some suspicion, an Imperial man. He made an outburst that would suggest his sympathies are not with us. Raelynn Hawkford, the Breton, seemed to be something of an intermediary of the two. It was a curious encounter, not one I paid much heed to, but eye witness accounts tell of three individuals who sound cautiously similar to them at two separate raids. I should like to find out for myself if they are one in the same.”

“Then you will.” He stood and saluted, “By sundown, my men will be ready. I’d like to take the Captain of this vessel in custody and learn what he knows. We will both have a clearer picture of all these little coincidences soon enough.” Kerztar smirked.

---

11pm, Gilane Docks…

It had been a rather tense meeting with the Poncy Man earlier.

Roux was seated at his desk, going over his ledger, and wondering exactly what Vasora and her friends had done that had sent bloody Hassan to speak to him directly. The Redguard was always cordial and polite, but anyone who knew of the man’s reputation knew that him taking an interest in you was akin to having a mark of death hovering over your head; people simply disappeared if they crossed him or the Poncy man, and while the latter certainly had empathy and compassion, he wasn’t above cutting away the fat if it was causing the cause to choke.

Roux was starting to feel like the fat.

The Intrepid would set sail in two days’ time after resupplying and his crew was entirely accounted for, and hopefully he’d be able to find some more willing recruits to bring into the cause. The insurgency was becoming a numbers game; they really weren’t willing to risk their own when foreign labour could pay the ultimate sacrifice for them, it seemed like. A lot of people he’d brought to this city had died along the way, he knew. Most of them did their jobs well and didn’t stick out. So why did he bring Daro’Vasora to this place? Despite their history, he had a fondness for her, and he knew it was going to be dangerous. But she seemed so eager to help?

“I’m a piece of shit.” he muttered to himself, grabbing his glass of wine and deciding to step outside for some air. How long could he do this for, he wondered as he opened the door.

His eyes fixed on a prone form on the ground; Rutherford was dead, a crimson gash across his throat. Roux felt his own tighten at the sight, slamming the door and slipping the cross bolt in place. “Intruder! We’ve got an intruder!” he shouted, running to gather his blade back in the study.

Villaume was awoken from a dead sleep in the armory to the sound of the crew rushing around in a panic. He was confused, standing groggily and flinching when the rum bottle rolled off his lap and onto the floor. He ran as steadily as he could to the doorway that led into the hall, grasping a sword up on his way. “What’s this about?” He called, then once more when no answer came, “What’s this rushing for? Are we under attack?”

“Intruders, sir!” A crewman finally answered.

“How many? From where?” He asked, only growing more confused.

“I’ve no idea, sir.” The crewman said.

“Rally around me, you lot!” He yelled over the hubbub of cursing sailors. He’d finally gotten a group of eight together and they set to the task of securing the rooms. The first few were empty until they’d made it to some of the bunks, those crew who were sleeping there all had their throats opened. Villaume stumbled back, wide-eyed.

How could intruders have made it onto the ship without anyone noticing and wreaking this much death with impunity? “To the Captain’s quarters,” he said, before continuing louder, “Follow, now!”

He raced past his own men to the topdeck and there they found a scene no less gruesome than the last. Bodies hanging over the gunwales with open throats or crossbow bolts in their heads, corpses sprinkled here and there like broken dolls.

There wasn’t even a sign of a fight. No corpses of men he didn’t recognize, no blood that wasn’t pooled around a man that died where he stood without a clue. He feared the worst of Captain Roux. Villaume and his men rushed to the door of the Captain’s quarters but found it was still locked. “Captain! Captain!” He called, but no answer.

He turned to his men and pointed to the one with a boarding axe, “I want that door down now!”

The huge man only nodded, stepping up to the door and raising his axe above his head. He brought it down with a roar and splintered the door off its hinges. A good kick had the thing clattering on the ground. Villaume saw that the candlelight that usually lent Roux’s quarters a warm glow had been extinguished, leaving only pitch-dark shadow. “Captain!” Villaume called.

“I’m in here! Quick!” He heard Roux’s voice. Villaume waved to the others to follow him.

“Captain?” Villaume said in the darkness, voice lone amongst the shadows. Of a sudden, the door slammed shut behind him and some of the others, and there was a terrible raucous outside. The sound of men dying before all was silence once more. “A light, I need a light-“

He was startled by the feeling of air being displaced just next to him. The following second, he felt something hot speckle him followed by a choking from somewhere in the room. At another place, somebody grunted and then the sound of a heavy slam, twice, the second wetter than the last with the crack of bone. A white light enveloped the room, the suddenness of it forcing him to cover his eyes for a few seconds. Once his eyes adjusted, he dropped his hand to see Roux and a couple others trussed up on the ground, then the inevitable corpses just made seconds ago. The third thing he noticed was something sharp poking the side of his neck, giving him pause.

Through the doorway strode a figure sporting a pair of blooded Dwarven axes about his hips, a pair of pistols strapped to his chest, and Roux was surprised to see that the newcomer was a Khajiit; in fact, all of the attackers seemed to be of anything but Dwemeri stock. This new Cathay had granite-coloured fur with black stripes and ice-blue eyes and a mohawk of a black mane that gave him a rather daring and commanding appearance, say nothing of the two axes that his hands rested easily upon. He strode up to the table, plucking up the ledger to observe it, as if the occasion was completely mundane and normal. “My apologies, friend; did we interrupt something?” he asked, his voice was smooth and lacked a lot of the infliction he’d come to associate with Khajiit from Elsweyr, although his accent suggested he was original from there.

“What the fuck do you want?” Roux demanded, feeling far more defiant than he should have, considering the circumstances.

“Oh, it’s not what I want, but rather the job my employer wishes me to do. Mine has me running about the city, finding those responsible for that delightfully bloody terror cell that’s been running amok, and yours presumably wish for you to find more bodies to throw into the pyre that is their fanaticism.” The Khajiit said, carelessly tossing the ledger back on the table before crouching before Roux, a dangerously sharp claw lifting his chin so their eyes could meet. “Your friends have been rather busy in such a short time, no?” he asked.

“I have no fucking idea what you- urghk!” Roux tried to say, but the claw had pierced the soft skin just behind his chin. The Khajiit grinned widely, offering the Breton a wink.

“Now, my instructions were to bring the captain in alive, and anyone else who seems like they do more than shovel shit buckets overboard and chops rotting vegetables, but my employer isn’t too keen on how they arrive. Spells can fix most wounds, but mental anguish?” he clucked his tongue. “That takes some time to undo. I would know; I’ve been at this a while.”

“This is fucking preposterous! We passed our customs check-Oof!” Villaume was silenced by a hard right hook to his solar plexus, a blow that had him double over and fall to the floor.

“All of you have been gutless during this entire raid, let’s keep it that way.” The other’s voice came, deep and with the inflection of someone who was bored of this. The Khajiit’s comrade looked more racially ambiguous than anyone Roux had ever seen. It was only after a good look that Roux decided he was Ohmes-Raht, clad in the trappings of a Redguard warrior, a duo of even more foreign looking swords than the scimitars the Redguard carried sheathed on his back, elegantly curved. He’d an oddly curved dagger in hand dripping fresh blood and a pair of cold, flat eyes if all else failed. “We walk you off this ship and onto our carriage without further violence. A peep out of turn and I’m taking teeth away.”

The Ohmes started in earnest, sheathing his dagger and grasping up Villaume’s shirt in both fists, hauling him up though he was still gasping like a fish from the earlier blow. He held him up through the coughing and slapped a pair of iron shackles on his wrists.

Sensing the defiance was making way to the terrible reality of it, the Cathay stood upright with a spring, stretching his arms out and yawning loudly. “You must really see Sevari’s tooth collection, it jingles when he walks.” He said, staring down at Roux as the other Khajiit jingled one of a few pouches on his belt. “To your feet, while you still have them.”

The Breton reluctantly stood, glancing uncertainly between the two. “Why are you doing this, working for them?” he asked daringly.

The first Khajiit rolled his eyes and turned away for a moment. Suddenly, he turned back, axe in hand, and the spiked back end drove into Roux’s shoulder, prompting the man to scream out in pain. He was pulled towards the smiling Khajiit, who grasped his throat roughly. “You may wish to save your words for someone who has the patience for them, yes? Now come, you have a long life ahead of you.” he said, yanking on the axe and forcing Roux to follow, the spike still imbedded in his arm. Even through the blinding pain, the Breton knew that stopping or showing any form of resistance would only result in more pain and suffering.

He felt ashamed that fear stopped him from trying to fight back, and so he dutifully walked after the Khajiit, the deadly axe yanking him along like a leash. Villaume was no worse for wear, being led by a fist in his hair and a knife at his back. The empty night streets made their footsteps echo off the walls of the buildings. A carriage waited for them not but a short walk from the gangplank on which a lone Redguard man snored softly. The two Khajiit shoved their prey into the back of the carriage and the Ohmes slammed the door after them. The Redguard jerked awake in a small panic. “Keep your damned eyes open and get us home, Saffi.” The Ohmes said, taking a seat next to him.

“Home? Hrm. Wouldn't that be a welcome surprise?” the axe-wielding Khajiit murmured, heading to the back of the wagon and hopping up to grab a handhold and stand on the rear platform as the horses began to kick off into the night.

1st Mid Year, 4E208CE

The morning came early, and it was a restless sleep for Daro’Vasora. After returning from the raid on the guard headquarters and learning of the abject failures much of the company had been responsible for, she gritted her teeth to the point that anything she tried to chew on to satisfy her oral fixation snapped over the pressure. The news, particularly on how Jaraleet had tortured the Dwemer administrator to the point of death and the complit nature of those who joined in that ordeal, she needed to find answers. She needed to find Latro, who had been a part of it; he’d surely have some insight of how things got so fucked up.

Deciding that she needed to get out of the room before she snapped at someone, she gathered her things and left the room before the others awoke, heading down the gilded hotel walls towards the male quarters to find Latro, needing to step away for a while. Before long, she found the quarters she knew the Breton bard was assigned to and with an idle thought, managed to pick the lock and slip the door open, silently stepping across the floor until she found the prone sleeping form of Latro. She gently shook his shoulder to rouse him.

“Up, we need to talk.” she whispered.

Latro jolted awake, snatching Sora’s wrist with a ferocity that surprised even him after he’d had time to realize where he was and who he was with, though the latter did remain a surprise. He gingerly let go of Sora’s wrist, almost guiltily moving away from her and wedging his hands beneath his legs as if he was trapping the heads of serpents. “I’m sorry.” He muttered, “I don’t sleep well.”

He reached over to the nightstand beside his bed and took a gulp of the water there and took a breath. He looked at the closed door, then the window. The silk curtains were fastened shut still, but he remembered just who was in the room with him, “The door was locked.” He muttered, “Why have you come?”

Daro’Vasora only rubbed her wrist where Latro had grabbed her; it was an understandable reaction, waking up anyone after the past month or so suddenly was always going to be a gamble. “Nothing to apologize for. Thanks for not grabbing a dagger first.” She said with a tight smile. “I couldn’t sleep and I needed to talk, care to indulge me?”

“Whatever you’d like.” He smiled sleepily. He lay back against the wall and finally settled with laying his hands on his lap, fingers entwined. “What did you need to talk about?”

“Outside, let’s not wake these guys.” She said, getting up from her crouch and walking through the dark and out of the door. When Latro finally roused, she was leaning against the wall with arms crossed. She began to walk to find a courtyard, or anything, that was private and wouldn’t likely be intruded. She let out a long sigh after a few minutes, staring ahead. “What happened yesterday?” she asked, her tone flat.

Latro had rejoined her after getting dressed, which for him, was only slipping on a pair of trousers in the Redguard style. He leaned on the wall with Sora, relaxed. When she finally revealed what she needed to talk to him about, he tensed up. It wasn’t that he couldn’t tell her, wasn’t that the Magistrate’s death was weighing heavy on him, no. It was that some part of him felt like he’d betrayed his own convictions in a way. Finally, he sighed, “We killed him.” Latro said. “We killed that Dwemer and I have no idea how we did it. Men don’t die from needles under their nails or being cuffed in the face.”

Her teeth ground again, her arms tight around her chest. “Who did it? The entire point was to bring him back.” She replied tersely, staring ahead. “We were told to do a mission, not torture some asshole because a few of our company are blood thirsty bastards. Did they not stop to think this is how we’re supposed to get support and assistance in our own goals? Why do they think we have a roof over our heads?” she asked him, frustration seeping through her teeth. “I’m trying, Latro. I really am. Rhea kept this gaggle of idiots in line and I thought it was the proper thing to do. I don’t know how to lead people, or motivate them, and for the most part, I’d probably laugh at most of them if they broke their legs. And yet, here I am, over my head, trying to get them to fight some bloody war they may or may not have a stake in.” she sighed, stopping in her tracks. Looking over to Latro, she shook her head, her expression softening. “Look, I know whatever happened wasn’t your fault. I’m just… I don’t know what to do.”

“We were compromised, Sora. The guards were on high alert after the stunt we pulled, do you think it would be easy enough to snag an officer?” He shook his head, “We shook them, got to the safehouse that was described, everything had gone to plan after that and we were going to lay low before bringing him back. They knew where we were, we fought them, but the Magistrate had succumbed to wounds nobody succumbs to.”

He slid down the wall onto his arse, “Poison, maybe. But who?” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed in the frustration of remembering it all, “Why?”

That was an interesting revelation. She blinked slowly, her composure firming again. “If it were poison, it would have been premeditated. They’d have been plotting to murder the Administrator since before setting out, or deciding to deny his safe return if the mission was compromised. Who was in the room with him? Was anyone alone?”

“Jaraleet, Raelynn, and Gregor. No one else.” He sighed and wrung his hands, “I watched it all. If Jaraleet tipped his needles with poison, I never saw it, but poison doesn’t just stick to blades for more than an hour.”

“Nothing is right about this, Sora.” He rubbed his face and looked at his friend, he had so little morale and he didn’t want to waste it playing the past day over and over again, “I’ve never trusted merchants from Hammerfell, this very place sets my skin to crawl. I haven’t been here in a long time.”

“What of you, though?” He asked, eager to change subjects, “Your mission?”

“A mess. I managed to get the guard patrol list, but I got caught and only got out because I fought dirty. Meg let a bunch of prisoners out of their cells as a distraction to buy us an escape, and we didn’t find a prisoner transport list, but we managed to snag a few sets of armour thanks to Anifaire, Alim and Solandil. A few guards were killed, but I don’t think anyone really saw who we were except for the officer who attacked me.”

She concluded with an annoyed grunt. “So, yeah. That’s where I’m at. I’m realizing that avoiding a fight is becoming less of an option, and I really don’t think I’m capable of handling my own. Can you help me learn how to stand my ground when I run into situations like last night… I kind of got my ass kicked.” she said, glancing away, glad for the fact she couldn’t blush. It was embarrassing to admit.

“I’d say the best defense is fast legs, but since we’re set on fighting wars.” Latro chuckled, “Well, come. Let’s walk, at least warm up our bodies before we go hurting ourselves further.”

With that, Latro stood, hooking a finger on one of Sora’s own and taking her with him. They tip-toed through the hotel and picked their way into the training room in the basement. Latro felt young again, trying to stay as quiet as he could past the skeleton crew of hotel staff still awake at night. Guests of the Poncy Man or no, Latro had come to enjoy keeping his skills sharp the past few days in Gilane. After raiding the training room they slinked out of the building and onto the streets.

The one thing he did like about Hammerfell was that the early hours were always walking-weather. Not too warm, but a balance that supported his chronic abandonment of as many articles of clothing he could do away with while still being somewhat decent. Tonight was no exception. They walked the streets together, the early morning needing no breezes to make it comfortable. By the time they’d found a spot suitable enough for their liking, they could smell salt on the air and the sound of crashing waves. A lonely hideaway that was surprisingly spacious in an alley that connected two streets. A bench on one end and a zen garden on the other, sand combed into mesmerizing patterns and what looked like a standing stone to Latro in the center. “Well,” Latro said, “As good a place as any?”

“Such a romantic. I wonder what the real estate costs around here?” the Khajiit mused, crouching into a stretch. “You’re already dressed for the occasion.” she noted.

“One never knows when.” Latro smirked. He tossed a wooden training sword Sora’s way, closing his eyes as she caught it and taking a few deep breaths. He could feel his skin begin to tingle intensely and a slight numbness was the familiar feeling of a mage armor spell. “You needn’t worry about my safety.”

“Yeah, but what about mine?” She asked, looking the training storm from hilt to tip, moving it to get a feel for the weight. “This feels so backwards, with a mace all the weight is in the head. I guess pain’s going to be a good teacher, huh?” she asked, working out a kink in her arm. “So, en garde?” she asked with an impish grin.

“Well, they had wooden swords.” Latro shrugged, before adding cheekily, “Wooden maces are just called clubs.”

“I guess Hammerfell doesn’t have an abundance of sticks. Well, I guess it’s probably not a bad thing to go outside my comfort zone.” she replied, moving in for a low level thrust, much like she’d seen fencers do in performances.

Latro responded with a crisp riposte, stepping to her right from Sora’s thrust and batting the point off course. He quickly stepped back forward in a lunge, point aimed towards her chest.

Her balance was off, and the Khajiit tried to slow her momentum to avoid skewering herself on the wooden point, and ultimately she stumbled onto her hands and knees, scrambling back up to her feet with her sword pointed defiantly at Latro, circling him. “Well, that was rude.” She retorted, moving in with a few probing thrusts to test his defences. After being parried, Daro’Vasora made a wide underhand swung from the lower right, under his arms and towards the abdomen.

Latro was somewhat surprised to have stumbled Sora and she managed to gain a measure of respect back by immediately putting him on the defensive. Her footwork left something to be desired, but that would come in time. He parried, stepping in at the same time she made her swing. Almost caught off guard, his mind caught up quickly and he immediately transitioned into half-sword. Grabbing his blade, he hooked Sora’s sword with his crossguard, pulling it down before he followed up with a jab to the face with his pommel. He stopped just short, playfully butting his shoulder into Sora’s, “The blade isn’t the only part of the sword.” He grinned cheekily, “You swing it like a mace because you’re used to maces. It isn’t a mace.”

He stepped back from Sora, “The arming sword was the first of the weapons Francis taught me. He made a fool of me for three months every time we practiced.” He settled into Fool’s Gate stance, tip towards the ground in front of him, “In four months I was able to parry him and keep balance. In six months, I broke one of his ribs with a training blade.”

“En Garde.” He motioned for Sora to come at him.

“Can we reduce the making a fool out of me portion of the training down to a week? I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She said, not rushing into the invitation, studying him. How would she normally work on engagement with a foe, she wondered. Normally she used the environment to her advantage and her natural agility to take advantage of elevation and ambushes, and landing a single good hit was often enough to slow down her foes without them being able to give chase. Since that wasn’t an option here, she knew she had to improvise.
Latro would expect her to be entirely reliant on her weapon, but perhaps…

She charged at him, her blade held behind her, like she would the mace, like she was going to try another wild swing again, but instead, she pivoted last second into a slide across her knees, bringing her weapon up into a swing to catch Latro’s counter against an easy opponent, and she kicked back off the sand towards him, driving her shoulder into his exposed arm and dropping her own weapon to free her hand to grab Latro’s wrist as her momentum carried her back and down in front of him, pulling him off balance and into the dirt while her weight stayed on his arm. With claws out, she slashed, shallowly across his neck, knowing his spell would prevent any mark from showing. It was a desperate gamble that left her on her knees and giggling like a girl, but it was certainly unorthodox. “Sorry about the arm.” she said, slumping down to her back in the sand with a foolish grin across her countenance.

Latro was so surprised by the throw he let out a high squeal that quickly became a full-chested laugh. His sword had slipped from his grasp in the excitement and he lay on the ground, panting with laughter. He covered his mouth until his laughs had subsided, turning to Sora laying next to him, “I like it. Your swordplay almost made me forget who you were. I’m glad you reminded me. I like that ferocity.”

Latro rolled into a sitting position. He looked about the hideaway they were in and put his hands on his hips. “Another round? Or something else?”

“Oh hush, I can’t be perfect at everything.” She replied, tossing a handful of sand at him as she sat up and crawled over. “I could go another round or two, but I think I have an idea of a tie breaker.” she purred seductively in his ear before suddenly spryly leaping to her feet and scooping up her training sword with her foot, catching it by the grip like she’d practiced that particular trick a lot.

Oh, thank Baan Dar I didn’t muck that up. she thought triumphantly.

“Come on, Latro; going to let a small and helpless lady like me leave you in the dirt, or you going to show me how you really fight?” she taunted, performing a small flourish and standing in a defensive posture, blade at the ready. “Come and get me.”

He brushed off the sand from his chest with a chuckle as Sora crawled over and his breath caught in his throat when Sora’s lips brushed his earlobe and implied exactly what he thought she’d implied. He swallowed, regaining his composure. Although his heart beat far faster than it did up against death, he was still a bard. “That flourish almost tricked me into thinking you’d gotten better.” He said, sticking his tongue out cheekily as he got to his feet. “How I really fight?”

He rolled his shoulders and flexed his fists with his easy smile perched where it always was, “En Garde.”

Lightning quick, he put all the power in his right leg into launching himself towards Sora. She responded with a quick jab he caught under his arm, wrapping the corded muscle extremity around the blade and bracing it by wrapping his hand around Sora’s own on the hilt. With one quick twist of his core and upper body, he splintered the piece of wood all bent. The suddenness of it sent the two of them stumbling against a wall when Sora flinched back and his own balance failed him. Soon enough, they were pressed against the wall. “What a morning, eh?” He said.

She pressed her back against the wall, breathing heavily, holding the broken training sword in front of her with a surprised bark of laughter. “I guess this means we move on to the tie breaker. You broke my wood.” she teased, casually discarding it off to the side into the sand. She slid across the wall closer to Latro, running her fingers up his bare abdomen. “How about we break a wooden bed frame in and not get out until noon?”

“I’d say we’ve earned it with all this Dwemer shite.” He smiled, acting tenfold more level-headed than he felt and even surprising himself. What a morning. “Can’t have Gregor and Raelynn be the only ones having fun around here, can we?”

“Would you believe me if hearing them go at it’s haunted my dreams more than the Falmer infested caverns?”

Latro laughed, “I thought it was bears until now.”

“I can try sabercat, high end bargain there.” She offered helpfully.

“We’ll need to outdo them, we can try banshees and go from there.” He chuckled, “we should get back soon before we have less than 8 hours before noon.”

“8 hours? I’ll hold you to that.” Daro’Vasora smirked, pinning Latro to the wall and gently, yet seductively, kissing him on the lips. “So, you going to whisk me off my feet or what?”

“Mother Mara, where are my manners?” He smiled, swooping up Sora easily and carrying her off towards the hotel, “Do you think they’ll start to talk when they see us coming back like this or when they wake up from dreaming about Dibellan churches in High Rock?”

With an arm wrapped across the nape of Latro’s neck and a hand upon his chest, Daro’Vasora let out a rueful laugh. “Well, I suppose we better make it a story worth telling. Reminds me, you still owe me a song.”

Latro had that easy smile on him again, glad that it had found its way back to him after yesterday. Glad that he and Sora had found their ways back to each other, most of all. He looked at her with kind eyes and a sweet smile, “I do, don’t I?” He squeezed the back of her upper thigh where his hand supported her and made her jolt and giggle, “I know what a few lines will be about.”

“I suppose we will have to rehearse the source material until we get it right.” she purred.

1st of Midyear, Afternoon
The Three Crowns Hotel - Gilane, Hammerfell

---

In the aftermath of the failed mission to capture and deliver Nblec Mazrac to the Hammerfell resistance alive the day prior, Jaraleet had been in an uncharacteristically foul mood which had seen the Argonian assassin ignoring the rest of the group and sequestering himself in the gym that the Three Crowns counted amongst its amenities. The failure of the mission in and of itself would have been cause enough to frustrate the Haj-Eix but what had truly set him off had been the fact that, according to Gregor, Nblec had perished as a result of his interrogation techniques, the Dwemer’s body being unable to endure the strain through which Jaraleet’s methods had put it through the Imperial man had claimed.

Jaraleet knew for a fact that was untrue. He had been trained ever since he had been a hatchling in the forms of torture, he knew how to inflict the most pain while causing the least amount of actual damage to someone’s body. He knew just how much a body could take, had experienced how much pain, how much damage, someone could take on his own flesh. His training as a Haj-Eix had ensured that he wouldn’t commit such a basic mistake as killing an interrogee by pushing them beyond the limits of what they could endure. What puzzled Jaraleet was why would Gregor claim such a thing? Mere ignorance on the Imperial’s part? Or was there more to what the Imperial warrior had said? Could Gregor have been lying? And, if so, why?

These questions, coupled with the failure of the mission and the fact that he was held as the one responsible for said failure, had driven Jaraleet to his present mood, which the Argonian hoped to excise his mind of via exercise.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding. I suppose mucking up an assignment and getting the words ‘kidnap’ and ‘murder’ mixed up is something of an embarrassment.” A voice came from the doorway. Daro’Vasora entered the gym, her hand running across a rack of weights as she entered, not looking at the Argonian. “I suppose it was a bit much to ask that we trust someone that barely socializes after mysteriously tagging along with the group after the Rangers went to shit, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.” She said, finally turning her gaze to Jaraleet. “Was I wrong?”

“You are.” Came the simple reply from the Argonian as he paused in his exercises and approached the Khajiit woman. “Nblec Mazrac didn't die due to what I did.” Jaraleet said, looking at Daro’Vasora straight in the eyes. “I don't expect you to understand, but I can assure you that I took the utmost precaution in making sure that Nblec wouldn't expire in the course of the interrogation.” The assassin said in a cold, detached, tone, utterly unperturbed by what he had put the recently deceased Dwemer administrator through.

“Torture, was it? I don’t recall the Poncy Man asking for anyone to torture and interrogate the man you were asked to bring in.” Daro’Vasora replied conversationally, although her eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “In fact, I’m reasonably sure that no one in this insurgency knows what particular skills and talents any of us have. It seems like an excessive liberty that you lot indulged yourselves in, in fact, if I were to be a betting woman, I would think that the whole idea was to bring in a sympathetic figure of the Dwemer administration to potentially turn to our cause. Hard to do that when you’re ripping out fingernails or whatever it is you do, but this brings into question; how does one as unassuming as yourself with such a wholesome personal story come to acquire the talents of interrogation, I wonder? Others say you were a hunter and a soldier, neither of which require the delicate balance of knowing how to extract information through controlled brutality. The fact you readily admit to violating the Administrator in such a way casts quite a bit of shadow over you, Jaraleet. Or is it something else, I wonder?”

Jaraleet chuckled darkly once Daro’Vasora was done with her tirade, shaking his head slightly before he regarded the Khajiit woman with a look that carried a slight hint of pity. “You are a fool Daro’Vasora.” He said simply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Nblec was never going to live, not really. Did you honestly believe that the Poncy Man would try and turn him into an agent of the Hammerfell resistance? At best Mazrac would have been drugged into a stupor to make him blabber what information he had and then disposed. At worst, and to be frank the most likely case, is that he would have been tortured for the information he had, if not by the agents of the Poncy Man then surely by agents belonging to other cells.” The assassin said nonchalantly, as if he was explaining the most obvious thing in the world.

“As to where I came to acquire such talents...well, sometimes soldiers are called to perform immoral acts for the greater good. But, then again, you've never been a soldier. I doubt you'd understand.”

“I understand more than you give me credit for,” the Khajiit mused, her arms crossed. “And what of it? It wasn’t our call to make. For a soldier, you’re pretty daft at understanding the fact we need allies. This hotel that we are staying at for free and the resources and contacts we stand to gain? Jeopardized because of the likes of you because you have a short-sighted bloodlust. If Mazrac blabbed and told you something vital, you’re asking these people to take the word of someone they don’t know who murdered a person they instructed you bring in to them, demonstrating an incredible inability to follow simple instructions.

“So what, maybe they kill him and interrogate them at their leisure? That’s the point; it was their decision to make. Ever consider this was a test to see if they could trust us with something actually vital and important that could actually make a dent in the Dwemer occupation? Or would you rather blindly go on raids again and watch as 90% of our outfit is slaughtered? Tell me, Jaraleet, oh wise one, what was the plan here?” She stepped closer to him, staring him up in the eyes.

“Or do you think they’re benign and not above discarding of us as they see fit if we endanger their operations? They have an entire network of people doing all sorts of dirty work, we’re going in blind. Want to find out what happens when you fall asleep and they decide that you aren’t worth the bread they feed you?”

“I didn’t murder Nblec.” The Argonian repeated coldly, staring back at Vasora with a harsh look. “And I didn’t torture him for such a petty reason as sating my bloodlust or any other inane reasons like that. I did what I did because it seemed necessary at the moment and if the Dwemer hadn’t raided the safe house in which we were holding Nblec I’d have handed him over to the Poncy Man so that he could verify the information I obtained first hand.” He continued, letting out a dark chuckle when Daro’Vasora asked him if he thought that the Poncy Man and the rest of the Hammerfell resistance were bening.

“Oh, I don’t, not at all. I know full well that you, me, and the rest of our group are disposable pawns to them. I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the case truth be told.” He said with a shrug. “But why does this bothers you so much? It’s not like you care about the Dwemer, do you? Or are you perhaps worried that I’m a risk to you and the other members of the group? If that’s the case, well, I must admit that I’m surprised to see that you care so much after your….candid words to Rhea in Anvil I thought you didn’t care about anyone in this little group of misfits.” Jaraleet said, regarding the Khajiit woman with an inquisitive gaze. “So, again I pose you the question, why do you care so much?”

“You’re right, I don’t care about you, I care about the people I’ve been with since this whole sordid mess began, you’re just a tumour that grew out of nowhere and immediately started causing issues. I won’t hesitate to cut you loose if I have to.” She replied darkly. “I decided that the best thing for everyone is if we had a chance to get out of Anvil and Cyrodiil and everyone could go their own separate ways, but here’s a chance to actually do the right thing, a foreign concept to you, I’m sure.” she said, stepping away from Jaraleet and talking a walk about the room, taking in the details and needing space from the Argonian. “My uncle died in Imperial City, and in my grief, I did some stupid things, I’ll admit. Here’s my chance to try and make the Dwemer suffer a bit for what they did to him and maybe ruin their machinations along the way. We were never going to beat them honestly, but Jaraleet… whatever it was that prompted you or whoever to torture and murder that man did is not the way to do it. There’s going to be reprisals, you know that, don’t you?” she asked, looking at him from across the room.

“Why are you here, with us, doing this?” She asked, a bitter tone in her voice. “Why are you latching onto us like some overgrown parasite that doesn’t know where else to inflict his miasma? There’s a dark cruelty to you, and you clearly aren’t the sort to think things through. Great, you planned on obtaining information by torturing someone who was popular with the locals. How do you think them and the Dwemer are going to react when they find out what you had a hand in doing?” she asked. “It’s going to be harder to do anything because heroic acts like freeing prisoners is going to be hard to suppress with the people, but finding out that the so-called freedom fighters are terrorists who are worse than the occupiers? What were you thinking?”

“That I was doing a necessary evil.” The Argonian stated simply. “Make no mistakes Daro’Vasora, I don’t do the things I do out of a desire to inflict pain or to be needlessly cruel, but rather because they are necessary steps. I’m fully aware of the nature of my acts, and I’m willing to pay the price for them when then the time comes.” Jaraleet continued, letting out a sigh. “For every one of these so called ‘heroic’ acts there’s someone like me behind them, doing the dirty deeds that need to be done to ensure victory for whatever group they support. So it has been throughout the length of history, it is a simple fact of war nothing else and nothing more.”

“The truth of the situation is that, sooner or later, everything in war becomes a calculus of result versus costs. What is one willing to sacrifice to ensure victory? I’d say that, historically speaking, the side who is willing to sacrifice the most is almost always the assured winner of a given conflict.” He said calmly and by memory. “As for why I am here with your group right now? It’s because our goals intersect. I seek the defeat of the Dwemer, same as you do.” Jaraleet said, letting out a tired sigh.

“What is the point of this bitter tirade of yours anyways? If you believe me to be such a detriment to the group such a...parasite as you put it, why not cut me off? I’m sure you could that do easily, as you yourself noted I haven’t been with your group all that long and I doubt you’d get anything more than some token complaints if you decided to do that.” He pondered, tapping his ching as he thought. “Or is it merely that what I did was just a reminder of our current situation, of it’s costs, and I’m just simply a convenient scapegoat for your frustrations?”

“Unbelievable.” She breathed, turning her tone to a mocking approximation of the Argonian, “‘I did what was necessary by not following orders because it’s way easier to interrogate and torture people on the go than follow simple instructions’. None of that was necessary, you elected to do it yourself. And up until now, I didn’t think you were a risk to everyone’s well being, but congratulations; you’ve just made life worse for us all and potentially put us on a dark list for those whose roof we sleep under. The winners of wars aren’t the ones who are willing to sacrifice the most; the Rangers were willing to sacrifice nearly every man and woman in its ranks to free prisoners, and look where that got us. Pick up a history book sometime, Jaraleet; wars are won through superior logistics, alliances, and having the manpower and talent to use it, not squandering resources on stupid-ass risks with no potential pay off.”

She crossed the room suddenly, jabbing a pointed finger into his chest. “None of that was your call to make. You want our interests to keep coinciding? Then start acting like you belong rather than acting on your own twisted personal whims. I have my own goals, and right now, one of them is making sure that we never end up in a situation like we did in Imperial City or the Rangers again; acts like you did are going to add up. The Dwemer have a loose grip here, but you know full well what happens when that tightens, or did you think that some low-level government stooge was going to contain some big war winning secret that you felt it was worth risking all of that instead of just bringing him him like requested? You want to defeat the Dwemer? Then maybe not be a fucking lone wolf and start following orders.

“If you can’t do that, fight the war on your own terms, but don’t drag everyone else down with your stupid ass. I’m not going to stand here and watch as you and people like Gregor start to erode what little guarantees the group have of protection because you are incapable of seeing a picture bigger than what’s immediately in front of you.” She said, turning to leave. She stopped at the door frame, looking back. “You know there’s very little chance this little chat of ours wasn’t overheard by one of them, right? The walls have ears, the ceiling has eyes. You may want to consider what you’re willing to sacrifice to accomplish something great, or wither away into the dirt because you spent yourself on something so incredibly petty that it’s less noteworthy than a man who dies in a cavalry charge.”

“I already decided that a long time ago Daro’Vasora. So, go and do what you think is best for this group. Be it keeping quiet or handing me over in a platter to the Poncy Man to ensure that you and your friends will be safe, I won’t hold it against you.” The Argonian said with a light shrug, unperturbed by the Khajiit’s words. “Just remember what I said, you might not share the same beliefs that I do but, who knows, it might prove useful to you one day.”

She let out a terse smile. “Turn you over? I may barely know you or consider you one of us, but you’re way more so than a man who won’t tell us his own name. All I ask is that you think of the others first next time; we’re in dangerous territory and we can’t afford missteps when potentially everyone is an enemy. We need to know which is which, understand?”

“I understand. And I apologize for putting the group at risk, I will endeavor to be more careful from now on.” The Argonian conceded, nodding slightly in Daro’Vasora’s direction before he turned his back to her and resumed his exercises.

---

The first thing Gregor did after they returned to the hotel was stuffing the black soul gem that held Nblec Mazrac’s soul in the chest by the foot of his bed and covering it beneath the bulk of his armor and cloak. He would have to get rid of that thing as soon as possible. Sacrificing it to the Ideal Masters would destroy it, which was convenient, but that wasn’t something he could do straight away. First things first. Relieved to be free of the stifling warmth of his black gear, Gregor took the bloodstained clothes to the bathroom and washed both himself and his belongings thoroughly until there was no longer a trace of the day’s gruesome combat to be found anywhere anymore, and then dressed himself in the linen tunic and breeches he had bought yesterday.

It wasn’t until then, after stepping back into the chamber he shared with Alim and Calen and seeing the latter’s bed empty, that it really sank in that the Nord bard he liked so much had almost died. And for what? Disregarding Gregor’s own blatant sabotage of the mission, it had been doomed from the start. Nblec knew nothing. The Dwemer could hold no secrets from him anymore after he’d held the dead elf’s soul in the palm of his hands, and Gregor had sensed that Nblec had not told a lie in the final moments before his death. The righteous anger and indignation that had animated him still resonated within the black, crystalline gem. Gregor sighed and rubbed his face, feeling an all-too familiar exhaustion behind his eyes. The weight of the precarious path he was on pressed on him from all directions. There would be questions, suspicious, accusations… he sank down onto his bed and closed his eyes for a second. After that, he would --

---

-- take care of the… take care of what? Gregor looked down and searched his pockets, but they were empty. He couldn’t remember what he was going to do. In fact, he couldn’t remember what he had been doing either, or what had brought him to this place.

He was in a forest. It was dark and foreboding, like the old woods of Skyrim at night, and Gregor could not see the sky above the opaque ceiling of the canopy above him. The air was still and Gregor noticed that he couldn’t hear anything. Where were all the birds? Not even the wind rustled the trees. It was like time had frozen, save for the specks of dust that slowly drifted to the forest floor, visible in the few, dim rays of light that filtered in through the treetops.

Gregor exhaled slowly and his breath steamed in the air. It sounded deafeningly loud in the unnatural hush.

That’s when he heard it. Behind him, far away -- something large and heavy was on the move. Gregor whipped his head around and reached for his claymore in pure reflex, relieved to find it sheathed across his back. He drew the sword and backed away from the noise in the forest -- it sounded like trees bending and branches snapping, and heavy footfalls reverberated through the ground. And was that… snorting? Grunting? It reminded Gregor of a bear. No, bigger. A mammoth? But mammoths weren’t that fast. Whatever it was sounded like it was circling him at a distance, moving through the forest at the speed of a galloping horse. So fast… He swallowed hard and almost leapt out of his skin when he backed away into a tree. Something, some terrible feeling, was creeping into his throat from a pit in his stomach and he felt like he was being strangled. He had to get away. The entity sounded like it was getting closer. The ground trembled with every step it took now. He had to get away.

More than ever before, Gregor was afraid.

---

He awoke with a start, his skin covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, breath ragged and uneven, heart thundering in his ears. Gregor still saw the vivid vision of the dark forest for a few seconds before it began to waver and disappear, and was slowly replaced by his room in the hotel.

“What in Oblivion,” he stammered, wide-eyed and out of breath. He was no stranger to nightmares but it had been a long, long time since he had been so terrified by one. Gregor slipped out of bed and stepped out onto the balcony, relieved to feel a comfortably cool early-morning breeze on his face. The sun had not risen just yet. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming himself down with one of the breathing exercises the Vigilants had taught him.

He had to find Raelynn -- he had to see that she was well again, after her collapse upon their return to the hotel. Keeping Calen alive had taken so much out of her. He wanted to see Calen, too, but that could wait. The boy needed rest anyway.

She must have slipped back to sleep, for just a moment. The light in the room was brighter now, and warm too. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and through her hair before gazing up at the ceiling. At least the nightmares had stopped, and she felt somewhat rejuvenated after yet more rest. The teacup on the stand beside her bed was a reminder that she had made a floral tea. Her muscles felt less tense. Still, there was a headache behind her eyes that had yet to subside, and she felt like the mission was still embedded into her, soaked into her skin. Perhaps a hot bath would bring her back around to some normality.

She rose from the bed, her feet on the ground was a strange sensation - like before then she had been floating on some form of post-magicka cloud. Her feet on the ground let reality continue to sink in. Nblec was dead, and she knew why. She knew what had happened. Knowing it weighed heavily on her shoulders and her heart, but there was something else resting alongside it - a sense of comfort that the Dwemer had received his comeuppance. She smirked.

She had been right, the bath had soothed her and made her feel better. Scrubbing her skin clean of Calen’s blood eased her worries. She did think of him, the sight of him pale and limp in her arms, his blood flowing from the wound in an almost constant stream. Which was more disturbing? When he writhed in pain or when he fell silent. Perhaps both in equal measure. No amount of rest or bathing would ever rinse those images and the heavy feelings that came with them. As she climbed out of the bath she dried herself off and wrapped a simple dress around her willowy waist and let her hair tumble in curls over her shoulders. She could no longer smell the violence that had tainted her the night before, instead lavender and sharp berries. She, for the moment, felt like herself again.

She imagined that soon she would be called to speak with The Poncy Man and wondered whether or not the others had already. Surely not, there were more pressing issues. Would they be called to speak individually? Quickly her face turned to a scowl as she imagined the look on Daro’Vasora’s mug. She would be in such a foul mood, who would she be most likely to take it out on? A sigh escaped her lips, she knew it would be herself or Gregor. “Gregor…” she whispered out as she walked back through the main hall of The Three Crowns. She wanted to see him, time with him would help her to move through the emotions she was currently experiencing.

“There you are,” he said from behind her, as if on cue. Gregor had left his room to search for Raelynn and fortune had it that their paths crossed in the foyer. His hair and beard were back to their well-groomed usual state, having recovered from being deliberately left disheveled the day before, and the sincere smile on his face lessened the prominence of the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked well, all in all. “I was just looking for you.” He approached her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders -- he wanted to pull her into an embrace, but did not know if she would appreciate it. A lot had happened. “Are you alright?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

She turned on her heel, her cold eyes sparkled as they caught his and she found herself moving into him with her hands innocently finding their way to his chest - caressing him, and yet fleetingly grasping over him too. “I,” she began, eyes travelling to watch her fingers as they traced over the fabric of his shirt, “yes. I am rested, my energy is restored.” There was something distant about the way she said it, as if she knew that confessing to him that she wasn't alright might deter him from her. It couldn't be said here, anyway. “Are you?” She looked up into his eyes, finding a comforting warmth in them, she placed her hand on his cheek as if it had been drawn there. Something about him today was new. She felt emboldened to act this way - even in the foyer. She didn't let her touch linger for too long though, and she let her hand drop to her side once more.

Gregor was glad that she was well and that she was immediately unafraid to be close to him. The touch of her fingers against his cheek was a reassuring delight and he wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace before planting a kiss on her forehead. “Oh yes, I’m fine,” he said and took a step back, looking her up and down. “It was you that I was worried about. And Calen, of course.” His face fell a little. He did not have to fake that -- Gregor really did feel disturbed about his grievous injury, and it was bittersweet that Calen was so wounded because he took a bullet for Latro. Gregor felt… inadequate, almost, by comparison. Gregor’s own success in this mission could hardly be described as so noble, even if it was for his family’s sake too. He put those thoughts aside and leaned in close, whispering in Raelynn’s ear. “But enough about that. You know what… happened, don’t you?”

Raelynn shivered as he whispered in her ear, his breath against her neck and his body pressed to hers. Of course I do she thought as she let his words ruminate. She could sense it on him, his stance, the way he had smiled at her - but mostly it was in his eyes. She had known from looking at them that he had gotten what he wanted. And yet, when he spoke of Calen they displayed an earnest sadness. She pulled away from him, letting a playful simper run from her lips to her eyes. “We can’t discuss this here - it's not safe,” she barely spoke the words and practically mouthed them. She didn't know who would be listening. “Come, let's find somewhere quiet to enjoy Gilane’s beautiful morning hours. Slip away with me…” The Breton let her coy look simmer away to one more leisurely and relaxed - as if they were simply two lovers wishing to spend time in each other's company.

After swinging by Gregor’s room so that he could collect the necessary items, the pair set off into the streets of Gilane. It was still very early and the patrols hadn’t fully started in earnest yet, and it was less than a day after their disastrous abduction of Nblec. Gregor did not expect them to be wanted figures just yet, though he feared that would become a concern later on. Still, they stuck to the shadows and the alleys as much as they could. Better safe than sorry. They eventually found an abandoned building by the city’s outer wall that looked like it might have been used as a warehouse before and silently slipped inside. It was cool and quiet in the vaulted space and Gregor swiftly judged it to be perfectly suitable for his purposes.

“I wanted you to see this,” Gregor said to Raelynn as he sank down on his knees and began to draw a pentagram on the ground with bonemeal that he pulled from one of his pouches. “To be here when it happens.” He looked up at her with a mixture of emotions on his face; excitement, mostly, but trepidation too, and a dash of affection. “What do you know of the Ideal Masters and the Soul Cairn?”

Raelynn looked down on him, licking her lower lip slowly as he made the pentagram, thinking of his question. The Soul Cairn was a mystery to her - and not something she had given much thought to. Still, she wanted to have an answer for him. She ran a hand through her hair, starting at the crown of her head, her eyes stared upwards and to her right, as they often did when she was recalling information. “The Soul Cairn, a plane of Oblivion, inhabited by the undead and by souls,” as she spoke, she let her hands tangle up in the lengths of her hair, blinking slowly. “A truly dark and wondrous place I'd wager. The Ideal Masters, they are the Lords and Rulers of that plane, are they not?” Her head turned and her eyes shot back to Gregor with a glimmer of eagerness.

“Quite right,” Gregor said with a smile. “I’ve never been so I can’t tell you what it’s like, but you are correct that the souls of the damned are sent there. Damned, specifically, by this,” he continued and held up one of the two filled black soul gems he had -- the one he had lifted from the battlefield at Elenglynn and the one that contained the soul of Nblec, of course. “The black soul gems created by the ritual of the Shade of the Revenant are the only soul gems capable of storing the souls of the sentient mortal races, and after the soul is used it goes to the Cairn. Using it saps it of some of its power, however, so the Ideal Masters prefer them to be offered… directly.” He paused and looked at the gem in his hand, feeling the sickly warmth that emanated from it. There was a certain reverence to his voice when he spoke again. “Nobody knows what the Ideal Masters do with the souls that they collect, but it is well established that they are willing to barter. The Ideal Masters offer power in exchange for souls. I am not after power for its own sake, unlike so many other other necromancers, who are selfish monsters that I despise and spent years putting to the sword back in Skyrim. I want… one thing in particular,” Gregor said and his voice wavered. Never, not once, not even to Briar or his family, had he admitted what he was about to say. In a bizarre twist of fate, Daro’Vasora knew more of the truth than anyone else. “I seek the immortality of undeath. My family is… cursed. My father, and his father before him, and his father’s father, and so on and so forth, all succumbed to a degenerative condition that befell them in middle age and affected their minds. I watched it happen to my father. He began to forget things, little things at first, but within a few weeks he sometimes couldn’t remember who I was.”

Gregor swallowed hard and blinked a few times. “He was gone within months. He died without dignity, afraid and in pain, soiling himself in his final moments.” His voice was bitter now and the hard edge of the Pale Reaper crept back into him. “It was repulsive and unworthy and unacceptable. Documents and journals my father left to me when he died revealed that he had known of this condition for years, but not before me or my siblings were born. He had spent more than a decade trying to find a cure. There isn’t any. Neither alchemy nor Restoration was capable of stopping it. My brother, my sister and myself are all in danger. None of us will live to be sixty… unless I do something about it,” he said with a note of finality and sighed. The indignation and defiance he had displayed ebbed away and left a tired, haunted man in their wake, and Gregor looked Raelynn in the eye while he rolled up his sleeves, pointing at the seven tally marks on his lower arm. “That is why I have sacrificed seven people’s souls so far, and are about to add two more. Once the souls are sent to the Soul Cairn there is no escape, denying them whatever afterlife was waiting for them otherwise, and sentencing them to an eternity of suffering. It is the most cruel thing I can imagine doing to anyone, and still I must. When the choice is between my family and the unworthy, like criminals or the Dwemer, I choose my family.”

He continued to watch her, wary and insecure. “Do you understand?”

She held a pause for a while. Once again she heard the tiny voice at the back of her mind telling her to run. Sacrificing souls was dangerous and borderline demonic and would only end in one way... But with her thumbnail pressed between her lips she finally sighed, giving herself over to what she wanted. He was doing this for preservation, for his family. It was almost noble - even if it wasn't, Gregor certainly thought it was. There was malice in him, but there more than that too. Resolve, and willpower - a hidden strength built on torment and pain that he kept buried beneath his polite facade. She would never have known… Raelynn stepped over to Gregor and stood over him, a foot at either side of his legs as he knelt. Her hands began to run through his hair slowly, to console him and ease the insecurity that was so obviously painted in his face. Right now, he was entirely transparent and vulnerable. He had presented his own soul to her, for reasons she could not understand. They were bound to each other now.

She placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head upwards so that their eyes were locked - her pale blue eyes like stone to his which were the colour of ebony. “I don't, Gregor…”

She held him there, before her voice continued - resonant in the stillness of the building, “I don’t understand your life. I have no sibling, no grandparents… Just my father, my mother, and me. I had no friends or companions for my entire childhood. Even now as an adult, I seldom think of anyone besides myself.” Her grip on his chin lessened and she began to slowly sink down upon him, never leaving his eyes - never breaking contact with them. She wanted him to feel her words, she owed him that much. “But my family Gregor - though we are small, I protect and carry their legacy with me, always. I love them deeply and would walk through fire to protect them and keep them safe. So that, I do understand. I can't comprehend the deaths of my parents, misery and pain has never fallen on our shoulders, and I plan to keep it that way.” Her hand fell over his heart, she grasped him there. “In my life, you see, I choose my family too.”

“I am the last Hawkford now.” She almost laughed at how the words sounded, so dramatic and cliche but it was true. “It's up to me to protect our name. It's a heavy burden to bare. To carry this weight - my father's work. I'm just a woman, but my ambitions Gregor… I would do anything to protect this.” She stopped. Her forehead touching his, she could feel his breath against her once more. “Everything I do is to protect them, to protect myself, and to build a legacy. So in that regard, I understand you…”

She exhaled softly, lessening her grip on his chest as she became aware of how intense she had become while speaking. “I think that Nblec got what he deserved… How can I think you are wrong? How can I… tell you this is wrong, when I myself do not think it to be so?” her eyes narrowed and she smirked in a bewitching manner, “now I want to see you get something that you deserve…”

With her fingers in his hair, her body against his and her soothing words in his hear, all of Gregor’s hesitation and fear melted away. He grabbed her tightly and kissed her, burning with passion. It was a relief to receive absolute, definitive proof that he had judged her character correctly and found a kindred spirit. Through their shared ruthlessness, they could be closer to each other than to anyone else. It was twisted and counter-intuitive, but undeniable, and Gregor was immensely grateful for it. He was not alone in his quest anymore. “Let’s get to it,” he said with a grin and picked Raelynn up before putting her down next to him. It was time.

Gregor had brought his dagger and used it to make a small incision in his arm, spreading his blood across the bone-powder pentagram, before taking the soul gem from Elenglynn (which merely contained the lesser soul of one of the Dwemer’s hapless victims) and shattered it against the floor in the center of the arcane symbol. Like a reverse soultrap, tendrils of light burst forth from the broken gem and hung suspended in the air. The aurora was accompanied by the arrival of a vast, incorporeal presence, one that Gregor was familiar with now but that would undoubtedly unnerve Raelynn, that pressed against the edge of his mind. Once again, Gregor was struck by the impression that he was communicating with a slumbering storm that hovered ominously on the horizon, and as he stared into the ghastly light that floated over their heads he felt like he could see much further than the ceiling of the warehouse would allow.

She felt herself freeze on the spot, suspended within a moment upon witnessing the beginnings of Gregor's ritual. The atmosphere changes immediately and to her, everything fell silent - uncomfortably so. Time slowed down around her and being before this presence made her breaths laboured. She felt heavy.

You bring more, the Ideal Master conveyed. It wasn’t a voice, more of an idea, and yet it drowned out everything else. The monumental superiority of the entity’s consciousness simply demanded absolute sensory focus.

“Yes,” Gregor said. He took the gem with Nblec Mrazac’s soul and gingerly placed it in the center of the pentagram. Now that the bridge had been formed, he wanted the Ideal Master to see for itself what the real sacrifice was. “Not just more. I bring something very special. The soul of a Dwemer, a race that has not been seen in the mortal realms for thousands of years.” Gregor leaned back and found himself grabbing Raelynn’s hand.

Gregor’s firm touch snapped her out of the fearful daze, the way his fingers entwined with hers anchored her, and she resumed breathing as normal, warmth rising to her cheeks. His words -- the very mention of the Dwemer. Her heart began to tighten, but the knots that had been in her stomach since waking unfurled themselves as if one by one. She squeezed his hand.

The soul-light, which had been lazily drifting, froze and seemed to sharpen, and Gregor felt the undivided attention of the Ideal Master upon him now. It was uncomfortably similar to the feeling of being hunted, like in his nightmare earlier. The soul gem shifted in place before cracks appeared on its surface, and the vital essence of everything the Dwemer magistrate had been leaked out and spiraled upwards to join the other soul. It was almost as if Gregor could hear Nblec’s death rattle again.

A deep rumble filled Gregor’s mind and he smiled, ecstatic. He knew that… sound, for lack of a better word. He had heard it before, but not nearly this intensely. It meant approval. Or even delight in this case, if Gregor was not mistaken. “For your glory, master, I offer this to you. I only hope that you remember our bargain.”

Yes.

Gregor waited. He did not know why, but it seemed like the Ideal Master was thinking.

You are close. Bring more of this, mortal.

“O-of course, master,” Gregor said, momentarily stammering in his mixture of excitement and disappointment. Part of him had hoped that one Dwemer soul would be enough, but another part of him had already known that such hope was idle. The Ideal Masters were nothing if not greedy.

Take this, the Ideal Master hummed. Was that… amusement, Gregor sensed? He had received a gift from the Master once before, which turned out to be the ability to summon one of the undead horrors of the Soul Cairn, and the familiar sensation of being imparted with knowledge he did not immediately understand rang through his mind again. The Ideal Masters were so alien and far removed from mortal life that it was almost impossible for them to be readily understood, if they even wanted to.

The aurora of light and the weight of the Ideal Master's presence disappeared. “That went well, I think,” Gregor said and grinned.

As everything faded away, what had been playing on Raelynn’s heart had moved to the surface. Feeling the Ideal Master take the soul of Nblec… Her eyelids welled with tears and she was silent except for a gasp at the end of it, causing a single tear to roll down her cheek. It had been incredible, and in a strange way she had enjoyed it - the thought of his soul being tortured for eternity… There was beauty in it.

He was so full of happiness and on a high while all she could do was continue to stare at where it had all happened. “It doesn't make…” her eyes fell to the floor, the tears spilled out now, “it doesn't take it back… but it helps.” She was talking about Calen, what had happened to him - because of Nblec, because of the Dwemer.

Gregor was surprised to see Raelynn cry and turned his entire body to face her, grabbing her hands in his own. “Doesn't take what back?” he asked, confused. He was too caught up in his own achievement to catch onto what she meant.

His hands on hers caused her to look at them. Her hands. She could see the blood there again. She had been up to her elbows in it at the time. Thick, dark blood. The kind of blood that ushers in violent death. She pulled her hands from Gregor's gently and they began to tremble. “The blood. I've seen so much of it before. I've seen so much worse and yet…” her voice trailed off as she kept staring at her open palms, the lines across them - every detail that she hadn't noticed before.

“Am I softened now?” she asked aloud, not expecting an answer, she just wanted to say the words. “He's not much younger than me and he is good. Even I can see it.” She placed her shaking hands against Gregor's lap, though her eyes were still facing the floor. She felt incredibly vulnerable - despite having shared such a deep and passionate moment of connection earlier. Talking about feelings like this was… New, to say the least.

“You must think me a fool…” she continued in a subdued voice, a small voice. “I've seen so many things, but I've always been able to be detached from it. I told you that I had so few friends.” Calen wasn't even her friend. She couldn't recall ever having spoken to him save for a comment here and there. It was the same with the rest of the group. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she lifted her head once more, “there was a moment, where he almost died. His heart was so frail, like a newborn bird. I saw the light leave his eyes - I swear it.” Raelynn seized Gregor’s hands in hers to steady herself from crying. She wouldn't let it happen again, she wouldn't look so weak in front of him, her bottom lip quivered and she bit down on it, closing her eyes as she took in a deep breath before she spoke again.

“If he had died… I don't know what I would have done. I have… never felt such a feeling of guilt and responsibility.” What exactly did she expect Gregor to do? Nothing. He didn't have to do anything, maybe him showing her the ritual and sending Nblec to the Soul Cairn would be enough solace for her in time. Her head tilted to the side and she let her lip go, trying to smile at him - she felt so small now, where she had felt powerful and in control earlier she now felt like Gregor could take this moment to stick her where it would hurt, or perhaps he would comfort her - maybe even nothing. All that mattered was suddenly she felt free of a weight that had been holding her down. Her hands steadied and she loosened her grip. “I…” she almost laughed, placing a hand over her mouth, letting her hair fall around her face to hide it “I never really do that, I'm sorry.” Raelynn placed her hands flat on the floor in front of her, lowering her head - almost as if she was bowing to him alongside her apology.

“Probably all that magic…” she muttered, even now trying to downplay with humour.

“Don't be sorry,” Gregor said and tucked a finger under her chin to lift her face back up so he could look her in the eye. “He did not die. You did not allow it. You saw the light leave his eyes and you brought it back. You're right about him. Calen is the best of us all, I think. What you did was… amazing, frankly,” Gregor said and dried her cheeks with his thumb. “I can send people far beyond,” he added and gestured to the pentagram, “but you can bring them back from the brink. That is a far greater power.”

Her emotions surprised him. To be honest, Gregor hadn't thought her capable. It was deeply endearing and admirable that she felt so strongly about Calen's near-death experience, and Gregor could feel himself falling for her even more. There was goodness in her too. “Calen reminds me of the man I could have been, had things been different. I was a romantic and a tender lover once.” Now it was his turn to laugh. “Probably seems hard to believe now. But my point is that I think I understand how you feel. For Calen to die because of this mission, that ultimately benefited nobody but me… it would have been a real tragedy. He deserves better. Fortunately, you were there.”

Honest words of affirmation. It took her by surprise to hear them, and it felt good to hear them from Gregor. She was unable to remember the last time someone had said something like that to her, something meaningful, save for Alim in Anvil. Spending so little time with people had meant she had never gotten a chance to hear such words. She never allowed people to get close enough to her. It lifted her spirits and Raelynn found herself hanging on his words, nothing else in the room mattered as he spoke. Their connection had deepened even more now, it was an unfamiliar feeling for her - but a gratifying one.

“For all we know it is those very things which draw us to each other. You take life, I give it… We are powerful in our own ways - there’s magnetism there, and now our fates are entwined. I feel it, and I felt it the first time I saw you…” As she felt herself rambling over the point she cut herself off. She didn’t want to make it overly saccharine, she wanted to keep the moment as it was. Nothing more needed to be said, nor could she think of anything else to say to him now.

Her usual inviting smirk flickered back over her lips and replaced the morose expression that had been there, her hands ran over Gregor’s arm, fingers brushing over his tally marks. She knew what came next, her eyes flashed with mischief and deviousness. “I dare say it’s time to add your next tally, don’t you think?”

Gregor looked down at her fingers as they traced over the ink on his skin and he nodded slowly. Adding to the tally marks was a solemn and almost religious experience for him. Even if he were to live forever, he would not allow himself to forget what it had cost. “The hardest choices require the strongest wills,” he mumbled to himself, quoting the Dagoth Ur character from the play The Life and Times of the Nerevarine. He pulled the black ink and the tattooing instrument (a sharpened and enchanted bamboo rod) from his backpack and handed them to Raelynn, a determined expression on his face.

“I want you to do it,” he said softly. “Two marks, right there.”

She bit down on her lip and sidled closer to him, taking the bamboo from his hands. This was special. As he requested, she dipped the tip of the rod into the ink using a quick tap of her finger to let the excess off. “Right here?” she asked, her voice sultry, her fingers next to his touching softly where he had asked her to. As she sat beside him like this, she kissed his shoulder lovingly, brushing her cheek against it to rest her head as she readied the rod. As she pressed it where he had asked her too, she felt it pierce the skin, but she did not stop, and dragged it just enough to make the first mark.

The pain did not make him flinch. He had felt it seven times before. It was part of the experience; a minor atonement for sins committed, one might say. Gregor looked at Raelynn instead, the way her head rested on his shoulder. He planted a kiss on the crown of her head in turn and took a deep breath with his eyes closed, just drinking in her scent. Flowery and pleasant, as always. “That’s right,” he muttered as she finished the first of the two marks. “One more.” What they were doing was undeniably grim, and yet Gregor could not help but feel warm and loved in this moment instead. He had not felt so perfectly and intimately understood and accepted by anyone ever since he left his wife… and maybe, just maybe, Raelynn understood him better than Briar ever had. “I…” he began, but closed his mouth again. Had he really almost just said that? “Thank you,” Gregor said instead, but he poured as much of his affection and appreciation into those two words as he could.

Once more she dipped the rod into the ink. With her head against his shoulder like this, him kissing her - his affection… She felt at peace. She didn't want the feeling to end. It was blissful and everything else melted away as she placed the mark for Nblec against his skin now. It brought her immense satisfaction and she knew every observation of it thereafter would bring her a twisted joy. Confident in her work, she looked at it in adoration, and then up at Gregor. The chemistry sizzling between the two of them. “No, thank you,” she purred before placing the rod down planting a number of kisses up his arm, to his shoulder, to his neck - she stopped at his ear “we will do this together… I want to help you.”

Playfully, she nibbled at his earlobe after her offer to him, one hand stroking his back, the other placed on top of his hand. She sighed contentedly, how quickly he had told her so much of himself, how quickly they had fallen together like this. She felt almost invincible with it all.

“You want to… help?” he asked, eyebrows raised. She really was full of surprises. That feeling quickly made way for a deep sense of joy, however, when he realized that she was sincere. He took her in his arms, kissed her and held her close. “That means more than you could possibly know,” Gregor said in her ear, voice almost breaking with emotion, one of his hands running through her hair and the other wrapped around her waist. The pragmatic, reasonable part of him could not abandon him entirely, however, and he pulled out of the embrace to look her in the eyes, mind immediately working through the possibilities. “Your father. He has an agenda here as well, correct? I want you to put me in touch with him if there’s anything I can do that benefits us both. You know what I’m after, so it depends on him.”

“He will be in touch with you. That's why I saw him, he wanted names of those most capable…” she paused momentarily, biting down on her lip again, “he knows about us. He had me followed that night…” She smiled awkwardly about it, unsure of how Gregor would react to such information. “He has a job for you, he will be sending someone to you when the time is right.” She began to get to her feet at last, it felt like they'd been here for too long already. “We should leave no trace of this, and I should go to Calen. I want to see him.” Ever since Anvil, she hated having to split from Gregor, but for their safety it was for the best not to be seen together too much. At least not until everything had blown over. She looked down at the pentagram on the ground, the site of such dark energy. It would make the perfect spot to lay with him… She did think to suggest it. No. Not now, not this time. It brought a wicked expression to her face to even think of it, she was somewhat glad Gregor couldn't see it. Composing herself she turned back to him with her head tilted to the side, “how do we clean this?”

Sending someone ‘when the time is right’ wasn’t expedient enough for Gregor’s tastes, but he knew he wasn’t in a position to demand things from Salasoix Hawkford… especially now that the man knew of the relationship between Gregor and his daughter. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, and decided to leave the topic alone for now. “Very well,” he said before turning his attention to the pentagram. “Clean it?” he asked and furrowed his brow. “I’ve never cleaned it up before, but I only ever performed the ritual out in the wilderness back in Skyrim. I don’t feel inclined to get rid of this at all.” He got to his feet and his gaze alternated between Raelynn and the pentagram. “I… want them to find it. They should be scared. But, you’re probably right, better safe than sorry,” he consented and gathered up the soul gem fragments. He would have to dispose of them some other way. The pentagram had been drawn on the dusty floor of the warehouse and a few well-placed sweeping motions with his boot was enough to dismantle the pentagram’s shape into an unrecognizable smudge. “There, that should do it.”

He stopped to look at Raelynn again and sighed. He longed for the day when they could just openly be together. “If Calen is awake, give him my best wishes,” Gregor said.

She could sense his dismay at erasing the evidence of the ritual, but the dead Dwemer Administrator had been sacrificed to the Soul Cairn here. It was too risky to have left it, she wanted to make him feel better about it and so she stepped back into him and shot a flirtatious glance up at him as she begin to speak, “next time we’ll leave it, how about we add our own flavour to the ritual next time. What if we were to --" she pushed herself up on her tiptoes, whispering sweet nothings for only him into his ear. Hell, if she had to feel that way then so did he.

She pulled back with a seductive chuckle and began to lead him out and back to The Three Crowns at last, their secret now nothing but dust.

Shaft and Dervs collaboration

Somewhere outside Gilane, early morning 2nd Midyear, 4E208…

The prisoners had been handed over to Major Kerztar and his team of “specialists”, leaving the Cathay to his own devices, which had involved drinking half a pitcher of wine to himself in the common area and now he ran a whetstone over Jone, the first of his axes, and Jode, sat waiting on the table next to his seat. The hearth kept the Khajiit warm, the halls were cold and possibly haunted. The Secret Police headquarters, after all, had been established in what had once been one of the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuaries in Hammerfell before that wretched organization was put to the blade.

The guild of assassins probably would have been retroactively pleased with how the new inhabitants were putting it to use, he mused.

The room he was in had once been where they’d made sacrifices, he’d learned. The alter that had stoned soaked with the coppery scent of dried blood was now covered in a gaudy rug and served as an impromptu bar; their organization had better inventory than some inns, he reckoned. The macabre decorum that had once dominated the place were replaced with far more lively and juvenile things, such as the statue to the Lucky Lady that had been a replica of the one forged in Bruma years and years before was now dressed in the garb of some insurgent boss they’d taken down, her outstretched hand holding a woman’s pair of undergarments, and upon her head was a chef’s hat. Various trinkets from about town and the occupants’ lives occupied the place, and while they’d all started off as strangers, many of them had bonded considerably over the course of the past month; most of them had come in as prisoners and arena combatants, but the Major saw potential in each of them, despite their ill-repute; he offered them a position on his task force doing thankless, dirty work they’d likely had a hand in before, and in exchange they’d have a sort of freedom and autonomy that they would have forsaken otherwise. They were free to wander the streets, were paid a weekly wage, and otherwise treated well, but they were quite feared.

Zaveed of Senchal was once a privateer for the Aldmeri Dominion, and over the 38 years of his life had gone from a street urchin to abused, sometimes sexually, cabin boy, to a ferocious warrior and eventually a captain of his own ship, where he’d earned a reputation as one of the Dominion’s best and most deniable assets; his enemies knew him as Captain Greywake of Merrunz’s Wrath and the hardships he’d lived with since his mother he didn’t even know the name of was forced to dump him and his twin sister out into the streets to continue whoring herself in a brothel at the orders of her handler left him largely cold and apathetic towards most people, but the man who came into the room at that moment, wiping his hands of water, was certainly not one of them.

“I hope you did not break the Major’s new playthings, Sevari. We worked so hard to acquire them. Think we can ask for the weekend off? I grow tired of the big Orc’s snoring.” He inquired, staring at the curve of his blade up to the firelight.

Sevari had not gotten up to these sorts of tasks since his days in the Bhaanu Sasra, a token of irony left in his mind that he was once again a member of a secret police force at the service of a larger client government. “I didn’t even get to Villaume. He wouldn’t answer the nicely asked questions but he shit himself when I told him I was going to collect on that tooth debt he’d been racking up since his screaming on the way here.” The Ohmes took a seat next to his comrade and long-time friend. He breathed a bit more well now that he was in the company of someone he trusted, and also because he was now away from the putrid smell of a man fear-shitting himself, “Roux though, waterboarding makes me thirsty.”

He reached over and grabbed up the wine, pouring himself a portion into what was once a probably very restricted and sanctified gaudy goblet of the Dark Brotherhood’s rituals. He downed the contents without any hint of ceremony. After a few moments of thought, he spoke, “I never thought I’d be in such a place. Nor would I have ever thought our lives would have been brought together again in such a way, my friend.”

“I told you I would.” Zaveed replied with a half-hearted shrug. “Besides, you know Senchal is the largest port city in the Southern hemisphere and my base of operations. Even someone like you who’s been gorging on the Imperial Teat would be able to get there easily enough to request my services.” the Cathay replied, slamming his axe down into a mannequin that had been holding his axes as he serviced them. It was cathartic. “Only difference is I’m not the half-starved boy you took pity on. I dare say I’ve tasted much more luxury than you have in the past couple of decades, my friend.”

Sevari nodded, and smirked, “Those without conscience usually do have a better time of it. Truth be told, I thought you’d knife me at the first opportunity when I found you and asked to take me here. Our differences of opinion when it comes to who we have hand over our septims all those moons ago.” Sevari chuckled bitterly, a piece of him still resentful towards who Zaveed chose to serve when their lives had parted ways the first time, “our friends don’t like each other all that much, I’m told. I’m sure they’d pay you well to have me in their jaws, but here we are. I’m touched.”

Zaveed waved a dismissive hand. “You and I both know that was never on the table. The only difference between your government and mine is how pointy the ruler’s ears are. They both employ, ah, morally flexible individuals to do some rather morally bankrupt things in the name of some pretentious justification. I do not much care about who rules over me, so long as I’m a free man with more coin than sense at the end of the day. Besides,” he shot over a toothy grin. “I’d be executed if I tried to seduce the Queen of Alinor, but our dear Governor… she seems fond of the exotic.” he mused with a slight smirk.

“Careful,” Sevari good-naturedly shook a finger Zaveed’s way, “If Saffi and Hessiim’s drunken gossiping is anything to go on, Kerztar might get jealous of being replaced as midnight bed-mate.”

Sevari chuckled, it was true that Zaveed’s allegiance had strayed from his greatly over the years, but a friend does not forget a friend in Elsweyr. His mind wandered back to his first days in Senchal, a brooding and angsty child with a balled fist to the world for all weight it had pressed on his shoulders. His hand brushed his necklace, fingering the beads, “And you’ve misunderstood me all these years. It was never pity I had for you… or her. Your sister.” He asked, tone lower than it had been the rest of the conversation, “She and I haven’t spoken since…” his eyes went from the tabletop to Zaveed’s, wordlessly asking for an answer to the question his lips could not form.

The topic had shifted from playful to dead-serious in a hurry. Zaveed’s ears pulled back as he pulled his other axe free to begin working in its blade; it was a topic he didn’t care to venture into. “Since you decided to leave us alone in the streets to pursue a vengeance that no longer mattered. It is poor taste to abandon one family for one who no longer needs you, yes?” he asked, his tone low and with no small amount of resentment. “You were not there for Marassa when she was arrested and pressed into the army. For what, your father who got involved with the wrong people? There were others who still breathed who depended on you, I hope you do not lose sight of that.” he replied, his voice terse and edging on rueful. “For someone who claimed to love her, you had an interesting way of expressing that when you fled.”

“My decision was made on this task of mine far before I met you, Zaveed. Aeliel took me and my brothers in and to Senchal to serve the Bhaanu Sasra. If it were up to me, I would never have left you there to starve alone.” Sevari looked away and then poured himself another cupful. “Or her. If I could find her now, I would. And I would tell her that leaving is one of my deepest regrets.”

“But they took my family. Wrong people or no, I had to do what I did and I will see it done.” He sighed, “I wish I could set it all aside, but I have always done what I said I would. You two of all people know that.”

“And how many families have we made little orphan boys such as yourself, Sevari?” Zaveed asked, the stone running down the polished blade without friction. “Vengeance is an exhausting endeavor, is it not? Dedicating your life to it rather than caring for everything else you have going on, it’s an illness. Now look at us, half-way across the world and caught up in something remarkably stupid and unlikely.” he looked up to gaze his friend in the eye. “And yet, I had never thought you’d chose such a stupid endeavor over us, but here we are, so many years older and none the wiser. I’d hoped you’d have met up with me again so many years later a changed man, a better one, and yet nothing’s changed. It’s so… droll.” he remarked with a grunt.

“You pick a path and think it’s only for the day.” Sevari looked at his hands, so much larger than that angry boy’s but nothing else changed, “You blink and it’s been years. I could never imagine myself anything else, I don’t know if that’s me being true to myself or me being a stubborn shit like I always was. Both, perhaps.” He smiled, sour.

“Whatever the case may be, you’ve forgotten how to have fun, my friend.” Zaveed replied mirthfully, slapping his friend on the shoulder. “Maybe we head out after, go spend our hard earned coin on some questionable consort and entirely too much liquor? You’re getting old, enjoy your life while you can.”

The smile came back to Sevari as he chuckled, “Let’s do that. I’d like to let our friends sit and think on if they really want to play this game of ‘I don’t know’ with us.” Sevari frowned at the other rooms where their guests were kept in, “And I need a break from this damned place. I really think it’s haunted, Harald’s copy of the Lusty Argonian Maid ended up in Saffi’s room. By the third kick, Harald came around to Saffi’s pleading that it wasn’t him.” Sevari chuckled, “Luckily for me, they both sleep heavy and I step softly. Perhaps it’ll be a lesson to stop treating assignments as time to write poems to his favorite whore like last time. I waited under that bridge for hours trying to shake the thugs.”

He stood, stretching his arms and sighed, “Even the bogeymen in the shadows need some time for themselves, hm?”

---

Many years ago, Senchal…

Sevari stood wide-eyed at the opulent crowds milling about, all the different Khajiit living together in such harmony. He had never seen such a thing in the Torval slums, a Cathay woman with a Dagi about her shoulders, laughing along to a Senche’Raht’s joke. In Torval, that Cathay would never be caught close to the quadrupedal sub-races.

And the jewelry! Worn about wrists and necks and fingers as if pickpockets and muggers were never heard of on these streets. He blinked and swallowed, only then noticing his mouth was agape wide enough for birds to nest. The smell of the sea too, mingling with spices from vendor’s stalls and cooking food at food carts.

“Move, child!” A pink-skin with a face redder than he’d ever seen near drove over him with his cart and horses.

So much movement here. It made his head swim. He ducked into an alleyway to catch his breath, perhaps going off on his own while his brothers got up to whatever mischief was a mistake, but he’d never felt at home with them, why should it start now? He shook that resentful thought away and brought himself back to the moment. He wanted to see everything this place had to offer!

Without warning, careening down the alleyway was a young Cathay, an armful of bread and grapes and two Altmer at his heels screaming for him to stop. He stood wide-eyed in confusion once more until the other child tripped and landed on the ground in a rain of bread heels and fruit around him. One of the guards bent down to grab him up but a rock pelted off his helm, causing him to turn and look at Sevari indignantly.

“Shit on you, knife-ear!” Sevari spat.

The young Cathay grabbed at the gauntleted hand behind him, trying to scratch at the wrist with claws, but only found that metal was hindering his effort. “Let me go!” He shouted kicking back as hard as he could.

Suddenly, the elf bent over with a shout when something hard clanged off of his helm; a board of wood held by another Cathay that had chocolate-coloured fur and amber eyes, and this prompted the first elf to drop the young cat, giving him a chance to run while the other disappeared down another alleyway. Both took off in opposite directions like a crack of lightning.

Sevari stood rooted to his spot for a few moments when the Altmer turned to him. The first one didn’t even have time to take his first step before Sevari had sprung off his foot and took off running at breakneck speed away from them. Say anything about his penchant for fighting, but he knew when to choose them and the odds were not in his favor. He spared no thought as to what direction he would take, only letting his body do the thinking. He slowed down only a tad when he was sure he had lost the guards, which was still a good pace, by all means. He narrowly ducked under a board swinging out from behind an alleyway corner fast enough to brain him, tripping up and crashing to the ground in a series of scraping tumbles.

He propped himself up on his elbows, stinging in several places and blood thumping in his head, raising his voice, “Do I look like a damned Knife-Ear?”

The board was still held aloft. “Don’t follow us! You’ll bring them here!” The girl snarled.

The Cathay boy, however, placed a hand to bring the board down and offered a hand to the fallen Ohmes-raht. “Excuse her, she’s not a big people person. You didn’t have to do that for me.” he said quietly.

Sevari blinked before he took the offered hand, not knowing exactly what to say. This girl was so pretty yet she spat venom at him from the first words they shared. All of this was a lot to him, made only worse by the fact that their eyes never broke until her… friend? Her friend cut through the tension. When the Cathay apologized for his friend and told him his thanks, he only blinked again and then nodded. Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely sure why he did it either when he didn’t have to at all. “Yeah.” Was his only response for a few moments, before he decided that he should probably speak more, glancing at the fiery girl before going back to her compatriot, “I know what it is to be hungry. I’ve taken food before.”

She grunted in annoyance, turning away to break eye contact with the creep who kept staring at her. “I’m going to keep watch. Get rid of him, Zaveed.” she said, an irritation clear in her tone.

The grey-furred one smiled apologetically. “I had assumed that was the case; not many other people stick their necks out for thieves, although... “ he looked back the way they came, a look of defeat across his face. “This is going to be two days without food, I’m not as strong or fast as I was. I’m Zaveed, the bundle of joy over there is my twin, Marassa. I took after mother, we think she’s after father... if you can call either of them anything other than jerks.”

“I can help you get food.” Sevari smiled, something he rarely did since his parents were gone. There was Aeliel, but, well. He seemed to be very distant. “My brother Suffian taught me how to pick pockets, I can get some coins. It’s sneakier than, um,” He cleared his throat, remembering how they’d met in the first place, “You know, just taking the food. But no one chases you if you don’t get caught.”

He waved Zaveed on to follow him, where they stood at the mouth of the alley onto the bustling streets. Sevari eyed the crowd carefully, waiting for a good mark to pursue. He chewed his bottom lip while he waited until he found it, a portly Breton dressed in the style of the upper classes. “Watch me.” Sevari smirked, eager to show his skills.

He pulled the small carving knife from his pocket and tucked it into his sleeve as he moved into the crowds, weaving through them with a practiced ease for such a young Khajiit. Finally, he was behind the Breton. He reached out with his knife but his wrist was caught by the Breton’s surprisingly quick hands. Sevari hissed and bit down on the Breton’s wrist and the big Pink-Skin let go with a yelp, rubbing his bleeding wrist. “Why you- Oh!” Sevari threw the handful of sand he’d grabbed up into the Breton’s eyes, leaving the Pink-Skin spluttering and crying for help while he slinked back into the crowds a pilfered coinpurse richer under the distraction.

He made his way back to the pair, chewing his bottom lip again. “That never happens, usually.” He chuckled sheepishly before jingling the coinpurse, “We can get food now though.”

Zaveed’s eyes gleamed at the sight of the coins, and even Marassa seemed begrudgingly impressed. “I can’t really say anything, considering how you found us…”

Marassa cut him off. “Why are you helping us? You could have kept that for yourself.” She stated bluntly, stepping over to offer a hard stare at the human-like face that contrasted so much to her own.

He flinched back as Marassa once again questioned his intentions but recovered, that familiar anger that had been simmering low since the raid that took his parents’ lives finally gripping him again, albeit for but a moment, “Why are you being so mean?” The spark had left him with the last word, but he was intent on fanning it, he was growing a little annoyed at his kindness and effort being spat on by this girl, “You’re like the rest! If you want to be rid of me so much then fine, I’ll keep it.”

He made a show of jerking the purse back as if he was worried she might snatch it. He turned around and stalked off down the alleyway but he gritted his teeth and cursed himself as each step grew harder for him to take. By the time he decided to stop, he was at the other end of the alley and wiped a tear from his eye. No matter where he went and who he was with, they always threw his looks back at him. Too mannish to be Khajiit and too Khajiit to ever be a man. He wanted his mother’s kind words, her reassurance, but he swallowed that down and wiped another tear away, “Stop. Fucking. Crying.” He growled under his breath. He turned back around, purse still held at his side, “If you want to eat, you’ll follow me. If not, I couldn’t care less!”

He continued on at a brisk pace towards the nearest food cart, selling good portions of spiced gazelle and lamb wrapped in the leaves of moonsugar plants. “Three of those.”

“Twelve of those.” The Cathay-Raht manning the cart smiled at Sevari.

Sevari nodded, taking out the set amount by the handful and counting how many was in his hand each time until there was enough coin in the vendor’s own. “Thank you, S’rendarr bless your day.” The Cathay-Raht nodded.

Sevari nodded back as he cradled the three small meals in his arms. He closed his eyes and took a breath, counted to three and turned around, admittedly hoping Zaveed and Marassa were there when he did.

The two of them decidedly were, staring at him with wide eyes and in a sense of disbelieving. Marassa herself had to wipe her mouth indelicately, her hunger overriding the caution she felt. “I… I’m sorry.” she managed, looking somewhat ashamed of her behaviour from before.

Zaveed smiled apologetically. “It’s not been easy for us, and trust is something that can get you hurt if you let the wrong people close. You’re really nice… I never heard your name.” he said, blinking with sudden realization. “Thank you… are we friends?”

Sevari chuckled, looking to the ground and then back to the both of them, relieved and altogether nervous. A part of him wanted them to have not been there, to once again just be alone and find comfort in whatever sense of familiarity he had with being just that. But when he saw the looks on Zaveed and Marassa’s faces, saying nothing to the fact they were still there at all, he felt something better. When Zaveed asked him his name, he took his moment so as not to stammer.

“Sevari.” He finally said, then offered out the two leaf-wraps, “We can be friends.” He smiled, the expression that small bit more familiar on his lips.

---

“I’ll be damned, they sell lamb here. I have you to thank for introducing me to that.” Zaveed said, the rather busty waitress dropping off the dishes before turning away and walking to the back, Zaveed’s eyes following her all the while. “I remember the first time we met, I ate so quickly I vomited half of it up later. Such a waste.” he mused nostalgically, cutting into the steaming meat with a long and curved carving knife.

Sevari smiled in silence for a bit as he chewed, only opening his mouth to speak after he’d swallowed the moist, tender meat. “It’s my favorite.” He chuckled, “To think it’s only my favorite because it was the first thing I saw all those damned years ago.”

He held one of the lamb chops by the bone, other arm draped over the chair beside him and a foot resting on another across from him. He stared at the cut of meat with a smile, wistful. They were so small then, innocent, as children are wont to be. Or as innocent as they could be. It was no matter that in those days, he saw more of Zaveed and Marassa than his own brothers- except for maybe Suffian, who’d check up on him every week or so- Zaveed and Marassa had grown as close to him as any family he’d had. Closer, considering the family he had. “What a time we had back then.” Sevari mused, “I miss it sometimes. Even being hungry together, it at least led to us doing something crazy and laughing at the end of the day.”

“When’s the last time you’ve actually laughed? You look positively dour most of the time since you discovered my whereabouts weeks ago. The things we had to do to survive, it was a simpler time. Somehow starving to death seemed like lower stakes than the years following would bring. We were somewhat foolish to think life wouldn’t take us away from our little street family, but our reunion now has been nice, even if things are rather… at odds, no?” Zaveed replied, gulping back a not insignificant portion of his trencher and wiping his mouth with a cloth before digging in. He moaned appreciatively of the food, which was a damn sight better than the rations they’d grown accustomed to. “None of us had a fair start to life, it seemed. No families, no fortunes, no education. Just the desire to not die like some piece of shit that would be tossed into a bin at the end of the week, or chopped up and thrown into some mystery stew by some run-down diner.”

“I’ll admit I’ve done a lot more of it since we’ve been together again.” Sevari nodded, “And you should know that’s always been my face. We grew together, I frown. Even then, could you fucking blame me?” Sevari’s head shook.

“We scraped what we became out of the dirt and shit. My opinion? That commands more respect than some poncy, limp-wristed fool learning how to author laws on the dime of their family’s old money.” He put the lamb chop to his mouth and it came away that much less. He chewed, stopping to talk around his food, “Even if my handlers in Cyrodiil put you on my list, I could never do it. The banners behind us might be at odds, but you and I? There’s too much for me there to forsake it. It’s why I felt as safe as I could when I shouldered through that fucking tavern you called a home and asked for you by name.” He laughed softly, “I had my doubts, I hardly slept past allowing myself to blink every other hour the first day.”

Zaveed chuckled, a wide toothy grin crossing his face. “You know full well I’ve never been a patriot; even if the authorities somehow discovered your regrettable choices, what happens on my ship is law. Besides, I could always say that you were a flipped agent and the labyrinthian corridors of Thalmor bureaucracy would have had them scrambling for months to make sense of if you were an agent or if I were lying. What tangled webs we weave, and besides, why do you think I stayed in Senchal? I had a feeling you’d come back.”

---

The Grinning Senche Tavern, Senchal, six weeks ago…

For a seaside tavern, it was hard to beat the views of The Grinning Senche, the coastal climate allowed for no walls to be erected so the patrons could enjoy the tropical breeze rolling in from where the sea met Topal bay, and the stilted building supported by lumber brought in from the Tenmar Forest. Sailors from at least 5 different vessels drank under its spacious area, lined with carpets and rugs of all manner, and the shelving holding the liquor, ales, and wines were suspended from the ceiling above by chains. In one shaded corner sat a number of floor cushions and a pair of large hookahs, filled with a mixture of moon sugar and liquor, and upstairs, the wooden floorboards creaked under the passionate throes of lovemaking between the courtesans and their clients.

It was a good atmosphere, and one thing that kept Zaveed returning to this particular port of call, even years down the road. He was such a regular that the staff often tossed him in little gifts and freebies, largely because he was one of the few captains that kept his men in line to respect their workers and the establishment itself, and so the business was good and everyone involved could feel good about their time.

That time, however, seemed like it was swiftly coming to an end when an unexpected face turned up at the Senche’s gate.

The calming murmur of the tavern that had added to its ambience had died down to a still nothingness that even overpowered the sounds of the waves crashing on the shore. A weathered Ohmes-Raht that forwent the facial tattoos scanned the room with a frowning gaze that did not change a millimeter no matter how severe and intimidating the faces he looked at were. He was made all the more a curious sight by the fact that by the time his slow gaze had swept the entirety of the room, the bouncer had just found the last of his weapons. He thought. The Khajiit stepped forward and into the soft light the torches gave, shadows playing with his chiseled, mannish features.

“I’m looking for Zaveed.” Were the only words he spoke.

“And who might be asking?” Came a voice from Sevari’s left from a shaded table that sat out from under the roof. A few murmurs broke the silence and Zaveed stood, having taken his boots off of the table and he approached the newcomer, a coin spinning between his fingers and a hand on his axe. “Is there some unsettled business, friend? If I stole your wife for a night, worry not; I paid her.” a few from his crew chuckled at the brashness, but something in Zaveed’s disposition changed as he studied the face. It was the eyes that told the truth, even if the face did not. He blinked slowly.

“...Sevari?” he asked suddenly, taking a step back.

All that came from the other Khajiit was a nod. “I am him.” He said, another glance to the men about the tavern before it settled back on the Khajiit he hadn’t seen in such a long, long time, “I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

The blue-eyed Khajiit’s face soured considerably, his eyes narrowing and his ears pulled back. “Quite some bloody nerve you’ve got, coming back here after all of this time. You leave my sister and I to die, and Alkosh knows how many damned years later, you don’t even say hello, just that you need a favour?” Zaveed stepped to Sevari suddenly, jabbing a finger into the Ohmes-raht’s chest. “From our past, you have my word you can leave here unscathed, but after everything, you come back here, demanding I help you? What delusions consumed you in our time apart? I assure you, distance did not make this one’s heart grow fonder.”

“I demand nothing, Zaveed.” Sevari’s frown grew a tad deeper, “A simple thing of business for the best privateer and smuggler this side of Leyawiin. I can compensate a Khajiit of that stature accordingly.”

Under his exterior, it truly did hurt something in him to be chastised first thing after all the years between then and now. It still remained to be said, Sevari had a job to do, and as much as he wanted to try to mend things between himself and the Khajiit before him it was business first. And he was the only one he trusted to make the journey north with him to fulfill his current assignment. Feelings of family had nothing to do with that, it was simply a matter of him choosing the best smuggler. So he told himself.

“I’m ever so sure that your friends don’t pay nearly as much as my commission, so I have no inkling what makes you think whatever you’re about to say remotely even worth my time nor effort. You cannot afford my time, nor my attention. Good day to you, and maybe next time we cross paths, you’ll have more to you than a script your masters forced you to spew. Go.” Zaveed snapped, turning and returning to his table. From his back, he pulled the elven dagger with a sapphire pommel and it soon replaced the knife between his fingers.

A quintet of sailors stood suddenly, staring Sevari down as if daring him to make a move. Sevari’s face did not change, though his heart was aching and he was on the verge of exploding with frustration. The climbing claws disguised as bracelets helped him keep his nerve in the middle of this tavern full of brigands. The quintet flinched for their weapons in unison when Sevari started to raise his hand, but the Khajiit stopped and paused long enough for the precarious calm to recover. Sevari finished bringing his fingers to his lips and whistled, the crack of reins outside the only reply along with the chuffing of horses. “On that cart is enough septims to buy a mercenary company.” Sevari spoke, “This favor is very important.”

“Yes, quite so wise as to announce that to an entire tavern full of privateers, pirates, and brigands alike. Literally the only thing keeping you intact and that wagon full of coin is the fact that I will it so.” Zaveed replied, glancing away for a few moments in agitation before eventually relenting and gesturing to the seat across from him. “But fine, I’ll entertain this schrade long enough to decide whether or not our past means enough for me to keep my word. That is entirely your decision, Sevari; choose wisely.”

Sevari’s heart relented a tad as he stepped up to Zaveed’s table. One of the quintet of large, scary, scarred and tattoo’d sailors lagged a bit in his way and they locked eyes, neither of them relenting. Finally, the large Nord stepped to the side and Sevari took the offered seat. “I know my name tastes like piss in your mouth, Zaveed. I need a good smuggler to take me north, to Hammerfell. You don’t even have to dock, I’m arranged to be picked up and ferried to my destination once I get close enough. You’ll be free of me then.”

As if washing said name from his mouth, Zaveed took a drink from his trencher before setting it down and lacing his fingers on the table. “So far, not good. Why now, why not sooner? You’ve barely paid the barest minimum of courtesy, considering I thought of you as my own flesh and blood, and right now I’m having a hard time differentiating you from any Altmer passenger I’ve carried.” he said, bypassing the offer. He wasn’t letting Sevari get off without an explanation; it had been over twenty years since they’d last seen one another.

He almost cringed at that, that small piece of him that still cared when others called him anything but Khajiit. And that small boy he was long ago that shared meals with the Khajiit before him ached. Sevari sighed, leaning back in his seat, wondering whether to tell him everything. Zaveed deserved an explanation of why he disappeared and where to. He didn’t know whether to divulge who his employers were though. “It wasn’t my choice, Zaveed.” He answered lamely. “I was a boy when I met you and I was still only a boy when they took me.”

“And now you're here, a stranger in all but name, who cannot speak of anything but wanting me to endanger my ship and my crew for some mysterious assignment with a wagon of coin to buy our silence.” Zaveed said, leaning forward with a scowl. “Was it ‘taken’ or was enticed to leave’, I have a hard time differentiating the two. You always have a choice. You chose a stranger over us, and you expect me to believe your good intentions now?”

“It isn’t a choice when the Bhaanu Sasra comes for you, Zaveed.” Sevari said, head shaking, “I understand why you hate me now. If you left me alone with no note, no anything, just an empty bedroll next to you, I’d want answers too. And every year added between that and when I saw you again would only be more resentment.”

“Aeliel gave me a debt when he took me and my brothers away from digging beggars’ graves in Torval. It was just shitty timing when he decided to collect on it.” Sevari met Zaveed’s indignant gaze, “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. If I didn’t still love you and you your sister, I wouldn’t have kept her necklace. All those years spent away from you, I didn’t want you to be involved in any of it, to see what they made me. But now you do.”

Zaveed massaged his temples with a pair of fingers. “We’ve all tales to spill, to be sure. But fine, what is this job you’re trying to press me into? Why Hammerfell? If you want my help, I need to know everything.” He leaned forward, tapping a claw into the table between them with a long finger. “Ev-er-y thing. I don’t care what shadowy master has you by the balls, you owe me some transparency. So, what could possibly be worth weeks of my life to help you?”

---

The streets brought a chill to Sevari, who wrapped his robes tighter. He and Zaveed walked in silence for a few moments, both enjoying the scenery and architecture of Hammerfell. The moons were just starting to rise, bringing a soft light to the sky but doing little to illuminate the streets, which hardly bothered the two Khajiit. “When I heard about the great and terrible Captain Greywake, I never thought it’d be you, to tell the truth.” Sevari spoke, “I was just looking for a great smuggler, but when I was told who it was, I didn’t believe it. Until I looked at Captain Greywake. I knew who I was looking at. I didn’t know whether to be proud or…”

“Firmly disappointed I did not turn out to be an accountant or something equally boring and detestable? When were either of us going to have kind and generous lives, Sevari?” Zaveed mused, biting into an apple as they walked and chewing thoughtfully before continuing. “At least this way, my name is immortalized, even if my body and soul are not. Alas, I simply grasped the cards that life had dealt me and cleaned out the house. It is an impressive achievement, is it not? Starting with literally nothing and propelling myself to infamy and considerable influence?”

“Where did that leave Marassa, Zaveed?” He shook his head, hand straying to the necklace she’d given him those years ago, “It doesn’t make it any better that I wasn’t the one that apprehended her. Thievery isn’t the jurisdiction of the Bhaanu Sasra. I’ve heard whispers from my associates that she’s doing well enough for herself, but I hardly think the reunion would be any better than ours, given where life’s hands has put us. Facing each other on the board.”

“I have no love for the Thalmor, but I love you two like my own blood.”

“I’ve not heard from her for some time,” Zaveed admitted, his gaze following another shapely woman who had passed by with her male companion for a few moments before turning back to Sevari. “She’s her own person who made her own choices. Like me, she took a terrible situation and made a name for herself. Why shouldn’t she be proud of her accomplishments? She’s done so well that even many of the Altmer bend to her will, which is better than she would have had if she’d been left to her own devices and not been given a chance to ascend.” he paused, considering the circumstances with a grim smile. “Were you to find her, right this moment, what would you even say to her, hm? Do you think she’d approve of who you’d become, or that she’d be able to look past that and just enjoy the moment?”

“No.” Sevari shook his head, sad and slow, “But we’d both know we have our jobs to do. It’s a dangerous world for people like us. I’m sure she knows that. She’s always been strong, but so have we all, each of us.” Sevari frowned, sighing, “I doubt she’d approve of either of us. I only hope my task doesn’t bring me to face her.”

“This task that lost me my ship and my entire crew?” the privateer inquired caustically, taking a rueful bite from the apple.

“A simple setback for Captain Greywake. Names would flock to you if you whispered you were hiring in any of these seedy taverns we go to.” Sevari frowned, “I didn’t conjure up that storm, nor did I write a letter to the Governor to kindly accost us on the shore.”

“And yet, it was your appealing to a long-dead history that prompted me to take you up on your offer at great personal risk that even cost me that nice payment you offered.” Zaveed replied, rolling his eyes. “I could have been quite contented in Senchal, raiding ships upon Topal Bay, and not be stuck in shackles held by the bloody Dwemer because you’re loyal to people who have done nothing but shit upon our people since they conquered us so many moons ago.”

“It was our people that never accepted me as one of their own. That doesn’t direct me in anything I’ve done, my associates feed me what I need to know about my task. Show me another who will do the same for me that I can trust and I’ll call him an ally.” Sevari clucked his tongue, “With all this talk about me bending over for the unseen hand of another, you seem to be nagging at me atop a fine high horse given to you by those Knife-Ears.”

Sevari shot a frowning glance at the man he called his brother, “The same people who turned an orphan into a killer, that took your friend, your brother, away from you in the dead of night and turned him into me. That took my brothers and came for me next. The same people who burned everything I held dear to send a message, make an example for questioning the strings on me.” Sevari spat, “What would you do if they executed Marassa for her crimes instead of pressed her into their service?”

Zaveed scowled. “Oh, it was quite a fine high horse they gave me, alright. Scooping shit and peeling vegetables by day, being passed from crewmate to crewmate, or to settle a bar tab at night. It was glorious life being degraded into even less than a street rat, Sevari. I am ever so grateful for the opportunity they gave me; indentured servitude with no pay, reducing me to nothing but a toy for their desires. It wasn’t until I had enough and drive a knife through the quartermaster’s heart did they start to see me as anything but that.” he spat upon the ground as they walked, his hands gripping his axes tightly in tense hands.

“Had they killed her, I would have died trying to take down as many of them as I could because she was the only family I had left. I only stayed alive because I didn’t want my actions reflecting badly upon her.”

Sevari stopped walking and stepped up to his friend, his brother, “You killed a man for rubbing your face in shit so long you couldn’t stand it anymore. You would’ve avenged your family.” Sevari looked Zaveed up and down, “Don’t ever judge me for pulling Aeliel’s guts out through his stomach while he screamed for mercy in my face for doing the same to Jivami and Fusosi.”

“Don’t ever judge me for seeking to destroy everything the Thalmor has built or is trying to wherever I find it.” Sevari’s gaze did not waver, “Don’t ever doubt that I would have done everything I’ve done so far and more if it were you and Marassa hanging from those poles in Senchal. I was kidnapped, Zaveed, forced to pay a debt forced upon me weeks before I met you with my very way of life. When will you stop blaming me.”

“When you stop blaming others for the choices you made. We’re all products of our decisions, Sevari, and as much as you tell yourself you were at the mercy of those people and had to bend to their wills, you could have walked away from it, or at least tried to. What you are is a product of your own decisions, not mine. The only difference is I never sought you out to ask you to put yourself and everything you’ve accomplished at risk for my own selfish desires.” Zaveed shook his head ruefully. “Like you, I could have fled back into the streets every time I made port to escape their cruelty, but I chose not to, because it was likely the only chance I had to make anything of myself. Now all of it is gone, sunk to the bottom of the sea, because you asked me to betray my duties to help you. You asked me what I’d sacrifice if they’d simply killed my sister instead of recruiting her? Look what I sacrificed for you.”

Sevari grimaced, taking a step back. His friends words angered him, not because they were insulting or scathing, but he knew they were true to an extent. He looked his brother in the eyes and for a moment, he saw them through the eyes of the child he once was, food in his arms for the only two people he found a place with since Suffian or his mother. He swallowed, before speaking gravely “You act as if a debt of blood is so easily forgiven or forgotten.” Sevari said, “I could’ve crossed you off my list of potential smugglers to get me here. Perhaps I should’ve. But here we are.”

Sevari shook his head, “I don’t want to spend it under a thunderhead of arguing. Make my own choices for once?” Sevari asked, a quick smile flashed across his face before it dropped into the resting frown again, “I’ll be a product of my choice to go back to our hole. Be a product of your choice to follow me or not.”

Zaveed grunted. “The night is young yet, and I have a job to do. Farewell, Sevari. Perhaps tomorrow will bring more positive tidings for us both.” the Cathay said tersely, stepping ahead and walking apart from Sevari, the gap between them growing ever wider.