Stormy and Dervs collaboration

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2nd Midyear, 4E208CE, mid-afternoon

As the Breton made her way through the streets once more, alone this time, she took from her satchel an apple - a taste for fruit today it seemed. Alim was on her mind, their meeting today had been quite strange indeed and had left her feeling bothered and bewildered to say the least. It was hard to turn that feeling off. She took a bite of the apple, enjoying the sumptuously sugary taste of it. She surmised that the events of the last few days had taken their toll, the sugar was perking her back up - maybe that’s why she had been presented with an unusually keen sweet tooth all of a sudden.

Eventually she found herself breaking free from the crowds as they all dispersed on their own merry way. She started to hum to the bard’s song to herself, and her pace slowed down. She really had nowhere to go and wanted to find somewhere peacefully quiet to enjoy the winding down of the day - the effervescent violet twilight of Gilane.

The midday breeze caught her skirt and fluttered it against her skin as she strolled along, taking another bite of the fruit, singing the lyrics of the song under her breath to herself with a relaxed smile on her face;

“That Hammerfell sky,
Burns within her eyes,
She looked at me and made me want to catch on fire…”

Something caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end, and she slowed to a wary halt - taking a look around but she could see nothing. Nothing… she thought to herself, before continuing her walk.

”So when I’m all alone tonight,
And I can’t find the words,
When we say goodbye, lover, it hurts…”

Once again, she felt uneasy and her voice tapered off. She took some prudent steps forward, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched. She felt paranoid but not so much so that would make her call out.

Then it happened. Glass shattered at her feet and a billowing smoke reached her nostrils and she felt someone snatch her tightly from behind, and everything went dark before she had an opportunity to open her mouth to scream.

The apple fell to the ground and rolled to the entrance of the alleyway silently - no more evidence was left behind...

---

An unknown location in Gilane…

The room was shuttered, with no windows to illuminate the darkness within, not that it would have mattered to Raelynn; a sack had been affixed over her head and her hands were bound behind a chair, which in turn was tied to the legs. Had Raelynn been in another circumstance, she might have appreciated the delicate and talented knotwork that years at sea had afforded Zaveed of Senchal. Both inside the bedroom and on the deck of a ship, it was an underappreciated talent that had served him well.

He sat across from her, at a desk, using the elven dagger that stayed strapped to his back to tidy up his nails and clean them. Without changing his focus, he spoke after a length. “Well, you’ve certainly been conscious for a spell. Your breathing has changed and your posture is more tense. My sincere apologies for the improper accomodations, my dear; you would have not come had I simply asked, much to my disappointment.” he said to the Breton cordially, glancing up to see what the bagged face would do. In the dark, he could see perfectly. Even without the bag, he doubted she’d be able to make out his features. A shame; hard for one to become smitten by the kitten if she could not behold his rugged and handsome features. Oh well, duty demands precaution, he reminded himself.

She was unsure of where she was. She was unsure of how she had found herself here. The only thing she was sure of, was that she shouldn’t be here, and that she wasn’t alone. The last thing she remembered was waving goodbye to Alim, watching him leave. Why didn't she go with him? She tried frantically to move her arms but it only caused her pain and discomfort, the tension in the twine nipped at the delicate skin of her wrists. Whoever had done this - well, it wasn’t their first time. She didn’t want to speak to him - whoever he was, but she would have to. She was frightened. The bag over her head made her breath feel hot and suffocating. She wasn’t going to get into too much of a panic in front of him. She had to remain calm. Her life now depended on every single word that she would utter.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Her tone was sharp and cold - even if the bag did muffle it slightly. She had to be strong. She was alone and at a disadvantage. Why am I here? she thought. Twiddling her thumbs behind her back - in some sense of false hope that moving would loosen her restraints. Is this because of my Father? Is it…. Because of Nblec? She tried to keep each breath steady and quiet. She felt entirely vulnerable, not knowing who was looking at her. Where his eyes were. Where he was, she could only hear him - it sounded like he was in front of her. She had to rely on everything but sight now.

“A mutual acquaintance of ours wishes to speak with you again, it would seem; perhaps to correct the course you’ve set yourself on with your current lot of friends.” he clucked his tongue, setting the knife down on the table with a careless toss, a tease of it being so close, yet so far out of her reach. “Terrorists, murderers, just general sordid sorts that are turning this pretty jewel of a city red. You apparently were quite the actress the day that Nblec Mrazac and his two personal guards were murdered, enough so that more people reported what you looked like than those who grabbed him and slayed his escort detail. Perhaps you could illuminate what it was you hoped to accomplish for me?” he asked.

“Governor Rourken,” she began without skipping a beat. She knew very little about being on this side of an interrogation - but she knew enough. She would tell him only part of the truth. She would craft a story for him and play to him that way. She had no choice as she was once again reminded of the imminent danger as she heard metal hit wood. A dagger. “I was at the parade, you’re right. I remember that I fainted from the heat. I’d been here but a day - I’m not accustomed to this weather,” she softened her voice, her tone changed to that of a woman recalling an event as opposed to a woman crafting a cunning lie. “I’ve lived in Skyrim for many years - it’s positively baltic up there. Even now I feel as though I might faint at a given moment… What are you trying to say? Who is Nblec Mrazac?”

The figure got up from the chair, a different blade in his hand, and he walked about the table until he was behind her. Suddenly Raelynn’s hands were free, although still somewhat tangled among the ropes as he ran the back of his hand along her cheek, delicately, returning to his seat with measured strides.

She gasped as she felt the restraints cut away and instinctively she stretched her hands to ease the pain that they were feeling - the rope being cut allowed the blood flow to continue properly and she breathed a sigh of relief, her lower lip still quivering. He was behind her now, his presence was powerful, but then it would be - he had her in the palm of his hands.

“For someone claiming to be so frail of constitution, there’s nary a bead of sweat upon your brow or from your glands; your scent is fragrant, and not of your body fighting to regulate itself. For a woman who fainted, you were mighty sprightly as you had vanished from the scene as soon as the two guards were slain in cold blood. Perhaps you would like a reminder of who your friend was?” he asked.

Reaching over, he took Raelynn’s hand into his own, ever so gently, as if it was a caress from a lover. Then from his other hand came a thin nail that he pressed just under her own. “The funny thing about bodies and torture, they leave so many clues behind.” he said gently, holding her hand all the while. “Tell me, did he scream, did he beg? What will you do, I wonder.”

As the sensation of pressure under her nail began she flinched. Fear rendered her unable to move in her seat at all. Her toes curled in horror over the soles of her sandals. Everything about this situation was making her recoil. The way that he spoke about her scent unnerved her too, it reminded her of Sora’s words. This stranger was a Khajiit alright, they were seemingly obsessed with smells. “Please,” she said feebly in barely a whisper, “I don't know anything. I ran because I was embarrassed, wouldn't you?” She sped up her breaths now that he was in front of her - if he was paying such close attention to her body, she would give him something to notice.

“I was being hyperbolic… I… Can you blame me? I've been drugged and dragged here - I don't know where I am, who you are -- stop touching me!” She was agitated now, the lack of visuals, the heat under the bag, the pressure under her nails as she felt one of them crack. She didn't want to break - not this soon. She couldn't. She would protect the others, She would protect Gregor. “Just let me go; this exercise is useless.”

“Useless?” Zaveed scoffed in turn, a rumble of a laugh escaping from his throat. “Oh, Raelynn, my dear; nothing I’ve done has ever been useless. In fact, your paramour was quite resistant to my… charms.” he left enough of a pause to let her imagination wander. “But eventually, he succumbed, just like dearly departed Mrazac. What did you learn from him? Did he beg to be let go, like you are now? For you to let him see his family once more? He was quite a family man, you know; this city was his home, and he loved it. Myself? I couldn’t care less for his fate, just another body discarded like spoiled meat. It takes quite a bit to make me feel alive, but this? This does nothing for me.” He said, suddenly pulling the nail free and setting it aside.

“Tell me, my dear; do you have family? Who would grieve the most to find you discarded in this room, alone and drenched in your own piss and shit? What could you possibly find worth enduring torture and death for?” Zaveed asked, suddenly up from his seat and walking around the table. Placing his hand over Raelynn’s, he whispered into her ear, almost like a lover. “I’ve done this so many times, I’m bored of it.” it came like a breath, and suddenly, his claws dug into the back of the Breton’s hand, burrowing themselves in her soft flesh.

“What would it bring you to kill me? I don't know anything. I have no paramour, Gods I wish I did! Maybe if I did I wouldn't be here and would be elsewhere… Please stop this, I have nothing to give you.” She thought of Gregor. Surely he couldn't have been here - but then she hadn't seen him today, she'd been with Alim. The things they had said to each other. If today was her last day, she was regretful of what she had done. She hadn't seen Gregor. No, he wouldn't succumb to anything, his resolve for his own mission wouldn't allow it and so she sat comfortably knowing that this Khajiit was lying. If he had captured Gregor…? Her captor would be the one to succumb to him. She winced as his claws burrowed into her. She wanted to cry out in pain, but that would likely satisfy him. She didn't know whether he was trying to seduce the truth out of her, or bleed it out. “I have nothing for you, please let me go. I haven't seen your face… I won't tell a soul, please.” She purposefully evaded speaking of Nblec for now, no matter how hard he tried to weasel the answers out of her. Complete denial was the only path she would go down. To tell him anything else would lead her into dangerous territory, put her at risk of saying the wrong thing...

Pulling his claws free, he grabbed Raelynn roughly by the chin, smearing it with her own blood; his disposition changed to something decidedly darker. He chuckled ruefully, his tone much more manic. “You call your life nothing? It’s all I want at this point, and if it is the only gift you have to give me this day, so be it. I will do this again, and again, and again, until there are no more bodies left to harvest from your friends, and believe me; we know who they are.” He released her, sitting on the table next to her, by the dagger. “Please, please, please.” he said, his pitch high and mocking. “Your begging is nauseating, if you expect to find compassion from me, perhaps you should have started with compliance. I want you to tell your little friends who I am, what comes for them. It’s a game, you see; will the cat find the mice first, or will they find him? What remains to be seen is if you are going to be around to continue playing this game, or if this will be where you die. I draw your blood, and you still continue like you have nothing to lose… you’re far more resilient than your bloody sob story of being too weak for this climate would suggest.”

Pulling a rag from his belt, he delicately began to clean his bloodied claws. “You may proceed to give me something, anything, of importance, and perhaps I will permit you to play the game I have set. If you do not, well, that dagger will be tasting an artery, and I will watch you fade like so many others. At this juncture, you waste my time, and you are of no importance to me. The Governor wishes you to be delivered alive, yes, but I assume that is what the fucking Poncy Man requested of you for your victim. It’s such a shame accidents happen; you terrorists are so fanatical you’d rather fight to the death than graciously accept her hospitality. It’s such a tragic, senseless tragedy, it wounds my very soul.” He remarked, his voice oozing with sarcastic sentiment.

All she could think about was how to get out of here without saying anything to him that implicate anyone. The Governor already knew that it was them - but Raelynn wouldn't be the one who would say something that confirmed it. That determination, it kept her going. Her heart was racing now in her chest - she could feel it against her ribcage. Should she choose silence? Or should she choose to speak. “You paint me as a terrorist. You're just a hired thug, a fucking creature. The highest bidder was it?” it wasn't often that the lady would curse, so when she would, she would spit the words with venom. This occasion was no different. “Who is it that orders you around to scare little girls? I wonder… Who pulls your strings?” Beneath the bag she smirked. “The Governor will not be the only one upset at my death. I'm powerful in my own right, if something terrible should happen to me it won't be long until someone else is being tortured for information. Such a vicious cycle.”

Raelynn could feel the blood pouring from her right hand where his claws had been siezing the flesh there. It felt hot and stung, she could feel that it was already swelling. “There is more than one way to skin a cat you see, I wonder what your price is…” It was a bold maneuver to attempt, and she was sure to pepper her tone with just the right amount of sweetness, she knew that hired thugs were loyal to only one master. Gold.

He leaned in closer to her, grinning broadly. “Everyone in this fucking city could die and I would not lose a moment’s sleep. Something terrible will happen to you, my dear; the only question of how many of the few people you give a shit about are you willing to throw away in your feeble bit of defiance, I wonder?” he picked up the dagger, and pulling Raelynn’s hair back roughly until she was staring up at the ceiling through canvas, the sharp blade bit into her pale flesh. “My price to spare your life is for you to tell me a tale that satisfies me here, and now. Choose your next words carefully, my dear; I’m one yawn from opening your throat and letting your spoiled pompous ass bleed out upon this room. Surely you’ve noticed that coppery stench that’s soaked into the wood and tile? They were once people like you who decided my time was less valuable than their lives.”

He hadn’t taken her offer. He’s ignored it completely, this was a man hell bent on getting what he wanted. What choice did she have now? He had her pulled so far back by her hair that she could barely breath, his blade pressing firmly against her throat in such a way that any movement from her would cause it to puncture further - dangerously so. She couldn't move, she was held there with such force it prevented anything. She had no choice now; “I’ll talk. I’ll tell you something.” It fell from her mouth like a sob. “Just… May I have some water, please?” She stayed completely still, her body stiffened - paralysed. A tear rolled down her cheek and onto her neck. “I don’t want to die here by you…” her voice was little more than a breath now. “You don’t need to hold me like this, I… I can’t fight you. Please just let go and I’ll talk now.”

“Now.” He snarled, pulling her hair more roughly. “Speak now, or perish.”

She yelped in pain as he pulled back on her once more, would she sell someone out? Who would it be. The quiet and menacing Altmer? Jaraleet? It could even be Brynja -- the new Orc arrival? She would not be missed. No. She couldn't, to name any of them would bring the heat to their entire group and operation. She had to divert the heat from them. It was the only way to keep Gregor's secret safe, and to continue to protect Calen, Alim… even Judena.She would not bend to his will. He only had to think that she had.

There was nobody else she knew - but wait, the Redguard, her father’s bodyguard. She had been seen leaving the cultural centre with him already. She knew he was capable in his skills should he be ambushed. To sell him out would buy her time, time to give the warning. If her captor let her live. And it was as her father had said - he was sworn to the Hawkfords. This seemed like such a time for him to swear in; “There is a man, a Redguard. Zhaib!” she said through sobs, weeping as only a woman could. “A shady fellow he is too, loosen your grip and I shall tell you more.” Her body shuddered, and her thighs twitched under the strain of his hold.

As if obliging, the blade was lifted from her throat, and Zaveed’s hand ran gingerly down the back of Raelynn’s neck before resting upon her shoulder. “Continue.” he spoke softly.

“You have to understand. I’m just a healer - this warrants protection and for me to be assigned a bodyguard - sometimes more than one. Zhaib is my bodyguard in Gilane, my family have wealth and they don’t like me to travel alone.” The feeling of his hand on her shoulder made her skin crawl but she didn’t show it - instead she leant against it in faux affection, her next words becoming more hushed. “He asked me to be there to do the distraction - you were right, it was an act. I didn’t know what for - I promise. I shouldn’t have done it, but my family trusts Zhaib and I trust my family. What was I to do? I ran back to my lodgings after that. I made use of the crowds. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to lie to you…”

“Of course you did, you just weren’t as brave as you thought you were. There is no shame in that; no one truly wishes to die when someone else could do it for them.” Zaveed replied. “Perhaps you might enlighten me as to what your family’s interests in this city is, then? Why are they caught up in the capture and interrogation of Dwemeri officials?”

“They just care about me, they’re simple folk who want to know that I’m not getting into situations like you have me in right now. They would have told me if they were plotting something, I swear it. Whatever has motivated Zhaib to do this has been an outside influence. I’ve been caught up in it. I’m sorry.” She was trembling in her seat, so much so that her teeth chattered as she spoke, her back was arched just so that each breath she took caused her chest to rise up and down under his eyes. She was using her body now to buy time.

“And finally, through so many lies, some truth. Was that so difficult?” he purred softly, stroking Raelynn’s cheek with the back of his hand. “I will be paying this Zhaib a visit, and from there, the remainder of your family in this city. I imagine their words will be just as enlightening.” he said quickly, standing up suddenly and sliding the dagger back into its scabbard. “You’ve purchased your life at the cost of theirs, but whatever should I do with you?” he pondered aloud, looking down at the pretty girl whose face he could not see.

“My family are in High Rock, you won't find them here… What will you do to Zhaib? What will happen to him?” She stopped her shaking, or at least tried to. Although it was gone from her neck, she could still feel where it had been. Another tear fell from her cheek and landed on her chest. “You have the power here, not me. I've told you what I know, can't I leave now?” She let a tone of defeat roll off her tongue, with any luck he would take pity on her now and that would be it.

“Oh, I’m sure. But do not worry, I seldom know what I will do until the eve is upon me. Being spontaneous is the spice of life, is it not?” he asked cordially. He returned to the original side of the table he’d first risen from. Scooping up the nail he’d threatened Raelynn with before between two fingers, he placed his hand over hers once more reassuringly. “You’ve left all too much to my imagination, and spoke little of consequence. Still, I am not without my mercy. You are so strong willed, I admire you. I’d wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances; we could have been good for one another.” Zaveed said quietly. The air fell silent between them.

The silence was broken by a sudden thud as the Khajiit brought down a hammer that had been sitting unannounced down upon the nail between his fingers directly into Raelynn’s hand, breaking through the other side and into the table. For good measure, he struck it again, further burying it into the wood. Tossing the tool aside carelessly, he leaned forward to caress the Breton’s face once more. “Until next time, my dear. I hope you find your voice. Do not go anywhere; my associates will be around shortly.” he cooed, releasing her suddenly before stepping away from the table and walking towards the door, which opened silently before closing gently behind him, as if not to wake the occupants of the house.

---

Three Crowns Hotel, 1st of Midyear, Afternoon

It wasn’t like Megana had purposely intended to listen in on the heated conversation between the khajiit and the argonian. She’d merely been passing by the area, lost in her own thoughts, consumed by the information they had received once her motley group had returned to the hotel. Their mission hadn’t been completely successful, but they hadn’t come back empty handed, and in Meg’s opinion that counted for something. Brynja and her group had returned successful as well, with a brand new companion whom she still had to properly acquaint herself with. So it was quite the shock when the group that was supposed to return with the dwemer administrator not only came back empty handed, but had apparently tortured and killed their objective.

She didn’t know about the others, but Meg could feel the uneasy tension in the air. They had been told quite clearly by the Poncy Man that Nblec was well loved by the people, perhaps much like how Whiterun seemed to adore their Jarl. At least that was the idea that she had in her mind. However it wasn’t the failure of the mission that had affected her as much as the perpetrator being someone she considered her friend. Even though she had remained silent about it, her mind continued to tell her that it was wrong. He would never do something like that. He was a nice and friendly person who wouldn’t caused others mindless pain!

The rational part of her mind strove to remind her that she didn’t really know much of most of their companions. How she hated that part of her mind.

So when she heard Sora’s terse voice next to the Argonian’s calm one, she couldn’t help but pause and listen in. Her heart pounded as the conversation came to an end. She knew eavesdropping wasn’t the best thing to do, but she found she couldn’t quite move from where she stood, fixed to the spot as if her boots had been nailed to the ground..

Stepping out of the gym with an exasperated expression, Daro’Vasora’s eyes immediately zeroed in on Meg and a very visceral reaction took her; she jumped back suddenly and had her claws out, fearing the worst. When she took in who it was, her hand ran down her face and she sighed in relief. “You startled me… I thought you were someone else.” she explained, a sort of apology. Her eyes opened suddenly as she gazed at the Nord. “How long have you been listening?” she asked suddenly.

"Ah- I shouldn' have, I'm sorry..." Her voice trailed momentarily before looking to the khajiit with a sheepish expression. "Not too long... 'nough to know though that he did sommat." Her hands clenched and unclenched as she gathered her thoughts. "I didn' wanna believe it last night, y'know. But hearin' that just now... it was like..." She shook her head and began to walk, not wishing to stay in one place anymore. "I thought I'd been in the wrong, lettin' all them prisoners free... but this-" She paused and looked to Daro'Vasora. "This's worse, ain' it?"

Knowing full well that Jaraleet was only moments away and likely within earshot, Daro’Vasora took Meg by the arm and back up the stairwell before continuing to talk. “Who knows what any of those prisoners did? Maybe they were scum, maybe they were political prisoners. Maybe they’ll take this second chance to heart, maybe they won’t. Don’t beat yourself up over it; you were trying to protect us and had to improvise. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done something similar, you know?” The Khajiit reassured Meg, feeling somewhat guilty that the Nord was even associating her actions with those of Jaraleet and Gregor. It left a pit in her stomach. “I only heard rumours, a few words from Latro and that no administrator turned up for questioning. Asking our Argonian friend some questions just filled in the gaps.” the Khajiit sighed, pulling a bone from her pocket to stick between her teeth; it was already well marked from grinding.

“What am I doing wrong, Meg?” she asked suddenly, the air of the courtyard coming up ahead. Bathers were already in the bathhouse this morning, and Daro’Vasora felt that nothing would make her soul feel clean again. “I don’t know what these people need, what motivates them, how to make them do the right thing. We keep going like this, I don’t see it ending well for anyone.” she admitted.

Meg looked at Sora, eyes widening with surprise before she looked away with guilt. How much pressure had been on the khajiit, and how much more pressure had suddenly been dropped on her shoulders in the last one day? Daro'Vasora was now their defacto leader, having taken the reins when Rhea died,and Meg had just accepted that without a second thought, but if she really did think about it, she knew quite well she'd never be able to carry the weight of leadership.

"T'be honest? I don' think yer doin' anything's wrong, Sora. Y'could've just left Anvil without us, but y'didn'. Y'kept us together, an' I think yer doin' a fine job." She paused in her step to look at the khajiit, unsure if what she was saying was the right thing to say... but she had to say it nevertheless. "Rhea tried really hard, an' she did a mighty fine job too, but in the end- it was just too much for her all by herself, y'know? Havin' t'take care of so many diff' mind people ain't easy." She hesitated a little before continuing. "Those've us that've been there since the Jerall mountains, me, you, Brynja, Jude, Latro, Alim an' the rest... we're all like family now, an I don't think we wanna see you suffer like Rhea did."

Meg sighed softly before cracking a small smile at Daro'Vasora. "Yer not alone, yer no lone wolf, so don' try t'shoulder all the burden by yourself, a'ight? We believe in you, I believe in you. We're there for you, same way you've been for us."

The words hit hard, Daro’Vasora realized as her teeth bit down hard into the bone. It was a realization she didn’t even consider, and in her goal to do better than Rhea did, she was following down the same well-intentioned but oh so foolish footsteps of the Imperial who sacrificed everything for the people she felt responsible for.

“Family, huh? Something tells me the others wouldn’t agree with that sentiment.” The Khajiit replied, staring up at the blue sky above. “I know I’m not easy to like or trust, I just… want everything to work, you know? I thought I could see what Rhea did wrong, and how to motivate these people, and I dare say it’s worse than it ever was.” she said, finding a bench to sit down upon and falling upon it with a huff.

“The thing is, Meg, who would want this? Who wants to be the one to make decisions that could affect everyone else? I originally just wanted to give everyone safe passage and to get away from Cyrodiil, but instead, we all walked right into another mess and everyone looked at me for answers. I thought I could handle it.” Daro’Vasora explained, running her hand over her hair and retightening her ponytail. “I’m no leader. I never wanted to be.”

Meg sat herself down on the bench as well. "Honestly? Bein' a leader is the last thing I'd want too." Responsibility was something she had always run away from. Before she joined the expedition, it was always her or a partner, but no one but herself to follow or lead. Having responsibility over so many lives... she couldn't imagine it if she tried, even if she could sympathize with Daro'Vasora's troubles. "But... if I'm speakin' the truth, I don' see who else would’ve been able t'bring us as far's you have. Brynja maybe. But you stepped up... an' seein' how things're shitty no matter where we've been... I don' think it's fair t'place the blame on you. It's just the way things are now. We'd've pro'ly been in a bigger mess if we'd gone off on our own- we'd pro'ly be dead if we’d gone our own way in Anvil. An’ even here- y’never forced us, Sora. It’s us who decided… an’ if we made mistakes, they're ours, not yours. Don’ hold that over your head.”

A tight smile crossed the Khajiit’s features as she looked over to study Meg’s features. “I was just doing what Rhea would have wanted. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting anyone to stick around after we docked, and now I’m finding myself actively trying to keep people from doing stupid things that could hurt everyone else. I suppose we all have our reasons for sticking around, revenge, loss, anger… whatever it is that motivates people into punching above their weight. It helps to know at least someone thinks I’m doing alright, as much as I’d rather step aside and let someone with a bit more altruism and charisma to step up. I’d rather be back hunting for treasures and competing with rivals for them, I have no idea how to inspire people or really trust them.”

She shifted to face Meg a bit more directly, an arm over the back of the bench. “What would you have done, were you in my position? A good deed that turned into suddenly being a de facto leader of a company of mostly good people who have very little in common save for a shared trauma?”

"Well..." Meg couldn't help but let out a small sheepish laugh. "I'd've pro'ly pawned it off t'someone else. I've never been real good at takin' care of anyone 'sides from one or two more." She looked down at her stretched out legs, inspecting the tip of her boots as if they were suddenly the most interesting things in the world. "But I could be wrong. Could be I'd'a done just like you did- are doin'. Dunno until a person's in that situation, y'know?"

She sat up straight thereafter, looking to the khajiit. "Trustin' people ain' easy, but I don' think you've done wrong with the inspirin' bit, Sora. With the sorta bull headed people we got 'round us, they coulda left long ago, but they haven'. Somethin' keepin' 'em here, in this group, an' I'm thinkin' it's 'cause they realize we've been able t'beat all the odds." Her jaw tightened a little, a small frown creasing her forehead. "That bein' said though..." There was a lingering pause to her words before she continued. "If someone's gonna end up makin' shit hard for us, might be best for 'em to leave." Even if they're friends. The thought hurt even to think it, and for that moment Meg had the smallest taste of what Daro’Vasora may have been feeling. Decisions that were right for the greater good, even if they were to the detriment of a few others.

The Khajiit scratched her neck with a huff. “I’ve never been good at looking after anyone but myself, and Zegol. We saw how that went with Imperial City was sacked. It’s why I’m doing this, and the selfish part of me is saying the only way I’m going to do right by him is by suckering a bunch of others into supporting my cause, even indirectly. Problem is… I actually care what happens to everyone now, as strange as it is to admit. I figured at this point, we’d have all been paid off for our work in the mountains and I’d never see any of you again, and here we are outside of the Empire trying to make things work. A lot of us became friends, started relationships… it’s way more personal than I’m used to, and apparently I’m not immune to the appeal.” She said, her mind allowing Latro to wander in with the faintest of smiles.

“I don’t want to have to drive anyone away or hurt anyone, as much as I don’t see eye to eye with a lot of them and they don’t listen worth a damn. I just realized I never had a chance to really get to know you, Meg; why are you here, what made you stick around?” Daro’Vasora asked curiously, looking over at the young and earnest Nord. Something about Meg put her at ease, and she found the words flowed easily; there was no malicious intent, no scheming. Just a rural girl that wanted to do well by people and be dependable.

She’s everything I’m not, Daro’Vasora thought.

“Me?” Meg was surprised by the question, but mostly because she never really thought anyone would wonder or care about it, aside from Brynja. “Hm…” She scratched at the back of her neck, thinking of something that might portray her reasons as something grander than they actually were. When she did finally continue, it was only the plain truth that left her tongue. “I like bein’ part of the group. There really ain’ anythin’ waiting for me in Skyrim. Pa’s married with a kid, an’ it was obvious that she didn’ really care for havin’ me ‘round… even when I’d be in Whiterun I’d stay in the inn than my Pa’s house. The only person I liked more than like- loved even- is no longer around…” Her hand now gripped the amulet of Mara under her tunic; she bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from getting too emotional. “I was lonely awhile ‘fore we went on the expedition. I dunno… it’s like I said b’fore. I feel like this is my family, like I belong here… ”

Her hand dropped to her lap. “Sorry, it’s not a really good reason, is it. When I’m doin’ whatever I am, findin’ food, goin’ on missions… it’s not really for a greater good. It’s for us, our group. The thought of it breakin’... not bein’ around… I’mma be honest an’ say I felt lost when we reached Anvil… ” She looked to Daro’Vasora, smiling softly. “An’ I was happy when I was remembered an’ told ‘bout the ship to come here.”

It was a simple enough reason, but one that Daro’Vasora had heard from quite a few adventurers or just general people down on their luck. Home? Pff. What home? became such a common utterance that it often reminded her how lucky she was to have a family to one day return to. Meg was the kind of girl who needed someone to hold onto, because her family certainly wasn’t up to that task, and it made her take risks and put herself in danger for others since it would mean keeping them safe and showing support, even in a weird and kind of backwards way. Daro’Vasora rubbed her temples; Meg was hanging around, caught up in potentially lethal stakes, entirely because the Khajiit led her here and asked her to help. She was going to be the death of this poor, lonely girl who just needed a family.

I really am a piece of shit, aren’t I? she thought darkly.

Meg’s last words hit hard. Her eyes met Meg’s and Daro’Vasora blinked slowly, not sure of what to say. “I… I couldn’t just leave people without having the choice to get out of that place. I wanted to get you all away from war, and I seem to have a knack for finding more trouble. I don’t think I would have ever forgotten you, Meg… you’re a good person, and you’ve always done right by me. I have a family, back in Leyawiin, and my younger sister, La’Shuni, she’s just 18 and was supposed to visit me in the Imperial City this month. I wish I’d gone home to see them, to tell them what happened, but here I am so far away and I may never get to see them again.” She smiled sadly. “I’m sure you probably think I’m a fool, for turning my back on a family that would take me back when you’d probably kill for that. You’d probably be right.”

"No." Meg shook her head, looking a little ruefully at her khajiit companion. "You ain't a fool. Or if y’are one, then we're both fools. Jus' like you, I coulda returned t'Whiterun any time- I mean, before the world went t'shit. I just had it in m'mind that just 'cause Pa's new wife didn' wan' me 'round, it meant Pa didn' either. He did so much for me, raisin' me since I was a babe, keepin' me from sinkin' too deep in the ratway... so many things but I decided not t'believe in him, takin' someone else's actions against him." She rubbed at her forehead, teeth grinding against each other before she finally allowed herself to relax. "I think we all end up doin' stuff we regret, an' we learn from those mistakes. We can' know what's gonna happen to them, but 'least we can keep us an' our friends safe, Sora, let 'em know how we really feel."

She paused in her words, letting out a dry laugh. Guess I really am born under the Lady’s sign.

“Maybe you should write him a letter, when you get a chance… and couriers are up and going again.” The Khajiit replied, grinding the bone in her teeth. “I just always felt I shouldn’t go home until I made a name for myself, succeeded on my own terms. I broke free of the cozy little life mother and father had laid out for me, and I could have excelled at either option, but it wasn’t who I am, you understand?” she asked Meg, a slight smile on her face. “I was given every opportunity in the world to excel, but I was bored and so confined in Leyawiin. I read about the world, about adventurers and kings and heroes. I dreamt of having my name show up in a book just like one I’d read so maybe another young girl like myself would be inspired to do more than just quietly accept what’s good and proper in life and do something daring. I don’t regret my choices, I just… I just don’t know if I was ever truly ready for any of this, and I’ll admit, hearing about what happened to Calen and the fact I’m more or less responsible for everyone’s welfare is weighing on me a bit. I don’t like being responsible, but I guess we don’t get to chose our fates, do we?”

"I get you," Meg replied. She could relate to Daro'Vasora wanting more of out life than she had. Hadn't she left Whiterun to adventure because she didn't simple wish to work as a delivery person between farms and the city? "Everyone wants more, ain' nothin' wrong with that. As for fate... I always hated that, not gonna lie." Meg shrugged her shoulders as she thought of how many times. "The thought of me not bein' in control of my own life? Hmm... I guess in smaller ways we are, but when we bring in everyone an' all things takin' place, maybe you're right an' all that happens an' all choices are meant t'bring us where we are. Even if it ends up with results we don' like, like Rhea's death an' poor Calen.

"Still..." Meg pursed her lips. "Kinda makes me wanna rebel against fate an' do somethin' that'd change things." Maybe it was stupid to think that way, maybe it wasn't, but damn if she wouldn't try.

There was a small moment of quiet before she spoke up once more. "I sent a letter to my Pa, back in Anvil. Dunno if it'll even reach... let's see what fate decide, eh." She smiled at Sora and gave the khajiit a light poke in the arm. "Maybe you should be doin' the same then, eh? Send a letter to your folks."

“I’ve been in contact with them that way for quite a while,” Daro’Vasora admitted. “It’s how I kept in touch at home, and kept being a big sister to La’Shuni. It’s how we made plans for her to stay with me for a month before heading back to Leyawiin before this all went down. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from them again; the Dominion’s at war with the Empire, and Leyawiin might very well be under Dominion occupation now. I’ve tried not to think about it, but it seems like if I face one enemy that hurt my family, I turn my back on another. Trust me, I’ve told myself on a number of occasions that after I escaped from Imperial City, I should have gone South instead. I don’t know why I stayed with our group, other than I was grieving and not thinking things through.”

Meg looked down at her hands, taking in the khajiit's words. So much strife, so much tearing people apart, and all for what? Would it even be worth it for those in power? Their motives confused her and always had. She hadn't tried to understand the civil war in Skyrim. This was far larger, and she was now an active member of a rebel organization. It was almost as if she was a Stormcloak. The thought was both funny and mortifying.

Looking away from her hands, she faced Sora once more. "For what it's worth, I'm glad y'stayed... an' I know I'm not the only one. An' I'm hopin' our efforts make it possible t'make a change so we can see them again somehow... our families that is."

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way. It would be a bit of a waste of my sob story if you didn’t want me around, right?” the Khajiit replied with a smile, standing up with a feline-like stretch. “Thank you for listening to me, it’s not easy being stuck with your own thoughts all the time. You’re a good person, Meg. I think I stand to learn from you in that regard.”

Meg couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "I s'pose that'd be tru, yeah." She smiled back at the khajiit, though she stayed seated on the bench, deciding to remain there for the time being. "I should be thankin' you too, Sora. You're not as hard as y'think, an' that's a good thing. If y'need someone t'talk to, I'm always aroun'."

Daro’Vasora grinned at Meg, offering the Nord a wink. “I just might take you up on that, maybe I’ll buy you a drink or two tonight and we can talk about how a cat from the Empire and a hunter from Whiterun ended up roasting in the desert. For now, I’ve got a sword I’ve been meaning to gift to Latro and it needs to be presented properly. You take care of yourself, Meg; it’s dangerous out there.” she said, offering a small farewell wave before beginning to tread down the hallway, her steps just a little lighter.

"I will, an' the same goes for you, Sora!" Meg raised a hand and waved at Daro'Vasora. It had certainly been nice to chat, especially with what was going on. It also helped her make up her mind- she was going to have a talk with Jaraleet. Whatever had happened, she wanted to hear it straight from the source.

3rd of Midyear, 4e208
Morning

Latro sat alone in the little alley zen garden that he and Sora had sparred. Where it had been still and the air tepid, it was now filled with the sounds of chirping birds and warm breezes. It was peaceful, tranquil, beautifully serene. All the things his thoughts and dreams were not. He looked at the bottle of poppy-wine he hadn’t indulged in since Cyrodiil and sighed. He wanted to so damned badly, to feel a measure of comfort. His hands wrapped around the cork but refused to pull and twist. He uttered a curse and set the bottle down next to himself. Nothing was going his way the past weeks and he’d gone beyond getting angry at any of it.

He decided to stand and walk away from the garden, perhaps being among the crowds would help him. The hubbub of the streets did little to calm him once he was walking on them, but he was fiercely determined to find something to take the edge off. With his lute on his back, he cast an errant thought to just set up on a bench and play, but decided against it. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself after the stunt they’d pulled the resulted in Calen’s grave wounding. Something he regretted the other bard had gotten himself into, painfully naïve to just what this war was about. Because of all that, he walked the streets fully garbed and painted like a woman, letting his hair flow freely in the breeze.

He settled for perusing the vendors’ stalls and window shopping along the avenues. As the next hour passed, he’d gotten a skewer of meat and filled his water skin with Daggerfall wine. After a while of walking the streets his eyes were pulled towards something for seemingly no reason. They settled on a pair of hazel eyes that regarded him in the same way a sabercat would an elk. An Ohmes-Raht was leaning against a wall, chiseled, swarthy features and a large build, thick arms folded. Quicker than he was meaning to, he turned away and walked the other direction, trying to put as much space between him and the Khajiit. No matter how quickly he tried to weave through the crowds and disappear the Khajiit was behind him. He had much practice in this, he could tell.

That only set his nerves more on edge. What did this Khajiit want with him? Was he a random thug? Whatever he was, Latro rounded another corner to get away from him, finding himself on the docks after the lengthy slow, but tense chase through the crowds. He tried at a warehouse door but found no luck, as the door handle only jiggled in place. He could feel his heart stomping up into his throat. Two more doors and he finally found one that was unlocked. He quickly slipped inside and climbed to a higher vantage point among the crates. All was painfully quiet, the smell of dust and sea salt mixing, the sound of settling wood. After a few moments, the door opened again and the Khajiit walked in with footfalls effortlessly as quiet as his own. His mouth was dry at that, a hunter of men, but who sent him?

The Khajiit pulled a splintered practice sword from his belt, the same one he and Sora had broken a couple nights before. He hadn’t noticed it missing from the alley when he was there. The Khajiit tossed it, letting it skitter across the warehouse floorboards. “You dropped this.” Came the Khajiit’s deep voice. “You have two choices-“

Latro didn’t want to give him the chance to finish. Noiselessly, he leapt from his perch, poised to land a stone-skinned elbow atop the Khajiit’s head and brain him, but before he even got close to him his vision was enveloped in the brightest white that burned his eyes to look into. He shielded his eyes but lost his footing, clattering to the ground with a grunt, still disoriented.

His vision adjusted and he quickly got to his feet, pain gripping his left ankle as he teetered on his right foot and took a few limping steps. The Khajiit nowhere in sight and there was an eerie silence that befell the room, his blood thumping in his head as his eyes flitted about the room in search of his enemy. He felt a big hand grab his hair in a fist and once again his vision was white as his head met the side of a crate, a searing pain clouding his mind that much more and he felt his ear split, feeling the blood run down his neck. He stumbled, not knowing in which direction as the room spun before once again, he felt himself grabbed by his shirt. All at once, he was weightless and he collided with another crate, breaking it open with his side. He gasped for breath as he lay there, the pain sapping the breath away from him.

“I could smell you. You should use less fragrant soaps if you’re trying to hide from someone.” He looked to the source of the voice, the Khajiit was walking towards him with the pace of someone who had not a worry, “Like I said, you have two choices-“

“Fuck your choices!” He sprang to his feet and launched himself at the Khajiit, finally finding purchase against him as he landed a hard kick to the Khajiit’s abdomen, sending him stumbling to his left.

Latro followed with a left hook to the Khajiit’s face, snapping his head to the left. Not giving the Khajiit time to recover, he launched himself into the Khajiit, knee-first, doubling him over and then another knee to the face stood him as upright as Latro needed him to be. A flurry of lightning quick punches to his stomach knocked the air out of the Khajiit, Latro deciding to finish this by giving the Khajiit a taste of his own. He grabbed the Khajiit by his hair and roared, sending him headfirst into a crate, splintering the wood of the crate with the first hit and then breaking a hole in it with the Khajiit’s face.

Latro stepped back, hand grabbing his aching side and rested himself on a crate. His shoulders heaved with his breath and he watched the Khajiit cautiously. His mouth hung open as he watched the Khajiit stir and then stand, popping his neck and then rolling his shoulders, hands balled into meaty fists. “Tougher girls than you have tried to brain me with a board to the face, little one.”

“Wha-“ Latro tried to mutter but his voice was cut off by a lightning quick palm to his chest, knocking the air out of him in a mist of bloody spittle and slamming his back against the crates he was leaning against.

He lay there spluttering and once again trying to gasp up air, but the Khajiit didn’t waste time in once again grabbing his hair and yanking his head to look up at him. He scarce had a look at the Khajiit before a fist came down once, twice and had him spitting bloody. He’d be unconscious were it not for the mage-armor, but the pain he felt still made him wish he was unconscious. The Khajiit grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up without much effort, leaning his head back and bringing his forehead into his nose hard enough to crack it and make him cry out.

He couldn’t even finish his pained howl before he was thrown once again, this time landing in a pile on the floor, back arching as he hit the floorboards and he let out a cry of pain that came out only as a breathless croaking, eyes screwed shut. He heard the sound of the Khajiit coming towards him, “I’m getting tired of beating you into mud, Breton. I’ve never liked you posh shits from Daggerfall or wherever.”

“I’m,” Latro started, heaving in a breath, “I’m a fucking Reachman, you godsdamned rug!”

He yanked his knife from his sheath, and lunged at the Khajiit, his thrust finding only empty air. The Khajiit grabbed up his wrist and made to throw him again, but Latro pivoted, quite tired of finding himself hurling through the air. He sliced into the Khajiit’s wrist attached to the hand that grabbed him before he slashed out at the Khajiit’s face, but he ducked. Not giving him time to gain back the offensive, Latro put all of his strength into a kick that sent the Khajiit stumbling back when it connected with his chest. Like a charging bull though, the Khajiit came back at him, wrapping him in his thick arms and roaring as he carried them both at a breakneck speed.

Latro grunted as his back found itself once again crashing through a pile of crates. He tucked his knees to his chest and planted his feet on the Khajiit’s hips, but his effort to kick the Khajiit away from him was foiled when the Khajiit brought down his fist like a hammer on his head, whacking the back of it on the floorboards. He felt himself getting picked up before he was slammed on the ground again, breathlessly squirming. The Khajiit let him lay there, Latro heaving in breaths and too weak to get back to his feet. He knew full well now though that if the Khajiit wanted to kill him, he would have been dead long ago.

“Do you want to listen to me or do you want to keep going at this?” The Khajiit asked between breaths, forearm wiping his split lip, “I could’ve snapped your neck from behind at the start of all this, but I decided to see what you were made of. Shame it was just a fucking ponce I found.”

“Fuck you, Khajiit.” Latro responded lamely, it was the only thing he found appropriate, or found at all with such pains seizing his every movement.

“No, Breton,” The Khajiit spat in further insult, “Fuck you. I came to give you a choice, not a hard beating. Are you ready to hear it?”

“Fuck it, just tell me.” Latro struggled to a sitting position, groaning and wincing, aching legs outstretched before him as he rested his spasming back against the mostly intact crate behind him. “I’m not really feeling up to strolling out of this place and resuming the fucking good day I was set on having.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s been a vacation every day since I came to this forsaken desert country.” The Khajiit rolled his eyes and Latro was almost taken aback at how casual this all suddenly was. It was odd times all around though.

“So, my two choices are my money or my life, I take it?” Latro asked, frowning.

“I’d pick someone with a fatter purse. Now shut the hell up and listen to me or I’ll start beating you into shit again, ponce.” The Khajiit took a moment to spit blood to the side, “I didn’t come here just to throw you around like a twig-thin girl until the sun goes down. You have two choices, like I keep saying before I’m fucking interrupted by your limp-wristed pillow-fists.”

“I came to Hammerfell with a very specific task to fulfill. My being pressgang’d into Dwemer service has thrown a wrench into the cogs, but I’m not set on bucking their saddle on me. Not yet, at least.” The Khajiit rolled his neck and shoulders before continuing, a pained look on his face that gave Latro a little too much pleasure in knowing he was the reason for it, “I can either be your friend or I can be the one who kills you and all of your friends. And trust me, if they fight like you, I’ll have a fucking boring time of it. Meet me in that zen garden a few days from now at nightfall, or I can tell my new friends and their shiny rifles where to find you.”

“A few days from now? When will I know when it’s enough time?” Latro asked, face screwed up in confusion.

“I’ll find you. It was easy enough the first time. Nice hiding hole too, you should see mine.” He said humorlessly, frowning, “I wouldn’t want you being the reason I’m dropping your girl’s corpse at the feet of my associates. You should try to be more receptive to new friends.”

“You have an odd way of making friends.” Latro huffed.

“You tried me first.” The Khajiit replied. “Shiburi ibn Sev’Ahmet.”

“What?” Latro asked, looking back at the Khajiit.

“My name.” Shiburi said. “What’s yours?”

“Latro.” He said, before adding, “Your name sounds fake.”

“So does yours, Reachman.” The Khajiit only smirked before walking away towards the entrance where it all began. “I’ll find you.”

It was both a reminder and a veiled threat, Latro was aware. He rested in his crate, still throbbing and altogether still not set on strolling back out and resuming the good day he was trying to have. Before the Khajiit finally disappeared beyond the threshold of the warehouse, he stopped, saying over his shoulder, “Beware the Khajiit with evil in his eyes. He won’t be as lenient as I am.”

“There’s another? Why are you warning me?” Latro asked, still struggling to his feet.

Shiburi stood in the doorway without a word, before he spoke again, “He’s my brother.” Shiburi sighed, “But he’s strayed far from the Khajiit I once knew him to be. I gave you two choices, Latro. He’ll give you none.”

“I see.” Latro said, looking to the doorway, but the Khajiit was already gone.

Afternoon, 1st of Midyear, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, Hammerfell

Mazrah had ditched the (now bloodied and torn) robe that Nanine made her wear in an alleyway long before they even reached the Three Crowns Hotel again, and proudly sashayed into the refuge of Gilane’s resistance with her tattoos once again on display. Nanine tended to her injuries while Brynja saw that Judena was taken care of, and after that Mazrah was left to rest and recover. Someone had fetched a bed for her and placed it in the room that she shared with Brynja, Rhona, Raelynn and Daro’Vasora. It had felt beyond satisfying to finally bring the fight to the Dwemer, even if it was in such a covert (read: cowardly) manner and she slept soundly.

Her mind wandered the next day and she found herself thinking of the Redguard girl that had escaped with them. Mazrah had noticed that she had been capable of holding her own once she got ahold of a sword, but she still felt an almost sisterly urge to seek her out and make sure she was okay. There was no way that the girl should have been alone on that prisoner cart. It was wrong, and she spat a curse in the Dwemer’s names because of it.

Asking around for the whereabouts of the girl, Mazrah learned that she was staying in her own accomodation on the hotel’s grounds and she set off to find the Redguard there. “Hello?” she asked upon arriving and knocked on the door. “Is anyone there?”

Shakti opened the thin door to the small room (it was more like a closet) that the owners had allowed her to use for the time being. Apparently it was where the maids stayed. The door revealed the Orsimer woman who had played some part in her rescue from the wagon. Only she was nearly nude. It’s not like her own clothes were in better shape, her robe was missing its sleeve now thanks to the chop to the forearm she had received a day(ish) ago. Shakti did her best not to judge or to stare as she tossed her replacement sword (which she was cleaning) onto her bedroll. “Greetings to you, Orc. You have my eternal gratitude for helping to free me.” She followed her thanking with a short bow. Satisfied with what her Father would see, she moved on, “So, anything you need?”

Flashing a grin and waving her hand dismissively, Mazrah chuckled. “Don’t mention it! Being afforded the opportunity to stab a few Dwemer in the throat was reward enough for me. And I don’t need anything from you, really. I just came to see if you were…” She paused, a little awkward, and shrugged. “Well, if you were okay, you know? I’ve seen that you can handle yourself in a fight, but it still doesn’t seem right that a girl your age was stuck on a prisoner transport like that. My name is Mazrah, by the way. What’s yours?”

Shakti grinned at her grin, although she was not sure what was so funny. “That is kind of you to do. I am not that young though.” She brushed some of her messy hair with her fingers so that it stood up. “My name is… well you can call me Shakti. I have other names but you might find them hard to pronounce. It is good to meet you Mazrah, and other than this-“ She shook her lacerated forearm and slightly winced, “-I am fine.”

“Hm.” Mazrah narrowed her eyes as she seized up Shakti again, trying to get a feel for what kind of young woman she was dealing with. “Maybe you look younger than you are. Either way, good to see that you’re still in one piece. You should visit us sometime soon and get that looked at,” she added and pointed at Shakti’s injured arm. “There are a few healers with us that could patch that up in seconds.” Mazrah put her hands on her hips, laughed to herself and shook her head. “Okay, I can’t resist asking: why are you in Gilane all alone? How did you end up on that transport?”

Shakti winced and smiled an embarrassed smile. “Well…” She began, aware of the absurdity of the next sentence, “I’m looking for someone. And I sooort of got into a duel with the wrong person. And his two friends. I almost beat them too. I ran when the guards showed up, but they ended up catching me.” She shook her wounded arm limply. “Lucky shot.” She smiled more fully this time. “About those healers though, could you point me in their direction? This hurts worse than it looks, I promise.”

“Come with me, I'll take you to them,” Mazrah said and gestured for Shakti to fall in line next to her. “Who are you looking for? Must be someone important, if you're willing to take on three people by yourself to find them,” she added, blissfully unaware that her prying questions were probably very personal. “I don't mean to imply that you're weak, but it looks to me like you could use some help.”

The Redguard girl cheerfully took up a place next to the Orcish woman and matched her pace. “I appreciate all of the kindness you have shown me. If there’s anything I can do to help, er, you or anyone around. Just ask. As for who I am searching for…” She brushed her right hand through her messy, windswept hair again, her mind racing through half-calculations of what-ifs and should-Is. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tell you. You seem trustworthy enough.” She gave a light shrug as a final punctuation to her decision. “I am looking for the man who killed my father. He was a knight, in Sentinel to the north. Both my father and his killer. Whoever it was betrayed my father. The man I fought was a former knight of the same order. He has something to do with it, though I don’t know much more than that. That’s why I am in Gilane. I had my father’s sword with me, but it was taken from me when I was imprisoned.” Shakti opened her mouth to say more but suddenly thought differently and closed it again.

Murdered. That was bad. There was a distinct difference in Orcish culture between murdered and merely killed; one was an act of cowardice, and the other was simply being victorious in a fair fight. Acts of cowardice were intolerable. And to lose a family heirloom as well! Mazrah couldn’t bear the thought of having her mother’s spear taken from her. “That’s rough,” the Orsimer said and shot Shakti a sympathetic smile. “It’s good that you are hunting down your father’s murderer. Vengeance is a sacred duty in matters such as these.” She paused and then added: “At least, it is where I came from. As for your sword… the transport you were on came from the prison. We had another team that infiltrated the prison around the same time we hit the transport. Perhaps one of my allies found your blade. Is it… special? Remarkable, in any way?”

Shakti thought about it for a moment. She supposed her task did boil down to vengeance, though she was loath to think of it that way. It was a matter of honour, not simple vengeance. She was the eldest, the blade of her family fell to her, she had to restore honour to her family by avenging the murder of her father. Perhaps there was more to her task than she had thought previously. Shakti nodded along to the Orcish woman’s comment. It was indeed rough. The sword though, she had not considered the possibility of someone picking it up. It was not overly special. It was only made of steel, not moonstone or orichalcum or ebony. It was finely made but Shakti estimated that it could hardly be called a masterwork. Of course, none of that mattered to her, it was perhaps, her prized possession. “No... I… It is special to me, but I do not think it is particularly remarkable. Except for maybe the curve of the blade. It is straighter and longer than the average Redguard hel but not as straight as a blade of the Cyrods. It has been in my family for generations. Last I saw it, it was lying in a pile of other weapons, I would be surprised if your friends picked it out and took it.” She waved her good hand dismissively. “I will go back to the prison later to look, but first I need to bandage my arm.” Shakti tried to add a confident tone to the first clause as she spoke. She must seem remarkably stupid to Mazrah to want to go back to the place she had just escaped from for a sword.

“Back to the prison?” Mazrah asked and raised an eyebrow. “I understand that you want to get your father’s sword back, don’t get me wrong, but the guards will be crawling all over that place now that my allies have struck there. I wouldn’t go back just yet.” She saw an opportunity here, though. She was the newest member of the cell and it probably wasn’t even her job to recruit new people, but she figured it couldn’t hurt. “Tell you what: if you join us, I’ll help you find your father’s sword and his killer. You’ve seen what we do. We’re resistance fighters. You believe in a free Hammerfell, right?”

The question was something Shakti hadn’t thought a lot about. The answer was pretty obvious, of course she did, but so far her travels had been solely concerned with her own personal journey. The run-ins with the law and Dwemer were just consequences of doing what she had to do in the name of honour. She thought back to Israhal. He would want her to join this cause. He had practically already tried to get her to join his group. She kind of did join too. Temporarily is what she had told herself. She did a few jobs for them, that’s all.

Shakti had seen how things were here. The curfews, the detainments. She had seen the patrols in the desert harassing other tribes. And if they were allowing traitor-knights like the one from the inn into the ranks of the guard… Perhaps it was time she stood up for her country.

“Joining a noble cause such as yours is the right thing to do. I’ll do it.” She nodded as a final affirmation of her words. “Don’t worry about the sword though. I have an idea.” Shakti winked and grinned at the Orc impishly.

“Finally,” Mazrah said and returned Shakti’s grin, “a Redguard that doesn’t hesitate to defend her own country! I have to say, I was disappointed when the Dwemer first invaded and just… won, you know? Ah well, we’re taking the fight to them now, even if it is all cloak-and-dagger. Welcome to Samara cell. You’ll have to be introduced to the Poncy Man, our leader, but that can wait. What’s this idea you have about your sword?” she asked. Their feet were taking them towards the wing of the hotel reserved for the resistance; even if Brynja, Raelynn or Nanine were busy, there were other healers around who could help with Shakti’s wounded arm.

“They haven’t won!” Shakti exclaimed, her defensive tone surprising even herself. Perhaps she cared more than she knew. “The desert sands would tear themselves apart before they submitted to the yoke of another empire. We resisted the Aldmeri and we will resist the Dwemeri just the same!” She let out her breath to calm down. “Sorry, I just… Hammerfell is more than just the cities and the Dwemer have barely scratched the surface of the great Alik’r.”

Mazrah threw her head back and laughed. “That’s the spirit! Okay, you’re right, I take back what I said. But you have to admit that the Dwemer achieved more than the Dominion ever did,” the Orsimer said with a wink. “Don’t worry, we’ll kick them out soon enough. But you still haven’t told me what your idea was.”

Shakti shrugged, “Perhaps.” She didn’t really know how far the Aldmeri had made it. She wasn’t alive back then, but she had heard the stories a thousand times before. “I know exactly where the sword was. I can picture it in my mind. All I need to do is get back into the building and I can be in and out before they know what happened. It will be easy.”

“Easy? You got captured once before, young lady,” Mazrah said, both amused and chiding. “But if that’s what you want to do, I won’t stop you. Just be careful. This way,” she said and started climbing the stairs that would take them to to the floor of the hotel that housed the resistance. The hotel was obviously made for a slightly shorter race than the Orsimer, and Mazrah had to crouch slightly to prevent the tip of her spear from poking holes in the ceiling as she cleared the steps. “What about the rest of your family? Mother, siblings? How are they?”

“I was wounded! This time I’ll be as fresh as unwalked sand!” Shakti declared, her confidence embellished slightly for Maz’s amusement. The Redguard girl made note of the way they had gone to get to this part of the hotel, having never been up to the second floor. The question of her family brought a tinge of sadness to her breast. “I have not seen them for a year or more. My mother leads the tribe. I have a younger sister and younger brother, I’m the oldest. I hope to see them again someday, hopefully successfully.”

Mazrah smiled and shook her head in mock derision at Shakti’s words. She liked the girl; the Redguard was sympathetic and strong-willed. The Orsimer resolved to keep an eye out for her and to keep her promise to Shakti. “Your mother leads the tribe,” Mazrah repeated and the approval was evident in her voice. “She must be strong. I miss my mother too, sometimes,” she said, taking note of the sadness on Shakti’s face. “She taught me everything I know. Greatest hunter Orsinium has ever seen. I have no doubt that we will both return home with tales of glory and victory one day, to impress our mothers with.” Mazrah gave Shakti a playful elbow bump before strutting down the corridor and knocking on the doors. “Hello?” she called out, wilfully insensitive to the private matters people might be attending to inside. “Is there a healer here? We need a healer!”

One of the doors opened and a middle-aged Redguard woman shuffled out while wrapping her robes around herself, looking at Mazrah with suspicion. Mazrah hadn’t seen her before, but realized she must be one of the other resistance members holed up at the hotel. “What is it?”

Mazrah pointed at Shakti’s arm. “The girl needs healing. She just joined our cause.”

The woman’s face lit up with a mixture of excitement and concern. “Oh, excellent! Not that you are wounded, my dear, but -- well, you know what I mean. Come, I will fix that arm of yours,” she said and beckoned for Shakti to follow.

Mazrah put a hand on her hips and smiled. “I’ll see you around, Shakti.”

The younger girl liked that idea. Coming home to impress her mother with how she righted the family’s honour and saved Hammerfell in the process. Perhaps she would go and visit Maz’s mother as well. “Thank you Maz, I hope to chat again soon!” Shakti turned back to the other Redguard as Mazrah departed the room. “It isn’t bad, but it does hurt,” she said to the healer as she held up her lacerated forearm, wincing.

“Child, where did you go and get this? Any deeper and you would have hit bone!”

“I am not a child! A sword did that, it cut clean through my bracer.” Shakti answered the matron sullenly.

The older woman clicked her tongue, “Well just hold still.”

Shakti held her arm up and the Redguard healer held her hand over the wound, warm light radiating from the palm. The hair on Shakti’s arm stood up and she looked away from the wound. Magic was uncommon amongst her tribe and she still wasn’t totally comfortable being around it. Regardless, the tingling feeling wasn’t altogether unpleasant and when she looked back at her arm all that remained was a nasty scar.

“Whoa! How did you do that?” The genuine surprise in the girl’s words made the matron laugh. “Child, haven’t you seen a healing spell before?” Shakti flushed a slightly redder shade of brown, “Well… no not before now.” The older woman laughed again, “Come back if you need more healing and if you’d like, I’ll teach you a basic healing spell. Could save your life in the field!”

Shakti bowed to the older woman and rubbed her arm in disbelief. “I am in your debt, no shira.”

Shakti was off practically before she had finished her bow. She darted down the stairs towards whence she came, stopping only at her room to grab her Dwemer shortblade and fasten it to the back of her belt. Out and down through the hallways again out into the courtyard of the Three Crowns, finally slowing down as she hit the streets and only because it would draw unwelcome attention. First things first. Get back her sword.

---

A Collab by @Spoopy Scary, @Stormflyx & @MacabreFox

Gilane, Infirmary - 1st Midyear evening

It was a familiar scene.

Lying on a red carpet like a river of blood. An armored man with an eye-patch and a billowing cloak seemingly connected to the bloody river on the floor. He understood now that the executioner looming over him was the source of the blood. With the phantom of Cezare and his claymore overhead, threatening to lop Calen’s head off, he heard it again -- three explosions of a Dwemer’s cannon. Except now with every blast, the cannons shattered his eardrums, images of the Gilane safehouse flashed before his eyes before returning to his execution by Cezare’s hand. Every time the cannons shattered his eardrums, he found himself looking at Latro at the mercy of a firing squad. He heard Latro’s voice again, “Good people detest violence. But good people doing nothing when it’s visited upon others is the only thing worse.” The third and final time the cannons fired, an explosion of pain filled his chest until everything went black.

A cold and sticky sensation smeared itself across his chest.

---

To see Calen lying there - he had colour in his cheeks again, a far cry from the deathly white he had been the night before. This alone indicated to her that he was doing better. Yet he was sound asleep, peaceful. She wondered what dreams may have been playing through his mind. As she approached, she reached into her bag - taking out a stalk of aloe which she placed on the bedside table beside him, for later use.

She took no time in peeling back the covers, to assess the wound now. The only reason she had been allowed in was because of her credentials as a healer. As far as she was aware, guests were not permitted yet. She could see the bruising on his chest, but the wounds were closed. There was pain there still. Restorative magic could only do so much. Just like in her nightmare, she could see at a glance that his rib was broken. That would be where most of his pain was. The poor lamb wouldn't like to laugh for a while yet. Not that there was much to laugh about. “I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you…” she said as she took the seat beside his bed, placing her hand on his. This was new to her - to comfort like this. But it felt right regardless.

Too much time had passed since Rhona had laid eyes on Calen, and it didn’t take long for her to catch word of what had happened to him. The worn leather soles of her boots slapped softly against the flooring, her pace a hurried one. She had been turned away from the infirmary twice, but not today. Rhona had been told that she should give him time to heal, but she had to see him. She just had to. When she reached the door, she pushed it open with one hand while the hinges creaked in protest. Rhona stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind her; her gaze sweeping over the room, looking for him. Her eyes landed on two familiar figures, her breath catching in her throat, there he was, seemingly asleep, with the blonde woman she had come to know as Raelynn by his side, with her hand atop his. She struggled to keep her emotions about her, the cold words Mortalmo spoke came filtering back in like a black fog. Her mind screamed at her, a bellow that urged her to turn tail and leave. But no, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She had waited impatiently since hearing of his injury to see him, and here she was first? No. She couldn’t think anything of it.

It doesn’t matter what Mortalmo said…, she thought, forcing her feet to move out from under her. Rhona closed the distance, where she came to stand at the foot of the bed, her eyes flickering between Raelynn and Calen. Her tongue felt like a heavy weight in her mouth, an iron that she had no strength to lift.

“I…”, she paused, her words failing her as a lengthy silence followed, “...how is he?” She asked. She didn’t know Raelynn well, and she doubted her intentions even moreso.

“He's alive,” Raelynn said to Rhona, it was all she could say. Her eyes met those of the girl and she could sense agitation within her. On a better day she would have retorted with a smirk and something bitter. She pulled the cover back over Calen’s wounds just so, and rose from her seat. “Truthfully we won't know until he wakes. He… It was not easy for him.”

She picked up the aloe from the table, applying pressure to the leaf until it's gel was forced out into the palm of her hand. She moved back over him, gingerly lifting the covers once more to apply the gel to his bruising, she was looking down at it, but could see Rhona in her peripheral vision -- watching her like a hawk. This also meant that she didn’t notice the faint twitching in Calen’s face.

It was only a moment or two after Raelynn applied the cold gel when the previously still Calen’s eyes flutter open before suddenly springing up in bed, crying out while gasping for air, “Lat--!”

But the name of his acquaintance couldn’t come out, as the sounds merged into moans of agony, and coughing fits as he clutched the wounded area on his chest. Beneath the coolness of the aloe gel, he could feel warmth beginning to spread out in his chest. He had forgotten what kind of condition he was in, and reopened something in the process. Still clutching at the pain, Calen fell back down onto the bed with his face twisting with pain. “Gah… d-damn!”

“Calen!” She moved from the foot of the bed to his side, a splash of crimson blotching the bandages, Rhona felt useless in this moment, she wasn’t equipped to handle something like this. She could only heal minor wounds and fractures, this was beyond her grasp. She grabbed his free hand, looking in earnest at Raelynn.

“Do something!” She begged.

“It’s alright Rhona, it’s normal dare I say it…” The mage sprung to action, peeling back the dressing to assess the tear.

“Rhona?” Calen repeated, turning his head to try looking at her through pained and squinted eyes.

“It’s the rib that hurts him.” She placed a hand above the wound and let her spell drift out - dropping into the opening like a heavy golden chain. He would feel as it entered and began to pull everything back together from the inside like a strange and ethereal pressure. “You should… You should hold his hand.” Her voice was a quiet mutter as she worked. She could heal the injured, but reassuring their loved ones was new. “Comfort is needed too, sit.” She indicated to the chair next to his bed with a free hand.

She did as beckoned without question, and took a seat in the chair, his hand in hers, “Everything will be alright. I promise.” Rhona managed to say over the hard lump forming in her throat. “Just squeeze my hand. I’m right here, I won’t leave you.”

“I, ah, I-I’m… is everyone okay?” Calen managed to sputter out. “Did… did everyone make it out?”

“Everyone made it, we made it Calen - as did you. Try to relax. You're putting tension in your chest right here…” two of her fingers pressed against the point of the broken rib, which he would feel like a stinging kiss until the warmth of her healing hand took over and placed relief there. “You gave us a scare and a half…”

“Oh, thank the Nine…” He sighed with relief. He finally allowed himself a moment to relax while under Raelynn’s care and limply rolled his head to the other side to look at Rhona. He found himself staring deep into her hazel eyes -- and for some odd reason, the olive-speckled brown colors of her irises had reminded him of the falafels he had been eating not so long ago; or at least thought so, he had no idea how much time had passed, but he was silently cursing himself at the absurdity because he knew that this meant Rhona was going to be reminding him of ground-up chickpeas with specks of parsley from now on. He wracked his brain for a suitable distraction from his thoughts.

“So how was your day?” He said with a strained voice, but it was clear that he was trying to pass it off as nonchalantly as he could muster. “Mine was great. First day on the job’s always a little rough, but everyone’s alive so it must’ve gone off without a hitch, right?”

“Hush, now. You’re talking too much.” She offered him a half-smile, her eyes starting to burn with tears. Rhona felt relief on seeing him being able to talk to her, to know that he was awake and conscious was all she had needed, a simple reassurance. Something to soothe the worry in her heart that he was alive and well. Anything. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissing it once before she lowered it, her thumb rubbing the top of his hand in an affectionate manner.

All Raelynn could do was watch them, she noticed the way Calen looked at Rhona. She was rather beautiful, who could blame him? But there was more there too. A connection forged from something else. She looked away and returned to his chest - stopping the flow of light before the wound had closed, it wasn't bleeding and she wanted to inspect it and clean it. She wondered if either of them now noticed her presence, or if they were too engrossed in each other.

Rhona shifted her gaze to Raelynn, she hadn’t forgotten the blonde in the least, she didn’t want to distract her from her work. She nodded at her, “Is… is that all?”

“For now… I just want to check the wound and make sure it is clean,” she spoke in response - her voice duller than before as she concentrated more on Calen than on Rhona’s questions. “I think to force it would leave scarring at this point, slow and steady can be far more precise when time allows for it.”

She took a cloth from the dresser beside the bed, and began to wipe away the blood from his chest. “Could you perhaps fetch some fresh water?” she asked in a stern tone - not realising it may come across as a biting remark instead of just a matter of her being lost in the work she was doing.

Rhona blinked slowly at her words, her mouth forming a small “o” shape before she drew her hand away from Calen’s, she glanced down at him and offered him a sympathetic smile, “I won’t be long.” She left the room without further delay, she had no intention of straying far from his side. Not at a time like this. As she left, Calen’s eyes followed after her. He thought the world of her, don’t get him wrong, but his eyes trailed down her back and focused on the sway of her rear with each step Rhona took until she disappeared from view.

“I guess I should soak in all the attention while I have it, huh?” Calen remarked sardonically to Raelynn, not taking his eyes off of the doorway. “Just leave it to me to be the one to get hurt.”

“It could have been any of us. It's the risk we took…” She washed away the last of the blood and looked closely at the still open wound. She felt… strange to be in the middle of them both, stranger to be around Calen - Gregor’s words came back to her, that he was the best of them all. She turned away, pretending to grab at some more supplies while she caught her breath.

She switched her tone from warmth to one more ice cold as she continued; “just try not to jump in front of actual bullets in future, it's not exactly the smart thing to do. You're incredibly lucky to have made it.” What she had wanted to say was much different. That already, without Calen in the group, they would all suffer. Satisfied with the condition of his injury, she placed her hand back over it - the magicka pouring in once more to finish closing it completely.

“I would be lying if I told you I’ll keep that in mind.” Calen admitted. “Truth be told, sometimes my body just moves on its own.”

A moan of relief escaped his lips as the restoration magic seeped into his body and stitched his wound together. Some of the pain subsided along with it, but his chest was still throbbing. He took a deep sigh and bemoaned, “I’m really not cut out for this, am I? I don’t even know what I’m doing here. Anvil was under attack, one thing led to another, and now I’m in a hospital bed after trying to play soldier.”

“You're asking me that question?” He wouldn't see it, but with her back to him again she rolled her eyes. Of course he would say such things - be this way, a soft soul would. There was not an ounce of arrogance in him. “I don't really know what you want me to say…” a lengthy sigh followed, and she tucked her hair back behind her ears and sat down in a chair next to the bed. Her hands resting in her lap now that they were done with their work. “Do any of us know what we are doing right now? I think we're all going through the motions - doing what it takes to survive.”

Just to look at him there, she felt a wave of emotion swell inside but she didn't show it outwardly, not knowing why she had such a trepidation about it. He wouldn't judge her for opening up, would he? “I think you're probably doing just fine. Save for almost dying, of course.”

“Did we at least win?” Calen asked, finally looking back at Raelynn. “I mean, the reason we were there… did we, I don’t know… was the mission successful?”

She exhaled sharply and her nostrils flared. “Define successful. The Dwemer died, you almost died, and we barely got back here. In short, I would say we're in the shit now.” That was putting it mildly, she saw no point in embellishing it with anything else. Those were the facts, she did feel guilty for tossing the information at him like that; “sorry, I just… It is what it is, we didn't fail but we hardly came out of the endeavor victorious.” She wondered if she should place a comforting hand on him, but she didn't, knowing that Rhona would be back soon. Calen had fallen quiet after the news.

After a few somber moments of silence, the bard finally said, “I should apologize -- to everyone. Especially to Latro.” Calen cupped one hand over his eyes and groaned. “I dragged everybody down and I could barely do anything to help. Gods, I...Talos damn me, what kind of Nord am I that I can’t do anything to protect anyone?”

If he was searching for pity from her, he wasn’t going to get it. “You could have benefited from that thinking before your body just moved…” she snorted a slight laugh out and sighed once again. Was it funny though? Was it fair of her to laugh? He had been selfless after all. She was being too harsh on him, especially as she did enjoy his company. Couldn’t she just drop her guard and offer him something more than a spiteful remark? But to her surprise, she found Calen chuckling with her.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“I usually am,” she found herself saying without really taking time to register straight away which caused her to laugh again, more naturally this time. Finally she turned her head and made eye contact with him, offering him a heartfelt smile. “I'm sorry Calen. I'm sorry that I couldn't keep my promise.”

“To be honest,” he said again, “I, uh, don't actually remember what that was.”

“I promised I would keep Nblec safe.” It was said under her breath, her eyes moved away from his and she bit down on her fingernails, waiting for his response.

“Oh…”

There were yet another few moments of silence, tangibly stiff, awkward, and uncomfortable, and Calen shifted around in his bed as he tried to think of something to help defuse the tension. He kept getting distracted by thoughts of the argonian, Jaraleet, and his eagerness to jump straight to torturing Nblec. Then how he had apparently gotten so carried away with it that the dwemer died. He tried to push those accusatory thoughts aside and finally piped in with, “Well, hey, let’s just keeping blaming me for all of it. You had to help me, right? There was nothing you could do about it.”

The bard grunted as he pushed himself up and back enough to at least rest his head and part of his back against the wall. With a few sharp breaths to get into position, he found a place to relax. He looked at Raelynn with a weary smile and pointed a finger at her as he said, “You know what, let’s not stop with getting shot either. Why did the Dominion attack Anvil in the first place? ‘Oh, you know, was probably Calen again - damn boy couldn’t keep it in his pants.’ Dwemer invasion? ‘Calen must’ve offended them.’ The dragon crisis? ‘Probably Calen.’ The Warp in the West, the imperialism of Northpoint and Evermoor, or the Invasion of Wayrest? ‘Calen.’”

She placed her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh from the back of her throat. “Do stop it, I'm supposed to be making you smile, not the other way around… And I'm afraid as much as I'd like to, I can't blame any of High Rock’s history on you. It sounds like you might have travelled through there though, I dare say it's a place a damn sight better than Hammerfell right now…” Raelynn sighed longingly for home, strange, she never missed it before now. Something about her circumstances being so wildly out of her control…

“I'm not going to blame you for any of it… We should have listened to you…”

The door to the infirmary swung open, and instead of Rhona standing in the doorway with a pitcher in hand, it was the towering figure of Brynja White-Hand. Her eyes landed on Calen and Raelynn, her mouth set in a disapproving frown. Her long legs closed the distance between them in a matter of steps just as Rhona trailed in behind her.

“Raelynn.” Brynja nodded to her, seemingly none too happy, “Calen.” Her eyes swept over him, her brows knitted together, the frown creasing deeper before she shook her head.

“I spotted Brynja in the hallway, and I asked her to take a second look.” Rhona came around to his bedside where had been sitting previously, and poured him a tankard full of water, passing it to him to take.

“I’d be a lot happier if this whole damned group could keep from dying. How reckless do you have to be?” Brynja chastised, turning to face Raelynn where she gestured with a hand for her to move. “Let me take a look, I don’t have time to waste and lollygag with the lot of you.”

Through gritted teeth Raelynn stood back, practically shoved out of the way by Brynja as she barged into the room. “He's alright Brynja, he needs rest and hydration.” Her hands landed on her hips as she moved around to the other side of the bed to face her. “Your mood will upskuttle the poor boy!”

“Man.” Calen inserted.

“Mm,” she replied, not having the slightest care about what Raelynn had to say, “Rest and hydration won’t do him any good if the wound isn’t healed properly. Just because you healed him with magick, doesn’t mean an infection can’t set in.” Without any time for Calen to protest, she laid her hands upon him, poking and prodding around the wound, with perhaps a hand far too firm, trying to feel anything out of place. Her hands traveled outwards from the wound, her brows furrowed together in concentration.

She watched Brynja work on Calen, she doesn't trust me… she thought, taking a further step back. Realising she was cornered in this situation - by Brynja and by Rhona. She felt almost as if the two had conspired against her. She cast a glance to Calen, she would stay and bite back for him, but thought better of it.

“You're right,” she said with a sickly sweet smile. “I'm tired anyway, it's late - I think I'll go to bed. I'm glad Calen is at least in good hands now.” She didn't dare stick around for a response, and turned violently on her heel - her hair flipping as she did, nose in the air. Before she left the room, she hovered in the doorway briefly, “Feel better soon Calen, we all want to hear your songs again!” and with that, she left.

“Uh, yeah… toodles!” Calen called after her. After Raelynn disappeared past the doorway, his bewildered eyes slowly trailed back to Brynja as she continued to poke and prod him. He said, “You know that she’s a bona fide medic, right?”

Brynja’s eyes shot up in a glower, and drew her hands away, what the hell did he just say to her? Rhona could see the fire in her eyes, and tried to cut in, “I’m sorry, I wanted to make-”

“And you know that I served in the Civil War as a healer, right? You ever see a man screaming for Stendarr’s mercy as I sawed through his foot to save his leg? Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, bard.”

“No, I only got shot by a miniature cannon.” Calen said with a shrug and a sardonic smile on his face. “But that’s not my point. You’re both healers and that alone is enough for me to respect you, but why not, oh I don’t know, treat the other people in the profession with more respect?”

“Treat them with respect? If she didn’t walk out like she had a stick up her ass, she would’ve heard my compliment on her handiwork. She did an exemplary job, this wound is going to heal up just fine, and you’ll live.” Brynja said, her eyes shifting to Rhona, “I told you that you didn’t need to fuss over him. He was in good hands to begin with, like I said.” She made her way to the door, without so much as another word, before glancing back over her shoulder, “If you need me, don’t.” Rhona watched as the Nord departed, leaving Calen and her alone. She wrung her hands in a terse fashion. Now she felt bad, she only meant well…

“...I’m sorry…”

“Oh, you’re fine. Everything’s good!” He said nonchalantly. “It is what it is.”

“I… wanted to be certain. I should have trusted in Raelynn. But… you’ll be alright, and that’s all I care about.” Rhona said, taking Calen’s hand in her’s and giving it a gentle squeeze. Her eyes lingering upon him before she leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek. Calen sighed at her touch, as if it had released all tension in his body. He rolled his head back and closed his eyes as he muttered to himself, “Well… you can’t please everyone.”

---

As Brynja stepped out into the hallway, where she spotted Raelynn not too far, “I don’t know why you have a stick up your ass, Raelynn. You did a damned good job patching him up.”

Calen’s words of defense caught her off guard, he really was just all good and all light. She wasn't used to someone so fervently being in her corner. She certainly didn't deserve it. She placed a hand on her heart, an earnest expression of happiness shone over her eyes. Yet, she couldn't resist a harmless jab either, “You know Brynja, I wouldn't have to wedge a stick up my behind if you didn't swoop in as if thunderbolts were erupting from yours. I'm afraid it might catch,” she remarked in swift response, without making eye contact to the Nord.

“I just want a damned drink and to be left the fuck alone.” She said with a shake of her head, a small, but tired smile stretched across her face. “I meant what I said. You did one helluva job patching him up like that. Damn flawless. That’s a skill I don’t see often in healers these days.”

Calen had softened her this evening, and because of that Raelynn bit her tongue, resisted hitting back with sarcasm, and instead gave Brynja a nod of acknowledgement, “I did my job, that’s all. But thank you, anyway,” before continuing on her way, hiding a smile from the particularly parched medic.

Gilane, Hammerfell
3rd of Midyear, 4e208
Three Crowns Hotel, Infirmary

Shortly after a run-in with a Khajiit…

---

The goings on of the infirmary had quieted down since the arrival of Raelynn, her only healing needed now was that of consoling her. So far, the staff of the infirmary was busy elsewhere, leaving a skeleton crew behind to manage things. One such attendant sat on his lonesome by the entrance to the infirmary, reading a book and utterly bored with how slow the day was. At least it wasn’t filled with the groans of the dying, he consoled himself.

Of course, all good things must come to an end at some point…

Latro slumped against the wall, being accompanied by a squawking handmaiden that was very much in over her head at the Breton who’d stumbled across her worse for wear. Opposite her panicking, Latro’s sole purpose was getting to a healer. He had begun spitting up blood on his slow trudge back to the hotel and it hurt to breathe, sure signs of something deadly if left unchecked.

The handmaiden finally opened the door for him and he pushed past her, dropping to one knee and erupting into a coughing fit that left specks of blood on the floor. It was a few moments before he regained himself, “Healer, please.”

Bloody spittle was hanging from his chin as the attendant jumped to attention and helped Latro up and into a bed somewhere down the hall. It was quiet, and he couldn’t see anyone else here. How was he to explain his wounds to the others? The attendant said something in broken Cyrodiilic that must have been along the lines of ‘I will find a healer for you.’

He nodded his thanks and lay back, flinching slightly in his shifting to a laying position before finally settling down, a ragged breath rattling from him. Every breath was a shock of pain through his chest and his head still swam. He felt weak, his hands shaking before his eyes and it took him everything to keep them open. He didn’t know if he would wake again. Finally, footsteps were heard beyond the cloth privacy curtain around his bed.

In walked Raelynn, immediately pulling shut the curtain but not before casting a long glance to make sure they were alone. She had heard him staggering through the infirmary while she had been taking cloth bandages, and upon seeing him she instantly knew what had happened to him. “Latro…” she began in a more hoarse voice than usual. Her demeanor that of a timid creature - her gloved hands displaying tremors, particularly the left. “It was him wasn't it?” she drew her face closer to his, her eyes bloodshot and puffy as she began examining his face, turning his head from left to right quite intrusively. A shrill and anxious giggle escaped her round lips.

She took a cloth from the bedside table and began mopping away at the blood around his mouth as a wry smile danced over her mouth, and she gently caressed the break on his nose with her finger. “Mmmmm…” came the broken melody of the bard's song in a hum. “He did tell me he was going to do it… Looks to me like you were the mouse.” Her head tilted to the side in an unsettling manner before she clasped her fellow Breton’s nose quickly and expertly snapped it back into place - a sharp jolt of pain that would be followed by instant relief and a release of pressure. “Sorry, there’s no nicer way to do that I'm afraid.”

Latro yelped as Raelynn set his nose back in place. The fact that they’d gotten Rae and not one of the hotel’s dedicated chirurgeons was surprising, and it would have been a sight more pleasant of a surprise if he didn’t notice how shaken she was. Bags under her eyes and a gauntness to her visage unsettled Latro and hung his mouth open. She was a pitiful sight. When she mentioned something about someone getting him too, he dropped any notice of the throbbing pain in his nose, “Who?” Latro asked, before he went to put a consoling hand on Raelynn’s own but she flinched away with a fear that made him all the more sad and confused for her, “Raelynn… who did this to you?”

She yanked her hands from him with a subtle hiss of pain and then she shuffled back meekly, moving them behind her - out of his sight for now. “It was the cat, came to ask me about our dearly deceased Dwemer friend…” All of a sudden she grew paranoid, and once again peaked her head out of the curtains, “did he ask you too? Did you tell him?” The questions came quickly as she slid back to his side, her face inches from his - eyes welling with tears. “Did you see him? I didn't see him…”

She stopped for a while, before noticing the bruising on Latro’s chest from where his shirt billowed open. She had to help him, she felt strangely close to him in that moment - an unspoken bond now existed between them. She wanted to remove her gloves. What she couldn’t find the words to say or explain, she would show. Slowly she took one from her right hand, revealing the wounds from Zaveed’s embedded claws - the punctures were closed now, but looked raw to the touch still. Refusing eye contact with her patient, she placed the newly freed hand on his chest and let her magicka flow in. She concentrated her energy into assessing the injury, closing her eyes and taking slow, meditative breaths “It feels bad in there, you fought back didn't you?”

Rae’s nervousness only made Latro the same, regarding the woman with sad and concerned eyes as her own flitted and shifted about as if whoever had brutalized her would materialize from the walls themselves. When she removed her glove Latro winced as if the wounds were his own. What had they done to her? Before he could say anything to her questions, he winced and grunted as she put her healing hand on his aching and broken ribs. He found himself white-knuckle gripping his sheets as he could feel the bones themselves grinding on each other to reform.

When she was done, he lifted his arm to wipe a bead of sweat away from his brow, taking solace in the heavy breaths he was no able to take. Healing hurt almost as much as getting the wounds. Even so, he was more concerned with Raelynn, “Fought or no, you look worse than me, Raelynn.” He said, plainly stating it, “What did…” he hesitated on the question, wondering if he should ask it.

But if his suspicion was true, he would not let Shiburi walk Nirn again. Already, he could feel anger start to snake into his blood, “What did he look like, my friend?” His voice soft, trying to lessen the blow of the question, “Was he more cat or man?”

With Latro now stabilised, Raelynn took to the seat beside him, remaining at the very edge of it, bouncing her leg nervously on her heel as she mulled over his question. She held the moment for a painfully long time, as one leg bounced animatedly, she tapped her other foot against the tiled floor, the heel of her boot echoing in the prolonged silence. She exhaled lengthily from her nose before finally breaking the silence she had commanded, “he didn't want me to see him. There was a bag over my head… A dark room. He had a dagger - more than one.” After several more deep breaths, she turned to the Breton in the bed, and gently ran her fingers through the long strands of his hair that framed his face. “Your hair is almost longer than mine…” she remarked while forcing a shaky smile, her voice wavering. She knew she must continue to tell him anything of interest.

“Latro…” her tone was low now, with a terrified pain beneath it. “He was going to kill me in that room. He was going to kill me and he wouldn't think a thing of it. Man or Khajiit you ask? He was a monster.” She used her right hand to wipe at her eyes before hurriedly standing, reaching for the cloths again to continue cleaning him up.

He tried to force a smile of his own when she admired his hair, the touch that was supposed to be soothing instead making him feel like his very skin would crawl away from her fingers. It was an odd thing for Raelynn to say, but she looked to be in the grips of mania. He knew what that was like. It was only a few years ago, less years than the fingers of his hands could count when he had taken nails and a hammer to the skulls of his rapists and abuser. No amount of time or sorrys could heal those wounds on him, and he remembered being as shaken and scared and alone as her. It was because of this he had to restrain his own emotions. Whoever had done that violence to her was mortal, and mortals bled. He finally sighed, “Mine had a voice like a sabercat’s growl. A face like a man, but a tail and claws still.”

“He fought like a beast. But if he wanted to kill me, well…” he let the silence tell it for him, “He…” he paused, wondering just how much he should tell her about his meeting with Shiburi, or whatever his real name was, if that wasn’t it. “He told me about another. Far more brutal than him, and if I and…” he had to look away and force the tears back for a few moments and his first few words came at more ragged than the rest, “If Sora was to survive, if all of you were, I would do what he asked of me. You must not tell the others, Raelynn. I’m to meet him in a few days’ time.”

He looked at Raelynn with heartfelt eyes, “They won’t corner us like lambs. I’m so sorry, Raelynn. I wish I could have been there with you.”

“Funny… Mine said he would harvest us all one by one.” The way in which she spoke was almost melodic in tone, lackadaisical in fact. She could hear Zaveed's vicious words ringing in her head over and over. She looked at Latro lying there in the bed, held her gaze for a while on him. An intense thing to do to the boy, she broke off her stare with a fervent chuckle that rasped from the back of her throat; “maybe I'm still there. Maybe this isn't real… I did dream down there. I thought that… I had a dream that Gregor saved me. He undid the work of my captor and whisked me away in his arms and I was safe.” She traced a clean, damp cloth across Latro’s neck gently, removing all the traces of the violence. “But then I woke up in darkness. I don't wish you were here -- there.”

She placed the blood stained cloth back on the table. He almost looked as good as new, and now she sat down on the bed placing a hand on his leg, above the sheets. “You wouldn't wish you were there either Latro.” A grim emptiness fell over her eyes, her expression plain - hollow features enhanced in the lighting of the room. She cleared her throat abruptly, a faint warmth returning to her face once more “I won’t tell if you won't. I don't… I don't like my stories being shared around, and I don't want our friends to know what happened to me.”

“I won’t tell another soul. I promise that.” He nodded. “I don’t think any of us should wander alone for the days ahead.”

“How did you get free?” He asked, looking at her hand on his leg, looking at the rawness of it.

“He left me for a while, he made sure I couldn't leave, I passed out for a moment and then when I woke I fought my way out of there. Blood, sweat, tears. He left me no choice.” The memory of finding her strength to escape brought some steadiness to her, as if reliving it by telling Latro was a kind of therapy. She began to feel relief hit her.

Raelynn removed her hand from his leg and finally took off her other glove. The lesions on her skin were purple, her knuckles almost black - and the entry point where the nail had been was a clear puncture through the centre of her palm. Closed now, but frightful to look at. “It's quite something…” she furrowed her brow as she looked at her trembling hand outstretched like that. She almost smiled, finding solace in Latro's company. She brought both hands to her lap. “Enough about it. We must protect the others, how do you know it's not a trap - what if something happens to you? What then?”

“Then why not take me right then? He almost fucking killed me, Raelynn.” He said with a bit more anger and panic than he ought to, “He’d have had no problem subduing me and bringing me wherever he wanted and doing whatever he wanted to me. He spared me for a reason, he said he was pressgang’d into Dwemer service too, and even warned me about his brother.” He said, shaking his head, “He even started out the entire thing saying he wanted to give me a choice between meeting him or doing what his overlords commanded of him.”

“And anybody who could fight like he did ought to be listened to when they spare you your life, as much as it pains me to say. I either go and meet him, see what he has to say, or I spring his trap and they kill me or capture me. If I don’t go either way, we will all be dead.” Latro shrugged, his eyes becoming distant as he remembered the fight, if he could call it that. Imagining Shiburi visiting the same brutality on Raelynn, or Meg, or even Calen. “Either way, I’m here now.” He said, a forced smile twitching at the corners of his mouth before it became a bit more sincere, “Maybe I was beat to shit, but I’m alive yet. Thanks to you.” He said, his usual soft smile upon his lips once more.

His eyes went to her hands, gnarled and bruised, “What are you going to tell Gregor?”

“We could just gather everyone and run. What really keeps us here?” What had just seconds ago rinsed away, was apparent once more on her face - anguish. “They're not normal. They will say anything, do anything to us. For nothing more than their own amusement,” she felt an echo of Zaveed’s hand brushing her cheek, causing her to shudder. “The only way we get out of this is to kill them before they kill us, he told me that this is nothing but a game, Latro.”

An innocent clatter of a tray and equipment in the distance made Raelynn jump up from sitting, her head turned in the direction of the sound until she laughed dryly at it.

At the mention of Gregor, she tilted her head to the side again and began to pull the gloves back onto her hands. “I will tell him nothing, I just don't want him to look at me like that… Like I was the girl who got kidnapped.” a sigh followed.

Latro only nodded. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to speak of it. He had his fair share of that sentiment, whether it worked was lost on him, and he’d gotten so accustomed to just being someone else for long enough that it had seeped into the core of his being like the roots of a tree. “Only we will know, then.” He said quiet and somber, almost a whisper. “We can gather the others, try to plant the seed in their heads about leaving this place. As much as I hate the Dwemer, I hate what’s happened to you more, Raelynn. My friend.”

Friend? A strange thing to say, she thought. They had barely spent time together on the journey so far. All of these people in their group just so willing to toss the word around. That said, after today - after this? She would say the same. Her spiteful nature betrayed her emotions. “You’re still going to seek him out though, aren’t you?” she asked, sounding half-interested and as if her attention was pulled in two different directions. “I tried to get them off our scent, but they know it was us. All they need is one of us to say something, you know?”

“I do. I am.” He nodded to the questions, “My curiosity at his proposal is setting me on edge. I need to know if this is his game or if he is being true. He didn’t kill me, he didn’t take me in, he didn’t ask a single question about our antics in this city.”

He shook his head, “It’s all just… curious. I’m not ignorant of the danger, no, but there has to be something more to him. I need to find out what this is.” He said, chewing his lip before he turned to Raelynn, “I’ll at least tell you when I go to meet him. Perhaps I’ll convince one of us to come along. I won’t meet him alone after knowing what they’re willing to do.”

“You must be careful Latro. Especially of mine - of the second one. He cares for nothing.” She moved to his bedside once more, placing a hand on the crown of his head. “You must tell me when you go - please. So I know. Nothing I can say to you will convince you to take any other action, I know that.” Gently she brushed her fingers through his hair again with a hesitant smile. “You really do have nice hair, and eyes too. I never noticed before.”

Latro had to hide his face away lest the red in his cheeks show. “Thank you.” He managed, “I’m sure bards write songs of yours.”

He sat with his hands over each other on his lap, easy smile on his lips. It wasn’t often he was given compliments, even the crude and disgusting ones he used to get when he was in the brothel, earning instead of spending. Despite the excitement of the past weeks, he let himself sink back into the bed. Rae’s touch was motherly, tender. So unlike the rough, callused and wandering hands he’d had to endure being a whore in Wayrest. Under Raelynn’s touch now, though, he couldn’t help but to resign himself to the very much needed calm it brought. “I wouldn’t blame you for not noticing me,” he said, almost dreamily, “We haven’t talked until now, and it’s regrettable that we didn’t meet in better days. You could’ve seen me play in the inns, I miss doing that.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to see you properly for looking down my nose at you if we’d met in better days, as you call them.” Raelynn hadn’t ever admitted to being so judgemental and snobbish out loud before. It would almost make her laugh if it didn’t sting so much to confront herself with it.

“I didn’t know you played music,” her tone surprised, and her eyes lit back up at the thought of Latro singing. “I love music - maybe when this blows over I’ll join you for a song.” Once again, she hummed under her breath, swaying from side to side invitingly before she changed again, as if a switch was flicked internally; “if we all make it out alive, that is.” she muttered it in a saturnine manner and she fell still in her seat again.

Latro’s calm had seeped away from him as he saw Raelynn once again slip into her gray mood. It was so erratic, her changes in emotion. It hit him too close for his liking, almost wanting to throw the blankets from himself and scurry away. But he vowed he would never do that, not after what he had been put through in Wayrest for too many days to count, nor did he ever want to. He vowed to stand and bear witness. He forced himself to sit facing her, bare feet finding the tile.

“We will.” He uttered to his friend, looking her in the face, though her eyes did not meet his. He chanced inching closer to her hand with his own, finally making a hesitant touch on her fingers with his. Progress, he thought, just maybe. “We will.” His smile on his lips.

“I hope so,” she spoke softly with a slight smile as his gentle touch met her fingers and brought her attention back onto him. She allowed her other hand to fall on top of his, giving him a light squeeze in acknowledgment, “I'm starting to like everyone in some way now. Getting soft I think...” Raelynn got herself out of the chair and stretched with a long yawn. She was exhausted still and knew that rest would do both her body and mind some good “It seems that the day is escaping us, maybe you should rest here for the last of it.” Finally she looked him in his eyes again, finding comfort in their rich copper hues - “Thank you, Latro.“

1st of Midyear, 4e208
Gilane, Hammerfell
Conference Hall, Three Crowns Hotel

A short while after the debriefings...

The meeting room was left empty save for two men, both of which had not spoken to each other the entire duration of their presence being shared. The only sound among them were the flowing silk curtains covering the windows that would dance with each soft breeze. Occasionally, a seagull’s call would travel from the nearby harbor to Latro, but not a word was among the ambience. One of two, the more lithe of them, sat with the portrait of the Dwemer Magistrate in his hands, committing every wrinkle and hair to memory. It was not the first time he had been given a task like this. At least he wasn’t the one responsible for his death though. Latro sighed, taking a second to look about the chamber and give his eyes a rest from staring at something for so long. With his attention taken away from the portrait, his mind drifted elsewhere. He hadn’t been among the Redguard people in their homeland since… since Pale-Feather died some time ago and Latro walked away in his footsteps. He shook those memories away and took a nervous sip of his lemon water.

He chanced a glance at the other man in the room. He was an imposing presence, that much was already known. He held a kindness to him, but his eyes told of things anything but. He looked back at the portrait and placed it on the table, every crinkle of the parchment sounding like cracks of thunder in the near-pregnant silence of the hall. Reaching over, he grabbed up his cup of lemon water and drank the last of it, placing it as softly as he could back on the tabletop- that movement too seemed almost unbearably loud. Latro pushed his chair back onto its hind legs and propped his bare feet on the table. So far, Hammerfell’s dry and bright weather had brought him some amount of solace through the ill feelings being back in Hammerfell brought him; he could finally go about shirtless and shoeless once again. The long journey here and lack of time alone had also seen to it that he’d sprouted a jaw of good-length stubble, but only time and necessity would tell if he would keep it. He figured the ability to look like anyone of any gender was more important than trying at new fashion.

No matter how much he tried to relax, he felt as if he was being quietly judged, although his and the other man’s eyes never met in the stolen glances Latro had of him. A silly thought Latro threw over his shoulder and sent a peach rolling towards him with a forefinger, catching it as it dropped off the edge of the table. He grew tired of the silence and finally cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper chance to talk before… well, this all happened.” He frowned, “Latro, if it’s slipped your memory. Gregor?”

The Imperial’s reverie was broken by the sound of Latro’s voice and he looked up to meet the Breton’s expressive eyes, the color of copper, accentuated by the golden afternoon sunlight that illuminated the room. Latro. A dainty name for a dainty man, Gregor thought. The young man’s appearance was so strikingly androgynous that Gregor hadn’t been sure of his gender until he had seen him shirtless. He suspected, however, that that belied a more dangerous man than first impressions would have him believe. There was a grace and purpose to Latro’s movements that reminded Gregor of people like Jaraleet -- trained killers that had such control over their body that no energy was wasted. Gregor had seen him fight and been impressed by the hand-to-hand style the Breton employed.

“Yes, I’m Gregor. Pleased to properly make your acquiantance, Latro.” He smiled the warmest smile he could muster. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. I’ve been lost in thought,” Gregor added and then gestured towards the parchment that held the artist’s impression of the Dwemer’s appearance. “What did you make of him?”

Latro pursed his lips and thought a bit on it. Finally, he had his answer after a few moments, “He’s like any master of people. Extremely polarizing,” Latro nodded, “some loves him, others wanted him dead. Truth be told, I don’t entirely trust our Merchant Guild hosts. Everything is profit and loss, but at the hands of the Dwemer, I’ve known only the latter. This Mer’s no different, he’s a war-dog, like the rest of them. Calm, polite- lovable, even.” He snapped his fingers, “As soon as the Governor wills it, though.”

He left the rest unsaid, knowing that Gregor could catch his meaning. He looked about the room, fully knowing that each of his and his companions’ movements could be watched from anywhere. They were strangers in this land, and if Hammerfell’s warriors could collude with the Dwemer, who was to say he and his companions couldn’t in the distrusting eyes of the Poncy Man and his benefactors? “One thing’s to be said, though. He’s dead now, and not at the hands of the Poncy Man’s trusted people, but strangers.” Latro shook his head.

“I’ve no love for the Dwemer after the things I’ve seen them do. Hammerfell’s merchants aren’t in my favor either, though. What do you make of the Poncy Man?”

Gregor was right. There was a sharp side to Latro. His words were wise and showed that he was perceptive and appreciated the political game that was being played over their heads. “You're right about the Dwemer. I met the Governor earlier with Daro'Vasora and Raelynn and she was very… impressive. Gave a long speech about her best intentions but she made it perfectly clear that they will do whatever is necessary to ensure their 'survival’. Which is to say, their sovereignty.” That was an emotion that Gregor understood all too well. He was willing to kill and condemn for the sake of his own life and that of his family. It wasn't strange to think that Rourken would do the same for her people. But that didn't mean the Redguards had to sit back and let it happen. Gregor fully expected that his victims fought back. Rourken needed to maintain that mindset if she wanted to survive.

“As for this Poncy Man, I consider him a useful ally. He and I share the same goals. We can develop a working relationship, I feel,” Gregor said in response to Latro’s question. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling of the room, eyes searching for something that wasn't there. “But he shouldn't try to be too clever with us.”

Latro shook his head at the last bit, the easy smile on his lips, “No.”

With that, he let his chair go back onto all fours, standing and stretching his hands toward the grand painted ceiling. All of this was so opulent for a place to harbor fugitives of the Dwemer. “But one thing at a time, like you said. The Poncy Man hasn’t wronged me yet, it’s the Dwemer who have.” He grasped up his lute, the very same one Daro’Vasora had given him what seemed like another life ago, and strummed out a few soft notes as he sat back down on the table itself, ”What does a simple traveling busker care for the machinations of tyrants and insurgencies?”

He chuckled good-naturedly. “So, if I may ask, where do you and your big sword hail from?”

“Cyrodiil. Bravil, to be precise. Well, to be even more precise, the sword actually hails from Bruma, but I am from Bravil,” Gregor said and absent-mindedly lifted his right hand over his shoulder to finger the claymore’s pommel. “My family owns a business there. I haven’t been home in more than ten years, though.” He smiled again but there was a weariness to him now, and for a moment he looked like he wanted nothing more than to simply stay seated and never get up from that chair again. But the moment passed as he regained his composure and now it was his turn for his eyes to twinkle inquisitively. “What about you, Latro?”

Latro had to stop strumming when Gregor’s face drooped so. The feeling of empathy gripped his full attention and for a moment, it was as if he was an empath to Gregor. He hadn’t seen his own family for about that same stretch of hard, grating years. It didn’t help that the ostracizing was done by both parties. He’d alienated himself from them for too long and come back to them a stranger. He noticed he was doing a bit of drooping himself and set himself back to playing, “Camlorn in High Rock. We were well off and I set out to see what the world had to show me. I wasn’t content to sit on my arse and chew on sweetmeats my entire life. I never imagined this would be one of those things.” Latro frowned a bit before finding his easy smile once more, “First time in Hammerfell?”

Gregor laughed. Latro's story was the same as the fake tale he spun to curious travelers to explain his own departure from a life of comfort and security. Was there more to the nimble Breton than he was letting on? Gregor couldn't blame him, if so, for keeping his cards close to his chest. It was often the wisest thing to do in this world. He thought of Raelynn; her eyes, her lips, her hands on him -- but more importantly, he thought of how she'd clawed the truth out of him. Having been lost in thought again for a second, Gregor focused his gaze on Latro and saw a kinder, warmer look in his eyes than he expected to see there. Was he… sympathetic? Perhaps the two of them were more alike than Gregor knew.

“Yes, first time in Hammerfell,” he said at length and ran his hand through his beard. “Never thought I'd find myself here. I've always lived and worked within the borders of the Empire until now. This world we're in now…” he sighed. “What's your life on the road been like?” Gregor asked, changing the subject.

“Not always easy.” Latro shook his head, effortlessly juggling between the conversation and his playing of Wayward in Wayrest, a favorite ever since Sora gifted him the lute, “No. But I’ve made my way and kept it through everything. That’s what matters isn’t it? I’ve been blown by the winds here and there and now I’ve found a little piece of home in these people we travel with.”

“I’ve no shame in saying that I’ve missed that feeling ever since my mentor and I parted ways. There’s a peace in it, isn’t there?” He shrugged.

The Breton’s words rang true within Gregor and he nodded slowly in agreement, looking away and out the window at nothing in particular. “Yes, there is,” he said and combed through his beard again with his fingers. Their escape from the Dwemeri counter-ambush had been harrowing and Gregor feared for his family, whom he had never felt further away from than now, but the daunting task that he had worked to fulfil for the past decade felt a little easier now that he had Raelynn. Nblec was just the beginning. He wasn’t alone anymore. While he mused on that, Gregor found that he enjoyed Latro’s music and his company and decided that, even if the young man wasn’t a warrior, he was something of a kindred spirit after all.

“Who among us do you feel closest to?” Gregor suddenly asked and his gaze returned to Latro at last. His eyes, so often hard as iron, had softened and there was something vulnerable about him now that they were broaching more personal matters.

Latro set his lute down on the table, leaning back and propping himself up on a hand, taking a bite out of the pear he’d set next to himself earlier. He chewed thoughtfully for a second, how they’d jumped right to this subject. There was really only one sure answer for him and his mind drifted back to her and the memory of Anvil. Her softness, her purring voice, those eyes that saw everything good in him. If there was one thing he’d learned in his albeit short amount of years so far, it was to never let go of a good thing once you have it. You might never find anything like it again once it’s lost.

“Sora.” He answered surely, looking off at the cityscape beyond the curtains with wistful eyes. “Daro’Vasora. If it weren’t for her, you and I would never have been able to have this conversation. I owe her my life.”

He nodded, before adding, “And, well, also the fact that I’ve also saved hers once means I wouldn’t take kindly to those who have a notion of taking it away from her.” He chuckled, “What of you, friend?”

The Khajiit? That was a surprise. Gregor had only ever seen her be standoffish and even vitriolic before, so the fact that she had grown close with someone as soft-spoken and gentle as Latro was… unlikely. War really did bring the strangest people together.

“Well, Jaraleet and I had to cut our way out of the Dwemer ambush back in Cyrodiil together. He’s just as dedicated to the cause as I am. And Calen and I already met once before in Skyrim, before all of this happened, and in Anvil he composed a song in my honor,” Gregor said and smiled sheepishly at the thought. Then he realized he was doing it again -- lying, hiding, only telling half-truths. Why did he always feel like that was necessary? Daro’Vasora had noticed that he and Raelynn had… a thing, so the secret, insofar as it was one, was bound to come out sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and added: “But the truth is that Raelynn and I have grown very fond of each other. You know, the Breton healer?”

“I know her.” Latro nodded. “She’s a good sort. A good heart. I can tell.”

Latro continued playing without words for a few moments, letting the music be the only thing that filled the ambience of the room. It broke through the tension that was first there, along with the conversation, of course. But one could rarely feel awkward in the presence of a song, he found. Finally, he finished through the notes of the song, letting the last remnants of sound from his lute slowly fade and give over to the soft flapping of the silk curtains that had come before it. How many times had he played that song, he wondered. In taverns from Falkreath to Bravil this song had run through his fingers, memories upon memories connected to it but now, only one. A bedroom in the upstairs of a trinket shop in the Imperial city, a Khajiit watching him play it with eyes that saw all the good in him. He smiled at that and put his lute to rest beside him.

He took a breath and let it out, “She must see good in you, Gregor.” Latro said, at last, “Keep that close. Sometimes, it takes others seeing it before we do.”

Gregor did not immediately reply. A small smile played around his lips, gradually growing until he was practically grinning, and he clasped his hands together over his stomach -- for all the world to see, he looked like a man amused at a joke. “I’m not sure what she sees,” he said tactfully, his mind wandering back to his and Raelynn’s sexual encounters: violent, passionate, destructive. And how she had encouraged him when he sacrificed the soul of Nblec Mrazac. “Either way, it appears that she and I are compatible. It is definitely good to not feel so… lonely.” That part was sincere, at least. “To be appreciated,” he added. Gregor’s gaze focused on Latro again and he frowned almost imperceptibly.

“What makes you say that she has a good heart?”

“She’s a healer.” Latro said simply, as if that was enough. He continued, with eyes that might betray a little piece of the man he once was. Or child, more like, “It is incredibly easy to do violence upon another living thing. A selfish thing to do, to take from someone everything they are, and everything they will be for any reason that would make Mara frown in her heavens.” He chewed on his bite of pear slowly, before making his point, “To heal someone from the violence done takes a better person.”

“Or an opportunist,” Gregor countered and smiled languidly. “Someone who knows that they have no talent for combat and instead realize that they stand to profit greatly from healing the wounds of those that do. And I disagree with your notion that all manner of violence is inherently selfish. Boys who march to war beneath the banners of their countries, risking their lives to keep their homeland safe, certainly don’t cut down their enemies for any selfish reason that I can see. Except staying alive, perhaps.” The Imperial cleared his throat and recited, more than sang (for he had no talent for it), a song that his father had taught him.

”O Land of Cyrodiil how glorious the sight,
When millions of freemen rise up in their might,
To battle for Empire and Liberty's cause
And aid in the defending thy time-honor'd laws;
The Empire it must and shall be preserved
So we say, let traitors decide what they will,
The flag of Cyrodiil shall float o'er us still
Shall float o'er us still, shall float o'er us still,
The flag of Cyrodiil shall float o'er us still.”

Once he was finished, he paused for a few seconds out of respect for the tradition of his forefathers before speaking again. “We fight against the Dwemer to preserve our way of life, our safety and our liberty. The Dwemer fight to take lands that aren’t theirs. I know which side I think to be selfish and which side I don’t.” He sighed and laced his fingers together. “Nblec’s death was a grave mistake, though. Don’t get me wrong.”

“For any reason that would make Mara frown in her heavens,” Latro re-stated, “Too many think the meaning of being good is having no claws. A wolf loose amongst the sheep should be killed. Murderers and rapists are hanged or beheaded, it is the law and what morality tells us to do. A thin line between murder and justice.”

Latro sighed, “It was a mistake. I had my part in endorsing it all, I won’t discount that. Not only may the Poncy Man distrust us that much more, but the Dwemer don’t forgive easily. We are the wolves to their sheep now.” He shook his head, “The very symbol of Dwemer benevolence kidnapped and killed. The propaganda makes itself.”

“That is true,” Gregor replied thoughtfully and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t understand why Nblec died, though. I was there the whole time. I saw what Jaraleet did. It wasn’t that severe. I blamed the torture when asked about it because I can’t think of any other reason, but… honestly, it looked like his heart betrayed him. His eyes rolled back into his head and he just went limp in that chair. I tried to save him but I’m not an expert. Raelynn could have done it, but… well…” Gregor left the sentence unfinished and looked away uncomfortably as the sight of Calen in a pool of his own blood flashed through his mind’s eye. He glanced back at Latro quickly, however. He wanted to see how the Breton reacted to his lies.

He only nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Gregor didn’t look the type to do anything to foil the group’s mission, but neither did Jaraleet. No matter the startling revelation that the Argonian had much more to him that Latro first thought, ironic coming from his own thoughts, being what he was. Even so, the Dwemer didn’t look too old or frail to crack under the pressure of anything less than a knife in his neck.

He shook his head, “Whatever it was, it wasn’t what they wanted to happen. I’m sure Jaraleet will say the same as you. I wouldn’t think any of us to be liars.” He said, the easy smile back on his lips as he continued, “Hiding something, maybe. But aren’t we all?”

Gregor breathed out slowly and mirrored Latro’s pleasant expression. It looked like the Breton had bought it. That was a relief. “Probably,” Gregor replied. “I’ve done things that I’m not proud of. Based on what I’ve seen you do, there’s also more to you than meets the eye. And we both know that Jaraleet isn’t just who he says he is. I agree with you, though. We all have the same goal. We all regret what happened. Gods, I know I do,” he continued and laughed. “If only I had studied Restoration more, I could have saved him, and others before him. But it’s no use thinking like that. What’s done is done. We can only focus on the way forward.”

Forward. Ever forward. Snow fell around him and Gregor looked down on the pentagram he had drawn on the forest floor, each star-tip crowned with a black soul gem -- the souls of the innocent hunters he had killed in a mistaken rage, years ago. You can only go forward.

He blinked and shook himself from his memories. “Daro’Vasora will be furious, I assume.”

“A pleasant thought.” Latro chuckled, putting his feet on the table, legs crossed. Sora, he wondered just how she faired. She looked to already be in a foul mood when he saw her in glancing as they walked the halls to the debriefings for their respective missions. “I’m sure she’ll come to each one of us with questions. It’ll be as mysterious and infuriating to her as it is to us.”

An interrogation from the Khajiit… that wasn’t something Gregor was looking forward to. He had accidentally given her reasons to suspect him back when they first talked in Anvil. “Even more so, I should think. She wasn’t there.” He gave Latro a sympathetic smile and got to his feet. “I think it’s time I get some rest. You should, as well. We’re going to need our strength for the challenges head,” the Imperial said and gave the Breton a slight bow.

---

Three Crowns Hotel, 2nd Midyear, Morning

The sun had already risen by the time Meg woke up and freshened up for the day. Normally she would have been much more time efficient and woken up before the sun to greet the morning, but with the events of the last day of Second Seed and, she found herself mentally drained, despite her conversations on the first. So much seemed to have happened in so little time, and aside from the addition of first the orsimer and now a redguard to their group, the rest took a whole lot more to digest.

Food and drink would have to wait for the time being. With sword at her belt, she was headed first to the training area within the hotel, ready to blow off some pented steam and frustration in a way where she didn’t have to hold herself back. Truth be told, Meg hadn't found herself hungry since her return from their mission at the garrison; her stomach had been in knots since releasing those prisoners for the sake of her group's escape. Who knew why they had been behind bars? Who knew what shady business they would be getting up to now that they were free? While the guilt had lessen after her chat with the khajiit, the lingering feelings remained. What if the events were traced back to her group and they got in trouble for it, or worse? Coupled with the knowledge that her companions were responsible for the torture and death of the dwemer administrator meant to be brought back alive, she found her appetite numbed. At some points she almost felt like she was back at sea, what with the nausea.

She didn't think she would find anyone else in the training gym when she entered, and for the first few seconds she hadn't noticed the argonian, but when she did, her mind couldn't help but yell at her.

Your friend tortured a person.

Was this yet another proof of her naivety and ignorance on the consequences of war? She hated it, whatever it was. Having dark thoughts about people she liked wasn't a usual thing for the Nord, and she was having a hard time processing these feelings.

Forcing said thoughts to the back of her mind, she managed a ghost of a smile. "Mornin', Jaraleet."

“Morning Meg.” The Argonian replied. He had picked on the sound of the footsteps of the Nord woman shortly before she had entered the gym. After his little chat with Daro’Vasora, Jaraleet had returned to a semblance of what he had established as his normal behavior before the incident involving Nblec’s capture.

However, in spite of the image that the Argonian projected, he was far from being back to normal. Even though his chat with their impromptu leader had managed to allow him to push his concerns regarding Nblec’s death to the back of his mind, a new concern had risen to take its place. It hadn’t taken him too long to notice that the mood in the Three Crowns had changed in the aftermath of the failed capture mission, a change in mood that had made him become increasingly wary within the building and which, as a result, had left him on a state of alert more often than not.

Something which made it easy to notice that Meg’s smile wasn’t all that genuine. He let out a quiet sigh and stopped his exercises in full before turning to look at Meg. “If my presence here makes you uncomfortable, I can leave if you’d prefer.” He said, surprising himself when he noticed a hint of hurt in his voice as he spoke to Meg.

"No, I don' want you to leave." Meg was equally surprise with the hint of frustration in her voice, mostly at herself because she couldn't hold up a neutral expression. "Don' be an idiot." Deciding it was better to simply let exactly what she was feeling show, the Nord let out a huff as she considered the argonian, green eyes narrowed. "T'be honest, pro'ly the person I want to see right now."

Jaraleet raised an eyebrow when Meg said that she didn’t want him to leave, equal parts confused, and much to his bewilderment and slight frustration, but pleased that was the case albeit the frustration in her voice didn’t go unnoticed by the Argonian. “Idiot isn’t exactly the word I’d use, if one is causing someone else discomfort it seems only polite to excuse oneself no?” He said, letting out a mirthless chuckle. “Is that so? Excuse me for my incredulity, but I doubt many in the group want to see me right now.” He said, laughing slightly albeit, much like before, there was no mirth in the sound.

"Idiot 'cause you think I'd wan' you t'just leave like that." Meg let out another huff, crossing her arms over her chest and giving him a small glare. The fierceness in her eyes only lasted a moment before her expression softened and her arms fell slack to her sides. "We're friends, Jaraleet. If somethin's botherin' me 'bout you, hidin' ain' the answer. Things havta be said, 'else they just fester like old wounds." Or you end up not gettin’ the chance t’say anythin’ at all.

Having said that, she looked away from Jaraleet to where she could see blunt training swords resting in weapon stands. "Hm… how 'bout a spar then?" She wanted to talk to him, yes, but just blurting out what she was thinking was hard. Words whilst exchanging blows sounded much easier… and satisfying.

He nodded slightly when Meg proposed the idea of a spar. “Sounds like a good idea to me, though you will have to excuse me if I am a little rusty.” He said as he picked one of the training swords. “I’m not too used to fighting with only a sword, so my skills have probably deteriorated quite a lot.”

“Well, not like we're tryin’ t’kill each other,” Meg replied as she walked over to the stand, eyeing the swords until her eyes fell on one that seemed similar in weight and style to the current one at her belt. Once she pulled it out and replaced the empty spot with her own sword, the Nord turned toward Jaraleet, albeit stepping a few steps back to put distance between the two. Raising the training sword, she pointed it at him. “Ready or not, I'm comin’.”

Not a second passed that she dashed forward, bringing her sword up in an attack, aiming for the argonian’s right arm. “Heard you an’ Sora talkin’ yesterday.”

“Ah.” Was all that Jaraleet said in response to Meg’s admission of having heard the chat that had taken place in the room the day prior. He easily sidestepped the attack against his right arm, the silence stretching by as the assassin both pondered what to say next and where to strike for his first movement.

“I suppose that's what you want to talk about, no?” He said finally, letting out a sigh. For some reason the thought about speaking about what he and Sora had discussed with Meg left him with a strange sense of anxiety, something that his body reflected in the slight twitches of his tail that started as soon as the words left his mouth.

Fortunately, their sparring bout helped him to keep his feelings in check as he focused on his first move which consisted of a simple feint where he made it look like he was about to do an upward slash with his sword before suddenly changing the motion into that of a stab aimed at Meg’s abdomen.

"Dunno if it's a want," Meg replied, her eyes remaining on the argonian's blade. This wasn't like training with her father where they were both pretty much the same height. Jaraleet was nearly a foot taller than her and naturally heavier than her as well. Rusty or not, if she got hit in full force even by dull blade, it would hurt, and pain wasn't really something she particularly enjoyed.

She wasn't surprised when the sword changed its course; instead of choosing the easier route of dodging the blade, she stopped the stab in its track with her sword, pressing up and pushing against the blade. "More like a need." She raised her eyes to look straight in his amber ones, determined. "What happened there? Did you- did y’really do it then? Torture the dwemer man? Kill him?" The words spilled from her like a broken string of beads. For a moment her blade wavered- she now dodged to the side and away from the Jaraleet’s sword. "Is tha’ normal? For you?"

She liked him and thought him a friend and ally, yet she really didn't know much about the argonian, and this realization stung her deeply.

“Yes.” Was the answer that rang in Jaraleet’s mind when Meg asked him if torturing someone was a normal occurrence for him. Luckily he still had enough of a hold over his emotions to not blurt out such a thing about himself….and yet his mind was devoid of any excuses to make. Of any lies to tell. “By Sithis, what is wrong with me.” The Haj-Eix cursed inwardly, unable to hold Meg’s gaze. He couldn’t explain it...but seeing Meg hurt upset him. “No, it’s not something normal for me.” He finally lied, feeling his mouth dry and his stomach twisting in a knot with guilt at the lie. “But….I’ve done it before, yes, back when I was part of An-Xilee’s armies.” He continued on, evading Meg’s attacks before responding with one of his own. “Back when we were facing raids from the Dunmer we….had to make difficult decisions needed to ensure that we could protect the citizens that depended on us.” He continued on, gulping audibly.

“I’m….I’m not a good man, Meg. I’m sorry if what I did hurt you, but you have to understand...the decision to interrogate Nblec was one agreed by everyone present there, well except for Calen that is, and killing him was never something that we considered. I didn’t kill Nblec, but...yes I did interrogate him.” He said, surprised to find an edge of desperation in his voice as he spoke. “Keep a hold of your emotions….remember, she and the others are a means to an end. You are a Haj-Eix, a weapon wielded by the An-Xileel in defence of Argonia, don’t let yourself be weakened by doubt.” He mentally told himself in an effort to ease his guilt and worries but, for the first time in his life, he found that reminding himself of his purpose, his duty, didn’t ease his mind.

It was a very odd feeling for Meg; while she was dismayed and obviously saddened and confused, seeing the way Jaraleet was reacting to her questions had her feeling guilty as well. It was a war thing, it was a soldier thing. It was just like with Nanine on the day of their arrival to Hammerfell. Most of her group were experienced with such things while she was merely out of her depth it seemed. She'd always thought herself savvy of the world, but it seemed child's folly now.

Her hand gripped tightly around the training sword, fighting to keep her emotions from showing through her blade rather than her words. Taking a deep breath, she held it in for a few seconds before slowly breathing out. "I don' think you're bad person, Jaraleet... I'm just... dunno..." Frustration showed on her face as she couldn't find the right words to express herself. "It- It jus' pisses me off how little I know 'bout you!... 'Bout any of you really. Maybe if I'd known sommat I wouldn' be so shocked, or... or... I dunno!" She looked up with a glare; catching a glimpse of his expression took some of the fierceness away from her own as she let out a soft sigh.

"I'm not like y'all I guess," she finally muttered. "Just a stupid lass with nothin' t'know 'bout the world."

“You are not stupid Meg.” Jaraleet replied softly, shaking his head slightly. “These things….these situations aren’t something that get any easier to deal with more worldly knowledge. It’s just...something that you get used to with time.” He said, smiling sadly at Meg.

Another sigh, this one rather loud, escaped Meg's lips. "See- that, what you're doin’-" She pointed at him with the sword. "You're bein' nice... that's the you I know... I'm just havin' a hard time wrappin' it 'round m'head that you... well y'know already what I mean." She chewed on the inside of her lip for a second, calming herself down before continuing. "But... it ain' like you like it... right? Y'just did it because it was necessary...?" It was a question, but it almost sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Jaraleet approached Meg slowly and placed one hand on her shoulder. “No, I don’t. It’s something I only do as a necessity, not because I enjoy it.” He said quietly, his voice solemn. “What do you say if we take a small break from our little sparring session. I don’t think either of us is in any mood, or in the right mindset, to continue it.”

That was a small relief at least. Maybe she was a fool in believing him, but she did nonetheless. Whether she was as stupid as she thought of herself or not, there were experiences she hadn't gone through; she had been shaped one way and it made sense others having been shaped in their own ways. She was no soldier, she had never had to deal with what he had... maybe it had been wrong for her to be so confrontational.

She didn't say anything, but her hand moved, and her sword was now pressing against Jaraleet's chest. "Looks like I won anyway," she replied, a glint of cheer back in her eyes. She took a step back and nodded in agreement. "Aye, you're right." Her hand slackened and the sword was no longer touching him. "I... I'm sorry. I know I prob made y'feel uncomfortable. Wasn’ really fair for you."

Jaraleet blinked when he felt Meg’s sword pressing again his chest, laughing when she said that it looked like she had won anyway. “That you did, shows me what i get for lowering my guard huh?” He joked, chuckling slightly, before smiling when he noticed that some of her usual cheer had returned to Meg’s eyes. “It’s ok Meg, you were upset and confused. It’s only natural for you to want answers, and I was the one who had the answers you wanted.” He replied, smiling reassuringly at the Nord woman.

"Well... felt stupid tryin' t'get them from anyone else." Meg returned the smile. "I should've asked yesterday but... well maybe t'was best I didn'." Her talk with Daro'Vasora had been a necessity, helping clear her mind about what she had to do. Going straight for the source had been the best course of action, and though she still felt very uneasy about this man doing the things he did, she could understand why. Or begin to anyway.

"You said y'didn' kill Nblec." She spoke up as the thought tickled her mind, a slight frown on her face. "I believe you... the whole mission was bringin' him back. How'd he die then though? D'you have any idea?"

He blinked in surprise when Meg said that she believed he hadn’t murdered Nblec before smiling as the thought settled in. “Thank you Meg, it means a lot that you believe in what I’ve said.” He said, frowning slightly when she had asked him how he had died. “I don’t, but I know for sure that the interrogation techniques I used weren’t the cause.” He said softly, shaking his head. “But I will find out the answer to that mystery sooner or latter.”

"Hmm." His reply confirmed her belief, especially seeing he seemed to have genuinely given quite a bit of thought to the situation. And why wouldn't he? Killing was something everyone did, but it was different being thought the murderer of someone whose life you hadn't ended. "Not gonna lie... that's kinda concernin'." She knew they were all in potential danger, but such an accusation made the argonian a prime target. "Hey. You better keep safe, a'ight?"

“I will, don’t worry Meg.” The Argonian replied with a smile. “But thank you for your concern. You too be careful, alright? I suspect that Nblec’s death might have far reaching consequences for our group and that we all might be in danger.” He said, frowning slightly.

Can' ask me not t'worry. But that was merely a thought she kept in her mind. "Aye, 'course I will... looks like Gilane's got a lot t'offer an' not all is the nice kinda offerin'." Before she could add anything else though, her stomach let out a loud and slightly embarrassing growl. It seemed now that she was a little consoled, her appetite was returning with a vengeance.

"Haha..." The sheepish laughed was followed by Meg heading to the weapons stand and removing her sword from it, replacing the empty spot once again with the training sword. Once that was done, she walked back to Jaraleet even as she returned her sword to its scabbard.

"I'mma go an' get somethin' to eat," she told him. After a slight pause, Meg stood on her tiptoes and managed to place a kiss on the argonian's cheek. "See ya later, ‘less you wanna join too?" She’d certainly not mind the company, though she’d understand if he’d rather remain away from accusing eyes.

Jaraleet chuckled softly at Meg’s slightly embarrassed expression. He smiled slightly when she told him that she was going to get something to eat and was about to bid her farewell when, to his surprise, she stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss on his cheek. The Argonian blinked in surprise, having not expected that to happen, and so didn't process Meg’s final words until after a few seconds. “Actually, I'd love to join you. I haven't eaten either.” He finally said after a brief second of contemplation, smiling towards the Nord woman.

Meg let the way out of the training gym. Things weren't all hunky dory, but at least there was some clarification; her heart felt lighter for it.

After her meeting with Megana, Daro’Vasora hurried back to her quarters and retrieved the sword she’d obtained from the prison officer and decided she needed to move quickly with it before things got worse in the city; she wanted to get a new scabbard for it, or a decorative box, at the very least, and have a blacksmith appraise it for value and point of origin. It was a curious thing, one that even without a smithing background, she could appreciate the fine craftsmanship to it; had it been discovered as an antiquity, it would have been one of the nicer finds she’d ever made.

Its design philosophy seemed to be primarily following Yokudan or Redguard preference for curved blades like scimitars, which offered an incredibly long and effective cutting edge that wasn’t ideal for heavy armour, but given the climate where full plate seldom made an appearance due to heat, it was a great weapon to use, especially from camel or horseback. However, there seemed to be some Akaviri inspiration on behalf of the creator; the blade was long, and its curve wasn’t nearly as pronounced as a scimitar and it was somewhat narrower, like the katanas that the Tsaesci, the snakemen, of Akavir who had once been predominant in the Empire and the founders of the Blades, who continued their weapon and armour tradition of Eastern philosophy. It was possible that the weapon had once belonged to a Blade, or a former one, and had brought it to Hammerfell after he had left his service. An exile or defector, perhaps, from when Hammerfell broke free of the Empire? The Khajiit was fairly excited; there was a lot of personal history to this piece, but what?

The leather grip, perhaps stingray, was done in katana style but the pommel and general shape of the grip was done in a very scimitar-fashion where it was clear the weapon was meant for one-handed use, although the raindrop-shaped pommel was wide along long enough to allow for extra grip should the user need the leverage; the brass was worn down and encased over the iron, likely to imitate a much more expensive and ornate design which might have used gold plating instead. However, the entire weapon was clearly well cared for and made with an eye for detail, and on top of that, it had clearly been used by an experienced swordsman; it was a tool of conflict, not a show piece.

Latro was going to love it.

As she walked through the marketplace, she carried the weapon easily at her left side and had her features concealed under a long cloak that was to conceal her features, namely her snout and tail, and hopefully was inconspicuous enough that guards who were looking for her might overlook her appearance. They were, afterall, probably after a Khajiit with a mace, and not a Redguard blade.

Shakti had resolved to get her sword back. She was going back to the prison complex and retrieving her sword, Dwemer be damned. She might need to be rescued twice, but if she came out of it with her father’s sword, it would be worth it. She was not going to be the Nasaaj that lost the familial blade. She’d rather die. Literally. The young Redguard stalked through the sunbaked afternoon streets, her messy hair being made messier by a cool breeze that snaked its way through the buildings and alleys of the town. She had tucked her temporary dwemer shortblade in through the back of her belt for quick access. Not that she wanted to use it. Some superstitious part of her felt that the more she got used to that blade instead of her blade, the less likely she would be to find it.

She did need to find the prison again though. Thankfully the outdoor market she had wandered into was fairly populated and so asking for directions would be a breeze. Shakti approached the first fellow Redguard she saw that looked friendly enough to chat up and began, “Water and shade to you friend, do you think you could point me to the prison? My friend is being held and I need to post bail for him.” She put on her warmest smile and tone of voice as she asked her question and the merchant smiled back. “Water and shade to you, young lady. Of course I can point it out. I’ll do better and draw you a map.” The man sketched out a crude map and marked the prison with an x before handing it to Shakti, who gratefully accepted it. Something caught her eye though. She couldn’t be sure but… “I must go before he goes stir crazy!” The young nomad said as an afterthought as she disengaged from the merchant and darted her way past a crowd to try and catch a glimpse of what she had seen.

The blacksmith was just ahead, if the sign of a sword superimposed on an anvil was to be believed. Bellows of dark smoke came from the back, suggesting that its furnaces were well underway. The Khajiit entered the shop, which had its heavy doors open inward to allow whatever breeze could be caught to help cool down the stifling building. Daro’Vasora approached the counter, setting the blade down on the counter and waited for an attendant or the smith himself to appear.

It turned out the smith was a swarthy Redguard woman. Daro’Vasora pulled down her hood, as to not hide her features and draw suspicion of the smith. “Hey, I recently acquired this blade on an expedition to the North, and it seemed to be quite a bit different to most of the other blades I’ve seen people in this region carrying. I was wondering if you could appraise it, or tell me something about it.” she asked.

The smith picked up the sword, studying it appreciatively. “It’s been around for quite a few years, I can say that much. It’s definitely not a military or guard sword; it lacks proof marks and it seems a bit too personalized to fit in with any outfit I’ve come across. The steel looks like it’s high-carbon, which tells me the owner was really wealthy or had quite the benefactor for it. I can tell you that the craftsmanship is rather exquisite, but there’s a lot to this sword that doesn’t seem like any of the other smiths I know or work I’ve seen in Hammerfell.” she looked up with a concentrated pout. “Without knowing the history about this thing, I can’t really give you a price point for what it’s worth on a market, but I’ll tell you this; it was definitely worth something immeasurable to the owner. Are you planning on selling?” the smith asked.

Daro’Vasora shook her head. “No, I was planning on gifting it to a suitor who is quite a swordsman, he saved my life on one of our expeditions gone quite awry. I was hoping to have a scabbard for it, or at least some kind of decorative box. Seems like a bit of a shame to carry this thing loose out in the open.”
The smith nodded in agreement. “Doesn’t take much to embolden a thief, flash a bit of wealth and it’s like bleeding by sharks. Although, with the Dwemer curfew, my shop’s been safer than ever.” She snorted. “At least that’s one of the few good things to come out of all this. Tell you what, it’s a strange curve to the blade, but I might be able to find something in the back for it if you can wait a short while.” She gestured at a table off to the side. “Warm wine, but if you’re parched, please welcome yourself to it.”

“Please, take your time.” The Khajiit said with a smile, and she left the counter as the smith took the blade.

Shakti pushed her way past a haggling merchant and would-be customer as she struggled to tail the figure that seemed to be carrying her blade. She could not properly tell who it was, but it was someone, and it was her blade. She would recognise that unusual curve anywhere. “Gods above!” She swore under her breath as the figure disappeared into what seemed to be a smithy. She reached simultaneously for the door and her blade but exhaled and realised she should not be so hasty. She took a step away from the door and decided to peer inside the window.

Her eyes grew wide in horror and disbelief as she managed to catch a glimpse of the smith taking the sword, HER SWORD, into the back of the shop! “Desert take all of you!” She swore again and decided she really shouldn’t be tarrying around out here while her sword was due to be melted down into horseshoes. Shakti opened the door to the smithy, as calmly as a pot of water about to boil over could manage and slipped into the shop. She cleared her throat and tried to put on her best ‘Don’t-mind-me-I’m-not-about-to-lose-it’ voice, “Water and shade to you, stranger. Pardon my interruption but, that blade. Where did you get it?”

Daro’Vasora looked at the newcomer, a young woman, quizzically. She hadn’t seen her when she entered the shop, she was certain. Maybe just someone who caught sight of it in the street?

Honesty probably wasn’t the best option here; telling a stranger you broke a guard’s arm and stole it from him wasn’t a very wise thing to do. “I was on an expedition to the North, got jumped by bandits. One of them had the blade, I thought it looked valuable, so I brought it in to be appraised. Do you think it would be a nice gift for someone?” she asked cordially.

So she was lying. Interesting strategy. Shakti took a deep breath. She realised that this conversation was like a duel. Her knowledge that this Khajiit stranger was lying gave her the upper hand, and losing her cool would cost her momentum. She had to play it slow and carefully. Strike with intent. First, she would test her opponent’s defence, “That is not where you really got it, is it? Come now, where did you really acquire it?” She tried to keep her voice cordial and warm but some simmering annoyance and evidence of her thread-bare patience boiled through. Perhaps speechcraft was harder than swordcraft.

The Khajiit shrugged, the girl was being a pest right now. For all she knew, she was a kid who was bribed with the barest minimum of coin to rat loose tongues out to the guards.

“Believe it or not, I don’t really care. Why the interest?” Daro’Vasora asked, drinking from the glass provided. She really wasn’t in the mood to be interrogated by a teenager.

“I am simply interested because it is my blade. It has been in my family for generations and I would like it back. I know you stole it from the prison guards, who stole it from me.” Shakti’s tone changed from friendly to neutral-bordering-on-hostile in an instant, her facade of friendliness dropped like a piece of meat in a duneripper’s lair.

How on Nirn did she know about the raid on the guard outpost raid? The Khajiit stared back at the first girl and her sudden hostile infliction, tempting to snap back that it was no longer her sword. Instead she pulled the Redguard to the side, keeping her tone low. “Shut it, or we're both in a world of hurt. You cannot trust people to not be sympathetic to the wrong people now, understood? Tell me how you know about that particular ordeal. As for the sword, I'm only going off of what you tell me, so who are you?”

“Whoa!’ Shakti exclaimed involuntarily as she was swung to the side by the Khajiit woman. Her hand instinctively grasped for the Dwemer shortblade but she restrained herself when it became obvious the Cat-woman wasn’t going to shiv her in the stomach with her claws. The Redguard girl talked fast, keeping her voice low, “I am Shakti of the Alik’r, I was imprisoned before being freed by an Orcish woman. Her name is Mazrah. She told me about the other raid. She even suggested one of you might have taken it. I did not believe her. I appear to be wrong.”

“Mazrah.” Daro’Vasora replied, shaking her head. It certainly was a figure that left a bit of an impression, and it certainly lined up with what she’d heard. Still, news of this Redguard joining the ranks was completely new; the Khajiit had no idea.

Then again, I was the one who brought Mazrah into all of this without saying a damned thing to anyone. Daro’Vasora reminded herself, clearing her throat.

“Well, that checks out. Who else was there, where are we staying? Do you know who we work for?” Daro’Vasora asked, desperately wanting to believe that this girl was authentic.

“I do not know who you work for, I have not spoken with any others. The only other I interacted with was an Argonian, she carried a staff and freed me from my shackles with some sort of magic. Your base is at the Three Crowns Hotel, that way. I have a room there as well.” Shakti jabbed her thumb in the direction of the hotel as she finished her rapid fire answers. She felt like a cornered Mitana-cat, like the ones she had seen in cages on the docks of Sentinel. She even felt the hairs on her neck standing up.

The Khajiit sighed, her posture going loose, and a chuckle escaped from her throat in relief. “Well, isn’t this something. I believe you, we could have avoided this particular engagement if someone had elected to tell me about you. You’ll have to excuse my Argonian friend, her memory isn’t what it used to be, even before I met her. Truth is, you’re right how I came across the sword. I was attacked by an officer trying to find a manifest and I took it from him when I managed to take him by surprise, because it is a nice blade and I didn’t want him running me through when my back was turned.” she glanced towards where the smith had disappeared. “And don’t worry, I’m not getting it melted down or whatever you think I’m doing. I was going to give it to someone I cared about… I didn’t expect its owner to show up.”

Shakti’s face lightened up and tension seemed to leave her stance, an audible sigh of relief escaping her lips. “Oh good. I was afraid you were going to sell it. It’s not like I have the money to buy it back.” Her tone had reverted to its usual friendly and sort-of-melodic-but-not-quite-in-tune state and she offered a grateful smile to the Khajiit. “I, er, hope you weren’t expecting me to pay you for it.” She quickly added, realising that perhaps expecting the Khajiit to just give it up for free might be a little too naïve. Shakti reached behind her back and pulled out her Dwemer shortblade and offered it to the other woman, hilt first. “I know it is not quite equal but perhaps you can still give your friend a gift.”

The gesture was of kindness and utterly unexpected. The Khajiit’s hands wrapped around the offered scabbard and she offered a slow blink as she processed it. “You… you don’t have to do this.” Daro’Vasora said, unaccustomed to generosity from strangers, especially when she clearly was in possession of the girl’s rightful property. “Don’t you need this, why don’t you sell it?”

“It seems our paths were woven together for a reason. I think you should have it. “ Shakti encouraged her with another smile and pushed the blade fully into the Khajiit’s paws. “I don’t need any other blades, and I do not need or want the gold. Besides, I just took it off of a guard anyway. I cleaned it and sharpened it as well.”

“Well, that makes two of us, yours just might be a tad more sentimental, however.” Daro’Vasora said, accepting the blade outright and fastening it about her waist. She noticed the smith coming back through the door with the Redguard’s blade. “At least allow me to return the generosity.” she said, approaching the counter.

The smith was holding a scabbard that almost looked like it was an exact fit for the blade, and its finish even mirrored that of Shakti’s sword, as if it came from somewhere similar. “Well, it took a few tries, but I remembered this one came in a few months ago and never seemed to belong to anything. I thought the curious blade might belong to it, and what do you know.”

Daro’Vasora smiled, reaching for her coin purse. “To what do I owe you for this?” she asked.

“40 gold, it’s pretty nice, but it’s not much of a use to me if I can never find a blade to seat in it. Usually I’d charge three times that rate for something of this quality and scarcity, but honestly? I’d just be happy to have the shelf space back.”

A few heavy coins were placed on the counter in a stack, which the smith took. “Would you like a receipt?” she asked.

“No, I can’t imagine it’ll be returning any time soon.” The Khajiit said, placing her hands together and bowing. “You have my thanks, and may Zenithar look over your business.” she said. The smith smiled, slipping the coins in her apron before disappearing to the back. The Khajiit turned to the girl. Taking the blade in its scabbard and offering it to the Redguard, she asked, “So Shakti, was it?”

The Redguard girl could barely contain her delight at seeing her beloved sword again. She was practically bouncing up and down at the prospect. And that scabbard! It was a perfect fit but, it was nicer and in better condition than the old one. Where did the smith get such a thing? It was very similar to her old sheath as well, and yet slightly different. There was an air of familiarity to it, for certain. Shakti knew it from someone or somewhere. She had seen it before, but the memory was like an early morning fog over an oasis in the Alik’r. She watched the Khajiit pay for the scabbard and eagerly accepted the blade when it was offered to her. “I know this sheath,” the Redguard girl mumbled under her breath to the nameless gods of the desert, “But from where?”

It didn’t matter, at least for the moment. Shakti held the sword up to her face and pulled it halfway from its sheath, inspecting the blade to make sure it was still in good condition. Satisfied, she returned it to its place and hung it, blade up, from the empty baldric around her torso and waist. The familiar weight did more to ease her than a million mulled wines or Potions of Calm Mind could ever do.

Shakti mussed up her own hair and responded to the Khajiit. “Well, my real name is Tariyeh, but don’t tell anyone else that. Shakti is my middle name. What’s your name?”

“Daro'Vasora,” the Khajiit said, offering a hand. “Or Vasora, if you prefer. It's good fortune we met today, I just would have preferred knowing you were with the company before showing up at the smithy.” she replied with a smile. “If you're hungry, I'd be happy to grab something to bite with you to hear your story, Shakti.”

Shakti shook Daro’Vasora’s hand and nodded in agreement. “I am glad we met as well. Sorry we were not introduced before. Things at the hotel seemed busy and I tried to keep out of trouble.” Also she had a wounded arm, but that wasn’t the point. “I would love something to eat. Do they have goat’s milk around here?”

“Only about as much as sand.” The Khajiit grinned. “Come on, let's see what catches our fancy. At least the occupation hasn't spoiled good cuisine.”

Her sword in its rightful place, Shakti led the march out of the smithy and back out into the hot afternoon bazaar. The smells of a hundred different foods wafted and mixed freely, but Shakti could pick out a few that she recognised. She smelled roasted duneripper steaks and goat legs, she spied fresh dates and was further drawn to the bleating of goats and the promise that it made.

A few minutes later, the two were seated at a shaded table with a pitcher of goat milk between them and a pair of lamb kebabs a piece with some honey dates on the side. Daro’Vasora started off with the dates; she always liked food she had to work through. “So, you’re from the Alik’r?” she asked.

In between bites of date and sips of goat milk, Shakti found time to answer. “Yes, I’m from a tribe that lives in the Alik’r. We move from place to place, all around the desert. It’s our home. Where are you from? Where do you call home? Many Khajiit come to Hammerfell for the warm climate.”

“Leyawiin, in the far South of Cyrodiil, it’s pretty close to being tropical swampland, but I’m still not quite used to this dry desert heat. I can’t imagine living out in the desert like your people or the nomads of Anequina down in Elsweyr. I never had many occasions to go to either here or there because it’s simply not a good place to look for ruins, you run out of supplies chasing rumours.” Daro’Vasora explained between bites.

Shakti tapped her chin, “I’ve heard of Leyawiin once or twice. I should like to see it one day.” She finished her glass of milk as Daro’Vasora elaborated. “The desert can hide many secrets. I’ve seen many tombs and been in many ruins in the Great Alik’r. I know a man who lives in one… under the sands! You must know that the desert does not like thieves and if you take, you must give in return. I have borrowed a few books from ancient places but I do my best to put them back when I pass by again.” Satisfied with her answer, Shakti went back to happily munching on her meal.

The Khajiit allowed a smile to purse her lips, knowing full well her typical expeditions were not of the respectful sort the young Redguard abided by. “Probably for the best, it’s been my life work to rediscover artifacts lost to time and procure them for clients, historical collectors, nobility, ancestors of sorts, simply rich people. We Khajiit tend to have this way of looking at the world where if something is left unattended, it’s unwanted and it’s a shame for it all to go to waste. So, if some ruby inlaid sword that was held by some Emperor eight hundred years ago commands a price equivalent to some patron’s happiness, I provide that service. I’ve always loved history, the stories of the world. There’s nothing like that rush of discovering something that you only read about in stories and holding it with your own hands, knowing you were the one who made that discovery.” she held her hands out in front of her for emphasis, looking at a pair of Dwemer soldiers marching past with rifles slung over their shoulders. “And sometimes, history shows up in the most unlikely of places.” she murmured.

Shakti nodded grimly. She understood that some people had to do unsavoury things to make ends meet. Still, disturbing the sacred dead to rifle through their possessions, only to pawn them off to some rich noble? The thought was nigh unthinkable. Surely the dead would rise from their graves before they would let some adventurer cart off their prized helmet or sword. She had felt anxious merely borrowing texts from ancient temples, let alone marauding a crypt! With actual dead in it! However it seemed like not the wisest decision to verbally chasten her new friend (who had explicitly mentioned it was her life’s work) about her job, so the Redguard girl held her tongue. Surely they wouldn’t make HER maraud a tomb? Would they? She internally shuddered.

“Yes, I see what you mean. It isn’t something I would choose to do, but not everyone is me thankfully. Did the Dwemer really come marching out of the ground after all this time?” Shakti asked in a hushed tone.

Daro’Vasora rapt her claws on the table, feeling somewhat uneasy of how much she should tell the new addition, or even admitting that the Dwemer returning and occupying Shakti’s country and killing her people was likely the fault of her new friends, so she decided to feign some ignorance. Wasn’t it enough to be actively trying to fix the problem?

It’s not like you’re the one who activated the damned device, Sora… but you didn’t exactly try to stop Rhea, either. she thought grimly.

“I have no idea where they came from, the ground, the sky, some rift between worlds… You’d have to talk to someone who spent the better years of their lives studying the theoretical causes of their disappearance that one. The others and myself, we saw the Jerall Mountains erupt in a cascade of energy, and a few days after returning to Imperial City, airships swooped in from the sky and Dwemer troops overwhelmed the city, killing everyone who got in the way, and many who didn’t.” Her rapping turned into digging a gouge with a nail on the limestone as her voice grew terse. “But yeah, it’s them all right. I studied their ruins for so long I was able to cross reference what I found with the new materials these ones brought with them… they’re basically the same as when they disappeared in the First Era.”

“That’s… horrible!” Shakti exclaimed, her voice getting a little louder than she intended. “I can’t imagine what things you’ve seen. I had hoped this was the only place they had occupied. “ She took another bite of her food, “I’m sorry to have brought that up. Surely the memories it brought up were not pleasant.” She could tell by the look on the Khajiit’s face that they were not. “Let us speak of nicer things. Have you traveled much? I’ve never been outside of Hammerfell, I would love to hear of things beyond the deserts.”

Daro’Vasora waved a dismissive hand. “Look, it is what it is, and everyone’s got an awful story from the past couple of months. It’s why I’m doing what I’m doing, why I’m trying to find ways to bite back at the Dwemer. The prison break, rescuing you from a transport, capturing an administrator… bits and pieces to see what starts to break. But I’ve been around, mostly around Cyrodiil, but I’ve been in Eastern Hammerfell once or twice, the sites of a couple of the old Orsiniums, High Rock, Skyrim, Morrowind. Always wanted to travel to the Dominion to see how the Ayleids changed when they went to Valenwood, or the traces of the Aldmeri heritage in Summerset, but it’s hard to get a visa as an Imperial citizen, even if you are practically neighbours with people who are supposed to be your mortal enemies… never stopped father from trading with Dominion merchants, even after the Great War cost him a leg.” The Khajiit smiled, remembering her father’s endless tenacity and unflappable spirit. “The world is a big, incredible place and it’s strange to think of how much the world can change moving even a few miles from home, but even halfway across the continent, people are still people. Even the Dwemer remind me of people that I’ve met in my travels, I’m not sure if that makes it easier or harder for me.”

“You really have seen most of the continent!” Shakti’s face lit up in amusement and excitement, “Has everyone in your group traveled as much as you? How long have you been in Hammerfell?” She felt a little guilty about bombarding the other woman with so many questions even though they had just met, but… but she just HAD to know! “You are right, these Dwemer don’t seem too different from any other elves. A man I know who fought in the Great War told me it reminds him of that. Just different elves, he says.” The war technically ended in a stalemate, although most Redguards considered it a victory by another name. Was this one going to end the same way?

Shakti’s enthusiasm was infectious, to say the least, and Daro’Vasora found her heart a bit warmed by this girl who seemed to be bright eyed and full of wonder while everyone else in her life seemed consumed by despair and anger; it was a good reminder that people like Shakti were worth all of the hardship, they were the ones who were going to put the world back together in the end. “Honestly? It’s only been a few short days. We arrived near the end of the month and immediately fell into what has had to been going on since the occupation started. The Dwemer here are different than those we fought in Cyrodiil… a part of me almost feels guilty about all of this.” she said, remembering what happened to Nblec Mazrak, who seemed to have been a good man who was tortured to death by people she had started to consider friends.

“Oh so you have only seen Gilane?” Her eyebrows raised in surprise, “You’ve yet to see so much! I’ve only been in Gilane a few days myself, a few of which were stuck in prison, but I already miss the open dunes of the Alik’r. There is something magical about the sands. I’ve spent my whole life out there and I still have not seen all of it. I doubt the Dwemer have either. The desert makes easy prey of the unprepared. Still, I am glad these Dwemer seem less likely to, er, kill then the ones in Cyrodiil.”

“Hasn’t been much of an opportunity to leave, I’m afraid.” Daro’Vasora admitted, looking towards the crowds passing in the street. It all seemed so normal, even with Dwemer mucking about and guards questioning people as they passed. She turned her gaze back to Shakti. “Magical, huh? You must be pretty in tune with your surroundings to get that sensation, I just see a uniform sea of dry death. I suppose it’s partially my duty to let you appreciate the wonders of a city; your experiences so far haven’t been stellar, it seems.”

“The true beauty of the desert lies below and above the sands. The stones in the desert are truly beautiful. And the way the dunes shimmer like a sea under the twin moonlight! Oh you should see it!” If nothing else, Shakti’s passion for her home bled out of her words. “What do you think is beautiful about the city?”

There was an artist to Shakti somewhere in there, it was hard not to smile. “Perhaps you can show me one day, when things are less… adversarial. Gilane is beautiful, I admire the way it blends ancient Yokudan sensibility with Dwemeri architecture and modern Redguard sensibilities, like the domed roofs and stained glass, how everything seems to catch the light and show a certain illuminessence. It’s far more beautiful than home, and most of Cyrodiil, truth be told.” Daro’Vasora replied, taking a thirsty drink of her own milk, which stayed on the fur on her lip.

“I’ve never really liked the city, but… but I think you are right. It does have its own charm to it. It feels like you could disappear in the crowds and no one would know.” Shakt tapped her chin as she took a bite of a date and finished her thought. “I suppose we should head back to the hotel soon, we’ve tarried long enough.”

“You are probably right. Well, cheers, to making new friends in unlikely places.” The Khajiit replied, raising her cup.

“Yes, cheers!” Shakti agreed, matching her cup to the Khajiit’s. They both took one last sip of goat’s milk and Shakti sighed contentedly. “Just when I was getting used to sitting down it is time to keep moving. We will speak again soon, I am sure of it. Oh, and tell me how your friend likes the gift.” The Redguard girl placed two of her three coins on the table and watched as Vasora did the same.

Offering one last bow, Shakti turned and headed back towards the hotel, father’s sword at her side.

A Shaft and Dervs Collab
3rd of Midyear, Nightfall
Gilane, Hammerfell

---

This alleyway didn’t feel the same. Tainted, in a way. Like returning home to find it ashes. It had been an hour or so since he left the note for Sora to join him in their “spot.” A small part of him still playful, thinking of someone else other than Sora seeing the signed note from him and wondering just what it meant, minds wandering and whatever conclusion they might come to. Even so, his eyes darted about everywhere, to the rooftops that once made a window to the starry sky now like a peephole into a cell. To the walls that once held in his and Sora’s presence like arms folded in a hug, now hands wrapped around his throat.

He wondered if Shiburi was watching him at this very moment, the notion making him grip the silk of his pants too hard for his liking and he had to force his fingers to open up again. An anger that wasn’t even vengeful, or righteous indignation. It was the embarrassed furrowed brow, the twisted guts, and screaming of someone who’d been groped, violated. It was just one more thing for him to not sleep easy over in the marching parade of drug-hazed memories of sweat, perfumes, and wandering hands. It put a choking lump in his throat at what memories it brought up and he felt like he must scream and break everything around him until- footsteps. He readied himself, steeled his nerves....

---

For once, things seemed like they were going pretty well. It was the day after Daro’Vasora had confronted Jaraleet, sought reassurances from Megana, and made a new friend in Shakti, and Calen sounded like he was going to make a full recovery. The incident with Raelynn left her chilled; the Khajiit didn’t know what had happened to her, but the wounds and trauma were evident. The Breton woman, as conniving as she was, was still someone Daro’Vasora had a fondness for and the aftermath of whatever had happened to her left a much more broken and terrified person in her stead. She was taking time to recover, rightfully so, and Daro’Vasora knew she would have to speak to Raelynn eventually.

But for now, she had to make some for Latro and see how he had made out the past day; they didn’t have much time for each other these days, it seemed. She had managed to procure a Gold Coast red wine, cheese, and grapes of all things, and with the Dwemer short sword bundled up to present to her paramour, Daro’Vasora felt pretty lively when she started to close in on their spot, which was starting to hold some emotional weight for her.

The feather-light mood she was in crashed immediately upon seeing Latro’s battered form and haunted expression, and the Khajiit hurried over to him, concern etched across her features. She set the basket and blanket down and took his face in her hands, looking him over with wide eyes. “By Alkosh, what happened?!” she exclaimed.

Latro almost flinched as Sora moved closer to him, but he restrained himself. He put his hands under his thighs and looked to the ground, wondering whether to tell her or not. Raelynn already knew of his plans. If Sora knew, he wouldn’t put it past her to fight for her place at his side when he went to meet Shiburi. He didn’t want her involved in that, or any of this. The thought of her being snatched up only to return like Raelynn did had him breathing harder. He shook his head and folded his hands in his lap, “I was robbed.” He said, “I cut one but they...”

He swallowed, remembering how at mercy he felt under Shiburi. It was the first time in years he’d found someone he couldn’t put down. He hadn’t felt fear like this since he was in the brothel, or an oar-slave before that. “But they got what they wanted. My money, and to beat me.” He muttered, “I’m fine now, Raelynn healed what she could.”

“I refuse to believe that a mere robber did this to you… we’ve been through a lot, Latro. Are you telling me the truth?” she asked softly. She wanted him to trust her, to confide in her. It was those little connections that kept you sane when all seemed lost. Her mind fluttered to when they first came into each other’s company, in the Falmer infested ruins. She knew she trusted him with her life, but something darker was going on within him now. What was it?

“Please, I’m here for you. Tell me what you need.”

He chewed his lip thoughtfully, but the final nail in the coffin was looking into her pleading eyes. He cursed under his breath, closing his eyes, “Raelynn knows what happened. I know pieces of what happened to her. The fucking waste of life that did those things to her has a brother,” He said, “That brother came for me, a big Ohmes-Raht with cold eyes. Tiger’s eyes. The only reason I’m alive is because...”

Latro clenched his teeth and turned away from her, eyes screwed shut. The fact that he could be brutalized like that, and so easily. The fact there was someone who could be watching his every movement and could fight more ferociously, best him so effortlessly. His mind flashed to his face buried in a pillow, his voice hoarse from screaming and sobbing. Weight. It gripped him with fear. He turned back to Sora, hand on his chest to steady his breathing and his quick heart, “Because he just didn’t want to that day it seemed.” He muttered, voice wavering, ”He didn’t take me anywhere, he didn’t even ask a single thing about our group. He threatened us- threatened you- that if I didn’t meet him here in a few days’ time that he would call the Dwemer down on us.”

“If I didn’t meet him.” He restated, “He warned me of his brother. Said that where he gave me a choice, his brother would not. Said there was evil in his eyes. That he wasn’t the Khajiit he once knew.” He swallowed, head shaking slightly to put himself back on track, “If I have to meet him or he’ll come for you, I will.”

“There’s no sense worrying about what tomorrow or the next will bring, we’re here, now. I’ve been able to take care of myself this far, I don’t want you letting that shitbag use me as leverage against you. I know the risks.” Daro’Vasora reassured him, not sure if she really believed her own words as she laid her hand on Latro’s chest. “Look, you’re taking the word of a cruel bastard at face value, don’t endanger yourself on the off chance he could be telling you the truth. I trust you to do the right thing, I just don’t think you should make your choices based off of threats sent towards me.” she hesitated, breaking eye contact for a moment as she pressed her head against his chest. “I’ll admit, I’m scared. I don’t like the prospect of being hunted like an animal, but you know something? I’ve been scared ever since that fucking mountain exploded and here we are now. I could have stopped moving forward so long ago, but I didn’t, because there’s more at stake if I stop now than if I just went somewhere safe. You may be afraid for me, but what about you? Don’t you think that I should have a say in what happens to you, Latro?”

Latro put his arms around Sora, stroking her head, “I know. We’ve made it through the shit together and this shouldn’t have been any different.” He took a moment to smell her perfumes, letting the moment go quiet before he spoke again, “After what I saw of Raelynn… have you talked to her? I don’t know what I would do if you came back to us, to me like that.”

“Raelynn already asked me not to go, but I already gave her my answer. I’ll tell you what I told her, that I will tell you when I leave.” He said, knowing it would do nothing to put her at ease, but he felt he that this was something he must do, “I won’t be alone. I’ll bring one of the others with me to shadow me. Make sure that he doesn’t take me, and if it comes to it, try to take that bastard instead.”

She sighed heavily pressed against him. It was likely the best compromise they were ever going to get. “Just find the biggest one you can find and bribe them with a drink, it’s all I can ask I suppose.” she managed, holding him at arm’s length and forcing a smile. “Well, can we at least try to put all of that aside for a few moments and just enjoy ourselves for a change? I came here to get away from our problems and try to pretend that, even for an hour or so, life’s a perfectly normal thing where nobody dies and I have someone who cares about me. Does that sound like something we can do?”

Latro regarded Sora with his easy smile, “Of course.” He looked over her shoulder, a bottle of wine and a couple boxes, as well as something long as his arm wrapped in what looked like oil-cloth. “Wine, and… what else?”

“Could be bread, could be a fish, could be someone’s forearm. You never know what you’re going to find on the market these days.” Daro’Vasora replied with a smile, picking up the cloth bundle. “Find out for yourself.”

He took it as Sora offered it to him. It had a weight to it, but well-balanced. Through the cloth, he could feel what felt like a broad, thin thing of hard material. “Oh, I hope it’s a forearm.” He chuckled as he undid the strings at both ends that kept the cloth from unraveling. What he uncovered was something to behold and sucked the chuckle out of him like a wraith did breath. A sword of Dwemer-make, something that could’ve been commissioned for an officer. He held it in one hand by the scabbard. The pommel was an angular thing, shape of a 20-sided die he’d seen used in a smokey tavern in Nibenay, the hilt carved from what felt like tusk or horn as he ran a finger along it. The crossguard was thick, complete with a finger-ring on each side of the blade, extending out from the hilt in two slightly pointed crow’s beaks as long as his finger- perfect to dent in armor if he were to half-sword with the otherwise arming style blade.

With weighty respect and slow reverence, he put a hand on the hilt. A sword has a voice, Francis had said to him long ago. His hand on the hilt was all that was needed to leave its whisper in his foe’s ear. Slow as slow, he let it emerge from its scabbard to reveal the blade itself, half drawn, A deadly threat now, to all who hear it, Francis had said. The blade was slightly shorter than his arm sans hand, thick in breadth but looked to taper towards the point, still yet at rest in the scabbard. The fuller was a work of art, as well, chiseled out of the blade in the shape of gear’s teeth. A sword full drawn, it screams a challenge on the air! He pulled the sheath away, holding the shimmering polished blade, point towards the heavens.

He regarded the weapon with awe. He hadn’t seen a blade so artistic since Francis had shown him his longsword. His mouth slightly agape, he reverently put the sword back into its sheath, the soft whisper of the blade gliding along the cloth-lined interior, clinking with a finality to the moment as the crossguard met the opening of the scabbard. But to forget this is to forget yourself, Francis’s hallowed whisper echoed in his ear, the sword itself inspires to works of violence. Such is it that to it against another should always end in bloody finality, always. Such as it should be, lest it become a thing too easy to hold. He put the blade beside him with a smile.

“This is so much better than someone’s forearm.” He smiled and hugged Sora, deciding to break the heavy air around him at holding a sword after so long, squeezing her tight, “I’ll keep it close. To use it would almost seem like it would be to soil it.”

“Oh no, someone’s going to be disappointed they accidentally grabbed the wrong bundle. I was totally looking forward to seeing your reaction to the arm after all.” She replied with an exaggerated pout, pulling Latro back into the embrace with a smile on her lips and her eyes closed. “I actually traded Shakti her family sword I stumbled across for it, she had this one as a temporary solution, but you know me and Dwemer craftsmanship. I figured you of all people would appreciate something like this.” she said, patting his wrist above the sword. “Swords are meant to be seen and used. When you go and meet this bastard Ohmes-raht, be sure to show him the meaning of irony when you stab him with his masters’ own hardware.”

“I’ll be sure to.” He nodded, “If anyone deserves violence in that level of finality, it’s the people who did that to Raelynn.”

He placed the sword down beside him and nodded to the wine, “But I thought you wanted to leave that talk behind us for a bit. What’s in the boxes? Gift knives this time?”

“Hands?” Daro’Vasora offered unhelpfully before setting down the blanket and setting herself upon it, one of the boxes being picked up a moment later and unpackaged. “Found some cheese that didn’t smell like Gregor’s feet, and I managed to find grapes that didn’t turn into raisins. Figured a taste for the finer things might set us in a better mood, don’t you?” she said, plucking a pair of grapes and popping them in her mouth before offering the box over.

Latro grabbed up a couple for himself and set down beside Sora, “I haven’t had cheese, wine and grapes since...” He thought, scratching at the stubble he had already begun to sprout again since he’d shaved the night before and coming up with no memories that rushed to mind, “Well, I’m having it now and with someone close to me.” He chuckled, using his knife to cut into the cheese and popping it into his mouth with the grape.

“Jehanna.” He nodded, “I haven’t eaten like this since Francis and I visited Jehanna.”

“Do you miss him?” she asked, filling up a pair of ceramic cups with the bottle of wine.

“Every day.” Latro said, low and wistful, “He took me as I was and made me who I am. He was my Zegol, fostering my talent for both music and the study of using weapons. A hard but fair teacher.”

Latro smiled, thinking back on his time in Jehanna, “We were there to visit a friend of his, a bard and orchestra conductor who’d studied at the Institute of the Arts in Daggerfall. He owned an estate as large as the Three Crowns, and just as opulent.” He chewed for a bit, before plucking a grape and biting half of it away, “It was there I learned to sing and play at once, a skill in itself. We had to find some way to earn money in High Rock. Francis was a big name in fencing there and he’d won enough duels that he had gone months without being contested, so that left prize money off the table as a means to putting food on ours.”

“What of you? Do you settle into luxury as second nature or has it been a while?”

“Well, I was starting to get back on my feet again in Imperial City before the Dwemer came and trashed the place, but wealth and opulence have always been things that just came and went out of my life without much fanfare. Sometimes, I had more than I really knew what to do with, others I went entire days with less food than this until I came across a windfall. I just never was one for planning or budgeting, I just always treated everything as temporary. I had a nice uptown Apartment in the city, but that burned down due to some rivalries I’ve accumulated over the years.

“The only real luxury I afford myself is clothing; you look good, you feel good, you act smartly. Even with all of this going on, I don’t mind spending what little coin I have on frivolous things if it buys even a day’s worth of piece of mind and contentment.” Daro’Vasora said, biting into a chunk of the cheese, wishing it were in a fondue and mixed in with moon sugar. “I always just lived day by day without really being wistful about things that might or might not happen. Have you considered what you want after all of this is said and done?” she asked, shuffling over to lean against Latro.

“Normalcy.” Latro said, putting his arm around Sora as she leaned into him, “I want to live day by day without the prospect of having to fight someone to the death. I want to spend my days traveling, nights at warm hearths where I can find them and tell my stories, sing my songs.”

“Maybe, just maybe, in my travels I will find Francis. He never had many friends in Hammerfell, but if we ever go to High Rock or Skyrim, there’s many people I could ask.” He said, “Needless to say, you’re welcome to join me. The roads are less lonely with a partner.”

“I just might.” She replied with a soft smile. “Of course, you’re never going to keep me out of a ruin for long, I still have a name to make for myself. Maybe you should just come back to Leyawiin with me for a while, father would like you. There’s no reason we couldn’t follow two kinds of dreams, is there?”

“Of course not.” Latro smiled warmly, “I’d never think to stifle you. It’s what makes you you, delving into ruins and doing dangerous things. I wouldn’t dare keep you from what makes you happy.”

“As long as you return to me at the end of it mostly intact.” Latro chuckled. “At the least, mostly.”

“No promises,” she purred. “I’d like to think you find a few scars attractive.”

“I do.” He smirked, “Until someone looks like they’re the only thing holding them together. You’ll just have to deal with having an other-half that prefers sitting on his arse at the hearth and telling people all about how the Dwemer war was back in his day.”

He plopped the other half of the grape on his tongue and brought it back behind his lips, chewing, “What are they like, though? Your parents?”

Daro'Vasora smiled at the memory of her parents faces. “Well, for starters, they look more like you than me. My father, Ra'Rinjo is an Ohmes-raht, and my mother, Ko'Juzini, is an Ohmes-raht. My grandparents were very serious about planning around the moon cycles, they wanted to make sure their children could fit in the world of men in the Empire by sharing a familiar face. I suppose it worked because my father's a large scale merchant who does a lot of shipping, and mother is a court scribe for Count Caro. Both take their careers seriously, and I grew up in a mansion and wanted for nothing.” she chuckled under her breath. “I was so spoiled, I just never realized it until after I went out on my own.

“Father's always been a jovial man, a wide smile and a very spontaneous personality that just gets excited over even the silliest little things, he loves life and he reacts to new shipments like a cub getting presents on his name day. Mother was always a quiet, studious sort who arranged much of my education. She rarely raised her voice towards me, but her disapproval stung whenever I messed up. I was an only child until about seven, and I would have had a older brother, I'm told, but he died when he was a cub who hadn't even learned to walk yet. I miss them all, but I didn't want to come home until I was someone they'd be proud of.” she sighed, running a hand across her mane to straighten loose threads.

“I always got up to trouble, to the point I stole from father's shipments just to see if I could get away with it. He looked so disheartened, it broke my heart when I got caught. That's when I got the honourific Daro, I always felt it was a mark of shame against me from my family. I… I think it was father's way of approving of me embracing our heritage. Mother and father had children when passion struck, not to make us born a certain way. It's why my sister and I look nothing like them, save for eyes and hair.”

Latro nodded, taking it all in. There was so much he didn’t know about Sora and she only got more interesting the more they talked. “The moon cycles, planning around them. I didn’t know Khajiit cared about such things as fitting in with the Empire, among the man races.” He said, “My first time seeing a Khajiit, I had only heard about them in stories until I was about fifteen.”

His easy smile twitched a bit as he let go of a truth that made him seem too odd. A truth that could potentially lead to the facade the entire group knew as Latro to come crashing down around him. Or at least who Sora knew as Latro. But he didn’t want her to know that the man she cared for had lied about almost everything to her, that Latro wasn’t even his real name. The shock of what his tongue let loose stunned him and he anxiously waited for Sora to say something.

“Most don’t, but when your family’s been a part of Imperial society for generations, you try to give yourself an advantage when you can if you want to integrate.” Daro’Vasora replied, giving Latro a quizzical glance. He reacted like he made an inappropriate slip of the tongue, and she couldn’t fathom as to why. “You had never seen or spoken to a Khajiit until you were 15?” she asked, blinking. “Where did they have you hidden away, a monastery where you never knew about cute girls until you made a daring escape from some creepy old men?” she asked in a playful tone, squeezing his arm as she rested against him. Still, the words he spoke left a lot of unanswered questions… everything he mentioned about Francis, his travels around High Rock, the fencing tournaments, the performances in taverns. There was no way he could have missed her people all those years, could he? A frown found its way across her countenance, and worry filled her heart.

“Latro,” she said after a few moments in a subdued tone, “What aren’t you telling me?”

Latro gave a long sigh, forlorn eyes on the ground as he shuffled to sit facing Sora. He held his gaze on her own for a few quiet moments before he spoke, “I haven’t been honest with you.” He started, only meeting her eyes in glances, “My family isn’t from Camlorn. They’re from the Druadach mountains. I’ve only been to Camlorn when I was twenty summers.”

“When Francis found me, I was a nineteen year old boy with no direction. No convictions. They’d been stripped from me when I was taken by slavers.” He muttered and wiped at his eye, “Francis found me three weeks after I’d escaped the brothel that the slavers sold me into. And even after taking me in and giving me the tools to make sure I or anybody else I knew never had to suffer like I did, I wasn’t even truthful about where I’d come from, what I’d done in the past.”

He folded his arms around himself and looked away at Sora, “I’m the son of a Reach Clan Chieftess, not the only child of an aristocrat in Camlorn, like I told you. Like I told Francis.” He let go a shuddering breath and gritted his teeth, as if pulling the truth from him was like pulling a blade stuck in his belly that had been there for too long, “Latro isn’t even my real name. My Reachman name is Pale-Feather of the Crow-Wife clan. Finnen to the Bretons.”

“But that name, that man died somewhere along the way from there to here, where I sit now. Not torn away, but chipped at.” He told Sora, “I’ve no family anymore in the Reach after what I’d done in Markarth Hold. I had no family ever since Francis and I parted ways.”

He put his face in his hands and shook his head. Not wanting to see Sora’s face as he told her the person she cared so much for had lied to her, to everyone. “I’m sorry, Sora.”

Daro’Vasora had tensed at the sudden and unexpected admission, and her stare into his eyes was unwavering. She studied him as he spoke, noticing the change in his infliction, the guilt, and the painful recall he was going through. Even though it shocked her to find that he had lied about who he was, she felt she could understand why. A lot of people hid their past and ran from it, presented themselves as someone else. Some were spies, others just trying to leave a bad life behind, and many felt they would never be accepted if they didn’t conceal parts of who they were. She suspected it was the latter. It was the talk of being sold into slavery, forced to service people in a brothel for a cruel owner that wrenched her heart; it hit harder than the revelation that Latro, the sweet boy from Camlorn was actually a Reachman known as Pale-Feather

Reaching over, she pulled his hands down from his face and placed another on his cheek. “Tell me that everything you feel for me is real, that the person who I came to care for is real. Tell me that everything since I met you isn’t a lie.” she said evenly, searching his face for answers.

“Sora,” he began, placing his tear-wet hand over hers on his face,”Everything I’ve told you about my feelings for you are as real as the blanket we’re sitting on.”

“I would never lie to anyone about things like that,” he held her gaze and smiled, “I would never lie to you about things like that.”

“My only request is that no one else knows unless I tell them.” He asked, “Please, that name belongs to someone I am no longer.”

“I can accept that.” Daro’Vasora said with a sad smile, suddenly pulling Latro into an embrace. “I know it was difficult for you to tell me this, to admit it to anyone. If you weren’t sincere, you would have kept that secret to the grave… but you told me, you trusted me. That means everything to me, Latro. I haven’t felt I had that with anyone in a long, long time.” she said, setting back down on her knees, keeping her hands in his own.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the same man I’ve always known, even if the details changed a bit. I will keep it a secret told in confidence between us, but I have to ask why you feel like you need to hide that part of who you were? What happened?” she asked softly.

“I was disowned by my father for not being the tall, muscle-bound warrior like him. He did leave in me a capacity for violence. Anger was my main purpose in all things, anger and spite for him.” He said, voice simmering, “When I set out on my own for my Lone-Path, a ritual every budding member of the Crow-Wife clan goes through, I reached the western edge of the Eastern Reach. I threw in with the Forsworn because I knew it was everything my father would hate.”

“They turned me from a warrior of my clan to a knife in the dark. A poisoner. I killed, so much, with axe and sword and poison and knife.” He said, voice low and haunted, “When my companions were hunted and killed, I ran back to the only other place I knew, my home. They knew of my deeds in the East, and they all disowned me after that. I was taken by slavers and made into a whore. I burned down the brothel in Wayrest and killed my client and my owner.”

“I didn’t feel right after Wayrest. Dirty, used, weak. And I was no heir to the Crow-Wife clan for betraying everything it stood for.” His eyes closed and he sighed, “So, when Francis found me, I told him my name was Latro. I wasn’t a whore, a slave on the run, I wasn’t a disgrace to my own people, I wasn’t a terrorist who preyed on the fears of the meek.”

“I was Latro, meek and timid and peaceful. A bard come from Camlorn to ply his trade. A healer, instead of killer.” He said, “Everything I wasn’t.”

“I’ve left my share of people to die on expeditions, Latro… sometimes by my own hand. Betrayal and mistrust have been such cornerstones of my life, I never flinched when it came time to cause harm. It was wrong of your family to disown you, to cast you aside because you fell down a wrong path. I’ve had a moment of clarity lately where my own ancestors told me what I was doing wrong, but that they still love me despite all of that.” she squeezed his hands tightly in her own.

“I promise that no one is ever going to harm you like that again, I swear on my ancestors and the moonpath that I must walk. You do not need to be ashamed of the deeds you’ve done, the harm you’ve caused, because I know your heart and I know the man you wish to be. You were but a boy, manipulated into dark deeds because you had nowhere else to go and weren’t old enough to question what they had asked you to do. Anyone who says they haven’t had their hearts gripped by darkness and committing to unspeakable acts at some point are liars and cowards who refuse to admit that the world can be just as cruel and messed up as they are.” She looked him in the eyes sternly, her voice confident and defiant. “You are not the man you were, and even if you were, I would still love you for the man who you are. That man that Francis found, who you’ve been ever since, that’s real. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

Latro sat, quiet. His hands were in his lap as he looked at them. He hung on one word that Sora had said, and although it had all been heartfelt, that word had set his heart to pounding harder than any fight he’d been in. “You love me?” He asked, finally looking at Sora.

“Yeah, I guess I do.” she admitted with a sheepish smile, running a hand to tidy her hair. “I just can't imagine going separate ways. When I hurt you back in Anvil, when you thought I'd left for good… it put things in perspective. You're one of the reasons I could never leave. I thought I'd be having nightmares of the Falmer for weeks, but I just dream about what you did for me, Latro. You make me feel safe, and appreciated. Even with all of this crazy shit in our lives, when I’m with you, it feels like it's going to be okay. So yes, my soft-hearted and guilt ridden Reachman, I love you.” she admitted, her tone light and affectionate. She felt like a young woman again, someone who wasn't aged by hardships and expeditions and had much simpler dreams.

Latro gave a smile just as sheepish as he looked away timidly. He looked back at Sora with red cheeks, his lips moving as if he was trying to say something, until he gathered himself and finally did.

“I love you too.” He said, first smiling and then chuckling. He liked the sound of that coming from his mouth. The syllables fit his lips perfectly as he said them and his heartbeat was hummingbird wings, “I guess I knew I did when you were the first one I asked about after waking in Cyrodiil. When I thought you weren’t anywhere to be found but the bloody streets of the White-Gold city, I felt so empty. Now that you’re back, and to stay, I feel the very opposite. I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done with you, nor will I, to the days I’m old and gray and I’ve forgotten half the songs I’ve ever known except the ones I sing to you.”

Latro’s bashfulness prompted Daro’Vasora to giggle, and her heart felt ablaze when he affirmed her own feelings with his own, and she thought back to when she thought she lost him after the attack on Imperial City, where everything in her life had gotten turned upside down. She thought about when she found him in the marketplace, trying to replace his lute, and her subsequent gift that Latro had kept with him since that day. She reached out and placed her hand gently on his cheek, tears welling up in her eyes. “I thought I lost you the same day I lost Zegol, and it was a reason why I could never turn my back on all of this. I lashed out at everyone, I don’t know why people have stayed with me or trust me. I have regrets, but you aren’t one of them. You never will be, either.” she leaned in, kissing him tenderly on the lips and resting her brow against his. “Speaking of songs, you still owe me one, my darling bard.”

Latro smiled at that, “You won’t ever let that go, eh?” He chuckled, “I’ve started thinking about lyrics, but I only have the melody down in my head.”

He got up and walked to the bench he was sitting on when she came, grasping his lute, the lute she’d gifted him those long days ago. His fingers brushed across the strings and he set them to the task of tuning it once more as he made his way back to Sora.

“It’s a nice one really,” he said, appreciating the feeling of soft wind as he glanced up at the darkening sky, the first few stars poking through the darkness above. He took the lute in both hands, one ready to strum and the other fingering the fretboard. He took a breath and plucked the first few notes, letting them ring out on the night air as he hummed along to it and Sora swayed with him.

---

3rd Midyear, Early Morning

Megana was feeling quite rested when she woke up in the morning. Having spent all day cooped up at the hotel had been her own choice, but by the time evening crept in, she found herself feeling rather restless and in need of something other than migrating from one room to the other in hopes of refreshing her mind of something other than the beautiful but repetitious architecture. Finding nothing to entertain her mind and neither seeking to disturb anyone with idle chitchat, she had decided to simply call it an early night and had headed off to sleep. As her mind had been a little more at ease than the previous night, she found herself waking up at dawn with no terrible dreams to recount. By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, the Nord woman had already washed and dressed up, simply waiting for the curfew to end so that she could head out. The heat still terrified her some, but she was wearing the clothes she had bought in Anvil and hoped they would help with some ventilation.

After making sure her water skin was filled to the brim, Meg had left the Three Crowns Hotel. The sun had only just risen, so the air was still cool though the promise of heat was there. There was the humidity from being close to the sea, but she very much doubted the sea breeze would be cooling anyone down.

'Less they're comin' from the desert. Now there was another prospect that had the winter loving Nord terrified as well. The group's journey had taken them through all sorts of terrain- was there really anything stopping them from heading out to even more inhospitable places?

"Heh." She was suddenly visited with words she'd often hear from J'raij.

"May your road lead you to warm sands."

"Talos knows the road has," she muttered under her breath, both disgruntled yet amused at the same time. She knew it was something all khajiit said, but it was still ironic now that she thought of it. Bet you would've liked it here...

Her thoughts were interrupted as someone walked passed her, lightly brushing against her as they made their way down the market street that was only now beginning to fill up. Looking in the person's direction, she saw it was a young Redguard lad she judged no more than ten years of age or about there. Head tilting to the side, she couldn't help but think that he reminded her quite a bit of herself as child, from the disheveled clothes, the messy hair, the skittish way he moved, the pouch he was shoving in his pocket-

"Huh." Her hand patted at her belt and she could help but let out a curt laugh. Ya li'l skeever. She wasn't actually upset with him, but that was the only money she had left from the winnings Brynja had generously given her in Anvil. If she wanted to buy even some fruit to snack on, she'd need that pouch and not merely the air that was now occupying where it had been.

With a small sigh, she followed after the bow, keeping enough distance from him that he wouldn't detect her, but also keeping close enough that she wouldn't lose him. Despite the fact that she wasn't angry at having been pilfered from, there was the annoyance that she was getting lost in the streets of Gilane with absolutely no map. Just like with Anvil, she had planned to draw out a crude masterpiece- alas, this morning would not be kind to the amateur cartographer.

A good while passed before the boy finally came to a stop at the end of a short and narrow alleyway. Meg had to admit it was quite a nice place for a street rat to stay in- with the two buildings on either side so close together, it provided a nice amount of shade as well as protection from other elements like wind and sand. Unfortunately for the child, it did not keep away a Nord woman who wanted her money back.

She coughed audibly, and the boy finally noticed her presence. The shock on his face quickly shifted to panic when he realized he'd just led a stranger to his safe place, and said stranger was blocking the way.

"Okay!" he yelped, quickly pulling the pouch from his pocket and dropping it on the dusty ground before him. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have taken it! Please don't-"

"Hush," Meg replied, a small frown on her face as she carefully approached the boy. "I ain' gonna hurt ya."

The boy didn't look like he believed her, but he didn't run off- if anything he seemed almost docile, pressing himself against the wall to put space between himself and Meg. She was quick to notice this, though quicker to grab her money pouch and safely stow it away in her pocket.

"Y'don' look like yer used t'this," she commented, looking the kid up and down. From how easy it was to catch him to his demeanor as well as the way he spoke, it didn't seem like he had spent much time on the streets. "Yer lucky I'm the one standin' here an' not some pissed brute." Her eyes narrowed as she held her arms akimbo. "Why're y'stealin' from people, hm? The way y'are, you'll be caught an' punished soon 'nough."

The boy's fists clenched tightly; he opened his mouth to retort, but no words came out. Meg raised an eyebrow, her expression stern until she saw the tremble in his chin. "Hey," she started, this time her tone a little gentler. "Whatsa matter, kid?"

"It's- it's not like I want to!" he finally burst out. He stuck his chin out defiantly, but the Nord could see the wetness in his eyes. "I have no choice!" It was a look she recognize immediately, having worn it many a times as a child in Riften.

"Then why?" she prompted, slackening her arms. "Y'can tell me, kid. If I was gonna snitch on you, I woulda done it already." She took a step closer to the boy. "Where's yer ma an' pa, kid?"

"My name's not 'kid'," the boy replied indignantly. "It's Zahir." He looked down after that, the fierce look on his face fading as it was replaced with sadness. "My mother died. My father... he's gone. They took him."

"They?" The boy named Zahir was about to speak up, but Meg raised a hand to hush him, realizing what he must have meant. "Wait. I know who y'mean."

"Father said it wasn't right," he muttered. The brave face he was trying to put up failed as a lone tear found its way down his cheek. "They couldn't just come and take our land from us."

"An' it wasn' long 'fore he was taken away by them," Meg finished bitterly, her eyes darkening as she watched the boy angrily wipe the wetness from his cheek. She had heard of such things happening to both Stormcloak and Imperial supporters during the civil war; it only made sense that the same thing would happen here. "I'm sorry lad... I know how it feels t'lose family."

"He's going to come back!" Zahir muttered, glaring up at Meg.

"Aye, perhaps, but what good's that if yer sittin' pretty in a cell for stealin', hm?" Meg reached out and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "The way yer goin', you'll be caught a quick as... heh, today."

"I was hungry," Zahir muttered.

"Where's yer house?" Meg asked curiously. Just because his mother was dead and his father a prisoner of the dwemer didn't have to mean he was homeless, right?

"Father was paying to stay there. When he was caught, I wasn't allowed to stay anymore."

"I see." There was a hard set to Meg's jaw. 'Course. This was the way of the world after all. Those in power, whether a ruler or a landlord, had the final say, and it was rare to find those among them who cared about the poor and downtrodden.

"Hey," she finally said. "D'you know the way back t'the Three Crowns Hotel?"

Zahir blinked at her, clearly not expecting that to be the next thing she said. "Uh... yes?"

"Good," she replied, patting his shoulder. "Lead the way then, lad. Breakfast's on me." She wasn't sure if what she was doing would be acceptable by the others, and more importantly the Poncy Man, but this boy here was someone she could actually help, and by Mara, she was not going to turn her back on an innocent victim of clashing powers.

Evening, 2nd of Midyear, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, Hammerfell

Featuring the magnificent @Mortarion

Swilling the contents of his glass slowly, Gregor stared out over the sprawling city below. He lay reclined on one of the comfortable sofas that stood outside on the balcony of the room he shared with Jaraleet, Calen and Alim and had just finished dinner. The scene was reminiscent of his confrontation with Alim a few days before; even the food was the same. Local seafood, freshly caught in the sea. Gregor was acquiring a real taste for it. He knew he was a wanted man now and had kept his head down so far, but he was itching to do something. The successful murder of Nblec and subsequent sacrifice of his soul to the Ideal Master that acted as his patron deity made Gregor feel empowered and excited. He was much closer to his goal now, with still more than a decade ahead of him to finish his task. His father, Hector, had succumbed to the family curse when he was fifty-six. Gregor was thirty-eight. The quest that had seemed impossible when he embarked on it ten years ago had actually become feasible now.

Of course, that had come at a cost. Gregor’s personal success came at the expense of the resistance, and him and his allies in particular. Gregor had thrown Jaraleet under the wagon and blamed the Argonian’s torture methods for Nblec’s death (he had claimed to anyone that asked that his best guess had been stress-induced heart failure) and not spoken to him since. It was a cold, cruel thing to do, but necessary. Gregor thought back to the penultimate moments inside the safe house, before Nblec’s death. Jaraleet had been cold and cruel too. Perhaps the Argonian was pragmatic and calculating enough to understand why Gregor did what he did, if he ever learned the truth.

Yeah, right, Gregor thought to himself and took another sip.

As if summoned by Gregor’s very thoughts, it was at that moment that Jaraleet had decided to return to the room that they shared with the Argonian quickly spotting the Imperial man. “Ah, Gregor, just the man that I wanted to see!” The Haj-Eix exclaimed out loud as he began making his way towards the balcony where the man sat. “I hope that you don’t mind if I join you? It has been too long since we last chatted, hasn’t it?” He said once he finally reached where Gregor was, regarding the Imperial with a friendly smile that, he hoped, would put him at ease.

There were many things that Jaraleet wished to discuss with Gregor, and it would do him no good to get the Imperial man nervous or hostile towards him. Especially when he had directly blamed him for Nblec’s death.

Gregor watched Jaraleet’s movements and facial expression intently, but quickly realized he had no idea how to read an Argonian’s body language. “It has,” he said affably and motioned for Jaraleet to sit with him. “I’m sorry we haven’t spoken sooner. It’s been quite an… enervating time, however. You understand.” He paused for a second and inhaled sharply before continuing. “Listen. I know what you want to talk about. Let me start by saying that I only blamed Nblec’s death on your interrogation because I can’t think of any other reason for him to have suddenly died like he did. I told Latro the same thing yesterday; it’s like his heart just betrayed him. Stress can do that to a man, and presumably to an elf as well.” Gregor felt a pang of shame for a moment at his bald-faced lies. Just a moment, though.

“Yes, yes, it has been quite an enervating time like you said.” Jaraleet replied as he took a seat in front of Gregor. He listened in silence as Gregor talked about the reason why he had blamed him for Nblec’s death and the shame that the man felt was palpable. “It happened, there’s no use in dwelling on that fact.” He replied, shaking his head slightly. He knew too well his craft to have done such an amateurish mistake as putting enough stress on Nblec’s body so as to cause him a heart attack, but Gregor didn’t knew that. “Maybe if you feel too bad you wouldn’t mind sharing that bottle of wine you have there my friend?” The Argonian joked, chuckling softly.

Gregor felt relief at Jaraleet’s apparent willingness to let bygones be bygones, and flashed the Argonian a sincere smile. “Not at all,” he said and handed him the bottle. “Help yourself. Gods know you’ve earned a drink. So,” he continued and cleared his throat. “How… did the others react? Have you talked to anyone?”

“Ah, thank you my friend.” The Argonian replied, taking the bottle and taking a swig from its contents. “Hmmmm, well, Sora wasn’t too happy….said something about me being a malignant tumor or something along those lines.” He replied, pausing for a slight second. “Meg was….confused, and hurt. But I don’t think she holds any ill-will towards me.” He replied, his stomach briefly knotting with guilt as he remembered the conversation that he had had with the Nord woman earlier on the day. “Aside from that, I haven’t talked with anyone else. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they hold a similar mindset to Sora, well except for Raelynn and Latro since they were there.” He said, taking another swig from the bottle before offering it to Gregor.

Gracefully refusing the bottle and raising his glass to show that he was still well-equipped to keep drinking, Gregor sighed as Jaraleet recounted Daro’Vasora’s words. “Do you remember how Daro’Vasora fell out against Rhea when we first arrived in Anvil? I think she often speaks in anger and says things that she does not mean. She’s upset, she’s stressed… I would be too, in her shoes. To assume leadership over this group of people is an enormous responsibility. I’m sure it was unpleasant, to say the least, to hear her call you a ‘malignant tumor’, but try not to let it get to you too much,” he said and took a sip of wine, his dark eyes observing Jaraleet over the edge of his glass.

“You were more than just a soldier, weren’t you?” Gregor asked suddenly, tilting his head slightly.

“I do not mind, and I do not let it get to me. What I did was a necessary evil, and someone has to stain their hands with blood.” He replied when Gregor told him to try to not get Daro’Vasora’s words to get to him. “But I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless, thank you my friend.” He added, smiling at the Imperial. He drummed his fingers against the table when Gregor half-stated and half-asked that he was more than a regular soldier. The silence stretched for a few more moments before Jaraleet decided to speak again. “Yes, I was more than a mere soldier. I started as one, but by the end of my….tenure amongst the armies of the An-Xileel I was more than that.” He lied easily, taking another swig from the bottle of wine. “I could say the same to you my friend. Not many people, including professional soldiers, can stand to see an interrogation in progress without flinching.”

That made Gregor laugh. “No, you’re right. My younger self would have been dismayed at my composure today. I used to be a soft-hearted romantic, but… life has jaded me, much like your wars have done to you. I spent a long time in Skyrim with a group of Vigilants of Stendarr. We dismantled several covens of witches, put necromancers to the sword and eradicated vampire nests. I’ve seen things during that time… well,” he said and rubbed his eyes, “I still think war is probably the worst thing in the world, and I don’t mean to imply that the things I’ve done are comparable to what I imagine you have had to do, but there are plenty of horrors in the dark corners of the world that are a worse sight than an interrogation. Let me put it like that.”

It was easy to lie like this -- everything Gregor had said was true, and it was simply a matter of omitting the parts he did not want Jaraleet to know. “I tried to save Nblec, you know,” Gregor added, looking sidelong at his friend. “But I don’t have Raelynn’s skills. And we both know what she had her hands full with.”

“Ah, yes, poor Calen. It is a shame that he was wounded like he was, and for nothing as he turned out with Nblec’s death. Still, I thank you for trying to save Nblec’s life.” The Argonian replied, smiling at Gregor before he took yet another swig for the bottle. It was an odd comment to drop all of a sudden, and it raised Jaraleet’s suspicions. “Still, I can’t help but feel a bit frustrated. I was so sure that I had been careful enough to ensure that Nblec would survive…” The Argonian said, rapping his knuckles against the wood of the table. “But I guess that’s what happens when you deal with a race that hasn’t been on Nirn for the last hundred centuries. The unexpected happens, doesn’t it?”

There it was. Jaraleet didn’t buy Gregor’s story after all. He wasn’t surprised -- if anyone would know that he was lying, it would be the expert interrogator himself. Gregor smiled and looked away, thinking of what to say next. It unsettled him that he had no idea what Jaraleet was thinking by simply looking at him. As far as he could tell, his reptilian ally experienced a permanent sense of indifference. “Maybe that’s why the Dwemer made those automatons of theirs,” he offered, smiling sheepishly -- he knew that what he was saying was nonsense, but he thought it was best to play dumb now. “Their bodies aren’t made to endure the stress of combat or confrontation like that. Who knows?”

“Perhaps, mer bodies are very sensitive. Did you know that?” The Argonian replied without missing a beat, still smiling at Gregor but the suspicions in his mind were mounting up. “Much like Argonian bodies in fact. But I’ve seen mer survive techniques that can only be applied in Argonia, and ones that are much more violent than merely pulling out nails. So I doubt that a Dwemer would die to something so simple.” He continued on, taking another swig from his bottle as he waited for what Gregor would say next.

Gregor opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He did not want to think of the type of torture methods that Black Marsh produced. Based on what he knew of the place, it was something absolutely abhorrent. “Well, I didn’t kill him,” Gregor said at length. “What else can it have been?” He took another sip of a wine, a bigger one this time, and hoped that Jaraleet would drop the subject.

The last time Gregor had tried a stunt like this, he had killed all of the witnesses. I really have to be more careful, he thought to himself.

“I never said you did my friend, I was merely airing out my frustrations.” The Argonian replied with a mirthless smile, something that Gregor probably wouldn’t be able to tell. “As for what it could have been, I can think of a number of reasons. Some unknown Dwemer technology or magic, there’s so much we don’t know about them after all, or it could have very well been an act of internal sabotage. But I prefer not to consider the latter option.” He said, taking another swig from the bottle of wine, his suspicions about Gregor all but confirmed now.

“Me neither,” Gregor was quick to add. “But… if you were to consider the possibility,” he continued, looking down into his glass, “who would you suspect?”

“Hmmm, in such a theoretical scenario I’d naturally consider the culprit to be the last person who was with the person being interrogated. But that couldn’t have been you, right my friend?” The Argonian said, taking a long swig from the bottle to hide the smirk on his face as he waited for Gregor’s reaction.

Oh, to hell with this.

“A necessary evil,” Gregor said, repeating Jaraleet. His voice had changed; it was deeper, more deliberate, and there was a touch of iron to the eyes that bore into Jaraleet’s from above the rim of his glass. “You used those words earlier. Perhaps what happened to Nblec was just that. A necessary evil.”

“Is that so?” The Argonian asked, his amber eyes staring back at Gregor’s without a hint of fear in them. “I find it curious that you'd say something like that...do you know something that the rest of us don't Gregor? It's hard to describe something like a heart attack as a ‘necessary evil’, that is unless one of your Divines decided to strike Nblec down right then and there. But, if that's the case, well, one would hardly could justify describing that as an evil, no?”

Jaraleet’s unblinking gaze -- that Gregor could read. “You know what happened,” he said softly and set the glass of wine aside. “I can see it in your eyes. And it doesn’t scare you. You're fearless," Gregor continued as he leaned forwards. "Cold, calculating, ruthless. That's your strength. But you don't know fear.” He paused and his dark eyes were like a black pool, its depth immeasurable. “I'm very, very afraid. That makes me more dangerous than you could ever be. I have my reasons, Jaraleet. Nblec’s death was a necessary evil. For your sake… don't get in my way.”

Jaraleet remained silent for a few seconds before he started laughing, albeit there was no mirth whatsoever to the sound. When the Argonian finally stopped, he regarded Gregor with the same cold eyes that he had regarded Nblec Mrazac with as he had interrogated the Dwemer. “Yes, a man who is afraid is very dangerous indeed.” The assassin began speaking icily, staring directly at Gregor’s eyes. “But a man who is afraid is also reckless, prone to stupid decisions.” He hissed, motioning towards the streets of Gilane with one free hand. “Look at what's happening out there, the Dwemer will hunt us in full force and your little act has turned us into a liability in the eyes of the Poncy Man.” Jaraleet said, pausing for a second before continuing. “I don't know why you murdered Nblec, but I doubt you'll be able to reap whatever rewards you might obtain from such an act if our gracious host suddenly poisons you, and the rest of us as well, because we've become too great a risk.” He finished, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, and Gregor? Before threatening me, consider the following.” Jaraleet added, pausing for a brief second to let the Imperial process what he had said previously. “What do you think could cause a man to lose the ability to fear? I've seen and done things that would even make you aghast, and I've survived more than you might think. For your sake, hope that we don't find ourselves on opposing sides.”

“I know all of that,” Gregor bit back, visibly aggravated. “But you have no idea who I am, or what’s on my heels. I had to do it. You wouldn’t understand.” He fell silent again, staring at Jaraleet with a grim expression, wondering about how much danger he was in. “All I ask is that you don’t tell the rest of the group about this. In turn, I promise that I will be less… reckless, in the future, and I will never betray your trust again.”

A thought came to him and he smiled. “You’re like me, though, aren’t you? This war we’re in… we both have ulterior motives. A man like you, with skills like that, never truly leaves his war. Argonia versus the world. I refuse to believe that you truly care about this land or what happens to it. You’re too cold, too far gone for that. I believe you when you say that you have gone through terrible things… for your country, right? You remind me of my father, in that way. He never truly believed the Great War was over. I could see it in his eyes.”

Gregor leaned forward and continued in a low voice. “We don’t have to be at odds, you and I. If we are both honest with each other about who we are and what we want… I think we can help one another. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, that is a very real possibility.” The Argonian replied at Gregor’s suggestion that they might be able to help each other. “You are correct in saying that I have no idea of who you are, or in what situation you are, and in at, much like you, I have ulterior motives as well.” He said, pausing for a second to ponder what to say next. “I would have no problems helping you achieve your goals truth be told, as long as we avoid a situation like the one we are at present. Does that seems like a good compromise to you?”

“And, yes, I am very much like you Gregor. My war, as you put it, won't be over until the day I die, and I can't, won't, leave it, for the sake of my country and my people.” Jaraleet added, taking the bottle of wine again and taking a swig of its contents as he waited for Gregor to reply.

“I understand that,” Gregor said and nodded slowly. “I know it doesn’t make sense right now, but I did what I did for my family’s sake as much as my own. Yes, that is an acceptable compromise. Honestly, with the aid of someone like you, I won’t have to sabotage the group like that again. Believe me, I took no pleasure in creating a situation in which Calen could possibly have died for nothing. I haven’t even been able to muster the courage to visit him,” he added and sighed. He was so weary. The weight of his mission and his suppressed conscience was sometimes almost too much to bear. He wished he could be like Jaraleet; calm, detached, rational. But he couldn’t. His emotions drove him forward. They were at the core of his very being.

Convinced that the imminent danger of being outed as a murderer had passed, Gregor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You gave me quite a fright there, Jaraleet,” the Imperial admitted and grinned sheepishly. “If we hadn’t been able to come to an understanding just now, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Probably something that would have put either of us in quite a complicated situation. Luckily we managed to achieve a satisfying compromise.” The Argonian replied with a chuckle, drinking from the bottle once again. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he raised the bottle in Gregor’s direction, smirking slightly. “To a successful partnership, my friend.” Jaraleet said, taking another drink from the bottle.

Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane
2nd of Midyear, Afternoon

Shakti sat in a windowsill and watched people come and go. She had snatched some food from the kitchen when no one was looking and from an empty table in the dining area and eagerly munched away as she observed the comings and goings of the various residents of the hotel. Some she had recognised from her rescue and subsequent milling about the ground of the place, but others she had not recognised or perhaps they were guests. It was a hotel after all, so she had to assume they had legitimate guests. Either way, Shakti watched them as she ate and ate as she watched. She had a bowl of stew and a piece of bread which she swirled in the hearty broth as she nibbled on it. She washed it all down with a swig from her canteen which contained water. Almost as good as goat’s milk. Almost.

"Food pretty good, eh?" After refraining from eating for almost a whole day, it was no surprise that Meg had pretty much inhaled her lunch and then gotten herself seconds. Her stomach a little filled now, she had started eating slowly rather than shovelling stew soaked bread in her mouth, so she had the opportunity to actually looked around herself and do a little people watching. Morning most she recognized, having seen them about since her arrival. There was however a face she had only seen once, the Redguard Brynja and the others had rescued. Having been distracted by her own mission and other news, Meg hadn't been able to introduce herself, until now.

"I'm Meg, by the way." She offered the young woman a smile. "Or Megana, but call me whatchu want. Sorry didn' get a chance t'meet you 'til now."

Shakti jumped a little at the voice. She hadn’t seen the other woman come up beside her, being too busy eating and staring to pay attention to her periphery. She swallowed a bite of food and responded, “Oh hello. Yes, it is very good, though I’m mostly just hungry. It is good to meet you Megana, I am Ta- Shakti, is what they call me.” She cursed herself for slipping up. She wasn’t used to codenames yet. Hopefully it wouldn’t matter, this new woman seemed friendly enough so far. Looks could be deceiving though. Shakti grinned back and tore off a piece of bread and offered it to Megana.

“Oh, thankies!” Not one to say no to offered food, Meg took the bread and took a hearty bite from it, enjoying the taste and texture. “Mmm…” Yes, refraining from food really did help remind a person how enjoyable eating actually was. Meg could only imagine how it had to be for Shakti, having been stuck in the prison. Her ventures underground in Skyrim had often and rather accidentally taken her to cells with long dead prisoners, some Imperial supporters, some of the Stormcloaks, others just having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was nice to know that this young woman who was kind enough to share bread with a complete stranger had been saved from such a fate by her companions.
“That’s a lovely name y’got there,” she commented once she’d swallowed and cleared her throat with a gulp of water. “Hm…” She decided not to comment on the fact that Shakti mentioned it was what she was called. “How’re you findin’ it here? The Three Crowns I mean, I’m assumin’ you’re from here, Hammerfell that is.”

Shakti took another bite of her bread as she thought about Meg’s question. Well, the city was nice enough, although she missed the desert and its open skies. It was somewhat claustrophobic in the tightly wound city streets and alleys. “I, I think I like it here. I am from the Alik’r desert and I miss it but... But Gilane isn’t so bad. The hotel is nice as well, even if the room they gave me is a bit, er, small.” Shakti kicked her feet a bit as she swirled some bread in the soup and took another bite. “I do not recognise your accent. Where are you from? Is it anything like this? I know the weather here can take a bit of getting used to. Or so I’ve heard, I have not actually been outside Hammerfell.” The young Redguard offered a sheepish smile to go with her comment.

“Woah, the desert…” Meg had a hard time even imagining how the weather out there had to be. Roasting in the desert sounded just about right, if Gilane felt so hot and sticky to her. Mara please don' let the desert be a place we gotta visit…

“Oh, I'm from Skyrim!” She was quick to jump on the much cooler topic. “Not like here at all… it's cool all year roun’, an’ some places there's always snow, like Winterhold. I've seen lotsa Redguard in Skyrim, even an Alik’r warrior once.” She couldn't help but notice the sheepish smile on Shakti’s face. “Some months ago, Skyrim had been the only country I roamed 'round. Stick with us an’ I'm sure you'll be seein’ lots more of Tamriel than y’ever thought was possible.”

“There are Alik’r in Skyrim? In the snow?” The notion somewhat surprised Shakti. She had never really seen snow before. It got cold in the desert at night, but it did not really snow. She wondered if it was like sand that was always cold. She tried to picture what that would be like, but it was hard to picture it in her mind. “I hope I get to see more of Tamriel. I’ve heard tales of what it is like, but to see it in person… It would be wondrous!”

“Aye, there are,” Meg replied with a grin. It wasn’t often when she found herself more knowledgeable on a subject that someone else, so she was relishing the moment as much as she had enjoyed her food just a few minutes ago. “Pro’ly just passin’ through, never really chatted with ‘em. But I did know a few Redguard in Riften growin’ up, and when I moved t’Whiterun.” She nodded in agreement to seeing more of Tamriel. “Aye… it’s pretty damn amazin’ how the differen’ places can be, just by usin’ your own two feet t’move ‘round.” She looked out of the window; catching sight of the sky, she nodded toward it. “Even the sky here looks differen’ from what I was used t’seein’ back home… I’m hopin’ maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better an’ get t’know Gilane more.”

She looked away from the window and once more set her eyes on Shakti. “So… how’re you findin’ the others?”
“Well, aside from you I’ve only spoken to two others, maybe three. There is the tall Orcish woman, Mazrah. She seems like she has a good heart, if a bit, er rough. There is also the Khajiit, Daro’Vasora.” Shakti put a hand on her sword, “She had my sword, and I traded her for it. She too was very kind, but she also seemed troubled by things. I also briefly met an Argonian, though I do not know their name, only that they freed me.” She had seen a few others stalking the grounds of the compound, but they had all seemed troubled by something. It seems there was a shadow of something hanging over the members of the group, though Shakti could not begin to guess at what it could be. Especially when she had been so consumed by her own problems with recovering her sword.

Meg nodded. "Y'mean Judena," she provided, an instant smile finding itself on her face as she thought of the older argonian woman. "She's been with us since the beginnin', pro'ly one of the sweetest person I ever met." She thought something over for a couple of seconds before continuing. "Don' be surprised if she doesn' remember your name at firs'. She can be forgetful, but she's someone y'want on yer side." That and there was just something about the older argonian that made you like her... even Durantel hadn't been immune.

"I haven' met Mazrah yet, but if Sora- er, Daro'Vasora trusts her, then so do I. An' the same goes for you." She offered the Redguard a smile and her hand.

“Judena. Got it.” Shakti said, trying the word out. “Yes, she did seem rather kind in the brief moments we interacted. I had never seen an Argonian before her.” The Redguard clasped her two hands around Meg’s outstretched hand, slightly unsure of what she was supposed to be doing. She did however, know that a smile begets a smile in return, and so she beamed back at the Nord woman. “It has truly been nice to meet you, Megana. However, it is almost midday and I must practice my sword-forms. I hope we will speak again soon!” With that, Shakti hopped off of her perch and bowed to Meg.

Meg stood up as well and returned the bow, feeling it was probably the nice thing to. "Aye, t'was nice meetin' you as well, Shakti! Hope t'see y'around again!"

Finishing her bow, Shakti raced off towards a deserted courtyard, no doubt intent on practicing her attitudes with a sword in the warm afternoon sunshine.

A Stormy and Dervs Collab

---

3rd Midyear, 4E208, Hawkford Residence - Evening

It had been a long day for Salosoix Hawkford. The aftermath of the vicious attack on his daughter had left him feeling torn up inside. Having to conceal his pain only allowed the emotional wound to fester.

He was used to this.

If his daughter was calculating, he was too, tenfold. Her tutor in the art of manipulative diplomacy. If she was ambitious, it was because those ideals had been taught by her father. If she could seduce the hearts of men, then it was her father’s silver tongue and unmatched wit that had taught her how. In his youth, he was quite the ladies man - but it was Roxada Encenitte who won his heart and soul entirely. Only two years after their marriage, they welcomed into the world Raelynn - who would once again be another woman to take Salosoix’s heart and soul in full. Through the years, they tried to conceive more children - but alas fate would not allow it, and so this only made Salosoix’s love for his daughter deeper. She was his precious Sunlight.

He thought fondly of his wife as he paced through the alleyways of Gilane, back to his residence with a selection of tomes under his arm, and a bag of Knafeh in the other. Her eyes were emerald in colour - beautiful, vibrant, and inviting unlike the piercingly cold eyes of steel blue that both he and his daughter shared. He sighed happily as he pictured her radiant beauty in his mind's eye. To think of her brought him some peace - and reaffirmed why he was here. Why he was doing what he was doing. To think of her reminded him that everything would happen as it should, and would be alright. It was one of the few times that he allowed himself to soften.

As he entered his home, he immediately felt a chill strike him. The lamps had been extinguished, perhaps by a person or by a gust from an open window. Of a window that he had not left open.

Immediately he was on guard. Immediately he knew who was here. As he stepped out of the modest foyer and into the main room of his dwellings, he first saw the Khajiit in his chair. With his feet on his desk, the abuser of his Sunlight. He clenched his jaw, and as the moonlight pooled into the room it was then that he then noticed one of his guards, Barast, was pinned to the wall by his throat - dead - with a dagger that now sparkled with his blood. He looked from Barast’s body, to the Khajiit, and back to Barast before he placed his belongings calmly down on the side table.

His insides were boiling with fury, he imagined how it would feel to bring a cleaver down in between the eyes of this feral creature - but he did not show it on his face. He maintained an unbothered posture. He was cunning. He was not a fighter, he would not approach this vermin as such.

“So you must be the one who captured my Raelynn, then?” He asked in as nonchalant a tone as he could muster. “Very clever of you to find your way here - do what I do owe the pleasure?”

“What gave it away?” Zaveed asked, tapping a pistol across his knee. As little of a threat as Salosoix Hawkford posed to the privateer, he found the effortless display of power was enough to keep most men’s tempers in check and avoided unnecessary extra effort in subduing quarry before getting to the point of the encounter. Of course, his axes did most of the work, and they often were the most effective at conveying his displeasure at an individual. “A remarkable woman, Raelynn. She came right here after our last… ah, session. I should like to pick up where we left off. I’ve unfinished business, and she is instrumental in my performing of my duties.” He glanced over at Barast’s limp form hanging from the wooden beam. “I imagine that you are capable of picturing what happens when my desires are not sated, Salosoix. I’m a busy man and my time is more precious to me than your life, have I not made that clear?” he asked, his tone was cordial, but there was no mistaking the riptide of malice that lurked beneath the Khajiit’s pleasant veneer.

“A shame about Barast, I liked that one - and you’ve made a mess over my tapestry, Khajiit.” He approached the guard pinned into the wall, and placed a hand against his arm as if to comfort him. Nostrils flared at the mention of Raelynn and the crude reminder of her experience. “I’d ask you not to speak like that of my daughter, speaking of - if you think I will hand her over to you, then you are sadly mistaken.” He walked away from Barast and towards the desk, nodding in acknowledgment of the pistol that the Khajiit was so desperate for him to see. “Ahh yes, I can see your little toy there. You’ll have no trouble from me tonight if we can keep this conversation civil.” He gave a crooked smile to Zaveed, before sitting down at the other side of the desk.

“You seem to be mistaken of the nature of my visit, this isn’t one of your business negotiations. I am simply telling you how things shall be. I will find her again, and I’ve had many opportunities the past few days to do what I pleased, but the timing was simply wrong.” Zaveed replied, his ice-blue eyes boring into the aging Breton’s. “The question is how much trouble you wish me to spare you. Dear Barast there had the mercy of a quick death, a regrettable action, but one that necessitated the stakes here. Raelynn traded her life for his, and while it wasn’t the guard she sold out… it was enough to get the point across that there is nowhere she can go that I cannot follow. Are you comfortable with the idea that you will receive similar, but much worse, treatment than her?” the Khajiit asked, the barrel tapping impatiently on his knee.

“Ah but isn’t life just a string of business negotiations? I am not a fighter. I can’t fight you and you know it. I know it too. I did go and speak to our lovely mutual friend, Governor Rourken this morning though - to discuss these issues. You might want to get to the point of why you’re here.” His face became smug and his tone was moderately threatening under the veil of his smile, and he folded his arms into his lap unafraid to break eye contact with the Khajiit. “You say you can take her at any time? So why do you come to me? Chop chop, negotiate.”

Zaveed stood, pacing across the floor to where the guard was hanging from the wall and with his free hand he pulled free his elven dagger, the sapphire pommel shimmering in the lamplight as blood escaped through the open gash in the man’s neck as he crumbled to the floor. The Khajiit stood close to Salosoix now, holstering the pistol and wiping the dagger clean on the arm of the man’s shirt. “As yes, my darling Governor. I am sure what you are meaning to say but are too salamander shit to let slip between those earthworms you call lips is that my being here could bring me a world of pain and trouble because of your powerful connection, is that it? That my dear Governor Rourken is going to be furious that one of her deep seated agents is being threatened by someone so low on the hierarchy he might as well be a bloody courtesan servicing an entire battalion of her finest troops?” Zaveed purred behind Salosoix, the blade turning over to be wiped clean on the other sleeve.

That got his attention, and his eyes flashed with tempestuous fury and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Khajiit, why are you here and what do you want? You make such theatre of yourself. I’m not going to play around with you and as I said, I’m here to negotiate. We both are associates of Rourken, we each have our own goals. What are yours?” He inched his head away from the Zaveed as he skulked around behind him. “What does it have to do with my Raelynn? Out with it so we can finish this show.” His voice had risen, tone impatient. Zaveed surely could kill him in his chair and there would be nothing he could do to stop it - but he did not show any fear to him. He was genuine in his attempt to reach the middle ground of what they both wanted - even if he knew that he and his daughter’s life were hanging in the balance...

The dagger was at the man’s throat and his hair pulled back with a violent tug, the sharpened and honed blade tasting flesh. Zaveed leaned down so his canines were inches from the man’s ears. “You threaten me with the Governor’s wrath, but how do you suppose she’s going to feel when her trusted peon has been willingly and eagerly harbouring one of the terrorists that murdered one of her administrators that was promoting the image of peaceful cohabitation in this fucking city, attacked her loyalist guards and released a bunch of murderers and rapists back into the streets, and murdered several of her soldiers and freed even more terrorists back into their ratholes? Do you think your life, or mine, would be more at jeopardy if she found out that dear old Raelynn was living comfortably under her traitorous cunt of a father’s shadow who has been playing both sides? You cannot proclaim yourself to be loyal to her while harbouring your sweet, innocent daughter, you stupid fuck. Do you think you’re the only person of your not all that impressive stature that I’ve gutted on her behalf? Maybe it’ll be a mercy if I do it here, and now, so you can be spared fighting for your life in the arena against a foe who knows that ripping apart a fat, soft Breton man can earn his liberation?” he snarled into the man’s ear, all pretense of civility gone from his tones.

Zaveed pulled the knife away suddenly and slammed Salosoix’s head against the table as he sat down next to the man, his disposition back to casual indifference. “So, here’s how it’s going to go, Sal.” the Khajiit said, his tone returned to a cordial infliction. He pulled a piece of parchment out of his breast pocket and placed it gingerly beside the man’s face. “This is an address. You are to send Raelynn there in two days, telling her it’s something to do with your family trade, I don’t really care what you say so long as she arrives willingly and alone. In exchange for this, I will not cause her any more physical anguish, you get to keep your wretched life, and I will permit you both to leave this city unharmed because it is in my authority to pardon your crimes if it helps take down much more serious threats to Governor Rourken’s stability.

“If you do not follow my simple instructions and she does not arrive as expected, she will be disemboweled in public and I will return with several agents and personally see that every single member of your entourage is slaughtered before your eyes before I personally gouge them out and cut your hamstrings to leave you to die as a crippled, blind man who will forever wallow in his pathetic, useless husk of a body until he begs someone to take his life for him.” Zaveed outlined, tapping the pommel of his dagger on the man’s head. “And I will see to it that it becomes a crime to mercy kill a beggar in these streets, so everyone will think twice of taking pity on you. Do I paint a vibrant enough picture for you, or do you need a demonstration?” Zaveed asked, reaching over to gently cusp the man’s face, a claw unsheathing itself dangerously close to Salosoix’s eye.

Free from the grip of Zaveed, he spat onto the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. “All you had to do was ask me in the first instance, Zaveed of Senchal.” His voice dry and cracking, he coughed. “There is so much violence in you, don't you ever tire of it?” He snatched the parchment from the desk and glanced over it, a long sigh followed. “You will not harm her, you will not bruise an inch of her skin. You will get her on a boat to High Rock immediately afterwards. To guarantee she is not hurt, I’ll play - I'll remove the threat of her precious lover and the Argonian and have them slaughter some of the Poncy Man’s new recruits upon their arrival in Gilane, because it will please our lovely Governor to see a pile of bodies on the other side... But you will not harm her, I want your word on that one.”

The Khajiit nodded solemnly. “You have my word that no harm will come to her. She will be detained, briefly, but further injury is detrimental to my aims.”

“She will be on the boat?” He asked, in a wheeze of a voice - glad they could reach an understanding - even if it had almost cost him a few front teeth. He’d been in worse scrapes.

“When one is able to be chartered, of course.” Zaveed cleared his throat, producing a small vial and placing it on the table. “A health potion, for your troubles. I am glad we were able to come to an understanding.” he said, rising up from the table and sliding his blade back into its sheath on his back. He took a few steps away from the man, turning with a hand on a door frame. “Violence is the only thing that has ever gotten me results. If you do not wish to be stepped on by men who do not cower to those of higher station, I suggest you learn how to embrace it. Good evening, mister Hawkford. Play your part and this will remain nothing but a bad memory, but you will still have your family by the end of the week.” with that, the Khajiit disappeared into the darkness, his footfalls nearly silent as he exited the premises, leaving Salosoix alone to his thoughts.

As he wiped the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief, he was beyond distraught. Zaveed was gone and he released a tense sigh, tears filling up in his eyelids.

“What have I done?”

---

The marketplace, Gilane, 3rd Midyear
Mid afternoon

The way back to the hotel had proved much quicker than Meg had thought it would. It seemed Zahir had a good eye for memorizing routes and directions. After getting breakfast for herself and for him, she had managed to convince the boy to no longer steal from others. Truthfully, it wasn't the crime that bothered her as much as the idea that he might get hurt. The promise of food seemed to work, thank Mara, for a price though. While the idea of giving someone free food pleased the generous part of her, the more sensible voice in her mind told her that it was best he learned from this age that making money- or in this case earning food- meant you had to work for it. Therefore, the deal was that he would have to be her guide throughout her days in Gilane.

And so Meg once again found herself in the marketplace, this time with paper and pen as she drew a crude map, letting Zahir lead her about the many confusing streets that were now quite crowded with merchants, patrons, tourists and every day folk. She hadn't even been that far from the hotel, but now that she needn't worry about a scrawny little thief running off with her money, she realized there was so much to actually see, enough that her mind could occasionally forget the heat. Exotics fruits and snacks being rivaled by other hawkers who claimed to have even better wares, blacksmiths with their constant noise, stalls and shops selling clothes, restaurants, inns, shadier inns that were probably really brothels and hookah bars in disguise... there was so much to see, and Meg knew it would take a lifetime for her to actually do just that.

"Your eyes are as big as saucers," Zahir pointed out at one junction, prodding Meg in the side, which she reciprocated with a sigh.

"Maybe, but tha's only 'cause there's so bloody much t'see," was her reply. She paused by a vendor of a rather tantalizing looking pastry that was simply oozing with syrup, and her mouth immediately filled with saliva that forced her to swallow.

"You should buy that," Zahir prompted her, wiping his own mouth as he accidentally drooled.

"Y'just wan' for yerself," she retorted, quickly moving away from the stall before the owner could convince her that the pastry was needed to complete her life. "I ain' got money t'waste of sweets. I'm just here t'do... what's that word... reconnaisance."

"What?" the boy replied, his expressionless face showing Meg that he didn't get what she said.

"Never min' that, let's keep movin'," was her reply.

And so they continued onward, with Meg mapping out more places. She was quite pleased with her progress, despite the fact that her forehead and neck were damp with sweat, along with the front and back of her tunic. "Let's take a break, eh?" she muttered as she grabbed her hair with one hand, fanning her neck with the other. Her eyes wandered even as she did, following after a family of dwemer, a couple with two children. Once again she was struck by how normal they looked. The boy, he was just about the same age as Zahir. Would he have to one day wake up to find his mother dead and father taken-

"Why don't you cut your hair?" Zahir's words interrupted her thoughts, and she was grateful for that. "Mother used to have hers really short, almost like mine."

"Y'know, that's a good idea. Wanna show me the way t'someplace that can do jus' that?"

It turned out Zahir could do just that. Meg couldn't help but be impressed by the way he seemed to easily navigate himself without getting lost. If he'd had any sort of sneakiness or stealth to him, she would have had a hard time catching him earlier in the morning.

"How'd y'know the roads so well?" she asked as he finally slowed down. Up ahead she could see a barber stall, where a man was currently having his beard and mustache trimmed.

"My father," was Zahir's reply, shrugging a little as he looked back at her. "He used to work in the market- he had a fruit cart that he'd push all around the market. When I was old enough, I would go with him too. It was tiring, and I used to hate it, but..." He paused in his steps, shoulders slumping for a split second before he stiffened them. Meg suspected he was trying to be strong, despite how he felt. She could sympathize. The older a person became, the more they forgot that the world was a scary place, and especially for a child who had no one but themself.

"Well, y'did good," she said, hoping to distract him from his dark thoughts. "Me? I'd've been lost in seconds. You're gonna get an extra bun for dinner for gettin' me here so quick."

The wait by the barber wasn't too long, and soon enough Meg was leaning back in the chair. The area was shaded from the sun, the warmth a little more bearable than when she was walking after Zahir. Letting out a sigh, she closed her eyes, half listening to the barber and Zahir as they spoke. Apparently they knew each other from before. Meg couldn't help but smile, reminiscing of when she was small and would have such conversations with her Pa's associates. Of course, they'd all been thieves he'd rather she'd never heard of, but every experience was a precious one to learn from, right?

As she rested in her drowsy state, her mind began to wander, strolling through other memories, traversing from childhood to adulthood in what seemed like hours but was probably only a few seconds. Faces of people she loved, faces of people who were important to her, her friends, her companions, Brynja... Judena and Daro'Vasora... Jaraleet-

Her forehead creased as she thought of the argonian, their conversation from the day before as clear as crystal. It was still hard to process that he could do such a thing, but his explanation to her, whether she liked it or not, had made sense. What did not make sense was the dwemer dying. She didn't know much about torture, it was true, and she didn't want to. Could someone die due to what he had done? She didn't know, but the fact that he told her he hadn't killed the dwemer was enough for Meg.

But then... who was it? She knew Calen and Latro had been on that mission as well, and then Raelynn and the Imperial man named Gregor. Her mind instantly rejected Calen from having part in anything so sinister- Jaraleet had mentioned he had been opposed to it anyway. She very much doubted Latro had anything to do with the dwemer's death either- she didn't think that was something Daro'Vasora would let go of easily. That left Raelynn and Gregor, both of whom Meg didn't know much about, despite having been travelling companions for a while.

Maybe they know somethin'... maybe they're the ones? It was a dangerous idea, to doubt people from their group, but who else was there besides those four? It can' hurt to ask-

Once more Zahir's words broke her out of her thoughts. "Miss Meg?" he called, shaking her arm. "Are you sleeping?"

"Just Meg, the 'miss' soun's terrible. An' no, I'm not sleepin'." She sat up straight, bringing her hand to her neck where to her delight she could no longer feel wavy locks pressing against her skin. "Well this feels great!"

"You look weird," the boy commented.

"An' y'look like a snot nosed skeever," Meg replied, scowling at him though it quickly shifted to a grin. "Say what ya wan', I'm feelin' lighter than ever."

Her money pouch was unfortunately feeling a little lighter as well once the duo left the barbershop, leaving Meg with a slight pout to her lips. "I'm gonna havta find a way t'make septims soon," she muttered to herself. It was all well and good, living free for the time being, but what happened if the Poncy Man decided they had overstayed their welcome?

"Why don't you sell that?" Zahir wondered, pointing to the amulet around her neck. "I bet you could make at least a few gold coins out of that!"

Meg looked down at her chest, pausing in her tracks as she contemplated what he said. It was true, she could probably squeeze twenty or so septims out of a merchant for it. It was almost an artifact really, something J'raij had found in a crypt and given to her for safe keeping.

"You will be needing someone to keep you warm one of these days," he'd told her jokingly. She hadn't had the courage to tell him that he was the one she wanted to keep her warm.

"I..." The words were stuck in her throat, so she made a show of coughing on dust so that she could get a hold of her feeling. "I could, aye... but I won'. It's too precious."

Zahir blinked at her, causing her crack a small smile. "T'was given t'me by someone who's not 'round no more. It's like... somethin' to remember him by."

"Oh... like Father kept Mama's ring with him." The understanding on the boy's face was quick to turn to grief, and this time Meg didn't try to distract him.

"Reckon you're right there, kid," she agreed, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing tightly. "Lucky for us, there's somethin' people can' take from us."

"What?" he mumbled.

"Our feelings. Love. Hate." Meg patted at her heart with her free hand. "An' everythin' in between. They're ours, 'less we let people steal it from us."

"Oh..."

"You'll get it someday," she promised, moving her hand from his shoulder. "C'mon, let's get goin'."

4th of Midyear - Mid-Morning
Salosoix Hawkford’s Residence

The middle-aged Breton had started his day as he always did - by watching the sun rise over Gilane and enjoying tea. While the day started as it always did, his morning ritual brought him less pleasure - and it had been that way since the evening of the 2nd when his daughter and arrived at his Hammerfell home in a state. His mind was addled with terrible thoughts, and as he sat at his desk, he took off his spectacles and wiped the lenses with a small cloth.

He had sent for two of his daughter’s companions - Jaraleet the Argonian, and Gregor. He imagined they would be arriving soon with his favoured guard Zhaib. It had been at least an hour since Zhaib had left in pursuit of the two mysterious men. Salosoix was very much looking forward to meeting them, and had set out two chairs at his table for his guests.

The usual incense was burning in the corner, and his handmaiden was floating around to make sure the place was clear and tidy. The entire room had a magenta glow, and was decorated in turquoise, teal, and cerulean colours - flecks of shiny gold highlighting the furniture. In a word, the room was opulent - brimming with his many treasures. It was a cave of wonders. He smiled to himself as his eyes traversed the room, and then he heard the door open; his guests had arrived.

He rose from his seat - he wore some basic linens underneath a cloak that was far grander - a velvet in a deep emerald green hue - the collar high and grazing his square jawline, his once ash-blonde hair was now grey and slicked back - cut to chin length. His expression was stern as his guests entered.

The more eager of the two to meet Raelynn’s father, Gregor, stepped into the room first. He had been tempted to dress up for the occasion and break out his all-black battledress, but it would have made traveling through the city much more of a hassle (as the guards would be on the lookout for an outfit fitting that description). So, Gregor was dressed in his new clothes instead. He cast an appreciative glance at the resplendent interior, but very swiftly focused his gaze on the man in front of him. Salasoix’s green cloak immediately made him regret his decision. “Sir,” the Imperial said and bowed respectfully all the same. “It is a pleasure to finally meet with you.”

“I concur as well, it's a pleasure to finally meet your Mr. Hawkford.” Jaraleet said as he entered after Gregor, bowing respectfully towards the elder Breton and letting his gaze cover the room in a brief second before turning his attention towards the head of the Hawkford family once more.

“Please, gentleman. There is no need for formalities - call me Sal.” The Breton man said, in a pleasant tone, only a half smile played upon his lips as he eyed up the two arrivals over the top of his spectacles. Paying particular attention to the Imperial. He took his seat once more, and with a wave of his hand he beckoned them to sit in their respective seats. “The pleasure is all mine, or at least it will be if we can come to an arrangement this morning.” He did not mince his words, nor did he bother with further small talk. His warm tone had subsided and was replaced by one far more pressing.

He leaned back into his seat and raised a hand - clicking his fingers to grab the attention of his Redguard handmaiden. “Rhoka?, Rhoka!” he expressed impatiently until she scurried to his desk to meet him, “can you please get some refreshments for our guests - anything they’d like”. He glanced over at Gregor and Jaraleet with his half-smile again.

“Just some cold water for me, thank you,” Gregor said. It was shaping up to be another hot day. He noticed how Salasoix paid extra close attention to him -- no surprises there -- and made an effort to meet the Breton's gaze levelly and to return his half-smile with one of his own. He could immediately see how this man had raised a daughter like Raelynn. He was authoritative and his demeanor demanded respect. With no intentions of doing anything to avoid meeting expectations, Gregor waited patiently while Jaraleet placed his order and for Salasoix to explain his desires.

“I will have come cold water as well, thank you very much.” Jaraleet replied before turning his attention to Salasoix once more. It hadn't escaped the Argonian’s attention the way that the elder Hawkford paid extra attention to his Imperial companion but, he supposed, that made sense given the...closeness between him and Salasoix’s daughter. “Well, what is that you wish to talk with us about?” The assassin asked, wondering what was the reason that the old Breton had summoned him and Gregor to his Gilane residence.

“Just water? How exciting for you both - Rhoka, do as our guests request, and why don't you bring some of that Knafeh too?” Jaraleet was bold, he liked it. He turned his head and gave a smile to him, taking a deep breath before he began to speak, “well my dear daughter seems to believe that you two are the most physically capable in your party. I trust my daughter's judgment…” his eyes moved from Jaraleet to Gregor, where he proceeded to look him over from above the spectacles again, “...sometimes.” He chuckled dryly before leaning forwards, elbows on the desk and his hands meeting each other in front of his face as he exhaled. “I have work for capable men -- and before you ask, yes you will be adequately compensated.”

He dropped his hands and got to his feet, moving to a drawer at the back of the room and plucking out two green velvet coin purses. “Two hundred and fifty septims each, of which you will receive fifty today -- a deposit if you will.” He moved back to his desk, letting the two purses hit the desk as he dropped them. The hefty weight clunking against the mahogany. He hoped it would grab their attention. His own eyes even seemed the glisten at the sound. As he took his seat, he spilled out some of the coins onto the desk in front of him and began slowly and methodically counting. “This mission is very important to me, boys. I require you to keep this one to yourselves…”

His voice grew cold and he met both of their eyes with his - an icy blue that matched Raelynn’s exactly. “It seems that our Dwemer overlord has been inviting undesirables to this beautiful city…” He slid the pile of fifty septims to Jaraleet first, before turning to count from the second coin purse. “Nasty little creatures who stalk the innocent in the night… Not very good now, is it?” He asked with a weary sigh, coins clinking in one hand, fingers strumming against the desk in the other. The air around him grew tense until Rhoka arrived to break it with a pitcher of ice water, glasses, and a pastry selection.

“Thank you dear,” he said sharply, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Oh and Rhoka? Can you do a better job of cleaning the walls…” The redguard woman bowed her head and scurried off again. “As I was saying - fucking undesirables.”

That was cause for Gregor to sit up even straighter. He had come from a reasonably wealthy background but life on the road was rough and he hadn’t exactly come into a lot of money lately. Two hundred and fifty septims was a very significant sum of money to him in the current state of his financial affairs. “Undesirables,” Gregor repeated and cleared his throat. “Do I take this to mean criminals, sir? Or something worse? I have plenty of experience either way. Vampires, bandits, necromancers, murderers -- it’s all the same to me,” he said matter-of-factly. It could be construed as a boast, but Gregor merely wanted his potential employer to know the full range of his abilities and previous encounters. He tried to ignore that he was speaking to Raelynn’s father. Business was business.

“Fantastic, bravo,” he said with a smile as a laugh escaped him. He turned to face Jaraleet with a shit-eating grin, “perhaps you would like to recite your resume of achievements, too, Argonian!” He delighted in potentially embarrassing this man in front of his colleague. His laughter quickly dropped and his expression changed entirely - cold and incredibly serious, “the kind of verminous scum that would hurt even innocent women and children, Gregor. Criminal enough for you?”

Gregor shifted in his seat and an almost imperceptible frown appeared on his face. “Quite,” he said tersely.

Jaraleet chuckled softly at Salasoix’s words, but his mood changed as quickly as that of the head of the Hawkford family. “I would have no problems taking on this task for you, sir.” He said, pouring himself a glass of water and taking a sip. “Tell me the name, and location, of our target and it will be done.” The assassin said, his voice now serious as the topic had seemed to return to the work that Salasoix had in mind for them.

“That's what I like to hear.” Sal said in a resonant voice, “if you are both to partake in this mission I require your word that you will follow my instruction to the letter… Don't think I didn't hear about the capture mission. Quite catastrophic…” He lifted his own glass to his lips, and continued counting out Gregor's coins with his free hand. “Mark my words, if either of you fuck this one up…” A dark laugh was spat into the glass at his lips, “I will not be quite as forgiving as the Poncy Man. So it is a good job that my instructions are clear.”

Annoyed, Gregor opened his mouth against his better judgement. “As I recall, the problem with the capture mission was that the target died. You are sending us to kill people now. So, I don’t think that’s something you should worry about.”

He placed his glass back down onto the table, twisting it in its spot just so - as if to make it sit in a specific way. Once he was satisfied he raised his eyes to the mouthy Imperial, about ready to chastise him there and then. He narrowed his eyes and drew a breath, holding a stare upon Gregor. “You're right,” he softened into his seat and placed the last coin on the pile of septims for Gregor’s deposit before sliding it over to him, a friendly smile replacing the previous expression. “I just need you both to understand that the stakes are high, at least to me anyway. I've heard some tales of a sordid creature… a filthy Khajiit who has some rather grotesque methods. These are his henchman if my information is to be correct.” He waited with a smirk to watch the penny drop, and for Gregor to bite onto the hook.

Too hungry for blood to be cautious and wary, Gregor tore into the hook like a shark does to horkers. “I see,” he said, but the intensity in his gaze betrayed his emotions. “They will die, to be sure, but is there no chance that they know more about where this Khajiit makes his lair?”

“You get ahead of yourself,” he purred from his side of the desk, his eyes moving to Jaraleet with another playful grin, “is he always this impatient? Does he know nothing of planning?” With his hands now free he strummed his fingers against his desk and laughed dryly once more. “Gregor, Gregor… I want to get his attention and draw him out of his cesspool and into the light of day.” Sal’s head tilted to the side and he brought his hands together. “Missing henchmen will get his attention and slow down the sepsis he is spreading.”

“You'll do only as I ask, nothing more, nothing less. Are we on the same page?”

“I understand.” Jaraleet said, his voice firm and resolute. He could understand what Salasoix was asking of him and Gregor, it was after all what he had been molded all of his life to be. A tool of murder. One that was, ultimately, disposable if the situation called for it. “I understand,” he repeated, taking a second to look at Gregor. “What is needed of us, what is expected of us. The job will be done.”

Taking the Argonian’s cue, Gregor kept his thoughts to himself. Salasoix was his employer now, he would have to do what was demanded of him. “Nothing more, nothing less,” Gregor echoed, his voice flat.

The Breton opened a drawer from his side of the desk and removed a rolled parchment from within, handing it to Jaraleet. “The location is marked on the map, you will be there and ready at sunset on the fifth, that's tomorrow evening - no earlier and no later.” He had another drink from his glass, obsessively placing it in the same manner as he had before, “dispose of the men quickly. Oh, and when I say dispose… Leave no trace of their bodies. I want it to look like they were never even there.”

He brought his hands back into a point, elbows on the desk and a smile on his face. “I will have your payments dropped off so you don't have to come back and we can pretend this never happened.”

Jaraleet nodded as he took the rolled parchment from Salasoix’s hands. “I understand sir.” He replied. He could easily understand what was asked of him, and that brought him a sense of comfort and familiarity that had been sorely lacking in the last couple of months. It seemed as if, for a second, he was back in Argonia taking orders from his An-Xileel handlers. “We will accomplish our mission.” The Argonian said resolutely before turning to look at Gregor. “Shall we leave?” He asked his Imperial companion, knowing that there was nothing else to be discussed. They had their mission parameters and that was all they needed to complete their mission.

4th Midyear, 4E208CE

Three Crowns Inn, Conference Room…

---

A spoon rang out against a glass in the domed room, where the companions were gathered, milling about wondering what the note they had found on their beds was about. It read, in urgent lettering, HEAD TO THE CONFERENCE ROOM IMMEDIATELY; THERE IS NO TIME TO EXPLAIN, and true to its prose, absolutely no elaboration was made. Other than the oil lamp lighting in the room, there was little to suggest what it could have been about. As the last of the group finally made their appearance, Daro’Vasora made her appearance from a side entrance holding the glass, dressed in a red and black dress without shoes, electing to let her bare feet touch the warm tile.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to face an uncomfortable truth; you’re all a bunch of tight-asses and probably haven’t relaxed since we landed in Gilane. So, in light of this urgent matter, Latro and I have agreed that we were in dire need of a course correction.” Setting the glass down, she clapped her hands and through a curtain came a number of catering staff, bringing out all manner of drinks and food, from ales and rums to fine wines and cheap grog, lobster and trout, salmon and oysters, cheese and breads, fresh fruits, nuts and dates, and an entire cooked pig. Some pastries existed for desert, such as baklava and pudding, but the main attraction was certainly the amount of chilled liquor sitting on frost salts. Daro’Vasora smiled at the staff and thanked them as they filed out of the room, she clapped her hands together, picking up her glass and filling it with a champagne and began to hand it out, repeating the process for each person in attendance.

“I know things have been tense since we got here, and especially after our assignments turned into a shit show that have us all on edge… Calen, I’m glad to see you’re on your feet again, this one’s for you. At least you’ll have some inspiration for a new song, eh?” the Khajiit said with a wink. Calen gestured back to her with a wink of his own and raising the glass of champagne she had just filled for him. Her expression softened as she looked each member of her group in the eyes, seeing how much so many of them had changed in such a short amount of time. “For those of you wondering how such a banquet and feast is possible, well, let’s just say I’ve spent time with our dear Poncy Man and maybe made him have a change of heart about us. We’ve been through a lot, and we are strangers to his land who were asked to do extraordinary things at great risk to ourselves. I might have suggested that helping sponsor a night such as this might be beneficial for all of us in the long run, and well, you see the fruits of that particular talk.” Daro’Vasora said, sweeping an arm across the tables and everything within them.

“You know, it’s been an incredible journey, and for the new faces in the room, I’m glad you’re here with us, and I hope you’ve felt welcomed. So many of us have been together since an ill-fated expedition in the Jerall Mountains where we were hired on by Rhea Valerius, a woman who was so full of excitement for the world and the people in it, she did everything in her power to keep us safe when our lives were in danger. She stayed with us all the way from the expedition, intending to pay us for our services, and of course shortly after Imperial City became under siege and we’ve been on the run since, fighting battles against the Dwemer, surviving a refugee camp, and ultimately escaping a Dominion ambush in Anvil.” A frown covered her face as she looked down and somewhat crestfallen.

“I am not proud of how I conducted myself towards Rhea in those final days, and her last memories of me were of this ingrateful shit that cursed her out for only trying to keep everyone alive at any cost. Her intentions were always pure, even if her actions left a lot of questions in their stead. It took me too late to realize that everything she did was always to try and make sure that we were safe, and it was at great personal cost. I’ve only shouldered a portion of the responsibility she did, and I can feel its crushing weight.” she shook her head, a slight morose smile upon her countenance. “And I think I finally understand. I just know that in her final moments, she looked so happy to be accepted by all of us that having us all together and not casting her aside meant everything to her. Having us all stand here now, together, would have made her contented. And with that said, that’s just what we’re going to do; we’re going to celebrate so hard tonight for her, for us, for everyone we’re fighting for, the Aedra are going to hear us and tell us to shut the fuck up.” The Khajiit grinned, holding her glass high. “To us!” she cheered, taking a drink from the glass and setting it down.

“So, for tonight, let’s just forget about tomorrow and yesterday and focus on the here, and now. Let’s celebrate each other, our friends and companions, our loved ones,” She said, looking towards Latro with a wink. “And let’s celebrate life itself. We’ve all been through a lot, we’d be idiots not to take a few moments to appreciate the fact that despite everything, we’re still here and we’re not going to go quietly into the night.” she said with a smile towards everyone. Turning back to a table, she picked up a practice lock and a set of lockpicks, holding it up for everyone to see, along with a small leather pouch.

“Before I lose you all to the drink and gorging yourselves stupid, allow me to set the mood; this here is a lock I’ve been cracking open nearly every day for four years, and I’ve taken it everywhere with me to keep my skills sharp. The first person who can open it and bring it to me gets a bit of moon sugar to really party hard. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve been talking too much and I need to drink so much I forget half of it. Thanks for coming.” she concluded with a wink, heading over to the wine tray with measured strides that were sure to become much more chaotic as the night went on.

“I’m not sure which is more concerning; that Vasora was acting so happy or the Poncy Man is actually pleased with us.” Calen commented with a humored quip. “The drinks and the food might just be poisoned.” Truly, it was a rather macabre comment to be making given the recent events, but it was likely due to such recent events that Calen had resorted to gallows humor -- he probably had more reason to than anybody. He was only seen as fit enough to be moving around since this morning, and it showed. His face still beared the visage of an exhausted man with half the vigor he usually had, and the loose, flowing, and silky Hammerfell garb exposed the upper half of his chest while the lower half was still wrapped up in clean bandages. A little bit of the local perfume was used to try disguising the smell of the antiseptic ointments, but it just gave the herbal fragrances a medicinal undertone to them. Still, redness had returned to his cheeks, and a weary smile was a smile nonetheless.

"I s'pose then at least we'd have full an' happy stomachs. Dyin' hungry sounds terrible." Megana lifted her glass and took a gulp of her drink, enjoying the different taste of ale that wasn't like any she'd had in Skyrim. A party was the last thing she had expected after reading the urgent sounding message on her bed, but she couldn't say she was disappointed. All this delicious food and drink was just waiting to be consumed- pardon her blasphemy but it reminded her of the tales she had heard about Sovngarde, except of course that this was something she could actually touch and smell and eat without needing to die first. There had been the slight temptation to have a go at Daro'Vasora's lock rather than partake in some of the delicious pastries she had semi-consciously made her way to, but Meg let it be for now. She knew she'd probably be able to open it with minimal struggle, but even then she wasn't one who fooled around with moonsugar despite having been around it on many occasions. Alcohol was her vice when she wished to indulge, and over and above that, it was her sweet tooth she was planning on pampering right now. The others could have the victory of picking a lock.

“Moon sugar? I’ll try anything once,” Mazrah said as she got to her feet with a grin and made her way to the lock with a swagger, dressed as scarcely as she always was. She’d already started drinking before Daro’Vasora had even finished speaking. The towering Orsimer picked up the lock and the tools necessary to pick it, starred uselessly at them for a few seconds and after gingerly fiddling with the lockpicks for half a minute, broke out into laughter. “Does it count if I simply smash it apart against the ground?” she asked loudly and shook her head before putting the whole thing back down on the table. “I have no idea how that works,” she admitted sheepishly and sauntered back to her seat, winking to everyone that made eye-contact with her. “If anyone wants to share that moon sugar with someone and go on an adventure together, you know where to find me.”

---

Gregor watched the proceedings from the back of the room, close to the bar, with a lazy smile playing around his lips. After he had discovered that the invitation pertained to a party and not an enemy invasion, Gregor had dressed into his black clothes, sans cloak; the high-collared, long-sleeved black turtleneck and dark breeches were closer to formal wear than his Hammerfell linens. Raelynn was on his arm and he turned his head to plant a tender kiss on her cheek after Daro’Vasora finished speaking. He was done hiding their relationship from the others, and immensely enjoyed being able to show his affection in public. “Quite nice of the Khajiit to repair our relations with the Poncy Man after… well, you know,” Gregor said in a low voice and squeezed Raelynn’s hand while he idly fiddled with the embedded ruby in his silver ring. His gaze found Calen, much closer to the center of attention, and he took a deep breath. The young Nord looked terrible, even if some life had returned to his cheeks by now. “He looks better. I suppose I should go and speak to him in a bit. I never visited him while he was in the infirmary. Couldn’t muster the courage,” Gregor admitted, repeating the words he had said to Jaraleet a few days before. “Well, either way, this is quite nice, isn’t it? A real change of pace. I dare say it reminds me of the parties back home. How does it compare to High Rock?”

Her blue eyes traversed the room lazily. It had been quite some time since the entire group had been together - it was nice to see them all, especially Calen. Raelynn had listened intently to Sora’s words, they hit her hard for some reason this evening, and she took a shallow sip of her wine as the Khajiit finished - raising her glass only slightly as her response. She eyed Sora up and down in her pretty dress, and it made her feel a slight sadness. She hadn’t changed at all - still she was dressed in the same black dress from the evening prior. It was hardly formalwear - not by her standards, but it allowed her to blend into the background - or at least it would have if Gregor was not by her side. He looked so handsome in his own outfit, and he commanded their corner of the room with his powerfully intense aura, even when he was relaxed she could sense his energy. She smiled.

“Oh it doesn’t compare at all,” she began with a playful smirk, “for a start we wouldn’t have an Orc around - or Khajiit’s in frocks. I wouldn’t be wearing Mage armour to a party either. Still, I wouldn’t have it any other way tonight,” she said quietly in earnest to Gregor, taking another relaxed sip from her glass, squeezing his hand right back.

“Oh yeah,” Alim agreed, referring to Raelynn’s comment on the comparison between this parties and get-togethers in Highrock. Apparently, Alim had managed to infiltrate the room and get behind the bar counter. As much as it seemed like he appeared out of thin air to most. He really just climbed into the window through the kitchens and made it past the barkeep without the man noticing. Alim was pouring himself a drink now right between Gregor and Raelynn, announcing his presence with his casual comment. “They are quite different. Then again, if they’re in high society they’re not as fun. Then again, there’s nothing like taking an aristocratic woman home at night.” He winked, and took a shot.

They hadn’t spoken since their tense confrontation on the balcony, and Gregor eyed the sudden appearance of Alim with a perceptible measure of wariness before he chided himself and let his guard down. It was a party -- let bygones be bygones. “I’ll take one of those, thank you,” Gregor said and pointed at whatever it was that Alim was pouring for himself, and then offered the Redguard his most winning smile. “My apologies for our last conversation, by the way. I meant less than half of the things I said. As for aristocratic women,” he continued and looked back at Raelynn with warmth in his eyes, “they are in short supply around here. I wish you luck in your endeavor; you shall need it.”

She raised an eyebrow in curiosity - Alim and Gregor had talked? Alim and Gregor had a conversation that had warranted an apology? Curious. She let her hand fall against Alim’s arm as he poured a drink for Gregor, gently squeezing it; “you should give us a song my friend - get us started off, High Rock style… What say you to that?” She looked up at him with wide eyes, and a glint of mischief. “I know someone who might enjoy the caramel tones of a rogue like you…” She moved her head to look over at Anifaire in the distance, and then back at Alim.

Alim poured Gregor his drink, sliding it to him easily. “Oh, believe me. I never need luck in such a task.” he said, clinking his own glass with Gregor’s before the man even lifted the drink up to his lips. He patted Gregor on the shoulder to show he felt no hard feelings, though Alim knew if he stuck around there would be hard feelings again and he would have a difficult time not making quips so instead he decided to enter the party proper. He gave a laugh at Raelynn’s comment, giving a sly look back. “Oh you think so?” he asked, refilling Raelynn’s glass with a wink. He vaulted over the bar counter on the Knight’s left side and slid into the party proper.

“I would but I’m just not prepared, honestly.” He scoffed, reaching into his vest to pull out a flute. The instrument looked earthy in color and archaic in design, with bronze rings around it. He’d won it recently and had gotten somewhat good with it. Though he’d keep it simple. He found his way toward a stool at the fore of the room, placing a foot on it as he cleared his throat and began to play. He thought for a moment of what song to begin with. Red Diamond was too solemn, and Sway as We Kiss was for later in the evening. He’ll go with an old High Rock favorite of the lower classes, Mystic Touch. It was far more catchy and less provocative than the title suggested, though if the words were sung it would have a few steamy phrases. As it were he just played the tune.

Calen, from across the room, seemed to almost immediately recognized the tune. Even in his state, he found himself bouncing up and down with excitement -- he hadn’t heard this song in a long time! How did it go again? Even though he was slightly unsure of himself, it didn’t seem to be enough to cause hesitation, for his voice cut into the song and in tune with the flute.

“O, magicka bleeds from the stars above,
and through them Aetherius shines!
I’ve no need for diamonds and silks, my love,
‘cause I’m caught by your spell,
and tonight you’re looking so fine!”

---

Having excused himself from Raelynn to go catch up with Calen, Gregor alerted the Nord to his presence with a gentle touch on his shoulder before pulling up a chair and sitting down across from him, a sincere expression on his face that could be construed as both reassuring and somewhat guilt-stricken. “Calen, my friend… it’s good to see you out and about again,” the Imperial began. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and visit you before. You were in good hands and I thought you needed rest, but… well, the truth is that I did not want to confront my failings.” He smiled a weary smile and dropped his hands in his lap, waiting for Calen to render his judgement.

“Sir Gregor, my friend, I did not realize you were the one who shot me!” Calen jested, followed by a chuckle which he chased with another sip of champagne. As he caught his breath, he looked at him once more, winking, and said, “If you did not want me talking to Raelynn, you need just ask.”

Gregor laughed. “Yes, it was quite a difficult angle from the interrogation room, but I managed,” he said, going along with Calen’s jest for a moment. “And I shall have to take that offer into serious consideration, young man. I fear you will steal her away if you speak more than two words to her. Seriously though,” he continued and cleared his throat while combing his beard with his fingers. “I should have been there with you when the Dwemer attacked. Instead, I was with Nblec and I could not even save him. If you had… you know, died, it would have been for nothing and it would have been my fault. So for that, I am sorry. You were right when you protested.” He shrugged. “Hindsight, right? If only it was so easy for all of us to judge these things in the heat of the moment.”

“Yeah, I was right wasn’t I?” Calen said nonchalantly as he leaned back in his chair, then draping one of his arms over the rests dramatically as he tilted the glass back and slowly slid what was left of his champagne down his throat. It was obvious that the gesture was overplayed and done for comedic effect than anything, as if to accentuate the cockiness of his words, but as he returned the glass to the table, so did his typical demeanor. “But, hey, nothing we can do about that now, right? We’re not Psijics, what’s done is done. This has given me plenty of restoration practice, though.”

To show what he meant, he planted a hand over his bandages, and his brow furrowed in intense focus before a soft, warm (albeit dim) light. It had a fraction of the same intensity Raelynn’s magic had, and it only lasted a few seconds before the light dissipated in the air. Calen let escape a sigh of minor relief. He looked back up and said, “Ah, well, at least it’s kept Raelynn from having to baby me.”

“Very good,” Gregor said with a nod and a smile. “I always preach that self-sufficiency should be every man’s goal out in the field. Well, I say that, but to be honest I learned that from the Vigilants and from my father, before he died. He was a Legionnaire when I was but a child and taught me everything he knew as I grew up.” He looked up as one of the waiters passed by and quickly snatched two glasses of champagne before handing one to Calen. “There you go. To your health and prosperity,” he said and raised his glass in a toast. “By the way, Calen, I heard that there might be something between you and a very pretty girl named Rhona. Is there any truth to that?”

“Man’s trying to get me drunk before the party even begins…” Calen muttered humored quip under his breath, though it was in good nature, before accepting the glass and taking a small sip. He smiled at his company and said, “Gregs, you shot me over one woman, why dare I introduce you to another? Have you no sense of irony?”

Holding his hand to his heart like a man gravely offended, Gregor tutted and took a sip of champagne. “My friend, you wound me so. I am fully satisfied with my companion -- you need not fear any of my lethal reprisals over another.” His voice had taken on an unmistakable faux-dignified air as he acted along with the little play they were concocting, but his ability to stay in character left something to be desired and he broke into a smile. “I really am very glad that you will recover, Calen. All jests aside, however, I am genuinely curious about this woman. I’ve only ever seen her in passing and I haven’t forgotten the mother-bear stare I got from Brynja when we were sailing on the Intrepid whenever I looked at Rhona. What’s your story together?”

“Hm, well, let’s see…” Calen began, leaning back into his chair as he began wistfully recounting the beginning of his journey from Skingrad. “Well, I just so happen to be a homewrecker. She ran into me first, away from her… husband? Ex-husband? I’m not really sure. Anyway, he… he wasn’t a pleasant man. I didn’t know any of that at the time, I just helped hide her from whoever was chasing her back in Skingrad. Threw Cezare off her trail. Took her to a nearby lake -- well, she took me, I don’t have a sense of direction -- and, uh, we ended back up at my wagon. Had a few drinks, one thing led to another…”

The warm smile on his face was telling as he fell into silence.

“Very romantic,” Gregor said with a pleasant twinkle in his eyes. “Saving the damsel in distress. I should have seen that coming.” He hid behind his champagne glass for a moment while he tried to forget the fact that a romantic outing for Raelynn and himself consisted of sacrificing a defenseless elf’s soul to the dead gods of a dead realm. He admonished himself mentally -- there was no sense in thinking that way. He should be glad that she was so accepting of his methods, not ruefully wish for things to be different. They weren’t.

Calen laughed and said, “Yeah, I’m living every Nord’s dream aren’t I?”

“Actually, I think that might be more of a Breton ideal,” Gregor replied, having recovered from his moment of doubt. “You’re a little light on the weaponry, blood and glory for a traditional Nord. Right?” He stared at Calen and slightly tilted his head, as if he was seeing him for the first time. Perhaps that’s why he had immediately taken to Calen so much the very first time they met back in Skyrim: he wasn’t like the rest of them.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Calen grumbled as he crossed his arms on the table and hid his face in them. After a brief moment and lifted his head back up and admitted, “Honestly, I might just be the worst Nord from Skyrim. I don’t have a fightin’ bone in me, I can’t help it! That’s just more of my elder brother’s speed, I guess.”

Gregor blinked. “I wouldn’t say that. You threw yourself in front of Latro with nary a second of hesitation, the way I heard it. Courage is the first step towards martial prowess.” He finished his glass of champagne and gingerly put it down on the table, staring at the way the manifold lights around the room refracted in the crystal. “Tell me about your brother,” the Imperial said softly and looked back up to meet Calen’s gaze.

“His name is Murtagh,” he replied, “so far as Nord names go, he already had me beat. He joined the Legion army and trained at Castle Dour, but when the civil war broke out, he felt that the dishonor of desertion was preferable to having to fight fellow sons and daughters of Skyrim. He ended up travelling between smaller villages like Rorikstead; did mercenary work, helped them build their defenses, and their militias in case of bandits or dragon attacks. Never fought one, I think, but I’m pretty sure he helped evacuate Riverwood at some point.”

“Hmm. You know, I was in Skyrim during the civil war and the dragon crisis as well and I traveled those same roads, just with a different purpose, defending the people against a different evil. There were a lot of opportunists during that time, simply looking to make a quick septim on the back of innocent people’s misfortunes, but I remember the people like your brother more. He sounds like a good man. Maybe our paths even crossed,” Gregor mused and smiled at the thought. “Makes me wish I kept a journal or something. Alas, I didn’t, and I don’t remember any of their names now.”

“He's a good man.” Calen agreed with a nod. “He was kind of my inspiration for seeing the world in the first place. And I, his, for spending a little bit of time at the College to learn the arts. I have to admit, I envy him.”

“I was already a grown man for many years before I picked up a blade,” Gregor admitted, took off his silver ring and held it out for Calen to see. “This is my handiwork. Feels like a lifetime ago now and I doubt I have half the skills I had back then, but I was a jewelsmith before I was any kind of fighter. You never know, Calen. You still might grow to become more like your brother.” With a final smile and a nod, Gregor put his ring back on and got to his feet. “Excuse me, my friend, I have taken up enough of your time, and I am sure there are others who wish to speak to you and wish you well. That, and I’m hungry,” he said and grinned.

“Take care,” the Imperial said and squeezed Calen’s shoulder before setting off for the buffet.

---

Mazrah raised her glass in appreciation of the music being played and turned her head to talk to the people sitting closest to her; Daro’Vasora and Shakti. That was no accident. Mazrah was a brash woman who could absolutely not be described as shy, but even she enjoyed sitting near the people she knew best. “This is nice, isn’t it?” she asked and winked at the young Redguard girl. “I’ve never been to a party like this before. Have you? Probably not, right?”

Shakti had left her outer robes in her room and sat next to Mazrah, wearing only her dark, earthy tunic. She did however, keep her sword strapped to her belt, even as she sat nursing spiced wine. The aftertaste was horrible, but Shakti found that if she kept drinking she would never hit the aftertaste part of taste. “Yes, this is quite the gathering. The last place I saw so many people drinking and eating together was with my tribe back in Alik’r.” The Redguard girl said cheerfully, a look of flushed happiness on her face.

“That must be extra special,” Mazrah commented and downed her drink in one go. It was the strongest stuff she could find; Stros M’kai rum. “To have a party surrounded by nothing but desert. The Ornim of Orsinium also know how to throw a party, make no mistake, but it’s a much more… turbulent affair. It is tradition to boast as much as you can and to fight whoever calls you out on your stories. You eat and drink whatever you bring with you and if the chief’s longhouse is still standing at the end of the night, something went wrong. It’s quite a sight.” Mazrah laughed to herself at the memory. “But this is great, Daro’Vasora,” she added quickly and flashed the Khajiit an earnest grin. “I’ve always thought that fighting is unnecessary for having a good time. Thanks for inviting me.”

“It was no party, only dinner. Most days the whole tribe eats and talks together around a fire.” Shakti explained while watching Mazrah down drinks in single gulps with wide eyes.

The Khajiit was contented to listen to Mazrah and Shakti talk among themselves, listening to their individual cultural flavors of celebration with interest and amusement. When Mazrah turned to address her, Daro'Vasora was busy chewing a date to reply immediately, thankful for the interluding bit of words Shakti said when the Redguard noticed her Khajiit companion was verbally incapacitated. Washing it down with some white wine, Daro'Vasora composed herself before speaking.

“It's my genuine pleasure; just because you two are new to this lot doesn't mean you aren't a part of us. We've all gone through quite a lot the past couple of months… Shakti was briefly a, ah, guest to our Dwemer friends and you've been on a bit of a quest yourself in occupied lands, Mazrah. We all have a story to tell, it's important that we all take time to listen to them once in a while and celebrate what we do have.” she smiled behind her glass, setting it down. “And I for one am grateful for my two new and very colourful friends, a lively and wild Orsimer with entirely too much spirit and drive for one body, and a young but headstrong Redguard who is just starting to explore the world. Reminds me of a certain Khajiit that left her home to chase down stories and myths because her city wasn't big enough for her dreams.”

“If only I had another body to share all that spirit with,” Mazrah said in a sultry tone and glanced as seductively at Daro'Vasora as she could manage. The Khajiiti body was too alien for the Orsimer to be attracted to but she admired her willpower and quick wit, and that counted for something too. She laughed, giving Daro'Vasora an easy out, before pouring herself another shot of rum -- she'd immediately confiscated an entire bottle from a young Redguard waitress who was far too timid to tell her off.

That prompted a reaction; Daro'Vasora choked mid-drink and covered her mouth with her hand to prevent an eruption of liquids at the Orc's sultry suggestion. The Khajiit wasn't unnerved by the request, quite the contrary, she just didn't know if she liked women or not, but there was a much more important factor to consider. She recognized the implications of Mazrah's tone immediately; she'd used it many, many times. “Well, kind of you to offer, but I think my Latro might object to you carting me off to bed. I don't think he'd be fond of sharing.” Daro'Vasora grinned sheepishly.

“Who is this other Khajiit you are mentioning?” Shakti asked innocently, in between sips of her wine. Suddenly she realised. “Oh! Nevermind.” Giggling, Shakti looked in her cup, “Sorry, I don’t drink much.” Perhaps the wine was stronger than she thought. Or she had drank more than she had thought. Was this her first glass or her second?

Mazrah laughed again, at Shakti’s expense this time, and reached over to give the girl a reassuring pat on the arm. “We all have to start somewhere. Don't worry, you'll be tossing them back like nobody's business in no time,” the Orsimer said and turned her attention back to Daro'Vasora. “Your Latro? The scrawny thing? He's prettier than me, I'll give him that,” she sulked, but the amused look in her eyes betrayed that she wasn't being serious. “Shame. It's true what they say, the good ones are always taken.”

A smile crossed Daro'Vasora's lips. “I don't know if I'm one of the good ones, I did break that man's fingers for you, but flattery will always get you far.” she said, her tail flicking mischievously behind her. She finished her glass, deciding it was a much more entertaining conversation if inhibition was gone. “I do love my scrawny man, he's got a good heart and I always had a thing for soft, soulful eyes. A lot of muscles and the ability to crush watermelons between thighs was always an eye catcher, though.” she said, winking at Mazrah. Topping up her glass and Shakti's, she looked to the Redguard. “The important thing was you caught on in a timely fashion. Let's see how much it takes before you don't.” she said impishly, sliding the girl's glass closer.

“Now, now, let's not pretend I'm all muscle,” Mazrah said with an insidious smile, shifting in her seat to emphasize the natural curves of her body. “But fair enough. I don't know him at all but I believe you if you say he's good people.” She downed her shot, smacked her lips loudly and set her sights on Shakti; the more Mazrah drank, the more intense and piercing her gaze became. “Yes, Shakti, let's see what you're made of. You said that you're not a girl anymore -- prove it.”

“Alright-” Shakti said, closing her eyes and puffing out her chest, ‘-you’re on!” The young Redguard grabbed her glass and easily slammed down the rest of her drink, and before the glass had even hit the counter she was pouring herself another. Soon she had drank that one as well. And another, and another! The world was getting a bit wobbly and slightly fuzzy, everything sort of looked like a mirage. “I can… drinksh ash well ash anybody here!” Shakti declared victoriously.

Wordlessly, Daro'Vasora plucked the wine bottle from Shakti and walked away for a few moments, returning with a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread, along with a platter of other things to munch on. Setting it down in the table, she began to nonchalantly fill Shakti's glass with water and serving her slices of bread. “Easy there, cub; you don't want to vomit out all of that good wine.” she said with an easy smile. “Eat something, you don't want to pass out early, do you? You'd miss all of the fun.” she reached over, patting the Redguard upon her shoulder. “You certainly proved that you can drink Mazrah under the table. Are you sure you aren't your tribe's champion?” she asked playfully.

Shakti watched blearily as Sora replaced her wine with water and gave her some snacks to munch on. Perhaps she had drank a bit overmuch.

Mazrah burst into a raucous fit of laughter and nodded vigorously in agreement with Daro'Vasora's words. “You beat me, that's for sure! Well done.” Subsiding into amused chuckles while staring at Shakti's unfocused eyes, Mazrah thought to herself that she couldn't let the Redguard girl stay ahead for too long and threw back two more shots of rum. “This stuff,” she said and looked at the now half-empty bottle of rum, “is good.” She produced another shot glass from one of the tables and handed it to Daro'Vasora, topping it up with a mischievous grin. “Now, Shakti, you stick to water for the time being, alright? Maz wants to see how much the cat can drink.”

The Khajiit shot back the rum easily, although the sudden sting at the back of her throat made her eyes water momentarily. “Oh, not much, I assure you. I rarely find myself in situations where getting thrashed on the drink is neither safe nor particularly wise. We'll see what tonight holds, yes?”

“Bah,” Mazrah scoffed dismissively. “You're safe now, so let's find out. We've assembled the most dangerous people in Hammerfell into one room. If the Dwemer surround the hotel and attack us now, that would just be convenient. We could advance in any direction!” she added with bravoure and downed yet another measure of rum before giving the Khajiit another shot.

“Oh. Did you see that? I did it anyway. The boasting,” Mazrah said and laughed sheepishly. “Old habits die hard, I guess. One second,” she said suddenly and disappeared for half a minute before returning with at least a quarter of the roasted pig, skewered on a stick. “Anyone want a bite?”

Daro'Vasora giggled, putting up a polite declining hand. “I'm good, I want to try a bit of everything before I forget what taste is.” she said, knocking back the second shot, prompting a sudden cough that she covered with a cloth. “My word, how on Nirn do you drink this shit!?” she exclaimed, her throat burning.

“Yesh, sticking to water sheems wise.” Shakti rubbed her eyes and gulped some water down. Everything was so fuzzy! She rubbed her eyes again. If she squinted right, the people across the room looked like dunerippers. Most troubling. She took a bite of the bread Sora had so kindly brought her and looked over at the other two women. “Are all of theshe people friends of yours?” She asked, surprised at the amount of humanoid shapes she saw mingling in the room.

Daro'Vasora grinned, running a claw around the rim of her glass, causing a pleasant sounding ring to escape from its mouth. “In a way, yes. We've been through a lot together, and some of us became very close. I wasn't expecting near death experiences to help me find love, but I’m not complaining.”

Emerging from behind the rapidly diminishing shishkebab of pork like a predator looking up from a kill, Mazrah swallowed hard and wiped her mouth clean with the back of her hand. Her tusks remained greasy, however. “One of my friends once told me that ‘all is fair in love and war’. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that those words follow one right after another in a common Redguard proverb,” she said and belched. “Oof, that one came from all the way down in my toes,” she chuckled with a smirk, looking at Shakti, wondering if it would amuse or offend the young woman.

Shakti threw back her head and laughed at the Orcish woman, “Everything you do is so loud!” For some reason, the sheer volume of her burp was highly amusing to the young Redguard, who kept giggling into her glass of water even as she drank.

“That’s right!” Mazrah said and thumped her clenched fist to her chest twice before joining Shakti in laughter. “Claim your space and own it, Shakti. I’m here and I’m bigger, better and badder than anyone else, and I intend for them to know that.”

The booze had hit Daro'Vasora's bloodstream now and she had a hard time maintaining her carefully managed air of indifference she usually kept her gaze as; she found it hard not to smile. Downing another shot of the rum, she poured two more glasses of wine, offering the other to Mazrah. Holding hers aloft, she cheers. “Well, here's to love and war, then,” she purred.

The Orsimer took the offered glass of wine with a grateful nod and raised it to join the Khajiit in her toast. Her golden eyes, positively radiant in the soft lighting of the reception area, met Daro’Vasora’s gaze with warmth and she giggled. For all her bravado, the rum was getting to her and she couldn’t muster the will to pronounce the Khajiit’s entire name, honorific and all.

“To love and war, Sora,” she repeated softly and with feeling.

Shakti too raised her glass, but said nothing and instead gulped down some water and hopped off the stool from which she was seated, legs still a bit wobbly. “I’m going to shay hi to the others!” She declared, waving her hand as she swaggered away into the crowd.

---

Judena astutely recorded Daro’Vasora’s small speech to her log book. Catching the tray of champagne before it passed for a glass of her own. When she finished Jude shuffled the book back into her shirt, gently tinking the glass with her nail in approval of the jovial idea. She looked left and right, eying the food with a little excitement. Such extravagance! Jude only hoped she could manage to keep up with all the youthful attributed group members. She shuffled over to the steaming platters of fish.

“Yes… yes this will do.” She said happily.

"Looks like y'had the same idea as me!" A laugh left Meg as she approached Judena, cheeks flush from having had a little more drink than she would on a normal day. The pastries she had picked off the platter had pretty much been inhaled by the Nord, and now that her sweet tooth was satisfied, she was looking for something with more substance so that she didn't fall prey to drunkeness too soon.

"An' a good idea," she added, looking at the argonian with a smile. "I've been missin' you! How're you findin' Hammerfell? I forgot... have y'been here b'fore?" She knew Judena was much more travelled than her, but the last time she had asked about it was in Imperial City. Even as she spoke, her hands moved to one of the platters, ready for a fishy snack.

Humming through the various options she replied to Meg, her vigilant dear friend. “Why yes I have! Only the Alikir Desert could have given my tail such patchy scars from the heat and sand. Gilane is a city rich with Dwemer history and artifacts. As we have properly found out.” She held up a nail, “How have you found Gilane my youthful friend? Found any success in writing letters home? I have been down to the ocean during the hot days, teaching Anifaire some magika lessons. She is quite the astute student!”

She loaded up her plate and beckoned Meg to join her at one of the tables, which she did, after filling up a plate herself and abandoning her glass for a bottle of ale instead.

Gregor, who had been filling a plate of his own, wandered within earshot as he inspected the buffet table, selecting a meal fit for a king. He looked up to find two people he hadn’t talked to yet, Megana and Judena, and smiled at them both. The champagne (and whatever it is Alim had poured him a glass of) and the affable admosphere had put him in a good mood and he felt like making friends, even if one of them was a towering Argonian. He noticed how Judena invited Meg to sit with her and cleared his throat. “Good evening, ladies,” he said and offered a slight bow. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. My name is Gregor. Do you mind if I join you for a spell?”

Judena looked to the imperial man and gave a shy wave. “How polite! Please do join us, Gregor. My name is Judena Callisar.”

Meg looked at Gregor, who she only knew from a distance, and nodded. She had been thinking of talking to this man in the near future- while she didn't think that future was quite right now, there wasn't any harm in learning more about him. "Sure thin'!" she replied enthusiastically, giving him a grin as she plonked herself down on a chair. "Me an' Jude were just talkin' 'bout Gilane, I'd asked her if she'd been 'roun' here 'fore, an' aye she has! My first time... findin' it real hot here." She tapped at her head. "Even got m'hair chopped short t'combat the heat." She ended that with large gulp from her acquired bottle.

Her enthusiasm was infectious and Gregor found himself grinning like a young lad as he took a seat next to Megana and across from Judena. Gregor knew her accent, but it had been a while since he’d heard anyone talk like that. He associated it with simple people and his first impression of the girl did nothing to disprove that notion. No matter; there was nothing wrong with that. “You know, I agree,” he said conspiratorially and tugged playfully at the collar of his black shirt. “It’s far warmer than I’m used to, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. There is something to be said for rolling out of bed and not being cold.”

"Huh, never though' o' that," Meg replied. It was indeed true that she didn't have to shudder at the thought of stepping on cold stone floor without boots, like back home. "Don' really even need t'use a blanket here much at night. The mornin's nice 'nough as well... midday though." She grimaced to show exactly what she thought of that, though it ended in a giggle.

“Quite right,” Gregor said. He grabbed his cutlery and cut off a slice of chicken, his brows furrowing in appreciation as he chewed and washed it down with a sip of wine. “Say, how did you two end up with this fine group of people, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Meg took another long sip from her bottle before setting it on the table. "Hmmm," she intoned before actually replying, "joined 'em at the Jerall Mountains... first time goin' to a dwemer ruin." She poked at her fish as she thought of that disaster. "Seems like ages ago." Her voice trailed to a stop as she finally took a nibble of her food. It was tasty, perhaps a little spicier than she was used to, but she welcomed the taste- it went well with her bottle of ale.

Jude replied, neatly tucking some vegetables onto her fork. “Correct.” With her opposite hand she pulled out her logbook flipping through checking some of her facts - reading the date, “15 of Rain’s Hand, a month and one half ago.” She nodded solemnly, reading her own words aloud, “‘The green menacing shaft of light seemed to reach far and high into the night sky. The disaster it wrought on the expedition hung over our heads like that of a hundred souls lost to the mountain side’s collapse.’ It is too bad that was your first and possibly last chance to see a Dwemer ruin as it was Meg. The pieces brought out from any one of the ruins was unique!” She pointed to her companion with her fork, “What an exciting time it was! Hatching new theories on their culture and way of life, plotting out how old a piece could be...”

Meg was dubious but she remained quiet, nursing the ale bottle in her hands as she listened to the argonian scholar speak.

Judena sighed wistfully, a mix between a hiss and a throaty rumble. “Gone are the days of academia for the Dwemer.” She took a generous few bites. “What brought you around Graccus?” Bright golden eyes turned to the Imperial man, her bristly ‘beard’ wrinkled against her neck. “I am ashamed to admit, I have not made time to meet with every new face of our diverse group.” Her tone apologetic.

“Graccus…” She tested out his name, unsure of how it sounded. “That cannot be right.”

"It's Gregor," Meg supplied with a little giggle.

Judena squeezed her eyes shut sheepishly replying, “Thank you Meg. I am very sorry Gregor for mistaking your name. My memory slips so easily when I am distracted.”

“That’s alright,” Gregor said, a little too quickly. He could feel the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end when Judena forgot his name -- it was awfully familiar, and the way the Argonian closed her eyes in embarrassment caused him to see, vividly and life-like, his father doing the same thing in his mind’s eye, years ago. He took a deep breath and conjured up a smile. There was no reason to assume that her forgetfulness was anything special; while Gregor was far from an expert on Argonian physiology, Judena looked old enough to be suffering from the simple and inevitable effects of age. “I have heard some things about this expedition you went on, but not much. One day, I should like to hear the full story, but something tells me that it is not suitable content for a jovial party. As for myself, I merely happened to be on my way to Skingrad in search of work when the Dwemer invaded Cyrodiil. I signed up with the Colovian Rangers at the first opportunity. And the rest is history,” Gregor explained and took another measured, civilized bite of food; very different from the Orc he saw gorging herself from the corner of his eyes.

“Of course, things did not go entirely according to plan, and now I find myself much farther from home than I would have wished,” the Imperial continued. “The company is good, though.” He smiled and something twinkled in his eyes when he cast a glance in Raelynn’s direction.

Judena followed his line of sight and saw Raelynn, the Argonian mage as always was none too subtle. She paused for a second, realization coming over her, “You and Raelynn are together! That is very sweet, is it not Meg? I could not be more proud that not only can we, as a group, trust and rely on one another but also…” She patted her chest, unknown to most where her wedding band sat on a necklace, “Find love.”

She smiled a gummy smile at Gregor. “That is wonderful, truly. I would toast to it.” She raised her glass gesturing to Raelynn and then to Gregor.

“To love.”

Normally, Gregor would have been embarrassed, but he did not care in the slightest right about then. He returned Judena’s smile and clinked his own glass against hers. “To love,” he echoed. He did not fail to notice that she had remembered Raelynn’s name correctly and that put him at ease. Hopefully Judena wasn’t suffering from dementia or amnesia after all. Gregor did not like the idea of having to confront his greatest fear while he was having such a good time.

“Calen and Rhona are an item as well, did you know that?” Gregor asked casually, glancing sidelong at Judena to gauge her reaction.

Jude gasped, turning in her seat to eye the bard and enchantress. “What other relationships have been blossoming right beneath my nose? Would you believe that I used to have a real nose for the certain goings on where group relations diverged?” She laughed with delight pulling her goblet of wine close for a few sips. “I wish I knew how to express how happy that makes me. Bards nurture their talents to give our world and our emotions artistic meaning, taking these things to another tier of understanding. The only time I have experienced the level of liberation is communing with my family’s Hist.”

She sighed with content, “Actually that is not entirely true. I have felt the liberation love has afforded. I may not recall but I know in the marrow of my bones what it is to feel when one is in love.” Patting her chest once more. “Love,” She gestured to the room “Is such a wonderful thing.”

Love, Meg muttered inaudibly in her mind as she lifted the now near empty bottle to her lips once more. Been only waitin fuckin' years for tha' shit. Her drunken state knew she was feeling what people would describe as sour grapes, but she didn't particularly care at the moment. How long had she worn Mara's symbol on her chest, both in hidden and open? At this point she was convinced the gods had contrived to keep that sort of fulfilling feeling away from her.

Gregor did not even notice Meg’s change in mood; he could not look away from Judena, even if he wanted to. “You can’t recall?” he asked, uncertain, and swallowed hard. Why was he so scared of this? It’s not like whatever Judena had was contagious. His own amnesia lay more than a decade ahead of him yet. He had time, the means and the resources to prevent it. And still… to see it in another person filled him with fear. “What happened?”

Judena turned back to Gregor and cocked her head, “Oh! I presumed you to know, I was once married but it was after my accident. Some a little over thirty years ago I had suffered a tremendously damaging head injury from…” She paused trying to remember exactly she flipped to the front of the logbook reading the list of facts, they were old but relevant points, “Ah, yes of course. The swinging boom of a sail struck me. Without a proper healer on board to fix such an advanced injury my memory retention had been permanently altered.”

“Each night I almost completely forget the day and struggle to remember new things throughout the day.” She explained, pointing to her logbook. “I write everything down to refresh myself.”

Perhaps aided by the effects of the alcohol, Gregor’s fear became mixed with equal parts pity and sympathy, and he fell silent while he picked away at his food. Someone that had lived this way for more than thirty years probably didn’t need his pity, though. Gregor had learned that from other people with disabilities. “I am glad you have found a way to live with it,” he said at length and looked back up to Judena. “Your perseverance is admirable. Funny thing, I was talking to Calen earlier and mentioned how I wish I had kept a journal while I was in Skyrim, but I never did, and now I don’t remember the names of the people I met. And here you are, a woman who keeps a meticulous journal because otherwise… she’ll forget. There’s poetry in that.” The Imperial smiled and took another sip of wine. This stuff was making him strangely sentimental.

Her bottle now empty, Meg stood up, leaning against the table to keep herself steady and off the floor. As much as she wished to stay by the argonian, the talk of love and relationships had her feeling a salty. "I- I'mma go take a li'l walk," she announced. Without warning she leaned over and gave Judena an out of the blue hug, squeezing hard before letting go and stumbling back. "See ya both later." A guilty grin crossed her face as she gave an awkward wave and turned away to walk off. Jude patted Meg’s arm before she let go.

Judena felt the mood inexplicably shift between Gregor and Meg, was it something she said? “Before I was rather flippant with proper notation, categorizing artifacts by word was always a chore especially when I could not record in my native language. Cyrodiilic is clunky you see. All my logs are in Jel, naturally.”

She observed Gregor, commenting, “We can certainly talk about something else, I understand the curiosity of my condition, however I can see it has made you somewhat uncomfortable.” She offered instead a way for Gregor to decide what they speak of next, “I can speak volumes of Argonia, I imagine Jaraleet has been particularly guarded against sharing secrets of our culture.” She said looking to her fellow Argonian now approaching Raelynn, “I have always maintained the mystery of Argonia fades with the more the outside world understands of our people, the same applies to Argonia understanding others whom we share the continent with.”

“Or we can continue gossiping about others in the group.” She added playfully.

“You’re right, Jaraleet has been very secretive,” Gregor said absent-mindedly as he watched Meg get up and walk away. He looked back at Judena and fiddled with his cutlery for a second before he laughed uncomfortably, sheepish and self-conscious. “I’m sorry, Judena. My father died from an illness that made him forget who he was in the final months of his life, and... “ he trailed off, averting his gaze again. “It’s not your fault, honestly, I think it’s the wine, but you reminded me very strongly of him, and I just -- I need to go clear my head. I’m sorry. I hope you have a good evening.” He got up, grabbed his plate, gave Judena a respectful and apologetic nod and walked away to find a different place to eat. He took a deep breath -- his heart was racing in his chest. Oh, papa…

Frowning she watched him go, sneaking in bites at the side of her mouth trying her best not to take the sudden departure of her company too personally. After clearing half of her plate she wrote down their conversation - short as it was. Topping off her goblet of wine and setting to finishing her meal, not putting a single scrap to waste.

---

Raelynn sat and watched the goings on with a glassy expression from the outskirts of the room, one leg crossed over the other, wine glass in hand. She tapped her foot against the floor in time with Alim’s music, and enjoyed the revelry from the comfort of her seat. For a moment, she brought her thumb and forefinger to the the bridge of her nose and rubbed gently, snapping her back into the moment, a sigh escaped her lips before she took another sip from her glass. Curiously, she found herself raising an eyebrow again - she was sure she had drank more of her wine, yet the glass was still full. Oh well, down the hatch it goes…

“Enjoying yourself Raelynn?” Jaraleet asked as he took a seat next to the Breton woman, holding a glass of rum in one hand. The announcement of the party had surprised him, especially the fact that the Poncy Man had agreed to it, but in the end the Argonian assassin had decided to relax after a few moments of inner debate. It would do him some good to relax, and this little social evening that Daro’Vasora had organized gave him an opportunity to talk with Raelynn, something which he had wanted to do once he had noticed her disturbed state after the 3rd. “How have you been holding up?” He asked quietly, sipping his drink as he waited for a reply.

Jaraleet's sudden appearance took her by surprise, she had been deep in thought until that point - just quietly observing, not expecting to be bothered. Jaraleet didn't strike her as a social butterfly, however, so it was little wonder he joined her now. “Jaraleet… I have been well!” she replied, lying through her teeth as she took a sip from glass. She turned to face the Argonian and gave him a polite half smile, “and you?”

“I have been well, thank you. A chance to unwind would do me some good, though I expect that is true for us all.” The Argonian replied, letting the Breton’s lie slip by for a second as he took a sip from his glass as well. “I'm not dumb, you know?” He replied half-absentmindedly, taking in the sight of the other members of their group enjoying themselves, before letting out a sigh and turning to look at Raelynn. “When did it happen? The second?” He asked softly, taking another sip from the contents of his glass. “And don't play dumb either, I can tell what happened.”

Wow. It was just like an Argonian to be so crude about it. Dumb? She became so tense that her leg began to shake with it - whether it was anger or embarrassment that it was so painfully obvious, of course it was to him. Her jaw clenched and she dragged the silence out until she felt that she could speak, turning to him with an emotionless gaze but a wretched smile, “this conversation is done, kindly get the fuck away from me.” She straightened herself up in such a way that it pulled her from Jaraleet - a wall building between the two of them. After mulling it over for a stretch more, she turned back to him, the smile gone, and her voice more stoic, “you don't get to call me dumb, Jaraleet. Not anymore, not now…”.

“Not, it's not.” The Argonian replied calmly, unperturbed by Raelynn’s angry outburst towards him. “You are angry, I know that. Probably not at me, not truly, but I do make a convenient scapegoat towards which you could direct it, no?” The Argonian said, taking a sip of his rum. “I also know that this...fear, this anger, coiled up inside of you won't just go away by pretending that everything is fine and by drinking luxurious wine.” He said, pausing for a second to contemplate. “But such luxuries weren't available to me when I was interrogated, only choice I had was to confront what had happened to me.” He finished, shrugging slightly and drinking from his glass again.

She laughed dryly at him as he continued to try and steer her to talking to him, the nerves of her hand ringing out in pain and so she breathed through it while she thought of a response - knowing he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. “So I suppose I just roll over and listen to you talking then because you had it worse.” He wasn't wrong, the anger was misdirected - but to just openly approach and ask her about it, at a party of all places. “Look at them all Jaraleet,” she motioned out to the group - watching them have their fun with their bonding, drinking, and eating. Smiling. “If you think I'm pretending everything is fine, you're very, very wrong about it.” Her lips pursed and she looked him straight in the eyes, hers watering in the corners. “Everything is not fine, and really Jaraleet - you're the last person I want to discuss this with.” She placed her wine on the table in front of her, afraid she might shatter the glass with her tightening grip. “Afterall, he fucking used your methods - do you know that? Oh yes Jaraleet, we left quite a mess…” she hissed, sounding like a coiled and angry snake.

“Not because of that, no.” The Argonian began, having fully expected another outburst from Raelynn. “But because, much like you, I've went through the same pain as you, I understand what you went through.” The assassin continuing, swirling the contents of his glass before taking one sip. “Because I'm the only one with such knowledge? Do you think I'm the only one who knows how to pull the nails off of someone’s hand?” He said quietly, not breaking eye contact from Raelynn even as her eyes watered at the corners. “We both know I'm just only one among many in the face of Nirn who knows, and employs, such methods.” Jaraleet spoke, unperturbed by the mounting anger that the Breton woman was displaying. He let out a soft sigh, shaking his head slightly as he contemplated what to say next. “It's not something that goes away, not truly.” He said quietly, his eyes taking on a far-off quality as if he was witnessing something that had happened a long time ago. “You just learn to live with it.” The Haj-Eix said, taking another sip of his rum as he waited for the outburst that was surely to come.

“It makes me feel so very relieved that you and your ilk are just… one of many.” Sarcasm rang out on her voice as it snuck through gritted teeth. The way he spoke about pulling nails off of hands made her ball up her fists and cringe. “Jaraleet, please. I'm not ready for this. If this is your way of asking me whether I said anything then you can sleep easy tonight knowing that you were not named…”

“I can’t talk about this, not right now. I'm sorry…” She took another large sip from her glass, giving a little cough afterwards. Was he trying to comfort her? In his own unusual methods? The thought of this being the Argonian’s way of comforting her made her laugh softly. “When I'm ready, we can talk.” With a wavering smile on her lips, she pressed the edge of her glass to his. “I'd like to try and forget it tonight, even just tonight.” There was a mild forgiveness in her voice - she couldn't blame him for asking and wanting to speak, maybe under better circumstances she would have shared. “Enjoy the party Jaraleet - I'd tell you to let your hair down a little but…” her voice tittered into a girlish giggle as she made a joke. She was trying to warm into that party spirit.

---

Anifaire’s eyes widened as her gaze wandered from platter of food to piles of bread. Her stomach rumbling, she tried to appear nonchalant as she made her way over to fill a plate the moment Daro’Vasora had finished speaking. She hadn’t eaten a feast of this caliber since she’d left home.

She piled the food onto her plate higher than she would’ve deemed acceptable once, but food was no longer a matter to skimp out on. Selecting the choicest seafoods, she made her way over to a table where she sat alone, an empty glass in front of her. She delicately set the utensils next to her plate, ordered as well as she could. Truly, no one outside Alinor had any class when eating. It had been true culture shock at first, but now she filled her own glass with wine despite how strange it made her feel. She couldn’t escape the feeling that she was never supposed to do that. The Altmer day straight backed and carefully selected her utensils one at a time, taking small, polite bites. She revelled in the opportunity to savour the meal.

A short while later, unexpected company sat across from the Altmer. Daro'Vasora, freshly tipsy from her encounter with Mazrah's terrible influence, set herself down with surprising grace considering the situation. She smiled at Anifaire, arranging her own utensils properly as she spoke.

“You strike me as someone who has seldom enjoyed an evening out in her life. You are always so guarded, so proper. You are sitting here alone looking lost and miserable, you know. Did I ever tell you I come from a fairly high born upbringing?” she asked the Altmer in a posh tone of voice, finishing arranging the utensils just so. It was an exaggeration, but she had to learn proper court etiquette when she served in castle Leyawiin and her mother was in a fairly lofty position. “One thing I have discovered in my travels is that being proper is boring, and frankly, quite useless out in the world. You need to learn to express yourself and discover who it means to be Anifaire.”

The Khajiit plucked a trout delicately with her utensils, cutting into it with disciplined precision. It hopefully conveyed to Anifaire that she wasn't the only one with an air of sophistication.

Anifaire watched the Khajiit with wide eyes, surprise showing itself on her face. She opened her mouth to speak but wasn’t sure what to say, pausing with her mouth agape.

“Useless?” she repeated. She stopped, stunned that someone might think such a thing. “It’s… it…” she frowned. “It’s comfortable.”

Without breaking eye contact, Daro'Vasora placed her arm on the table next to the plate and carelessly brushed the utensils off of the table, crashing them across the floor. She repeated the gesture on the other side, another loud symphony of clattering metal filling the air.

“How clumsy of me.” she said, picking up the plate and settling into a comfortable slouch, tossing a chunk of the fish between her pointed teeth. She gestured with a pair of fingers towards Anifaire. “You say you're comfortable, but you're sitting board straight and you can't even enjoy your meal without going through some stuffy ritual that was drilled into you since you were a girl. Look, you're a sweet, but terribly naive person who was way too sheltered. Look around you, look at everyone.” the Khajiit said, twirling a finger above her head. “Tell me what you see.”

Anifaire stared down at her half-empty plate, utensils gone. She considered picking up the food without them, or retrieving the utensils, but she couldn’t bring herself to do either. Grudgingly, she listened to the Khajiit and peered around the room.

What did she see? A few phrases came to mind. She saw people eating and drinking. She saw people who were intimidating. Some who she thought of warmly. But it was a simple conclusion.

People who are capable.
People who aren’t like me.

She thought the words with sadness. She had no idea how to fit in with this situation. A party, it was, more than a dinner. The Altmer couldn’t find the words to answer the Khajiit, uncomfortable looking down at her plate. She felt a mild urge to scoop up potatoes with her hand.

The Khajiit smiled, reaching over to put a hand over Anifaire's. “I know that look, you don't need to feel left out. Tonight's the night you get to be who you want to be, we're all friends here, right?” she said, removing the hand to jut a thumb towards where Alim was urging on other musicians.

“Y'know, I see the way you look at him. He's a lot of things you admire but are too embarrassed to admit out loud. He's exotic and lively, outgoing and courageous, someone who has an easy charisma and an impulsive and spontaneous personality. You know he's a thief and he's been a naughty shit, but it makes you feel a part of something adventurous by association. Why don't you tell him how you feel?” the Khajiit asked, placing the plate down and leaning forward on an elbow, her chin resting on a palm.

Anifaire’s face reddened by the word as Daro’Vasora spoke. She couldn’t bring herself to look over at Alim, either. She opened her mouth to utter some kind of lie but deflated a bit. Her stomach was urging her to continue eating, so she finally picked up a drumstick and attempted to take a bite without getting grease all over her face.

“He’s just friendly to me,” she muttered.

“Uh-huh. Let's find out, shall we?” Daro'Vasora said with an impish grin. She turned around in her seat, cupping a hand to the side of her muzzle to amplify her voice.

“Hey, Alim! Come here a second!” she shouted.

When the Breton-Redguard swaggered over a few minutes later, Daro'Vasora leaned back with an elbow on the back of her seat. The other hand tapped along to the music that was still playing, claws dancing along the table. “Anifaire here was just telling me how cute she thinks your butt is and is too shy to ask you to dance. Would you care to show her the ropes?” she asked sweetly, giving a wink that only Anifaire could see when she glanced over.

Anifaire sat, mouth wide open, cheeks red, staring resolutely at Daro’Vasora in shock. She held the turkey leg in her hand, using it to almost hide her face. Alim wouldn’t believe that… would he? She hoped not.

Alim had been playing for a solid chunk of the party at this moment, and he had been running out of songs that fit the mood so in a way he was thankful that he’d been called over. Everyone seemed to be engaged in talk even without his musical support. But when he stepped over, even Alim was halfway shocked. The adventurer laughed. “Really?” he asked, wondering that if this was true, how drunk Anifaire had to be. Of course he knew a thing or two about lying, so he doubted it. But…

He ‘sheathed’ his flute onto his sash belt and held a hand out to Anifaire. “Well she can tell me all about it.” he said, offering to dance.

“Uh,” Anifaire coughed, trying to swallow the bite of turkey and struggling to drop the leg back to her plate. She scrambled quickly for a napkin, trying to wipe her face and hands as quickly as she could. Some distant part of her considered kicking the Khajiit under the table.

She glanced at Alim’s offered hand, though she couldn’t quite look him in the face. The truth was, she’d always sort of liked dancing at her father’s dinners. She hefted her glass and finished the last of her wine, the only glass she’d had and the only one she intended to drink, never having drank for pleasure in her life, before grudgingly standing up from the table. She glared resolutely at the ground.

Hesitantly, she spoke up. “I would.. um, I… do like dancing. But, now that Alim’s here, there’s no music.”

Alim was usually sly and flirtatious with about any pretty woman, but with Anifaire it was different. He felt like he was far younger and less...dishonest wouldn’t be the right word. But he didn’t need to put on a persona of any kind. “I didn’t know you could dance.” he said.

Anifaire shrugged a bit. “Well, probably nothing like… this. I was used to, erm.” She wasn’t sure of the word. “Dinners.” She wrung her hands uncomfortably.

“I’ll let you guys figure out the rest, try not to have too much fun.” Daro’Vasora said, briefly placing her hand at the small of Anifaire’s back and meeting her eyes with a reassuring smile and a wink before taking off to rejoin the rest of the festivities.

---

Shakti managed to find her way to a table and fumble her way into sitting down next to a man she didn’t know. Her brown skin looking more red than any other colour, she smiled at the friendly-looking lad and offered a greeting, “Hope you don’t mind if I sit down next to you, I think I’ve had a bit much to drink.” She giggled at her own overindulgence before continuing, “Wait, I saw you in the infirmary, when I was getting my arm healed!” Gesturing first at the scar on her arm and then at the bandages on the man’s chest, she went on. “I heard your wound was grave! I am glad to see you are still among us!”

For the last minutes, Calen had spent some time on his own and watching the others enjoy themselves until a young Redguard woman had found herself next to him. Indeed, she was quite tipsy, but nonetheless exuberant as she invited herself to sit down next to him. Then she seemed to recognize him, prompting Calen to look self-consciously down at his own bandages. He said, “Oh yes, well, let’s not buy the pig while it’s still in the bag -- the night’s still young, yeah? Can’t spell grave without rave.”

“What is a rave?” Shakti inquired sincerely, never having heard of the term before, “Is it some sort of gathering?” That much she could infer from the rest of the joke. Shrugging off the conversational misstep, she hopped over to a new topic. Keeping her voice somewhat low, as if a bit embarrassed she had to ask, Shakti leaned in slightly, “What happened to you?” She hoped it wasn’t too rude to ask. In Redguard culture wounds and such were seen as a brave and respectable, and meant that the wounded had faced down Death itself. However, Shakti also knew that other cultures were different and did her best to tiptoe around the subject for fear of upsetting this obviously still wounded man.

Calen looked thoughtful for a moment as the events replayed through his mind, bringing on a bit of a shiver, but as he looked at the intoxicated Shaki again, a curious little smile was brought to his face. Normally, this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to spin one of his tall tales and sensational stories like he was prone to doing so often. Perhaps another one of those for old time’s sake would be nice to cut back the edge a bit, and entertaining people while they were drunk made it about twice as fun. For what felt like the first time in ages, he put his acting chops to the test, and looked around the room suspiciously before leaning in close to Shakti’s ear.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He said, hyping up the anticipation as the corner of his mouth curled up a bit. “Are you sure you want to know? Even talking about it could be risky.”

Shakti’s eyes gleamed in the light at the prospect of being privy to some eldritch information or story. She was a dunerabbit who was firmly in the sights of a desert fox. “Of coursh! I will not tell anyone else!” Her voice was struggling to keep quiet, her excitement causing it to involuntarily raise in volume. She practically bounced her seat as Calen displayed juuuuust the right amount of wariness.

“I was part of a covert operation.” Calen whispered, his eyes growing as wide and gleaming as Shakti’s. “I was the architect, actually. To capture and ensure the safe return of a high-ranking administrative official of the dwemer forces on behalf of the insurgency.”

“One of the other missions? I was rescued in one of them!” Again her voice became much louder than she had intended through sheer excitement and energy. Calen was quick to hush her and look around the room, his eyes darting in all directions before looking back at her and nodding.

“One of the very same.” Calen confirmed.

“So did something happen? How did you become injured?” Shakti asked, fully hooked into the tale from the first sentence.

“Well, it began with my associates and I, Latty the Blooded, the Last King of the Reach, and… Captain Casimir af-Shadda keeping watch outside of the safehouse after the successful capture the administrator. Then out of nowhere, an explosion tore Captain Casimir asunder, leaving nothing behind but a fine red mist. Latty and I ran for cover, giving the Dwemer time to advance on our bunker -- they knew they wouldn’t be able to get anywhere close to the building with us guarding it. Latty the Blooded held off dozens of armed and armored soldiers at a choke-point with just his bare fists while I prepared our secret weapon…”

“You were on a mission with a King?!” The shock in her voice was almost enough to sober her up. Despite Redguard culture having a strange relationship with nobility in general, royalty was still held in high regard.

As Calen was telling the story, he made sure that Shakti was sufficiently distracted so that she didn’t notice him untying the red sash from around his waist. From seemingly out of nowhere, raised it into the air and tied it around his forehead, before drawing two finger guns from his sides.

“Whoa!” Shakti exclaimed, having been too drunk and enraptured by the tall tale to have noticed the simple sleight of hand trick.

“Two completely automatic Dwemer cannon prototypes. One in each hand. Latty jumped out of the way while I unleashed Oblivion on them. Bang, bang, bang, bang! Each explosion sounded like Mehrunes Dagon himself, laughing -- but there were more soldiers than there were mini-cannonballs. I tossed the empty cannons aside and retreated with Latty.”

Calen took a brief break from his bullshitting to take a quick sip of champagne, but now caught up and invested in the story himself, he was eager to continue and caused a bit of the champagne to drip from the corner of his mouth.

“We rejoined our comrades inside the bunker. The battlefield was perfectly evened out with five on our side and ten on theirs… but my one failure was that we didn’t know that they had brought with them a full sized cannon. They fired at Latty the Blooded, but I pushed him out of the way, and took it to the chest. It broke my sternum, both of my clavicles, every single one of my ribs, and part of my spine. I was technically dead for two minutes. The administrator who we had captured? The force of the impact alone was enough to travel through the air behind me and kill him. I’m only alive because of… the healing powers of Rae-- uh, Raediant the Aedra.”

The whole story sounded like something she had heard when she was merely a child at her mother’s knee, listening to tales of ancient Ra Gada heroes and their flight from the mad King of Yokuda. She sat and listened with bated breath as Calen wove his tale of devastation and heroics (on his part, of course.) She had no idea what a cannon was, but guessed it was some kind of magical weapon that could kill scores of troops with a mere glance just based on the picture Calen was painting in her mind. She ooooh’d and aaaahhh’d at his twists and turns and sat, gasping when he described what had wounded him so badly and killed the Dwemer administrator.

Shakti gestured to the group at large, “One of them is an Aaedra?” This time, her voice was kept very low. If there was a divine being among them, there was no telling what could set it off and cause it to destroy her puny mortal form on a whim.

“So they say,” Calen whispered back in a hushed voice, “but some speculate that Raediant may just be the survivor of an ancient human civilization, and that she has such an extensive mastery of restoration, that she was able to prolong her life for thousands of years -- and she only looks to be in her mid-twenties. Her blood might just be closer in relation to the Divines than anyone else in the world.”

“Wow…” Shakti had no idea what to say. In her alcohol addled mind, she was slightly fearful of the idea of working with a creature of the divine persuasion. She really did not have much knowledge of the gods of Cyro-Nordic culture. Most of her spiritual life was spent with the ancient gods of Yokuda that her tribe had worshiped since they had come to this land thousands of years ago. There was one thing she hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“W-Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Calen began, “unlike my injuries, the mission that I had personally concocted to free you was no mistake. There’s something special about you. I believe that you can help me save the world!”

“You concocted the mission yourself? Save the world? From what?” Shakti’s bullshit alarms finally started kicking in and she began to sound a bit doubtful of this whole thing.

There was a short moment of awkward silence and a look of confusion that had at first frozen Calen’s growing grin in place, but slowly melted it away. He raised his eyebrow and tried to recover, “Uh… really? The dwemer. You know, the whole… invading force threatening all of Tamriel? Toppled an empire? Occupied Hammerfell?”

Shakti tapped her chin. “I understand that they are invading Tamriel, but the whole world? And me being important to that?” Her voice trailed off as she tried to piece his story together. Redguard culture was full of heroes, but it was also very much focused on Knightly orders and brotherhoods and all of that. Single men don’t win wars by themselves. Well, unless your name is HoonDing.

“Allow me to let you in on a secret,” Calen started, trying to regain steam, “no one else knows about this. I’m not a brilliant tactician because of my brains. I wasn’t the architect of those missions because of years of battlefield experience. If I have one power, any power at all… it’s clairvoyance. It doesn’t help me all the time…”

Calen glanced down at his chest, but his eyes slowly crawled back up to meet Shakti’s.

“But I have a very strong sense of intuition. The Dwemer aren’t going to stop at Tamriel, they’ll always want more. I don’t know what it is about you, but you’re special. Don’t ever underestimate yourself. As long as you believe in yourself like I believe in you, there’s nothing you can’t accomplish.”

Shakti followed his gaze down to his chest and then met it again with a quizzical look. This truly was an odd man. She supposed being clairvoyant would do that to a person. “I guess I’ll have to believe in myself then.” She didn’t sound fully convinced, but if her years of studying sword-fencing and the ancient Ra Gada texts about it had taught her anything, it was that you had to throw yourself fully at things, even if you don’t understand them at the time. Mastery was a journey. She shrugged as a conversational semicolon and nibbled on her piece of bread. “I do not think you ever gave me your name. I am Shakti of the Alik’r.” She inclined her head slight in a pseudo-bow.

“Calen,” he replied, mirroring the bow of her head, “of Solitude.”

Finally, the corners of his mouth curled up into a smile; a shit-eating grin, really, and he leaned back into his chair as he said, “So did you like my story?”

“S-Story? Did… did you make all that up?” Shakti said, slightly incredulous, her eyebrows arched in puzzlement.

“Only some of it. I embellished.” He admitted with a flushed grin. “Honestly, I’m just a bard. I’m just supposed to entertain people… but that mission and the dwemer? Me getting hurt? Most of that was real, I just… well, it was fun while it lasted, yeah?”

Shakti let out a groan and flopped her face into the table to disguise her even-brighter-red-than-before cheeks. She really had just let this man give her a run around. She felt like a goat being herded back into its pen at dusk, something she had done a million times. Now she knew what the goat felt like.

Shakti wished she had more wine.

“Hey, hey, hey… don’t feel too bad, Shakti.” Calen said, leaning in and placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all in good fun, right? We’re having a party. It’s okay to have fun. Besides… how do you think we managed to trick the administrator into following us?”

Shakti sat back up, her brown freckled cheeks still flushed red as the dunes at sunset. “But you said… and I believed… I cannot... “ She groaned again at her own foolishness. “I suppose you were not doing it to be mean. You do tell a good story, you must be a very skilled bard.” She had to admit that it was pretty easy to fool her though, so perhaps he wasn’t that skilled.

“To good stories, then?” Calen suggested, then wincing from the pain in his chest as he reached for a bottle of champagne at his table and pushed it into Shakti’s hands. He grabbed his own glass and continued. “To defeating the Dwemer… and to you too, Shakti. You may be drunk and gullible now, but you’re a survivor. You fought long enough to stay alive and be saved and I reckon you kept on fighting. You’re one of us now, aye?”

“I guess I am one of you now.” She affirmed as she poured some of the champagne into Calen’s glass and, finding she had no glass of her own, taking a sip of the liquid out of the bottle. “To good stories, and to your recovery!” She declared after noticing his wince.

---

Seeing Anifaire and Alim thoroughly invested in one another, Daro’Vasora made like a thief and slipped out quietly from the scene, letting their mutual affection do the rest of the work. She was feeling pretty well, all considered. Most of her friends and companions were relaxed and jovial, but one caught her eye who seemed to be somewhat despondent. The Khajiit frowned, looking towards Raelynn, who sat alone and was making no effort to join in the revelry. She’d only heard rumours and second hand what the Breton had endured, and her mind wandered briefly to the day she spent in each other’s company, meeting Salosoix and Governor Rourken in a single day. A lot of the light and pride was gone from Raelynn’s countenance, and Daro’Vasora felt she needed to do something to try and reach it.

Walking over and clutching a bottle of champagne, she stood a few feet away from Raelynn and gestured to the seat next to her. “That spot taken?” she asked kindly.

“It’s not, I suppose you’re going to fill it though?” she asked with a wry smile, her conversation with Jaraleet had poked at her wounds a little, so she was glad to have company to take her mind off of it. She tapped the cushion of the seat with her hand. “You look nice by the way, I’m surprised that you know how to scrub up so well…” normally it would have sounded malicious, but this evening it was some friendly sassy patter to start their conversation.

Following the accepting gesture, Daro’Vasora sat down as gracefully as she could, although her extremities were beginning to feel a bit numb. She smiled sincerely at the complement, fixing a stray strand of her mane behind her ear. The compliment was backhanded, she knew, but it was still from a good place, the Khajiit decided.

“You are too kind. You should have seen me back in Imperial City, when I actually had something of a wardrobe. Believe it or not, I am quite the cosmopolitan woman.” She said, taking a drink of the champagne straight from the bottle before offering it to Raelynn. “Your attire is quite striking, yourself. It is something I would likely find myself wearing on a trip out of town but not expecting anything too rough and tumble in my day. It makes me realize that we haven’t really had much of an opportunity to get to know one another, and you looked a bit lonely, if you’ll forgive my saying so.” he face turned to a frown, her eyes glanced away for a moment. “I just thought you needed space after you returned, and I wanted to make sure that you didn’t feel pressured into talking. I’m not really good at this sort of thing, but… well, I always admired you and I genuinely enjoyed that time we spent together. Hopefully my being here can bring some of that back for you.”

“Do I really look that sad?” she asked, her voice low as her eyes fell to the ground. “It’s written all over me isn’t it?” The Breton sighed and took the bottle from Daro’Vasora, drinking straight from it too. She changed the subject, not wanting to hear the answer to her questions. “Actually my Mother made this, it’s nice to wear something that makes me look… Less like a princess, from time to time.” She handed the bottle back to her companion. “Thanks for doing this, by the way. I might not look all to thrilled…” she placed a hand on the Khajiit’s arm gently, “but it really is nice to have this time together. I barely know them all, and yet I do at the same time.” She let her eyes gaze over the room again, and to see everyone happy - to see Calen out of his bed, even Latro. It made her laugh - or perhaps the laugh came from the mouthful of bubbles she had consumed. Nevertheless, she enjoyed the feeling of warmth, good and honest warmth that was spilling through the room - intoxicating everyone.

“Maybe when all of this is said and done, I will have to commission her to make me something. I quite admire her craftsmanship.” Daro’Vasora smiled, taking the bottle back. She listened to Raelynn’s gratitude, a surprisingly genuine sentiment, and she looked to the hand on her arm with surprise; it was a rather intimate gesture she never expected to receive from the Breton. She placed a hand on top of Raelynn’s, offering a slight squeeze. “I knew I had to do something. After everything that’s happened, well… you heard my speech. How was it, too much? Off the mark?” she asked, chuckling while shaking her head. “I’ve never been good at the damned things and improvising with my oration, but as long as the sentiment is there, that’s what matters, right?” she asked.

“It was a little heartfelt - I was quite shocked you found the words actually. I’ve heard your other emotional outbursts a lot more.” She smiled, and drank a sip from her glass - which was still strangely full. “I liked it a lot though.”

“I think we all needed to remember what it is to just live and remember who we are when we’re taken away from this war, this invasion. I think about Zegol and Rhea all of the time, how I feel like I failed them both. It’s a strange sensation for me, I’m not used to feeling accountable for people and their well being, or being attached to them. I guess a lot has changed lately.” she looked across the room at everyone with a smile and a light laugh at some of the antics. It really felt like a group of friends who’d been together for years. “I just wanted to remind us all, including myself, that things aren’t always going to be going the way they are. Nights like this will become the norm, at least that’s what I’m fighting for. For us all to live, not just survive.”

Raelynn had simply been nodding along to the Khajiit in intervals of acknowledgement while she had shared her thoughts, listening to her made her feel better inside - she was right after all, and just hearing Sora reaffirm all of these things made her feel less isolated and alone. “Speaking of living - how about you give me a go with that lock of yours? I wouldn’t mind a pinch of that Moon Sugar…” She smiled and drank again - she knew that she didn’t want to get too heartfelt with Daro’Vasora - as nice as it was, it would only bring her mood down, and she wanted to have fun. Everyone else was.

“Back in a moment. Don't let anyone take my seat.” the Khajiit spoke, standing up and heading to the table where the lock was sitting.

While she waited for Sora to hand over the trinket, she lifted her hands behind her head and took out two hairpins to use as lockpicks, letting some strands fall loose around her face, literally letting her hair down at last.

A few moments later, Daro'Vasora returned, nodding appreciatively at the new hairstyle Raelynn sported. She handed over the lock and took her seat, scooping up the bottle. “It's a good look. You should try it more often.” she said, drinking heavily from the champagne. “So, am I wrong in assuming you've locked yourself out a few times?” she asked.

She smiled playfully and took the lock, feeling that the wine had sufficiently gone to her head she placed the lock into her lap and tucked the strand behind her ear before placing the two clips into the lock slowly. “Put it this way, I was a very naughty student at the College who just wanted to read all the books in the library…” a low giggle was heard as she twisted her fingers against the lock.

As she tilted the lock she was hit by a sharp pain through the fingers of her left hand as they seized up spontaneously. Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip - unable to move her fingers around the hairpin. She breathed slowly, making her mouth a soft ‘o’ shape as she let go - the hairpin didn't move and she was able to flex her fingers free of the paralysing effect. “Heh, I guess my nerves are still somewhat frayed…” her voice was soft, but defeated. Still, she went back onto the lock and with a few more deliberate clicks, twists, and shakes, it finally opened and she beamed at Sora. “Too easy friend, too easy!”

While Raelynn’s hands worked, Daro’Vasora took note of each of them, the bruising and the puncture wounds, the difficulty the Breton had manipulating the small and fine objects. She didn’t try to stop her, because to offer help or to tell her she shouldn’t do it would be to rob her of her own self-determination. Instead, when Raelynn popped the lock, Daro’Vasora put on an exaggerated pout. “Oh, beginner’s luck. I suppose I have to live up to my end of the bargain…” she said, untying the small pouch from her waist belt and offering it over to Raelynn with mock pageantry. “Raelynn Hawkford, for overcoming my devious challenge, I present to you the spoils of your labour. Please take it from my humble hand before I decide I want it instead.”

She took the bag with delight in her eyes, and then grasped the Champagne, taking another big gulp from the bottle, finding that it was the very last dregs. “It seems we got through that a little too quickly - and in a not so ladylike fashion at all. I’m half-scared of what will happen when I stand…”

“I think I might see if our green friend will enjoy indulging in this Moon Sugar later. Something tells me she will oblige…” She slouched back in her seat - more relaxed now than before, she even found herself leaning closer into Daro’Vasora, her mind carrying her to a memory of her companion from only days ago. “You know Daro’Vasora… Gregor is indeed dangerous.” She looked down, in a forlorn fashion, taking a meek sip from her wine glass - chasing down the champagne bubbles and giving the Khajiit a moment to consider her words, before pulling her head back up with an exceedingly kittenish smile, “dangerously good in bed,” she couldn't help it and she started laughing - and loudly, from deep down in her stomach, immensely proud of herself.

The bait and switch caused Daro’Vasora to groan, although not entirely put off. “Oh trust me, I know all about you two…” she muttered, noticing that the room was starting to blur when her eyes darted around. The fact she maintained a fairly robust vernacular surprised her, she decided. It had been quite a long time since she had this much to drink.

To be fair, you’ve been keeping food down and doing the rounds with the others… she thought, suddenly aware of how close Raelynn had leaned towards her. It was a very accepting gesture.

“You sure you don’t want the sugar for yourself? It’s always so fun to see the uninitiated hit their first euphoric wave… you’re quite agreeable when you’ve been drinking, you know.” the Khajiit said, shaking her head with a slight upturn of a smile. “So, Gregor’s treating you right? I hope I was wrong about him… he just, well, gave me the chills when we spoke in Anvil. Maybe it was just fatigue.” she murmured, her mind not quite as quick as usual to draw the connection between him and the death of the administrator. She’d already given Jaraleet an earful, it was enough, right?

“Pardon me, but you're the one who loosened me up with the champagne…” she said with a wink. “I think I owe Mazrah some fun after our first meeting. I'm in the mood for fresh starts and new friends tonight - for once I shan't be greedy.”

Her eyes found Gregor in the room and she focused on him from a distance, admiring him longingly as an audible sigh of infatuation slipped out. “He must be doing something right, I'm falling in love with hi-" she cut herself off before she could finish, but she knew Sora had heard, “don't you tell anyone I said that… Or I'll off you…” there was no malice in her tone, but a little embarrassment. She was in too good a mood to let it foul the meeting and so she opted to playfully nudge Sora with her elbow.

Daro’Vasora began to giggle before it turned into a much more hearty laugh. “Oh, there’s the Raelynn I know. Tough on the outside,” she poked the Breton over the heart. “Soft on the inside.” she enjoyed her companion’s more human side, the one that wasn’t prim and proper and a bit stuck up. “I guess that makes two of us,” she said, nodding towards Latro, who was strumming away at her lute. “I suppose we’re both a little… ah…”

She raised an eyebrow and chuckled, “mmmm, he’s a real gentleman Sora.” It was the first time she had used her name so casually, and she placed her lolling drunken head onto the Khajiit's shoulder. “I like him a lot. He really… Was there for me, he has a great heart.”

Without thinking, Daro'Vasora rested her head atop Raelynn's. “More than I deserve.” she replied with a sad smile. “So, what about you and I? Are we friends?”

“You have really cheered me up tonight, Sora. I think for that alone then yes, we are.” She sighed contentedly.

“Tonight's for everyone. It broke my heart to see you weren't quite a part of it yet. Friends…” she tried the word on her tongue, deciding she liked it. “It's been a while since I really had any of those. Tonight's just full of surprises.” she purred.

---

As Daro’Vasora made her exit, Alim glanced her way to make sure before turning back to Anifaire. He seemed more casual and caring than anything. “You know, we don’t need to dance if you don’t want to.” he said warmly.

She glanced around at the present company, suddenly feeling a bit more self conscious. “Maybe,” she started. “We could dance. Or.. eat. Or drink.” She paused, her cheeks still hot as she remembered something Daro’Vasora had said. A look of shock crossed her face and she fumbled to speak. “She said- When she was- She- You know- She was lying right? About- um- About your b- not that it isn’t- I mean- no- wait.”

She gave up.

“Slow down, slow down,” Alim said, unable not to smile. He held his hands up. “I know she wasn’t telling the truth. You didn’t look drunk enough for that.” He decided not to make a big deal about it to save her embarrassment. “Why don’t we grab something to eat, and then if we get drunk enough I am sure we’ll dance then.” He winked.

Anifaire nodded slowly, thinking she could definitely go for seconds. “Alim, I’ve never been drunk.”

Alim blinked, unable to think of a response to that. “Really? You just never had the chance to or did someone keep you from not?” he asked her, guiding her over to one of the tables and hailing one of the waiters for some food. “That’s not a bad thing, I’ve just never met a high class person that hadn’t been a drunk deviant when they had the chance.”

“In Alinor, I spent most of my time with people my mother’s age. I didn’t really get along with the other students. I was different,” she admitted. She’d started avoiding the term ‘Alinor’ once she’d gotten settled in the Imperial City because it seemed to make people uncomfortable, but somehow she didn’t think she needed to be careful around Alim.

“What was it like in Alinor?” Alim asked, honestly curious. He’d traveled the breadth of Tamriel, but not too far outside of it. His time as a sailor was mostly skirting the southern coast of the continent. He sat down across from Anifaire at their table. When he spoke of the city, he seemed almost like a young boy that hadn’t gone outside of his own town yet. He kicked his feet up on the back of another chair, placing his hands behind his head as he thought of it. “I always figured I would go someday. The war sort of saw to that not happening yet, but I’m sure I’ll get the chance. I heard it’s very wonderful.”

“It’s beautiful,” Anifaire agreed with wonder. She thought of her home. “My favourite thing was the architecture. It’s.. warm there, but it’s a different warm than here. We lived in a villa, in the capital. The city is massive. I’ve never seen anything like it, really, though Gilane is fascinating.” She paused for a few seconds, hesitating on her words. “I found Cyrodiil a bit drab.”

She picked up the empty tankard in front of her and looked from it to Alim a bit questioningly.

She really spoke like a high class, he realized. He suppose he should have noticed earlier. “Cyrodiil can be drab, definitely. Near the coast it’s more exciting, I find.” He turned to her. “Did you tell me before? I forgot why you left Summerset…”

“To go to the university in Cyrodiil. It took nearly fifteen years to convince my parents.” She realized she didn’t know similar things about Alim. “Where are you from?”

Alim called the waitress over, asking to pour them both some mead. “Don’t worry we’ll start small.” he told her, and smiled. “It’s sweet too.” After that Alim picked up his mug and took a sip. He hadn’t had mead in awhile. Might not be as good as Skyrim mead, but it wasn’t bad at all. “I grew up in Highrock, and for the latter part of my childhood I was here. Or, in Skaven. It’s a city north of here. I think you’d like there as well, though it’s a bit more cutthroat.”

He placed his mug down and leaned back on the chair. “After that I went everywhere except Morrowind and Summerset, pretty much. I sailed off the coast of Blackmarsh for a short time.”

“I think I like Hammerfell,” Anifaire said. She lifted the mug and took a hesitant sniff before trying a mouthful. She looked at Alim in surprise. “It’s good.” She took another couple of sips, surprising herself with her eagerness to drink the honey-ish substance. “Is it all this good?”

Alim looked at her. “...eventually.”

“Oh,” Anifaire said. She had no idea what the meant, but she forgot about it and took a few large gulps of the mead. “I want to try others.”

---

Feeling suitably in the party spirit now, Raelynn stood at last from her chair - and had to wait a fraction of a second for her head to catch up with her. The wine had really gotten to her head. But yet, she was on a mission - and sauntered across the room to where Mazrah was sat, laughing and making herself at home. With her own glass in one hand, and a bag of Moon Sugar in the other, she slid behind the Orsimer woman, tapping her lightly on the shoulder, her own legs wobbling slightly under the weight of wine and champagne on an empty stomach.

“Mazrah,” she began quietly - holding out the bag in her hand in front of her with a spirited smile. “Consider this one a warm apology for a frosty introduction…”

Now this was a surprise. Mazrah looked up to find that it was Raelynn, of all people, who had picked Daro’Vasora’s lock, obtained the moon sugar and decided to give it to her. “Fuck me sideways and call me Latro,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “How did a proper lady like you know how to pick that lock?” The Orsimer accepted the offered bag of narcotics, got to her feet and wrapped her arms around the petite Breton in a fierce bear-hug. “Thank you, Raelynn. Consider yourself forgiven!” Mazrah squeezed a little, laughing at the sensation of Raelynn’s back popping, before letting go and putting her hands on her shoulders. She tilted her head as she looked down on the Breton, who was eye-level with the Orsimer’s cleavage, and squinted mischievously. “What say you and I share this sugar, eh?”

“How else can one access the best books in the library if one cannot sneak their way in with a few choice tools?” she said in a sing-song voice, flipping and flicking her hair in an arrogant fashion - proud of her accomplishment. She laughed, and also shrieked a little too loudly when Mazrah hugged her so violently. After she put her back down, Raelynn patted her arm gently, averting her eyes from the large breasts in front of her face. “You are… Welcome!”

“Share it? You want me to indulge in the Moon Sugar?” Raelynn blinked, partly in shock, partly from intoxication as she steadied her gaze. “That sounds like a recipe for disaster…” She pursed her lips into a pout, and moved her eyes back and forth, really considering it - for less than one second. “Let’s do it!”

It seemed impossible at first, but Mazrah’s grin managed to occupy even more real estate on her face as Raelynn agreed to share the moon sugar. “That’s the spirit,” she said, sat back down and motioned for Raelynn to join her. “Now, let’s see here,” Mazrah mumbled, slightly slurring her words as her large fingers clumsily undid the straps holding the bag closed. She found herself staring at a pile of small, white crystals that looked like unrefined sugar -- hence the name, Mazrah figured. She fingered one of her tusks while she picked up a crystal with her free hand and held it against the light, wondering what to do with it. “It looks… it looks like you’re supposed to eat it?” she half-said, half-asked, and glanced sideways at Raelynn. “What do you think?”

“Yes, I believe so. You know that this is a holy substance for the Khajiit, when they consume it - to them it is like they are consuming portions of their God’s very souls… It’s very special to them, Mazrah. Really quite fascinating.” Raelynn took a reasonable pinch from the pile in the bag, and sprinkled it onto her tongue. She nodded at Mazrah, encouraging her to take the rest of it. She didn’t immediately feel any different for taking it - yet.

“That’s fucked up,” Mazrah said and laughed. “Who in Oblivion eats their gods? Alright, whatever, I shouldn’t judge. Cat gods, here I come!” She tilted her head back and simply upended the bag of moon sugar over her open mouth, catching the crystals with a surprisingly long and dexterous tongue -- though perhaps not that surprising, all things considered. She could immediately feel the crystals begin to melt and disintegrate in her mouth and decided against chewing; something told her that it was supposed to do this by itself. Eventually she swallowed the remains and looked at Raelynn with excitement in her eyes. “And now we wait.”

Only a few seconds from taking the Sugar, and feeling it melt into a syrup down her throat did Raelynn begin to feel tingling through all of her limbs - tingling that immediately made her giggle in shock, her eyes wide as she allowed the sensation to wash over her. “Oh… hoo… ho… ha..” she began to speak in non-words, and just sounds. The portion she had was far less than Mazrah, and even taking into consideration their size difference there was only one thing that she could think to say - “oh my Mazrah, you’re about to get fucked…” which was followed abruptly by hysterical laughter.

“Oh, good,” Mazrah practically moaned as a honeyed warmth and numbness came over her like a blanket. “It's been too long since I've had a good shag.” She grinned but her mouth almost immediately went slack and she sank against her chair. “Woah,” she managed through uncooperative lips and frowned, before quickly deciding not to worry; she didn't want to be afraid of something while she couldn't move. That would only lead to panic. Quite the opposite happened, in fact, as an overwhelming sense of joy and amusement bubbled up from her gut and rose into her chest. She began to giggle, drool leaking from the corner of her mouth, and managed to raise her hand with great effort in order to wave it uselessly in Raelynn's direction. “Hi,” she slurped and bust out into a tremendously loud belly laugh.

Raelynn watched as Mazrah sunk into a blissful state of euphoria - wondering if she too would have the same reaction. She continued to giggle and enjoy tingles across her body she waved back at Mazrah, “hullloooooooooooo…” she slurred, drawing out the last syllable and finding it hilarious to do so. Unfortunately Raelynn was not quite as lucky as Mazrah to have a chair, and when the Sugar really kicked in, it was like being wiped out by a wave on the beach and she tumbled to the floor on her back, arms outstretched. “Wow....” she whispered while staring up at the ceiling, she swore she could see the stars.

Her sense of humor soared to new heights (or lows, depending on how you looked at it) and the sight of Raelynn falling spread-eagled on her back was the single funniest thing that Mazrah had ever seen. She laughed so hard that she turned silent, merely gasping for breath between bouts of cramp-inducing fits, and slid off her chair as if she had turned into a liquid. She joined Raelynn on the floor and managed to grab her hand, interlocking their fingers. “Mhmmm,” Mazrah whispered, her voice husky and breathless, before she was beset upon by another wave of giggles, tears of hilarity streaming down her face. It was like her whole body had become an erogenous zone and the sensation of Raelynn’s small, dainty fingers against her own was divine. Mazrah closed her eyes and was immediately treated to a spectacle of fractal light and shapes, twisting and turning haphazardly into infinity. “I can see forever,” she managed, and squeezed Raelynn’s hand.

“I can see a big black cat dancing in a hat!” she roared in response to Maz, giving her hand a squeeze back, feeling her tiny fingers be enveloped by the hand of the green giantess beside her. She moaned aloud in bliss as the room seemed to fall silent around her, everything crumbling away except the sporadic laughter erupting from Mazrah, and her own delighted purrs. “Ohhhhhh yes, now I can see forever too, it's so pretty. Almost as pretty as you my new friend!” She opened her eyes and looked at Maz on the floor - she was so vibrantly green and shiny and sparkling and all manner of things. She began running the fingers of her free hand over Mazrah’s bare stomach, before poking gently at her breast - the ones that had been so close to her face moments ago. “That is a magnificent rack you have, Orsimer,” she cooed dreamily, admiring the physique of her, and enjoying the colours she was displaying.

Shivers ran up and down Mazrah’s spine when Raelynn touched her stomach and and her eyes shot open after the Breton pressed her finger against her breast; her skin was far more sensitive than it normally was, even through the fabric of her top, and she looked at Raelynn with a heavy gaze. “Don’t tease me like that,” she said in a low voice and placed a hand on Raelynn’s bare thigh, her fingers drawing shapes on the pale skin. “You might get more than you bargained for.” Her lips split into a lazy grin upon receiving Raelynn’s compliment on her bosom and she looked down at her own cleavage. “Indeed. I grew them myself,” she said and immediately broke into hysterical laughter at her own joke.

“My word, what is going on here?” Gregor asked as he approached, a glass of wine in hand and an awfully amused look on his face. He had seen enough to know he did not have to worry about the fact that Raelynn lay giggling and stupid on the ground. Moon sugar wasn’t something he had ever partaken in himself, nor was he likely to, but he had seen the effects and knew that, in moderate dosages, it was harmless enough. Gregor was very much enjoying his own buzz at this point and shamelessly sank down on his rear next to Raelynn, adopting a relaxed posture, one knee propped up for him to lean his arm on. “It looks to me like you made a new friend,” the Imperial said to his lover and he gave Mazrah a polite nod, raising his drink in greeting. “Pleased to meet you, Mazrah. My name is Gregor, but I don’t expect you to remember that now.”

“Mmmmmmmmmazrah, this is my Gregor…” she whispered (not very quietly) against her ear, before blowing a little air on her neck joyfully. “Gregor this is Mazrah, I was just telling her that she has beautiful, bouncing, bubbly, big, bountiful, blossoming, bosoms!” she chortled at her own alliterative description of Mazrah's body. The blonde Breton grinned up at Gregor from the floor, catching his eyes with her own - under the influence of the moon sugar they were more beautiful and haunting than ever and she bit her lip at the thought of being close to him later. “Mazrah, Gregor is my… he’s my…” she thought long and hard about how she would describe him, eventually propping herself up onto her elbows and declaring, “he’s my handsome Prince!” She smiled from ear to ear, poking her tongue out in an adorably dorky fashion, before turning back to Mazrah happily, “don't you think he’s handsome?”

Gregor had to admit that Raelynn was right about Mazrah’s breasts, but thought it wise not to speak on that subject himself and took a sip of wine instead. He laughed, sincerely and openly, when Raelynn called him her handsome prince and stuck out her tongue at him, and his dark eyes were filled with love and desire as the crow’s feet by their corners became more prominent than ever; such was the totality of his smile. He had not felt such simple, wholesome joy since he was a young man without wrinkles of any kind.

“No,” Mazrah said with a smirk, and rolled on her side to press herself against Raelynn and wrapped a long, powerful leg around her, pulling her in closer. “But that’s not his fault. I don’t swing that way, princess. I like you much more,” she added and nibbled on the Breton’s ear before remembering that her lover was quite literally right there. She pulled back a little but remained close to Raelynn and traced the outline of her jaw with a finger. “You’re a lucky man, Gregor,” Mazrah said and looked at him, meeting his gaze.

“I know,” Gregor said softly and took Raelynn’s free hand in his own.

She quivered at the pleasurable sensation of Mazrah nibbling at her ear, a burst of laughter followed and she slapped Maz’s thigh. The pint sized mage twisted her body around so that she could see her new friend and look upon her eyes. “If I was to swing in your direction, and if I were an Orsimer warrior like you then I would happily remain here and we could tie ourselves in knots under the stars…” she dragged a finger over Mazrah's lips, down her chin, then her neck, to her collarbones until she finally found her breasts again - and this time she gave one a hefty squeeze. “But as it stands - I'm certain that your… that your jubbly bits are bigger than my head. You are simply too much woman for me!” She giggled joyfully at Mazrah before turning back to look at Gregor. “But this one…” as she spoke, her smile faded as she looked deeply into his eyes - entranced by them, “he is my perfect storm… and I daresay that I… that I-" Before she could finish speaking, she spotted the long, powerful thunder thigh propped over her and burst out laughing again at the sight of it before giving it one more hearty slap for good measure.

Gregor’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of what Raelynn might have been about to say, but he resorted to having another sip of wine when she was interrupted by the realization that Mazrah had caught her in the iron vice of her legs. Their level of physical intimacy had now reached a point that caused him to raise an eyebrow and clear his throat loudly; though there was something to be said for the sight of Raelynn entangled with another woman. He blinked a few times and cleared his head of the thought. “Alright, let’s get you up,” Gregor said and moved into position to help Raelynn on a chair. “You’ve teased our new friend here long enough. I fear that if you touch her any more, she will not hesitate to steal you away from me.” He glanced at Mazrah, smiling to show that he meant her no ill will.

She nodded. “Quite true,” the Orsimer said casually and acquiesced to Gregor taking Raelynn out of her embrace by untangling their limbs and rolling onto her back once more. Raelynn staring into her eyes and squeezing her breast had almost made her abandon reason and abduct the Breton then and there. She was going to need some time to calm down. “Oh, you’re right, I can see the stars too,” Mazrah added softly and stared up at the ceiling, her breathing slow and deep.

While Gregor was glancing at Mazrah, his back turned for merely a split second - Raelynn bounded onto her feet and began weaving her way drunkenly through the party, deciding upon who would be the next friend she would make while her spirits were still high.

“What the--” Gregor began and whirled around to see Raelynn disappear into the midst of the party. He took a deep breath and sighed before looking over at Mazrah and raising his arms, palms-up, as if to say ‘what gives?’

The Orsimer laughed and clutched at her abs. “Ouch, this is really starting to cramp now,” she groaned and tried to relax.

---

It was probably the first time Meg had had so much to drink, but she wasn't about to stop now. Cheeks as red as apples, she had found her hands on yet another bottle of ale -why fix what wasn't broken and chose something else to drink?- and decided to sit back and relax in a corner while attempting to think over a very crazy idea that wouldn't stop dancing in her head. Looking around, she caught sight of a familiar face; a dopey grin came to her face as she attempted to rush over.

"Jara- ahh!" In her inebriated state, she tripped over her own feet; instinctively she hugged the bottle as she fell to her knees. "PHEW." At least it was protected! Still on her knees, she giggled as she waved at the argonian. "Hiya!"

Jaraleet was about to speak when he noticed Meg tripping over and falling to her knees. The Argonian quickly stood up and went to check on the fallen Meg, the reason behind why she had tripped quickly becoming evident as he noticed her reddened cheeks. “Hey to you too Meg.” The Argonian said, shaking his head slightly albeit he was smiling nonetheless. “Want me to help you get up?” He asked, deciding to not comment on the bottle of ale that she was currently holding between her hands, offering one hand to the kneeling form of the Nord woman.

Meg thought about the simple question for much longer than it warranted thought before nodding emphatically. "Aye, thansh!" She took hold of Jaraleet's hand and managed to pull herself up with one hand, the other refusing to let go of her precious bottle of ale. Still a little weak in the legs, she fell face first into the argonian.

"Ow," came her muffled voice.

Jaraleet had noticed the unsteady wobble to Meg’s leg and, as such, had moved his second hand to support her while she regained her balance. Unfortunately, it seemed that he was a second too late as the Nord woman came crashing face first on top of him; fortunately he managed to regain his balance and stopped them both from falling into the ground. “It seems like you’ve had a bit too much to drink, haven’t you?” The Argonian said with a light chuckle, having placed one hand on Meg’s waist to help steady her up and, hopefully, stop her from falling again.

"Too much? Nooo..." Even as the words left her she knew he was probably right. A sulky look on her face and her lips pouting like a child, she nodded in agreement. "My legsh, they jus' don' wanna work, silly things." She was lucky she was being helped up, it gave her the chance to find a chair without falling to the ground yet again.

"I'mma sit!" she decided, her free hand waving at the chair as if trying to summon it over. "I'm- I'm o... kay." She spoke the words slowly, not really for Jaraleet but mostly for herself so that she could understand what she was saying- the words seem to be slipping from her mouth before she could even think about them. "I... I wanna tell y'somethin'. I got... an idea!" She gazed up at the argonian, green eyes glazed and shining.

Jaraleet couldn’t help himself and chuckled when he noticed the sulky look and pouting lips with which Meg was regarding him with, a fond smile drawing itself on his face once he was done chuckling. He helped Meg move towards the direction of the chair she had been waving towards and, once they got there, to sit down. With that done, the Argonian pulled a nearby chair and sat in front of Meg. “Hmmm, if you say so.” He said, unconvinced, when Meg muttered that she was ok, moving one of his hands towards the bottle that she was still clutching. “Hmmm, and what idea is that?” He asked her, still smiling at the Nord woman. “By the way, would you mind sharing?” He added nonchalantly, gesturing at the bottle of ale. It’d probably be a good idea to get that out of her hands.

For a split second Meg was about to refuse- it was her bottle!- but even drunk she was reminded that he had generously shared his drink when they had been no more than strangers. Feeling slightly ashamed of herself, a sniffle escaped as she nodded, holding out the bottle for the argonian to share.

"Sharin' is carin'," she reminded herself, her sulking expression changing to one of pride. She then took a deep breath before leaning in conspiratorially, hand up to her mouth to whisper. "I- I think I know it! Who dunnit!" Thereafter she jerked her head comically to the side, as if to see if anyone was eavesdropping on their conversation. When she saw everyone was too busy in their own conversations, she turned her head back to continue her whispered conversation. “It… it came t’me when I was gettin’ m’hair chopped off. It’s… gotta be them. Or him.” She put a hand to her chin, finger tapping against her lips as she made a show of thinking.

Jaraleet smiled as he took a hold of the bottle, taking a swig of its contents before he turned his attention once more towards Meg. He listened in silence as she continued speaking, a mounting feeling of dread welling up within him as he started to piece together what Meg was talking about. “By the Hist, please no.” He thought inwardly, taking another swig of the bottle’s contents. “What are you talking about Meg? Who did what?” He asked her quietly, his mind desperately trying to think of a way to shift the conversation away from the topic he thought it was heading towards.

Meg started at the argonian as if he had grown an extra head. Her head tilted to the side as she narrowed her eyes. "You know," she replied, adding emphasis to the words before she scooted forward in her chair so that her knees were nearly touching his legs. "'Bout the ... " Even in this state she knew better than to speak out loud, simply mouthing the word "dwemer." Her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose, hoping he got what she was saying. "Thinkin' 'bout it, pretty sure t'was 'im..." Once again she mouthed the name of her prime suspect, Gregor, and then waited, seeming almost puppy-like as she waited for approval at having hopefully solved the mystery.

“Sithis damnit all.” Jaraleet thought as Meg began talking, just like he had guessed, about Nblec’s death, his worries increasing as Meg mouthed off Gregor’s name silently. This was bad, he knew that Gregor was a dangerous man and he was afraid of what might happen should Meg start snooping around and unintentionally, or even worse intentionally, set off Gregor. Despite the arrangement that the Haj-Eix had managed to strike with the Imperial, truth was that the former still didn’t knew too much about the latter’s situation particularly when it came to what might drive him to take desperate actions.

“Yeah, of course I remember.” The Argonian said quietly, leaning forward slightly. He placed the bottle of ale at a nearby table before he placed both of his hands on Meg’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it Meg, I’m already looking into it. But, you are right, Gregor is someone that I suspect.” He said quietly, his mind racing to try and find a way to diffuse the situation. “But I’m already looking into it, it would serve no purpose to go throwing off accusations against each other right now, correct? We can only rely on one another right now, and driving wedges inside of the group could be dangerous, no?”

"Uhmm... I guess?" Meg blinked up at Jaraleet, slightly confused as she had thought he'd be more pleased or relieved. Maybe she really was a little too drunk and not thinking straight? The last thing she wanted was to do or say something that would ruin their group. But then, what about just dumping the blame on the argonian for something he hadn't done? "But- but it's- it'snot fair... you're not- you didn'- everyone thinks..." She let out a huff and crossed her arms over her chest, irked that he was probably right and that staying shushed was for the best. "Not fair. I don'- I don' like it. At all."

“No, it’s not fair.” The Argonian conceded, regarding Meg with a small smile. “But it’s just the situation I have to deal with it.” He said quietly, falling silent for a second as he thought about what to say next. “However, I do appreciate that you are worrying about….all of this. Really, I do.” He said, smiling at Meg and giving her shoulders a light squeeze. “But, like I said before, I’m looking into this, alright? Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to make things right. But, I think, that right now we should let things lie down for a bit.” He said, moving one hand to take the bottle of ale again and taking a swig of its contents before offering it to Meg again.

Meg's let out a breath before finally nodding. At least he knew then, right? That had to be enough, right? It didn't feel like it to her, but she couldn't blatantly go against his wishes... right?

Taking the bottle from him, she put it to her lips and took a long swig before setting it back down against her lap, though she pushed it to the edge so that the argonian could take it if he wished. "Fine," she finally intoned, falling silent for a good few moment before speaking once more. "We... we're friends. 'Course I'mma worry. Y'need t'get used t'it."

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Jaraleet replied, smiling at Meg. “I’m just worried as well, is all. I don’t want any trouble breaking up within the group and you getting hurt, that’s all.” He said, taking the bottle from the spot that Meg had placed it and taking a swig. “Just like you tell me to get used to you worrying over me, well, you get used to me worrying in turn.” He said, chuckling softly. “Seems fair to me at least, doesn’t it?”

Meg flushed, scowling a little before giving way to a guilty giggle of her own. "'S'pose y'got me there," she admitted, feeling embarrassed but flattered at the same time. "Fair's fair." Hands now free, she brought them to her face and rubbed her eyes, trying in vain to clear the fuzziness that invaded her mind. "Y- you keep the bottle... don' think I need more. I'mma go wash m'face an' get some water."

Jaraleet laughed slightly when Meg conceded her defeat, smiling contently at the Nord woman. “Exactly, fair’s fair as you said.” The Argonian said, happy that Meg was willing to let the topic of his unjust accusations lie low for the moment and thusly evading the possibility of Meg inciting Gregor’s ire. He nodded when she told him to keep the bottle and that she was going to go and wash her face, but a frown appeared on his face when he remembered the state in which he had first seen her. “Hey, do you want me to go with you or something?” He asked her, a note of concern in his voice. He could tell that Meg was in a much more sober state but, even so, a small part of his mind worried that she might wind up tripping again and hurting herself.

"Hmm..." Meg carefully stood up, testing her weight. She was still intoxicated, but she didn't think she'd be falling over anytime soon. "I'm thinkin' I'll be okay." She took a step to the side, testing her theory, and it seemed for the time being she was right. "Aye, I'm good!" She flashed a grin in the argonian's direction, hoping to shoo his worry away. "I'll b'fine!" She reached out with a finger and poked his face to emphasize her point. "See ya later, Jaraleet!"