---

The threats were gone, yet, the airship was the opposite of safe. Collateral damage from the explosive jellyfish and the Sload's spell had severely destabilized the vessel. Fabric of the balloon caught fire and was being eaten away. The main structure cracked, split and began disassembling itself. It addition, the golden chains anchoring the airship to Kyne's Tear placed heavy strain downwards, and when combined with the turbulent winds, made the airship increasingly unstable.

However, the lone surviving sailor was not ready to get out of this death trap. Seeing his fellow crew member and first mate killed, he wanted some loot to make this perilous venture worth the effort. With the Sload (and Sadri) sent back down to Mundus, and the big zombie cut down, the sailor made a run for the Sload's cabin. He also beckoned Sagax, Tsleeixth, Alim and Do'Karth to come with him, for there would be more treasure than he could carry alone.

And there would be just that beyond the doors of coral and brass. Tmeip'r the Fiftieth-Sent was a Sload obsessed with gold. Everything in his personal quarters dazzled with golden shimmers, so much that it hurt the sailor's eye just to look around. There was a giant circular bed in the middle, made with layers of gold-colored velvet sheets. A tall workbench seemed to be plated entirely with gold, and on it were dreugh limbs and body parts from other organisms. Several large closets sat on the cabin's side, and upon closer examination, they contained golden plate armor like the one Tmeip'r wore. There were also sparkling robes, an assortment of enchanted jewelries and a massive golden crown that was at least three times bigger than those worn by Tamrielic monarchs. What caught the sailor's eyes was a strongbox made of coral, secured with a dwarven lock and just big enough to be cradled with both arms. It sat on a smaller table beside the rear-facing windows, along with several oversized quills and a microscope-like apparatus.

The sailor called dibs on the strongbox and apparatus. He forwent the jewelries, having heard too many tales of cursed lockets to justify the risk. The strongbox would be carried in his arms, and the apparatus, apparently sturdier than it looked, went into his bag, for it would fetch quite a price with the mage types. Before he left, a tremble rocked the airship, causing the table's drawers to fly open. One of such drawer revealed a concave curved tray, with traces of ash lining its inside. The dip in the tray was just the right size to fit a sheet of paper. What mattered for the sailor though, was that it could top up his bag.

A second tremble came a minute later. The airship was now swinging back and forth rapidly. It was getting difficult for the injured mercenaries to stand on their feet, which meant; time to go.

Throwing open the cabin doors revealed a whole another world. The rain had mostly subsided, the wind remained strong, and the morning sun was peering out of the horizon. The airship frame was becoming a skeleton of its former glory. Looking down to the Kyne's Tear, it was apparent that two of the four chains have been detached and thrown into the sea. The entire balloon was a giant ball of fire, but for some miracle, whatever exotic material Tmeip'r used contained the fire to the outside. It all changed seconds later, when a third chain was ripped free and nearly flipped the airship onto its side. Some sharp, mast-like object pierced the balloon, uniting flames and gases in a brilliant combustion. The sailor stood there in awe for a brief moment, then quickly decided to run for the last remaining chain. But before he or any mercenary could reach it, a secondary explosion (likely causing by the Sload's arcane cargo) blew its anchoring away.

At that point, further explosions occurred throughout the airship. Whatever was not blown up caught fire. The husk that the sailor and the mercenaries stood on dipped down nose first. The Kyne's Tear, now free to move again, was pulling away to avoid being crushed; it would also be beyond their reach soon.

"Gotta jump now." The sailor concluded, holding onto a railing as the airship husk nearly canted forty-five degrees. The airship was rapid losing attitude, being only three or four storeys above sea level now. He did not specify whether to aim for Kyne's Tear (which was a leap of faith away), or the sea. Wherever the mercenaries jumped to, the sailor settled on water. It would be the safer choice; no uncertain distance and no hard landing. It would only be a short swim. Plus, he even picked out a soft landing spot; a big fluffy jellyfish.

In his haste, the sailor forgot about how these jellyfishes served as sea mines. He jumped first, landing gracefully with a plop, and was followed by a thunderous explosion, the blast of seawater and the confetti of body parts. Some mercenaries may be glad for the sailor clearing out the only jellyfish in the water below, or they could have have seen his death as a lesson against jumping in unknown waters. Whatever the case, it was now the mercenaries' time to jump.

---

---

Ariane was having a nice nap until the sound of explosion, the heat of fire and the smell of burned meat awoke her. She found her new world to be a wasteland of dead dreugh, dead people and some sort of healing aura. Some big stuff fell; some poor soul was crushed. The rain is dying down, and the formerly chaotic deck was falling quiet. Through the hole created debris, she saw Edith and some sailors have managed rip out three of the four golden chains. The ship immediately started moving, or at least that what Ariane felt, as her entire world was still moving in the aftermath of her headache. Of course, more explosion would be the finale of this unsavory event. It was like the plays of one (in)famous stage director, Mikhail Bey; big booms, flaming set pieces and a dramatic escape.

The detonation in the water made Ariane felt a lot less embarrassed about her own jellyfish blunder. A strongbox and a bag of loot was sent flying towards the ship. One of these landed beside Ariane on the right, while the other on the left. The content they held was surprisingly intact, though the lock on the strongbox was cracked open (with fish scale-like papers spilling out), and the sailing bag opened itself to present Ariane two late birthday gifts.

"A dreamsleeve transmitter?" She picked up the tray gingerly, and then saw apparatus below it. "And a translation lens?"

---

The sky was burning.

Gustav thought he'd seen the end of fire, but the ballista shot was merely a spark compared to the massive inferno burning above. He saw the devastation caused by the bolt, how several mercenaries were engulfed in flames, and how one of them was completed incinerated. It did not bring joy to Gustav in the slightest, though he also did not despair for Ashna's death. He was a pragmatic man in both business and life. Gustav understood making choices in a world of scarcity; choosing one death over many.

But now, everything he had done would have been moot if the golden airship, situated above Kyne's Tear, crashed and destroyed everything beneath it. They had to move the ship, and even though fire still burned on deck (and some personnel were still seriously injured), they had to get away. It did cross Gustav's mind that certain members were still up there, but he had just witnessed one of them falling back down with...whatever that thing was. This meant that the rest of them were either dead or dying; surely no one survives these fiery explosions.

On the bridge, Karena was doing everything she could to pull her ship out of the cove. The airship had powerful engines stronger than momentum generated by the Kyne's Tear's sails. As much as she hated admitting it, the task would have been easier with Hargjorn here helping her. That man knew Kyne's Tear like the back of his hand, and loved it even more so. Sometimes Karena wondered if Hargjorn had some sort of weird passion for this ship, the kind of passion he spat out in their arguments, and the kind of passion in their late night "discussions". Whatever the case, Karena knew that it was better to go the wrong way rather than arguing and going nowhere at all. It would be easier just to let Hargjorn and his followers fail, learn from their mistakes, instead of fighting to drill the right decisions into them every single time.

She had just spent the last fifteen or so minutes fighting against the airship's pull; what if she let the airship pull them in?

Karena explained her plan to Gustav. They would rearrange the sail so that the ship sailed into the cove instead of out. This would allow the change in momentum to swing Kyne's Tear on the chains, and hopefully past where the airship would be crashing. In addition, this maneuver would rock the chain anchors within where they burrowed into, allowing for them to be loosened enough for extraction. The chains had to be extracted soon, for if they were not by the time the airship sunk, the Kyne's Tear would be risked getting dragged down with it. Of course, Karena had to be up there on the bridge, carefully piloting them through the maneuver so that they wouldn't crash into the cliffs surrounding the cove.

Upon hearing the plan, Gustav set out to rally the mercenaries. Edith and several sailors had already made progress prying out one of the starboard side chains from the lower decks, and with mercenaries there to lend a strong hand, this one and the other starboard chain was removed. On top, in addition to rearranging the sails, Karena now wanted to shift all the weight starboard, in order to counter the imbalance caused by the port side chains. Thankfully, moving the dead dreughs and crew members starboard should do the trick. That was, if everyone could avoid being crushed from an increasing amount of descending wood, brass and gold.

With a lurch forward, the Kyne's Tear threw itself just beyond the airship's shadow. During the brief process, the ship rocked so violently that a few of its passengers were thrown overboard. It was just in time for the airship balloon to blow up spectacularly. The remaining chains on the port side crumbled down from the top, as whatever attached them to the airship no longer held. One half of the airship split from the other half, thus quickly plummeted into the sea. The other half didn't wait long to crash either. Somewhere in between, the surviving mercenaries jumped. They might have dropped into the water like pebbles, or settled for a hard landing on Kyne's Tear's deck. No one knew for certain as the airship husk touched down near Kyne's Tear, creating tall waves and a screen of particles that blanketed the air. The fires that burned on the ship were suddenly washed away.

"Man overboard!" Gustav screamed. It would be impossible to survive that kind of fall, he's certain, but he's also certain about recovering personal equipment (and possibly bodies) before they sunk forever. He marshaled those that still stood to rescue those that were flung over (or jumped from the airship). As he had done so, Gustav tripped on a piece of debris; it was a gold bar the size of his leg.

"What are you looking at?" Gustav scolded at a nearby mercenary. "Go fish our people out!"

"I have more important things to deal with." Gustav declared to no one in particular, and began hauling the gold bar, perhaps the biggest of many that had fallen onboard, back to his own cabin.

Sevine found herself standing amongst a pool of disorienting chaos. Fire rained down from above, painting the sky in an eerie red glow, an ominous sign. There was too much carnage on deck for Sevine to properly evaluate the situation, people were injured, dead, or dying, and she had no idea what had happened to Do’Karth. It was a feeling she had never experienced before, not even when she faced off against the Kamal at Nightgate Inn. This was different. It felt like time had slowed, she could hear the uncomfortable sound of blood pounding in her ears. It was the only thing she could hear. And she couldn’t move. Her feet felt heavy, as if her boots were filled rocks. The airship had exploded overhead, raining deadly shrapnel down upon the deck below, wood and metal combined falling like rain. She turned her gaze upwards, watching in disbelief as the airship split in half, the explosion rocking the ship. Sevine dropped to the deck to stop herself from losing her foot, while others aboard the ship were flung overboard. The airship came crashing down into the sea below. This was her blood lust draining away. She had handled fighting against the dreughs with ease. But this? This was fear.

“Man overboard!” Gustav’s words chilled her core.

Do’Karth, his name crossed the forefront of her mind, and that was enough to get her boots moving across the deck. She made a mad dash across the debris and carnage, abandoning Maj entirely, to reach the opposite side of the ship where the airship crashed. The flames that had once consumed it were extinguished by the rain and the waves. There wasn't much time before the airship would start to sink, and anyone with it still trapped aboard.

She reached the railing of the ship, and stopped. The jump from the ship into the water proved daunting, but she had to do it. Sevine paused momentarily, was she really about to jump overboard to save those struggling in the water? To save Do’Karth? And that answer was a simple, and firm, yes. She cast away her Chitlin shield somewhere behind her, as her hands flew to the straps and buckles across her torso. Sevine knew that her leather armor would weigh her down, potentially putting herself at risk even if it offered a layer of insulation against the cold waters. She pulled the leather breastplate over her head, chucking it to the side without a care. She pried the bracers off her forearms, and away they went. Her boots came off, along the steel war axe buckled at her hip. Sevine kept her red tunic and trousers on, the water would be cold, but she couldn’t be completely exposed to the elements, she would have to work fast. More importantly, she would need a running start to clear the ship safely, and not run the risk of being sucked under the ship. If there was anything Leif had taught her about sailing, which wasn’t much to be sure, but a ship of significant size created an undertow.

Doubling back, Sevine gave herself enough room, and turned around. She took a deep breath, and sprinted for the railing. It came up fast. She couldn’t stop now. Her legs propelled her forward with one great leap at the last second, where she cleared the railing entirely, and sailed out into the air. For a split second, Sevine’s eyes widened in terror, she felt as if she were temporarily suspended above the water, and then gravity pulled her down. She plummeted fast towards the blue-grey water, arms and legs flailing. She squeezed her eyes tight as she hit the water, salt water rushing up into her nose and mouth. She sank down into the murky depths, the cold stealing away her strength temporarily before she recovered from the initial shock, forcing herself to swim for the surface. She broke the surface, coughing and spitting out the salt water that burned her nostrils and the back of her throat. When she had collected her bearings, Sevine threw herself into swimming for the first body in the water. The wind howled around her, while the impact of the crash sent large waves for her to fight through. The frigid waters stole all the warmth from her body, causing her muscles to contract, but she had to fight through it. She had to keep swimming, even if her legs and arms protested against her. Her arms cut through the rolling waves that carried her up and down, salt water stinging her eyes, while her legs powered her forward. Because now it was either, sink or swim. And all she had in mind was finding Do’Karth.

Gold was everything, and after everything Do’Karth witnessed, he was suddenly repulsed by its lustrous hue. The Sload had amassed an impossible collection of the precious metal, and it was evident the creature worked where he slept, and how many unwilling bodies were forcefully grafted with the material to satisfy the monster’s twisted tastes? Perhaps it was the blood that still filled the Khajiit’s mouth with copper, but he wanted no part in any of it. However, a pragmatic part of his mind reminded him that all of it was valuable and could be bartered with; Sevine might also fancy some of the jewelry, herself. Not particularly being picky, Do’Karth grabbed a handful of the necklaces and amulets and shoved them into his budi, limping all the while and using his staff for support.

The airship lurched, the damage dealt in the skirmish evidently throwing it into its death throes. Despite his injuries, Do’Karth’s body naturally adjusted to the shift in balance as he stepped outside and looked at the churning water below; his gut sank and fear began to grip his heart. He was terrified of the open ocean enough without injuries, but now a voice rang through his mind like a dull ache.

You will die.

The Khajiit shuddered, and not just from the cold. The ship around him was tearing itself apart, lurching from the explosions and chains ripping themselves from their moorings, any safe passage down was gone and it left a few stranded souls to contemplate their very limited chance at escape. At least the airship was losing altitude; the drop likely wouldn’t kill them if they waited long enough, but it seemed that each second was begging to be engulfed with flame. Do’Karth closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer, hoping to find the strength to survive and make his way back to the Tear and Sevine, who must have been worried sick about him. He heard the sailor jump, and soon vaporize in yet another in a seemingly endless string of explosions and found that he didn’t question his mortality anymore; he just wanted to see his love again one last time.

Another violent explosion nearly threw Do’Karth off of his feet, and it felt like his insides were tearing themselves apart with the sudden motion, causing him to scream out in pain; the brutalizing he’d endured still caused him anguish, but he was alive and moving. Grabbing onto the gunwale, the ship lurched and suddenly began to tear. It was coming apart, and it was clear he could not remain. As the first half of the airship broke into the surface, Do’Karth forced himself over the gunwale and he stared at the brackish water below, feeling as if it would be the last sight he’d seen.

It rushed up to greet him, and he closed his eyes. The impact rocked him, his entire body burning with agony from the impact, and as he screamed, water filled his lungs and he knew then that he was going to drown. His staff was clutched in his hand, the hardwood miraculously buoyant enough to pull him upwards, and he knew there was a direction he needed to go, but he wasn’t sure if he had the strength or the will to go there. All around him was black, except for the fires and the light above; why would he want to go back to that place? All the anguish and suffering, it could just end if he let his lungs fill up and soon it wouldn’t be agonizing.

Still, despite this, his body thrashed on its own accord, panicking at the lack of oxygen, trying against all reason to stay alive. The bubbles escaping his lungs floated upwards, and he knew then where he needed to go, and in a desperate effort, he kicked up hard to try and break the surface. When he did, he tried to breathe in deep, but his lungs were still filled with salty death, and he coughed, struggling between trying to take in breaths and exhaling the water, not knowing what to do. He felt himself growing weaker, and the struggling grew less and less, and his eyes began to shut.

Suddenly, a pair of hands jerked him by the collar, and his eyes opened once more, seeing the face of the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen before, her hair as bright as fire. Despite himself, he tried to smile, and his eyes shut once more, not sure if the voice calling his name was Sevine or something in his mind.

The inky darkness swallowed him, and it all went dark.

Pendants, armor, even clothes for Mara's sake, all made out of sparkling gold. Sagax never in his life had even imagined such opulence, not even in the chambers of the Emperor himself. In truth it was almost blinding, reflected light assaulting the Imperial's eyes from every conceivable direction. He was stuck somewhere between awe and disgust at the fat bastard's collection of riches, though Sagax would be lying if he said he didn't think about having a bit of it for himself, and that's when he spied a glistening robe hanging above a small pile of jewellery. He didn't need any of it...but...

To Oblivion with it, he was going to get something out of this suicide mission. Sagax swiped the robe and two rings out of the pile below it and stuffed them in his pack. It was a snug fit, but the locking strap had just enough length to be secured shut by the buckle. Well, at least it wasn't stealing. Not really, anyway. Only a little bit...technically. Besides, hadn't Sagax earned this? All he had given in his life, taking one or two pieces of gold shouldn't paint him as greedy. What had the Sload done to earn any of their riches, anyway? It wasn't theirs to begin with.

Then came the rumbling. Thunder? No, Sagax knew what he was feeling. Too well, as far as he was concerned. The airship was starting to come apart, geysers of flame erupting out of the massive balloon above and all across the hull of the vessel. When he reached the end of the deck closest to the Tear, the snapping of wood could be heard as the airship was starting to pull itself apart.

"Damn...!" Sagax muttered to himself with a weariness. The chains connecting the airship to the Kyne's Tear had broken off, that left him and the other mercenaries with one choice: jumping. The only sane choice was into the sea; he'd shatter every bone in his body trying to land on the deck of the Tear. But his bag would inhibit his ability to stay afloat...though what if Sagax were to send it to the Tear while he himself jumped overboard into the water? It was definitely worth a shot.

Gripping his bag tightly in one hand, Sagax backed up as far as he could for a running jump off of the airship. At the end of his run, he used a railing to propel him further upwards, hoping it would give him a better chance of hitting both of his marks simultaneously.
After lifting off, Sagax tossed his bag as hard as he could in the direction of the ship below. After that, it was in Kynareth's hands. Thinking of a short prayer for luck, the Imperial curled into a tight ball as he descended.

Back on the Kyne's ear, Piper had just barely held on enough to keep from being thrown overboard. A fortunate turn of events, given her armor, though not so fortunate for the others, though being brutally honest she didn't care much about those that did get thrown into the water. Besides, she wasn't exactly equipped for a search and rescue. She would need to stay on the ship.

Suddenly, something caught her attention. Flying through the sky towards the ship was a bundle of what looked like leather. When it landed just a few feet from her, she saw clearly that it was in face her brother's travel bag. Piper's heart sank when he looked up and saw the airship being torn apart, explosions ripping it asunder. Behind her helmet, tears washed across her face as the Imperial woman first searched the waters near the Tear, then looked back to the sky. There she saw another figure, clad in leather racing down from above into the sea, meeting the surface with a crash before disappearing. Gripping the railing of the deck, Piper's breathing stopped as she stared at the spot her brother landed, waiting for him to come back up. He would. He had to.

Cold as ice and black as sin was the water that engulfed Sagax. He was frozen in shock for but a moment before breaking free of the paralyzing grip of the ocean and finding his way upward. Small streaks of light breaking through the waves guided Sagax to the surface, where he was greeted by fire, debris, and most importantly, air.

"SAGAX!"

Above Sagax was the heavily-armored figure of his sister. He was glad to see she looked relatively unharmed after her scuffle with the werewolf. He waved over at Piper to signal that he heard her. "I'm over here! Hey, was I able to get my bag onto the ship?"

"Wha-your bag...FORGET YOUR STUPID FUCKING BAG, YOU TWAT! GET YOUR ASS BACK ON THE SHIP!" As she spoke, Piper's voice became higher and higher pitched. Her throat had begun to lock up on her from anxiety, and she was still fighting to get the tears to stop even though Piper saw with her own eyes that Sagax looked fine. What was he thinking, asking about his bag? How the hell was that important!?

"R-right...! Don't worry, I'm coming over now! I can still swim just fine!"

Though the waves kept beating him back, Sagax was eventually able to make it back on board the Kyne's Tear with the help of a couple of sailors and some rope. He barely had time to take a single step before Piper ran over to him and jerked him over to her in a tight, almost crushing embrace. Sagax could hear that his sister was breathing quickly and heavily, and he thought he heard sniffling from within her helmet as well.

It was a rare display of emotion Piper was going through, and Sagax didn't really know what to say. So instead he remained quiet and simply returned his sister's hug as the others began pulling more people back onto the ship. He could check on the others later.

---

The encounter at Smuggler's Cove gave Ariane a bad concussion. Her formerly pristine forehead now sported a nasty bruise. If she was an expert illusionist like Keegan Vasque, she would have hid it with magic. Except that she's not as competent in illusion, so she made do with the limited cosmetics in her bags. The end result looked terrible, far from presentable in public. This meant Ariane socialized even less than she did before. She locked herself in her own cabin, only interacting with Maj to decipher artifacts from the airship, and attending Gustav's mandatory officer meetings.

The first order of business was to recover from the battle. Mercenaries that could still walk and use tools were put to work patching up the ship. Some of them also rounded up gold fragments from the airship, which was then redistributed (after Gustav taking a large scoop for himself) to roughly 100 Septims value for each person. Next came disposing the dead. The dreughs were obviously stew material, and thankfully one cook survived the battle to make tasty meals out of them. The dead people, well, the sailors were buried at sea per tradition. Ashna, badly burnt in the incendiary blast, held some contention among other mercenaries. In the end, a vote decided on a proper burial in Jehanna. Ashna had no home to return to, and the mercenaries wanted to properly say farewell to one of their own, after so many had been brutally killed and left to rot.

The second meeting over dinner was fairly mundane. Ashav was relieved of duty and expelled from the company; he would have to leave when the Kyne's Tear reaches Jehanna. Gustav would be personally overseeing aspects of the company's management; he would handle contracts and funds, since all of the company's ventures in the last week were paid out of his personal funds. However, Dumhuvud would assume Ashav's duty in the field and around the camps. That's right, the Cat-Kicker was now the ultimate authority in tactics and morale. Edith wasn't happy, and Sevine appeared downright angry.

On the bright side, Ariane had been promoted to a senior officer; she stood second in the line of succession, after Edith. Sevine was also promoted to the same rank, though Ariane suspected it was mostly because of Sevine's friendship with Edith. The redheaded "huntress" was pretty dumb, not exactly the dumbest (that honor probably went to the meathead Piper, or the illiterate Do'Karth), but still four planes of Oblivion away from smart. Did she even understand transliminal summoning? Could Sevine even comprehend aetherial fluid mechanics? The answer is an obvious no.

But hey, if Ariane wanted the companionship of intelligent peers, she wouldn't have joined this mercenary company. She was here to run away from her mistakes, from that terrible deal she made with the Beldama Wyrd. So she nodded her agreement to Gustav and went back to studying Tmeip'r's artifacts.

The artifacts were interesting, more interesting than the personalities of Daixanos and Narzul combined. Ariane's initial plan was to have Maj clean her cabin and do her makeup, while she studied. But upon finding Maj's penchant for enchanting, Ariane let her take part as well. Maj's involvement was, well, entertaining to say the least. Maj was clueless (not far from Ariane herself, as much as she hated to admit) about the artifacts, but she had no shortage of sailor's tales to tell. Some of them were about the magics of the golden slug, surprisingly.

Unlocking the artifacts' secrets wasn't too hard. The dreamsleeve transmitter, a plate where documents are burned in order to be sent, contained only residuals of...bad rap songs? The translator (the microscope-like device) was already powered by an odd-looking soul gem. The challenge was fitting the gigantic eyepiece, originally designed for large Sload faces, for human observation. The original eyepiece was too large to see through, so Ariane and Maj had to add another optic (burrowed from a dead sailor's spyglass) on top of it. Next came the fish skin-paper document. Tmeip'r wrote with a form of invisible ink that only appeared visible with the proper alchemical treatment. Thankfully, Maj knew a little a bit about nautical ingredients, and with the assistance of Dar'Jzo, they were able to concoct the solution using dreugh secretion. The document revealed a gibberish of characters, likely the Sload's own language and unknown to everyone else. Now, the final step, putting the document under the translation device.


"Maj, you've got to see this." Ariane said, shocked at what she discovered. "Someone important's got to see this."

Alim had been in sticky situations before. In fact if someone were to write his autobiography someday, the title name would probably be 'sticky situations.' But still, even for Alim this seemed particularly perilous. Despite that, he wasn't about to run away empty handed. It seemed like the sailor that had traversed the chains with them, along with his fellows in the company had a similar idea.

Slipping past the corpse of the Sload, he stepped into the chamber of riches and his eyes immediately grew as wide as saucers. "You know..." he said, plucking up whatever shiny objects he could find, as fast as he could find them. "I am not so against the Akiviri attacking Tamriel if this is what the spoils of war will be. I've risked my life for far less." So far he had picked up two rings, a necklace, and a bracelet. Each were gilded and bejeweled with various precious gems. After the accumulation of various items that were no doubt either cursed or enchanted, his eyes fell upon a crown. One fit for a giant.

Alim's jaw dropped at the sight. He grabbed one of the wave-like ridges along the item, but before he could get a firm hold the ship lurched to the side once, and then a second time thrice as violently. "Fuck!" Alim cursed, then sighed as he rolled his eyes. "Time to go I guess!" The crew departed the room only to find the outside world had already opened up before them, the floor having been ripped away. Their only real are of safety was the scaffolding and bits of material. As the airship tipped sideways, Alim did his best to balance and hold himself steady before he leaped at just the right moment. Anyone looking up would see a hole that had been torn out of the ship air spit out a dashing figure that plummeted toward the river.

Alim did his best to place his items on his person as he fell, but the rings were two hard to get on as he fell quickly and he placed his necklace in his pockets along with them. The bracelet looked snug enough to fit and he placed it on quickly as well to keep it secured to him. It was a moment later when he realized he had played himself. "Why me?" he said, or he attempted to. Instead he clucked it out, and found that he was descending far slower.

I guess this is my life now, he quipped to himself. Though his greater magical senses told him this was only temporary. Still, it was an odd stroke of luck to land gently onto the water while also realizing that it would take the hour of the curse for his little chicken body to make it to shore along with all of his belongings. Luckily it was all strapped to his cloak, and the cloak was floating beside the plucked prince, his beak firmly on the cloak that the treasures and items were attached to.

---

Daixanos axe was ripped out of a dreugh, and he kicked the corpse over as the airship began to plummet. He glanced upwards, but realized almost immediately the trajectory of the ship had it missing the Kyne's Tear, or at least not hitting it full on. Though much of the debris would be dangerously close and might be deadly projectile's if one weren't careful. Another factor became clear when the impact of the moment caused nearly half of Daixanos' crew to plummet into the water.

Daixanos sheathed his Axe once more and leaped atop the railing to survey the waters. He saw Arcel, Adaeze, Niernen, Keegan...and a chicken. He decided not to question the latter. With a hiss, he plunged into the water on his own accord after the ship pitched to its side, diving into the depths. To a landstrider this would seem a dark place where monsters lurked. But for Dax, it was a bit of home, and he helped those whom he could back to the ship.

---

It was clear immediately where Sevine’s attention pulled while the conjurer’s was elsewhere. Getting clear of the spectacular wreckage that was formerly The Golden Slug raining down around them, Maj ducked among the prone corpses of the dreughs her head popping up after the swift rush of air of chains breaking free whipped by. The ship rocked from force to Maj's luck she steadied herself against the dreugh body and the railing final great waves splashing across the deck and taking unlucky few with it into the water. Some recovered far more quickly than others, Sevine namely quick to jump to her lover's aid.

Maj looked to Sevine next pausing at the edge of the deck, she reached out. “Hold on-!”

Sevine dived in, Maj made a dash for the starboard side eyes peered into the water for the eventual resurfacing of the Nord. She relaxed feeling a chill come over her at the deep waters, unaware of it’s sudden grip. Strapped to the side of the Kyne’s Tear was the rowboats. Securely fastened, surviving the attack. She would need another pair of hands to lower it into the water to rescue others. Bodies bobbed close by, time was of the essence.

She joined her voice to the other sailors, “Man overboard! Starboard side!”

“Port side!”

Other calls shouted out.

Maj scanned behind her seeing the Bosmer priestess finding her composure after managing to stay aboard the ship.

She stepped around bodies, minding the dead. Others were clearly preoccupied pairing up - executing their own rescue operations. Wylendriel was on her feet, to Maj she counted as able bodied as anyone unaware of the injuries she suffered before.

“Priestess, Wylendriel! I need your hands, we’re going to lower a boat into the water!” Maj shouted making her way over. “I can’t do it alone.”

The priestess’ head whipped around to look the mage with wild eyes, panting with deep, heavy breaths. Only moments ago she had dropped her arms from exhaustion after particularly intense restoration magic, which in turn was only moments after she was nearly burned alive. Her robes were in tatters, and the stinging cold rain slightly soothed the subtle burn scarring which had remained on her back. What remained of the black wool top underneath was likely the only thing protecting her modesty. Her eyes darted side to side on the boat as she was still trying to process what was happening. Ashna’s screams were still playing on repeat in her head. People were diving off of the ship. One was the huntress, Sevine. One of the argonians was helping too - not Tsleeixth. Unexpectedly, the older khajiit had also dived off the ship. Overwhelmed, it was only now that Maj’s words began to reach her. She nodded and looked to her hands.

Gods, she felt exhausted. Her magicka was drained too. She had maybe one spell left in her. A small one. She summoned what was left of her magicka to fortify her stamina - a faint, weak glow traveled up the veins in her wrist and she took a deep breath, giving herself a moment to let it course through her body. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough to keep her moving for now.

Wy looked back at Maj. She still had a job to do - she still had people relying on her. Her voice was shaking somewhat, but determined. “Lead the way… show me what to do.”

Maj nodded tracking back to the rowboats getting to work on the knots. Loosening the rope she tugged roughly, the rowboat shifted on one side. “Wylendriel, hold this rope while I undo the otherside and prepare it.” The bosmer priestess looked in far worse shape up close than Maj originally assumed. A twinge of guilt because she asked for her help when she looked ready to collapse into a bed. Emergencies happened when you were least prepared. Maj decided there would be time to make it up to her later.

To her credit, the priestess didn’t hesitate in following Maj’s direction. When she had a good grip, Maj went to the other side and repeated the process. The rowboat came loose, the last bit of rope Maj unknotted righted the boat right side up ready to be lowered into the water.

“On my count! We’ll lower ‘er into the water, steady now.” Maj said holding firm.

“Understood!” Wy rasped.

Together they slowly let the boat down, Maj kept an eye on the boat and on Wylendriel, worried she might lose her grip but she held. When the boat cradled into the water, Sevine and the older khajiit were swimming back to the ship with Do’Karth in hand. Dar’Jzo helped her carry her companion as he climbed onto the rowboat, grabbing Do’Karth by the scruff of his neck and haphazardly dropping him on one end before helping Sevine climb on top as well. The waves of the post-storm ocean were battering those who fell overboard and jumped in voluntarily, perhaps so much that they didn’t notice the splashing just beside the ship. Though the dark waters hid who it was, a minor break in the cloud cover casted just enough moonlight for Wy to catch a glimpse of a familiar dunmer face from her bird’s eye view.

“Niernen!” She cried. She looked to Maj in a look of panic, and back towards the mage who was struggling to stay afloat with her disability. Another wave washed over her, slamming her against the hull of the Tear, and suddenly the splashing had stopped. Without a second thought, Wy began tearing her way out of her tattered robes. The tangled mess of burnt and shredded wool and leather gave way to a Bosmer woman mostly bare aside from the tight black undergarments covering her torso and upper thighs as she started to climb atop the railing.

Maj snapped, “Are you crazy-!” She quickly stepped between Wylendriel and the railing, arms out. Behind her she yelled, “Someone grab Niernen! We’ll keep the boat steady!” She turned to Wy, brow furrowed. “Adrenaline and a quick stamina spell isn’t going to last long enough for you to grab Niernen and swim back. Think! That icy water’ll sap you of any strength you have!”

Though Wylendriel pushed against Maj at first, it was long after meeting resistance that she felt her energy beginning to fade out. Her arms weakly reached out to where she last saw Niernen sink beneath the water’s surface, barely enough strength to keep it up as her wide-eyed stare darted between there and the rowboat they dropped. The older khajiit seemed to have heard Maj call out for Niernen to be saved and jumped into the water once again with a dagger in one hand and a length of rope in the other with Sevine on the other end. Maj’s words were beginning to reach her. She was right about not lasting a second in that water. Still, she was fearful. What if they had failed? Her panting fell into a long sigh as she helplessly leaned into Maj and buried her face into her shoulder. At this point, she felt like nothing more than dead weight.

“She’ll be fine, we’ve got a pair of able bodied swimmers put to task.” Maj gently pat Wy’s shoulder, attempting some reassurance. Her eyes shifted down, the long terrible scars visible across her body and back. It set Maj’s imagination ablaze, what could have done this? How in Oblivion did she survive? Most importantly, did she even want to know the details? Everyone had their scars to display or hide away.

The tattoo however drew her eye, the strong lines depicting Kynareth’s wings clearly marked genuinely of her priesthood. Reminding her of her mother’s own tattoos. Maj averted her eyes, feeling as if she were invading Wy’s privacy. She checked the waters again, Sevine helped Niernen into the boat followed by Dar’Jzo pulling himself in. They were ready to come back up.

“Wylendriel, they’re ready to return to the deck. One last push and then we can rest.” She said quietly, green eyes looking anywhere else.

There was an audible sigh of relief and the tension in the Bosmer’s body seemed to have relaxed a bit before she stepped away from Maj. There was a bit of stagger in her step, but she squeezed her hands into fists and kicked her heels into the deck as a sort of way to summon her strength back. She took a deep breath, as she did in her exercises many times before. Her eyes fell back on Maj and she nodded, before locking her eyes on the rope. Perhaps it was out of habit, since she had just spoken high sacrilege only minutes ago, but part of her feared speaking in case the breath she was holding would escape her.

Maj nodded returning to her side, grasping the ropes again - Wylendriel did the same, leaping up and using her weight to do most of the work for her, taking in new breaths as she did. Together they pulled the boat back up, below Sevine and Dar’Jzo did the same - the full weight on neither party. The injured were carried safely aboard and rushed away to warm cabins. Maj watched them go, feeling the adrenaline beginning to edge away lack of a proper sleep catching up with her. She ran an eye down Wylendriel, the sag in her shoulders and deeply drawn bags under her eyes told the conjurer she could always be worse off. A healer in need of a healer was a sad sight.

“Go on, Priestess. You’re done out here for today.” Maj said scooping up her clothing and passing the mess of robes back to her. “Thank you for your help, your healing spell was masterfully well timed for those who will live to see another day.” The apparent waterlogged cadavers punctuating her point.

“My name is Maj, Maj Noor by the by.”

“Wylendriel Greensky.” She answered. Ashna’s screams still echoed in her head. “Thank you, I… I ah… well, thank you. I regret that I couldn’t do more.”

Wy’s eyes followed after the old khajiit and Sevine who hurried the bodies of Niernen and Do’Karth into the cabins. She turned back to Maj and said, “I beg your pardon… I have to go. Thank you again.”

Maj watched her go next crossing her arms, inevitably her eyes settled on her retreating back. Warriors rarely had scars as bad. Survivors, however often did. Lucky as the remaining crew was to survive the encounter with the Golden Slug. She quickly summoned a familiar, appearing as a goblin shade she gave it commands to start pulling bodies free of debris, shiny small specks of gold glittered across the deck as she moved. The familiar was nearly distracted by it, she slapped it’s hands away as she scooped up the bit of gold. Hiring a crew was an expensive endeavour, every little bit helped. Even as she came across mangled bodies, the distinct image of Wylendriel radiating light burned into her mind’s eye.

With the messy bundle of torn-up, wet fabric in arms, Wylendriel shuffled her way after Niernen and her rescuers. The dimly lit interior made it hard to see, but they were lined up next to the other injured. Sevine was wet and shivering, yet remained fussy over the condition of Do’Karth. The older khajiit was already bundled up in a wool coat and his cold fur was already shaken and bristled, evidently very unhappy with his current condition.

“If you cannot help the cub, then you should get warm.” He told her

“I’m not leaving his side, I’m fine.” Sevine protested.

The khajiit answered with a sharp exhale through his nose. Then his cold eyes fell on Wylendriel.

“Dar’Jzo hates water. Especially cold water.”

“That’s surprising for such a strong swimmer.” Wy commented.

“Mm... regretfully this one was already wet from the rain. Look to the darkskin and the cub. This one and the fussy one knows not how to revive them properly.”

The priestess sighed heavily, dropping the wet bundle of clothes and staggered over to Niernen and straddled the dunmer woman’s waist. The Bosmer gave a tired look over towards Sevine and told her, “Do as I do and he will be fine, okay?”

She held her hand flat against Niernen’s sternum and placed her other hand over it and began a series chest compressions. After a few moments, she tilted back Niernen’s head and listened for any signs of breath. When there weren’t anything, she pinched her nose shut and breathed air into the Dunmer’s lungs. Almost immediately she began spitting up water and rolled on her side. It wasn’t long until Sevine’s procedure revived Do’Karth as well. However, they were also immersed in the ice cold ocean and took in a lot of water. Their response was a short lived relief, as they quickly fell back into unconsciousness. Still, they were breathing now.

Sevine was far beyond exhausted from her time spent in the water, but Do’Karth was alive and that was all that mattered to her. She held him close, her fingers smoothing the fur on his face into place.

The priestess got off of her and sat beside Niernen as she slept. There was bruising and abrasions along the side of her head where she was knocked against the side of the ship. Wy winced as the scene replayed itself on her head. Maybe she could do something for her. Maybe she had enough magicka left to help her.

Wy reached out and set her hand on Niernen’s head and tried to perform one more healing spell. A light faintly flickered around her hand -- which then immediately whipped back in front of her mouth as her chest heaved in a massive coughing fit. The cabin around her started spinning, Dar’Jzo’s and Sevine’s voices were faint in her ears. She tried to look at her hand. It seemed like there was four of them phasing in and out of each other, but she caught a glimpse of blood staining the palm of her hand. The weight of her eyelids were becoming too much.

It wasn’t peaceful, but she eventually allowed herself to drift asleep.

^{Featuring @Gcold}

Dawn, 7th of Last Seed, 4E205
Smuggler's Cove
Underwater

It was cold, mostly, and dark and heavy; that’s the best Marcel could describe it. He could feel a pulling force against his entire body, and everything around him; his clothes, his scabbards, his gorget. Amidst the bubbles he shook his head to see other things in the dark – corpses, of Dreugh and men; bits and pieces that made absolutely no sense, like gold nails and platter ware; and distant jellyfish, floating like creatures from an alien realm far away from the troubles of this world.

Marcel felt almost welcomed by the jellyfish to join them in this new realm where they just floated in the cold without a worry, but then again, he’d heard that jellyfish weren’t the smartest of creatures. He would admit that neither was he, but he still saw some difference between their puffed, calm and static existence in this place, whereas he seemed to be in pain, with every muscle of his being in intense effort, trying to move themselves.

That’s when Marcel realized that he was drowning.

Pushing his legs downward and raising his arms up almost in an attempt to reach the surface of the water, then using them to pull his body up, Marcel found that his body was strong enough to reward his efforts; he was on the surface, however barely. He felt an immense, cutting pain inside his throat and nasal cavity, almost rivaling the constant stinging of his recent burn wounds. He felt as if his breath wasn’t enough, possibly thanks to the wound he’d received back in Dawnstar; he kept gasping, and it took him a few seconds before he felt comfortable enough to do other things, such as taking a look at his surroundings and understanding what he needed to do.

He could see the ship not too far away, and a figure struggling to stay above the water even closer by. Marcel began swimming towards the figure while huffing, his irregular strokes showing signs of fatigue.

Keegan hated water. Maybe not as much as the Khajiits, but he still hated water. It was cold, rough, coarse, and like the daedra-cursed sand, it gets everywhere. Currently, it got into his clothing, his hair and his lungs. Keegan really hated stuff, other than air, getting into his lungs. It was a lot more rough, coarse, and all the fun, than just getting on his skin. But then, was it really the water getting into him? He was the one that got into water, albeit involuntarily.

Just when he thought the worst had come to pass, and the storm clearing away for the faint sun rising to the horizon, the ship decided to take a giant dump. Like the piece of shit he was, Keegan got shitted on (or out?). He was flung over the slippery deck through the air, over various obstructions, and landed ungracefully in a belly flop. If not for the fact that he was drowning, Keegan would be commenting about the pain. Well, now he’s just flapping his arms around like a chicken about to be slaughtered. Actually, there was a chicken in the water, where Alim used to be a second ago. Then Daixanos dived in and took it back to the ship; stupid lizard man valuing his lunch more than his companion.

However, one individual cared enough to help. The said individual was wearing armor, yet somehow keeping afloat. Keegan’s instinct was to grab onto the man, but then again, he might just weight the other down enough to sink both of them. They needed something to grab onto, and near by Marcel was a piece of flotsam.

“Get that-” Keegan pointed to the happily floating gold bar. Before he could finish, a tall wave nearly put him under. He gurgled water in the process, filling his airway full of fluid. Marcel better get that floaty thing soon, and the floaty thing better support the two of them.

“Oh dear Mara,” the Breton muttered to himself as a wave suddenly raised him above the surface, although the same wave seemed to splash his fellow struggler in the face and stop his breathing. Marcel recognized the mer right after, although recognition was not exactly his top priority at that moment – that would have been getting the both of them out of the water alive. As the wave crashed and settled against the Kyne’s Tear, Marcel found himself next to a piece of floating gold – assumingly, the thing that the Altmer had been pointing at. He was not sure as to how exactly this large, cylindrical piece of gold floated, since as far as he’d been taught, it was far too dense to not sink, although grasping onto it and wrapping both his arms around it, he found the gold chip away to reveal wood underneath. Even Sloads cut costs, it seemed.

“Thank you all, o patron spirits,” Marcel thought to himself in a moment of gratitude, although the moment did not last long as he realized that, in his panic, he’d forgotten about the Altmer.

Extending his body as much as he could while holding onto the faux gold pillar, Marcel raised his leg towards the drowning mer as he shouted for him to grasp onto it. With the constant crashing of the waves, and the flaming remnants of the airship steadily descending upon the sea, Marcel knew that letting go of their impromptu float would most likely mean losing it forever. “Grab my foot, pull yourself!” Marcel hoarsely yelled out to the best of his ability, his throat burning with the exertion.

When Marcel first extended his leg to him, Keegan thought he was going to be kicked away. Then he realized, through the muffled and barely hearable words, that this was his lifeline. Keegan reached over the jagged waves to grab onto Marcel’s foot. Immediate as his grip held, he felt the two of them falling further into the water. However, the flotsam bounced them back up, barely enough for breathing.

“Wait, I’m going to-” Keegan alerted, only to be slammed mid-sentence with a faceful of seawater. When he could speak again, he punched Marcel’s knee to get his attention.

“Going to grab the float!” Keegan said. He dragged himself forward on Marcel’s trouser, then his belt, his chest piece, and finally grabbing the golden log. They were now side by side, so they could kick together and no longer have to drag the other person.

“Alright, just swim-” Keegan looked around, finding rescue lines, buoys and ropes extended from the Kyne’s Tear not far away. There was even a lifeboat being used to fetch Do’Karth and Niernen. Keegan ran his hands over his face, clearing water away from his eyes and nose; he felt a little relieved now. However, when a wave jerked his head in the opposite direction, Keegan found another figure struggling in the water.

It was Adaeze, the Bosmer/Redguard that suffered heavy burns through the incendiary bolt. Her wounds must be painful, as she could not fight the waves at all. She was barely able to bob her head above surface infrequently, and she was being washed away from the Kyne’s Tear, into the path of a jellyfish.

“Do you see her?” Keegan directed Marcel’s attention behind them. “Can we get her?”

“We must try,” Marcel replied without any thought, without even looking at where the Altmer directed. Leaning back right after his response, he saw the Bosmer woman, the one he’d tried to help earlier with Wylendriel, and suddenly felt a new energy stemming from a new emotion, aside from his sense of responsibility, to try his best to help; guilt. “Come on,” he said, pushing himself under the water to pop out of the opposite side of the float, extending his legs backwards to ready himself for the push.

Entirely soaked and freezing beyond the coldest winter imaginable, Keegan really didn’t want to stay down here any longer. But then again, he (like most normal people) also didn’t like to watch others drown. Since Keegan’s already feeling like shit, what more harm could come from feeling shit for another minute? If he’s somehow still alive, he should be alive to rescue Adaeze, right?

While Marcel swam to the opposite and began to push away, Keegan decided to hail the lifeboat instead. Shout, scream, wave and splash as loud as he could, those on the lifeboat just couldn’t be bothered to look behind them. Why should they? They’ve got everyone around them, and they couldn’t risk the injured onboard.

With a sigh and several watery coughs, Keegan joined Marcel on the other side of the float. They started kicking, moving themselves toward Adaeze. In the process, Keegan couldn’t help but to look over his shoulder, to make sure the Kyne’s Tear wasn’t leaving. It wasn’t, yet; good news. The other good new was the waves lowering after the storm and the airship crash. However, Adaeze was surfacing less and less often.

Adaeze had gone under when Keegan and Marcel started moving her way. The next spot she went up at seemed to be even further from the two of them, despite them clearly making progress. She went down for a long minute after that, which made Keegan’s heart sink. Thankfully, Adaeze broke the surface a third time. She was much closer this time, close enough to be reached with a few more strokes. A wave raised her battered (but still alive) form, right behind her, a blob of pink and purple.

It was at this moment, that Keegan knew, they fucked up.

“Shit, turn ar-”

Marcel’s task of reaching the Bosmer woman was suddenly interrupted by an ear-bursting sound and a shockwave that nearly snapped the gold-coated float in twain. While most of his body had been hidden behind the float in his duty as impromptu propeller, he did feel a sharp pain in one of his fingers, most likely caused by a piece of organic shrapnel, as the sudden wave created by the explosion pushed the battered float in the opposite direction of its intended target. While at first he had been far too dizzied to understand what had just happened, the occurrence slowly dawned upon him as all shades of red and pink muddled the dark water they’d been swimming in, and bits looking awfully humanoid began surfacing, or falling from the sky into the water like raindrops.

It was so cold. Since his rude awakening in the icy water, Marcel truly felt how tired he’d been for the first time; all his extremities were getting bitten at, to an extent that he could barely feel his toes. He felt the gorget around his neck pull his entire body into the water; in that single moment, Marcel felt so disappointed that, had it not been far too inconvenient to try and remove it, he’d likely have parted ways with it, just as easily as he’d have parted ways with his life. He gave out a dejected sigh, his teeth clattering against each other in its duration, as he pulled himself onto the float and wrapped his entire body around it like a sloth would do to a tree. His wet clothes were nagging him down to the depths below like the need for sleep tugged him towards unconsciousness.

“Let’s just… Oh, pity’s sake…” Marcel mumbled to himself as he barely raised his head from its slump on the float to look into Keegan’s eyes, although he couldn’t muster the strength to say anything. Really, the two didn’t have much to rely on except the possibility that someone on the Kyne’s Tear heard the explosion and decided to look their way.

Keegan stared back at Marcel, mirroring his sense of dejection with his own. At least they tried, right? Why did they even bother? Keegan shook his drenched head, partially trying to shake away the image of Adaeze being pulverized, and partially to tell Marcel that there was nothing they could have done. The Breton looked like his energy drained out of him, which was what exactly what Keegan experienced. He went to pick out the splinter in Marcel’s finger, but stopped midway, fearing that moving Marcel’s hand might cause him to lose grip on the float. Instead, Keegan focused on Marcel’s gorget. The chunky metal thing wrapped around Marcel’s neck like noose, and whatever good it did in battle, it was only doing him harm right now. With rapidly shivering hands, Keegan ripped at the gorget, and to his dismay, it refused to budge.

“Over here, look up!” A sailor called from the ship. The explosion got someone’s attention after all. Keegan saw a long bundle of rope in the sailor’s hand, the end of which tied a buoy. “I’ll throw this in; get ready.”

Keegan placed a hand on Marcel’s shoulder, keeping him aware and pushing him to where the rope would be. He remembered how Jorwen used to perform the same gesture, and how the Red-Bear could rejuvenate exhausted men with a meaty clap on the shoulder. Keegan wished he could do that, he wished he could inspire his comrades the way Jorwen did. But he couldn’t, so the next best thing was to kick as hard as he could, to get them moving again.

Slowly, the two of them swam through the blood-tinted water. Pushing through unrecognized bits that was Adaeze a minute ago, Keegan wandered to Nightgate Inn, where the very man beside him saved his life. Marcel blasting the Kamal collaborator was as bloody as their current predicament, if not more so. Well, if they made it through the slaughter at Nightgate, they’d have to get through this one. Keegan won’t let Marcel die; he heard Breton ghosts tend to haunt with a vengeance. It worked like that, or maybe it’s his hypothermia playing tricks on him.

“There!” Keegan breathed a sigh of relief. The cold left no sound of jubilience in his voice, even the shivers had stopped. But there was no denying the reassurance of the rope in front of him. Keegan asked Marcel to grab on first, then he followed. They pressed their bodies close on the ascent, conserving whatever little heat’s left in the two of them.

“Uh, uh...” Keegan’s teeth clattered again upon leaving the sea; all he could think about was a warm bowl of soup. For some reason, the imagery of the soup resembled gore. It didn’t make Keegan feel sick, though; it only made him hungry. “I heard the new cook, Turpen or something, is going to make us crab stew. Maybe we’re doing dreugh now.”

“I’ve had enough seafood,” Marcel replied, absentmindedly looking at the punctured deck, littered with bits and pieces of Dreugh, peppered with wiggling fish thrown onboard by the crashing waves. “I think we all have for a while.”

---

The assistant cook on Kyne's Tear was a young Redguard woman called Turpen. She joined the crew less than a week ago in Solitude. She came from Dragon Gate. She had a brother named Farid.

Almost a month ago, Turpen was apprenticed to the chef at Dragon Gate Inn. She had taken to cooking and provisioning at a young age, providing meals for her three siblings, something her wasteful and neglectful single mother never cared to do. She enjoyed cooking food, mixing drinks and scouring the wild for ingredients. It was her calling and her way to contribute to their barely functioning family. Her eldest sibling, her elder brother, Farid, was the first to leave home in order to find work. Farid drifted until he found a mercenary company in Skyrim, where the pay was so good that he could send most of it home. The second sibling, her sister, Haraas, would leave home in Farid's footsteps a season later. Haraas would labor in claustrophobic mines until her luck ran out in the eighth dig, when her crew dug into an ogre den and ended in bloodbath. Of course, Turpen never told Farid about Haraas' death in their letters; he had enough to worry about fighting Forsworns and snow demons.

Her youngest sibling, the savant boy, Abujah, studied magic under the town's sorcerer. He was the brightest of the siblings, and the only one with the possibility to transcend their miserable lot. Turpen worked twelve hours each day to finance Abujah's studies. She ran errands for that old hag of a chef, whom treated her like a dog instead of a skilled cook. For months, Turpen endured, hoping that one day the old chef would die, and Abujah would become a renowned spellcaster.

None of her hopes mattered when the Orcs came last month; they killed everyone in Dragon Gate.

As if the gods had a cruel sense of humor, Turpen had only survived because the chef sent her out to gather ingredients late at night, far away from the town itself. A discouraging and meaningless task saved her life. Turpen watched Dragon Gate burn, she listened to the cries of the innocents and the savage roars of the Orcs. She only hoped her mother and her mentor got what they deserved.

Turpen had to find Farid, her only kin left on Nirn. She started the long trek toward Skyrim, but all she had on her person was what she carried for a short gathering trip. The roads were rough and barren; Turpen was alone, cold, starving and vulnerable. That was, until a mercenary company found her.

The mercenaries, calling themselves the Vanguards, were led by a Redguard swordsman named Mehm Zoar. They were traveling from the Reach to Evermore, where they have secured a new job after Skyrim's government canceled their previous contract. This was not the company Turpen looked for; when she asked them about her brother, Mehm produced letters between Farid and himself, and a report from someone inside the company. They were evidence for bad news.

"Farid's dead. His commander, Ashav, killed him."

Turpen broke down. There was nothing left in the world for her.

"No, you still have a purpose." Mehm counseled her. "Revenge."

Mehm slipped her a vial; it was poison designed to addle one's mind. A lethal poison would cause too much suspicion, but gradual doses of this poison would steadily weaken the target, allowing for him to make mistakes and disguise his murder as an accident. "Use your skills as a cook to infiltrate Ashav's company," Mehm told her, "then slip the poison in the drinks that Ashav drowns himself in." She should find them in Solitude.

"How do you know they'll be there?" Turpen asked.

"A young and inspiring warrior, trapped under Ashav's heels, has been communicating with me." Explained Mehm. "This is Dough-Boy's test, should he understand subtlety, I will teach him what Ashav denied him."

"And what will you teach him?"

"Pride."

And so Turpen went, satisfied that Mehm and herself had a common enemy, and she would eliminate this enemy for all the woe in her life. Mehm seemed trustworthy, or at the very least, not someone to do her harm. He sent her away with consumables, clothing adequate for the north and an iron dagger. A Khajiiti Vanguard going by the name of Moraya was assigned to escort Turpen, until she reached a caravan. Apparently, Moraya originally intended to join Ashav's company, but she came late and signed on with Mehm instead.

"This one was disappointed at first, because Ashav had quite the reputation." Moraya said as she and Turpen chatted. "But misfortune ended up as fortune; Mehm is a professional warrior, and Ashav is a drunkard."

Moraya wished Turpen good luck and told her to find the Vanguards at Evermore when her quest was complete. Truth be told, Turpen never thought about what she would do after Ashav's dead. She was expecting herself to die in the process, but now, when Moraya said she had the heart of a warrior, Turpen began to consider enlisting with the Vanguards. However, she did not entertain such thought on the wagon ride to Solitude. She was already brimming was fear, since this was her first time leaving her home town (and its immediate vicinity). Her frustration overpowered her fear, though it started to dissipate as she rode through the devastated landscapes of the Reach. She had to put doubts and questions aside, just like what she had done under the apprenticeship. Turpen trusted her instinct, and not much her thoughts.

Getting into Ashav's company was too easy. These mercenaries and sailors had suffered so many defeats that most believed they were cursed. Unsurprisingly, Turpen did not face any competition when she applied as a kitchen hand. The Kyne's Tear needed someone to feed the hungry men and women, elves and beastfolks that sailed for Jehanna.

Even though she was skilled in the culinary arts, adjusting to the cramped ship galley and its limited ingredients proved a challenge to Turpen. If she wasn't here to kill Ashav, she would be delighted to take on this challenge as a learning opportunity. But for what mattered, Turpen simply followed the head cook's orders, as difficult as it was at times. The sea was not kind to her, and she almost threw up in the food. When others offered help, she refused. She suffered silently and alone, in fear of being exposed for who she was and also scared of making friends with her enemies.

Eventually, Turpen more or less got her sea legs. She also discovered a hidden door behind the pantry, where barrels of expensive alcohol sat. She recognized some of the brands, though all of them seemed extremely expensive. No doubt the rich brat Gustav owned them, however, it was Ashav that sneaked down there at night to "sample" them. She found herself face to face with the man she swore to kill on the second night. Ashav looked like a dead man walking, his appearance was poorly kept, he stumbled and slurred like his mind no longer functioned. Turpen had yet to administer the poison, but it felt almost unnecessary at that point. The battles did what the poison was suppose to do. If Turpen wanted, she could stab Ashav in the back right there, and no one would see her. But then again, she would become prime suspect afterwards. She could be fed to the sharks by angry sailors. She had to wait until they reach land, so that she has the chance to escape back to Mehm. It was no longer a suicide mission; Turpen had something to live for. So she stood aside and let Ashav drink himself stupid. Then, when the old man scurried back to bed, she dumped the poison in the half-finished wine barrel.

Several hours later, the sky came crashing down. According to the sailors and mercenaries, they faced undead, dreughs, and a Sload's airship. For Turpen, she cowered under a table as a golden anchor smashed into the galley and killed the other cooks there. She was not a hero at that moment; she cried.

When the danger passed and the ship back on track to Jehanna, Turpen suddenly found herself as the favorite person on the ship. Wet, cold and miserable, the mercenaries and sailors wanted something warm to eat, and she was the only one left to provide them. Even with much of stock and equipment destroyed, and her cooking not suited for their environment, people cheered as Turpen brought them their (poorly made) food. They were just happy and relieved to be alive. Some hugged her, some clasped her on the shoulder, some sung praise of her and some simply nodded their appreciation. Everyone was friendly to Turpen.

The overwhelmingly positive reception stung Turpen. She excused herself from the celebration, and ducked back to the galley to cry again. She felt sorry to deprive these poor souls, whom did not seem like murderers in slightest, of their leader. But then, Turpen convinced herself that they were better off without Ashav, or even better, if Mehm could take over some day. This had to be the truth, as Ashav was already drinking the poisoned wine; she's gone too far to reverse her course of action.

Ashav never appeared after the fight in Smugglers' Cove. On the third night, Turpen found his cabin dimly lit. Ashav locked himself inside. As Turpen pressed her ear against the door, she heard him droning on incomprehensibly and smashing himself into the bulkhead over and over. That didn't seem like the reaction from a intelligence-draining poison, but then again, what did Turpen know? She mixed drinks, not poisons.

On the fourth night of their voyage, the Kyne's Tear finally docked in Jehanna. The crew and passengers wasted no time disembarking, likely eager to replenish their supplies, and sleep on real beds for a change. Some might have gone to sight see, which was what Turpen would have done if she's here on leisure. Instead, she sat on the broken deck by herself, keeping an eye at Ashav's cabin. Even the captain herself had gone ashore, and only a single sailor (half-heartily) guarded the ship from the docks. With cold sea breeze came loneliness; how Turpen wished she could enjoy a night with friends.

But then, the cabin door opened. Ashav fell out of it.

The old man did not even bother to spare a glance at Turpen. He hobbled, teetered and shoved his way through the docks and into the streets of Jehanna. Scent of filth and alcohol swarmed the air around Ashav. She followed, far enough to not draw suspicion, but not so far as to lose sight of Ashav. There didn't seem to be a clear destination for him, but after wandering back and forth for an hour, he arrived at the lighthouse overlooking Jehanna harbor.

"Go home, Redguard, you're drunk." The lighthouse keeper stepped in front of Ashav.

"Guh, glug, grr, glooo..." Ashav shook back and forth. Then out of some place Turpen did not wish to know, Ashav presented a purse full of coins. "You go...take a break."

The lighthouse keeper accepted the coin purse and began walking away to the direction of Jehanna. Ashav stepped inside the lighthouse. Turpen ran after Ashav.

"I have to get my father!" Turpen shouted as she brushed by the keeper. "Mother's worried sick about him!"

The lighthouse keeper bought into her lie without question, or was simply too eager to spend some time in the tavern instead watching the same harbor every night. How Turpen wished she was speaking the truth. Her father was an opportunist that took her mother's wealth and left a daughter there to rot. Turpen didn't even know his name, let alone see his face. If she did, she would...kill him? Ask him why? Would she forgive him if she knew his own struggles?

As Turpen's thoughts betrayed her, she was climbing the lighthouse stairs. Ashav was up there, mumbling to himself.

"It's over." Ashav said to himself. his tone was angry on the surface, yet beneath that thin surface was a sea of regret. "I can't take it, I didn't know, I don't want too...I'm sorry!"

"What the fuck!?" Ashav spun around. Turpen had just tip-toed onto the top platform, yet Ashav was there to face her.

"Who are you?"

Turpen said nothing. She reached inside her jacket and pulled out the dagger.

"What..." Ashav's eyes, already bloodshot and tear-filled, popped open at the dull shine of iron. His sagging and beaten face straightened. "Why?"

"You killed Farid." Turpen's hand bit tightly into the dagger handle. Her voice came as a quiver, but then she tightened every muscle in her being, and it transformed into a shout. "You killed my brother! Murderer!"

"He got himself killed!" Ashav shouted back. "Your, brother, bought into-"

"Mehm sent you, did he? And the poison-"

"Mehm told me the truth." Turpen gritted her teeth. She pointed the dagger towards Ashav and took a step forward. "You and your Orc conspired against him; after he voiced opinion about Dragon Gate. I was there, I've seen the massacre; everyone's dead!"

"He manipulated Farid!" Ashav stepped back and raised his hands. There was no railing on top of the lighthouse; a few more steps back and it would be a deadly fall. "His 'Redguard honor' killed a comrade."

"My brother slayed an Orc, a savage!"

"Is that what Mehm told you too?" Ashav held Turpen's eyes in his own. The drunkenness was gone at that moment, replaced by an intense gaze that made Turpen question herself. "He was my lieutenant once. We split because I was willing to rescue innocents, while he would have held them for ransom. Mehm labeled someone he had never seen as a savage, even though he employs Orcs in his company."

"They have denounced their backward ways..." Turpen recalled, not sure what she defended all of a sudden.

"Yet Mehm never denounced his own." Ashav shot back. "Isn't poisoning a helpless man savage? If I'm a murderer for killing your brother, then what does killing me make you? It won't bring Farid back. They fired me!"

"I, I-" Turpen sighed. She lowered her dagger.

Seeing Turpen balk, Ashav made his move towards the stairs. However, as he took steps forward, Turpen did not budge. She stood in the way, cast in the shadow of the giant lantern and feet firmly planted on the wooden floor.

"Let me go." Ashav said.

"I can't just..."

"I said-"

Ashav leaned forward to push Turpen aside. At the same time, she raised her dagger in the defense. The combined result was something both of them did not expect; the dagger slid into Ashav's chest, instantly puncturing a lung. Turpen yelped at the splashy impact of iron against flesh, and though she had butchered animals without squirming, doing the same to another human being was terrifying. She yanked back the dagger on instinct, as if trying to undo the damage. However, it only created another exit wound and Ashav collapsed backwards in recoil. Her hands trembled, her heart froze in place. There was the fear that she feared. No, she had nothing to fear other than fear itself. Concentrating on the thought of revenge, as Mehm instructed her, Turpen felt her heart rapidly accelerating; the fear-induced trembling transformed into rage-fueled shaking.

"No, don't, please..." Ashav implored. He clenched the hole in his chest, breathing jagged and blood coughing out of his mouth. He scooted away from Turpen, but he found himself cornered on the edge. The lantern in front of him blinded him, and stepping through the light was Turpen, beaming with anger. Wind blew around them, their frigid reach clawed at exposed skin, and their howl cheered for a murder.

Ashav held his hands in front of him, pleading for something; not mercy, maybe a swift end.

Turpen shook her head, steeled her resolve and slammed her boot into Ashav's chest.

Ashav fell.

Turpen ran.

She threw the dagger near Ashav's corpse and made for Evermore. She could not look back now; she killed a man, she's a murderer now. Ashav's men wouldn't recognize her, though she couldn't even recognize herself. What did she accomplish? Turpen didn't have the answer, but Mehm would; Mehm must have the answer.

---

When Ariane brought Tmeip'r's letter to him, it was really the last thing on Gustav's mind. He had his plate full, figuratively and literally. It had been two hours since the Kyne's Tear docked. Ashav had been told to leave (with his equipment and a small bag of coin, for Gustav's mercy), Dumhuvud had been introduced to the mercenaries as their new commander, and Gustav's Jehanna warehouse was prepared for the mercenaries to reside in. Gustav was currently sitting in the Screaming Chasm, one of Jehanna's twenty-one inns and the second closest to the docks (chosen to avoid the Lucky Bird, closest tavern to the docks and where other mercenaries flocked to). On his table was a full serving of bubble-and-squeak, a type of ragout signature to northern High Rock. Normally, a warm bowl of meat and vegetable made Gustav's mouth water, but right now, with various administrative tasks on his mind and Ariane reading the letter in front of him, the bubble-and-squeak did not look appetizing in the slightest. How could he care about dinner when the company's expenditures would soon drive him bankrupt?

"So..." Gustav scratched his head, after Ariane had recounted the letter to him.

"The Sload we encountered at the cove, Tmeip'r, is merely the pioneer of a larger plot." Ariane explained, and cut a piece off of her sausage.

"Are they the Kamal?" Gustav was still confused. He scooped up a spoonful of the ragout; it tasted bland.

"I don't think so." Ariane shook her head. "Tmeip'r mentioned an invasion about to commence, and the Kamals invaded last month."

"Look, we're here to find my prophet, not playing heroes. We'll sell this information to the king, and, wait..." Gustav pondered, and while his mind did so, his throat choked the second spoonful of food.

"You mentioned a princess?" Gustav cleared his throat.

"Yes," recalled Ariane, "seems like she is in league with the Sload brothers and this Wrudh."

"The Princess of Jehanna is a bit of a wack job." Gustav leaned in and whispered. "I met her at the king's ball last year. She was collecting Reachman scalps and running alchemy experiments on goats. She's the third child the royal family neglects, the little girl her brothers look down upon, and she has the cruelty in her to consort with Sloads and whatever this Wrudh is."

"So..." It was Ariane asking the question now, she forked up a patch of mashed potato and gingerly brought it to her mouth.

"We still bring this to the court tomorrow." Gustav shrugged his shoulders. "We tell them what happened, get paid for it and take whatever job they have for us. We also have a funeral tomorrow, so for now, let's-"

The inn door suddenly burst open, behind it came half a dozen fully armed guards. The shouted and shoved patrons out of their way, until they finally approached a tired looking man at the bar (whom had been complaining about his job to the bartender earlier). Two guards seized the man and a third bound his hands.

"In the name of King Frithjolf, you are hereby arrested for neglect of public safety and suspected involvement in murder." The leading guard announced.

"Wait, what?" The man shook his head.

"You tell me, lighthouse keeper." The guard grabbed his head. "Why is there no one operating the lighthouse? Why do you have a newly-arrived drunk Redguard there? How did that drunkard fall to his death?"

"Newly arrived drunk Redguard..." Gustav shared a worried look with Ariane. "Ashav..."

"Is dead." Ariane finished.

---

---

Gustav had a terrible night. He dreamed about a dancing eggplant stealing his gold bars while giving him mocking gestures. Also, the guards questioned him until early morning.

He told them everything he knew and did to Gustav. And after a thorough interrogation and an intensive search of his warehouse and Kyne's Tear (disturbing many resting mercenaries in the process), the guards finally decided that Gustav had no part in Ashav's death and let him go. However, Gustav wasn't done with the guards yet. He asked them to show him the crime scene and their predictions, arguing that he deserved to know with all the troubles they put him through.

So the guards did. Gustav saw Ashav's body lying under the lighthouse, with a deep wound in his torso and a dagger resting beside him. Gustav heard testimony from the lighthouse keeper, about how Ashav bribed him to access the lighthouse. Gustav listened to the investigators, whom told him that Ashav most likely committed suicide, jumping off when the dagger didn't end himself fast enough. Finally, Gustav asked for Ashav's body to bury. The guards agreed; they saw no need for a magical and alchemical autopsy.

Now Gustav stood in the Conclave of the Golden Tomb, the city's Arkay temple and their largest cemetery. Ahead on the chancel, Arkay priests performed rites on four coffins; Roze, Adaeze, Ashna and Ashav. Mercenaries that were not seriously injured were required to attend the funeral, though not all of them actually came. Gustav had ordered them here to improve their morale and discipline, but in the end, he understood that some had their own way to deal with loss.

"Lord of the spirits, protect these souls on their journey to Aetherius." The high priest began. "Let their rests be undisturbed and their sacrifices not forgotten in our hearts."

Gustav lowered his head. As much as he disagreed with Ashav, the Redguard really deserved better than to fall off a lighthouse. Ashav fully deserved the peaceful retirement he clamored for, and a part of Gustav felt guilty for denying him that. However, Gustav was not someone to dwell on the past. He had a lot to do this day, and it was just getting started; the 10^th was going to be a long day.

10th of Last Seed, 4E205
Jehanna, High Rock

Narzul did not attend the funeral. Neither did Niernen, who was still exhausted from her ordeals, but that was not the excuse she claimed. Dunmer did not acknowledge the Divines as their own gods and whatever funeral rites were about to be performed had no religious or spiritual significance to them. The two of them hadn’t been close to any of the deceased either. And last but not least… they had other things on their minds.

After her interview with Madara, the reporter that worked for the Tamrielic Gazette, Niernen had picked up a habit of reading the newspaper whenever a new edition came out. Narzul had secured a room for them at the Lucky Bird as soon as they docked on the 9th and practically carried his little sister into it, making sure she was comfortable in bed before acquiescing to her two last wishes for the day: a hot meal and the latest newspaper. He had felt immensely guilty over the way things had gone during the fight with the Sload and its Dreugh minions. He had somehow allowed the raging waves to knock her out of his arms and she nearly drowned because of it -- if it weren’t for the efforts of Sevine, Wylendriel, Maj and Dar’Jzo, she surely would have died. Narzul had been dressed in his heavy armor and the time it would have taken to free himself, what with the salt water tightening the leather straps even more, even if he had cut himself loose, would have been enough for Niernen to submerge beneath the surface forever. It was a bitter pill to swallow. Once again, he had not been able to protect her. So like any good brother did, he had completely taken on her care during her recovery without a single squeak of complaint and now that she was awake and talking again, did whatever she asked without hesitation.

He hadn’t read the newspaper himself when he returned with it. It wasn’t until Niernen had finished her meal and opened the pages to see what had happened in the world while they were traveling that the awful news reached them.

If Narzul closed his eyes, he could still see and hear how Niernen had gasped as if she’d been stabbed in the heart. He had been cleaning his blade and turned to look at her, finding her frozen in place, eyes wide, fingers trembling, mouth agape, staring at the newspaper in horror. He could still feel the immense, all-consuming fear that had bubbled up from his gut into the rest of his body, paralyzing his arms and his shoulders, clawing all the way up to his face. He’d opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He already knew. The risk had been there ever since the start of the invasion.

But to think the Nerevarine actually did it…

The moment had stretched on seemingly forever, motes of dust suspended in the faint light of the fluttering candle on Niernen’s nightstand, until the spell had been broken by a ghastly, shivering sob as Narzul watched his sister collapse into a depth of grief he had never seen before. Something had suddenly reanimated him and he sprung into action, crossing the distance between his chair and the bed in two long strides before snatching the newspaper up to read for himself, eyes feverishly searching for the section Niernen had been reading, until --

”SCANDAL! The Venim family, influential nobles of House Redoran, have been declared traitors. All Venim family members are executed (by the order of Grandmaster Farandras), while their associates and retainers are imprisoned and will be undergoing reeducation.

Exposing and prosecuting the Venim family is the Sarethi family. A long-time rival to the Venims, the Sarethis found evidence of Venim family members funding and enlisting in enemy forces, and several Venim hirelings are --”

The newspaper had uselessly dropped to the floor as Narzul’s fingers lost their strength. That was when he realized he had apparently stopped breathing. A long, shuddering intake of air was swiftly followed by an explosion of emotion, and he had observed himself from a distance as he grabbed his black blade and tore into the furniture and the walls of the room with unprecedented savagery. Niernen’s sobs of bereavement turned into screams of terror as Narzul destroyed everything he could, practically frothing at the mouth, his heart thundering in his ears so loud that it drowned out anything else, crimson eyes bulging in their sockets -- never in his life had he been so consumed by wrath and hatred as he was then. It was like a cannonball had struck the room, so great and terrible was his violence, and crushed, splintered and severed fragments of wood lay scattered across the floor by the time he was done, when there was nothing left to destroy but the bed.

A squeal of fear had escaped Niernen’s throat as Narzul turned to face her, chest heaving, his throat rattling with every vengeful breath -- would he blame her, like he’d done before? Was he going to say that it was her fault that everything had happened? She knew that Narzul had just lost his future, his birthright, everything he had ever trained and worked so hard for, which was perhaps even more dear to him than his family itself. But to her surprise and immense relief, Narzul dropped his wicked war-sword to the ground and collapsed to his knees beside her before enveloping her in the most sincere, gutwrenching embrace she’d ever felt, and together they cried for what felt like hours.

Between choking, tearful wails, Narzul had only been able to say two things. “Papa… mama…”

Niernen’s heart broke.

They had fallen asleep like that, huddled together for comfort, and not been roused from their deep (but restless) slumber until the following morning. After her tears had tried, Niernen was simply empty and she could do nothing but stare at the ceiling of their room. Narzul, on the other hand, was beset upon by the need to do something, and while they waited out the duration of the funeral without leaving their room, Narzul eventually stopped pacing and donned his ramshackle suit of armor.

“We have to kill him,” Narzul said to Niernen. It was the first sentence either of them had spoken since the news.

She slowly turned her head to look at him, her expression as blank as only the traumatized can manage, and blinked. “The Nerevarine?”

Narzul nodded. “Yes.”

More than ten seconds passed before she could muster a reply. “Yes, we do.”

“That’s settled then,” Narzul said with a note of finality and strode out of the room, closing the door behind him with force. It was time to find Gustav.

---

Stifling a yawn behind a hand, Redguard mage caught a whiff of particularly strong incense and nearly sneezed. Waving her hand about for a seconds before loudly sneezing. Others around her shushed her, the High Priest continued uninterrupted with the rites, professional. Maj looked down upon the bodies of former members of the company. Those that were previously burned had their faces covered with cloth, sparing those from having to see the gruesome sight. Their bodies prepared by expert hands but as far as the former-corsair thought was an outrageous waste of good salt.

She turned her lip up at the idea of being buried, her father adamant on how he wanted his body to be treated after death - drumming up a deep seated fear of necromancy early on for his children. Maj fully recognized as a school of magic - conjuration flirted with necromancy and its history was rooted in breathing artificial life into the dead. The thought of being raised by some half-cocked necromancer sent shivers down Maj’s spine. She hoped to be so lucky to have a choice in her death, it was never a worry sailing with the Scarlet Harpy everyone had funeral arrangements decided before boarding. Grim but necessary to pay proper respects to any one crew member.

Arguably their bodies would be safely buried in the Temple of Arkay, after hearing stories if Windhelm being sacked by the Kamals. Places of worship mattered as much as the brothel. It was foolish to believe a graveyard wouldn’t be used against the local population. She rubbed her arms a chill settling into her.

When the reading rites were complete, she bowed her head respectfully. Others were clearly far more upset at the loss than she was, she made for a quick exit not without clapping Gustav on the back. A sobering sight of Wylendriel praying for the dead, after a few days of rest the priestess was on her feet busy tending to the injured as soon as she was able. Maj glanced away. Miss Fontaine tugged on her arm passing a bag of gold and a lengthy list of errands to run on her behalf. Whispering instructions. Carefully rolling the list up and pocketing the gold she retreated. Outside the temple she breathed a hefty sigh, taking a quick sip from her wine skin she shuffled to the side pouring a little out.

“Hard-lee knew Ye.” She rhymed off, capping it off before heading into the city to shop.

---

Streets of Jehanna, Noon

Maj hefted a heavy sack over her shoulder, one of the several ‘ingredients’ Ariane requested struggling in vain at the bottom of the sack, a small foot occasionally kicking out against her shoulder. In her other hand she held a basket overflowing with various herbs, flowers, jars filled with a mysterious pitch liquid. Some relatively normal items like sprigs of rosemary and bushel of mint nestled among the strange. Wrapped in paper was a small bouquet of columbine flowers pastel blue and yellow petals it’s bloom in the shape of a trumpet. Those she bought for the injured but she hoped Wylendriel would notice as well, she may not have cared for the dead but the ones alive still mattered.

Maj learned over the course of their short trip to Jehanna that Ariane, much like other mysticism mages - no matter their outward appearance (well made up as she was) they were the very definition of eccentric. It was great fun to conduct experiments with the highborn mage, discovering the note from Tmeip’r wrote, what banquet did they refer to? What in the fresh plane of oblivion was a mix tape? The Sload used a bizarre language.

In her free hand she held the list, scanning down it. She entered into one of the local inns - the Dirty Golem, the instructions mentioning the cook there used a specialized spice unique to him and his dishes. Outside the inn was a Tamrielic Gazette stand selling the latest news. Inside she walked under an arc of stone-faced gargoyles, carved eyes staring intensely at every patron passing under them. The atmosphere was dreary, long black table cloths, the signature Jehanna red lamps cast an eerie glow mixing generously with natural light. Polished candelabra sat, unlit, center of the tables in a wreath of nightshade, dark heavy curtains open over the windows. Maj looked quite out of place strolling in.

Moving with purpose, she went straight up to the counter plopping none-too-gently her sack to the ground. The sack resident squeaked an exotic whistle in protest. Maj frowned then returned her attention to the inn keep. A tall pale green orc with small tusks, expertly applied swipes of eyeliner and a bold red lip, she wore a elaborate black silken dress with a low cut frock, she regarded Maj and her assorted shopping basket. “Good afternoon madam, my name is Shara welcome to the Dirty Golem. Wow can I be of service?” Probably the friendliest aspect about the establishment.

She brought out the list, reading the next set of instructions. Ariane warned that this ingredient was entirely secret, few knew of it’s existence and it’s special qualities. Maj gestured for the orc to move closer to whisper.

Brow furrowed she leaned forward, “Better not waste my time, mage.”

Maj whispered, “I’m here for the Miracle Spice. I’ve been trusted with the code.”

The orc’s eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious. “Get it wrong and you’re dead meat.”

Maj nodded, about to speak when she was interrupted by a long howling shriek followed by heavy thuds above their heads. Shara hardly batted an eye, Maj clamped her hands over her ears looking to the stairs. “Son of a fucking knave! What was that?”

She shrugged, “My guess being a banshee experiment. You know how it is, mage.” The thudding continued for a few more stomps before ceasing completely.

Her imagination ran wild.

Recomposing herself she recalled the instructions warning of how they cautiously guarded their secret. She whispered, “Alright here goes.” Taking a deep breath in she recited the password, “Septim edible centaur regretted echoing truth, spriggan astutely useful centered earring. Oh and this,” She quickly angled her arms away from her dipping her head into her right elbow. She straightened, Shara watched then huffed through her nose.

“Okay. One moment.” She disappeared from the front counter walking down to the cellar, carefully hiking the hem of her skirt. Maj glanced around seats were empty, she guessed their regular patrons were sleeping the day away.

Shara returned, in a concealed velvet case she slid it across the counter. “Two servings with kind regards from the Chef. Please, enjoy.”

Maj eyed the trunk pawing it off the counter to nestle it into her basket, “Thanks.”

She quickly exited slowing to a stop at the Gazette stand. She dropped her own septims into the open palm of the seller, taking a copy. Unfurling the paper her eyes scanned across the headlines, taking a break on the benches - noting the green ivy draped over the walls, local flowering bushes nearby, trimmed with care. The city felt manicured in that sense. The political atmosphere of High Rock was always changing. Being back on dry land she was once again in direct proximity to the gossip and news. Opening the paper she read through it properly.

The headlining story for Morrowind caught her eye reading through of the news, the ashen Dunmer siblings. Their entire family was executed as traitors. She sat back taking a moment, she sucked the edge of her scarred lip biting it in thought. Resolving to keep her distance from the pair of them, there’s no telling how they’d take the news. She flipped the page finally to High Rock, her eyes drifted leisurely, a frown formed with the furrow of her brows, her grip tightened on the paper as she read the devastating news. She stood up slapping the paper to the bench, “Fuck!”

The Republic! Her contacts, allies, it was all gone! She slumped to the bench cradling her head in her hands, without a bid for a proper crew from the Republic she was going to be forced to start from scratch. That was assuming she could find where Nephelle or Captain Sette were hauled off to. Were they in Summerset? Did they get sold off to High Rock or Hammerfell? Were they hung for their crimes?

Maj dragged her hands down her face cupping her chin in her fists, eyes closed - thinking, her leg bounced. The Corsair Republic was a constant for nearly sixteen years, it’s grip on the Iliac Bay unshakable. Red-Blood Nate had been skirmishing with the Republic for years, searching for weak points, building a quiet rebellion in Wayrest. She snatched the paper back up reading to the end of the story. The Banquet, the very same Tmeip’r referred to in his decoded message.

She folded the paper back up tucking it into the basket, angry - wrestling with intensifying hopelessness. Her resources drying up in a few passages. What was there to do? The only option for revenge was allowing the attack to happen with no warning, even as the self destructive thought crossed her mind she couldn’t find refuge in Wayrest now, she knew her father would drag her out the streets again to be hanged for her piracy. She headed to drop off her haul, the creature in the sack quieted, whimpering.

“Yeah... I know.”

Fox and I wrote stuff

10th of Last Seed, The Howling Wolf Inn, 10am

“Ashav’s dead.”

It was a statement, some neutral utterance that had as much sentiment as proclaiming that the market had run out of apples, or that rain had cancelled your outdoor plans for the evening. Do’Karth hobbled into the room, using his staff as a walking stick, and set down a cloth bag filled with inexpensive groceries; some cheese, a flank of mutton, a small bag of tree nuts, a dozen eggs and a bushel of apples along with a pair of unlabeled wine bottles that he set next to the groceries. He sat down upon a wicker chair, it creaked in protest under the Khajiit’s sudden weight pressing down on it, sounding as tired as he felt.

The Redguard commander of the company died last night, Do’Karth had heard from others in the company who had been at the market where he overheard. Past a nasty fall and possibly a stab wound, the Khajiit recalled little of the particulars and he was surprised to find that he simply didn't care of the drunkard’s fate; so many more deserving people had perished under his bastard rule that the man hardly seemed to care for those who died serving him, let alone notice they had perished. His loss was one that would not be mourned.

However, it might present an opportunity. What kind, Do’Karth could not say. Everything still hurt, and the only reason he was up and moving about was because he insisted he try and keep his body strong to Sevine; death would not give him time to heal if he grew complacent and assumed that danger wasn't always imminent. Ever since Windhelm, he had been hyper vigilant and prepared to fight and move out at a moment's notice, but in the months since, after crushing loss after crushing loss, Do’Karth felt tired to the soul and angry beyond what his words could convey. There was no justice and dignity to be found anywhere, and the dead kept piling up.

He’d lost Jorwen and Solveig, and his heart ached for them. When he awoke from the brink of death at sea and discovered Roze’s fate, he sobbed openly; his friend had died gruesomely and without dignity. Her beautiful and hopeful face destroyed like a fetid piece of meat along with the rest of her body, crushed under the weight of a monster he was supposed to stop and instead he failed to protect anyone, and instead became a liability.

Adaeze and Ashna he managed to say funeral rites for, as much as his body screamed in agony for daring to move, but Roze… he couldn't speak for the words turned to cement in his throat and he became overcome with emotions. She was his friend, and for Sagax, she was perhaps more. He’d seen that face before on Sadri when the Dunmer lost Solveig, and he understood full well the weight of the loss he felt.

Looking Sevine in the eye, Do’Karth knew she was the last thing of value he held in his life and as much as he prayed to Mara and S’Rendarr, only silence answered him. The amulet about the Khajiit’s neck felt like a lead weight without a soul to it now, and try as he might to meditate, his restless soul only kept him in a state of indignant fury and loss.

“Good riddance.” he spoke after a length, burying his face in his hands. His body trembled, and Do’Karth felt as if he were back in the grave, deciding if he wished to live or die more, and why he deserved a chance to make things right. Everything he tried to become in the years since he redeemed himself was eroding around him, and he did not see the path forward any longer.

Sevine remained quiet. She had found some solace in her solitude while Do’Karth had ventured out for food. The time alone had given her a chance to reflect on the events since leaving Solitude. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped before her with her head hanging low.

Ashav is dead. Good riddance., His words struck her like the wind being knocked from her chest. Her eyes burned with hot tears, as she gritted her teeth. The blatant disregard for his life, rocked her to the core.

“How can you say that?” She whispered, her voice low as she struggled to keep her head level.

“How can you not?” Do’Karth countered, his ears pulled back and pupils narrowed. “How many times does this one have to barely escape death before he would be appreciated by those who own us by decree of a damned piece of parchment that we signed? How many friends have we lost, how many others? Ashav did not even blink at any of those, he did not mourn. He received a funeral, which is so much more than everyone who died under his command received. The man was a drunk, one without a clear mind or a good heart. He pushed us further and further, doing that damnable Gustav’s bidding without once considering the welfare of those who took up arms for him.

“We’ve done things that ten times our number should have taken care of, but no… our numbers are always low and pitiful because Gustav is too damned cheap to pay for a proper company, and Ashav has never stepped in to tell him no. Do’Karth is tired, Sevine. He has volunteered for every job, every thankless task to try and protect those he cared about. We have barely been paid for our efforts, and where was Ashav when this one was scraping what remained of Roze off of the fucking deck? Passed out drunk!” The Khajiit exclaimed furiously, throwing one of the bottles of wine against the wall, a shower of crimson splattering the room. He breathed heavily through his teeth. “This one is slowly dying. He no longer knows who he is, compassion smashed against rocks, drowned beneath waves. Why? What is this all for?!” he demanded.

Sevine rose up from the edge of the bed, her hands curled into fists. She had not flinched when he had thrown the bottle, though her face twisted now in anger, “You ask why? Why? This is to protect Skyrim and all of Tamriel. Every soul lost is a tragedy, and to speak ill of the dead is uncouth, even under the eyes of Mara. You should be ashamed.”

“Do not think for one minute, that I have not suffered equally as you. My sister is the only family I have left, she is All. I. Have. Do’Karth. We are paid for our services, and I can leave any time I want. There is war. I would rather be home, looking after my sister, she is with child.” She took a deep breath as her head began to spin from the anger boiling inside her, anything to calm her nerves.

“I do not have to stay here. I choose to, on my honor as a Nord. For my country and home. To do everything I can to bring an end to the Kamal. If you cannot handle that, then maybe you should leave.”

“All you have left.” He repeated the words slowly, looking the Nord in the eyes as if for the first time. “This one sees. He was a fool to think otherwise.” raising up laboriously, he shook his head, the anger dissipating in ebbs. “Go then, to the only one you have left. Do’Karth will take his leave.” he said quietly, composing himself and straightening out his budi. He turned, to look at the door, and it seemed so far away.

His feet began to take him there.

“Leave. Get out of here, Do’Karth.” She said, her teeth were clenched hard, she thought they would crack from the pressure.

Do’Karth reached for the door, gripping the handle. He stopped, looking over his shoulder, his gaze stoic and cold. “You speak of protecting Skyrim from the Kamal, and yet here we are, further and further from them. You are a fool to think that this company is going to protect your home; we fled as soon as it stopped being profitable for Gustav.” he said, his voice low, a cold anger coming out as almost a snarl. “That same paper that just casually let Niernen know her entire family has been murdered by her government also said that Sea Elves are enslaving and consuming Do’Karth’s people. He hears there was even recipes. Perhaps he should worry about his own people rather than those who hate him.”

Reaching about his neck, Do’Karth pulled the amulet of S’Rendarr from his neck and held it at arm's length in front of him. His fingers unfurled and slipped through his grasp, landing on the wooden floor. The Khajiit pulled open the door and stepped through the portal, the door closing gently behind him.

---

A glass tapped down on the bar counter, perhaps with a bit too much force, but Do’Karth was past the point of caring. The bartender approached, looking down at the Khajiit with distrustful eyes. For his part, Do’Karth did not look up. He simply uttered, “Another.”

“That’s three so far. You need to slow down.” The bartender urged, not even reacting when Do’Karth slapped a few more coins on the counter. The Breton man sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s get you something to eat first. I can tell it’s been one of those days for you.” He replied, turning away to turn to the back.

Do’Karth did not move, and instead stared straight ahead at the mesmerizing candlelight reflecting on the neatly lined-up bottles ahead. His head was spinning, and he felt numb, but mostly disappointed in himself. Fury had overridden the calm reassurance he’d always tried his best to show, and by lashing out at Sevine, it all but ensured he’d destroyed her trust in him; her final memories of him would be of a cruel and callous Khajiit that would rather feed his anger towards the pieces of shit that ran the company rather than find a way to reassure her, she was suffering from the ordeals they’d survived as much as he had, he knew that.

So why does this one feel so invalidated for expressing how he feels? Should it not be her that is more understanding? he thought bitterly to himself, working his fingers in and out of a fist, the points of his claws digging into his palm. Do’Karth had never known love before, so this was all such uncharted ground for him. Often leaving before he formed attachments in his own journeys, Sevine was the reason he stayed with this forsaken company, fighting a war that was not his own for people who wished him ill. The voices of Mara and S’Rendarr grew quieter as the weeks went on, and now after so long of a stretch of silence, it was clear they had abandoned them or he had failed them. The result was fundamentally the same, he decided.

Was this punishment for daring to fall in love, that being given a second chance was already too much to ask of the Divines? It felt that way, and he would only bring Sevine shame, regardless. Nords and Khajiit didn’t mingle, the Divines saw to that; when he befriended Jorwen, the warm-hearted giant was taken by the Kamal and terrible things done to him. Do’Karth’s fist was so tight that he felt the pain of his claws pressing in, but dared not release it. Why had he abandoned Jorwen? He meekly went along with what the likes of Ashav and fucking Cat-Kicker wanted, it was shameful and it was wrong.

Do’Karth would head South, but there was something he needed to do. He needed to at least try to find his friend, even though he was likely dead.

“Was this what you wanted?” he asked his patrons if they hadn’t truly abandoned him. The voice that replied was not the calm feminine embrace of Mara nor the authoritative but fair infliction of S’rendarr, but rather a brusque man with a hostile intent.

“No, I want you fucking cats to get the fuck out of my tavern, out of Jehanna, and go back to the shitty huts you crawled out of.” The voice snarled. Do’Karth didn’t turn around, seeing the vague outline of a large man behind him reflected in the glass.

“Go away.” Do’Karth replied. He was in no mood to suffer fools, especially since he was all too familiar with the vitriol men like this had shown his kind. However, a firm hand grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to turn around to face the Nord robbed Do’Karth of the option. He stared up at the man defiantly, an ugly bearded thing with narrow, dumb eyes and a dagger on his hip.

That dagger…

“You don’t get it, do you? Leave or I’m going to make you wish you had, you-”

The man’s voice was lost as Do’Karth stared at the blade. It was silver, with a red ribbon tied to the hilt, a relic from his past. It was the very same one that he’d been given, when the order was given in Torval, the order to-

A fist struck him across the face, the sharp pain of it dulled by the alcohol and the fury already pent up within Do’Karth. Without thinking, the Khajiit lashed out his leg into a strike into the man’s knee, buckling him over towards him, where Do’Karth grabbed the man’s curly hair and smashed his face off of the bar counter. The man had a companion, an equally repugnant looking creature, who went for a blade of his own. The reflex was automatic; the Khajiit grabbed one of the steak knives on the counter and flung it at the man, burying it into his shoulder with out-of-practice but skilled precision and he was up, confronting the man, who was trying to remove the knife, but found a heel strike to the nose for his troubles, causing a cascade of blood to erupt from his face. The man tried feebly to strike with his wounded arm as his good one was closer to his chest, only for Do’Karth to deflect it and drive another palm into the blade’s hilt, causing the Nord to bellow out in agony. Another feeble attempt to grab at Do’Karth’ budi ended up with a flat handed strike into the man’s throat with extended claws, puncturing the skin on his neck with repeated jabs before twisting the blade and pulling out out with a flourish.

The original Nord was back up, teeth chipped and he tried to bullrush the Khajiit, who stepped into the momentum and let the blade cut into the man’s flank as his momentum did the work. As he closed into the man, Do’Karth reached over the Nord’s neck and drove the blade into his shoulder, burying it deep in the blade before sweeping the man’s legs out from under him, driving the man face first onto the floor.

The Nord had no chance to recover; Do’Karth was upon him and pulled free the silver dagger, holding it in front of the man’s eyes for him to see. The Khajiit’s face was a mask of cold death. “This one knows you killed one of his people for this blade. You are a fool to wear it so openly as a trophy. The Renrijra’Krin is everywhere.”

He held the blade aloft, about to strike down into the man’s throat, staring down at the terrified green eyes. He saw clearly the blood, the damage he’d already inflicted, and the blade suddenly felt heavy in his hand. Like the amulet of S’rendarr, his grip loosened and the dagger clattered on the floor in a deafening thunk.

“This one is Dar’Turga.” he whispered to himself, staring in despair at his shaking hand.

8th of Last Seed, 5 AM

He had tried to go back to sleep. Honestly, he did. Sagax laid in his hammock around when the sun began to set, urging himself to rest, something he thought would be an easy task given the day he had. Instead, all he had accomplished was determining through hours of staring at the ceiling which parts of the wood creaked the most when someone walked the deck above. He roamed the Kyne's Tear, rarely speaking to anyone, for he had no words to speak. In the morning after the battle, he had helped Do'karth gather Roze's remains for burial, a grueling task the Imperial thought would never end. It had been done silently, with the "clean-up crew" only exchanging passing glances, mainly just so they could look at something other than flattened gore for a few seconds. After his friend's remains were stored safely and securely, Sagax retreated into the bowels of the ship to relieve himself. Though others with a cruder tongue might instead say he ran away to spew his guts in a corner for the better part of half an hour, with the next half spent crying.

For all of his bluster about opening up, of sharing one's feelings, Sagax still would rather hide away and express his sorrow alone, away from prying eyes. He had a reputation of being an optimist, the man who was always smiling, and a part of him wanted to keep that reputation going. The other part of him simply did not want to show such a weakness for all to see, even if it was entirely justified. Sagax was also not a very emotional man. In touch with his emotions, yes, but not emotional, if that made any sense. He normally was calm and collected, and was not one to break into hysterics. But this time, something simply broke. Or was it perhaps more apt to say something broke out? More like a dam instead of a piece of machinery.

Even as well as he hid himself, Piper was still able to find her brother. She stood just outside the room, taking cover next to the door frame. She had been helping clear the debris off of the top deck while Sagax was occupied with his more morose duty, and when she finished, her brother had simply vanished. When she asked the others, they all said they hadn't seen Sagax either. Hounding the Tear top to bottom, Piper searched for Sagax with a hint of mere curiosity but also worry. Now she was outside listening to her beloved brother sob, grieving for his friend...and she didn't have the guts to go in and console him. But how could she? Piper didn't know how to properly talk to other people, let alone comfort them in such a dark time, she simply had no experience. It didn't help that Piper largely ignored her own feelings, so she had no way to really...connect with other people like that. What if she said the wrong thing, something she thought harmless but was, in reality, horrifying and disrespectful? What would Sagax think of her then? Piper's heart broke as she did the only thing she thought she could: listen. Listen to her brother cry and hear his almost incoherent speech between sobs. "I'm sorry, Roze...I'm sorry..."

Now, the sun had long set, and just about everyone including his sister was asleep. But not Sagax. Since midnight he had been walking the decks and corridors of the Kyne's Tear, aimless and mournful. Nothing was on his mind, which was honestly a blessing. He simply walked. Walked and walked and walked, stopping for nothing. Eventually, on his tenth trip around the vessel, he came across his hammock again. Sighing, he decided to force himself into it once more. He had to sleep some time, after all, he had been awake almost the entirety of the 7th and then some. Fortunately, not long after closing his eyes, Sagax was granted the mercy of unconsciousness.

---

Sagax.

Not again...

The Imperial opened his eyes, not to the sight of planks of wood above him, but of his otherworldly helper.

Now? Really?

"What do you want...?"

It's been a while since we had a chance to speak. I thought I would come by again...you've been very busy. Before he could respond, the spirit continued, staring straight into Sagax's soul. You also had a rather...stressful day. If there's anything you wish to speak your mind about, I shall listen.

The two stood in silence, the spirit waiting patiently for Sagax to begin. He knew what the man was thinking, it was just a matter of when and if he would share.

"I...made a mistake." It came out with a hint of uncertainty, as if Sagax would rather not speak at all, but it felt like something was pulling his answers out of his very head. There seemed to be no hiding from his benefactor.

How? The spirit replied, and while there was confusion in his tone, Sagax somehow knew there was no actual need for clarification. They just wanted him to say it.

"I-I should have stayed on the ship."

And what would that, in your mind, have accomplished, Sagax?

"Roze would still be alive!" He intended to simply speak his answer, but instead it came out as a shout. A pained, sorrowful bellow that echoed across the sandscape of his dream. The mountain miles inland rumbled and shook the ground beneath him.

His benefactor nodded and waited a moment before speaking again, giving Sagax a chance to calm himself. And that is what you believe?

"Yes."

I see...now think for a moment. What would have happened if you did not join the others that boarded the airship?

He didn't reply. He tried, but every time Sagax opened his mouth it just closed again. He knew the words, had them in his head, but the Imperial couldn't bring himself to speak them. It was a hard truth, one he realized but didn't have the willpower to verbalize. The spirit, naturally, sensed this.

Yes. There would have been a good chance that the boarding party would fail. You would have saved your friend, but the disgusting beast up above would have won, and destroyed your entire company anyway. All of you would have been lost. Your friend...Rozalia was right, you know.

"About...?"

That you can't save everyone...though I think you already know this, even if you dare not act with such information in mind. I believe you made the right choice, and I think I speak for your friend as well. She wouldn't have wanted you and the rest of her friends to die just to save her.

Deep down, Sagax felt that the spirit was correct in his assessment. The one thing more important to Roze than everything else in the world were the few friends she was able to keep. One life for the many. Her life for the lives of those she held dear. But to die like she did...

It was not a situation any of you could have foreseen. You acted with the information you had, and you had to act quickly. Nobody would have been able to guess that...thing would come falling out of the sky on top of the ship. In truth, there was nothing you could have done. You shouldn't concern yourself with it so heavily. In the end, no matter what choice you made, the outcomes would have been mainly the same. A few would die, or all of you would die. She just so happened to be the unlucky few.

It really was that simple...wasn't it? Some people will die. You may not know who, or how, or when or why, but they will. And there is truly nothing you can do to stop it. But that didn't make it any easier, that didn't make the pain of loss or the sorrow go away.

Pain...Sagax cringed as his imagination took off, almost entirely detached from his own will. The lingering question...

No.

Sagax jumped at the sudden sharp tone of his benefactor. "N...no?"

No. She did not experience any pain. She didn't even feel the impact.

The Imperial stared at the ground as the horrible thoughts that infected his mind ceased. Such a simple answer, something so small, put him at ease. At least she didn't suffer...

She didn't. In fact, her last moments were peaceful, in a way. Full of thoughts of her friends. Of you. She wanted you to keep on living. Don't let her down by obsessing over the could-haves and the maybes. Actually, staying on that line of thought...

Sagax blinked, eyes shut for only a quarter of a second. Before, the spirit was completely empty handed, even his shield was absent. After, however, he was toying with something. It was the dagger Sagax had pillaged from the Dwemer ruins. The wraith tossed it up and down, catching it expertly by the grip every time, no matter how high he threw it.

You are planning to bury it with her.

"Well, I was. But let me guess..."

Mhm. Don't. Rozalia was a practical woman. If you were to waste such a wonderfully crafted tool by just tossing it into a coffin, well...I might not be your only spectral visitor in the future! Ahahaha!

He couldn't help but laugh along. Really, they were right. Roze would never stand for such a thing, what was he thinking? That dagger was a tool meant to be used, not sent six feet under ground as some kind of sappy symbol of respect. He could hear her already, lecturing Sagax on how she couldn't use the thing anyway.

"Well, there's still the question of what I'm going to do with everything else...that weird robe is taking up a lot of space."

Hm...sell it all, give it away, whatever you fancy. They are your spoils, after all. As long as you don't bury any of it with her I'm sure she'll be happy.

"Well, I'm sure someone will appreciate a giant gold bathrobe. Maybe I'll give it to Gustav...who knows."

The spirit tossed the dagger once more, and when he caught it, he flung it straight at Sagax. By some miracle, the understandably unprepared Imperial caught it by the handle. "Hey...!"

Ah, good catch! You should definitely keep it. I think it suits you well. Daggers have many uses, and I encourage you to experiment...they helped me escape the proverbial frying pan more than once.

Suddenly, the mist thickened, and the strange island in the background began to fade. The spirit bowed and said his farewell. Goodbye for now, Sagax. Grieve as you must, and remember that the spirit of the warrior, and of your friend, will always be with you.

---

8th of Last Seed, 1 PM

"Spirit of the warrior..." The spirit's voice echoed in Sagax's head. As it faded, the sounds of crashing waves and creaking boards filled his ears. He got up slowly, shielding his eyes from the shafts of midday sun pouring through a nearby porthole. Looking around, Sagax found himself alone. Unsurprising, everyone else was most likely on the top deck performing their duties. Why hadn't he been woken, though? Whatever reason, he was grateful for the rest. Still, it wouldn't do him any good to lay around and mope all day, so Sagax busied himself with some menial tasks. His first order of business was getting rid of the cumbersome robe he pilfered from the Sload's quarters. To that end, he sought out Gustav, a man Sagax knew appreciated dazzling and shiny things. The man himself was too busy to grant an audience, so Sagax left it folded up in his quarters with a note that simply read 'Enjoy - Sagax'.

Then was the matter of the rings. One was entirely mundane, he could tell, but the other felt...off. Sagax brought it to Ariane who impatiently told him that it could detect injured life forms. He could barely get out a thanks before being shooed off, the Breton far too absorbed by her research to be bothered by everyday artifact appraisals. It didn't take long for Sagax to decide where it would go; he heard that Wylendriel, a Bosmer priestess, had saved the lives of his sister and several others within the company. As an expression of thanks, Sagax gave the ring to the priestess, and told her that he wanted Wylendriel to know both he and his sister appreciated her efforts, even if Piper left it up to him to say it.

As for the other ring, he didn't really know what to do with it. Eventually he settled on keeping it, as he would the Dwarven dagger. He wasn't one for jewellery, but Sagax just thought it made sense to keep it as a reminder of a victory, even if it was still steeped in defeat.

After his errands, Sagax occupied himself with chores around the ship while the Tear continued its voyage to Jehenna.

---

10th of Last Seed, 8 AM

Of course Sagax went to the funeral, Piper too, though she stood in the back. Sagax was up front, in direct sight of Roze's coffin. He was able to keep a straight face, but there were still tears. Do'karth cried openly, something that surprised Sagax, as he saw the Khajiit as someone that was in complete control of their emotions. Not that his view of Do'karth lessened, he was a friend of Roze too, it was only natural. Sagax stood and listened to the priest give the Rites of Arkay, not uttering a single sound all the while. When the rites finally finished, Sagax was one of the first people out of the chapel. He did not bother visiting the other coffins. He didn't even know two of them, and who was Ashav to Sagax really? He barely spoke to the man and mainly just followed his orders.

As he left, Sagax turned to Sevine briefly. All he could give her was an expression of understanding before ultimately storming out; his facade was fading, and quickly. He had to get out before he made a scene. Piper followed right behind him.

Piper stayed just a few paces behind her brother, silent the whole time. She didn't know what to say, hell, she didn't even really know what he was feeling. This just wasn't a side of Sagax she was familiar with. No big grin, no words of optimism and hope, and he certainly didn't have the bounce in his step that she was used to. Normally he'd be visiting all the stalls and talking to the locals, taking in all the sights. Now he just kept his eyes forward...and walked, with no destination in mind. But suddenly, after several minutes of random turns through the many streets of Jehenna, her brother stopped dead in his tracks, looking down a side street.

A series of thuds and grunting broke Sagax out of his trance. At the end of the alley next to him were two figures, one looming over the other. The person standing had their foot on the other's chest, and their head was covered by a hood...and their hand occupied by a dagger. The victim was a Breton woman, covered in dirt and cheap, tattered clothes. The supposed mugger was shouting something about a stash of gold, that the victim knew where it was. They held their dagger to the woman's throat...

The opportunity to defuse the situation and scare off the attacker had long passed. Now it was time to act.

He ripped his dagger from its sheath, which was now clipped securely to his belt, and charged the assailant. Too occupied with their interrogation, the stranger only heard him approach when he was already upon them. When the mugger held their dagger up to strike, Sagax slammed his palm into their chest and used his dagger in an underhand grip to jam the blade between the hilt and crossguard of his foe's weapon. The force of the push, causing them to stagger back, combined with the effort Sagax put against their weapon wrested it from their grasp and sent it clattering to the ground. They had been disarmed, but the Imperial was not done yet. They had yet to be neutralized.

Sagax grabbed the hooded figure by their collar and swung them face first and full force into the stone wall behind him. A loud, dull thud and a surprisingly feminine shout of pain echoed throughout the empty street before the mugger slid down to their knees, holding their hands to their face. Sagax forced them to their feet and turned them around to face him, proceeding to rip their mask off of their face. Before him was a young Nord girl, blood flowing from her nose in an uncontrollable stream.

"Fuck, wait! For fuck's sake, don't kill me!"

"Why not? You seemed pretty ready to take her life." Sagax said, nodding towards the Breton, still lying on the ground beside them. "Or is it different when the blade is held to your throat?"

"I wasn't gonna kill her! I just wanted to get stuff out of her! These...these beggars, they have caches! Full of gold and jewels, I know it! Heard it from a guy who killed a guy, who-"

"Shut. Up." These people were all the same...he should know. Thieves, always a one track mind. But at least he never held people by knifepoint, and he certainly never went after other beggars. He was a different caliber of thief. Certainly not good, but by the gods he at least had principles.

Tired of her foul breath taking up his air, Sagax tossed the girl away from him. "Leave. Now. And if I ever see you pulling shit like this again, you'll be leaving covered by a tarp on a stretcher."

"Ain't gotta tell me twice..." she said, making a grab for her dagger. Sagax promptly stomped on her hand as soon as she touched the hilt. "FUCK! Okay, I got it, I got it!"

Fruitlessly trying to nurse both her sore hand and bloody face, the thief ran off through the winding alleys of the city. When she was entirely out of sight, Sagax picked up the girl's dagger. It was of decent make, steel with a wooden grip. His Dwarven dagger cut a notch into the bottom of the crossguard, but aside from that it looked well taken care of.

"Thank you..." The Breton said as Sagax pulled her up from the ground. "These crazy people, they believe all sorts of things. Gold and jewels? Pfah! If I knew where a bunch of gems were do they really think I'd be living out here in the streets? Really!"

"Some people will do anything for money, even for so little as the promise of it. It usually ends up with them having less than they started with."

"Oh, absolutely! But that doesn't stop them, oh no." The woman made a feeble attempt at dusting off her clothes, with what little that would have helped given the state of them anyway. "At any rate, I'm glad you stepped in when you did...she would've cut me open right then and there, friend, I'm telling you!"

"I was happy to help, ma'am. I don't think she'll be doing any of that for a while..." said Sagax, flipping the other girl's dagger around, now holding it by the blade. "Speaking of, here, you should have it. A bit of a nasty surprise for anyone else that might come knocking."

The scarred Breton took the blade gratefully. "Oh, thank you so much, young man. Believe you me, I won't let it be happening again!"

Huh, young man...well, his mother always said he had a bit of a baby face. He wasn't going to complain about always looking twenty, though.

"I better go and find somewhere to hide for a little bit...she might be going to grab some friends. You'd better get going too! Stay safe, now!"

"You as well, ma'am. May the fortunes of Zenithar find you."

When he returned to the main street, Sagax found Piper staring at him, mouth agape. "Wow...you really laid that bitch out, huh?"

"I mean, I didn't do too much, I disarmed her..."

"You busted her face open against a wall."

"Well yeah, but-"

"You threatened to kill her if you saw her again."

"Ah! Wrong, dear sister! I just said if I saw her threaten someone again, she would be carried away on a stretcher. I never said I would do anything."

Piper shook her head, a light smile on her face. "Right. Well if you're done playing the Gray Fox, want to go walk the city a little bit? You know, just explore? It might take your mind off of...you know..." After a second of silence, she rebutted herself. "I-I mean we don't have to, Sagax...if you just want some time to yourself, I mean, I understand-"

"No, I think you're right, Piper. Let's go look around a bit. There's no reason for me to mope all day and night." Sagax put away his dagger and tried his best to put on a genuine smile, if only just for his sister. "Come on, I'll give you first pick of landmark. See anything interesting? I think I picked up a tourist brochure earlier, and it mentioned some kind of ancient sundial..."

With the painful memories of death behind them for a short while, Piper and Sagax wandered Jehanna, as siblings. It had unfortunately become incredibly rare that the two were able to just relax and talk to each other. Not about the war, not about politics or philsophy, but just small things. Which vendor had the better fried fish, how long did it take them to build that tower, why were there so many brothels. This was fleeting moment where they were able to just...talk. And enjoy what little quiet time they were afforded before the next storm.

8th of Last Seed, 5 AM

Tsleeixth had found it difficult to get any sleep throughout the night, frequently waking up as the ship was rocked by the waves as it made its way to Jehanna. And so the Argonian found himself on the upper deck of the ship, leaning against the handrail and gazing towards the horizon as he tried to order his errant thoughts. Could he have done something different? Was the main thing that he pondered, his nails digging further and further into the nail of the rail the more he pondered the question. He didn't doubt that going up into the airship had been the correct choice, not in and of itself, but rather what he had done once inside of Tmeip'r’s mobile base of operations bothered him. Maybe if he had forged on ahead instead of waiting for the rest, or if he had personally helped in the battle against the Sload necromancer rather than letting his thrall support Sadri and Alim, things might have turned out differently.

The spellsword let out a sigh, followed shortly afterwards by a mirthless chuckle. Different. That word seemed to be on his thoughts a lot as of late. If things had been different maybe he wouldn't have been nearly killed by an angry mob and left crippled...if things had been different Roze would still be alive. Another sigh left his mouth as he thought about the Breton, his hands balling into fists as frustration surged within him. "If only we had taken care of Tmeip’r sooner..." Tsleeixth muttered bitterly to himself. He had learnt of the Breton's passing a short while after he had returned to the Kyne's Tear; following his escape from the airship, he had been too exhausted and had quickly passed out as soon as he was back in the, relative, safety of the ship and had only learnt of the gruesome news once consciousness had returned to his body.

He had been amongst those who had volunteered for the gruesome task of gathering the Breton's remains so that she could receive a proper burial. He hadn't been as close to Roze as others in the company had, not like Sagax and Do'Karth who had also volunteered for the task, but the Argonian still felt it was the least that he could do for her. She had helped him, back in Bthamz when he had been wounded trying to negotiate with one of the Ashlanders, and they had shared drinks while in Windhelm before the Kamal had invaded....and part of him felt guilty for her death. As his mind liked to remind him constantly, he had been on the airship and had been part of the group that had confronted the Sload so, in his mind, part of the blame for her death lay on him. It had been a gruelling task which had been done in silence by those that had undertaken it with their only communication being the occasional glances that they had directed towards each other.

The way that Sagax had acted after they had been done with their grim labour hadn't gone unnoticed by Tsleeixth, it was clear that the Imperial wanted to be left alone and, as such, Tsleeixth hadn't approached him. Still, he felt guilty for not being able to support his friend in his time of need like Sagax himself had done back when they had been in Solitude. "Maybe once we are in Jehanna he'll be more open, more ready, to talk about what happened." Tsleeixth thought, letting out a soft sigh and shaking his head. There was no point in speculating about what would happen or how anyone would feel in the future. All that any of them could hope for was that there would be no more troubles during the rest of their voyage towards Jehanna.

Moving away from the handrail, Tsleeixth turned his back to the horizon and began making his way back to the interior of the Kyne’s Tear. He knew that sleep would continue to elude him for the rest of the night and that the same questions that had drove him to head to the upper deck for fresh air would continue to haunt him incessantly. “Perhaps I should see if I have something to drink.” The Argonian muttered quietly to himself as he made his way towards his allotted hammock, the thought of passing through the rest of the night in blissful, drunken, stupor sounding more and more appealing with each second.

---

10th of Last Seed, 10 AM

He had debated internally whether or not to go to the funeral service that was to be held in the local temple of Arkay but, in the end, Tsleeixth had decided to go; even if he didn’t believe in the Divines, he still felt the need to pay his respects towards both Roze and the recently deceased Ashav. And so Tsleeixth found himself standing in the back of the temple, head bowed low and silent, tears streaming from his eyes as the high priest performed the final rites for the two departed members of the company. In the end, he was amongst the last of those remaining in the temple before he approached the two caskets.

“Goodbye Roze, I….I wish we could have known each other better….that I could have repaid you for saving me back in Bthamz before Sithis called you back to the void sister.” The Argonian spoke quietly to the casket. “May the Hist embrace you as you rejoin the one.” He finished before moving to the casket that held Ashav’s earthly remains. “What happened to you Ashav? I’m no fool, it was all too easy to notice the change that took ahold of you after Dawnstar….the way you began drinking more and more until it seemed like there wasn’t a minute were you weren’t drunk. And yet I still find it difficult to believe that you’d….do such a thing as the one you did.” Tsleeixth said quietly, shaking his head slightly. “Would you really take your own life? Maybe I’m a naive fool but, no matter how much I think about it, I can’t picture you as the kind of man who would do something like that.” The spellsword continued on, letting out a soft sigh. “In the end it doesn’t matters, what's done is done and you are no longer among us. I only hope that you've managed to find your peace in the afterlife.” He finished, stepping away from Ashav’s casket and towards the door that led outside of the temple. Tsleeixth gave one last look to the coffins before he crossed the door’s threshold back into Jehanna’s streets.

Once he was outside, Tsleeixth began to walk away from the building at a brisk pace. He had no place in his mind to go, only a desire to put as much distance between himself and the Conclave of the Golden Tomb as possible. He wasn’t sure for how long, or exactly in what direction, he had been walking but Tsleeixth was brought out of his stupor when he heard a voice announcing the latest issue of the Tamrielic Gazette as loudly as possible to stand out amidst the chatter and other assorted noises that filled the air of the city. “Maybe reading something will help me, get me to focus on other things.” The Argonian thought, a sense of dread and nervousness quickly growing within him as he became more and more aware of the high number of Nords walking through the streets by each moment now that he had been brought out of his stupor and was aware of his surroundings.

Much like it had happened when he had wandered through the streets of Solitude, thoughts of Dawnstar and its mob of furious citizens began bubbling up within Tsleeixth’s mind second by second the longer he stood in the busy streets. “Yes, yes, I definitely need something to distract myself.” He muttered to himself, letting out a nervous chuckle. It wasn’t too difficult to find the source of the voice, which belonged to a Breton boy as it turned out, that was peddling the newspaper and even less difficult to secure a copy for himself.

Taking a second to orient himself, and paying the Breton boy a few septims to ask for directions just in case, Tsleeixth began making his way back towards the Howling Wolf Inn while leisurely reading the articles as he walked. Much like he had hoped, the gazette provided a much needed distraction for his thoughts something which, in turn, allowed him to calm himself down. That is, until he reached the section dedicated to Skyrim and he read a particular bit of news.

Stormcloak hardliners seize Dawnstar. Local guards, leaderless with Skald's death, either defected or retreated to Whiterun. An extremist group known as the Neckbeards (responsible for slaughtering Argonian refugees) have been appointed as the town militia, replacing guards in law enforcement capacities.

The world seemed to freeze in place as he processed the information, and Tsleeixth found himself reading through the article one more time as if he wasn’t sure that what he had read was true. But, no matter, the article remained the same. Part of him wanted to weep openly in the streets, from sorrow, fear, or outrage he wasn’t sure, and another part of him wanted to laugh like a maniac at the mere thought that the bastards who had nearly murdered him and who had slaughtered his fellow Saxhleel were now in control of Dawnstar. So absorbed in his thoughts as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t notice the pair of Nords that were approaching him until they clashed against him.

He stumbled back due to the impact but managed to catch himself before he fell into the ground. Unfortunately the two men that had bumped into him hadn’t been so lucky and fell to the ground on their behinds. The reason for which became apparent in a second as Tsleeixth saw a pair of bottles rolling away from the outstretched hands of the pair of Nords but he didn’t have much time to think, or do, anything before the pair in question was standing up once more, a look of frustration written plainly on both their faces.

“Look at what you made me do you filthy lizard! You made me drop my drink.” One of the nords, a blonde man with a broken nose, slurred drunkenly at him. “What the fuck do you think you are doing standing in the middle of the street anyway.” The blonde continued on, giving Tsleeixth a push for good measure.

Tsleeixth, for his part, remained silent as memories of the events that had transpired in Dawnstar started flooding his mind at the aggressive look that the two Nords had regarded him with. Had something like this occured but a few months prior, Tsleeixth would have stood his ground against the two drunkards but, as things stood, he stood rooted in place with nary a word leaving from his lips a fact that didn’t escape the two Nords despite their drunken state.
“What’s the matter, not gonna say anything?” The second Nord, a brutish man with a mane of red hair, growled at him, pushing him much like his fellow drunkard had done but a few moments ago. “Think you are better than us or something? Is that why you aren’t saying anything lizard?” The redheaded drunkard growled, growing more and more frustrated with Tsleeixth’s silence as the seconds went by.

“You and your fucking kind are always making trouble for us Nords, just like the damned cats and Dunmers.” The blonde drunkard spat as he approached Tsleeixth, giving the Argonian a punch in the face that sent the later to the ground. “C’mon Hrol, let's teach this lizard a lesson.” The blonde Nord said to his redheaded compatriot.

“Heh, read my mind Haening. We gotta teach this lizard well and proper so an accident like this one doesn’t repeats itself, don’t we?” Hrol said to his blonde friend as he cracked his knuckles, prompting Haening to let out a sinister chuckle before nodding in ascent with his friend.

As the pair of Nords had become progressively more aggressive, Tsleeixth’s mind had begun to recall the memories of Dawnstar with more and more intensity. Lost in his memories as he was, Tsleeixth didn’t do anything as he was kicked and hit by Hrol and Haening his mind torn between the assault he was currently enduring and by the memories of the one that had nearly cost him his life but a month ago.

The beating continued on for a few more minutes until both Nords stopped for breath, exhausted by their vicious attack on the defenceless spellsword. “Pathetic.” Haening said, spitting on Tsleeixth’s face. “If they are all as pathetic as this lizard here it’s no wonder they got butchered at Dawnstar. They probably dropped to the ground and started whimpering at the first blow.” The blond Nord mocked cruelly.

At the mention of the massacre of the Argonian refugees something within Tsleeixth seemed to snap and the world suddenly became clear as the memories of the beating at the hand of the mob receded to the depths of his mind. “What did you just said?” The Argonian hissed, standing on wobbly feet and regarding the blond Nord with a look of pure hatred.

“I don’t like the look you are giving my friend here, maybe we should extend this lesson a bit more.” Hrol said, throwing another punch in Tsleeixth’s direction which the Argonian easily sidestepped.

As the redheaded Nord tried to regain his balance after missing his punch, Tsleeixth took ahold of his wrist and began channeling magicka to generate electricity. He made certain to control his output so as to not cause any permanent damage but, to Hrol, such distinction was unnoticeable as he began to cry in pain as the electricity course through his arm.

Haening, at seeing the pain in which his friend was, let out a cry of rage and charged at Tsleeixth in a blind fury, causing the Argonian to let go of Hrol’s wrist. “Fucking lizard, you are one of those damned mages.” The blonde Nord hissed in contempt, eyeing Tsleeixth warily as caution and fury battled within his mind; in the end, fury won against caution and Haening charged towards Tsleeixth once more.

With his mind now clear, Tsleeixth easily incapacitated Haening, in much the same way that he had done with Hrol, in the span of a few moments. “Listen to me clearly.” The spellsword hissed, grabbing the blond Nord by his shirt. “I want you and your friend to be more careful with your drinking habits in the future.” He continued on, voice cold and full of fury. “And I don’t want you to say such vile things like the ones you said about the murder of my brothers and sisters again. Am I clear?” The spellsword finished, his eyes burrowing into Haening’s.

When the blond Nord nodded in agreement Tsleeixth let go of him and, after giving the pair of Nords in the ground one last withering look, turned his back to them and began walking away in the direction of The Howling Wolf Inn. The day had given him ample things to think about and he’d need some privacy to think them over.

---

10th of Last Seed, 5 PM

The sound of a bottle being placed down reverberated throughout Tsleeixth’s room, promptly followed by the sound of a sigh. After his altercation with Haening and Hrol it hadn’t taken too long for the Argonian spellsword to return to the inn and Tsleeixth had headed for his room almost immediately, his only detour being the purchase of a bottle of alcohol from the bartender.

After that, he had sequestered himself inside of his room and had begun drinking. He let his thoughts wander more and more freely with each sip of the bottle’s contents and yet they kept returning to Dawnstar, the confrontation with Tmeip’r, and his recent altercation in the streets of Jehanna. And as he thought more and more about those events, a sense of bitterness started gnawing at him with each second that passed.

Yes, he was bitter. That much had become clear to him. He was bitter at himself, at his powerlessness, at his weakness. The events that had recently transpired stood as a testament of said powerlessness, of the weakness that plagued him. He clutched the bottle again and took a long swig, letting his mind focus on the burning sensation of the alcohol as it passed through his throat for a brief moment.

If only he had been stronger, he’d have been able to prevent Skald’s death and the massacre that ensued. If he had been more powerful they’d have been able to take care of Tmeip’r without incurring so many losses. If he hadn’t been so weak he wouldn’t have become paralyzed and let Haening and Hrol beat him for so long before fighting back. These thoughts, and more like them, dominated Tsleeixth’s mind.

“Never again.” He vowed quietly, taking yet another sip from the bottle. Never again would he find himself in that position. He wouldn’t let his weakness, his powerlessness, drive him to those situations once more. Never again would he allow himself to be in the place that he had been in the aftermath of Dawnstar or of the battle against Tmeip’r. This was the conclusion to which Tsleeixth had come. And for that, he needed more power than what he had now.

In the depths of his rucksack, as if reacting to the thoughts of its new owner, the coral necklace that had once belonged to Tmeip’r briefly pulsated with a baleful red light before falling dormant once again.

---

After the funeral, Gustav wanted to have a nice lunch. At the same time, he also wanted to save time and money, so he settled on a simple lunch instead. In the end, he got neither of those.

All but one cook from the Kyne's Tear died, and the last one, the Redguard that signed on in Solitude, was gone. No resignation, no words of departure. Her bag of belongings was still there, but Turpen herself was gone, and no one had seen her. She was not the only one leaving. As Gustav waited for the barely acceptable servers to serve him the barely acceptable food in the barely acceptable White Helm, Dael gro'Gone came to announce that he would be, well, gone. At least this Orc was kind enough to deliver a resignation letter, saying that mercenary work was not what he expected, and the violence turned out to be too much for him to stomach, literally. Oh well, Gustav always thought he wasn't as tough as he looked. Dael was an eloquent speaker though, and he spoke of other inspiring, if not confusing, pursuits (like basket weaving) he would undertake.

Gustav shook Dael's meaty hands and gave him the patchy pie he ordered. The pie's unappetizing and Dael did pretty much nothing at Smuggler's Cove, so it's not like they'll be of any use to Gustav, pie or Dael. He's just eager to get them out of the way and get on with his busy day.

---

After his failed attempt at lunch, Gustav went to the royal castle with a case of Tmeip'r's documents (and a translated summary), hoping that he won't fail at selling his information to the royalty. It shouldn't, seeing how he already met King Frithjolf and his inner circle before, as a prominent businessman. Turned out, Frithjolf wasn't even in his castle at all. Gustav had to hand over a sizable "tip" to a royal administrator just to have an audience with Queen Idunn, and the audience lasted no more than five minutes.

Tmeip'r's scheme sounded absolutely outlandish to Queen Idunn and her officials; no one believed a word Gustav said. When Gustav produced the fish scale papers, the court burst into laughter.

"This is real!" Gustav tried keep his frustration down, and his salesman pitch up. "We saw the creatures, the airship, and the Sload itself with our own eyes!"

When nothing else worked, Gustav jumped to his conjecture. "Princess Griseld is in league with them!"

The court fell silent, Idunn raised her eyebrows, and Gustav realized how he shouldn't have said what he just said.

"I entertained your presence only because you were a friend of our kingdom." Queen Idunn stood from her throne, her eagle-like gaze pointed straight towards her query. Her dress, made of a heavy green fabric with swirling golden stitching, swooped around her like giant wings. Gustav couldn't help but to back up a step. "But now you come fearmongering and slandering; I will not tolerate any false accusation against my own children. You are no longer welcomed in this castle, and if you dare spread another word of your lies, you and your enterprise will no longer be welcomed in our realm."

"What? How can you not-" The pounding steps of two heavily armored guards cut Gustav off. He bowed his head and made his exit. "As you wish, your majesty."

---

After that disastrous meeting, and out of earshot of anyone important, Gustav had no shortage of curse coming out of his mouth. Things were not going great at all for him. His reserve fund was rapidly dwindling, the morale of the mercenaries sunk to an all-time low, and there didn't seem to be a way to boost either of them. Plus, he still had absolutely nothing on the wise prophet that propelled him into prosperity. Three years of infallible predictions and now nothing, an unprecedented two months of silence. Maybe this was the difficulty that broke down Ashav, maybe he should just cut his losses.

No, this company was his path to greatness. Gustav was certain he would save the world with these mercenaries; he needed a honorable Name from this. Plus, he had already spent too much time, effort and money, the latest of which included a really expensive bribe no more than thirty minutes ago.

Speak of the bribe, the very same bribed administrator bumped into Gustav as he rounded the next hallway. He was a gangly looking Orc, likely in his mid-thirties, with tusks half ground down, and hair and clothing styled in vain to match an unsuitable mix of Breton and Nordic nobility. He had an air of not fitting in like Dael; it as if the only difference between them was Dael being bigger and louder. Gustav might have met this individual at a party before, but he wasn't sure. Gustav was sure that the Orc stood beside Queen Idunn during his hearing, and he was the only one not laughing. The Orc looked at him almost with a sense of pity, as he understood what it was like.

"I know someone else interested in your information." The Orc cut straight to the chase.

"And that is?"

A green hand held out, palm open and facing up.

Gustav groaned, but shoved over coins regardless.

"General Cassia, from the legion, is as paranoid as you are." The Orc started, once the gold is stuffed securely into his pocket. "She's reactivating the reserve legion in response to threats in the east, but not many's taking her seriously. People here think the wars in the east are strictly between Morrowind, and you know, the others. But we can't pretend High Rock is it's own self-contained place and turn a blind eye to everywhere else. Maybe your information is the eye-opener we need."

"Huh." Gustav's frown evaporated, replaced with curiosity. "You care about the kingdom's security."

"Just trying to get by." The Orc shrugged.

"Family back in Morkul?" Gustav pressed on.

"Used to, but they don't need me anymore. Can't get anything done there when the Nords won't even acknowledge our problems." The Orc sighed, shaking his head. "You should get going now, her majesty won't be pleased to see you wandering around here."

---

The legion garrison was not a fort; it was farm named Warhaft Garrison (the original legion stronghold inside Jehanna city fell into disuse eighteen years ago, and it had been since repurposed as a trading center). On the hastily cleared grounds were six experienced officers training around fifty enlisted soldiers, half reservists called to action and half fresh recruits that had no idea what they signed up for. Many of them didn't even wear armor or uniform; they appeared more like Gustav's own mercenary company than the Imperial legion.

The one to greet Gustav was a short Breton man in light legion armor. He wore a plain red cloak, a destruction staff on his back and a diamond shaped amulet hung from his neck, the symbol of a legion battlemage. He was an officer, though his facial hair definitely fell further than military standards, and his boot laces were about to come loose.

"Recruitment is over for today, citizen." The battlemage stood in front of the farm-turned-garrison gates, arms crossed.

"I have valuable information for the general." Gustav said. "My company just came from fighting the Kamal."

"Idle gossip is not information." The battlemage stood unimpressed. "We don't-"

"I'm sure the general will appreciate what I have say." Gustav pulled out his dwindling coin purse.

"Are you trying to bribe me, citizen? I'll have you know that-" The battlemage backed up, suddenly looking alarmed. But Gustav knew he had the Breton's attention, and with a smile and a friendly clasp on the shoulder, he was able to defuse the tension.

"Just trying to make our lives easier. Now, let's not waste any more time."

---

"The Emperor will not authorize this!"

"The Emperor is barely alive. We need to act now!"

The farmhouse, or what was suppose to be the headquarters, door opened to reveal an office. Inside stood the General Cassia and her legate, face to face in an intense argument, with a table full of maps and documents between them. Gustav took a cautious step in, but the battlemage that escorted him didn't dare to enter.

The general wore the elaborate armor of an Imperial general. Her older form, nearly sixty years, did not fill out her armor in its entirety. Yet Cassia carried herself with the assurance that young commanders do upon their first victory. Her legate, an Imperial man more than a decade younger, was outfitted in the typical legion officer uniform. Unlike the battlemage that seemed intimidated by General Cassia, he showed no signs of being subordinate and stood defiant. When Gustav took another step into the room, the commanders turned away from each other, and appraised Gustav with hands resting on their swords.

"Who is this?" General Cassia spoke first, her voice was aged, but still carried clear authority.

"Ma'am, this is-" The battlemage stammered.

"I am Gustav, esteemed commanders." Gustav interrupted. "I am the leader of a private fighting force and wish to offer our intelligence and service."

"Mercenaries." Sneered the legate; his words dripped pessimism. "You look like you've never been in a fight."

"What? I participated in over-"

"What kind of intelligence and service?" Cassia waved them back on topic.

Gustav recounted the Sload encounter, showed them the deciphered documents and told them about how he suspected the princess of Jehanna is behind everything. When he finished, the legate shook his head.

"Princess Griseld doesn't have what it takes to scheme." The legate threw the documents back at Gustav. "You're wasting our time; leave."

Before Gustav could plead his case, General Cassia came his unexpected rescue. "The princess couldn't be involved while the king is away for the banquet." She suggested. "However, these documents seem indicate a plot at that banquet in Evermore. I'm worried about security with all the High Rock leaders present in one location, and this is just another reason for us to have eyes there."

"Surely you can't be serious." The legate frowned. "Surely you can't believe his conspiracy theories."

"This is a real threat. I'm serious, and don't call me shir-"

"I'm calling you a crazed old hag!" The legate snapped. He pounded his fists upon the table, making parchments fly and Gustav jump in fear. "First you took my unit from me, then you wish to ally with barbarians and daedra worshipers, and now you take the babbling of a layman over the analysis of a decorated veteran! Titus Mede II must be turning in his grave, knowing his field marshal has become a lunatic!"

"Enough!" Cassia slammed her own fists down, matching the legate's fury. "I am your superior, Legate Taurinus Duilis, and you will follow my command."

"I refuse risk my soldiers for your senseless adventures!" Legate Duilis spat, crossing his arms and standing defiant.

"Then they are no longer your soldiers." Cassia declared. "You are relieved of your command."

"You can't-" Duilis' eyes popped wide open. For the first time since Gustav saw him, he was taken back by surprise.

"You heard me; remove yourself from legion property, citizen." Cassia stepped forward and pointed the exit with an armored finger.

"You will regret this, Cassia! And you too, mercenary!" Duilis bellowed. He threw up his arms as if he was going to strike the general, but as Cassia remained unfazed, Duilis punched the wall beside them instead. Face now red with rage, Duilis stormed out of the room, but not before shoving Gustav so hard that he fell to the ground.

"The high command will hear of this, the elder council will hear of this. You will all pay!" These were Legate Duilis' parting words, and then the room fell silent.

Gustav sat on the ground for a few minutes, until the battlemage finally walked over to offer him a hand up. Gustav looked to the battlemage for answers, but he only looked away. General Cassia was back to her papers and maps.

"Uh..." Gustav tried to speak up.

"I need your company to investigate the Evermore banquet for this possible threat." Cassia shot a quick glance at Gustav. "You will have six days to prepare and travel. I will arrange the means of access. Compensation will be special auxiliary pay grade, split between start and completion. This is a strictly covert assignment, understood?"

"Understood," Gustav nodded, trying to find something to take notes with, "but what-"

"Tribune Brent here will bring you the details tomorrow." Cassia motioned to the battlemage. "Dismissed."

---

---

A day later, Gustav was making more sense of things. A series of investigation last evening followed by asking around this morning netted Gustav a lead to his mysterious prophet. Turned out Gustav had often received his prophecies from the prophet's favored messenger, an Orc woman by the name of Gherken gra-Umar, or more commonly known, Grumar. Currently, Grumar was somewhere in Evermore, running different jobs when she had nothing to deliver for the prophet last month. It was conveniently exactly where Gustav wanted her to be, after being briefed over lunch by Brent.

Tribune Brent moved up in the world in just one day; he's now Acting-Legate Brent. With a hearty lunch bought for him by Gustav (replacing the "appalling gruel of the legion"), Brent started talking about more than Gustav's job. First off, he spoke about how much of a hero General Cassia was. From her role as the emperor's second-in-command during the battle of the red ring to her spearheading a new legion after the great war, it's clear that Brent lionized Cassia a bit more than healthy. Then he described Legate Duilis, a veteran of Skyrim's civil and commander of loyalist forces in Hjaalmarch. There were debates about whether he left his post to seek reinforcements in High Rock, or because he fled when big Stormcloak names (such as Jorwen Red-Bear and Sevine the Huntress) came knocking. Whatever happened, Duilis was sidelined to command this barely existent "reserve legion" until Cassia took over. Today, Duilis was heading to the Imperial City, taking the only two other experienced officers (his old battle-buddies from Hjaalmarch) with him.

As for the assignment itself, Gustav had to sign a series of papers. He got to keep none of these papers, because the assignment is deniable, everything he signed was solely for record-keeping on Cassia's end. Brent did explain as thoroughly as he could, and allowed Gustav to copy down some of the instructions. To ensure they know everything there is of the banquet, Gustav would be attending, along several of his mercenaries. In addition, the mercenaries will actively seek out any agents of malicious intents, protect important figures from these threats and neutralize them on-site, if possible. From the deciphered Sload documents, it seemed like the threats will be vampires.

Of course, invitations are required to attend the banquet. Gustav had already received one when he arrived in Jehanna two days ago, the perks of being a "noteworthy merchant". Ariane Fontaine also had one for whatever reason. For everyone else, they would be the escorts, entourages and "private guests". Even so, less than half of the current company roster could attend, as more would no doubt draw suspicions. The other half would have to be disguised as servants or smuggled in with cargo.

It won't be a simple job, it won't be an easy job, and it's not even that much of a well-paid job. Gustav did much less for much more, but at least this will get some money moving in (so Gustav can actually pay salaries now), and get the mercs moving out.

There's one problem left; Dumhuvud disappeared.

So now, with the entire company gathered in Gustav's warehouse, he had to announce another change in leadership. Dumhuvud was gone for more than a day, and there's already rumors about how he met the same end as Ashav. However, there was no dead body or the confirmation of a murder. Either Dumhuvud left without notifying anyone else, or his killers hid his body exceptionally well. Either way, the mercenaries seemed rather happy hearing it. Gustav didn't care, he needed to have the company moving tomorrow. Edith would become the new field commander, while Ariane and Sevine would take up more responsibilities as senior officers. Lastly, Tsleeixth and Sagax got promoted to sort out magic and scouting, respectively. They weren't the most stable individuals, but both were experienced and didn't know how to die.

The meeting wrapped up after Gustav briefed everyone on their next mission, and paid the first salary in three weeks. The company's moving out tomorrow, Last Seed 12, on a caravan (cobbled together from Gustav's transports and surplus from the legion) to Evermore. The trip would take three days, and then another day and a half to setup at Evermore. In those days, the mercenaries would have to determine which of them attend the banquet, and which sneak in from behind. In addition, fake identifications have to be forged, proper attires fitted, castle layout memorized and the guest list analyzed. But for the first time in nearly two months, the mercs weren't going to war, they're going to a celebration. It'll be like a vacation, no bloodshed at all, right?

10th of Last Seed, The Howling Wolf Inn, late that night…

Do’Karth had quietly snuck back into the room he had shared with Sevine, the Nord snoring softly when his footfalls entered the room. The door had been unlocked; perhaps she had left it that way for him, or in her anger and frustration had forgotten to fasten the bolt behind her before she let herself drift off to sleep. He thought about rousing her, but decided against it; her words stung him to the core, and how casually she disregarded him when he needed her most still burned in his heart. She had not come to his aid in the aftermath of his dire mistake, and now it had come down to this. He’d been a fool to love her, to think she’d stand by him when things grew difficult, when he dared share his thoughts. He had seen too many friends die for a war he did not believe in, serving under men so cruel they might have been the Daedric Princes themselves.

Quietly, he gathered his things, rejecting the urge to scream at Sevine, to continue a fight that had ended it all. He thought about those who remained, Niernen in particular. Do’Karth sighed, knowing how the Dunmer felt about him. He wished he could go to her now; she would have understood his plight and been grateful for his company, but Narzul was not something he wanted to get entangled with. Fastening the drawchord on his rucksack, Do’Karth hoisted it on his back and turned to leave, noticing the amulet of S’rendarr still sitting in the corner where he’d dropped it. He’d leave it there, it was no longer of use to him. His gods had abandoned him when he needed guidance most, and if Sevine turning her back on him was their punishment for him daring to accept happiness in his life after years of trying to make amends for the crimes he committed, he no longer wished for their blessings. They were spiteful beings that were devoid of sympathy and heart. They could not understand the plight of mortals, and they would never try.

“Goodbye, Sevine. This one is thankful for the time we had together,” he said quietly, reaching the doorframe and his hold lingered on it for a few moments, a part of him wishing he could stay and make things right.

No, she made her choice. This one was not one of them. he reminded himself, and his heart hardened. “But your path was never going to include Do’Karth.” He concluded, stepping fully outside and closing the door one last time. He knew it would be the last time he saw the fiery hair he loved so much, and felt his warmth against him, the compassion and affection in her eyes, the way they had met and she had wanted to feel his ears. He thought of the day they confessed their darkest secrets to one another, and had instead of judgement, found acceptance and warmth. The tears rolled freely down his cheeks, damping his fur, and his bare arm wiped indelicately across his face. Memories that he’d cherish but would never relive; Do’Karth was a nomad, and he had to pay a penance for a life he was never meant to have. He’d likely never find love again, and maybe he didn’t deserve it. He abandoned his friends along the way for love, didn’t he? Jorwen, Solveig… he swore he would guard her, and he did not follow her. Jorwen had accepted him first and foremost, and now he was a slave or dead to the Kamal.

Do’Karth would find him, he decided. Even if he died in the attempt, finding and rescuing Jorwen would be the singular thing his redemption would mean. He left the inn, stepping into the unfamiliar Jehanna streets. He’d nearly lost himself in this damned city, nearly killed a man for simply being a racist piece of gutter trash, but still not worthy of death. He’d destroyed the relationship with the one person to ever show him love and compassion, and he turned his back on the other. There was nothing but pain here, and he knew that if the company kept the way it was going, he would be laying more friends to death, or forcing them to do the same for him. It was not something he wished to go through again.

He walked, reaching the gates of the city, and he looked back upon it and the people he was leaving behind, hoping they would understand why he could never say goodbye; he would never be allowed to leave Gustav’s clutches due to a damned contract he couldn’t read. With a sigh, he raised a hand to the city and placed another on his heart. “Goodbye, friends. Do’Karth will not forget you.” He said quietly, and he settled down the path, his bare feet and the tip of his staff the only sounds going into the night.

Do’Karth’s gods spoke no words of protest.

---

10th of Last Seed - Early Afternoon
Kyne's Tear - Jehanna Docks

Only a few days of recovery were spared unto her, and already was she put back to work. Wylendriel had suffered all forms of exhaustion; she challenged the limits of her stamina until she was staggering and could barely maintain her balance, she was nearly immolated to death and was stitched back together, and her reserve of magicka was exhausted by the very spell that had saved her life, with the rest being squeezed out to do whatever she could to keep herself on her feet. What did she have to show for it? A mostly live crew, perhaps, but plagued by nightmares of the woman she could not save from the fire, whose screams haunted her every waking moment. The woman who was crushed beneath the falling debris of the Golden Sload. Adaeze, the lost Bosmer soul she had met in Solitude, who would return to the Green with too little of her body remaining to sanctify. Then, when she awoke, she heard the dreadful news of Ashav’s suicide.

Four people were dead on her watch. Four people she couldn’t save. The shock being too much, and the thought too overbearing, she clammed up. When the news was shared, all she could manage was a soft, “Oh…”

How did everything go so wrong? What were the Divines trying to tell her by sending her on this journey? Was this a lesson for her to learn or were they never really following her? Had she only been making excuses for herself, to delude herself into believing that there was still hope for her? Was being constantly surrounded by death her punishment? Perhaps it was. Perhaps she deserves this. Or was her only chance at redemption foiled by her own repetitive failures? She felt damned either way. She still felt Molag Bal's presence with her even after all this time. All she could do at this point was to go through the motions.

She lost the robes that meant so much to her and had to resort to wearing a simple sailor’s outfit, an off-white linen shirt and some brown pants – it’s bagginess required of her to use a length of string or twine to secure it properly. She deprived herself of proper footwear. She later offered her services to the Temple of Arkay. Though officially a Priestess of Kynareth, she knew the appropriate funeral rites and consecration rituals, so she aided in their service. She prayed with them as the priest led the sermon, and she prayed over their coffins a few hours longer even after the service was officially over. One would’ve looked at her and thought she was wishing them safe passage; in truth, all she could do was apologize to them over and over in silence.

After an exhaustive morning, she staggered back to Kyne’s Tear. The sight of its damage brought back a certain anxiety that filled her mind and body, but the comfort of a cabin she had grown accustomed to has more allure to it than a strange place she has never slept before. Perhaps that was selfish of her to think that she deserved any form of comfort, but before she could re-enter the cabin, she was stopped by Sagax. He was the Imperial boy, the brother of Piper, who she fought with against the werewolf. He offered her an enchanted ring that was supposed to help her identify the wounded members of the company.

Perhaps it was a well-meaning gesture when he offered it to her, so she accepted it with a forced smile and put it on her finger while in front of him, but deep down it hurt. The gift left painful stings in her chest after a morning of being emotionally numb. She took it as a message of not being good enough. When they bid their farewells to each other, she finally entered her cabin. The inside was a mess after everything had been shaken from its proper place during the attack and had to be pushed aside to make room for the injured crew-members. Flashbacks of seeing the likes of an unconscious Niernen and Do’Karth lined up in her cabin replaced the empty blankets in front of her eyes for a split second before she was pulled back into the present. She shouldn’t be here right now. She should be tending to the wounded in town.

Still, she only looked over to see a mirror hanging crookedly from the wall. For a few moments she investigated its reflection as she gingerly touched the brittle and charred ends of her hair, and to her surprise, a bitter and hopeless expression. She barely recognized herself anymore. She recognized herself less and less as her journey went on, and… less and less the longer she stared into the mirror. A weird, blurry mist seemed to come from her, almost pink in hue, until a hot sensation from her finger drew her attention away from the mirror.

Looking down at her hand, she saw the ring.

There are times when you are stuck with such a haunting realization that it nearly knocks one off their feet, and when such a realization dawned on her, it was like the straw that broke the camel’s back – it felt insulting. Without thinking, her arms lashed out to grab the mirror. With the shrillest of shrieks, like a rage-induced battle cry that grated her throat sore, she threw it down as hard as she could against the floor.

"FUCK!"

She felt a stinging pain and a pop in her shoulder as the glass of the mirror shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. She ignored it.

She screamed again, sweeping everything that remained off the top of the dresser and sent it flying across the room until it clattered against the wall. She grabbed the dresser and toppled it over, screaming and shouting even more as she rampaged through the cabin. Whatever was on the walls, she tore down. Whatever was still standing, she ripped apart, knocked over, or sent flying. Anything that was on floor and in her way, she kicked and destroyed, stomping on floorboards and cutting her feet on the broken glass. She turned to the walls of the cabin and punched it – crack! The wood itself was unscathed.

But she didn’t stop, she continued to punch the cabin wall with the same hand. Crack! Crack! CRACK! When the pain eventually became too much, she resorted to kicking. When her foot became too bruised, she smashed her forehead into the wall over and over again, yelling and grunting in pain and frustration. Over the period of a minute, her self-harm slowed down until her head against the wall were but soft, gentle thuds, and her grunts and yelling devolved into whimpering, and eventually, crying, as tears finally began to roll down her cheeks and join with the blood that came streaking from her forehead.

It became too much for her, and her head slowly slid down the cabin wall as she dropped to her knees. The priestess fell on her side, holding her knees close to her chest and cradling her broken hand. She was no longer able to hold back her grief as the quiet tears of her crying became full-throated sobbing. Her moans of despair echoed through The Tear -- but everyone else would have taken refuge at the inn by now. She would be able to despair in peace, completely and utterly alone.