[h3]Brother[/h3] [i]featuring [@Greenie][/i] [i]Gilane Prison, Alik’r Desert Later evening, 15th of Midyear, 4E208[/i] [hr] [indent] [center][i]“This creed of the desert seemed inexpressible in words, and indeed in thought.”[/i][/center] In the vast and barren wilderness of the Alik’r - the ocean of sand, there is a treasure in the dunes and rock. The form almost as black as the velvet night sky when the sun is sleeping, so much so that it could blend entirely into it. Endless beauty below, endless beauty above, a purgatory dead centre. The structure only visible as beams of lunar light illuminate the alloys that line the walls, towers, and gates. Flecks of ancient gilded metal dusted by shifting sands over eons to nothing but burnt copper. A forgotten jewel, being lost to the sands - then found again as the winds carry and move the dunes without end in continuous riptides. The halls, once cavernous and desolate, now alive with thrumming machinations. Pipes of golden alloy lining the walls of the labyrinthine prison, a torturous maze deliberately built this way, and painstakingly architectured by minds so far beyond the intelligence of regular men. Rows and rows of cells, windowed for the sun to bleed through and scorch the floors and walls. But below, in the belly of the beast lies a corridor where the light is forbidden from touching an inch… Nothing but darkness, and a cold chill that rushes through like a rattlesnake. [i]And yet, light flickers - flames of rebellion spark…[/i] [hr] “And so then, off I went to find out where this shiny necklace was - I heard it belonged to some Mystic Priestess or something, but anyway I [i]really[/i] wanted it. Worth a few pieces of gold you know?” The voice was a clear chord in the dark, empty cells of the deepest locations of the prison. ‘Death Row’, was what the inmates called it. Because once you were tossed down here, you’d never see the sun again, the cold musty air would be the last thing that touched your lungs during your final breath. That wasn’t shaking the spirit of the Nord sat against the wall of his cell, however. With one leg stretched out, and the other drawn at an angle with his knee pointed to the ceiling, he gave a grin of sorts. “So I took a trip down that burrow, a couple of my friends at my back - those were the days, when you could pick up a few stragglers and make a real go of it in the wilderness you know?” He sighed melancholically for a brief and fleeting moment before his blue eyes lit up again. He ran a hand through his beard. “This is getting a bit long too, I could braid it and knot it with a bead… Not sure I like it, nor the hair.” He tugged at the longest lengths of the sandy brown beard, it must have been an inch long from his chin now. A reminder of how long he’d been in the cells. “Not sure I like these new scars either but I heard ladies like a rugged looking man, so I’ll learn to live with it for their sake, hey?” “So, how long you been down here? Looks like it might have been a while, looks almost like you ain't been getting enough food either. What’s your name? You look like an Eduardo. I’m going to call you Eduardo.” He turned his head to look over at his cellmate, and moved his arm over to give him a friendly slap. The skeletal corpse of the goblin named ‘Eduardo’ did not respond. Fjolte Dhjarikson stretched with a long sigh, tucking his hands behind his head with his elbows sticking out either side, resting back against the wall. [i]“Been down here in this prison, for a little while now,”[/i] he began to sing in a loud, and confident voice. The Nord was a lot of things, a good singer was not one of them, and yet he continued on regardless; [i]“I wish I could get out soon, it’s starting to smell down here.”[/i] The words came out in a bland melody that he had made up on the spot, [i]“Eduardo misses his wiiiiiiiiiiiife,”[/i] the note was high and shrill at the end, so shrill in fact that from down the hallway someone finally took Fjolte’s bait. “Will you shut yer bleedin’ ole fer once! I’ve gorra ‘eadache and no fuckin’ rope to hang myself with to escape ya!” It was an old, crotchety Nord man that Fjolte had seen a few times during his time on the row. The man could probably stand to lighten up, except for the fact that he had no legs to stand on. He sighed and ceased his song for once, a grin returning, it was all he could do to keep his chin up and his spirit from sinking to the gutter. There was a war outside. A war that Fjolte could be helping with and yet he was stuck in this oversized cage. His eyes closed and he pictured the wilderness of Skyrim in his mind and smiled, opting to hum to himself for a while instead. Maybe No-Legs deserved a break after all... His blue eyes shot open and his humming abruptly stopped, boredom setting in once more. “Ahh Eddie my man, my friend. We’ll be out of here soon, you’ll be back with your wife before you know it.” He gave ‘Eduardo’ a nudge with his elbow, which only caused the skeleton to fall from his posed sitting position - the bones so brittle and dry now that his skull separated from the spine and rolled along the floor. “Oops,” he said with an expression that bordered between impishness and guilt. He would have to find a new friend now, and so he scooted enthusiastically on his ass to the other side of his cell. “Yo, yo! Anyone in there?” Fjolte called out to the shadowy cell beside him. "That would be me," came a quiet voice. There was the sound of shuffling, and when the voice spoke once more, it was louder and clearer, though still relatively quiet compared to Fjolte's. "Been here..." There was a pause that lasted a few seconds before the male spoke once more. "... probably a month? It's hard to keep track of time in here." The owner of the voice, Bakih Al Nahel, sighed as he leaned back against a dank wall, hand reaching out to lightly flick at the bars of the cell. While he was still tall and wiry, one look at the man showed he was going through hard times. His hair was more a dusty brown than its usual auburn, his clothes were torn and dirty and probably would be better off burned far away from any living person. His eyes, once vibrant were dull and heavy lidded, as if simply waiting for the end. The Nord man's voice lifted some of the fog, however. He had heard this man for a few days now, and it never failed to impress him how... positive he seemed. Was it a Nord thing? He remembered Ursa and Floki being ridiculous like that as well, causing his sister's crew to laugh and scoff and the same time. Who even knew? "I'm Bakih," he finally added, deciding it wouldn't be a bad thing to talk to a friendly voice before he met whatever end the dwemer had in store for him. “Bakih, huh? Well that’s a Redguard name if I’ve ever heard one!” Fjolte smiled, flashing his teeth as if by smiling he could crack the walls between them and get a glimpse at his new friend. He was a handsome man, with strong Nord features - a chiselled jawline, strong nose, and broad shoulders. He was as solid as a rock, but his blue eyes were just soft. Soft and enchanting. “Shame we had to meet in here, eh? I bet you can knock back an ale with the best of ‘em!” He laughed from his chest, filling the cold of his cage with warmth. “What say when we get out of here, we go grab one or two, you know?” “Oh, and my name is Fjolte, of the Dhjariksons! It’s good to meet you brother, I only wish I could give your hand a good shake.” With a real friend to talk to now, he felt slightly more invigorated and sprung to his feet. Although he may have moved too quickly as his back cracked with the motion. He hadn’t been able to keep up his routine in here half as well as he could outside. “Ooooof, hear that? Urrghhh, that’s age kickin’ in right there,” he said, quieter than he had been talking before - rounding off with another laugh as he jumped up to grasp one of the steel bars that lined the ceiling of his cell with his powerful arms and began to pull himself up. “So, what’s a Redguard gotta do to get put in here huh? Gotta be something pretty bad I’d wager.” "Fjolte," Bakih repeated softly, a little smile finding its way on his lips. "And that's a Nord name if ever I heard of one." He nodded before stopping, realizing the other man couldn't see him so there was literally no point. "You're half right, actually. I am really an Imperial, my mother was from Anvil... Father was from Gilane so some of us received Redguard names." He sighed a little, wondering how the only sibling he actually cared for was faring. The moment lingered, but the somberness was lightened by the Nord's banter, and Bakih found himself smiling yet again. "You don't sound very old," he observed before looking to the ground, or whatever he could see of it. "I used to work on a ship, my sister's ship..." He paused a moment, wondering if he should mention what 'work' actually meant, but then decided there was no real need. "When the dwemer came, my sister decided we were to flee in the night. However, one of their airships took care of ours... I think she escaped- I don't know. I was caught and brought here." He blinked at the stinging in his eyes and let out another sigh. "And you? How does a Nord man find himself in an Alik'r prison?" “An Imperial eh?” he said with surprise as he pulled himself up with a groan, holding his weight for a few seconds before exhaling a long breath. “Unusual manner of naming you, but I like it! Us Nords always get a Nord name, no matter where in Tamriel our mother drops us out.” He laughed again at his own words. It was something he did a lot. “I’m not that old, but not that young either - nice of you to think I’m a young boy though Bakih, brother, I’ll take the compliment. I’m thirty-one years as a matter of fact,” he grunted again as he continued with his pull ups, muscles tightening in his arms and chest, his teeth sat over his lower lip as he breathed in and out with the strain. He was getting unfit. “Can’t say I’ve been on many ships in my thirty-one years. Us Nords are good at seafaring, but I’m a lad of the land and mountains myself. Always liked something solid under my feet - besides I think I’d be sick and go green as an Orsimer if I was tossed around the unruly waves of the ocean like that. I respect you for that Bakih, you must be a man of tremendous prowess to make a career of it! If your sister is anything like I believe you to be, she’ll be well and good.” “As for me, well I was in the mountains beyond The Reach with a few good men and some dazzling women and we were ambushed by Dwemer on a patrol. I got thrown into a cart and carried this way. Can’t say I know what happened to my comrades I’m afraid.” He sighed, realising that he hadn’t given it all too much thought - he hoped they were travelling well, he hadn’t seen any of them in the prison. With any luck, they had escaped and made it back to Skyrim to safety. “Sounds like Kynareth had us brought here for something though Bakih, you know?” he grinned again, and dropped from the bars with a gentle thud to his feet. "So they've reached that far," Bakih murmured, shaking his head, though he stopped relatively quickly as the movement caused him dizziness which in turn caused a little nausea. "I truly hope Kynareth has a plan, because sitting here and rotting seems a poor way to live." He blinked a little at the sound of the thud- what was the man doing on the other side? How did he manage to keep his spirits undamped unlike the rest of those stuck down here. He decided to forcefully think of something else, otherwise even the thought that he could no longer see much joy in the world would sadden him further. "Seafaring has been in my family for generations," he mentioned. "Merchant family, both on my mother and father's side. I was born in Gilane myself, but my sister's truly of the sea, she was born in the waters between Anvil and Gilane." His mouth twitched, a wry smile forming. "I prefered the land, truth be told." [i]And here I am.[/i] "I suppose I'll have to see which I prefer one we're out of this cursed place." He shifted slightly so that he was facing the bars, curiosity getting the better of him. "And you? What occupied your time before the dwemer descended upon us?" The Nord grinned again, flexing his arms - half in admiration, and half in disappointment. “I’m glad you asked!” Fjolte said as he got down onto the ground, laying flat before pushing himself up slowly, letting his breathing guide him through the exercise. He grunted softly with each push up, feeling the strain on his triceps, to his pectorals, to the biceps. “I’d like to think of myself as a nomad. I’ve travelled all around on foot. There ain't much better to me than hiking. With nothing but a bedroll and some provisions, a friend or two with ya.” It brought a smile to his face that he couldn’t have hidden, his eyes were alight with joy at the thought. “I like to lie free on the ground, under the sky and watch the stars flicker…” there was a romance in his voice as it trailed off. “I run the steps of High Hrothgar often, breathe in that frost-bitten air. There’s nothing greater than it in all of Tamriel, brother.” “Of course I return home frequently to check in on my nieces too, bring them a gift from my travels as well as a tale. I’m sure they’ll enjoy the tale of me meeting Bakih, Lord of the Sea in a prison! So we have to make our escape of this place as exciting as we can - you get me?” he laughed with amusement, lowering himself down - nose to the ground again. Just a few more and he’d move on to something else. "Lord... of the Sea?" Bakih blinked comically for a moment before laughing. It was probably the first time he had openly made such a joyous sound since his imprisonment in this wretched prison. "I thank you for the name even though I'm quite sure someone else probably deserves it more than I." His laugh ebbed into a quiet chuckle. "You seem to have lead quite the exciting life yourself." His voice was tinged with lingering interest and curiosity. "Much more exciting than travelling between the waters of Hammerfell and Cyrodiil." Sure, there had been plenty of boarding and plundering and murdering, but that wasn't quite Bakih's field of interest. "You sound like someone stories and songs are written about," the Imperial Redguard remarked after a pause. "Tell me, what other places in Skyrim have you visited? My only knowledge of the country comes from what I've read in books." Fjolte rolled onto his back, drawing his legs up to an angle, feet flat on the stone floor and his hands behind his head. “Bah! No stories written about me just yet, only one who can tell my story is me. They call me Fjolte the Fabler you know!” he laughed again before he started to sit up, the strain hitting his abdomen as he did so. “I’ve seen just about damn near everything there is to see in Skyrim. I’ve scaled every rock face, swam in the waters… My favourite place in the entire province though?” he sighed wistfully, “Rorikstead. My home. Grew up there you know? Was given my first axe at five and from there I became the strapping Nord you know today, Bakih.” He lowered himself to the flat of the ground, the burning feeling running from his abdomen and up through his chest. “It’s a small village, tiny in fact - that just means all of your neighbours are your family pretty much. A strong community spirit.” As he continued to exercise, he heard the familiar sound of a key clunking its way through one of the locks of the gargantuan door of the row. The footsteps followed - it sounded like at least two guards. Fjolte knew why they were coming down, and he didn’t want to look. The smile that had been plastered across his face faded, and he put his focus into his sit ups - thankful to have been facing away from the Dwemer as they thundered angrily down and down and [i]down[/i] the row. He listened, he couldn't pick out the softened gait of the Nice Guard this time. A cage opened with a sharp metallic squeal and a voice could be heard begging and pleading. [i]No-Legs…[/i] Fjolte’s eyes closed, and he hoped that Bakih would not say anything as the man was dragged away. He hoped that Bakih had moved himself to the darkest corner of his cell, out of sight. After that, he was left only with the hope that whatever happened in the room would allow No-Legs a sliver of dignity before he passed over to Sovngarde. No-Legs was the third this week that had been taken to the room. That left only a handful of them left on the row. They were working through faster too, picking them up for anything at all and carting them away kicking and screaming. No-Legs didn't get the option of kicking, which gave him all the more strength to scream. Fjolte’s heart raced in his chest, and as he heard the door slam shut he folded his arms over his ears. He didn’t want to hear another one... A series of muffled blood curdling cries made their way to him anyway, and the light. The flashing strobe lights that illuminated the entire row every time they shot underneath the door. Like vicious and unrelenting lightning that would momentarily light up a whole house with each frightening crack. It would wind down soon… "Well... at least he doesn't have to worry about a headache anymore." Bakih's voice was muffled, his face pressed against his knees, arms wrapped around his legs as he involuntarily rocked himself back and forth. A strangled laugh escaped him before he quieted, his throat dryer than ever. Cautiously he lifted his head- if anyone could see him, they would never believe he was a former pirate who had slain many before. "Not many left," he muttered. There was a long silence for a while which was eventually pierced by a laugh from Fjolte’s cell, it was a heavy laugh that had grim undertones to it, “you have a dark sense of humour, Bakih…” he said quietly, standing up to his full height - hands becoming balled fists. There wasn’t much more of a conversation killer than someone being executed, that was for sure. The Nord began to punch solidly at the air, his feet shuffling against the stone with each one and a series of audible [i]swishes[/i] of air sounded out. As he danced around his cell, he found that his entire body was tense - his shoulders forced upwards and his jaw clenching, even his brows were carrying weight. He wanted to scream out against the despair and into the hollow of the night. To howl like a lone-wolf seeking his pack in the hopes that [i]someone, somewhere[/i] would hear the call. This was not the way, and he rolled his shoulders back, ceasing his spar for now, taking a seat on his bunk, releasing the tension from his jaw. He was left alone in the shadows, only a long line of red torches in sconces lit the row. He was buried beneath the sand now, there was no way to view the flickering stars of the night sky while he was locked in the sunken abyss, torn from the land. Hot tears sat under his eyes, but the voice in which he spoke was just happiness and joy - a golden light in the darkness. “There’ll be even less when we escape, brother.” [/indent]