@Stormflyx and @Gcold

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The banquet was in full flow by the time the Breton had made her way back to the main ballroom, the lights were dimmed and crystalline chandeliers provided an almost romantic illumination to the room, everything was grand and plush - opulence. As was to be expected, the guests were at varying levels of inebriation. It was for this exact reason that Relyssa rolled her eyes. They could be noble in the streets and in their halls and courts, but shove them all into a room with alcohol and they had little more grace than peasants in a grimy tavern. Still, the rich had to have their fun after all, lavish and over the top fun at that…

Having successfully accomplished her goals, and now needing to pass the time until it’s conclusion, Relyssa felt free enough to enjoy herself. She wouldn’t be enjoying herself quite so much as some people that she observed on her strut through the ballroom. She thought about Alim, and about what he had in his pockets, her nostrils flared slightly with the quick twist of anger that crept in, slowly she shook it off - everything would be fine, he would not steal away with it… And if he did, she’d hunt him down and take it back with force.

Just get it out of your mind, Relyssa… she chided herself internally as she moved to a waiter carrying drinks - wine would help settle this, and if not wine then something else… Ahh yes, there was always Gustav, he had suggested a dance and suddenly she very much wanted to take the mysterious Nord up on his offer.

All at once her face took on something of a feline expression. Her steel blue eyes were narrowed in an alluring way and with an almost predatory gaze she scanned the room for him. Her scarlet smile was small, with the few disheveled strands of hair framing her sharp features, she had the look of a trickster in its element. She very much sought to push Gustav’s buttons again. She held her glass of wine with two hands, tapping her fingernails against the stem as if in a manner not entirely unlike the way a lioness might go about sharpening her claws…

There you are, she said to herself as she caught a glance of him belching up the stubborn gas of a carbonated beverage.

Unlike Relyssa, Gustav wasn’t having nearly as much “fun” and “adventure”. His routine had been talking to the few people that he knew, and assuring them that he was here for no reason other than celebrating. Yes, Wayrest’s free at last, and yes, Gustav himself had nothing to do with the mercenary business, or that’s what he tried to feed his acquaintances with. The literal feeding, on the other hand, was a buffet. Hundreds of people crammed into the biggest room in the castle, numerous tables in between, topped with everything from stuffed Craglorn pheasant to smoke fish caught freshly on the Bjoulsae. Gustav always wanted to try Balfieran caviar, but that particular table was occupied by a large Orc, supposedly the champion of some knightly order. Strangely, Gustav saw none of the notable guests there. He milled about the crowded, noisy and even sweaty dining room for a whole hour to no avail; no of the monarchs and other big names were there. Where could they possibly go?

So, Gustav took to the ballroom when it opened, hoping to catch a glance of royalty (and possibly vampires) there. It was more preferable to him than the live performances in the garden. Gustav’s not interested in the “wrestling” match scheduled by the local fight pit. Some of these sheltered highborns, particular the old money, was excited to see “real” battle with their own eyes. Gustav saw more than enough at Smuggler’s Cove; fighting was a mess, and though it might be blood-pumping, it was not very enjoyable. Plus, it’s Last Seed, the mosquitos were vicious.

It only occured to Gustav when he looked around the ballroom, that he didn’t have a dance partner, and he hasn’t danced since the Jehanna New Life celebration back in 203. Watching the more experienced dancers was a little intimidating, especially when many were performing this year’s latest fashionable (and complex) move; the sick spin. He found himself stalking the edge of the ballroom, picking up a sparkling wine from one of the servants and downing it in one fell swoop. Then Gustav looked around again and saw none other than Relyssa Deserine, and it was at this moment the sparkling wine decided to send its gaseous compatriot up Gustav’s system for a speedy reunion. Relyssa probably saw that, and Gustav turned his head away embarrassingly.

She was still there when Gustav looked around for the third time. Oh well, Gustav did ask her for a dance before, didn’t he? He crossed the room to greet her, but before his words came out, his belch decided to say hi first.

“Excuse me, Lady Des-” Another belch interrupted him. “By the nine-” Gustav saw what must be a Dominion emissary nearby, “I mean, eight!”

“Ahem.” Gustav cleared his throat, and bowed slightly in courtesy and apology. “How is your night so far, my lady?”

It was decidedly difficult to keep up. Was that the second or third instance of the Nord bringing up wind? When she wondered whether or not Gustav might blow her away on the dancefloor earlier, this was absolutely not what she had meant. Still, she managed to dig deep enough to find a polite smile, even if there was a glaze of ”what in Oblivion?” over her eyes. “Gustaaaaaaaav…” she began, drawing out his name to a close to awkward length, she leaned back from him ever so - what she had heard was enough, she did not wish to smell it as well…

“Enjoying the beverages are we?” she continued, her tone significantly softer now, her usual puckish expression resumed. “As for my night, well it has been very satisfactory so far.” She hoped the man wasn’t already too sodden to understand the implication of her words. If she had been feeling any more bold, she might have given him a wink too - instead, just a smile with teeth. “You don’t seem to be joining in the revelry, Gustav.” It was not a question, but there was no doubt about it - Relyssa was curious as to why the Nord was not mingling with the crowds of guests.

“You know me, I’m always on the hunt for the next best drink.” Gustav replied. He was expecting Relyssa to extend her hand out for him to kiss, or at the very least, shake. But then again, he had just been picking his way through the buffet, some dried gravy might be still sticking to his hands.

“Well, I’ve done my share of mingling; I just find it most enjoyable in small doses.” Shrugged Gustav. Was his breath so bad? No. In fact, the belches had a little peachy flavor to it, not that he would mention it to anyone else. Instead, he gave cocked his head and looked to Relyssa. She sure cleaned up good; the expensive dress and jewelries fit her well. “I should say the same about you, Relyssa. I haven’t seen you around the guests either, though...”

The band in the ballroom finished the current tune and started playing a new one. It was a fast and cherry summer jingle. Some people were switching dance partners, while some formed circles that were traditional to Bangkorai folk dances. Meanwhile, a bell was rang outside; the big wrestling match was starting.

“Let’s talk further while we dance, or perhaps see the wrestling match instead?” Gustav offered Relyssa his arm. “May I?”

She chuckled at that; “why I’ve been busy putting Alim to work of course, I’m happy to say that you were right about him. He was worth the price…” She smiled as she took Gustav’s arm - pondering over the question. To dance would be good, but that fast music was decidedly not her preference… Wrestling was also not something she was too interested in but it may provide a better opportunity to probe Gustav. “You know, I don’t think my shoes are all that appropriate for spinning in such circles,” she began, lowering her voice until it was practically a velvety whisper in his ear now they were stood together. “I much prefer a slow dance, the closeness… The intimacy…”

“That lad is something, isn’t he?” Gustav matched Relyssa’s smile with one of his own. Brand loyalty always started with a good first impression, this Gustav knew all to well. Het let Relyssa lead him half a step ahead as she took his arm. Then Gustav twitched somewhat uncomfortably at her whisper. “If you say so.”

Relyssa raised her shoulders in a coquettish shrug, flapping her hand in a dismissive motion at the dancers, “I suppose I shall settle for watching some strongmen tussle with each other instead.” The Breton took a sip from her glass, eyes scanning over the crowds once more - she had hoped to see Alim on the outskirts, but no such luck. He better not have scarpered with her prize…

“If I do recall correctly, you were here on a job too, yes? I hope it’s going well…” she commented quietly as they made their way at a leisurely pace to the gardens.

“Work never stops with your own business, I’m sure you know.” Gustav shrugged. He was about to beckon for a refill on his own glass, but the residual belching urges told him otherwise. “Strong men tussling each other is not far from the duties of my employees, so this would be observation in a way. Plus,” Gustav handed his glass to a servant, trying to change the topics in order to not divulge the company’s assignment, “the mosquitos aren’t as bad as I expected. Must be enchantments around the garden, don’t you think?”

“Enchantments? Yes I expect so,” she replied, her gaze focussed on that in front of her in such a way she was just about half listening to the Nord.

Arriving in a large clearing, where a wrestling ring and metal cage around it had been set up, Gustav and Relyssa found a decent sized crowd had already gathered. Announcers from the Evermore War Knights, a mustached Orc and a round little Breton dressed in bright court robes, were just starting to address the spectators through their enchanted megaphones.

“Ever seen one of these?” Gustav asked, and suggested they move to the edge of the crowd, where the view was obstructed and the announcers wouldn’t blast their ears with megaphones. “Wrestling, pit fights and the like are popular in the north. The Ravagers are the stars of Solitude; their matches even allow weapons.”

That made her smile. “Do I look like a woman who would willingly go and watch a wrestling match?” Relyssa held for a moment with something of a devious expression that she met Gustav with. “Because I haven’t… But truthfully I find it rather fascinating, I’m curious to see some strong men, you seem to know a lot about it… It’s as you say, business…” As she drank down the last of the contents of her glass, she placed it down on a servants platter - offering a polite smile and nod. “I find it almost as fascinating as you and your business, admittedly. I’m quite curious to learn more about you Gustav, and how you came upon such a company.”

“You never know what someone does for hobby until you speak to them. Some people enjoy wrestling for the drama; they say the matches are staged.” Gustav said. Eyes darting around to make sure nobody was paying attention them, Gustav whispered. “Do you know that the princess of Jehanna has an extensive collection of Reachman scalps. Maybe it’s better we don’t know.”

“What’s there to say about me? I am an investor, and there’s profit to be made in war.” Gustav returned Relyssa’s nod with his own, and chuckled to make it seem trivial. It became apparent that Relyssa was trying to pry information out of him in some way, and also apparent that he didn’t do the best job at deflecting it. “We do follow an ethical guideline; after all, don’t we all work to make a positive difference, in our own ways?”

It was at the moment that she gave Gustav another of her smiles, that a servant paraded past carrying another tray of wine - from which Relyssa took one - and motioned for said servant to hand a glass to the Nord. “We should toast to our evening, don’t you think?” Relyssa asked in a crisp tone, holding out her own glass expectantly with a raised eyebrow.

Gustav took the glass. This wine doesn’t appear carbonated, and his belch had gone down, hopefully. “Yes; cheers to victory at Wayrest, to good business and an exquisite evening!” He clinked his glass on Relyssa’s, then taking a good swig from it. Regret would immediately manifest in a sudden belch, but thankfully, the announcers introducing the wrestlers drowned out most of it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our first contestant, from the frozen wastelands of Solstheim, I present: Gjorn Storm-Fist!” The first announcer began blasting from his megaphone. On his cue, a heavyset Nord, two meters tall and thick as an ox, entered the caged ring. He wore knee-length shorts, fur bracers and a sleeveless shirt, showing burgeoning calves and biceps each twice of Gustav’s. Bushy red beard lined his face, and a mish-mash of scars on his bare arms.

That caused a smile to appear on her face. If there was one thing that Relyssa did appreciate, it was a man of good musculature - a man who looked hardened from battle. The beard was a shame, of course, but everything else… Her head tilted as the eyes of the Breton looked Gjorn up and down. “He almost reminds me of someone I know…” she commented quietly with a smirk.

“This wild berserker draws power from the very essence of wild bears! Witness the savagery of the Skaal unleashed!” The second announcer told the crowd. Some cheered, but Gjorn wasn’t really reacting accordingly. In fact, the Skaal wrestler was fidgeting and looking nervously between the crowd and castle spires.

“His challenger, from the ranks of the Imperial Legions, tempered by forge and war, Ograh gro-Vorinclex!” Emerging after the introduction was an Orc, equally large and heavy as the Skaal, except he was green and has large tusks. Ograh was shirtless, only wearing leather boots, baggy trousers and fingerless gloves. However, he had few scars and slick black hair.

“This mighty legionary once single-handedly defeated a daedric titan! His appetite is insatiable, for steel and battle!” The second announcer boasted. Ograh did rally the excited crowd. However, when he entered the ring, locked inside the cage with his opponent, his energy instantly went down a notch. It was almost like he was scared.

“Hmm, this will be interesting.” Gustav finished his wine, while stifling his belches. He studied the wrestlers, smirking as he realized they were probably both rookies. Probably, not that Gustav was ever in their shoes. “How a about a bet, Relyssa; who do you think will prevail?”

She was still occupied with examining the physique of the Nord that she almost missed Gustav’s words of a bet. She thought about it with another smirk, taking a sip of her wine as she glanced at both of the fighters equally this time. “Interesting indeed… I happen to know a tremendous Nord fighter… Don’t know many Orsimer warriors, but they’re naturally strong - I know that much…” She brought her thumb to her lip as she thought very carefully about who she would place her bet on.

“My honest opinion is that they both look quite inspiring and powerful. The Nord has more scars - which could indicate he’s taking many, many beatings. The Orc has less, but it seems that his mettle was left outside of the ring. It’s anyone’s game, this will be luck. Unless of course the match has been fixed in the Nord’s favour…”

Her mind then drifted to the narrative of the battle. An Orsimer and a Nord - would the high society Lords and Ladies accept an Orc to best a Nord? The men wanted a hero that they could see themselves as, the women wanted a hero they could imagine sweeping them off their feet...

“Ograh.” She said finally, her lips pulling into an undeniably smug half smile.

“I’ll take Gjorn;” Gustav nodded, “let’s see how this goes.”

Surely enough, Ograh would sweep people off their feet, notably Gjorn. Their fight started out evenly matched, both fighters nervous and reluctant to give their all. But things changed when Ograh hit Gjorn a little bit lower beneath his belt. The announcers had been worried that the Skaal was held back by some kind of sickness, until his rage finally came through. Punches, kicks and charges were unleashed at Ograh, and soon the Orc found himself being thrown repeatedly at the metal cage, unable to escape. However, when he fell to his knees for the fourth time, he tugged loose Gjorn’s bootlaces, causing the Skaal to trip. Ograh took this chance to rip free a weakened piece of metal from cage. It was sharp, and as Gjorn charged back in rage, Ograh stuck it right into his stomach. Blood spurted across the ring.

Relyssa gasped at the sight, her mouth remained open until she brought a hand up in shock, to cover it.

Gjorn cried in pain; the crowd gasped in surprise. None of that stopped Gjorn from swinging his fists at Ograh. At this point, he was disoriented from pain, blind aggression and his loosened boot; none of his punches connected. Ograh though, maintained his caution and distance. The Orc walked circles around Gjorn, trying to find an opening for the finishing blow. Eventually, he settled on taking off his belt and strangling Gjorn with it from behind.

“By the eight,” one announcer shouted, “looks like Ograh is getting quite creative; what does the audience think?”

There was a mix off applause and booing. Gjorn’s face was turning purple, and his struggle weak from blood loss; he plead for intervention.

“Looks like we’re an everything-goes match tonight.” The second announcer concluded. “Unless our contestant wishes to tap out?”

Gjorn shook his head furiously, trying to shake Ograh free, with no success. Ograh pressed his knee into Gjorn’s back, restraining him like rodeoing a thrashing bull. Several minutes later, Gjorn ceased resisting; he passed out.

“Looks like Ograh is super effective!” Announcer one laughed.

“Gjorn has fainted!” Announcer two added.

Gustav clapped along with the crowd, or at least, the half that backed Ograh and not yet walked away. He patted Relyssa’s shoulder jovially, and laughed. “You certainly have an eye for...talents, Relyssa. Are you sure you’ve never seen a wrestling match before?”

Having watched the scene play out, the Breton felt suitably pleased with herself for her prediction having been correct. She lowered her hand from her mouth and brought it beside the other to give a soft applause. “Please, Gustav,” she began sardonically, practically rolling her eyes as she turned her head to look at him. “I try to avoid such sports. Although I have trea--” She stopped herself quickly. The alcohol was to blame, and revealing anything about herself to Gustav would be a mistake, especially that she was anything more than a well-to-do heiress. She wanted her job to be as clean as possible, afterall. She turned that sudden pause into a sly smirk once more. “I mean to say that fascinating as it is, I have trepidations about such violent affairs. That poor Nord, he’s in quite a sorry state now, I hope he gets to feeling better…”

“Don’t worry, wrestling matches are rarely lethal.” Gustav reassured. Sure enough, a group of match organizers ran up to the stage with a stretcher to carry a passed out Gjorn away.

Quiet smugness aside, the night was getting along even further, and her patience was wearing down still. She would have to find something to occupy her mind - what was better than the Nord at her side. He seemed almost too easy to play with. “Alright, the wrestling is done - I won our bet, tell me Gustav, what do you propose is my prize?” The blonde turned to face him fully and began to wind a loose curl around her finger while she awaited his response. She was still investigating just what kind of man he was.

It was indeed getting later in the night. The sun was almost entirely set, leaving the royal gardens lit by lanterns, candles and fireflies. However, the activities were anything but winding down. The stage before them was being taken down for musical performances. Gustav was finally relaxing. Maybe there wasn’t a vampire threat after all, just an enjoyable night with an unexpected companion.

“How about a discount on our transaction?” Gustav proposed. He ran his hand through his own blond hair. “You can let others know how pleasant it is to do business with us.”

While the stage was being reconfigured, servants milled about with plates of deserts and snacks. Sagax was not among them, and he hasn’t been for the last hour. Surely he was working elsewhere? One servant approached Gustav and Relyssa with a plate of sausage and cheese cube mix. Gustav took small bowl of the mix, while offering Relyssa another. The cheese was classic Shornhelm diary, but the sausage, it was very peculiar, though strangely appetizing.

“Excuse us,” Gustav asked the servant, once he and Relyssa had a few bites down, “what sort meat is this? Very zesty, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.” The servant replied. Nervous eyes darted about and avoided Gustav, the boy all but mumbled the rest. “I believe it’s a new recipe, uh, imported from Pyandonea. It’s...Khajiit flesh.”

The haughty Breton was visibly repulsed having learned the source of the meat, and she was thankful to have avoided it. So repulsed was she by it, that her smile was entirely smacked away, leaving only an unpleasant scowl that had drained even the sparkle of mischievous joy from her eyes. “Wonderful…” she remarked bitterly, pushing the plate away and back into the chest of the servant.

“Um, sorry? Sorry, m’lady...” The servant meagerly apologized; he scurried away with the plate.

She sighed and managed to regain a sliver of composure, sliver enough to catch a gentleman watching her from across the banquet hall. Once he had caught the eye of Relyssa, he swiftly turned away and retreated to his glass. She smirked and brought her attention back to Gustav and his proposal. “Ahh, you are very business minded,” she began - taking a sip of wine. She savoured the taste of it in her mouth and narrowed her eyes. “Very well. I’ll whisper into the ear of more than a few individuals…”

“Heh, wow, now I’ve tried Khajiit…” Gustav ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He was so shocked at what the meat had been, that he didn’t even pay attention to what Relyssa was doing. When he recovered (and decided that Khajiit meat wasn’t half bad), Gustav caught sight of Edith running toward him. Something was going wrong; Edith was disguised as a servant and not suppose to be seen with Gustav outside of emergencies.

“Yes, business…” Gustav thought out loud. He set his drink aside and faced Relyssa with sudden seriousness. “Before we part ways, Relyssa, tell me, what do you know about vampires?”

Gustav debated on whether he should more. Relyssa couldn’t possibly hinder the situation in any significant way, and if anything, she might be of help. “There is suspicion that some vampires are present around this procession and looking to do harm. Just let me know if you see anything...out of the ordinary.” Gustav admitted.

“Vampires?!” she immediately scoffed, trying to hold back the urge to laugh in disbelief. “Of course there are vampires here…” Relyssa turned her face to some of the guests as if to imply they were all blood-sucking heathens in one way or another. She did then take note of the way that Gustav’s demeanor changed. “You’re actually serious?” she said, voice lower now. “If you’re actually serious I don’t wish to stick around - we should leave!” There was a strain in her voice that was sincere - she did suddenly feel completely vulnerable, and a hand ran across her neck almost out of instinct. “I know enough…”

"Oh, I am dead serious." Gustav nodded. "No pun intended."

"You want to know about what I do?" He finally relented. Gustav reached out to pull Relyssa closer, out of earshot of possible eavesdroppers. "My employees, Alim included, found evidence of a conspiracy after defeating a Sload. It's a long story, but there's a reason we haven't seen any monarchs around." Gustav gestured to the crowd; a bunch of important nobodies.

He was talking faster now. "The vampires want to kill them, and while I don't think any of them know it exactly, they've been rightfully cautious. I've been hired to keep an eye out, discreetly, so that-"

At this point, Edith had rushed to Gustav and Relyssa. Edith was no longer wearing her butler disguise, instead, she had donned her armor. Guests were staring at her, and a pair of guards was following her. However, Edith herself paid them no attention; she was panting, after running out from the dining hall.

"Gustav, there's a situation! We need to-" On cue with Edith's warning was the shattering of windows and screaming of panicked people from the dining hall. The two guards that tailed her turned toward the commotion, but before they could react, an Altmer (whom Gustav recognized as Nyrehtaud from earlier meet-and-greets), blasted them aside with a powerful spell and sprinted into the (off-limit) royal residence wing. Behind Nyrehtaud came two masked individual. Their masks then came off, revealing unnaturally pale skin, red irises and sharp fangs.

"By Zenithar!" Gustav gasped.

One vampire leaped into the waiter that had served Gustav and Relyssa moments ago, and tore a bloody breach into his neck. The other vampire fired a frenzy spell toward responding guards, causing them to attack innocent guests and each other.

"If you want to leave, go! Go to Used Sundries and Sevine will keep you safe there." Gustav told Relyssa. People were trampling over each other for the gate, but Gustav himself was focused on the two vampires. "I have a job to do here."

She thought it over quickly. She had to. The doors were blocked by people, there was a woman pushed to the ground and stood over. Her screams muffled by feet over her back - and drowned out by the rest of the screams. That could quite easily be her if she made it for the exit. The Breton heaved a sigh, bringing herself into a defensive stance behind both Edith and Gustav. “Oh darling, if I leave and you decide to die - I won’t get my discount now, will I?”

It irritated her to have to stay, but there was the all important matter of the diamonds in Alim’s bag. She need only make it to him and snatch back her prize, then she could escape.

---

The kitchen basement was no small reprieve from the stifling air of the boxes – poor Piper, the young Imperial woman who tumbled out onto her face, who made Saddi think it might be funny to kick his grandfather’s crate over, but instead found Dar’Jzo aptly and dexterously rolling out of the crate and immediately found his footing. His feline eyes immediately scanning the dark surroundings of the room, quickly adjusting to the dim candlelight as he made mental notes of possible exits, hiding places, and improvised weapons. Some of the crates had their tops peeled off, and he observed the debris on the ground – some ingredients were going to be used more than others. Potatoes and onions were likely candidates if he felt compelled to poison a stockpile. The smell of food from the kitchen wafted down through the floorboards above, and he listened carefully for any footsteps or conversation.

Even as Saddi helped Cilo free Narzul from the confines of his own crate, he watched his grandfather with a sense of estrangement – this was not a side to him that he was used to seeing.

The Redoran warrior emerged from the crate with a scowl fit to chastise the gods themselves. This was easily the most humiliating thing to have ever happened to him and he bade the young Khajiit, whatever his name was, to maintain a respectful distance with his baleful glare. Narzul straightened his armor and checked to see that his sword was in place. He opened his mouth to speak when he was rudely interrupted.

"What have we here?" The muffled and indeterminable voice of one figure spoke, spooking the mercenaries and prompting them to turn around. "Seems like someone's been playing spy in the dark."

"Who are you working for, huh? Bellemont? Prince Narcisse? That bastard Everard?" The first one stepped forward menacingly, one hand brushing aside their cloak slightly to reveal leather armor and sword.

One of the mercenaries started to say something, but Dar’Jzo, slowly reaching for a dagger on his belt, set off the second cloaked figure. The cloak flew off in a swoosh, and the masked, leather armored figure beneath unsheathed a steel sword. The first figure reacted similarly, but with an additional wave of their hand, four more near-identical combatants emerged from the doorway.

"We won't allow espionage under her grace's nose." It was now hard to tell which one said those words, but all of them were eager to fight. "You better surrender now, before we kill you!"

Saddi threw his hands up in surrendering gesture, but the first figure’s gesture to invite the four others sparked a familiar twinkle in his eye. He looked to Dar’Jzo, and though his expression was stoic and unreadable as always, he knew that his grandfather was trying to come up with a plan – his eyes were glancing about, assessing not just the strangers, but also his environment and his allies beside him. Saddi glanced between the cloaked men and Dar’Jzo, looking nervous, but he spoke to his elder in his native tongue of Ta’agra – he was certain that these strangers would not know.

“Dro’ahnurr. The four were illusions.” He whispered.

Dar’Jzo’s ear perked. Indeed? Then it seemed that his grandson’s pursuits were not time spent wasted. He glanced to both his sides – to Piper and to Narzul – and slowly raised his hands as Saddi did.

“Between death or surrender, this one says we surrender.” Dar’Jzo said simply.

When Cilo began to object, Dar’Jzo silenced him with a harsh hiss; but as he did so, his ear twitched, and the men ahead of them would not notice the end of his tail flicking in the darkness behind him – nor the fact that Dar’Jzo had never retracted his claws, though he was not sure if they knew if he could retract them. He simply hoped that the other two would catch and understand his cues and follow suit, allowing the strangers to approach before striking.

Narzul was clever enough to figure something was up, even though he had no way of knowing what Saddi had deduced. He knew what a Khajiit with a plan for disobedience looked like, however, and the Dunmer too slowly raised his hands. Inwardly, he cursed. Was he really following the lead of a cat? He'd been so relieved to hear Do’Karth deserted, but apparently there was no end to the furry n'wahs among the company.

It took every ounce of willpower she had not to scream some form of obscenity at Dar’Jzo. Oh how she wanted to bring out every khajiit-specific slur her ears had picked up over the years, to throw each and every one at the cat like an array of knives. To Piper’s great chagrin, the men attempting to apprehend their party were a much bigger concern. “Fucking whoresons…” she muttered, one hand over her mouth trying to hide the driblets of blood leaking between her lips. She didn’t even have a weapon handy. Her dirk, during the Imperial’s unladylike tumble out of the thrice damned box she was kept in like a packet of saltines, left her grasp and was scattered several feet away. Her sword and armor were in another crate.

Piper gave a glance to Dar’Jzo. She had an inkling about what he intended, but it did not raise her confidence in the fuzzy bastard. “If this goes to shit, they won’t get the chance to wring your neck, cat…” Reluctantly, Piper raised both her arms in surrender as she spat out globs of crimson onto the ground.

The man before them quickly approached to apprehend Dar’Jzo, who was in the center and seemed to speak for the rest, while the other moved behind them, while the men from the shadows seemed to stand at the ready. When the first cloaked stranger went to grab Dar’Jzo by the wrists, the khajiit with his sleight of hands grabbed him first and dug his claws into the flesh of the stranger’s wrist, causing him to drop his weapon. With a swift pivot of his feet a second later, Dar’Jzo held the stranger’s sword-arm firmly locked behind his back, twisting him in such a way that his vulnerable torso was aimed towards Narzul. His fluid movement must have disguised the motion of his other hand, for he simultaneously unsheathed the blade from above his tail and threw it toward the stranger approaching Piper. The second stranger flinched, and threw his arms up to take the sharpened edge of the dagger to his upper bicep. Though the khajiit didn’t immediately incapacitate anyone, he had set his allies up perfectly to finish the job.

It took a moment for Saddi to process everything that happened within the last second, not anticipating his grandfather to move with such fluid precision and barely any wasted energy. His surprise was replaced with a sense of urgency as he noticed the four illusions beginning to close in on Dar’Jzo’s back, who in the midst of the chaos spared a quick glance towards him. Saddi responded with mystical incantations and the spiraling motions of his hands before pointing his finger at the illusions -- on two of them, Saddi failed to pass the spell save DC, but the other two were dispelled with their forms shimmering as they were snuffed out of existence, filling him with a sense of smug satisfaction as he glanced toward Cilo.

Piper was amazed by the Khajiit’s grace. No movement was without purpose or intent, and he guided his body expertly. She hardly even saw Dar’Jzo draw the knife, it seemed that all of a sudden something was flying through the air at her assailant from nowhere. Piper was struck something between dumb and awe, and her face, now without the helmet to disguise it, showed it clearly.

The unsteady shuffling of the man in front of her broke Piper out of her trance. He was reaching for the knife in his arm, trying to pull it out. She was more than happy to assist.

The Imperial seized the grip of the blade with one hand, tearing it out savagely, and delivered a strike with her palm to the stranger’s chin with the other. While he was recoiling from the blow, Piper shoved the dagger into the man’s armpit and yanked it back out with force, setting off a bellow of pain from him.

What started as agonized bawling turned into a vengeful growl. The man began to lunge at Piper, his one good arm fishing for his sword. She lost control of herself. Instead of striking him with a fatal blow with the dagger, Piper let out a scream of her own, a primal shout of fear and anger, and punched her attacker square in the middle of the face with her fist, fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of her weapon. He stumbled backward, rivers of blood draining from his nostrils, and finally fell to the ground with a moan.

With her heart beating wildly and her breaths near uncontrollable, Piper dropped the dagger and soon fell to the ground herself, tripping backwards over her own feet as she retreated.

Meanwhile, Narzul’s honed instincts launched the dunmer into action the moment Dar’Jzo made his first move. Thinking the cat would make a suitable distraction, he turned his back for just a moment to retrieve his ebony blade from the crate he was stuck in before. With no time to don his shield, he grabbed the sheath of his sword and flourished his draw in anticipation of parrying an oncoming blow -- only to find that their foes were either already grappled or momentarily incapacitated by his allies. He didn’t think for a second to appreciate or observe the old khajiit’s preternatural agility or the greenhorn girl’s grit and spunk, there was only the opportunity for merciless glory before him. He dropped the sheath in his other hand, and with both hands firmly grasping the grip of his longsword, lunged forward with a powerful thrust and his eyes like two cold rubies, his focused mind quiet save for two familiar words: become dust.

Dar’Jzo had all the time in the world to prepare for Narzul’s follow-up, so when he saw the dunmer preparing to land the finishing blow, the khajiit pushed the man off of himself before firmly planting his boot against his back and kicking him abruptly forward onto Narzul’s blade, who, with all his strength, raised him into the air a few inches and his blood poured over his hands. The combined forces made the blade slide through his armor like butter, and the sickening, bloody squelches of rupturing organs and cracking bone signaled the stranger’s death knell. The veteran tossed him off his blade with contempt, and with that one’s death, the two remaining illusions vanished, mere inches away from striking at Dar’Jzo’s rear.

Dar’Jzo looked to Piper, who was clearly flustered within the throes of her adrenaline rush -- but she got the job done, though perhaps not as thoroughly and cleanly as he would’ve liked. The yelling and snarling could have attracted attention, which would defeat the purpose of being here. The man was still alive, if on the edge of consciousness and close to bleeding out. The old khajiit narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t trust that the man would truly stay dead. So he walked over to the body, raised his foot, and callously stomped down onto his throat -- another sloppy squelch of gore followed, before a grinding twist of the foot snapped the bone in his neck, prompting Saddi to cover his mouth to hide his shock and repulsion. Was this truly his grandfather?

The stranger’s hands went limp around Dar’Jzo’s ankle and the light in his eyes quickly faded. The assassin turned his gaze to Piper.

“This one hopes the smooth-skin’s screaming did not alert the castle.” His gravelly voice grumbled. “That would be unfortunate.”

All of the blood being pumped through her body during the struggle seemed to have all gone to Piper’s face. She could feel a hot wave pour over her cheeks, and with no helmet to disguise it, it only intensified her embarrassment. She felt so ashamed and humiliated she could have almost cried, and she heard only judgement in Dar’Jzo’s voice, while Narzul paid no attention to her whatsoever.

A sheepish, pouty frown had found itself screwed onto Piper’s face as she climbed to her feet, the cat’s dagger she dropped loosely in her hand. She held it out to Dar’Jzo, eyes averted. She couldn’t stand to look at any of them, having thoroughly emasculated herself in front of all the others. “This is yours.” She said quietly.

Dar’Jzo accepted the dagger shook the blood toward the side, his stoic face still fixed on the younger imperial woman. It was an odd sight, to say the least, to see the hot-headed girl so self-conscious. At a time like this, there wasn’t much time for it. However, the paternal side of him didn’t say anything about it -- it was probably the most generous thing he could do, even if casual glances from Saddi and Cilo off to the side saw him as callous. Dar’Jzo looked at the dagger, inspecting it for any damage to the edge of its blade, only to become preoccupied with the thought of how effective she would’ve been if she had a different weapon. He didn’t know Piper very well, but she didn’t seem the type to be especially proficient or even satisfied with a little knife.

The khajiit kneeled down and undid the baldric to the scabbard of Piper’s opponent. It was a little short -- likely a shortsword, but it was serviceable enough for their needs. Standing back up, her approached Piper wordlessly, his hand extended with a serviceable weapon being offered to her with only a nod and grunt to repay the gesture Piper had paid to him just moments ago. Such was the way the Baandari had taught him -- a gift must be returned in kind.

“Thank you.” Piper said, following several seconds of silence as she examined the blade. It was simple, with little ornamentation, which suited her just fine. It did seem quite worn, however, and if she had the time and a sharpening stone she would have touched it up a little. In the end it was still a blade and still sharp, sharp enough to cut open flesh reliably. Her brother spent more time with shorter blades than she did, but Piper could use them just fine. It always helped to carry a backup, anyways. She fastened the borrowed weapon to her own belt and left Dar’Jzo with a small bow, hunting down the crate that held her equipment.

Piper scowled as the select pieces of armor she was able to fit in the box came tumbling out clumsily. They had gotten jumbled during the journey, a mess of the neatly packed parcel she had left them as. She was able to bring her cuirass, greaves, gauntlets, vambraces and of course, her helmet. No warrior goes anywhere without proper headwear; those who did were not warriors for long. How she would have loved to have it after making a fool of herself…

“Cilo,” she called out to her fellow Imperial. “Help me with my armor.” She sat silent for a moment before finally adding a quick “Please.”

The man was quicker than she thought he would have been; he had no troubles with the straps and fasteners. She was certain she would need to walk him through every step, but there she stood in her plate just a few moments later. Reunited with her shield and longsword, Piper felt much more comfortable.

“Are we ready?” She asked, her voice reverberating within her helm.

“Hmph,” came Dar’Jzo’s affirming grunt. He had just collected his quiver of arrows and finished testing the draw weight of the shortbow. It was fine as it was, since the dwemer longbow he inherited from the company’s late Roze was likely going to be too cumbersome in the narrow hallways. Mobility trumped anything else here, and he wasn’t going to need to be doing any long-range sniping. He met the cautious and fretful glances of Saddi, who was still staring at him as one would to a dangerous stranger, but then just glanced towards the others. Narzul had finished getting his own affairs in order before nodding to the others.

“Let’s get to it, then.” The dunmer declared. “Khajiit--” He began to say, before realizing there were two of them -- he barely acknowledged Saddi while in the midst of the more capable Dar’Jzo. Given what he has seen of that one’s skills, he’d be the one best fitted to scout ahead. “Elder one,” he clarified, “take point.”

“We’ll stay behind then.” Saddi pitched in. “Cilo and I will watch over the exit.”

And so they dispersed. With Narzul’s might and tactical expertise, Dar’Jzo’s cunning and agility, and Piper’s grit and tenacity, although motley, surely there was nothing that could stand in their way.

Evening, Last Seed 16
Evermore Castle

---

The sight was equally familiar and alien to Marcel.

He could feel the years-old alienation creep up through his muscles the moment he passed through the doors into the Royal Garden. The maddeningly expensive clothing, the contempt and corruption hidden beneath the layers of dress and makeup, the false smiles, empty conversations... He'd been here before. He'd never really enjoyed it. And now here he was, forced to endure it all over again. With his few friends, at least he could find a couple of chuckles in the gigantic game of pretense; now here he was, alone, with his closest companions no closer than mere acquaintances. It was a special kind of Hell.

He wasn't sure as to what exactly what he was supposed to be doing here; not in terms of objectives, but more so in ways to achieve said objectives. He'd never been the most sociable one, especially in high exposure missions such as these. Having had his fair share of embarrassments and faux pas in such higher circles, he knew he was way out of his league in these environments. He wasn't a bad talker; it was just the constant feeling of distance between all the posh folks and himself. He'd much rather discuss Imga subspecies with his chemist friends, in a comfortable inn by the Imperial City's Market District. Gods knew, even hunting for proof of the mythical mold-troll in the dankest caves of the Colovian Range could be a better pastime.

But a duty is a duty, he assured himself, and Marcel had always been proud of his determination to achieve his objective. Even amongst his bizarre and constantly changing group of comrades, he was fairly sure that there was nobody else as proficient in the art of the Hunt as him. At least, nobody still alive. “We truly are an inauspicious bunch,” he thought to himself. Or was it fair to say “We”? Marcel had never been part of them, he figured. He’d shared moments and memories, but he’d never shared the general flow. Then again, had he ever shared that with anyone? Theodora, maybe? Master Diarmid? He’d never know. If only he were around to ask…

The melancholy train of thought would’ve indubitably driven Marcel to further sorrow, had he not accidentally bumped into another guest in his absent-mindedness and spilled the guest’s drink all over the both of them.

“Oh, you little shit, have you any idea how much that costs-Marcel?”

“Master Diarmid?”

So shocked were their voices, one could assume that they’d been on the business end of a Storm Atronach. Of course, thankfully, no such thing had happened. For a while, at the very least.

“Did it take you this long to find me? You could’ve just asked around the Eater’s Lodge! I kid, I kid, of course. My boy! How have you been?” the old Breton was peppering Marcel with words faster than he could respond. By the time he could stammer out a response, Marcel found himself in a hug almost strong enough to burst his throat back open. It wasn’t until the onset of his coughing that Marcel was let free of the man’s grasp.

“Ah ha, you’ve always been a lightweight, my boy. But fret not! This old man’s here to solve all your problems. You caught the cold?”

“Actually, sir,” Marcel weakly replied, “I caught a halberd blade with my neck.” He pointed at the thick serving of bandages underneath his gorget.

“My, your humor has improved… I see that the same cannot be said about your fencing skills, however.” The old man’s tone quickly hardened as he leaned in with a serious gaze. “Halberds? Are you mad, my boy? Is it that lass from Skingrad? Did you finally earn her ire?”

“It’s a long story, as you can ascertain, dear sir. It’s been far too long…”

“Yes indeed. Now you’re going to tell me how my last pupil nearly got himself beheaded, and more importantly, what in the name of the Seventeen Hells are you doing here? Don’t think I don’t remember you drinking laxatives to avoid court invitations!”

“It’s uh… Vampires, sir. We’re hunting Vampires.”

Diarmid lost track of his boisterous behavior for a moment, dumbstruck like a lamb face to face with a tiger. Regaining his composure almost instantly, he realized the implications of his pupil’s words and began eyeing the surroundings with catlike perception.

“You’re suggesting Vampires are amongst us? Here? Ugh… No surprise. There’s always a couple of these nobles who aren’t actually Bumfuck the Third but actually Bumfuck the First. You know the latest decree, our regulations say-”

“They plot against the conference of nobles here, sir! We must-“

Marcel’s warning was interrupted quickly by a crashing sound and a sudden chilling flow. The duo turned to face a fair scattering of red-tinted ice on the ground. Realizing the implications as his mentor stepped forward, Marcel shivered momentarily as the former remains of Mora-knows-who cracked beneath the man’s boots. It didn’t take too long for the old Breton to come to his senses either. “That bitch! Hold her! Hold her!” Diarmid began screaming as he pointed at Sylette, but they were too late. Already by mid-sentence, multiple vampires had burst into the hall and begun painting it crimson.

“It’s not her! It’s him!” Marcel yelled as he began rushing after another figure, to him, an Altmer – to others, who knows. At least one nobleman who was adept enough to hear Marcel attempted to stop the mer from moving by slamming into him; for his efforts he was rewarded by a sudden swipe into his stomach, which spilled his intestines out like a bundle of squirming snakes. Diarmid tried to follow his pupil, but was attacked by a frenzied, fat Nord woman wielding a cleaver. Dodging one strike and catching another with his forearm, he found the shallow cut annoying enough for him to drop all pretense of civilized demeanor and slap the woman away with the back of his hand, caving her cheekbone in and tearing off her lower jaw from one side of her face.

“Hold on, lad! I’m rusty!” Diarmid yelled out as Marcel rushed after the Altmer and disappeared into the hallway. Mere steps before the door, he swiftly bumped into a tall Dunmer dressed like a gaudy caricature of a nobleman. They seemed both equally perplexed and fatigued. “Out of my way, you corpse-faced mongrel!” The old Breton yelled out as he kicked the ash-skinned fellow away and rushed into the hallway, only to find his pupil on the ground next to an unconscious guard, whose dress sword had seemingly slashed Marcel’s face in two. His left eye had popped out of its spot, and skin on the left side of his face hung down his skull. As he heaved, skin near the wound fluttered like cloth in windy weather, along with his left eye’s lids.

“My boy! My boy!”

“I’ll… I’ll be fine, sir,” a bloodied Marcel replied as he attempted to stuff his eye back in its spot. “Just the meat.”

“You damned fool… Hold on, at least let me piece it back together,” the old Breton said in half chastisement, as he held Marcel down by one shoulder and held another hand firm against his face. Arcane skills did not falter with age like physical skills did, and the old man had always capitalized on substituting for his weakening musculature with Restoration; even when dealing with someone as magically resistant as Marcel, he was able to at least place his eye back in its socket properly, and mend the skin just enough for it to stop flapping around with further movement. While he wasn’t sure if he could fix the nerve damage on his own, this would have to do for now.

“Right… You should rest a while, get your-” Diarmid said as he tried to pull his old pupil to a safer position, but was interrupted by yet someone else bumping into him. This time, an Argonian, almost dronelike in his uneven pace. While the old hunter propped his arm back just in case this stray was also frenzied, it seemed that he was fixed on something else, and passed by them quickly.

“Damned vampires all over, mass frenzy… I didn’t retire for this, Marcel, you know?” The old man confided in a moment of respite.

“You know?”

“…We can’t stop now. Too much is at stake,” Marcel muttered sheepishly as he propped himself up and grabbed the sword which had chopped his head in twain. Diarmid would’ve stopped him but found himself far too exasperated by his pupil’s monotone resolve in his own moment of weakness. Not willing to be one-upped by his subordinate, he lifted himself up from his rest and followed his pupil’s stead. By the time he caught up with Marcel in the Duchess’ Quarters, the Argonian that had passed by them just recently remained only as a severed arm and a head, the Altmer they were chasing was nowhere to be found, and his own pupil was slammed into a wall as a bleeding mess bearing a plethora of claw wounds.

“You damned scum!”

While entering the premise with an axe kick strong enough to crack the floor was impressive for a man of his age, the fact that it was dodged made it somewhat unnecessary. Dodging the counterattack made by the wounded beast, he deftly threw himself towards the midst of the room, now facing the Vampire Lord properly.

“Oh, my boy… Why?”

The old Breton seemed more tiresome and bothered than sad on first glance, as if he were annoyed that things had come to this point, yet a glint of wetness in his eyes as he averted his gaze from the half-dead witch hunter down betrayed otherwise. Master Goupeville composed himself, trying to stay concentrated on the bloodied monster standing before him, and shake off the thought that he wouldn’t amount to much without weapon, magick, and most important of all, blessed youth. Perhaps the outcome did not matter. His latest pupil was dying before his very eyes, before him was a dreaded Vampire, which, had he been in his glory days, would have been somewhat of a disappointment for a cause of death, but now seemed to him a fairly respectable way to go.

Diarmid Gilfryd-Goupeville, a Hunter of High Rock, now faced the infamous Vampire Lord Nyrehtaud, unarmed, and at seventy years of age. Lesser men would just have not bothered and died on the spot. But lesser men would’ve never earned the title of Old Hunter. Diarmid knew he’d die and come back before giving up on that title, and so he would.

Rushing forward, Diarmid landed a commendable punch on Nyrehtaud’s face, though obviously, a commendable punch was not enough to exactly faze a Vampire Lord of this station. The beastly Vampire smashed his forearm into the old Breton’s chest, sending him flying upwards and smashing him against one of the chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. Candles fell and its chains clanked, but it stood firm, and the Old Hunter fell down on the ground… on his hands and feet. Pushing himself up, Diarmid began coughing out blood, although the cough quickly turned into a cackle. As an annoyed Nyrehtaud rushed forward, he threw himself to the side, raising his leg just enough for the tip of his boot to smash into the Vampire’s mouth. From the sound, he was sure he’d broken one of the Vampire’s teeth, although he was also certain that some of his own ribs were suffering from the same fate. The fight was over, no doubt.

“I expected better! Are you a recent convert?” the old man asked, his taunt weakened by the barely concealed pain in his voice.

The Vampire Lord, despite the significant wounding he had received from the recently deceased Argonian, lifted the old Breton up from his collar with zero effort, and held him up to see the insolent fool’s face. Yet, despite a triumphant and regal demeanor, the single glinting fang in his mouth signified to that the hunter’s kick had indeed found its mark. For all his intents and purposes, Diarmid was doing better than he’d expected.

“I am Nyrehtaud! And you now peri-“

POCK

The beast let out a window-shattering screech that nearly burst Diarmid’s eardrums, but the old man was content in the fact that he had managed to give the beast the finger one last time – quite literally, considering how the Vampire Lord’s right eye was now stuck to his left index finger. He burst out more bloody cackling as the beast first dropped him in painful trashing. A moment later, he nearly burst into a bloody pulp when the pained beast’s fist came down on his head and nearly shattered his skull open, then tore into his chest with vicious abandon, puncturing one of his lungs, and threw him away dismissively across the library like a bloodied rag.

Flying across the library, Diarmid only came to a halt when he smashed into a bookshelf. The impact was strong enough to crack the sturdy oak frame, but the shelf managed to soak the hit better than the old man did; he fell as a mangled, bleeding slump right in front of it. One book on the shelf, crimson even without the Breton’s blood splattered on it, fell down to his side a moment later.

Immortal Blood.

---

---

Screams and cries of anger had erupted just outside the room, and he second guessed yet again on if he should have come back to the servants quarters. His act had been spent, but he’d felt he should play the part just a bit longer to keep from arousing anyone’s suspicion. “Just my luck,” he breathed, unsheathing his blade. Muttering a quick incantation, he cast shield upon himself to keep his body safe, as he found himself without his armor.

He reached into his pack before he departed, gazing at the prize he had stolen, mere hours ago. “I suppose she’ll want this back,” he said sardonically. He hated to part with the item, but truth be told he longed to see her again. She was everything he wanted in a woman. Greedy, conniving, deceitful… he had a problem.

Wrapping a towel around his free arm to create a makeshift shield, the redguard stepped out into the fray. Immediately he was nearly clipped on the head by a tossed tray. The lavishly embroidered halls and rooms were a maelstrom of chaos. Men with torn shirts and women with ripped skirts pummeled one another when they weren’t too busy screeching into the void of Oblivion. His shield spell blocked a thrown knife and three apples. He caught one of the apples as it bounced off his shoulder, taking a bite.

“Thank you!” the spellsword called.

Meanwhile, in the dining hall, Relyssa watched as the chaos ensued. Her bright blue orbs danced this way and that over the scene, and she hoisted her skirt so her feet could carry her faster and back through the banquet hall. She had to find Alim. Where was that damned servant? Her brow creased, and a lip curled into a snarl and she shoved past a plump looking gentleman who was staggering around, drunk.

As she stepped back over the threshold, she felt that there was something pungent in the air, it wasn’t a smell but there was a certain toxicity that stopped her in her tracks and itched at her face. She twitched her nose and sneezed - and that was all it took for her to succumb to a dose of the spell. She blinked, feeling heady and excited all at once. She watched as two women went at it over each other, pulling at hair and slapping - screaming. Frenzied or not, she was still Relyssa and she caught sight of an incredible diamond necklace that one of the woman was wearing, and it must have been her lucky day because suddenly it was torn from her neck by her vicious opponent, and the Breton’s eyes followed it as it flew to the floor.

Without a second to think, Relyssa dropped to her hands and knees - her low position kept her out of the way of any would be attacks, and she watched as the necklace was kicked this way and that over the floor. She shuffled, following, like a woman possessed. “Two for the price of one,” she hissed, under the strings of the spell but not enough to act like a deranged banshee, just a greedy and obsessed.

It was shown in Relyssa’s eyes that she was under the thralls of Frenzy, they held a bewitching red glow that while unnatural, just gave her an opulent appearance when paired with the crimson of her stunning dress. She crawled as fast as she could after the necklace, staying close to the tables. At one point her crouched form was a tripping hazard to a gentleman as he went completely over her and to the floor himself. Relyssa just kept moving though, Alim and the tiara out of her mind - all that mattered now was the necklace…

Meanwhile, Alim vaulted over a pile of men writhing on the ground, each trying to grab a fallen candle for a reason he couldn’t fathom. The spell really was causing everyone to go batshit insane. Why was he not effected? He was the first to toot his own horn, but he wasn’t exactly strong of will when it came to temptation. Suddenly, amidst the chaos, he saw a beautiful blonde on all fours crawling through the chaotic frenzy of the guests.

“Oh shit,” he said aloud, realizing it was Relyssa. Well, maybe he was better at maintaining his temptations than her, but this was an exception. He started forward, only to be confronted by a crudgle wielding madman of a lord, drooping mustache swaying in the air. He poked it at Alim as if it were a rapier, and as Alim back peddled he began to swing at him, rage in his eyes. Alim blocked the next swing with his sword.

“My lord, don’t make me kick your ass,” The dashing redguard said. The man didn’t seem to listen, crying out for victory and aiming his next attack at Alim’s neck. Alim realized the man meant business, and he ducked under the blow, blocking the next attack and bludgeoning the old lord on the head. “Akatosh, you actually put up a fight, old timer.” he said, stepping over the elderly man and making his way to Relyssa, who was still scrambling over to a Diamond necklace that rolled over to Alim’s feet.

He lifted it up off the ground, dangling it in front of her. “Looking for this?” he asked her, and tossed it to her. Once she had it, he would offer her his hand.

The resplendent glow of the diamonds cast a white sparkle against her eyes, under the spell that had taken over the dining hall. Her hand snatched at the piece as it moved through the air, said hand had lost all essence of femininity and instead somewhat resembled the sharp and vicious talons of a bird of prey. Relyssa squeezed at it with an iron grip, so fierce that her arm trembled with it and her nostrils flared with excitement. She let it drop, chain first, between her breasts.

Her head jolted to look up at Alim, and upon meeting his gaze some of the crimson glimmer from her eyes seemed to shift - her eyebrow quirked as she found herself confused as to why she was on the floor, and why she felt so enraged. Like she could just claw out the eyes of the next person to look at her. “You?” she questioned, red dancing with blue as internally the cogs worked to fight back against the spell. “You!” Relyssa repeated, taking his hand after a few more seconds. “Get us out of here!” she exclaimed, the spell still had a hold of her, and so her hand clutched at his, her nails cutting into his skin.

Alim grimaced at her clawed fingers, but he wasn’t about to let that perturb him. “You don’t need to tell me, twice.” he told her, yanking her to her feet and sweeping her off her feet with his free hand. She was like picking up a cat that was unused to being picked up, claws and wild eyes. But she hung on and he gripped her tightly in as modest of a way as he could. He might enjoy his women, particularly this one, but he was above taking advantage of people under the influence, spell or otherwise.

Someone ran at them as if to tackle the two of them. Nimbly, Alim leaped over the tackle and pushed down with his feet, sending the man to the ground while reaching up with the added springboard to touch the lower chandelier. Swinging twice to gain momentum, he let go on the third swing. The weight was apparently too much, as he let go, the chandelier toppled and shattered in a thousand thousand sparkles onto the ground. It likely buried a few crazed people, but Alim was passed caring.

They landed on the far table, and knowing it was the least crowded way to leave by, Alim raced across the previously unblemished wood. Dodging thrown glasses and food, Alim leaped like his life depended on it, feet landing on a beautiful food tray and skidding off the table to slide in between a couple fighting. Unceremonious, Alim decked the man to his right to get him out of the way as they sped, and with no other obstacles, they slid out of the Banquet hall through the great doors of the building. The silver tray sprayed sparks behind them as they slid down the stone steps, bumping every moment until they made it to even ground and eventually slowed to a halt just before the fountain, Alim’s feet kicking up the tray to halt them at its edge.

“A bit bumpy but I was improvising,” he said by way of apology. He wanted to be smug about it, but he had to admit he didn’t think that would work either. He let her down gently.

The jostling and jumping left Relyssa feeling nauseous, so she was relieved to have her feet find the solid ground. That, and the spell had left her feeling disoriented - her mind felt fractured and frazzled, like broken clouds scattering thoughts in pieces - a puzzle slowly threading itself everything back together. It took the Breton a moment to find herself, now that was out of the perimeter of the effect of Frenzy.

She might as well have still been under the spell, as despite having stepped back from Alim, she trudged forward, her step lopsided - she’d lost a shoe in the scuffle. “Godsdamnit!” she cursed through gritted teeth at the realisation. Those shoes were expensive. “I’ve been looking for you,” she huffed, holding a hand out expectantly. “I need my tiara, now.” Her voice was softer, but she meant business. All she needed was her prize, and then she’d be out of there.

The redguard sighed, realizing it was a bit too much for him to expect anything less. “You know I could have sworn you’d be grateful,” he said playfully, though a bit sad. He reached into his servants jacket to grab for it, but after a few moments of fishing around, he still hadn’t produced it. “Oh gods…” he whispered, his voice breathless with worry. He patted his pants, checked his pockets, searched until the worry appeared in her eyes, and then stopped and grinned. “I had you going for a moment.”

He reached up gingerly, and plucked the tiara off of her head. “I thought it might get damaged within the vest, you see.” he explained, unable to keep the wide smile off his face. Kneeling down, he presented it to her in such a dramatically imperious fashion that anyone, even someone realizing that he was being a bit tongue-in-cheek, would feel like royalty receiving such a prize. “My lady, the Tiara is yours.”

“Was there ever any question?” Relyssa asked with a kittenish smile, her temper had fizzled out, and as she held the item again her fingers wrapped around it slowly - she savoured the feeling of the gold in her palms, and her eyes fell to the diamonds again as she had earlier. She had been about ready to swing at him with her claws again, but the minute she had the piece - all had been forgotten.

“Off your knees, we haven’t time to dawdle around…” she commented, eyes torn from the tiara and to the scene. This was all nice, but it would be less so if they were accosted by guards, angry guests, or by the vampires. “You’re still under my hire, you need to get me out of here,” Relyssa said, suddenly very, very impatiently. “Gustav assured me that you would go above and beyond - so now is the time. Which way do we go?”

Alim blinked, but charmingly laughed after he stood up. He should have known she would squeeze every penny she paid out of his service. Though he couldn’t blame her, it was still quite dangerous to be so close to the castle. He gripped both sides of his vest and squared his shoulders, portraying himself as the strapping young retainer to the greedy Breton. “If I were you, I’d tuck the tiara somewhere safe or place it on your lovely head again.” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’re heading north and we might run into trouble.”

He took her hand and led her past the fountain, heading to the forward grand archway that fed out into the city from the Upper District. Down three causeways, they paused at each intersection to make sure they weren’t pursued or spotted. If memory served, they would be merely one block away from the exit before Alim stopped. “Hold,” he told her. He quickly took off his jacket, and draped it across her shoulders.

He placed a hand on her collarbone. “You’re the noble lady, and I am your retainer, and we’re simply stepped out for the evening. Not too far from the truth.” he told her with a wink, and then slipped his arm around hers and guided her out of the alleyway and into the grand archway, where six guards stood, swords unsheathed and shields out, eyes vigilant beneath their helms. They all pointed their swords when Alim and Relyssa came around the corner, though relaxed visibly when he saw their unassuming forms.

“Halt, it is unsafe to leave the premises at this hour.” The Captain said, a tall man with a drooping mustache and a suspicious gaze.

“Sir, are you saying it’s safe to stay?” Alim asked him incredulously.

“I see your point, but orders are orders.” The Captain replied. Alim showed his teeth in frustration, and then glanced at Relyssa’s eyes and realized there was no bargaining with either her or the guard. Alim shrugged. “You’re right Captain, orders are orders.” And his orders were to get the lady out of the Castle ground and to safety.

He gave Relyssa a sly look. “Which of us is lighter do you think?” he asked, and cast feather on himself. The guards, sensing mischief, charged them, shouting for him to halt. Seems they were taking no chances with the chaos erupting in the castle. Alim unsheathed his sword and caught the blade of the first guard, knocking the blade aside in a spin, ending the twirl with a swashbuckling kick to the man’s stomach. The next two guards waded in, and it was time for Relyssa to see just how good Alim was with a sword.

They met steel for steel, blades flickering like lightning as Alim flourished and riposted, a grin on his lips as the guards fought on wide eyed, disbelief on their faces they had yet to overwhelm him. With a flick of his wrist, he disarmed a guard and then pommeled him in the face, sending him staggering back. The other guard thrust at Alim, who redirected the blade, scooped Relyssa up in his free hand, and kneed the man who had overextended too far, straight in the face. As he keeled over, Alim stepped off his back and launched a dozen feet over the other guards, the magical spell sending both he and Relyssa over the walls and floating gently down toward the lower elevation of the Center District.

As they floated, the city looked beautiful from so high. The lights in the buildings looked like stars amid a dark sea.

Relyssa held on tight to the Redguard, not for anything other than a fear of plummeting to her death if she did not. It had been an eventful evening to say the least. To say the absolute least - but as they came upon solid ground beyond the wall, she felt a semblance of safety - and gratitude all of a sudden. Real gratitude. As if the weight of the events finally hit her, and the spell wore off. Had she more of a conscience, she might have seen fit to worry about Gustav and the rest of his team - he crossed her mind, briefly. But soon her attention was back on Alim.

“You actually did it,” she said, an amazed tone on her breath, out of the sheer relief she uncharacteristically went in to embrace him - her step lopsided still, what with having one heel missing and all. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, inhaling him absent-mindedly. “Thank you,” she sighed before pulling away.

Now that was taken care of, it was like the lights switched back on and Relyssa was back, she placed a hand on her hip, elbow angled and sharp. “Alright, Gustav said I could wait at Used Sundries… I’m going to hazard a guess that’s where you’ll be heading anyway. We should get going before the celebrations extend beyond the castle walls…”

For a moment, Alim didn’t know what to do. But there was a soft expression on his face, and he gave a genuine smile. Even after all of the flirtations and screaming, it did feel nice to simply be appreciated. “You are quite welcome, my lady.” he said, inclining his head. “And I could not agree more. Erm…” he looked around, and back up the hill toward the castle before turning back to her. “Shall I carry you some more, or would you rather take my arm?” he asked, half joking. The moon gleamed off his eyes.

The woman’s eyes narrowed and her lips pouted as she thought about the question before gingerly lifting a foot, pinching at the skirt of her dress to reveal that it was bare. “Can’t rightly walk on this now can I?” she asked, knowing that Alim was quite easy to beguile. Relyssa stepped behind him and placed an arm over each of his shoulders - and then without much of a warning she had hopped on. The breton wrapped her legs around him and crossed her ankles at his waistband, but not before giving him a playful nudge with her heel at the thigh. “Giddy up then,” she chuckled.

She was quite light, but he had been carrying her all night. He might have placed feather on her if he still had the magicka for it. Luckily for his and her pride, he didn’t so he didn’t. Straightening himself up, he squared his shoulders and looked back at her, his smile barely visible behind his hair. “Next time I’ll get you to buy the saddle.” he joked.

The movement of him walking would have her clinging tighter to his shoulders, and truth be told it was a very fine night tonight. Even considering that the castle was half on fire at this point, the stars were clear in the sky. “This reminds me of Skaven,” he said suddenly, almost without prior knowledge of why he began to speak of his homeland. “Perhaps a bit less exciting than…” he remembered the castle. “I take that back.” he chuckled to himself.

“I grew up in Highrock, but for some reason my mind always drifts back to Hammerfell. I suppose I’m drawn to dangerous but deadly places. Probably where I get my taste in women.” This smile she wouldn’t see, his head completely facing forward. They passed through the city streets, only the occasional beggar or lone citizen around at such an hour.

“Dangerous and deadly women, huh?” she asked, not expecting him to have hailed from High Rock, Hammerfell being more suited to him - his mannerisms, dress, and appearance. That seemed more natural to him than what she would by her own admission refer to as the haughty province. “I could have done without that excitement. I don’t quite like my well made plans threatened and almost thwarted…” Relyssa clenched tighter at the thought of losing her spoils and her nails pressed into Alim’s collarbones as if she were a cat setting its claws into the furniture.

“I grew up in High Rock too, Daggerfall, actually…” she confessed nonchalantly, as if the very memory of it would bore her to tears. She lifted a hand, ceasing the clawing to look at her nails. They had been well groomed prior to the evening, and now one of the pointed tips had been cracked off. That elicited a moan; “I broke a nail,” she whinged, too tired to really kick up a fuss. Instead she placed her chin on Alim’s shoulder. “Are we there yet?” she asked in a huff.

“Just a few more blocks.” He said to her, letting his words flow out lengthily and slowly to ease her impatience. “When we get back, do you plan on going to sleep, or will you give me the honor of buying you a drink?” It was a sudden question, but this would be the first time that night they weren’t being chased or made to travel.

“If you think I’m going to sleep, you’d be wrong. I’m going to celebrate. I’ve been after that tiara for a very long time…” Relyssa said, biting her lip momentarily. “If you want to join me in that celebration… All things considered, I’ll allow it.” The woman began tapping her fingers over his collarbones, simply marking the impatience that Alim had tried to ease.

After enough walking, soon enough the pair rounded back onto Used Sundries - and as far from the chaos as they were going to get for the evening. She did not remove herself from his back until the door was opened, they were in, and it was closed behind them. Gustav had all of his staff, and yet not one of them could have cleaned. It still felt as dusty as it had when she first visited. “Warm up the room dear,” she said - not asking. There was a dusty hearth in the room. “Where are these drinks?” she did ask, thinking fondly on Gustav’s spirit. She gave a quick thought to perhaps try the lock to his office and take it, maybe a peep around - she was still interested in the man, and what sordid secrets he might be hoarding in the drawers of that wonderful desk of his. “Oh, and change your clothes please, they're bloody” she added, pointing a finger into the air. Under her breath she sighed, “This corset is getting unbearable," she too wanted a change.

Alim nearly fell over halfway to the hearth as the image of Relyssa undoing her corset entered his mind. He drew himself up. Stop it. Now is not the time. he told himself. I’m a professional, and the lady is expecting me to act respectable. He ran a hand through a wave of his hair and knelt beside the hearth, lighting his sword with a wiggle of his offhand fingers. Gently, he placed the sword on the stacked timber, the dry wood coming alight in a puff of flame.

He stood up and looked at his clothes, noting that he was due for a change like she suggested. He went to his quarters, taking off the servant attire and laying it upon the chair for later use, in case they needed to use the ruse again. He placed on his travel attire. Wrapped silks around his waist, cascading halfway down his left leg in a stately sarong-like manner. His trousers were loose fitting and almost poofy, and the indigo vest lined with gold on his chest befit a prince, or so he fancied.

He knelt in his bag and pulled out his saved Skaven vintage. He’d had it for years, and while he didn’t know if he’d permit it all being downed, he and Relyssa deserved a sip or two.

When Alim returned, Relyssa had changed too. It wasn't her choice of outfit, a simple shirt and cotton trousers she'd found lying around - much too big for her, but she'd managed to style them well regardless, cinching in all of the right places. She was leaning back against the table - the tiara shimmering against her hair, and then more diamonds adorning her neck. Her eyes were alight. "How do they look?" She purred in his direction, spying the wine bottle in his hand.

Alim couldn’t help but grin, hands behind his back. “I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that you manage to look gorgeous in about anything.” he told her, revealing the bottle of Skaven wine as if to toast the statement. He let her eyes linger on the prized drink before tossing it to her. Even if she didn’t catch it, it would fall plumply on the couch. He held his arms out, presenting himself. “Do I look presentable or should I go back to wearing the uniform?”

That made Relyssa grin, but it was as if he was simply reaffirming what she already knew to be true. She did, in fact, catch the bottle, and then she took a small step to the couch and slipped onto it. Her legs crossed and she leaned back into its upholstery. “You look fine,” she commented with a shrug, her icy blue eyes never leaving his. She brought a finger to her lips. “Glasses?” she asked, giving the bottle a slight shake. “I’m celebrating, but I’m not uncouth…”

He met her stare, his brown eyes dancing with the reflection of the hearth fire. He snapped his fingers, still looking at Relyssa as the cupboard to his left popped open. Usually the spell ‘open’ was for locks, but it served here. He turned and took two glasses, the bottom ‘stands’ of the wine glasses in the likeness of entwining dragons. “I was saving that bottle for a special occasion.” he said to her, glancing at the wine in her slim hands. His next remark had a dry edge to it. “I think surviving a castle full of chaos and stealing a priceless tiara counts.”

He joined her on the cushion next to her, glasses within the fingers of his left hand. He held out his right hand, offering to pour. He had to admit he felt a sense of trepidation. There was something about tasting good wine that spoke to him beyond his trifling guise of nobility. It had spent years going from place to place before reaching Alim, who’s adventures led it to even more numerous locales before reaching right here, with Relyssa and he.

She sipped from the glass, the wine was rich and warm - pleasant to taste and she hummed in agreement of it. "That's good… Rich, matured, a good body to it… Unique..." Her eyes narrowed, falling on Alim, and she awaited his response.

He took a robust sip of the wine. It was somehow both earthy yet sweet at the same time, sliding down his throat smoothly. Akatosh, he’d need to steal more of it at some point. This alone would be worth going back to Skaven and taking up a life of crime again. He turned as Relyssa spoke, eyes meeting hers. He let his gaze drink in her form as she spoke, and he reached over to idly toy with her hair. “I couldn’t agree more.” he said, his eyes slipping back up to meet hers. There was a tension in his voice.

Relyssa bit her lip, the touch of his hand was suddenly enticing. “Do you really think I look good in the diamonds?” she asked, toying with him - waiting for the answer she wanted, an idea alight in her mind. She had him on her hook, she just wanted to reel him in now.

Alim chuckled, his fingers still lightly toying with her golden hair. “Well…” he said, his voice promising as his gaze. “You’re probably the only person on Tamriel I’d rather hold the diamonds than I, because you look so good in them.” he admitted, and leaned forward slowly.

Her eyes did not leave his as he moved closer, and her fingers tightened around the glass, “do you want to kiss me?” she whispered, the wine sitting warm and the ice in her stare had melted too. The corners of her mouth quirked into a smile, and she leaned forwards too, closing her eyes expectantly.

His eyes slowly closed, and he breathed a “yes,” before he softly kissed her. His hand that had played with her locks now moved up to gently move within her hair and hold her head as he kissed her deeper, breathing her in. He enjoyed it so much he nearly forgot he had his glass of wine in his left hand, and he opened one eye to place his glass down on the table before using his free hand to cup her cheek, tasting her further.

As much as she enjoyed the kiss, she did not let it go on for too long before she briefly pulled away from Alim, her eyes fluttering open; "you're going to be bad for business…" she confessed before returning to his lips.

---

Marcel’s latest exploits were not dissimilar to Ariane’s former colleague, Le Roi Jenquins. She was going to draw up a convoluted plan and make sure everyone had their proper equipment, and even so, their odds of success were only 32.333%. Of course, Marcel, being the “genius” he was, decided to run in ahead of everyone.

Other mercenaries had to catch up after Marcel and Tsleeixth. Their path along the castle corridors were chaotic. Guests wearing fine fabrics and guards in heavy armor all ran the other way. There were bodies strewn about; some were lifeless husks drained by Nyrehtaud, while others died from physical weapons. Thankfully, no one stopped the pursuing mercs. There were a few concerned individuals trying to grab the mercenaries, but the most threatening guards were already dispatched by Nyrehtaud, Tsleeixth and Marcel.

The sun was setting, and a purple glow could be seen through the windows. Not all of the light sources were lit, and some were knocked out in the confusion. However, the Duchess’ personal quarters were not hard to find. The trail of corpses lead to a kicked-in double door. The pair of cooks that harassed Tsleeixth earlier laid outside, dead and mutilated. Screams inside were mixed with the shattering of glass, the crashing of stone and the battle cry of an old man. As Ariane rounded the corner, she was just in to see Diarmid being thrown into a bookshelf.

“Did anyone see Tsleeixth? He was-” Ariane peered into the room. Marcel was incapacitated, and there was an Argonian arm and head under the grand chandelier. “Oh, I think he’s been defeated.”

“Look, the vampire and its golems are too powerful for any one of us.” Ariane told the rest. Daixanos, Dar’Jzo, Piper and Narzul were already geared up, thanks to them sneaking in with the crates. Ariane herself needed no armor or weapon beside her magic. She was wearing her fine suit, and her right hand held a shimmering bound sword.

“Piper, grab the gargoyles’ attention and lead them to the large bookshelf.” Ariane took position next to the doorway and pointed out. “I will feather the bookshelf so Dar’Jzo can topple it upon the gargoyles.”

“Narzul, we need you to move the vampire lord under the chandeliers.” Ariane continued. “Daixanos can shoot the chandeliers down and the candles will burn through the vampire.”

“Does anyone need bound armor before we go in?”

“All I need is steel.” Piper said confidently, masking her fear. “I can deal with the rocks-for-brains no problem. I’ll have them primed for smashing in no time.” She glanced at Dar’Jzo and Narzul nervously. “This is your chance to not completely fuck something up, Piper. This is your chance to actually earn some respect.”

“Just be ready to drop those shelves...even my shield won’t last long against living stone.”

How would she get their attention, though? Didn’t seem smart to just run at them...maybe banging on her shield? The Imperial had read a book once that explained that smacking one’s shield with their weapon was a gesture of challenge. Apparently a few people had even managed to scare away bears with such a technique, but Piper guessed she wouldn’t need to worry about the gargoyles running away from her. It was worth a shot.

“When everyone’s in position, I’ll make some noise to grab their attention.”

The Hunter moved with the others, ready and watchful as he moved. Daixanos had paid little heed to the social interactions of the Landstriders, though he knew each of them by sight, and most by smell. He had been vigil all night from above the fortified manor, and he finally felt like he was getting into the hunt.

Little did he know, he would be finding the grave of his closest friend outside of Blackmarsh.

Daixanos halted outside of the room with the others, hidden and armed, ready to pounce. But it was when he saw the unmoving corpse of Tsleeixth that he stiffened, eyes intent on the corpse, looking, hoping, that Tslee would show any sign of life. But when he didn’t, his eyes changed. His claws flexed and a low hiss escaped his mouth.

If someone didn’t halt him, he would attack the Vampire himself.

The Imperial woman glared at Daixanos with an eyebrow raised. “Hey! You paying attention?” she said, hitting the lizard-man’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “This isn’t the time to be spacing out, grandpa!” Was Daixanos old? Probably not, but all Argonians looked aged and wrinkled to her. Nobody ever complimented the lizards on their beauty, anyway, mainly just how well they could kill.

Narzul approached from behind, psyching himself up for the impending battle ahead as he spun his blade in his hand. He said nothing of Daixanos’ state or Piper’s indignance, but he knew all too well what argonians intent on murder looked like, especially after their invasion on Morrowind. The lizard had his way of preparing for battle, as did he.

These were truly dark days if he had fallen so low as to acknowledge an argonian and a khajiit in the same day, but he made the mistake of assuming Dar’Jzo to be slaver-fodder once, and he’d be loathe to make the same mistake twice with Daixanos. His gaze fell to the dead argonian on the floor before his comrade -- a familiar face from the company, but they were no one he talked to. He didn’t even feel any particular grief for his passing.

“Leave him be,” Narzul finally said to Piper, surprising even himself that he came to the Argonian’s defense, then he looked to Ariane, “we can use his rage. If he’s willing, he can lead the vampire here. The Khajiit can fire the arrow, and I can topple the books without your spells. Then perhaps you can spend your magicka on something else.”

“Whatever the plan,” Dar’Jzo grumbled from behind, “let it be quick. There’s a bloody toll for inaction.”

“Fine.” Ariane scoffed. “You all want to rush in there and die? Be my guest.”

Moving into the doorway, Ariane gave Daixanos a hard shove, both imbuing him with stoneflesh and sending him into the room first. The movement immediately caught the vampire lord’s attention, and he turned to Dax, blood magic charging in his clawed hands. A dark red orb emerged from Nyrehtaud, intending to snuff out Dax. Ariane stepped in just time to dispel it into a fine, cold mist.

Enraged, Nyrehtaud let out a roar and moved toward Dax. He smashed aside a table and hurled a wooden chair toward the Argonian. As he had done so, Nyrehtaud got close, but not quite under the grand chandelier.

“Hold your shot.” Ariane warned Dar’Jzo. “Let him come closer.”

“You two, go; there’s your opening.” Ariane waved Piper and Narzul forward.

There was a line of debris made up of two destroyed gargoyles, Tsleeixth’s shattered ice atronach, toppled tables, twisted curtains and the incapacitated body of Marcel Gawain. This path was at the edge of Nyrehtaud vision. At the other end of the room were the most important people of High Rock trapped between two rampaging gargoyles, rows of bookshelves and the broken stained glass windows overlooking a deadly drop (as Donovan Kirkwall discovered, jumping to his demise). Bahashir af-Nuwarrah, the grandeyo of Hallin’s Stand, noticed the mercenaries and waved for help. However, he was immediately crushed to pulps by a gargoyle. Beside him, Viviene Grennsmark and Draren Thiralas were whacking the other gargoyle with candelabras.

As other mercenaries moved to engage, Ariane noticed that none of them had picked the Nyrehtuad’s penumbric dagger near the doorway. It had a strong disintegrate armor enchantment, no doubt effective against the otherwise impervious stone of the gargoyles. Ariane summoned it to her with telekinesis.

“Speculatus, this will help against them!” Ariane tossed the dagger to Piper. “Just don’t cut yourself with it.”

Piper caught the strange weapon out of the air, looking at the engravings on the blade with confusion. It was unlike any weapon she had seen. The blade, handle and pommel were all one solid piece of what looked at first glance to be brass or copper. The pommel was a grotesque totem, with two grimacing, fanged heads. The blade itself, the strangest part of the weapon by far, started at four corners by the handle, and worked its way down to a menacing point, like some kind of prism.

It was a bewildering specimen indeed, but Piper had one major question. “How the hell is this thing going to help against those beasts?” The Imperial hardly noticed the shimmering aura that swirled around the weapon. She did, however, notice that her glove was disappearing.

“What the fuck!?” Piper instinctively threw the dagger to her other hand, only for the dagger to begin burning a hole in her other glove as well. She felt no heat coming from the blade, nor did it seem to actually do much harm to her naked hands, but it definitely made very short work of her poor gloves.

“Nevermind...I know now!”

For Daixanos’ part, he stepped boldly, some might say suicidally, into the room. Stretching his neck, his powerful shoulders flexed. He didn’t pay any heed to the bickerings of his comrades. It’s why he spent much of his time at the fore or in the woods scouting. Though there were some he enjoyed spending time with. Tslee, for instance. Someone he considered perhaps his greatest friend, and now he lay dead at the feet of this undead abomination.

Daixanos had fought everything from wolves, to men, to giants, and even demons. This spawn of the after life would not escape him either, and he took out his battleaxe, holding it before him menacingly. “You…” he growled, a hiss rumbling from within his powerful neck. “I will slay you, and then squeeze out all of the stolen blood that runs through your veins as a funeral rite to Tsleeixth. Prepare yourself, leech. Your pain will be legendary.”

It was the most Daixanos had spoken in awhile, and his comrades would see a rare sight. One that no one had seen before on Daixanos. It was a grin. A feral grin, like one a crocodile would give before taking a deer at the water’s edge. “Time to die!”

Dax's challenge had the desired effect on the vampire lord. Nyrehtaud, enraged by the audacity of his seemingly insignificant opponents, turned his full attention to Dax. Another red destructive spell flew at the Argonian, one which Ariane barely dispelled and caused Dax to stumble. Nyrehtaud roared, the piercing sound made the ears of everyone near him to ring. Then the vampire lord bared his fangs and claws, and marched towards Dax.

But before Dar'Jzo could shoot the grand chandelier, Nyrehtaud had already dashed through and started swiping frantically at Dax. The vampire lord's movements were fast, though Dax was able to dodge them, for now.

"Draw him back there." Ariane commanded Dax. Then she shouted at Dar'Jzo. "Take aim; we'll only have a split second!"

On the other side of the room, Narzul and Piper had made it to the gargoyles. Narzul spotted a gargoyle right in front of a large bookshelf, with its back turned. However, Narzul could not get the bookshelf to fall over. Maybe it was heavier than he expected, or perhaps it was attached to the wall. Either way, Ariane noticed the Dunmer's futile attempts and jogged over to help. She applied feather to the bookshelf itself, and also throwing a lock-breaking spell behind it to weaken any attachments. Sure enough, the bookshelf started to tumble over.

"Not as easy as it looks." Ariane quipped.

Piper did not have the luxury of a distracted gargoyle. Her target had already killed multiple nobles, and when Piper approached, it greeted her with cold stone features caked in pulverized flesh. The gargoyle pounced at Piper, smashing through tables and chairs in its way. A surviving nobleman gasped at the sight of a young knight about to be crushed to pulp. No one expected Piper to hold a weapon capable of dismantling the rock monster.

The wretched stench of gore coming off the beast nearly made Piper choke, it was so vile. The Imperial held her breath as she entered a defensive stance, shield raised, ready for the impact of the charging hunk of stone. At the last moment, she took a swift step to the side, using the monster’s own momentum to shove it away with her shield as it passed.

It was so sure of its target that, when the gargoyle ultimately missed, it was unable to compensate for its leap and landed unevenly, stumbling across the floor. Piper seized the opportunity and made a great stride towards the gargoyle, moving to plunge the dagger into it. If one were to ask her, she did not really believe it would do much even after the demonstration on her glove. After all, what would a puny butterknife like that do to solid stone, even with such an enchantment? When the tip of the blade made contact, however, Piper let out a gasp. The dagger dug into the creature’s forearm, and before her eyes the limb began to crumble, the clawed hand crashing to the floor into several pieces. The gargoyle unleashed a sound of clattering gravel, an approximation of a roar. Piper doubted it came from pain.

It did not feel pain or real fear, but the gargoyle did seem to have some semblance of a survival instinct, as instead of leaping blindly at her the beast paced side to side, looking for an opening. The knight did not intend on giving it one. Shield ready, Piper took measured steps towards the gargoyle, slashing and lunging at it with the dagger to force it onto the defensive. Step by step, Piper was leading it towards the teetering bookcase set into motion by Ariane.

“Back! Back, you clattering pile of shit!” The beast was still retreating, but had started to take swipes back at the knight. Her arm was still weak from the beating she got from the werewolf during the battle with the Golden Slug, and with every blocked strike she felt herself growing weaker. Almost there…

“Get ready…!” She shouted at Ariane and Narzul, straining against the gargoyle’s assaults.

Piper’s sass and spirit in battle was something of the infectious sort, for when she slowly lured the creature beneath the shadow of the grand bookshelf, Narzul found himself also wanting to admonish the creature for daring to exist in opposition of him. With a strained heave, he pushed against the bookshelf, shouting an insult of his own to give himself strength.

“Become dust, you son of a s’wit!”

Become dust it did, beneath the crushing weight of a hundred or so copies of the Lusty Argonian Maid and the mighty girth of wood upon which she was shelved as they came tumbling down upon it.

Both gargoyles were caught by the bookshelves. The one weakened by Piper was completely crushed, leaving behind nothing but powdered chunks beneath wood and paper. The other gargoyle fared slightly better, with only its limbs and torso immobilized by the bookshelf, it still thrashed beneath the weight. It was vulnerable now, and Ariane wasted no time in severing its “head” with her bound sword, thus ending the gargoyle threat for good.

Back near the entrance, the battle between vampire and mortals raged on. Nyrehtaud was gaining the upper hand on Dax, but their position came perfectly under the grand chandelier. The argonian, whether it was valiance or thirst for vengeance, parried or blocked the savage blows that he could with his mighty axe endured and endured what he could not. Dar’Jzo meanwhile remained hidden behind a column between himself and the vampire, knowing that darkness would be no veil before the monster. He lined up his arrow to the base of the fixture from which the chandelier was hung. He was no monster hunter, but he figured that when in doubt, use silver -- and he loosed the arrow.

Clank!

“Daxainos! Move!” Ariane shouted.

The chandelier came falling over their heads, and the argonian did as he was commanded, leaving the vampire lord alone beneath the crushing weight of the silver spiral artistry. Nyrehtaud was brought to his knees and the delicate silver was splintered into sharp shards that sunk into his undead flesh. Then the candles spilled free from their seats, drenching Nyrehtaud in wax and setting him aflame.

Nyrehtaud howled like a dying beast. It was time to finish him off.

Daixanos hadn’t lived in the wilderness of Skyrim for years without gaining a sense of his surroundings. As the chandelier dropped, Dax felt the sudden shift in air pressure and the small ‘clink’ of the parted metal knots, and he leaped out of the fray with the energy of a wildcat.

When the smoke and shattered bits of glass and metal cleared, Daixanos beheld the vampire. Impaled and burning, Nyrehtaud was clearly stuck to the ground and lashing back and forth in denial of his predicament. Were it a being different than a Vampire, Dax would have felt unfair finishing him off to win a fight. But blood suckers deserved less than Falmer, in his book.

Stepping forward, his taloned hands gripped the haft of his axe as he raised it like an executioner. Nyrehtaud saw his doom approaching, vainly trying to move out of the wreckage even as his flesh burned like dry leaves. When it was evident it was futile, with one last curse to all the Gods, the axe descended.

The blade cut through his head like a melon.

---

For a moment, it sounded like a simple accident. A quiet crash, then the sound of brittle bits smashing against the ground, all of it followed by a cacophony of gasps. Then, however, the screams began. And with the screams, the Dunmer realized that there was a brawl of sorts going on. Then, a half-beheaded nobleman fell flat right in front of him, and he realized there was more than a brawl going on – the dreaded moment of action had come at last. He quietly grasped at a spare bottle of drink discarded by one of the servants, smashed its butt against a table like he had done so many times in the past, and with that, he was no longer unarmed. Sadri Beleth was in yet another fight. Time moves forward, and nothing changes.

Being too sober to rush into the heat of battle this day, Sadri instead hugged the wall, hoping to avoid the commotion and make his way towards the doors of the dining hall. While he felt some sort of unnatural anger in his veins, it seemed to him to be nothing but adrenaline – yet, when he saw one of the guests on his knees, repeatedly smashing his own head to the ground like it were a woodcutter’s axe, more unnatural explanations began filling his mind. “Best not tarry here for long,” he thought, and made a dash for the doors, when he bashed into an old Breton and nearly fell flat on his rear.

“Out of my way, you corpse-faced mongrel!”

He would have objected to the statement, but before his retort, he found the wind knocked out of him by a swift kick to the gut. He fell, but quickly got back up, keeping himself to the wall assess the situation… Which seemed to worsen by the minute. The woman seemingly in charge of the commotion seemed to be controlling things from the stage, yet between Sadri and the stage was an entire makeshift battlefield, and even if he were to get near, her visible (and violent) display of magic would likely shoot him down in the very second.

Then he saw the flames. A widening field of fire, unyielding and uncaring in what it set aflame, seemed to be handling the chaos in its own way, by simply burning everything in the vicinity to a crisp. While he found himself more than content to leave it be, find a way to get out, and leave it all to resolve itself, but then he saw the source of the blaze. It was the younger member of the siblings Venim.

“Yeah, well, you ain’t leaving that kid there to die, Sadri, are you?”

Feeling too morally weak to tell his conscience to shut up and violently eject himself from the premises, he pulled his coat up to cover more of his face, and rushed into the flames to try and knock some sense into a fellow Dunmer. As he dived through, the fire seemed to part around him. Then, the rest of the fire seemed to shrink, or rather, be compressed. The wild flames, once rampant, was suddenly condensed into a swirling inferno centered around Niernen before it was suddenly ripped away from the young dunmer’s palms. It flowed like a snaking river before it found its new spiraling orbit around a red-gowned and gold toga wearing woman with similarly red hair and golden jewelry. Though Sadri had no reason to know the woman, her badge clearly ordained her as one of the Elder Council. Her eyes had a smoldering intensity as it trained on the vampire Sylette who stood at the head of the ballroom, and Niernen’s inferno was suddenly launched in her direction, singing the hairs of those below it, and bathing her target in a cascade of fire.

“You!” She shouted towards Sadri. “You look unaffected by the spell! Will you help me end this madness?”

At the other end of the room, a young Imperial emerged from an entranceway. After splitting with Edith, Sagax had made his way back to Delacourt’s office to investigate, as ordered. He did not find Delacourt there, but instead two bloody-faced spooks. The blood was more than likely Delacourt’s as his office appeared to have been the site of a struggle. One of the vampires had been injured during the fight, and Sagax’s dagger had somehow found its way next to them on the floor.

The rogue seized the opportunity, dashing between the beasts and grabbing his dagger, shoving his elbows into their sides before taking off down the halls of the castle. They sprang towards him, clawing after the Imperial as if in a frenzy, chasing the Imperial through corridors, down a set of stairs, and across a small side garden. After sprinting for what felt like miles, Sagax saw a few lollygagging guards. He screamed that intruders had gotten in and killed Delacourt, and it did not take long for the guardsmen to discern who the cutthroats were. They descended on the ravenous bloodsuckers with fervor. One of the guards pushed Sagax behind him as some kind of protective gesture, and he used this to escape the scene entirely. Last he saw when he looked back briefly, the vampires were fading away into clouds of dust.

Sagax hurried back to the dining hall to warn the others. He did not at all expect that the vampires would attack in full force so soon. Attempting to weave through the hysterical crowd, Sagax dodged several wild, flailing punches and slammed into more than a few terrified guests. Suddenly he felt his heart race, his breathing becoming increasingly difficult to control. A cocktail of dread, terror, and panic flooded his mind. The Imperial’s duties demanded he try to find those of his company, but all he desired was to flee. That would prove a monumental task to the frenzied Sagax, as suddenly the throng of crazed servants and nobles became a maze, and all exits had seemingly disappeared, trapping him inside.

A woman Sagax had never seen before barrelled at him through several other guests and grabbed him by the throat, sending both of them into a table. He tried struggling out of the madwoman’s grip, but her hands were hooked like a vice around his neck. A hard jab to the Breton’s jaw did no more than split her lip, her face still quivering with fear and rage. Sagax could feel the need for air overwhelm him; it was all he could think about. He yanked the woman’s head back by her long blonde hair and, in a split-second movement, tore the Dwarven dagger from his coat pocket and jammed it into the side of the Breton’s neck to the handle. She looked only confused for the first moment, and by the time she actually registered what had happened, the woman was already choking on her own blood on the wine-stained carpet underneath them, the life from her chocolate-brown eyes fading. Blood dripped messily from the dagger onto Sagax’s coat, he having yanked it away as the Breton fell.

Sagax fled, still trying to find an exit amongst the crowd, crashing into guests and tables all the while. He left the woman to die where she fell. He needed to get out. It was the lone thought dominating his mind, and the Eight help whoever got in his way.

Wylendriel, on the other hand, did not try to flee. Instead, she tried to find her way to the vampires that cast this spell. She knew that her powers especially would be crucial in destroying them, so it was fortunate of her to be able to resist their frenzying spell. There just lay one little problem -- well, a couple dozen -- the frenzied guests getting in her way. Her irritation was beginning to bellow the flames of rage that slept dormant in her belly, and once again, she began to feel the itching at the inside of her skull. It was something that hasn’t bothered her since Dawnstar -- no, since the beginning of the fight as the Smuggler’s Cove. It was an emotion unbecoming of a priestess, and so she sought some way to relieve herself of some form of responsibility, to rationalize; and as always, it always came back to him. He has been silent. He hasn’t said a word to her since that day. She knew what he would be saying though, and she could hear his voice clear as day.

Go ahead. You know you want to.

Wylendriel was frozen in place.

Kill them slowly. Reunite me with my children.

She could imagine the snarling, inhuman voice of a daedric prince. It was a tremor devoid of emotion that made a mockery of paternal love. Wy went to take a deep breath--

And suddenly she was punched in the jaw.

Then the images from the 30th of Midyear sprung forth.

“DON’T--” she shrieked, “FUCKING--”

A bluish, spectral visage of a devious, daedric mace materialized from the air above Wylendriel’s head, with freezing vapor sublimating from its form like dry ice.

“--TOUCH ME!”

The mace, even as light as it appeared, collided across a noble man’s head with devastating impact. While it didn’t explode or was knocked off his shoulders, it did immediately drop the man to the floor like a rock. Wylendriel didn’t even feel her shoulder pop, and stomped forward through the crowd of frenzied nobles with icy-cold conviction and a fiery-hot temper. Any one of the nobles that tried to lunge toward her wouldn’t expect the blinding speed in which the mace eagerly flew to shatter their jaws or concuss them upon their skulls as she marched ahead toward where she last saw one of the vampires.

One did come close to her though, armed with a steak knife. She blocked it with her free hand and was subsequently impaled, but fought through the pain as that same hand began to glow with a sinister red aura. The bleeding began to slow, and her long, sharp nails dug into the hand of the woman that stabbed her, from whom she slowly sapped the life-force from. Her lively, blushed skin slowly dulled to a shriveled and dehydrated gray while the wound on Wy’s own hand began to close and push the knife out. With one final roar, the priestess sought to put the noblewoman down like an animal put out of its misery -- when a flower-painted shield had suddenly interposed itself between the two. A quick bash pushed Wylendriel backward, and the figure that had joined the fray was one draped in chainmail over their blue gambeson, and stood above the noblewoman. Caught up in her rage, Wy yelled and swung again, but the new combatant spun back around and deflected the strike with their shield -- her shield. Wy’s face came inches within the face of a young, wispy-haired Breton woman, who stared back with stern resolve. Wy’s eyes looked over the shoulder to see the dumbstruck and terrified expression of the woman she attacked earlier, sitting helplessly on the floor.

“What’s…” Wy tried to begin saying, but the female knight grabbed the front of the priestess head with a cold touch. Taken aback and visibly annoyed, she growled, “What are you doing?”

“Dispelling the frenzy.” The woman knight said, surprisingly soft-spoken.

“I’m not under that witch’s spell,” Wy protested, “I’m trying to find her! Who in Oblivion are you?”

“Mary Antoinette, templar.” She answered. “You could have fooled me -- but this is no time to argue. Witches are my specialty, but so is dispelling magic. Do you think you can find the witch behind this while I take care of the people here?”

“Uh, yeah, I--”

“Watch out!”

Wy then felt someone shove her from her side, and immediately she whipped around with her mace raised high in the air, only to suddenly hesitate when she saw the familiar face of Sagax. A pang of guilt slowly began to enter her furious eyes as she was coming to the gradual realization of what she was doing, and her body froze.

If the frantic Imperial saw the vicious weapon hanging precariously above his head, he did not seem to pay it any mind. Shoving past the priestess, Sagax flung himself into the wall behind her and began clawing at it, as if trying to find some kind of switch or lever hidden amongst the carvings.

“Where… where is it!? There was a damn door here just a second ago! I saw it, I SAW IT!”

Whipping around, Sagax grabbed Wylendriel by her shoulders, his breaths steadily turning into sharp wheezing. “You! Shy...V-vei? No, Wy! Wylendriel! We have to get out of here, NOW! But...but…” He paused, waving his hand across the room. “There aren’t any DOORS!”

Wylendriel just stood there, mace still in hand, but the rage that once filled her mind and covered her face was muted by stunned silence and engulfing sense of guilt. It was still raging in the background of her mind, but her sorrowful heart swelled at the sight of her comrade in his blind, fearful panic. She looked down at her finger to look at the ring he had given her back on the Tear in Jehanna. The bloodthirsty haze, like a veil, was lifted from her eyes and she became aware of the enchantment. Everyone in the room was getting hurt… and it was all because of those damned children of Bal manipulating them.

Sagax threw himself off of Wy and returned to the wall he was searching moments ago. “Who builds rooms without doors…?” He mumbled with a whine. “What MADMAN builds a ROOM...without DOORS!?”

Taking out his dagger, the trembling Imperial jabbed and scratched at the accents and panelling, evidently trying to dig his own way out. The absurdity had snapped the priestess out of her self-pitying stupor, and her feelings of rage returned -- but this time, it was controlled. She marched up from behind Sagax and grabbed his shoulder, abruptly turning him around and pushing his chest and pinning his back against the stonework wall.

“Sagax!” She snapped, gripping his clothes. “Listen to me! Get a hold of yourself! You’re under a spell!”

Her own snarling demeanor wasn’t a very reassuring message that she too wasn’t under the same spell, but honestly, she was too good at controlling her rage most of the time for this spell to take too much hold over her. As an additional measure, she shook the young Imperial a few times against the wall. The sound of a woman’s approaching battle cry warranted Wylendriel to turn around and strike the side of her head with the pommel of her conjured weapon, simply knocking them unconscious. Turning back to face Sagax, she leaned in inches away from her face and said, “You’re going to be okay. I just need you to knock some sense into as many people as possible. Please! Let me take care of Sylette, maybe then I can stop the spell for good.”

As for Sadri, he seemed to be far too focused on trying to get Niernen back into the lands of consciousness to notice his comrades’ setbacks, or to properly appreciate the scale of what the lady in red had done for him and everyone else. “I’m trying, fire lady!” He’d shouted hoarsely in response to the woman’s request, but now, he was only holding onto Niernen’s shoulders and shaking her in an attempt to rouse her back into the lands of sanity. For all his efforts, he was rewarded by her going unconscious, and some ice shards being blasted their way, some skidding off the stone floor and peppering his face with small bits which evaporates back into Aetherius soon after. Thinking quickly, he grabbed Niernen by the waist and placed her atop his shoulder, pulling himself up and attempting to rush to a safe corner, in which he would slip, fall, and fling Niernen next to some familiar figures – Sagax and Wylendriel.

“…Right, you didn’t see that,” Sadri quipped after a moment of awkward silence, patting the dust off his coat and pushing himself back on his feet. “Well, let’s end this, shall we?” He asked the two, not waiting for an answer. “We don’t have much time, but there’s some pyromancer who’s still sane on the other side of the room. I say she burns away the ice bitch’s magic and her henchmen, and then we go bash her skull into a pulp. Any objections?”

Sagax’s breathing, while still heavy, had become controlled. “Through your nose, and then out your mouth.” was a piece of advice Varulae had given him long ago. The exercise was supposed to calm you. What effect it was having on himself the Imperial honestly could not tell, but he kept at it regardless.

“Beleth… it’s good to see you, and with your wits about you, no less.” He glanced momentarily at the crumpled pile of robes nearby. Niernen is a tough woman, Sagax thought. She would be fine.

He thumbed the edge of his dagger and felt where the blade had chipped while hacking away at the wall in his panic. And the blood…

“That poor woman. She didn’t stand a chance.” His voice echoed in his mind.

“The whore tried to kill you, fool.” Another rumbled forth from depths unknown, deep and menacing but still worryingly similar to his own. Before he could mourn one woman, however, another required his immediate attention.

“Yes… yes, I find that an agreeable plan. If I can reach her quick enough, maybe a bashing won’t even be necessary… just one quick slice.”

He turned to the Wood Elf. “What say you, Wylendriel?”

“Vampires are undead,” she answered assuredly, “I know a spell that should give you two enough time to reach her.”

The spectral mace in her hand dissolved into mist before she stepped forward and placed a hand on both Sagax’s and Sadri’s shoulder. A flash of green infused both of them with a surge of energy and adrenaline, washing their bodies of fatigue and giving them a modicum of relief.

“Let's kill this bitch.”

The templar from before smiled at the sight of the three comrades coming together and forming their plan, then returned to her own mission of pacifying as many of the frenzied guests as possible. Between those killing each other and those being pulled from their frenzied stupors, the room was steadily thinning as a clear path to Sylette began to form.

Wylendriel's touch was not unlike snorting a sizable line of ground-up coca leaves; that old familiar feeling of intoxicant rush, which, by now, made Sadri feel almost dirty. But it was not time to wax poetic on his feelings, nor was it time to sit by idly with your heart beating like a battering ram - it was time to embrace the beat. "Try to catch up, kid," he quipped at Sagax, before rushing back into the fray.

Pupils dilated, fists clenched, Sadri Beleth seemed no different than the frenzied guests caught in the swirling bloodbath as he smashed his way through the guests, elbowing, shouldering and punching people to varying degrees of disfigurement. Getting closer to the stage, he took cover behind a fallen table of mahogany, grasped onto a spilled group of silver dinnerware as makeshift ammo, throwing the forks in hand at Sylette, while madly waving at the Imperial pyromancer for her to heat the stage up somewhat, so that he and his comrades could get up there without worry.

For the councilor, it was as simple as moving her fingers to command the flames to spill forth and rise from the ground. Two walls erupted, forming a blazing corridor to part the crowd and allow the mercenaries passage. This same fire also began to spread around the perimeter of the stage, quickly cutting off any hope of escape.

The misty mace returned to Wylendriel’s hand, who, without waiting for Sagax, charged ahead after Sadri. Her natural bosmer speed was on full display for the first time since joining the company and managed to catch up to the dunmer in little time, and peering through, she saw Sylette’s face beyond the licks of flame. She summoned her power to her alternate hand, mumbling subtle rites of Arkay and Stendarr. Mercy for the dead; somber for those in the ground, and the bitter kind for those who need to be put back. With this prayer on the wind, a baleful light engulfed her spare hand as an undead turning spell began to manifest.

The three ran up the steps to the stage, putting themselves face to face with the vampire mage herself, hissing in defiance at the center of blazing arena. The heat radiating from the fires was harsh, though Sadri in particular seemed mostly unbothered by it and Sylette was fairing worse than either Wylendriel or Sagax -- the second or two of the stand-off felt excruciatingly long to the priestess, before Sadri’s rallying cry moved her to action.

The vampire was likely to cast some sort of spell upon the dunmer at the start of his charge, were it not for Wylendriel’s spell which caused her to flinch and narrowly avoiding the sword that swiped a bloodless cut across her cheek. It also meant stumbling into Sagax’s shortsword having nowhere else to go, and was forced to put her arm between the tip of his blade and her stomach. The blade went straight through her arm and moved the blade’s tip into her side instead. Her pained screeched echoed through the halls.

Sylette’s eyes darted around the perimeter of fire, her only exit being blocked by the priestess and the spell preventing her approach. A sneer grew on her face as she hissed, “Whatever happens now, we’ve already won.”

Before any of the three could answer, Syllette grabbed the wrist of Sagax’s hand still holding the sword impaling her body, of which she refused to let go, and pulled the Imperial close to her. With a freezing mist emanating from the very hand she grabbed him with, she muttered incantations beneath her breath. As Sadri moved in to free his comrade, a flurry of snow and ice swirled around the vampire, battering them both with the stinging cold and biting frost. She pushed Sagax away from her, and then she ran towards the fire.

“No!” Wy shouted after her, wishing for some kind of power to pursue her with.

Sylette’s frost cloak parted the flames before her, expecting to find her escape on the other side, but behind the fallen flames, her head met the flowery face of wooden shield instead.

WHACK!

Sylette fell backwards and hit the ground like a sack of flour, looking up dazed to see the templar from before standing over her. The vampire lunged at her, relying on her frost cloak as her deterrent, but just as that thought crossed her mind, an unfortunate irony followed suit. Against her own will, the howling storm circling storm faltered as the templar swiped her free hand through the air, dispelling the magic, and Syllette found herself charging face-first into the shield once again and was pushed back onto the ground.

Sadri, Sagax, and Wylendriel stood upside down upon the ledge above her in the break of the wall of fire. The former two hopped down, the self-designated executioners of the witch, and steadily moved forward to finish the job. She felt the templar pull her up to her feet by her robes, and suddenly found herself in a tight bear hug from behind. Her claws wouldn’t be able to penetrate her armor.

“Some victory.” Sagax quipped sarcastically, still rubbing the pain away from the frostbitten portion of his arm before looking to Mary. “Thanks for the assist.”

“You know,” Sadri mused, “I always seem to give away the honors of the final blow to someone else, but this time I think I’ll treat myself.”

And without missing a beat, one swift and clean slice from the dunmer was all it took to decapitate the vampire. Before the stagnant blood in her veins could turn to ash, Sylette knew she was going to regret her tortured afterlife in Coldharbour; knowing that the last thing she saw was to be killed by a dark elf in the most ridiculous outfit and mutton chops she had ever seen.