Francis awoke to the crashing of waves and a huge intake of air filled his lungs with salty air. It tasted like sea and Francis coughed uncontrollably. His body felt tired and he laid back down in his exhaustion. He’d swam a ways away and probably passed out from the exhaustion of doing so. It was a miracle he hadn’t drowned. He struggled to prop himself up with his arms, then his extremely shaky legs. He fell back to his knees with a grunt before struggling back up and taking a few steps. He hadn’t gone five steps before he realized there had been small piffs in the sand the whole time. He looked back to the source of the sound and his eyes widened at what he saw. His legs started moving at a wobbly paced run. His breathing turned to panting, panicked, he limped as fast as he could away.

“Francis, you Gods damned fool!” The voice behind him screamed.

Francis didn’t have any time to yell back before his head was whipped back and he was tackled to the ground with a pained groan. The Breton and the Nord wrestled in the sand for quite some time. Francis was doomed from the start, not being able to use any of his strength to try to fight off this ravenous barbarian. Instead, he only managed to slap away the Nord’s hands before his right hand became pinned under a knee and his left secured in the tight grip of his assailant. The Nord cocked back a fist and Francis snarled with wild eyes and bared teeth. The two men stayed like that for a few long moments. They stared at each other, both with wildly angry demeanors about them. After a while, the fierce faces melted away as the two regained their breath.

Vendel was the first to shake his head in disagreement, his long golden locks shaking with him from beneath his helmet. Francis shook his head in turn and Vendel got up from being over Francis, backing away slowly as he still didn’t trust his friend not to run. Francis, while keeping his eyes locked with his friend, managed to get to his feet and dust himself off, slowly, making no sudden movements.

“Why?” Francis asked, finally, after several long moments of silence.

“I should be asking you the same, you gods-damned fetcher.” Vendel spat, his arms akimbo.

“You couldn’t just let me go?” Francis asked.

“Of course not,” Vendel said in an exasperated tone, “We’re friends. We left Wayrest together and we’ll return together.”

“I’m not letting you take me back, Vendel. I already made it clear enough that-”

“I’m going with you.”

Francis stopped in his tracks, his trail of thought totally torn to pieces. He needed a few moments to think about what his friend had said, but Vendel continued.

“We’re friends, Francis, and friends don’t abandon each other for anything. Friends also don’t force friends to do something they don’t want to do. Friends also know what’s best for friends. We should return to Wayrest, Francis,” Vendel held a hand up before Francis could speak, “but I know how much you want to do this.”

“You understand?” Francis asked.

“Of course I do. We’ve been friends long enough, I suppose. I’ll keep being your friend for as long as it takes you to get your head straight,” Vendel smiled, “and then some.”

Francis chuckled, putting his hands on his hips as he clapped his friend on his chainmail’d back. The two of them began to walk. It wasn’t long before Francis realized that they weren’t close to any cities. There weren’t any villages or people around. Francis cocked an eyebrow as he looked to his friend, “Where are we, exactly?”

“Quite a ways from Rihad, friend. It took me all night and all morning to find you there, on the beach. Odd, if I do say so.” Vendel said.

“Odd, indeed.” Francis echoed.

The two friends continued on. Francis guessed that it wasn’t too bad a thing that Vendel decided to follow him. He couldn’t blame the Nord, though, as brave as he was, the two were a team. Partners, and they had been the same for many years now. It just wouldn’t be right for them to separate now. Francis punched Vendel in his shoulder, receiving a punch in his own in return. The two laughed and continued walking the long walk to Rihad.

*Deleted*

“Poncy Man”, as it turned out, was an elegantly dressed business man in a finely embroidered red Bisht, a long well-groomed grey beard and a weathered face that had seen countless seasons and hardships. However, the man sported a warm smile and extended his arms outwards towards his guests. “My friends, welcome to Helgathe, the finest city in the West. I can see that you are fatigued and famished, and be assured that this will be remedied shortly. But first, please accompany me to what will be your first of many steps taken in my fine city” He ushered them towards a side room with floor cushions arranged in a crescent. As the group found themselves situated, the gruff looking Redguard who had opened the door and a couple others came in bearing trays with silver pitchers of water and matching goblets. The man stood in the center of the group, beaming. “I seem to have forgotten my manners. I am Darak Mashad, council member of the Merchant Guild of Helgathe. This means that it falls to me and seven others to manage aspects of the city’s local economy and market places. Unlike other cities, we seem to have found a beneficial working relationship amongst each other by relying on one another’s expertise to buy, produce, distribute and sell goods to benefit the city itself over an individual enterprise.” He made a gesture by wiggling his fingers on one hand. “Several individuals may find success alone, but a twist of fate can break them easily, like a finger. But together, working for mutual benefit, we are stronger and much more capable than if we went with our own devices. This leads to an increased ability to serve, keep prices competitive, obtain rare stock… and information.” His eyes lit up, hoping his audience was following his train of thought.

He gestured to a map behind him of the city. “Indeed, when the dwemer came, there was seldom a second look thrown at the Merchant Guild. And why would they? The public trusts and depends on us, and we are a big reason that the city is as affordable as it is. If one is to occupy a province, they need to disrupt life as little as possible for the populace, as contented people are far less likely to take risks with their lives and their family’s lives. The dwemer have been very good at this, although heavy handed at times. It is because of that that you are sitting here before an old man prattling on.” He smiled apologetically before continuing. “What I wish to convey is that the Merchant Guild, while not officially a part of the resistance, knows that this occupation is more harmful than helpful. Much of our wealth comes from other provinces and that simply does not occur with the shipping lanes blockaded and the borders closed. In public, we are supportive of our occupiers, but in private we will aid in whichever way we can to return our lives to the way they were meant to be. And so, while you stay in Helgathe, you will present a special coin to any shop keep in a store and they will provide you shelter and food, as well as information of any open contracts that the Insurgency has left for its membership. We are all trusting you to use disgression and not to lead ruin to the doorstep of any who offer their aid. There is much at risk in harbouring felons and fugitives, no?” Darak said, producing a coin purse from one of his longer sleeves and tossing it to Gorzath. “Please take one of those coins and pass them around. They are your key to this city, and perhaps for survival. Now, onto the first order of business!” the old Redguard boomed, clapping his hands together as he approached the map. He indicated to locations as he spoke.

“You are here, in the West End of Helgathe in the basement of my shop, Mashad Textiles. The Insurgency has discovered something of great interest. The captain of the city guard, a collaborator named Doshin Ismal, has become something of a complacent man. His servitude to Governor Rourken has made him rather influential and wealthy, and his authority has been grossly abused. Many are arrested without cause or worse. Prior to the occupation, he was a miserable man in an unenviable position. It’s become all too clear he was never meant to be in a position of authority. The dwemer want people who are pliable to their interests, and Ismal is certainly that kind of person. His death will be a key to unravelling the guards of Helgathe, a force made up of collaborators and apologists. Without organization, their ability to subdue the populace will be reduced, and it will force the dwemer to be much more active in the affairs of the city, diverting their attention from more important matters.

“Ismal makes a show of responding to disturbances with a large show of force, which is key to exposing him. To have the remaining guards in the station reduced to a more manageable number for an assassin to slip and out without issue, there will have to be quite a disturbance. Some of you may wish to rile the population or otherwise cause a large enough disturbance that forces Ismal to dispatch most of the guards he has in reserve for such instances. No one has dared raise a hand against him while he’s on the dwemer payroll. People in the city have too much to lose, given their families.” he indicated to the map, to a semi-isolated building to the Northern end of the city, a few blocks from the palace. “This is the guard station, and to the East is the palace. You can be certain of a swift response if you do not proceed with care, so be sure those of you who take interest in this task be slight of foot and patient.

“A final thing of interest is a few blocks to the Southeast there is a detention center that is holding several public dissenters as well as insurgents, both suspected and in fact. It would be a great boon to the cause if you were to orchestrate a prison break. The particulars of this are up to you, as there is not much information about the location other than most of the cells are kept underground, in something akin to a dungeon, and there appears to be two shifts of the same guards. Attempts have been made before, so they are somewhat alert.” Darak said, sounding somewhat apologetic. He brushed his hand aside theatrically. “That about covers it for now, you must be weary from your travels. The guards and the dwemer have no reason to suspect you just yet, so please feel free to see the sights and take in the city at your leisure. The safe houses are the only guaranteed secure places to remain for the night, but many insurgents have been known to make use of public inns, which are far more comfortable and accommodating. You’ll each be given a reward for contract completion, but for now, we have prepared a purse for each of you with 70 Septims each. This should tide you over until you begin conducting your affairs in Helgathe, and by all means, do enjoy it! It is a wondrous city, even with this damned occupation. Make sure to stop by the various merchants when you are in search of contracts, even if they do not have anything, it is good to have them become acquainted with your faces.

“If you do not have any pressing questions, please make yourselves at home. I need to return to my business; my wife is running the shop right now, and I can only be pretending to be getting stock out of the back for so long.” The old Redguard said with a smile. “I welcome you all to my city; it is a pleasure to have the opportunity to meet such esteemed warriors and heroes.” He bowed with genuine warmth and made to depart up the stairs once more. Before reaching the landing, he turned once more. “Your personal effects are being sent to a warehouse down the street from the shop. It has a Merchant Guild symbol, the same anvil of Zenithar and scale as the coins you were given, on the front. Present the coin to be granted admission. There will also be other equipment available to you for different jobs. I do urge you to be conspicuous. Should you have any further questions, please do not hesitate to ask the others. I will be down once more after my shop closes, but until then, please make yourselves at home.” With that, Darak Mashad disappeared from sight, his red bisht flowing behind him.

This Collab brought to you by Dervs, Psyker and Myself. No autographs please.

16 Rain's Hand, early morning, Rihad

Her eyes had barely left the horizon.

Marassa sat on the wooden docks out of her armour, her back against a shipping crate as the warm morning sun shone upon her fine fur. Telling Sevari to go home and to actually have him do it were two conflicting things in Marassa's mind, and deep down, she knew he was gone forever. It was twice now that she let him get away from her, this time there was no second chance. But what choice did she have, she wondered. She had thought that things may have changed between them after she rescued him from the Thalmor, that she might have a chance to make him see that choosing that woman for his wife was a mistake. But what choice did she have? Every time that man did something, he barely escaped with his life intact, and more often than not, he came back more and more broken. He was not going to traverse Hammerfell on foot, let alone be able to run with the lame leg. She trusted him to be skilled enough to survive most things, but she was no longer sure. Having him around was a mistake, a distraction. His conviction simply wasn't there any longer, and instead of focusing on what was important in stopping the dwemer, his mind and loyalties wavered between this land and Elsweyr, his family and those he had learned to love, this resistance or the companions he had helped two years prior. His resolve was tried, and it was found wanting, it's why he kept becoming more and more destroyed as the weeks went along. He had to go home.

So why did it hurt so much?

Marassa was done with this city, its people and the feeble insurrectionists who were fighting a losing war. She had distracted herself with its petty problems, and had no intention of dying for a lost cause. The more the insurgents pushed the dwemer, the harder they would shove back, often with devastating results. It wasn't unlike the Siege of Storms where the only way the Heroes of Tamriel and the Sons of Skyrim were going to put an end to the spell was to take the fight to the Imperial City and cut the head off the snake, so to speak. The problem was with the dwemer was the end destination was far more ambiguous; where does one start looking for the source of this particular problem? It was impossible to know if the dwemer were following the orders of one person or if it would even matter. This threat seemed to engulf the land like the ocean, formless, absolute...

Unstoppable.

It didn't mean she was going to give up on her personal mission, however; Zaveed was still out there, and it was her duty as his actually responsible sibling to get him home alive and keep him from killing himself. She couldn't quite decide why she still felt compelled to try and save him from himself; after all, she had repaid the irrational debt of her mere existence when she brought him home the first time, and even that was a ridiculous expectation she put upon herself since she was a small child. How long was she going to dictate her life by what she thought she owed other people? Trying to control Zaveed was a fool's errand and she owed the fool nothing, but still, he was family, and perhaps the only family she had left. If she lost him, just as she lost Sevari, what was left? What was life worth if you walked it utterly alone and isolated?

Enough. It's time to get to work.

Marassa had been relieved to have heard of Cub's survival, although it was perplexing that the guards had noticed him treading water out in the sea, the massive orc waterlogged and near drowned. What on Nirn had he been doing? Regardless, there was no questioning where Cub's loyalties laid, his devotion to Zaveed was absolute. Hralvar was a harder man to pin down, although the old Nord was hardly a man to be bossed around, he was a reliable ear and was of fairly sound judgement, even if his bias towards his High King and Skyrim perhaps skewed his opinions somewhat. She had not spent long the night before speaking to both of them, telling them simply to meet her at the docks in the morning. Whether or not both would show up was anyone's guess, but Marassa suspected they would. After all, the three of them, while hardly the closest of people, shared a bond from their journey two years prior.

The two arrived shortly afterwards, finding her easily amongst the containers. Her amber eyes regarded them both steadily. "We're leaving. Today." she said, looking back out to sea. "We've wasted enough time in this city for these people. We're going West, if you'll join me, to find my brother and perhaps find a way to end this madness." a pause. "It certainly is preferable than dying for a pointless purpose. I did not wander Tamriel for years alone to get killed in a war I have no stake in. What say you?"

Dying for a pointless cause. Cub's mind tried desperately to cling to the words as they passed, to find some grain of blissful distraction, of pseudo-reflection from his own voyage beneath the waves. Cub's mind tried desperately to shut out the details of his mission as it always had until Cub had had enough. "I agree. I understand. I mean, I understand you. That is to say, I understand the plan. And you now that I mention it. I didn't always. You were Zhaveed's blood and that was good enough for me. But now. I crossed all of Skyrim to find Zhaveed. Just like you. I follow your brother. I'll follow you." Well-meaning, if a bit bit ham-handed.

Cub crossed the creaking floorboards to wear his armour lay. Sliding into his second skin, Cub strapped his hammer to his back and placed Arbus' dragonbone around his neck for safekeeping. Ringing the dagger through the chains of his shackle, Cub hid the Dagger safely in his glove. No need to bring it up now. Perhaps Gorzath would know more later.

Then Cub had a thought. Stuffing one glove would leave him uneven. Besides, between the four of them, they'd need food and drink. Havalar's fire might be useful but Cub doubted Summon Banquet was in the old mage's repertoire...

Hralvar folded his arms, shifting underneath his cloak.

"Fine by me if we're leaving. Should we head out now?" He asked, while privately harboring his own doubts about their mission. How exactly were they going to end this? Unlike the Siege of Storms, there was no central target to kill. Even if the Dwemer had a centralized leader, killing him would no doubt only enrage them. From what he could see, practically their entire race was chomping at the bit to take their revenge on Tamriel. But alas, all that was outside his particular purview. He was a battlemage, not a scholar. But speculation was pointless. All he could do at this point was fight and support those that he had fought alongside two years ago. War and Sovngarde were all he had left to look forward to, after all.

Slyly giggling to himself and his own genius, Cubfinally finished filling his free gauntlet with as many gold and jewels as he could. Reunited with his armour and a few hundred gold heavier, Cub looked back to where Marassa and Havalar had been standing. "Ready when you are, though shouldn't we wait for Sevari?"

After Cub inquired about Sevari, Hralvar winced at the question before speaking up.

"Sevari...well, he can't exactly fight anymore. Took a lot of injuries. He won't be coming with us." Hralvar said to Cub. Technically, nothing he said was a lie, if he'd understood what little of the conversation he'd heard between Marassa and Sevari correctly.

The old Nord turned back to Marassa.

"Well then, shall we be off, lass?" Marassa couldn't help but smile at Cub's clumsy navigation of words. He was earnest, excitable and seemingly happy to be going about his own personal journey. He paid Marassa a backwards compliment, more or less saying that because she was blood with Zaveed, she was worth following, as opposed to trusting her for her own merits. It was something, at least. At least she didn't have to wonder too deeply at what was going on inside of Cub's substantially large head.

With the two men in agreement, the trio had split up for the time being to gear up and arranged to meet up at the docks in ten minutes. After the group reassembled, Cub jumped right into the obvious question, pondering Sevari's whereabouts. It might as well had been a dagger at that point. Fortunately, Hralvar's quick response saved Marassa the awkward, difficult reply. She looked away for a moment, inhaling a deep breath. She'd have to thank the old man when they had a moment. She really wasn't sure how Cub would handle the truth.

She still wasn't sure how she was handling it, either.

Marassa tightened her armour and sword concealing cloak around her shoulders. "Let's go. I had a good enough run of the city before the excitement all happened, I am fairly certain I can get us out, but we do need to get to the stables." None of them had told the others what was going on, but it wasn't uncommon for people to come and go from the warehouse; it would be easy enough to explain to any curious faces that they were sent on an assignment by another member of the insurgency. They'd be long gone before anyone had time to verify their story. As the three unlikely companions walked, Marassa spoke. "We won't have an easy time making the journey on foot, especially if we need to get off the roadways quickly. We need to take the horses, whether that be from purchasing them or stealing, and flee into the forests on the outskirts until we can plan our next move. Until then, we need to gather supplies for the road, bed rolls, water, food, tinder boxes, maps anything that we can use on the road and away from prying eyes... this will be the easy part.

"The hard part will be following the coast and reaching another port. If we can find a smuggler in Taneth, the next city down the road, we'll be able to charter our way to the West. If Zaveed and the others have been seen, there's likely rumours about them, which are good enough to begin a search. But until then, we need to be able to move without being caught by the dwemer. Doubtless they have every major bridge guarded." she paused. "Don't let me ramble. I'm open to ideas." she said, casting the two men a look. As the trio departed the docks, Cub hid his small smile. So, Sevari was too wounded to travel. Good. Cub hadn't forgotten how Sevari had murdered his friend to acquire this illustrious bit of real estate. He wanted the damn warehouse let him keep it. Rihad's blood was on his hands and Cub would have nothing else stand between him and finding Zhaveed.

Cub sighed at the thought. Despite his violent streak, Zhaveed has always trusted Sevari. There was no time to waste, but he couldn't just leave him there to burn with the rest of Rihad. What was the point of being strong if he left the weak to die? No, this wasn't right. He wouldn't just lea-As Marassa turned her gaze to he and Havalar, Cub realized he'd not heard a word she'd said. This was nothing new but cub cursed himself once more for getting lost in his own head.

"Damn it! I'm sorry, could you repeat the plan? I was thinking of Sevari. I could carry him you know. Since he can't travel I mean. I just...I don't think Zhaveed would want me leaving him like thi-..."

"It does not matter what Zaveed wants in this instance!" Marassa snapped, pausing to inhale deeply and take a breath. She immediately regretted her outburst. "Things... can't be helped, Cub, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise. Sevari must walk another path, one away from us. He is needed elsewhere for something that's just as important as the undertaking we have embarked upon." she said, not believing the words she was saying. She was no stranger to keeping aloof and to herself, but she also never had someone with Cub's child-like inquisitiveness to contend with. It was trying, to say the least.

As was par for the course, Cub was perplexed. Marassa had always been high strung to be sure, but never without good reason. Or, good enough reason he reckoned. At least he was pretty sure there was reason. The more Cub thought about it, the more he kicked himself for his lackadaisical attention span. What did he really know about Marassa? She was Zhaveed's sister, that was first and foremost. She used a two-hander like him; there was common ground. She...she...hm. Maybe there was reason for her frustration. Did Cub really only consort with Marassa for her brother's sake?

"By Oblivion, would both of you relax?" Hralvar scowled as they headed towards the stables. "Cub, Sevari's safe now. He's headed home to his family to recover. Don't worry, he'll be fine." He turned to Marassa. "Let's just focus on the bloody goal: getting those horses. We can worry about what else to do once we actually make it out of here. One thing at a time, lass." The old Nord grumbled as he followed along. If he didn't step in, either Cub would prod too much and set Marassa off, or Marassa would scare the poor bastard out of coming with them. Or most likely both. "Now, how are we acquiring mounts anyways?"

"Right." She said, gritting her teeth at no one in particular. She normally wasn't so volatile, but the previous night's event was far more jarring and scarring than she cared to admit. She'd faced down death on numerous occasions and never flinched, but having the man she loved leave her once again, likely for the last time, was hard to take. You couldn't get hurt if you didn't let people close, which was her mistake. She wouldn't be making it again any time soon. She looked to Hralvar. "Simple. We take them before the stable hand knows what's going on. The dwemer and collaborators are dealing with an armed insurgency at the moment, so they're not likely to respond swiftly or with force to something as simple as horse theft. Of course, if we're caught, we're dead. Nothing out of the ordinary. We do need to chart our escape, however. I suspect it would be as simple as leaving through the front gates, given that I'm certain the dwemer have a check point in place. Unless the captain I met is still sympathetic to my status as Hero of Tamriel, I do not think we are like to find much leeway with the dwemer."

Pulled from his thoughts by Hravalar, the old wizard shed a bit more light on the situation. So, Sevari had left them to rot in the sun. That would explain why Marassa was so on edge. They were rivals. Without one against which to test your strength, one grows weak. Cub had forgotten that himself. So be it then. Marassa would need a challenge. A whet stone to grind away the impurities. The stench of bravado cutting the Khajiit's words short, Cub chimed in.

"If we're leaving, I suggest we do it now. Hravalar's fire, your fur, my strength; the cold will offer little more threat now than it would should we waste time gathering supplies." Cub's stomach grumbled in protest though his facade never waned. "I've enough baubles from the warehouse to buy us passage out of the city. Nothing blinds an eye like the glint of gold." Secretly feeling the gold in his glove, Cub hoped he had enough to prevent them being reported to the authorities outright. "We ride to the next port, camp for the night if we don't make it, and hire a boat to the West. Simple. Unless you think you have a better idea?"

Cub detested treating his friends so but it needed to be done. Cub wasn't strong enough to protect his friends yet so until then she'd need to defend herself. There was no use lamenting Sevari's absence but he understood she needed a friend. Who knows, maybe Cub would learn all those things he neglected for so long! Maybe he'd finally know Marassa the Khajiit instead of Marassa, Zhaveed's Sister.

Then again, maybe he'd just ask Zhaveed all that stuff later.

"If you think you have enough to pay off the stable hand, then that would be optimal. It still leaves us with the issue of getting out of the city, however." she paused. "Did you steal these baubles from the resistance, Cub?"

Cub tried to hide the flush on his green jowls at the accusation. It was true of course, but an accusation none the less! "I...took what was owed. They were more than eager to accept aid; it'd be a shame to leave them with a debt unpaid." At least he desperately hoped that was the case. Again, his penchant for half listening and wholly ignoring made it difficult to know who were helping whom. They did help help them rescue Hravalar but Sevari had let the Redguards use the warehouse as a hideout on more than one occasion. More things to ask Zhaveed, he settled.

Shifting his tone to one more aloof than guilty, Cub moved his words to prod his friend once more. "Common practice at the stronghold. You'd be surprised how many Khajiit 'miscount' their gold. Or maybe you wouldn't." Marching quickly on, Cub didn't want to be anywhere within striking distance lest his jab be met likewise.

Marassa offered Cub a rare, terse smile. "Good. I'm tired of being a tool for people I do not particularly care for. Whatever gets us closer to figuring out this dwemer issue instead of waiting for them to come kill us I am in favour of." she replied. After a few moments pause, Cub was presumably playfully barbing her, causing the khajiit to sigh. He really was like a persistent child. Maybe there was some roasting animal she could bribe him with, since it was probably the closest thing to candy Cub craved. "If a khajiit did not account for every Septim in their pocket during an exchange of goods, it's because they played the fool in favour of preserving their lives, or in some cases, to divert attention away from another member of their band who was as like to be pocketing something valuable elsewhere. We do not particularly loved merchant minded khajiit in Elsweyr as they believe in personal possessions and pot monetary gain above community. The caravans are rather poor representatives to my people, and the way they are treated by other cultures is what drives them to become thieves and killers. You wouldn't believe how foreigners look when they come into Elsweyr and see how things really are. Even despite the Thalmor occupation, our culture thrives."

She glanced over at Cub. "So you can secure us horses. Good. We all have identification that should get us through the gates, so that's part of it. The last we need is maps. I will purchase those, I happened upon a cartographer's store on my first night in Rihad when I was walking to clear my mind. Of course, I took a chair to the back and was swarmed by an angry mob for my troubles, given people here still aren't over the Thalmor invading Hammerfell. Apparently, a strange khajiit in Nord armour is the prime candidate for being a Thalmor spy. Such is the shit I must deal with." she said with a shrug.

"Yes. Well. They also smell bad."

Cub's plan wasn't exactly going as he'd hoped. Picking a fight with Marassa seemed to be harder than he'd thought given how often she returned to warehouse, one hand full of blood and the other healing magics. The more Cub thought about it, the more he noticed quite a few people must have been at her throat already. Maybe his wasn't the way to save her? No, it was his job to save everyone. Even the people he stole from... Hm. Cub walked a while in perplexed silence his brows furled in thought.

Okay. Being strong meant saving people. If he wanted to be strong, he'd have to save people. But you have to be strong TO save people. Or stronger than the people you're saving... So by taking the baubles the Warehouse was weaker. But that means Cub is stronger. So now he save them because he's stronger than them! As his brow eased back to normal and his tusks gleamed once more in his prideful grin, Cub quietly congratulated himself for thinking so far ahead. He'd have to remember to tell Zhaveed later; not only was he saving people, he was robbing them too.

Still jovial at wrestling with his thoughts and being the one who came out on top, Cub chuckled and pointed to the small hole in his dwemer centurion chestplate. "I can imagine! How well do think a wolf in Dwemer's clothing went over?" Cub nodded to the Khajiit. "Alright, I'll find us horses then and you a map. Try not to get lost on the way!" Giggling to himself, the would-be jester eyed the other's expectantly.

Super late collab between Cairo and I. The blame is mine, but here it is.

The previous night...

Dragging the dwemer weapon held in his left hand, the khajiit finally lifted up his head when he stopped sulking about the ridiculous scenario that happened prior with the mother deer. His feet eventually led him to the makeshift arena. Usually, he wasn't the one to receive much thrill in watching opponents beat and potentially maim one another, but it was a way to kill time or distract one's mind. Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, he walked inside the arena as said weapon rested on his back.

A pretty decent place, after wandering inside he managed to find the seats to watch the competitors attempt their best at the events. As his eyes scanned each competitor, Qara'Sion spotted Wets-His-Blade among them easily. The khajiit shook his head with a bit of a grin. "Not surprised this one would take part in this." He thought to himself.

Blade took care of his competition mostly with no trouble minus a few slip ups, but the khajiit once again wasn't surprised. However he did wish he knew prior that the argonian was entering, as Qara'Sion could have made money off of him. What did surprise him a bit was recalling the memory of how he took out Blade's captor awhile ago, which forced an even bigger grin on his face.

After the bouts ended, Qara'Sion made the decision to go and find the argonian for a simple chat and congrats. It didn't take long to find him as he simply asked one of the maids for his whereabouts. The khajiit approached him; arms crossed in front. "Looks like somebody had a fun day today."
Blade was busy returning the attentions of the amorous argonian maid on his shoulder when he heard the familiar voice. Glancing over at its source, a grin broke out on his own face.
"Ah! Qara'Sion, in all the excitement I guess I forgot to say hello to anyone from your group. Just a moment."

Blade turned back to the female and whispered something that made her giggle before wandering off. The big argonian waved Qara'Sion forward then.
"Come, I'm hungry and thirsty."

As he began to lead the way through the camp, Blade would occasionally wave to a fan or opponent who recognized him from the arena while he headed for the rudimentary tavern he knew had been built. Qara'Sion half-smirked as he watched Blade wave. "Show off." The khajiit simply thought to himself as he followed.

"So," he started as he directed his attention to his furry friend, "I assume you got that stick of yours working. I could hear the cracks in the distance. You didn't happen to shoot Zaveed In his uptight ass did you?"

Hearing that Blade must have had some kind of long range hearing to hear the shots from the dwemer weapon, the khajiit mentally sighed from the memory. Although his comment about Zaveed kept the smirk on his face. "Sounds like someone's a bit jealous his fighting style isn't as refined. Even though your "stick'em with the pointy end" tactic is decent enough." He taunted. "And as you heard surprisingly, my sibling and her friends managed to fix the bloody thing in enough shape to work. It took a bit of time when they kept having last minute notices that something wasn't as it should've looked."

Blade considered how friendly he was being. He hadn't acted in such a familiar fashion with anybody for... Well he couldn't remember the last time really. Part of his chipper mood could be attributed to the friendly competition of the tournament. It had actually felt good to get some exercise without the risk of being gutted and without having to gut anybody else. But he realized that it was also in part because he considered the khajiit a friend along with the rest of their group. He had conflicting emotions regarding this minor revelation.

Qara'Sion shook his head before lightly tapping Blade on his shoulder. "Had I known you would be fighting in the arena, I probably could've made a bit of extra gold to support the group." The khajiit then picked up the pace a bit, walking ahead of Blade but turned his head to the argonian. "It's nice knowing the mer I conveniently rescued awhile back would come in handy." He recalled the memory of the bandit cave. The khajiit normally wouldn't be the one to "poke the bear" but Blade would know he was only teasing. Partially. If anything he would just snap his fingers, and quietly but quickly walk away. But just in case...

"If you're in the mood for it, I'll treat you to A bottle at the tavern as a congrats to your victory." Qara'Sion offered. Putting alot of emphasis on the single "A". If they were going to drink, then Qara'Sion preferred not to have a hand in the potential future bar brawl like what happened on the Sea Wisp.

Blade threw his head back and gave a bark of laughter,
"Jealous? Of Zaveed? Fighting? Qara'Sion please, the scar on my gut still hurts when I laugh too hard. Don't get me wrong, he's good. But the only reason you never see me use a bit of finesse is because I rarely need to."
He gave a wolfish grin,
"And it's not as fun."

Blade pushed aside the tent flap of the makeshift tavern as he and his partner neared it. The sound of merry and inebriated conversation flooded the dimly lit shelter, along with the staggering scent of sweaty men and alcohol, which was only exacerbated by the humid confines.
While the humidity was a welcome feeling to his cold blooded physiology, the scent, or taste rather, was truly torturous to his sensitive forked tongue. He stoically marched on however. He'd grown accustomed to horrid tasting air, having spent plenty of time around blood soaked battle grounds.

He made his way to a, surprisingly, open table that was just large enough for the two mer. Some of the crowd respectfully made some room for them to pass as they recognized the argonian from the arena, offering nods of recognition. Blade pulled up a stool and sat down, crossed arms resting on the table top. Qara'Sion did the same, putting down the dwemer weapon to rest on the side of the table, propping his elbow on the table as he held up his head to rest on his palm.

Blade rolled his eyes as the two settled in.
"You're never going to let me forget that cave are you? I guess I should be the one offering you a drink. Careful though, stick with me long enough and you'll end up owing me a lot more than just one." The khajiit gave a bit of a chuckle hearing his response. "Never shall this one forget. But do not worry, I'll make sure you don't either." Winking out of his blue eye, smiling.

The lizard nodded a thank you to the tavern girl as she dropped two mugs of mead onto the table. He drank deeply of the strong liquid and gave a contented sigh as he finished, cup half empty. Qara'Sion slowly gulped down his own cup. Mead wasn't his favorite to drink... but it was decent enough.

"You know, we've been so busy running and killing across the country, that I've never really had a chance to get to know any of you. Granted, at first I didn't really care to honestly. But tell me, how does one such as you end up fighting in a war? You don't really strike me as the 'let's go kill lots of people because reasons' type. Why are you here?"

The khajiit froze up for a second before placing the cup down on the table. Blade did bring up a very good question that he never thought about deeply before. He put on a pondering expression on his face before reaching around to the back of his mane, pulling the string to untie it. He payed attention to how long his mane really was as the ends of it was passed the seat he was sitting on.

Of course, this was just a distraction to buy him time to answer Blade's question. Why was he fighting in this war? There was really no plan for revenge, he wasn't a soldier or one of the heroes, so there was no duty or obligation for him to fight. And it wasn't as if his presence in the fighting would be the decisive factor for the outcome as someone else could easily take his place. So... why was he getting involved? He just happened to be a survivor of the imperial city incident, and if it wasn't for Mufasa returning into his life, he probably wouldn't have taken up arms in the chorrol mission.

So... why was he here?

Another gulp from his cup. He flaunted his lion like mane before returning his attention back to Blade, crossing his arms and legs as he leaned back a bit. "I could ask the same of you in a sense. You were a gladiator correct? It's not as though you have to fight do you?" He answered. Maybe Blade's answer would spark a thought in the khajiit's head.

Blade took another gulp of his drink as he waited for the khajiit's reply, who was stalled by fidgeting with his mane like a woman. Admittedly, it was a fairly impressive one. But instead of an answer, the argonian received a question instead.

"Yes," he said as he nodded an affirmative, "I was a gladiator of the Capitol arena. And no, don't have to fight. I want to. Though not for my country, or a religion, or any man or mer. I put no stock in such things. What does it matter if the dwemer take the country? Would their rule be any worse than another government? Who can say? All I know is that governments rarely care for their populace anyway and they are all shitty to some degree. The Emperor would not lay his life on the line for anyone, so. Why should I lay mine down for his? Why should anybody do so for any king? Were all just walking coin purses to the likes of them. I'm here because fighting is all I know."
Blade chuckled briefly as he considered his sole other work experience.
"Well, that and..."

He twitched as his train of thought brought the eight year old memory of the Windhelm docks crashing down on the merry atmosphere as he became acutely aware of the scar crossing his brow and down his cheek. His features hardened and he could feel his rage build like dark storm clouds over a thrashing sea. He growled and stared intently at the table in front of him. If looks could kill, the table would have exploded.

"Never mind."

Qara'Sion listened and watched intently as Blade spoke. Primarily, fighting was the only thing he knew how to do; another reason as to why Qara'Sion questioned his own presence here. He could fight, he could kill, but he could do more than just that, he knew he could. He wasn't willing to die on the battlefield like a unsung hero. Especially when there was something out there to still take care of and that was to resolve his past and find his own happiness to keep living.

He wasn't going to stay in the fight for much longer. It was becoming clearer to him that that might be the correct choice. The others were willing to dance with death, and he wasn't. For years he's had to, and it was getting tiring, even more so with it practically resting on his shoulders thanks to current events.

The growl from Blade gave the khajiit an indication he was going to say something that bothered him. Half-smirking, he pushed Blade's cup towards him, lifting up his own. "Come, drink a bit. We're supposed to be celebrating your victory as well as a time of rest! And with such a scary face like that, I doubt any ladies here would approach it." Qara'Sion chuckled as he drank again. "But...it isn't like you to hesitate. If you want to say it, go ahead, if not, then don't." He did want to know what Blade was going to say, but his demeanor killed the curiosity.

"I'd rather not," Blade grumbled before downing the rest of his drink.
"No offense, but bad memories and alcohol are a volatile mixture. Maybe some other time."

The argonian chuckled and smirked then, pushing the memory aside.
"But I'll have you know, the ladies don't approach me to get a good look at my face."

He briefly flagged down the barmaid for another drink during the insinuating pause then turned back to the khajiit.
"Enough about me. You still haven't answered my question. What are you doing here Qara'Sion? You have a family, so why risk death when you could go live in peace with them?"

Qara'Sion could only laugh a bit at Blade's response to him. "I wholeheartedly agree with you, I doubt such a non-intimidating, scary, blood covered face would have much trouble bringing in a woman to it. Just saying." The khajiit said with a shrug and another drink from his glass, setting it back down on the table. Then Blade's next sentence struck home. The words that struck to his mind the argonian said specifically were "You have a family".

His ears folded back like an angry house cat. But his facial expression didn't show said anger. He finished his drink immediately to buy him more time to think and after a cough or two, he looked back at the argonian. "Eh, I do what i want when I feel like it, whether I appear or not appear to be quite the fighter I can hold my own. I'm just here to help our allies stay alive. No other reason." He stated. Thinking on it now, his sentence might have been a bit confusing, maybe due to the mead, but there was nothing to be done since it already left his mouth. Qara'Sion wanted to divert the subject in any way possible, even if it was a slow transition due to being confusing. But he couldn't ignore Blade's words. If he was stabbed in the heart, it would hurt less than the argonian's words.

"You have a family."

He paused for a moment... he wanted to ignore his own problem, potentially making Blade angry would be a better feeling to him than thinking of his own past. He wanted to resolve it before his potential demise in the war, but now was not the time for him to want to focus on his past.

"....Awww, this one doesn't want to have a heart-to-heart moment with Sion?" The khajiit laughed forcefully. "Don't be so difficult, after all, It's rather polite to tell your own story to the person who saved you." He laughed once again, all the while flaunting his mane like a haughty woman. He didn't care, he would rather Blade be upset with him than think about the thoughts he was trying to push away, even if he trusted him. "But please, call me Sion. I would prefer that since we've known each other for quite a bit."

Blade didn't notice the khajiit's subtle tic or change in mood at the mention of his family. He just nodded in agreement as Qara'Sion gave his reasons, interjecting briefly to say, "As good a reason as any."

He was drinking from a fresh mug when the khajiit again pressed him about his own past, and his brows furrowed as he drank deeply. Withdrawing from the tankards depths, he just gazed at his stuttering reflection contemplatively.

A minute passed before Blade set the cup down and he unconsciously ran a finger down the length of the scar on his cheek.
"There's not much to tell really. For the past- what's it been now? Eight years I think, I've been living off my skills as a fighter. Day in and day out, at the Arena or for the Fighters Guild, I've been killing for coin. But before that I was just a laborer. I loaded cargo with my brother at the Windhelm docks up in Skyrim. It's a miserable place for anybody, doubly so for us argonians. Cold blood and all. Anyway, we'd both worked those docks since we were children to make a living our mother died of malnutrition when we were young. That was the only place the Nords would allow us to work. They weren't too keen on anyone other than humans being in their hold, so they reserved the best jobs and homes for their own, and payed the both of us only a couple septims for the whole day. That is, a couple septims split between us. It was hard work, but we managed to scrape by."

Blade suddenly burst out laughing.
"You may not believe it, but I wasn't always like this. Back then I did my best to avoid confrontation. Accommodating. Submissive."
He practically spat out the last word.
"I was content to eke out a living and keep my head low. Content to fight the dock rats for scraps of moldy bread. It's all I thought I could ever achieve. Living there, it's all I thought I deserved. But not my brother. He was a troublesome one. Thorn-In-Scale knew we were being treated unfairly. We both did but he was the only one who wanted to do anything about it. Petty vandalism, stealing cargo. He did what he could in secret to get back at the Nords and I did what I could to keep us out of trouble."

Blade's jaw clenched during the pause that followed. He took another deep drink of mead before continuing.
"It was only a matter of time though before he was caught for something. I don't even know if he did do anything. The Nords suspected him, so maybe they just came up with their own reason, not that it matters."

The argonian's arms and shoulders visibly tensed as a scowl crossed his face while he spoke.
"One day I arrived at the docks just in time to see the guards behead my brother."

There was a creak and then a crunch as the wood mug began to splinter in Blade's clenched hands. The noise seemed to snap him out of his reverie. He pushed the leaking tankard aside.
"Well, needless to say I was rather upset. And you know how I get when I'm upset. Then I fled Skyrim and eventually ended up in Cyrodiil. Entered the games since I was pissed off and didn't care weather I lived or died. And found out I was good at fighting. Killing. Been doing it ever since."

The argonian began to pick splinters from between the scales of his fingers and said flatly,
"That was a bit more in depth then I had intended to go."

He froze up for a moment as Blade told his story. He really didn't expect him to actually tell anything, and he did. A bit of guilt remained in the khajiit's thoughts. Shaking his head slowly, he spoke once again. "My apologies, didn't think you would actually say anything."

Qara'Sion immediately raised his cup again, holding it up to the argonian. "Let's just do what we came here to do and celebrate. Cheers to your victory, Wets-His-Blade."

"Aye," Blade responded absently, his eyes focused intently on something in the distance only he could see.
"To victory..."
...for whatever that's worth.

En-route to the City of Helgathe:

Verdant barriers surrounded the eastbound path, providing the perfect cover for a camp less than a day's walk from the city. Beautiful as it was, the rainforests and grassy plains were home to a myriad of alien life-forms, some pulled directly from a traveller’s log, and others from a dream. To a band of foreign travellers, it yielded countless reasons to remain on edge. The new surprises gave rise to an alertness that bordered on paranoia, and Thyra came to appreciate that which she despised - the southern sun. Where the route emerged from the merciful shade, all but the most hostile of fauna withdrew their pursuits. Foreign or not, none were immune to Hammerfell’s fiery whims. At first, she balked at the offer of a seat aboard the wagon, on account of the code written in her blood. By the third hour, the disadvantages of her Nord heritage began to show, and through sweltering heat and silent swearing, her resolve had seeped out through every pore. Indeed, wagons were a common mode of transport back home, but they were the choice of upper class milk-drinkers ripe for the picking. For those in her caste, it was one of two things: a payday or a vessel to judgment day. It went without saying that her mood was not as hospitable as it was the previous night.

Before sunset, Rashad announced the final mile, a time to take precautions, if one was so inclined. By observing their manner of preparation, the Nord could make accurate guesses at each person’s profession if she didn't know it already. Some slid their weapons into concealments, or took a final tally of the potions, herbs and arrows carried with them, whereas Thyra made sure to walk the rest of the way so as not to appear incompetent. There were parts of her attire that hugged the broad form beneath, and aside from the cloak hanging loosely at her shoulders, little else could shield her weapon from suspicious eyes. It was a risk she deemed worthy to take. Sure, the steel axe was standard edition and battle worn, but the small nicks in its head, notches marked on the helve, and the balding leather straps that held it together, made it hers. The events that took from it its storefront sheen, were what molded her into the person she was now. That is what made it irreplaceable, and that is why it went wherever she did.

Their destination soon became a distant but distinct image in the haze before dusk, growing larger as the shadows grew taller. The city of Helgathe was a fine ornament on a clay mantle, guarded by golden men from a bygone age. Fortunately, Thyra’s cover role as a caravan escort excused her anxious and disgruntled demeanour. After a short pass of time at the Western Gate, Rashad summoned the column forth and deeper they went, into the grand interior of Hammerfell’s jewel. Skyrim boasted its own wonders of stonemasonry, but very few, if any, possessed the elegant beauty that dressed every corner and avenue. Brightly coloured banners stretched high across the streets, while statuesque figures held vigilance over the townspeople, and they themselves were an equally exotic bunch. But none more so than the deep elves that had risen from fabled memory. The sight of their patrols, sparse as they were among the natives on their payroll, struck the Nord as something equally wondrous. Though the sentiments powering their directive was never more clear than when she saw the opposing reactions drawn from the Redguard locals. As Rashad recounted the events of their occupation, she vowed to help collect that blood debt.

---

-- Helgathe, The Marketplace, 16 Rain's Hand --

”Why is it always the elves causing enough trouble to piss off a nation?” she wondered silently, lifting her eyes from the coin in her hand to stare out across the maze of stalls. The sky wore a darker shade of purple than when they first entered the home of Darak Mashad. It fanned away the blazing trail left in the sun's wake, spreading cool and quiet onto the marketplace below. A few merchants still lingered in the aisles, sweeping the pavements clean, tending to their stock with pride, and catering to a thinning crowd of consumers and collaborators. Thyra’s elbows pressed into the countertop at her back, where a jolly voice from within listed fruit options to a lady who smelled of spices and jazbay. A half-eaten apple filled the other palm, given as a courtesy along with the directions to a few places she wanted to visit. At the mention of Doshin Ismal, he immediately stiffened, so she offered to look into the recent thefts plaguing his imports to help loosen his words. Technically, this wasn’t the same as taking a contract, but seventy septims could more than afford her spartan demands, and the reward for this was pertinent to the cause.

Forging Friendship in Fire and Booze:
-- a collaboration between Dipper, Dusk, Nyxella and Rtron --

Insurgent Camp, West of Helgathe, 15 Rain's Hand

It was pleasing to hear her own views spoken aloud by another, but after sitting and watching the flames for a minute more, the Nord grew tired of the reminders of loss, and of the inaction. In a very dramatic manner, she threw her head back, tipped the seemingly endless bottle to the sky, and followed its direction upwards. “I feel like hitting something.” She pushed the bottle into Elayna’s hands and snatched the axe from her belt, twirling it with an unexpected grace. “Come!”

Taking the bottle with a bit of a jump, Elayna followed along with not so much as a complaint. It would be better for her to stick around others, and maybe the sound of metal being struck would drown out the shadows at the edge of her mind. Soon, the scents of roasted meat and burning coals welcomed them at the end of their path. It opened up into a wide clearing below a lattice of boughs and branches, where the occupants traded stories and shared meals around a central campfire. A short distance away, glowed the belly of a forge. Making sure Thyra was focused on her path, Elayna took a quick swig from the bottle, shaking the strength from her head. When she looked back up, Thyra was making a bee-line for it.

A familiar, bulky figure was hunched over the flames and bellows. Elayna squinted, the booze beginning to take a bit of her sight. As they got closer, she could make out dark skin illuminated by fire, and the distinct teeth of an Orc. "Isn't that Gorzath?" She inquired, not to anyone in particular.

It was remarkably easy to lose yourself in old, familiar motions. And that's what Gorzath did. The world around him faded away, and his past failures (or near failures at any rate) were forgotten. There wasn't the knowledge that he had nearly tossed lives away for information that was likely a lie created by the Necromancer. There was no knowledge that the remnants of the Legion hated him for both killing one of their members and using their friends' corpses as a distraction. There was just the smithy, and the ore he was shaping. He wasn't just going to take only iron weapons into a Dwemer filled city. Even if the orinsium he was using to make a dagger wasn't going to be able to do much against the Dwemer weapons and armor, it was certainly better than iron.

He was interrupted by the sound of someone, someone familiar, asking about him. Looking over his shoulder as he worked, he saw Elayna and an unknown nord holding an axe with her. There was a bottle between the two of them, a bottle that had been clearly used. Lovely. Out of all his companions, it had to be one who reminded him of the island and his near cold-blooded sacrifice to visit him. "Yes, it's Gorzath. Who is your friend?"

"This scary Nord lady? This here's Thyra. I feel like she could rip my head from my spine and...oh look, I'm rambling! Silly me!" Elayna gave a drunken chuckle, surprised that she had gotten so inebriated already. Whatever Thyra had, it was more potent than she originally believed. It served her Breton body right for trying to hold liquor so strong it would make sense only a Nord could handle it.

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude..." The Breton said sheepishly under her breath before stepping back and placing the bottle down on the nearest surface. It was nearly empty, and Elayna figured that she'd end up making it up to Thyra. Now that she thought about it, as much thinkiing as she could do, Thyra had come to the forge with purpose, and the Breton decided to let her newfound drinking buddy take care of whatever business she had before the young Alchemist had a chance to annoy Gorzath further.

Thyra had launched herself at the tools on offer without a thought spared for the other in their company. By the time Elayna had spoken, she had already picked out what was needed. She huffed her amusement at the introduction and focused on the Orc, unsure of how her eyes - reduced to a shorter scope, but otherwise in working condition - could have missed his broad shadow.

"Yes," she spoke to Elayna then locked a blue-tinted gaze on Gorzath, "We do." Further to his side, she saw the instrument she sought and made for it with a light shove. "Outta my way." Settling her axe on a bench, she took to the grinding wheel and felt for any patches of glaze in its edge. She pushed the pedal for a few test runs, listened to its song, and watched. There were no shrill squeaks, skips in rhythm, nor any other inconsistencies that required oiling or realignment. Maintaining the spin, one hand tipped the water cup suspended just above the wheel with a tenderness that opposed her hard expression, changing the wheel's lip to a darker shade. The other hand stretched out behind her and snapped its fingers, presumably at Elayna. "Bottle!" she called.

Elayna marvelled at how efficiently Thyra worked the grindstone, getting lost in the rotations and gentle pouring of water from the cup on top. So lost, in fact, that she jumped when Thyra demanded her bottle. The blush on Elayna's cheeks grew stronger, and as she grabbed the light bottle and handed it over, she shuffled away, wringing her hands. "Please don't murder me, please don't murder me...." She said under her breath, almost sure the few swigs left probably weren't enough to satisfy the Nord.

Gorzath watched, alternatively amused and irritated by their drunkeness. It was interesting to note that Elayna seemed much less...inclined to threaten others when she was intoxicated. Then again, she was also not getting angry over suggestions that she needed protection from either of them. When Thyra stared at him, he shrugged. Intruding would have been if he was where he thought no one would look for him, or expect him to be. Seeing as the forge was a public place, that idea was out the window. Still, it didn't help the fact that Elayna so easily reminded him of his failure as a 'Hero'. Before he could dwell on that particular screw up, he turned his attention to Thyra.

"So how did you get caught up in all of this mess?" He asked the Nord, chuckling lightly as Elayna practically flew to do Thyra's bidding.

With a flick of the wrist, the bottle surrendered its contents quicker than the Nord had anticipated, and the wheel immediately screeched to a halt. Genuinely perplexed, Thyra shook the bottle and held it upside down, all the while examining its dry lip with a puzzled look. Loudly, she wondered, "Why is the rum gone?!"

Before she could interrogate Elayna, Gorzath caught her with a question. She made a gruff noise and slammed her foot on the pedal, almost kicking over an empty bottle. The axe to her right was hastily grabbed at and held over the rolling stone. Blue sparks flew before her eyes in reaction to her rolling movements, the sound of grinding metal screeching back, like the ones that bled onto her axe's lip. The ones that blunted its edge with their bone. The ones that now lay with what remained of her.

"Got restless," she finally replied. "Took a job that was simple and tame, but instead of escape, it leads me to a mischief-Cat and new trouble." She rubbed a finger over the sharpened edge and shook her head. "I don't give a damn about the others, but the girl? She was only a child. A lippy brat of a child, who I'd 'ave put over my knee for all the t'ings she spat," she gave a short chuckle. "I'm not sayin' I owe the Cat, and he ain't why I'm here, but if he didn't have his head on, I'd be where Vurwe is right now."

As the Nord began to speak, Gorzath felt a feeling of dread enter him. There had been only one child he knew of, sent on that trip. And certainly only one child on that trip who fit the description Thyra was giving. Still, he hoped. Don't say her name. Don't say her name. He begged silently. But of course, that did nothing. Thyra said Vurwe's name, and that was quickly followed by the sharp breaking sound of a dagger blade being broken by too strong a blow from Gorzath.

He remained frozen, face blank. She was dead. Zaveed was many things, but he wouldn't have left her at the mercy of Goblins. Besides, he was supposed to be killing them. Gorzath just felt..empty. He had been the only one willing to protect her, had been the only thing keeping her alive when things turned nasty with Sash and her boss. Then again, he had also been the cause for that. She had made her decision and decided to go to the Goblins, rather than the Necromancer. He could have made the choice to go with her, to protect her. But he didn't, and she died for it. A bitter smile crossed his face. Another failure to add to the list, eh?

Softly, he asked, "Was it at least quick?"

"She was a half-starved little scarecrow, the gas would have made off with her swiftly," Thyra stated bluntly. Hopefully, he was convinced and wouldn't ask anything else of it. In all honestly, she wasn't sure if the girl suffered, and was not yet prepared to entertain a guess. The tender tone he took made her wonder about something else. "You knew her?"

"He did." Zainat said as he approached the small group, and glanced around, looking for someway he could work with his hands to keep his mind occupied. With a sigh, he placed a small bundle of sticks he had gathered while foraging in the surrounding forest onto the ground. He then glanced around, looking for the small sack of arrowheads he had left there shortly before. "Where in Mephala's name... Ah, there. Breton. By your feet, mind handing me that bag?" He asked, although judging by his tone, it was likely rhetorical.

Glancing at Thyra, he shook his head, and she leaned away from the wheel, curious to hear him. "I was the last one out of that Azura-Damned mine. I thought Vurwe was behind me when I shot that barrel, but..." He shrugged slightly, trying to appear aloof about it all, but his eyes spoke different. "She wasn't. She was slow. And judging by how those Goblins died, it was quick. Excruciatingly painful, worse than any death I've ever seen... But quick. A little girl had no place being in a Goblin filled mine anyway. Zaveed killed her by insisting she come with us, just like I killed her by being the only elf she felt comfortable being around... And like I did by releasing that gas." He laughed bitterly, his lips curling into a mockery of a smirk. "The gas was just a dagger."

Elayna had sat herself on the ground, leaning against the beam holding up the canopy over the forge. Her initial fear from Thyra's inquisition about the rum had subsided to a feeling of guilt and sadness as the Nord warioress fell into thoughts of Vurwe aloud. Elayna kept quiet, and the inebriating drink allowed her mind to fill with a disastrous train of thought. If she were there, could Elayna have used what she knew and saved the girl? Most likely not. But the smallest possibility was what grated at her.

Before she could give her input on the gas, which, given the effects, was most likely the most unpleasant way to go, a Dark Elf approached, answering Thyra's question for Gorzath. The elf asked her, or at least, the only 'Breton' there for the bag next to her feet. The young woman looked down to it with clouded eyes, before picking it up and standing to hand it to the man. "Here. And it's Elayna, not 'Breton'." She huffed, sitting back down. And it was good that she did, with the next set of comments from the new-comer.

The Alchemist buried her head into her knees as this Dunmer said that he, as well as Zaveed was at fault. It wasn't something she cared to hear, all this about death and blame. It wasn't making the drunken feeling much fun.

Gorzath nodded in minor relief. At least it was quick, and her suffering was kept to a minimum. The Spellsword opened his mouth to answer when a Dark Elf walked in, answering for him. He glanced curiously at the newcomer, struggling to remember where he had seen the Elf. A few moments later, it clicked. The meeting, where they were technically blackmailed into killing the Necromancer and the Goblin tribes. Then, of course, he had to go into greater detail of Vurwe's death rather than leaving it where it was. Apparently, he had shot the barrel, releasing the gas. Consigning Vurwe to a very, very painful but quick death.

Gorzath's hand tightened around the hammer, and for the briefest of moments he felt the easy rage the rest of his kind felt. Here was the person directly responsible for her death. For the High Elf he had promised to protect, and failed to protect, dying. For a brief moment, he actually entertained the idea of attacking the Elf, extracting a blood price. But then, reason won over rage. Even if Zainat was right, and it was both the Dark Elf's fault and Zaveed's fault, it was also his fault. He had let the girl go where she pleased, instead of following her. He couldn't just blame it on one man, no matter how tempting.

So rather than attacking, he simply said, "Yours, his, mine. Too many opportunities to stop her from going, from it ever occurring, none of them taken. All of our faults, over all." Then he turned back to Thyra. "He's right. I knew her. I was the one who took over protecting her from both her mouth and other threats when she first came with us. Obviously, that failed."

"Not your fault... When she came with us, she insisted on following me. I kept her alive through the Goblin raid at the Oasis... That was my charge. My duty. I was supposed to keep her alive after we parted ways." He shook his head, and then opened the bag of arrowheads and began attaching them to the rough wooden shafts. "Not your fault. I doubt facing a Necromancer would have been much better." He scowled angrily as he began to fumble with the arrow, seemingly unable to attach the head to the shaft. After a few moments, it was clear that the Dunmer wouldn't be speaking much longer. He snarled, and tossed the arrow to the side, and then swore in Dunmeris before he sighed. When he spoke, his voice was filled with sadness. "I liked Vurwe... She was a good child. Snarky. Catty... But not a bad child."

Thyra gave a light-hearted scoff, "Course you'd say that. Girl was more attached to you than soot. We can argue all night about who feels more sorry for themselves than the other. In the end, Arkay decides who stays, and for how long." Thyra stood, and a loud rattle sounded as she slammed her axe on a workbench nearby. "Vurwe died in battle. Where I come from, that ain't a tragedy, that's an honour." Her eyes locked onto Zainat's for a second, and the Dark Elf nodded, agreeing with her. The Nord's focus then shifted to the Orc, her stern address led by the sharp point of her finger, "You didn't owe the child a debt, you had a duty to fulfill, and there'd be more dead if you abandoned it. Nothing would change if you came with us, the situation was out of anyone's control. We had no chance of saving Vurwe," an involuntary breath created a pause. In trying to reconcile their grief, she was ignoring her own.

Shaking the dreary thoughts of 'what if?' from her head, she hastily attached the axe to a loop in her belt and strode towards the exit. Zainat was clearly frustrated, and she was in half a mind to keep going, but something tugged at her to slow down. She sneered at her own inability to feign indifference, and stepped over the pile of sticks to stand next to him. "Imagine if she were still here," she started with a chortle. "What a pain in the arse she'd be to keep alive. Hiding a mouthy, High Elf brat in a Redguard city filled with Dwemer soldiers?" Thyra's grin opened with a sudden burst of laughter, "Better chance shaving a werewolf, if y'ask me."

"True. Although I think it would be more like shaving a werebear... As it is, you'll have an Ashlander, whose Tribe was at the forefront of Lord Nerevar's charge against the Dwemer. My ancestors will be screaming for Dwemer blood." The Ashlander said, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Thyra nodded at his show of spirit. From where she stood, the fragments of Gorzath's work appeared to glimmer in the dull light. Although he was cut from a different cloth, the civility could not mask the rage his kind was known for. "Gorzath, our lady needs something to defend herself with." She called out to the laboring giant, tilting her head towards Elayna. "Can you help?"

"And you," she lightly tapped Zainat's leg with her leather boot. "Steady the shaft between your knees so you have both hands free to fix the arrowhead. Call yourself an Ashlander?" she teased. The Dark Elf grunted slightly, and took the Nord's advice. "I'm a Warrior of the Urshilaku, not a fletcher." He muttered, obviously embarrassed at his rather amateur mistake. "Thank you, Thyra." He said after a few seconds, glancing up at her with his blood tinged orbs. Again, she nodded, and after watching him work for a few moments, she looked around at the three of them, "We lost a life, but let's not forget there are countless more riding on what we do from now on."

Elayna looked up from her knees as Thyra spoke, strong and resolute, while the rest of them faltered. The Breton had never given thought to the fact that she could be the voice of such reason. At the mention of getting a weapon ready for her, Elayna was about to object and just use her trusty dagger. Though, it was dull and scarred from her use of it in the fields of Leyawiin. It was stained and damaged, and she didn't want to end up having to explain each ding and splash of color. No, a new blade would do her good.

Standing, she smiled Gorzath's way, a headache drumming in her brain. "Want some help? I'd hate to be lazy." Elayna offered, hoping to just get the night over with. She'd most likely try to help anyways, and get ready late into the night. Sleep would be hard to catch, at the least.

Gorzath opened his mouth, ready to contest Zainat’s point, when Thyra started speaking. The Ashlander was first, and then it was his turn. At the mention of duty, Gorzath’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. A duty? Oh yes. A duty he had nearly failed, consigning people to death for evidence that probably didn’t exist. Innocents to death, people who had probably trusted him. At her words about no chance, he muttered quietly, “Magic can make chances.” Then again, if he hadn’t gone with Wets-his-blade and Elayana, it was entirely possible that the two people they saved would have died or the mission would have failed completely. What if…what if…

Shaking himself from his reverie, he glanced down to the shattered bits of metal and then back up at Thyra. “I can make her one. As for the countless lives riding one what happens next, I won’t forget. But the Dwemer will pay. For the sacking of Imperial city. For their brutal conquests. For Vurwe. For the countless others whose lives they’ve ruined or taken. They’ll pay, and they’ll pay in blood.” Glancing over to Elayana, smiling. “Any help you can offer would be appreciated.”

Much like Thyra, Zainat refused the offered seat in the wagon, although for different reasons. No self-respecting Ashlander would be pulled by a horse, and despite the fact that Magnus was beating down upon him without mercy once they left the shade of the (to Zainat) strange and alien forest, he continued to walk, his heritage and the fact that he had spent the past few years within the Alik'r Desert building up tolerance to the sweltering heat aiding him greatly... Although he did cast a few envious looks at the few who chose to ride rather than walk. He took a quick sip from his waterskin, and then turned his mind towards his cover story.
"I am Sul-Matuul, exile of the Urshilaku tribe, working as an authentic Ashlander rug seller. A faithful worshiper of The Black Knight, come to visit the great Mosque of Ebonarm, as well as to sell prayer rugs in the market." He said silently, before shaking his head slightly. He could almost hear his ancestors crying out in sadness at that statement, and he rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "No. Sul-Matuul is my ancestor. I will not dishonor his legacy by stealing his name and claiming to be an exile. He turned his mind towards the legends of his tribe, remembering the names of the ancient heroes. Alandro Sul, who was shield-companion of Nerevar during the War of the First Council, and a child of Azura herself. He chucked slightly, shaking his head. "The dwemer would know that name. I need something inconspicious, like... Pilun... Yahaz." He smiled, already putting the finishing touches upon his cover story. He strode over to the Redguard, Rashad, and quickly brought up the last minute changes to his cover-story... Only to be shot down. There was no time to change his cover story, he was told, and if it were to be changed, it would be so sloppy that the gate-guards would know it was a lie almost instantly.

Disappointed, Zainat slunk back to his spot just behind the wagon, and looked down at his clothes. Instead of a breastplate, he was wearing a Thawb made from white linen, and over that a a Bisht, and the craftsman who made it had obviously put a bit of time into making it. It was plain looking, but extremely comfortable, and very easy to maneuver in. Instead of the boots he normally wore, he was forced to wear the chappal, the bastard lovechild of a pair of shoes and a pair of sandals. Apparently followers of Ebonarm wore these as they are easier to remove when entering into a Mosque, but Zainat found the entire notion of removing one's clothes while praying to be insipid. Azura, Boetheia and Mephala did not demand that one removed one's clothes while praying, and anyone who did anything else was a damn N'Wah. Instead of his gauntlets, he wore a simple pair of linen gloves. As he was posing as a follower of Ebonarm, he would not be able to make physical contact with a woman unless through a barrier such as this. Again, this was only something that a S'wit would come up with. However, there was one peice of clothing he did not mind wearing, the Taqiyah, a type of skull cap that followers of Ebonarm tended to wear, and over that, a plain, purple silk Keffiyeh that covered much of his face. "This is the one thing I don't hate... It would be useful in an Ashstorm as well as a Sandstorm." He muttered to himself in Dunmeris as he continued to trek alongside the wagon.

He had originally intended to wear his Chitin armor into the city, claiming that no one would look twice at an Ashlander with Chitin armor, but it was quickly pointed out that that was only the case in places that Ashlanders were known to be common in, and that wearing that armor would only serve to bring attention to him and his companions... Or, friends, as he was beginning to think of them. Especially since he was supposed to be a merchant. He had reluctantly agreed... And began stripping the chitin plates off the armor, leaving it in its base form: Netch Leather armor. Every single piece of Chitin armor was, truthfully, a suit of boiled Netch leather with Chitin Plates strategically placed so that it would provide extra protection. Even his helm was essentially a boiled Netch Leather helm that had a chitin plate attached to the it. Almost immediately as he had began his work, a fellow Dunmer had approached him and explained that, while the Netch Leather would certainly blend in much better than his chitin armor, anyone who touched it would know otherwise. Netch leather was filled with nematocysts containing the (thankfully) domesticated poisons that permeated the netch's venomous flesh, and even the slightest touch would cause the skin that touched the leather throb, albeit barely perceptibly. It was not a painful sensation, but a pleasantly energizing one, but it would definitely cause unwanted attention if someone touched it.

While those points were all very valid, Zainat deeply missed his armor, and truly felt naked without it. Thankfully, however, his weapons were much easier to smuggle in with him... Mostly because of their weight. He had hidden his chitin bow, along with his arrows, inside the many rolled up prayer rugs that he had been given by various followers of Ebonarm within the camp who happened to have more than one. His shortsword was -much- easier to hide within his Thawb, so that while he appeared to be some defenseless rug-trader, he was anything but. He knew that his skills in sneaking would make it much easier to conceal the blade from any Dwemer who intended on checking if he had weapons on him.

As they neared the city, Zainat climbed into the wagon, taking Thyra's place. After all, he was just a rug trader, here to sell his wares at the Bazaar, not a warrior trained to kill. He had to keep up his appearances, and no merchant would walk while his wares were stacked within a wagon. Better to keep an eye on his rugs than allow someone to steal them.

---

"I want one hundred Drakes for that." Zainat said to a young, surprisingly light skinned Redguard who had obviously came to the city so as to make his Hajj. He hated this buying game with a passion, yet was forced to play it so as to not loose his cover. He had rented out a stall in the market, and had set up his wares so that if any Dwemer came asking questions, he could truthfully tell them he had been selling prayer rugs. He would much rather be brousing the market stalls, especially the famed spice section. Even growing in a isolated Ashlander tribe, he had heard tales told of the Grand Market of Helgathe from the occasional House Dunmer who traveled through the Ash Wastes to take counsil from the Wise Woman of his tribe
"One hundred Drakes!? You must be majnoon!" The Redguard exclaimed, and although Zainat had no idea what the word 'Majnoon' meant, he figured it had to do with insanity, or something like that.
"Do you know how much time it took to make that? Let alone the time it took to bring it all the way from Morrowind? That isn't even counting the price it took to ship!" He responded, acting defensively. Please just pay the hundred drakes and go away. Zainat thought, however, wanting to end this as quickly as possible. Still, the proper forms must be respected, and he silently poured the man a cup of coffee, something he had seen the merchants of Morowind do many times while they haggled with customers.
"You are crazy, Dunmer. I will pay you twenty septims." The man responded, scowling at Zainat.
"Twenty!? I have a starving family that I must feed! I could not go lower than sixty septims."
"Thirty."
"Fifty."
"Fourty."
Please kill me, Azura. He silently prayed, before speaking once more. "I cannot not go lower than fifty septims! If people heard how badly you took advantage of me..." He trailed off, waiting for the Redguard to respond.
"Fourty five. I'll not pay more." The Redguard said at length, emptying the cup Zainat had poured for him.
"Deal." Zainat said, a bit too suddenly as the Redguard counted out fourty five septims, while Zainat handed the prayer rug the young man had bought to him. "Ma'a As-Salaama." Zainat said as the man turned to leave. He knew a few words in the Redguard language of Yoku, and knew that it was a polite thing to say when someone is leaving.

Zainat sat back in his chair, and sighed, looking around the Bazaar with envy. "I'd give anything to be able to browse these stalls..." He said in Dunmeris, rubbing the back of his neck. "Never got to come here before the Dwemer came." He continued to scan the marketplace with his Ruby orbs, until they settled on a familiar figure only three stalls away from him. Thyra. He whistled sharply, and then waved at the Nord woman, hoping that Thyra would be able to ease the boredom of working as a merchant.

After finishing the night at the forge with Gorzath, which had produced a fine shortsword of steel, Elayna had gone back to the tent to sleep with Toad resting on her belly. Sleep danced in and out of her reach. While the night with Gorzath, Thyra, and the Dunmer whose name was Zainat, had left her feeling at least a little better, the coming day would test her. It would put her life truly on the edge for the second time. The Necromancer's lair was child's play compared to the approaching mission, and Elayna had to be ready mentally and physically for it. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in lithe dexterity. A perk of outrunning angry bears and scaling trees for precious ingredients. But in her mind...was she ready to go to the lion's den? One misstep, and she'd be dead. Or worse, considering it was the Dwemer.

Deciding it was best to, for once, leave things in the hands of the Divines, Elayna finally was able to find rest until the morning hours. The young woman rose from her bedding, and prepared along with the others, listening intently to the briefing. Her fears were affirmed, but she stayed resolute. A mistake would cost her her life. Mistakes, however, were her field of expertise. Her Alchemy was littered with them, and she had learned to adequately adapt. If she was lucky, Elayna would be able to cover her ass if things turned south. And thus, the trek to Helgathe began...

The forest was dearly missed as they moved into the scalding desert, though Elayna wasn't really worried. She silently thanked her mother and father for having her learn the ways of cryomancy, as it was incredibly relieving to shower herself and companions with a weakened Frostbite spell. Toad certainly enjoyed it as he stumbled along in the sand, struggling to keep up in his thick fur. Before she thought about picking up her friend, Elayna reviewed her cover identity. From now on, I'm Sylvia Gwenn, a Breton botanist from Wayrest traveling with a band of merchants to study samples of Hammerfell's flora. Fitting, I suppose, though all it is is a change of name and birthplace. Should make playing the part that much more convincing. Elayna rehearsed in her mind, plucking Toad up from the sand and holding him in her arms.

After a few hours, Rashad mentioned that they were closing in on Helgathe. The city loomed further ahead, amazing in it's stature and size. No wonder the Dwemer took interest in it. It's spiraling architecture was mesmerizing and beautiful, a far cry from the cut-and-dry style of the Imperial City. Upon approach, Elayna had Toad wriggle his way into the cargo to hide. The last thing she wanted was for the damned Dwemer to take him. Adjusting the spring green linen Hijab she'd been given, matching the robe or dress-like clothing she wore, so that it fit more loosely, Elayna was subject to the guard checkpoint with everyone else. With the bastards so close, the urge to grab at her familiar dagger strapped to her thigh and slice one of their throats was incredibly strong, but her emerald eyes stayed clear, warding off the red mist. Soon. They'd have their chance soon. And if she had anything to do with it, it'd be as painful and agonizing as possible.

They passed into Helgathe, a gorgeous city of ornaments and curves unseen in Cyrodiil. It's beauty soothed Elayna's heart, and she found herself smiling as they were lead into Rashad's basement. There, they were briefed on the city, and given an small amount of Septims, as well as the Insurgency's calling...coin? It was enough for now, and the symbol would surely prove useful. Toad whimpered beside her, knowing he would be left alone. It made the Breton's heart ache, as she knew that taking him around Helgathe would simply draw too much attention. Lifting her garb slightly to reach the dagger, she cut a strip from the Hijad, readjusting to hide the damage.

Elayna tied this strip to Toad's front right leg, stroking the fox's head. "You can always find me, my darling. My things are waiting at the warehouse. Be swift." Even if the creature of the forest could not truly understand her words, they shared a bond that transcended spoken language. Some called her a fool for loving Toadstool as she did, but they were all fools themselves. Following Elayna outside, Toad quickly slipped into the shadows of an alley, following his master's scent to find where he'd wait. The Alchemist, however, took to the streets, combing the stalls and stores for...

There it was. A ways from Rashad's store, was the familiar symbol of a mortar and pestle. With a deep breath, Elayna pushed open the door to the alchemist's store, and was immediately hit with the scent of many herbs and flowers. The scent of home.

Behind the counter, an aged man was turned around, sorting through jars. An image of Dominus flashed into her mind, causing her heart to jerk and the question "Dominus?" to lodge itself in her throat. If the Redguard hadn't turned to greet her, she may have made a fool of herself. As she still stared dumbfounded, he asked if she was alright, after already saying hello. His greeting seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Blinking to bring herself back to reality, Elayna smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. You just reminded me of someone, that's all." Approaching the counter, she went into her coinpurse. "My name is Sylvia...would you happen to have anything needing done?" She slid the Merchant Guild's coin across to him, the elderly fellow looking it over, and looking at the woman's verdant eyes. He looked as though he meant business, but not in an overbearingly serious way. The man grew to be more and more like her former master each moment.

"Why yes...it just so happens I do. I'm in need of someone to fetch a shipment of ingredients, but my joints are just so stiff...are you familiar with Alchemy, my dear?" He asked.

"It just so happens that I am. I'd love to help you, Mister...?"

"Sasik. Just Sasik. Pleased to meet you, Sylvia."

"Likewise. So, what do you need?"

"Right this way..." Sasik pushed a ragged mahogany curtain aside, allowing Elayna to move to the back of the store. The usual set-up sat on a table, with jars and bottles lining the walls of the small room. Most were empty. "I have quite a damaged stock from this invasion, and I have to go through certain...routines...to attain anything not from Hammerfell. People need medicines and remedies, and with what I have, I cannot provide them." Sasik explained, Elayna nodding as he went on. It certainly was limiting to only work with local reagents. Nodding, Elayna agreed to obtain Sasik's ingredients.

Leaving the storefront, she made her way to the heart of the market of Helgathe, where she saw Zainat, or Sul-Matuul as he was now called, peddling his prayer rugs. He was motioning to Thyra, by the other stalls. Not wanting to keep Sasik waiting, but wanting to see how things were going, she stepped up to the Dunmer's stall and feigned serious interest in the rugs. "What beautiful rugs you have here..." She marveled at the tapestries, smiling over in Thyra's direction after doing so. She didn't want to break her character, but this little meeting was more than comforting in such a big city.

In Whiterun...

Sol looked around, watching the guards file past him every-now-and-then. He had been told by those people to join the Companions, and he set out to do so. He walked down to the Bannered Mare and went inside. "Welcome," the woman behind the counter said. "We have drinks, food, and beds." With that, she continued to serve drinks. He approached her. "Do you know where Jorrvaskr is?" he asked. She turned, looking a bit surprised. "Not far from here. Just go out and go up the stairs, continue, then go right and you'll see it."

A Jenno and Dervish production!

Sometime around a week ago, Stros M'kai...

The docks were abuzz with life, as the crew of The Sea Wisp prepared to depart from Stros M’kai.
Above, the tropical sun blazed, a sun that would paint even the most pallid of adventurers a deep, healthy brown: And had done so for centuries.
There was a familiar tingle of excitement in the air, too: Nobody truly knew what was to come- except, most certainly danger- but this realization seemed to spur on those who padded along the boardwalks.

There was just this sense of grandness about it all. They were plunging into the unknown, but the beating in their chests told them that whatever they found there would help them chisel their names into the walls of history.
They would be saviours not only of Tamriel, but of Nirn herself, and her people.
Truly, what they did today- whatever words they spoke, and whatever songs they sang- would be repeated to future generations in bardic ballads, and tales of great heroes!
It was a real shame, then, that Burkswallow was nowhere to be seen for this.

No: despite his insistence on being one of the earliest to arrive- ”The early bird steals the prey,” – he was absent when his comrades had shown up, and began preparing to depart this island paradise they’d found.
Unwilling as he was, he’d been taken back to his dwelling- A small, unprepossessing inn called ‘The Witches’ Finger’, which smelled distinctly of curdled milk and old people, and possessed a roof that slanted in a funny direction (That is to say, it’d been put on upside down)- to collect an inexplicably heavy collection of luggage, on the behalf of his scaly and somewhat disagreeable companion.

”A real gentleman would delight in carrying a ladies bag!”
”Well if you’ll point me in the direction of one, I’ll gladly carry hers- Ow!”
”Come on, let’s go get my stuff!”

Burkswallow grumbled to himself- uttering words most unlike those of a gentleman thief’s- as he slung one of Sweeps’ many bags over his shoulder.
It was of a bizarre, cloth texture: And having been filled with useless souvenirs, he was almost certain it’d break soon.
”Why are all your bags made of cloth? You had enough money to buy useless tat, but you wouldn’t even shell out for a leather bag? Or even cheaper, a lizard ski-…”

Sweeps turned on the ball of her foot- in total silence- and stared at the thief for a few moments, soundlessly.
”Shutting up now.”
“Hrmph!”
He broke a smile: Half apologetic, half bemused, and she gave him a glare of daggers for his troubles, before the two resumed packing.

After a little while- when they’d both given up, and began tossing the bags out of the window and onto a cart below- he spoke up again.
”By the nine, how much longer is this going to take?”
“Goodness, just leave then, will you? It’s nearly all done, I can handle the rest. Honestly, you whine like a milk drinker.”
”Really? I can go? And you promise you won’t be mad?”
“Oh, I’ll be mad alright, but-…”
She was cut off by the slamming of the door, as Burkswallow sprinted out of the inn.
Breathing a heavy sigh, she resumed tossing her luggage rather indelicately out of the window.

Now, the most notable thing about The Witches’ Finger is that there was no ‘front door’, so to speak.
The building was so decrepit, and constructed on such aged foundations, that- at some point in the past, which Burkswallow is not familiar with- the original entrance to the inn was bricked shut, lest any of the rats inside (which they theorized to be there) escaped, and spread a plague.

Remarkably, The Witches’ Finger housed no rats- Even they’ve got the common sense to reside in a nicer abode- but this decision meant that when its current owner bought it (for whatever reason), the only available entrance was in the back alley behind the establishment.
Not that it mattered too greatly: Beforehand, it’d been a brothel- tailored specifically to the blind and senseless, Burkswallow imagined- So the backdoor had always seen the most use, anyway.
And it was through that very door that Burkswallow emerged, his hand wrapped in a tissue for fear of otherwise catching hepatitis from the rotting wood.

The alley, contrary to what one might have suspected, however, was a rather lovely thing to observe.
The pale grey walls that lined it were of ancient construction; They had that well-crafted, well weathered feel to them, and when the sun struck them at noon they’d become the most beautiful shades of white; And even the ground was quaint and cobbled, as though this street had once been the anticipated home of a wealthy merchant, and The Witches’ Finger was just some hideous mistake they couldn’t afford to erase.

Honestly, he’d seen alleys like this in the better parts of Skyrim, but he’d never appreciated them until visiting Stros M’kai.
Today, however, something felt off about it; Perhaps it was the time of day- as morning would keep the sun away, and leave the alley in darkness- or perhaps, the sound of Sweeps-Much-Dust grunting from above was ruining the ambiance of it all.
Or just maybe it had something to do with the large, leather clad woman that was seizing Burkswallow by the collar, and slamming him against a wall.
Crack
He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Visions of hideous, leather-bound blurs danced before Burkswallow’s eyes, as his head swam and his shoulders fell limp.
He tried to spit some not-so-witty one liner about being trapped between “A cock and a hard place” at his attacker, but all he managed to slur at them was an indecipherable collection of vowels and sounds.
They chuckled, in a deep- but familiar- voice.
“Hello again, Burkswallow! What brings you to Stros M’kai?”
After a few moments, his eyes finally focused again, as the blurs became a solitary shape.
He most certainly wished they hadn’t.
”I just thought I’d retire here. You know, catch a tan, maybe a grow a moustache,” he replied, struggling to make himself just a fraction more comfortable, ”But I can see you’ve already beaten me to the punch.”

Bethalda Leatherhide grinned maliciously down at him from her unnatural height, her rotted teeth clenched tightly (which was a rather risky idea, if you asked Burkswallow), and her unusually hairy top lip twitching irritably.
“I could certainly beat you with punches, if you’d like that,” she retorted, tightening her grip on his collar.
”I have no doubt you’re man enough for it,” he reposted, wearily, as he began to wiggle against her grip.
Her eyes narrowed, and her knuckles audibly cracked, “You’ve got a real nerve, Burky-Boy.”
”And stunning hair, but what’s your point?”
“Hah! It just makes you look like a woman!”
”Well, at least that makes one of us!”
With a snarl, the burlier thief drew her head back.
“Hey Burkswallow!” she exclaimed, before throwing her quite offensively large skull forwards with great truculence, “Long time, no-”
It was at this point that Burkswallow- having been wriggling nonstop for the last few moments- slipped free of her grip, and ducked out of the path of destruction- leaving Bethalda to collide rather promptly with the wall of The Witches’ Finger, visibly denting the stone in the process.
”Headbutt?”

Bethalda stumbled back, clutching her head and whining like an injured mammoth as she toppled into the grey walls Burkswallow had been admiring earlier, and slid pathetically to the ground.
Burkswallow readjusted his collar- which was now visibly stretched by Bethalda’s prior grip- “Did you really need to grab me by the collar? This is my good shirt, you know.”
“Aagh… screw off, Burkswallow…” she groaned, rubbing the massive bruise that was slowly forming across her cro-magnon forehead.

”Yeah, you’re right- I own nothing but good shirts. Good call.”
He gave her a few moments to recuperate (as he was, of course, a gentleman thief), before kneeling down beside her, and tutting at her mockingly.
”Go on then, horker-brains, what’s all this about? Did you follow me?”
“Ugh… no, why would I do that?”
”My winning charisma?”
“Even I don’t drink that much.”
Burkswallow folded his arms, and pursed his lips, quite clearly offended, ”Then what?”

“I was already in the city, the guild sent me on vacation-”
“Vacation?! I don’t even g-”
“Yes, we screw you constantly, we’ve established this much.”

Both thieves sighed in unison.

“Anyway, as I was saying, I was here anyway and the guild sent me orders to find you. We want to help.”
”Help? Are you going to give me my stuff back?”
“What? Oh, no. Goodness, no.”
Burkswallow frowned.

“I sent them word of what you told me in the legionary camp- You know, about the dwemer army- and any other information I could gather on it.”
”You gathered information?”
“I’m a thief, aren’t I?”
”… senseless brutality?”
“Naturally.”
”You and natural really don’t mi-“
“Should I finish what I was saying, or just break your nose again?”
”Please, by all means.”

Bethalda drew back her fist.
“The other thing.”
“Oh, right.”
She reached into her breastplate- and Burkswallow turned away, for fear that something might leap from her armour and take out a chunk of his jugular- before withdrawing a long piece of parchment, which she handed to Burkswallow.

He took it in his tissue-holding hand.
“They want to help with the war effort. This is a list of pirates-”
”Oh, so now I’m meant to help because they’ve developed a sense of self-preservation?”
“- and privateers, that we want you to recruit for the cause. We all know this is suicide, so we need our best talker on the job.”
”Forget it, I’m done working with you, you’re all a bunch of rock warblers and I’m sick of it!”

Slowly, Bethalda got to her feet, still rubbing her forehead pathetically, “Come on, Burkswallow- We need these guys persuaded, we want them to smuggle and fence in enemy waters, keep your men supplied.”
”If you need to persuade them so much, why not just break into their houses and steal all of their stuff?”
“And just why would we do th- …Oh, oh yeah.”
”Oh, yeah.”
Burkswallow turned his back on her, and waved dismissively, ”Get somebody else, the guild’s burnt its bridges with me.”
“Fine!”, she barked, stamping a foot and- quite visibly- causing the walls to shudder, as if they might collapse.
“But Burkswallow, one thing before I go?”
He hesitated, and then turned around- Only to be promptly punched in the face, and sent sprawling across the cobbled ground.
“One day that pride of yours is going to get you killed.”
Burkswallow- quite thoroughly disabled for now- mumbled some muffled question regarding whether the same thing had happened to her femininity, before blacking out.

When he came to, it was a good hour later: The sun was high in the sky above him, and beckoned him back into the world of the living with warmth and brightness.
Slowly, he opened his eyes…
And just as quickly, he closed them.
”Ouch! By the Gods, that’s bright!”
He shielded his eyes with his hands, and stopped moving for a moment (well, except for his cheek, which swelled horribly from the inside).
He gave himself a few seconds to fully come around, before slowly sitting up, and rubbing his aching face.
Then, it occurred to him:”… damn it! We’re meant to be departing soon!”
Hurriedly, he clambered to his feet: And then promptly toppled over, still dizzy from the blow he’d sustained.

The second time was the charm, though: He managed to get himself up, and began hurtling through Stros M’kai’s back alleys as he made his way to the docks, folding the parchment Bethalda had given him in the process, and slipping it into his pockets.
It took a good ten minutes to actually get there- not accounting for the sudden collision he’d had with a blind woman, from which he’d made fifty septims- and when he did, everyone looked ready to depart.
He panted heavily, as he made his way over to the first figure he recognized: Zaveed.
Whilst he’d been running, he’d also been thinking: Perhaps recruiting Stros M’kai’s “privateers” really would benefit the war effort.
Their disregard for most things- safety, the law, hygiene- would make them ideal for sailing under threatening conditions, and they’d most certainly know their fair share of hidden routes through which they could deliver equipment to the troops.
Plus, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to have another fleet, and “Captain Burkswallow” had a ring to it he quite liked.
They’d make him a captain, right?
Of course they would, they’d have to.

He smiled exhaustedly at his Khajiit friend, and spoke with strained breaths.
“Zaveed… I think I might need to… stay behind…” he wheezed.
Before speaking again, he took some time to catch his breath, during which he handed the parchment over to him.
“I think I might be able to strengthen our numbers, so to speak. Stros M’kai is a paradise for pirates, thieves and all other sorts: They could be useful to us,”he explained, gesturing to the city beside them, ”But… it means I’m going to have to rendezvous with you later. What… what do you think?”
The privateer looked up from a manifest he had been reviewing with Drinks-Many-Rivers. Burkswallow stood, looking at him like a man with a plan who was somehow also juggling cockiness and guilt like either a brilliantly deceptive circus act or a barely clinging-on imbecile. If there was one thing Zaveed had learned of the thief since meeting him in Anvil, it was such; the Breton was brilliant at disappearing and reappearing on a whim. Somehow on the voyage to Stros M'kai, despite the Sea Wisp's crew being more intimate with every inch of that ship than a woman, every hideaway, nook, cranny, and shadow were well charted territory, they had been unable to locate Burkswallow until he had mysteriously resurfaced when the lookout spotted shore and the galleon was preparing to dock. The khajiit had been too impressed to be irritated. The man certainly knew how to get out of doing his duties.

"And what do you know of my kin, my friend? It is one thing to know to how lift pockets, but it's quite another to play our game." Zaveed replied.

"We have a quarter barrel of ale unaccounted for, still." Drinks-Many-Rivers grumbled, shooting the Breton a dirty look through slit eyes. "We need to find some buyers for our spoils." he said.

Zaveed took the parchment from Burkswallow, looking at the obvious telltale signs of physical violence marring the Breton's otherwise fair face. "Let me guess; that wasn't from a tavern wench you forgot to pay." the khajiit offered, unraveling the parchment, his icy blue eyes deliberately drinking in the aged paper. The list had several names of ships and captains he was well familiar with; men he'd fought, drank with, and once upon a time, stole women from. There were also a few women captains on the list, one on there stood out. "I suppose you're set to kind some of my acquaintances." he said, handing the parchment back.

"As for what I think, I think you better watch for Felicia Harding, she's something of a cutthroat and man eater... an old, ah, consort of mine. None the less, she's one you should seek out, her crew is some of the finest in the West. Word of warning, though; she likely will try to seduce you if she senses an easy mark, and you won't notice that your pockets have been picked clean until you go to buy your cure disease potion. However, get her on your side, and there isn't a cove or landing between Valenwood and High Rock she doesn't know intimately, blockades or hunter ships be damned. Another one on this list you should keep a look out for is Barentus Coren, an Imperial rogue who has more stories than books in the Imperial Library. It's fairly easy to win his time, keep his tongue wet and he'll make time, as he considers a drink a prepayment of sorts. He runs one of the largest pirate fleets in Tamriel, he has 27 ships of various sizes and arms and he isn't shy about fights. If you want to break a blockade or take an unfortunately large and well defended ship or port, he's happy to do it, for a steep price. I suspect recent events have him rather excited. The more the major powers clash, the less they look at us." Zaveed said, watching as some of his crew passed by, carrying a heavy crate. Drinks chased after them. "Easy with that! Zordan doesn't buy broken goods, and I will make you eat the entire damn crate if you drop it..."

"Might I inquire your interest in this?" Zaveed asked. "I'll warn you now, you're walking into a world where people aren't shy about killing to sate their greed. Most aren't as... charming as I am. They aren't likely to share in their spoils, even with your help.""Felicia Harding?", Burkswallow asked, as his breath finally returned to him, and the colour returned to his face- highlighting the bruises that Bethalda had so kindly gifted him- "Oh, Zaveed," he placed his hand on his heart, and feigned a great pain, "Your lack of faith wounds me, it really does!"

Then he placed the back of his hand to his forehead, just to perfectly punctuate his melodrama, before chuckling jovially.

... and wincing, because the act actually caused him a great amount of pain.

"You needn't worry about me, my khajiit comrade," he assured Zaveed, grinning a swollen- and yet still uncannily charming, in its rascally nature- grin, "I've gotten myself an accountant. With my stroke of luck lately, I dread actually carrying my money in case it's somehow infected with the smallpox virus."

A disgruntled, ethereal noise rang out through Burkswallow's head, followed by a brief and indignant "Hmph!"

Burkswallow made a dismissive hand gesture towards it, but to any spectators who didn't possess the power of ESP, it more or less looked like the pointless motion of an invalid.

"If she wanted to pick my pockets clean, she'd have to start by not looking in my pockets," he continued, as- around a nearby corner- Sweeps-Much-Dust emerged, pulling behind her a cart full of her luggage.
She huffed, and puffed, as she dragged it along the cobbled streets, and to Burkswallow's side.
"Speak of the devil!"

She puffed out her cheeks in indignation, but said nothing other than, "Alright... it was an oblivion of an effort, but I think I'm ready to leave."
The Breton's thief arched his brow, "What?"
"I've been packing all morning! You were meant to be helping me, in fact!"
"Oh, that!", he nodded, before glancing from her to Zaveed, and back again, "Yeah... yeah, we're not going anywhere."
"I... what?", she asked, nonplussed and with eyes wide.
"Yeah, I figured... why don't we just stick around, and play with pirates instead?"
"Be... because that's a really, really stupid idea?"
"O-Oh, Sweeps... listen to me, c'mere..." he cooed, resting his hands on her shoulders, and looking reassuringly into her eyes, "If I was in the business of avoiding stupid ideas, you'd still be in Cyrodiil, and I'd be happy."
"I..."
"Shh shh, I know..." he nodded sagely, "I know. But it's too late to mourn my potential happiness. What we've got to do instead is make friends with some cut-throat pirate thugs."
There was a moment where the two of them stood in silence.
Then, Sweeps jabbed him sharply in the chest with her elbow, before shuffling off to return her cart of luggage to her temporary residence, muttering to herself about 'stupid thieves' and 'Burking it up.'
Burkswallow wheezed as all of the wind left him- again- before turning back to Zaveed with a crooked smile, "And... th-that's the lady I've entrusted my every penny to. Pirate or serial killer, she throws a mean left hook," he gasped for air, before straightening up again, "As for the process of actually recruiting... you believe me, I've the gift of the gab."

He rubbed his chest, like a child rubbed a scrape, "By the nine, you ought to be warning Harding!", he chuckled again.

He waited for a few moments after that, not only for his breath to return but for the jabbing sensation in his thorax to dissipate, "As for my interest in this? The Sea Wisp is a fine ship, but she won't be running the blockades," he turned to gaze at the vessel for a few moments, "And a few old acquaintances have just- only just, mind you- developed a sense of self preservation. With luck like mine, you don't ignore an opportunity like this when it lands into your lap."
He paused, and then rubbed his bruised cheek, "Or clocks you in the face, for that matter."

Zaveed and Drinks-Many-Rivers watched the exchanged in perplexed amusement. It would seem even decapitation would still not be enough to throw Burkswallow off his stride.
"By Jone, you two argue like a bitter old married couple." Zaveed noted.
"Is she taken?" Drinks asked, perhaps a bit too eagerly. "I wouldn't mind lifting her tail, if you catch my meaning."
Zaveed offered Burkswallow his tankard of rum that he'd been enjoying as he was talking to Drinks about the ship inventory, as well arrangements for his absence in the upcoming weeks. "If you for a moment thought you were taking the Wisp for your own purposes, you are madder than Seggorath, and you aren't even a skooma addict. And you are for damn sure we would not run a blockade in my ship. It's a galleon, not a schooner. It's meant to outlast the quarry ship until we can secure it and plunder. Regardless, you be safe Burkswallow. I'd much rather run into you again before one of us dies, and I expect there to be stories exchanged." he jabbed the Breton in the bruised cheek. "And you owe the crew for the free ride."

"If you boys will excuse me, I have quarry of my own." Drinks said, shoving his tankard into Zaveed's chest as he strutted down the dock to catch up with a certain angry argonian.The thief happily took Zaveed's tankard, and swigged down what remained of it's contents: In part because it would numb the aching of today's bruises (although it was a pointless effort, as tomorrow he'd no doubt have new ones),in part also because he was loath to ever refuse free rum..
Ever.
No situation would ever call for such sacrilege.
... but primarily because, in some way, it felt as though it was sealing the agreement that would result in his short leave.

Then, with great joy, he watched as Drinks scuttled off in pursuit of his notoriously ill-tempered maiden, knowing full well what was to become of him.
"I hope he wears a cup," he began with a grin, lowering the tankard from his lips, "But hey, who knows? I'm being hard on him... maybe he'll get lucky!"
He placed his cup on a crate to his left, and then laughed lightly, "I mean, maybe she'll just aim for the face!"
He then turned then to his khajiit comrade, and extended his hand with an expression that betrayed some hint of respect, despite his efforts to remain nonchalant.
"I'll pay your crew back tenfold, I'm a thief but I've got my morals," he smiled, "After all, when brothers steal from brothers, the whole world is poor, isn't it?"

He chuckled again, "And don't you worry about me, friend. Nocturnal couldn't stand the idea of somebody else finishing me! I've got lady luck on my side..." he paused, and then made an uncertain gesture, eyes narrowed, "Well... sort of. Maybe? She doesn't want anyone else to kill me, but..." he trailed off for a few moments, "... it's a bit of a skewed relationship. Regardless!"
Then, he motioned for Zaveed to shake his hand, "But the same applies to you. Don't you go christening any cutlasses, alright? If I'm recruiting us a lawless army, I'd want no other man in charge."
The khajiit regarded Burkswallow's hand for a moment before warmly clasping it within his own. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that. I've already been impaled with a scimitar once, and that's not even a thrusting weapon. I am in in no hurry to do so again" he smiled. "And a king among outlaws, hm? I suppose I can become accustomed to that idea. After all, one must always play to their talents."

Zaveed turned to stare back at the ship. "There's much to do in the next few hours. I am uncertain as to when you plan to depart, but if you can spare a few minutes, there's something I wish to show you."
Burkswallow threw a glance skyward, to observe the position of the sun, before returning his attentions to Zaveed with a nod.
"The sun's still high, so consider my interests piqued, friend," he began, shaking the khajiit's hand heartily as he spoke, "I hope the enigma yields a nice surprise," he withdrew his hand with a playful smile, "Because if it's a trap, it seems hardly worth the easy kill!", he gestured for Zaveed to lead the way, "Captain, my captain."

The khajiit beckoned for the Breton thief to follow him aboard the Wisp, crossing the deck in an easy, practiced stride towards the captain's cabin, leading Burkswallow inside to a well-furnished accomodation, recently adorned with assorted goods from the recent conquest of the altmer Interceptor, including the captain's helm hanging from a coat hanger, along with a small pile in the corner of other goods, most of which would fetch a commanding price in the right markets. Zaveed ignored his recent and long past spoils in favour of the weapon plaque hanging on the wall behind his desk, map still stretched across its polished surface. Upon them hung a pair of glass scimitars, which he took from their mountings, feeling their weight with a small flourish. "There's something of a small tale with these blades, one of no small amount of trepidation and adventure, and they are a statement, a promise. After I had received the letter of marque from Emperor Tactus and was awarded this very vessel on which we stand on, I was set back onto the seas again to continue my usual vocation of being a maritime marauder." Zaveed said, admiring the green, semi-translucent blade, its elegant curve accentuated by the copper-gold alloy that made up its hilt and other components of its grip. "The crew I had gathered had all lost something to the Thalmor over the years, I was not excluded from that. After all, if they had not commissioned the corsairs from my youth to keep Elswyer on edge, dependent on Dominion support, I likely would not be who I am today. They took me from my family, sculpted me into one of them. It's the only life I've ever known, one I never thought to question until I began to see what life is like outside of their yolk. Of course, almost as soon as I had a will of my own, I spent a considerable amount of time ensuring that everyone else in Tamriel could have theirs back. A fair trade, no?" he asked rhetorically, setting one of the swords on the desk across the map.

"And so, for the past two years I decided to ply the trade the Thalmor had indirectly taught me against them, something of a personal vendetta I suppose. I cannot tell you how may ships I've plundered and lives I have taken, but these blades belonged to the first. The captain of a vessel, a galleon like my own, had challenged me upon the deck of his ship, slick with the blood of his crew and my own. In each of his hands were these swords, these glass scimitars that the Thalmor only seem to give to people of some importance in their culture. Somewhere along the way, he earned these swords, and as our blades clashed, my axes against his swords, I had begun to understand why. A worthy adversary who matched me blow for blow, only diverting attention from me to repulse my crew that came at him, as I did with his. I could see in his eyes, not hate, but determination.. and respect. He was not like many of the Thalmor, who look down at anyone who is not altmer with disdain and condensation. He was a man who recognized a worthy adversary and a battle well fought. Had he not slipped up and overextended his reach, it's very possible we wouldn't be having this conversation. Even though he died that day, I'd be amiss to say he didn't leave an impression, and I could not bear to let his weapons fall into hands who do not understand the ones that came before them. I took them for myself, not just as trophies, but as a sign of respect for a foe well fought." Zaveed turned the remaining blade over in his hand, offering it to the thief. "And I want you to take this."

Between the two, a moment of silence passed, in which Burkswallow- for what may very well have been the first time in his life- was rendered totally without words.
His face was etched with dubiety, as if he was awaiting ‘the catch’.
As if he expected, in a few moments time, that Nocturnal’s latest machination would reveal itself, and Zaveed would suddenly run him through with one of these crystalline blades.
But it never came, and somehow that made the situation all the more serious for him.

Speechless still, the thief reached out- hesitating momentarily, as if he suspected his hands might mar the scimitar’s surface- before slowly wrapping his fingers around the hilt, and withdrawing it from Zaveed’s hand.
Then, he rested the blade upon his open palm, and stared down at its jade surface in unspoken reverence.
From this, another moment’s silence was born.
And when Burkswallow tried to speak again, there was very apparent effort in his voice, which sought (only semi-successfully) to hide the swelling of his throat.

“You know… I never stole for the money,” he finally began, voice not much higher than a rasp, “In fact… you can never tell the boys at the guild- because they’ll cut my throat and leave me to bleed out on the docks- but… I was a noble. I was set to inherit a pretty big trading business,” he laughed weakly, wryly.
He drummed his fingers against the hilt lightly, rhythmically, as if to verify to himself that he was actually holding it.
“What I craved was the excitement,” he went on, after a few moment’s consideration, “I wanted an adventure. A thrill.”, he flipped the blade over, to admire it’s other side, “So… I ran away. I gave up my money, my comforts… my name,” he raised the sword into the light, as if- once again- to verify that it was, in fact, real, “And do you know what that meant? That meant when I stole something…”
A roguish grin crawled across his features, as reminiscence took the place of awe, “I aimed big.”

He lowered the sword again, and- seemingly emboldened by its validity- span it in his palm, before seizing the hilt once more, “And in all those years. With every museum I pilfered from, and palace I happened to stumble into?”
He flipped it, so the pommel faced towards Zaveed, and the blade towards himself.
“This is the most valuable thing I’ve ever held… and I didn’t even have to steal it.”
Then, in one fluid movement, he sheathed it on his waist- in the spot where, had fate been kinder, his bejewelled cutlass would have lain- before looking back at Zaveed, a new sort of tenacity brewing up below the cloudy surface of his pale irises.
Truly, he wasn’t sure why it meant so much to him- he’d stolen more coin in his time- but something told him the sentiment behind it made it the most costly sword he knew of.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he told Zaveed, assuredly, “But when we meet again? And we will meet again,” he patted the blade’s new sheath, “She’ll be reunited with her twin.”
Then he bowed his head, momentarily, before flashing a familiar, magnetic smile, “I can’t guarantee she won’t have run a few recusant, reluctant pirates through by then, however,” he jested.

Zaveed regarded Burkswallow steadily, noting the emotional turmoil within the Breton. It was curious; had the man ever been shown a kind gesture in his life, or did he have to fight for every scrap of respect and recognition in his life? He listened to what the man had to say, finding in the thief something of a kindred soul, a man who was less interested in money than the prospect of taking it. The difference between the two, as far as Zaveed was concerned, was Burkswallow never had to take a life to get what he wanted. Zaveed had no idea how many lives he had claimed in his own pursuit. Odd, then, how the more ruthless and irredeemable of the two men was the one who was hailed as a hero by the world at large while the other was an easily forgotten footnote in the annuls in history. The khajiit hoped the man would make his mark on the world, and for the better. There were enough bastards in the world, that was for sure.

"Wealth came easily to me, if you're counting gold and gemstones and other priceless trinkets that people seem to think matter most in this world. I never brought me any measure of peace or personal freedom. I'm anchored to this life, where I've seen many faces come and go and the same wealth I've killed for trade countless hands... that same wealth never held the value to me as it does to most men. It was the pursuit of it, the violent and visceral lead up to claiming it that drove me. I'm a warrior without scruple, principle, or compassion. It's what fate decided I should be, and as much as I try to change that, it's as much a part of me as the salt is of the sea. While I cannot escape from what I am, I can at least try to do some good in this world, which is why I can see what your doing with admiration and respect. You will make a difference. You will change the world, I promise you that."

He reached out, to clasp the thief's shoulder. "I will hold you to your promise, then. When I see that blade again, it will be sharing a drink with you to victory and maybe even peace, a strange concept that a man like me knows nothing of... but I want to." he looked away for a moment, melancholy crossing his features. "Perhaps to find that day, it will cost much more blood until the gods are satisfied. Weld that blade true, Burkswallow. It is a fine blade that belongs in the hands of a man who isn't afraid to do what needs to be done. It yearns for the chance to taste steel and flesh once more. I do not doubt that you will not deny it that."

There was something about those words that stirred something new in the Breton.
“You will make a difference. You will change the world.”
Up until now, he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d truly realized the momentousness of his situation.
He hadn’t been thrown into the ring with a ragtag team of bandits, or a group of tenacious but lacking underdogs.
These men were the Heroes of Tamriel: And it was only upon recalling this that Burkswallow suddenly realized just how insignificant he was, in the grand scheme of things.
For just a moment, his expression faltered as it was swept with the throes of an existential crisis.
But this passed just as quickly as it’d arrived, his pale eyes mellowing as Zaveed’s hand made contact with his shoulder.

A humble smile replaced what’d, seconds ago, been a fearful expression, and he spoke with some sort of self-cognizance when he replied, “A thief that changes the world, huh? By the nine, I hope my reputation doesn’t precede me… being famous would make my job awfully hard,” he chortled, “Imagine that: Getting asked for an autograph by a man I just pickpocketed.”

As Zaveed continued onwards, Burkswallow threw a fleeting glance to his new glass scimitar, before making eye contact again.
”It is a fine blade that belongs in the hands of a man who isn't afraid to do what needs to be done. It yearns for the chance to taste steel and flesh once more. I do not doubt that you will not deny it that."
He nodded resolutely, and placed his hand on Zaveed’s shoulder in a similar manner, as if sealing an unspoken pact.

Honestly, the thief had never been one for the heat of battle: He’d have much rather fought a battle with his silver tongue than his glassy blade, because a blade might take a head, but a well-placed word could topple an empire…
But the times, they were changing. It seemed as if, to win this war, Burkswallow would have to change too.
Perhaps that’s what Zaveed had meant, when he’d said Burkswallow would make a difference.
“Doing what needs to be done may not make you happy,” he recited aloud, “But it will make you great.”
He nodded a second time, his humble smile still remaining, but his expression nonetheless certain, “Your sword will get her fill, I promise you that much, friend.”

"Have no worries, friend. If a corsair like myself can go on to become one of the most influential people of the 4th Age, I am certain a thief such as yourself has as much of a chance. Tales of daring heists always stimulate the imagination." Zaveed chuckled with a nod. "You best be on your way. The sea waits for no man. Ahzirr Traajijazeri, go with conviction in your heart and steel in hand. I will see you again one day, I promise." With that, Zaveed went to leave the cabin, opening the door to the bright, brilliant afternoon sky of the Hammerfell island, taking in the sun. It had been a good day, one of the few in the uncertain days to come.

"What do you mean only fifty gold pieces?" The khajiit practically spat unintentionally at the general store salesman. "Listen..." The man began, but took a pause when he noticed Qara'Sion folding his arms in front of his chest; clearly expressing a bit of frustration. "As you can see, times are becoming a bit more difficult and dangerous khajiit. Can't really afford to buy off a few beginner spell tomes with what is going on around here. Gold needs to be saved for more important things..." Qara'Sion could only sigh like he usually would in situations like this. Even though it was a long time since he was a traveling merchant, the same feeling he had when people were to pay him less for the original selling price remained like a splinter:Pure annoyance. "Well, who's to say the tomes wouldn't become one of those important things you mentioned? Perhaps they could end up saving someone's life?" He stated to the man. Hearing his response, the man bit down on his lip; he was thinking about something from Qara'Sion's words. If the khajiit was going to strike to make the man give in, now was the time.

"After all, as you said so yourself, if times were to be as dangerous as you said, then even you could benefit from owning these spell tomes as beginner level as they may be." The man averted his eyes from the khajiit's mismatched ones. But soon he chuckled to himself and nodded, looking back at him. "I suppose you're right. It would be helpful in the long run. I'll double my offer and throw in a book or tome of your choice out of fairness. How does that sound to you?" Qara'Sion entered his thoughts again wondering if it would be worth it. He did have the tomes for a long amount of time so it wouldn't matter too much-

"Simba, take the offer so we can leave, please." Qara'Sion's sister complained, addressing him by his false name. "Fine, its a deal. Just...uh, give me a cook book." He spoke out as his train of thought was broken. The man left the counter to search for the book he requested while his sister approached him, leaning into his ear. "Why on earth a cook book?" She asked. "What? I can't enjoy cooking can I?" Shenzi shrugged and moved away from her brother as the man returned to the counter, placing the book that was requested as well as the gold pieces. "Here. Enjoy and thank you again." The storekeep said to them. Qara'Sion took the gold pieces and the book, shoving them into his bag before nodding with a thank you and left the store with his sister; leaving the spell tomes he had on the counter for the man to take.

The two khajiit walked in the town, quietly, barely speaking to each other at all. The younger of the two was wondering why neither of them were speaking, but a subconscious feeling made him think he knew the reason why. And his question was answered. "Simba" His sister began putting emphasis on his name for the reason she was having trouble not calling him Sion. "I don't like this at all. We have no reason to be in this mission-" "I know." He cut off his sister's sentence. She sighed first, then began her sentence again. "Then why are we getting involve-" "I don't know." He cut her off once again, this time walking slightly ahead of her. And she began to speak once more. "Listen, I don't want to die out here, nor do I want Belle or-" "I know." It was a repeated cycle. Qara'Sion was becoming frustrated from his sister's words. He didn't want to think about the real reason why they were there.

"If you bloody cut me off one more damn time-" "I don't want to die out here either." Qara'Sion stated, clearly doing what she told him not to do. "I want to get back to Skyrim, but the safest way would probably be to stick around everyone else. I don't know how the others will feel about me suddenly leaving, but believe what I say, I don't want a single thing to do with this." He stoically said to her, keeping his eyes forward as they walked by one of the guards. I also want to find our brother and sister..." He thought lowering his head instinctively. That was another reason he didn't want to stay in the war. That was more important then being a unknown soldier on the battlefield.

"Hey, you aren't going to answer me?" Shenzi asked him. Qara'Sion didn't even realize she was speaking to him. He really did go deep into his own thoughts and didn't hear a word she said. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you sister." "I said, where did you put your [i]walking cane?" Putting strong emphasis on the two words, lowering her voice. Qara'Sion thought for a moment before realizing she meant the weapon she fixed. He slowed down his pace to match her, and lowered his own voice to mimic her's. "Wrapped with the tent supplies." He explained as he arched his head back in a form of pointing to the tent gear he carried. "I figured it would be more dangerous to have it rolled up with the rug incase anyone wanted to check it out. No one is going to want to check out the tent supplies since it looks like it could only fit for one person, but they might want to check out the rug." He added to his sentence. Shenzi smiled at him with a nod before quickening her own pace. "I'm going to go look for Belle and the fat-one okay? Stay safe Sio-" She paused for a moment. With a sigh, she began to say his name again. "Simba.. And walked off in another direction from him.

He was hoping they would all make it through this moment. But he still needed to tell the new friends he has made that he wasn't going to be around with them for much longer.

As Darak Mashad disappeared back up into his shop, leaving the group to their own devices, Zaveed rose from his own floor pillow, strolling over to the city map to get his bearings. It didn’t come as a surprise that the city was made in a very orderly fashion, with neat streets, well-spaced buildings, and an obvious place for public structures. If one were to get lost, it would not be hard to find his or her bearings again and locate what they were looking for by using some obvious clues. Even the markets had some clear reason to them; Mashad Textiles was nestled in a cluster of similar shops, which was a part of a larger merchant quarter. The khajiit traced his finger along the various routes, finding the Palace, guard barracks, the prison, and other locations, committing them to memory the best he could. Satisfied he could navigate his way through the city, Zaveed turned to the others. “Seems only suiting that my rescuing prisoners from captivity is what started everything, so that’s what I will find myself doing.” He said, gathering his belongings. “We should probably coordinate our efforts, since timing can make or break one’s task. I will return later this evening, I presume we’ll have much to discuss about our time here. In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me…” he said, heading towards the rough-looking guard and out the door into the evening heat of the Helgathe streets that immediately enveloped him like a blanket.

The atmosphere was rather at odds with Zaveed’s reason for being in the city. Instead of it being the ravaged chaos of the warzones he had encountered in Cyrodiil, Helgathe almost seemed serene and relaxing. Even with the dagger strapped to his back, concealed by the flowing Hammerfell garb that were both comfortable and strange, Zaveed felt secure in the city despite his presence as an intruder who was intended to cause problems for the dwemer occupiers. Lanterns and torches lined the streets, and vendors still kept their doors open for the still-busy streets. The dim punctuation of music lingered as Zaveed walked, the citizens of Helgathe resuming their culture despite it being filled with invaders. Open-walled taverns dotted the landscape, giving the patrons the opportunity to enjoy the warm night breeze while enjoying drink and bread with friends. The laughter here was real; there was none of the tension Zaveed would have expected. A trio of dwemer guards marched past, offering the khajiit a friendly nod that he returned with a couple fingers pressed to his brow. It was peaceful here; was it really worth disturbing and bringing the war here?

Reflecting on what had happened in Imperial City, the answer was clear. No dwemer in Tamriel was expressly innocent in the crimes committed against Tamriel. As Zaveed left the market district, he recalled what Rashad had said about the protestors in the marketplace. It seemed the dwemer were fine with peace, so long as you agreed unquestioningly to their terms. It was something that clearly did not sit well with Zaveed’s sensibilities. After all, he was a man who often lived outside the law and carved his own path through life, not because someone told him he should. He’d had enough of living as somebody else’s pawn; he would not abide those who would kill to control. He’d helped kill an emperor who styled himself as a god; what chance did a bunch of sun hating ground elves have against that kind of experience?

It wasn’t long until he came across what, according to Mashad’s map, was the guard barracks. It wasn’t quite as ostentatious as the rest of the city, but it had a certain opposing charm to it. The two-story grey-whitestone building was largely protected by a 4-meter high security wall, concealing what happened beyond, and a heavy iron gate barred entrance to the compound, a pair of city guards posted outside of the gate. Around the second floor of the building was several balconies, including on particularly long one that wrapped around the South-East corner of the building. Without climbing the wall, Zaveed couldn’t determine much more about the structure than what he knew. If he were to take a guess, Doshin Ismal, the captain of the city guard, resided in the top floor, somewhere private and with a view. Most men in power didn’t dwell in underground suites.

Taking a turn down another street, and it quickly became obvious what the building that was acting as the detention center was. A hastily-assembled but sturdy iron fence was placed around the front of the squat, one-story building. Unlike the barracks, the fence here had slits between the fences and all that barred entry was a simple guard house and gate on a swivel. Most of the guards were likely on the inside, and it was impossible to tell how much of it was underground. He ran a few scenarios through his mind, but he decided the best time to attack would be just before the changing of the guards, when the outgoing shift was most likely weary and just looking forward to going home after a long shift. His mind raced quickly, coming up with ideas. He’d need to find uniforms, amongst other things. But first, he had to take care of a few things.

It took fifteen more minutes of searching before Zaveed found what he was looking for. He stood outside the wall, as if working up the nerve, and waited for several more minutes before a duo of grinning dwemer guards came out, almost child-like yet masculine enthusiasm dripping off of them like musk. He’d found the place, all right. The khajiit opened the door to the brothel and was immediately confronted by the at-once familiar sights and smells that had once been as regular in his past as a bottle of wine. A buxom, scantily clad woman approached, tracing a finger down his chest. The Redguard woman, pushing 40, practically purred at Zaveed, immediately wondering how many khajiit they had in these establishment. “Well hello, handsome… we don’t normally see a cat, but we always take in strays.” She giggled an accentuated feminine sound. “But, it just so happens I’m feeling a bit feral.”

Zaveed’s hand reached out, lifting the woman’s chin with a finger. His grin was his most charming. “And would you be the seductress who took in the two strays who had just left?” he asked the woman. “They seemed rather… contented.”

“That would be Alliwyn, one of our bosmer girls. She’s known to be very flexible… and good with her tongue.” A seductive grin crossed her still-fine features.

“Ah, a bosmer.” Zaveed said. “I always preferred the taste of something close to home. Could this be arranged, my dear?”

“Most certainly.” The woman said, calling out the bosmer’s name. Soon, a lithe bosmer girl with wet, auburn hair came walking out, freshly bathed. A classy institution, if there ever was one. “Alliwyn, this gentleman would like to request your company. Such a strong traveller,” she said, tracing her hand down Zaveed’s well-defined arms. “But he’s feeling a bit homesick. Could you show him some of your Southern hospitality?” she asked. The bosmer girl smiled in a heart-meltingly sweet way, crossing the room towards Zaveed. The khajiit produced ten Septims from his purse, placing them in the Redguard’s hand before gently kissing her on the cheek. “You have my thanks, my dear.” He said, allowing himself to be taken by the hand by the bosmer girl while the other women, and some men, in the brothel watched with practiced, hungry eyes as he was lead down the corridors to a private room to the side. He was rather surprised at how clean and attractive everything was. Tiled floors and surfaces gave an air of opulence, as did the wooden blinds that let in just enough street light while candles illuminated the room, including the still-warm tub the girl must have been using before Zaveed’s arrival, and a rather large, plush bed with what looked like silk sheets. Doubtless, this wasn’t some dark, seedy dive that kept the alchemists who brewed cure disease potions in high demand. The girl closed the door and approached Zaveed, running her hand along his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve been with a khajiit…” she giggled. “I’d been rather missing your people’s talents.”

“Of which I possess many of.” He said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “And you took care of those two dwemer gentlemen from before?” he asked.
“More than just them, but I always make them feel like they’re the only ones.” She admitted, raising an eyebrow at Zaveed’s posture and lack of advancement. He certainly didn’t lack for confidence. “And so… what services may I provide for you, my charming cat?”

The glint of gold flickered as a coin danced between Zaveed’s fingers. “Information.” He replied.

A collab with Souliolio and myself! ABOUT THE BAD GUYS! HOLY SHIIIII-
Governor’s Palace, Helgathe, 17th Rain’s Hand…

Governor Razlinc Rourken’s study and conference room was a tidy and orderly space with a high ceiling supported by a pair of ornate pillars, access to a balcony, and several windows to let the warm breeze into the room. Against one wall was a large table with a map of Hammerfell with flag pins and quartz pieces adorning it, evidentially the locations of dwemer influence and insurgent activity. On the opposite side lay a pair of doors that lead to a bed chamber, although visitors weren’t likely to be aware of that fact past the heavy wooden door, carved in typical Redguard style. Across the floor lay a long rug from the entrance to the desk, which had three gilded chairs on the one side and a high-backed chair on the other, back towards the balcony. Otherwise, the room was sparse, containing only what was necessary, except for a potted jade plant in the corner, an unceremonious intruder on the proceedings.

Razlinc sat with fingers crossed, hands resting on her lap as she studied the altmer across from her. Erincaro Syintar, emissary of the 2nd Aldmeri Dominion and a Justicar of the Thalmor. Unlike many of his kind, Erincaro wore a neatly trimmed beard and the harsh lines of age that crossed his face gave him a distinguished and not all untogether unpleasant appearance, something of an accomplishment given altmer all seemed to be hereditarily born to appear arrogant. The man offered a terse smile in opening.
“On behalf of the Thalmor and Queen Lelyanya, I thank you for granting me an audience. The 2nd Aldmeri Dominion would like to convey that it fully recognizes the legitimacy of the dwemer claim of Volenfell and would like to seek former relationships between our states.” Erincaro said. Razlinc raised her chin slightly, taking in the altmer’s opening. The Dominion must have made up their minds fairly quickly upon discovering the return of the dwemer, and must have been uncertain of their chances if the dwemer turned their war machine against them. After all, if the Empire fought the Dominion to a truce, and that same Empire had its capital ceased within a day, then it was best not to press one’s luck. It was appeasement in the guise of goodwill.

“House Rourken was always one of dialog. We certainly will listen to what an emissary has to say, even if his presence is most unexpected.” She said. “And what is it that the Dominion seeks from Volunfell?”

“Trade, naturally. Now that the Asecean Sea is under our control, a route can easily be established between Alinor and Volunfell, and the Dominion believes our two cultures have much we can exchange. Secondly, diplomatic relations and a military truce leading up to a former alliance. The altmer and bosmer have long been staunch allies against the encroaching threat of the ignorance of humanity, and your people were the staunchest enemy the Nords faced when they settled what is now Skyrim from Atmora. While we naturally would not want to impede upon your sovereignty, it has not escaped notice that there is a wide land the dwemer have reclaimed and the Dominion would be able to offer troops and ships in interest of helping quell any uprisings you may be dealing with. The third is a request for the Dominion to be permitted to allow Justicars and embassies be established in Volunfell in interest of seeking out practitioners of the fake-god Talos. We find it a great insult to the Eight that men have risen one of their own to be of equal, if not greater, worship than the true Divines and this must not be allowed to stand. We will not interfere with dwemer matters of state, but as a good will gesture, we do make this request.” Erincaro said.

Razlinc offered a terse smile. “No.”

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

The Governor raised her hand to silence him. “Absolutely no Thalmor government officials will be permitted free reign of the lands and cities. It is not in our interest to allow almer, bosmer, or khajiit agents to wander freely. We have our own issues to contend with the locals; the last thing we need is for foreign influence to subvert their expectations. There’s also the lingering animosity amongst the Redguard about your earlier invasion, and I cannot rightly deny them that. I represent the will of the people of Volunfell; dwemer, Redguard, and all others alike. The suggestion we would want armed armies occupying our land is insulting, to say the least, let alone Justicars that will persecute Volunfell citizens because if offends your easily offended sensibilities. The dwemer worship no gods, if you have forgotten, Justicar Syintar, but that does not mean our other subjects do not. Perhaps if you weren’t too busy oppressing other provincial cultures; you would realize that it is much easier to occupy foreign land if they do not feel their way of life is being threatened. Arresting them for believing in a Divine you do not agree with is an abhorrent practice.” She rose from her desk, slender hands resting flat against the surface. “What we will allow, however, is Dominion merchant ships to make port and sell their wares, but the crews will not be permitted past the harbour districts of any city. These are the terms you will have to accept if you wish to begin relations with the Province of Volunfell. My guards will see you to your room, Justicar. Give what I said some thought over some much deserved rest. You must be weary from your travels.”

The Justicar looked like he wanted to press the issue, anger was clearly present in his eyes, but he caught himself. He also rose, bowing. “Of course. Once more, the audience you have granted has been a generous offering to the Thalmor. We are certain, in time; you will come to an agreement with us.”

“Unlikely.” Razlinc said as her guards approached from the doors to see Erincaro out. Her aid, a young dwemer in his early 30s came into the room as the rather irritated altmer was escorted out, his youthful enthusiasm abundant. He offered Razlinc a cup and saucer of stepped tea, a favorite of hers from after a meeting. His timing was such that it was still hot, but not enough to be undrinkable until it cooled. Good lad. “Make sure to have the Captain of the guard know to keep an eye on the Justicar for his stay here. I do not trust his intentions. What do you have for me?” she asked, sipping from the cup.

“Major Kerztar of the Ministry of Order had arrived this morning. We have waved your other appointments, as you requested his priority, Governor. He is here to see you.” The youth replied dutifully.

“Ah, perfect. Please send him in, and prepare some more tea for our esteemed guest. Then, if there’s nothing pressing that cannot wait until the morrow, take the rest of the evening off. You’ve been working yourself hard. You deserve some leisure time.” She said with a smile.

Her aid struggled to keep himself from beaming as he thanked her, hurrying out of the room to fetch one of the most dangerous men the government had at its disposal. After but a minute, prompt as always, Major Kerztar strode into Governor Razlinc's quarters. In all of his uniformed glory, he stopped in front of Razlinc's desk, bowed and waited for her to gesture him to a seat. With a content smile, he took the seat she gestured to and accepted the tea given to him by Razlinc's assistant. He inhaled the aroma deeply, appreciating the warmth from the liquid with closed eyes, trying to pick out the individual ingredients that might have been used in the tea.

"Thank you, good sir," he bowed his head slightly to the assistant before turning his attention to Razlinc, "I see that you also appreciate the simple things. I find a good tea does something good for mer and man, alike. The taste of a culture's cuisine tells one many things about that culture. For example, Nordic cuisine seldom uses many spices and is rather bland. You will see many salted meats, simple stews with simple broth, many of it is also dried or preserved, especially in the North. They do not eat to taste, they eat to nourish. A tough people, battle-hardened, eating tough meat. They do love their mead, though, and even if one makes the case that it is of honey, it is still the simplest of the alcohols to brew. Understand everything about a culture and you will understand the people. When you understand the people, they are easier to unravel."

Kerztar took his first sip from the tea and savored it diligently before setting down the cup and saucer to the table. He gave a content smile to Razlinc, crossing his legs and folding his hands, "It is nice to finally meet you, ma'am. I was surprised by the lack of work I have had to carry out here in Volenfell. I will not be offended if you are not familiar with my informal title, but know that I am supposedly a very infamous man. I started my work in Skyrim, did my work in Cyrodiil directly after the assault, and now I am here, plying my trade. Forgive me for my ramblings, ma'am, but whatever you need of me, I shall do it."

"I am quite familiar with your reputation, Major." The Governor replied with a smile. "It was your particular set of talents that was what lead me to summon you. There are only so many problems you can fix with a hammer; in this particular instance, it requires the subtly of a knife. I do find we have much in common in regards to our disposition to the other races, I much prefer to immerse myself in their culture when dealing with them, be it something as simple as cuisine or intellectual as literature. Blindly stumbling forward is a folly, a way for fools. Please do tell me, Captain, what do you know of the so-called Heroes of Tamriel?" Razlinc asked, appraising the man with light green eyes.

Kerztar's eyebrows perked the slightest at the mention of the Heroes of Tamriel. He'd seen the statues in the Talos Plaza district of the Imperial City, appreciated the architecture of the ayleids who built the city and the artistry of the Imperials that sculpted such fine representations of these folk heroes. Kerztar sat in thought for a minute, taking one more sip of tea before speaking, "The Heroes of Tamriel," Kerztar spoke, "Well, upon my visit to the Imperial City to assess the destruction and root out any dissidents, I happened upon their statues. At first, I found it very peculiar. A line of statues, Nords, Dunmer, Cat-Men that I was informed were called Khajiit during my time in Skyrim. At first, I thought them to be ancient heroes, perhaps the representations of Kings and Queens in years long past. When I was told the statues were only one and a half years old, I immediately began my research."

Kerztar paused, scratching his chin, "I've found that their leader is Zaveed, a pirate. His once-lover was an assassin, like another, who had managed to kill the Emperor. All three Khajiit, and most of them were not human, at all. The beast races, mer, very few humans. It speaks much of how far society has come that beast races saved Tamriel. During my time in Cyrodiil, I never saw the Heroes, only their statues. I did, however, hear that they left Anvil for Stros M'kai. Apparently, there was a large battle for the city and some of the heroes were caught in it, some left just in time. After the battle, there was a mishap and a mutiny in one of the Thalmor armies and with the encroaching Altmer, the atmosphere became too thick for me to continue my research. Not to mention that I had been summoned to take control of activities here in Volenfell. If they did sail for Stros M'kai, however," Kerztar rested his hands on the arms of his chair, "then we have reason to believe that they may be among us and riling up the local populace. They've already broken a hole in our lines in Cyrodiil, as Chorrol seems to be lost, as you know. These people are dangerous, and if they do have their assassins with them, they are doubly so. I will put in a request for a detachment of the Secret Police be given to you and I to use as we see fit. Rest assured, I will use every ounce of my skill to catch these Heroes of Tamriel. I do not hold any resentment..."

Kerztar sucked his teeth and smiled, "They are just too interesting. A challenge, indeed, perhaps the most worthy test of my skills. I simply must have a word with these people. Something about having a worthy adversary, you know?"

Much of what Kerztar spoke of Razlinc was already well aware of, but she let him speak. She found that sound minds worked best when they could come to a conclusion under their own power, no need to hurry him along. The Major was rather through and meticulous with his research, which was precisely why she summoned him. She needed somebody who was capable of understanding and respecting his foe in order to head them off and lure them into a disadvantageous position, to strike them when they felt they were safe. So far, he was proving to live up to the reputation the Ministry assured Razlinc of. Time would tell if their best man was really worthy of her trust and capable of the work she had assigned. She had high hopes for him; the Governor sincerely hoped he would not disappoint.

"You are very through, considering you had no reason to investigate the importance of this group. But you are rather correct about the troubles they have caused, apparently we have forced them out of an early retirement. Cyrodiil was never important, but Chorrol was a regrettable mistake I hope General Falinar does not make again. His mistake was underestimating the Imperials and what a small group of dedicated specialists can accomplish. All the advanced machinery across Aetherius means nothing if we rely on it instead of ourselves. It is why I hold it in reserve until we need to make a show of force." she stirred her tea, her eyes not leaving the man across the table. "You are also quite correct that they are amongst the populace. A trusted informant has given us a reliable word that they have arrived but a night ago in this very city, but they are scattered and are instructed not to remain in the same place for long. We can't act against one or two without losing the others. It is imperative that we take them all in one fell swoop, or at least, systematically in a way that makes them none the wiser. It is good that you judge them not for their race, for I have an eye for talent, and it's underestimating 'lesser' races is precisely why we lost Chorrol in the first place. If you were to hunt down our quarry, how would you do it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and lifting her cup delicately.

"If the deer hears so much as the snap of a branch, it will bound away from the hunter. These Heroes are smart, they won't stay and fight, they know when to pick their battles. Until now," Kerztar smirked, taking a sip of tea, "Whatever the Empire had sent after them may pale in comparison to what we have in our hands. Make no mistake, I will not have hubris steal them away from my- our grasp, ma'am. The trick to fishing is waiting until the fish has completely swallowed the bait."

Kerztar sat in thought for a minute, mulling over different plans and strategies, flitting by in his mind, "These Heroes have proven themselves against a tyrannical regime and come out on top. We can not afford to make the same mistake this Mad-Emperor made."

"Indeed, we cannot." The governor replied pensively. "This is a group of people who know no real defeat, and have survived against audacious odds. What would serve as alluring enough bait, I wonder? We cannot be so preoccupied with why they are here as much as what they may do. What do you suppose would be their goals here?" she asked.

Kerztar took another sip of his tea, only this time, his face held no expression of savoring the medley of herbs and painstaking artistry put into the tea, it was one of indifference, and good for it, as Kerztar was about to give Razlinc a piece of reality, "They mean to kill us. If they kill you, their goal can be assumed to be the destabilization of Volenfell. They may move on to other provinces and do the same to the other Governors. Their modus operandi will be cloak and dagger, I recommend a curfew, anything we can do short of giving the people a reason to revolt. So far, the rebels are from the Alik'r, nomads and lowly farmers from the desert clans. The city-folk are content under our yoke- or yours, really. As much as I would like to stay and chat, I must be getting to work. There is much to be known, and not enough time to learn it."

The Governor nodded, pleased Kerztar was so quick to grasp the uncomfortable reality of the situation with appropriate gravity. I have chosen well, she thought raising up from the table, the officer across from her standing in turn. "I will take your words into consideration, I assure you, Captain. However, it would not be wise to tip our hand too soon. After all, instating a curfew or other similar punitive control measures for no clear reason would be cause for concern for our esteemed guest, wouldn't you think?" she offered the man a smile. "I appreciate your time and assistance in this most... sensitive matter. I expect a report before long. Good day to you, Captain Kerztar."

With that, Kerztar stood with a courteous bow and a warm smile, "Rest assured, they will die." His footsteps permeated the large halls of the Governor's palace.

Somewhere in Hammerfell, 12 Rain’s Hand

Francis drained the last remaining drops from the waterskin before tossing it back to Vendel. It had been quite the trek, and with nothing to show for it, it may have well been a thousand years compared to its actual mere days. It was a certain kind of loose-limbed limbo that Francis had fallen into the last few miles. Neither of the two had eaten anything but dried meat strips for quite some time and they were burning much more energy than what the strips gave them. Vendel sighed very audibly, Francis took the hint and looked to his friend, whose arms raised to his sides with a shrug.

“Complaining?” Francis questioned, though it sounded more like a statement.

“Yes. I’m not going to beat around the bush with it. I’m much too tired for wit, Francis, I am complaining. We may die out here before we can even start your grand adventure, you Gods damned fool. I should have drug you back to Wayrest, kicking and screaming.” Vendel told his friend, pointedly.

“I know that you mean that-”

“Yes, I do, Francis.”

Francis continued without acknowledging the interruption, “I know that you mean that, friend, but there must be some kind of hunting prowess between the two of us. We could try our hands at trapping. Rabbit tastes good enough, does it not?”

“Francis, your delusions and denial are becoming more obvious by the day, as fast as they are growing intolerable. You are my friend, I don’t want you to be unhappy, but neither do I want you dead.” Vendel said, shaking his head in exasperation before continuing to walk the direction they had been.

“Vendel, I know that you care-”

“Yes, I do, Francis. I do care, I care about your sister. Someone ought to, between the two of us! Who do you think you are? You haven’t taken your sister into account these past days. I thought we may head back to Rihad. Francis, as much as I want you to follow what you think you need to do, I must follow your sister’s wishes and return you to Wayrest after our mission is complete,” Vendel let it sink in for a moment, “Our mission is accomplished. It has been accomplished for days before now, Francis. You grow too selfish these days.”

Francis heard those words hit his ears, and then they sliced into his very soul like a rapier through his chest. All of this time, and it took his best friend to tell him something he should have been thinking about, something that should have been at the forefront of his mind this entire time. He had been selfish, hadn’t he? His sister would probably slap him for such selfishness. He’d probably welcome it too, it had been a long time since he had been able to hug Annaliese. He wondered how much growing a person could do in two years. He wanted to find out. Francis swallowed hard, more out of emotion than dehydration, though the latter was very bothering.

“I will cut you a deal, Vendel.” Francis spoke, only loud enough for Vendel to hear.

“If this some foolish thing you’re hoping I’ll receive with open arms, Francis…”

“Rest assured, my friend, we’re both proving ourselves fools each day with the things we choose to undertake,” Francis let go of a small laugh at his lips that curled them into a smile, he raised his hand towards his friend, reaching, so as to catch his full attention, “We head North to Helgathe. We’ll end up meeting the Heroes there. I have a feeling that there is where they will be. If they are not there when we are, if there are no whispers of their presence, then we will continue north. We will go back to Wayrest.”

Francis stood with pleading eyes, hoping that this compromise would ease the tension between the two. It seemed like they were walking tightropes with every word they spoke to each other. One miniscule miscalculation and their relationship would fall to the abyssal depths below. Francis had to respect Vendel for even offering to come with him, he knew how much it pained him to be away from home, probably because it pained Francis as well. It was only that there was a calling to him that beckoned him forth just that much stronger than the call to home. Francis hoped the Gods didn’t see him as foolish. He knew Vendel did, and his opinions mattered more than any God’s. Francis’s eyes bade forgiveness and agreement.

“Fine.” Vendel said, simply.

Francis smiled then. North they went, and had been going for some time now.

On the Road to Helgathe

There was a reason Gorzath didn't visit the deserts often. Other than the fact that he seemed to make more enemies than friends there, he hated the heat. Not as much as he hated boated boats, but enough to make him avoid the desert lands. Yet here he was...trekking through the desert. To overthrow the Dwemer. Ah, the life of a fugitive going against a stronger power that's trying to kill him. It was almost reminisce of when he was fighting against the Emperor. The only difference being that there was a much higher chance of his death now. As the heat beat down upon the Spellsword, away from the main party a little bit, he was grateful for the fact that he had decided to wear the lighter armor. Saved him the effort of creating a spell that would have prevented him from overheating inside of his orcish armor. A lifesaving spell, certainly, but not permanent. He would have had to renew the spell more times than he would have liked. Besides, it wouldn't have been something an Orcish mercenary looking to make his own way in the world after serving with the Legion for years, his name is Olfin, in case any strangers asked. That was his excuse for being in Helgathe anyways, should the Dwemer come asking questions. And they undoubtedly would, when a party of this size and variety came waltzing through their doors.

"Please let their commanders be idiots." Gorzath muttered a prayer Malacath. It was doubtful his wish would be granted, given that he was likely the most unorclike orc to ever exist, but hey. Maybe the Divine would help. It certainly couldn't hurt to try, could it?

Helgathe, outskirts of the Marketplace, 16 Rain's Hand

"I'll triple whatever they're paying you!"

Gorzath cursed. It wasn't subtle, and it very clearly displayed the coming end of his patience. The merchant didn't seem to understand that he wasn't for hire to get him out of the city. The man wanted to leave, given all that he had heard was about to happen. But, he didn't want to leave without protection. Apparently, he feared bandits. "No! For the last time! No! I'm not leaving the city until my employer leaves, and that's my final answer!" The Redguard opened his mouth to protest and perhaps make another offer. Gorzath didn't give him that chance. "If you make me another offer, I swear in Malacath's name I will show you to Oblivion personally!" That seemed to get the message through. The man backed off, albeit reluctantly, and disappeared into the crowd. Gorzath allowed himself a sigh of relief. Now, maybe, he could actually wander the city a bit, explore it. He always liked to explore new areas, and that's just what this city was. A new area whose secrets he hadn't yet found. Admittedly, those secrets could possibly get him killed now that the city was under Dwemer occupation, but hey. He wasn't called 'the Wanderer' for nothing.

First, though, he'd visit the Marketplace. You could pick up all sorts of interesting things just by listening to the conversations around you if you just wandered the Marketplace. Primarily it would be useless gossip, but occasionally there was a useful bit of information. It was a way to pass the time anyways, while staying close to his allies. Who knows, maybe it would keep him from being besieged by another idiot trying to get out of the city before chaos erupted. He didn't get five steps into the market before another voice called out to him. "Gorzath? Gorzath!" Heaving a private sigh, the Spellsword turned around to see who exactly was calling out to him. When he saw who it was, however, a broad grin crossed his face. "Artena!" A female Argonian was making her way through the crowd towards him. A mercenary, as was obvious from her leather armor, the dual steel axes at her hips, and the imperial bow and arrows on her back. When she reached him, she promptly punched him in the jaw. Gorzath stumbled backwards. "Ow! What was that for?" "That," She said, "Was for leaving me in the Marshes thinking you were dead!" At the mention of that particular favor and subsequent battle, Gorzath's expression darkened. "I damn near was after that boat you put me on.." She hit him again.

"So. Where in the name of Oblivion have you been all these years?" Gorzath opened his mouth to speak, when he saw a familiar face that caused his blood to run cold. "Gorzath? What's the matter?" He ignored Artena, and pushed his way through the crowd. No..not here..not now... His Argonian friend followed him, trying to get his attention. She almost ran into him when he suddenly stopped dead. "Gorzath what's the ma-hey, watch the tail!" She snapped at an unaware Redguard, before turning back to Gorzath. Before she could open her mouth, however, he spoke. "We may have problems Artena. Have you been using your axes recently?"

Gorzath was staring at seven people. Six of them were obviously bandits, and were obviously following someone. Likely his companions(Zainat, Thyra, and Elayna). The person who really grabbed his attention, however, was the scarred(most noticeably a crisscrossing pattern on her face) Redguard woman with the spear who was alternating between leering at Thyra and Elayna. Thyra appeared to be her favorite, as her gaze rested on the Nord the longest. Sash. Here. Which meant...

Gorzath cursed again, softly. "Falir. Why can't you just leave me alone you bastard?"

Volty and Dervs write stuff together like a pair of bros.

The journey to Hammerfell...

Blade found himself walking next to Zaveed as he fidgeted with the chain mail that covered the leather armor and matching bracers. The khajiit had insisted that he abandon his regular equipment in the interest of subtlety. Even his dwarven greatsword and broadsword had been replaced by two orc swords, sheathed on either hip. The new motif was completed by brown cotton trousers, tucked into leather boots, and a white cloak and hood that hid his armaments from prying eyes, and his skin from the brutal sun. The weapons and cloak didn't bother him so much as the armor though. It felt ludicrously light compared to his usual orc gear, and it was just a tinny bit disconcerting.

He tugged at the mail again, as if it might fall apart in his hands, then muttered sullenly to the khajiit,
"I swear Zaveed, if I die in this, I will haunt you."

"Look at it this way, it's encouraging you to be something more than a wall." Zaveed grinned back at the argonian, seemingly comfortable in the Redguard garb he had been provided with, a cutlass at his hip. Of most of the party members, the sweltering heat and scorching sun seemed to bother him the least. After all, his people hailed from the desert, as well, and despite being surrounded by the sea for most of his life, the deck of a ship provided little reprieve from the sun. "Put it in perspective, friend. You will live longer in that than in your usual crude assortment you call equipment, since people will be less inclined to flay you on sight. I have gathered discretion was never a strong point of yours, but one is never too old to learn something new. For instance, I have learned that some argonians are rather fashion conscious and afraid of change." he teased.

Blade pulled the hood over his head. His cold blooded physiology had taken a liking to the heat of the desert heat, and he'd been sunning himself. But the yellow orb was still too intense to endure for any length of time, even for him. The air was a bit too dry for his taste as well.

Blade sniffed disdainfully,
"Yes well, I have learned that fashion doesn't stop a sword from piercing your heart quite as well as plate metal. And besides, I like being the wall."
He returned the teasing grin with one of his own, "Gods know you couldn't do it Zaveed. Not enough meat on that wiry frame of yours."

The argonian paused a moment to look the khajiit up and down, then shrugged.
"Well, maybe you could. But you wouldn't be a wall so much as a fence..." he grinned as he considered Zaveed stock in appearance, "... a picket fence.... with white washed planks and grape vines. Those are pretty right?"

The privateer shrugged in response. "One finds it simpler to not be where your foe's blade is. Much less complicated that way. Besides, being built like a horse does not agree with being on a rocking deck of a ship, slick with water and blood. Besides," he grinned. "The looks on a man's face when he's frustrated by his best efforts accounting for nothing is almost as good as the act of taking his life." he had to laugh at Blade's joke. "If you are referring to yourself as a picket fence, would that not mean you are also implying that you have no substance?"

Blade had difficulty understanding how avoiding your opponent while simultaneously trying to land a blow was a less complicated strategy -though no less valid- than just taking the hit while hitting back harder, but decided not to debate the point. And he couldn't help but nod in agreeance regarding an enemy's frustrations. He poured water into his mouth from the bladder that had hung at his side as Zaveed finished up.

"Hmm, no, I'm fairly certain I was referring to you as the picket fence. Though I find it amusing that a pirate would presume to lecture the mercenary on his character, or lack thereof. I live a simple life yes, but that does not mean I am simple. My apparent shallowness is in the interest of developing as few relationships as possible."

He realized how absurd this might sound to most people, and could only shrug before offering his explanation, "it's in ones best interest to avoid making allies when those allies tend to become foes rather quickly. If you have no stock in anyone than it's not troubling when they inevitably die. Even if it's by your own hand."

"Privateer." Zaveed corrected bemusedly. "I work on behalf of the Empire's interests doing what pirates do. A much agreeable arrangement, no?" he said, listening to the argonian fighter explain his position on his reluctance to develop relationships. It was something Zaveed understood, but didn't quite agree with. Life was far too short to be a miserable old shit who was paranoid of everyone's intentions. "And yet, here you are, marching with allies on behalf of someone else to help sort an issue that could potentially rescue the world. You, my friend, are far too grim. What is a life without laughter and companionship? A drink alone is a poor substitute without company, and a story is wasted if one cannot share it. Even friends who turn foes have value before they cross blades with you, you know. Do you know why I chose to go back to a life being a marauder at sea?" he asked rhetorically. "Because there's a value in a crew. I could have done anything I pleased after I was granted a pardon by Emperor Tactus Mede and demanded my price for my role in saving Tamriel from his father's madness. I chose a ship and a pardon for my time as a corsair, and I quickly filled the decks of the Sea Wisp with good men and women who all lost something to the Thalmor. We had a common purpose, and after seeing what happened to Anvil, I'm sure you'd agree that it's a shame I didn't have a fleet of like-minded and driven people to plunder their entire navy. What did you gain out of being an arena fighter? Some coin and a reputation for murder? What did you have outside of that?" Zaveed asked, looking off ahead at the front of the convoy.

"Nothing," Blade replied flatly. "No family. No skills. No purpose. I had nothing when I entered the arena each day and I had nothing when I left."
He was quiet for a minute as he realized what he said wasn't entirely true.
"Well, there was the occasional companion. Lovers. But the companions were fighters like myself. And so they inevitably fell before my blade. The lovers were brief affairs. Driven by more by lust than anything else. I'm not in the right state of mind to be someones partner."
The argonian shrugged as he continued, "eventually I grew tired of trying to claim what I thought was a normal life and accepted what I had become. A killer. There is no other alternative for me. I have no loved ones to return to. So I sell my sword day in and day out waiting for someone better to come along and best me. To end this brief and pointless existence so that I can finally rest. You misunderstand my presence here Zaveed. You are allies yes, and I wouldn't turn my sword on any of you. But I'm not here to save the world as we know it or to claim glory. I don't give a shit who rules Tamriel. The dwemer just sacked the only home I had, and that pisses me off, among other things. This is vengeance."

Blade suddenly broke out laughing, wiping a single jovial tear from his eye when he finished.
"I guess you're right. I am quite grim aren't I?"

Zaveed grinned at the argonian, finding his jovial outburst a welcome change from the scowling reptile Wets-His-Blade typically was. "Quite so. Normally, I'd suggest a trip to the brothel to sort yourself out, but it's clear you've expended that avenue of release." Zaveed mused. "Just because you've set yourself to be a miserable sod doesn't mean you can't find another path. I'd much rather you not find some way to violently die because you think that's a solution, take it from someone who's very nearly experienced the Void. While you still breathe, you can still act. No man is set to one fate, despite what the damn priests may tell you about Divine plans and other such nonsense. Think of this as a soul searching experience, since you aren't exactly on some announcer's schedule. Surely this," the khajiit said, rolling his arm at the scenery around them. "Is a welcome change to the same boring blood stained pit you called home. I, too, thought I was too far beyond redemption to find love, but find me, it did. Quite a scary and foreign concept to a man whose primary liaisons and understanding of women came exclusively from brothels, plunder victims, and the women in the crew. Seeing a husband and wife was as alien of a concept to me as the Daedra." he raised an eye ridge at the argonian. "It was vengeance that drove me to kill the Emperor, and look where it got me. I wasn't content to let some bastard mages cultivate me like an overripe fruit, and I didn't much feel like running and hiding from them because I was immune to their Emperor's little trick with the sky. You never quite know where the path leads, so long as you put one foot ahead of another. Who knows? Maybe after this, they'll make an arena and name it after you and bronze plate a statue the size of that Azura shrine in Skyrim." Zaveed laughed. "I don't think it's just vengeance that's kept you around. You could have wandered off at any point, why stay?"

Blade's eyes scanned the flat, sweltering, waterless plains with a raised brow of his own as the khajiit gestured to them, muttering quietly, "yes... quite the improvement."

He took another sip from the bladder then chuckled as he stoppered it. "As confident as I am -and I'm sure you are- that I could rip these dwemer pricks a new collective asshole single handedly, even I realize that it will be much easier if I have someone around to pull me out of the pile of corpses at the end of a battle. Besides, I had a feeling when I met your little group that excitement would be waiting for you wherever you went. I was not mistaken..."

The argonian rolled his eyes with mock exasperation after the pregnant pause, a loud sigh escaping his muzzle before continuing, "...and I suppose I've taken a liking to the members of your little posse. They're good fighters. Reliable. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Zaveed laughed. "Easy now, one does not lay everything out on the table at once. I might start thinking you have real feelings and aren't just some reptilian artonach. And you are rather right... we do find no small amount of excitement, it's part of the reason they made those rather lovely statues of us in Imperial City." he caught Blade's eyes. "One way or another, we'll get that city back. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that the seemingly impossible always has a work around. You just have to be stubborn and clever enough to find it. Now, who in particular has warmed your cold blood, while we're being social?"

"Oh gods," Blade grumbled as Zaveed pressed him for answers, "you're relentless aren't you? I said they're reliable, not that they make me all warm and fuzzy inside. Besides, one does not lay everything out on the table at once remember?" The argonian was quiet for a moment. Not wanting to end on a sour note, he added, "Thank you for the conversation. You have given me much to consider."

"Relentless, stubborn, charming. I'm quite complex, you see." the khajiit smiled, quickly sensing he'd overstayed his welcome with the gruff, anti-social argonian. "You have time to consider it, and then come. We're still a few hours off from what I hear. Try not to spend it all with the voices in your head. Until next time." Zaveed said, moving ahead to keep pace with the wagon, whistling an unfamiliar tune as he went to talk with Elayna and Thyra, who were taking a much-needed break from the long, broiling walk.

Vanq and I wrote stuff! Posting as her current whereabouts are unknown. This makes me sad.

15 Rain's Hand, Insurgent Camp, Southern Hammerfell Coast...

Zaveed's pensive state of mind was shattered when a young woman's voice called his name in an excited manner, as if seeing a friend or family member one had been apart from for some time. The khajiit certainly was not anticipating fanfare or even much recognition amongst the stern faces of the fighters who wished to reclaim their homeland, it was almost as if it were a cry from another world- another life. He looked up to the voice, and was immediately taken aback by the all-too familiar Imperial girl who was hurrying toward him.

"Rena?" he asked, perplexed and somewhat alarmed.

The last time he had seen her was the night after Imperial City came under siege, where her aunt, Isabella, and her had accompanied the Heroes to their ceremony as something of a thank you for getting them off the street and out of the public eye. Zaveed and the others had helped the girl and her aunt escape as the city fell to the dwemer, and managed to slip out of the most unlikely place before the city was sealed off; the front gate. The last Zaveed had seen of the girl, him and the others were marching to Chorrol to reclaim the city from occupation and free the prisoners. Now, countless kilometers away, the same overly enthused dreamer girl who had been terrified out of her wits that Zaveed had personally pulled out of the cool river water to save her from drowning, stood before him, her beaming face at odds with the entirety of the camp around her, as if the war had yet to stake a claim on her soul.

"How are you... why are you here?" he asked, unsure of his own words for a change.

Rena could have swooned hearing Zaveed utter her names so smoothly. It felt like ages since she had last seen him, she wasn't ready to believe it was real. Her fingers quickly found a patch of bare skin along her neck. They snapped close and Rena let out a sharp cry.

"Oh, it's really real!" She flung herself towards the space next to the Khajiit and quickly pulled her legs up, her arms outstretched towards the fire. "Same reason as you, probably!" The girl's grin widened. "I was in with a bunch of refugees and then there were these men talking about fighting the Dwemer. So I volunteered and then I found you were here and then i just had to go looking for you. I need to fight with you guys, then I know I'll be safe." That she was equating safety with being in the thick of it all was not lost on her. It was simply the truth, the way of it. Now that she had found Zaveed, and the others couldn't be far away, she had found her place. "Say I can go with you, pleeease?"

It amazed Zaveed how oblivious, or indifferent, Rena was towards how others perceived her. She was eccentric, loud, and rather out of place in the camp. Still, after the rather somber days past, her vivid and enthusiastic disposition was a welcome reprieve. He listened to her tale, knife held loosely in his hand, as the two stared off into the flames. "Safe. You and I have differing thoughts of what that means." Zaveed replied with a low chuckle. "Where we're headed is hardly a place of refuge or even security. There's a good chance many of us will get hurt, but sometimes one cannot pick their road, no?" he looked at the girl and offered a mirthful smile. "As for you coming with us, well, somehow you managed to find us again at the ends of Tamriel with very few leads to go off of. I don't think I could stop you if I tried. You are rather resourceful, as it turns out. But do you know how to fight?" he asked.

Rena shrugged, smile still firmly in place at Zaveed's comment about her definition of safety. He probably just couldn't understand, he and his group had lived through so much. Of course it was safest nearest him. Her survival in the Imperial city was proof of that. And he said it too, they might get hurt, not die. Those were much better terms than the awful, horrible life she had lived in the past few weeks. But none of that mattered unless he said yes. She was ready to beg and plead if need be.

"OH Zaveed! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Her body was humming with the thrill of getting exactly what she wanted. "You're right, nothing could stop, no Dwemer, nothing!" So close to him, she threw her arms around him in an awkward side hug. "You won't regret it! I can fight. Aunt Isa didn't like it, but I can. I learned. And, well...I've killed stuff...like wolves." She let go, her arms getting more animated as she tried to explain, her eyes wild in the light of the fire. "And I, I...stabbed some people. They were trying to hurt me and steal my stuff. They wouldn't go away so I grabbed my dagger and just..." She thrust forward and slashed, miming her explanation. "But I can do more! I'm good at enchanting things, auntie let me help out with that at her shop back in the City. And I can smith a little, but I really only liked making jewelry. I could make you something! But, I don't have any soul gems." Suddenly, the life went out of her. She couldn't make them anything to keep them safe if she didn't have soul gems. The flood of words were dammed in an instant and she sheepishly looked back to Zaveed. "But see? I can be helpful." It was a plea, a fierce want for acceptance.

It was hard not to share the girl's infectious joy and enthusiasm, her animated movement and expressions punctuating her words in an effective, but amusing manner. He was taken aback by her embrace, as neither of them were close, and as far as Zaveed could tell, she idolized him for some strange reason. Killing an Emperor was not an activity one would associate with fame and fanfare. He nodded along as she said what she had done, the girl may not have thought so, but killing wolves was no small feat, or defending what was hers. He held his dagger up before his eyes, turning it slowly as he surveyed the lethal blade with the fire reflected in it. "You know, I wasn't much younger than you when I killed my first man." he said, reflecting on the moment that was ingrained in his mind forever. "I wasn't graceful, I was clumsy, afraid, and probably more than a little malnourished. A grown argonian with a war hammer came at me, missed with a wild swing, and when he tried to bring the hammer up for a finishing blow when I was on my back in the mud, I lashed out with the shitty iron axe I was given and lodged it into the argonian's throat. It wasn't calculated, or even something I consciously did. It was a reflex, it was him or I, see?" he looked at the girl sitting next to him. "You may not think it, but the fact you were willing and able to fight or kill when was needed already tells me everything I need to know about you. Most people freeze up when they're faced with danger, you faced it and did what you had to." he smiled. "I'm sure we can shake down a few soul gems in this camp, there aren't a lot of mages, but there's always a few. Did you learn to enchant from your aunt?" he asked.

Rena listened in silence, something quite strange for the girl, but she was bewitched by Zaveed's story. That he would share such a personal story from so long ago was touching. Even one so excitable as the Imperial girl could see the sensitive nature and reasons for him sharing it. She would treasure the moment, and likely squeal with glee as she remembered it falling asleep, but for now, she found herself calmed by it.

Promises of finding soul gems restored her faith in herself, for even with Zaveed's comforting words, self-doubt and despair lingered. She had to be useful to them, she couldn't bear to find herself left behind again. Especially not by the Heroes. Rena shook her head at his question. "Aunt Isa used to give that work to Areldil." She wrinkled her nose up. "He was some old High Elf who claimed his father studied in Cyrodiil's Mages Guild. He started teaching me a couple years ago when my aunt made him." Rena frowned. She didn't want Zaveed to get the idea that maybe he should find old aunt Isabella. Dropping her face into her hands, her words were muffled but audible. "Aunt Isa didn't make it."

That took Zaveed by surprise. The Imperial woman was a cautious sort, and certainly washed her hands of danger at the earliest opportunity. It was difficult to imagine Isabella getting herself into any sort of trouble, but these were strange and dangerous times. He searched inside himself to feel something of news of the woman's loss, and came up short. He barely knew the woman, and he had witnessed countless scores of people die over his life. It was just another faucet of it. While he couldn't muster the emotions required to be properly distressed at the news of the girl's aunt's passing, he quietly resolved to add her name to the list of people who needed an avatar to represent them when it came time to take the dwemer down. "I'm... sorry for your loss. I'm sure she did what she could to keep you safe." Zaveed offered, looking over at the girl. She didn't seem particularly broken up about it; she was one tough kid. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Do you need some time?"

The tears weren't quite coming like Rena wanted them too. She had hoped to shed a few and be convincing enough to make sure no one would try taking her back to her aunt. She couldn't quite tell if Zaveed was buying it or not, but she dared not look up...at least, she had been resolute in that until the Khajiit hero's arm wrapped around her.

She could feel the heavy, muscular weight of it, even as lightly as he laid it around her shoulders. She had hugged him, briefly, but he had done this on his own. Rena was seeing stars, she suddenly felt so light headed while her heart thumped away. She gulped, pulling her face out of her hands and turning to stare at Zaveed, her mouth agape. There were so many words that wanted to come rushing out, but she was dumbstruck. He. Was. Touching. Her. The young woman forced her jaw closed and suddenly blushed deep crimson, a hitch caught in her throat as she finally found her tongue.

"I...yes...I mean no." If only she still had her journal. She had "lost" it, although she was pretty certain her aunt may have had a hand in that. "I mean...um....I should....uh...."

Zaveed had to suppress an outburst of laughter at Rena's excited discomfort. He was under no illusion he she viewed her "heroes", the incident in Imperial City still strongly in the khajiit's mind, she had more or less been embraced by an idol of hers. Zaveed hoped that she wouldn't be starstruck forever; they had work to do, and once you got past the whole insanity of two years ago, the "heroes" were exactly like anyone else... assuming anyone else had a history of violence and criminal activities under their belt.

Zaveed removed his arm from her shoulders, standing. "I will tell you what, if you wish to train with that blade of yours, I will teach you how to use it properly. If not, then perhaps I should retire for the evening and give you time to come to terms with what happened with your aunt. We have quite an exciting few days ahead, Rena. Before long, you'll be the one earning the famous reputation." he gave her one of his winning smiles and a wink, waiting for her response. The girl was over her head, but her heart was in the right place, he hoped. He knew what it was like to be alone without a family, it tended to make you take rather foolish gambles to make sense of things.

Rena wasn't fully herself again, though that wasn't saying much, until Zaveed had pulled his arm back. Like a breath of fresh air to starving lungs, her mind was able to function again. Emboldened if by nothing else than the adrenaline that was still flowing through her body, she readily agreed. Maybe she wouldn't become a hero like them, though she wanted to, at least she could get better at fighting like them. She could really help them then. "I know how to slash at thi--peop--attackers." She pulled out the small steel blade. "But, um..." She looked rather sheepishly at the ground. "I ran a lot too, away from things. But I won't run away unless you tell me to. I promise."

She kicked at the ground, she wanted to be good at this. She wanted to show them, Zaveed specifically, that she could do what they did. Her fingers gripping the short and simple hilt just the way her aunt had showed her, she slashed the air in front of her a few times. "Like this?"

The khajiit grinned. "Almost. Come, we'll find us an open patch we can train in." he lead Rena away from the camp fire and a bit more to the outside of the camp. He pulled his own dagger from its sheathe to demonstrate his points. He angled himself so his right hand with the blade was held back and his open left hand was facing towards Rena, raised in the air. "You turn yourself like this, you see. If you face an opponent straight on, you expose your body to them and give them a much larger area of attack. Unpleasant, if you cannot react quickly. Your off-hand is as useful as the one that wields the blade. It can be used to catch and deflect attacks, even if it is a simple strike. Come at me like you were going to stab me, but slow. We'll go through the motions before picking up the pace, yes?" he asked, smiling and flicking his fingers in a beckoning gesture.

Rena did as was instructed, and as the steel dagger made its way towards his chest, Zaveed moved his off-hand quickly but gently into Rena's wrist, pushing the knife away from him across his body. In the same motion, his hand clutching his dagger moved and stopped several inches from Rena's throat. "When you are fighting for your life with a blade in hand, stopping your attacker is just as important as killing him. Had this been a real fight, you would have had about a second to react to my counter. Your first impulse will always be to move the knife, to control it. Ignore this impulse, as your weapon is not going anywhere. Your head, however, might. Now, recover." he released her wrist and withdrew his blade. "If you were to say, slash, how would you go about it?" the Imperial girl demonstrated, and Zaveed caught her wrist, this time keeping it away from both of them and driving the point of his own blade towards her belly. "See, it's all about reacting. As you went to slash, you exposed your body to a counter. This is rather counter productive to living. Depending on how your opponent comes at you should dictate where you put their blade, and where you put your own. They will, of course, try to dodge and move out of the way, but we'll get there. Now, I'm going to come at you at the pace we're at and I want you to counter. Are you ready?"

Though she knew herself to be safe, that Zaveed meant her no harm, Rena was scared. Scared of getting hurt, the knife at her throat had had her gulping. But the movements felt strange, foreign. She tried to follow his instructions to the letter, her senses heightened, they overrode the frenzy that had come when he had previously put his arm around her. It was not a smooth process, she felt herself faltering and questioning each move she made. There were so many things to take into account, to think about. But still she tried, moving the blade while waiting and watching for his counter-attack.

In the slow dance of practice, Rena began to find the pattern to it. She had to be aware of her body, of where it was, but she could not think of it. Or at least, that was the rational that made sense to her in what Zaveed explained. Her body would need to move on it's own accord if she wanted her mind to be thinking about where her opponent was or what he was doing. It would take time, but the girl did have her first victory, no matter how many defeats had come before it. Her body turned sideways to Zaveed, she had caught and pushed away his hand that held the dagger. Rena, fighting to urge to move out and away, slid in towards him instead, her dagger stopped just shy of tapping against where his heart beat within.

"I did it." It was a surprisingly quiet exclamation, her tone filled with awe at finally having succeeded, even if it was at a pace far below what a real fight would be like. She cocked her to meet Zaveed's eyes. "I really did it?" As if to make sure that he had not allowed her the win.

She was rewarded with a grin. "I am rather glad you stopped yourself, I still require that." he said, glancing down to the tip of the blade pointed towards his heart. "You are a swift learner, it would seem. You earned your victory fairly, so do not rob yourself with doubt. Now, we'll try it a few more times to make sure you get comfortable with it, and then we'll work on your footwork." he said, adopting a fighter stance once more. "Begin."

The two lost track of time, gradually picking up the pace and before too long, Rena seemed quite comfortable with her lessons. More than a few times, she managed to slip Zaveed's guard and even nicked him on a couple occasions. As they practiced, Zaveed taught Rena how to move, where to place her feet, and what to do with her body in various situations. After a few embarrassing slips, she was becoming much more sure footed, and much more able to react to a variety of different attacks. It wasn't the same as training for several weeks, but it was quite the accomplishment in the session they had. Tired, hot, and sore, the pair sheathed their blades and made way to the makeshift tavern, where Zaveed purchased a drink for Rena and himself as they sat on the stools. "You did well today. How do you feel?" he asked, sipping from the warm amber glass. " Are you nervous about what's to come?"

Rena sniffed at the liquid in front of her. She still hadn't quite grown used to the quality, or lack of, in food and drink now found on the run. Her throat was parched though, and even though it was warm, she took one large gulp. It soothed her throat even if it tasted bad. Worse was the tiredness that seemed to soak into every bone and muscle on her body, she wasn't sure how much longer her eyes would stay open once the adrenaline wore off. She even found herself able to be seated next to her idol and not obsess over the thought of it.

"Tired..." She answered honestly, Rena kept her eyes on the mug of beer in front of her. Was she nervous? She hadn't felt like it before, she was doing what she just knew she had to. She was doing what was right and what would keep her safe, even if Zaveed thought that a strange sort of logic. But nervous...The Imperial girl fidgeted, picking at her fingers. "No, I'm not nervous." She sighed after taking another large sip. "I probably should be, aunt Isa always said there was something wrong with me."

"A fair thing. If there's one thing I learned leading this rather irresponsible life, it's that you grab sleep when you can, since a sharp mind is exactly what makes you capable of those split-second reactions and decisions that often mean life or death." he said, downing half of his glass in a long gulp. He pulled a Septim from one of his pockets and began to flick it between his fingers, staring at the slightly-dulled gold coin as he spoke. He smiled at Rena's response. The girl certainly wasn't your typical star-struck teenage girl. He would dismiss her bravado as ignorance, but he knew what she had endured, she was no stranger to danger, and she remained remarkably composed. "Your aunt always has been a stick in the mud, has she not?" Zaveed grinned at Rena. "Some people are just... made for a different calling. The idea of settling down and not doing something stupid, dangerous, and exciting frankly bores me. I know I should feel somewhat guilty, but a part of me enjoys all this. Being with like-minded people, exploring Tamriel, and doing things that very few other people can accomplish. That in itself is a feeling worth as much as any haul of treasure, perhaps more." he contemplated for a moment, studying the girl's expression. "You certainly seem more at ease around me now. Has the celebrity sheen finally worn off?" he asked with a laugh.

Less than thirty seconds later, Rena's intoxicated gushing immediately caused Zaveed to regret the question.

It was a long time coming but Francis and Vendel finally made it into Helgathe. Smuggled in among the rugs and linen of a goods peddler nice enough to take Francis and Vendel’s coin. A lot of it. Almost too much, really, but Francis and Vendel were willing to pay it if it meant a step closer to home for Vendel and a step closer to the Heroes for Francis. The two had made a compromise days ago, before they met the goods peddler shortly after on the road. Now though, the pair was in Helgathe, among high towers, armored guards and bustling citizenry. Despite the Dwemer takeover being quick, brutal but anything but bloodless, the people here seemed to be going about their business without any kind of sign of a cruel yoke upon them. Francis glanced to Vendel as they walked the crowded marketplace walkways. Francis frowned a bit when he saw that Vendel had snatched four small chicken-legs and had been trying to stuff all of them in his mouth. The man was hungry but Francis remembered that he and Vendel had vowed to steal only in true need. It wouldn’t do to have honest adventurers and duelists stealing from the common man.

“Vendel, why?” Francis asked. He knew why, though. His friend had to be damned hungry after such a long time on the road with only dried meat and water.

“Mmmf hmm-mm” Bits of chicken everywhere.

“Vendel, please.” Francis held a hand up with a laugh.

Vendel swallowed, “Hungry!”

“I can see that. What did we agree to a very long time ago?” Francis asked like a father to his disobedient child.

“No stealing. Only in true need, Francis. My hunger was a true need. We barely have any septims to our name, my friend. Theft is but a smaller crime in the larger scheme of things, don’t you think?” Vendel asked, belching afterwards.

“My goodness, Vendel, what’s gotten into you?” Francis asked.

“Chicken.” Vendel smirked. He’d never heard his friend say these things, they’d always vowed to be proper gentlemen and dashing duelists, always speaking for the voiceless. Not thieves.

“I’ll let that slide only once, Vendel. Next time we need food, though, we’re buying it. We need to find some form of work, though. Your piece about the septims were true, I admit.” Francis opened his coinpurse and expected a puff of dust to accompany spiderwebs inside. All he saw were three septims, definitely not enough to buy a meal worth having, if one at all.

“Do you think the Dwemer have outlawed dueling?” Vendel asked, his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“Many places have outlawed dueling. Except for Skyrim. I hear that some disputes are settled in such a way, although, two farmers wouldn’t seem to be the most entertaining of fighters, if the ones in Camlorn are any indication.” Francis snickered. He had to remind himself that he was a farmer a time ago, and not a very good one. It was to be said he was better with the sword than with the plough.

“Wait,” Vendel spoke quickly, holding out a thick arm to block the somewhat thinner and taller Francis from going farther, “What was it you said? About farmers?”

“Yes, Francis, I know. I shouldn’t speak ill of them because-”

“No, no, no, about their fighting, Francis.” Vendel asked, grabbing onto Francis’s collar.
It took a brief moment until Francis smiled, “Not entertaining fighters…”

“Entertainment, Francis. We’ll perform. Put on a show of the fighting prowess of two duelists. I’m sure the people will eat it up. The Dwemer don’t have laws against entertainment, if I’m correct.” Vendel flashed a grin.

“I see.” Francis returned the grin and the two shared a laugh and nod. They stepped into an alley as they planned out the venue, how they would set it up. They’d need a few rugs, a herald, and furthermore, an audience.

“I say we get the peddler fellow who smuggled us in. He has rugs and if we promise him a portion of the profit, he’ll be our herald.”

“Good thinking, friend!” Vendel clapped Francis on the back.

Francis coughed more for effect and violently turned around. His face was half-shaved and he was yet to curl his mustache, “Please, Vendel, I’m trying to get presentable. You are the barbaric Nord, a fierce, formidable foe. I am the charming Breton, a fantastic fighter of finesse.”

“Ah, sorry, old friend.” Vendel said, stopping before he clapped Francis on his shoulder as he resumed shaving with his dagger. In a few minutes, they’d be ready to find the peddler gentleman and begin their plan.

A Great Collab between Dipper, Fallout and me.

"Three blessings, Muthsera." Zainat said in response to Elayna's comment on his rugs, smiling softly. "Feel free to look and find one that you are most fond of. I am sure I saw you on the Caravan looking at my wares as they were folded, yes? I am sorry for not letting you look at them at the time." He smiled again, before leaning back in his chair, and closed his eyes, happy that he wouldn't have to haggle with Elayna, and hoping that the woman would perhaps keep other people from the stall.

Coming out from the alleyway a few stalls down, Francis played with one of the edges of his mustache, twisting the end with his fingers. He looked to Francis, the two sharing a smile.

"You look to be yourself again, friend." Vendel clapped the Breton on his shoulder.

"I feel like myself again. We still need to procure rugs, and get ourself a herald to perhaps be called a show. Performers. I wonder what my father might say if the old bag was alive." Francis twisted the ends of his mustache in thought.

"I don't know, Francis. Rugs, though..." Vendel trailed off, wondering if he could pick the face of the goods peddler out from the crowd, as either browser or merchant. Coming up empty, he folded his arms across his thick chest, "I can't seem to find anyone, Francis."

From across the markeplace, Francis spied a stall manned by a Dunmer. They were a peculiar sight around Hammerfell, or at least one he thought he would never see. He figured the deserts and forests to turn away anyone but the Redguard that called them home. He was wrong, he guessed. After all, the first sighting of a Dunmer he'd had was when he finally left his farm and Camlorn to go to Wayrest. He'd almost been killed by the first Dunmer he'd seen, and he'd had to kill the second. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill this one or almost be killed.

"There, Vendel, a rug merchant." Francis pointed out.

"We've no septims, Francis." Vendel had a point. A very, very true point.

"We'll promise him a good portion of the earnings if we manage to get an audience." Francis decided. He walked, and Vendel decided to follow.

"My Dunmer friend!" Francis greeted Zainat, or Sul-Matuul, cheerfully. He nodded to the woman standing next to him. She had come before him and he was half-inclined to let her go first. Gentleman Adventurer, and all of that.

Zainat opened his eyes and glanced at the Breton warily. After a moment, however, he smiled, and nodded at Francis. "Welcome to Sul-Matuul's emporium!" He said, rising, offering his hand to shake. "Three blessings, Sera. Have I met you before? In Sentinel, perhaps? Rihad? Skaven?" He listed off a few of the cities he had visited during his few years in Hammerfell, before pouring Francis a cup of coffie, and placed a small pastry infront of the man. "Come into my stall, friend, and we shall discuss selling my fine Prayer-Rugs!"

Prayer rugs? Francis cast a glance at Vendel, who was probably along the same trail of thought. Francis wondered if he had made the wrong decision with this merchant. Certainly, he would not let a couple of outlanders peform their martial arts and dirty his prayer rugs. Something about the mer told Francis he'd be insulted if he asked him what he wanted to. He glanced at the woman who arrived before him with a friendly shrug, mouthing the word, "Sorry."

"Thank you, Sul-Matuul, my friend," He paused, searching for the right words, "You are a very gracious mer, friend. May I ask, to what God are these prayer rugs dedicated to? Divines? One of the Tribunal?"

Zainat inhalled sharply, his ruby orbs narrowing at the man. "The Tribunal are not gods, they were but false traitors to Nerevar Moon-and-Star." He snapped at the Breton. He paused, and for a few seconds he looked as if he were to continue, but then he realized he was not Zainat Ashurnasaddas, the Gulakhan of the Urshilaku, but Sul-Matuul, a simple rug-monger. "I... Am sory for that outburst. The history of the Dunmer religion is... Unpleasant."

He sighed, and continued to look ashamed. "These rugs" He motioned to some to his right, "Are for the ones worshiped by my Kin, The Aldmer and Bosmer. I know not their names, nor do I care to." He pointed at another group. "These are for The Reclamations, the Gods of my people." He paused a moment, before smiling softly. "You would know them as Azura, Boethia, and Mephala."

He pointed at yet another section, and stroked the stubble that had been growing upon his chin the last few weeks. "These are for the Ten Divines commonly worshiped by the Imperials, Nords, and Bretons. Shezzar; or Shor; also called Lorkhan, Talos, Akatosh, Arkay; sometimes called Orkey by Nords..." He paused, and squinted, trying to remember the gods of man. "I... Can't remember the rest." He admitted at length.

He pointed at the final section of Rugs, and smiled. "These are for the Gods of the Redguards, one of the most important being Ebonarm... Who's Mosque we stand beneith the shadow of."

"My friend, I do apologize for my foolish remark," Francis bowed, growing nervous as quick as ever, "I did not realize. Please, excuse my ignorance of this fact. I have not been to Morrowind and am uninformed of their customs." Francis eased up a bit as the Dunmer began to apologize for himself. At least they both felt a bit repentant instead of at eachother's throats. Or Sul at his, more likely.

"Of which God would fit a duelist, my friend? I am in the market, and am looking for someone to..." He swallowed, taking a sip of the coffee given to him before glancing to Vendel on his left, "I am looking for an investor willing to loan rugs to me. I am a duelist, an adventurer, most recently, I am a performer. My friend, I would be more than happy to buy the rugs with whatever portion is needed from the earnings of my future performance nearby." He shifted ever so nervously.

Elayna smiled in return, bowing her head slightly. "It's no trouble at all. I'll have more leisure to browse now, anyways." She began carefully looking at the whole selection, as if she were inspecting each thread for quality. In reality, she was just occupying herself with questions such as Why are there so many of the damned things? and Would Julianos get upset if I used this one...? Silly things, of course, but entertainment in a city under seige was a valuable commodity. In fact, such thoughts seemed to herald the approach of two men, both with strong airs about them. One of them, the one with an awfully nice mustache, acknowleged Elayna, but she simply waved her hand and stepped out of the way so they could do their business.

The newcomers and 'Sul-Matuul' quickly got into discussion about the rugs, the Dunmer getting momentarily livid over the mention of the Tribunal. Elayna made sure to listen to his explanations of each section of rugs, giving an impressed "Huh...", and suddenly wondering if rubbing an amulet and hoping for the best hasn't exactly been the best way to go about divine affairs. Convinience, what a dreadfully addictive thing...her thoughts were interrupted by an itching on her neck and in the back of her brain, that feeling that usually meant a pair of eyes were unwelcomely affixed upon her.

Turning her head to the side, just slightly so she could look behind her, there was sure enough a Redguard woman watching her, and Thyra just a short distance away. Her fingers itched to grab the dagger on her thigh, but she knew better. At least, not yet...there wasn't any sign of aggression at the moment, save for that spear...

She turned back to Francis as he mentioned that he wanted the rugs for performing. The man looked awfully uneasy, an emotion that Elayna was starting to pick up easier and easier each day. The young Breton woman stepped a bit closer to the group, and put on her most welcoming smile. "I'm sorry, but...did I hear you're a performer? If you don't mind my asking, what is it that you perform?" She'd heard the part about being a duelist, but whatever started conversation, right?

With a few hesitant glances and a loud swallow coming from Francis as he slowly turned around from the Dunmer burning holes in his head with his death glares, Francis offered the best smile he could muster in this situation, hoping that him turning his attention away from the Dunmer would help him cool down, "I am a performer of martial prowess, madam. In Wayrest, I was known to be quite the duelist and sword-fencing master. My Nordic friend here also sports the same skillset as I. Road-Brothers, are we." He smiled.

Master... Even Francis knew that to be a stretch, but he was good. More than thirty beaten opponents and seven Wayrest tavern brawls couldn't lie as to his skill. More often than not, one would find a knife in their back whenever one Corsair captain got into an argument with another over whose ship was bigger. Just one big size-contest about everything when it came to drunken sailors, Francis found, both from the taverns and the Golden Gale.

"What is it that you do to fill the time and perhaps earn a few septims doing, Miss..." Francis waited for a name with a polite smile.

"Wayrest, eh? What a fine coincidence to find one who shares my hometown!" Elayna mused in a light tone, before answering the implied question. "Sylvia. I'm just a botanist, nothing as exciting as dueling or adventuring. Unless you count studying flowers and grasses among the things you simply must do before you die. I don't believe I got your name, friend." She chuckled to herself, mentally groaning. Of course her field was interesting! By Oblivion, thistles and mushrooms were the best conversation partners. If you had a vivid imagination, something she came equipped with. However, it seemed a good idea to just downplay her passion for now. Elayna nodded a greeting to the Nord behind Francis.

"Ah, another Breton from Wayrest! Well, to be a saint in honesty, madam, I come from the Principality of Camlorn, but my sister and I left with my Nord friend trailing behind. A rather unfortunate series of events surround that happening," Francis trailed off and cleared his throat before continuing, "But my name, Madam, Francis. Francis Martell. And a botanist, eh? My sister absolutely adores flowers, but I don't think she could name one from another." Francis laughed.

He missed her, truth be told. Although, finding another Breton native to High Rock was a welcome reprieve from the sea of strange faces he'd found in Hammerfell since he left Wayrest two years ago on a quest for a self-styled Corsair-King and his dead daughter, rest her soul, "And Adventuring? 'Tis a dangerous thing to do. I can't tell you some of the things I'd seen on the road," he frowned, remembering the Necromancer's mausoleum, now that he thought about it, this woman held a familiar face, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen it, "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sylvia. I do say, when was the time you were last in Wayrest? I feel as if I've seen you before."

Elayna nodded as Francis told her a snippet of his story, restraining herself from flinching when she heard the name 'Francis'. There was something at the back of her mind telling her that she knew this man from somewhere. For the sake of her cover, she ignored it, but now...this man was with her, Gorzath, and Blade as they delved into the Mausoleum. She had to quickly formulate a response, and knit it together to hide the seams of her disguise. "Oh, it's had to have been months, at least...funny, considering this is a desert. Folks get me confused with others easily, I suppose I mix into the background a bit. I'd say this is our first meeting, Mister Martell."

She felt as if she'd dodged a bolt with only hairwidth's to spare. Even if this man was to be considered an ally, this was a public place, and she wanted to make sure not a whisper got out about her actual name. Even if she was inconsequential to everything, her life was on the line, regardless.

Francis studied her features, still a bit unconvinced, "I see. Perhaps my heart reaches out to anything that looks of home in such a land as this."

He wasn't entirely lying. He did miss home, but the reason he was here was so that he could find the Heroes and do his part for the war effort. It was a strong but silent calling he felt and nothing short of his death or success could pull him from it. Even so, it still hold truth that Francis wanted home. This woman before him was a Breton, born in the homeland like him, and that spoke to him. But there was business to be done, and septims to be earned here in Helgathe before he and Vendel could eat and stay at a tavern.

"As it stands, Miss Sylvia, we are standing here at this stall to try to get supplies for a venue that my friend and I are planning on doing to line my coinpurse. A few hard days on the road will put a hunger in you fiercer than anything you've ever felt, Madam. I'd be pleased if you would watch, and perhaps invite a few friends from around the city? It would mean something grand to my friend and I." Francis smiled politely, sparing no amount of charm, speaking the way some Bretons of High Rock speak in the courts and finer inns.

Zaint had remained slack-jawed in surprise from the comment about the dueling on the rugs, and he found him self having trouble even figuring out how to respond to Francis' request for a prayer rug to fight on. He ended up sitting and fuming at the disrespect that the Man had shown for the gods, before he finally snapped out of his Stupor, shaking his head. "Wait one moment, Sedura Francis." He added the Dunmer honorific for the wealthy to the man's name. "You desire to fight on these, and you offer me no payment?" He said, trying to get back into character. "You say that I would earn a portion, yet what if you earn nothing?" He sighed and shook his head. "What... Rug catches your eye?" He said after a second, trying to appear like the greedy merchants he met in his travels.

"Well," Francis paused in thought, feeling just short of sweating fire, the Dunmer had a point, "Hammerfell is a martial society, if I remember. They may appreciate the fighting prowess of a duelist, famous for his performances and duels in Wayrest. That's a fact to be faithful in, my friend."

That was pulled off surprisingly well. Francis was indeed surprised at the way he'd handled that. Of course, unbeknownst to neither him or Vendel, Azura was a very important deity to the Dunmer. Vendel reached out for a prayer rug, not seeming to care which one his hands landed on, just only enough to care if it was pleasing to the eye. He grabbed one, feeling the material and looking at the intricate weaving that went into the rug, "Francis, this one looks quite beautiful. We'd be sure to attract some people with rugs like these, Mister Sul-Matuul."

"I guess those may be the ones, my friend." Francis smiled at the Dunmer.

"Yes, quite beauti-" Zainat said absently, before realizing what rug the Nord was holding. His ruby orbs widened slightly, and he felt a rage building inside him. These... Heathens intended to stain a rug dedicated to Azura with their filthy Outlander hands and deeds. "Get out of my stall, N'wah." He said. He knew he was dangeriously close to breaking character, but these gods damned Fetchers intended to stain a rug dedicated to Azura with their filthy, ignorant hands. "Get out before I cut your throat and feast upon your neck-vein." He said as he rose sowly from his seat.

The Breton in green felt her muscles tense as Zainat's face began curling up in annoyance at Francis. This situation was most likely going to end badly. And, in fact, it did, right after the pair decided on a rug. In the section for the deities of the Dunmer. Oh, for the love of Mara and the Divines above... Elayna prayed silently that Zainat wouldn't do anything rash. Of course, that'd be just a bit much to ask. Threats insued, and with Francis already wound up, there was definitely tension about to snap in the air. Elayna turned her eyes to Zainat's momentarily, her emerald orbs turning to sea ice as she silently warned, Don't you dare kill anyone...

"Well, it was lovely meeting you gentlemen, but I have a shipment to procure for my employer. I'll be sure to come see you...good day!" Elayna said hurriedly, acting as if she was fearing for her safety. She scampered off, away from the stall, but stayed close enough so that she could watch the stall. It would prove as a good distraction...especially a crowded area such as this.

Francis put his hands up in surrender, "I didn't mean to offend, my friend."

Francis glanced to his left and Vendel had his fingers curled tightly around his sword's hilt. Francis only frowned at him and the Nord frowned back, moving his hand to simply rest on his hip, but close by to his sword. Francis gulped audibly as he slowly backed away, "I don't want trouble, friend. The guards don't either, so let's not..." Gentleman Adventurer, Francis thought to himself, "I apologize deeply."

From behind, Sul, or Zainat, Francis could see Vendel's restraint wavering between following his friend and stay peaceful or listen to his nerves and draw steel. The latter didn't sound fruitful to Francis, but his dagger was it his hip, as well as his bastard sword. Three people fighting in the marketplace would attract far too many eyes for Francis's liking, but if this Dunmer followed him out or tried to have a go at Vendel, Francis would have to do something. Vendel could handle himself, that's not what Francis was worried about, it was the fact that Vendel would have to do just that. Nothing rash, Vendel, nothing rash, he thought, You are a Nord, of course.

"Out!" Zainat yelled as the two human men continued to stand in his stall, his own hand reaching into his clothes, and gripping his hidden Shortsword tightly. He did not even see Elayna leave, so angry was he. He advanced on them, attempting to force them out of his stall. His left hand grabbed at Francis' shoulder, and shoved, hard. "You did not mean to offend? You are an N'wah, a S'wit, and Ignorant!" He spat at Vendel's feet, before he attempted to shove him out of his stall as well.

Francis could take the shove, he truly felt in the wrong, and he was. He had no problem leaving, he had no problem being called whatever in Dagon's name the Dunmer had called him. But he knew Vendel couldn't stand for an insult to his honour, nor his dearest friend's. It mattered not to Vendel whether Francis took personal offense, as Vendel took enough of it for the both of them. Vendel did what Francis hoped he wouldn't, and the three feet of Nordic intricate-etched steel withdrew from its scabbard.

"You want a go, you filthy milk-drinker?" Vendel growled, sweeping the golden locks from his face in a swift motion, revealing fierce, Nordic eyes of ice blue. Francis had only seen those eyes twice before, and both times, men had to be carted out of the tavern.

"Damn it, Vendel-"

"Stow the shit, Francis, I followed you miles on the road and I won't have my honour sullied by some merchant too sensitive to be sympathetic," Vendel looked at Sul, "Come and have a go, Son-of-a-Whore!"

"You have no idea what you are getting yourself into, Nord." Zainat said, his eyes taking a hard, sharp look to them. In a instant, his shortsword was in his hand. Compared to the three feet of steel, the single foot shard of razor-sharp Chitin must have looked comical. With speed that only an Ashlander posessed, he planted his foot in the center of the Nord's chest, attempting to knock him. back into the Market so that Zaiant would have room to fight properly.

"You ever fight an Ashlander, Nord Filth? I've fought a lot of Nords. You might be tall, and strong... But you are slow." He spun the shortsword in his hand, his face a grin. "I've not had a fight for far, far too long." He laughed softly, and addopted a typical ashlander figting stance, holding his shortsword ahead of him in a reverse grip.

"You might not like this one, Greyskin." Vendel said, taking a deep breath and recovering from the kick he suffered. The Nord charged forward with a battlecry, thinking his chainmail may stop the shard of chitin in the mer's hand and his two-hundred pounds of muscle would put the mer in his place. A quick and devastating swing from Vendel's blade aimed to open up Zainat's neck was the opening attack of Vendel as he lunged forward at the mer.

As the massive sword was swung to slice open up his neck, Zainat ducked under the arc of the blade, barely avoiding being killed by the Nord's opening attack. "I'm already loving this, N'wah! You are slow!" He laughed, backpedaling away from The Nord. "You Nords are all the same, no finesse, no skill, just raw, brute strength." He said, seeming to forget that he considered Thyra a friend. He rushed at Vendel, blade raised... Before he jumped to the side, dodgeing past any couter-attack. Hopefully his little 'trick' would work.

Francis watched the melee with white knuckles on his sword's hilt. He knew at this rate, he'd only be in Vendel's way if he tried to enter the fray. He wasn't content with standing and watching his friend fight, though. The merchant was a good fighter, certainly not skills you pick up from defending yourself against bandits. He was trained. Francis narrowed his eyes at that. Who is this Dunmer? Francis thought. He didn't like this one bit, and he knew that Dunmer had a few tricks up his sleeve.

Vendel saw the mer rush him and roared as he swung for Zainat's legs before the mer wasn't where Vendel wasn't expecting. The Nord's eyes snapped to the mer, faster than his sword-arm could. It was then that Francis leaned forward, ready to take his place in the fighting as Vendel recovered. Whoever this Dunmer was, he was outnumbered.

Zainat winked at Vendel as their eyes locked, and he delivered a spinning kick to the Nord's face, his agility astonishing for someone claiming to be a merchant. "Strong, slow and stupid. Terrible combination, but so common for you Nords." He swung his blade at Vendel's right arm, attempting to either slice him, or cause him to drop the blade, not seeing Francis move to get himself involved.

As quick as he could, Francis moved in and attempted to smash into Zainat's jaw with the pommel of his sword, half-swording with the hilt of the sword at the front. The mer's jaw made contact with the pommel and Francis stood, waiting for the mer to respond. As much as he detested this nonsense, what with Vendel's short temper to complement the Dunmer merchant's, he couldn't let his friend go through this fight without help, "You've forced my hand, Sul!" Francis announced himself as Vendel rubbed his face, his nose a bit crooked as he spat blood, the same blood running from his nostrils.

Zainat stumbled to the side as he was struck with the pommel of Francis' sword, and although he quickly recovered, he retreated a few steps back, watching both of the humans warily. "Coward." He spat at Francis, furious that he was now outnumbered. His eyes scaned the crowd that had formed around him and the other two, looking for a way out, or something that could give him an advantage. He saw Elayna, Gorzath, and Thyra, but he knew he couldn't expect them to help him - He had blown his cover, and they couldn't afford to do that. He was on his own. His eyes caught on a leather shield that was hanging from a stall, and he yanked it down. Now he could fight them straight on.

Elayna shook her head in disbelief as the men began to fight. So much for that cover, with the way Zainat was fighting. No merchant moved that quick, with such deadly intent. Drawing the spring-colored scarf over her mouth, Elayna turned and headed down the market street. Zainat could get away with it, but a botanist suddenly flinging icicles around, possibly skewering some bystander? It was better for her to just go about her business and hope he didn't get himself killed.

With that, she made her way to the docks, before the Redguard alchemist got worried or angry. She had kind of stalled...

Back at the Marketplace, Francis and Vendel stood shoulder to shoulder. Vendel reached back and unstrapped the large round shield from his back, squaring up against his opponent behind his shield as Francis maintained the Long Tail stance. It was true that Vendel's blood boiled with the sight of the Dunmer, but Francis held no stock in this feud of theirs. The Breton grumbled, calling out to Zainat, or as he knew him, Sul, "Sul, I don't want to fight you. I don't care if you want to fight me. One of us is going to die here if we keep going or we'll be hauled in by the guards. I have no interest in a jail cell. What say you?"

"Do you take me for a fool, Breton? The second I lower my blade, that N'wah will skewer me!" He called back, and began to advance on them, shield raised... Atleast, untill he saw the rather large group of Guards that had forced their way to the front of the crowd. Thankfully, they were just Redguards - While dangerious, they weren't carrying the Thunder-Sticks, nor Wearing Power Armor. Instead they wore Chainmail and carried those Curved Swords called Simitars.

"By order of Governor Rourken, stop right there, Criminal Scum! You've violated the Law!" The leader of the guards, obviously a Leutenant judging by the fine surcoat he wore, as he advanced towards the Trio. "Put up your weapons and surrender, or we'll cut you down!"

Zainat tilted his head slightly, before calling to the Breton. "Francis, was it?" He asked. "I have no interest in spending the rest of my life in a cell either. Follow me, and maybe all three of us can make it out of here safely." He said, before discarding his shield, and running off into the crowd, ignoring the Guards who were ordering them to stop.

Francis shrugged to Vendel, not finding any reason not to follow. The pair turned tail and ran after Zainat, perhaps not following him, but all three had the same idea. The guards were fast behind them, but in their armor, they couldn't hope to keep up. Even Vendel, still wearing his armor, could move like water in it, having worn it most of his life.

"Follow close behind, Vendel, and don't fall behind. I don't want you hurting any of those guards." Francis laughed, a bit less worried now that he didn't have to deal with an angered Dunmer. At least, not for the moment. The pair almost lost Zainat in the crowd several times, but always seemed to catch sight of him in the last moment. The Dunmer was fast, Francis could give him that. Soon, they broke free from the crowd, and while Francis felt like rejoicing after getting away from the sweltering heat of many bodies close together, he knew the guards would break free soon too.

Francis looked from left to right, trying to find some way to get away from the guards hot on his trail. The Breton growled, not able to find an obvious way out. Vendel pointed to a horse-drawn cart being pulled along, "Francis, there."

"Are you daft, Vendel? Did that kick to the head scramble you harder than I thought?" Vendel frowned at that. Francis didn't see any other way out, so he started towards the cart, diving in quickly along with Vendel. The cart driver's ears perked and he looked behind him, at the noise. The cart driver leaned over and a quick Nordic hand shot up to grab the cart driver by the collar, pulling him close to the hay. A faceless voice came from the hay, "Keep driving merry-like, milk-drinker, or I'll shove this cart's worth up yours."

Unlike Francis and Vendel, Zainat was not willing to terify and threaten innocent cart drivers. Instead, the Dunmer thought that the safest place to avoid the guards was to go the one place the guards couldn't follow him... Up. He ran at a wall, and then began climbing, using the intracite carvings to his advantage. Higher and higher he climbed, untill he finally reached the top of the building. As he pulled himself up, he found that he was face-to-face with another Guard, this one with a bow slung across his shoulder. The Guard looked at Zainat curiously for a moment, while Zainat silently judged the distance between them.

Twenty feet. He thought silently.
"You aren't supposed to be up here, Dunmer. Why don't you go and cli- Get back!" The guard stumbled back as Zainat bull rushed him, attempting to unsling his bow from his shoulder. Before he could, however, Zainat was upon him, swinging his fists at the young man. The Guard fell backward, onto his back, and Zainat climbed onto him, his hands grasping around the man's throat.

"I'm sorry, Serjo." Zainat said ad he began to throttle the guard, ignoring his struggles. Once the Guard lapsed into unconciousness, however, he stopped, unwilling to murder some young kid for doing his job. He looked around the roof, and sat, panting. "By Azura... That could have gone better..." He muttered, pulling his flask from his robe and taking a pull from it.

Repercussions of Today's Actions:
Francis and Vendel: Though the guards would not be able to recognize their faces, they would be wary of anyone that looked like them, even vaguely. This makes it harder to walk the streets and it would be best to stick to crowds, where faces are easily seen but forgotten in lieu of so many others. A few days of lying low should take any heat off. Visit a merchant to help the process along. Gold shuts mouths quickly. Just be careful, Huntsmen are attracted to the trail of shiny things.

Zainat: If asked, anyone who'd bought prayer rugs from him would be able to tell the guards investigating that the merchant's name was Sul-Matuul, or Sol-Mottle. Something along those lines. Either way, this name might not be best used for a few days, if ever. Consequences of changing his name would be few, as little communication goes on between the city-guard and the Gate's Watch, especially about a brawl in the marketplace over prices or some such. The Gate's Watch's immigration and visitor's list is easily lost, and there are people willing to accept coin to make it so. Visit a merchant sometime if the name Sul-Matuul means that much.

Elayna: The Guards didn't see her slip away, no one was paying attention when she walked to Sul-Matuul's stall and she was nowhere near when the hostilities began. No consequence would be had if you were to walk the streets freely. Just remember the tale of the blackbird. "Caught with the crows" were the last words it heard. She should be wary of any Dunmer company she keeps.