Afternoon, 15th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Common room of the Loyal Hound,
Kingdom of Daggerfall, Daenia, High Rock

_{with the ever-lovely @Stormflyx}

From his vantage point behind the bar of the inn, Solomon could see through the window outside that the shadows were already lengthening and the sky was slowly cycling from a brilliant ultramarine into a bruised violet. He looked at the candle clock in its little alcove in the thick stone wall and counted the markings left below the flickering wick. Scarcely four hours had passed since noon. “Even earlier than yesterday,” he muttered to himself. The innkeeper frowned deeper than usual and he exhaled slowly through his nose. It wasn’t right and it didn’t sit right with him either. Looking at the faces of the patrons of the Loyal Hound, either warming their hands by the fire or sat scattered throughout the common room at the various tables for a drink and a hearty meal, Solomon knew that it didn’t sit right with anyone. They were a varied bunch, travelers and locals alike. For example, he had spotted not one, but two Dunmer women already, and his professional curiosity idly wondered at what their purposes in the arse end of High Rock might be.

The place was rustically furnished. Disembodied stag and elk heads lorded over the two hearthfires, their glazed-over eyes staring into oblivion, and comfortable woolen rugs softened the roughness of the splintery floor panels. Wooden beams criss-crossed the open space below the slanted straw rooftop, old and sturdy, and a cast-iron chandelier cast a warm glow throughout the room. The rooms were off to the right, above the stables; a staircase, worn smooth by thousands of feet over untold years, led up to them. The kitchen was behind him and the sound of clattering pots and pans came from there as Lucy, the old cook, was cooking up her signature stew.

Outside, the fields and forests of the region of Daenia stretched out as far the eye could see. This close to Daggerfall, the dense woodland that had originally dominated the land had been thinned out to make way for agriculture, and the Loyal Hound was situated in the middle of two fields of amber grain, split in twain by a meandering dirt road. The village of Hamthorn was nearby and the road was populated by nervous farmers and laborers returning home. None dared to stay out in the fields once the unnatural dusk began to descend, though some risked popping into the wayside inn for a meal or a drink.

Solomon rapped his knuckles on the bar subtly when he caught the eye of Henry emerging from the stables. The boy looked suitably chastised and quickly set about to clearing out an empty table. Nothing went by the spymaster unnoticed. He knew that Henry had lingered longer than his allotted break time to talk to a local farmer’s daughter. As if on cue, she emerged from the stables, feigning ignorance but with a tell-tale blush on her cheeks. She avoided meeting Solomon’s gaze and the ghost of a smile tugged imperceptibly at the corner of the Imperial’s mouth behind his mustache. When Henry chanced a glance to gauge his master’s response, however, Solomon shot him an icy glare and the boy turned back to his work faster than a hare fleeing a hound.

An indignant bark echoed through the room and Solomon looked over to see two men he knew as farmhands holding a piece of bacon over Sirius’ head, keeping it just out of reach of the shaggy dog. Growing tired of their teasing, Sirius suddenly leapt up and snatched the morsel out of the Breton’s hand, toppling him backwards out of his chair in the process. Uproarious laughter erupted around him from his friends. Sirius wagged his tail innocently and returned to Solomon’s side, his tongue lolling out of his smiling jaws.

“Good boy,” he mumbled and scritched the dog’s head obligingly. Sirius was the only employee in the place that Solomon couldn’t deny anything.

It had felt like a long day, a long day that was already being cut short by the waning sun. High Rock, and in particular, Daggerfall, was not Skyrim. The Nord who walked the gravelled paths felt out of place, even with her summer olive complexion, she did not feel any more at home in this kind of countryside. The lute and lyre that hung over her shoulder only drew eyes to her, alerting her to those who were around as a stranger. But Joy had no choice, she’d wandered to most of all the establishments with little luck of employment -- people were wary, and understandably so.

The woman reached into the pocket of her apron, reminding herself of the few coins she had left. A loud bark pulled her from that thought as she approached the doors of The Loyal Hound. This was to be her last stop for the night, if the proprietor did not accept her as an employee, she would be spending the last of that coin to at least room for the night.

Before she entered, the red-head took a deep breath, puffing out her chest as she adopted a more powerful pose, letting confidence flow through her -- the rejections of the day did not bother her, not as much as her empty stomach was, anyway.

Her old, tattered boots shuffled across the floor as her gaze tracked the room slowly, looking for who appeared most likely to be the owner. She had an eye for it. If she felt out of place outside, she did not inside. This was her world, it always had been. There he was, the rather sour and tired looking gentleman behind the bar. She approached him with a spring in her step as if she already worked here, and had for years.

Joy came calmly to the bar, propping her elbow there, flashing a smile at the gentleman behind it. “Why so glum?” she asked as a twinkle fell into her eyes and her other arm came down upon the surface. “It might never happen, you know.”

Solomon looked over to see a red-haired woman smiling up at him. Sirius, curious who had interrupted his scritching time, came around the bar and sniffed the hem of her apron. The innkeeper himself raised a single eyebrow, a well-practiced expression as evidenced by the wrinkles in his forehead. He had never seen her before, so she was not likely to be a local, and the olive tan of her skin informed him that she was equally unlikely to be a Breton. An Imperial, perhaps, like himself, though the brightness of her eyes and the fire of her hair told a different story. “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his servile question and aloof tone of voice betraying nothing.

The dog at her side was a distraction, quite frankly she had not seen an animal of that size before, and she stiffened slightly as Sirius sniffed. Quickly she sensed that he had no inclination of aggression towards her. “Good boy,” she muttered slowly down at him, wondering if there was a crumb of food in her pockets that he had noticed. She gingerly placed her hand out for him to investigate, before turning back to the owner. “Actually,” she replied with a smile, “I was hoping that I could help you.”

Joy was certain that he would have seen his fair share of wanderers come by with the same tactics, and from his response to her so far -- she was half expecting a roll of his eyes. “I’m the best barmaid that’s ever walked into your inn,” she said confidently, closing her eyes briefly to flash a beaming smile at him. “So it’s your lucky day.”

“You don’t say,” Solomon retorted dryly. He had to admit that the girl had spunk and that was an important trait for a good barmaid to have, but he looked past her into the common room -- a Breton with curly hair and and a fair complexion was collecting empty mugs from the tables, smiling at the patrons and laughing at their jokes. “I have a barmaid as it is,” he said and his eyes shifted back to the woman in front of him. “What makes you think you could do a better job than she does, hm?”

“Oh you do, do you?” Joy asked playfully, widening her eyes in expression of surprise, leaning back from the bar to peer left and right in search of her. Without so much as another look around the room, she brought herself closer to the owner again, mischief in her eyes. “I didn’t realise… Only because those three gentleman by the window, their glasses are empty.” Joy paused, gazing fearlessly into his eyes. “There’s also an older lady waving her hand behind me, she’s been waving for a little bit now…” She sighed slowly, turning her eyes to the ground - acting out bashfulness. “I’m not going to lie Sir, it’s also… Very… Quiet in here.”

Once more, Joy sighed, letting her shoulders drop as she took to her seat on the stool in front of Solomon. “But I’m sure your barmaid will get to it soon…”

The innkeeper hummed once, but said nothing. Instead, he poured the woman a drink -- a fresh apple cider -- and found a few glasses to clean. While wiping them down with a washcloth, his eyes darted from what he was doing to the movements of Jenny the barmaid around the common room and the people that had been pointed out to him. Sure enough, the drinks of the three men by the window were empty, and there was an older woman that was visibly eager to order something. However, while he watched and waited, Jenny noticed these same things too, and after delivering the round of mugs for Solomon to clean, she promptly attended to the patrons in question.

“There,” he said curtly and glanced at the redhead at his bar. It was impossible to tell whether he was amused or annoyed. “She did get to it.” Solomon thought over everything she’d said and his eyes landed on the instruments she carried with her. He gestured towards them with a dirty mug. “I suppose those aren’t for show then, miss…?”

“Joy. Just Joy.” The Nord said happily, before she shushed herself. If he had been expecting her to give up, he was going to be disappointed. This time, she gave him but a slight smirk, taking the cider into her hand, letting him have his little win. Joy just watched him cleaning the glasses as she took her first sips. It was a well flavoured drink, that was to be sure, and she held out the glass and admired it in silence, watching the sediment from the cider sink to the bottom.

“They’re for a show,” she answered eventually, reaching over her shoulder to take hold of the lute, placing the lyre on the bar carefully. It was a delicate looking thing, far more pristine than the lute - which appeared to have seen better days entirely. “Are you asking me to play you a song, Sir?”

He thought about that for a moment. Solomon wasn’t a big fan of music -- or anything he considered frivolous, truth be told -- but he had to admit that that wasn’t the case for most people, and given the unease and the tension in the air, perhaps… Before he had anything to say about that, however, Solomon narrowed his eyes at her. “Joy? That’s it?” The suspicion that she was traveling under a false name came to him immediately and, leaning in, his piercing gaze inspected her closely, as if he was trying to look right through her. “Hm,” he grumbled and returned to his original distance between them. “What is that, a stage name?”

She blinked quickly as he came closer to her, and his question caused her to falter in her answer, her smile briefly faded - more from being forced to think about it. “It’s just…” she muttered out, clutching at the lute in such a way that she inadvertently plucked a string. “That’s just my name…” she finished, a brow arched. She cleared her throat when he moved back and frowned, playing off the moment with a cartoonish pout. “You don’t believe me do you?”

Her reactions were too sincere to be faked, Solomon knew, and he sniffed once before he turned back to the mugs that still needed cleaning. “Two hours of music, miss Joy,” he said, the washcloth deftly swirling through a particularly large mug that looked fit for an Atmoran. “You’ll have a meal and a bed for the night, and you keep half of any tips you collect.” The spymaster looked up at last, regarding Joy sternly with ice-gray eyes. “Are these terms acceptable to you?”

He would have barely finished speaking, and Joy had unbuttoned her cloak, revealing a much more flamboyant doublet underneath. It was quilted, and an attractive shade of teal. Without so much as a word from her own mouth, she had hoisted herself up onto the bar, her thumb pressing the strings of her instrument to mute them from anymore accidental plucks.

As Joy fashioned herself into as alluring (and still comfortable) of a position as she could, she glanced over her shoulder to catch Solomon’s eye once again, the smile of victory played across her lips. “You won’t regret it… Mr…?”

The aquiline arch of his brow deepened at Joy’s forward and unfettered attitude and he considered rebuking her for climbing on top of his bar without his permission, but one glance at the common room was enough to see the sea of faces that had turned to look at this unexpected spectacle. He sighed. “Antabolis. But call me Solomon.”

Lowering her head into a respectful bow for her temporary employer, she couldn’t help but find the last word for herself; “I shall consider the night a success, only when I can see your smile, Mr Solomon.”

He rolled his eyes at that, threw the washcloth over his shoulder and made himself scarce. Sirius rose from the floor and followed him, bushy tail wagging lazily.

It was past noon when the first villagers saw an old rider ambling up the road on a draft as large as he was. He bobbed in the saddle, offering one a nod and a casual smile as he passed, and doing much the same to any eyes that had trouble becoming unstuck from the stranger. A red sash and longcoat would’ve gone unnoticed here, the rider told himself, but perhaps the hilt of the curved sword had aroused the curiosity of the simple folk of whatever village this was. He’d been through so many, and as he watched happenings as his horse clopped past, this one was much the same as them all.

It was a short ride from the first houses to the stable of the… Loyal Hound he read on the swaying sign outside of the establishment. A young man burst into activity at the sight of him, snapping to attention from the crate he sat on and peering up to meet the rider’s gaze at the top of his seat in the saddle. The rider offered a small smile, “S’there room?”

The lad only nodded, and that was enough for the rider to clamber down from the saddle, still standing a head or two taller than the short lad. “Vodevic.” The rider spoke.

“That your name, sir?”

The rider stifled a chuckle, “It’s the horse’s. He won’t listen to you unless you use it.” The rider hooked a thumb in his sash and sucked his teeth, “Hells, might not listen anyway.”

“Uh…” the lad held Vodevic’s stirrups in a limp fist, looking like he was within five feet of a sabercat and not a steed.

“Janus.”

“Huh?” The lad whipped his head to look at the rider.

“That one’s mine.” Janus smirked, offering out an open hand upon which gleamed three gold coins laying in his wide palm, “And these’re yours.”

“Oh.” The lad carefully plucked them from Janus’ waiting palm and clicked his tongue for Vodevic to follow him. The old warhorse did, must’ve been in a good mood, Janus thought as he watched them close distance to the stables.

“Oh, shit.” Janus picked up a good pace and the lad almost flinched with the big man bearing down on him. Janus only reached over the lad’s shoulder to the curved shape and withdraw the long knife and an axe into his sash as well, reaching for a saddlebag too before pausing just short. He decided against fetching the bottle of wine, what was a few more coins for a drink at the bar, “Thank ye.”

He left the lad with a wink and went for the front door, pushing it open and finding a place near the hearth to do as he always did, clocking every interesting person, threatening aura, and even the simpler folk for good measure. Like he always did. Just in case. And then wait for someone to take notice of his weapons, ask him if he knew how to use them, and then ask him if he could teach them to use theirs. And also hope he didn’t have to do that. Once he had a mug of ale in his hands, he did his best to be a lazy do-nothing, listening to the soft plucking of whatever song this was as he stared into the flames. A soft smile played on his lips as he remembered other hearths in other places with other people to the tune of the tavern bard’s playing.

”Come gather in my lungs, oh Skyrim wind,
Belt out your blackest poems,
As the sea around you sings,
When that gulp takes to the air,
A single note to raise my hair,
Carry songs beyond my lungs, cold Skyrim wind…”

The last verse of her song went down with delight for the Nords settled in the back of the tavern, three mugs were raised, the contents sloshing over the pewter rims. Laughter and even a whistle rang out for the song for the blessed province - more so for the Nord woman who carried the lyrics on her soft voice, gentle vibrato - and still an emotional swell for the homeland.

Joy supposed she had worked for shy of an hour, and already she was parched - her fingers ached from the precise strum and pluck of the lute. It would be time for the lyre after a short break and a drink. Snatching up her own cider, she hopped down from the bar and swayed between each table and chair to find herself by the fire. With a long gulp of her drink, she felt sweet relief to her vocal chords. Her hands too, then found their way before the fire to warm them, to shake out the stiffness of her fingers.

She crouched down to her haunches, and felt the warmth rush over her, turning her head to face the incredibly large gentleman sat beside it. “Good day to you, Sir,” she chirped politely. Joy paid close attention to his eyes, most of all. “Long day is it?” she smiled up at him, trying to draw his attention to whatever his mind was, or wasn’t fussed with. She squinted curiously, before pulling her blue eyes from his own to glance at the equipment he had brought with him.

“I don’t think I’ve seen one of those since I came this far east, a long day.” Janus mused, eyes still stuck on the fire before they slid Joy’s way sidelong, accompanied with his telltale easy smirk, “But a good one? Maybe.”

He took a gulp of his ale and looked to the bard, offering her his face in full this time, “I liked the song. Reminds me of home.” Janus said, smile widening a hair, “I’ll put a few septims towards your cup if you play another like it.”

“Hmmm,” Joy hummed out, biting the corner of her lip just so. “What was it I wonder, that made your day maybe good?,” she followed on, hoping that maybe the gentleman had a story to tell - he seemed the type to have many. He didn’t entirely look like he was a native of Skyrim, but Joy had learned long ago that appearances were deceptive. She had learned too that Skyrim belonged to those who took in her spirit and perhaps this gentleman had that in his blood indeed.

At the mention of a request of sorts, she smirked, turning away from him to stare into the fire again. “Don’t tell me that you’re waiting for me to play Ragnar the Red now?” Joy chuckled playfully, rubbing her hands together.

Janus chuckled softly and shook his head, “No, no. I’ve had my fill of that song long ago. Probably half the reason I left Skyrim.”

He smacked his lips and shifted in his chair, watching as Joy took him in, as people oft did in new towns. He didn’t mind it, especially if the stares weren’t followed by threats or insults. “As for my day,” he began, “I ain’t dead, my horse is good and fed, a drink in my hand now. The only thing that’d make it any better is if you told me you were good company.”

He cocked a brow at the bard, easy smile, “Y’are, ain’t you?”

Having an invitation for conversation from the man, she turned herself from the fire, and let her bottom touch the floor, legs tucked beneath comfortably. “I could say I’ve made my trade in being good company,” Joy disclosed, smiling back just as easily. Holding that pause, she reached again for her drink, taking a steady sip of the last of it. “You like your simple comforts, don’t you?” She asked, having heard his words, and observed his calm manner.

“The man with the most has the most to lose.” Janus shrugged, taking the last of his ale in one gulp and swallowing hard, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand, “Be happy with the simple and life has a harder time taking it from you. Ain’t a man alive can snap his fingers and make ale and wine disappear, roads sink back to the earth, shady trees fly away, and music lose its rhythm.”

“And here I’ve had all four in the same day.” Janus tucked a hand behind his head and sunk down deeper into his chair, “Pretty damn rich, if I say so. Days could be a little longer though, you ask me.”

“That’s quite a philosophy you have,” Joy commented, narrowing her eyes in thought. “I have seen many stumble over the pursuit of riches, only to lose what they had all along... A tale as old as time itself, perhaps.” The woman was watching his hands, and the empty tankard that found its way down to the table. “Man may not snap his fingers, but he sure can make his ale disappear,” she chuckled.

Joy too, leaned back ever so slightly beside the fire, a relaxed expression crossed her features and she found herself drawn to the window, the creeping darkness. “Mmm,” she hummed in agreement. “A strange affair, isn’t it? These are the days of night it seems… I’m glad to have found the Innkeep kind enough to let me stay, I’d be out in the thick of it otherwise,” she sighed solemnly. “I don’t have a blade like you do, you see,” Joy remarked with a shrug, admiring the man’s goods all the while.

“A strange affair I’ve chosen not to concern myself with. You know the history of our great continent, it’ll be solved tomorrow by some big-headed Hero.” Janus smirked as he scooted his feet a bit closer to the fire, “Why is it my keeping of sharp metal makes you want for some of your own?”

The woman scoffed at that, “oh, Sir, please. If I were to pick up a sword. A sword like that -- no less... I’d be far more likely to hurt myself. I do not wish for one, but I can surely admire it, no?” Her head tilted to the side. “For what is a sword but an instrument of a different kind? I have my lute and my lyre, my hands are more suited for those.” She gave a respectful nod in his direction. “But I believe that a good swordsman can make music and dance with a sword just as well as I can with my strings.” Once more she gazed at the curved hilt of his sword, biting the corner of her lip again. “I wonder what kind of music it is... That you create.”

“Hopefully none anymore.” Janus said simply, his easy smile faltering for a moment before it regained its strength, “Your music’s pretty. There’s a reason people gather in taverns to hear it and children don’t get lulled to sleep by two bastards hacking each other’s arms off, you’ll notice.”

“Well… When you put it that way,” Joy said, lowering her eyes to the floor momentarily.

In her defense, Janus had the same outlook once upon a time. When sword fights were only in the songs and only the good men won. It took a little while longer before he knew that there were a dearth of good men winning sword fights, and even a more barren loss for good reasons for them to try at it. A waste of time, poking a man to death for naught else than he was trying to do it to you. Weren’t no dance and music when he was doing it.

“I teach.” Janus said looking to Joy, “If you ever want to learn to, uh... dance. As you put it. Maybe I could know your name first, I like to know who I’m sharing good company with.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on it, should either of us stick around long enough,” she replied, running a hand through her hair to tuck back the stray strands behind her ear. “My name is Joy,” she answered, reaching towards him with an outstretched hand — since neither of them had any drink left to toast with.

“Janus.” He closed the distance between their hands and his gloved one near-enveloped hers. He returned it to his empty mug and spoke again, “So, you’re a wanderer? Place to place, never too long?”

“Nice to meet you Janus,” she smiled, shaking his hand. She watched as her own all but disappeared into his. “I’m a wanderer now,” Joy said with a slight shrug. “I wasn’t always. Now I’m looking for a place to call my own again,” smiling faintly, she turned the question back to her new friend with an inquisitive tilt of her head. “Are you away from your home… On business? Or are you a wanderer too?”

Janus puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out, wondering how to answer the question. It had been years since he’d had a steady home. “I wander, looking for a place to settle, maybe. Or maybe I just ain’t ready to.” He shrugged, “Haven’t figured that one out.”

“I’m sure you know what you want deep down, you just have to listen to that voice inside,” Joy mused, slowly starting to stand back up now. “You see that man there?” She asked Janus, pointing to Solomon and Sirius where they sat. “The one with the sour face?” Jokingly, she turned back to the Imperial with an overly glum expression too. “I’m trying to convince him to let me settle here… If he was as open to conversation as you are, it would have been done already.” The woman pouted, and pulled her lips to the side.

“I should get back to it. If you’re still around end of night, buy you a drink?” She leaned cooly against the fireplace, resting her head against a closed fist.

“Or I’ll buy you one.” He smiled to Joy and immediately went back to lounging, “Thank you for the chat, Joy. Was a pleasure.”

Sihava let out a heavy breath, ballooning her cheeks as she lost herself in thought. The road was long, and the night was beginning to fall. Far too early. Again. Strange.

Inzoliah continued her travels in the western end of High Rock, around Daggerfall. In her travels as of late, she had noticed that it seemed to get darker faster in this area of the province. It was only around 4 pm, she had estimated, and yet it appeared much later. Strange. Just as strange was the presence of another Dunmer a few strides ahead of her on the road. The Mage quickened her stride and came to match the other woman’s pace at her side. “Tis strange to see another Dunmer so far from Morrowind, or even Cyrodiil for that matter.”

Sihava glanced to the side, a little smile lighting up her face as she nodded. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she concentrated, biting the tip of her tongue. Through the magicka between them, she sent out a bright feeling of agreement and friendliness, and then one of the few words she could reliably communicate: Sihava. Following that, a brief feeling of inquisitiveness and the word name made it through. Hopefully the other woman wouldn’t find the thoughts too intrusive. She’d occasionally had a bit of trouble with that in the past.

As she turned more fully towards the much older woman, she noticed the faint shimmer of a huge stretch of illusion magic that covered nearly half her body. She raised an eyebrow, but made no other motion, refraining from gesturing at it. There was clearly a reason it was hidden, and it wouldn’t do to be rude.

The Mage Dunmer raised her eyebrow at the strange thoughts that entered her mind, but they were suddenly familiar. She recognised the strangeness as Mysticism magic, something she had seen other mages use many times back in the Synod in Cheydinhal. Inzoliah had only ever used it in the context of enchanting and soul gems, and that had been a lifetime ago, almost literally. “Ah, you speak through Mysticism?” Inzoliah inquired after feeling a thought wonder about a name creep through her mind. “My, that is curious. My name is Inzoliah, I’m somewhat of a mage.” The older woman smiled slyly at her own underplaying of her life’s work. She had learned that people generally found it off putting if you opened with ‘I’m a master fire mage, want to watch me burn this entire mountainside down?’ Inzoliah glanced up and down at the other Dunmer and tapped her chin as they walked, “I’m going to guess you’re a merchant? A trader of some kind? But, I wonder, what kind of merchant is a mute?”

Looking up at the sky for a moment, Sihava wondered how she would quantify the concept of a vow of silence. Again with the tip of her tongue between her teeth, she parsed together a few images: the temple of the Divines, in Solitude. The feeling of prayer and exaltation. And a priest, finger pressed to his lips as if to say shhhhhh. And then, feeling just a little bit put off--you can't just ask someone what kind of merchant is mute! How rude!--she barely restrained herself from asking about the illusion cloak that Inzoliah wore. But doing so would give away her skill as an illusionist. Best not to reveal that so willy-nilly; mystery was the best defense she had.

Although...however rude the question might have been, it was still a question, and Sihava could still answer. Who knows, it might even net her a coin or two if she was lucky. A few quick images of some of her wares--fine clothes, a very fancy Dwemer necklace she’d found someone selling on Solstheim, some rapid flashes of various potions and ingredients, a pile of semiprecious stones, and a brightly gleaming soul gem--the word general--a shrug. She pointed to her pack with a quick jab of the thumb and gave Inzoliah a questioning glance as if to say, want to take a look?

Again, Inzoliah felt images infiltrate her mind. A large room, a chapel maybe. Hope and longing perhaps? The last one was definitely a priest, shushing someone. The Divines silenced this woman? It seemed odd to say the least but they say the Divines worked in mysterious ways, so who was Inzoliah to make heads or tails of the Aedra. She had never put much stock in them, personally. She shrugged, “Well, if that’s what happened, it sounds terrible.” Inzoliah dismissively waved her hand before continuing, “I’ve never bothered much with the Aedra. I’ve always put more faith in the arcane. Fire mostly.” She let the topic drop. Probably best not to insult someone’s faith after having just met them.

The other Dunmer girl made a ‘look over here’ gesture with her thumb and made a curious face. She wanted Inzoliah to look at her wares, the Mage realised after a moment had passed. “If you have any scrolls, I’ll take a look at them, or even just some vellum. Sometimes I make my own scrolls to sell to other adventurers.” This whole situation made Inzoliah feel as if she was doing more talking than she had ever done in her life. One-sided conversations were like that she supposed. “Are you headed there too?” The older Dunmer asked, pointing at the rapidly approaching inn.

A puff of bemused and frustrated breath escaped Sihava. Clearly, she hadn’t quite managed to communicate what she’d intended: whatever Inzoliah thought had happened to her, it wasn’t a vow taken in faith. But, she reasoned, she was more or less used to the miscommunications, so no harm done. She’d correct her with writing once they reached the inn. Though she’d initially planned to keep traveling through the strange darkness, yesterday’s preturnatual night had prickled at her in a way that she didn’t trust, and she thought that perhaps she’d seen faraway eyes shining in the gloom. She was in no hurry to repeat that particular experience, and so when Inzoliah asked if she was also heading to the inn, she responded with an emphatic nod.

She was lucky with the sales, too: she did have a few spell scrolls stored up in her pack. Nothing spectacular--mostly restoration and alteration, which she found were the easiest to sell to common folk--but hopefully, at least one would be to Inzoliah’s liking. In addition, she carried a tight roll of vellum with her wherever she went for communicative writing, and she had enough that she could spare some scrolls’ worth. Never let it be said that Sihava Blackthorn would turn down money.

“Yes, that’s my idea as well. I must confess, this early dusk doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve slept under the stars all over Tamriel and this is the only place where the dark sets my neck tingling.” The Dunmer Mage rolled her shoulders. “Well, if you do have some vellum, what say we conduct our business in the common room of the inn?” Seemed a little safer and easier than conducting a transaction while on the move, besides, the inn was only a little ways out now.

The smile returned to Sihava’s face, and she accelerated a touch, eager to get out of this odd shadow. She hadn’t eaten much that day, preoccupied as she’d been with finding an inn to stay at during the long night, so the prospect of a bowl of Daggerfall stew and a cup of hot spiced wine was welcome indeed. She was in the middle of fantasizing over soft, crusty bread by the time she clomped her leather boots up the wooden steps, stepping out of the rapidly falling dusk and finding a table near the fire to drop her backpack off.

The Loyal Hound was a nice place, she thought. Could’ve done without that many deer heads, but the decor was...charmingly rustic, she thought. It could have been nicer, and she would perhaps need to check the bed for bugs--one never knew at these roadside inns--but any kind of inn was a welcome sight after a day on the road. She was aching for the stew that she smelled wafting out of the kitchen. But business before pleasure, as the saying went. She wanted to be set up by the time Inzoliah came to her table, and so she rapidly dug through her bag and picked out what few scrolls she had, laying them down before taking out a tightly-sealed bottle of ink, uncorking it and dipping a quill pen in it before slicing off a piece of the vellum with her dagger, writing in elegant curling script:

My name is Sihava Blackthorn. I apologize for any misunderstandings on the road; I have taken a vow of silence in the name of…

She hesitated for a moment. Though Inzoliah had mentioned that she didn’t put much stock in the Divines, she still obviously didn’t want to reveal her true patron. Which Divine would fit the vow of silence best…?

...Arkay. In addition to the roll of vellum (I would rather not sell much of it, as I need it for messages such as this), I have five scrolls: one of Fast Healing, one of Heal Other, one of Waterbreath, one of Detect Living, and one of Ease Burden. 70, 90, 90, 110, and 80 Septim, respectively. You may make offers for the vellum, as I typically am not called on to sell it, and so I have no price for it.

With that done, she set aside the quill, corked the ink, and waited.

Inzoliah noticed the other woman’s pace pick up as she pointed out the closeness of the inn. She must be hungry. Or tired. Or eager to make some coin. Maybe all three. Regardless, she let the Mute Merchant pull ahead of her. Inzoliah felt no need to rush, a little more fresh air wouldn’t hurt. Especially if the inn was as packed as it sounded.

When she did finally make it to the door she lingered a moment before finally going in. She had no particular reason for doing so, but it made her feel better nonetheless. The first thing she noticed was every source of the hated element in the room. Every torch, candle, lantern and hearthfire she mentally noted where they were and then tried to triangulate the area in which she could linger as far away from their menacing auras as possible. Unfortunately the other Dunmer seemed to have decided they should do business near the fire. Much too close to the fire for Inzoliah’s comfort. She exhaled slightly before heading over to the mute woman, who had set up all of her scrolls. The Mage quickly sat down at the table, positioning herself across from the fire, so she could keep an eye on it at all times. “Twould be best if we conducted our business with haste. I mislike being surrounded like this.” Of course she left out that she meant being surrounded by fire and not people, though she wasn’t particularly fond of the types of people that were found in inns such as these. Local drunks usually. Travelers who kept to themselves were alright in her book though.

Inzoliah used her hand to flatten the note that the other woman had set up and read it silently for a moment. “Sihava, an unique name. I have never heard it before, your parents must be very interesting people.” she commented plainly, sincere in her words though dryly delivered. “Since you would rather not part with much of your vellum and I lack the funds to purchase the other scrolls I shall be brief. I offer you 10 septims for a single scroll of vellum. ‘Tis more than I usually pay in a city, but we are not in a city and I am willing to part with more because I like to support fellow Dunmer.” As she finished her sentence she reached into a pouch around her waist and pulled out 10 septims and stacked them in a tower on the table.

Sihava nodded and grinned. Unrolling the vellum, she settled on a scroll’s length of it before shearing it off with the dagger again. Sliding it across the table to Inzoliah, she counted out the Septims--ten indeed--and rammed them into her purse, which responded with a satisfying jingle.

Picking up the pen with whatever remained of the ink inside it, she wrote out a pleasure doing business, before tossing the note offhandedly into the fire and sweeping the rest of the vellum and the scrolls back into her bag with a flourish. She’d organize it later, but for the moment, presentation trumped exactitude.

Then, abruptly, she stood. Now then, Sihava she thought, grin only growing, let’s see about that Daggerfall stew.

Inzoliah watched the other woman cut the vellum into the proper length for a scroll. Her dagger seemed of unusually high quality for a travelling merchant. She put the thought out of her mind and was just grateful Sihava found the price acceptable. She was really not in the mood to haggle. The Mage picked up the blank scroll deftly and slid it into her knapsack, watching as the Merchant wrote out a note of thanks and then cast it into the fire. That seemed a very ill omen indeed. As soon as Sihava had stood up and left, Inzoliah had evacuated the table as well, eager to be rid of the fire. She needed a cool drink after that.

It would only be a brief jaunt, Bruno thought, but he still locked up his shack and restrung his bow to bring it and his arrows with him. It was better to be safe than sorry,, he noted as he felt the weakening dusk light cast its gloom over Glenumbra. Especially in times like these, and as much as he’d love to bring Bozo to see his friend at The Loyal Hound, any passerby to see a shack empty of its owner and its dog would be ripe for picking. It was probably best to leave Bozo here so people might at least assume that Bruno was here as well. He picked up the pack of provisions he sought to trade with the innkeep.

Not for gold, but something substantial. It was a recent deal, but apparently the man liked his beer enough to try to provide some for his patrons. It wasn’t a top-shelf brew or anything, but it was local and the rarity of being made by only a single person in single batches was enough novelty to attract certain customers to it. Which was fair, Bruno thought, just as long as he wasn’t expected to make any more than at the pace he was comfortable with. Along with the beer were some brined meats. Venison and pork and some fish, along with a bottle of goat milk and a small ball of goat cheese. This was quite a lot to give away, but being one man, he couldn’t eat it all, and it was best to trade the excess for things he couldn’t readily access in the wilds.

It took six miles of trekking to reach his destination. The wildlife had gone scarce ever since the ominous falling sun first lost a few hours of its light, as if they knew whatever this foreboding omen meant. Crops weren’t growing like they used to, and when he could get a successful hunt, they were sometimes sick and the meat was no good. By the time he reached the roadside inn, his legs were becoming sore with all the weight he was carrying on his back, and he thought briefly about building himself a wagon before abruptly jolting the door open with a shoulder-check and his heavy footfalls announced his presence to the tavern -- he wasn’t hunting, and he was tired, so there wasn’t any need for subtlety. He lumbered over with the gait of an angry giant and slung the burlap sack of provisions onto the innkeeper’s counter, and more carefully set down a small barrel of rye malt beer. He swung his head around looking for the innkeeper, only he was nowhere in sight. Just a few customers and a few women he didn’t recall seeing here before. He sighed, as if to relax the muscles in his body before he--

“SOLOMON!”

--did that.

The Imperial took a few seconds to materialize, having dipped out of the common room to take stock of the inn's inventory. Bruno's thunderous voice was unmistakable and Solomon saw the man immediately once he stepped out of the pantry and closed the door behind himself. He saw the sack of goods and the barrel of beer a split second later. Where another man might have smiled at the delivery, he merely nodded.

"Bruno Thunder-Blood," he retorted by way of greeting. "I thought that was you." His tone was dry and supremely calm compared to the Nord's exclamation. He stepped up to the bar and inspected the contents of the sack immediately. Solomon was, if nothing else, thorough and meticulous. "Good, good. And this is the malt rye?" he asked and pointed to the barrel.

“Aye,” he said. His resting tone was comparably louder and carried further than the Imperial’s. “Still surprised you wanted more of it. You honor me.”

Sirius bounded over to Bruno’s side, tail wagging with excitement as he investigated the smells on his hand, who looked down at the dog with a frown and, petting the dog’s head, said, “Sorry boy, Bozo ain’t wit’ me today.”

Facing Solomon once more, he opened up the sack and pulled out many different pieces of soaked paper, wrapped around massive cuts of meat. They were already salted and the moisture caught in the packaging was pulled out of the meat by the salt, but still as fresh as the day the animal was killed. “Butchered these this morning.” Bruno said. “The game’s getting skittish these days, as if they know what’s goin’ on. Hmph. Wish they were polite enough to tell us.”

Taking a cursory glance across the inn’s patrons, he continued, “Fewer layabouts than usual. You heard anything?”

Normally, Solomon was averse to giving away his knowledge to civilians, but he’d known Bruno for a while now -- not very well, but well enough to know that he was an authentic man, salt of the earth, free of duplicity or ulterior motives. The spymaster summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers and instructed him to hook up the barrel of homemade beer to the array of other barrels and bottles that lined the wall behind the bar with a few hushed words.

“I’ve heard plenty, but nothing but rumors,” Solomon said at length, keeping an eye on the boy while he struggled to hoist the barrel up to an empty spot. “Supposedly the dead are walking around the old mausoleum in the swamp, and a few people talked about an old logger that went stark raving mad up in Fisher’s Pond, blabbering to anyone that would listen to him about a giant in the woods, with four arms and fire for eyes.” The Imperial shrugged. “But nobody can confirm that, and I’m sure you’ve heard what the king has to say about all this, so… nothing to do about it but be cautious, eh?”

“Cautious?” He scoffed. “Walkin’ dead is one thing but a giant with four arms and fire eyes? Does somethin’ like that even have a name? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

There was a drinking horn slung around Bruno’s shoulder, and when Henry came to take the keg, he stopped him from walking away by clasping a having mitt over his shoulder before which he tapped the barrel to fill the horn halfway. He silently mouthed the word “tax” before drowning himself in beer. Judging by the bobbing of his throat, he only took two or three gulps or so, so he probably just poured most of it directly down his throat. Taking a disproportionately small breath after downing his mug’s worth, he leaned against the counter and looked at Solomon with a relaxed and rather laissez-faire attitude. “Undead, huh.” Bruno mused, as if he was testing the sound of the word in his mouth. “That’s why you won’t catch me settling anywhere near Camlorn. Folks up north can’t keep the dead dead. That or they can’t keep their ancestors appeased. Wonder what they’re doin’ that grandpa can’t remember to stay put in the dirt. Backstabbing? Stealing? Fornication? Bretons can’t give it a break, huh?”

It was the man’s own beer, Solomon thought. Having the first sip seemed only reasonable. He didn’t say anything while Bruno threw back the contents of his horn in the inimitable way that only Nords could drink and instead poured himself a small glass of brandy. “Cheers,” Solomon said and briefly gestured with his own drink in Bruno’s direction. “To a mutually lucrative partnership.”

The Nord’s other comments were crass, but Solomon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Big talk for a man whose own homeland is riddled with draugr barrows, if I remember correctly,” the Imperial said with a wry smile. Bruno did not like to mince his words and Solomon appreciated the frank and honest banter he could have with the shepherd -- Bruno’s implications about their character were perhaps a little excessive, but Bretons were, at the very least, a linguistically complicated bunch.

“Pfft, as if I don’t have words to say about the motherland either?” Bruno retorted. “Was still raised up at the foot of the Reach, mind you. The only real home I get to have is the one I build with my own two hands.”

“So,” the innkeeper said, turning serious once more. “What do I owe you again?”

Bruno scratched at this beard thoughtfully as he was figuring out the numbers in his head. Truthfully, he wasn’t much of a man who had a use for septims, but this wasn’t the market either. He doubted that Solomon had much to barter with him, so it might just be best to take his septims and spend them later this week at the market for some ingredients he’d have a hard time foraging. Or on tar to slather the roof with so he could reshingle the shack. Yeah, the dockmaster would probably be open to trading some tar.

“Fifteen septims for all the venison,” Bruno said decisively, “ten for the pork. Already trimmed. The beer… twenty-six septims, since a standard mug is worth five… tell me if I’m wrong: fifty-one spetims total.”

The circumstances in High Rock had deteriorated to the point that trade had diminished rather severely; merchants chanced the roads less and less, and Solomon’s usual supply lines had either hiked their prices or regularly failed to deliver in the first place. The Imperial had wisely built up a well-stocked pantry and cellar over the years precisely for situations such as this, but being able to source local meat and beer from Bruno was still a godsend, so he wasn’t about to argue with the man’s assessment.

“A fair price,” Solomon agreed and began to count out the coins from the hefty purse at his waist. Once he was about halfway through he suddenly looked up and summoned Henry with a snap of his fingers. “Fetch a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy for the man,” he instructed the boy, who ducked out of sight and disappeared into the cellar. Looking back up at Bruno, Solomon smiled -- a rare sight -- and placed the coins on the counter in three neat stacks, ready to be counted.

“Us locals have to stick together in times like this,” he said, his voice low as not to be overheard. “And save the brandy for a special occasion. It’s the finest spirit my homeland has to offer.”

Bruno smiled at that and tipped his empty drinking horn into his direction and said, “May your belly be full and your booze be strong, you bastard.”

_{ft. everyone!}

The common room had emptied as night had well and truly descended over Glenumbra, leaving only a few travelers and locals to stare into the flames or warm their bellies with a drink. Solomon watched them from his vantage point behind the bar while he cleaned the last of the evening’s dirty mugs. The cook closed up the kitchen and retreated to her room, and Henry cast a final glance in Solomon’s direction, eyes questioning whether or not the Imperial had everything under control, and Solomon sent him to bed with a nod.

He regarded each of his patrons in turn. There was Joy, of course, the redheaded bard who had sang and played her instruments for two hours. Solomon had been forced to admit to himself that she had both talent and skill and he had not minded her music. She had been a lively visitor to his inn, to be sure, and he had heard her voice even when she wasn’t singing, making conversation with some of the other patrons. As far as he could tell, she was genuine about who she was and what she wanted, though it still perplexed him that anyone could be so optimistic and expressive during such -- literally -- dark times.

Bruno was even more familiar to him than the bard and Solomon was pleased to see that the Nord had stuck around for a drink. Sirius often came up to the man and sniffed his hand, as if to question Bozo’s absence each time, and Solomon had resorted to soothing the dog’s sadness with a few bites of the salted meats that Bruno had brought.

Then a few people remained that Solomon did not know and had not spoken to. The two Dunmer women were still there, one sitting remarkably far away from the last remaining hearthfire, and the other suspiciously silent -- to the point that Solomon wasn’t sure he had heard her speak at all. Both women had a strange beauty to them, in spite of their ashen skin and red eyes, as elvish women often did, and Solomon had caught himself looking at them a few times, in the same way one might admire a remarkable statue or an interesting painting… or an exotic animal that might lunge at any moment. Elves were elves, after all, even though the dark elves had not given him any particular reason to distrust them other than their general reputation.

The same could not be said for the Bosmer woman with the hard face and the sword on her hip. She reminded Solomon a little too strongly of the tenacious and elusive scouts and archers of her kind that he had faced during the war, and he watched her more closely than he had done either of the Dunmer women. But she appeared to like her drink and she had provided a sizable portion of his income for the night, so he could hardly complain. As long as she continued to behave.

And last but not least was the giant of a man that he had seen Joy talk with earlier. His complexion, light hair and great size made it difficult for Solomon to estimate his origins. At first glance he looked like a Nord, but the way he moved and talked suggested something else. Either way, there was a kindness in his gaze and a relaxed, unthreatening quality to his demeanor, and Solomon had seen no reason to worry about the big man throughout the evening.

With the final mug cleaned and put back in its place, Solomon made his rounds throughout the common room, dousing the candles and wall-mounted torches that illuminated the now-unoccupied areas of the space, casting the empty chairs and tables into darkness. Once he was done with that, all there was left to do was wait for these patrons to clear out, wrap up his business with Joy and then for him to go to bed as well. However, something made him pause. Sirius licked his hand by his side and whined quietly.

“Alright then, one drink,” he mumbled and scratched the dog behind his ears. Solomon poured himself an ale from one of the barrels and joined his patrons, sitting down on an empty chair next to Joy. He nodded at her by way of greeting, his knowing eyes indicating that he had not forgotten her, or their deal. “Bruno,” he said, raised his glass to the Nord, and then he looked at the rest of them in turn.

“Strange times we live in, eh?” he proposed. “I hope your travels have found you all well?”

The voice had roused Janus from his reverie in the hearthfire. He looked around for its owner and found it to be the man with the sour face that Joy had spoken of earlier. Seeing it closer and not across the room almost had the effect of pressing his face up to a cookfire, tolerable from a distance, but searing up close. He’d known a man with a face like that once. Terrible at conversation. He hoped he couldn’t say the same of this man, “Well enough,” he said, getting up from his seat and turning it just so in an effort to keep his relaxed posture while opening himself to the conversation, “Glad I found a roof over my head before nightfall. Spooky stories about, and all that. ‘Sides the ground makes for a bad bed.”

The redhead sat quietly for the first time all evening. There was a rasp in her throat, and her fingers were sore from the strings of her instruments. A tell tale sticking of her hair to her temples from a short break to dance and work up a sweat too and the heat had her tug at the upper buttons of her doublet, letting the air touch her skin. Joy stifled a yawn into her fist as she counted up the coins that had come her way over the course of the evening, the blush on her cheeks dying down as she caught back her breath at last. Thirty-eight septims. That was almost what she had walked in with, and she’d worked for every last one of them. The Nord gave a polite nod to Solomon as he took a seat beside her, her eyes dewy with the night. She hadn’t forgotten her own promise to him either. Thirty-eight septims was still shy of something, after all.

Floorboards creaking, the other Nord stood up and the table suddenly justled as he propped his boot against its edge, and Bruno raised his drinking horn up high in the air. He was probably a few drinks in and showed no signs of slowing down, but still no less sober than anyone else in the tavern it seemed. His voice carried across the tavern with what must have been minimal effort as he declared, “Shall we put it to a toast, then? To roofs over our heads and good beds! May the wind always blow at your backs, that our days be long as our meals are warm, and may ye have half an hour in Sovngarde before the daedra knows you’re dead!”

“I’ll drink to that,” Solomon said and put his money where his mouth was. After swallowing, he added: “Though Sovngarde can wait a while longer, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Agreed,” Sinalare called. The bosmer was sitting just barely separated from the group, close enough to talk but keeping her personal space well protected. She raised her glass, hand unsteady as it was one of many that evening, and as the ale sloshed around and spilled out of her tankard she leaned her head forward, catching what foam she could.

Sihava smiled hugely as she leaned back in her chair, putting her feet up on the table. Pushing indiscriminately at the magicka nearby--her version of a shout, detectable by anyone near her--she let fly a vision of the inn’s common room, followed by a warm feeling of belonging and comfort. If nothing else, Inzoliah would understand, and could then explain it. She raised her cup of wine to the huge Nord’s toast and met his eyes before taking a huge gulp of it. She’d had enough by now that there was a warmth building in her stomach and face, and she knew she was going to be drunk by the end of the night. Still, she thought, looking around at the people she found herself in the presence of, there’s worse company for a night of carousing, surely. She was especially taken by the redhead bard that had been playing for most of the night; a fair bit of the emptiness in her purse had come from giving to her, and she was sad to hear the music go.

Sinalare stiffened at the unfamiliar feeling. The strangeness sobered her up, as much as was possible after so much ale, and she placed her tankard back on the table. She leaned back in her seat and waited, focused now on observing the dunmer.

Inzoliah hadn’t been drinking up until this point in the evening, only furiously scribbling on her newly acquired piece of vellum. At last she had finished, neatly rolling up the newly minted scroll of fireball and stuffing it in her knapsack. She decided to reward herself by finally giving in to the nagging desire of a cold drink. The Mage headed over to what she had assumed was the proprietor, judging by his actions throughout the night. He was seated near a red-headed bard when Inzoliah made it over. She placed five septims on the surface next to him. “A cold drink please, ‘twould seem the heat of this place is getting to me.” She added, tugging gently on the collar of her robe.

Both Solomon and Bruno had recoiled slightly when Sihava communicated telepathically with them, flinching -- the sensation was unfamiliar and the spymaster especially was wary of any sorcery that he did not understand. He regained his composure and processed what she had actually meant to convey, namely that she was enjoying herself and felt comfortable. He looked at her, still unsure of what to make of it, before merely conjuring a polite smile.

The other Dunmer woman demanded his attention next. “Of course,” he replied with professional courtesy, disappearing momentarily into the dark kitchen. It was odd that she was warm at such an hour, what with the unseasonably cool nights they were getting, but it was not his place to judge or question his customer’s orders.

He returned with a glass of lemonade, chilled with ice; the last of the batch he had squeezed that morning. It was summer, after all, and the farmhands liked to come in around noon for a refreshing beverage. He handed the glass to Inzoliah and looked between her and Sihava. He’d seen the two mages conduct business earlier, and Solomon’s curiosity won out over his hesitation. “How does she…?” he whispered, leaving the question hanging in the air and nodding subtly in Sihava’s direction.

“Thank you,” Inzoliah said, in between sips of lemonade, “when you get to be my age, temperature does odd things to you.” She noticed his curious glances at Sihava and chuckled at his question. “Mysticism most likely. ‘Tis fallen out of favour as of the last era but it’s not impossible to learn. That’s just my best assumption. I only just met her on the road today.” She explained.

"Ah," Solomon replied inconclusively. That still didn't answer the unspoken question of why, but he surmised that the older Dunmer wouldn't know that either, if they were indeed strangers. He sat back down and made a mental note to write down the exact sensation of the magical communication in his log book upstairs.

Still counting her coins, Joy lifted her head when the wash of a spell breezed across the room, and she was immediately impressed. Not being so accustomed to magic, that wasn’t exactly a difficult feat for a mage to accomplish -- but this was very different, almost ancient in the way it felt. Completely comprehensible in a way that words simply weren’t. She lifted her hands up and smiled, giggling at the feeling. She recognised that it came from the Dunmer sat across the way, the very one who had left her a number of coins.

In response, Joy gave a beaming smile in her direction. Something that the woman had learned a little of in her life, was to communicate without words - and with motions. Whether it was to signal something across a noisy patrons lounge, or for the times when words were just not resonant enough. Joy placed a hand slowly on her chest, closing a fist as if to gesture she was holding on to the feeling shared. Upon opening her eyes again, she locked them with Dunmer and bowed her head as respectfully as she could.

Sihava met Joy’s eyes with her own a-twinkle, and she mirrored Joy’s actions, clutching her hand fervently to her chest. Then, lacking the willpower to resist, she lifted her other hand in a cheeky little wave. She was liking this...Nord? The red hair would suggest so, but the slightly olive cast of her skin suggested an Imperial instead. She really didn’t know which she was. But regardless, she was liking her more and more. Maybe we can talk, she gave a little laugh at the word choice, later.

Confusion played on Janus’ brow when he felt the wave roll over him. It wasn’t something he was accustomed to, like a wind, but through his very being. It didn’t play with his clothing like a breeze, more like hands across the whole of him. His eyes crossed the room and noticed the ones that drifted towards the quiet Dunmer. He understood then, and it did not bother him. There were worse ways magic had been used on and around him. He chose to raise his mug, “Well, we all know that we’re sharing company.” He smiled his soft smile around the room and addressed the lot of them, “But, I like to know who I’m sharing an evening with, name’s Janus. And yours?”

Sinalare shifted her attention away from the Dunmer, relaxing her nerves and dismissing any concerns for the time being. Her demeanor shifted in a return to her previous calm, as she reassured herself that it was simply a normal evening; nothing was about to break down the door, and nor was there reason for anyone in the room to be hostile. She turned to Janus and a smile spread across her face as she lifted her drink once more. “Call me Sinalare.”

"Solomon," the innkeeper answered truthfully. He had not failed to notice how Sinalare had been on edge after the mute Dunmer's display of magic as well. In addition to her rough appearance and the arms she carried, Solomon was beginning to think that she shared his instincts, finely honed over a blade's edge. Was she an old soldier after all? It was impossible to tell with elves, but it was entirely plausible that she was old enough to have fought in the Great War, undoubtedly on the other side. The memories of the conflict were burned too deep into his nervous system for him to remain entirely relaxed and he continued to watch her like a hawk.

Still, the spymaster in him had to know. "What brings you to the Empire, Sinalare?" he asked and fixed his gaze on her resolutely.

Sinalare tilted her head to face the inkeep, smiling slightly. “Oh, you know, work. Mercenary work, mostly.” She shrugged, tipping back her drink and finishing it off. “I fight, and I drink… The Empire’s as good a place as any.”

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Valenwood, to home. A twinge of guilt hit her as she thought about the ale she was drinking. A bit more of it would assuage that, she thought, glancing down at the empty bottom of the tankard.

As conversation began to flow, the Nord swung one leg over the other and answered too; “and I’m Joy,” before beginning to unlace one of her boots, making a mental note of the names so far.

Ohh dear, names. Names, names...how am I going to introduce myself? Sihava fretted a moment before standing, fishing around the edges of the hearthfire and grabbing a cold chunk of charcoal. Tossing it up and down for a moment, she began to write on the wall just above the fireplace in elaborate, stylized script: Sihava Blackthorn. Then she stood back, admired her handiwork, and took an exaggerated bow. As she did so, she swept her quickly across the crowd.

Janus and Bruno don’t seem the type to carry valuables on them. Solomon and Sinalare are too suspicious for me to try either of them. Joy doesn’t seem like she has a great deal, and Nocturnal would frown upon me taking what I’ve freely given. Inzoliah, then. Perhaps she’s finished with that scroll.

“Who gave you permission to write on the walls of my inn?” Solomon asked, visibly irritated, and he pointed to the charcoal letters. “Take that down.”

Inzoliah raised an eyebrow at the commotion and gave a sidelong glance at the other patrons. Messing with other people’s property was a great way of getting everyone fed up with you. On the other hand though, it was just charcoal. It’s not like it would stain. “My my,” she whispered, “the boldness of youth.”

At the site of the letters upon the wall, Joy cocked her head to the side — admiring the woman’s penmanship and for a moment wondering if it was Minasi herself who had shown Sihava how to write too, this prompted yet another giggle, despite knowing that Solomon was not appreciative of it.

“I… How about a drink everyone?” The Bard asked, sliding the septims across the surface to pile in front of Solomon. Maybe that would give him cause to simmer down. As everyone else continued their chatter and as looks were fired around the room, she hastily made her way behind the bar with mischief on her mind.

Bruno grunted a silent, “Hmph,” as Solomon addressed the dunmer’s defacing of his inn. It was one of agreement and respect, though Bruno likely would’ve stopped it before it ever happened should the dark elf ever try such a thing to his own home. “Take your hand back or I will,” he’d say, or at least something along those lines. He did well to be polite with his earlier toast in the company of strangers, but now quiet in their company with the time to hear their voices, names, and be witness to their actions, he found himself watching the three elves. Solomon was especially more wary around them it seemed, and surely the man either had his reasons or was old enough to be set in his ways.

Bruno personally didn’t have much reason to hate them; the war and Thalmor never affected him, though it would be Sinalare’s altmer brethren enforcing the ban of Talos worship in his motherland. He wondered if she would notice the amulet hanging from his neck that he had no intention of hiding, for he felt no shame in his worship of Talos. The mute one was strange, wielded magicks not too unlike the Reachman witches and therefore he felt careful treading was warranted enough. The other… Inzoliah, was it? Well, she was at least fetching if nothing else. For a dark elf, that is. At the sound of the other nord in the room, a true maiden, he smiled and raised his empty drinking horn.

“Who am I to refuse a free drink from a sweet lass?” He said. “Oh, and why the hell not: try cracking open that little cask I brought in. Wouldn’t anyone mind a taste of the Ol’ Bruno Reserve?”

At Solomon’s rebuke, Sihava hastily rubbed the charcoal from the wall. It was left nearly unnoticeable, if perhaps just a shade darker. She turned and dipped her head deferentially, letting a rush of apology sweep over him, before retrieving her writing tools and vellum and taking a seat near Joy’s, waiting for her to return. A drink and some company sounded pretty good about now. She was already a little bit drunk, or she probably wouldn’t have done something so forthright. Inzoliah’s scroll wasn’t going anywhere; no harm in a little fun.

Solomon accepted the apology with an inclination of his head and looked at the faintly smudged spot above the fireplace with scrutiny before he put it out of his mind.

Inzoliah set her now-empty lemonade glass down on the bar after hearing the announcement from the pretty little human child. “Twould not hurt to try some of the man’s homemade drink.” She offered, her curiosity now piqued somewhat.

“Indeed,” Sinalare agreed, twirling her empty mug around by the handle.

Tinkering around behind the bar, the sound of bottles and glasses alike could be heard rattling as Joy looked around, a list in her head providing the ingredients that she knew very well. One by one, she placed six glasses up on the bar - she did not want to deny the loud gent his own ale, or to drink from his own horn either but she was still trying to find herself some employment. She could make some humour of it at least…

“Oh darling, no,” she began. “I thought, what with all these dark days and all I’d make everyone a glass of sunshine, if that would be quite alright by you. On any other day-“ with a bottle in one hand, and a dustier one in the other, she began shaking both in a lively fashion. “Oh I’d love to taste some of the brew from your horn,” her expression was blank and doe eyed - as if she was unaware entirely of the innuendo she had spoken.

Bruno immediately choked on his drink, spitting and sputtering some out of his mouth and sending the rest up his nose as he coughed and throwing his arms up to pat his face dry on his sleeve.

Even Solomon chuckled at that, and he turned around in his chair to see what the hell Joy was doing with his supplies. He sipped on his ale while he watched her mix a cocktail together and he raised an eyebrow -- clearly a habitual expression for him. "Conjuring sunlight on a night like this would be quite the magic trick, miss Joy," he said, voice dripping with scepticism. "Especially with the state my liquor cabinet is in. Oh, that reminds me," he added, suddenly serious and businesslike. "Don't forget to mark whatever you've used in the ledger on the counter."

“Oh but of course,” Joy replied brightly, turning herself in a circle and nonchalantly tossing a bottle into the air by its neck before catching it with a practiced ease.

Janus was content with watching the goings-on in silence while sipping at his ale, finding some quiet amusement from the interactions. A bout of vandalism in good nature had ruffled the innkeep’s feathers, and then the big Nord almost drowned himself on a mouthful of drink. When Joy began some sort of culinary adventure behind the counter, he rose from his seat and took a place closer to her at the bar, “I never did get a chance to make good on what I said,'' he reached into his coin purse and withdrew a few, sliding them across the counter to her, “Take it as payment for, uh, whatever you’re making. Buy you a drink at the next tavern, should we meet.”

Placing her bottles down either side of Janus, Joy took the coins and passed them back to him, winking back at the man; “it’s on me, or if you like -- keep the coin as payment for a lesson, should we meet.”

Janus smiled at the sentiment and replaced his coins, patting the purse. Only ninety-seven more for a lesson, he thought, but decided to let that lie. He liked Joy. He turned to the Nord, still wringing drink from his beard, and spoke, “Bruno, is it? You brew?”

It took a moment for him to recover and properly respond to Janus, as the man was still cleaning himself up, coughing, and snorting down the cheap ale that got caught up in and started burning his nose. After he finished murmuring something under his breath about how a lass would be the death of him, he spared a look toward Janus and, brushing off the few remaining droplets from his beard, answered, “Aye, I am. And aye, I do. Won’t claim to be somethin’ special, but there’s somethin’ to be said for beer made with your own two hands instead of whatever it is they do to beer in the city. Big vats of watered down piss, I reckon. Can’t spare no love for batches weighin’ more than seven stones, and no love means no liquor. You catch my drift?”

“Oh, aye,” Janus raised his mug, and took a gulp from it, “Something to be said about a thing a man makes with his own hands and care.”

Sinalare knew she’d drink the piss so long as it did its job, though she followed the conversation with interest. For such a heavy drinker, she knew rather little about alcohol itself.

The innkeeper slowly nodded along with Bruno. He wasn’t a brewer himself, but running an inn had intimated him a little more closely with the logistics that surrounded the production of the products he needed -- alcohol included. It was definitely true that there was often a special touch of flavor, something different and unique, to every homebrew drink as opposed to the common stuff he purchased in bulk to fuel his tap.

The same could be said for every drink mixed together by an expert and Solomon returned his gaze to Joy. There was so much flashy movement going on that it was impossible for him to tell whether or not she was a master mixer that was putting on a show or a ridiculously incompetent amateur that was trying to hide her inexperience. He exhaled sharply from his nose and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Showoff.”

As the patrons chatted amongst themselves, Joy continued her showy efforts with the bottles. A shake here, a pinch from her pocket there, another twirl - anything to distract the eyes from what her hands were doing with the empty bottle she’d procured to mix everything in. The magic was always in the showmanship.

Inzoliah was having trouble following all the brewing chatter, it bored her. She enjoyed some alcohol here and there and she even had some skill in alchemy, but as far as she was concerned, alcohol was alcohol. Love or no love. As long as you had the right ingredients it would come out exactly the same. Of course this was something she dared not voice out loud. Nords could be very touchy about their drink and she had no intention of starting a barroom brawl today.

“Well,” Janus looked at the different faces between them, appreciating the differences, but wondering if there were similarities, “We all look well-traveled. Anyone care to share a story or two? Tell us of home?”

Solomon finished his ale and flipped the mug over in his hands, catching it on the way back down. “Cyrodiil is my home,” he answered, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Janus’ shoulder. “The Imperial City, to be precise. I grew up in the gardens and on the white marble streets. It was… good,” Solomon finished awkwardly, unsure how to describe his childhood. It seemed so very, very long ago now.

“That was before the war, of course.” He glanced sidelong at Sinalare and sighed. “City wasn’t the same after, and I couldn’t stay. Traveled all over the Empire and even a bit outside of it. But then I got old, and I had to settle down somewhere. High Rock it is. Suits me well enough.”

He conveniently skipped over a whole boatload of stories and hidden truths to arrive at that conclusion, but it was a story he had sold a dozen times over since he had arrived and taken over the inn, and lying about his past came habitually to him. Solomon nodded to himself and looked over his shoulder at the red haired bard once more. “Where’s that drink, miss Joy?”

Sihava nearly choked when Janus said the word ‘home,’ and the smile faded on her face. She went still, and for a moment, she almost forgot to breathe. Swishing the dregs of her spiced wine around the bottom of the cup, she stared at the swirling liquid and remembered things that she’d rather not have.

She pushed out an image to the people in the inn, then: the Palace of Kings in Windhelm, in the deep winter. But no homey warmth came along with the image. Instead, it was a kind of coldness that had nothing to do with the snow that blew in from across the eastern sea. It stayed only for a moment before she let the magic fade, and returned quietly to her drink, downing the dregs and wearing a heavy sorrow previously unseen.

The shift in atmosphere had not gone unnoticed by Joy, and while she checked the glasses out in their row, a familiar image materialised in front of her. Windhelm. She saw too the sorrow in the Dunmer’s eyes — she had also felt it. A bitter breeze she knew all too well, it was confronting and without so much as a tell on her face that it had bothered her, she stood upright. Ignoring the chill that trickled over her shoulders. A laugh was required. She placed down her now full and opaque bottle, contents hidden and a hand found its way to her hip. “You know, Solomon,” she began, sighing and staring off into the middle distance dreamily. “I do wish I could be in your shoes,” Joy said, letting the inspiration of those marble streets carry in her voice.

The Imperial narrowed his eyes at her. Solomon had lost nearly his entire family to the war and the White-Gold City had become a place haunted by pain and suffering, and crisscrossing the continent hadn’t been the best of times. As far as he was concerned, there was nothing enviable about anything he had just related, and it struck him as a strange comment after Sihava’s chilling and strangely mournful projection of Windhelm. “Why?” he asked, and Sirius barked once as if to say ‘yeah, why?’.

Not missing a beat, she spoke out — sounding ever so slightly exasperated all of a sudden. “Well Sir,” her lips pulled to the side and she sighed. “Mine are all the way over there, and my feet are cold.” She waved her hand with a finger to point, and sure enough, her boots were beside the table she had been sitting at. The Nord has also pulled her face into one of deadly serious distress, yet couldn’t resist breaking the deadpan punchline with a quick glance in Sihava’s direction, hoping it might have conjured a smile, or even a twinkle of appreciation in her eyes.

A faint ghost of a smile played over Sihava’s face at the joke. Good comedic timing was always admirable, and if she was in a better mood, it might have sent her into gales of silent laughter. As it was, she wasn’t quite feeling up to merriment, and so she elected to continue staring at her now-empty cup after giving Joy a brief nod.

The slight smile stayed, though.

It had been as much of a deflection, as an attempt to stave off the chill. Joy hoped her contribution would be enough to keep potential questions of her own heritage at bay, since it seemed to be the topic of the hour. She had no home, nor had she ever had one to speak of. That talk didn’t make for interesting conversation at all, and yet she found a sense of solidarity in Sihava’s nod - the silent communication that she understood.

Once the image had faded from Janus’ mind- and the very real goosebumps disappeared from his arms at the conjured cold- he rose his brows and made like the bottom of his empty mug was the most interesting thing in the wide world and he hadn’t just witnessed half the room almost physically recoil from his question, coughing sheepishly into his fist.

It was to be said, a younger Janus might’ve also recoiled, “So, about this inn, then. Nice place, isn’t it… good drink, too.”

“Was a real shithole when I got it,” Solomon said flatly. “Took me a year of hard work and renovations to turn it around.” That much was true. “I won it in a game of cards.” A bald-faced lie. “I think the previous owner was just glad to be rid of it.”

He looked around the common room, eyes flitting from one wall-mounted stag head to another, and he exhaled slowly. This place was as much a prison to him as it was a comfortable home. The Penitus Oculatus had restrained him, a moth pinned to a board in a glass box, when they tied him to this place. Still, it could be worse, and he had grown somewhat fond of the lifestyle. At least it wasn’t paperwork.

“I named it after him,” Solomon added and patted his dog on the head, who quirked his head to look up at home, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “This is Sirius, by the way. Try not to spoil him too much or he’ll get fat.”

Sinalare looked down at the dog and smiled. She offered him her hand briefly; she’d always enjoyed the company of animals, even though she’d eaten and hunted more than her fair share of them. She always found dogs pleasant.

“An inn for a game of cards?” Janus quirked a brow, “I won a card game once. Only got this sword though. Come to think of it, I don’t know which one of us is better off for winning.”

“You’re telling me.” Bruno remarked, still casting a sidelong glare at Sihava. It was one thing if a person couldn’t speak, but there was something about forcing a person to witness an image or a feeling without their consent that felt violating, even if the intent was fairly innocuous, and it was for that reason he didn’t have the greatest feeling about the dark elf, and he was going to make sure she knew that. He began by addressing the conversation where it was first, “An entire house, shithole or not, ain’t nothin’ to scoff at. I should know, I built my own. My father his, up in the Reach near Evermore.”

Then his head joined in his eyes in where they were aimed. Towards the dark elf, the tone of his voice fell serious and critical. “Watched my childhood home burn to ashes, I did. Forsworn took the heart of my ‘stead and of my folks, but you don’t see me forcing you lot to watch that, do you?”

Returning to his drink, Bruno continued, albeit remarkably nonchalant despite the heavy tale he had dropped on the others. “It is what it is. I’m a grown man and I’ve moved on, and after so many years I’ve come to realize that it’s just the way this world works. Everyone’s got a sob story, but ain’t one of them no more special than the next.”

And just like that, Sihava’s frail, reborn smile winked out. She stood violently, shoving back the bench as she slammed her hands on the table, eyes wide. White-knuckled, she took her quill and ink--a message too detailed to be explained in images--and slashed off a piece of vellum, writing fervently on it before tearing it off the counter and slamming it down explosively in front of Bruno. The writing was a far cry from her usually carefully-ordered, flowing penmanship; it was jagged, all harsh lines and sharp edges, very rushed and nearly punching through the vellum in several places.

I showed you a picture of a city. A single picture. There is a difference between that and wholesale slaughter and a burning farm. I don’t think I should need to SAY this, but I do not speak, Bruno, which means it is very, very difficult for me to communicate without writing out a message like this. It takes a long time, and I cannot respond with the flow of the conversation. It is cumbersome and frustrating. If you don’t wish for me to communicate with you in my usual fashion, feel free to tell me. I have no wish to intrude, and I can exclude you in the future. But don’t insult me like that. You are TAKING YOUR WORDS FOR GRANTED.

With that, she stormed back to her seat and curled in, frustrated despite herself. She was reacting too strongly, and she knew that. But the memories of Windhelm had her distressed, and the alcohol had lowered her guard. Come now, Siha, she found herself thinking, this is not how a priestess of Nocturnal should act. But she hadn’t been able to help herself.

It didn’t take a smart man to read the room and figure out there was brewing tension. For anyone that was taking too long on it, the Dunmer herself seemed to explode with activity, aggressively slamming the parchment down next to the bigger Nord a head taller than herself. As if in reflex, Janus was watching every movement of the Nord, not that it showed on Janus. All he did was set his mug on the bar top, place a foot readied on the floor, and sighed.

So much for an uneventful stay.

If she had expected a reassuring reaction, Sihava was about to find herself in a much more precarious situation. Bruno glowered unflinchingly into the Dunmer’s own searing gaze, and parchment on which she wrote fell onto the table before him with the weight of its own vitriol. Without taking his eyes off of Sihava, the Nord calmly took the note and crushed it into a crunchy ball of paper before carelessly tossing it into the fire, having not read a single word of it.

“I don’t give a shit what your excuses are.” He sneered. “Before you cast any of your Gods’ forsaken sorcery on me, you get my permission. Or else I’m selling your witch fingers to an alchemist.”

With a final huff, he leaned back into his chair and his drinking horn to his mouth. His eyes were hovering just above the rim as they darted back and forth between everyone in the room, his nose still in his cup, before addressing them too, “And that goes for the lot of you, too. Not that I dislike any of you… but I don’t know you either. Just don’t trespass on me.”

Inzoliah watched lazily as the room’s mood shifted from warm to cold and back again. Of course it was cold all the time where she was seated. A small price to pay for safety from the eternal enemy. The image of a cold and rather dreary looking city entered her mind, no doubt the witchery of Sihava, and as quickly as it entered her mind it incinerated as if by a spell of her own design. She had no use for dreary northern towns or childhoods that were not her own. Evidently someone did as there was the rustle of vellum and the slamming of feet and other objects. None of this registered with Inzoliah on any deep level, her own attention was firmly entranced by a game of her own recent invention; it was simple, she attempted to relight a candle across the room by flicking sparks from her finger. So far she was unsuccessful in her endeavour.

The tension in the atmosphere seeped into Sinalare’s bones and she withdrew, the alcohol-fueled friendliness she had previously was temporarily paused as she watched the situation transpire. She waited to see how the other customers would react. As she considered it, though, Bruno had a point; the idea of someone digging around in her head was off putting. Still… She glanced at the fire, and wondered what Sihava had written.

Once again, the room had slipped to an almost cloying tension and Joy cast glances between Bruno and Sihava both. It so far wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before - aside from the strange magic at play, she was accustomed to patrons getting rowdy and uptight with each other. Oh if only Janus had asked for stories about that, she had more than a few to tell. But it wasn’t her place to get involved with either party, and her blue eyes finally landed on Solomon, a slight uptick of her brow followed. The drinks were overdue, and in the silence, Joy’s voice came through from behind the bar. “Six glasses of sunlight, coming up!”

After she had announced it, she flicked the stopper out of her mixing bottle, and tipped it over the first glass. Into the first glass, liquid the colour of dandelions fell, and not wasting any time she tipped the bottle back, before pouring into glass two. As she did so, she made sure to set her stance just so that she was alluring and feminine, leaning forward when she needed to, making eye contact when it was just right. It was all a performance, and she had perfected the art of it. When she came to each glass, the colours of the concoction kept changing. She continued with her pouring until there was a line of drinks displaying the colour yellow and ending in a deep red. A sunset sat on the strip mahogany bar in the dimming candlelight. The woman was proud of her work, as always, and she looked down at them with her trademark bright and beaming smile. There was a sourness about it all though, the image of Windhelm still sat in her own mind, and Bruno and Solomon’s stories had been heard, and felt. She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her place to get involved.

“Come and get ‘em,” she said, pushing the thoughts back so she could present her tone invitingly, she took to leaning back from the bar, resting against the cabinet behind her, hoping the last of the evenings patrons would be receptive to it, and that for now, the situation could be diffused.

Bruno might’ve been a crass loner who wasn’t so good at being a good shoulder to cry on, but he wasn’t a completely oblivious idiot. When Joy came around setting down drinks in front of everyone and working her curve, it was clear as day that she was trying to bring down the tension and, whether out of charity and playing the same game as she was or simply being so honest with his thoughts that it was easy for him to move on from conversation to the next, he accepted the drink with a smile and kicked his feet up. He didn’t know exactly what she was thinking, but he thought he had a pretty good idea. He decided it might be time to share some more entertaining stories to support his earlier point (about everyone’s lives is pretty much about getting rawed by a frost troll and learning to move on after).

“It wasn’t all bad, anyways.” Bruno said, moving on from before. “Got stories ‘bout my first, spectacularly awful hunt, or settin’ up my father’s fence and little Bruno havin’ himself a civil disagreement with a gopher hole. Or tryin’ to herd the meanest and stubbornest cock of a rooster you ever saw, and climbing up the Wrothgarian mountains to look for a milling boulder. I’ve traveled the road between here and there and suffered all the mishaps in between, like… how about the time some fifteen or something’ year old snot fancied himself a highwayman and tried to mug me on the road? We all got plenty of stories as soon as you realize life’s just one long, dumb joke.”

After so much talking, Bruno moved to wet his tongue on the drink Joy had given everyone, only for his mouth to almost immediately recoil and lips pucker after his first mouthful. He quickly forced it down, and with his eyes still squinting and mouth smacking, said, “That’s… a lot goin’ on at once. Real sweet.”

“I have been told on occasion that my juice is very sweet, Sir,” Joy shot back, as if the answer had been pre-prepared. The redhead smiled innocently once again.

Sihava roused herself at Joy’s peace offering of a drink, forcing her breathing to calm down. Another drink mightn’t be a good idea, since she was already having trouble controlling her outbursts; she’d never exactly been the most resilient to alcohol, and it didn’t help that she didn’t often drink. But she always did have a weakness for something sweet, so when Bruno nearly had to pull back for how sweet it was, her interest was piqued enough for her to rise and uncurl, making her way up to the counter and grabbing the most reddened of the glasses. She gave Joy a wan smile--a thanks, and an apology--before returning to her seat and examining Bruno through careful, hooded eyes.

The drink was sweet. But it was good. She sipped it gratefully, warmth returning to her face as her hands stayed safely under the table. The illusion magic that danced across her fingertips, desperate to unleash itself upon Bruno’s cocksure psyche, was better to keep hidden, she thought. She’d already ruffled feathers. Starting a barroom brawl by playing with a fellow patron’s mind was a surefire way to get herself booted out of the inn.

Sinalare accepted the drink gratefully with a smile. She sniffed it, curious at Bruno’s comment about its sweetness. Having taken a sip, her face contorted at the string flavour in surprise, but after a second the aftertaste became delightful. Happily, she took a large second drink. Really, who knew a drink could taste like this?

“Moving forward,” Janus’ voice came, and he smiled at Joy as he accepted his drink, “I think any attempts at communication should be, uh, done in writing... If it can’t be in words, friend.”

Call it years of war and fighting, but he hadn’t expected such an otherwise lovely evening to be marred by an exchange like that. His heart had upped its tempo in the threat of excitement and he still hadn’t settled, muscles tensed like springs he had to work at undoing. Tonight was not a night he wanted to lift a finger for something senseless. And barred from ever returning to such a fine establishment. “I’d like us all to remain friends, s’all. No reason to make that hard.” He gave his smile to Sihava first, and Bruno second, raising his cup to them both, “Everyone keeps their fingers. Easier to hold a cup that way.”

There were still some drinks leftover on the counter, and one woman in particular had barely stirred in the last few moments of excitement - it hadn’t gone unnoticed by Joy. Perhaps it was time to take her seat again, but as the others murmured around, close to the fire, the Nord couldn’t help but feel a pull towards the elderly Dunmer back in her darkened seat. Taking one of the drinks in hand, she made her way to bring the drink herself. The woman was focussing on something, a candle that had snuffed out, and Joy’s eyes moved between the candle and Inzoliah.

It was apparent she was a shyer type, or just the type who didn’t want to be at the centre of the crowds, and so Joy approached her as such - soft and slow, carefully setting the drink down in front of her. “For you, Ma’am,” she said quietly. “Are you quite alright here? Would you like me to fetch you something? A blanket even?”

Inzoliah exhaled quietly and raised her hand, flicking out with her middle finger and sending a small mote of fire arcing towards the candle, it hit the wick with surprising accuracy and ignited properly only moments later. Only once that had happened did the Dunmer become aware of a human girl, the very same one she had seen earlier playing an instrument, attempting to talk with her. She smiled at the human. “Tis quite alright, child. You needn’t bring me anything more, though I do appreciate the drink. I’m just not fond of sitting too close to the fire. You understand, I'm sure. ” She left her explanation at that, as if that was all anyone needed to hear. As if all people shared her perception of fire. She sipped the drink set down in front of her. “Fruity. And sweet.” Inzoliah offered, rather flatly, though her words were meant sincerely.

Instead of finding offense in her use of ‘child’, Joy seemed to find it endearing. It suggested to her that Inzoliah was older, and wiser, and in that respect she didn’t mind it at all. She wouldn’t correct her or dispute it. “Ah!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she watched the wick of the candle take flame. “Brilliant,” she added, turning to look back at the Dunmer - truthfully, Joy had always had some envy towards those who were talented with the arcane arts, it wasn’t something she’d had opportunity to learn about beyond reading the tales of it in books and hearing an anecdote from a traveller. “Do you think you could light that one?” she pointed a finger to a candle held in a sconce on the wall, asking with a twinkle of excitement in her eyes.

Taking another sip of the drink, Inzoliah raised her free hand and pointed her finger at the indicated sconce, after a moment a beam of fire leapt from the finger and struck with wick with well-practiced aim. She set the drink down and smiled again at the human girl. “Any other requests?” The Mage asked. To some mages, small tricks like those became tiresome once they had moved on to more esoteric spells. Not so for Inzoliah, any act of arcane arson also lit her up on the inside, no matter how small. Any request to do so was just an easy excuse in case things got out of hand. Not that it had helped her case in the past.

“I don’t know about that,” Joy admitted, casually glancing back over her shoulder to see if they were being watched. Solomon seemed the type who wasn’t much of a fan of a certain kind of hijinks in his Inn. Still, getting the woman to open up was a worthwhile pursuit, and so Joy found another sconce on the wall a little closer to them. “I wonder, Ma’am, if you don’t mind my prying, how do you get to learning a trick like that?” She asked with an encouraging smile — taking a seat opposite Inzoliah.

“Hah, well, my mother was a mage so maybe it just runs in my blood.” Inzoliah said, teasingly. She let her obviously unsatisfactory answer hang in the air before she spoke again. “Of course she must have learned somewhere and while I can’t speak to how she learned it- that must have been, oh around 300 years ago at this point- I learned it from her and then the Synod. Before it was called the Synod it was the Mages Guild.” Stopping her explanation for a moment she casually backhanded a blob of flame at the sconce and continued once the other torch had lit up. “Though I could always teach you the basics, for a fair price of course, after all I have to eat. ‘Tis fortunate though, if you wish to control flames now I can sell you this scroll I made tonight. No practice or prior talent needed, just read the inscription and hurl a fireball at whatever you wish.” The Dunmer slid the rolled up piece of vellum out of her pack and set it on the table.

Joy regarded the scroll for a moment, biting gently on her lower lip. “That’s a nice offer, but I don’t know when I’d get a chance to do that,” she rounded off her words with a girlish titter of a laugh. “Maybe on an overly enthusiastic drunk, who can’t keep his hands off. Send him into Oblivion with a kiss,” she laughed. “Between you and Mr Janus though, I’d be a spellsword in just about no time.”

“Funny you should say that. I’m banned from a duchy in eastern High Rock for something along those lines. Ah well, there’s time enough to learn later.” Inzoliah said, slightly disappointed and rolling the scroll back up.

They could barely hear Bruno muttering something along the lines of “lucky bastard” into his horn as he forced himself to take another swig of the sugary swill that Joy prepared for him.

Solomon tried Joy’s concoction while keeping a neutral, inscrutable expression and he swirled the drink around in his mouth for a while before swallowing. A few seconds passed until he nodded, looked at her and, finally, smiled. “I might keep you on as a barmaid after all,” he said, voice softening for the first time since she’d stepped inside The Loyal Hound.

Before he could say anything else, something knocked on the door, slowly and rhythmically and with a heavy hand. The innkeeper’s head whirled around, as if on a swivel, and he fixed his raptorian gaze on the door. A quiet hush fell over the common room.

Thud… thud…. thud....

_{ft. everyone!}

Solomon held up a hand, commanding everyone to stay seated, and made his way to the door through the arrangement of tables and chairs. His own footfalls were whisper-silent, an uncommon grace having taken hold of him, and he sidled up to the window next to the door. The latch-bolt was in place, doing a good job of keeping out whoever it was that so clearly desired to gain entry, and Solomon peered outside through the glass to see if he could get eyes-on the nocturnal stranger.

To his surprise, however, it was so dark outside that he couldn’t even see the ground on the other side of the window. It had been a warm and clear summer’s day and Solomon only knew such darkness from the most clouded of winter nights. He almost pressed his face up against the glass in an attempt to discern anything to the left of the window, on the other side of the door, but Solomon couldn’t see anything.

Meanwhile, the thudding continued and slow and as steady as before. Whoever it was that had come knocking didn’t appear to be in any great hurry, but they were relentless. It was distinctly strange and… well, not normal, and it made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. The Imperial looked over his shoulder and locked eyes with Janus for a moment. The spymaster, trained to notice such things, hadn’t failed to notice the way the big man had braced himself when tempers had flared earlier in the evening. That was an involuntary response he had only seen in the most seasoned of fighters before -- and in himself. He hoped he could count on the Colovian, should he need him.

With the window proven fruitless, Solomon moved to the door. He placed himself on the left side of it, where the hinges were, and wrapped his hand tightly around the knob, ready to throw the door open and shield himself with it if need be. “Who goes there?” he called out, voice steady and unafraid.

The thudding ceased, but no answer came.

Solomon waited, counting the time with each passing breath. And then several things happened at once.

Another window, on the other side of the inn, shattered as an arm punched through the glass and seized the windowsill. Shrouded as it was in darkness, Solomon couldn’t make out who or what the the arm belonged to. Before he could say anything or direct anyone, something heavy and powerful slammed in the door with force. The wood buckled and splintered beneath the impact and Solomon instinctively pulled his hand back from the doorknob.

The window he had just looked through also blew open, scattering glass across the floor of the inn, and a dark shape cast a faint shadow inside as it moved to climb into the inn. Solomon cursed and threw out a hastily-conjured spell, an unexpected cantrip from an innkeeper; a bolt of lightning flashed and a dry crack echoed through the inn. The dark shape on the other side of the now-broken window backed away.

At that moment, Henry appeared at the top of the stairs, wide-eyed and terrified. “T-they’re on the r-roof,” he stammered.

“Who?” Solomon demanded, but he did not get his answer. The door was splintered and broken entirely by a man-shaped thing, ghoulish and clad in shadow, that burst into the inn. A gust of cold wind came with it, as freezing as the air over the Sea of Ghosts, and the floorboards beneath the intruder’s feet were instantly coated with frost. Henry screamed and ran back the way he came. It was only when the creature stepped into the light of the sconce that Inzoliah had lit that Solomon saw what it was.

The walking dead, half-decayed and bloated with rot, hair matted with dirt and clothes heavy with moisture. It garbled something incomprehensible and turned towards Solomon, who was momentarily dumbstruck. On the other side of the inn, the second zombie had managed to climb in through the window, and wheezed menacingly.

Chaos ensued as the spell of inaction was broken. With a flash of light, Sihava vanished.

The first zombie swung at Solomon but the Imperial was faster -- faster than an innkeeper had any right to be. He ducked beneath the unwieldy swipe of the undead monster’s paw and shot back up with blinding speed. A soft, metal snick and something glimmering in the gloom were the only indications that Solomon had suddenly and inexplicably armed himself before his palm slammed into the zombie’s jaw, nearly breaking its neck with his unexpected strength.

It gurgled again, even more warbled and strangled this time, and Solomon pulled his hand back to reveal a narrow blade, the size of a dagger, protruding from the vambrace around his wrist. It was coated in black blood; the same blood that gushed forth from the new wound in the zombie’s throat. The zombie took a step back and reached up with its hands to claw at its throat.

“Intruders!” Solomon yelled at the top of his lungs, calling out not only to the people in the common room with him, but also to the other patrons that were probably still fast asleep in their beds upstairs. Another spell coalesced in the palm of his hand. “Arm yourselves!”

Janus had been far ahead of Solomon’s command. His usual lazy image and easy smile had been replaced with tense muscles and a dagger-eyed scowl, carefully watching the windows that Solomon was not, an unspoken readiness set in his shoulders as he gripped his axe’s haft and the long-knife’s handle. At the same moment that Solomon had been locked in his struggle with the first Thing, Janus had set himself with terrifying speed on the second, uncharacteristic of the man who had just before been dead set on anything but leaping into any kind of action.

His axe’s head cleaved through the Thing’s face with a sickening crunch and the ping of metal on bone. He let loose a deep growl as his knife pierced into the Thing’s solar plexus with such force it lifted it off its feet, and he sent it hurtling back out the window from whence it came. He chanced a look out and found the view almost the same as if he’d closed his eyes, “Can’t see nothing in this blackness.” He growled.

Bruno, too, was on his feet the moment the glass was spread across the floorboards, and although he hadn’t a clue of what was happening at first, the familiar sound of singing steel and spilling blood called to him, the summoning cries of Sovngarde’s shieldmaidens in his ears rattled his bones - his bow would be no good in close quarters. But as he scanned the room for a suitable weapon more workable than the dinky little knives on the table, his eyes fell on the woodpile adjacent to the fireplace and his feet followed, carrying his hands to the familiar grip of a modest woodcutting axe. There were only a couple at first, which both Janus and Solomon dispatched quickly, but Janus’ frustrated growls didn’t fall on deaf ears. He ripped one of the torches from its sconce and found his place standing ground beside Janus, the torch pointed toward the enemy, their hideous faces now illuminated before him, and the axe readied in the other.

He looked over toward Solomon, reminded of their earlier conversation, and yelled, “At least the draugr can stay fucking put in their barrows!”

Sinalare jumped to her feet, spurred from inaction at Solomon’s words. She knocked her chair out behind her and dropped the drink in her hand, Joy’s sweet concoction spilling out on the table. In seconds, the sword at her hip was in her hand. She surveyed the situation as quickly as she was able, the fog of the drink lifting -- nothing sobers one up quite like watching a zombie get hacked to bits in the centre of an inn. Rapidly, she took up position opposite Solomon near the door.

Janus backed away from the window and turned to look where Joy was. He didn’t expect her to be the type to be able to fight, Stendarr bless her, and he figured he’d be the one to do it for her.

Just as soon as Janus had dispatched one, another shambling corpse clambered into the inn to replace it. Simultaneously, elsewhere in the building, part of the straw roof collapsed and horrified screams bounced through the upstairs halls and rooms. Henry came running back down the stairs again, clearly caught between a rock and a hard place, and sprinted towards safety amidst the patrons in the common room, having recognized Janus as someone to hide behind. “They’re coming!” he yelled, voice nearly cracking with sheer panic.

Sure enough, two more zombies appeared at the top of the stairs, a disheveled farmhand that looked only recently deceased, clothes still caked in fresh blood, and another corpse that was little more than skeleton and whisps of fabric.

“What the fuck…” Janus hissed, using the back of his arm to push the stable boy behind him and Bruno as they backed away from the corpses.

His axe and the big chopping blade were held at the ready, his eyes going to each one of the dead things as he backed towards the rest of his fellows in the common room. It wouldn’t do for him to be cut off from them, three against one were not odds he liked. Not that the corpses cared for his opinion.

The skeleton came at him quickly, almost too much so, and Janus punched out with the top of his axe with a fury that shattered the skull to pieces. He almost tripped over the stable boy as he stumbled back from the second one, the dead farmhand lunging out with his hands looking to clamp his throat shut. Janus instead buried his axe in the Thing’s shoulder, took up a fistful of his bloodied shirt and his pants. He lifted the corpse and slammed him into the ground hard enough to hear the bones in his neck break. As soon as he ripped the axe away from its body, Bruno’s boot came down and crushed the rotting skull beneath all of his weight before swinging his own axe in a wild and reckless overhead arc toward one more undead creature with enough strength that it knocked its head off of its shoulders and splintered it across the hardwood floor.

At the same moment, Janus had Henry’s arm in a steel grip as he dashed to stand with the rest of his fellow patrons, looking to Solomon and waiting for some leadership.

“Janus,” Joy mumbled, near inaudibly in her panic. Frozen. Pressed with her back to the window as she watched the scene play out - her cheeks hot with inadvertent tears. What else was she to do? As her legs trembled and threatened to bring her down, wind came in from outside and her skirt fluttered in the disjointed current. “Janus,” she repeated again, finding more of her voice through choked, fearful sobs. Her smile had been turned upside down, and she watched the relentless assault amidst almost implacable dark.
She held onto the wall like the last leaf of a changing tree in summer's last sigh, the ground beneath her shaking from the calamitous action, or was that her own heartbeat shaking her so? Sound became blurred. The scrapes and crashes of metal felt like they were outside. She was trapped in a glass globe watching it happen helplessly, and unheard.

In an instant, the glass cracked.

An undead arm wrapped around her neck, bursting in from outside. She didn’t know any better than to stand there. ”Janus!” she screamed out, her lungs belting with raw horror, discordant and rasping — so much unlike her beautiful singing voice, now the last choke of the rooster. Her hands fumbled into her pockets as she heard grating breath and spittle in her ear. Joy tore at whatever item she could find, unable to look, or to aim - only plunging the implement behind her, hoping to strike well. The creature’s grip loosened, and with a pop she pulled her hand forward. There was a rotting, gelatinous eyeball skewered on the end of her spoon and she screamed again, dropping it at once before lunging forward. Her legs gave out at last, and after a painful thud, she found herself face first on the ground.

Solomon’s takedown of the first zombie was almost clinical. He stepped in close, ducking and weaving around the undead creature’s grasping hands, his hidden blade severing tendons and almost quite literally disarming his opponent. A backhanded slice cut through the zombie’s throat entirely and Solomon clamped his other hand against its forehead. His face was set into a grim sneer as hot flame sprang to life in his hand and burned through the zombie’s face, boiling its brains in its skull and seeing it crumple to the floor in a useless heap, now definitively dead for the second time, smoke pouring from its ears.

In the meantime, the situation had already severely deteriorated. Solomon caught Janus looking at him and he ran back through the common room to join the defensive perimeter with the others. “Stay close, cover each other’s backs,” he barked, the old soldier suddenly returning to the fore. He snapped his fingers and directed Henry, shaking and terrified as he was, to look after Joy.

The young man sank down on his knees next to her and anxiously pressed his hand against her cheek. “Miss? Are you alright? P-please get up, miss, this is no time to be down and out!”

Yet another window had been broken, affording the enemy more entry points into the common room. He didn’t know how many there were, but the creatures were slow and unimaginative in their assault. “Defend the room, circular formation!” Solomon commanded and took up position.

Right that second, more screams came from upstairs. He’d forgotten about the other guests for a moment. Somebody was going to have to go up there to save them. “Fuck,” he growled. That should probably be him -- this was his inn, and he was responsible for their safety. “Janus, you have the room,” he delegated quickly. The man was a soldier too, there was no doubt about it after seeing him in action, and Solomon had to trust that he would do what was needed.

With that, he set off towards the stairs, pausing only to look at the wall behind the counter for a moment. With a flick of his mind, the falchion that hung there ceased its functionality as a decorative piece and flew to his outstretched hand, where its grip settled snugly in his fingers. The weight was reassuring. Then he rushed up the steps in long, bounding strides and disappeared from sight, while more zombies shambled and climbed their way into the common room through the broken door and windows.

Sinalare stepped up to block the door as two more zombies poured in through it. The first, a decomposing creature with an abominable smell, bones protruding from the rotted flesh, reached for the bosmer with an outstretched arm. She sidestepped adeptly, her lend arm grabbing a chair just behind her, and flung the piece of furniture at the first zombie. The creature toppled as the chair was thrown so hard it broke against the rotted flesh, leaving the stunned zombie in a pile of dead flesh and splinters.

Quickly, she followed up, swinging the light sword in her right hand at the second zombie. It was less decomposed, so recently deceased that it still had patches of skin, in fact. Her sword sliced through its right arm like butter, and her left foot kicked out its right knee just after. The zombie crumpled, falling to its right, and Sinalare met it with her sword, catching it through the neck. The whole zombie’s corpse fell onto her, black gushing blood covering her casual clothing, as the second zombie made it back to its feet. She pushed the first corpse, dead-twice, onto the creature, freeing her sword from its neck.

Her full range of movement back, she dodged another unarmed blow from the remaining zombie and hacked her sword into its stomach, slicing it open. Pieces of the zombie littered the floor and the rest of its shambling corpse dropped down to meet it. Black, coagulated blood coated Sinalare’s front, smeared down her left cheek and neck.
She squared up with the doorless door frame, facing outside where several more undead scrambled towards the opening. She raised her left hand, palm outstretched, and unleashed as much energy she could muster into the crowd. A blast of pure white lightning shot from her hand. The light was deceptively small; after it shot into the first zombie, the electricity burning it from the inside out, the lightning shot out of it and hopped to the next, starting a chain. Sinalare ducked back inside the inn.

“Formation!” Janus roared over the commotion, “Keep a circle!”

The onslaught was fierce now, not a window in the inn remained in its pane. His eyes scanned the bloodied and bloated corpses limping and shuffling towards them. They’d have to punch a hole through them and get outside. There was no way they could defend the inn like this, or at all. Solomon needed to choose between escape and the patrons upstairs, and Janus was begrudgingly set on not leaving him to fight alone. They needed to maneuver, and quick. He tightened his grip on his weapons, speaking low to Bruno beside him, “You with me, brother?”
“You got something crazy in mind, don’t ya?” Replied the low, nervous rumble of the shepherd's voice. “A’ight then, mad lad, let’s see what you got.”

A flash of Janus’ telltale easy smile, though with an edge of uncertainty, “I’ve my moments.”

A burst of purplish-blue light flashed beside Janus, and Sihava appeared as though from out of nowhere. Mouth dry, she stared fearfully out at the burgeoning ring of undead. She’d spent the last minute trying to figure out something she could do; her knives were small, and the horde was large. Then, cocking her head, she’d wondered: why can’t I try my magic? She’d run under the assumption that the undead wouldn’t respond to her illusion in the same way as people; she’d encountered a few Draugr in Skyrim, and when she’d tried to enchant them, they laughed. But maybe these High Rock zombies worked differently. Might as well try.

She swept her arms out, spraying a series of runes beneath the feet of the zombies and holding her breath in hope as they burst with clouds of red light.

Somehow, she never thought that zombies with glowing red eyes would be a comfort. But as they turned to each other and began savaging instead of the eerie, steady advance on the ring that it had been up to that point, she exhaled heavily, wiping away the sweat on her forehead. I can’t believe that worked.

Then, turning to the men beside her, she gesticulated wildly for them to GO. I’ve done my job. Let’s see if they can do theirs. Then--more out of nervousness than out of distrust--another flash of light, and she was gone again.

Inzoliah was just as surprised as the others when a horde of the undead began battering down the inn. Any fear she may have felt, however, was soon overcome with the realisation that she was able to burn stuff. Not light candles or throw sparks. Properly light things on fire and cook ‘em. She was on her feet as quick as she could be, knocking her chair over in the process. A few shambling undead turned their attention towards her at the sound of the chair clattering. The Mage chuckled darkly as she prepared an overcharged firebolt and sent it soaring towards the first animated corpse. The impact sent it stumbling a few paces back as skin, flesh, and bone were blasted off at the site of impact. The surrounding flesh was blackened and smoking and flaking off, exposing the bone. The zombie took another step forward before being conflagrated by a blast of Flames from Inzoliah’s right hand. The first monster fell, still smoking and sizzling in a manner most pleasant to the Dunmer’s ears. The second and third corpses were caught ablaze by the Flames as well but continued to advance unphased.

Inzoliah considered her options. It probably was in her, and all the other living beings best interest if the inn didn’t catch on fire. As much as it pained her to admit. Fireball was probably out of the question, as was Firestorm and Flame Wall. Flames was ok as long as she watched her aim. She blew out another burst of Flames to slow the undead’s advance and took a step back. In her other hand she prepared a Burning Lance, a spear of white hot fire that she suddenly thrust forward, impaling the chest of not just the first but the second corpse as well. The spear of fire hindered their movement even as it sloughed flesh from bone and turned bone to ash from the inside out. “And the final touch…” The Pyromancer said aloud to no one as she conjured a firebolt in each hand. The first struck out from her left hand nearly turning the closest zombie’s head into charcoal. The Burning Lance had dissipated by now, its magicka expended, and with its body structurally compromised by a gaping hole in its chest and it’s head reduced to a cinder, it collapsed. The second firebolt left her right hand and hit the other zombie in the shoulder, nearly incinerating it. Its arm hung limply from its torso as Inzoliah watched as its now burning body slowly failed, charred pieces falling as its pace slowed and then stopped completely. She made a noise of satisfaction, and turned to see how the others were faring and to regain a little of her lost magicka.

“Miss?” She heard one more time, before she dared lift from the ground - dazed, and with a painful throb in her head, and a raw feeling around her throat. Joy came to place her eyes on Henry, a gentleman clearly much younger than she was, and yet trying so desperately to help her. In his eyes, she saw his own fear was perhaps greater than hers.

“This isn’t a dream is it?” She asked him, shaking her head as she did so. Her hands gently took his own and as she helped herself up, she gave him as reassuring a squeeze as possible. “We’re going to be alright. I promise you this.” Joy pulled him closer, as a mother might her own child, and she positioned herself in front of him, despite the odds. Chaos was flying everywhere, and the clear path back to the circle had been blocked by another wave of the undead horde - thankfully they were occupied by the actual fighters. Still, they had to get to the circle. “A little courage goes a tremendously long way,” she whispered under her breath, back stepping with Henry behind her, clutching too now.

“We’ll climb behind the bar,” she said after a brief moment. That was clear, and there were no windows behind it. If they could just get behind it, they’d avoid the creatures and make it safely to the side of Bruno, Janus, and the others. “Go, go!” she said firmly, giving him a nudge that way.

The young Breton had thought that he was going to be the one helping her, but somehow Joy had still ended up being the one to help him -- help him find his resolve and his courage. He took a deep breath, nodded and burst into action, making a beeline for the safety of the bar. Henry used his lithe frame to his advantage to avoid the ghastly combat and the grasping limbs of the zombies, but he almost fell over when he slipped on something black and slick on the floor, coating the wooden panels. He didn’t even want to think about what it was. It was only Joy’s hand, which he was clutching as though his life depended on it, that kept him upright.

Vaulting over the bar nearly caused him to break his knee as well, only narrowly avoiding smashing it against the polished hardwood surface, and he tumbled over the edge in a graceless heap of limbs. “Ow,” Henry muttered, cheeks flushing at the way he had embarrassed himself in front of the beautiful bard. Then he realized how insane it was to be concerned with that when they were under attack from a legion of dead people. The worst part was that Henry had recognized some of them. The farmhands and the maids and even the local village butcher.

“That could’ve been me,” he whispered as he sat up on his knees and dared to peek his head out over the edge of the bar to see how the battle was going. “That could’ve been us,” he repeated, louder, and looked towards Joy.

Joy watched as Henry climbed, stumbled, and fell across the bar. Not quite as gracefully as she would have wanted. “You’re alright. It’s not us yet.” She spoke out as reassuringly as she could, looking over her shoulder at the sight, gnawing at her lower lip in fear. “Get back up, quickly. We’ll make it, alright?” she said, smiling weakly across at him, her eyes still carrying tears and panic still underpinning her words - as much as she tried to drown that out. The bard lifted herself onto the surface, and was close to finding the other side when she felt a fierce tug against her ankle, the sharp, deep tearing of an undead hand that had grabbed her from the floor, using her leg and weight to pull itself back up to full height too. She let out a yelp of pain — and looked at Henry with suddenly wide and wild eyes. Gripping one edge of the bar, she used as much of her strength as she could to plant a solid back kick to the face of the creature with her free foot. If she had been looking back, she would have seen the jaw of the beast come clean off, and it’s blood spew forward. She had broken free enough to make it to the other side and into the blood slick. Once more holding Henry behind her.

---

Upstairs, Solomon encountered two more zombies on the landing as they were dragging one of his guests out of her room by her hair. The woman was screaming and struggling with all her might as the rotting hands of the undead tore and grasped at her, the source of one of the cries for help that Solomon had heard, and he wasted no time in saving her. With powerful, aggressive attacks, decisive in their power and precision, Solomon laid into the zombies with his falchion and his magic, alternating sword thrusts and slashes with brief bursts of fire and shocks of lightning. He cut off the hand of one of the revenants and kicked it so hard against the doorframe of the woman’s room that its spine broke on impact, then pivoted in place and hit the other zombie right between the eyes with a bolt of lightning, the crump deafeningly loud in the confined space. Her assailants dispatched, the woman scrambled back inside her room, weeping and stammering incomprehensibly. Solomon looked past her and saw what he assumed to be the mauled corpse of her husband, killed by the undead.

“Get downstairs now! There are others there to protect you!” he yelled at her and shook his head when she threw herself on her husband. “There’s nothing we can do for him. Go! Go!” She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked him in the eyes, confused and hurt and terrified, but he had no warmth to spare for her. Solomon only pointed once more towards the stairs before he ducked back out of the room and onto the landing. The screams in the other rooms had ceased and all Solomon could hear was the gurgling and moaning of the undead. Where were they coming from?

He forged ahead, ferociously cutting through the zombies as they appeared one by one, having left behind blood-drenched scenes of murder in every room. Solomon’s cold fury grew with every passing moment and every guest that had been brutally slain under his roof. Nothing like this had happened to him in thirty years. The only comparable experience was the Great War, and he briefly thought about the men that had died under his command then. It was happening all over again and anguish rose up like bitter bile from his gut before he found his iron resolve and squashed it.

At last, in the final room, Solomon found the hole in the roof. The straw had collapsed, presumably beneath the weight of the zombies that had climbed up -- first on top of the stables, and then on top of the inn. But why? He wasn’t an expert on the undead, but he had never heard of the walking grave-men that inhabited the cold dark crypts and barrows of Tamriel to do something like this. He was getting exhausted by now and there seemed to be no end to the reanimated corpse-horde, and in his fatigue Solomon’s shoulder was bitten and his arm clawed open by two more zombies he struggled to put down. But that was the last of them, at least for now. Panting and bleeding, he stumbled up to the hole in the roof and looked outside.

“Great gods of nowhere,” he whispered, eyes wide and fixed on the sky.

The stars had gone out. The heavens stretched out before him, nothing more than an inky swell of impenetrable blackness, so thick and pervasive that it seemed to have descended to smother to smother the land as well as the sky, and the moons were nowhere to be seen either.

All except a few. Directly above him, four points of ruddy, ugly light appeared as if from nowhere, blazing fiercely, their impossible brightness an offense to the senses as they immediately seared themselves into Solomon’s retinas. The land below was cast in a faint, baleful glow, a sickly shade of orange luminescence that flattened surfaces and made it hard to estimate distances. He recognized the lights for what they were almost straight away and there was no need to keep staring -- in fact, it hurt his eyes to do so -- and yet, he found that he could not look away. The more he stared, the more he became aware of a dim, horrible wailing in his ears. It was only when the very unexpected sound of a galloping horse penetrated through the din that he was able to tear his eyes away from the screamlight. He looked around, bewildered and frustrated at the ringing in his ears, and was about to back away from the hole in the roof at last when something caught his eye on the ground below.

A rider sat astride a great black steed, holding a torch aloft as he circled in the inn, cape fluttering in the unnaturally still air behind him. Solomon blinked, willing the afterimages of the horror at the top of the sky to fade from his vision. He saw a gleaming sword in the rider’s other hand, pointed at the inn, and his mouth fell open when he realized that the mounted warrior lacked a head on his shoulders -- a phantom out of legend, come alive before his very eyes.

“What in Oblivion is going on?” he whispered, a fruitless question with only a starless sky for an audience. The headless horseman disappeared from sight around the other side of the inn and Solomon saw more corpses stumbling across the fields, now dimly illuminated by the unnatural glow, headed directly for the inn. The situation was hopeless. They could not stand their ground; they would be overwhelmed, slowly but surely.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Solomon hissed as a zombie startled him by shrieking at him from behind and he raised his sword once more.

High above, the Serpent coiled and writhed in the sky.

Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Pacify, kill, return to invisibility, move on. Sihava estimated that she’d scissored the heads off maybe half a dozen zombies as they stood dumbly, unable to move, unable to fight. It was the strangest thing, though; she’d been using illusion magic all across Tamriel for years now. But these zombies...there was a pressure to them. They weren’t fully receptive to her spellcraft. There was something pushing back. Something with intent. It unsettled her deeply, that there was something controlling this, some necromantic will that animated these. While she of course had known it on an academic level, the fact that someone could actually do this was enough to send her into sweats.

So preoccupied was she with her ponderings that she neglected how short of breath she was getting, and the little ache building in her temples. She was halfway up the steps to the second floor--plenty of zombies above, and plenty streaming in below--when she ran into another zombie and repeated her mantric procedure once more: pacify, kill, leave the decapitated corpse behind. But the invisibility refused to come. Only then did she notice the pulsing pain, and realize that her magicka reserves had run dry, and zombies were beginning to pour up the stairs after her. She swallowed heavily, then turned and ran silently into the blackness of the upstairs. I just need to buy time until I can catch my breath…

When the fire-witch went to work on the horde and chiseled away a burning path for Janus and Bruno, Janus knew it was their moment. “Keep the pressure! Burn a path!” Janus roared, turning to Bruno, “I’m dragging Solomon back down if I need to. Stay with them.”

Janus charged ahead, splitting a head down the middle and using his tree-trunk leg to kick out and send it hurdling back to the horde around, tripping them up. He continued his hasty advance up the stairs, seeing their path blocked by more than a few. He growled as he sliced through one’s stomach and its gut-rope unfurled at its feet. Janus was thankful for his gloves as he wrapped a hand around a length of it and heaved like a sailor, sending the Thing toppling head over heel back down the stairs. “Solomon!” Janus bellowed, “Where are you!?”

---

The upstairs was...surprisingly calm. At least compared to the madness below. Sihava passed by obliterated corpses, seared by bolts of jagged lightning or slashed into pieces. One still moaned as she passed, lolling against a wall as its broken spine failed it in its attempts to move. Revulsion rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she moved on.

The trail of dismembered undead continued until she found the source: Solomon, still brutalizing zombies as they trickled in through the gaping hole of the roof. For a moment, she pondered: what kind of innkeep had this kind of skill at combat? There must be something very interesting in his past that he’d tried to bury in his inn. She gave a mirthless little smile, perversely amused at how her mind kept working the same angle, even when in utter crisis. But those thoughts fled her mind as she saw the sky, and her mouth dropped open. Her hand flew up to the amulet slung around her neck beneath her tunic. A wave of sheer horror poured out of her, her mysticism taking the emotion and running with it without her even knowing. Nocturnal...where...where have the stars gone?

It was a short while before Janus reached Solomon and found Sihava with him, one working at cutting through the endless horde and the other with eyes fixed upon the sky. A pang of horror weighed his shoulders down and he forced it back with a heavy swallow and a low growl, “Solomon-“

His jaw went slack as his eyes were pulled up to see the inky blackness of the sky, as if all the stars had been snuffed in their heavens leaving only void. Suspended in the pitch were four ghostlights gleaming like sickening jewels and high above him, a shape writhed like a ribbon in water. His ears were filled with a growing sound, and it only grew until he recognized it as horrifying wails and screams in a language he did not understand, or perhaps none at all. Altogether, he felt so pitiful in the face of it all, “Gods…” came the reedy, quivering whisper from his lips.

He was unable to tear his eyes away until a hand wrapped itself around his shoulder and shook him from his stupor. “Solomon!” He yelled, as he took the offending arm and lopped it off at the elbow, snatching it’s owner by the collar and heaving him to roll away on the ground. “Solomon, we need to leave! It’s not a battle we can win and this damned inn’s no fortress, man!”

Solomon’s head whipped around to look at Janus, wrath burned into his face, eyes gleaming like cold steel. But his anger wasn’t directed at the big Colovian. He softened somewhat and nodded. “You’re right. We have to make for Daggerfall.” More zombies began the unwieldy climb up the side of the inn, reminding them that they were running out of time. “Come on, let’s go!”

---

Inzoliah had become a whirl, firebolts flying from each hand. Every zombie that so much as looked her direction had its body blasted down to the bone by arcane fire. The smell of rotting flesh was beginning to be overpowered by the smell of charred meat, at least in this part of the inn. Someone yelled to burn a path. She had no idea in which direction the command wanted this path to be in, but it didn’t stop her from trying to burn one in every direction. She laughed in delight as an overcharged firebolt, cast from both hands, caused a zombie to explode in meaty, charred, chunks.

Solomon, Janus and Sihava flew down the stairs to discover the carnage that Inzoliah had wrought. The spymaster almost blanched at the sight of the charred corpses and the bolts of fire that were responsible. It was too familiar a sight, bringing back old memories of the streets of the Imperial City lined with the scorched dead, and Solomon had to swallow for a moment and steel himself. She was on their side, after all -- the side of the living. Solomon leapt on top of the bar, kicking away a jawless zombie that tried to drag him back down, and roared at the top of his lungs.

“We’re being overrun! Grab your things and let’s go! Regroup outside, and then we make for Daggerfall!” came his command. He made to jump back down and help the others cut a swathe through the undead so they could make for the door when something gave him pause. Over the brutal impacts of Bruno’s powerful strikes and the angry, screaming bolts of Inzoliah’s magic, Solomon could somehow hear another sound coming from outside. The tell-tale whoosh of an elongated object sailing through the air, end-over-end, following by a dull thud as it landed on the roof.

The straw caught fire immediately. The flames spread within seconds, consuming the tinder-dry material with voracious hunger, racing down the slope of the roof and leaping to the wooden walls and beams that supported the structure. “Fire! Get out now!” Solomon yelled and leapt down to the floor behind the bar to snatch the knapsack he kept there for emergencies just like this one, only to be surprised to find Joy and Henry hiding there.

“You’re still alive,” Solomon said to Henry, incredulous.

“Yes, s-sir,” the boy stammered.

“Well, get up then, we’re leaving,” the spymaster said and hoisted Henry to his feet. He extended his hand to Joy and offered her a grateful nod, deducing accurately that he had her to thank for his apprentice’s survival.

As Joy took Solomon’s hand, she took a look at the creature sprawled out like a ragdoll. She really looked at him. The details in his clothing. Farmers overalls, torn and well worn. Boots for trekking his fields. Something changed when she noticed that. She wasn’t so scared of him, as she was for him. Angry for him. Heartbroken for him. His open, burst throat moved and glistened like obsidian in the broken gloom. “I spilled all the jam again Madam,” she said, as she glanced over her own clothing, coated and sticky with red. A voice from long ago that protected her for now from the worst of it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, only half aware of it.

About as quickly as that had hit her, she snapped herself out of it, perhaps it had been the quickened sound of Henry breathing, but she took his hand in her own and squeezed him. “We’re alright, see?”

Henry nodded, though it was more of a tremble, and conjured a wan smile through his own tears. “Thank you,” he whispered, fighting to get the words out through his constricted throat.

The wave came thick. As far as Janus could see, the dead were there, plentiful as a forest. He swallowed, replacing his knife and axe to place a hand on his old friend still in its scabbard. The familiar feel of the leather-banded hilt in his gloved hand. He removed the gloves to reveal hands that looked almost black with the tattoos stark against the pale skin and the fingers wrapped themselves on the hilt with a long-dormant familiarity. With the dull rasp of metal leaving its sheath the gleaming blade was held aloft, and deep within him that feeling returned. A piece of Havel, like a splinter he could never dig out, and his heart beat a steady rhythm for the blood spilled. Without word, he went to work, moving like a tempest that took limbs and left deep gashes through the endless dead. A whirlwind of curved steel like a scythe through wheat.

It was impossible for Joy not to watch each and every one of the fighters in the bar. Inzoliah commanding her flame, Bruno’s savagery, Sinalare’s calculated motions with her magic, and with anything she could grab. Sihava moving in and out, surrounded by illusions like a spectre. In the centre, though, Janus. The soft and gentle man that Joy had spoken with earlier, now moving with an eerily elegant ease in the perpetual storm, dancing with ribbons of red. She held tighter to Solomon’s hand.

Through a spray of blood, Bruno locked eyes with Solomon, then to Joy and Henry. He was reassured that his old neighbor was still alive, but there was still a matter of protecting the people who couldn’t fight. Though his skin was smeared and his beard caked with blood, he approached the two, allowing the others to fill the gap he left in the front line. The man, straight out of a bloodbath, gave them a juxtaposed soft, weary, and worried look. Then he firmly pushed the axe into Henry’s hand, and said in a coarse voice, “Be no longer Henry the Boy this night. Come dawn, rise with the sun as Henry the Man.”

Bruno withdrew his bow and, nocking an arrow, he positioned himself behind Joy and said in a low rumble, “I’ll watch your back.”

He pulled a few more arrows from his quiver to stick between his teeth, and fired a few crucial shots toward the stragglers, providing cover for the front line fighters and periodically finding his gaze pulled toward the dunmer’s fire.

Inzoliah stepped over another charcoal-black corpse as she exploded bolts of fire into each zombie that stepped through the windows and door. Ironically, she had been too engrossed in her flamecasting to hear the first call of ‘fire!’ It was only when she saw the others beside her, hastening their way towards the exits that she chanced a look around. Flames, wild, untamed natural fire licked at her, coming for the other half of her body and the rest of her soul. She nearly tripped, scrambling forward to avoid the blaze on the side of the inn. She hadn’t set that fire, had she? It was impossible for her to mentally go back through each burst of flame and blazing bolt she had unleashed. Maybe a burning zombie had fallen and set the inn on fire. She supposed it didn’t matter now, it wasn’t the first building she had burned, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Her casting became less precise, more desperate as she fought not merely to burn and destroy but now to escape, to survive. Gouts of flame from both hands forced a trio of corpses back through the window in which they had struggled to climb through. Inzoliah advanced on the broken portal, its sill blackened and scorched and covered with fused flesh and other disgusting cooked fluids.

The Dunmer chanced another look at the beast of fire licking at her heels. She could practically feel its tongues wrapping around her legs. Her scars tingled faintly but she dare not feel them, both her hands were busy, all caution for the inn gone, she now flung explosive balls of fire from the window, making sure she had a clear path once she was out of the burning pyre of an inn. Once at the window, she half-climbed, half dove out of the exit, landing roughly on her knees. The ragged hem of her robe caught on something and tore, adding to the worn look of the thing even more. She clambered to her feet, breathing hard. Not entirely from the exertion either.

Sinalare held her doorway position as if she was a phalanx all by herself, unarmoured. As the corpses wobbled into the inn, she sliced cleanly through their rotting flesh. Severed limbs and scattered pieces of what was, once, organs littered the inn floor. She stood just to the side of the doorway, waiting with her sword at the ready as all the other occupants of the inn made their way out of the inferno.

As another handful of zombies wobbled out from around the corner of the inn, their misshapen bodies illuminated in the eerie orange glow, Sinalare hurried to meet them. Turning away from the door and the others’ retreats, she stabbed her sword in the ground, freeing up her right hand. As she moved towards them, a burning ball of flame grew between her hands, growing larger with each step she took until she flung it straight into the middle of the group. The force of not only the flames but the energy sent the huddled zombies flying. The bosmer looked down as a zombie landed with a thud in front of her. It lay on its back, eyes staring straight up at Sinalare -- or they would’ve been, if the fire engulfing the creature had been less hot. The eyes sizzled and bubbled, running out of their sockets. The sounds of others leaving the inn drew her attention back, so she returned to her abandoned sword.

Sihava conjured another mirror image of herself, an oily smile smeared across her face as she danced between them. She wasn’t, had never been, particularly good at fighting with her daggers. But that was against people. This was just so easy, there was almost a sick pleasure to it. The corpses--too simple-minded to keep track of the real her in between the shifting magics--flailed at the illusions, and even when their hands passed through, they simply kept on trying, and failing, to kill them.

She’d had perhaps the easiest time in escaping from the inn. No ridiculous heroics, no theatrical dives from burning windows. Grabbing her backpack before it could burn, another cast of invisibility and a few butchered zombies, and she’d been on her way. But now that she was outside, no more invisibility. It simply drained her too much, and without her magic, well, she was a dead woman walking out here.

With a wet squelching sound, her daggers sank as one into the neck of another shambling corpse, and with a quick levering pull, she ripped them in opposite directions along its neck. The bulbous, rotting meat parted quickly, if perhaps messily, and the razor-keen edges sheared through the porous, half-decayed spinal column with barely a hesitation. The foul, congealed black gunk that might have once been blood sprayed out of the headless stump into her face. She spat in disgust as some leaked into her mouth, kicking the limp, headless corpse away. The burning inn behind her cast stark, slithering shadows across the field before her. She was almost grateful for it; the wavering light made it all the easier to ignore the flat, baleful luminance that burned from the Serpent’s sky.

From inside, Bruno’s bellowing could be clearly heard.

“Alright, you sorry sods! Unless you wanna get gummed to death by grandma, we’re getting out of here! Let’s move!”

Joy wasn’t going to argue with him. Bag, lute, and lyre in hand she moved. Leaving behind the flaming and crumbling inn. Only the four blazing sparks of the Serpent remained to wish and dream upon now, and she had none left to send up there. Her birthsign burned down on her - casting a glow out in long flakes, lighting up the sprawling horizon like smelting pots in the sinister mark of its slow passing.

Strangeness bleeding out over the land without even a wind to sway a tree. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Thrown in with this sudden and strange group of capable kinsmen. And then there was Joy. Just Joy. Her throat hurt, and her bare foot bled out too. The hot sting amidst the dust, smoke, and ash. She escaped it as she did from Windhelm, without a focus for tomorrow.

Janus had long since cut a swathe through the dead, not that his path stayed open for the others for long. Already, the corpses were filling in the gap his sword had wrought through them though the herd was culled. There was only one goal in his mind, and that was to get to the burning stables. He had gotten farther and farther from the others, tirelessly slashing and weaving his way through the mindless horde until he could no longer see or hear the others, so single-minded in his assault. He chanced a look back and could not see them in the dim, orange glow of the night. All before his eyes was a sea of movement and naught else. Naught else, but a pyre made of the inn that filled the air with the smell of burning timber, its black smoke lost among the ebony sky.

He swallowed, his mind pulled back to other fires at the sight of it. Other fires in a place long forgotten, to a man he’d long forgotten. Were it a better day to die, he would’ve left his sword loose in his limp fist, but tonight was not that night. He shook himself from the flames and turned again for the stables, old muscles burning, breath thin in his throat. His fingers traced a wound he hadn’t remembered getting along his shoulder, scratches and bruises burned and ached. One last dance, Janus thought, so the others could go. He watched the dead slowly closing in on him on every side, the lot of them switching sights from the others to this lone soul lost among fire and soaked through with blood. If the last good deed he could do was free these souls from undeath, then he’d work meticulously til morn if he had to.

Solomon snatched his greatcoat from its hook next to the shattered door and ran outside as he threw it around his shoulders, determined not to look back at the burning inn. A blur of black speed leapt out of the structure through one of the broken windows and rejoined the innkeeper’s side -- it was The Loyal Hound’s namesake, Sirius, panting hard and ears pulled back, but a determined growl in his throat and a string of bloody drool hanging from his slavering jaws. It would seem that he had done his part in fending off the undead as well. Solomon wanted to stop and kneel down next to his dog to comfort him, but there was no time. He had lost sight of Janus already and the zombies’ numbers were constantly replenished by a steady stream of them emerging from the fields of amber grain.

He opened his mouth to call for the party to gather to him, but his words died in his throat. Illuminated by the inferno, revealing the intricate forgework on his cuirass and gauntlets and the deep gashes in the corpse-body of his black steed, the grim rider came galloping back into view. The torch that he held previously was gone and it was then that Solomon realized that it was this headless horseman that had thrown the first spark on the straw roof and burned down his home. An axe had replaced the undead warrior’s torch to match the longsword in his other hand and he brandished both weapons with a flourish, the nightmarish horse upon which he sat rearing up on its hind legs and kicking at the sky with its hooves, its ghastly neigh like the scream of a demon from Oblivion.

“This way! Run for your lives!” Solomon yelled over the noise of their desperate combat and pointed in the direction of Daggerfall with his own sword. His blood ran cold at the sight of the horse slamming back down on the dirt and the horseman beginning his inexorable charge, picking up speed and barreling down on them with murderous intent. The gleaming edges of his blades shone in the stark contrast of the firelight and the gloom. Solomon knew from experience that a ragtag band of misfits on foot were no match for a mounted warrior and so he did the only sensible thing; he turned and ran. Solomon used his momentum to cut down the zombies that got in his way with sword and sorcery alike and he evaded the ones that he could. Sirius sped out ahead of him, agile as can be, weaving beneath outstretched claws and passing between the legs of others, too fast for the revenants to catch.

Once Solomon and his dog had broken free from the crowd of undead that thronged around his inn, he looked over his shoulder for a moment and slowed down, making sure that the others were right behind him. A brutal sight greeted him. The horseman ran his steed straight through the other undead, the giant horse knocking down the mindless zombies and crushing them underfoot, and Solomon looked ahead of their foe to see who was in his path.

It was Joy, sweet Joy, barefoot and bruised and bleeding, still holding hands with Henry as they fled from the carnage and the fire. “No!” Solomon roared, dropping his sword and raising both hands to fire off a barrage of angry, desperate spells -- but the death knight was too fast a target and his fireballs and ice spikes went wide, cutting down other zombies or striking the burning side of the inn instead. His heart sank in his stomach. They were seconds from death.

The woman turned on her heel to face the demon, unaware of what was going on. Her arm stretched out instinctively, pushing Henry as far from her as she could - locked in a brace to stop him coming back. The gravel underfoot burned, her entire form shook and trembled as the glowing dim embers of the Serpent that bathed her absorbed into the Rider’s shadow. Only dark.

Bursting forth from the charred timbers of the stable’s doors were a flurry of horses whinnying and charging off in every direction, fear in their eyes to escape the fire and be greeted by the dead. At their tails was Vodevic the old warhorse, off at a dead run straight for the Headless Rider, plowing through undead with nary a struggle and no signs of stopping. Upon the saddle, standing in the stirrups was Janus, blood in his eyes for the Rider.

He wasted no breath in a warcry, his teeth gritted in an animal snarl, eyes aflame with white fury, as his blade held aloft became a blur and an almighty clang rang through the night’s cacophony before the Headless Rider’s blade could taste Joy’s blood.

“Run!” Janus’ roar to the others as Vodevic let loose his own cry rearing back on his hind legs in the firelight, before wasting no time turning back for another charge at the rider.

“It really should be me throwing myself in front of you instead of the other way around, miss,” Henry said in between shuddering breaths, cold sweat on his brow. Not even he knew where that nugget of humor came from in such terrifying times. “Let’s go!”

The horsman changed course and abandoned his prey, readily accepting the challenge that Janus and Vodevic posed. The two mounted warriors charged at each other once more and their weapons clashed in a flurry of sparks. Solomon couldn’t help but be rooted to the spot for a second or two, the burning inn and the bright steel reflected in his wide eyes -- but there was no time to marvel at the spectacle of two riders engaged in mortal combat. “To me! This way!” he yelled, urging the others onwards, his boots thudding on the dirt road in the easy, loping, rhythmic march of an Imperial legionnaire. A nearby signpost read ‘Daggerfall’, the lettering just visible in the otherworldly glow of the Serpent, and pointed ahead.

Behind them, the roar of the flames consuming the inn entirely and the hungry clang of steel on steel were the only sounds they could hear, and the gaping maw of the dark night loomed ahead, silent as the grave.

_{ft. @Spoopy Scary}

With every passing minute they put more distance between themselves and the chaos at the inn. Solomon kept looking over his shoulder in the hopes of seeing a victorious Janus emerge, backlit by the increasingly distant blaze, but he was disappointed each time. Aside from him, everyone that had been in the common room with Solomon had made it out, and Henry had survived too. Everyone else, all the other guests and the staff -- his cook, his cleaning lady, his barmaid -- had perished, torn apart and mauled by the voracious undead. Now that the clamoring and the combat had ceased and the surge of adrenaline began to fade, as the still, impenetrable blackness pressed in on them, it didn’t even feel real. Not even the starless sky above his head felt real, or the freezing chill in the air, or the Serpent burning like hot coals, staring down at the world with malice.

“Don’t look at it,” Solomon said to the others in a low voice. “Don’t look at the Sign. It’s… there’s something wrong with it. It’ll stop you in your tracks and make you deaf and dumb. Keep your eyes on the horizon and your heads on a swivel. There’s no telling what else might be lurking out here tonight.” He sounded confident and commanding, but inside he felt just as confused and afraid as the others. He had lost more than any of them and the weight of that sat heavily in his guts, like a toxic clump of lead. But they weren’t out of the woods yet, and Solomon had to focus. They were in a warzone now and he was their commanding officer. There would be time to mourn later.

His eyes furtively scanned the rows of grain and corn on either side of the road. Each wavering shadow was another corpse stepping out of the dark until he blinked and the crops were once again just that: crops. Still, he kept a white-knuckle grip around the hilt of his falchion, leaving behind a trail of black blood, a droplet falling from its curved tip in the cadence of his steps. He left behind a trail of his own blood too, from the various bite wounds and claw marks he had been dealt in his fight against the undead horde, but he paid it no mind. He’d suffered and recovered from a lot worse. Solomon kept up a rapid pace, too fast for talking, and the group moved in silence. It felt wrong to speak anyway; as if they might disturb something and shatter the fragile peace they had found on the road.

After two miles, one-third of the way to the city walls, Solomon turned and finally saw what he had been looking for: Janus, sat astride his brave steed, catching up to them at last. He breathed a sigh of relief and the group halted for a moment, but their collective breaths were caught in their throats when they saw that Janus was slouched forward in the saddle, face buried in the nape of his horse’s neck, clearly no longer conscious. Henry shot forward to take Vodevic’s reins and began to whisper the horse’s name into his ears to calm him down. Vodevic himself was clearly frightened and exhausted, whinnying nervously while his muscles trembled and his eyes were rolling in their sockets. “Good boy,” Henry cooed, finding his own courage and purpose in calming the horse. Janus had entrusted him with the stallion’s name -- this was his task now. Mercifully, the headless horseman was nowhere to be seen.

Meanwhile, Solomon inspected Janus. His clothes were wet with blood and there was what looked like a giant bruise on his temple, but he was alive -- a slow and steady pulse could be felt in his wrist. Solomon looked over his shoulder at the expectant faces of the others and nodded. Once Henry had finished calming down Vodevic, Solomon climbed into the saddle behind Janus and wrapped his arms around the big man to keep him steady. He was too heavy for any of them to carry. Solomon groaned at the weight of the man. “What in Oblivion do they feed you people… wherever you’re from,” he muttered. They had to keep going and find a healer for him in the city. Out here wasn’t a safe place to stop and tend to his wounds. Solomon used his heels to spur Vodevic into a light trot, setting the pace for the others to follow.

The remaining miles until the city came into view were mercifully uneventful. The city appeared from behind a rolling hill as the road turned towards the high walls of Daggerfall. “We’re close now,” Solomon said to the others, daring to speak a little louder. “Just a little --” His words died in his throat as he realized what he was looking at.

Daggerfall was on fire. They could see the city clearly now, a mile away from its gates, and the eerie sound of the alarm bells ringing began to penetrate the stillness of the air. Thick columns of smoke rose up from behind the walls, lit from below by raging fires, some of which were visible through the massive city gates that were open wide. People were spilling out, just small figures in the distance, backlit by the all-too familiar incendiary light of the fires, scattering in all directions. They were fleeing the city. Had the undead risen in Daggerfall too and set fire to the jewel of Glenumbra? Perhaps not; he saw others too, too fast and too coordinated to be zombies, chasing after the citizens and cutting them down in the fields in front of the walls. Even from this far away, he could hear the killers whooping and hollering, celebrating the slaughter in a twisted fashion.

Solomon felt the painful knot in his stomach tighten even further as the enormity of the situation sank in. The citizens of Daggerfall were fleeing to their doom. They would find no safety in the dark countryside. And with the city fallen to an unknown foe and the inn burned to the ground by the death knight, Solomon felt his resolve falter at the thought of being forced to wander the countryside until daybreak. They needed shelter -- to rest, to eat, to heal. He checked Janus’ pulse again and found that it was weakening. “Fuck,” Solomon growled.

“This is no place for us to be standing around.” Bruno said, his voice breaking the despairing silence. “Come. My cabin should be nearby. We should remain quiet once we get there. No sign of life ‘til morn.”

It took a second or two for Bruno’s words to register with Solomon. Of course -- he’d forgotten that the shepherd lived here, outside the walls. He looked at the Nord with visible gratitude in his eyes and nodded. “Agreed. Lead the way.”

It was perhaps another half hour of travel before the group happened upon a homestead - it looked dead and abandoned under the night sky with nothing lighting its interior, and its size left a lot to be desired if this would truly be their shelter for the night. It was a small, one room cabin meant to house one or two people, but it was surrounded by a fenced-in pasture. The livestock that would normally be fast asleep were restless and fearful under the Serpent’s light. Undoing the latch, Bruno led the others through as he played sentinel at the gates. He silently cursed the darkness as he tried to look down the road toward Daggerfall, and on the other side toward The Loyal Hound. Immediately running up to his side was a black and white dog, whining and fretful, and pressing itself against his leg and seeking it’s master’s comfort.

“Don’t worry Bozo, I’m home now.” He said, petting the dog’s head.

The inside of the cabin was quaint. Small, as expected, but quaint and surprisingly well kept. There was a large bed in one corner of the cabin that took up more space than was needed, using up the already limited space, not to mention the cooking space, workbench, and what have you, which made the furnished porch make more sense. But Bruno knew that his guests weren’t about to complain about their shelter.

“There’s a door to the cellar next to the fireplace,” Bruno said, “though it’s even smaller and there’s not much headspace. At least there’s beer down there, though.”

He stepped outside, seeing Solomon struggle with Janus. “Let me help you with him.”

Together, the two men -- along with Henry’s more-hindrance-than-help form of assistance -- were able to carry the wounded Janus inside and lay him down on the bed. Sirius had found Bozo and the two dogs enjoyed a moment of happiness at being reunited, at which Solomon shot them an agitated shush. Using his hidden blade, Solomon cut open Janus’ clothes to reveal the injuries beneath: two slashes on his torso, along his ribcage and down his back, that fortunately hadn’t cut too deeply. It was the blunt force injury on his temple that had knocked him out. Thinking on his feet, Solomon conjured half of an ice spike in his hand and pressed the magical shard of ice against the Colovian’s temple to reduce the swelling. Meanwhile, he instructed Henry to cut up some cloth and make field dressings for the cuts.

“Never thought I’d be laying a half-naked man into my bed,” Bruno remarked sardonically, “but what can you do.”

Too wired and too tired to respond to the wisecrack in kind, Solomon only shrugged and sat back against the wall to make space for Janus’ wounds to be tended to while he dabbed at the man’s temple with the ice. He looked out into the rest of the small cabin, made even smaller by the others as they filtered in, and looked at each of them. Some, like the Dunmer women and their respective magical abilities, had revealed hidden depths. Others were just regular citizens caught in a nightmare, like Joy. He exhaled slowly, leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Fucking hell,” was all he could say.

“I’ve got an alchemy table in here.” Bruno said, gesturing to the inside workbench. “I’m no expert or anything, but I can get him started on some pain relief if nothing else. Hopefully it can reduce the swelling.”

^{ft. @Leidenschaft and @Stormflyx}

Wheat was grounded in a wooden bowl with blue flower petals, its powdery germ caking with the plant’s moisture. A green egg was cracked into it as a binding agent and continued to be mixed until the mixture became like batter, and water was gradually whisked into the developing potion. Bruno wasn’t much of an alchemist. He saw himself as having no aptitude for magic, and what he did know of alchemy he just chalked up to basic medicine and was only a little better than eating raw poppy. He just knew that some ingredients had anti-inflammatory properties and that he could combine them. How much that would help Janus, though…

Bruno looked over the man sleeping in his bed, the salve over his wounds staining his bandages, and the medicine bowl on the nightstand empty. Either way, Janus was going to live. Whether or not he’d wake soon, or whether he’d still be in pain when he did, was uncertain.

The chair he sat in was by the bed’s foot, and his face was inches away from the only window in the cabin. An arrow was knocked on his short bow, firmly in the man’s grip. Bozo was as restless and alert as he was, it seemed, with a low growl perpetually sitting at the base of the dog’s throat, ready to bark the moment something was off. He was a well-trained and dutiful hound that seemed to ignore the requests for affection from Bruno’s guests, who was grateful to have a companion who’d keep watch should everyone else fall asleep. But sleep, he suspected, wasn’t going to find him tonight. Nor should it, for his home his last bastion and he wasn’t about to let it fall. He made a point of telling the others to keep quiet and to not make any light so that it would stay that way.

The sound of groaning from behind called for him, but the shepherd's eyes didn’t peel away from the fence outside.

“You owe me new bed covers.” Bruno grumbled.

“Ain’t crawled myself in here.” Janus squinted out at the big, dark silhouette of Bruno. More so from the headache, and he figured his irritability could be blamed on the same. “How long?”

“Not too long. Couldn’t have been more than an hour.” Bruno finally turned to look at his newly awakened guest. He still looked like he was in rough shape. “Sorry if you still feel like shit. I ain’t much of a doctor, I only know a few tricks. How are you holding up?”

“Ah,” Janus said, trying to sit up, but the words halted in his throat in a grunt when his body wanted nothing of that. He conceded and remained laying, “Could’ve swore you looked like a chirurgeon from the cities.”

He sighed, staring up at the ceiling in the dark room. There was almost no difference between the umbras of Bruno’s house and the sky outside. He looked at the big man’s gleaming eyes in the darkness, and then looked away, “I’m alive.” Janus said simply, “Figure that’s about as best an outcome as any.”

“Do you always do that?” He asked. “Crazy and stupid things, I mean, like charging toward your death. You’re lucky it wasn’t the sharp end that hit your head, lest you be tithing it to that monster’s shoulders.”

“I’d have done the rational thing, you and me wouldn’t be talking right now.”

“It’s impossible to say what would’ve happened, but by Akatosh, we’re here now.” Bruno sighed, looking back out the window. Still no sign of life -- or unlife, as it was now. Then again, it was still too dark to tell, and he was simply looking for any changes in shadow. “Your horse is outside and everyone else is safe. You might be crazy, but I’ll be damned if you haven’t earned your keep.”

“Oh, what consolation that is.” Janus said deadpan, growling as he fought through the hundred aches he felt just to win the battle of sitting up, “I left my sword. Don’t think they make them like that up here neither.”

“Don’t have any spares lying ‘round?” Janus fixed Bruno with a small smile.

“You still have that axe, don’t ya? How many weapons do you need? Never mind that, I already gave you my bed.” He replied with a chuckle. It quickly subsided though, and he exhaled a long and tired sigh. Then, he asked, “Where did you get your training? You might look like one of them brigands infesting the roads, but you sure as hell don’t move like ‘em. You ain’t a mercenary either, because every damn merc I ever met is looking for work and won’t shut the hell up about how good they are. So, what is it?”

Janus’ eyes went to where Bruno’s were, wishing he at least had a crossbow to aim past the fence posts. He wouldn’t be crossing blades any time soon, but he could still shoot. He sighed, deciding not to avoid Bruno’s question any longer, “Ain’t a Legion man.” Janus said, hushed as if the dead might stir, “Just someone with skills the Empire wanted. Back then, I was more’n happy to.”

“Call me a patriot. But... I’d have done it for any reason back then, being honest.” He looked down at his hands, bloody and scabbed and scarred. “‘Fore tonight, I thought them days were done.”

“Anyway, the sword’s important.” It was a few long moments filled only with the chirping of crickets and a soft breeze before Janus wanted to turn the conversation away from where he’d come, “You’re handy with that axe.”

It didn’t surprise Bruno that his guest was a soldier. He might’ve looked a fool, but there was discipline about him even if it wasn’t always obvious. He was coy though, so the man must’ve had more brains than your average foot soldier. Whatever his story was, he didn’t intend on pressing for more details than that.

“It’s easier chopping logs, if I’m being honest.” Bruno answered. “But I live out here on my own, and the guards don’t patrol this far out. It ain’t the first time I had to turn the axe on somethin’ else. Actually the company is even worse out by the Reach, believe it or not.”

“I do.” Janus said, “There’s a reason nobody takes the high passes into Shornhelm and Northpoint.”

“If you’ve got an extra bow, I can help keep watch.” Janus offered, “I’ll take a shift.”

“You can barely sit up.” Bruno scoffed. “Even if I had another, I don’t think you could pull a hundred pound draw in your condition.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Janus said, another small smile as he settled back down in the bed, “Figure I’ve earned my keep already either way. You need another stupid thing done, I’m right here.”

There wasn’t enough room in Bruno’s cabin to sneak around in, and no other rooms to disappear into — and still, Joy managed to move quietly to the bedside, having kept herself busy for the most part in assisting Henry with making bandages. Maybe it was the silence, and the intense need to just talk that brought her to Bruno and Janus — a damp cloth in one hand, and a neat velvet pouch in the other. “Hmmm,” she began, timid compared to the boisterous bard she had been in the bar. An image of darkness had crept to mind, and her instinct had been to come to the men.

“I brought this,” she said, with however much of a smile as she could muster. “I can-“ she stopped and shook her head, just setting down on her knees at the side of the bed anyway. That tiny flicker of courage had her take the Imperial’s hand. The Nord was careful so as not to disturb his body, and she began to dab and wipe away at the blood that had collected there — dry and turning brown from the air. If he was fine with throwing himself at a demonic creature for her, he would have to be fine with letting her help him.

Janus only closed his eyes and let Joy work on the big knot on his face. The reminder of the pain brought an image of that scene in the sky, so unnatural and… demonic. A word he hadn’t used since the days of young Jan in his priest robes. He mustered up a smile for Joy, “I couldn’t die.” He said, laying patiently as she dabbed at his brow, “Not before I’d bought you that drink.”

“Is that what this is about?” She replied with a smile, her brow quirked upwards as she gently ran the cloth across his hairline. Joy eyed up the rest of his wounds, mostly covered now thanks to Bruno, whom she regarded with a smile and a nod of her head. “I should be the one buying you a drink — both of you.” She paused, glancing at Bruno again. “Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you both.”

“Hope the accommodations are to your liking.” Bruno said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. A light deflection too, perhaps. He was fully aware that his cabin probably wasn’t to anybody’s liking, given its lack of both space and amenities. Bruno lived off of bare essentials, but at least everything was homemade, as small a comfort that might be. Though he wasn’t necessarily an expert in any one thing, so that comfort might be very small indeed.

A strange comment to make to a woman who’d never had so much of a home to call her own. A roof over her head, sure. Not that Bruno knew, or needed to. “Actually, I think your cabin is beautiful,” Joy’s head tilted to the side, and she curled her bare toes against the floorboards. She was completely sincere. “I’m sorry circumstance called for us to overrun it for the night,” she added with a dry laugh - turning her attention to Janus’s injury again.

Bruno looked down from the window at Joy’s feet. It was obvious a thought flashed across his face, something that softened his hard gaze for just a moment, before he leaned back and stared back out the window. Her words were kind, but he was sure that they both knew that there was no other option. He shrugged off the compliment and breathed in deeply the night air, the slight traces of Daggerfall smoke stinging his nose.

“Joy, right?” Bruno asked. “You should pull the trunk out from under the bed. It shouldn’t be that heavy.”

With a nod back at the Nord, Joy simply hummed in response “mhmm.” That was interesting though, a trunk under the bed? She let the cold cloth settle against Janus’ temple before scooching over to grab a handle. The woman couldn’t help but notice the patient dog at Bruno’s side either, but she dared not disturb him. He was right, it wasn’t all that heavy but she was also stronger than she looked. “Do you have more bandages in here?” She asked him, looking up at him from the floor.

The man shook his head, simply gesturing to her to open the trunk. It was unlocked, and the sight inside was at least a little peculiar. It was only filled up almost halfway, and the contents were all different clothes. A quick look at Bruno and it was easy to tell that they were much too small to fit him. One stack was probably half his size and another was probably only big enough for children. Beside the carefully folded stacks of clothes however, as Joy would be quick to notice, were fur boots and shoes. None of them looked like they were ever worn, though.

“If they’re too big, I could probably fill out the toes with wads of cotton or linen.” Bruno said, still looking out the window and his voice low. “I’m not much of a cordwainer or cobbler, but I hope they’ll do you just fine.”

Joy held them up into as much of the light as she could, they looked fine. It wasn’t something she couldn’t take her own needles to if need be. In the moment, she felt fortunate for Bruno — and even more gratitude. That swell of emotion got the better of her and she flung herself upwards towards the huge man, wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders and placing her head into his neck. “Thank you, thank you,” she whispered. It wasn’t happiness. Any happiness that could have been found there was drowned by the severity of the ominous situation.

He was overtaken by surprise, and all that the other nord could do, is slowly and awkwardly wrap his arm around her and gently pat her back a few times. He breathed in the night air deeply as he looked back out the window. He might have been slightly uncomfortable with the sudden touch, but he did manage to find a moment of solace in Joy’s warmth in the face of the night’s chill. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “they weren’t seeing much use anyway.”

Janus took the cloth from his head and placed it on the nightstand, chancing a look outside and finding his eyes still drawn to the blackness there. Flashes of the writhing serpent and the ghostlights ran through his mind and he shook his head, turning away from the window. That sight put fear in him more stabbing than any number of the walking dead, or even the Headless Rider. The unholy wailing like nails to his ears. He wondered why he’d been left alive, why they hadn’t been run down when he was dying in the saddle and killed. He hadn’t realized he was squeezing the rag or breathing hard until he felt his fist shaking.

The smell of smoke in the air brought back memories, the sight of the inn ablaze drudging up his past, and the past was nowhere he wanted to go. His hands yearned for a bottleneck and his mouth ran dry. For once, he couldn’t bare to lay still and sleep. The bed creaked with his effort and he soon found himself with the hard-fought victory of sitting on the edge of the bed. No matter how great his thirst though, he knew his body wasn’t going to let him make the long trek to his saddlebags. He admitted defeat once more and sat hunched over, knees resting on his thighs as he stared past the floor and straight back into that night sky, “I saw it.” He said, “I’ve heard stories of the dead walking, foul magicks and dark powers. And I saw it all.”

He swallowed, “Why in all the Hells am I still alive?”

Bruno looked over Joy’s shoulder, his hard countenance finally changing into something softer. Concern washed over him as the old soldier forced himself upright and bemoaned his own survival. There was nothing he could say, he thought, that could truly set his mind at ease. But if they were all gonna survive the night, everyone’s morale had to be up.

“Maybe you’re just better than you thought.” Bruno said simply. “Count yourself lucky. Or don’t. Either way, Talos ain’t done with you yet. You’d be best off making the most of this chance you were given.”

Joy let go of Bruno to watch Janus move and sit himself up, she felt a tight knot form in her stomach as she heard him speak. His pain and fear ran deep. She could feel it. Her concern were his wounds, if he didn’t lay back down he’d risk reopening, hurting himself more. She shot a worried sidelong glance at Bruno before excusing herself from him, approaching Janus gingerly, her posture soft and unthreatening.

At first she placed her hand over his shaking fist, she could feel the white-hot of his knuckles against the flat of her own palm and she came steadily to sit beside him. “You’re still here because you are. We all are,” Joy said, whisper quiet. She turned her gaze to the sky too, the burning orange casting sparkling freckles into her blue eyes. “You’re alive because you did good, because you’re strong.”

“I suppose.” He said to the both of them. For the first time in his life, he was met with a problem that wasn’t a simple question of who could get their blade clear of its scabbard first. Perhaps they could go East, to Skyrim. Or sail for Hammerfell. Or perhaps no amount of running was enough to escape. Their only option was to fight, to survive. “I don’t suppose we have a plan of action?”

Joy had no ideas, she didn’t have the knowledge that anyone else in the room would for planning survival past the night. Where to go, what to do. Still, she took in a deep breath and spoke again. “Only plan I’ve got is to get you to lie down again so you don’t get hurt more than you are now.” Her hand came up to meet his shoulder, as if she would begin pushing him back down if he didn’t do so himself. He did just that, grunting back to lay on the bed and offering Joy a small smile.

“Survive the night.” Bruno muttered. “See if the dead can walk beneath the sun. Supposing this night ever ends, that is…” The shepherd watched the deadlights dance, the constellation of the Serpent writhing in the sky. A blink later and they were back where they were, only for the optical illusion to begin anew. The stars were supposed to be guardians. What purpose was the Serpent serving here and why has its light cast a shadow upon its kin? His eyes turned toward the cellar. They were all going to need a few drinks before this night was over.

“I’ll just rest then,” Janus said from the bed, unable to do anything else but. Deep within his mind’s eye though, he couldn’t escape the gaze of that big serpent on high, nor keep the wails of those stars from chilling him deep as his bones, “We’ll need every blade to bear.”

---

This was not how the night was supposed to end.

They should have been sleeping in their beds, warm and dreaming under the safe canopy of a thatched roof.

Such an ending was not to be. They had come to be hiding in Bruno’s cabin. Now a dark trench of screaming, harrowing silence — endless echoes of it. Joy could practically count each breath individually, the timbre of each person's sorrow as it left their parted lips. Rage, loss, grief, and confusion all singing up to the invisible dark. She sat for a long time contemplating the events. None of it made a lick of sense to her and she didn’t see fit to ask when nobody else had the answers either.

Her tired stare fell on Janus from the cold corner of the room she had chosen to settle down in, by Henry’s side. Joy observed in Janus a man who must have given himself in full to war, a man who had carved away pieces of himself in bloodshed, a man who knew violence like she knew music.

Joy did not speak the language of warriors, nor could she comprehend much of the conversation that she had heard tonight. She could make no sense from the shadows in the air that the others found such restless unease in, and there were no answers to be found in the silence between them all in the room.

They were all here and yet not one of them wanted to be. Anywhere else, anywhere at all but here, and here now - under this new and scathing sky.

Joy had been expecting to swat away the wanting hands of drunken men and women as they cloyed for a moment of her time, desperate to run a septim into her pocket, to whisper a request in her ear. Instead, she had been thrust against swaths of undead, the remains of people just like her, torn mindlessly from their graves— or perhaps not even. Creatures so ready to claw the fabric of life from the living. Unraveling at the skin of the deceased patrons like bandages, reaching deep, deep down to find what? For what purpose?

With a quiet sniff, Joy placed her hand over her throat and let her fingertips brush the bruising there - the redness that she had brought upon herself through sheer stupidity in the heat of the moment. This wasn’t the sore voice she was accustomed to. It wasn’t the same rasp she got in her throat from singing and laughing until the early hours.

No, this was screaming, so much screaming. Everything that she had seen and heard before the light fell out of harmony and into chaos was circling over and over in a whirlpool, dark and endless.

She withdrew her hand at once, not wanting to feel the heat of fear that resided there any longer.

As the others all found themselves a place to settle down, it occurred to Joy that they each had in common the provenance of confused pain now. That this unlikely traveling party had been built and born in the blood and smoke of Solomon’s inn, The Loyal Hound. It would just be clouded ash now. Floating and rolling through the tide of the sickly night.

They may have been sharing in their collective pain and anguish, but she was still the outsider.

Everyone around her had a secret. A strength that helped them in the unexpected fight. Even Solomon was not who she had thought him to be, and she felt a twinge of embarrassment for working so hard at him, showing her spark, and her fire for life—rubbing it in his face. Her world had never consisted of monsters, or cataclysmic events. Joy was just a bard, and before that she was just a slave, and before that, a simple orphan. Tonight, had she become the burden of this group? Was her presence simply as intrusive to them as a nail sticking upwards through the floor?

No.

Her secrets were not the same, with nowhere near the depth as any of her companions... But she had reason to fight too, even if she was without their means. She had her own, and she wasn’t willing to sit under that cloud of doubt any longer, no matter how black the night. She huffed out a sigh —turning her toes inwards to look at them fidget and move under the blanket, in spite of the clawed cuts and the cold numbness.

I can still move. I can still walk. I have my arms to hold and carry. I have my voice to speak.

As she tilted her head back, she gazed out of the window — up at the looming threat of the Serpent, alone and suspended on an abyssal backdrop. They had no answers yet. She had no answers. Inzoliah did not either, nor Sihava, nor Janus... Not even Solomon knew this fight.

Just like that, the trickle of a memory - a voice that came through the rushing current of water that moved with reckless abandon. An anchor to hook to a mote of hope...

“Better the fire be just a glowing ember, than let the fire go out.” Joy told herself convincingly, with the briefest whisper of a determined smile, before it faded again under the blinking light of the oppressive Serpent.

He felt light.

The saddle between his legs felt distant, like the ghost of a feeling, a memory of touch. The wind was whispering something in his ear that he couldn’t understand. He took in a breath and his nose filled with the damp soil and wheat fields. He opened his eyes and Vodevic was at a lazy amble up the road, pace bothered by no deadlines. He reached down and ran a hand down his flank, the touch still feeling light to his nerves, but Vodevic grunted in recognition of his rider’s familiar hand.

Looking farther ahead, he could see the destination. And of a sudden, the familiarity wrapped him like a blanket. Almost too tight. Suffocating. He bit his lip and forced down the lump in his throat. As he got closer to the farm, he found it harder and harder. Fear laid its hands on him, he’d been gone for so long. Would Nika recognize him? Would Ilda know what vagabond stood in her doorway? There was only one way to find out, Janus thought, and he’d never been afraid of whatever answers fate gave to his questions. When he passed the fence, he wrapped Vodevic’s reins around one of the posts, leaving him with a firm pat on his thick neck. Each step to the front door felt like walking against a strong tide.

Slower and slower, harder and harder, until he stood face to face with that door and his knuckles hovered over the wood of it. Afraid to touch it, afraid of who was inside more than any fear he’d had of any foe. He was a stranger here. For a moment, he thought to himself that he could turn around and just walk away. He swallowed, rapping his knuckles on the door and stepped back as if the door was going to give him a few hard knocks in turn. He heard the knob turn and the door creaked open. An olive-skinned face with black hair, braids laid over her shoulders and down her chest. Her green eyes looked into Janus’ own, and his lip quivered like a tiny babe’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a choking, squeak of a sob that jolted his shoulders like punch.

The door opened and showed her in full. That face that he could only get in memories, that smile he longed for and could never have again. “Janus?”

He stepped forward and reached out to her to fold her in an embrace-

---

He felt heavy.

And the aches seemed deep as his bones. He was sat in Bruno’s bed still, resting his broad back on the bed’s board. Most his cuts had stopped bleeding, but the bruises were still sore, especially the ones on his brow. The only difference between when he’d awoken in Bruno’s bed the first time and this time was he was alone. And a little bit of strength regained.

It weren’t the first time he’d had the dream. Just the time between the last and now had stretched further and further until tonight. It left him empty each time, but the pain had long ago blunted itself on the scar tissue it had left. He let go a sigh and chanced something, focusing on his palm and trying to block the rest of the world out. It had been a long time since he’d used the magicks, but he figured it was like riding a horse. Learn once, never forget. After a few long moments, the faintest glow caught the spark of his concentration and will. His bruises began to fade and shrink, albeit slowly, and ever so. Even with the dishearteningly slow process, he kept at it until the ones left were pale things.

The cuts had scabbed over or turned to new scars, the worst of them only shrinking. But that was all he could do before he felt himself grow faint and his mind fog over increasingly, burdened with summoning up magika it hadn’t for a long, long time. Perhaps he’d have to explain how his wounds had healed three days’ worth in a few minutes, but that wasn’t something he bothered himself with. There were more dire things to worry on, like the near-empty wine bottle still in his saddlebag. And his father’s sword. Bruno was right that a man didn’t need quite as many weapons as Janus had, but he’d trade them all for that old saber.

As he thought of what would’ve happened to Joy had he not rushed to her rescue, he knew the sword was a worthy sacrifice. Even if his father had chipped his love for him away over Janus’ younger years, they were replaced with a respect as Janus had taken up the man’s sword and witnessed the things his father did. He couldn’t blame the man for his ill temper and dark moods. Janus knew he’d had his fair share of them. That old bloodthirst had been bled from him in the two wars he’d lived through. Now shaking hands and nightmares were his reward. Cursed blades were a fairytale to many, he thought. Pick one up and live by it, you’ll realize every blade’s a curse.

He’d seen men and children entranced by them like siren-songs, thinking how war would win them a name in this world. Even Joy, peaceful Joy, had called the things he’d done and been through a neat little song and dance. Perhaps it was. A fool’s deed. But tonight, it wasn’t the machinations of man. It wasn’t a war or a feud. This was something more, and he’d almost died for it. He wondered why he still lived again, and remembered Bruno’s words. Talos wasn’t done with him. He’d been a priest once, of Stendarr, and the Welcomer of Heretics as Stendarr was he had no love for the abominations that he’d cut down this night.

All his life, Janus had known that evil wasn’t cackling demons in the far corners of the world, wringing their hands over the webs they weaved. Nor was it mad Emperors with world-ending delusions. It was the small men, the herd, ebbing and flowing and bleating. Their small wants and small reasons. Clawing for thrones made only of mud. Carelessness, ignorance, selfishness. And try as Janus might not to care, to leave this all to some hero out of the mists of legend like he’d told Joy…

A piece of Janus knew that if he took the easy way like he’d done all his life, it’d corner him when it was done with the rest of them that stood. He may not be able to rip that serpent from the sky and put him to the sword. But somewhere, hidden away with some ancient tome, was a small man with small wants and small reasons. Stendarr’s justice was patient.

But as Janus looked at his tattooed hands, quivering in the orange moonlight, he didn’t want to be the one to mete it out. Give it to some young fool with a sword. Janus’ day was done if you asked him. Done and over, he thought. Pleaded. A promise made to himself as he walked away from that last field he’d killed men by the dozens in. Nothing good ever came from him and a sword.

_{ft. @Lemons and @LadyTabris}

Joy and Henry tended to Janus and that freed up Solomon’s hands and his mind for other matters. He got up from the bed and stepped back out of the hut, into the cold and deathly night. He didn’t look up, even though he could feel the Serpent staring daggers into the back of his neck. It was a deeply uncomfortable sensation and he took a deep breath before sighing hard and closing his eyes, wishing so very hard that daybreak would come soon. He stood there, rubbing his temples, and weighed his options.

It was his duty, explicitly outlined in a warrant signed by the Emperor himself, to gather any and all information pertinent to the survival of the Empire. This definitely counted as an existential threat. He could only be sure about Daggerfall, but something told him that this wasn’t just happening here. The sky, the Serpent… if they couldn’t see the stars, then surely nobody could. Perhaps all of Tamriel was under attack. But he couldn’t do anything about the rest of Tamriel. He could only do something about High Rock. And right now, that meant going to Daggerfall and finding out who was sacking the city.

Sirius had joined him outside and Solomon sank down on his haunches next to the dog, still wide-eyed and panting hard, whining softly at his master’s soft touch. “It’s going to be okay, boy,” Solomon murmured and ran his hand through Sirius’ plentiful black coat. “Stay here with Bozo and the others. Okay? Stay.” His tone was commanding, but not unkind, and the dog settled down on his rear and licked his chops as if to say that he understood. Solomon nodded and straightened back up, though it was a while before he moved again. He stood still, eyes staring blindly into the gloom, while he processed what had happened.

“I’m going to the city,” Solomon announced a while later to the people inside as he stuck his head in through the door. Bruno and Joy were busy with Janus, so Solomon looked towards the others instead. “I have to find out what’s going on.” He hesitated for a moment. How much about his motivations should he explain? They’d probably already guessed that he wasn’t just an innkeeper, and if Breton society had collapsed there was no point in keeping secrets. But still… “Anyone coming?”

Kneeling in the corner, Sihava opened her eyes for the first time since she’d entered Bruno’s cabin. Praying to Nocturnal had yielded...predictable results. No response. Of course, the Daedric prince had never actually spoken to her, not really. She’d only ever communicated in the subtlest of ways. Often, Sihava hadn’t noticed them until they’d made themselves obvious. So she needed to make her own way, now. And she desperately wanted to know what was happening. An undead uprising and the sacking of Daggerfall, all in one night. The Serpent’s sign burning above. All of it was connected somehow. Sihava had spent her life in search of power. And knowledge was power.

Not to mention, she added to herself, I don’t much like Bruno, and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t like me. The less time I spend in his house--indebted to him--the better for everyone. Especially me.

She sent some thoughts to Solomon, then: an image of herself, an image of Daggerfall, a nebulous feeling of readiness. Nodding once, more to reassure herself of her decision than anything else, she rose to her feet smoothly, cracking her knuckles with a series of satisfying pops. Then she felt an odd sensation on her chest, and realized: there was a faint warmth emanating from her amulet. Not enough to be comfortable or uncomfortable, but more than enough to be noticeable. A ghost of a smile flitted across her face for half a moment at the acknowledgement.

Sinalare was leaning against the wall, some distance away from the rest of the group. Her hand twitched irritatedly, tapping against her thigh. She was aggravated by what was going on. She truly thought she had seen enough city-destroying level disasters when the Great War ended, and yet here one was, directly in front of her, and she stood doing nothing, safe in a shack. Irritation pricked at her the longer she stood still, anxiety about her companions and the events of the night only growing as long as she didn’t distract herself.

Solomon’s announcement was welcome. The innkeep was, clearly, more than that, but Sinalare hardly cared, so long as he continued to be as capable as seemed. She pushed off from the wall, her unsteady hand coming to rest calmly on her sword-belt. Her nerves relaxed once she knew she’d be outside again, doing something -- sitting still never agreed with her.

“I’ll come,” she announced. “I’ll be of more use out there than in here.”

He was still not used to Sihava’s arcane method of communicating but he refrained from flinching this time and merely nodded in acknowledgement. It had been a chaotic fight at the inn but Solomon hadn’t failed to notice her skills in stealth and misdirection. The Illusion magic, in particular, was impressive. Given that they were walking into a presumably hostile city, her abilities would be invaluable.

His eyes fell on Sinalare after that and he didn’t say anything for a moment. She had been antsy and restless until he had called on her and Solomon recognized that for what it was immediately. He was the same, and he felt a strange kinship with the Bosmer despite their obvious differences. The question of whether he could trust her was still alive in his mind and the idea of having someone that was once an enemy watching his back made him uncomfortable. After seeing her fight, and now seeing her fidget, he was sure that she was ex-Dominion.

But if there was one thing that old soldiers hated the most, it was waiting. He couldn’t stand it and neither could she, and now she had seized the opportunity to do something useful. Solomon couldn’t deny her that. They were all on the same team now. “Alright,” he said eventually and unsheathed his falchion. “Let’s do this.”

Leaving Sirius to rejoin Bozo and the others inside, the three of them set off towards Daggerfall, keeping a low profile and hugging the lay of the land to stay out of sight from any potential sentinels outside the walls. The once-wooded areas outside the city had made way for farmland and they moved silently through the stalks and rows of corn and grain, staying off the roads to avoid any unwelcome encounters. After half an hour they began to approach the killing fields outside of the gates and Solomon sank down in a ditch by the side of the road that led up to the walls, surveying the field in front of them.

The bodies of those slain in the slaughter they had first witnessed on their arrival remained where they had fallen, but the laughing killers had disappeared. The columns of smoke that rose over the city had thinned and diminished and less flamelight illuminated them. Most important, however, was that the bells had ceased ringing, and a strange silence had descended over the city. Solomon surmised that the people that had sacked Daggerfall had started fighting the fires, which meant that the fighting -- if there had been any -- was over. It was still and quiet outside the gates, which remained wide open, probably shattered off their hinges, and Solomon could just barely make out that the streets beyond the high arch of stone were devoid of people. Staying low in the ditch, they followed the length of the road, shrouded by the intense darkness and the shadows cast by the crops that whispered over their heads. Solomon’s anxiety disappeared with every step they took, replaced with a reassuring, iron resolve. The closer he was to danger, the less agitated he felt. It was a strange paradox that he had never been able to adequately explain, but it sure came in handy now.

After waiting in the ditch for ten more minutes to make sure that the field outside was well and truly abandoned, Solomon and the others broke cover and sped across the frozen ground -- their breaths steaming in the inexplicably cold air -- in order to kneel down by one of the corpses that had been left in the dirt. Solomon rolled it over to reveal that it was a middle-aged man, clearly in good health and garbed in fine clothes, who had been stuck through the neck with something viciously sharp before bleeding out in the mud. A merchant or an aristocrat, Solomon thought, and he mumbled something to that effect before he left the dead man to inspect another corpse.

They were all like that. Rich men and women, dressed in their evening finest, who had been run down and killed like game. An uncomfortable sensation crept up on Solomon as memories came back of his work, before the Emperor had been assassinated and he was reduced to gathering intelligence at a wayside inn, his field privileges removed -- certain groups he had investigated, festering in High Rock’s dark underbelly, who had whispered of overthrowing the rich and seizing control for themselves. With black foreboding, Solomon turned towards the city gates. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Was the gate left undefended because the unknown belligerents did not expect anyone to come from outside the city? Were they aware of the dead rising to drench the countryside in blood? Had they been counting on it?

Solomon beckoned for his allies to follow him as he crossed the remaining distance to the towering city walls and huddled up close against them, the vast shadow cast by the stone monolith shrouding them from sight, the sundered gate two dozen yards to their right. “Alright,” he whispered and looked Sihava and Sinalare in the eye as best he could in the near impenetrable gloom. “We can either chance it and go in through the gate, or we stay out here and keep moving along the wall until we find another point of entry -- a sewer grate or something. The gate appears to be undefended and I have a feeling that whoever has taken control of the city isn’t expecting anyone to come in from the outside.. That’s why I say we take the gate, but you never know. Maybe we should play it safe. Thoughts?”

A jolt of nerves hit Sinalare as the idea of crawling through a sewer was mentioned. Going underground was the last thing she’d like to do. She leaned over a little to throw a glance at the gates. It would probably be fine, right? She hesitated to voice an opinion, fearing a wrong choice.

Sihava held up her hand, the deep blue glint of an invisibility spell dancing along her fingers, and gave a little smile. Holding up her other index finger in a ‘hold on’ motion, she breathed deeply a few times to slow herself down, or to calm herself--a strategy she’d used countless times to stop herself from doing something reckless--and let the spell creep over her, fading her from sight. She stalked down the road towards the gate, making sure to remain as quiet as she could. After all, no matter how invisible you were, you could still make just as much noise. Her breaths faded to quick, light, and silent as she passed through the gate.

Sinalare pressed back against the wall, hoping Sihava would have success at the gate. “That’s effective,” she mumbled.

The streets beyond the gate that greeted her were still dimly lit by the smoldering structures of the houses that stoo I Ud there, many having gone up in flames during the night’s chaos, now reduced to standing half-structures aglow with embers, sending the occasional shower of sparks into the sky. Not every house was burnt; whether randomly or by the hand of some unknown methodology, some were spared while others had suffered. Vortices of heat swirled through the streets, mercifully banishing the freezing air that wafted into the city through the open gate, sending flurries of ash and debris scattering with every gust. Visibility was limited, as smoke still hung cloying and blue between the buildings, not thick enough to snatch one’s breath away but close to it.

Five men unexpectedly stepped out of one of the unburnt houses, oblivious to Sihava’s invisible presence. All were dressed in grey robes and they wielded weapons -- a mace, an axe, a hammer, and so on -- that were clearly coated with fresh blood. “Was that the last of them?” one, a dark-skinned Redguard, asked the others.

“Yes, brother,” a morbidly pale Breton replied and raised a hand to point, his finger extended in the direction of the heart of the city. “We should go. The High Priest will speak soon.”

“A glorious day,” the Redguard said, a beatific smile on his face, wildly at odds with the near apocalyptic scene around them.

The group of men turned around and began to walk away deeper into the city, leaving the gate still undefended and the streets empty once more. Sihava had remained unnoticed.

She grit her teeth, barely resisting the driving urge to throw them against each other with a quick rune of Frenzy at their feet. There was something more important here to worry about. She should go back. Show the image of the men to Sinalare and Solomon, recollect with them, make a plan, figure out how to do this more intelligently. They seemed smart. Probably smarter than she was at this kind of thing, at any rate. If she was back there, then they would probably grab her by the shoulders and pin her to the ground until she agreed to settle down and wait for an opportunity.

But this was a perfect opportunity, right here! Sure, she could try to slow herself down with measured breathing, like she’d done so often in the past. But...what kind of raiders wore gray robes and called each other ‘Brother?’ What kind of bandit leader was called the High Priest? What ‘glorious day’ were they talking about? Her curiosity was fatally piqued by this point, and she was inescapably in its grip. They’d said it was the last; who knew when there would be another way to find where the leader was? With a quick glance backwards--they can handle themselves, right?--she slid behind a wall and let her invisibility drop. Better to save the magicka, and she could tail idiots like these with her eyes closed. She threw out a thought over the wall, hoping that it might reach the two outside, but unsure whether or not it would: they gray-robed men, their conversation, and then, of course, Sihava behind them as they walked.

Then she followed with silent feet, trailing them into the ruined husk of Daggerfall.

When it remained suspiciously silent and Sihava did not return, Solomon crept up to the side of the gate and dared to take a peek -- only to find the streets empty and the Dunmer woman gone. “Son of a bitch,” Solomon muttered under his breath and looked over his shoulder at Sinalare. “Looks like we’ll have to make our way through the city.” He had caught a snippet of what he thought must have been communication from Sihava, but the only thing he had been able to make out was a vague impression of a group of armed men. The fact that these men were now gone, and Sihava too, meant that she was either discovered and taken by force, or that they left and she followed them. Solomon knew dark elves as headstrong and independent people, so he didn’t put it beyond her to leave them in the ash like that.

Fortunately, the ash gave them a trail to follow. Even with the fire-fueled gale that swept through the city, the footprints of the passage of such a large group could not be erased from the street fast enough to be hidden from Solomon’s experienced gaze. The Imperial and the Bosmer stuck to the shadows as well they could, but they had to kneel down in the middle of the road every so often to check the trail to make sure they were still going the right way. It was during one of these moments that they were suddenly interrupted.

“There!” came an excited voice from an alley, and Solomon looked up sharply as he leapt back to his feet. Another group of armed insurgents -- they swept out of the alley and fanned out in a circular formation immediately, trapping him and Sinalare by surrounding them. There were six in total, four men and two women. They were outnumbered three-to-one.

“Wait!” one of the women called out before Solomon could say anything. “I know his face. From the inn outside the city. The Trusty Dog, was it?”

That prompted Solomon, who still held onto his falchion tightly, to look at her more closely. He didn’t recognize her, but it looked like she had recently cut off most of her hair and her face was marked with red paint in a strange symbol… or was it blood?

“The Loyal Hound, actually,” he said tersely.

She scoffed. “What are you doing here, innkeep? You’re supposed to be dead. You, and all the other sinners out there.”

He shrugged, thunder on his brow. “Didn’t take.”

Another voice behind him spoke up. “You’re surrounded. Drop your weapons.”

Solomon’s scowl deepened. “All I am surrounded by is dead men.”

He elbowed Sinalare with one arm to spur her into action and raised the other in a bright flash of lightning that struck one of the gray-robed women square in the chest, throwing her off her feet.

Sinalare spun to face the opposite direction as Solomon, her left hand flying out in front of her, sending a blast of flame at the two nearest robed men. The flames blew them back, one dropping his sword so that he could block his face from the heat. Her right hand flew to her sword, and she moved to engage a gray-robed woman. The strange woman blocked Sinalare’s blows, once, twice, three times - the Bosmer stepped closer still, and launched her leg out in a low attack. Her shin struck the woman’s thigh, disorienting her, and Sinalare knocked her sword aside, slicing into her unguarded neck. The woman’s blood spattered and her spasming body thumped to the ground, writhing as her blood flowed onto the street.

The gray-robed figures were unprepared for the vicious onslaught of the two Great War veterans, and Solomon could see the fear in their eyes as the street lit up with flashes of lightning and bursts of flame, the blood of their comrades splattered across the cobblestones. But they found their resolve -- they were fanatics of some kind, Solomon assumed -- and put up a brave effort. He had killed the woman in front of him with his lightning bolt, its power fueled by his anger but also draining so much magicka that Solomon relied on his sword for the others. His skill and experience outmatched theirs put together and he dismantled their offense in a clinical fashion, falchion singing with the thrill of blood purchased with honest steel, his face set into a grim sneer. He parried the Redguard expertly, used his free hand to slap his weapon away and pivoted on the spot, a roar escaping his throat as he extended his blade horizontally in his spin and decapitated the man with a single, clean stroke. Another fell to a series of brutal slashes and stabs, a page from a swordsmanship instruction manual come to life, that the Breton was far too slow to stop.

Between him and Sinalare, only two of the six gray-robes remained just a few seconds after combat had erupted. They backpedaled and turned to run, cries of alarm already rising in their throats, but Solomon lifted a piece of charred debris with telekinesis and flung the projectile after them, knocking one down and sending him tumbling onto the ashen street. The other, however, was fleet of foot and Solomon cursed. “Sinalare! After him! I’ll finish this one!” he yelled and bore down on the man he had knocked down with ill intent.

Sinalare wrenched her sword out of the recently-made corpse below her. The man’s blood pooled under her feet. At Solomon’s words, the bosmer’s attention flew up to the fleeing man and she set out after him, smears of blood left where her quick feet landed on the cobblestones. She took three long bounds, raising her free hand to cast a bolt of lightning. The electric projectile launched at the zealot. A cry of pain was torn from his throat as the magic struck his right leg and he went down, wailing the whole way, his weapon abandoned. Prostrate on the ground, the last fanatic’s face filled with horror as he watched Sinalare’s last bloody steps towards him. Her foot caught his shoulder and she stepped down, hard, thrusting her sword into his chest.

She pulled back her sword, which was dripping with fresh blood. She turned to Solomon, from several paces away, and with a smile, she called, “Got him!”

With the assailants slain, an eerie, soot-filled silence descended over the streets once more. Solomon nodded at Sinalare to convey his respect and gratitude. She was his blood-sister now, a comrade-in-arms. Whatever their past differences, he felt that he could trust her. It was a weight off his shoulders.

---

Up ahead, the streets opened up into a wide city square. A large crowd had gathered there, beneath the wafting smoke and the swarms of sparks that soared on the air, staring up at a makeshift podium where three dignitaries appeared to await their execution. Those that thronged at the front were almost exclusively dressed in the same gray robes as the group that Sihava had followed to get there, but there were plenty of seemingly ordinary people further back, most of whom looked frightened and confused. More gray-robes patrolled the edges of the crowd, wielding maces and batons, and applied them liberally to keep the corralled city masses in line.

Someone, a bearded man in a white robe, wielding a massive hammer, was speaking, but his voice did not carry far enough to reach beyond the edges of his audience. Fortunately for Sihava, nobody seemed to be paying really close attention to the streets that emptied into the square -- clearly, whoever these people were, they believed they had done a thorough job at securing the city.

The wind changed, and snippets of the bearded man’s voice carried far enough for Sihava to hear. “... ever the outcast, now the brightest… as foretold by our prophet, the Lord of… on this blessed day.” She would have to get closer if she wanted to hear the rest.

Giving a quiet “tch,” she ducked behind the burned-out shell of a building. As good as she was at sneaking about, she was in the nerve center of their entire operation now, as far as she could tell. No point putting herself at risk. She steadied her breathing, calming her racing pulse. Come on, Siha. This is no different from that time in Solitude. You can do this in your sleep. She let the shimmer of invisibility cloud her over again, then slunk about the edges of the crowd, being careful to avoid any pools of ash that could leave her footprints, or the roaming grey-robed men. If she bumped into one, she knew, she was NOT going to have a good time.

Come on, big guy, she thought grimly as she slowly edged her way closer to the white-robed man, what are you saying? She was so close now to figuring out what was going on, she could almost taste it.

Her expertise paid off and the voice of the white-robed man grew in power until she could hear his words clearly. “Stendarr’s might has guided our victory here today,” he said and lifted the hammer over his head, eliciting a roar of approval from those at the front of the crowd and a demure murmur of forced assent from the rest of the citizenry. “Just as the machinations of Akatosh, Arkay, Kynareth and the other Divines have guided the victory of our brothers and sisters across the cities of High Rock. We will restore balance. The wealth and prosperity that has been hoarded by the so-called elite, the kings and lords in their castles and mansions, their lives full of avarice and degeneracy, will be redistributed among the people. Rejoice, my fellow citizens! You have been spared -- you have been deemed worthy. Weep not for the nobility that we hunted down like the dogs they are, or for those that succumbed to their sin and tried to resist the cleansing. Weep not for those outside the safety of the walls of our great city, for they shall be judged by the Serpent, and those that are pure will have nothing to fear from the servants of the great constellation.”

He took a few steps closer to the people on the platform with him, bowed and shackled, awaiting their fate. “As High Priest of Stendarr, it is my pleasure to tell you that this is merely the beginning of a new era. The gods have ordained it, and the Lord of Moths has enlightened us to this truth. How can anyone question his word now? Everything he has prophesied has come to pass. Recognize now the authority of the High Priest of Akatosh and his humble servants, or perish. Because once dawn breaks and the sun rises on Tamriel once more, on Dawn’s Beauty herself, it will be a new world. The land outside these gates will be cleansed, ripe for the taking, to feed and clothe us. A new world indeed… one that we will build together.”

Looking towards his prisoners, the High Priest raised hammer again and scowled. “But without them. No more leeches, my children. No more parasites like the so-called King and his family, or anyone that stands with them. Their unjust and sinful rule ends today.”

The High Priest’s robe stained red and the sound of the hammer being dropped, crushing heads beneath its inexorable weight, was drowned out by the bloodthirsty cheers and horrified gasps of the crowd.

The invisible thief brought her hand up to her mouth reflexively. She had no love for kings, but murder was murder, whoever the victim. She fought past the nausea, holding grimly on to her mission. Come on, Siha, focus. What did he say? The Lord of Moths? She searched her memory for anything like that--King of Worms, Wolf Queen--but nothing was forthcoming. She'd never put much stock in the divine, at least not recently, but somehow, she doubted that Stendarr--the god of Protection--would have been alright with the slaughter of last night, or that Arkay would have ordained the undead.

Still. This 'High Priest of Stendarr' did bring one comfort to her. This was happening across High Rock. Not Skyrim, not Cyrodiil, not Morrowind. Just High Rock. Lips set in a grim white line, she carefully backed away from the blood-soaked stage. Her invisibility didn't have long left. It was past time to go.

---

The triple-threat trio of Solomon, Sinalare and Sihava met up again as the Dunmer retreated from the packed executioner’s square and they abandoned the city as quick as they had entered, leaving only the six corpses of the cultists behind in the smoking corpse-hull of Daggerfall. The benefits of Sihava’s unique method of communication became evident when she was able to soundlessly relay what she had seen by projecting the memories into Solomon’s mind, who did not recoil from her arcane touch this time -- he devoured the images and the sound of the High Priest’s voice greedily as they hurried through the shadow-shroud beneath the stalks of corn outside the city walls.

It was terrible news. If all of the cities of High Rock had indeed fallen to this murderous doomsday cult, then there were precious little safe havens left in the province. But Solomon could still think of one -- a place deep in the mountains where they could rest, resupply and regroup.

“Ken Muhyr,” he whispered to himself. “I hope your walls still stand.”

While quietly moving her hands through her own bag, Joy spared a thought for the near-silent Dunmer matron. She was sat about as far from everyone else as she could — even given the already tiny space, and the Nord gave a sidelong glance at her. Joy noticed the way that she was only half bathed in the foul starlight that seeped in through the window, but glowing beautifully like the fire she commanded back at the Inn under it anyway. She had just as much fire in her blood red eyes as the bard knew most Dunmer to have.

Inzoliah was nice to be around.

The two had already conversed, and now they’d both been through the rings of chaos together — Joy couldn’t help but feel a tug towards her. She hadn’t said much of anything since they’d arrived in Bruno’s cabin, and the way in which Inzoliah had crashed and torn out of the Loyal Hound had seemed a far cry from the controlled warrior she had been inside.

The redhead took note of the way that her robes had ripped and shredded, even beyond how they had been before. Knowing that she herself was not about to get any sleep, she grabbed at a pouch from her belongings and sidled over to the Dunmer softly, quietly as she could.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Joy asked calmly, offering as much of a smile as she could — a tiny silver implement held between her thumb and forefinger. “I can fix that for you,” she offered, pointing at the ripped hem of her cloak first. “I insist, actually.”

“Twouldn’t hurt.” Inzoliah supposed, “Though I don’t mind really, this robe has been through worse.” She had been exhausted since their march from the Inn, travelling all day, getting to sit down for barely an hour and then travelling again at night had taken a lot out of her. She could fully admit she wasn’t the most in shape person, certainly not compared to most people in this group. “I am alright, though, just fatigued is all. I hadn’t anticipated all this… travel, in such a short time.” She adjusted the way she was sitting and eyed the darkness of the room. “‘Tis a chaotic thing that’s happened to us, how are you taking things?”

Joy had to think on that question. She sat herself down cross legged at the woman’s side, needle ready and attached to a spool of thread. She took hold of a rather large tear, and even in the little orange light that they had, it was only just enough to see what she was doing. “I don’t know if I am taking things, honestly,” she admitted, resigned by the situation. “I’m lucky to still be here thanks to all of you. It’d be no surprise to anyone here that I’ve never seen anything of the sort… Not anything like it at all.” She supposed her admission would make her seem much younger than her actual years, but she sighed it off. Making delicate stitches across Inzoliah’s robe. The pulling of the thread through the fabric creating a peaceful rhythm in the dead of night.

“You were so powerful, what you did to those things... Don’t I regret not buying your scroll now,” Joy sighed with the slightest of a wry laugh trailing her breath. “So thank you for fighting so hard, really.”

Inzoliah shrugged, careful not to interrupt Joy’s mending, “Ah don’t thank me, it’s not work if you enjoy it. Isn’t that what they say?” She had enjoyed flexing her magical muscles, everything after that had been a bit rough for her though. She let the moments tick by before she spoke again, “When you get to be my age, you see a few things like this every so often.” The Dunmeri Mage rubbed her scarred cheek absentmindedly, “Twas the war that was the last one, I suppose. Less cosmological problems and more Aldmeri.” Inzoliah’s gaze refocused as her thoughts turned back towards the present time, “I shall make you a deal, mend my robes and you’ll have your scroll of fireball, free of charge.” she declared, smiling a dim smile to match the light of the small cabin.

That made Joy raise a brow, and hold the needle still with a cocked head. “I’ve lived my life sheltered from most. Not the first time I’ve had to run from a place as it burns, though,” she said quietly, resuming the stitching. The fabric felt old and worn indeed, but also special. Like it had been doused in a perfume that she couldn’t smell or sense beyond a feeling of something ethereal woven through it. “You might still have to show me to use that scroll,” Joy added with another light chuckle. Then she looked over her shoulder at their three male companions. It did occur to her, that perhaps this fazed Inzoliah far less than anyone else. Dunmer had a much different perspective on days, and on life in general. She didn’t seem as deeply worried as the others, perhaps that was why Joy chose to sit with her for the night.

“Where did you travel from? If you don’t mind my asking of course,” the redhead asked. Tying off a fixed tear, before getting on to the next one. Hard to see now, but in the light of day - it would look near perfect.

“Twould seem we have a few things in common then, I’ve fled from a few burning buildings in my time as well. Each time I tell myself I’d rather not repeat that again and yet here I am again, escaped the clutches of another burning building.” Inzoliah chucked lowly, reaching into her pack between her legs and pulling out the rolled up scroll. It was fairly easy to use them but maybe that was just because to Inzoliah they were just one-off spells that she was familiar with. Perhaps to the layperson they might as well be Elder Scrolls. She placed it next to the other woman. “I’ll show you how to use it tomorrow, it’s rather simple I promise.” She paused, considering how to answer Joy’s question. “Well, I’ve just come from eastern High Rock, I was the Court Wizard to a duke there, ah but before that I came from Cyrodiil, Cheydinhal to be exact, though I left near the start of the war and don’t intend to return in this era.” Her voice was half-serious when she spoke, as if she was telling one big joke that all happened to be true.

Joy nodded, smiling gracefully as she continued her work. “A Court Wizard?” She asked, tilting her head curiously. “I don’t actually think I’ve met a Court Wizard in all my life, although, not surprising. I don’t think they’re as common in Skyrim as they would be here in High Rock. I wonder if I could be a Court Bard,” she chuckled. Really, she could quite picture herself sat in a grand manor for some fanciful event, an instrument in hand and her voice to reverberate and fill the hall with a story. With a sigh, she shook her head. “Maybe one day, after all of this is over.”

Bruno hadn’t seemed set on talking. He’d taken his self-imposed duty of watching the perimeter seriously, grim-faced and silent. If Janus had a crossbow himself or the strength to load one, he’d have helped, but the quiet man wasn’t keen to let him. So Janus sat until he got bored of it all, now he shuffled towards the hushed conversation he heard from the women. His tired eyes went from Inzoliah to Joy. He forced a small smile, as easy as he could make it, “Mind sharing some good company?”

“Well, imagine seeing you here,” Joy whispered with a smile of her own. Janus seemed to be doing better, somehow, which was good to see. “Inzoliah here is offering to teach me to read her scrolls, so I can learn some magic in a pinch.”

“Ah, this will pass.” Inzoliah said, waving her hand dismissively, “Maybe we’ll live to see it and maybe we won’t but it will certainly pass. Becoming a Court Bard is something that could happen as well. I’ve never paid them overmuch attention but I’ve heard worse singers than you in some courts.” She nodded her head as the other human cage and sat with them. “Tis quite alright with me, though I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.” She had seen him at the inn of course, hacking and slashing like a madman and maybe even riding a horse. It was hard to remember, even her memories were consumed by the flames that had feasted on the timbers of the Loyal Hound.

“Think the time for proper introductions is a bit past.” Janus smirked, “But, name’s Janus.”

“Tis good to meet you Janus, I am Inzoliah.” She nodded at him in the gloom.

_{ft. everyone!}

The three made it back to Bruno’s hut without incident and Solomon gave a nod to the watchful shepherd by the window as they slipped back inside. He turned to Sinalare and Sihava. “Thank you for your help,” he said in a low voice. “It matters more than you know. I think it’s time that I inform the others.”

He made his way to the middle of the small cabin and cleared his throat. “Everyone, if I might have your attention for a moment. I have some news to share. Bad news.” Solomon’s face was somber, though his eyes were alive with grim determination -- not the face of a defeated man, but the face of a man that knows the war has only just begun. He took a deep breath and looked around the room’s expectant faces in turn before he spoke again.

“Daggerfall has been overthrown. The king and his family have been executed and the nobility hunted down and slaughtered the man. A cult has infiltrated the Imperial Faith, led by an individual known as the Lord of Moths and High Priest of Akatosh, who has allegedly predicted… all of this,” he explained and gestured to the black sky outside, “and they have seized power. Sihava has learned that the leader of this cult in Daggerfall calls himself the High Priest of Stendarr, and he claims that every city in High Rock has fallen to his allies, presumably other so-called High Priests. They wish to use this event, whatever it is, to carry out a purge against the ruling class and establish a new state. They are obviously enemies of the Empire. More importantly, they are our enemies. Sinalare and I were attacked by their cultists and we were forced to flee the city after killing them. They are not on our side.”

He paused for a moment to give his words time to sink in. Then he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his rosette for the others to see: the all-seeing eye of the Penitus Oculatus stared back at them. “I am not just an innkeeper. I am an agent of the Empire and it is my sworn duty to protect it against threats both from without and within. As such, I will be working to resist this cult and their machinations. But I can’t do that from here. There is a castle, a keep, nestled in the mountains northeast of here. Ken Muhyr. It’s been abandoned for a long time. The Penitus Oculatus has designated it as a fallback point and safe house for situations such as this, stocked with weapons, armor, supplies, books, and so on. It has never before been used in that capacity, but the time has come,” Solomon said. The more he spoke, the straighter his back and the more fiery his eyes became.

“If anyone wishes to aid me in exercising my duties to serve the Empire, your help is most welcome. Even if you don’t, there is room in Ken Muhyr’s walls for all of you. We are each brothers and sisters in arms now, arrayed against both the cult and the undead, and there is strength in numbers. We can’t stay here -- the cult will reclaim the land outside Daggerfall for their own purposes.”

He looked at Bruno, who had denial entering his hundred yard stare, and a solemn tone crept into his voice. “I know this is your home, but the cult outnumber us a hundred-to-one. Come with me and we will be able to bring the fight to them once we have regrouped, resupplied and hatched a plan.”

Solomon put the rosette away again and clasped his hands behind his back, an officer once more. He swept his gaze through the room again. “What say you?”

Janus regarded the rosette with unimpressed eyes. He’d seen them before, carried one himself even. But he turned his in at the end of the Civil War and did his best to forget he ever had one. “‘Less you pull an army out your pocket, I’m not swearing to a cause that ain’t mine.” Janus shrugged, no sign of an easy smile coming, “I’ll follow you to your castle for the protection of the others, but that’s as far as we go.”

Having sat in silence for the most part, her hands resting against the neck of her lute, it was Janus that made Joy’s head turn. It shook too, slowly but surely defiant of his words. “But we need you,” she said softly at first, her words picking up pace and weight as her mind painted the scene of Daggerfall in flames, and blood running over the streets. “This is your cause. This is Bruno’s… Sihava’s cause. Mine and Henry’s too…”

If anyone else felt to scoff at the idea of a barmaid standing to Solomon’s call— Joy did not. “People are dying,” she said desperately, her eyes wide but her posture steady. Taking a breath, she ran her tongue over her teeth as her gaze scanned the room, her hand balled to a fist that she wouldn’t know how to throw to save her life.

Joy felt everything. Anger, sadness, exhaustion, and fear, but there was something else too, buried and fighting from drowning under it all. Her hands fell on her hips and she sighed from her nose before turning on her heel to meet Solomon’s gaze with no trace of her smile, just burning sincerity in the brittle blue of her eyes. “I’m with you.”

The fire in Solomon’s eyes had spread, not just to Joy but slowly to Bruno too, burning away the shock and denial and replacing it with anger and rage. His heavy breathing, the huffing and puffing, replaced the silent air surrounding him as he straightened his back and marched toward the fireplace, growling as he pried loose the hatchet stuck in one of the logs beside the hearth as if he were silently cursing the gods in his mind. “First undead, now this…” he muttered. With his axe over his shoulder and his bow in hand, he stared down Solomon and his rosette, his twisted and angry countenance still perpetual on his visage. “I’ve already watched my home burn down once,” he snarled, “and I’ll be damned if I stand by and watch it again. Solomon, if you’ve got a plan then I’ll wait… but it better involve killing as many of those fucks as possible.”

Janus didn’t meet Joy’s gaze, but he felt it like burning coals held against the side of his face. She didn’t understand. From the time she likened splitting a man’s face with a blade to music and dance, he knew. Even Solomon swaggering in and flashing his fancy little badge didn’t understand any amount of patriotism wasn’t worth it to Janus. He fidgeted with his tattooed fingers and only muttered again, “Ain’t mine.” he looked at Solomon, then to the others and back, “You got my word I’ll split any prick down the middle stands between here and that castle. I’m not fighting this war with you.”

He stood then, grunting and wincing as he got to his feet, “Any of you can’t see it’s already been fucking lost then you’re all fools. We could barely hold an inn, think of how well it’ll go we try to retake the whole fucking Kingdom.”

Sihava thought.

Janus was right. There was no hope for High Rock. Any war they might wage had already been lost. She had no allegiance to these people. No allegiance to the Empire either. Solomon had already revealed his secret; there would be no pleasure in peeling it back now. She was gifted enough in subterfuge that even if the entire countryside was crawling with these priests and zombies, she would be able to survive with...minimal effort, really. She could just leave, if she wanted. She should just leave. It was the smart thing to do. Go to Skyrim, or if that wasn’t far enough away, Cyrodiil or Elsweyr. High Rock wasn’t worth it anymore. Nobody to steal from. Nobody to trick. All of her skills would be...not unused, of course, but used wrong. If she was smart, she’d just walk out and never see these people again.

But when had she troubled herself with what had been the smart thing to do?

The warmth of her amulet, when she’d gone to Daggerfall with Solomon and Sinalare. The stupid joke that Joy had made in the inn, before the country had gone mad. Her conversation with Inzoliah on the road. Solomon, staring in horror up at the Serpent’s horrorlight. Despite herself, and she wasn’t quite sure exactly when, she’d started to care about these people. Was staying with them a bad idea? Yes. Very much so. Could she stop herself anymore? Not likely.

She walked the few steps over to Solomon and laid her hand on his shoulder, giving a single sharp nod and letting what certainty she felt leak over into his mind. I hope I’m doing the right thing, Nocturnal, she thought grimly. Her amulet stayed cold.

Sinalare stood near the cabin’s entrance, still clutching a bloody rag from when she cleaned herself off outside. Solomon was an Imperial agent, which shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to her as it did. She tensed on reflex, already placed as near to the building’s exit as she could be, but held off on leaving, like she would have in the past. It was no threat to her - she had to drill this into her mind, reminding herself over and over that those days are long gone, as well as her ties, and she in fact was not standing across a battlefield from this man, despite the sudden reminder. She remained silent for several minutes, simply keeping herself sane as her mind raced and jumped from thought to thought. Her nerves stopped her from properly considering or hearing just about anything he’d said afterwards, so she slowly refocused on the conversation.

Henry got to his feet, fingers fidgeting with the handle of the axe that Bruno had given him, eyes darting furtively around the room between the others, wondering whether it was appropriate for him to speak. He cleared his throat and found some measure of courage. “I’m not much good at fighting, sir, but… I can help make the keep a good place to live,” the young man said. He’d stared in awe at the Imperial rosette. To think that he had spent years under Solomon’s roof without knowing what kind of a man he was. Spies and such had always seemed like larger than life to him. Then again, so had everything else that had happened this night.

He looked at Joy and the ghost of a smile flickered around his lips. “I’ll clean and wash our clothes and run errands and so on, and you can cook and sing and mix drinks, like you did, miss.” Then Henry looked at the others again and swallowed. “So it won’t be all uncomfortable or… or anything. That’s what I -- what I wanted to say.” He sat back down quickly and looked at his feet.

“Thank you all,” Solomon said, gaze lingering on Janus a little longer than the others. He didn’t appreciate the man’s defeatist comments. Now was not the time to be undermining morale. “Hope is not lost as long as we draw breath,” he said pointedly. Joy’s stalwart declaration had been admirable, but Solomon had not seen an immediate use for her until Henry reminded him that the keep that was to be their new home would need tending to as well. Inzoliah had not said anything yet, but Solomon was content to let the older Dunmer woman formulate her thoughts a little while longer.

In the meantime, he felt Sinalare’s gaze stabbing into his back and he turned around to look at the bloodied Bosmer by the door. He knew that look in her eyes. It tugged at the frayed stitches of scarcely-healed wounds in his own mind. “I was in Cyrodiil,” he said softly. “Third Legion. Saw action in Anvil, Bravil, Skingrad, so on. In the winter of 174, my men and I hunted patrols and Thalmor officers in the Great Forest. And I was at the Red Ring, when Lord Naarifin was captured and the Imperial City retaken. I saw what the Dominion did there. I buried all of my--”

He took a deep breath and stopped, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. “I killed more of your kind than I can remember. Swore I’d never trust another Aldmeri elf.” Solomon chuckled. “But here we are. For the record, I thought we made a good team back there,” he added and nodded in the direction of Daggerfall.

“What about you? Where did you serve?” he asked.

Sinalare’s arms crossed in front of her chest, her jaw set and muscles tense. Her gaze slipped to admire Bruno’s floorboards as if they were a fascinating book. Tersely, she answered.

“Hammerfell. I fought under Lady Arannelya. A long time ago,” she mumbled at the end of her sentence. With a deep breath, she raised her head and glanced around at the others in the room. “I… I gave up fighting for causes.” She considered all the strange things they had seen that night, and couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, before her brain could even catch up with her mouth. Immediately, she wasn’t sure why she had said it at all - seriously, causes were placed far in the past, and she wasn’t looking to take up a new one, aside from gold. Sinalare had said she’d never believe in one again. And she didn’t, she insisted, she was only going along with the safest way to prolong her life, for the time being. She shuffled her feet, wrung her hands together a few times.

As soon as she finished talking, it was like the cabin shrunk three sized. The heat was overpowering and the others’ presence stifling. “I need some air,” she snapped, and turned abruptly to the cabin’s door. Or a drink. she thought. She couldn’t stand to be near everyone. The door swung closed behind her with a thud.

Janus quickly followed suit, not saying any words as he made for the door. In his eyes, this was just another con-man drumming up the sympathies of fools. He was one once. Once. He wasn’t going to fight anyone else’s wars for them, and this time they asked, there wasn’t even mention of gold. He placed his hand on the knob and said over his shoulder, “I’m readying my horse.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Bruno stood among them quietly, allowing the information to swirl in his in a boiling whirlpool of emotion. It was chaotic and difficult to process, mostly leaving him to stare at the inside of his cabin and all that he has made with his own two hands. This wasn’t the first time he was forced to leave his home, but this time it was made worse by the fact this this home was of his making. He imagined filling it with a family as his father and mother had, and it suddenly became crystal clear why they died so brutally defending a home that was doomed from the start. He would’ve fought and died to defend his home; twofold if he had a family to defend. What would come of his home in his absence? It would certainly be raided, maybe burned to the ground. The cattle… they’d definitely attract the undead horde. If not them, then the cultists and marauders who sacked Daggerfall. He understood what he had to do, even if it only gave his home a slim chance. This place had to look tapped.

He turned toward the front door where Janus had exited through and tossed a few solemn words over his shoulder, “I need to cull my flock before we leave… take whatever you need from here. If it’s not bolted down, it’s yours.” With that, he stepped into the night with a sharp axe in hand.

Inzoliah was content for most of the meeting to watch the discussion without commenting. The badge Solomon had been waving around meant nothing to her. At least, not as much as it meant to some people. A few flinched when he revealed it, a few seemed to get angry or scared maybe. But it could have been a reaction to the news of Daggerfall’s King being killed. Honestly she wasn’t too surprised, being a ruler in High Rock had a life expectancy similar to an Imperial Legionnaire. That’s what she had learned from her time at court here. It was practically the provincial pastime to kill nobles. Funny then, that she had contributed to that in her own small way. Her attention gradually came back to the room. Janus seemed to not be on board with the innkeep-turned-agent Solomon’s plan to head for a clandestine castle. Most everyone else seemed okay with the idea. Inzoliah had a small vision of herself on a castle battlement, flinging great blobs of fire into a stinking mass of undead and her mind was made up on the spot. “Well, I have no love for High Rock or the Empire but ‘twouldn’t hurt to help either out.” She stood up and brushed her robes off, seemingly unable to remove the permanent layer of soot and ash that clung to them.

As Joy watched practically everyone else leave the room around her, she gave a small wave to Sihava, who she was pleased to see make it back in one piece, and whom she was glad would be around a little longer. As her gaze caught the last image of Janus before he walked out of the door, she set aside a thought in her mind to speak to him later. She had to. Bruno too. With one last sigh, she turned again and found Henry.

“Alright then,” she spoke out into the tense silence that had been left behind. “Let’s see if we can find any food for the road, you and me. Anything that will bring any comfort on our journey.” She smiled again, bringing her hands together behind her back. Her fingers fidgeted, and clenched against her palms but she kept a smile for the young man. As the redhead cleared free a tickle in her throat, she brought her hands back in front of her, smoothing down the fabric of her skirt to her knees, before placing a hand on Henry’s shoulder to give him a playful pinch.

Having something to do filled him with a sense of purpose and Henry nodded, returning Joy’s smile with one of his own. “Yes, let’s,” he said, nodded, and set about the task of upending Bruno’s pantry in search of something edible.

Solomon looked outside at the dim shapes of those who had stepped out for a breath of fresh air or a moment to clear their head. He exhaled slowly through his nose. Something broke his reverie, something wet and insistent -- Sirius nuzzled Solomon’s hand and whined quietly. The spymaster glanced at his dog and ruffled the fur on his head. “I know, boy,” the Imperial whispered.

“Everything is about to change.”

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Their journey had been tense, but ultimately uneventful.

The sunrise had come as it always did, which was an immense relief to them all. Fortunately the world had not been cast in eternal darkness. In the light of Magnus, it was like the horrors of the Serpent’s night had never happened. Birds chirped once more and a warm summer breeze whispered down the fields and forests. The group packed their belongings and set off in silence and formation.

For two days they travelled along the empty roads that led away from Daggerfall, as fast as their feet could carry them. Strange as it was, there was no sign of the undead that had chased them out of The Loyal Hound, and Solomon deliberately led them around the smoldering ruins of the inn, wisely giving them a wide berth. He had no desire to cross paths with the headless horseman once more. He wondered where the undead had gone to -- perhaps they had crawled away somewhere else to die once more, or the sinister force that animated them had directed them out of the sunlight. Either way, their journey was unimpeded, in part because they continued to avoid any inhabited areas, even going off-road where necessary to stay away from the villages and hamlets that Solomon and Bruno knew to exist. They could not be sure that encounters with other people would not turn out to be dangerous, and Janus had managed to heal himself -- to Solomon’s pleasant surprise -- so they did not need to risk it.

The night they had spent on the road, however, had been less pleasant. An early darkness fell once more and they sought cover in a cave a little ways away from the road, having already arrived at the foothills of the Ilessan range that sheltered Ken Muhyr -- the group had made good time. Solomon kept first watch and grimaced when he could sense the burning lights of the Serpent overhead in the black-soaked skies once more.

He could not see anything but he could hear things moving through the trees in the distance. Throughout his watch, Solomon kept a firm grip on his falchion until Janus relieved him, and once in his bed he laid awake, tense and… afraid. What little sleep he managed to get was filled with waking dreams of dead men grasping him from below and pulling him into the pitch-black deep, the iridescent eyes of slaughterfish circling him as he sank.

But the morning came once more and banished the horrors of the dark. The forested hills turned silent again, save for the sound of birds and small critters that dashed through the underbrush in the shade of the pine trees -- the road they had followed had petered out and given way to forest and sloping grassland. Solomon, however, could not shake the feeling that they were being watched as they traversed the uninhabited valleys, mountains rising up on either side of them, the snow-capped peaks gleaming in the sunlight. If it weren’t for the situation, the scenery could only be described as idyllic, but he couldn’t enjoy it and as much as he tried, he could not catch anyone or anything in the act of spying on them. He picked up the pace instead.

They finished the second leg of their journey just after noon, further away from any areas of civilization than Solomon had been in years. The walls of Ken Muhyr rose up to meet them as they turned around the bend of the babbling brook they had followed on Solomon’s directions. “At last,” Solomon mumbled to himself, and hope filled him at the sight. “You’re still here.”

The keep was built into the side of a mountain and overlooked one of the valleys that lay nestled between the the Ilessan range’s tallest peaks. A single drawbridge crossed the semi-circular moat that surrounded it, and tiers of fortifications and courtyards crept up the mountainside, culminating in a series of towers and turrets that lorded over the lands below. It had clearly been abandoned for a while; there were many holes in its walls and several of its structures had collapsed entirely, strewing debris across the courtyards and cascading down the mountainside. But the parts that still stood were sturdy enough and plentiful enough to shelter them from most of the elements… or worse.

“It’s a little worse than I remember,” Solomon said over his shoulder, “but it’ll do. Come on.”

They filtered into the keep through the gate and the first thing Solomon did was raising the drawbridge with the mechanism inside. Once he was finished, the spymaster exhaled deeply. For the first time since the zombies had broken the windows of the inn, he felt some measure of safety. It would take siege engines -- or wings -- to reach them now. They went up, through the courtyards, passing training dummies, stables, forges and even a complete and functional ballista, until they climbed the steps of the great hall.

Dust and cobwebs coated the inside, from the black-and-white tile floor to the vaulted ceiling above, and a strong wind coursed through the near-empty space. Only a few crates of unidentified supplies and a long table greeted them, a far cry from the feast-worthy hall that the room must have been once upon a time, and parts of the ceiling were supported with rickety-looking wooden support beams and structures.

“Alright,” Solomon said and turned around. “The doors to your left and to your right lead up to various rooms and suits. Claim a bed and make yourselves at home. For those with combat skills and the inclination to use them, the keep has bowels too,” he explained and pointed to a staircase in the far corner that descended into the rock of the mountain. “That’s where the store rooms and the armory are. Knowing old castles like this, something has probably moved in and made its home in the dark there by now, so I want to clear that out as soon as possible, lest we’re ambushed in our beds by hungry spiders or goblins,” Solomon said.

He didn’t mean to, but his gaze found Joy and Henry as he continued. “As for the rest of you, this place could clearly use some housekeeping and I’m sure we’re all hungry. Down the end of the hall is a hearth and a kitchen -- see if there is still anything we can use, and feel free to make a fire there. We’re as safe here as we’re ever going to be.”

Then he looked up at the ceiling and the rooms he knew to be above them. “There’s a library here, though I don’t know how many books are left, an alchemical workshop and an arcanery. Feel free to use and peruse them at your leisure.”

Solomon clapped his hands together. “Let’s get to it, people!”

After Solomon was done talking, Henry stared up at the cavernous space of the great hall, mouth agape in awe. The only building he’d ever been in that was close to the size of the keep was Daggerfall’s cathedral, and the idea that he was going to live in a place as big as that was crazy to him. Still, it made him happy as well. There was safety and reassurance to be found in the thick walls. The walking dead people couldn’t get him in here. Still clutching the axe that Bruno had given him, Henry turned to look at Joy and he laughed nervously.

“Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” the Breton said softly and cast his gaze through the great hall once more, now with the experienced eye of an innkeeper’s right hand. “Gotta sweep the floors, clean the table and the chairs, burn away the cobwebs, light the hearth…” He trailed off and took a deep breath. It was a lot of work. But hard work was the best way he could repay his debt to his master. Solomon had saved his life yet again, as had the others that fought to keep them all alive. Henry was determined to prove his worth to them in all the ways he could.

“Have you ever been in a place like this, miss?” he asked.

“In my dreams perhaps,” the nord woman answered dreamily, her head tilted upwards and eyes affixed on the vast ceilings — worn and torn as they were. Her shoulder ached from the weight of her bag, and her instruments, but suddenly she felt instilled with zest and purpose that put a spring into her step. Enough to flutter the strings of both, and tickle a chime buried in the canvas rucksack.

Joy reached out her hand to touch the wall at her side, the cool, lifeless chill of it ran a shiver from her wrist to the back of her neck, and a determined smirk crept over her lips. She would warm them up again soon enough. Her fingerprints stared back at her from the wall, the removal of that fine layer of dust revealed the faintest layer of paint that must have faded in the sun from the windows at some point.

Beside the paint spots, was a crack in the wall, and as Joy breathed against it, a hairy leg lurched out — the first of eight, followed by a fat body. Only briefly startled by the arrival of the spider, she held out a finger for the little creature to climb on, and as the tiny hairs of its legs brushed her skin she giggled. “Well hello there,” she chuckled as it spun a web from her finger tip and took a graceful dive towards the even dustier floor. “I think she heard your threats, Henry.”

He gulped and averted his gaze from the spider. Henry wasn’t fond of the little critters, even though he knew that they were good for keeping mosquitoes at bay. “Sorry, little guy,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “But your webs have got to go.” He looked at Joy once the spider had descended to the floor. “Maybe… you can bring the spiders we find outside,” he suggested. “If you don’t want to kill them, that is.”

“Won’t kill anything if I can help it,” Joy smiled. She carefully rubbed her fingers together to rid herself of the webbing before turning back to Henry. She placed a careful hand on his shoulder, and nudged him in his side with her elbow. “So…” she began to crouch only slightly, narrowing her eyes with the playful concentration of a cat eyeing a ball of string.“How about we make this a game…” she whispered into his ear. “Whoever cleans their half of the hall first… Wins!”

Henry chanced a laugh, glancing at Solomon to make sure that the older Imperial didn’t think that Henry was goofing around and slacking off. “Well,” Henry said and found himself echoing Joy’s slight crouch without thinking. “What are the stakes? Can’t have a game without a prize for the winner, miss.”

The young man’s apprehension didn’t go unnoticed and Joy almost frowned at it, only refraining from doing so at the last moment. Her own eyes trailed the Imperial too, and she gave a thought to Henry’s question. What could they use as a prize? The Nord bit down on her lip before nodding, “if you win, dinner will be your choice! If I win… Well… It will be my choice.”

Henry smiled at that. Lucy, the cook at the Loyal Hound, had let him choose dinner a few times. His smile faltered when he remembered that she was dead, mauled by zombies, and then burned up in the fire that claimed the inn. But it wouldn’t do well to dwell on things like that. He was still here, and so was Joy. Looking at her, Henry thought that her name was fitting. “Alright, miss, you’re on,” he said and nodded to emphasize how serious he was taking the challenge. “Which half is yours?”

Joy dragged her foot through the dust in the centre of the room. What sparse furnishings were in the room, were evenly dispersed on either side so it seemed fair enough. Even if there were more of the small and fiddly things on the side she chose. Joy hopped into it with a gentle thud on the floorboards. “Oh, and stop calling’ me ‘miss’,” she began, with a furrowed brow. “I might be gettin’ on in years. but I’m not old enough to no longer go by my name.”

“Sorry, miss,” Henry apologized before he realized what he said. He groaned quietly to himself. “Stupid.” Embarrassed, he looked around for a broom and ruffled his hair so that it covered the flushed tips of his ears.

---

Joy, of course, won the game. She had already began pottering through the kitchen as Henry still worked in the hall. This wasn’t new to her, a normal day's work in fact. She knew the techniques to make things more efficient but she wouldn’t rub her victory in his face. Not when there was still more work to do.

The kitchen of course, immediately felt as much like home as anywhere else would. The moment she pushed open the creaking double door and stepped in she felt it. There was a large bay window on the east facing wall that framed the forest and the patch of overgrown garden like an oil painting - one thousand shades of green shining in.

A fancy double stove too, with a generous stone oven that Joy could only imagine the very wealthy had access too. Neat and spacious cupboards that were covered with dust, but would soon come clean. The most exciting, perhaps… The set of copper pots and pans. She rushed to them, excited and with grabbing hands to take hold. As Joy rubbed free the dust she could just about make out her reflection in the bottom, all warped and magnified — but she could make out her ginger hair stacked on top of her head, held in place with a blue ribbon. She giggled, wanting to see how the reflection would change as the pans increased in size... Maybe that was best left for later. Already she could imagine how beautiful the room would be once it was clean.

Bruno could make a planter for the window sill, and there must be a vase somewhere to hold flowers…

But for now, a drink, and a sit down.

The fire was easy enough to start in the kitchen, and it didn’t take long for the startling heat of it to blow out the chill from the room. Joy searched her own belongings for her water skin, and some tea leaves, and before long the kitchen had the unmistakable scent of chamomile tea singing through it as she took her seat, one for her, one for Henry — and waited for him to finish, staring out lazily at the great outdoors from the glorious window.

His brow drenched in sweat and grime, Henry appeared in the kitchen at last, dragging the broom behind him like a condemned prisoner’s cross. “You win, miss,” he said, her request to call her by name forgotten, still breathing hard from the vigorous cleaning. Try as he might, he had not been able to match Joy’s pace. He still clearly had a lot left to learn about cleaning. Just like he did everything else. Henry dropped into his seat with a frustrated grimace he was unable to hide. Being so young and so damned foolish compared to all these great warriors and mages he was traveling with was wearing him down. Even Joy was good at what she did. But the smell of chamomile tea snapped him out of it.

The cup warmed his fingers and he was grateful for it. “Even the kitchen is bigger,” Henry said and looked around with wide eyes. “So, miss, what’ll it be for dinner?”

Joy huffed out a breath at him, pinching his arm lightly, “No more miss,” she said, with a half-smile. It really did feel… odd for some reason. To be spoken to with such respect like that. It didn’t feel like a title she wanted, she’d rather shrug it off and just be Joy. Her own hands then wrapped around her mug and she took a sip. It wasn’t until it actually hit her that she realised how much she’d needed a hot drink. She felt the relief on her sore throat almost straight away, and the satisfied sigh she gave spoke to that too.

“Can’t decide,” she answered nonchalantly. “What would you have picked?”

Oblivious to the trick she was pulling, Henry thought about it in earnest. He seemed even smaller now, with the way he hunched forward in his seat, as if he was trying to wrap himself around the cup of tea and fall asleep like a purring cat. “Well,” he began, staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. “There was this soup that Lucy did for me. It’s rich and creamy and it’s got lots of chunks. But I don’t really know how it’s made. I think it’s got cheese in it?” he said, halfway mumbling into his mug, before punctuating himself by blowing softly on the hot tea. “And asparagus. Yeah, definitely asparagus.”

Joy nodded along with him, humming in agreement as she continued to drink from her mug. She paid close attention to him, how he shrunk himself in the chair, his distant stare. Her head tilted curiously as she let herself read him in this state. This Lucy was important to him, and more than likely to Solomon too. They could all use some real warmth, she supposed. The nord placed the mug back down and hummed again, “what a coincidence,” she smiled, a twinkle falling into her eyes as the corners of her mouth curled. “That’s one of my favourites too… Reckon soup might be the perfect dinner for our first night.”

“Really?” Henry asked and perked up again, looking at Joy with a smile. And then he finally realized what she was doing. “Wait, no,” he began his feeble protest. “You won fair and square, miss -- Joy, I mean. You don’t have to take pity on me or anything,” he said, regarding her with uncertainty. He liked it when she was nice to him, to be sure, but he also didn’t want to be treated like a child.

“Exactly,” Joy began, a flash of mischief crossed her gaze. “I won fair and square, so I choose… I choose soup!” She reiterated with a grin. “I want somethin’ easy to cook anyway, minimal ingredients. Somethin’ that will lift everyone’s spirits.” She was making her argument as if it was a list, taking hold of a finger with each point. It really did make sense, and so she shrugged as if it was really not that big of an issue at all. “Soup it is.”

The nord placed an elbow on the table, stifling a yawn into her hand as she watched the man, curious about him but not wishing to be nosy, “you worked for Solomon for long, then?”

He couldn’t argue with her points and decided to let the issue rest. He really did like soup, after all. Henry listened to her question instead and nodded. “Two years,” he said in a way that suggested that it was clearly a long time for him. “Ever since my parents died. I went around to ask for work but people didn’t want me,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Too young, no skills, too thin, stuff like that.” He averted his gaze and his voice cracked at last.

After a deep breath, Henry continued. “But mister Antabolis took a long hard look at me and said alright and took me in, as long as I promised to do exactly what I was told,” Henry said and looked back at Joy. There was a mixture of emotions in his expressive eyes, glistening slightly with tears that he blinked away. “He’s been good to me. It’s hard work and all and he’s stern and, well, kinda scary, but he’s always been fair, I think. He gave me a chance, at least.” The Breton boy sighed. “That’s more than anyone else did. And now it turns out that he’s a spy and a soldier and everything! So of course I thought he was scary,” Henry said and laughed to himself.

There were many things that she could think to say to Henry, but to do that would be to diminish his moment some, to fill him with words of praise would be to just put a bandage over the slight wound he’d let open for her. Joy began to wonder if he’d ever talked about this with anyone before, a closer look at his tired eyes suggested that he hadn’t. So she simply got up from her seat and made her way around to Henry’s side of the table and sat closer to him.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” she said softly. There was a commonality between them now, a bond of sorts. She was different, of course, but they shared that same hollow place inside. Joy didn’t want him to get lost in it, and so she wrapped her arm around him comfortingly. “I bet they’re so very proud of you though, if it helps.” Her hand squeezed against his, and she realised she wasn’t just trying to make him feel better, but herself too.

Henry almost shied away from her touch. It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him. But he allowed it and after a second or two, he leaned into it a little. "I don't know that there's much to be proud of," Henry said in a low voice. "I always need someone else's help. But… thanks." He squeezed her hand back and then noticed his heart was beating faster. She was even prettier this close to him. Henry looked away from her eyes quickly and cleared his throat. What are you thinking, you idiot?

The woman was oblivious to it, she was too busy watching the world outside to notice the subtle changes in him. The squeeze of her hand was just for comfort, in her mind. “We all need help from time to time, Henry. Doesn’t make us less than anyone else. It’s not to be ashamed of to ask, either. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is admit we need help,” she smiled peacefully.

That wasn't something Henry had heard anyone say before. He chanced a look at her from the corner of his eyes and saw that she was staring out the window again. He thought about what she said and his heart calmed back down now that he had something else to ponder. "Do you think mister Antabolis ever asks anyone for help?"

She thought about it. Clearly the lad thought highly of Solomon, but Joy barely knew him — and anything she did know of him was washed away after the reveal of his true self, but then again, he still was the innkeeper. “You know,” she began with a breath, “Solomon has spent a long time with the weight of the world on his shoulders…” she frowned slightly, imagining how heavy it must be indeed. “I don’t think he’s ever asked for anything, from anyone. Not something meaningful, anyway.”

Henry was silent for another moment. "Is he wrong not to ask for help, then?" he asked. "But if you always know what to do, and you can always be strong for others… that's good too, right?"

“You can be strong upfront,” Joy answered. “But we grow stronger from the people around us too. Maybe Solomon is strong, and maybe he does know what to do but—“ her lips quirked slightly, “I bet he can’t make asparagus cheese soup.” Her head turned to face Henry with her usual smile. “No one person can do everything, so never underestimate the power you got to help others too.”

That made Henry laugh. "No, I don't think he can," he echoed and sipped from his tea. Joy's words had done him good and he sat up a little straighter. "What do you make of everyone else, then?" Henry asked and looked at Joy with a somewhat mischievous glint in his eyes. Gossip, and speaking freely in general, was clearly something he rarely got to do. "Mister Janus was quite something with that sword and all, wasn't he?"

“Oh please!” She joked, “he wasn’t all that — didn’t you see me with a spoon?” It felt odd to jest about the events, but continuing to tread lightly and tiptoe around it was a waste of time too. After a slight laugh, she took another sip of her tea before shrugging. “I like everyone. Inzoliah taught me to use a scroll, you know! And of course, Bruno gave me these shoes — seeing as I lost mine and all.” Joy glanced down under the table, and wiggled her toes inside the fur boots. They were a little on the larger side.

“I haven’t really been around dunmer for a while, and well, never really met a bosmer before. Solomon is a sourpuss but we’ll soon see to that,” she smiled knowingly.

He reflexively looked around to make sure that Solomon wasn't lurking behind them. Joy impressed him with the familiar way she talked about the man and the use of his first name. Henry wouldn't dare to do either. He giggled boyishly until he caught himself, cleared his throat and produced a more masculine laugh. "Don't let him hear you say that. And yeah, the elves are… interesting, aren't they? But we get a few of them every now and then. My dad said it had something to do with us Bretons having elvish ancestry, so we're more tolerant. How come you've never met one before? Are you not from around here?"

“Why not?” Joy answered with a raised brow. “What’ll he do? Scowl at me to death?” She giggled again. “I mean no disrespect,” she explained before placing a hand down on the table and relaxing in her chair. “Known men like that my whole life… I’m not easily intimidated by them.” Joy gave a long sigh and looked away, as if she was also searching for him — in a different manner to the way in which Henry was alert to his presence. “He’s just like me and you when he goes to sleep at night.” Her voice trailed off slightly as she plucked at a thread of a memory, or memories even, seriousness flickered through after the laughter had gone.

“And no.” Joy began again, snapping out of the thought. “Skyrim. I came here from Skyrim,” she said with some level of pride in her voice about it.

There was something more there, Henry saw, but he decided not to press on. If she wanted to tell him more about her past, she would have.

"Ah, Skyrim," Henry said instead, suitably impressed. He considered what he knew about the far-off land of ice and snow. "Is it true that all the men there are like mister Thunder-Blood? And do they all have funny names like that?"

“A lot of them are like that,” Joy replied, unable to stop herself from laughing. Not that she found anything funny about Bruno, he was a fine man, clearly with more to him than he let on. “And yes many of them have such names. I met a man once, his name was Jaakr the Unseen.” She began giggling again, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “But he was called that because-“ she stopped, taking a quick breath, “he was the worst at being stealthy in his group of friends. We could always see him, on account of him being so tall, wide, and clumsy.”

She continued giggling for a moment until it died down, “we have humour in our blood.”

Henry sniggered as well. He could think of a few such ridiculing nicknames for himself, but looking at Joy, he couldn’t think of something that they would use to make fun of her for. “If you had a name like that, what would it be, do you reckon?” he asked, curious what Joy herself would think.

Names were a strange thing to her, and her lips twitched and her smile faded when she thought about it some. “I had a few already,” she sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “That’s how come I learned to be funny,” the nord shrugged. People could be cruel, and the echoes of taunts pranced through her mind.

“Not that it’s important now though, Henry,” Joy said with a smile, but it was certainly more of a veneer this time. “Come on, tea break is over. We should find you a room.”

A room of his own, in a castle like this -- it was almost a dream come true. “One with a window?” Henry dared to ask. A room with a view, especially over a valley as lush and a vista as majestic as this one… now that would be the dream.

“If it’s a window that you want, then a window you’ll get,” Joy responded, standing up from her chair and stepping behind him to place her hands on his shoulders. “Go take a look, I’ll clean up here.”

"Thanks, miss," Henry said and got to his feet with a grin. It seemed that his need for formal address outweighed his ability to remember Joy's preferences.

Still smiling, he left the kitchen and bounded up the circular staircase to the rooms above two steps at a time, already dreaming of the view he'd have every morning and the ways he could make the space his own.

Afternoon, 17th of Sun’s Height, 4E206
Ken Muhyr
Ilessan Hills, Glenumbra, High Rock

Solomon hurried up the stairs, familiarizing himself with the layout of the keep once more. He passed the half-empty library, the alchemical workstation, the arcanery and a bunch of rooms and suites on his way to the top, but none of them held anything for him. He knew what space he wanted -- nay, needed -- for himself. Big enough to serve as a strategium and high above the everyday going-ons of the castle below, where he could plot and scheme undisturbed. The spiral staircase ended at last as Solomon reached the top floor, slightly out of breath and with an ache in his knees. He’d gotten soft. At least the climb would help him get back into shape.

A large, circular chamber awaited him, already furnished with chairs, tables, rugs, closets and a mahogany bed. Solomon dropped his backpack on one of the cabinets and lit a few of the candles with a snap of his fingers. He meandered through the room, his fingers brushing against the furniture and the tapestries on the walls that bore faded images of battles fought long past. A large table dominated the center of the room and Solomon looked at it for a few seconds. Returning to his backpack, he produced his map of High Rock and unfurled the papyrus across the wooden tabletop, pinning the corners down with paperweights. Solomon took a step back and looked around, ducking low and rummaging through the cabinets.

“Aha,” he said and held up a box of chess pieces. The white king went in the center of the Ilessan Hills, representing the fortress of Ken Muhyr and its new inhabitants. He deliberated over the next piece and eventually settled on the black rook, placing it over Daggerfall -- the High Priest of Stendarr. Not the leader, but an important avatar of strength for the cult. He fingered the black king and sighed, placing it off the map. The Lord of Moths, High Priest of Akatosh, waiting in the wings, his location unknown. In a similar fashion, the rest of the black pieces were distributed across the other cities of High Rock, painting a gloomy picture; a single white king surrounded by nothing but enemies.

“Big things have small beginnings,” Solomon whispered.

Pulling up a chair, Solomon sat down and allowed himself a moment of rest. Eventually his gaze looked beyond the map in front of him and he replayed the events of the past days over and over in his mind. The people he had lost in the inn. His guests. His barmaid. Lucy, the old cook. Henry had been close to her. Solomon knew that she had snuck him treats every so often, like the grandmother he’d never had. He’d allowed it. Was there something he could have done differently? Could he have saved them all? The Imperial rubbed his temples and noticed that he was chewing his jaw and tapping his foot.

You can’t let the stress eat you alive, an old commander’s voice echoed in his mind. Don’t live in the past. Don’t live in your regrets. Focus on the here and now, and on the future. You cannot change the past. You can always change the future. Solomon dropped his hands to the chair’s armrests and exhaled slowly, forcing himself to sit still. Tension was still wound tightly into his limbs and the knot in his stomach threatened to squeeze the life from him if he paid attention to it. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a young man, when the Great War had been its most hopeless. But he had other commanders back then, orders to follow, superiors to trust. All he had now was people looking to him for leadership, or people doubting him and telling him this new war was already lost. No matter how large the room was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the walls were slowly closing in on him. Abruptly, Solomon got to his feet again.

He stepped through the double doors on the other side of the room, emerging onto a spacious balcony. The wind immediately tussled his hair, as high up as he was, and he leaned on the railing on both hands, looking out over the valley and the Ilessan mountains that surrounded it. Pine forest stretched ahead as far as the eye could see, punctuated here and there by rivers and other bodies of water, and wisps of cloud drifted by lazily overhead. He took a deep breath of fresh mountain air and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of the sun on his face, and he allowed its light and warmth to expel the darkness from his mind and his heart a little. There was still hope, no matter what Janus said. They had this place, for one, and they had their lives and their freedom. Wars had been won with less. Sometimes all it took was one person to tip the scales. It was his duty to be that person or to die trying. What else did he have to live for?

After a minute or two had passed, he straightened back up and rapped his knuckles on the stone railing. “Back to work.”

With Leidenschaft as Janus Kressimir

And @Stormflyx as Joy...

With the hall and kitchen clear of cobwebs, and the hearth fire busy warming the keep, Joy had set to find a place to freshen up with clean clothes and a wash; to run a comb through her hair.

Far less showy than her tavern clothing. Just a simple, loose linen shirt in an off-white shade, casually buttoned and tucked into comfortably fitted bottoms in an earthen shade. Bruno's gifted boots had been lovely, but getting comfortable in a new place meant getting comfortable again, and so she padded around barefoot through the halls as she explored. Even the gravel and loose stones outside didn't bother the woman. The grass was wonderful too, kissed still with cool dew from the morning.

She was searching for a friendly face.

Instincts brought her to the stable, and there she found the man's impressive horse, relaxing and making a meal of the hay that had been set down for him. As she approached, she was quiet on her feet, and her posture non-threatening. With a soft coo she lifted a hand to his velvet-soft nose. Surprisingly, the horse was open to her touch. "You're resting your feet too, hmm?" she spoke quietly before running her fingers under his chin to scratch him. "Where did your dad go to now?" she asked, as if Vodevic could understand and answer. He had very obviously been in here, and not long ago, too.

"You're just a big, beautiful sweetheart, aren't you?" Joy continued with a smile, reaching into her pocket and retrieving a ball of sugar that had hardened together. She let it sit on the flat of her palm and held it up for the draft horse, who took it happily and crunched it down. "Don't you go telling on me for that. That's between you and me..."

“That’s the first time I’ve seen him docile in a bit.” Janus’ voice came from behind her, his easy smile as he watched the two. He had Vodevic’s saddle in his arms, laden with his supplies and his horse’s, ready for a journey to wherever Janus had chosen to take them. Wherever it was, it was away from all of this talk of waging a hopeless war. “You’re set on staying, aren’t you?”

His unusually quiet footfall startled her, either that or she had been so focused on the horse she’d missed him altogether. Joy flashed him a quick smile, stepping back from Vodevic to let Janus work. She picked to sit atop a barrel at their side. “Not like I have a choice, is it?” she replied with a shrug. “Safer to be here than… Anywhere else for me.”

Janus stepped forward and set Vodevic’s saddle next to the horse, who looked at it and then went back to feeding. Janus sighed, brushing off his shirt and looking to Joy, observing her face and the subtle drop of her features as she spoke. He pursed his lips, “You don’t know that.” He said, “If you stay here, it’ll be fighting and war, and loss.”

Janus said, too much sincerity in his eyes for anyone to doubt he knew about those things intimately, “Come with me. This can’t be happening everywhere.”

“You asking me to run away with you?” Joy responded quickly, tilting her head as her hands held the rim of the barrel. She let that comment hang in the air before she sighed it away. “I can’t do that. Where can we even go?” She asked, her expression softening. “You heard what Solomon said,” as soon as the words left her lips, she knew they would prickle him. The conversation at Bruno’s hut had been tense. Very tense.

The nord bit down on her lip and glanced at the floor, the strewn hay and dirt. “I can’t come with you. Couldn't live with it if I turned away from people who need me.”

Janus frowned, sitting down on the saddle at his feet, “I’ve heard words like that before, Joy. Believe you me, they’re convincing, but it’s a fool’s task.” Janus pleaded, shaking his head and looking away from Joy, “Anvil. White-Gold, there’d be so much more for you there than anywhere in High Rock now.”

“Leave it to the Legion Men, leave it to Solomon. We’re wanderers, we were nothing but travelers before this, not soldiers.” Janus said, throwing his arms out at his side, “I’m tired of fighting other men’s wars. I’m not doing it again.”

He stood then, picking the saddle up and placing it on Vodevic’s back, the steed huffing in soft complaint, “I can’t.”

“I know. I know you are,” she said softly. She’d seen as much in his eyes. They had so much hard truth in them there was little room for anything else. Janus wasn’t lying to her, and all that was missing for her was the story of how he’d reached that point -- not that she really intended to go digging for it. “It takes more than soldiers to win a war, Janus.

I am a wanderer,” a smile crept over her lips. “We’re both wanderers. But…. don’t we need a road to be able to wander on?” Joy knew that he was set in his ways, she could feel that something had happened to him on his road. “I want there to still be people to meet on the road, places to go, the freedom to do it… We wouldn’t have met if we didn’t have the freedom to travel the road now, would we?” Her feet touched the ground again as she slid off the barrel and walked to his side.

“You don’t want to fight?” she asked, a steel grit in her eyes all of a sudden. “Then why’d you throw yourself in front of that… that thing?” Even to picture it again gave her a sickly lump in her throat that didn’t want to budge.

He looked at Joy, his sorry gaze on her own as he felt her search his soul. She was right, after all, about why he had leapt to action so readily to defend the others. He pried his eyes away from hers and went to work strapping and buckling the saddle. “Just think on it, Joy.” He said, voice resigned to a pitiful whisper, pleading with her, “I won’t be here much longer. I don’t want to see you lose your life for any of this.”

He yanked the last strap and Vodevic grunted, glancing at Janus as the man turned to Joy, feeling himself fighting the urge to stay, that righteous pull of the fight. The cause. He gave Joy his easy smile, “Maybe I’ll stay for a little. Share a drink in peace. That much I’ll promise you.”

“I’m not planning on dying, Janus,” she remarked with a twitch of a smile. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t fight in whatever way I can for the people who need me to. Some people didn’t even get that chance to, afterall.” Her hand found its way to Vodevic, and she stroked his chest, watching the Imperial before her. “You made sure that I had the chance—” she paused, turning her head as she caught a breath that was heavy in her chest.

After a moment, she steadied herself enough to catch Janus’ eye again. “You’re staying the night. You need real sleep in a good bed, a hot meal.” Then she touched his arm, rubbing her thumb against him. “If you still feel the same way come morning… Well, I’ll… I’ll even send you off with a hot breakfast too, but I’m not letting you leave today. You saved my life. I owe you this much, at least.”

Janus opened his mouth to say something until Joy had put a hand on his arm, the gentle rubbing of her thumb making the skin tingle. He shut his lips and looked into Joy’s eyes, so innocent and yet so unshakable in her conviction. Eyes he hadn’t seen since some time. He gave her a nod, “Fine.” He said, smiling voice gentle, “Since you’re so convincing.”

Her countenance changed after that, and she placed a hand on her hip, lending to a more assertive stance and she looked at Janus with a serious stare. “Don’t go trying to sneak out either,” her eyebrows raised, but the slight smirk that she couldn’t quite hide betrayed any kind of real attitude she was trying to show. “I mean it.” She was glad she’d swayed him, for now at least.

He chuckled, his smile widening a hair, “Well,” he sighed, “I’d best pick a room.”

He turned to Vodevic, the old and trusty warhorse standing there with his hay like an old man who couldn’t be bothered to do anything else. “Looks like you’re getting some rest, friend.”

The horse did not reply. Janus looked Joy up and down in her stance, “Wouldn’t want to cross you. Come on, pick me out a cell.” He joked.

Joy’s composure changed, and quickly she straightened up again, putting on a coy smile before tucking her hair back behind her ears. “Well now Sir,” she began, putting on some kind of pompous air and grace in her speech. “Is it a room with a view that you seek? Perhaps a quieter place to retire away from the rabble each evening?” She began to step around him playfully, looking him up and down with a raised brow and a hand tucked under her chin. “Any amenities that you desire in this… cell of yours?” Her brief exploration of the place gave her an almost fair enough knowledge of the layout by now.

“I’d like a room with amenities, close to the armory, perhaps.” He nodded, pretending to consider things and stroking his lengthening beard, “Something with a lock, keep the serfs at bay while I get my beauty sleep, yes.”

“Alright, armory room it is,” Joy responded, nodding along with his words. “I’ll have it made up for you. With the good bedding too. Who knows, if Sir gets comfortable enough, he might extend his stay at the Grand Keep of Ken Muhyr…” Her eyes sparkled with her grin, and she held her hands behind her back. “So I’d best go get to that, then.”

“I’ll follow,” Janus smiled to her, at ease with her being the Joy he’d met and not the tired mess they all were on the trek here, “Lady needs a companion.”

She was tired. Exhausted in fact, and the questions she had for the state of the world had gone unanswered so far. Joy was almost too afraid to ask them, the bard didn’t know enough about anything to figure it out for herself. All that she wanted was to make sure everyone could relax for the night, even if it was just one. If she could do that, things wouldn’t feel so dark, and the next day wouldn’t be so terrifyingly consuming.

Those feelings remained hidden behind her mask of a smile for now, “I can allow that.”

_{ft. @Leidenschaft and @Spoopy Scary}

Solomon waited by the staircase at the back of the great hall that led down to the storerooms, leaning against one of the massive stone pillars that held up the ceiling. Looking up at the state of the structure, he could only hope that the subterranean rooms beneath their feet hadn’t collapsed in on themselves. They needed those supplies, and Solomon needed a certain something that he knew was sequestered in the back of the armory.

The others had dispersed and gone about their own business, and he looked up when Janus approached. Solomon gave the man a nod of respect. He was glad that the big warrior had come with them this far, and he hoped that the Colovian would stay. “Sorry about your sword,” Solomon said by way of greeting. “It looked like a fine piece. With any luck, there’ll be something suitable for you in the armory.” He nodded over to the stairs that circled into the rock. Impenetrable blackness awaited them.

Janus peered down the shadowed stairway, squinting hard as if it would help him see through the black. He chose to ignore the bit about the sword, the loss of it felt as if he’d left behind a hand. Though, Solomon was right, perhaps there would be something suitable for Janus down in the armory. Besides, that was where he was headed anyway. “Why this place?” Janus asked, turning to Solomon, “Ken Muhyr?”

“Because it’s isolated, defendable and abandoned,” Solomon answered. “And few people know about it, which is convenient because it’s our business to know more than our enemies. Every province has one or more fallback locations like this. It was stocked with supplies after the Great War, though I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t been properly maintained since then. I came here once, to familiarize myself with the place, when I first moved to High Rock, so I knew where to find it and what to expect.” He placed a hand against the stone and patted it once as he looked around. “Needs some love, but she’ll do.”

“So important they abandoned it.” Janus pursed his lips, shaking his head. The budget cuts and reshuffling must have hit some harder than others. Savian dropped in an embassy while Solomon was shoved into an inn was evidence enough.

But who was Janus the wanderer to talk, “Let’s get on with it. You’ll need whatever’s down here.”

Solomon sighed. “Long past are the days of the Blades, who were able to maintain a constant presence at Cloud Ruler Temple for centuries. The Empire isn’t what it used to be. We all have to make do with less than our predecessors.”

Putting those thoughts aside, Solomon drew his falchion from its scabbard and tested the edge with his thumb for a moment before nodding and descending down the stairs, taking point. “Yes, let’s.” It seemed only fair after the Colovian’s duel with the Rider. He lifted a torch from its sconce on the wall on his way down in his other hand and lit it with a spell, banishing the immediate dark around them.

A door waited for them at the bottom of the stairs but it was already ajar, the lock burned or melted away by some foul essence. “Thought so,” Solomon said quietly. “Something made its way in here.”

Bruno’s unmistakable voice echoed from up the stairs behind them, though it was more sour than usual. “Good thing I decided to come down here too then,” he said, letting his weight fall onto each step of his descent. His hatchet was in hand and he was wearing the same angry look on his face ever since they left the cabin, though Solomon’s body cast a gloomy shadow over him amidst the torchlight that seemed to underline the fact that his anger was not like his usual boisterous self. He looked like he came down here with the express intent to kill something. “Thought I heard rats a-scurryin’, but turns out it was just you two.”

“You hunt, yeah?” Janus quirked a brow at the sturdy figure of Bruno in the flickering torchlight, at least there was one man he liked here, “Gotta wonder how you do it if your step sounds like rockfall.”

“I can turn it off.” He replied bluntly. “When I want to.”

“Best start wanting, friend.” Janus smirked, turning back towards the door left suspiciously ajar, and took his axe and knife in hand. Perfect tools for tight spaces, at least. His saber wouldn’t be missed here.

“Ladies, please,” Solomon said. “Focus.”

He kicked open the door and stepped inside, brandishing the torch and falchion in equal measure -- light was as much a weapon down here as steel was. It revealed the first of the storerooms mostly as Solomon remembered it -- the ceiling was low and barrels and crates of preserved foodstuffs were scattered about. Some of them had been opened, either by mandible or by claw, and their contents spilled out, consumed or left to rot.

More important and more urgent, however, were the thick cobwebs that covered the ceiling and the walls, and the creatures that stirred among them. “Frostbite spiders,” Solomon surmised, and he was proven right by the first of them that leapt at him with a fierce hiss, an eight-legged monstrosity the size of a large dog. He caught it on the tip of his falchion and the arachnid impaled itself on his blade, sliding down the steel weapon, jaws chattering as it tried to reach for Solomon’s arm to inject its venom.

Five more emerged from the gloom. Janus was the second target, the spider leaping much the same and Janus caught its fangs on the end of his axe’s head, bearing its weight as he thrust his long knife up into its body. He wrenched it out and spilled its guts as he threw it from him.

“Looks like sneaking won’t be a problem,” Bruno said as he glared down the familiar faces of frostbite spiders. “Lucky me.”

After spending his childhood in northern High Rock, it became easy to tell what the warning signs of frostbite attacks, and seeing the crouching spider before it leaped was almost nostalgic. He seemed to sidestep away before it even leaped forward, and swung his axe wide, striking it in its underbelly and allowing its momentum to carry it overhead and strike it against the ground behind him. He jerked his weapon out to bash the handle at the mouth of another incoming spider before kicking it away, and his eye found one of the spiders behind the other rearing back to start spitting venom at them. Bruno preemptively ducked down and batted it away with the flat of his axe, splashing it against the stonework.

“Solomon, your torch!” He yelled. “The bastards don’t like fire and they aren’t immune to their own venom. Bunch of right pricks!”

“Catch!” Solomon yelled in return after pulling his blade free from the now-dead spider and tossed the torch over to Bruno. He had something better than that. With his left hand free, his fingers contorted into a claw and he held it out in front of him. A roaring jet of fire sputtered to life and Solomon forced the spiders back with the washing flames. The cobwebs caught fire and incinerated, burning up as the spark raced up the walls and the ceiling, leaving the stonework and old wood support beams untouched. He was careful where he aimed, as there were still unspoiled crates and barrels left in the storeroom, but he advanced steadily to force the spiders into a corner.

Desperate to escape the blazing heat, the three spiders scattered in all directions. “Now!” Solomon yelled and cut off the flow of magicka to the spell abruptly, and instead aimed a precise spike of ice that pinned one of the escaping spiders to the ceiling where it had skittered up to.

Janus had tired of the fight the second it had begun. When the spiders turned and ran, he pursued his, growling like a bear as he took a swipe at it and catching only a leg. The thing screeched and flailed about before Janus took it by its remaining legs with his offhand and hauled it back towards him. With a throaty growl, he brought his axe down once, twice, and three times until it curled into itself and died.

“I didn’t know you were a fucking wizard.” Bruno commented, watching the flames lick away at the cobwebs and casting long shadows across the room. Its orange glow and fierce heat seemed like it was enough to scare the rest of them off. The brief chuckle escaped his lips, “Neither did these shits. We should smoke them out of their burrows before they start laying any more eggs.”

With that, he placed the torch Solomon gave them into one of the holes in the wall that a spider crawled into. The rising heat and smoke, he hoped, would draw it back out for him to exterminate with his axe lying in wait. As far the other spiders went, they were already too far out of his range. He didn’t think that he’d have to bring his bow into such close quarters.

Solomon looked at Bruno with surprise. “You didn’t notice?” he asked. “I was using spells pretty liberally during the fighting at the inn. The Penitus Oculatus taught me. Field agents are all nightblades or spellswords of some kind.”

“Suppose I was a little distracted to tell who was casting what.”

Solomon paused for a moment to catch his breath and to assess the situation. They were in the first of the storerooms; more lay beyond a door at the far end of the low-ceilinged space, its lock similarly dissolved with the acidic venom the frostbite spiders produced. “Kill that one when it comes back out,” he said and nodded to the hole Bruno was smoking out, “and then see if you can harvest any of their venom, if you want. We should pile them up and burn them afterwards.”

In the meantime, the spymaster turned to Janus. There hadn’t been time to speak plainly before to discuss things Solomon didn’t want the others to hear. He glanced sidelong at Bruno -- the man was already invested in the fight against the cult for personal reasons, so he doubted there was anything Janus could say to discourage him. A Nord, once his mind is made up…

“Why did you say this war is already lost, Janus?” Solomon asked. He didn’t sound accusatory, but there was still a hint of an edge in his voice.

Janus replaced his axe at his hip and sheathed his knife, turning to Solomon. He glanced at Bruno and back, “Because it is.” He spoke bluntly, “Look at us. You and me are the only ones with the skills to deal with things like this, and you and me aren’t enough.”

He nodded at Bruno, “We have a forester, up there’s two girls I’m sure haven’t ever brawled, let alone fought a guerilla war.” Janus hooked his thumbs in his sash, “What do we really have to work with? Henry?”

“I told you I’m not fighting other men’s wars. ‘Specially not with these long odds.” He shook his head left and right, slow as slow. In this place, among men like him, the smiling Janus was nowhere near, “And that fancy goddamn badge ain’t nothing to me no more.”

“I’ve fended off beasts and Forsworn raiders from my home, but bears and pissant tribals are a far cry from a provincial takeover.” Bruno admitted with a nod. “I’m no soldier, but even I know a handful of bastards an army doesn’t make. I’m also willing to wager we’re not the only ones who made it. If we want a larger crew, we need to start by considering those who know how to live outside city walls. I’m talking bandits.”

Scurrying echoes within the walls as smoke filled its nook and crannies. A spider crawled out, drunk and dazed by smoke, and not expecting an axe to come down on its head like a guillotine. One more left.

Bruno continued, “Most leaders probably won’t submit without a fight. So take out their boss, and promise the rest fame and fortune for liberating a whole damn city. Maybe even a title. I don’t really know how it works, but you get the idea. Maybe then when we finally take a city, we could actually use real soldiers. Maybe they didn’t kill ‘em all.”

Solomon slowly shook his head. “We aren’t fighting an army. They’re a cult of zealots, not the Aldmeri Dominion, or even the Stormcloaks. Cut off the snake’s head and the body dies. The Lord of Moths and the High Priests -- assassinate them, install a lawful ruler on the throne, and this all ends.” He knelt down next to one of the unopened barrels and popped the lid with his falchion, revealing salted meats chilled with frost salts. “Don’t need an army for that. Just intelligence and a sharp blade. This isn’t the first insurrection I’ve put down.”

Satisfied that the meat was still good, Solomon straightened back up and returned his focus back to Janus. He wanted to say more and explain more about his plans and ideas, until the exact words that the Colovian had used struck him. “You said that the badge meant nothing to you no more. What does that mean? What do you know of the Penitus Oculatus?”

Janus frowned, “More than I wanted.” He said, turning away and taking a few steps before he stopped for the other two, “Are we finished here yet? Or you want to keep measuring cocks over how many insurrections we’ve put down between us?”

“Doesn’t matter who they are.” Bruno retorted, changing the subject back to the actual problem. He couldn’t care less about the Peni-penis Ocu-whatever-you-call-it. “If they’re as fanatic as Forsworn, then I can tell you killing one of ‘em ain’t gonna stop all of ‘em. If they aren’t lying and somehow actually took every kingdom in High Rock, then they have the numbers. Maybe a hierarchy. You can take the chance in doing everything yourself, or you can pull an army out your ass. Either way you still need to defend those cities.”

“He’s right,” Janus added to Bruno’s words, “How many of Ulfric’s old Chiefs you think are still wanting to fight the good fight? I watched him die. But his ideas ain’t dead yet. And there’s a whole lot still ain’t happy with the Empire.”

“I’d have to defend the cities if I intended to rule these lands, but I don’t,” Solomon said. “That isn’t my duty. Order must be restored and authority returned to rightful rulers. Daggerfall’s king is dead, but there’ll be someone to take his place. There always is. I saw the people. They didn’t welcome the cultists. They were afraid. Sow chaos, take out the High Priest, inspire the populace. They’ll defend their own city. And after Daggerfall comes Camlorn, and Shornhelm, and so on. That’s how we do this. One step at a time, until it’s done.”

The Imperial sighed. “Though I don’t know why I bother explaining this to you, Janus. It’s not your fight if you don’t want it to be. I’m sure you’ll make the world a much better place somewhere where the going isn’t so tough.”

That was a petty shot and Solomon knew it, but he was frustrated with the big man. Knowledge of the Penitus Oculatus, involvement in the suppression of the Stormcloak Rebellion -- he was clearly cut out for this job, and it felt to Solomon like he was witnessing dereliction of duty happening in front of him. “Whatever,” he grumbled and turned towards the door. “Armory is this way. Come on.”

“Making the world a better place ain’t my duty. And trust me.” Janus snorted, “Was never yours either. I thought the Oculatus needed men with more between their ears than a sense of duty and loyalty to orders.”

“Working outside the boundaries of honor and the strictness of the Legion to do everything an honorable man wouldn’t.” Janus pursed his lips, almost riling himself up about things he no longer seemed to care about, or outright resented, “Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s Tertia Optio. Or did that get reshuffled too?”

“Nevermind that defending a city has nothing to do with ruling it.” Bruno added with his own brand of bitterness. “I don’t know how you do things in this dumb faction, but it sounds like lone wolf shit to me. And I get it, me too. But if they’re able to go in and take a whole fucking city and its guard, it’s gonna take a whole lot more than uppity peasants to defend it. Whole lot of fuckin’ good your so-called duty is gonna do if they decide to come back and take Daggerfall again. You’re fighting an entire fucking war whether you like it or not, and the whole lone wolf thing has come and gone.”

“And Janus,” Bruno added, turning to him this time, “I know this ain’t your home, and all the gods know I don’t give a shit what happens miles away from me either. But where the fuck do you plan on going that there ain’t gonna be no undead or crazy idiot waiting for you? Because if you can think of one, I’m two seconds from kicking you in the dick for holding out on us. None of us wants to be holed up in a dusty fort either! We’d all rather be getting fat and having sex on the Gold Coast, but we can’t, because there are a thousand monsters between here and there waiting to kill us.”

Finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. His hand was shaking and a headache was wracking his brain between the smoke and trying to settle what he thought was a stupid dispute between two old soldiers. “You two, just… be a good neighbor and help me take back my home. Free Daggerfall. After that, the both of you can go back to bitching about your lives as much as you want.”

Solomon was glad for Bruno’s intervention, because his grip on his falchion had already tightened and the arcs of lightning that he favored were close to dancing around his fingers. Janus insulting his honor had been one step too far, but killing the man over the slight wouldn’t have helped anyone. Solomon took a deep breath and forced himself to nod at Bruno. “Of course,” he said. “Your home comes first. A promise is a promise.” After a final glance at Janus, Solomon turned his back on him and marched over to the door. “We have an armory to liberate. Let’s get to it.”

He slowly pushed the door open with the tip of his boot and peeked inside. It was even darker in there than it had been in the storeroom, and Solomon resorted to magic this time, conjuring a magelight and sending it into the armory. It illuminated racks of weapons lined up against the walls, anything from halberds to axes and swords to daggers, and numerous grindstones and tables for maintenance and repair. The back wall had been destroyed, however, and the magelight’s rays were not powerful enough to resolve the abyss beyond. A subterranean cave, Solomon figured, and the sound of running water coming up to them from the deep confirmed his suspicions. “Might be how the spiders came in here,” he mumbled to himself.

As if on cue, a giant frostbite spider, clearly the largest of the brood, climbed out of the depths and shot a glob of venom at him. “Fuck!” Solomon yelled and dove for cover behind one of the armor tables.

Janus had swept his eyes over the menagerie of weapons just before the spider had arrived. He jumped to the first one he saw, grasping up the spear and sending it sailing straight into the body of the monstrous spider with a roar. He grasped up the second, a crossbow. It felt familiar in his hands, he’d lost the last one in Skyrim, and he missed the feeling of one in his grip. He took cover with Solomon, loading the first bolt onto the crossbow and sighting up, breath even. At the top of his first breath, he squeezed the trigger and felt the jolt, the bolt flying towards the spider and striking it. He ducked back down, loading another as he spoke to Solomon, “Anymore fire?”

Firelight illuminated the hall, but it didn’t come from Solomon. Bruno had picked up his torch and charged ahead after Janus’ volley of spears and bolts, as the low growl rumbling in his throat quickly escalated in a thundering roar. He batted its legs away to hack his axe into the giant spider’s side. Though its chittering caterwauls were shrill, he dug in his heels and used his axe to pull the spider in closer, either gone mad or unafraid of its dripping fangs, so that he could thrust the hot torch into its face. It reeled back and grazed against Bruno’s arm with one of its fangs, but the shepherd kept his hold secure on his axe and was pulled along with it. He yanked out the crossbow bolt from its exoskeleton and with desperate and enraged shouting, throwing every vile insult and slur at it that he could think of, repeatedly stabbing at its eyes as he was dragged into its den.

“You eight legged piece of shit! You gods-damned oversized, prickly cunt!” He roared as the spider pushed him off with its forelegs. He jumped back up to his feet and charged it again, prying open its exoskeleton with the spear lodged in its abdomen. He was immediately sprayed with its insides and covered in ichor -- but it didn’t seem to faze him.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill every last one of you fucks!” His insults were sprinkled intermittently between his attacks, stabbing at its face repeatedly with the spear in several downwards thrusts. “Then maybe, just fucking maybe, I for once can have a home that won’t fucking burn down! Maybe, just maybe, I could have a family!”

There was no escaping death for the giant wounded spider at this point, even if it did manage to escape. As it weakly struggled to back away, Bruno thrusted the spear through its leg and into the ground so that it would be pinned in place. Suddenly it didn’t seem like he was talking about the spider anymore.

“But no!” He continued roaring, kicking the monster in its head while it was down. “Because gods willing, there’s always got to be fetchers like you who just keep fucking TAKING!” He kicked it again, crushing one of its mandibles beneath his boot. “You take my land! You take my parents! I’m tired of all the stupid fucking monsters, I’m tired of the stupid fucking soldiers, the fucking people! Just give me back my life!” He ripped out his axe and stood before the spider like an executioner. Then with several savage and over-headed swings, he carved its body into pulp with each and every word he spoke. “GIVE! ME! BACK! MY! WIFE!”

Solomon jumped to his feet when Bruno was dragged out of the armory and ran after the man, but the sounds of the Nord's hard-fought victory and all the rage that spilled out at the same time reached him before he reached them. The Imperial stopped just short of the broken wall and listened instead, and his expression turned from fear for Bruno's life into something worse -- fear for the man's sanity. He sympathised with the loss, even if he'd never had a wife of his own, but the savagery that occurred just beyond the dark precipice spoke of a man that was threatening to fall apart.

He looked over his shoulder at Janus, all enmity between them forgotten. "I had no idea he had a wife," Solomon said softly. He hesitated. Fury led to darkness, and despite his own losses, the spymaster had never allowed himself to go down that road. It was his biggest rule. But then he'd never invited disaster by trying to settle down and raise a family. Suddenly the box of clothes in Bruno's hut made sense and Solomon turned away. This was too intimate. He wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Joy would know what to say, but not him.

Instead, Solomom busied himself with the weapons and searched for a sword to replace Janus' saber. After a moment of Janus’ empathy for the big man’s screams, he went to help Solomon with the endeavor, his head bowed. As they perused the stock of sharp metal and grindstones, Janus spoke, “Why an inn?” He asked. Solomon had to know what he asking, his voice less biting now, “Some of us were put in embassies. Why an inn?”

It took a second for Solomon to change gears and put all thoughts of Bruno and his past aside. “To gather intelligence,” he said and lifted a slim, slightly curved blade out of the weapon racks, and continued to speak while he held it up to inspect it. “Not very exciting, and definitely not the kind of position that my training and experience would point towards, but… well, you were there,” he explained and sighed. The sword looked to be an Akaviri-inspired katana, similar to the old weapons that the Blades once used. “Makes it all the more embarrassing that I didn’t see this coming. Whoever this Lord of Moths is, he kept a tight lid on everything. What about this?” Solomon offered the sword for Janus to try.

Janus took the blade by the hilt and tested its balance with a finger on the flat of its blade. He spoke as popped it up and caught it again to give it a test swing, “It’s no saber. Leaves my weapon hand unguarded.” He observed, “Can’t half-sword with it. Beautiful blade though.”

He looked to Solomon, “The Blades couldn’t warn the Emperor before the Dominion attacked. They had enough time to marshal an army and land on Cyrodiil’s shores.” Janus shook his head, “Things happen.”

He plucked another sword from the racks and nodded. A side-sword, fine craftsmanship for Breton upperclassmen. Decent protection for his hand, it’d do. “I should repay you for the blade.” Janus went to work belting it to himself, “Before I leave. What’s your price?”

Solomon evaluated the worth of the sword in septims for a moment before he realized the futility of trying to do so. What use did he have for money at this point? Instead, another thought occurred to him and he looked from the blade back to Janus.

“Teach Henry and Joy how to swing one of those,” he said. “Just for a week or two. You can’t defend them when you’re gone, but you can help them defend themselves. You said it yourself -- they’re dead weight. If they try to help me now, well…”

The Imperial sucked in air through his teeth. “Don’t give them more than a week myself. A month, tops. Which I’ll take from them.” He met the Colovian’s gaze. There was nothing but cold steel in Solomon’s eyes. “You know I will. Isn’t that what we do? Churn people up and spit them out?”

Turning Janus’ words back on him and tugging on his heartstrings was playing dirty, but Solomon didn’t care. This is what it took to win in this craft. “Give them a fighting chance and we’ll call your debt paid.”

“They stay here.” Janus said, equaling Solomon’s steely eyes in intensity. A little bit of Havel peeking through, “You and I both know what we are. It’s been a neat little stage play.”

“I’ll do it. If only to make sure Henry doesn’t trip over himself and put his big fucking axe through his forehead.” Janus frowned, glancing to see if Bruno had come crawling back yet and seeing he hadn’t, “You send Joy on one of those fool’s errands to take back a city, I’ll dress you like a buck. She’s a cook. She cooks.”

“She ain’t like us.” Janus nodded, spitting in the palm of one of his tattooed hands and offering it out to Solomon.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. Joy learning how to fight was secondary to the primary goal of keeping Janus around a little longer. Delayed plans eventually turn into cancelled plans, Solomon knew. The longer it took for the man to leave, well…

He nodded, spat in his own palm and shook on it with the Colovian. “She cooks,” he echoed. “That’s fair.”

“None of us came crawling out the womb with weapons in hand.” Bruno’s voice rumbled from behind. Upon turning around, they found him staggering back through the hole in the crumbling wall with his weapon in hand. He was covered in sticky ichor and blood, and sweat was pouring down his face. It was hard to make out in the lighting, but his eyes were red even if it didn’t look like any tears had fallen from them. Those floodgates held strong even if the dam had cracked. They shifted between the two men with a still-bitter scowl on his face. “No one’s a fighter ‘til the hour comes. Cook,” he scoffed, “she’s also a Nord. You’d do well to treat her like one.”

Bruno turned, pointing his axe at the hole from where he emerged. He said, “Thing’s dead. Say the word and I’ll board that hole up ‘til we’re ready to see where it leads,” and as he turned back to march past the other two men, he added, “we will not speak of this.”

Janus shook his head. He’d seen plenty Nords die, man or woman. He’d make damn sure he wouldn’t see this one die, least not on some errand, that much he could do. He turned from Solomon to follow Bruno out, the crossbow slung on his shoulder, his hand resting on the pommel of his new sword. A badge of his new debt. “I’ll start the lessons tonight.” He called over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Solomon replied. “I appreciate it.”

He waited until the two men had left the armory, his eyes fixed on Bruno’s back. The spymaster would have to keep an eye on Bruno from now on and make sure that his mental state didn’t deteriorate further to the point that he became a danger to himself and others. Freeing Daggerfall and giving the man his home back would be the best he could do for him. He sighed before he turned back around. “Alright, now, where are you?” he mumbled to himself and set about the task of rummaging through the mess the spiders had made of the place, searching for something he had squirreled away down here years ago.

It took him more than ten minutes before he finally unearthed the chest he had hidden from beneath one of the overturned armor tables. Solomon grunted and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Finally,” he growled and hoisted the chest upright. He produced the key from his pocket that he had dug up from the bottom of his backpack earlier, when he had settled into his suite at the top of the castle. He tried it on the lock; it still fit snugly. The mechanism resisted him for a moment as he tried to turn it, however, and Solomon fought the rust until he hissed in frustration and zapped the lock with a small bolt of electricity, shocking the oxidized metal clean off.

The chest opened smoothly this time and he threw back the lid, regarding the items that greeted him within with a heavy-lidded gaze. Solomon clenched his jaw. He had hoped he would never need any of it anymore, but the world had different plans. The Imperial fingered the hilt of his old gladius, the pommel carved from ivory and emblazoned with the Dragon of the Empire. Its touch brought back battlefields long past and the lives he had taken there flashed before his eyes.

He reached in for something else and rose to his feet, holding it out in front of him to inspect: the armor and battledress of an Imperial commander, modified over the years to suit the needs of an agent of the Penitus Oculatus. The steel breastplate, decorated with swooping eagles and molded to fit the shape of a muscular chest that he no longer possessed, the elegant vambraces and the pauldrons, carved in the shape of a raptor’s snarling head, were still in fine condition. The artificer metalwork had held up admirably over the years. The white fabric of the hooded battledress, however, complete with the red cingulum straps and the shoulder cape that indicated his rank, trimmed with fur and sporting the coat of a wolf across the shoulders, was worse for wear. It would require serious stitching -- and refitting -- for Solomon to wear it again. Still, he wanted to have it, even if it was just a ceremonial piece. They were at war again, and what was a soldier without his uniform?

“For the Emperor,” Solomon whispered.

While typically two days on the road would have Sinalare feeling more at ease than she would in a fort, the looming threat of undead, a headless horseman, and a strange cult certainly put a damper on her comfort. She spent the days in unyielding sobriety, thinking far too hard about the situation.

So, for once, being inside a keep was almost comforting. Almost. The tall stone walls of Ken Muhyr and the slightly damp, chilled air in the hallways was oppressive. As Sinalare wandered the halls, glancing into living chambers one after another. The swing of the heavy wooden doors and the sound of her boots thudding against the stone floors was uncomfortable. She brushed off the uncomfortable memories with the first gulp from her flask in two days.

“A good sized window would do…” she muttered to herself, pushing open the next door. This chamber took her request and up-sized; there was, in fact, a hole in the wall. What was perhaps once a window was now a hole three times the size, with rubble strewn around the floor. The Bosmer took three steps into the room and dropped her things.

Standing at the open ledge, the wind blew into the room. It would be chilly at night, she figured, but Sinalare would take the chill of a fresh gust of wind over the bone-chilling feeling of sitting in a stone room any day. You couldn’t pay her to head into the store rooms. She took a few long drinks, overlooking the valley below.

“‘Make yourself at home,’ he said,” Sinalare joked aloud. She shoved the two, old looking cots next to each other against the wall, near the hole-window but not so near that she may fall out. The rubble which dusted them wasn’t of much concern to her, since she’d slept many unsavory places.

As she set about making the room feel as un-dungeon-like as possible, banging and thudding as she moved and cleared pieces of rubble, she figured a fire would make the place feel more homey, and moved to the next task. Three move swigs from her flask.

With her work done, she flopped on her back across the cots, and finished off her drink. She lifted the flask, turning it over and tracing the engravings with her fingertip. She’s picked it up off someone she’d killed during a job in Elsweyr, like most of the other things she owned. A job clearing out bandits, along with the rest of her company. It was a different time, as she’d been alone since then - until now, she realized.

Quickly, she tossed the empty flask to the floor. Where else would she go, she wondered - what if they ran out of drinks? Was there more somewhere in this keep…? Her thoughts got to her more and more - what was she doing here, in some imperial castle?

Abruptly, Sinalare jumped to her feet, wobbling slightly from the drinks. Hurrying, she left the room, looking for just about anything that would occupy her - and ideally get her outside of the oppressive stone walls.

^{with @Hank}

---

In the centre of the long kitchen of Ken Muhyr stood a woman. She was glowing radiantly around her face, suspended in one of the days last beams of sun that poured in its last drop through the beautiful bay window. Her auburn hair was aflame with it, an aura of white at her crown. Several loose hairs floating free of her bun, flickering in the still air. So delicate and free.

She held her knife with a firm grip. It was beautifully crafted, barely fit for the hand of such a soft woman, but that hand held it with such precision it wouldn’t look at all right in another. Her keen eyes focused solely on the task at hand, the body splayed out across the branch, flayed the pelt now, the innards already having been disposed of. Nothing but empty space inside.

With an easy thrust she brought it between the leg and the loin, starting with a graceful singular motion from flank to hip. Like she’d done this before. The Nord just thought of Bruno. How he’d carried the meat of his flock from his abandoned home to the keep. That it had not been an easy task.

The menu may have stated soup, but Joy would make art from Bruno’s sacrifice.

Her blade met bone, and she worked around it — humming a song in her undisturbed workspace.

The sound of butcher’s work echoing faintly through the great hall attracted Solomon’s attention, and he stepped into the kitchen to see what Joy was up to. He had a few things to discuss with her anway, so it was only convenient. His old armor still draped over his arm as he entered the Nord’s workspace, he quirked a brow at the sight of the beautiful and diminutive woman expertly cutting flesh from bone. She was a cook and a Nord, so it made sense, but it was a rare sight for the Imperial -- their cultural sensitivities regarding this kind of work were very different.

“We’re to eat well tonight, I see?” Solomon asked and a half-smile attempted to hide behind his mustache. “Good. I’m starving.”

He hadn’t really noticed how hungry he was, but taking care of the vermin-infested store rooms beneath the hall with Bruno and Janus had taken up the last of his reserves and he surely felt it now. They were all in need of hearty food and a night or two of solid rest. Solomon looked past Joy at the last rays of sunlight. Damnably early, once again. He hoped that the coming night had no surprises in store for them. With an old man’s groan, Solomon rested his weary bones on one of the kitchen’s chairs and put up his feet.

“Well,” Joy answered, looking up from the carcass to greet Solomon with a welcoming smile. She was pleased to see him, and to perhaps share a moment with him, away from the rest of the party. “Henry wanted soup, but it’d be a shame for this to waste. It’ll make a good breakfast come morning,” she added, pausing to place the knife on the bench beside her.

“Nice place this,” the Nord said, raising a brow. “For the circumstances anyway,” she clarified with a slight shrug before pulling away the leg, taking the knife once more to slice through the last of the muscle hanging on. “If you’re hungry now, there’s bread and cheese under that cover.” With a free hand, Joy pointed in the direction of a platter, covered with a smooth wooden dome.

It seemed that Joy was taking to her new role quickly. He cast a nod of gratitude in her direction before he got up, placed his armor over the railing of the chair and promptly helped himself to the food that Joy had pointed out to him. “She needs some work, but she’ll do,” Solomon said about the castle, echoing his words to Janus from before. “At the very least, we’ll be safe here from the undead. Now that the frostbite spiders are dead, anyway. And there’s enough room for all of us to sleep.”

Despite his ravenous hunger, Solomon took the time to slice the bread and cheese properly. One slice of cheese per one slice of bread. Soldier’s rations. He remained standing and looked around the kitchen while he chewed. “Quite spacious, isn’t it?” He looked at Joy and his normal businesslike demeanor returned. “Is there anything you need to do you work that we don’t have yet?”

“Truth be told,” Joy began quietly, looking around the room, “never been in a place this big or stocked before.” Taking a rag from the counter, she dried and rubbed at her hands, removing any of the wet residue from the meat. From the corner, she took a bowl of water and rinsed off again, just pottering through the room as the man talked. She paid close attention to his words, to his manner. Ever curious about him, especially since the conversation with Henry.

At his question, she simply gave a tilt of her head, her eyes finding the shape of cloth and plate metal hanging over the chair. “I always can make do with what I have,” she nodded with a smile, attention snapping back to Solomon - and the way that he was so careful with the food. “But I’ll let you know if there is.”

There still happened to be hot tea, simmering in the cast iron kettle on the simmering coals, and without needing to be asked, she poured out a steaming cup for the man. “You found yourself way through to the armoury fine enough?” Joy asked as she ran a finger around a section of hair that had fallen loose from the back of her bun, hanging in a curl at her shoulder. The mention of Frostbite Spiders just about had her shudder. She might have liked the small creature from earlier, but their much larger relatives were a different story.

Solomon hummed in assent as he chewed another mouthful of food. “Well enough,” he said, but the sound of Bruno’s pain and rage still lingered in the back of his mind and the words came out a little more tersely than he had intended. “Janus found himself a new sword,” he continued, sweeping past the uncomfortable subject that he wasn’t allowed to speak of, “and he has agreed to teach you and Henry how to defend yourselves in return.”

He watched her closely to see how she would respond to that. “He wants to start the lessons tonight.”

“Course he did,” Joy almost chuckled, placing both hands on the windowsill to stare out. “Course he does.” She glanced down at the floor. “I should learn what else needs doing… So I’ll do it.” It was hard to imagine that, an actual blade in her hand — even just for practice. Somehow that made it feel real. As real as the undead arm that choked her by the window at the inn… The memory made her recoil from this one, just a back step away from the glass. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Solomon didn’t fail to notice the mixture of resolve and trepidation that Joy felt. That was to be expected from a civilian. He just hoped that she would rise to the challenge. It was nice to have a cook around, but if she would always require saving whenever they were threatened she would be a bigger liability than a boon.

Solomon cleared his throat and put the plate of food down, taking a conservative sip of tea before he spoke up again. “Which brings us to the matter of your employment. The inn is no more, of course, and that means I am no longer an innkeeper, and therefore no longer your employer, miss Joy. I don’t have the means to compensate you for your efforts in monetary terms and given that you are now here out of your own volition, I can only conclude that our verbal contract has been dissolved. Do you agree?”

She picked her head back up, and gave a smirk in the corners of her mouth that bore an almost feline quality. “Not my employer anymore. Of course.” Joy was reminded of her conversation with Henry, and she did wonder whether the boy would be off the hook too. Likely not, that was different. They had history. She was a woman he’d just met, after all. No obligation there, not like with Henry. “Needn’t call me “miss” either. Told Henry not too, now I’m telling you. I’m not a miss. Just call me Joy.”

“Very well,” Solomon said. The tea did him good and he felt its warmth spread to his toes. It dawned on him that if she wasn’t his employee, a communicable sense of gratitude was probably in order. “Thank you, Joy,” he said. “For the food and the tea. I’m glad you’re finding ways to make yourself useful on your own initiative.” That reminded him of something and he looked around the kitchen. “Have you seen Henry recently?”

“Let me guess,” Joy said quickly, giving a playful roll of her eyes in Solomon’s direction as she folded her arms over her chest. “You expected me to sit on my behind and do nothing but that?” It was partially condescending of him, but not unsurprising. There was a twinkle in her eye as she made her way back to the lamb laid out on the bench, and she eyed him over once more. “I told him to find himself a room, so I would imagine he’s making a space his own.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. She was telling Henry what to do? He harrumphed quietly into his tea. Had the boy’s sensitive nature endeared her to him? Is that what was happening? Solomon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Very well,” he said. He had plenty of work for Henry, but it could wait until the next day. “And no, I didn’t, but I didn’t necessarily expect you to be so… expeditious, either. Let’s call it a pleasant surprise.” In a rare moment of levity, Solomon’s eyes twinkled back.

Joy was surprised too, by that. “Well thank you, then,” she said with a smirk. The truth of course, was that she’d been doing this her whole life, but she wasn’t going to downplay his compliment - small as it was. “When the going gets tough, us women get tougher,” she added, her smirk becoming a real smile. She’d noticed his displeasure too, the way his moustache had quivered into the steam of his mug. She noticed that.

The Nord gave a nonchalant shrug all of a sudden, finding an opportunity to play with Solomon, even just a little bit. “He seemed to only want a window, so maybe I put some zest in him to seek such a room out.”

“A room with a view,” Solomon grumbled. “Soon he’ll be doing nothing but staring out over the valley instead of working. He needs discipline, Joy, not encouragement. The boy’s a dreamer. But fine. We’ve all been through the wringer. I’ll concede that some creature comforts to help him recover and ground himself probably can’t hurt.” The Imperial chuckled. “Before Janus gets a hold of him.”

That brought him back to Joy, and he scrutinized her without shame. What she’d said about women wasn’t necessarily true, but it could be. Solomon had known some tough ladies in his time. The Nord had spirit, as was befitting of her heritage, but he still doubted that she had the grit to really make a fighter out of herself. She’d initially frozen when the zombies entered the inn. In his experience, that was a tough response to condition oneself out of. “Are you ready, do you reckon?” he asked, quite seriously now, but without scorn or sarcasm.

“No,” Joy answered plainly, and without hesitation. That soft shrug of her shoulders with an easy smile. Not that she was taking it lightly, but she was honest about it. “No I’m not, but what is ready, anyway?” She looked the Imperial over with a keen eye, placing a hand on her hip as she leaned against the bench.

“What I’ll say is, I’ve been in plenty scrapes, Solomon. Don’t much care to get into the what’s and the how’s, but I have.” She nodded along, affirming her own words. One look at the man sitting in front of her was all she needed in order to know that he didn’t have much belief in her, if any at all. That was just fine. “I’ll get through this same as I did them…” pushing herself away from the bench, she made a display of stepping back over to Solomon’s side. “One step at a time,” at his side, she placed a hand on the back of the armour laden chair, tilting her head to catch his dark, blazing stare. “Are you?”

He didn’t much care for theatrics and Solomon met her gaze levelly. Still, the determination he saw in her bright blue eyes was a good sign. It was the very least that she needed. “I was ready thirty years ago,” he followed her arm with his eyes until they fell on the armor that she’d placed her hand on. He nodded at it. “See for yourself.”

“This yours?” Joy asked, picking up what she could from the chair, before placing it down and tugging up at the cloth sections. Worn, frayed at the seams, and somewhat falling apart. She could tell. One gentle touch at the hem and her forefinger slipped through a hole. “Oh my,” she commented quietly, her usual expression faded and dwindled into a look of absolute concentration as she eyed the garment. “This’ll do you but…” Her lips pursed, and she drew in a breath through her teeth. “You tried it on?”

“Yes, it’s mine,” Solomon said in a low voice. “It was Legion armor first. I was a Tribune by the end of the Great War, you know. This is an officer’s uniform. After that, I kept it for my work with the Penitus Oculatus. I’d wear it whenever we had to kick down someone’s door. Eagles, cape, dragon sigil, the whole nine yards. Put the fear of the Emperor in their hearts.” He looked at it while he talked before glancing back up at Joy. “No, I haven’t tried it on. I don’t think it still fits. I was a bigger man in those days,” he said and smiled ruefully. “What about it?”

The Nord observed as the man chased through his own memories. The way that his chest puffed out ever so slightly, barely noticeable in fact. There was that glimmer of pride that crossed his expression when he spoke of what it meant to wear the armour. Her hands dropped a little as she listened. “I can make it fit you again,” she said - clearly not just asking if she could, or if he even wanted that. “Maybe you were bigger then, but you’re wiser now, bolder—“ as she spoke, once more she lifted up the piece, raising a brow curiously as she inspected it. “I bring it in a little, run a new thread… You’ll be as big as you can dream of being.”

The offer caught him by surprise and Solomon didn’t reply immediately. He merely looked between Joy and the armor and back again, eyes widened slightly. “I didn’t know you were an armorer,” he said after a few seconds, mildly suspicious. “Can you really do all that?”

“Armorer?” Joy scoffed, “no.”

Placing it back down gently she smiled down at Solomon, “but I sew… Reupholster things, fix things, make things outta other things.” With a slight smirk she pinched at her trousers, the velvet like material was soft in her hand, and softer on the contours of her legs. “Made these trousers out of old drapes, I’ll have you know.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Solomon said truthfully. The trousers she was wearing were as fine as any he had seen from a shop. “Well, then… yes, please. That’s very kind of you.” He flashed her one of his rare smiles, but it was clear that he was slightly out of his element now. He wasn’t shown such kindness very often. “I’m going to need a real set of armor, one way or another, and it’ll be good for the people of Daggerfall to see a symbol of Imperial authority when we attempt to free the city,” he said, thinking out loud as he talked. He’d been staring out the window but he looked back at Joy with a sparkle in his eyes. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”

That made her stand up straighter, caught her off guard, even. “Yeah?” she asked, running a hand through her hair as if to play it off cooly. “Maybe I’ll save some more of them for the rainy days,” she smiled. Joy remained quiet for a moment, playing with a corner of the armour between her fingers. “It’s the least I can do -- help everyone be ready, be comfortable.” She could tell it wasn’t often that Solomon spoke from a gentler place, if ever. “That includes you, too.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Solomon said and waved away her concerns with a grumble. He hadn’t needed comfort when he was hunting elves in the snowy woods of Cyrodiil. It wouldn’t win them this new war either. They needed to be hard and sharp, not soft and pampered, so he just hoped it wasn’t all she could do. Either way, he would be grateful if she could indeed make his armor fit for him once more. “You just make sure to really apply yourself in Janus’ lessons. I’ll feel better once I know you can swing a sword.”

“Looking out for someone isn’t the same as worrying, Solomon” Joy said, waving a finger at him. “I’m not worried about you,” the Nord continued nonchalantly, barely skipping a beat in her speech. She knew that the worries of women were of little concern to old soldiers like him. “You might even change your mind when you see me swinging a sword,” she chuckled. “But sure.”

“You reckon? Alright,” he said abruptly and got to his feet. Instead of the falchion sheathed at his waist, Solomon reached for the gladius he’d slung over his shoulder and pulled it free from the scabbard. He flipped it over in his hand and held out the ivory pommel for her to take. “Take it. Show me where you’re starting from.”

Joy looked at the blade, at the way it was weighted. It was smaller than what her mind might have had her believe, which did a good job at dispelling the intimidation. She gave Solomon something of a stern glance — silent, for once. The Nord took hold of it, exhaling a long breath from her nose. It wasn’t too heavy, she’d held heavier cleavers and swung them with ease.

“It feels fine but…” she said after a moment. “It’s not right, doesn’t feel right. I…” Joy stammered, taking a step back to move the sword slowly from side to side, not fast enough to put any power behind it, but the way that her wrist turned was promising, at least. “Is this really what you want?” She asked, frowning slightly— knowing the answer already.

“Would you rather try to fight off the undead with a pan again?” Solomon asked. It was a rhetorical question and he made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “It’s not about what I want. This is what the times call for. I made a promise to Janus not to put you in undue danger and I intend to keep that promise, but I cannot guarantee that you will not come face to face with the undead again, or with a bunch of homicidal doomsday lunatics, or any number of threats.”

The Imperial closed the distance between them and closed his hand over hers, tightening her grip on the gladius’ pommel. “Widen your stance,” he said and nudged her lower back to straighten her spine. They were intimate touches, in a sense, but there was nothing warm about Solomon. This was just business to him. “Feel the weight of the sword, turn it over a few times, and then try again. Like what you were doing to that carcass.”

Solomon stepped away again and nodded encouragingly. “Don’t hesitate. Just strike.”

Joy did as was asked, widening her stance. Her feet shuffled over the freshly cleaned tiles, and yet she still maintained an elegant poise about her. The sword felt foreign in her hand… But so did the lute. So did that cleaver that she kept thinking about. He talked of discipline, and the Nord felt that aching severity of him, from his words right down to his touch. “When I was a girl,” she began explaining as her grip found it’s comfort around the hilt of the blade, the leather warming to her palm. “I used to freeze the tips of my fingers in an ice bath before I would play. It was agonising,” she continued, pushing forward slightly, resting her weight on the balls of her feet.

“Still do, from time to time,” she added with a light sigh, lifting the blade higher. It was feeling less and less uncomfortable, the more that she likened it to any other challenge. “Used to make me play better, more precise. Notes were clearer when they were struck cold.” Without really thinking, instinct perhaps, she lunged forward quickly. It wasn’t a sweep or swing of the sword that her body found - but a straight forward, aggressive stab that cut the air enough to whoosh and flutter the hanging edges of the tablecloth. “I’ve never hurt anyone before,” she admitted quietly. “But I make a promise of my own… Nobody will work harder than me to keep up. Whatever it takes.”

Maybe she did have the grit after all. “That’s enough for Janus to work with. Good.” Seeing her like this, with determination writ on her face, it was easy to imagine her torturing herself to get the notes from her flute just right. For a brief moment, Solomon wondered where she came from -- really came from. But he pushed the thought aside, since that wasn’t his business and he had more important things to think about. He held out his hand, requesting the sword back in silence.

As soon as she had handed back the blade, as if a spell had been broken her smile returned - and colour to her cheeks. “Janus’ll have to keep up with me,” she said - it was spoken as a joke, but… “You gonna distract me all afternoon, anyway? I ought to kick you out of my kitchen for getting under my feet. Dinner’ll not cook itself, you know?”

Solomon opened his mouth to protest but he closed it instead and just chuckled. “Alright, alright.” He turned around to leave and stopped halfway, pointing to his armor. “I’ll leave that in your care then, yes?”

With a carefree snicker of her own, she cast him a sidelong glance and nodded; “I’ll even deliver it to you, free’o’charge. You can try it on in your tower.” Joy said, waving her hand half-dismissively. “Go and relax for a while… I’ll call for you when it’s ready.”

The spymaster conveyed his gratitude with a curt nod and strode out of the kitchen, his gladius still in his hand. Solomon could feel the residual warmth of Joy’s hand on the hilt and he sighed once he was out of earshot. It was a shame that hands like hers had to get used to instruments of death.

Without thinking, he rubbed the ivory with his thumb. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered to himself.