The journey to Sentinel is understandably tedious; you travel first by carriage down the length of the Gold Road and across the breadth of Cyrodiil, then by boat from Anvil to the Iliac Bay itself. Yet, even with the uneasy watch against the Thalmor, the travel through coastal waters is by far preferable to stomping across the breadth of the Alik'r, and a far better excuse besides for why you all happen to arrive at the same time as the Empress's diplomat.

Your first days in Sentinel are busy, your explicit orders to buy up somewhere you can more permanently stay. The idea, after all, is that you'll come across as immigrants rather than travellers… as strange a group as you are.

What your initial funding eventually secured you is a rather nice two-floor building, with the caveat of being outside the city walls when some invading force or other comes knocking… and as the fate of the former refugee district in the same area shows, if anything does happen, your current residence is unlikely to survive. It also does little to cool the omnipresent heat of the area, and the sea breeze can only do so much.

That leaves two immediate problems: one, establishing a proper cover for your presence in the area. The willingness and ability to pay out got you this foothold, but with how distinctive a group you are—particularly the wizards, even more than the unexpected minotaur—it's only a matter of time before the authorities grow concerned about what you're doing. More importantly…

The small pile of coins sitting on the table paints a dim picture. It's enough to get by for another week or two, but it seems that the Empress either has no means or no willingness to send more… and you still need to eat, too.

I'm sure we could have found a nice ruin to stay in. For free. And it woudn't be nearly this hot.

Runehorn was, as ever, maintaining the weapons and armor of those who requested it. At the moment, he was polishing his elven helm. A quick snort to help with the polishing, and he was back at it.

Should see about an enchanting table or forge or something. Putting up some walls, too. Maybe the wizards can do something about that.

Runehorn, of course, didn't talk much. The thick Reachman's accent was embarassing. But for now, his best bets for getting the party some funding were either his marketable skills... or finding some fighting pit to toss himself into again. Turning a page in the book he was reading- something or other about Horker biology, half the words went over his head- he continued his work.

Colcette

---

Hammerfell, huh.

She had only ever really been through in passing on her way to the Imperial City. Honestly, she kind of hated it. The heat, the sand. It was rough and course, and got absolutely everywhere. It definitely wasn't good for maintaining weapons or her armor, that was for sure. Not that she minded, really. The Empress, in all her resplendently questionable authority had sent them here, and so here she was along with her...misfit group of allies.

Two elves, a Minotaur, and someone she was pretty sure was from that mysterious place known as Akavir. Well, as long as they were loyal to the Empire, especially the elves, she had no grievances with them.

Their first order of business should be to establish a good cover identity and do something about their money problem.

"Alright, so," Colcette started counting the coins on the table. "We need money and a cohesive story for ourselves. I don't know about you mages, but I'm probably going to find some...fighters guild or similar organization here in Hammerfell, if one exists."

What an abominable situation she'd found herself in. Ripped from her research to put up with people she didn't much care for or about, and having to go to forsaken Hammerfell on top of it. But this was the price Rela paid in exchange for being able to take advantage of the renewed Empire's magical facilities and resources. She'd just been hoping for less personally arduous ways of repaying the debt. Like setting Argonians or Altmer or Argonians or Nords or Argonians or Khajit or Nords or Argonians or Argonians on fire. Bretons would have been on the list as well, but they didn't burn as easily. A shame.

And everything in this Azura-damned desert was so dry. Actual temperature was one thing, considering the presence of Red Mountain in her homeland, but the lack of humidity would have been ruinous on her skin had Rela not taken measures to keep herself so magically well-preserved. But she could still feel it.

As of current, she sat at the table the Empress's loyal Blades were all gathered around, lounging back as she continued to scribe a spell scroll for later use. One of the...meat shields was the polite term, began to speak, and seemed to think she could command. So long as the bint didn't prove herself incompetent, Rela wasn't about to gainsay her. After all, leading these people would be far, far too much effort on her end.

"Funds ought to be easy to come by once we have acceptable targets to take from." She remarked, inscribing a few more runes into the vellum with magicka-infused ink. "As for a cohesive story, we are refugees and exiles, clearly. Considering the makeup of our group, any attempt at obfuscation or creation of a narrative will be blown apart with one glance. I evidently missed the dissolution of the Mage's Guild some centuries ago, may they all rot in Oblivion, but I suppose I can say I'm here to satisfy...oh, some personal grudge. Yes, something petty and vengeful ought to do. It is what an educated guess would expect, and it carries the bonus of being something I would undertake given sufficient reason to."

---

"Yes, if you wish to sell the strength of your body to any who need a thug or desire mere entertainment, I doubt any of us have the desire to stop you. Just so long as you remember that we aren't supposed to make ourselves too noticeable as of yet." He glanced over at their minotaur, and then once at Rela, before he snorted. "Too much more, rather. I'm sure I'll have to keep an eye on my own back the entire time we're here."

While Sentinel was far more lush than it had been in prior centuries, the Alik'r desert shrinking more and more away from it, it was still the capital of the kingdom, and the backwards warriors who wandered within the desert proper still would make their way in and out of the city on a regular basis. While all of Hammerfell had suffered in the conflicts with the Aldmeri dominion, the desert dwellers maintained the greatest chip on their shoulders, it seemed like. Any Altmer was suspect; being one of upper class background, and a mage at that, only made one more of a threat in their eyes.

It was surprisingly intelligent, for one of the races of mankind.

Meanwhile, he was left sharing a glorified doss-house outside the city walls, lacking his library, lacking the majority of his equipment, sweltering in the heat that suffused the region. While the true desert may have been further inland, the coasts were rapidly coming to resemble swamp or jungle territory, and the city proper was not avoiding that fate for long.

Hot and humid, when the wind blew from the sea; hot and dry when it blew from inland. Uncomfortable either direction.

Where the minotaur shined his helmet, and the Telvanni girl contented herself with writing scrolls, Keirthanil was grinding ingredients together for some potions as they all sat. Flax seeds, stinkhorn caps, and blackberries. Nothing inspiring, especially given that he'd not had the time to piece together any of the equipment he'd unfortunately had to leave behind when he was ran out of the Summerset Isles. A mortar and pestle, glass bottles, a few ingredients...

And that was all.

Ah, what a cursed life...

He had no clue what the Dragonguard or the Vigilant intended to do; perhaps they would join the other knightly-sort in finding whatever existed akin to the fighters' guild. Lacking any knowledge of who they could most easily take funds from, then, the red-head at least had the right idea in pursuing some sort of service providing. "I suppose I'll make a trip to the market when I have the chance. We'll all need materials before too long, and alchemists, enchanters, and spell-scribers are always easy niches to compete in. I doubt they've many here that could put up much challenge for either myself or the Telvanni, given neither the Synod nor the College of Whispers have much presence here. Hedge mages can never put up much of a fight against those with a real education."

He looked back at Rela, nearly done with another scroll. "Revenge quests need funds as well, after all, and selling scrolls for those unintelligent enough to actually learn is an easy way to make a profit."

It wasn't the first time Verius had been to Hammerfell. Aside from all the times he had to pass through on the way to High Rock, there was a posting at Wind Scour Temple for a few months, an undercover assignment in the Syffim for a few years, a failed diplomatic expedition to Craglorn one time. He learned a few important things from that last one- Lamias do not see Tsaesci as kin, red-on-black bands do not indicate a lack of venom, and many of the same martial techniques for fighting dragons also applied to them.

None of that really mattered now- over a thousand years had passed and the Hammerfell he once knew was not quite the Hammerfell of today. For himself, blending in should be as simple as singing up in the local fighter or mercenary guild, but this group was unusual enough that sooner or later people will notice their unusual composition. Fortunately, there were a few things in their favor. For one, Sentinel was a Forebear port town, meaning that it was normal for all manner of foreign folk to come through here, and the locals. Second, "Getting away from the Thalmor" ought to be a pretty common motivation for coming to Sentinel.

During the boat ride to Sentinel, Verius had plenty of time to collect his thoughts and take notes about the rest of the Empress' retinue. The Chantry knight seemed straightforward enough- a Breton warrior of Akatosh, wanting to serve the Dragon God in a more direct way than whatever politicking was happening in High Rock. The Vigilant was a devotee of Stendarr, belonging to a younger religious order dedicated to combating Daedra. For those two, nobody would find it unusual for them to be in Sentinel.

The Altmer mage was pretty typical for his kind, and would probably have ended up in the Thalmor had the current organization not been so extreme in its dogma and overzealous in purging dissidents. He might turn some heads and inspire some distrust, but there were enough Altmer that were on the Thalmor's bad side, and from what he had gathered while getting up to speed on the Fourth Era, Sentinel had already been the site of a major incident of the Thalmor purging Altmer dissidents. If the Blades and Empress trusted him, so too would Verius. Regarding the Dunmer, Verius knew of the Telvanni and their unapologetic "might makes right" policy all too well. Fortunately, with Sentinel on the opposite end of Skyrim from Morrowind, it was unlikely that anyone would pinpoint her as a Telvanni. As long as those two mages weren't caught raising the dead or trafficking with Daedra, they ought to be able to stay under the radar.

Lastly was the Minotaur. According to some of the myths and legends of Cyrodiil, they were believed by some to be descended from Alessia and Morihaus. Whatever the truth was, they were also considered to be bestial brutes that existed entirely outside of civilized society. Then again, the same things were considered of Orcs until Potentate Savirien-Chorak brought them into the Empire. The local authorities could probably be permitted to allow him if they assumed him to be a pet or trained beast, but it might be a good idea to not have him wandering the city.

Currently, Verius was at the table, looking over a map of this corner of Hammerfell.

"I concur, Fighters Guild, or whatever passes for a mercenary guild here, would be a good start," he replied to Colcette, looking up from his map. "Solve problems, get paid, and no unnecessary questions need to be asked. In the meantime, if anyone asks, I'm nothing more than an ex-Legion soldier-of-fortune."

---

Ugh, the weather here---

I haven't been anywhere so utterly hot and dry before. I've certainly experienced plenty of undesirable conditions, but when it comes to the weather this is definitely an entirely new and an entirely displeasing experience. However, I'm not about to let it stop me from carrying out the duty I have received.

What kind of Follower of Stendarr could I possibly be, if I was dissuaded by unpleasant weather?

---Albeit I still want to complain about it, just a little.

What a strange group this is.

It's hardly common to see a minotaur in a situation like this. I can't even say I'm entirely pleased by it, but if he genuinely wishes to serve and do good then it's difficult to argue with him regardless of his bestial looks. No matter the Empress's eccentricities, I doubt she would have allowed such a being into her service without certainty in his capabilities and his willingness to serve.

A fellow knight, though her origins differ from my own, is a welcome sight to say the least. I hope she isn't foolish, but at least I have some certainty in the idea that she is willing to pursue a just cause. The idea of approaching the Fighter's Guild, or something similar, is quite clearly the best way forward, at least.

"I think it's quite difficult to suggest a better option then pursuing the local fighter's guild, or equivalent thereof," I begin, leaning forward, "Not only can we earn some money---"

Why do we need to have so little in the first place? Hmph.

"---But we can also assist the locals with potential threats. Honestly, you'd have to be a fool to think otherwise."

I do not approve of either of the elves' demeanors, though if I had to select one who stood out to me as less pleasant it would be the Dunmer.

At the very least, her attitude does suit her proposed cover story.

The Dragonguard seems to be an honorable fellow, at least.

Finished with his own arms and armor, Brulhaus cleared his throat. Granted, it sounded like a rumbling bull, but he DID look sheepish after the fact. The looks suggested that he should probably come out and say it. While he'd gotten by on gestures and body language on the way here, it looked like it was finally time to speak. And so, in an incomprehensible reachman's accent, he piped up:

"Anyain else want me tae gie thar geur a ance ower?"