Dawn. A new day arose over the City of a Thousand Cults, home to well over a million souls and a god for every corner. It was where people came to make or lose their fortunes, to witness the beating heart of Tamriel and for many to become all that closer to the empire that binds it all together. Thousands come and go through the many gates of the city every day, so many that they have not shut in decades, not since the conclusion of the Simulacrum and when the Arena saw peace. Among those many who were waking to this new day and looking towards their own future was a man who also came from nothing, with only this ancient city's promises to act upon. The name Eldamil once could have been just a passing mention back home in the Summerset Isles. Perhaps he could have been a notable mage? Maybe a magistrate? He might have even found a trade and founded an empire of his own, but none of those things were enough for a boy with ideals. The Thalmor had been an ever evolving issue back home, lurking in the shadows and espousing their doctrine of Elven supremacy, and somehow the Empire seemed unconcerned.

For him though, it showed that there was something wrong with Tamriel, with this mundus. The Arena saw untold bloodshed spilling all across the provinces with grudges ancient and new forming the basis for wars, and the mortal realm shaking with the footsteps of Walkbrass. He had been there in Wayrest when the dragon broke, his mind fracturing as he had suddenly shifted from one life to another and another and another within those two days. Mortals had once more meddled with forces beyond their control and caused unending suffering to the entire realm, though they celebrated it in the aftermath with the so-called Miracle of Peace. He knew the truth though, and as he struggled to come to terms with it, that was when he first found that way of change he had been yearning for. A way to truly bring peace to the Mundus, to unite the realm in perpetual paradise and break the shackles that had so long bound them.

An end to mortality, to suffering, to disease, to petty conflicts and all other troubles of this imperfect realm. All that was needed was to usher in that new dawn, a hearkening towards the era when all was mutable and the chaos was a gift stolen away from man and mer alike. A gift that could be given once more, if but those wrongs were undone and Tamriel was made what it had always been meant to be. Under those ideals he had joined hands with other faithful, his purpose renewed, his idealism invigorated and a new goal in mind. The years passed and he proved himself useful time and time again to those of the order, working his way up and forward until the day came that he had been named a magistrate within the Imperial City itself. His duties had been simple but there was a purpose to them, and as days turned to weeks and months he slowly continued to move and advance until the time came for his true purpose to be fulfilled.

That day was this one, the 27th of Last Seed, in the year 433. His day began like all others, slowly contemplating the events on his schedule in the Imperial Palace and waiting for the Blade that would escort him until retiring for the night. Today was a momentous one for many reasons though, for one the engagement ball for Geldall Septim and his love Tamrialle, as well as the festivities being held across the Imperial City in celebration. The Arena District's exhibition match came to mind, where the Gray Prince would face one of the Companions of Skyrim, but his thoughts drifted slowly elsewhere as he turned another page in the book given to him by a man of ambition like himself. It told of all the ways this mundus was broken and twisted and how to bring about a new dawn, and he prided himself that despite the bloodshed that would take place on this day, he would be assisting in that great feat. But that was for later, for now he still had to wear the mask of a loyal servant of the Empire, and his Blade escort had knocked upon the door. So distracted was he by the day's events that he forgot something rather critical, stopping just outside as he noticed one of the palace servants working their way through the hall.

"Mr. Thraigyr, if you would be so kind as to lock up my study when you are done."

And that was that, Eldamil went off about his way towards the Elder Council chambers, unaware of the events he had just set in motion. Hours passed as morning gave way to day, and the sun sat high above. The time of the ball was soon and his own part to play was coming to bear. All he had to do was to excuse himself from the council meeting, something easily done as most had been invited to wish Geldall well this evening. Step by step he made his way back to his quarters in the upper palace, where all was just as he expected, the study locked and everything tidied up. It was a shame that he would not be able to return here after tonight, but small sacrifices for the salvation of Nirn. There was but one small problem that lay unnoticed as he gathered up the crimson robes from his wardrobe. A book was missing from his table that had been there when he left this morning, one that had not gone unnoticed by the humble servant, and had been dutifully reported to the Blades.

The Blades who just so happened to understand that warning for what it was and already were moving to desperately try and counter what he had set in motion. For some it was far too late, as conjured blades flashed in the dark across Tamriel seeking the hearts and throats of those Septims too far from the Imperial City and the watchful eyes of their guards. Geldall himself had received the warning too late, gasping on a mixture of wine and blood as his beloved cackled at the center of the ballroom only to be cut down herself in a storm of swords from the attending Blades. A dozen other members of the Imperial Family found the sharp end of a dagger within the chaos of the ball, though most managed to stumble their way from the fray and the battle of the Palace began as Legionnaires began fighting their own for the traitors hidden within their midst, and the Blades fell upon any who dared not sheathe their own in their presence.

Eldamil made his way through the tower as the flames lit the night sky in the Arena District, not knowing that the Gray Prince had been struck by debris from angry fans and the tensions of the fight had boiled over within the hour to escalate from a bar brawl to a full-on riot. Shouting from the city signaled the march of the Legions upon her own citizens, isolated squads forming shield walls and carving crescents of blood before them just to survive the onslaught. And there in the center of it forgotten by all, brothers Septim with their throats opened and left in the Arena stands.

All of that left just his task and that of another of their order. His comrade was already stalking the city for the most important duty, and he had just to find and deal with the grand-daughters of the Emperor within this very palace, who grew closer with every moment. All around him the halls were filled with rushing palace guards trying to make some sense of the chaos and the orders to shelter in place to lesser magistrates and the panicking servants. For him though they parted, and all he had to do was make his intention clear to them and soon an escort of two guards saw him speeding through all the way to the chambers of the Imperial Family. Now it was just through this door and… Immediately he noticed something was off, as both Juliana and Alexandria Septim stood before him, the younger seeming disappointed and hurt, the older enraged and hand upon the sword at her hip.

That was not what concerned him the most though, that was the coppery taste in his mouth, the strange sensation of tension in his chest that only became clear when he looked down. A longsword had seemed to sprout from his heart, steel reddened and fabric clinging to the worked blade. This… This wasn't right. And that was when he realized the mistake. He had left his robes within his wardrobe, which while suspicious in and of itself, there was that book written by the hand of a man whose name portended disaster in his wake. He couldn't even mouth the words as Baurus withdrew the sword from his chest, leaving him to slowly fade from this world and into Paradise where his master Mankar Camaron awaited…

---

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city.

Normally the dungeons of the Imperial City Prisons remained dim and hopeless in the nights, barely illuminated by moonlight filtering in from outside mingling with the torchlight of the wall sconces and passing guards. Tonight though, each cell was bathed in a flickering orange-ish red, the telltale haze of not so distant blazes raging. Just the same, this section of the prison rarely saw much use and that much was evident as the incredibly over-worked guards did their best to shuffle beaten, bruised and some mildly singed citizens in and out of the cells as they worked to process them in batches. All except the foremost cells looking across the bustling hall from each other. For one a rather battered older Dunmer man took turns jeering from behind the safety of the bars, equally berating the guards as much as his fellow prisoners, many of whom were becoming increasingly irate for the cramped conditions of their cells compared to the distinct spaciousness of his own. The other however... For one it was packed just as the others, a collection of what looked obviously to be the patrons from one of the local taverns including at least one member of the wait staff.

The younger redguard woman seemed rather indifferent to the experience all things considered, chatting with whoever would give her a moment of their time and perhaps over-sharing on how she had never actually been in a prison before. Though the more she spoke the less "Imperial" she seemed, clearly one of the many thousands to be no more than a visitor to the greatest city on Tamriel. But as the blonde spoke and took turns trying to get one of the Argonians seated to either side of her to tell her of their own travels, another in the cell earned herself a fair bit of space and not so much for her endearing attitude. Despite looking every bit like someone who would have competed in the Arena herself, the woman appeared clearly as some kind of half-orc with her coppery-green skin, large fiery-red mane and just as battered as most of those surrounding her. The rather plain and simple clothing showed she was at the very least just another visitor, but all the same the stone seemed to protest greatly with each flex of muscle against the shackles. The half-orc growled through the mask fitted to her face, that particular implement earned after removing one of the city guard's fingers during the initial scuffle. At least one of the many stuffed into that cell had been on the receiving end of what the red-haired brute was capable of, a Breton lad with a bit of a bruised face nearby enough of a testament on his own.

Just outside the cell another half-orc of that same coppery-green hues tended to the guard as they tried to rest, going from one to the other and offering healing through spell or for one with a crunch and a groan of pain, a rather abrupt resetting of a shoulder. Despite openly identifying himself as the brother of the shackled one, his shaven head, rather plain robe and simple amulet hanging around his neck denoted him rather clearly as a man of the cloth despite the impressive muscle. "Blessings of the Nine brothers." Rather soft-spoken for an Orc, he spoke the blessings to each until coming to the end of the small group and checking where he had helped to re-attach a finger to one of the men. "Do keep an eye on where it was stitched back on, excessive strain will weaken the bonds of new flesh, as will any directed non-restoration magicka flowing through the digit." For his part, while Gaius had been rather bitter over losing the finger to begin with and knowing that he will never hear the end of it from his fellow guards... At the very least the Orcish priest Yashar had not only healed him but the others as well. So he simply nodded and directed him back into the cell, where Yashar joined his sister at the back of the cell and offered healing to his fellow prisoners.

---

---

"Respectfully, Sir..." Caddach rasped as the Orcish holy-man returned to the cell to offer his services to the rest of their misbegotten, bloodied roommates of circumstance, the lad's voice taking on a slight (and comical) whistling note due to his broken nose. Letting out a wet little snort and giving a slight nod towards the red-headed Orc chained up nearby with a look somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. "...I think I've had quite my fill of strangers touching my face for one day."

Instead, he cast his eyes down towards his right hand— his left already busy holding a wet cloth he'd frosted over with magicka to his bruised brow— and tilted his previously mixed expression rather firmly in the direction of 'grimace', before gingerly tapping it to his nose. Producing a brief flicker of white light from his fingertips, a loud cacophony of broken cartilage snapping, popping and knitting itself back into place and a deeply uncomfortable hiss from his throat that rattled off the walls of the cramped cell. Before his shoulders slackened, and he relaxed against the wall— mumbling something that sounded an awful lot like "Meridia's big glowing arse..." under his breath and cursing himself within his own head for not having spent more time trying to make up for his deficiencies with Restoration Magic.

Shooting one final glare towards the Orsimer woman who'd previously left his nose with the approximate thickness of a fucking dinner plate over a singular spilled pint, Caddach allowed himself to ponder at what point exactly his day had gone to shit. Was it when had to wake up well before dawn with the rest of the lads to make doubly sure at the last minute that the floors, walls and ceiling were extra shiny for Geldall's engagement banquet? Nah, definitely not; the groom himself had come by with his guards halfway through and ordered them all to 'Take a break and bloody well eat something, for Tiber's sake!' when he'd heard how early they'd all woken up. And with the kitchens in full swing for a Septim Wedding, Caddach ate pretty damned well.

Was it walking in on a pair of nobles from Alinor and Skyrim— both invited for Geldall's banquet— having a rather intimate moment in the broom closet featuring shackles, a ball-gag, a hot poker and a potato? Probably not— Caddach had been working in the Tower long enough to understand that there was always a small chance of walking in on somebody doing something weird whenever he opened a door. So he had just grabbed what he needed— a mop and bucket—, politely informed the pair of somewhere perhaps more suited to their privacy and carried on his merry way... though he still wondered what that potato was for.

...Was it perhaps what he'd found on Lord Eldamil's desk?

Yeah. That probably did it; Baurus seemed rather fucking spooked by it when he showed it to him— though he tried to hide it with an easy smile— and it wasn't every day that a Blade ordered him to take the rest of the day off. But our boy Caddach wasn't exactly one to question the authority of the Emperor's personal bodyguards, nor was he apt to refuse the opportunity to see the big fight in the arena (despite how disappointing that turned out to be) or an excuse to cap his day off with a few frosty pints at Daggerfall Dan's... something that usually didn't end with being tripped by an Altmer fuckwit with a grudge and then having his face pounded damn-near flat by the biggest fucking Orc he'd ever seen... which was saying a lot, because Caddach had actually been to Orsinium and knew a whole lot of Orcs.

Yet here he was. In a crowded cell in the Imperial Prison with everyone else who was still breathing and within arm's reach by the time the Legion came to re-establish order; his shirt and face soiled with dried blood (less dry now, as fresh crimson now leaked freely from his now-corrected and unobstructed nose). His features— though no longer swollen— still black and blue as all hell and the wallet in his pocket long gone— funnily enough the lad had actually felt the hand that had liberated it from his person in the chaos of the bar-fight and grabbed it by the wrist, but never got to see whom it belonged to before that same Orc punched him right in the face again and twice more for good measure.

All in all, not a good time.

'...Yeah, on second thought, fuck Eldamil and fuck his stupid book.'

Growling a little at that thought and allowing himself to enjoy the petty bit of spite that followed, the (mostly) Breton crossed his legs and scanned his eyes around the cell at the other occupants with a raised brow and a slightly punch-drunk smirk as he wiped at his bleeding nose with his forearm.

"So... anybody happen to have dice...? Maybe a set of cards?" He asked dryly, finding some small smidgen of humour in all this. Despite the circumstances. "We'll probably be down here until at least the morning, so we might as well pass the time with something other than silence."

---

---

For six days, Kiffar had been rather enjoying the peace and quiet of the oft-unused cells of the City Prison. The guards liked to do him that favor, if only for their own sanity, whenever he was brought in- A nice, quiet cell towards the very back, where he couldn't pester them too much, and the lack of stimulus led to him napping more often. It suited him just fine. He liked napping, after all, quite a lot. So for six days, he had napped, and eaten, and occasionally exercised before napping some more. In two more, he would be released, free to go find some more trouble to cause until he inevitably stumbled back in, to be dropped right back in the same cell again. Some of the more understanding guards had started calling it his guest room.

Then, some silly fool decided to start a riot.

Ordinarily, he might have approved of that much chaos, and partaken in it gladly if he were free to do so. But he wasn't free to do so- He was locked in a cell, and his expected peace and quiet was shattered by the screaming, the shouting, the clash of steel, sometimes near, sometimes distant. Soon after, it was disturbed further still as the cells began to fill up, one by one, packed to capacity, creeping nearer and nearer to him until a group was shoved into the next one across to his own. Half-orcs and Nords, Bretons and elves. Then, worse, they threw a man into his cell! Some rancid Dark Elf that immediately began mouthing off to anybody who came into view. Kiffar's nap was firmly interrupted, with no hope of returning to sleep, which left everybody else to deal with the unfortunate reality that if Kiffar wasn't sleepy, he was hungry. The first his new neighbors would know of the massive Cathay-Raht was when he stood from the pile of blankets he had acquired to make a comfortable place for himself on the floor. Laying down, behind the mouthy elf, he might have been mistaken for several people, huddled together for warmth, or for a pile of laundry. Once he sat up, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn that parted immense jaws far enough to fill sharks with terror, there was no ignoring him. He was massive, more than massive, and being bright orange hardly made it easy for him to blend into the background.

For a moment, he simply sat there, blinking blearily and licking his teeth, dispelling the weariness that called him back to sleep- what little of it remained, at least, with all the chaos keeping him from that blissful blackness. Then, with a sigh, and a rumble of his stomach that might put a wolf's best snarl to shame, Kiffar pushed himself upright, moving to the door of his cell and roughly palming the elf's head to drag him back from the bars, despite a wail of protest and smacking hands. Leaning against the bars, he tried to speak softly, to get somebody's attention, and was drowned out by the noise, both outside and inside the prison. He tried a little louder, glowering at a guard who dared to ignore Kiffar in favor of his silly wounded finger, and when that, too, failed, he decided he would get dinner on his own. Grumbling irritably, he squatted down, hooking his fingers through the lower bars of the grated door- and lifted. Once, twice, thrice, with heavy, jerking pulls, until something gave with a screech of metal on stone. The hinges gave before the walls, of course, simple barrel hinges that they were, and the Khajeeti giant just... Lifted the doors away from their place, letting them fall into the corridor with a crash.

He stalked out of his cell- the elf left behind, and kept there, surely, by another guard- scratching at his bottom sleepily, seeming entirely unbothered by any drawn swords that rose to meet his apparent prison break. He simply stared at the nearest guard, one whose face he recognized well enough, and flicked his tail in what was clearly supposed to be a polite greeting.

"Kiffar hungers. The man-things did not hear him, so he is here now. Kiffar will have meat, with the little potatoes. The potatoes Guard-Granus and Guard-Biggus told him are tasty, yes?" He pointed towards the cell across from his own, sniffing irritably. "Kiffar will go there now, since the man-things made him break his door. Unless Guard-Tabulus wishes to end Kiffar's sentence early this week~? Kiffar promises he will behave this time, for a whole three weeks."

Guard-Tabulus did not, apparently, want to end Kiffar's sentence early. Amidst all of the yelling, threatening, and frantic attempts to command Kiffar back into his cell, his polite request for a meal or his freedom went without a clear answer. He was, instead, shepherded towards the opposite cell by the guards who knew him well enough to know he wasn't actually about to start breaking them all in half over dinner. Yet. With some gentle, and nervous, prodding, in he went- vast shoulders crowding the door as blue eyes swept over his new companions, blinking with contented slowness.

"This one is Kiffar. Hello."

Darmon was not a large man, and in the current cramped confines of the cell he’d been unceremoniously stuffed into, that was a bit of a blessing. Sitting against a wall, with his head back and eyes closed he sighed. Things had been going so well. He thought, his mind wandering to the days prior. He’d made the trip all the way to the heart of the Empire to meet some old friends of the family and strike up some deals. To that end he’d been very successful, negotiating several deals for goods and luxuries from the Imperial City in exchange for raw resources and a few ‘exotics’ from Sentinel.

On top of that he’d found a lovely young woman who’d been fascinated by his stories of travel across Tamriel, and his many adventures and misadventures along the way…and the fact that her new husband had turned out to be as ‘lively’ and imaginative as a week old fish in matters that truely counted. So his days had been spent wheeling and dealing, listening to the wonderful sound of the clink of coin, and his evenings relaxing, telling stories and helping his new friend see what a man truly worth her time could do for (and to) her.

Then it all went to shit, at least on the personal side of things. That damned fight hadn’t gone the way folks had hoped and he’d found himself, admittedly not for the first time, running from the consequences of his actions; his hope was that while he was pursued, she was able to make a clean break. Fortunately, though the jilted husband and his father had caught him, they only managed a few good kicks before the Watch broke up the bar brawl. From the way he ached, Darmon was sure he had a couple of cracked ribs, but nothing a mouthful of a healing potions wouldn’t fix.

Not far off a rather battered looking Breton kid asked about cards or dice, and commented that they’d likely be here until morning. ”Sorry, no.” He replied. ”Though hearing you say that, I’m kicking myself for not thinking to stash some in my robes-” Any further comments stopped as nervous shouting from the guards echoed through the cell block. From his position he couldn’t see what caused the commotion, though he could guess the cause as the door opened and giant Kahjit was ‘guided’ inside. Raising a hand in greeting he also nodded to the giant orange furball. ”Darmon.”

Leaning against the wall in the inner corner of the cell, Arvela was watching the crowd before her. A curious set of strangers they were, but she undoubtedly seemed strange to them in turn. She had her arms folded over her chest, her face a still mask of indifference, signaling a closed or reserved attitude - this usually helped with avoiding unwanted attention or interactions, she found. For all she knew, some of these n'wah were actual criminals and could possibly be dangerous. Some she recognized from the incident at the tavern, but not all. Best keep her wits about her.

Her gaze wandered to the walls and the ceiling, from which chains and manacles hung like macabre vines. The dungeons. She did not understand imprisonment as punishment. What use was it really? They took prisoners back home too, but not for offences. Political enemies, relatives of rivals, people of actual interest or leverage - these were worthy of imprisoning in Telvanni society. But rabble guilty of rowdy brawls in the street? Hardly. Better to just issue fines or corporeal punishment. Banish the bad ones and kill the worst outright. No point to this mockery of mercy. Mercy was after all the same as weakness, and a mockery of mercy even worse. Perhaps she'd understand, one day. She doubted it, though.

As alarming as the prospect of having to spend the entire night, or several, in the cell with these n'wah was, Arvela kept her calm. She knew what hunger felt like, and being exposed, and she knew it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Being hungry didn't kill you - not outright, at least. She could afford to wait. And while she waited, she would watch and listen. Who knew, maybe she'd learn something before the night was over?

Something orange, black, and furry sat crumpled in the prison cell's corner.

A Khajiit, perhaps. It wouldn't be the first cat of Elswyr to land in the Imperial City's dungeons, and certainly not the last. The cell's occupants were more concerned with tending to their own wounds than waking some drunken Suthay. They had claws, after all, and might use them.

The creature stirred and gathered itself on all fours, arching its back before settling upright on its hindquarters. No beast, this, but a Bosmer. Only one step removed from an animal in the eyes of civilized Imperials. She pulled the Senche-Tiger cloak around her tightly in the cold, dank cave, rubbing the massive and tender knot on the back of her head.

The taste of blood sat in her mouth, both her own and traces of another's. Her vision was blurred in one eye, the flesh around it swelling up fat and purple. Her stomach, shrunken from weeks of little food, was full, though of what she did not know. And to make matters worse, someone had stolen all her things; perhaps they would return her weapons later and demand a ransom, as was tradition with the Right of Theft.

Yarmira didn't quite remember how she'd gotten here, but that didn't bother her. She'd forgotten things before. What troubled the young Bosmer was that there she didn't know how to get out of this cold, dark place. Yarmira slowly rose, and for the first time felt the cold bite of iron on her hands and wrists. She looked down at the lifeless roots that bound her, restricting her movement to a meager shuffle, rattling as she went. Yarmira made her way around the small room, slipping between drunk and wounded giants. She steered clear of the reptilian ones bearing scales, though; they looked hungry, and she didn't have her daggers. Yarmira climbed the far wall where pale moonlight poured through a small window, but it was blocked by what looked like dead vines. She gripped them, tried to wrench the things free, but they did not budge. They were cold and hard and lifeless, like everything else in this alien place.

Heat crept up in her chest as Yarmira squirmed through the press of bodies to the other side of the cavern. More dead vines blocked her way, and through them she saw men and women in strange black carapaces.

"Green's breath to you, friends!" She called out to them in her lilting, singsong voice, panic creeping in at the edges. "We're trapped in this den; could you please help us escape?" The guards either ignored her or laughed, but Yarmira didn't know what was funny about this. She asked several more times, her requests growing more frantic with each breath until she was screaming at them, cursing their ancestors. Yarmira slammed her antlers against the vines in an attempt to break free, but they just rang out with a hollow gong and exacerbated her growing headache.

A harsh, mocking voice came from across the hall. She looked up to see a dark-skinned, red-eyed demon.

"Well, well, a savage little Wood Elf. So far from your precious trees, aren't you? Looks like the days of wandering the green glades are behind you," The thing said, voice dripping with venom. "From the shade of Valenwood to a filthy cage like this... it's almost pitiful. Those walls, they must be pressing in on you, aren't they? Soon enough, madness will creep in; nothing grows here, you know. Then the hunger. That's right, no meat on the menu here. You're going to starve to death in here, little Wood Elf. Die!"

She fell onto her back, chest rising and falling quickly like a snared deer in its last moments. The air felt thick, unmoving, pressing down on her like damp earth over a buried seed that would never sprout.

Yarmira thought of a story their Spinner once told her. Long ago, a tribe of Bosmer fell to Hircine's dark influence. They changed their form into that of animals and stalked the jungle, devouring everything in their path like a swarm of locusts. One day, as they travelled to new hunting grounds, the forest floor fell out from beneath their paws and they tumbled into a deep, dark cave. Try as they might, the shapeshifters could not claw their way out. As hunger grew in their bellies, Hircine's beasts turned on one another in a cannibalistic frenzy, until only one was left, and they eventually withered away to nothing.

Yarmira couldn't remember the moral of the story. Maybe it was don't fall into holes. All she could think of was the strange people in this chamber turning on each other for food, and how she would be the last one left to starve in this place untouched by the Green. Had she offended Y'ffre? Broken the Green Pact? Was this her punishment?

No, Yarmira told herself as she sat upright. You are Y'ffre's Chosen. The Great Spinner would never abandon you. Do not despair. With renewed spirit, Yarmira set about destroying the cold roots that bound her hands. She worked the tip of an antler into one of the rotten brown links and began twisting until it popped loose with a satisfying ping. The incessant mocking from the red-eyed devil came to a sudden halt. She laughed with triumph and started setting about on those that bound her ankles together when there was a terrible screeching that sent shivers up Yarmira's spine.

Across the narrow hall, a great orange tiger tore his way through the dead vines that kept them trapped. Yarmira watched in amazement as it prowled forth upon two legs like a Bosmer. It was the spirit of the very same Senche-Tiger whose pelt she now wore. It had to be. Returned to the waking world by Y'ffre's will to serve as her protector.

She called out using the name she bestowed upon the tiger just before loosing the arrow which ended his life, as all her people did during their right of passage. "Nir'thal, over here!" she cried, but the tiger didn't even look at her; he just walked on by.

Strange.

Moments later, though, Nir'thal returned, flanked by the men in black carapace. The vines opened and closed, and suddenly she was face-to-face with the tiger who almost took her life as a child.

Nir'thal spoke, low and growling, introducing himself with a name alien to her. Kiffar. Perhaps he hadn't cared for the one she gave him; it meant "crowned hunter" in the ancient Bosmer tongue, which she thought was fitting for such a noble creature. She wondered what his new name meant. Yarmira ran up to the towering cat and beamed up at him, her sharp white teeth gleaming, large black eyes full of admiration. It was like seeing an old friend, though he looked quite different in this new body Y'ffre gave him. She bowed as deeply and gracefully as she could with her feet still bound.

"Kiffar-Nir'thal," Yarmira said excitedly, combining both names, "It is an honor to see you again! You were a powerful adversary, and you will be pleased to know that no part of you was left untouched, as The Singer commands. I used your bones to create a beautiful flute, your sinew for bowstring, and your hide, as you see, has kept me warm and dry in my travels." At this, Yarmira spun around to show the Senche-Tiger his own skin that she wore on her back. The Bosmer almost hugged the massive cat, so happy was she to see a familiar face in this strange place, but did not want to offend such a proud beast.

"What a beautiful vessel Y'ffre has given you, Kiffar-Nir'thal! Did The Singer sent you forth to aid me, as my spirit guardian? I will not lie, I am ready to be free of this evil place." Yarmira stepped away from the lifeless vines, ready for Kiffar to rip them away.

---

Veeza watched with mild interest as the Orsimer priest instructed one of the guards how to care for his newly attached finger. The man seemed to know his stuff; Veeza’d seen his fair share of severed digits reattached after mishaps in Kvatch’s arena. Fortunately for himself, no such injuries were sustained in the previous brawl. No, it would be more accurate to say that he had caused far more damage than he received. Every bit of it was justified too.

When all the violence and stupidity broke out, Veeza had done his very best to keep himself to himself. He sat there at the corner of the bar as all the boasting and posturing gave rise to conflict, slowly nursing his glass of Surilie’s and enjoying the feeling of a warm meal in his stomach after a fight well won. He’d smashed enough faces in today. He wasn’t in the mood. So he sat there, and he drank, and he ignored the growing chaos behind him until some moron tried to drag him out of his stool.

Then he bashed that same stool over the moron’s head. Which his friends didn’t like.

Regrettably, their cycle of vengeance was much more like a straight line that ended in Veeza’s fist and occasionally his tail. He’s pretty sure he collapsed a Khajiit’s windpipe when the guards barged in and put an end to the whole mess.

Veeza wasn’t entirely convinced that he belonged in this cell, but he had to admit that the fight ended up being a little fun.

Beside him, a Redguard woman, barely more than a girl really, occasionally threw a questioning comment his way. He tried to take up as little space as possible for her sake, seated between two titanic Argonians as she was. Azura willing, the poor girl wouldn’t end up suffocated. With the amount of rabble getting stuffed into this cell, it was becoming a real possibility.

So he tried to answer her questions calmly and politely as his gaze surveyed the others in the cell. The yammering Bosmer woman -at least Veeza was reasonably confident, although they could be a man- caught the bulk of his attention as a young Breton fellow tried to rally those near him into finding a way to pass the time. The panicked movements of the squat, tattoo covered Mer were infinitely more curious to Veeza than any game of cards, however. Was she alright? She certainly seemed a stranger to these lands at the least. From what Veeza knew of the culture of Valenwood, it could be vastly different from that of Cyrodilic tradition. The sound of clanging metal stole him from his musings when a massive Khajiit tore a prison door off its hinges and sent the guards into momentary chaos.

A Cathay-raht? Here?

Not only here in this prison, but soon to be here in the very same cell as the guards ushered him closer.

“Stendarr… Give me a break.” His voice scraped from his throat in a quiet whisper.

The disgruntled prayer, to Veeza’s chagrin, went unanswered as the oversized creature loped into the cell and gave an introduction. At least he seemed docile after getting what he wanted. Veeza wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of having to try his luck against a titan like that without his equipment. Although it would be an invigorating match, to be certain. Perhaps once they were released from this pit he could set up a bout with the Khajiit in the arena, or at least test his skills against the larger beastfolk in a friendly spar.

The blithering of the possibly insane Bosmer continued as she made a great deal of proclamations at the Cathay-raht, apparently named Kiffar, who didn’t seem to have the capacity or care to comprehend the confusing assertions being made of him. He knew better than to judge people by their eccentricities, yet couldn't quite scratch away the feeling that there were quieter cells he could be stuck in. His tail flicked from side to side in restless irritation behind him where he sat.

He let out a low, rasping sigh.

This was not worth five-hundred septims.

Next time one of the guards tried to shove another drunk, vagrant or buffoon in here, Veeza vowed to drag that guard in with them.

_{In collaboration with @MacabreFox}

---

Among the hustle and bustle, and the squirming and tussle, of women and man packed together arse-to-muscle, extended a single, slender hand from amidst the mass and at the mercy of jostle. In its palm, a sachet of tea, extended beneath the drip, drip of water fed by the cit-y from the stonework above. The water doth run, and the steeping just begun, though its temperature, a pity.

“Good sirs, if I may beg your pardon…” Isai said, his voice barely audible as his face was smushed betwixt one man’s shoulder and another’s pectoral. A moment passed and the shoulder rotated, granting the bard some reprieve. He took a sigh of relief, and his head craned through the cell for his compatriot, Verena Luscinia, as he felt his heart swell with pride over what seemed to be a moment of ingenuity. His voice tried to climb over the others and their griping of the inhumane conditions.

“See for yourself, my dear, and testify as witness to this newest utterance: hacking shortcuts and conveniences through life, merited by creativity and resourcefulness — a life hack one may say — so behold, if one has acquired tea in a dungeon’s depths and be lacking in water, taking control of one’s fate, one may cup water found in thine hand and surely improve its quality! See?”

Indeed, the water dripping from the ceiling pooled in his hand and soak and leeched some flavor from the tea leaves in the sachet. He noisily slurped from his hand as if to demonstrate before a man’s cry shot through the prison, “Hey-ho! Look! That guy is drinking shit water!”

Isai immediately spat and sputtered and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before stammering, following the shout, “I-indeed, verily, where’s this hapless cur? I should have a laugh at the fool!”

The deflection worked to some extent and most of the crowd was looking around to see who was the culprit, apparently eager to sink their teeth into him, while Isai sank low beneath the crowd and ducking beneath arms and the like to reappear next to Verena’s side, looking a little pale-faced.

“I do sympathize for the poor, unknown chap to have fallen for such fecal folly,” he muttered to her, not making eye contact or paying acknowledgement for what had transpired. The chaos of the current situation in this prison was such that he paid little heed even to the large khajiit lifting a dungeon door from its hinges, there being so much to have eyes on. Still, he wanted to mentally record everything he saw so as to perhaps convey the events that transpire in prison in a future book… that would conveniently exempt the little, insignificant detail that he shared a cell with the miscreants.

“I did not witness there to be any excrement in the water, whatever do they mean?” Verena pondered to herself, loud enough for Isai to hear, though her attention drifted elsewhere, the finesse of the situation flying entirely over her head. She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, her feet aching in her leather slippers from having to stand due to the more bodies the guards crammed into the cell. She noted a few Argonians, the massive Khajiit, Bretons and Redguards, was that a Bosmer? Yes, it was. And even the surprise handful of Nords.

The heat of the bodies crammed into the cell filled her nostrils, an odour that made her wrinkle nose. Her attempt to identify the sources of the odours kept her occupied for the time being. Some smelled strongly of sweat, others of ale, there was the scent of perfume… She gagged, had someone passed flatulence? The audacity. Though… if duty calls, who was she to pass judgement? Growing hot under the collar of her cloak, Verena proceeded to unhook its simple clasp, folding the grey woolen fabric into a neat square, and held the bundle to her chest.

“So much for the greatest sporting event of the era,” Verena sighed half-heartedly, harking to Isai’s desire to record the event. Oh, how he had urged her that it would be an exciting affair, and truly it was, until the riot broke out like grease spilled over an open flame.

“Any idea on how you will portray the riot? You likened it to a bar fight, after all.” She mused, though she wasn’t certain if her companion would recall his own words given the events of his losing consciousness shortly after.

“Mmm, yes,” the thespian mused in turn, massaging away the bump on the back of his head, wincing when he pressed too hard, “I’m sure I could make some… inferences, supplement the material with auxiliary interviews of the, ah, more active participants… oh, excuse me!”

As a guard paced in front of him, his attention was quickly fetched away from his commiseratory compatriot, and his hand nearly lunged out from between the bars to wave them down.

“I beg your pardon, ser,” he pleaded, “but I am afraid there has been some confusion. See, I don’t truly belong here, as I’m sure you recall that I was in a sordid state which eluded the lucidity and wherewithal befitting of any acquiescence to the participation of a– ser?”

The guard, while initially uninterested in any pleas for mercy, at least began to hear him out until the syllables started getting too long and continued on their patrol down the swollen prison. Isai sighed and hung his head down, tuning out the droning of a dunmer man spitting his vile rhetoric towards the cellmates across the prison from him.There were only so many voices he could try to focus on, one suggesting some game of cards or dice, as if the guards would’ve allowed anything to enter the cells besides the clothes on their backs… and in the case of the massive khajiit, apparently not even that.

He pondered for a moment about the logistics of their ability to lock up mages. He could always attempt to magically open the lock, though it may be a higher grade more complex than what he was able to deal with, and the consequences that would come after were as clear as a flash of steel. What about conjurers? Technically, they’re always armed. He did think for a moment about conjuring a die – it wasn’t any more complex than a dagger, but he recalled the last time he tried performing such a parlor trick and the die ended up having a mouth and an opinion: “You arrogant worm! Mark my words mortal, once I’m recorporealized I will flay you alive and wear your cock as a hat!”

Needless to say, being retraumatized by a daedric household trinket will not be on today’s agenda. Isai took a moment to recompose himself, standing at his full height, and spinning on his heel to greet Verena with pearly-white smile. “Make yourself comfortable, darling! I’ve exercised my leverage and spoke with the guards, so I am sure I will have gotten us out of this predicament in no time at all.”

Verena’s gaze snapped to Isai, and at his words of assurance she breathed a sigh of relief, her shoulders sagging in response. A vibrant and warm smile spread over her lips as she beamed at him, “Oh what a relief, Isai! Truly a hero, indeed.”

---

This was quite possibly the worst day of Verinric's entire life, definitely the worst evening. All tha time wasted at the Arena, a good meal ruined by drunks and then the guards just tossed him in a cell with them.
The real problem's not the cell, he likes to think he could handle that, can't be worse than spending a night in a tent andthe guards will not doubt sort this all out by morning so one night is all it would be. No it's the company, the nord woman and bosmer are clearly on something stronger than alcohol, the Cathay-Raht is apparently strong enough to remove a cell door, even the well dressed Breton, one cellmate he may have had hope for, is apparently trying to impress a woman by failing to get the cooperation of a guard.

Of course he shares none of that, no he stands quietly in a rear corner trying not to get too near anyone.
He's definitely not poiting out any of the ideas he's already had for getting out, if the Cathay-Raht can dismantle the doors then it's unlikely the lock would stand up to his personal locksplitter, he could probably snatch the keys with Telekinesis if he got a dremora to lure a guard over, or he could even try his luck with a Recall, he still hasn't got that one to work on other people, but the guards don't seem to have taken any precautions. After all, those might get him actually charged with something.

Isai

_@spicykvnt

---

A woman, perhaps once beautiful and graceful in dress and tongue, now defiled and in dire straits in her need for a bath and a tailor, descended upon the gentleman and his assistant like a vulture. And like a vulture, she had a hungry glint in her eye and dressed in dark, almost greasy plumage, with nails like talons. Her mouth, with each utterance, was like a beak pecking and prodding, as if testing for still and ripened flesh so as to pull his liver out from his side. Her language was like a sordid distortion and corruption of the courtly cant communicated in higher class circles. Her face, in isolation, a vintage ceramic stained by patina in need of polish or like a wine on the cusp of vinegar, and so then her dress may perhaps not be like a vulture’s at all, but like aedra fallen from grace. Part of him saw the wild of wyresses in her, but nay, it was something darker… not even in the daedric sense, but the dark of nature: like starving wolves in the dead of night, plagued by infection, thorns, and venom. Well, Isai resolved to prove that he was no carrion! If this fallen angel saw fit to test her mettle in descending upon him, he hoped she’d find no easy meal. However, lest she see him a threat, he wanted to allow her to believe her illusions still stood.

Isai looked over at her, his eyes darting between the youth-hag and Verena. He didn’t face her, but rather addressed her from the side, and quickly, before Verena had a chance to respond. “Hm? Esquire of Cheydinhal actually, my lady, though I appreciate your estimation of my station. Isai Tegulatoris Sutris-Armaseptus da Leyawiin, Esquire. Alas, the gods permit me only to be but of the landed gentry before the peerage, and my tongue to turn naught but opinion, pleasure, and tied cherry stems.”

Ending his introduction so matter-of-factly, he bowed as much as the physical space would allow him to and extended his hand with as much distance and with as much respect for her space as he could. He added, “Though speaking of pleasure, it is mine to make your acquaintance, dear lady…?”

His words lingered in the air as she awaited her name. He couldn’t lie to himself, he was kind of scared of her. But he thought he put up a good enough front, and if nothing else he knew how to make people good about themselves in his presence, like everyone else around them is momentarily forgotten. That aside, she seemed enough of a caricature — more a character to him than a real person — that made her interesting enough to serve as a literary subject in one of his manuscripts. So, getting the full scoop of what she was about might be worth losing a finger over as long as one of the restorationists in here felt like mending another one.

---

---

Of all those in the cell, only a few looked his way- and of those, only two bothered to answer his greeting. Kiffar was beginning to think these people would not be so sociable, and the yearning for his old cell had already begun... Though these ones, at least, didn't spew whatever insults came to their vile tongues without hesitation or filter! For Darmon, he had an appreciative nod, accepting the man's name, respecting the will to actually green him in turn. For Yarmira.... Well, when dealing with crazy people, special care must be taken, and Kiffar was nothing if not accommodating to those with particular needs! He resisted the urge to lean away in horror as the little treefling declared that she had used his corpse well, wondering at what horrors she foresaw in her mad premonitions of his death, only to see that she was comparing him to a Senche. That almost made him scowl, stricken by the blatant racism, but it would do no good for a madwoman.

Besides... She followed it so swiftly with flattery, and he did love flattery. He instead offered his best, toothiest grin. It was a horrifying sight, truly, an approximation of a smile ill suited to feline features. Why the many manthings and elfthings did not simply tip their ears and blink their eyes, he would never understand. For good measure, he extended a hand to pat her head, between the strange antlers that adorned her, ruffling her hair in a manner that probably came with some risk of whiplash. Divines, but he could probably pick her skull up like a yarn ball with those murder mittens!

"Kiffar is... Pleased this one has been so resourceful, yes? The treefling did very well. Kiffar is... Yes, Kiffar is here to help the treefling. But Kiffar must have dinner first, and the guardthings will bring the dinner Kiffar has asked for, with the little potatoes. Or else the guardthings will have to fix two doors."

The last, he spoke over his shoulder, loudly enough to be clearly audible in the corridor even with all the chaos. Satisfied that his point was made, despite zero evidence to confirm it, he shuffled his shoulders contentedly and began the arduous task of pressing his way deeper into the cell, seeking a space he might have room to sit or curl up. Instead, he found himself thigh-to-face with a foppish man who seemed to be declaring himself the loin-lapping champion of his kind. Kiffar blinked lazily, leaning forward to stare straight down at poor Isai in confusion.

"This one... It flirts with the witch-woman? Kiffar thinks she will eat you, too, but her way will be much less fun than yours. Scoot, scoot, fancy man-thing. Kiffar will sit here, and the man thing will be scooted or be a cushion. Treefling! Darmon-Thing! Come, come, sit with Kiffar, tell him of why the many manthings and elfthings are here, while we watch the fancy one be eaten by the witch-woman."

---

Kharne was seated next to a rather animated Redguard woman who was trying to pester him about his travels alongside the other Argonian on the other side of her. A young man talked about cards or dice, probably confiscated if anyone had them. He didn't speak yet, too busy thinking about how he even got in this situation while his arms were crossed over his chest. He had been drinking at a tavern, or inn, he didn't really know the difference between them, and he had been bumped. Which normally wouldn't have bothered him, alcohol and people equaled rowdiness. But the bumper had been a Dunmer, a very drunk Dunmer who had said things he shouldn't have. And then vomited on his feet which got even more ire from Kharne.

Needless to say it's hard to recognize who the man was now, even magic couldn't fix that much damage and get it back to normal. The only thing that saved the drunk from dying was the guards already dealing with riots and were already in the area. So now Kharne got to sit in jail, a very packed jail. A small packed jail cell with a female Dunmer who had that holier than thou look. Kharne's eyes were practically glowing with hatred for her and he knew nothing about the woman while his hands clenched on his biceps. But guilty by association rules the reptilian mans mind.

A different small cluster of people were talking about using shit water, which dragged his eyes over and away from the Dunmer woman. A young man in fancier garb than the rest of them was bickering about tea, a strange drink. Soggy leaves staining water brown that was so mildly sweet it didn't matter. Events didn't stop there, a big Khajiit broke out of the cell across from them, spoke to the guards, and was escorted into their jam packed cell. The guards acted like it was just another normal day. Big fluff introduced himself as Kiffar before he was verbally assaulted by a Bosmer.

All the noise was starting to overstimulate the normally quiet and reclusive Argonian. Oh by the gods now an older looking woman was talking to the fancy lad and she talked weird! Kiffar was quick to go hunting for a seat, given that size anyone would move. Or suffer death by crushing fluff possibly."Welcome to this side of the corridor, Kiffar. I'm Kharne." He rumbled, his voice surprisingly deep for his species. His voice was low, rumbling like thunder overhead, and held a slight rasp Argonians were known for. His eyes cut to the woman seated next to himself. "And you?" He questioned so he wasn't entirely rude.

@Spoopy Scary & @LC

---

---

The Bosmer accepted Kiffar's praise eagerly, their chest lifting as if filled with the breath of the Green itself. He delayed their escape from this dark place, waiting for "dinner," a concept utterly foreign to her. She did understand his demand for meat, though.

"It… It brings me shame to confess the hunting in this land has been poor for me," Yarmira confessed as she trailed in the Khajiit’s wake. "The quarry is fleet of foot and sharp-eyed, the air restless and shifting, the Green sparse and strange. The great grazing beasts would be easy prey, so docile they are, but it is too much for one Bosmer to devour alone. You look well fed, Kiffar-Nir'thal; perhaps you could teach me to hunt these forests?" The mere thought of stalking prey side-by-side with the feline behemoth sent a wave of warmth through her; a return to familiarity in this far place.

Yarmira squatted beside Kiffar, greeting the dark-skinned, round-eared not-Mer by tapping her heart with two fingers three times. ”Green’s blessing, Darmon-thing,” Yarmira said, following Kiffar’s example. ”I am called Yarmira.” She briefly considered adding more to her name like this Isai-Tegulatoris-Sutris-Armaseptus-da-Leyawiin-Esquire did, but decided his example might not be the best to follow.

She tried to follow the conversation, but there was simply too much she did not understand. The accused shit-drinker was hardest to comprehend of all. Yarmira settled with just studying their features. They were all so different from her people. She’d known they were out there, of course. Y’ffre showed them to her through dreams. But seeing the green pig-Mer in the flesh, the scaly lizard-Mer, even the round-eared Mer still befuddled her. Had they also been pulled from the Ooze and given shape by The Singer?

Yarmira chaffed at Kiffar’s suggestion that the mad woman eat this chatty round-eared Mer. She thought of the rivers that ran through the Green, and the ravenous fish that travelled in cloud-like swarms down its currents. If one’s razor-sharp scales brushed a passing creature, be it a wading Bosmer or one of their number, the fish would descend into a toothy frenzy that would end until only one remained. Should that happen here, Yarmira had no doubt that the only ones left standing would be Kiffar and herself. But the Green Pac would demand they strip the flesh from the bones of their fallen prey, gorge themselves, and make use of their remains. That could take days. She wasn’t particularly hungry, and couldn’t think of a purpose for all the tendon and sinew and bone in the room. Blood, she decided, must not be shed.

Yarmira watched the dark-haired crone as she might a dangerous predator. Her magic set the Bosmer’s teeth on edge. She had seen its likeness only in the sky, a brilliant and dangerous light painting the jungle floor in ghostly flashes. To harness it in one’s hand was unnatural. The stink of rot and death and decay lingered around her, an inescapable miasma that the huntress could detect even in this fetid place. Yarmira was reminded of their tribe’s outcasts, banished for breaking the Green Pact. She would see them beyond the village, driven mad from their isolation. Without their tribe, their family, they were nothing, and had nothing to lose. They were dangerous. And yet Yarmira pitied them, for she knew what it was to be one set apart.

The Bosmer stood and put herself between the witch and her would-be meal, trusting Kiffar to protect her should the crone use their fiendish magics. ”This prey is beneath you,” Yarmira said, her stance loose and easy. ”A better hunt could be had crushing bugs under our feet,” the Bosmer suggested, flashing a wild and feral smile at Isai. “We shall soon be rid of this place, and have our pick of prizes yet again. A wolf does not stay caged for long. This pest is not worth the effort.” In truth, Yarmira suspected there was more to this Isai than he led on, but she kept these thoughts to herself. She studied the woman’s features; the harsh visage echoed in her mind, and the hazy image of wild hair and blunted teeth sinking into flesh came to her.

“Tell me, how does one as untamed as you find themselves trapped in this snare?” Yarmira produced from within her cloak a small leather flask, uncorked the bone stopper, and tossed it to the witch. The astringent smell of fermented meat and alcohol wafted from the flask’s mouth. Rotmeth, a Bosmer delicacy that was both potent and pungent. A peace offering, perhaps, or a challenge of fortitude.

Sablyn Renault

Sablyn had seen the inside of her share of cells, but she'd never been packed in this tight. She and her fellow prisoners were squeezed in like brined slaughterfish in a barrel. She started to compose the beginnings of a poem about it, soft bodies squeezed on all sides by stone and metal — kind of like living in Imperial City, come to think of it. That was a good image for a poem — she wished she had something to write it down with.

But it was hard to be poetic when you were being squished against the back wall of a cell by a mess of bodies. She needed fresh air and a better view of what lay outside the metal bars. Moving sideways, she slipped through the mass of bodies, giving apologetic smiles to those who noticed her. She found a good vantage point where she could see what was going on outside the cell, then scanned the prisoners nearest her. To her right was a short young man — close to her own age, perhaps a little younger — whose clothes were covered in blood.

"No cards or dice," she replied to the question he'd asked the group, "but perhaps we can pass the time with tales. I hope there's an interesting one behind your injuries, but if not, perhaps you'd make one up?"

She had a few embellished tales from her life as a pickpocket she could draw on to get the conversation going, but she preferred hearing to telling. And, in her experience, if you got one person telling stories, others would be inspired to join. Hopefully someone in this cell was a charismatic enough storyteller to draw the attention of all in earshot, which would give Sablyn a chance to watch the guards without them noticing her eyes on them. In the guise of smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothes, she felt for the set of lockpicks sewn in the hem of her shirt — a way out for all of them if she could find a chance to use them.

---

---

"Caddach."

The lad returned Darmon's greeting with a small wave of his free hand, allowing a smirk to come to his face as he set his back to the wall again and relaxed. Not minding too much that his initial inquiry to the rest of his cellmates seemed to be lost amongst the sudden arrival of the substantially-sized Khajiit, or the rambunctious and quite possibly batshit crazy ravings of Yarmira... though he wasn't exactly one to judge that, he'd never been to Valenwood or really met many Bosmer from from deep in the Green— as the diminutive Bosmer confessed to be from— so as far as he knew the words of her voice actually made sense in that distant land. Though the mention of Y'ffre rang an old bell in the back of his head, making the young man's gaze travel towards the girl again and his brows to furrow; a flickering memory of his grandmother Elyza— a Druid in her own day— would often still utter prayers to him under her breath as she mercifully cut the throat of their wounded prey after a long hunt, gently stroking the poor creature to ease it's spirit as it passed into the next lif—

'—Wait, did that guy over there just drink shit-water?' The thought came suddenly, interrupting all the vivid memories that came before as Caddach's gaze suddenly locked onto the incredibly verbose man. Watching in silent astonishment as not only did the man indeed slurp down the poop-juice, but then tried to claim innocence for it. Only to be called out on that by a spooky-looking Nord lady that moved in a way that was... uncomfortably familiar to him, though he couldn't quite figure out why; like an old warning in the back of his head he'd heard as a boy, but couldn't quite remember the details of.

Though it did make the boy watch her carefully, far more attentively than he did Kiffar, the Argonians or even the chained Orsimer that had spent the evening trying to flatten his skull. Dark tales from his grandfather's youth and the memory of how tense some of his cousins became when dealing with certain tribes in the eastern fringes of High Rock starting to trickling in from his memory as he quietly watched the way she moved; regarding her as something wild, not quite human... and dangerous.

Though, not dangerous enough to keep him from speaking up when she started joking about eating the poor gentleman, fouled water and all... at least, Caddach hoped she was joking.

"Ma'am, I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't terrorize that man any more than you have to." Caddach deadpanned in her direction. "It smells bad enough in here as it is; we don't need to make it any worse by adding something wet and brown to the inside of his trousers."

Sure, they were all really only going to be in here for about as long as it took the Legion to make sure the riots outside were good and done, but that didn't mean that Caddach fancied spending the rest of the evening and into the morning marinating in shit-smell. Though he set that thought to the side as another in the cell— a fellow Breton, around his age— addressed him, admitting she hadn't anything in the way of cards or dice, either. At her request for a story, however, the lad smiled a bit and gave the woman a shrug.

"Well, I'm no priest of Zenithar... but if you want the juicy details of my day, I suppose I could oblige." Caddach began with an amused chuckle as he folded his hands behind his head. "I'm a Groundskeeper by trade and my employer's son is getting married today, so me and the rest of the staff had to wake up before dawn to make sure doubly sure that everything was in perfect order— scrub the floors, polish the shiny bits, get the food ready— that kinda thing. Not that I'm complaining mind you, It's what they pay me for... that, and the groom-to-be himself— a good sort— swung by to tell us to take a break and to make sure we were all fed. So that was nice."

Sure, Caddach was omitting a few details— who exactly he worked for being among them— but that was just professional discretion. Well, that and his awareness that some bloody-nosed Breton kid in a prison cell was probably not going to be taken seriously if he mentioned how he and his coworkers had sat down for a casual breakfast with the future Emperor that same morning.

"After everything was all set up, we were released to our usual duties while the fancier servants took charge of the wedding. And that was business as usual; clean the eaves-troughs, scrub the floors, walk in on a pair of wedding guests doing something strange in a broom closet— which honestly happens a lot more than you'd think; nobles of a certain rank and upward tend to do some crazy things that'd make even Dibella blush when they get bored. You learn to stop being surprised by it after a while... besides, what an Altmeri priestess does to her Nordic boytoy with a pair of shackles and a potato is none of my business." He continued, dryly. Before leaning forward a little with a smirk and drawing two fingers upward. "...Though in hindsight, I have my suspicions that that potato may have met with a very unfortunate end."

He raised that same hand in a sharp upward motion at his implication, clapping his hand down on his forearm at the same time, letting out a little snort.

"Either way, after all that was done. I was let off early to go see the big fight." Caddach continued, easing back against the wall again and pointedly leaving out the part about the book, or the fact that it was a Blade that had told him to take off. "...Which was, of course, very disappointing. Before I headed off to Daggerfall Dan's for a quick pint or two, got tripped by some douchebag I knew back in the Arcane University, spilled my beer and then got a suckerpunch directly to the face by the lovely Lady of Fisticuffs and Finger-Munching over there."

He paused to indicate towards Roshanara, still chained to the wall and still visibly pissed.

"Which I could honestly deal with; I grew up around a lot of Orsimer so I knew that some form of comeuppance was coming my way the second I heard the splash and saw where it landed." He said. "...Besides, it was pretty funny watching her toss the guy who tripped me out the bloody window— Didn't know Altmer voices could even go that high!— Though... less so when someone tried to steal my wallet and, before I could get my brain together to figure out what the fuck was even happening, our friend over there jumped on me again and started trying to actually kill me."

Caddach shot another look towards Rosh again. Looking actually pissed for the first time in his little tale, a flicker of lightning dancing across his fingertips for a half-second before he took a sharp breath in through clenched teeth and relaxed again, shaking his head.

"Luckily, I'm fairly decent at fortification spells. Otherwise, I'd likely be a red stain on the bar's floor instead of sitting here, talking your ear off right now." He finished, turning his eyes back towards Sablyn again and noting the way she observed the Guards through the bars. "And I wouldn't worry too much about the Watch, I doubt they'll lay any charges; They just want us in here and not out there with the rioters... Hell, they'll probably even give us all something greasy from the kitchen before they release us in the morning to ward off any hangovers."

Caddach let that one hang in the air for a moment before fixing Sablyn with a raised brow.

"What about you?" He asked. "How'd you wind up down here with the rest of us, Miss...?"

---

"Little doveling. Do you believe that your knight here is clever enough to unmake the walls that hold us? Do you think that his tongue can turn the lock?" Verena hadn’t the chance to form a sentence so caught off guard was she by the visage of the wild Nord woman, not that the woman was unattractive, it was the mere intensity of her appearance that Verena could do nothing but gawk, though Isai came to her rescue with a proper introduction behest himself, of which she was readily grateful. Unlike Isai, Verena didn’t have as quick a wit. She preferred to look on in silence, taking note of the body language of those around her, interjecting when appropriate, and she relied on it now.

“Hm? Esquire of Cheydinhal actually, my lady, though I appreciate your estimation of my station. Isai Tegulatoris Sutris-Armaseptus da Leyawiin, Esquire. Alas, the gods permit me only to be but of the landed gentry before the peerage, and my tongue to turn naught but opinion, pleasure, and tied cherry stems.”

Isai had bowed as properly and respectfully as he could given the space in the cramped cell, “Though speaking of pleasure, it is mine to make your acquaintance, dear lady…?”

The massive Khajiit suddenly interjected, leaving Verena to gaze up at him in mortification, not because she was afraid of him, rather because of the sudden invasion of space. Though, given their cramped quarters and the Khajiit’s hulking figure, perhaps he did not mean to be intimidating.

"This one... It flirts with the witch-woman? Kiffar thinks she will eat you, too, but her way will be much less fun than yours. Scoot, scoot, fancy man-thing. Kiffar will sit here, and the man thing will be scooted or be a cushion. Treefling! Darmon-Thing! Come, come, sit with Kiffar, tell him of why the many manthings and elfthings are here, while we watch the fancy one be eaten by the witch-woman."

Having been jostled out of the way alongside Isai to make room for the orange and black striped Khajiit who identified himself as Kiffar, Verena quickly retracted her previous line of thinking. Her nose wrinkled in confusion, what purpose did his words serve? Did he mistake Isai’s words for flirting?

Verena dwelled on this for a few moments her eyes fixated upon the ground beneath her slippers as she clutched her woolen cloak to her chest, '...my tongue turn naught but opinion, pleasure, and tied cherry stems…'. Isai’s knack for conversation allowed him to indulge a wide manner of subjects, and he held an array of points of view. And he did indeed enjoy a good bottle of wine, music, dance, and all other forms of entertainment. She smiled softly to herself, her eyes flickering to Isai at the memory of him showing her how to tie cherry stems. After all, she had burdened him with the question after having an Imperial man approach her with a rather set of curious words. Almost a year ago now actually, something to the effect of, “A pretty thing like you ought to let me show you how well I can tie the stems of cherries.”

Of course at the time, Verena had declined the Imperial’s offer, thinking his suggestion rather dull and boring. Why would she want to do such a thing? When she came to Isai regarding the matter, he told her of a cherry stem tying contest he had once won and insisted he show her the skill, just in case such a challenge arose again. They had gone to the market and purchased a basket full of cherries, they then sat in the meadow while Isai taught her the trick the man had spoken of. Her mouth certainly was sore and her tongue ached, and she thought the trick even more foolish, like skipping rocks on the water. Though skipping rocks she found more pleasure in.

'...the man thing will be scooted or be a cushion…' Kiffar’s words repeated in her mind as she found herself frowning inward at the jest of Isai being sat upon. A kind of word could have been uttered instead, surely? Surely.

Her attention snapped back to the wild woman, the hair on her forearms stood on end, and an eerie sensation washed over her. Had she missed something when lost in thought?

"I could eat him," She addressed Kiffar as he had found his seat upon the ground after all. "He is well spiced, don't you think?" The woman sniffed at Isai, and then grinned wide. "Marinated in his importance. Sweetened just so with his honeyed words... Something foul in his belly from the ceiling."

For the wild woman, Verena felt as if her words were uttered in a more playful jest, and she couldn’t help but to smile softly. There was a peculiar familiarity to her words, having reminded her of Marius and Steffan, when they used to try and frighten her in the dark, a teasing play on words.

Then came the Bosmer, placing herself between Kiffar seated on the ground and Isai, effectively forcing Verena farther out of the way. All the while Verena still had yet to have a word in edgewise as this continual flow of interruptions into the matter with Isai carried on.

“This prey is beneath you,” The Bosmer woman began, “A better hunt could be had crushing bugs under our feet,” the Bosmer flashed a feral smile at Isaii. “We shall soon be rid of this place, and have our pick of prizes yet again. A wolf does not stay caged for long. This pest is not worth the effort.”

"Ma'am, I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't terrorize that man any more than you have to." Caddach deadpanned in her direction. "It smells bad enough in here as it is; we don't need to make it any worse by adding something wet and brown to the inside of his trousers."

Oh surely this was too much. Verena’s headached from the overflowing activity and rabble of words that filled the cell, a cacophony of sound that made her temples throb.

This now felt like off-handed beratement towards Isai, and it made her heart clench at the mere sound of their words. And for what? What had he done to elicit such a targeted response? She would pay none of them any mind, it wasn’t worth the effort. They were all strangers crammed into this cell, and it seemed that they had latched onto her dear friend for wanton enjoyment. No one wanted to be here, and they were more or less victims of circumstance as a result of the riot.

The Khajiit had accused him of flirting with the wild woman, the Bosmer woman stated that Isai was no more than a pest and prey at that, and the young Breton man implied that Isai could be easily frightened to the point of defecating in his pants. Despite the wild woman’s remarks at eating Isai, at least she did not mock him. Teasing, surely. But not mocking.

Perhaps it was Verena’s soft heart that made her feel such things. Her mother’s jabs and jeers at her throughout her childhood had effectively chipped away at Verena’s self-esteem, leaving her with the penchant to avoid discourse, or making anyone feel lesser unless truly deserved, and even then, it hurt her to say a negative word.

Isai had taken a chance with her. He had given her a chance for a better life, to not end up like her mother, impoverished and ill from drink. She could do better. She would do better. A kind word went a long way, and it was that way in which she had kept her employment with Isai for as long as she did. Not once had he ever spoken to her poorly in nature.

...Insufferable little brat… you are naught but a sniveling wretch, born of my own flesh yet twice the burden!

...Had you been left upon the riverbank, even the fish would spurn you!

...I have seen dung heaps with more promise than thee, and they at least do serve the soil!

...A duller wit ne'er graced this earth, and yet you call me 'Mother' as if 'twere a blessing!

She inhaled softly, shaking the echoes of her mother’s ridicule from her head.

“Pardon me…” Verena said quietly, her voice soft and warm, like that of honey stirred in with hot brandy. She shifted her body so as not to jostle anyone uncouthly, moving in between the Bosmer and Isai, angling her body just so in a subconscious manner to act as a barrier.

Her pale green eyes swept over the wild woman, and wild she was indeed. It was almost inspiring to see such a woman. A subtle blush came to her cheeks before she dragged her gaze to Isai, commenting in that same warm tone, “I keep my faith in you, Isai.”

“You have seen us through the most unusual quarries. Perhaps when we leave this place, I would make us both some eidar cap.” She mused more to herself than anyone else.

_{@MacabreFox & @spicykvnt}

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Truly, the bombardment of what had come was unexpected. The vulture woman, Deia – “A pretty name,” Isai remarked – seemed to place more importance on demonstration of power as magicka cracked and sparked in her hands. Wherever she came from, might made right. Still didn’t exemplify the use of her tongue in undoing the lock, though. Then the cathay-raht, in his grandiose posture, indeed postured as he pushed his way through the cell like he could part the sea all but confirming the rumors he always heard about prison, that the biggest did indeed seem to run the cell block. He thought might made right too. This “Kiffar’s” size was such a thing of awe that his own words were overshadowed by him, as he had treaded the borders of Anequina, the Rim, and Reaper’s March and but never dared to cross that border given Elsweyr’s conflict with County Leyawiin, and he had no interest in being abducted by a cartel or the Renrijra Krin. During that time, he saw many khajiit, but never came across a cathay-raht in person. If anything, his zoo-like novelty outweighed anything he had to say, as his mastery of language was better likened to one of Skyrim’s giants than any of the well-read alfiqs he had the privilege of meeting. Indeed, at that size, Isai supposed it was hard not to measure the value of something by its susceptibility to being stepped on or eaten.

Deia, however, seemed keen to interject and saw him just as meal-worthy and dissected him with hungry eyes as much she did for himself, calling his bluff and rising to the open challenge Kiffar had made. One's might measured against another's, and the rightness that would prevail. The way she engaged in banter made her feel more popsy than crone, were it not for her demeanor. Then came the bosmer, and not just any bosmer it seemed, but one from the Deep Green, untamed unlike the wood elves found here in the Heartland. It was obvious to him by the measure of her sharpened teeth, antlered head, scarred and painted, the braids in her wild hair, the animal-derived attire — the whole nine yards. Nothing was missing from the caricature of her people. She had a delightfully savage and wild manicness in her face, as much a predator as the cathay-raht, but she followed him in his shadow like a remora that stuck itself to the belly of a shark. Even so, he wondered if she cowered under his shade, or if the khajiit was but the tall grass for the snake to hide in.

Even a young man from across the cell block, barely a child, seemed attracted to whatever was occurring here with his address to… either Deia or the bosmer, he wasn’t entirely sure, since he seemed he returned to his conversation and story-telling right after. Either way, he delivered some toilet humor that thankfully wasn’t in reference to whatever that initial charlatan said that spurred much of this on. Sure, there was a dirty taste in his mouth, but it didn't taste anything like... well, he didn't really want to continue that assessment in case he was wrong. In any case, the arena event was a world wonder in the right that it attracted so many from around the Empire! And here they all were, crammed in these quarters.

Still, there seemed to be quite a few people out for his head already — quite a feat, considering that he hadn’t even slept with anyone yet. Or talked to most of them. Isai deflated a bit.

Then came a trembling. His own? Heavens, no, surely he’s been through worse. He looked down to see Verena at his side, apparently interposing herself between him and the crowd. He barely even noticed that for the solid minute he spent looking around, watching everyone in his fascination and preoccupation with his own emotional self-inventory, that he barely noticed the homeostasis he felt — that he wasn’t being shoved around by the masses of people anymore.

“I keep my faith in you, Isai.” She said, “You have seen us through the most unusual quarries. Perhaps when we leave this place, I would make us both some eidar cap.”

Isai paused for just a moment, as if to process what she was saying. Her eyes spoke of a pain not heard in her words. He felt something melt away, though he couldn’t name what in that moment, as he could only think of giving her a pearly, reassuring grin.

“Quarries? Ah, quandaries? Well, no worries my dear. Truly. I’ve always attempted adherence to one principle, which is never to trust how one feels about life after nine in the evening. Look at them — look at us — all locked together, but were these cages permanent, they’d have not keys. I propose that our differences be seen in how hardship is endured and continue our belief in the carrot before the stick… agreed? Besides…”

Isai looked over his shoulder toward Deia and the little bosmer woman.

“...Twas not the first time I was threatened with devourment and, gods willing, it shan’t be the last.”

The situation was slowly but surely spiralling out of hand. There was a growing tension in the cell that made Arvelas senses sharpen, quietly preparing her for the inevitable release. The eccentric cackling of these eccentric people didn't help in the slightest, and the Dunmer wondered what she would do and how she would fare if it came down to hostilities. There were other magi in the cell, more than a few, and their capabilities were a worrying factor. She kept watching and waiting, her position unchanged, but the discerning observer could deduce she had tensed up.

As if to inflame her suspicion, she caught a glimpse of an Argonian eyeing her with a fury in his gaze. She didn't know what cause he had for hating her, but she earnestly didn't care. Rather, she made a note to keep him in the corner of her eye and to not let him get too close. If it came to blows, she'd solve him first. It was a pity she had been disarmed before ending up here. Arvela would have felt safer with that length of sharpened, enchanted steel at her hip. She made another note of studying conjuration magic more to learn how to bind weapons herself, without the aid of the blade. As it were, now, fire would have to do.