---

---

It was cold, at the very least cold for her and her siblings far from the gentle heat of the Alik'r warming their body and soul. Though they had found a temporary warmth in the inns and taverns of the Imperial City, moving from one to another as their visit slowly extended from just a few days to already weeks just wandering about the districts. It had been her brother's idea to begin with, who had never quite stepped away from the recent conversion enthusiasm of his embracing the Nine Divines. Their journey had taken them across the breadth of Cyrodiil and heading towards the eastern reaches in her never ending pilgrimage, but it seemed that just like always trouble loomed. All it was supposed to be was just a few days of staying around the Arena district, her doing some shifts at the local hotspot and Yashar helping the local gladiators mend their wounds in between plates of food as many tended to do. Day by day it had been pretty good for the two of them, and even her sister was pitching in off and on when there was need for a little extra muscle. Unfortunately though, she provided a bit too much of it this night and now the trio sat in the Imperial City prisons, thankfully together but also rather less so joined by a myriad of other people gathered by the watch.

To sate her idle curiousity she had been looking up towards the Argonians on either side of her, finding out one was a gladiator himself and the other rather more guarded about his background. Talk of their home was a little disappointing for her more worldly interests, finding neither knowing much of actual Blackmarsh, but it was something that still brought a smile to her lips as she was more and more seeing why Yashar had so much faith in the Empire. From beyond the borders of Cyrodiil the provinces seemed intent on doing what they wanted, but here everyone was welcome and everyone had a place. Even herself, someone who had caught a few questioning glances here in the city for her more elven features, but still never once felt out of place even while wandering completely lost in the city. It was as if the vision of the Empire was alive and well here in this cell, Argonians, a Dunmer, Bretons, Orcs, Redguard and the grinding of metal on metal announced a Khajiiti visitor to their group. Now that was one thing that quite easily ceased the young woman's questions, something that not even the shit-drinker did for more than a brief pause.

Kiffar as he was called, so large as to stoop under the entrance to the cell and give the guards outside a moment of consideration regarding their career choice. She had never known that Khajiit could even get so large, though her brother had told her stories of how different their people were depending upon the phases of the moon. Yet still... He was bigger than Yashar by a fair margin, something the half-orsimer man felt rather obvious as the giant weaved his way effortlessly through the throng of people to take a seat near the back. Only a slight hiss as a dark-scaled Argonian basically slithered out of the way and affixed the giant cat with a glare for his efforts. Bold, Khaliya thought, but she remembered that one as one of the people to have actually participated eagerly in the brawl in the tavern, so perhaps that particular Argonian knew something she didn't.

But friendly or unfriendly as the third lizard-man in the cell was, she had two to either side who despite being rather massive and intimidating were at the very least open to conversation. With as few words as the cat-man offered, he joined in with them quite easily though and she felt it would be inappropriate not to introduce herself in turn. "Hello Kiffar, I am Khaliya." As respect to the two Argonians she had been pestering, she offered her hand in turn to each of them as way of introductions, and to her fellow Redguard opposite her even if he was clearly one of the Forebears. "That's Yashar." Her brother nodded slowly in turn, still the rather uncanny but friendly smile greeting all those who turned his way. "He's my older brother. Well, half-brother but I don't really see much of a difference." A shifting on the stone bench to lean forward a little and her attention was brought to Caddach as he introduced himself and went over the events of the night that led him to be right there opposite her in this cell. Events that might very nearly have not permitted him to be sitting where he was if her sister had her way, though as she introduced Yashar as her brother that led to the very obvious implications. And she was quite conscious of that as it came to mind that it had been her wrist he had grabbed in the brawl as she had withdrawn his wallet from his pocket, and thus earned him the beating of three lifetimes. So maybe some apologies were in order, though more so on the part of her sister who-


There was a moment of silence as some of the other cellmates to join them slowly turned to regard the sound of metal grinding against stone and bear witness to yet another rather concerning development for their particular ten by six cell. With all the commotion, introductions, story-making and shit drinking, Roshanarra was becoming more and more irate with the situation. Rage boiled within her blood, the beating of distant drums of war sounding and she could feel the war-wind building as each moment passed. With a motion of her hands, she rolled her wrists so that she gripped the manacles binding her to the wall tight and started flexing with every bit of Orcish muscle she had. The dark-scaled Argonian noticed first, and Khaliya swore he turned a lighter shade as once more he decided that he should be anywhere except where he was sat. Then came the grinding, the creaking of metal protesting greatly at being bent in ways it shouldn't. A pair of guards slowly leaned in to watch as Roshanarra pulled the bolts fully from the stone wall and gruffly tore the mask from her face to reveal the bloodied tusks that had almost earned one man a visit to the temple.

And that was nearly where things would have gotten back to the brawl except for a hand on her shoulder, Yashar leaning in to offer his support and slowly the war-wind began to fade. She could hear the distant disappointment of Malacath echoing into the back of her mind, and then a smaller hand reaching out to gently touch her on the knee, and there was her sister, the only one aside from their mother that could pull her from those blood-stained depths and she gave a slow nod as she eased back against the wall and let the chains rattle against the stone. One crisis averted for her siblings, but she could see the look in her little sister's eyes and the slow direction towards the Breton boy battered and bruised from her actions back in Daggerfall Dan's. From rage to shame, she saw the damage wrought upon him and the anger in his eyes, fixing upon her like the animal she had indulged herself to become. And for that moment she felt a brief flickering of the war-wind trying to stoke her back into action, to violence no matter the consequences.

But she was not an animal, nor was she beholden to the whims of a prince who punished his people for sins not their own. So when she spoke, it was without the expected guttural growl befit of many Orsimer, but more of a dulled accent of Shimmerene, the City of Lights and her mother's home. "Roshanarra." She introduced herself to those listening, which considering her role in the brawl and how she entered into the conversation now would surely be more than a few. And then her gaze turned towards Caddach, fixing him with those amber hues and giving a slow nod of contrition. "I... Am sorry for trying to kill you. I will not apologize for the Altmer though." That one was more pointed towards her brother, who had chided her on throwing a man out of a window, but did bring a bit of levity as Khaliya laughed aloud despite the misfortune.

Between the aches of his beating, the noise of the now rather crowded cell, and the ramblings of a few of his new ‘associates’ who seemed to have questionable touch with reality, Darmon found it had to follow the conversations. A few close by tried to talk, but he just shook his head and gave an apologetic shrug.

He pulled himself a little tighter as he looked about once more; this many folks so tightly packed was a recipe for disaster, and he could feel an underlying tension in the air. Clasping his hands together, he began to fiddle with the rings on his fingers, something he’d done ever since he was a child whenever he was nervous.

@Quest Abandoner & @MacabreFox

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_{@spicykvnt@MacabreFox}

---

What was once a gentle moment with Isai's handling of his assistant, quickly gave way to one of smug satisfaction. The amusement he felt by Deia’s sudden demands and… my, is that begging? A tongue that can turn locks indeed! Why, if she made such a show with her magic, then why not burst through the cell and slay every guard on the way out? Aside from the obvious answer of the complications that’d arise thereof… could she? It begged the question of her ability, though he wasn’t one to test her patience on a woman who seemed to have nothing to lose – especially since that patience already seemed tested and found wanting.

Then she turned to the rest of the cell and tried to stoke the rebellious spirits of the others. The same ones who she might have once endeared herself towards, only to scoff at the opportunity and tease their mettle and make mockery of? While he appreciated her getting the cathay-raht off his back, there was such a present lack of rhetorical cohesion that he could barely stifle a chuckle! He leaned into Verena’s ear to whisper, “A note from the history books: appear weak when you are strong and appear strong when you are weak.”

Truly, there were many here who appeared strong.

Amidst an uncomfortable moment of silence (or at least a moment of no one addressing the raving woman in the room), all it took was so much as a single pair of eyes to fall on him — whether accidental or otherwise, as there were many different people stuffed into the same cell and he wasn’t picky for attention — to interpret as his permission to intervene. He felt his experience made him neatly qualified, whether he considered himself a real esquire, true magistrate of the law, or not, his certainty of the law was itself, he felt, sufficient to champion its cause. He certainly knew enough to bend them to his will, if nothing else.

With a deep breath, Isai began his attempt to assuaging Deia’s nerves, “Because, dear madam, the crimes alleged to be committed are for either drunk and disorderly, vagrancy, or misdemeanor assault. As enumerated within the Emperor’s decree in the Imperial legal charters, such crimes are only punishable by fine up to forty septims or by… nine and a half, round up to ten, hours of penance by incarceration. A night in holding to cool tempers once stoked aflame! No one will be rotting tonight.”

As he looked around at the other prisoners, he did not doubt that some threw more than a single punch aimed at more than a single person, and as such their sentences would be longer. Still, he hoped his words would bring some sense of calm to the anxieties already present and those that may be further stoked by the vulture woman’s words. He peered through the cell door at the guards beyond, forcing some larger man, still drunk, to lift his arm and subject the poor bard to the smell of his underarm.

“I don’t oft dispense with legal consult free of charge – oh gods, sir, get help –” he continued, retching for a moment at the smell of his cellmate’s pits, “but I’d advise thee against jailbreak. I entreat instead: relax! It’s hardly worth the hundred septim fine for breaking through the cell, nor the additional thousand for each guard thou slayest en exeunt… ah, but alas, I fret that fines and incarceration will be the least of thine worries if re-captured — once the magicka reserves deplete.”

There was a pause amidst Isai’s gesticulating and grandstanding only for there to be a moment – a human moment when his eyes met hers with an earnest plea, even though he felt called to look away when the animal in her stared back – when he said in simple words, “There are greater battles ahead, love. Rest up.”

---

Looking down at the hand extended before him, Veeza grasped it by way of greeting, eclipsing the young woman’s hand within his own. As Khaliya pointed out her brother, Veeza gave him a slow nod in acknowledgement. Then, he took a moment to size up the other Argonian, Kharne. He was certainly impressive. With both of them seated, Veeza couldn’t even tell which was the larger of the two of them. Addressing both the Redguard and the Argonian in unison, he said, “My name is Veeza. I am a gladiator of Kvatch. Though sometimes, like today, I also do combat in the capital. Usually that's limited to just inside the arena.” His voice was stone scraping against stone, less of a rasp at the edges of his words than a low grating that gave each syllable an earthy, sturdy quality. Flicking his eyes to focus on Kharne in particular, he hazarded, “Well met, beeko.” His grasp of Jel was passable, but he had few speaking partners in Kvatch to hone his usage of it.

Kharne could be from anywhere; have any outlook. Still, there was nothing wrong with seeking a little solidarity. Argonians weren’t always looked kindly upon.

“These are poor circumstances to meet under,” He continued, once more speaking to the both of them. “Sharing a round together would have been better.”

He stiffened suddenly as the woman- no, as the madwoman began her sudden outburst. Did he hear her say her name was Deia? He wasn’t sure. His tail stopped its agitated flicking, instead coming to be poised perfectly still as his fingers clenched into fists. It was likely she was just addled, not necessarily dangerous. Even so. He wouldn’t tolerate any further violence in his presence tonight.

His pale, yellow eyes focused on her warily while he addressed Khaliya and Kharne in a low voice, “This cell is full of colorful characters, it seems.”

That was when the flamboyant man began to speak. He… did make sense, even if the language was particularly grandiloquent for Veeza’s tastes. He seemed smarter than he acted at any rate. Whether the charlatan’s persona he exuded was done so with intent or not was another matter entirely.

He nodded in self-confirmation, echoing himself, “Colorful indeed.”

The man’s words did get him thinking though. How long would the guards see fit to keep him in here? Ildrani was going to be worried about him if his arena earnings weren’t enough to pay off whatever fine they saddled him with. He would pay it happily too, to get out of here. The smell of alcohol never bothered Veeza, but it reeked here.

It smelled like his father. That scent: the sickly smell of sweat and alcohol, fermented into a foul odor that brought with it nothing but unpleasant memories. Was he even still alive? Veeza wasn't confident. It didn't matter either way. He was wise enough to know that such a reunion would bring nothing of value with it. Now he had a home. A career. Someone that he loved. And, for all that Mush-La was a mean old bastard, thanks to him he had the tools he needed to keep all three.

Gradually his tense muscles relaxed.

Trusting- or perhaps hoping that the wild woman, Deia, would look upon the flamboyant man’s words with as much agreeance as he himself did, he resolved to continue the conversation with Khaliya and Kharne. Still, he flicked an eye back in their direction often enough.

“So- what exactly brings the both of you to the city?”

Calal had been slumped against the wall, lying still, before finally stirring. "Oh man... my head" he'd say as he sat up looking at the.... very crammed cell. He wondered if the guy that clocked him would be in here but as he looked around he didn't see him. He sighed as he stood up slowly looking at everyone as he walked forward eye each person before looking around and seeing just how crammed it was he at first looked shocked to see so many people in here.

The cell was a little cold to Calal's liking and seemed like the amount of bodies didn't really help all that much when you have been slumped against the wall for who knows how long. The damp air carried the stench of unwashed bodies and stale ale. "Well, this is quite the cell-ebration... but I was hoping for a more private suite... are you all in here for the same reason?" he would say nonchalantly and with a grin. "I wouldn't suppose any of you were the guy that clocked me, are you? I promise I didn't mean to bump into you!"

His eyes scanned the prison as he thought about the different reasons that they'd have this many people in here. Surely it was just for peacekeeping purposes. He'd slowly push his way to the bars that held them there. "Alright, I'd like to go home to see my family now. I promise I won't make any fuss, I just need to get my stuff and then I'll be on the way back to the Heartlands. I don't even want to be in the Imperial City. I was just here to sell my furs." he'd say knowing full well it was a moot attempt but he wasn't going to just sit there and not try it.

He sat there waiting for any response, when there wasn't he would turn to the large group in the prison and shrug at them. "Well that was my best attempt. Anyone got any other ideas? Or I assume you all are already working on that... or have been told what is happening next?" he said wit a grin as he leaned against the bars of the cell. " Sorry, where are my manners? It's good to meet you chaps. My name is Calal Tergis. It's a pleasure to meet you all!" He would untie the deer pelt from is waist and use it to wrap around his arms as it was rather cold in the cell. Thankfully the deer hide worked perfectly and he was very grateful that it hadn't been confiscated from... He paused and looked down and raised his head to the sky. "Really, they had to take my pouch of herbs? It's not like I had skooma in it, just a few flowers I had picked up outside!" He would shake his head before facing the group again.

---

---

The brightness of the moons on this night had given way during the intensifying riots to the reddish-orange haze of fires and the beacons lit across the walls of the Imperial City as little by little the Legions struggled to regain order. Yet as smoke filled the night sky and the calls to order sounded over angry citizens, a shift to the atmosphere could be felt as rumor spread like wildfire and fanned the rioters into a panic in the face of the watch. The guards in the prison shifted back and forth as they rested, swapping in and out with each other as some came in from the streets battered and bruised and trying to get a moment of rest before heading back in. Some just wanted a moment to breathe, a moment of relative silence in the wake of so much violence gripping the city.

But the rumor carried even down into the prison proper, the words said before anyone could try and stress the importance of keeping such things to one's self. "Murdered. At his own wedding." A man fresh from the Palace District sat with his back to the wall, blood spattered across his armor from his flight to Legion headquarters. Some of it looked clearly to be his own, a lot more civilian, rioter or otherwise. At first as he said those words, not many paid him much mind, a murder at a wedding was an awful affair but not enough to cause as much destruction as was ongoing. Then another man entered, pulling a dented helmet from his head and tossing it in the corner of the bastion up above. His face was bruised and split where he had clearly chosen to catch a blunt object with his face, though maybe not quite intentional.

His voice carried all the way down to the prison proper, outraged and over his fellow guards trying to calm him. "Dead! All of them!" A commotion sounded from above, and some of the guards down with the prisoners glanced nervously at each other, wondering if they should step in and help, but deciding it was probably best to keep out for now. "Geldall, his traitor-bitch wife, and all the others. People with masks and red robes all over the damn city stabbing anyone and everyone, took a knife just trying to get here." Where before the other cells had been just as packed as their own and rather busy with people arguing their own issues, a silence descended upon them for the first time all night. Hands gripped the bars and a collection of faces leaned in to try and get a look for themselves in disbelief. A soft murmuring, some questioning, others denying, the conversation building all around them as even the guards had their own takes.

Up above there was more shouting and arguing, the man trying to rally a few to go with him to the palace only for panic to set in and the sound of blades clashing. Though the prisoners could not see, it was clear a fight had broken out in the bastion and without any further information it seemed as if the city itself had gone mad. Screams, the sounds of rent flesh and steel, until one voice cut across all others and put some order to the chaos around them.

"Legionnaires! Phalanx!"

A woman's voice, one that may have been familiar to at least one member of the cell, and even if unfamiliar to the others this one was someone clearly in command. Imperial through and through, but with that subtle Breton lean, she needed no further insistence as the guards by the cell pulled together into an impromptu phalanx with a pair up front with shields and the rest drawing their blades and waiting. They need not wait too long, as with a scream of protest, a man in red robes and a black metal mask came cascading down the turn in the corridor, tumbling into the front ranks. Those two up front worked the shields to carry the robed man's momentum, sending him above the six guards in the corridor and into their drawn blades to die behind them. Then another came down, and they shifted to the sides of the corridor to allow the second rank to step forward, plunging their swords into the man's chest and pulling him out through the formation to the back. A third and the sounds of fighting up above went silent, replaced with heavy boots coming down the stairs and more distant shouts.

"Gaius, Titus. You two are with Lady Alexandria, help her rally the Legions and take back the city. Lucia and Marinus, gather whoever is rested enough to mount a defence of the Prison District. Assist Lady Julia with organizing relief and securing the isle."

The guards took several steps back, that same woman coming into view now as she turned to look into the cell, her disappointment clear as well as no small amount of disgust. It was clear that she was very unamused with the people within this cell, though the exact reason why was unclear at the moment. Yet for those who knew… Her armor marked her out as a member of the Blades, but the katana at her side bloodied and the scabbard dented was more than enough for even the most novice of Imperial Citizens to recognize the distinct danger they may be in. The Blades. Here. In the prison. Either someone within the cell had made a rather severe error in who they struck during the riot or-

"If it wasn't for the riot burning the Arena District to the ground, I would be having one or all of you in the interrogation cells to explain this, but we have more important matters at hand." Captain Renault beckoned with her hand and she was joined by two other dour-faced Blades, taking a look back at her charge and ensuring that the corridor was safe for now. The other cells had gone quiet, even Valen Dreth had somehow found it in him to keep his mouth shut and stay out of sight. "Open this cell and get these people out of here. We need through and we need-" Slowly another came into sight, this one not armored like his escorts but they gave him the kind of deference that made it very clear who he was. An older man gray of hair and with a weary expression across his features as he looked into the cell and shared a moment of disappointment with the captain of his Blades. All the more as someone actually asked the question of who the old man was, to which Yashar very quietly told said person in as kind a tone as possible, that they needed to be very quiet and be ready to move when told to.

"The one from my dreams…" Uriel Septim stood before them as the door was quickly unlocked, his Blades stepping in just in case someone decided to make a move they disagreed with. "Elara, this was written in the stars… Today is the day." Captain Renault frowned at this, though she gestured to one of the others to step into the cell and make his way through the throng of people to press at the wall behind Caddach with a brief apology.

"Okay." The other man stepped in to address the group, allowing Renault to guide the Emperor off to the side and to give a clear path up the stairs. "Your Emperor and his Blades is in need of moving through your cell, and in his benevolence is bestowing a pardon of all crimes to each of you, but either move up the stairs or down the tunnel." Baurus nodded to his captain, ignoring her disapproval and opting for expediency in this endeavor, watching a couple already taking advantage and rushing back up the stairs to the relative safety above. "Make your choice, but know there is danger no matter which direction you go."

---

---

Kiffar had been, for lack of a better descriptor, catatonic for several minutes now. In the way of orange cats everywhere, he had picked a random shadow to stare at, and promptly become vacant of all thought and expression, save the occasional flicker of his tail. As a result, he missed the majority of conversation in the time since he had seated himself, stirring only once the authoritative shouts of the approaching Blades became audible. That, at least, was enough to make him blink a few times, seeming to return to the present from whatever abyss had borrowed his attention as they were all herded to the sides, and issued instructions. He found himself pressed to the wall at the rear, just beside the opening tunnel, and thankfully without squishing anybody else between himself and the wall.

It took him a few moments to process and mentally catch up with the goings on, but soon enough, he dipped into what fraction of a bow he could manage while crowded back against the wall, fingers brushing his chest, icy eyes locked on the Emperor and his escort. He was familiar with them, in passing- vague memories of time spent guarding the talks between Emperor and Mane, before things had gone so wrong.

"Mane-of-Men, this one is pleased you still breathe. Kiffar thanks you for this pardon. He regrets that he is no longer worthy of offering service to the Mane-of-Men, but Kiffar will gladly make clear the tunnel's exit for him. Come, Elfling. Witch-woman, Darmon-Thing, and the fancy man-thing should come, too. Maybe the lizard-things, yes yes. We will go take fresh air and give hands to things that may lurk and skulk beyond. As a favor for the pardoning, yes? Then maybe come back for Kiffar's things from the things-box. Kiffar likes those things."

He seemed to have little interest in hanging around to see if the others followed his presumed lead- indeed, his words were muffled by the time he was half done speaking, as the massive Khajiit ducked down and started his way down the passage opened at the back of the cell. On the bright side, he made an excellent duster on the way, with his shoulders brushing the walls and his head the ceiling, clearing the tunnel of cobwebs by simple virtue of walking through it ahead of everybody else. If the tight space bothered him, he didn't let it show- or at the very least, he seemed determined to resolve the problem by getting to the other end with expediency, moving briskly and stalling for nothing. He'd find the exit soon enough. Hopefully. Probably. If it wasn't locked.

The entourage could not have arrived at a better time. Arvela had become increasingly certain that a fight of some kind was about to break out just moments prior, but the sudden appearance of the elite soldiers defused the tension almost instantly. She was however shocked to see none other than the Emperor himself amongst the newcomers, his sudden appearance prompting a plethora of questions of their own. What was really going on? Who were the masked assailants, and why were they attacking? Then there was the matter of the incredible coincidence of her, of all people, being put in this very cell, of all places. Everything about it had a touch of destiny, and what was that He'd said? She could feel the hairs on her neck standing out just thinking about it. The one from my dreams...

She didn't know if he'd referred to her, but neither did she care. Azura was shining a light for her to follow, and Arvela would be damned if she didn't explore the path offered. Her gut told her there was danger involved, though. More so than before. Now, more than ever, she'd really like to have her weapon at hand. Arvelas gaze landed on the Blade who had offered them their freedom. He seemed a practical sort - a man of action, as it were. Perhaps he'd understand? Deciding it was worth the risk, she approached him slowly, making sure not to act or appear threatening in any way.

"Serjo, if I may" she said, trying to get his attention, "I want to help. I believe I can help in many ways, but alas my possessions have been taken from me. Would it be possible for me to collect them from the prison inventory? They would be of great aid, I have no doubt. I will be swift."

She held his gaze, her expression urgent but honest.

---

Verinric quickly straightens up from his previous slouch against the wall, stretching as much as he is able in the packed cell, it sounds like the night may have found a way to get even worse. Idle as his mind is he can't help but muse on what he hears, so these riots aren't entirely the fault of that thrice cursed Arena, though the red robes and masks don't ring any bells.
He stayed quiet as the Blades talked, even managing not to gasp when the Emperor himself strolled up to the cell and proclaimed the situation to fit a prophetic dream, though sadly didn't feel the need to tell anyone what exactly he foresaw.
When the offer was made, well that was an easy choice, when would he get a second chance to see Prophecy in person, perhaps he might even be able to offer some help.

Verinric moves towards the rear of the cell, remembers to bow to the Emperor, and faces the Blade who pardoned them before speaking for the first time since entering this accursed place, "A most gracious thank you for that pardon, I too shall be taking the tunnel, perhaps I may even be of use." With that said, he casts a spell of Light upon himself and follows after Kiffar.

Deia pocketing her flask of Rotmeth hardly fazed Yarmira; she barely had a concept of personal possessions, with her tribe constantly stealing from one another in a sort of never-ending game. She would steal it back later, perhaps with a few other things as well, though Yarmira wasn't sure what else she could take from the tall woman. She wasn't quite as talented as her brothers and sisters, who could steal the clothes off of someone while they slept. But Yarmira would find something.

What did disturb the young Bosmer was Deia's refusal to share her story. It was unthinkable. Unimaginable. To tell one's tale was to honor Y'ffre, the Great Singer, to breathe life into the world as He did in the days when nothing held a true form. Spinning stories anchored them to this world, ensured their wisdom and deeds would be remembered long after they were gone. A Bosmer with no story was like a tree with no roots. It spoke to a life wasted, or a life of shame. Perhaps, Yarmira considered, this Deia had been exiled from her tribe, and sought to hide this dishonor.

She shook her head in pity as Deia threw herself against the bars of their prison, forgetting that she herself had exhibited a similar frenzy moments ago. Yarmira realized she misjudged Deia, and more importantly, the subject of her wrath. The Bosmer listened intently to Isai, fixing her dark eyes on him. She understood little of what he actually said, but the man possessed the qualities of a powerful Spinner. A lilting voice, engaging presence, and a deep knowledge of the world around them; certainly greater than her own, judging by the authority with which he spoke. Yarmira decided she could learn much from this strange man. From his story, she pieced together that a great chieftain named Emperor had captured them here, and would pass judgement on his captives by tomorrow. A strange custom, but this was a strange land. Yarmira decided she would parlay with this Emperor, offer her services as a huntress in exchange for freedom from this snare. Kiffar-Nir'thal seemed unwilling or unable to assist in their escape. This did not surprise Yarmira. The big cats of Valenwood were known for their mercurial temperament, flitting from one desire to the next with the changing of the wind. It was not her place to command him. But she suspected it was a test. A way to see if Yarmira was still worthy of his guidance.

Yarmira was planning her petition to this chieftain when a horrendous cacophony echoed through the halls, like some thunderstorm that threatened to tear the world asunder. More not-Mer in carapace armor came into view, only theirs was not dull and dented but colored and brilliant; the markings of a great warrior, Yarmira suspected. The fighters were confronted by some beast that walked on two legs but wore the face of a demon. They made quick work of this creature, working in tandem like a pack of fierce wolves. Yarmira watched on, transfixed, as one emerged from their ranks. There was no doubt in her mind. This was Emperor, the Mighty Chieftain of the White Tree. White-haired and wise, draped in the fur of some unknown yet surely powerful beast, and surrounded by strong war-makers. Yarmira's plan of entering his service fell apart immediately in her head; what use was she to a being of such immense power? And yet he spoke of his dreams, dreams which brought them together. Yarmira, too, had visions of this strange place. Such a thing could not be coincidence, but the will of the Singer. They were under attack, and fate brought them here. There was no doubt in her mind. With a reverential bow, Yarmira stated her oath.

"My bow is yours, Emperor, my teeth and blade. My blood, if the Story wills it," the young Bosmer said breathlessly. All her visions, all her dreams, leading to this moment. "May Y’ffre weave this vow into the story of the world, and may my service be as steadfast as the oak, until the winds shift and the tale turns anew. So long as I draw breath, these red demons will not harm you." If she had a knife, Yarmira would have sliced open her palm and bled into Emperor's mouth to seal this pact, but from the way his warriors looked at her, she suspected this would not be well-received. She was slowly learning that her customs might not be shared by every being in the world. A difficult concept for her.

Others sought their belongings upstairs, but if these armored behemoths were fleeing from there, what chance did they have with naught but their fangs? Yarmira followed the others into the tunnel, confident that she could find something suitable to defend Emperor along the way. Such was the way of her people. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, accustomed to the perpetual twilight that Valenwood's thick canopy created, only to be blinded moments later by a brilliant flash of light summoned into a mage's hand. "I hope your claws are as sharp as they were the last time we crossed paths, Kiffar-Nirthal," Yarmira said as they marched deeper into the bowels of the earth.

---

Ensnared was her attention over Deia, with the way the wild woman had drawn closer to Verena, she became entranced, her stare fixated in a hypnotic-like state as Deia caressed her curls. Her shoulders hitched with tension as a memory of her mother came to her, one that left her gazing at Deia in confusion. Verena’s brows pinched together in this haze of contemplation, she wanted to glance to Isai, to seek help. Yet… she couldn’t.

‘I’ve seen finer order in a pigsty than upon thy head, as a mop doth hold more grace than that wretched tangle!’

Her mother’s chastisement filled her head, echoing in a profound way to where she could almost smell her liquored breath assailing her nose.

She blinked. Instead of the red-rimmed eyes of her mother staring at her in disgust, Verena recentered herself with the simple action, where she regarded Deia, staring in miration at her dull grey eyes. The wild woman had fallen into a curious state of some sort, perhaps deep in recollection, her fingers hovering just over Verena’s mane. She had expected her to give a sharp tug, just like her mother, yet none came. Deia turned away from Verena with such suddenness that she stood there in confusion, blinking at the empty space that she had filled seconds before.

And then came Isai, his whispered words drawing her attention away, “A note from the history books: appear weak when you are strong and appear strong when you are weak.”

She swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat, shifting her weight uncomfortably as Isai began to placate Deia with her angered demands for release.

The following events transpired with such haste that Verena couldn’t help but liken herself to a tiny boat being tossed about a stormy sea. And just when she thought she couldn’t tolerate the noise and cacophony of voices… the Emperor appeared.

‘Either move up the stairs or down the tunnel… know there is danger no matter which direction you go…’

Upon the Emperor’s appearance, Verena heard Isai at her side, amidst a groan at what he must have perceived as amateurish wordplay, was suddenly gagged as he exclaimed, “Dominus noster!” Then looking over upon feeling him stir, he seemed to have the good sense to prostrate himself before Emperor Uriel Septim. His proskynesis was a peculiar state to see him in certainly, for although he frequently made shows of respect, he rarely showed any genuine reverence for anything. She could tell that his smile, though hard to see aimed at the ground, was nervously worn for how stiff he was and by droplets of sweat forming on his neck.

Tugging upon Isai’s sleeve, Verena whispered to him, glancing to Deia before looking down at him, her face twisted in concern, “Isai…” she said, her words soft with a notable tremble, “W-what… what are we to do?”

Already, others were beginning to follow after the Emperor into the tunnel…

“We keep our heads down!” Isai squawked quietly through gritted teeth. He wanted to look up at the Blades, but held his deep bow. Had they said something about riots and violence in the streets? Sounds of combat at the top of the stairwell? They pushed their way through the crowd to activate a secret doorway — whatever was happening, they thought the Emperor’s life was in danger and were going to escort him through a secret tunnel. Kissing the Emperor’s feet be damned, any sudden move aimed towards the elderly Septim would quickly see his head removed from his shoulders! He rather liked his head.

As the Emperor’s entourage moved away from his corner of the cell and as some of the prisoners rushed out upon their sudden pardon, Isai inched away and stood up, pushing his back against the bars of the cell.

“Uh, well, ah…” He began with a stammer. “Well, let’s be logical about this… I should probably keep my distance, yes? A dozen pardoned prisoners of no significant status rushing the Emperor to talk with him while his bodyguards are escorting him can not be a good idea… there’s danger outside, and maybe there’s less down there… those are the Blades, and they’re the best of the best, but they’ll protect the Emperor long before me… meanwhile the Imperial Watch—”

Isai flinched as a watchman’s dented helmet rolled down the spiral staircase with a loud bang for every step it fell onto, before finally rolling into a wall and leaving a bloody imprint.

“—they have their hands full, the mysterious tunnel it is then.” Isai quickly concluded. He looked to Verena, concerned yet decisively, “Mysterious tunnel. Which I suppose works quite well for me! I can record the events that transpire within proximity of the Emperor, if…”

Isai dug through his satchel to confirm that he still possessed the belongings he needed, then the bard beamed, “If I have my journal and quill! Blessed gods, I do!”

Then came the flood of ideas and questions he could harry the Blades with, and suddenly Isai’s previous thought of leaving them well enough alone seemed like the far less lucrative option.

Deia did not bow or turn to submission under the eyes of the Blades. Isai and Verena may have, but Deia remained unmoved. Poised. Taut. Waiting. Her gaze latched, and not in reverence - but in seeking any tremors or weakness beneath their well-trained discipline.

She did not fear the Emperor, either. To her, he was just a man, and no different from the nobles and courtiers she had long since been abandoned by. He too, would find his way to the soil and bloat and blacken all the same. The same worms that would feast on beggars in the slums of the Imperial City would feast on him. The gilded tombs of the Septim would not raise him above the reach of decay.

Verena’s eyes swept over those that lingered, though they would all have to make a decision with haste from the sound of it. Her attention drifted to Deia, almost as if some unearthly force drew her gaze back.

Gulping down the growing anxiety of the situation, she cleared her throat to address her, “You should come with us into the tunnels.”

“She should?” Isai quipped, eyeballing her nervously.

Verena spared a glance to Isai, the pit of her stomach twisting into a knot, partly composed of nervousness, the other portion nameless, “She should.”

“If the Emperor is going down this way, maybe it’s best we do too.” She replied, loud enough for both of them to hear.

Deia slipped the flask of Rotmeth into the folds of her cloak as her posture altered; alert, looming. The Bosmer may have disappeared into the tunnel, but Deia was not yet finished with her. “I am no servant or disciple to a King…” Deia muttered in response, reacting to a twitch in her neck that shuddered out her balanced poise and had her turn to meet the eyes of Verena. The woman’s nerves were palpable and had mixed to her scent. Isai was seeking opportunity this way, that much she could deduce. The poet and the King…

The broad silhouette of the Cathay-raht had already vanished into the long darkness of the tunnel and swallowed by its yawn. He couldn’t be trusted to watch over himself, let alone anyone else he called out to; announcing himself as some lead forward. No, his mind flitted too easily, slipping through questions like sand through fingers.

Deia’s lips curled and she ‘tsked’ in distaste for him. The tunnels breathed around them all now and she did not trust their silence amidst the chaos. Verena was small, fragile, and yet not. The scent of the roses clung to her in a familiar way that made Deia’s stomach twist. Something about her presence pulled and pinched at the edges of a memory. Something half formed or lost, a thread that had pulled and left a trail. The way she had flashed her loyalty to Isai – a fire beneath her soft exterior. Was it that? It was unwelcome, whatever it was. The feeling clawed and pressed against her ribs from the inside. Protect her.

“Stay at me,” she said to Verena, suppressing the feeling as she stepped closer. It was not a request. It was a demand. The shadows thickened still, and as her voice edged with something dangerous, her fingers flexed, magic coiling beneath her skin. “If anything tries to do harm to us this way,” she whispered, “I will show them true chaos.”

She meant it. Isai could tell that much, and whether she had talent that could back her confidence or not, he would’ve either way held the skeptical notion that the spillways of her magicka reserves would claim him as well if he kept too close if her allegations of true chaos held true. She claimed servitude to no king, but she clearly served different matters. She seemed too… mercurial; too little mastery over the dark forest of her heart, a spectacle claimed and entangled by nature and its thorns. Was she truly a mage or witch in the truest sense, having mastery over her powers, or was she simply a rip and tear in the fabric of Mundus, a conduit through which magicka flowed freely? In the eternal battle of mastering versus becoming mastered, the dichotomy between the two seemed like bubbles poised at distant ends of a level. He’d admit at least one thing though: he’d have to be closer to being like her if he wanted to balance himself at its center.

“A leashed and registered caliber of chaos, I hope...” He muttered to himself.

Verena inhaled, taking a deep breath to steel her nerves, and let the exhale roll through her. She fixed her cloak about her neck once more, securing its pin before she shook out her hands.

“Right… let’s not tarry a moment longer.” Verena said, grasping both of them by the elbows of their attire. She gave Isai a gentle nudge forward, taking the middle herself, and pulling Deia in behind her. With the three in tow and trailing behind the retinue following the Emperor, they ducked their heads under the stonework and descended into the darkness below the prison.

Kharne's eues drifted to the Redguard womans hand when she offered it to him. His great mitt came up and grasped her forearm, those thick scaled fingers wrapped around the whole forelimb. "Good to meet you, Khaliya, Veeza." He rumbled before glancing to Yashar and Roshanarra, giving the pair of them a simple nod.His voice was deep, almost painfully so, but he had a quiet tone so his voice shouldn't carry well with the rest of the boisterous lot crowding the jail cell.

Veeza spoke a word that vaguely triggered a memory, clearly native language from Black Marsh. "I don't know the native tongue, I was taken very young." He replied to Veeza, who was apparently an arena fighter for a place named Kvatch. "I'm a mercenary and I was just exploring the city... He stated before they were all interrupted by heavily armored guards with slender curved swords. Katanas judging by the look, a delicate weapon he didn't care for. Apparently the Emperor has paid them all a visit! Celebrity recognition for brawling, huzzah.

But no, in reality they were not supposed to be in this jail cell, but given every cell was packed by the rioters there was no choice but to stuff them all in the sacred cell. Which turned out to have a secret passage for escaping. They were given the option of going up or going below. He thought to himself a moment before slapping his knees and standing up. "Off to adventure then. There might be a reward for assisting them." He mused as he stretched his arms over his head and then leaned back. He had been sitting long enough, and a couple others went into the tunnel in short order.

"You lot coming into the secret escape route? He questioned, amused by the fact the tunnel was even there. Without really waiting for an answer he lumbered along into the dark behind the others who went ahead. From what had been said it sounded like it was more hectic up top. He wasn't one to shy away from a fight but he was unarmed, who knew where his stuff was, and most people tended to use actual swords versus a sharpened wedge of steel and punching only worked so well. Tunnel was potentially safer to deal with. Potentially.

---

Bleary eyes creaked open, as pain shot through his system a clutching at his and wincing only delivering a second winded gasp as his ribs were definitely at least cracked. Sildun cracked lips tasted of blood still, the massive Nord trying to get his bearings as he grunted trying to focus, the urge to vomit rising lucky at worst it would be a retching drive heave, still not ideal. With one hand wrapped around his ribs the other on his head. When his eyes finally focused... It was the Emperor and Blades before him, he'd seen a Blade once or twice in passing but... The Emperor... Shor's stones... This was... He fought the ringing in his ears and the blaring noise of his mind to hear the emperor speak. The beaten Nord downing his best to rise to a knee and bow his head, he'd sworn an oath and taken the Emperor's coin. This man, his Emperor... He'd fight and die for him, he was Dragonborn the hope of men, subduer of Mer and rightful ruler of all realms he reminded himself, smiling even if the day had gone poorly a chance to serve the Emperor himself, he'd never had another chance like this.

"Sildun-" He wheezed and coughed hard retching a moment, as he tilted his head up. "Sildun Oath-blood... Auxilia of the Imperial Legion, honored to serve whereever I can." He spoke hoarsely, steadying himself as he braced on the wall thankful at least he still had his boots and traveling clothes seems the guards hadn't taken everything from him. As he braced on the wall his hands ignited with soft light doing his best to summon forth restoration magic starting on his head, fighting the urge to retch as focused his will on trying to tamp down the pain and repair some damage.

"Where the Emperor goes I'll defend... I swore an Oath, A Nord's word is his life. No honor awaits me if abandon you now my Emperor." His breath began to steady a bit as shifted his hand to his ribs next, wincing in pain. Barely managing to stand now under his own power he fought to rise to his full height where he once lay thrown into a corner leaned against a wall. The big looking down at the blades. "Whatever I can give is yours Captain, even injured my duty is to Emperor. I took his coin." Sildun spoke slowly looking over the crowd in the cell, he was certainly not the largest here but far from the smallest, the beating he'd taken during from guards certainly came from a fear he'd be hard to subdue it seemed.

---

---

Assassins, rioters and now... Drunkards. Captain Elara Renault pinched the bridge of her nose as she considered the circumstances before her. This was supposed to be a secret escape route for the Septims, carefully managed by the watch and ensured to be empty at all times. Yet it seemed as if both Aedra and Daedra conspired against them, for now she had to deal with this lot and her Emperor's damned visions all at the same time. As she had been trained to do, she compartmentalized and prioritized the tasks at hand. With a gesture of her hand she called forward a pair of Blades that had been just out of sight, Akaviri masks hiding their faces and thus leaving their expressions unreadable. "My liege, these two will escort you down the tunnel and to a more secure point." The Emperor frowned over being hurried along, but he understood that necessity was key at this point in the night. Gathering his robes about him, the man shifted through those that remained and followed Kiffar with a Blade in front and behind him. Now Renault looked over the collection before her. A Dunmer woman had requested her belongings, then another of the group and another. The Nord staggered awake and there remained two Orsimer in the cell as well, though one bore an amulet of the Nine and the vestments of a priest.

Turning now to the officers of the watch, she bid one of them forward "Officer, were you the one who oversaw these arrests?"

"Yes, Captain. Myself and Varinus arrested all of them at Daggerfall Dan's, a few mostly just to remove them from the danger of a bar brawl that we believe had already resulted in the fatality of a Bosmer."

"Understood. You have a record of their belongings as well?"

"Of course, Captain. Varinus made sure that separate lockboxes were made for each cell and the contents partitioned appropriately."

"Excellent work, both of you are to retrieve the lockbox with one of the group and make haste to follow down the tunnel."

"Understood, Captain."

To that Renault then turned to the group, and without waiting for a volunteer simply pointed to the most trustworthy of the group she could find and assumed would make an effort to reunite with the group. Yashar al-Rihad, the half-Orsimer priest of the Nine stepped forward as indicated, bidding his sisters to follow down the tunnel and joined with the officers of the watch heading up the stairs. Now Renault had the matter at hand of the remaining group as well as those who had already moved ahead of the Emperor and behind him. This was a pressing issue to handle and quickly, but they had been offered a pardon for the night and most would surely be more than accepting of such a thing. "Let me be clear to each of you, including you Thraigyr. Our business is not to be interfered with, and though you have all been granted a pardon, know that it can be rescinded at any point in time at sword-point. Follow if you must, but be swift."