[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/q0fnOOu.png[/img][/center]
[right][sup][color=CD0000][b]Location:[/b][/color] [i]Imperial City Prisons[/i] [/sup][/right][hr]

[color=silver]Veeza recalled long hours in the bloodworks as a child, listening to wounded soldiers entertain him with tales of steel and blood as he tended their wounds. Glorious combats of the arena, the derring-do of treasure hunters and adventurers, all of it paled in comparison to those most legendary of warriors: the Blades. Now they were here before his very eyes, escorting none other than [i]the Emperor himself[/i] as some kind of conspiracy moved against him. Veeza was not old, though he was getting older, and he still found himself momentarily enraptured at the thrill of it all.

Starstruck.

Collapsing into his cot at the end of another brutal day of his uncle’s training, thoughts of fighting alongside the Arms of the Throne would fill his head as he drifted into the realm of dreams. 

Now they were here. More importantly, Veeza reckoned as his thoughts sobered, they were providing a way out. Whatever chaos was going on in the city above, he wanted no part of it. He had a home waiting for him in Kvatch. Following down the tunnel was an easy choice.

In response to the warnings and commands given by the Blades, a low spoken, [color=CD0000]“Understood.”[/color] was all that was required. They were not here to converse with him, ominous statements supplied by the Emperor notwithstanding. 

He dreamed of one of the boozers, brawlers and beggars in this cell? Was it addled ramblings onset by stress and age, or a sign of genuine providence? Veeza supposed anything was possible.

The thought of having a destiny entangled with that of Uriel Septim made his tail twitch. Amidst the chaos of the moment, he was unable to place if the nerves he felt were brought by excitement or apprehension. 

In short order, the prisoners in the cell were making their choice: up or down. 

He was close to the rear of the pack as they made their way down into the bowels of forgotten passages, the putrid stench of booze and sweat giving way to dust, and damp, and the taste of something bitter in the stale air. By Veeza’s reckoning, it was an improvement. Spaces that had been quiet for decades, if not centuries, were filled with the sounds of labored breathing and boots scraping on stone as they made their way into the gloom; on the other side of that? Talos, Azura, or anyone else that was feeling helpful willing: freedom.

Veeza reckoned that even Oblivion itself wouldn’t be able to get in his way.[/color]