Sarel huffed when the male Bosmer allowed the burlap bag to fall at the Dunmers feet. He seemed to have a chip on his shoulder, and, based on the symbol emblazoned on his flask, Sarel could tell it was a Molag-Bal sized chip. Was this man simply an agent of the ancient terror? Or was he something more, something far more gruesome? Sarel let that slip past his consciousness and into the bank of information he held, somewhere deep in the dank, darkness. Sarel allowed the make-up to be applied to his face as he listened to all the news. It was quite interesting, indeed. This group of miscreants devised a way to manipulate the local Khajiiti highwaymen. This meant, whoever was responsible for the plan, was to be watched. Sarel knew the strength of a quick tongue, and he feared it. As his tattoos were being hidden, Sarel flashed back to the time when the tattoo was first being applied. 

[i]The fresh ocean breeze buffeted the sail above, Sarel was much younger. He sat cross-legged atop a table above deck. Standing very near him was a Khajiit woman, she was missing an ear. In her hand was a half black stick with a tiny wooden, point at the end. She would dip the point into the ink next to her, line it up with the half complete tattoo on Sarel’s face and flick a string on her end of the stick. It would jolt and make a small mark in Sarel’s skin, and then draw blood. This was how the Khajiit made tattoo’s and Sarel was disinterested in telling her any other way. She seemed quite capable, and Sarel didn’t want the procedure to be any more painful, so he let her work. He’d given her a dirty, gilded Tsceaci headdress in return for her services. 

“How was it?” She asked, abruptly. Sarel could tell she’d been trying to decide when to ask. “Inland?”

Sarel closed his eyes, he pictured himself running from the temple of the Order, the calamity of Boethia hot on his trails; it bit at his rump like the heat of a burning home. At this point he was still hearing voices grating in the back of his head. They were like a demonic choir, and they wanted attention. “Dark,” he finally said, blood streaming down his face.[/i]

Sarel awoke again in the present, his make up drying in the sun, he hadn’t even realized Sharee was done. He looked in the burlap bag, listening to Sharee’s advice. She had the right idea. He removed all the things that were his, a shirt and vest, a pair of pants, netch leather shoes, and a bloody wakizashi. He then removed several items he would be able to fit into. A white blouse, leather breaches, a hide vest, and leather boots were what he eventually had decided on. Among other things Sarel found a golden ring. He inspected it and noticed a coat-of-arms on the inside. It most certainly belonged to a Breton family. 

"Serge” Sarel whispered to himself. Sarel took his change of clothing behind a rock and changed, it only took a few moments. He was back with the group rather quickly. That’s when he noticed everyone who had gathered, it was quite a large group now that he thought about it. Sarel simply glanced at Sharee before he skipped down the hill toward the road, no need to draw attention to himself, everyone in the group was already questioning whether he was worth saving. 

In a few moments time, Sarel could smell the soot in the air, and hear the manic cries. He had little issue getting through the gate. It seemed like the guard were still pushing the highwaymen back. A barricade stopped Sarel from going through the noble district, which is where he would have normally gone in order to reach the Inn. Instead, he took a left and walked through the alley. Sometimes he’d hear the strains of a fight, and other times he would bump into a frightened beggar, but his jont through the underbelly of the city was mostly uninterrupted. 

Sarel emerged from the façade of an alley and crossed the street to the Inn, a horse nayed loudly as he passed, likely hoping he would be freed from his hitching. The Inn was mostly untouched aside from a barrel having been hoisted through the window. Sarel acended the stairs quickly, making sure he made minimal sound. The Innkeeper was cursing in the kitchen when Sarel passed by. 

The body was gone but Sarel could see it as if it were still yesterday. The blood drenched the floor and walls. At the other end of the hallway was a sheet which provided a minimal fix for the giant hole in the wall where a window should be. Sarel forced his room open and quickly gathered all his things. His armor was safely packed in a burlap bag which he hoisted over his shoulder, his katana was slung over the same shoulder. His tomes and scrolls were neatly tucked in his knapsack along with all his other possessions, he carried that on his back. The complimentary bottle of wine he’d been given with his room was in that same sack, he felt that would suffice for Sharee’s intentions. He left the room, and the Inn without any interference from the Innkeeper. There was another gate a small ways away from the Inn which had only one guard manning it. Sarel simply said he was a traveling merchant from the Ashland, hoping to get out of the city for good. The guard bought it and Sarel walked along the beach, back to where the group was. The walk on the beach was refreshing. He even removed the disgusting boots he wore in order to feel the sand under his toes. 

For the first time in a long time, Sarel felt good. He was exhausted and starving, but he had allies now, a group which he could now use as a point of reference. Then Sarel felt his heart drop, he knew he could not use this group for stability. The foundation from which it was made was antithetical to that idea. Sarel would need to remember that, he would not be able to trust anyone in this group until he knew them better. Then the Dunmer felt sad, he reverted again to passive consumption of the view of the sunset, and realized that he might never be clean again.