[i]Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme 
Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine![/i]

Francis lifted his tankard as the bard began his last song for the night. He and Vendel had come to the tavern not a septim richer than they had come to Hammerfell with, but they still managed to impress a few fellow patrons with tales of their exploits and skills to get them to buy a few tankards for their enjoyment. They took a liking to the rough Vendel a bit more to the politeness and crisp speech that Francis had. Francis took no offense to it, though, as he knew what kind of men the Redguard were, the same kind of men they appreciated- warriors. Where Francis completely excelled at any fight where rules came into play and an honor between two skilled opponents was expected, Vendel was the complete opposite. Rules were poppycock for Vendel, anything was a weapon for him, the stool he sat upon, a bucket of water, the dirt his boots crunched down on; Vendel was a killer, through and through, where Francis was a duelist. The two could claim to both be duelists, but Vendel was more the killer. Anyone who had taken a life could tell the difference, and these Redguard men could tell the difference.

But these merchants couldn’t, and so were untainted by blood spilled upon fields of battle or flagstones of castles. Francis was all the killer that Vendel was, but safer, and the merchants appreciated that. Appreciated it so much that they threw down septims for Francis’s ale. The merchants had stumbled off to sleep in the rooms above and left Francis to drink alone. Even Vendel left for upstairs and the sleep it promised in their room. So, Francis sat and ruminated upon today’s events. He didn’t learn much, just not to buy rugs off of Dunmer merchants. One thing kept snagging on his thoughts, kept catching the gaze of his mind’s eye- The Breton girl. He’d seen her face before, in some memory that he refuses to bring back to the surface. No good can ever be brought by looking into dark places, Francis had learned. But where had he learned it? It was on the tip of his tongue until the bard finished his song and let his weight fall into the stool next to Francis’s own. Francis looked the bard over, he didn’t look the complete image of a bard. Shoulders too broad, you didn’t need broad shoulders to strum a lute or a blow air through a flute. His forearms were too thick, cords of muscle rippling beneath the skin with each movement of the fingers.

“You’re a fighter, no?” Francis began.

The bard stopped, his whole body frozen, the ale not having touched his lips in the tipped tankard in-hand. A slow hand returned the tankard to the bartop and a wary eye placed its gaze on Francis. The Breton felt a touch uncomfortable at that. He wasn’t expecting the man with such a sweet but road-worn voice to now be staring discomfort into him. The bard smiled, “Once.”

Exhaling a sigh of relief that wasn’t easily caught, Francis inquired, “What time was ‘once’, Bard?”

“You ask many questions. I came here to drink, but you’re making me talk.” The words held an edge, like knife held out in front of him to ward Francis off.

“So do both.” Francis wasn’t scared of knives, and he wanted to talk to this man for some reason.

“Imperial City,” The bard spoke, and took Francis’s suggestion, drinking after, and continuing, “The Great Forest, Anvil.”

“That sounds awfully more than once, bard,” Francis cocked an eyebrow and drank, “Tell me, what is your name?”
“It felt like one long moment to me,” The bard said, taking a swig, “My name is Adulvald. Adulvald Whose-Voice-is-Honey, Adulvald of Anvil, Adulvald Whore-Blood, Adulvald the Drunk, Adulvald the Wanderer.”

“You have many names, my friend.” Francis smirked before taking a swig from his own tankard.

“I have many stories.” [i]Swig.[/i]

“Fair enough. Anvil, then.” Francis took a shot, hoping it hit its mark and Adulvald would tell his story. Or one of them.

“You know the Dominion attacked,” This came phrased as a question but Adulvald put it as more of a statement, he knew everyone knew, “I was there, part of the Town Guard that fought for Anvil. We were called to the walls and it was not long before we were overwhelmed. The Legions were crushed, we knew, and we also knew that we would be too if we didn’t fight hard as we could.”
“We fought hard. [i]Hard[/i]. Anyone who tells you otherwise, put a knife in their neck for me if I don’t do it first. They breached the walls in minutes. We only had enough time to slow their advance towards Castle Anvil. Those Gods-damned mer burned us down, the Khajiit ripping throats. It was man’s blood that spilled the most upon the white stone of Anvil. We fought, though.”

“What happened, though? Why are you here?” Francis asked, drawing out a scowl from Adulvald.

“I was a prisoner, like many others. There were whispers that the Heroes were in Anvil the day of the attack, some say they knew. I thought I would have the chance to fight alongside the Heroes of Tamriel, that they would inspire the same courage in us lowly guards that they inspired in an army of Nords in the Siege of Storms. Instead, I got news that they all had abandoned us. All but two.”
[i]Swig[/i]
“Sevari stood with our Count and Countess until the end and became a prisoner, I even think I saw him, and he nodded at me. I heard that he had slipped his bonds with help from a second Hero, Marassa, if rumours are to be believed. Again, I was foolish enough to think that they would pay me the debt- pay [i]us[/i] the debt that their comrades owed by cutting our bonds and leading us to slit every throat we could find in the camp. To right wrongs, to drown those mer in their own sins and blood. All we got was more abandonment come morning. It took a mutiny to free us prisoners, but that was days from when we were captured, after Sevari escaped with that pretty little thing of his. The mutiny wasn’t what we hoped for. It wasn’t a revolution started by one of our own, it was started by a damned Cat. I left after. I crossed the border, got helped by fishermen and now, I am in Rihad.”

“So the Heroes abandoned you?” Francis asked, not entirely trusting the words in his mouth.

“The only Heroes are the ones that fought and died in the Battle of the Gold Coast and the Siege of Anvil. Not the ones who left, stranger.”

“Francis.” The Breton said, offering his own name.

“Ah, Francis. If you meet one of the Heroes, don’t trust yourself to them. It will do you nothing but wrong. I would know.” [i]Swig[/i]

“[i]The Mausoleum.[/i]” Francis whispered, suddenly remembering with the talk of Heroes, “Her name is Elayna. One of the Heroes was there too.”

It was then when Vendel’s heavy steps were heard before his voice was, slurred a bit, but completely sure, “Francis, the girl in the marketplace, she was with us!”

“She knows the Heroes.” Francis said.

Adulvald looked at the two with a cocked eyebrow, not knowing quite what was happening at the moment, “Is any of this supposed to mean something to me?”

“What you said about the Heroes? We may speak to them soon enough, Mister Adulvald.” Francis grinned.