[IC] The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

[Dervish]

Rihad...

The khajiit warrior nodded briskly at Hralvar’s greeting and obvious relief at being spared an unglamorous death. It was becoming too common of a thing for her to be rescuing friends and acquaintances from imprisonment and the unpleasantness that went along with it. The other prisoners were close in tow behind Marassa and Hralvar, who were in the process of disappearing with the fleeing crowd. While Marassa had heard about what happened in Imperial City, she hoped the dwemer here would have some form of restraint when dealing with the citizenry, the memories of Anvil still fresh on her mind. The khajiit and Nord, two outsiders in a sea of people of predominantly dark skinned people in practical but appealing flowing clothing, pushed through way through the crowds when screams and shouts of panic filled the air. Marassa didn’t see what fired the explosive projectile, but she certainly felt the effects as it detonated against the wall near Hralvar and Marassa, showering them with debris and intolerable heat. Had it landed much closer, the concussion likely would have pulped their organs, killing them instantly. From the prone bodies lying askew in the courtyard, bodies broken and contorted in unnerving positions, it was clear that others were not so lucky.

Marassa had time to look towards the source of the attack, one of several large constructs with legs like a mud crab approached from the South, a large barrel projecting from the heavily armoured shells in each automata. Although she could not see them, Marassa knew that the dwemer automations were accompanied by no small amount of foot soldiers, who were forcing their way through the crowds with terrifying efficiency. She could only hope that the others managed to do their parts and slip away into the streets of Rihad… far too much depended on fate. Her heart felt like it could burst, it was hammering in her chest so hard. Running to a battle and running from one dominated two entirely separate emotions, and a part of the reason she hated to run was how utterly terrified she felt. The subsequent explosions and the raining brick and mortar that struck her armour and exposed flesh did nothing to alleviate that. She had quite enough of cities exploding and crumbling around her for a lifetime.

Where in Oblivion was Sevari?

No, focus. she chided herself, ignoring the screams of the crowd and pushing her friend out of her mind. She would see him and Cub soon enough, she had to get Hralvar and the others in tow to safety, to the safe house by the docks. What could not have been more than a few minutes of running felt like a lifetime by the time Marassa lead Hralvar, the other prisoners, and her team into an alleyway, out of the sight of the courtyard. As the din from the crowd and the skirmish quieted down as they moved through the clotheslined alleys, Marassa led the group to a cellar door, one she rapt with her knuckles in a quick staccato of a tune. The heavy wood door was heard unlatching a few moments later and an older, but sharp-eyed Redguard man opened the door, looked the group over and ushered them inside. Here they would wait until sundown, when their group was instructed to leave the safety of the hideout for the larger headquarters by the docks where they had found Cub earlier. Fresh bread, dried meat, and water were laid out for the group, as well as some floor cushions for them to rest. Marassa grabbed a goblet of water and found a seat, resting her back against the wall. When Hralvar joined her, she spoke.

“Things are about to get rather unpleasant here because of what happened today.” She admitted, eyes unfocused as she stared ahead at nothing in particular. “The uprising in Rihad has begun, and I am not entirely sure if that’s a good thing. We go to the docks tonight to get the captives out of Hammerfell and hopefully to safety, and we’ll meet up with Sevari and Cub then. “ Marassa sighed, drinking deeply, empting half the goblet. After a spell, she continued. “The people of Hammerfell know they can’t take their homes back from the dwemer in an open battle, but perhaps by starting an insurrection, the dwarves will tire and leave. Not a great plan, if I do say so myself. We need to find out if the others came to Hammerfell, and we need to find a way to take the fight to the dwemer, stop them at the source. It’s exactly like the Siege of Storms, Hralvar. The war didn’t end until we took Imperial City. The only difference is now, I have no idea where to start looking for our destination.”

[Dervish]

The efforts of the Heroes of Tamriel and their companions did not go unnoticed by the people of Stros M’kai. After a hasty plan of attack, the group had managed to elude the goblins while rescuing the prisoners and killed scores of the goblins with the gas. The last any of the group had seen of Jareth, he was leading a war party of the goblins after the group through the tunnels as Zainat’s expertly placed arrow pierced one of the barrels, shrouding him and the goblins in deadly nerve gas. While they did not manage to complete their task of slaying the goblins, they had left enough of a dent in their numbers and removed their leader. While the roads were somewhat safer, merchants would still run the risk of attack by the now directionless and savage goblin survivors. The people of Stros M’kai, however, were largely grateful for the efforts as most of the prisoners had been brought back alive to their families, and no small amount of the deadly gas was retrieved for future use. Having seen what a small handful of adventurers could do, the Lord of Stros M’kai had decided to divert a contingent of guards meant to protect the city to periodically raid the goblin tunnels and try to reclaim the mines. While these efforts would prove largely ineffective while the dwemer were still a threat, the pressure on the goblins did prevent them from spreading much further.
Nadeen, the mysterious Redguard insurgent who had tasked the companions with the task, was pleased with the result. Jasalin, or as she was properly known Lady Serah, was quite shaken from her ordeal with Jareth and the goblins and had resolved that she could not hide from her station forever. Upon reaching the mainland, her and Pollux headed North with the assistance of the insurgency to reclaim her standing as a high-born noble of Sentinel to become a figure in the uprising against the dwemer in that city. While Jareth’s death would come hard to Wayrest, the self-proclaimed pirate republic city in an increasingly fractured and strained kingdom of High Rock, Nadeen deemed it to be of no great consequence. After all, High Rock was not making a move to assist Hammerfell. She was hardly concerned for their feelings. How this would affect the overall war effort against the dwemer remained to be seen, but the already strained relationships between High Rock and Hammerfell were starting to become more widely seen. Without an obvious threat from High Rock, the dwemer forces in Hammerfell were free to delegate more division to quelling uprisings in Rihad, Gilane, Skaven, and with Lady Serah’s return, Sentinel. This pressure led to higher casualties amongst the insurgents, including more safe houses raided and slaughtered by better informed dwemer by collaborators and traitors. However, despite these setbacks, the insurgency grows and has seen some startling successes in these early days of the uprising; indeed, for all the dwemer’s technological prowess, they cannot be everywhere at once, and as more of their shipments go “missing”, the playing field in certain regions are becoming surprisingly more level. However, as the insurgency grows bolder, the dwemer grow more severe and ruthless; examples are being made of civilian populations in many regions in an effort to discourage the insurgents.

Despite their good fortunes and growing reputations, the companions have had to temper their jubilation of victory with the loss of comrades, Ibran and Vurwe, both slain by the goblins. They eventually reunited with Gorzath’s group, who had thwarted the necromancer’s plot. The united group stayed at the Haraden Inn near the docks for a couple of nights, resting from their ordeals before Nadeen had arrived in the dead of night, telling them that the time to move was now; their services were needed. The companions loaded onto the Sea Wisp for a final time, taking the relatively short trip to the mainland, to the Western coast of Hammerfell. A mage aboard the Sea Wisp was instructed to launch a mage light towards the mast as it dropped anchor within a kilometer of the shore, and another magelight launched into the air in response. Two hours later, the companions were taken to shore via row boats, and the Sea Wisp, under command by Drinks-Many-Rivers, headed South again, to join the growing alliance of pirates, privateers, and smugglers that had volunteered their services against both the dwemer and the Thalmor; a victory by either would prove to be rather dangerous to those who called the sea home.

An insurgent encampment was set up within the forests, a subtropical region with broad leaved trees and crippling humidity from the sea. The companions were directed to two long tents, one for the men, the other for the women, to set up until their next move. They were given leave to move about the camp, and each of the Heroes of Tamriel and the companions were issued Redguard-style clothing, weapons, and armour to help them blend in with the local population of Helgathe, as well as a personal chest to store their equipment in. Weary from the long journey at sea, they were given the evening to rest, as well as prepare themselves for the briefing that would occur in the morning. All amenities were available, including a hastily erected tavern (and brothel) run by a small crew of pirates, a smithy with a variety of ingots and crafting tools, an alchemy station, and in one fairly neglected area, an enchantment table. Various warriors had training classes set up, and more industrious and ambitious insurgents had tournaments set up for a prize pool for entertainment. Bards and other performers, including snake charmers and fire breathers, were present to entertain the camp.

After the companions parted ways to deal with time their own respective ways, Zaveed reluctantly placed both of his axes in the chest, although he kept his dagger on him, as he was certain he could conceal that. More than that, it had a lot of personal meaning behind it. Grabbing a whetstone and a small tankard of oil, the khajiit walked to one of the many fires that were made, concealed under the thick canopy of damp trees. The men and women around the fire looked to him and offered an accepting nod. One man strummed a lute absent mindedly, playing a few simple chords in repetition. A few others were roasting small rodents on sticks, while others simply were enjoying the warmth of the flames. Zaveed lowered himself onto a laid out log of palm and applied a thin coat of oil to the stone, letting the liquid soak into the pores of the soft grey stone. As he waited, he observed the moonstone blade shining vibrantly in the red-orange flames of the fire, the cackling of wood mingling with the lute. It was a little known fact that much of the moonstone came from Elsweyr, hence its name. Khajiit had been crafting with it for thousands of years, perhaps even before the elves came. It was a part of the appeal of the blade; it may have been of altmer craftsmanship, but the stone almost certainly came from the sands of Elsweyr, glistening in the intense sun of the Southernmost province when it was uncovered much like it did now, honed and sharpened into a lethal killing instrument, one that had tasted the blood of countless foes, including those whose craftsmanship could be claimed to have forged it. He cut into the stone, the gentle scraping noise indicating the slow removal of imperfections and damage to the blade from use.

Combat was not a gentle thing for neither body nor weapon; both had to be maintained if they were to perform, and even a slight knick in the sleek, sharp edge could lead to a larger chip or even a fracture if left uncared for. As he worked, he looked into the sapphire pommel, the blue stone glowing faintly as it captured the light. He smiled. He was given the blade as a sign of his becoming a man, and the actions leading up to that were hardly anything that could resemble care or delicacy, dignity or grace. The first kill is always the hardest, and it was possible that Zaveed could have died that night had his clumsy aim not been true, or his opponent but a few moments faster. The boy of but 12 years of age was but a pale shadow of the man Zaveed had come, the fine instrument of battle and the leader of misfits and free people alike. One thing was for sure; when this whole situation was over, he’d have one hell of a story to tell.

He looked up to see Reigenleif speaking to one of the guards, he stopped what he was doing for a moment to take her in, feeling an elation as he continued his relaxing labour of love for his weapon. He sincerely hoped she would consider his proposition he made back at the inn. After all, both of them had walked their respective roads alone for long enough. Zaveed, for one, felt that it was almost time to change course. He’d been a ruthless brigand for most of his life, something he greatly enjoyed, but the past two and a half years really gave him pause to consider the fact that he’d finally been forced to look out for people other than himself and go above and beyond what a self-centered killer and thief wanted. It was a life that had, after all, been thrust upon him without much in the way of choice; it was either embrace it or die. As he looked around the camp, he caught most of the people he had journeyed this far with and contemplated the host of others who had joined him on his journey two years ago, a lot that selflessly followed him and believed in him, when they had no reason to do so. A pang struck his chest, not unlike a cheap shot in a tavern brawl; he missed those people, people he actually considered friends. It was a startling revelation; he’d always had a crew, people he fought, fucked, plundered and killed alongside but never anyone he really knew on a personal capacity, people outside of his rather skewed perception and upbringing in the world. The people in the camp were the closest things he had to friends and family, a humbling and depressing, yet somewhat reassuring thought. Regardless, one thing was for certain;

He was glad he wasn’t walking this road alone.

[Dervish]

((This was a double post due to guild shenatigans))

[Leidenschaft]

Off the Coast of Hammerfell…

It could be said that the great Captain Alaire St. Tarley loved a very few number of things. These things being his mother, his ship, his crew, and a clear day- universally known by sailors worldwide as a good day to sail. Today was one such day, and Captain Alaire St. Tarley breathed every breath with an almost ceremonial type of care. He took caution not to sniff, nor grasp, nor would he wheeze. Just quiet, full breaths that took in the cold air, the smell of the sea, it was very much indeed a great day to sail. It was made all the more treasured by the Captain at the fact that most of his crew had made it off of the Isle of N’Gasta alive. Although, multiple attempts were made by the Captain to get his crew to talk of what they had seen on the isle, none were willing to divulge their experiences. What they had been through must have been quite the spectacle if they were not willing to tell even their Captain.

Alaire made note of this, and would tell King Hilaire back in Wayrest. Indeed, the fact that his men were unwilling to divulge the atrocities they had seen was a clear sign that Cleric Krieger was all the deranged lunatic that every other man saw him to be. Hilaire, for whatever Talos-damned reason, had decided to keep the Sorcerer in his court. Alaire told him he didn’t want to serve the King known as Hilaire the Foolish. Now that Krieger had stormed off from Wayrest, Hilaire could well be called Hilaire the Heirless now, that damned foolish seadog. Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade had already rowed ashore with the rest of their comrades and Alaire had wished them luck before they left. He was under strict orders by King Hilaire to only stay for as long they needed to find Krieger. Sterling and Lana were indeed in need of saving, as Alaire and Adalard thought.

Francis and Vendel, who Alaire had met in a tavern on a rainy Wayrest night two years ago, were sent in to get them back with Gorzath and they did do just that. Adalard, Francis, Vendel, Sterling and Lana were among the numbers who outright refused to speak of the things they saw in Krieger’s lair, something that perplexed Alaire and teased his curiosity endlessly. Reports had made it to not only the Lord of Stros M’kai’s ears, but learned firsthand by Alaire as he took his crew onto his ship once again. Even if he did not know the exact happenings, it was a sure thing that Alaire’s mission was a success. With the help of Gorzath, Elayna and Wets-His-Blade, Francis and Vendel were able to retrieve Sterling and Lana for King Hilaire and managed to kill the so-called Cleric named Krieger for his crimes against the Pirate Republic of Wayrest.
Known only to the wayward vagabond Francis and the select few to go ashore and into the mausoleum, Krieger’s army of otherworldly creations of solidified hate and malice had lost all direction after the death of their creator and had taken to aimlessly wander the halls, but still holding enough of a mind to kill every man and mer follower that Krieger had attracted, a bloodbath that Francis, Vendel and Gorzath’s group had managed to survive and escape. It is unknown what has become of the magical creations, but Krieger’s followers have once again been scattered. The few that had survived managed to make it back to Stros M’kai, retreating into the mountains or paying for passage to High Rock, or even being employed by the captains of ships heading south to challenge the Dominion navy blockading Cyrodiil.

The ones who had made it into the mountains are rumored to have formed a coven, one day hoping to grow strong enough to retake the Isle of N’Gasta from the rogue creations and their terrible rending tendrils of solidified shadow. Their numbers are few but their clashes with the fractured Goblin tribes keep them in check and ensure that if there were a time where they were once again powerful and threatening the time would not be soon for either party. And so, the forbidden knowledge within Krieger’s library remains untouched, his corpse-bride sits, destitute in his study and his creations now wander his halls without true purpose. The giant golem of Dwemer origin and the mystery surrounding it remains buried under the wet soil of The Mausoleum and the piece of the puzzle that is the Dwemer’s return remains locked away in the metaphysical vault of Krieger’s creation. Francis just wishes that he could forget the things he saw there.

“Farewell and adieu, to you Breton ladies, farewell and adieu, to ye ladies ashore,” Came the singing voice of Adalard, “How fares thee, my Captain?”

“Well enough, I suppose. A good wind blowing North, clear skies and gentle seas,” Alaire said, a small smile that raised the corner of his lips upon his face as he looked out on the sea, he looked at his Quartermaster with the same smile, “My men sing their shanties, they make good time finishing their good work and I am happy because of all of this. I am also curious, my friend.”

“I knew you would be, Captain. I already told you that I refuse to divulge the sights I saw on the isle,” Adalard paused as he saw his Captain nod and turn to accompany his helmsman, he spoke up before his Captain left and closed his ear to his words, “But I will say this, sir. It was unnatural, evil in its purest form. Krieger is dead, his servants scampered off with no leader after the fight. Francis told me of one thing, though.”

“And what is this thing, my friend?” Alaire said, clasping his hands behind his back and turning around to look at his friend.

“A library of knowledge not known to most. They might bear secrets that our King Hilaire might like to know. Or Leo-”

“I do not speak of Mister Leo on my ship, Mister Adalard,” Alaire snapped, throwing up a hand to quiet his friend before continuing like nothing had occurred, “Knowledge, you say? The Synod may pay a great deal for knowledge, but only if they do not already possess it. The College of Whispers would pay double for it, if only to keep it out of the hands of the Synod, those petty fools.”

“Rich petty fools, sir,” Adalard added, “There was something else he saw, as well, Captain.”

“Well, tell me.” Alaire spoke.

“A huge statue. A golem, maybe, like in the old tales of Tiber or the Nerevarine.” Adalard near whispered.

Alaire stood in silent contemplation at those words, the cogs of his mind visibly turning. This was news that was definitely worth telling. If he decided to bury the hatchet and send a letter to Leo, the two could be rich if they found anything of use in Krieger’s library. If Francis was telling the truth about this golem, well… Who knew what could come of it?

“Thank you, Mister Adalard. Tell the men to get wind in our sails and set course for Northpoint. I’m going to see an old friend.” Alaire ordered as he walked towards the helm.

“Sir, we’ve been away from home for two years. Our boots haven’t graced the streets of Wayrest for a longer time than I, or the men, would have liked.” Adalard pleaded.

“You are a sailor, Adalard, our life is at sea. As your Captain, not your friend, I command you to order our men to get this ship underway and sail a few weeks more.” Alaire said more sternly and with none of the friendly tone he had moments before.

Adalard frowned deeply for a moment before sighing as he narrowed his eyes at his friend’s back. He turned towards the crew and bellowed out his orders to them, “Standby to wear ship!”, and the crew went to work furling the trysail. Shanties once again filled the air around the ship as it came alive with the sounds of the men singing and the officers giving out orders to the crew as they rushed about on the topdeck. Gradually, the orders were cried and carried out and the Golden Gale would sail northwards.

[Cairomaru]

One thing he knew for sure, Qara'Sion was truly relieved to be rid of those damn mines filled with goblins. It felt as though he spent months inside the mines rather than just a few moments. Despite how irritating it was of a mission, he did receive a few spoils; leather, fur, and a bit of gold. Not too much, but still worth a bit of something at least. His sister and her companions managed to live through the ordeal, even though the argonian had a few injuries unlike his sister and Belle. He was a rather large one, but "durable" as Qara'Sion's sister said.

When they finally made it to the encampment in the woods, Qara'Sion stored most of his belongings in the chest; namely a few books, alchemy ingredients, and whatever else he figured was too cumbersome at the moment, however he kept the dwemer weapon on him, the reason being Shenzi wanted to take a look at it again. He didn't have a single clue how to power it, and if he couldn't figure out what did, it would be pointless to keep it with him anymore. He changed to the redguard styled clothing, which were rather long on him, and made his way to the small campfire his sister and friends were sitting by. "Alright, let's take a look at the weapon shall we?" Shenzi told him as she held out her hand, signaling for Qara'Sion to hand her the weapon he carried. The younger khajiit took the weapon off of his back and handed it to her as he sat down next to her; the rings he wore on his mane clinking together as they hit the ground. His sister flipped, turned, smacked, shook, and gods know what else she did to inspect the weapon. Frustrated, Shenzi cursed as she dropped the weapon in front of her and pouted, resting her head on the palm of her hand. "Woman give it up, there's no possible way we can get it working without finding a dwemer who knows how to use it." The argonian said as he took a sip of whatever was in his drink. "No, there's definitely a way to get it working... but..." Shenzi trailed off, still pouting. Qara'Sion shook his head. "I'm almost positive we can't get it to work anymore... I probably did break it back in Chorrol... but, at least it's a decent cane... although most mages such as myself would use a staff to cast spells with then just a regular cane to get some benefit out of it." Qara'Sion tried to joke, even if it didn't make any sense as a joke.

Looking at his sister, he noticed her face lit up with shock. "Of...course! Why didn't I think of that before! It's like a staff! So then what powers a staff?" Shenzi slowly said before turning her attention to Qara'Sion. "Sion, do you have a soul gem?" Her brother nodded to her, confused. "Give it to me." Qara'Sion reached into his bag, taking out a greater soul gem to hand to his sister. Shenzi snatched the soul gem (Making Qara'Sion flinch a bit) and picked up the dwemer weapon. She opened the latch on the weapon and hurriedly put the soul gem inside of it. She closed the latch and held on to the trigger of the weapon. "This is what makes it fire right?" She asked her brother. In a bit of a panic, Qara'Sion stood up. "Shenzi do NOT fire that thing here, It's more dangerous than you think!" He snapped at his sister. Sighing, she stood up as well. "Fine, we'll move away from the area and go test it out there. Let's go everyone." She commanded as she walked away with the dwemer weapon.

Qara'Sion, Shenzi, Belle, and the argonian traveled away from the main site, standing amongst the woods on their own. His sister was excited, ready to see if her new toy would work while Qara'Sion was having flashbacks to when the thing decimated a chair and bashed him in the face. "Okay, this is what makes it work right?" Shenzi asked, referring to the trigger. Qara'Sion nodded as he backed away slowly, staring at the weapon. Shenzi held the weapon loosely as she pointed it off into the woods. She pulled the trigger, and....

BANG.

The weapon rang out as it fired, making everyone flinch and causing Shenzi to drop it in shock. "Gods... that sound..." Belle said as she tried to regain her composure. "W-well, at least we know its working again..." Shenzi sheepishly said as she picked it up again. "Damn thing almost smacked me in the face..." She added. "Lucky you..." Came from Qara'Sion's mouth. His sister walked up to him and held out the weapon. "Here, it's yours remember? You should try to practice with it for a bit." She told the younger khajiit. Qara'Sion gulped and regretfully took the weapon from his sister. She was right after all. It would be useful and not require as much skill as a bow would... but it could also blast him into pieces.

Qara'Sion held up the weapon, holding it as sturdy and tight as he could with one hand on the trigger with the other on the barrel. He held it up and aimed it into the woods. He forcibly pulled on the trigger and...

BANG.

The weapon fired again, however Qara'Sion didn't drop it from the recoil. It still remained in his hands despite how scared he was actually using it. But he heard a noise after the weapon fired, a cry of some sort. The group moved to investigate where the noise came from and soon found a mother deer writhing in pain on the ground while its offspring was in the distance, crying. "Oh Gods, I shot it's mother... " Qara'Sion whined in dismay as he held his hands over his mouth. "I-I'm sure the baby will be fine! It just needs to find its father after all!" Belle tried to reassure Qara'Sion as she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Yes, besides, it wasn't intentional! Come on, back to the camp!" Shenzi said as she began to push Qara'Sion away from the dying mother deer.

Qara'Sion sulked all the way back to the camp, dragging the dwemer weapon. "I'm such a horrid person..." He mumbled. Shenzi sighed. "Look it wasn't intentional, so don't feel bad little brother. We got the weapon working so that's what matters. Why don't you take a break for now and explore the site?" Shenzi suggested. "There's the tavern, tournaments, fire dancers.... you'll enjoy it a bit here!" Qara'Sion simply sighed and shrugged, walking away from his sister and friends. Hopefully he would find something to do to get his mind off of the current event that took place. Maybe he would watch one of the tournaments, or dancers.

Maybe.

[Leidenschaft]

Major Kerztar Stungnthamz of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order

<Tell me, Lieutenant, why do you think we won the war?> Colonel Kerztar asked, looking out at the forested coast and high-peaked mountains framing the blue sky.

<Our superior technology, Sir. These people run at us with their swords and armor, none of that means anything to us. We simply shoot them down,> Lieutenant Razgulf took his eyes from the pistol he was toying with to look at his commanding officer, <Sir.>

<The civilians,> Kerztar spoke in a hushed manner, most of his attention watching a hawk circle overhead, he smiled at this, <The civilians, the noncombatants, Lieutenant. They won the war for us. Once you make sure a Kingdom's people do not support a war, you've already won.>

Sandwiched between the Corten Mont mountains and the sea was the narrow and rocky road to Roseguard. A small fishing village that had grown through the years. This is where the carriage driven by an old man who had agreed to take them on this trip carried the infamous Major Kerztar Stungnthamz and his men, all the way to Roseguard. A week ago, a local informant had notified an Authoritarian patrol that he had seen fishing boats returning from a trip with more people than they had left with. These men were also strangely very different looking, Cyrods, more than Redguard. The Major knew already what was happening, he had heard that the arrogant Altmer had decided to invade Cyrodiil to depose an Empire in its weakest moments. It did not concern him, as these Altmer had done no wrongs to any Dwemer controlled territories along the Jeralls. What did concern him on this very day, though, was the fact that fishermen in this village were illegally harboring refugees, enemies of the state and, by extension, enemies of the people.

The carriage came to a stop, the door was opened by a Dwemer soldier and Major Kerztar Stungnthamz stepped out of the carriage, looking like the very epitome of what it was to be an officer in the Dwemer High Government's employ, the wine red tunic with gold trim, the purple sash, sword and pistol at the hip. The one thing he forwent, unlike most other mer in the Dwemer army, was a long beard, preferring to keep his chin and cheeks bear, permitting those who looked upon him to notice his strong jaw, angular chin and pointed nose. A handsome mer in uniform, but they would dread his face today, not admire it. The hot sun was a bit more bearable when an itchy beard did not do its part to heat your face. Major Stungnthamz's boots stood upon the grassy ground around Roseguard and its quaint stone houses and quaint beaches with their resting quaint boats. The same quaint boats that had carried the illegals into Volenfell. When the local informant came running up to Major Kerztar in his tattered shirt and breeches, cracked and dry leather sandals and thin, patchy beard, Major Kerztar simply asked, <So, which boats did you see returning with the illegals?>

"All of them," the thin man panted, trying to catch his breath, "I saw every one of them come back with at least one."

<I see, and you know the men who captain these boats?> Major Kerztar asked, clasping his hands behind his back. The wiry man nodded vigorously, pointed his finger towards the town and thrusting the finger out a few times, telling him to follow as he started a bouncy jog towards the village. Major Kerztar followed behind the informant at his own leisurely place, nodding to a woman hanging up clothes to dry, smiling to a group of children running around with wooden swords and sticks that looked vaguely like the pistols carried by Major Kerztar and other officers. Their mother hurried them into their house with weary eyes and wary glances.

The informant waved him to Major Kerztar to keep following, to where he brought them to a house at the top of a small hill that led down to the rest of the village and then the sea beyond. The informant stopped at the door and nodded as he did before, rapping his knuckles on the wooden frame. An elderly man stood in the doorway, hunched over with white hair, wrapped in a simple brown robe and leather sandals, "Yes, sir, what business brings you to this village?"

Major Kerztar bowed his head with a smile, looking back up to the man, he said, <My name is Major Kerztar Stungnthamz, I am the Commandant of the Southern Volenfell Cohort of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order. I am here to address a recent issue that has come to light for us,> The Major offered his hand for a shake, which the old man took, <May I come inside, Mister...?>

"Malif Sheif AKham, is my name, sir. Please, by all means, share my home with me as if you had been living here as I was." Malif said with a practiced smile. Kerztar felt like this hadn't been the first time this man had had to deal with the Ministry's agents. The two men took a floor cushion at the man's table, his wife already pouring tea into not just one cup, but two, bringing them to the table with a smile that Major Kerztar returned, taking a sip of it and nodding, raising a hand.

<Simply delicious tea, where did you get it, may I ask?> Major Kerztar asked, returning the cup to the table and folding his hands in his lap.

"It was a gift, from a friend, traveling abroad. I am glad that you like it, I'm the only one who drinks it in my house. My wife doesn't like tea but she buys too much of it when she goes into town for food." The man laughed. The two men took another sip of tea, savoring the taste. Major Kerztar's tongue was hard at work trying to figure out where he had tasted this tea before in the past.

<I'm sure it is only because she cares about you and does not want you to run out. She thinks of you, that is a mark of a good wife. I applaud your choice in women, Mister AKham.>

"Thank you, young sir, but you're almost making it sound so good that I have doubts you're talking about my wife." The man laughed once more, he really did love to laugh. Major Kerztar smiled and nodded along, taking another sip of the tea.

<Now, Mister AKham, I have a question for you to answer, and I want you to look deep into your memories for anything that you can remember, am I clear?> Major Kerztar asked with a friendly smile.

"Anything, please. Ask away, young sir." The old man bowed his head with a bit of a chuckle.

<Now, I am sure that you are aware of who I am, before I ask this question, just so we can establish just what this will be about and who you are talking to, as to avoid any mistakes, lapses in judgment and to perhaps rekindle some memories so as not to forget any parts of them.>

"You are Major Kerztar of the Dwemer High Government's Ministry of Order, of course. You said this earlier."

<Yes, that is my official title. Though, are you familiar with what some in the Authoritarian Cohorts have taken to calling me?> Major Kerztar asked, a slight smile crossing his lips as he waited for an answer.

"You are the Huntsman." Malif answered again, though a bit quieter and with something akin to hesitation.

<Yes, I am the Huntsman. Do you know how many Enemies of the State one has to execute or send to the arena to get a title such as that, and become a Major, no less?>

"Many, many men." Malif almost whispered, clearing his throat, he shifted nervously.

Major Kerztar reveled in his own laughter before clearing his throat, his demeanor not changing, <Now, Mister AKham, it has come to my attention that your village has been reported by an anonymous informant to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. What is the truth to this?>

Malif only became more nervous, "There have been a few examples of thievery not seen before from my village's own, I suppose this could be from your Enemies of the Dwemer Sta-"

<Your village has been reported, with sufficient proof to incriminate you, to be sheltering Enemies of the Dwemer State. Your villagers are not doing it unknowingly by supplying midnight thieves to snatch their food scraps, my informant saw your fishermen bringing more than their catch that day. I suspect that you know where they are hiding, and I know that they are hiding somewhere in this village.>

"I assure you, I don't-"

<You were expecting me. This tea is not just a gift from a friend, Mister Al-Kham, but it is from Cyrodiil. Even if your wife went to town, she would not be able to find tea with ingredients from Cyrodiil, as we have forbade the importation of foreign products from territories not owned by the Dwemer High Government and their subordinate Governors. You received this tea as a gift from a refugee, knowing full well that owning this tea was the crime of owning contraband items, as we've burned all foreign imports from Cyrodiil and the southern Provinces> Major Kerztar rose from the floor cushion, his voice becoming more severe, <Sheltering the people who gave you this tea is the crime of Sheltering an Enemy of the Dwemer State of Volenfell. Where are you hiding them, Mister Akham?>

"Please, don't hurt my wife. Just don't-"

<Your wife is safe, as far as you know. If you do not tell me where these Enemies of the State are hiding, I will sentence you to immediate execution for the crime of sheltering enemies of the state, your wife will be alive, as far as you know. I could also send you off to the arena with a sentence of fifty fights, though I doubt you will last one at your age, again, your wife will be alive as far as you will know, being so far away from her,> Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, <I will ask you once more, where are you hiding these Enemies of the State?>

With a heavy heart, Malif began to cry, his lip quivering and his breath becoming ragged and uneven. The sound of his wife sobbing in the bedroom could be heard as Malif rose the shakiest hand the Major had seen so far in his years. These Enemies of the State were hiding upstairs then. Well enough. He would not have to chase them. Major Kerztar walked to the doorway, opening the door and letting his men in. He pointed to the stairs and the soldiers bounded up the steps. Major Kerztar looked at Malif and his sobbing face, the Major nodded formally right before a resounding staccato of cracks from the rifles of the soldiers upstairs made Malif jump and his wife scream. From the other side of the door, a new soldier showed up, quickly saluting before handing Kerztar a letter, sealed with the Minister of Order's own seal. He hastily broke the seal and opened the envelope, his hurried eyes taking every written letter in before he packed the letter back up, giving it back to the messenger, who saluted and quickly left the same way he had come, quickly, without words and on a horse.

He was to make haste to Rihad for an assignment of the utmost importance on behalf of Governor Razlinc herself. Something about the Heroes of Tamriel. Major Kerztar clasped his hands behind his back, drew a breath and nodded to Malif, <Thank you for your cooperation today. The Minister of Order thanks you for doing your part in keeping order in Volenfell. Goodbye and have a nice day.>

Kerztar looked to the skies, spying the hawk swoop down near the road and carry away its prey. A content smile crossed his lips.

[Voltaire]

Wets-His-Blade pondered recent events as he sat in his chair just outside the short, wood walled ring that designated the combat area for the games that were being held in the camp. Two pretty (in Blade's opinion) Argonian maids were tending to him as his unfocused eyes stared absently at the combatants.

His mind wandered to Krieger's island. Of the fight with the zombie horde, the journey through the dark mausoleum, and the eventual death of that thrice damned Mage. Blade had, as usual, enjoyed plunging the dagger into the lunatic's ribcage in his berserk fury. Everything after that was a bloody, rage fueled blur. He wasn't sure how exactly they escaped, but it didn't really matter. They were alive and that's all that mattered.

When asked by the sailors that had remained on the ship, what had happened, he just shrugged and said simply,
"I killed a lotta shit. What do ya think?"
And left it at that. Not because he was traumatized, but because these things were par for the course at this point in his life.

He was pleased to have found his weapons at some point during their fight underground and even walked away with a little something extra. During all the excitement, Blade had grabbed an enemy's shield for his own use and had held onto it for the duration of the battle. Later, when he'd calmed down, he discovered that the shield was a unique find. It was a simple round shield for the most part, but instead of the usual dome of metal in the center, it was adorned with spikes. He recalled this type being called a targe, and gladly replaced his old steel one with it.

Upon arriving at the insurgents camp, Blade was led, along with the others and several new allies it seemed, to their tents, where Redguard weapons and armor were available for use. Blade had held up the lightweight gear for inspection and scoffed disdainfully before tossing it aside like so much rubbish.
"Yeah, that'll stop a Dwemer blade like stalks of wheat stop a sickle. I think I'll stick with what I've got, thanks."

He'd found himself at the makeshift arena a short time later, after wandering the camp and briefly considering a fling at the brothel. Of course he immediately signed himself up. When one of the organizers informed him that he also had to contribute to the reward pot, Blade looked up and raised a surprised brow, "There's a reward too?"

Just as he had at the Capitol arena, Blade made quick work of most of his competition in every event he entered. None had been able to withstand his brute strength during the unarmed combat event. And now the weapons portion was coming to a close. He'd gotten more stiff competition here. Armed with blunted weapons of their choice, the combatants tested their skills with a blade and some of the Redguard were quite skilled. More than once Blade had almost been bested by their extravagant patterns and techniques. Normally he could have countered this with the range of his greatsword, but there were none available since even a blunt weapon of that size could be quite lethal.
So he made do with a broadsword and shield. He quickly adopted a rushing tactic. Since the Redguard could outdo him with technique if he played that game to long, he forced them to play his by charging in with his shield up, disrupting their patterns and gaining the upper hand through brute force. It was a simple tactic and was getting repetitive. But so far no one had discovered a way to counter it.

His attention was brought back to the present as one of his attendants pushed fruit to his mouth while the other massaged his corded shoulders. He slowly plucked the morsel from her delicate fingers with his teeth as he gazed at her. She smiled knowingly before walking off, Blade's eyes following her. His eyes travelled lower and his brows raised as he noticed a little extra sway in the maid's hips, then she was out of range. He turned back to the arena, where the winner of the bout was declared, and grinned. Tonight was turning out well.
But tomorrow promised to be even better.

[Dusk]

Elayna had fallen silent after escaping the Necromancer's lair. No shouts of victory, no bright expressions. Just a sigh, and dead air. You know, after all they'd been through, she should have expected such a terrible thing to occur. Though, she did bring it upon herself, choosing Gorzath and Blade. But it was to prove a point, and a point she did indeed prove. The Breton was determined to make it known that she was an asset, not a liability. While the others assured her she was, she, herself, wasn't convinced. Yes, she could make some potent medicine, and yes, she had successfully, to a degree, reverse-engineered the highly -potent Elfbane. Yet, her experience with battle was paltry, at best. Facing down undead hoards seemed to remedy that, if only slightly.

Upon meeting up with the group who had gone to fight the goblins, Elayna couldn't be happier to see them all still kicking. Minus Vurwe...and while she was certainly a brat, no one deserved to die to such savage beasts, and at such a young age. A kernel of sadness sat in her heart as they arrived at the insurgent camp. She, and Toad, who thankfully survived with some crafty hiding, were taken to the female tent with Redguard-style equipment. A lump sat in her throat as Elayna removed the leather coat that had seen so much with her. It was a gift from her mother. Was she still alive? Was she okay, and with the rest of the Ferris family somewhere safe? A myriad of possibilities danced in her head, like a sadistic ritual circle, all detailing the mutilation or slavery of her dear loved ones.

Tears didn't fall. She was numb, now that she was granted a reprieve. Only a crushing pain that she was sure the strongest alcohol could not solve. Placing the memory-laden garments, along with the fungus samples she'd taken from the Mausoleum. She was unfamiliar with them, and decided later to experiment, albeit sparingly. Slipping on the loose cloth, Elayna took a moment to sit on the bed, with Toad curled up beside her. He looked up, his deep brown eyes and bright orange body bringing visions of the bright Leyawiin forests. While her heart reveled in such thoughts, her mind was singed by the flames of decimation that singed Cyrodiil.

Elayna had chosen carry her steel dagger on her person, when they moved out. It had been with her since the beginning, after all. Would it take down a Dwemer anything? No, most likely not. But it would allow her to be quick. That's all she could ask for, anymore. To be faster than Death. That bastard, she resolved, wouldn't take her before she finished her work. She looked to the chest, which also contained the book detailing her ancestors and the family "heirlooms". Those two, Serpent's Kiss and Panacea...they were dangerous. Of course, they were also apparently defunct. Either way, she'd have to find a way to High Rock. Preferably with the group, and not without.

Standing and heading out of the tent, Elayna walked through camp towards the tavern. Her once short hair had now grown to rest on her upper back, prompting her to pull it forward and letting it fall in front of her right shoulder. Some glances from men were sent her way, but she ignored them all. It was bad enough there was a damned brothel, there was no need for them to look at her. With a scoff, Elayna entered the tavern with a determined look. She ordered a bottle of Stros M'Kai Rum, quickly downing half the burning liquid. One of the patrons laughed at her. "Isn't that a bit strong for a lady such as yourself?" He prodded. "I'll have you know, sir, that I've drank two Nords under the table. Well, I guess it ended up on the table...but still. I can hold my liquor." Elayna said pointedly, before heading out of the makeshift watering hole.

Outside, fire dancers practiced their incredible art. Sipping the rum, Elayna sat down and gazed into the spinning flames. There was work to be done. She couldn't afford sympathy anymore. The notion of being guilty about creating a deadly poison seemed far away now. The atrocities the Dwemer committed...they deserved a nice and painful demise. Maybe it was the alcohol talking. Frankly, Elayna didn't care. As Toad slept in the tent, the Breton Alchemist spent her night in drink and study, researching the new fungus from the Mausoleum. Anything to take her mind off of home.

[Leidenschaft]

The Docks, Rihad…

Sevari woke with a start in his office’s bed. A hand rested on his shoulder and Sevari snatched the wrist up, jumping up from his bed but finding himself falling to his side, growling in pain that came from all over his body. His vision began to blur but through sheer will and anger he forced himself through the pain, standing and stumbling backwards to gain distance from his opponent. It was a peculiar thing when he saw Sorosi standing where his potential killer was. The perplexity shown on his face as he looked her up and down before forcing his tight muscles to move his legs painfully back to the bed. He sat, or fell, onto the edge of the bed, letting out a heavy sigh. How long had he been out? Where was that Redguard fellow from before?

“How long?” Sevari muttered, feeling the familiar itch of bandages wrapped around his midsection.

“Hours. It’s dark out now, the Dwemer have been kicking in doors all night. Vorosien and Balaan are stressed out. What are we going to do if they kick in our door? Two Dunmer and a Khajiit, that won’t look suspicious, definitely,” she said with noticeable sarcasm with an undercurrent of worry, “We’ll die here, Sevari, for a cause I’m starting to lose faith in.”

“You put too much weight on faith. Finding a lost cause does not mean you’ve found a cause, Sorosi,” Sevari began, feeling the bandages beneath his clothes, slipping out of his robes to move his arms and torso, he flinched before sitting back down, “It means that you’ve found a lost cause.”

Sorosi watched Sevari’s eyes close, his head hanging down as his ears drooped. She moved to sit next to him, resting on the edge of the bed and draping an arm around his shoulders, “Do you think we’ll die here? We’ve made it through so much, that skooma deal gone wrong, Praetorians hunting Vorosien and I, you were in the Siege of Storms. Maybe we’ll die here, Sevari.”

Sevari didn’t move, but he felt Sorosi’s hands slip around his. He didn’t mind, his eyes only opened a sliver and looked at Sorosi’s light blue fingers intertwining with his. He wondered if she could feel the calluses, how rough his hands were beneath that fur of his. She never seemed to mind seeing his scars whenever they found each other in the same bed years ago before Sevari had met Zaveed. Those years ago, Sorosi was the only one who had gotten some semblance of love out of Sevari, even if it did hurt and it was a bit rough. But, then again, the two were angry in those days, and anytime they could have gone to a headsman’s block.

“Maybe.” Sevari finally responded.

The two sat that way for a while, Sorosi’s hands caressing the muscles on Sevari’s back and shoulders, her other hand tangled with Sevari’s, her head resting on his shoulder, red eyes looking down at their feet, nestled together. Sevari didn’t seem to care. He was off in his own world, like he always was when Sorosi knew him as Sevari the ruthless skooma kingpin, but also the part-time lover.

Sevari was busy feeling a bit useless. His body would not let him move without sending gripping hands of pain to squeeze and rip every muscle from his legs to his back. He wouldn’t be able to fight, he could barely damned walk. He felt an anger welling up inside of him that quickly faded when he felt Sorosi’s head nestle closer to his neck. The Khajiit sighed, “I have a wife.”

“I know. We’re not on top of each other.” Sorosi cooed playfully, her hand moving from his to rest on his inner thigh.

Sevari grumbled, wrapping fingers around her wrist and gently placing her hand away from his legs. Sorosi only giggled, getting up from the bed and walking to the door. As she closed it behind her, Sevari looked about the room for the sword his father had given him, finding relief taking some of the edge off when he saw it on his desk in the office.

“Balaan is here to see you. Some fellows rowed into the warehouse and I’m stuck between killing them or letting them get off their boats.” Vorosien said, his head peeking in from outside.

Sevari only growled, getting to his feet and limping to get his sword. The tip of the sheathe touched the ground, his hand on the pommel as he walked along with it as his cane. He was only thirty years on Nirn and he was already walking with a cane. He made his way out of his office, looking not too welcoming as he descended the stairs and walked towards the area of water kept enclosed with the large wooden doors into the warehouse from the sea. As he looked onto the rowboat, he saw barefoot sailors in breeches and tattered shirts, some foregoing shirts altogether. One among them stood out, dressed in a flowing robe and the elegant trappings of a mage. Her golden skin showing sparingly and her gaze was one of command.

The other man in the rowboat next to the Altmer’s stood in the clothing of a distinguished captain in the Imperial Navy or perhaps had been given the clothes as gifts in service to one of the Kings in High Rock. It may have been the case, as the man was clad in porcelain skin, contrasted by black hair and curled mustache. Everything about him told Sevari what he needed to know, that he was a Captain. Perhaps the other was too, but the man showed it more readily.

“I would like to speak to the man or mer that supervises this warehouse. I’ve sailed from Wayrest under orders of my employer and my men need drinks.” The Altmer woman said.

“I need supplies. I’ve a voyage ahead and this is the closest friendly port this side of Stros M’kai. It wouldn’t hurt to have drinks, either.” The man added.

“You are looking for me.” Sevari said, pushing past Vorosien, Balaan and their contingent of hired guards for the warehouse.

“Good, I need permission to dock my schooner here. The sooner I get that, the sooner we can make sure to stay out of each other’s ways.” The Altmer said.

“I won’t let an altmer bitch stay in my warehouse without knowing her name first.” Sevari spat.

“Captain Loria Elsinien.” She spoke, showing no hint of insult or offense at Sevari’s remark.

“And you, you look like a captain.” Sevari pointed with his chin towards the man.

“Captain Alaire St. Tarley, Mister…” The man answered, waiting for a name to put to his host.

“Sevari, Captain Alaire. I hope we will not have any troubles with you saying that you shared space with a Hero. Many people are searching for me, many people have died.” The Khajiit smiled with narrowed eyes.

“Quite so, Mister Sevari, quite so. I can assure you that after I get supplies and a few night’s rest-”

“Both of you may stay. Captain Alaire will leave in two days. Dock your schooner and make sure not to draw attention. Most of the Dwemer forces are in the heart of the city. No one will notice two more ships in the harbor. Pray to your Gods that they do not take notice of you, for you will be the first to die.” Sevari growled, turning and leaving to his office.

[Vanq]

Rena was bored.

Somehow, after barely escaping Cyrodiil and being on the run for weeks, the young woman was bored to tears. She took it out on her aunt, the only person she knew in the huge wave of refugees that had fled to Hammerfall. Her aunt, bless her heart, had tried being curt, mean, apathetic, and even nice. She knew that the screaming and yelling wasn't actually about being bored, but born of fear and anxiety. In the end though, she too was at her breaking point after dealing with her niece.

Flushed with anger after their most recent spat, Rena had run off, donned in her bits of armor that she refused to take off unless she was going to bed. Sometimes she even kept them on while she slept. Her dagger was safely tucked away in her boots, hidden by the long dress. Her belongings, bits of food and a few necessities were tightly secured to her body, warned by her aunt that there were desperate people all around them. Desperate people who wouldn't feel much remorse over stealing things from the little Imperial.

Something was going on, Rena realized as she bumped into a fellow Imperial. Snapped out of her silent stewing, she looked up to see a small crowd forming around two men in armor. Rena couldn't hear them over the din of the camp. She drew closer, intrigued, her heart leaping to life and crawling up her throat. What was going on?

"Who are they?" She tapped the nearest person on their shoulder, a Breton by the looks of it, face creased with worry.

"They're asking for volunteers. Now shush girl." Rena felt a light slap on her hand and pulled it away, brow furrowed.

"Volunteers for what? Who are they?" She was more agitated this time, her foot tapping with impatience.

"For the insurgency girl. Use your ears. They're recruiting to fight the Dwemer." The Breton took a good look at Rena before spitting to the side. "Fools I say. No use fighting those monsters." He added quietly, glancing around him as if he was suddenly self-conscious of his feelings on the matter. He moved off quickly, without looking back.

Rena's face lit up and she pushed herself forward, towards the two men. Her aunt had been wrong to leave the Heroes. Rena hadn't been able to stay with them then, but she could do something now. She had to. She couldn't stay here waiting. Waiting to...No, she had to join them. Maybe she could meet the Heroes again! And even if not, well she could become a hero herself and then she'd definitely get to meet them again.

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" A few eyes were drawn to her. "I'll join. I'll go with you." Rena waved her arm at the recruiters, she pulled herself straight, shoulders back, her feet positioned in what she assumed was a good heroic, fighter's pose.

"You look a little young..." Reluctant words from the recruiters, but there was something else there. Desperation maybe. "Can you fight?"

"I have been with the Heroes themselves, I'll have you know. I can fight just fine." She purposely left out that she hadn't actually fought at all. She may have been forced to hunt from time to time, and had to defend herself several times from those who thought she would be an easy target, but all out battle? They didn't need to know that.

Those near her began to mutter, some calling her out on bullshitting them.

"I was with them in the Imperial City when the Dwemer attacked. We escaped together, but..." Her lip began to quiver. "We got separated afterwards.” Her chin jutted out with resolution. “I want to fight."

"What about your parents? Family?"

Rena shook her head and lied with tears forming in her eyes as if on cue. "I'm alone, sir."

"Very well. Anyone else going to follow to this girl's..." He paused, and held out his hand to her. "What's your name?"

Rena took his hand and moved to stand beside him, whispering her answer, a smile spread broadly across her lips.

"Who's going to follow brave Rena's example? If a young woman is prepared to defend our lands, who of you is too cowardly to do the same?!"

It was a good attempt by the recruiters, and they did get more volunteers moving forward. Rena didn't really care though. She was in, she was going to be away from her aunt, and she was going to be just like her idols. If only she knew where they had gone.

That answer came several hours later, once she had arrived at the makeshift insurgency camp. She was sent to a tent and told to make herself ready, for what she wasn’t exactly sure. But the woman with a bedroll next to her, a steely eyed middle aged Redguard, had news that made Rena want to dance.

“They’re here? Really? All of them?!” Rena’s pitch edged ever upward. She had to find them, and quickly.

“Where you going with all your stuff?” The older woman asked skeptically.

“I’m going for a walk.” She tried to respond with as little emotion as she could. From the woman’s response, even Rena knew she had failed quite miserably.

That didn’t matter though, because she was off running just a moment later. Dust kicked up behind her as her legs took her past the women’s tent, her head whipping back and forth as she looked for any sign of the Heroes. Past a tavern, a brothel-an establishment that actually made Rena pause and wonder if any who she sought would be inside there. She had written a story like that once, about how she had become a dancer and how the Heroes had all visited her establishment and been completely and utterly taken with her. Each one outbidding the other for her services...She blushed as she recalled the story, and took off once more without peeking inside.

Rena stopped only when she realized she had come to an edge of the camp, beyond her was the forest they were encamped in. She turned back, heading towards the men’s side of the camp and ran along behind it, eyes looking at each campfire for a familiar face.

She stopped cold in her tracks. Breathing heavy from the exertion of her run, and from the sudden excitement that sent her heart thrumming even harder.

“Zaveed! Zaveeeeeeed!” She ran the few remaining feet towards the fire that she had spotted him at. He was all alone, all the better for her, “Zaveed, I’ve found you! You remember me? Rena? You saved my life! Of course you remember me. Oh thank the Eight, I’ve found you again.” The words came spewing out of her mouth, tumbling over each other, a gurgle of emotion. She stood before him, jittery with the excitement, her eyes gleaming in the light of the fire.

[Rtron]

Gorzath adamantly refused to meet anyone's eyes as they left the island. He had received a few wounds, nothing worthy of major healing, from the battle with the necromancer. Undead can actually damage you if you're not paying attention, as it turns out. Though they had defeated the Necromancer, and scattered his followers, and it had been a reasonably good fight, he had come close to giving into the Necromancer's demands. Not that anyone would know that, and if Gorzath had his way, no one would ever know that, but he knew it. He, the Hero of Tamriel, had come a breath away from selling the lives of innocents and deceiving a king for a piece of information that was probably a lie anyways. He had nearly done that and it was..sickening. That was something the Dwemer would have done. And, what good was fighting them if you were going to be no better than them when they were vanquished. Luckily, he could pass off his silence as sea sickness once more as they were put back on the boat once more. He had preferred it when they were tramping across the countryside to this Oblivion damned mode of travel. Gorzath fervently hoped whoever thought it'd be a good idea to cross bodies of water in boats was suffering..somewhere, somehow.

As they reunited with the Goblin Group, Gorzath learned that Vurwe, the young Altmer he was supposed to be protecting, had died. Orcs don't cry. Generally, they present an image to the world of toughness that stays with them till the day they die. Gorzath himself had only seen one of his kind cry and that was Cub. Two of a kind, weren't they? Neither presented the hostile, tough image the rest of their kind did. Yet both of them had managed to become 'Heroes of Tamriel'. Still, Gorzath only gave a bitter smile before retreating to his room in the inn. There, in his self-disgust at how close he had come to callously throwing away lives and the knowledge of his failure, did he let the tears flow. It wasn't loud, just shaking hands and tears. Orcs don't cry. Heroes don't fail. Well..he was the different in one, why not the other? Once he was done, he began calmly, emptily, to take care of his gear. It was a gesture of habit, not of choice. He had failed. Nearly twice. It wouldn't happen again, even if it killed him.

They left two days later on another damned boat. Hopefully for the last time as they touched down onto the mainland. After having left a trail of the contents of his stomach in the sea, Gorzath only reluctantly traded in his trusty gear for that given to him. Stealth wasn't his..strong point, to put it lightly. Still, he took the gear and placed his own away. It was sensible, if not entirely comfortable with him. If the Dwemer decided that they looked a bit to..unnatural, there was nothing they could do to stop them from murdering them in a variety of painful and slow ways that Gorzath had no doubt they knew. Rather than brood with his thoughts of how the next day could go horrible wrong in so many ways, Gorzath wandered the camp. He got...mixed reactions to say the least. Some gave him friendly nods, others neutral. Mostly, however, the rumors of his necromancy had reached the camp and he got hate and disgust wherever he went. Not that, Gorzath thought, thinking back to the island,I don't deserve it.

After a while, he stumbled across the smithy. It was a reassuring sight, reaffirming the solidity of his beliefs, and bringing back memories of working the Forge with his father. There was something relaxing about working a forge, bending metal to your will. Having nothing better to do, he might as well make something useful he could hide easily. A task easier said than done. As he set about to begin working, he thought he heard a distant voice screaming Zaveed's name. Another adoring fan? Or someone angry at him for not saving the city from impossible odds? Giving a slightly bitter chuckle, Gorzath lost himself in the work.

[Leidenschaft]

Several long, antagonizing hours passed as the freed prisoners, the Insurgents, and Marassa waited in the cellar for the coast to be clear. Heavy boots could be heard through the padlocked door, and orders in some undistinct elven tongue was heard from time to time as the dwemer forces searched house to house. A few close calls with the cellar door being rattled were had, although the property owner made sure to introduce himself at those times, as he had gone upstairs to maintain appearances with his family. When they said they did not have anyone hiding in the dark cellar, in most of the cases, it was rather convincing due to the fact the only person who knew about the prisoners was the father, a man of high reputation amongst the town. With so many houses to inspect, the dwemer did not linger for long, or look too closely.

After what felt like eons, a rhythmic tapping was heard on the cellar door, to which one of the insurgents answered it. A youth, perhaps no older than 14 looked down at the man who answered. "It's time." The young teen said, eyes darting around the street. "This quarter is clear."

The group made its way to the docks, moving carefully in the shadows and being mindful of prying eyes. The way was clear, however, and few souls dared treat the streets after the day's events. There was an air of uncertainty and danger in the air, something Marassa knew too well. She kept with the group until they reached the relative safety of the docks, where she parted ways from the others as most of the prisoners were lead towards small boats awaiting to take them to the relative safety of Stros M'kai under the cover of darkness. Hravlar kept with the khajiit, and the two approached a heavy, wide set of doors that were the dock's warehouse. Using the code knock for that evening, Marassa waited for the door to open, dreading to find out Sevari and Cub had met terrible fates. Once the dwemer garrison struck, it was chaos, and she had lost track of her friends in very short order. Focus. Conjuring images and fears will do you no favours. Facts, Marassa. We deal in facts. she thought to herself, staring at the hardwood, weathered from the warm ocean air with the faintest hint of varnish.

The resounding clacks and slides of locks could be heard from the other side of the door before it swung open. Vorosien stood in the doorway, his hand on the hilt of his dagger behind his back.

"Were you followed?"

Behind Vorosien, a few rowboats were seen tied off in the warehouse's dock and new faces dressed very unlike the Redguard Authoritarians sat at a couple tables, playing board and card games. Sailors, by the looks of them.

"If we were followed, you'd probably be dead right now and this warehouse ransacked." The khajiit replied, shoving past Vorosien and the Redguards who were on guard duty. "Did Sevari and Cub... that big orc, check in?" she asked.

Vorosien made no effort to hide the offense of having himself pushed aside- and so easily- by the Khajiiti woman. Even so, he let his hand come off of the hilt and folded his arms, "No word from Cub, as of yet. Sevari was dragged in here by Sorosi and I. He's in the office."

"Dragged?" Marassa interjected pointedly, staring daggers at the man. "Do explain."

"Alive," Vorosien put his hands up in mock surrender, "He was healed by Sorosi after the execution. He's conscious now, was up and walking a few seconds ago."

Vorosien called up for Sevari, not particularly caring if he woke anyone. After a few seconds of waiting, the sound of a door opening and the repeating tacks of what sounded like a cane could be heard before the sight of Sevari, limping and somewhat grimacing in pain he was trying to hide rounded the corner and stepped down the stairs.

"Your friend." Vorosien gestured to Marassa.

"I still have one good eye," He said to Vorosien before smiling to Marassa, "My friend, Sevari is glad to see This One here."

"Likewise, Marassa is comforted to see you returned." she noticed the limp immediately, as well as his injured appearance. She strode forward, placing a reassuring and bracing hand on his shoulder. "What happened?" she asked, no small amount of worry in her voice.

"More elves trying to kill me," He joked, "Their machines, they took us all off guard. After you left with Hralvar, they came in, shooting everywhere they saw a rebel. I was almost killed. I thought I was."

Sevari's smile disappeared, his eyes straying to a place far from the moment he was in before he cleared his throat, righting himself again, trying to not rely on his sword to prop himself up. He hated feeling broken.

"There are new additions to the warehouse. They will stay out of our way," Sevari turned, gesturing for his friend to walk along with him, "How did you escape?"

"About the same way as any other situation. With This One's legs." she said dryly, stepping in pace with Sevari and doing her best to not make it appear like she was making a consious effort to take smaller strides for her friend's sake. "This One was nearly struck from a pair of blasts from those crab automations. The heat felt like a furnace and the force felt like a hammer blow, Marassa somehow managed to continue to run, with the others in tow. As soon as we dared, This One lead the others to a safe house to await the time to move." she shook her head. "It was just like Anvil, only far more contained."

"Anvil," Sevari growled, the hand gripping the hilt of his sword starting to shake before he noticed, "The large armor, their suits, the crabs blew everything up around me. One of my team was felled by these machines. I do not know the fate of the other. I am the only survivor that I know of. We are very lucky, Marassa."

"Lucky." she scoffed. "Lucky people do not find themselves in these situations." she scowled, the day's events hardly the inspiring uprising that many others had anticipated. "You really must find a new calling after this is all said and through, Sevari. You have suffered no small number of grievous injuries in the past few weeks, and Marassa is not enjoying leaving you for any amount of time to come back to seeing you worn more away, like a stone in the desert sands. When do you say enough is enough before nothing of the man you are remains, hm?" she asked, fearing the answer to be something foolhardy and full of bravado.

Sevari stopped walking as Marassa spoke to him, only resuming his uneven and hobbled pace after a few moments. He contemplated an answer, feeling something fluttering in his heart that sapped his breath away, something like sadness, "I did find a calling. I found a wife. Her children loved me enough to call me their father, perhaps I was something my father could be proud of. Do not tell me to find a calling. I had one, Marassa. Do I fight until I carve a path of blood and I lay tired at your and Zaveed's side or do I turn back now and go back to my wife?"

He stopped once more, sweeping his hand to the rowboats and the ships beyond the large wooden doors of the warehouse, "The last time I tried to go we bled because I thought I was foolish. I was told I was foolish for trying to find a reason to fight, and now you see me here, not the noble warrior that the people stand behind and idealize, but the Khajiit who can not walk without feeling like falling!" He let out a growl as his sword shook and slipped under his weight, catching himself before he fell.

He looked back to his friend, his shoulders rising and falling, he felt himself trembling, not knowing whether to yell or to embrace his friend. A torrent of emotions gripped him at that point and he only stood there, not knowing what to do with himself.

"My wife calls for me as loudly as my loyalty to you, my friend," his voice trembled and he could not trust it, he continued on beside this, "I don't know what to do. I'm tearing myself in half." Sevari wiped a hand across his face, sighing and leaning against a crate.

"It is times like these I consider myself fortuitous that I have not found it in me to settle down." she said, switching to a more Cyrodiilic manner of speaking looking away from Sevari's pain and struggle with a pained expression. It killed her to see him like this. "You don't owe a damn thing to either Zaveed or I. Were it up to me, I would not be here, in this strange desert with people I care nothing for. I came because the only two people I care for, you and Zaveed, would without a doubt run off for another fool's errand, because you both can't sit back and let someone else pretend to be important for once." she said, frowning.

Marassa placed a hand on Sevari's back, affirming her presence. "If you really wanted to demonstrate your loyalty to me, you'd get back on a ship and to your family, who need a father more than they need a war hero. I have no one back home, and the only family I have is somewhere in this province trying to claim all the glory he can. I found Zaveed once on my own, Sevari, I can do so again. I..." she braced herself, finding the words difficult. "I am afraid to lose you. I'm afraid that you'll keep pushing forward until your so called luck claims your life, and then what? There's nothing worth dying for, Sevari. No cause worth throwing yourself away for. All that matters is the people you care about... nations rise and fall, regardless of what tries to stop it. It's the way of the world, and one I care not for." she said. "Don't die on me."

"Ït is hard, Marassa, I need to be here but I need to be with the ones that I love. It tears me apart because I've come to love all of you. I have one more push in me, Marassa, one more until I am old and worn and the world passes me by. I would hate myself until I am on my death bed if I read about your death or had to hear from some worn and weary merchant in town that Gorzath had died," Sevari looked to his friend, his breath still trembling, "I don't want to live with the thought in the back of my mind that I could have done something. Fame is not important, glory means nothing to me, but I know that your brother would die in search for it and the rest of you will keep on fighting. I ask myself why I can not, and my wife reminds me why I should not. I don't want to feel useless, I feel broken now. I want to see you through Hammerfell, I want to follow you to Skyrim, and I would dive with all of you into the Scathing Bay, but what hubris has enveloped us to make us think that we can stop these Dwemer? Are we fools consumed by our own heroism?"

Sevari looked to his friend, placing a hand on her shoulder and propping himself up on his sword, "This sword is the only remaining piece of my father that I can still touch. How long until my wife and children can say the same about my Imperial blade?"

"And what is it you expect to be able to accomplish if your body is too broken to push any further on, Sevari?" she asked. "You were always a practical man, and while you weren't always sound of mind, I saw who you really were under that brooding exterior. I forced you to open up and I proded you because I initially was in it to amuse myself, you were just another one of Zaveed's sad lackies, ready to die for something I couldn't comprehend why anyone would think was a sound idea. But then... I came to know you. A part of you reached back, and that stayed with me." she looked uncomfortable as she spoke, finding a pair of seats near a window overlooking the bay. She sat down, resting her elbow upon the wood table and looking deeply into Sevari's eyes.

"You know, I shouldn't have even been alive in the first place. Had misfortune not befallen my parents, I wouldn't be here and this situation we find ourselves enthralled with would have never come to pass. The infuriating part about Zaveed is he's so set on righting wrongs he comitted and he may not even realize it. He thrives off of people loving him for a change, all because it's something he never knew for most of his life. He lead a charge to save Tamriel from itself once, and it should be enough. I shouldn't find myself on another feeble journey to stop him from committing elaborate suicide, but here I am. I can't speak for the others' motivations, but they hardly matter. I'd much rather be back in Senchal, teaching my students the same skills my Master taught me, but it's hardly an anchor. You have a life waiting for you back in Elswyer, Sevari. Why don't you reclaim it? You made your choice when you married that woman, she comes first. You made that clear enough."

Sevari sat in his own thoughts across from Marassa, listening to her. It was no secret to Sevari that she and Zaveed were siblings but he never knew how it came about from the misfortunes talked about concerning Marassa's birth. He decided it was something they weren't happy to talk on. Sevari thought for a while, on his wife, on his being a Hero, whatever that was worth, about Marassa and Zaveed. He thought about how far he was willing to go for them, if he truly owed them his loyalty anymore. After two years of refusing to leave their side and even after both of them told them that he had repaid his debt tenfold, he chose to stay. Now that he was situated so near to ships that could very well carry him home, his return to his family was at his fingertips.

"If I am still here in the morning, I would think myself foolish and hate myself for not returning. If I am not, my heart will die knowing what could happen when I am gone," Sevari placed a hand on Marassa's, "Do not look for me in my office in the morning, do not look out at sea for me. If I do go, goodbye, my friend. Send my regards to your brother, tell him that I send a thousand thanks for setting me on the right path. You look like you need sleep, my friend."

The woman placed another hand on top of his, tears welling in her eyes. She knew that look in his eyes, the sombre resignation. She knew then and there that this night would be the last she saw of him. It hit her hard, her body softly began to tremble. "Sleep will not take me while you remain here... I cannot just say goodbye like this." she said, the moment crashing down around her like a broken city. Of all the words left unsaid, the fact she would be alone again once more. Her emotions were at odds with her words; she wanted what was best for him, truly, but it wasn't what was best for her. Did she not give up enough already? Did she not pay for her biological father's crimes enough? "I... don't want you to go, Sevari. I... I can't..." her words trailed off, pained.

Sevari's hand started to tremble as her friend's pain bubbled up to the surface. This was perhaps the hardest thing he had done, and perhaps would ever do. He didn't feel that there was anything that could be put into words that would match how he felt at that very moment. His hand wrapped around Marassa's, Sevari's other arm working to get Sevari to stand. He pulled his friend into a hug and all semblance of composure melted away from him in an instant. His shoulders began to shake and as they did so, the only thing he could do was hold his friend tighter for a moment. The hug broke away without any hope that it fixed anything. It was a journey's end for the Khajiit, he had been a lost child eager to impress his brothers. He had been a thug pressganged into service by a coldhearted criminal, a thief, a murderer, a Hero. A husband. A father.

Sevari only looked to the ground. He couldn't bear to look at his friend in this state. In one moment he felt happiness at being able to go back to his wife, in the other moment he felt that he had just betrayed everything he fought and bled for. He was not a praying Khajiit, he held no stock in the Gods of the Imperials or his people, but as he walked with feet that felt like thousands of pounds on their own, he silently uttered a prayer to S'rendarr and Mara.

"Wait." Marassa urged, springing up from the chair after him. As Sevari turned to face her, he found himself caught in a tight embrace and a passionate kiss. When Marassa pulled away, tears filled her eyes. "I wish you chose me. Vaba Do'Shurh'do... It is good to be brave." she choked, pulling away from him and hurrying away, every bit of emotional resistance within her finally giving way as she said goodbye to her closest friend, one she loved more dearly than she ever dared say.

Sevari was surprised at his friend's actions. The kiss took him off guard and he found himself falling into it without a regret. Perhaps he should have chosen her, his wife's love was to a lie, but he couldn't bring himself to think of abandoning her. Instead, he called out to Marassa's fleeting back, his arm stretching towards her. They stared into each other's eyes for a few moments before Sevari reminded himself to speak, "Perhaps we were in a past life. Perhaps we will be in the next. My mind will always remember you, I hope yours will do the same." Their eyes pulled away from each other's, Sevari making as quick of strides as they could manage back to his office, lest he break down any more in full view of Vorosien and the others.

Come morning, with life returning to some sense of normalcy in the city, though still feeling the choking yoke of Dwemer rule, a Khajiit wrapped in a cloak of simple material, clutching a cane and doing his best to hide a sword, slipped from the warehouse at the docks of Rihad while few were awake. He stopped at a tavern, listening for any sailors who were heading South from Hammerfell, to Stros M'kai. He would map out a course towards Senchal and from there, be one step closer to his family.

He would be lying to himself if he did not hold onto what could have been had Marassa followed him past Senchal. What could have been if he had not stopped in that tavern in Leyawiin. For all the things that should have been done and have been left undone, for all the things that should have been said and have been left unsaid, he wished forgiveness. He wished forgiveness from those killed by him or his orders, and he wished forgiveness from those he left in Hammerfell.

To a captain of a fishing vessel planning to make a voyage to Senchal, a coinpurse filled with gold was passed along a wooden table and taken up in gloved hands. By midday, the Khajiit was on the deck of the vessel and slipping out of port under the eyes of Watch-Captain Balaan and his faithful men. By sundown, they were half-way to Stros M'kai and in two days time, they would brave the blockade ing force the Altmer had set up around Anvil.

"Vaba Do'Shurh'do." The Khajiit muttered as he looked out across the sea to the setting sun, nestling itself into the horizon.

"Vaba Do'Shurh'do."

[WittyReference]

A bloody steel helm sat dented and uneasy along a lonely beach. Some two miles from the docks and warehouse he had found himself in not two days prior, a large orc had placed the simple marker and waded into the sea. From it's crimped and curt eyeholes, the vigil stared unblinking to the West. In its unflinching gaze it saw the man who would call upon it once more, breast deep in churning waves.

Cub ran. Like always. After Rihad, he ran. Covered in ancient blood and Dwemer pride, he fled. He remembered the way the man didn't make a sound as he fell. As he was pushed rather. As he was charged off a building rather. As he was crushed to nothing beneath the weight of a green bull rather. Drenched in blood and running. Whether to or from danger, Cub was always running. Cub was always moving. Stagnant in Windhelm and people died. Stagnant in Rihad and people died. Stagnant in his stronghold and people died. Thrice damned and thrice abandoned, he ran.

A circle of briney crimson sloshed around him as the blood of the usurper spilled into the mouth of the earth. The swishing, violent, watery, tusked, green mouth of the earth. It tasted bitter. Such is the case for mer, Cub mused. Not tasted bitter. Felt bitter. He tasted hate. It was a familiar taste. It was why he ran to the ocean. It was why he waded so deep into its grasp.

Cub was tired. Though his arms floated in the bubbling green waters, they weighed like lead. In his hands he held How's and Why's like sword and shield. He didn't like it much. It wasn't a hammer.

His shackle would corrode in such waters he warned himself. He really should go back to shore. He really should go back to the docks. Why? His armour was there. Why? He left it there. Why? He needed to be stealthy. Why? He needed to rescue Havar. Why? He needed help to find Zhaveed. Why? Because Zhaveed is the only person that could have saved the people of Windhelm.

Cub thought a moment as his eyes locked on a strand of seaweed floating past. He wanted to find Zhaveed to save the people he couldn't because he was too busy trying to find Zhaveed to save the people he couldn't because he was too busy... Cub closed his eyes as a large wave broke against his chest. He should get back to shore. He should get back to the docks. He should get back to Zhaveed.

Cub was tired. Standing stone in ocean depths, nothing made sense. How could he be so strong yet so powerless? When Shavi was nearly caught in the Palace of kings, Cub ran off and was found by Arbus. When Arbus offered him a home, Cub ran off to slay the emperor. When the emperor offered to bring the world peace, Cub fought alongside the others to slay him. Because Zhaveed said he deserved it. Because Zhaveed thought it could be done. Whether toward or away from danger, Cub was always running. Cub was always following.

Because he wasn't strong enough on his own. Because people die when they depend on him. He needed Zhaveed. He needed his father. He needed Arbus. He needed. And that is why he wasn't strong enough. Cub had seen Zhaveed lie, cheat, steal for his cause. For all his adoration, Zhaveed did what he had to because he had to. Zhaveed didn't run. Zhaveed didn't need anyone. He...he didn't need Cub.

Cub's stomach dropped as another wave crashed against him. He thought he'd come all this way to help Zhaveed and save the world again. But if Zhaveed never needed him in the first place...Cub thought back to the screams of Rihad. Men and women, children and babies blown apart because the "Heroes of Tamriel" had decided to hide there. They died because he thought he could help them. But he didn't help them. He killed them.

A bloody steel helm sat dented and uneasy along a lonely beach. Some two miles from the docks and warehouse he had found himself in not two days prior, a large orc had placed the simple marker and waded into the sea. From it's crimped and curt eyeholes, the vigil stared unblinking to the West. In its unflinching gaze it saw the man who would call upon it once more disappear beneath churning waves.

[Psyker Landshark]

Hralvar walked along the docks of Rihad, his face and his archmage's robes hidden with a simple hooded cloak. At a glance, he would look like any other homeless vagrant in the city, and not like the Hero of Tamriel that the Dwemer were desperately searching for. In the hours since they'd made it to the safehouse at the docks, Hralvar had gone off on his own after catching a part of Marassa and Sevari's discussion. He'd left to give the two some privacy, but considering that Sevari had disappeared, Hralvar could guess why. Well, at least Sevari had a family to go back to. Hralvar couldn't even claim that for himself anymore. Not since the damned Thalmor, anyway. Shaking his head, the old Nord steered his mind from that train of thought. No good came from dwelling on that right now, especially since they weren't even fighting those Altmer bastards.

Still, he couldn't exactly blame Sevari. Had his own wife and child still been alive, Hralvar didn't think he would have even joined up with the Stormcloaks all those years ago, much less this resistance. Protecting his family would have came first, after all. Honestly, he wouldn't even have been as set against the Empire and the Thalmor as he was if his family hadn't died because of them. But from what he had heard, they had fought the Thalmor. Struggled until the bloody elves decided they weren't worth the trouble of executing publically and were just cut down where they stood. They had assuredly gone to Sovngarde.

With no family left and very few friends still alive, all Hralvar could do right now was to support the ones he still had left. He would fight for them against whatever came in their way. For all of their power and technology, Hralvar felt no different at the thought of fighting the Dwemer as he did when he had fought the Thalmor or the Empire. In every war he had been in, the old mage had been on the smaller, lesser side. At this point, he was used to having lesser numbers and technology.

Most likely, he would die this time. But it didn't matter. Sovngarde would beckon soon. Death in battle was the ultimate outcome for a Nord, but he wouldn't die in vain. No, he'd take as many of those damned Dwemer out with him as he could. And then he would be with his wife and daughter again.

His will to fight renewed, Hralvar made to return to the warehouse, prepared to take the fight to the Dwemer.

[WittyReference]

Cub wretched forth against the incoming tide feebly, each step deeper into the ocean's embrace as pained and weighted as the bloody conscience that brought him to her shores. She welcomed the orc as she had men and mer for years; captains seeking to tame her, fish boats seeking to harvest her, all such prideful endeavors carried the price of death in her yawning maw, a siren song of gulls the only witness to the lonely sinking ships. It was strange then when the ocean found the orc here today. One who would come humbly to her arms and jutting fangs of reef. Still, the orc entered her of his own device. No lover came without reason and she would see this one piled with the rest.

Though the foam of deeper waters blinded him to the dangers below, Cub pressed on into the damnable sea. It seemed the only course of action really. So long he had thought himself a fortress, a bulwark to those in need. When Arbus instructed them to kill a dragon, he knew what had to be done. The others would slay the beast but at what price? He charged headlong into the mouth of the beast. Gnashing teeth and spells of icefire, his scars speak testament to what the winged beast could have done if not occupied.

The water was now to the nape of Cub's neck as he barely kept his head above water. There was no fortress. He filled the dragon's mouth but Urzoth has still fallen. He carried her back to Zhaveed. They left her with the healers but...no. There was no fortress. Cub was a scythe and carried death across his broad shoulders. With a final determined push against the swirling current, his Coward's Crown faded from sight once and for all.

[WittyReference]

|You are weak.|

A Voice snarled across the black marble and up into the impossible rafters, buttresses and arches black as sin and tall as the heavens. Pale light streamed from the unseen heights, filtering down and piling on the large form crumpled on the ground.

Cub blinked away the light as he slowly rose to a seated position, his dwemer armour glinting fractals of light into the otherwise pristine darkness. Wait, Armour? Cub lifted his hands groggily before his face, the familiar green of his Orcish gloves and faded red runes of Malacath.

|Rise when your betters speak.|

The same Voice boomed again as shadowed tendrils jerked the bewildered orc to his feet. The lights widened and dispersed across the vast expanse in every direction. Troughs of crimson snaked between the black marble tiles. each large slab swaying and dipping into the liquid beneath.

Pulled to his feet, Cub struggled to keep his balance as the floating tiles beneath him rocked and collided against each other. "Where am I? Who are you?" Though he shifted with the bloodtide, Cub tried his best to keep his voice level. "I am Orsimmer, Son of Malacath. I demand you show yours-!" A crimson tendril leapt from the tide below and slammed Cub in the chest, nearly toppling him to the ground.

|You dare make demands of Me?|

The Voice hissed through the darkness once more, causing the beams of light to tremble in its wake. Widening their breadth again, even more of the vast expanse of tiles was illuminated. Tendrils of the darkness gathered on the far side of the room as the Voice spat disdain once more.

|You who would command Me, prove you are worthy of My gaze. Kill in my name and I shall grant you My favour. You are weak. I can make you strong again.|

With that, the shadowed tendrils bound themselves together and severed from the surrounding nothingness. The mass of shadow twisted in its own wake and took form. The form rose to Cub's height and took breath.

Before he had time to question what was happening, Cub was staring down the barrel of a giant Orcish Warrior skipping nimbly across the tiles with a battle cry and charging him head on. Pristine Orichalcum armour jutted from its body, painted in crisp familiar runes. The massive ebony hammer it carried was marked likewise and the Orcish helmet it wore couldn't quite hide the yellow Crown peeking beneath.

Steeling himself and lifting his hammer from his back, Cub balanced himself between two moving tiles as the Orc continued his charge. "Just a bit more..." As the Orc came within distance of tackling him to the churning below, Cub slammed his hammer against the tile in front of him sending waves through the bloodtide and nearly knocking the Orc off-balance.

Struggling to keep himself upright, the Orc was unable to block Cub's second swing up from the tile and into the side of his leg toppling him over completely. With a thud, more waves were sent into the bloodtide as Cub continued his assault.

"Your hammer's not a finesse weapon. Get it going and keep it going." Grobash was an adventurer before he came to the stronghold. Cub's father never officially sanctioned him there but seemed too busy with other things to care much. With his traveling years behind him and no family left in the city, he'd taken to teaching the Chieftain's son the tools of his trade. "We've been at this for hours, don't you think you should take a break? Even the best steel breaks if you don't take care of it. Your body is just like that."

"I can't...take a break..." Cub panted as he eyed the battered training dummy before him. "The fight is soon and I can't lose again. The Stronghold needs a Chief. I have to kill my father. I have to get better." With renewed vigor, Cub bashed away at the dummy counting his strikes in his head. "Overhand, lead into the next swing, across the midsection, strike with the pommel, shoulder to the ribcage, back to first position. I did this last time. I did this and I still lost. What am I doi-"

"What good is a leader too tired to fight? The Stronghold has prospered beneath your fa-...the Chief." Gorbash stopped as the gargantuan Cub's eye cut from the dummy to him.

"That's right. He is your chief. I am his son. If I say I need to train, you train me. These are our ways, City Orc." Cub spat the words at Gorbash's feet. He was young. How could he have known the Frost Trolls would attack?

Cub's assault had left the Orc limping but far from dead. Catching the shaft of Cub's hammer, the Orc pulled himself to his feet and Cub forward into a grapple. With no room to leverage his hammer in such close quarters, Cub dropped the maul in favour of a swift punch to the Orc's gut. Seemingly unfazed, the Orc delivered an elbow to the back of Cub's neck making his eyes water and ears ring.

Still tangled, Cub swept his leg behind the Orc sending them both to the tile below. Landing atop the Orc, Cub threw several more punches to the same dismal effect. Twisting his body, the Orc managed to free a hand from beneath Cub and strike him hard in the temple. Momentarily blinded, Cub was pushed off the equally large Orc and dangerous close to the bloodtide surrounding the black tiles.

As his vision cleared, Cub saw the seething grimace above him as gloved paws latched around his throat. Eyes full of hate and jutting tusks stared into him as Cub tried desperately to fight back. Frenzied kicks to the stomach, flailing punches to the head, nothing seemed to shatter the bloodthirsty mirror above him. As the life slowly faded from him into the crimson rivers below, the Voice whispered.

|You need me.|

Cub suddenly felt a weight in his hand as tendrils of shadow gave way to a simple silver dagger. Without thought, Cub drove the blade into the side of the Orc's neck causing him to release his grasp and let out a garbled cry. With a gasp, Cub twisted the blade within the flesh as ragged air-filled his lungs once more. As he breathed life once more, Cub pushed the weakened Orc from atop him and pulled the dagger from his neck. Trying desperately to stop the gushing, the Orc wheezed. "Who are you?" With that the form once more returned to shadow and was gone.

Beneath the panting Cub, the bloodtide boiled. One by one the tiles were dragged into the angry liquid. One by one the lights fell away. As he struggled to his feet, Cub heard the tiles being sucked under growing closer. With no light to guide him, Cub dashed forth into the darkness until he too was pulled under. Tossed in the dark and unforgiving waves, Cub heard the voice speak once more before passing out.

|Remember this day, orc. Send their souls to Me and you shall rewarded. Betray Me and you shall know such exquisite suffering.|

Cub awoke with a coughing fit as briny coastal air replaced sea water in his lungs. Lifting himself shakily onto his side, Cub blinked away the blinding sun. In the distance he saw the Docks where his armour and friends resided. Lifting himself to his feet uneasily, Cub noticed a glint in the sand near his lone helmet. Donning his helm, Cub lifted the item from the sand; a simple silver dagger.

[Leidenschaft]

It was night now, and darkness wrapped everything in her embrace, as cold as ice, as cold as sharp steel against one’s skin. The sea slapped her hands against the hull of the ship, soft pats of love that rocked the wooden vessel nonetheless. Stars shone brightly in the sky and a soft wind blew through everything around the Breton, wrapped in his wine-red cloak, holding a lantern and daydreaming of a place miles upon miles northward. There was a certain feeling about tonight, something different about the Captain and Adalard. It didn’t feel right, and that’s all Francis knew. Then again, nothing did feel quite right after he left Stros M’kai. A certain sinking feeling in his heart that was only interrupted when Vendel was around. The Nord reminded him of home, of Camlorn, of Wayrest. Two years, two long years and Francis could say that he had accomplished his mission and return to his sister. Maybe he’d find himself a wife, maybe the King of Camlorn’s daughter would be in Wayrest and they would elope together. Maybe he’d grow an extra tongue and Tamriel would sink to the bottom of the sea.

“I suppose you’re lonely out here?” Vendel’s familiar voice came from behind him.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m only happy that we can return home, Vendel,” Francis said with a slight chuckle, “But, in a way, I want to stay out here. Just for a while.”

“On the topdeck?” Vendel asked, scratching his head before replacing his helmet.

“No, no,” Francis laughed, “travelling, Vendel, wandering. We’ve become vagabonds over our lives, criminals, wanted men, Vendel. It was a frightful thing when we ran from Camlorn in fear of the headsman’s block. It was quite something else on N’gasta, wasn’t it?”

“I won’t talk about that place, Francis.” Vendel snapped in short, concise words, looking away and folding his arms.

“I know, Vendel,” Francis’s voice reached a somber tone at the mention of the Isle of N’gasta, “But, you have to admit that it puts it in perspective. In any sane man’s reasoning, we should be dead. You were there, underground with Gorzath and his party, you saw what happened. Everyone died but us. Everyone, Vendel. Any one of them could have been me or you, but it wasn’t, it was them. That’s something else. A second chance. I thought those were to be my last hours, but they weren’t. Do you want to be given more time by whatever God gracious enough to see us through that fucking labyrinth and spend it all living quietly and safe?”

“I suppose that might be his reason, Francis, so we can see our family instead of dying nameless in the dirt of a necromancer’s lair.” Vendel reasoned.

“Any sane man would say that, Vendel. Sane men don’t witness what we did and walk away from it.” Francis looked at Vendel.

Vendel saw Francis in the light of the lantern. It may have been the light playing tricks or the fact that he was tired, but Francis looked disturbed, his eyes much too ponderous, not to mention that he looked less kempt than before. Vendel knew that whatever had happened to Francis after he was separated from the party had affected him. Something had changed within Francis and Vendel didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t want to bring it up for fear of Francis having an outburst like before, outside of the Mausoleum after they escaped. Besides, he looked much worse, then, so the way he looked now was an improvement. He took solace in that, left it and searched his mind for something to talk about.

“Did you hear we’re bound for Northpoint?” Vendel cursed himself for blurting that out.

Francis was noticeably disturbed by what he had just heard. Northpoint? Why Northpoint? Why in the realms of Oblivion would they be headed to Northpoint when Hilaire was in Wayrest? He did say that he wanted to be out here and on the road, adventuring, though. It wasn’t his place to complain, either, he was on passage on the Golden Gale basically free. Francis looked at Vendel for a few short thoughts before speaking, “Fine.”

“Fine?” Vendel asked.

“We’re going to shore, Vendel. Get a rowboat ready and get us to port, once there, we’ll pay for passage back to Wayrest, friend.” Francis replied.

“You were always a plotter, Francis.” Vendel slapped his friend on the shoulder.

A few minutes after, trying to get the rowboat into the water without letting the rest of the crew know what they were doing, they were finally a few good rows away from the ship. They spent the time in silence for fear of waking anyone with needless noise and the two only spent their time going to shore staring out at the surrounding blackness. The only way for them to guide themselves was to follow the lights of the lanterns and the lighthouse in the distance. It was a long boat ride but before they could dread it, they were halfway there.

“Vendel, about what I said earlier.” Francis spoke, out of the blue.

“Speak nothing of it, my friend. The Mausoleum effected us all, you’re probably still getting your wits about you after such an experience. I know I am.” Vendel laughed.

“That’s not what I meant, Vendel,” Francis said quietly, getting a quizzical stare from his friend, “I won’t be going home with you, Vendel.”

“Francis,” Vendel almost whispered, “Francis, what is this about? Don’t leave, Francis. This is just you in your wrong mind again, like when we finally got out of the Mausoleum.”

“No, Vendel, I am leaving. I want you to tell my sister that I love her, and that I’m being called for great things with the time I have earned back from death.” Francis said.

“You’re a fool, Francis, and that’s something. This is the most foolish thing you’ve done, you know? You should be ashamed of yourself, the way you’re speaking so selfishly-”

“I do mean to return. I mean to return months from now, knowing that I saved Tamriel from something. Knowing that I used my time to become something larger than myself.” Francis said.

“Francis, you’re speaking gibberish that I cannot understand. You should get some rest before you start deciding what you’re to do with your time.” Vendel spoke, matter-of-factly.

“I already have, friend. Goodbye.” Francis said.

Before his friend could react to his words, before he could reply, before he could reach out to grab Francis by the collar and cuff him in the head hard enough to set his mind straight again, the Breton cast himself and Vendel in a light of magicka from his palm, blinding light that Vendel tried to bat away. As the candlelight spell drifted away from the boat and off into the night and Vendel’s vision returned to him, Francis was not anywhere near. He figured he had jumped from the boat in the confusion. An anger rose with his heart rate and Vendel stood in the boat, his finger towards the water in the general direction of the city, “Francis, Gods damn it all, man, you selfish, petty fool of a man! You’ve forsaken yourself to death on foreign soil for something so stupid! Something so unsure when you could have returned to your home with me and Annaliese!”

Vendel may have been telling the truth. Or not. Francis wanted to find out and the clawing in his skull wouldn’t let him do anything but. His sister would understand. Probably not, but Francis needed to do this. It was just something he felt that he needed to do and by every God alive or dead, he would do it. With a waterbreathing spell and a deranged conviction, the Breton swam to shore with the same vigor he escaped from the Mausoleum with. He was trying to save his life. He couldn’t say from what, or from who, but every breaststroke was testament to him meaning it.

[Nyxella]

A world away from the scenes of suffering, their sanctuary was as close to an oasis as current times would allow. Pleasing aromas and the sounds of merriment filled the air, carrying its infectious mood throughout the sites dedicated to maintaining this mirage of peace and fulfilment. An arm rose amongst the tight huddle hugging a wooden bar, the patches beneath its opposite elbow looking well worn, like it hadn’t seen the light in an hour or three. There were a few hesitations to heed the summons on the staff’s behalf, though none that would create a minute-long divide between the raised hand and the sustenance its owner sought. It was a request made especially difficult to meet, considering the trading restrictions imposed by the current conflict, but to try and explain that would be to sing fine poetry to a sow without ears. If this foreigner was not associated with the new, more welcome, arrivals from Stros M'kai, their orders would've been tended to simply out fear of having something broken. Wearing creases in her otherwise flawless, honey-like complexion, the bar-maid who drew the short straw delivered three bottles of exotic mead. She pushed aside a braid that hung by her lips, to ask if they had other needs that required her attention; wishing for the answer that relesed her. Without giving a reply, or so much as a nod of thanks, the pale stranger snatched the bottles in haste, making the stacks of empty tankards and clear glasses veer threateningly upon the tray she held. In outrage, the native woman settled it on the counter, curled her lip and let her teeth show, unafraid, for the moment, of having them forcibly removed. The matter was swiftly set fire to and forgotten about, however, when a friendly pair of hands guided her towards the dancefloor. Another hand, the same smooth and rich colour as what the tavern majority drank, reached out towards the foreigner, hoping to receive one in return. The blue-eyed stranger didn't pause, she opened the bottle with her teeth, spat the cork into the man’s palm and drained the bottle in a single turn. The man walked away in disgust, leaving Thyra to the company of her mead and a chuckling barkeep. Barbarians from the Far North were not known for their sunny dispositions.

Adding to her burdensome thoughts of yester-years, the regrets that resisted the plying of a stiff drink began to strip away layers from the inner walls, separating between them and her reflections. Every piece represented a failed argument against her being responsible for the death of their youngest member. It was an unnecessary practice, to review those final moments with criticism for every action taken, and inaction imagined, as if the cross was hers alone to bear. She twisted an arm back, demanding another drink, and felt the weight of her axe pulling at the belt holding up her loose pants. When Zaveed initiated the attack, Thyra became so consumed by the want to destroy, it rendered her oblivious to the need to protect. She could have left the gore where it was, instead of spending the first night scrubbing the axe’s head in a determined frenzy, since it was all she could see on it now. Shadows swayed in the candlelight, mimicking the movements of those on their feet. She imagined them to be the warring sides of her reasoning; flame-like and uncontained, lacking a definitive shape. There was no point in caring now, since the time for that had fallen way behind and below her footsteps out of that cave. Her drinks became almost as dark as her thoughts, and then twice as bitter - though the selection of rum was mostly on the endorsement of a confident Breton. She hit the bottom many times, ordering a refill, never quite reaching a sure conclusion. Before the hour was up, she could feel an inner fire blazing a trail through her heart, spreading heat through each limb and to the apples of her cheeks. The ache of restlessness wouldn’t let her ignore this flux of energy, but at the same her thoughts were too fleeting to provide her body any instruction, so she acted on instinct. Uprooting herself from the darker corner of the front bench, she made towards the exit with a slightly tilted gait, swinging from one footstep to the other. She threw her weight at the stubborn obstacles in her path, which caused a mild ruckus, and either fell or was guided through the entryway. In one hand was the thin neck of a bottle of something potent, and in the other was a stouter form belonging to the man unlucky enough to catch her. She blinked at him a few times, caught in the green shade of his eyes that appeared to glow when viewed against his bronze skin. In under a minute, she caught onto the gist of his crooked grin and shoved him away.

“Not for you, laddie,” she slurred, and stumbled to a stop, working to regain her composure. It didn’t successfully stave off his advance, though, so she moved to specify her intentions more clearly. “I’m here for her.” She took a fistful of his cotton shirt, a shade lighter than the navy one she wore, glared at him and pointed to a person completely detached from the scene. The message was undoubtedly misunderstood, and her orientation might forever be in question, but it served its purpose. The air tasted smoky, and although it was an improvement to the swathe of heat pulsing within the tavern, it clung stubbornly to her skin. She kept pulling at the vest and undershirt the locals insisted she wear to ‘blend in’. They bore the elaborate stitchings and light textures that were typical of Hammerfell’s casual style of dress, yet the humidity made her sweat as if she still donned the steel armour packed away in her foot locker. She dropped herself next to a smallish woman, whose focus was divided between the artful throwing of burning sticks and a the product of sticks when processed. Thyra never understood the appeal of study or theatre, viewing the arts as something Bretons and Imperials liked to squander their time on. She did, however, study the fire-dancers’ rhythmic movements, and suddenly found herself comparing them to the suggestive swagger of a certain tall-haired, Breton king in tights. The Nord also found herself admitting that he was strangely attractive, and to that she immediately threw her shot glass away and drank straight from the bottle. Of all the things to remember from that time, Jareth should be among the last and most forbidden.

“Drink?” Thyra’s offer was blunt and seemed more like a demand, the way she thrust the bottle towards the woman next to her.

[Dusk]

As the dancing flames mesmerized and distracted Elayna, allowing her numbing mind a small reprieve, it hardly registered that the fierce Nord woman had sat down besider her and thrusted a drink towards her. The Breton looked at Thyra, jade eyes dazed for a moment, before shaking the haze from her head, only to take a drink of the stinging liquid to fill it with more. She held the bottle out to Thyra, who took another mouthful as soon as it was received. "It seems quite a few of us deal with stress similarly." Elayna said with a sad, short laugh. Poultices stained her new clothes, showing a night of experimentation, most ending in failure and waste. The drink was definitely called for.

A sharp chuckle echoed from within the bottle, passing through the Nord's exposed teeth and rolling over her fingers like syrup. “Any snow-back can drink when they're distressed", she sniffed . The woman's assumption bore truth, there were many people rating the recent events on the same scale as the Oblivion Crisis, and rightfully so. But to suggest that they were alike in severity - as the drinks were in potency - was laughable.

"Those of us who can handle rough and tough, we have real reasons for wanting to forget." As she planted the bottle between them, she gave her drinking companion a quick once over. They weren't as noticeable before, but up close, and in the dark of night, her green eyes took on a radiant glow. Blink by careful blink, Thyra removed the haze that had suddenly fogged up her vision. She concentrated on pulling the proper words out from beneath the whimsical ones, talking slow to avoid uttering a slur. "You ain't from the group I fought with. If you were, you'd know real stress," she stated matter-of-factly.

Her eyes appeared static and unfixed, but behind them, images flew by, of hoardes moving across the hills, and countless more in the caverns, where the golden one now lay. A short grunt leapt from the ache in her chest. "The undead? Puppies with no teeth compared to Draugr."

Elayna threw a sharp glance the Nord's way, before turning and speaking to the fire. "My 'stress' isn't from that rat in the Mausoleum. It was wretched, those poor souls fused with Dwemer metal. But that pales in comparison to my other worries." She ran a hand over her eyes, as if she could wipe the fire, and all the things she'd seen, away like blood on a dress. Just like that, however, she may get the surface grime off, but the stains would always be there. Thyra was curious now, it started to make sense why no one ever spoke of what happened on that forbidden isle, but what could be worse than that? "I still have an entire family to account for. A big one, too. If they weren't in danger, I'd be long gone. But it's starting to look like I could accomplish something here. Maybe." The Breton crossed her arms, just to emulate the embrace of those she held dear.

"I saw the body of a man who was my second father, and the Imperial City reduced to corpses and ash. I'm surprised I haven't taken a fatal dose of one of my own creations yet." She paused, looking for words that were trying to slip away into the alcohol. "One difference between you and I, Thyra, is that I wasn't meant for the path of the warrior. Death is not one I know well." Elayna sighed, ...but we're getting increasingly familiar with one another. My point is, there's no longer a use in claiming one ordeal is worse than another. It's all just part of the travesty that is the world at the moment. Each of us will get our share, some earlier than others."

"Aye, earlier," the Nord repeated slowly, her voice made brittle by the opened pool of memories, and the fresh pull of rum. She pushed back the blue scarf that swaddled her thoughts, combing calloused fingers through the soft, straw meadow, as if it helped ease them. It never did. "Maybe after all this is finished, you'll understand."

Glasses shattered in the background, one by one, to the uproarious encouragement of drunken laughter. Shortly after, a man stumbled outside to purge his meal in the bushes behind them. Thyra swore at him loudly. "Look at the way they romp around, no better than beasts! And 'e ain't got a damn burden to drink to." She shook her axe at him until he fled. A second longer, and she'd have thrown it. "They might've thanked their devil gods, made you feel like a hero, but for most of them, that's all they'll do. Showing gratitude is all they'll do."

She had to take a therapeutic nip to calm her spirits, and pointed to Elayna with the bottle in hand. "You, an alchemist, took up arms for your family," she laughed. "Of all the sorts! I wasn't at the Imperial's city when the elves struck," her throat cleared itself to make room for another gulp. "And when I see how lime that orc in your company is, a part of me doesn't wanna know what happened on the isle. You were, not them, but they get to carry on as such." Her hand gestured from the ruckus inside, to the Breton girl, and then the fire before them. "There are people we left on that island who should be here."

The young Breton couldn't help but laugh as the intoxicated woman chased one of the more inebriated patrons with her ax, and with good reason. Thyra was right, the populace seemed more focused on praising those that take action rather than taking action themselves. In honesty, Elayna was in that very boat not too long ago. What had happened to her plans to live out her days as some old medicine woman in the swamp lands of Leyawiin, making sure to give praises to the Nine and the Heroes? Those thoughts seemed like distant figments now, and the gratitude from the people just felt empty.

"It's sad, really. If we all just pushed, charged, did something, the Dwemer would have a force to reckon with on their hands. But here we all are, placing the few we deem 'capable' on a pedastal and waiting for them to make all of the problems disappear." Elayna shook her head, propping up her chin with her right hand. "I was taught to kill animals for reagents, not some long-dead elves with outrageous weapons. My fighting was more of a 'last hoorah' effort. Only after our recent excursion am I really beginning to find that, maybe there is something worth saving. Maybe there are a few Ferrises left."

She nodded at Thyra's closing remark. "How could they expect such things of us? We lost people, yet we're just going to be pushed off to the slaughter again. It's not like we can go forever." Elayna gazed into the fire along with the Nord warrioress. Just how long were they going to survive?

[Dervish]

A Collab between Soul and myself

Insurgent Camp, West of Helgathe, 16 Rain's Hand...

Wispy morning air kissed the camp like a lover's warmth as the chill of the night gave way to the dawn's sun. It was the calm before the stifling, humid heat of midday, and already the camp was abuzz with activity. Men and woman of all races moved together in concert, moving the next piece in their deadly game with the dwemer. The Heroes of Tamriel and their companions, however, were not caught up in the various duties of the day, but rather were situated in a tent with rather spartan furnishings. Indeed, a crudely fashioned board and a crate that acted as a table were the only things apparent in the tent, forcing the group to stand as Nadeen, the mysterious amber-eyed Redguard woman and her companion Hassan, his ever present keffiyeh wrapped loosely around his neck, giving his handsome features a roguish charm. Compared to the hard-featured and ageless woman who resembled a sand snake in her cloak, her dark complexion and hair partially concealed by the tan hood of the cloak. She appraised each of the companions before offering a solemn nod.

"We understand what it is that has been asked of you, and that you have completed your mandates so effectively and with such conviction has done much for our cause. While it is cruel to ask those who have already given so much to our world to press forward with their lives at stake, I cannot overstate the impact your presence has had, your actions. If any doubted what you all are capable of, your deeds in Stros M'kai will surely quell the tongues of even the most skeptical. The people of Hammerfell are forever in your debt, one we may never be able to repay." she bowed her head. "We thank you. Your courage means more than you can ever know."

Nadeen righted herself, stepping before the map. "This before you is a map of the city of Helgathe, the capital of Hammerfell, and the crown jewel of the dwemer conquest. So far, we have been able to do little more than infiltrate the city and observe; any brash action would be suicidal, as their defenses are absolute due to the Governor claiming the palace as her seat of power. All orders and organization comes from Helgathe,and to disrupt that would be a crippling blow to the dwemer. Where complications arise is such; how does one access the dwemer leadership, or even know who are people who need to be removed to make a difference? Governor Razlinc Rourken, the direct descendant of those who had ruled Volunfell prior to the dwemer disappearance, is obvious. However, she's but one person. What we need to find is her generals, her advisers. This is a multi-headed serpent; if even one survives, then the threat remains.

"And so, your task is simple; you will infiltrate the city as traveling civilians and merchants, and from there proceed to the designated safe houses where you will obtain your weapons and equipment for the tasks at hand. You will gather what information you can, locate designated targets, find out what you can about their activities and who they report to, and when the time comes, send a message with their deaths. There will not be a lot of support, and our network is patchy, to say the least. You will be left largely to your own devices to determine the best course of action." she explained, turning to Hassan. "Tell them what they should expect in the city walls, Hassan."

"Dwemer guns. Dwemer cannon-crabs. Dwemer Powered Armor. This is the seat of Dwemer power in Hammerfell, the amount of which that they hold dwarfs any of your petty hubris. Watch yourselves, strike only when you are sure you have your target and always remember to leave no loose ends. The tavernkeep should not know your real name, if any name at all. Make a plan to kill everyone you meet before they kill you, or get you killed. Now is not a time for weakness."

Hassan stepped forward to circle a finger around a building adjacent to the Governor's Palace, "This is the headquarters for the Ministry of Order. This organization is the eyes and ears of Governor Razlinc here in Hammerfell and we have reason to believe that the organization stretches the entirety of Dwemer controlled Tamriel. These people will prove prime targets, but also hard ones, so do not be rash when dealing death to their members. They are not to be trifled with, so make sure not to make waves within the city beyond a reasonable amount. Assassination is key, not a street-war."

Hassan stepped back, clasping his hands behind his back, "That being said, the first order of business is eliminating the head of the Collaborator Guards after settling in. Do not plant roots, leave no trail. There is an intricate network of safe houses resulting from months of preparation, use these to lay your head for the night," Hassan paused for a moment, looking the companions over before continuing, "If you manage to find the first safe house near the marketplace, marked with a decorative tapestry, and manage to remember that one who needs shelter in the ground-floor building is required to deliver three quick knocks before two slower pounds on the cellar door, then you have successfully found your first base of operations."

"After this is achieved, you are permitted to use whatever means necessary to flush out the leader. This means anything short of cold-blooded public murder of guards or civilians. Disobey that and you will find that I am quicker to respond than a member of the Ministry of Order. Permitted acts include robbery, interrogation, planting of fabricated letters, interception of letters and planting incriminating evidence. Through this, do not fail to remember that your end goal in this is to assassinate the head of the Collaborator Guards, nothing more, nothing less. Once this task is completed, you will be able to go after bigger things. Do not do anything to imply the insurgency's involvement. They will find out, eventually, but it will not be your fault. If it is, I will handle the Governor's job and end you myself. It will be a good death."

"Make no mistake, we are going into the lion's den, and mistakes cannot be afforded. One botched assignment, one compromised safe house, and it will be more than just your lives that you put at stake. We will give you support where necessary, and you will not be the only ones working within the city. That being said, you will be departing in half an hour. Report to a man named Rashad, he will be taking you to the city and be acting as your primary contact while in the city. A word of caution, it is likely you will all be split into smaller groups, so be sure to consider your skills and experience before committing yourself to an assignment. We can ill-afford to make mistakes." Nadeen regarded the group for a few moments, drinking in their faces. "Hammerfell owes you all a great debt. We will meet again." she said tersely, dismissing herself from the tent.With that, Hassan bowed his head slightly and stepped backwards, allowing himself to take position behind Nadeen, leaving the group to gather their things for the long walk to Helgathe and to meet Rashad, their guide.

As it turned out, Rashad was a rather handsome man in his early to mid 20s with a neatly trimmed beard, a grin that could melt woman's hearts, and a complexion not unlike wet sand. His olive eyes and messy mop of curly black hair gave the man something of a carefree, winded look that seemed rather at odds with the purple dwemer sash tied about his waist and the scimitar at his hip. Other than that, his apparel wasn't overly ostentatious other than the several rings that adorned his fingers and the merchant clothes that draped more snugly than on others wearing similar clothes, indeed it deemed to suggest no small amount of muscle definition. He bowed theatrically with no small amount of flourish. "My friends, it is with no small amount of pleasure that I introduce myself to such esteemed compatriots. My name is Rashad, but a humble merchant to the dwemer, the key to the city to you. It is my home; I grew up in a fairly unpleasant neighbourhood, so it behooved me to learn every stone, nook, and street quite early. After all, when your family cannot afford to eat some weeks, you are forced to take certain precautions." he grinned at the Heroes, his eyes beaming with delight. Whether it was a part of his well-practiced sales pitch or genuine excitement to be working with people with such reputation could not be ascertained.

He gestured to the wagons, which were loaded with supplies. "There's only a few seats available, so most of you are going to have to walk, which will be about a five hour journey. There will be breaks every hour for water and fresh fruit, as you need to keep hydrated." he looked at the khajiit in the group and chuckled. "Although, some of you may be more comfortable with the climate than others. You are all playing the parts of merchants or travelers from other towns. We managed to secure you all documentation for your cover identities, which I strongly suggest you study thoroughly so the dwemer do not suspect anything, and we can make it past the check point at the Western gate into the city. It's heavily guarded, and while I wouldn't say the dwemer are complacent, they aren't going to look twice at a rag-tag group such as yourself if you play the part twice. People come and go all the time, even during a war, and it would be impossible for the dwemer to be overly through for every person who passed through the gate. Trust me; I've gotten much weirder groups than you all in before, this will be no different." he offered reassuringly. "No, ready to go see the jewel of Hammerfell?" Rashad asked.

_____

By sundown, the companions were outside of the gates of Helgathe, slowing to a stop as a lightly-armoured guard approached. The massive walls of the city were a grand spectacle, even those from Skyrim would have had to appreciate their pristine, finely carved facade and ornate statues that adorned the walls and gates. It was a city crafted and maintained with care, and despite the ravages of the climate, it held strong, a testament to both the Redguard craftsmen and the dwemer who came before them.

Rashad dismounted from the lead wagon and walked up to the guard, his well-practiced swagger unmistakable. Nothing about his showed worry or hesitation, just a well-natured man going through the necessary motions of an occupation without complaint. The group could not hear the words being exchanged, but the dwemer guard did not seem particularly interested or perturbed. He checked Rashad document papers with punctuary efficiency before he gestured to the other guards to follow suit. Four guards in total went down the convoy, asking politely for the documentation and scribing something with an ink well and pen fastened to their armour. They gave the non-human members of the convoy some careful inspection but carried on as normal, more curious then suspicious. Ten minutes later, the group was ushered through the mighty gates and into the grand city.

Walking the streets in a tight column, Rashad did not hesitate to brandish his knowledge of the inner workings of the city. If there was ever a doubt in the minds of the companions that Rashad did not know the city like the back of his hand, the man certainly dissipated any of that with his constant commentary, given with a handsome, smiling face as if he was appointed by the Governor herself to show tourists through the streets. Every nook and cranny, every alleyway to every vendor's stall, Rashad knew at least one story that took place in them.

"There," Rashad shot a finger out towards a building, brightly jeweled with fractaled murals along the inside walls and ceilings, two statues stood guard at the brilliantly white outside entrance of the grand building, both in heroic poses, pointing their right arms into the air. Their right arms were replaced by the blades of ebony swords, "That is a mosque of Ebonarm, my friends. Redguards anywhere in Hammerfell- and especially the deserts of Alik'r- appreciate these mosques and have built many of them. The statues you see there, they are dedicated to the Old Redguard God of War, a companion and protector of all warriors. He is deeply rooted in our culture, as war is, as well."

"Beyond that, the marketplace. That marketplace is scarred," Rashad's voice became hoarse, almost angry, "Men died in that marketplace. There was a large gathering during the first days of the Dwemer arrival, we protested them, told them to leave our cities and we would not follow them. Their answer?" Rashad simply outstretched a hand to his side, miming the pulling of the trigger on a Dwemer weapon.

"Since then, most of us have vowed to repay every drop of blood spilled there, tenfold. Were it up to some of us, we would kill every Dwemer we could find. Man, woman, child. I do not blame them, honestly. A man lives to protect his family, if his family is destroyed before his eyes, he will avenge them. My friends, there are a lot of men whose families were destroyed that day."

Once in the marketplace, they were tailed by local street urchin children and led to the insurgents' den. Rashad bowed his goodbyes before entering through the front door while the companions made their way to the basement. They knocked the secret code and were permitted in by an older Redguard whose bald headed features were as rough and tattered as the boiled leather armor he wore. He caught sight of Wets-His-Blade, sizing him up casually, like he did with all newcomers. The Redguard smiled and one could notice that he was shy a few teeth. Whether it was due to hygiene concerns or bar fights was anyone's guess.

"You wait here. Poncy man will be here soon." The words grumbled out of the Redguard as he sat at a table in a far corner of the basement.