Hegathe
The second guard collapsed, a large shaft of ice protruding through his chest, having pierced his armour like a thin piece of tin. Zaveed’s eyes met Eleyna, the woman’s distress rather evident across her normally fair features. A pang of regret filled the khajiit; many of the people who willingly followed him had never hurt a single soul in their lives, let alone know what it’s like to take a man’s life. He thought back to how he felt when he first killed a man, a singular desperate action that came down to his life or the argonian and came up empty. Whatever empathy Zaveed had for the sanctity of life had long been eroded from his soul. The bodies on the ground meant nothing to him, but the startled, horrified Breton girl standing in the street who was forced to act to protect him mattered. She was a friend, someone who should have never been dragged all the way from Cyrodiil to fight a war that all of them might not survive.
Zaveed noticed several civilians screaming or running from the scene of sudden violence, their normally peaceful routines so brutally interrupted. Doubtless a few were in search of guards, who ideally were busy occupied with whatever distraction the others had concocted. Still, Zaveed dragged their bodies from the gate and picked one of the guard’s swords from his body. When Eleyna approached through the gates, Zaveed walked over and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It is an unnatural thing to take a man’s life, but sometimes it is necessary.” He said, steering her away from the man she had killed, the ice spike still protruding from his corpse. “You did not hesitate from needed to be done, and because of that, many more people’s lives will be spared. That is why you’re helping free these prisoners, no? Think about what the dwemer did in Imperial City, in Chorrol. These city guards chose to bow before those butchers because it was easy. What we’re doing is hard. But it is right.” He gave Eleyna’s arm one final squeeze and prepared to enter the building as Reigenleif arrived, passing through the gate and sparing a lingering glance at the bodies. He nodded at the Nord and the three companions entered through the entryway of the building, the morning light not yet bright enough to create blinding darkness when they crossed the threshold.
Immediately, nothing seemed amiss. No guards were waiting with weapons drawn, no keys in plain sight or other things of note. The building seemed much like any other with sparse furnishing and little else of note. It gave off the vibe of a cottage, somewhere that was meant to be comfortable as a place away from home. Conspicuously absent were armed men trying to run the trio through.
“We won’t have long, we need to find the prisoners and release them before-“ Zaveed began, cutting himself short when a door to the left opened, a guard on the other side with a sword in hand looking to see what happened. He was only partially armoured, as if he were hastily trying to prepare himself for a fight on short notice. Zaveed was across the room quickly, his sword flashing ambient light as the guard managed to raise his own blade to block. The khajiit kicked the man hard in the guts, doubling him over, and he grasped the guards wrist, digging his claws in and twisting, forcing the ill-prepared man to release his blade. Zaveed forced the man onto his back through the doorway, blade at his throat. “The prisoners. Where are they?” he asked.
“I have no idea w-“ The guard started to protest feebly, cutting himself short as the sword’s point began to press into the flesh of his throat. He would have swallowed if he didn’t think it would cut him. “D-downstairs. There’s an empty room we use for processing with a locked door…”
“And the key’s location?” Zaveed asked.
“Hanging in the bedroom, beside the door…”
“And how many guards are there?”
Before the guard, could answer the question, two more guards, a man and a woman, who were much better prepared than the one Zaveed was questioning, came into the room, weapons ready. It was then that the khajiit was aware of his surroundings; they had found their way into the kitchen. The khajiit drove the point of the sword into the man’s neck as Eleyna and Reigenleif dealt with the intruders. The skirmish was over in an instant, the guards were no match to a pair of talented mages. The khajiit looked down at the guard he had slain impassively. “Many thanks.” He said, removing the blade and cleaning it on the man’s clothing.
The trio made their way into the bedroom, and much to Zaveed’s surprise, the key was hung exactly where it was indicated. The two women checked around the drawers, coming across a few coins and other trinkets that might have been worth some value, but it was clear this was a communal area. Nothing overtly of value was present.
It didn’t take long to find the entrance to the jail, as one of the rooms in the house was barred by a heavy iron gate that the key fit into and another door beyond that. As the door was unlatched, a long stone-walled stairwell descended into the earth, darkness leading the way down. Zaveed turned to the others. “Let’s keep tight-lipped until we know what lies beyond, shall we?” he said, leading the way into the darkness, the temperature dropping noticeably as they made their way down.
Upon reaching the landing, it became obvious that whatever this place was, it had been in the works for quite some time. A deceptively large, two story prison was erected out of the stone earthworks, the efforts of what must have been hundreds of hours of intensive labour. Individual cells could be spotted, six to a six per floor level. Near the entrance was a common area for the guards, far better lit than the rest of the prison on account of it being where guards would go between rounds to socialize to pass the long, boring hours until the time came for prisoner transfers. It wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution to housing, as the stores room at the far end on the ground floor was meager, at best. Above that level was what looked to be the warden’s office, likely containing the various keys and weapons needed to manage the place. In the middle of the prison floor was a desk and seat, along with a pair of poles with shackles chained to them, likely for processing of the prisoners or as a means of punishment. It was likely anyone sent here was only kept so long as they could be identified and appropriate punishment or confinement was decided. From the amount of light coming out of individual cells, it only appeared that a bit over half were occupied. On the floor, there appeared to be two guards making the rounds, disinterested in their routine activity.
Zaveed gestured Eleyna and Reigenleif closer, he spoke lowly, as to keep his voice from vibrating over the stone walls. “I am willing to bet the keys to those cells are located in the far office, possibly that desk in the middle. We won’t know how many guards are here until we look around, but we need to decide if we want to risk a fight or get everyone out quietly, which might be impossible of the gates creak. We will need to subdue the guards at some point, which we could use the prisoner’s help with. Either way, we need to hurry; it won’t be long until somebody finds out about the corpses outside and sends for help. How would you like to take this?” he asked.
_ _ _ _ _ _
Eastern Hammerfell…
It was utter chaos, with men and woman of all types fighting in what was more akin to a senseless brawl than an organized battle, and there was no rhyme or reason to the skirmishes around the quaint cottage that the trio had escaped from. Marassa was not paying attention to where Cub and Hralvar went, with luck, they’d be running away as fast as possible, since it was pointless for them to risk their lives for her own hubris. While she wasn’t armed, Marassa cast Oakflesh upon herself as well as a Feather spell on her armour, letting her move unencumbered as she ran through the melee in search of her prized blade. In reality, it shouldn’t have been difficult to locate; Skyforge Steel great swords were very distinct and exceedingly rare in Skyrim, let alone the rest of the continent. In the flurry of blades, the khajiit searched, so far uncontested as she navigated the carnage.
A deafening roar filled the air, and Marassa was surprised to see an armoured troll bound from the brush, leaping into the backs of two heavily armoured opponents, ravaging them under savage blow. The khajiit had no doubts that the troll would likely feast upon the fallen when the battle was through. The bandits that had captured her let out a cheer, encouraging the troll, improbably named Little John.
Marassa was glad that Hralvar and Cub put down their arms when they did; she certainly didn’t want to fight something like that.
A booming laugh crossed the field, catching Marassa’s attention. A huge orc, one of the biggest men she’d ever seen, had dealt a fatal blow to an assailant, the orc had managed to cleave through the man’s scale armour and the blow of the blade had travelled through the Imperial man’s ribs, almost to the center. As the last signs of life departed the dead man, the orc booted his victim off with a sickening crunch before roaring a challenge at other newcomers. “Come, kill me if you can!” he taunted, seemingly enjoying every moment of the blood bath. In his hands was Marassa’s sword, and the grip of anger surged through her. It was as if she were watching someone recklessly trash a family heirloom.
“That’s him. Might want to ask him after he’s done killing, because trust me, he ain’t very chatty when he’s, erm, working.” Her bosmer guide said, nudging her arm and offering her a falchion he had grabbed along the way. A compound bow sat comfortably in his hands, as did a pair of long daggers on his belt. Marassa took the offered sword, her eyes still transfixed on her target.
“I’m going to have a word with him.” She said bitterly, moving towards the orc, who had run another man through with the point of her sword. It would have been impressive if he weren’t such a thieving cunt.
A flash of movement crossed her eyes, causing the khajiit to leap backwards as a mace swung, scraping along her breastplate. Marassa snarled at her assailant, a dunmer of all people, and she launched into a fury of strikes with her borrowed sword, moving much faster than she could have with her great sword. The dunmer was an expert at parrying, the ball-headed mace light enough to be nimble enough to block and parry strikes with. She was so transfixed with her personal battle, she barely registered a second attack go down, arrow in the eye. “Kynareth be good, khajiit, pay attention!” the bosmer yelled from behind her, and the sound of a loosing arrow was heard, finding another mark.
The dunmer’s hands caught ablaze, and Marassa had just enough time to pull off a ward to shield herself from the torrent of unbearably hot flames. Instead of stepping back to negate the range, Marassa stepped closer into the flames, not wanting to give the other spell caster the distance he needed to attack with impunity, and it was impossible to know who was stronger until the other gave out. The flames were becoming more and more intense as she approached, but she soon was close enough. Marassa thrusted with her sword through the ward, her Oakflesh enchantment protecting her flesh and fur from the worst of the flames as the blade skimmed the flank of the dunmer, causing him to flinch back and parry, the flames suddenly dying off. Without wasting time, Marassa’s ward twisted into a blinding mage light, which she flung at the dunmer’s chest, the blinding light blinding to his armour. It was all the time she needed to cleave his head from his shoulders, sinews of ragged red flesh and blood trailing behind.
Marassa spared a look at her arm, the fur slightly singed dark from the heat. It would take a few days, at least, for that to grow out. She looked back at the orc, who was engaged with another set of foes in the front just in time to catch the glimpse of another drive a spear through the back of his leg, resulting in one of the most horrible screams she could imagine. It was a primitive, bestial cry of fury instead of the cognisant yell of man she had heard far too many times.
“He can’t argue if he’s dead. Come on.” Marassa urged the bosmer, who let out an audible sigh.
“I should just kill you and be done with it.” He said, exasperated.
“But you won’t.”
_ _ _ _ _
“Well, isn’t this a fine mess.” Harding said, her and her scouting party watching the skirmish unfold. They had docked in the shallows and had waited for the signal to offload from their clients on the shore. When it never came, the Breton captain knew that something was amiss. Gathering six of her best fighters, plus Burkswallow and his lot, they set out to find out exactly what happened. It wasn’t hard; she just had to follow the sounds of death.
“Rolf.” She said, looking at a dour looking Nord man. “Get back to the ship and gather the crew. We’re about to lose pay day, to these damn bounty hunters. Me thinks it’s time to demonstrate what it means when we hoist the red flag.” Harding said, slapping the man on the arm, who began the 10 minute run, 18 minute walk back to the ship.
Burkswallow and his companions had tagged along with Harding and her crew, making the long trip around the Western Coast of Hammerfell all the way to the inlet close to the Colovian and Hammerfell borders. The trip was largely uncontested and little action of note occurred, much as Harding said was the case. It was likely becoming very apparent to Burkswallow why the Breton pirate was so dismissive of the menace the dwemer posed; it was easy to imagine there was no war at the open sea, and their brief times in port were often short and undisrupted, long enough to gather more supplies and offload cargo to sell. However, the biggest and best wares were meant for the clients the small crew were watching fighting for their lives against dwemer-made weapon armed assailants.
“Alright, instead of picking our arses, here’s me plan. We mosey around, away from the carnage, and come at the bastards’ wagons from the flanks, capturing them and preventing an escape. It’ll also put their balls in a vice between us and the lads we’re selling to.” She looked at Burkswallow. “It ain’t me place to dictate how you spend your life, but I think it would be best if you entertain my plan, because you ain’t exactly a known quantity. At least with me, you lot won’t be killed by mistake.”