[IC] The Elder Scrolls: Stormcrown Interregnum

[Hank]

The Imperial Way

12th of Rain’s Hand, 4E15
County Skingrad, West Weald, Cyrodiil
Isobel Aurelia’s encampment

_{ft. my wonderful co-GM @Leidenschaft}

It was a moonless night. Akamon the Redguard waited between the tall trunks of the pine trees that stood sentinel at the edge of the forest. He was almost invisible in the darkness, but a small flame danced in the upturned palm of his hand -- a signal. Ahead of him lay the meandering fields and vineyards that seperated the forest and the city of Skingrad itself, which rose above the land like a rocky outcropping in the desert, for the Count had seen to it that most of the lights in the city were dimmed and Akamon could only just make out the silhouettes of the walls and spires and rooftops. Something small and fast dashing through the underbrush disturbed Akamon’s vigil and his head pivoted to the right, eagle-eyed gaze searching through the shadows for the source of the noise, but the flame in his hand made it hard for him to see. He snapped his hand shut and blinked a few times to let his eyes acclimatize to the pitch-black darkness. It took him a few seconds but he spotted the creature at last, its fluffy white tail betraying its nature; it was but a rabbit.

“Run along now,” the warrior whispered. He looked back at the city and with a snap of his fingers, the flame rekindled in his hand -- and Akamon inhaled sharply.

The light fell upon the features of a man standing just at the edge of its reach and the Redguard’s other hand instinctively went for the hilt on the sword that hung across his back, but his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing in time and he stopped himself, for the man was merely Janus, the Colovian that he had been waiting for.

He laughed and expelled the tension from his limbs. “Took you long enough,” Akamon said softly. “What news?”

Janus still had the carefree smile even as Akamon had went for his sword. He probably would have too if a man was suddenly a mere ten feet away as if he’d just stepped out of the air there. With no hard feelings, Janus approached closer and set himself down against a tree. He pulled an apple from his pack and crunched into it, speaking around the mouthful, “Nothing’s changed from the previous nights. ‘Cept more guards on the walls each shift. Changeover every six or so hours.” Janus swallowed, taking another bite, “Saw someone fall off the wall. Dunmer didn’t think it was as funny.”

“What news from the forest, Akamon?” Janus teased, and still no one really knew if it was good-natured or not. Most guessed it was just whichever you decided it was, “What word do the rabbits bring?”

“Oh, you know, spring’s coming. Lots of thumping, if you know what I mean,” Akamon retorted and leaned against another tree’s bark, arms folded across his chest and one foot hooked behind the other. He had gotten used to the man’s ribbing and teasing by now and it did not bother him. That was just how he interacted with people, or kept them at a distance, and that suited Akamon just fine. He wasn’t one to pry if there was no need for it.

But he turned serious and gestured towards the city. “More guards, longer shifts. Hruldan must be getting nervous.” Akamon chewed on his lip for a second and there was a thoughtful look on his face. “Any signs of fortifications around the gate?” The implication of the question was unspoken but he knew Janus would get it. Beordan was their only siege weapon, after all.

“Oh, aye,” Janus chuckled, taking another bite of apple, “I’d be shaking if two hundred angry farmers and a fucking Minotaur were gearing up to beat me to death and hurl me from the walls.”

“You really should’ve seen it though, bastard climbed up on the battlements having a laugh, tripped and yelped his way down,” Janus chuckled, shaking his head and slapping his knee. He quieted down and sighed, nodding, “Raiding the lumber caravans let us put up our own defenses at the camp. Deprived him from fortifying the gate as far as I could see.”

He shrugged, “Just saying, give me a few more nights and three light footed of our boys back there.” Janus winced and scratched his back on the rough bark of the tree, “But then how could we call ourselves glorious and righteous if we did that, blah blah. Isobel, sometimes.”

Akamon grinned at that. “Yes, I’ve heard that story before. You and Sir Twentygoodmen, sneaking in and cutting all their throats at night.” He shrugged. “She wants a statement. A message. To the Emperor, to the people, to everyone who gives a damn -- honest rule, purchased with honest steel. I can’t fault her for that.”

He looked into the middle distance and his vision became an unfocused blur as he rifled through his memories. “You know, there’s a version of events that says that Tiber Septim had his master, Cuhlecain, assassinated, back when he was still Talos of Atmora, so that he could claim the thrones of Skyrim and Cyrodiil for himself. The Arcturian Heresy, they call it. Might be true, might not, but either way, it’s not the official story. Officially, Tiber Septim won all his wars fair and square, the Imperial way.”

Looking back at Janus, Akamon continued. “There’s good reason for that. Be easiest to just create a version of events tomorrow that we don’t have to lie about, no? We have the militia, we have Beordan, we have the mages, we have that Rimmenese freak with the katana,” he laughed. “Everything we need for an honest victory tomorrow. And then all of Cyrodiil will know that rightful rule was restored to Skingrad the proper way. The Imperial way.”

“The bloodiest way.” Janus had the rare frown as he too was looking back at the long scar his life had wrought from Hammerfell to here. He held up a fist and shook it, giving his best impression of the farmers he saw enamored by the promise of retribution, of justice. The same look he saw in his little brother’s eyes before Janus found him dead next to Ma and Pa at the homestead, “Freedom. Blood and freedom.”

He shrugged, not being able to recall any time his mother or his wife, or his child ever wished for blood or to settle old scores, or settling things the Imperial way. Still died like the rest. the smirking smile returning, “She knows how I feel about it. You were there when I spoke at the meeting about three fires ago.” He clucked his tongue and nodded, like a man who’d resigned himself to following what his Officer told him, like the old days, “If it’s to be an assault, it’s an assault. I’ll be there, try not to let my lack of zeal spoil the whole mood of it though.”

He smiled at Akamon, “Even the little one though? Not Henry, the other one. Bit off the farmhand’s finger that one morn.” He snapped his fingers trying to remember, “Reyna. She going in too?”

Akamon nodded. “Reyna, yes. I think she is.” A silence fell between them for a moment. Then he shrugged again. “Are you going to be the one to tell her otherwise? She wants to fight. I imagine it’s the only way she knows how to repay her debt to Isobel.”

There had been something in Janus’ voice when he talked. It wasn’t the first time Akamon had heard it there. He had seen something in his gaze too at other times, but now it was so dark that the two men could not even look each other in the eye. The Redguard suspected that the Colovian was more familiar with war than he let on but he decided to let the subject rest.

Janus nodded once more, one more thing to just lay back and accept. The conversation was growing too serious for Janus’ liking and so he cleared his throat. The conversation lulled when no one was having it, and Janus looked back to Akamon, “We should get back to the others. Walk and talk at the same time.”

“Sure.” Akamon stepped away from the pine tree and brushed the slivers of bark from his shoulder. He waited for Janus to get to his feet and then the pair of them returned to the camp. It was hidden deeper within the forest and the rebels were pretty good at laying low during the night, but when you already knew where it was, the encampment wasn’t very hard to find. Light from the fires danced dimly against the trees up ahead and the occasional sound echoed their way, snatches of conversation or the canvas noise of a tent flap being thrown open.

Glancing sideways at Janus, the swordsman spoke up again. “What are you going to do when the Count is overthrown?” He paused for a moment and feeling brave he ventured to ask an even more personal question. “I heard his men burned down your home. Will you rebuild?”

Janus walked on still, not answering for a few moments, his eyes just going about the fires. Men and women sat with weapons leaning against their shoulders or across their knees, talking or staring or eating. A quiet chorus of laughter went up at one of the fires and he wished he was having that conversation instead. He still had his smirk on him all the while as he finally shrugged at Akamon’s question, “It’ll be the second time I lost a home.” Janus glanced at Akamon as they walked, “I haven’t thought of what I’ll do since I grabbed up my weapons and joined Isobel. Too much to do.”

He quirked a brow at Akamon, “What of you?”

Akamon smiled. “I came back to Skingrad because Hruldan was stealing my mother’s money, but I don’t live here. And something tells me Isobel’s story isn’t finished after this. So, I think I’ll see where her destiny takes her. Otherwise it’s back to wandering and righting wrongs by myself again and to be honest, I’ve quite gotten used to having someone watching my back.” He looked at Janus and a mischievous laugh escaped him, flashing white teeth in the dark, and he wagged a finger at the Colovian. “I can never tell with you, whether you enjoy our company or merely tolerate us. Which is it? Eh?”

Janus laughed a little louder this time, not having to worry about the guards on the walls hearing it echo now they were a little more ways away from Skingrad, “That’d ruin the mystery if I really told you.” Janus smiled over at Akamon, “If you must know, I’ve got friends here and I’ve got people I let live their lives without my acquaintance. Me and them seem to be still living just okay, I reckon.”

He shrugged, “The peasants are learning, the barricades are sturdy, and no one’s knifed each other over a heel of bread yet.” Janus nodded as if all was right in the world. Perhaps it was, in his, “The rebellion fights on. It’s my job, and I think I’ve been doing it well enough.”

“I think so too, my friend,” Akamon said and clapped his hand jovially on the other man’s shoulder. “Come, the command tent is just ahead. I think the meeting has already begun.”

Picking up the pace, the two strode through the camp and up towards the largest tent of them all, where Isobel and Beordan lived, and where all matters of importance were decided. A circle had already gathered.

The inner circle.

[Hank]

Arkay’s Light

12th of Rain’s Hand, 4E15
County Skingrad, West Weald, Cyrodiil
Isobel Aurelia’s encampment

_{ft. the whole crew!}

The inner circle had gathered around the large wooden table that one of the carpenters had fashioned from the goods they had taken from the lumber transports. A map of the West Weald was pinned to it, an iron dagger in each corner, and carved figurines covered it, chess pieces near the end of a hard-fought match; white outnumbered black four-to-one at this point. Only Skingrad itself was still firmly under the Count’s control. Torches were set up around the meeting place and someone had cast a magelight spell that hovered serenely above the proceedings, illuminating the map and the battle-lines that had been drawn there.

Isobel had gathered those that had escaped the Imperial City Arena with her to her side, Ando and Reyna flanking the warrior-woman. Wisely, the two Orsimer were positioned on the other side of the table, as far away from Reyna as possible, who was still armed and armored from her earlier patrol and keeping her eyes on them like a hawk with her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. She was otherwise silent, knowing her role. The rest of them were dispersed in no particular order, though Robespierre Chalamer had joined them, red-clothed, golden-robed, silver-haired, a noble in full regalia, and he was stood next to Reinette, the woman who had served as liaison between him and Isobel during the earliest stages of their communication. It would have been harder to find a starker contrast between him and the man on his other side; Lucius Lex, the leader of the peasant army, all scruff and earth-tones. Akamon and Janus stepped into the circle next to each other to fill the two remaining places.

Akamon’s eyes fell on Isobel immediately and she stepped forward to speak. Her brown hair was gathered in a braid that rested on her left shoulder and she was dressed in a simple white tunic and a cloak around her shoulders against the cold, for spring was just around the corner as the chill of winter yet lingered at night. Bronze bracers on her arms and shinguards on her legs were the only armor she wore. It wasn’t her attire but her face that oozed authority, a fleeting moment of nervosity -- had Akamon seen that correctly? -- making way for certainty in her eyes and determination in the set of her jaw.

“Friends, welcome,” she said. Her voice cut through the silence that was pregnant with anticipation, a longboat through still waters, or the first peal of thunder on a humid day.

It was only then that Akamon noticed, standing behind Isobel but just out of range of the torches, the great shape of Beordan the minotaur, the Lord of the Arena. His horns and nose-ring gleamed faintly in the flickering light, high above the inner circle, but the rest of him was a mere silhouette in the dark, even larger and looming for the absence of a well-defined form. A shiver of primal respect ran down Akamon’s spine.

She continued. “The final day approaches. Tomorrow we will storm Skingrad and finally cast down Hruldan the Coin-Catcher. Months of sacrifice, blood, sweat and tears, has all come to this. Whatever happens tomorrow,” Isobel said, looking each of them in the eye in turn, a gaze of steel and love, “know that I am eternally grateful to each and every one of you. I could never have imagined that our fight for survival would have turned into this.” Her arms were cast as wide as the smile on her face.

“Robespierre,” she indicated and the aristocrat stepped forward with a humble nod, “has graciously accepted the mantle of responsibility of governing Skingrad from tomorrow onwards. His task will be the rebuilding of trust and the fair rule of law. He was a friend to the late and beloved Janus Hassildor and will endeavour to restore his legacy. I have utmost faith in him, and I trust that you do too.”

Isobel did not wait for anyone else to speak. “The plan is simple. Because of our work in intercepting the lumber transports and other supplies that Hruldan was counting on to build his defenses with, the Skingrad city gate has not been fortified. This is still the case, yes?” she asked and looked at Janus and Akamon. The two men nodded.

“Good. Beordan will open the gate for us. Our task will be to protect him from the guards on the wall. To that end, I have asked the smiths to forge grappling hooks for us.” She looked at Bahk and smiled. “Janus, Akamon, Velyn -- you, and a few of the most agile of the citizen militia, will use these to scale the walls. Take out as many of the guards as you can. Sow chaos and confusion.”

Then she looked towards the mages, Elara in particular. “I am counting on you to create a distraction outside the gates that will allow them to do so. Think big, ladies. I want to see fireworks,” Isobel asserted with a grin and a fist.

“The rest of you will be by my side. We are to be the first in through the gate, followed by Lucius and the brave men and women of Skingrad.” Isobel deferred to him for a moment, and Lucius pressed a clenched fist to his chest, battle-ready and earnest in a way that Akamon found moving.

Isobel cleared her throat and spoke up again. “Hruldan is cornered. His lieutenants are dead and his men are few. But he is still dangerous, and his forces well-paid and well-armed. Do not be complacent. There will be blood in the streets tomorrow. Make sure it isn’t ours.”

Then she took a step back and opened her arms, inviting others to speak. “Now is the time for questions, concerns, or words of encouragement, if you have them.” Her gaze lingered on Guifort for a moment and Akamon had to hide his smirk. Had the priest ever blessed soldiers on the eve-afore-battle?

Bahk had felt several pairs of eyes fall on him at the mention of the grappling hooks. Some seemingly lingered for a moment too long as a flicker of anger rumbled in his chest. He had made sure every man and mer who stood with them held a weapon of some sort. They had watched him build a handcrafted forge from nothing but straw, clay and rock. Their spears were sharp and their quivers full, yet there were still those who doubted him.

“The err..” The Orsimer paused to clear the frog from his throat, now acutely aware of the limelight. “The hooks will hold even the heaviest of us,” Bahk's eyes flickered towards Janus. “I have tested them all, personally.”

“Aye, I can vouch for the Orc. '' Quintus rumbled, hands gripped on the edge, red and sore from hours helping Bahk mould steel at the makeshift smithies they’d set up in the camp and preparing everyone’s appetites for the statement they were making at West Weald tomorrow. “All this work ‘etter have been worth it.” Ctephesius was lounging on the Nord’s mountainous shoulders, tail drooping from the back, whilst looking cooly at Reinette, Elara and the rest of the Bretons in the circle. He scratched his thick beard, eyes pensive.

“Got a ‘nquiry though. S’pose Arkay smiles on us and the rest of the lads tomorrow,'' there was a brief glance from him towards Guifort. “And I know I may be putting the boat ‘fore the sails here but what do we do if we end up capturing that Coin catcher bastard? We don’t know ‘ether he’s going to tuck tail like a barn mouse or stand his ground. Best to plan for these sorts of things ‘fore we do things rashly“ Plinian’s chopped head flashed briefly in his mind.“

Robespierre spoke up to answer that question. “We hope to capture Hruldan alive so that he may face Imperial justice. It will send a more powerful message that way. But if he elects to fight to the death, well…”

“So be it,” Isobel finished.

“ ‘ell, that’s a load off my mind.” Quintus gave a smile of relief before sighing and thumbing his back over to the camp outside. “Folks outside won’t be too pleased ‘bout the alive part, though. Many of them want to see that milk-drinker on the gallows or kill him themselves. Not enough to make them mutiny, though. You can be sure of that.”

Robespierre smiled at that. “He’ll hang, trust me. But in due time, and with due process. We have to be better than him.”

Enshadowed by the night, and lit obscurely by the magelight, Reinette had taken her silent place. Straight backed, and arms folded across her chest. She was dressed in her usual garb of a form fitting dark tunic, a leather belt cinched at the waist, and her hair hung half-up, held with a series of ornate pins. The rest of it was loose in a trademark silver wave that had been kissed with partial gold in the arcane luminescence.

Around her neck was a long chain of silver, a key hanging right in the centre that she held between thumb and forefinger - fidgeting with it in gloved, delicate hands as her cold stare glowered down at the chess pieces. The Breton’s jaw clenched at the mention of Count Hruldan. She’d sooner see him hanging, or slit at the throat, she thought to herself, but it would not do to share such wishes in what was to be an inspiring final meeting. She kept her eyes on the pieces, feeling the presence of the intended successor at her side. “He will come alive.” she spoke confidently, letting the key drop so she could place a hand on her hip. “Hruldan shall stare into the jaws of justice one way or another,” her gaze turned from the board to meet Isobel. “There are ways to make this so.”

Guifort bemusedly looked at the wooden figurines representing the different aspects of the forces. He had placed his hands on the table, and lowered his head to allow his eye line to be at their level. It was all about perspective. Moving from that he quickly scratched notes of the plan into his journal, occasionally making sketches of the grim determination that shaped the curves of the Inner Circle’s faces.

It was then Isobel welcomed them to speak, and he caught the look that was gifted to him. Guifort fanned the page he’d been sketching with fresh ink. He laid the journal down on the table, carefully avoiding the figurines to the best of his ability.

He quirked a dark brow at Quintis’s mention of Arkay. There was a rumble about what to do with Count Hruldan tomorrow. Death. It was always death. Before the mood turned too dour—he cleared his throat.

“We can hardly say what fate holds in store for Count Hruldan, as death rarely abides by our wishes. That being said, and not to lessen the torment that he has put the people of Skingrad through, we should find a brilliant solace of this moment. Around me, I see people from every walk of life across Tamriel. From our proud and powerful Redguard adviser, to our brilliant and fast Dunmer sentinel, to our sturdy and relentless Orismer brethren, to our strong and stalwart Nord cousins, and finally to our amazing-without-fault Bretons.” Guifort chuckled. “I jest. But we are all here to support a noble Imperial cause. Can you say that you’d ever be at such a gathering? Surrounded by these fine folk? Men and women at arms that would fight beside you and possibly die for this cause. While Arkay is the god of life and death, he also believes in the experiences learned from both aspects. We live so we can die, and we die so we can return to this existence anew. So, remember that, no matter your fate. You march tomorrow to make this world a better place for lives that are here, and lives that have yet to be born whether they will be yours or the person next to you. By Arkay’s will and divine grace—you’re blessed by his light.” His fingers curled around his amulet. It wasn’t the best speech, but he’d never blessed the final leg of a rebellion before.

A huff of hot air caught the back of Bahk’s throat as the Orsimer exhaled through his nose. He had managed to stifle a roll of the eyes but was unable to stop the folding of his arms. “This one wasn’t born anywhere near the walls of Orsinium.” He mused, pining for a time far gone where there were less words and more action.

“Well spoken, my friend,” Akamon declared, beaming with pride. It was a fine speech, he thought, especially given that he could see that Guifort had stepped out of his comfort zone to deliver it. The Redguard made a mental note to discuss the contrast between Arkay’s intended reincarnation for mortal souls with Tu’whacca’s intended journey to the Far Shores with Guifort after the meeting was over.

Isobel inclined her head in grace and gratitude. “You humble us with your words, priest of Arkay. We endeavour to be worthy of the light of the Lord of the Wheel of Life.”

“ Aye, a fine speech, indeed. ”Quintus nodded towards Guifort gratefully. His expression then darkened as his gaze wandered at the map, where he could almost imagine the countless bodies of every man and woman who he’d grown to know and serve food to lie still. He shuddered at the thought of the battle to come and then, forced it down with a roguish smile. “ I plan on being alive ‘morrow.” His fingers began scratching Ctephesius’s chin who purred in contentment.” Otherwise, no one would be around to take care of this fleabag.”

Reyna coughed a bit and cleared her throat at the tail end of his speech, nor hiding the look on her face that spoke of awkwardness and discomfort, as if she couldn’t remember what to do at the end of a prayer before dinner. It was not a practice she partook in on the Eve of battle, and her thoughts and dreams on death were a private matter, and hearing them spoken aloud was an alien thing to her—the self’s mortality, that is, rather than the end of her enemy’s. She looked between Guifort and Isobel for a moment and ruminated upon the fate of the Count. Too much energy. Too much energy was spent on deciding what to do with him. Why did it matter how he does?

“With some luck,” she started, her voice a quiet and rare thing to behold of coarse timbre and swung like a blunt object, and it was not likely to be heard again for the rest of the meeting, “he will kill himself and save us the trouble of deciding for him.”

Durzum stepped forward, stealing a glance at the young Breton and clearing his throat. Already his heart raced and he was picking at a nick on the breastplate of this armor. "If I may," he croaked, locking his gaze on Robespierre. Durzum's mind was racing. Bruk was better at this.

"Assuming we're successful, you'll hold a blood-soaked diamond in your hands- a chance to prove that you don't just play at war, but end it."

Durzum's gaze turned to the map.

"Regardless of what happens, I say we end the Count's life ourselves. Or at least make people believe it was us. Detail exactly what happens to him," he looked at Guifort for just a moment.

"Better to cut off the head of a pestering rat and let all watch it writhe than to rely on the morals of snakes."

Durzum's stomach was in his throat. "Or the retaliation will be swift and brutal. But it will end it all the same." He thought to himself, stepping back.

“Oh, it’ll happen.” Janus said while inspecting his nails while the rest of them were patting each other on the back for doing a great job so far at this whole war thing. It was a change of mood Janus had when discussing killing. His smirk was still there. Like always, “I’m of a mind with this mer, quick and decisive. The farmers want blood. This isn’t Imperial justice we’re trusting in.”

He looked at Isobel, and Reyna, and Beordan, “This is Thules’ justice. And I’m sure some of us know what Thules’ justice is.” Janus said, looking around at the rest of them, eyes resting squarely on Robespierre’s. He knew what happened when fat nobles stuck themselves in the peoples’ causes, “Don’t have much faith in that shit. No, Hruldan meets Skingrad justice. Colovian justice.”

Guifort tried not to beam at the affirmations that his words were held in esteemed measure. He usually wasn’t one to gloat about a story well told. Of course, he didn’t have long to consider his message as it dove right back into death and politics. Death and politics. They sat on either side of the scales and weighed just the same.

He narrowed his eyes at the Orismer Durzum’s implications, but Janus was already on a tear before Guifort could get his words out. So, he just grumbled. “Blessings and funerary rites are what I pen. I don’t take to sonnets written about torture.” He grabbed his journal from the table, wetting the nib of his quill and returning to his notes. “There are not enough words that rhyme with teeth, and there’s quite a bit of teeth in torture.” With that, Guifort took a step back and let the angry men and women espouse their angry words of retribution. Couldn’t they not get drunk?

A low stream of pained laughter came from the back of the assembled group. There, sat cross legged atop a wooden barrel, spear cradled in his arms, was Velyn. His head was hung, loose dark hair covered much of his face, swaying slightly as his shoulders shook. He had been sitting quietly so far through their discussion, it was only now that he made to speak in his soft husky tone, seemingly to no one in particular.

“We reach to make bargains with the Black Hands of Mephala, but there is no honourable writ of execution, and no Tong to enact it. Only us.” He looked up and passed his blood red gaze over the group, there was a wild look in his eyes, a tremble to his voice. “But you cannot crush that which is not in your hand.”

Bahk felt his knuckles strain as his fists began to ball and tighten. The riddles of the Dunmer had gone right over his head. Instead his heart swelled as his mind wandered back, like a child headed towards a hot stove, ignoring the warnings of a parent. All this talk had reminded him of the tale of Gortwog and Lord Bowen, a once crowning achievement that now stabbed at his very core. His father would’ve known what to do, with precision Khadba would’ve struck the right chords and had them all chorusing together in the matter of moments.

The Orsimer’s shoulders dropped, mimicking the deflating of a balloon. Were it not for the respect of the enigmatic commander, he would’ve left the tent right there and then.

“You all speak as if the Count kneels before you.” He muttered, loud enough for only a few to hear but also hoping to avoid being thrust into the spotlight. “Like we have already won. Kill him now, kill him later, we still have to reach him.”

“Figure we’re too deep into this to be anything but optimistic.” Janus spoke quietly, having gone back to making like his nails were mighty interesting.

Reyna’s skin crawled at the tusky slurring of words that came from the heavy baritone chamber of the orc’s chest. Perhaps she had been with them for too long that even this reprehensible creature could speak her mind for her so easily, with words she had not yet tamed. She took a breath to tame what she could however; her nerves, even as prone to flight as they were, like sand through her fingers, she managed to hold fast onto them this time and she looked to Isobel, hating to agree with that which just spoke but forced to absorb all of that which was said by the collective.

“Your plan?” She asked, her voice low. Her hand tightened the grip of her sword, made audible by the squealing of leather. All Isobel need do is to point Reyna to him and she would sniff him out if need be and end him where he cowered; like a weapon to be aimed. “How do we find him?”

Isobel looked to Janus and Akamon, the two men she’d tasked the past few nights with going out and checking on Llevurlan in his hideout each morning and night. Janus looked from Isobel to Akamon, then back, sensing it was his turn to speak, “Suspect he’d be in the keep. Deepest part of the castle, holed up with his wife and sons.” Janus spoke, then shrugged, continuing, “‘Less he makes a run for it. Last time Llevurlan let me use his eyeglass, Hruldan had put more men on the battlements and lengthened their shifts. Llevurlan and I went sneaking about a couple nights ago.”

Janus shook his head, “No secret passages, no escape tunnels we could find. Should be easy enough.” He smirked, “‘Less he’s on the walls with his men. In that case, twenty septims says I get to him first.”

Janus’ smile widened a hair, “Thirty says I get to him first if he’s not.”

“I’ll hold you to that, old man,” Akamon chuckled.

Then, for the first time since the meeting had begun, the subsonic rumble of the great minotaur’s voice rippled through the air, loud enough to be felt in one’s chest. “The Coin-Catcher will not run,” Beordan said.

He took one step closer to the circle, cloven-hooved feet heavy on the forest floor, and the shining brass head of his warhammer fell into the palm of his open hand with a meaty slap. Now, illuminated by the light, the muscular physique of the minotaur dwarfed even the thickset Orsimer among them, and the horned head of the man-bull shook from from left to right. “He is too proud. He believes the stone belongs to him. This I know.”

Isobel nodded. “It looks like he will make his last stand in the castle. He is cruel and vindictive, but he is not a coward. And when we capture him, rest assured, he will hang. In due time.”

Robespierre cleared his throat, managing to find his voice again, though still eyeing Beordan warily. “And after due process. That is instrumental when it comes to legitimizing this… ah… transfer of power.”

"The boundless passion and unflinching zeal of the present company is as always a source of great warmth and inspiration," Elara said. The mage's voice was soft, measured even, as it rose in a rolling lilt. Thoughtful eyes moved over the gathered circle and settled on the old noble. “I would only remind my most esteemed friends of one important fact. Hruldan has already been tried.”

Pacing with an excited energy, she gestured broadly, “The trial of the tyrant is the insurrection. Hruldan has already been found guilty. The verdict of the tyrant is the collapse of his power. His sentence is whatever is required to safeguard the liberty of the people of Skingrad. The people have taken arms against their oppressor, so how can they now be made to adopt a punishment that would pose a new danger to them?

“However, as our honorable friends have said, there remains much to be done, and I look forward with great joy to resolving this matter when the Hruldan is safely in our hands.

"You will have your distraction, of course," she added with a smile and respectful nod to Isobel. The cruel glint of a freshly bloodied dagger danced in her eyes. "The gates of Skingard will shudder. The guards on the walls will despair. I will summon a storm. I will invite the denizens of Levinace to aid us."

Isobel regarded the mage thoughtfully, clearly doing her best to listen to and make sense of Elara’s spirited contributions. In the end, she settled for responding only to the last few sentences of what the Breton had said. “Thank you, Elara. Your aid will be invaluable.”

She turned back to the rest of the group. “If there are no further questions,” Isobel said, “we can wrap this up and everyone can get the rest they need. Or a drink or two, but don’t overdo it.” Her eyes, twinkling with amusement, rested on Janus for a second. “I need everyone to be sharp tomorrow morning. So, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Whatever - uh - she said, I agree with it.” Quintus scratched the back of his head, a little yawn escaping his throat. The evening was beginning to wear on him and as much as he dreaded waking up tomorrow, his body ached for bed and a bowl of stew. “It’s been a long night and I’m dyin’ fer a cup of mead.”

“Fair enough,” their leader smiled. “Then go, and be well and be merry. Dismissed.”

[Peik]

_{ft. @Hank}

---

The meeting had since been adjourned and its participants had gone on to spend the rest of the night in their own way, whether that be drinking or resting or frolicking with the others or huddling into isolation and watching the dances of firelight and shadow from afar and Ando was amongst those who had taken the lattermost option. He was perched atop camp, sitting on a tree branch that kept him at the very edge of the light, his feet dangling into bare visibility from above as if it were a foreboding premise for the sight of a hanging corpse. Save pulling a piece of firewood in his hand into the edge of the blade sitting in his lap in a reverse chiseling motion, he was motionless, more automaton than man, and he was liberating a small blade, liberating it from the excess of material that which surrounded it, and as such giving it purpose like the warrior-woman gave to those that gathered around her.

He had stood by her side in the council, and only stood, like a macabre figure of taxidermy, and he had not spoken a word nor was there any response elicited from him. He was not the final authority in the council and he knew for a certainty that were he to add an opinion, it would only muddle the waters further, even if his opinion was put forth to snuff out the other opinions and cease the contention, a pointless endeavor. But he also knew well that women of Isobel’s sort were far too loving of their confederates and far too merciful to clamp down on their notions of individuality and entertained it as some sort of respite for them, for questioning one’s place in the great machine of fate was an act which brought with it much dejection and weakness.

He turned his head and his gaze fell upon the camp. They were a bunch of broken and or fleeting spirits, unpolished and inconsequential despite their power. Some had been hooked into her act out of curiosity and some out of ambition and some for new purpose for no living being could knowingly accept its purposelessness. Life sought will like moths sought flame, whether its own or someone else’s, for life did not care for whose purpose it served, only that it served one, and as such one could become a pawn with the same ambition that one sought its own ends with, whether to leech off that larger will and rebuild its own or to lose all individuality and learn to love being a tool. A blade. Few could appreciate that the strength of a blade did not lay in its construction but in its wielder’s mastery and it was a common mistake for a blade to see the acts of cutting it served as a means to as its own planning and doing.

What of him, then? Amongst this crowd of fools and undesirables, was he really cutting his own path or had he taken up the path of the pawn again?

His thumb slipped and licked the edge of his blade and he lifted it up and saw a cut on it. It was a minuscule cut and it had barely penetrated the skin and there was no blood, but the blade had cut nonetheless and his brows furrowed and he grasped the tang of the blade as if it were a flyswatter and he slapped the flat of the blade into a nearby branch and did it again and again. He stopped, abated, and he pulled his weight forward and landed on the leavy clearing underneath and put the blade back in its resting place in the ropes wrapped around his waist. The half-carved wooden blade stood in his other hand like a tasteless reminder and he threw it away and began walking through the camp, his mantis gaze wandering upon the surroundings and the inhabitants as if eyeing potential fodder.

Akamon was the first to spot Ando as he dropped down from his perch and he followed him with his gaze as he made his way through the camp until the two men locked eyes. Perhaps emboldened by the Stros M’Kai rum that he was still nursing, the Redguard stood up from his place by one of the fires and yelled out the Rimmenese swordsman’s name. “Come, sit with me,” he added and gestured for Ando to join him, an inviting smile on his face even though he knew that the man was not susceptible to being manipulated into interaction by adherence to the social contract. Hell, Akamon didn’t think Ando even knew what the social contract was. “I have rum,” he added, and wiggled the bottle and the sloshing of the rum almost spilled some over the rim.

The sandy-skinned figure first gazed at the Redguard for a couple of seconds without a response before moving forward slowly yet in a peculiar loping gait, and sat in front of the fire across the man. He looked blinklessly at his face, as if Akamon were an animal or a foreign creature or perhaps vice versa, for either way the behavior was alien all the same, and his expression seemed slightly fascinated as if comprehending a newfound object or a beetle before growing complacent and he proceeded silent and expressionless and without movement.

“Do you want some?” Akamon asked and wiggled the bottle of rum again. There was an easy smile on his face that hadn’t wavered, even when Ando lumbered towards him and stared at him and sat down without saying anything. He had come to accept the man’s strange ways and insular nature and he was just glad that he had replied to his invitation and that they were now sitting together. Conversation could follow later, if it was to happen at all. “You might like it.”

Ando reached forward, perhaps unexpectedly, and grasped the bottle’s bottom with an open palm as if holding up a ball. He pulled his arm back and brought the bottle’s mouth to his face, and held his nose over it and took a curious whiff and his face grew sour and his brows curled down in a frown. “No,” he said, and he grasped the neck of the bottle with his other hand before leaning forward and handing the bottle back to Akamon. “Alcohol. Not good for you, not ever. Especially not today. Tomorrow is the day of battle. Would cease if I were you.” His voice was not as hard as it normally was, and his expression seemed unconcerned and without judgement, as if voicing a fact.

The Redguard laughed. “No, no, you have it all backwards. It’s good for me especially today, precisely because tomorrow is the day of battle.” He did not explain himself and instead took the bottle of rum back from Ando without further argument, threw back a gulp with smacking lips and much appreciative grunting, and then put the bottle down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared at the swordsman with a tilt to his head and a curious gleam to his brown-green scarab-eyes, and at long last he spoke again and voiced an empathic question. “What is a sword?”

Despite the lack of context for the question and the frivolous behavior he’d shown beforehand, Ando received the Redguard’s question without any surprise, as if a lecturer or a student in a place of higher learning where such questions were the norm. “A sword is a tool for cutting,” Ando replied in a tone that belied the inquiry as a matter of fact. “A beginner’s tool, but a tool nonetheless.” He stopped and smacked his lips. “…You are a swordsman. You know what a sword is. If you ask for some other reason, you would better be direct.”

“I know what a sword is, but until I asked you that question I did not know what you know a sword to be,” Akamon said by way of explanation, and he smiled because he had learned something about Ando now. “A beginner’s tool. How do you mean? Is the sword inferior to other weapons? You carry a sword,” he said and pointed out the katana that poked out from inside Ando’s ragged robes. “You would prefer something else?”

Ando’s eyes followed the Redguard’s index finger to the tang that stuck out from his belt and he seemed pensive for a brief moment before he grasped it and pulled it out of the wrap of rope around his waist. “This is no sword,” he spoke, his eyes following the tempering patterns of the blade. “It is a blade.” With a swift movement he flipped the blade’s orientation and thrust it into the ground by him. Lacking any sort of handle or cross guard it seemed more like the unfinished or unadorned work of a smith than a proper weapon. “And no. I would not call the sword inferior. You must define weapon for a clearer answer, however.”

“Blade, then,” Akamon conceded. But that only raised more questions. Why would Ando choose to wield an unfinished weapon, of any kind? And if the sword wasn’t inferior, then why was it only a beginner’s tool? He shook his head and chuckled and reached for the bottle, the act of drinking giving a moment’s respite to prepare a new avenue of questioning. “Let’s go back a step. You called it a tool for cutting, but only a beginner’s tool, yet it is not inferior to any other weapon. So, then,” he said, thinking out loud, looking up at the canopy, until the right question had come to him and his eyes found Ando’s again, “what is cutting?”

“To cut is to create a difference in space,” Ando replied flatly. “A sword, a blade, a rock, a tree, a wall, a man, a city. These are all cutting instruments. The sword is a beginner’s tool because it is expressly designed for its purpose. Would your swordsmanship fare better were you to wield a rock for a sword, or worse?”

“Worse, of course,” Akamon replied, puzzled. He felt like he wasn’t understanding what Ando was getting at. “The rock has no cutting edge, no balance, no hilt.” He reached over his shoulder for his own sword now and unsheathed the weapon and lowered it in front of him, and he observed the faint green ripples in its make and the way its edge caught the light. “This is a cutting tool,” he said with certainty. “A rock cannot cut, nor can a man, or a city. But I think you mean something else. They do… affect change, I suppose.” Confusion had crept back into his voice and he stared at his sword for a few more seconds before he laid it flat across his lap and focused his attention back on Ando. “What is a master’s tool for cutting?”

Ando’s mouth curled in a faint smile, somewhat predatory but still more enthused than gloating. “Master’s tools, you ask. A rock. A man. A city.” He raised an arm and slowly waved it to one side, like he was presenting the scenery. “Trees all around us. Shrubbery. They cut your sight, do they not? You cannot see behind it.” He reached down with the same arm and picked up one of the smaller stones framing the fire. “A rock. You say it is not cutting, yet strike with the right alignment and it will sever all the same.” He stopped, lost in thought, before beaming with a hint of entertainment. “Or the right force. Watch this.” He held the stone between his thumb and his middle finger and he stood contemplative for some time and he sprung his arm back, and then he shot his arm forward along with a flick of his fingers, sending the stone cutting through the air and the fire and promptly smashing into the bottle of rum standing by the Redguard.

“Cutting and swordsmanship are two different things,” Ando spoke as his calves curled inward and pushed him to stand up in an odd display of human anatomy. “You would do well to consider what separates them and which it is that you seek.”

He turned his back on Akamon to disappear into the darkness, but then he turned again and he looked at the Redguard with his usual, blank gaze. “Appreciate the hospitality. Good night.” With that he turned once more and then he was gone.

Stunned into silence, Akamon watched Ando leave and his gaze remained fixed on the darkness where the Rim-Man had disappeared. “My fucking rum!” he exclaimed eventually, to nobody in particular, and grumbled and swept the shards of glass away from him with his foot. “Cutting my ass. That was throwing.” He sighed and got to his feet and swung his sword idly around him, a languid one-handed grip around the hilt, eyes focused on nothing as he listened to the singing metal swishing through the air. “Cutting is not swordsmanship,” Akamon mumbled to himself. Then he returned his sword to its scabbard and decided to give the matter some more thought when he was sober again. For now Akamon headed deeper into the camp in search of more company and conversation -- and a new drink.

[Bork Lazer]

A Runcible Spoon

A collaboration with @Rapid Reader

Ctephesius prowled along the forest floor under the shadows of the smelly and stinky humans that had drunk the grape poison.

He was currently lost.

He was relaxing on his companion human’s shoulder but the other stupid humans began talking and ruined his nice nap. He ran off to find a better spot in a oak tree that he liked to sleep in. It was nice, high and the talking voices of the rest of the stupid humans in the companion human’s pride were barely heard. Now, he regretted his mistake and tried to find his companion human. Unfortunately, the mixture of smells were confusing him. His companion human was a snow human and finding him in this mixture of humans was like finding mice in a hay bale. Ctephesius softly meowed to get a human’s attention, to bring him to his companion human, but all they did was put their filthy hands on his head or stare at him creepily.

“ Ctephesius? Ctephesius?! Gosh darn it, where’s that damnable feline….”

His master’s voice! Ctephesius began to bound towards where he heard it but was blocked by a troupe of stupid, dancing radish-smelling humans. They seemed to be marking their territory by the way they were randomly stepping about. He pawed and meowed at them with all the ferocity he could muster. They only closed their eyes and giggled in response, waving their strange clear tubes at him. The voice of his companion kept growing softer and softer the more he allowed these humans to continue intimidating him. He crouched and then, seeing an opening, darted through the legs of these idiot humans. A swell of victory burst within Ctephesius’s heart. Finally, he could make it back to his companion human and receive his snacks -

Amidst his distraction, he failed to notice a leg which he collided with painfully. Ctephesius rolled off his back and shook his head to get rid of the dizziness. He would punish whatever human did this to -

Oh no, it was that icky human with the books.

Ctephesius stepped back, the hairs on his back raised and his ears furled back as his single moon-lit eye, wide like a dinner plate, stared up at Elara with apprehension.

“That’s not very nice,” the Breton mage said as she shifted to the ground, her right hand extending slowly in the direction of the cat. “I thought we were becoming fast friends, Ctephesius.”

Ctephesius narrowed his eyes and leaned his head back as though her hand was repelling him like a lodestone. His paw lifted out to meekly swat at the icky human’s hand. His eye flitted back between her open hand and her icky human face which smelt of ink and dried wood. He let out a loud warning growl. This icky human would pay if she dared touch him.
He then heard his companion human’s voice again in the background.

“ Ctephesius? You seen a one-eyed cat around here? Yes, a one-eyed cat. No, I’m not a necromancer…..”

His voice was becoming louder and louder.If he was to find his companion successfully, then, he had to stay put. Running away from the icky human would only get him lost.

That didn’t mean he would trust this icky human with the books, though.

Reaching into her satchel, Elara pulled out a small piece of preserved meat, “Hissing is quite rude, Ctephesius. I only want to pet you. Look here’s some food, we will strike a bargain. You let me pet you and I will let you have this tasty treat!”

Treats. Ctephesius’s pupils widened as his nose twitched with a little sniffle. It smelled good. But not as good as what his companion human could make. His head neared it but he retreated backwards, hissing. He then decided to grumpily tuck his paws and tail underneath his body, sitting down and sitting his head down onto the forest floor.

“ Mreow,” he replied back with almost a note of petulance in it.

Elara frowned, carefully placing the meat in between herself and the one eyed cat. “I have all the patience in the world, Ctephesius. Do you really think that you can defeat me in a contest of wills? I have brought Daedra onto this plane and bound them to my will. Besides, I mean you no harm. I simply wish to pet you. You let Reyna pet you. So why not me?”

Ctephesius replied by merely reluctantly dragging the meat over towards him. He then took a lick of it, recoiled and with what seemed like a smirk on its face, grabbed the meat with his jaw and threw it back to Elara, splattering a greasy smear on her shirt.

“ Mrroewwww!,” he loudly exhorted in disgust.

“ Ctephesius! There you are!” Quintus came out of the dark, a look of genuine relief and a grin on his face as he scooped Ctephesius up by his bum and belly with two hands. The cat continued to look disgruntled, giving the stink eye towards Elara whilst Quintus rubbed his back.

“ Oh, you wee lil’ bugger. I’ve been looking all oér for you!” He then looked at Elara. “ Thanks for keeping an eye on him fer me. He’s an innocent little thing. I can’t imagine what would happen if I lost him forever.”

“Yes...about that...Quintus, I think your cat is broken. He refuses to let me pet him.”

Quintus chuckled. “ S’rry ‘bout that, ‘Lara. He’s a little skittish around you Bretons. I chalked it up to that clever craft you all seem to practice a few years ago but he gets along fine with that bark-eating Rimmenese.”

Ctephesius purred as Quintus continued to scratch his back, cuddling into Quintus’s chest. Quintus eventually sat down besides Elara, continuing to muse himself by playing with Ctephesius before coughing to break the tension.

“ Need anything to eat? Pot of stew’s still boiling oér there. I can get you a bowl if you like but all the rest of the men have taken the good parts. There’s still a chunk of venison in ére if I remember correctly….”

“A most generous offer, friend,” Elara began, smiling as if in thought. “Oh! I recall a recipe! The cooks at the Arcane University used to make the most delightful saffron peafowl soup. Do we have any saffron? And peafowl? It would be a welcome dish in these eager hours before we face the tyrant.”

“ Saffron? Peafowl? What’s next? Truffle? A suckling pig? Ye want me to serve you whale caviar or aged giant marrow?”

Quintus narrowed his eyes, setting Ctephesius down.

“ We’re a rebellion, not the Imperial gourmand’s kitchen, clever crafter. You’re getting stew I made, the bread our bakers made from the wild grain out here and the meat our hunters caught. I’m sure the nobles of Skingrad ‘ill be happy to fulfill your request once we break down their ‘oors tomorrow.”

The crease of a frown danced across mage’s face and she sighed. “It was merely a question, Quintus.”

Picking up a stick from the ground, Elara drew long, graceful letters in the dirt. Her expression had turned sullen and there was a look of irritation in her eyes. “I worry sometimes about your lack of vision, friend. Surely, you cannot be happy eating rabbit stew for the rest of your life? You must look beyond your farm.”

“ Where you see a farm, I see honest work and a life worth living.” Quintus threw a stick into the campfire, jostling the branches to stoke the dying flames. He was looking away from Elara, a scowl marking his normally jovial features. “ Ya think ye can lecture me from your high horse like I’m some ignorant seed-sower who doesn’t know who’s good fer him? I was satisfied and content with my life before my farm was burnt down by the Imperials. Can you say the same about your life?”

“I was content, happy even, before all...all of this ugliness,” Elara began, flinching as if she had been struck. Dark clouds soon seemed to swirl above her and her voice took on a bitter, angry timber with each word that she uttered. “I wrote books. I published papers. I gave talks. I had grant funding. I was so CLOSE to finding out the truth. I was so close to discovering something truly novel about Oblivion.”

“But I was betrayed. Like you, like everyone else,” Elara said, erasing the Daedric words she had traced into the soil with an angry wave of the stick she still held in her hand. “Abandoned by the ignorant. Hated by the fearful. Cast out by a council of petty fools content to die without presenting any answers.”

“ Don’t ya dare think we’re the same. You were born into luxury and royalty! I was a nobody who was born in a pig stye in the middle of Whiterun. I spent my life on the harvest whilst you spent your life flipping through scrolls and for what? You chose your fate. I didn’t - “ Quintus balled his fists together, stopping himself mid-sentence as he remembered the bodies strewn across Anvil on that day because of his decision. The extinction of the Farmer’s Guild on his foolish hands. He closed his eyes, tense with grief, before a sombre look came over him. He turned his back fully to Elara.

“ It always comes down to ambition, ain’t it? That’s the thing that brings us up and puts us back down. Ambition.”

“We all choose our own fate, friend,” Elara said, the smallest hint of apology lacing her soft words. “We have only attempted to achieve our deserved ambitions.”

“ Heh.” Quintus muttered, scratching the back of his head awkwardly as he looked back at Elara. “ You know, I wonder what my 2 brothers are doing right now. Verren’s probably somewhere in the Abecean right now. Gerold….” His voice trailed off, remembering the promises that he and his eldest brother made to each other in the wilds of Whiterun, carving their names on the pines and promising to venture out into the mountains, through ancient crypts in search of adventure.

Now, look at how it had all turned out. Ctephesius meowed out loud impatiently, crouching in front of Quintus and jumping in front of Elara to vye for his attention. With a chuckle, his fingers began scratching his head much to the cat’s pleasure as it crooned gently.

“ I’m….” Quintus struggled to get the words out as if the act of apologising was almost agonising for him. “ ….sorry for what I said just now. If you’ll take me up on my original offer of stew, I’ll be glad to oblige. Otherwise, I understand if ya ain’t in the mood right now.”

Jumping to her feet, Elara offered the large man her hand with a grin, “I, Elara Metrick, royal consort that I am, magnanimously forgive your slight against my person. Let us share food and talk of great things, such as how we can bring further liberty to the oppressed and saffron buns for all.”

“ Well, can ya settle for rosemary instead?” Quintus asked with a half-smile, accepting the academic’s hand with his grimy, dirt-coated ones. They stood there for a while before he looked over towards the communal cauldron where some peasants were still scooping pottage with a ladle. “ I should probably get over there before - “

Then, at that moment, Ctephesius chose to hack an hairball onto Elara’s shoe.

“ CTEPHESIUS!”

[spicykvnt]

You Always Could

^{with @Hank}

And so the meeting had ended, and the party had dispersed and divided themselves up in the camp, each with different intentions and different emotions clinging to their bones in the cold.

For Reinette, a glass of red wine had already left a speckle of pink across her cheeks, and a warmth through her body that was nothing to do with the fires. She squinted her eyes across the way, and smiled for herself. With another sip, she sighed, the taste of the drink still on her tongue, and the glass fragrancing the air around her with the full bodied scent of peppered, spiced berries.

The Breton had been working tirelessly in the time between Kvatch and now; even in Kvatch, she had been spreading word, lighting little fires here and there in her own way. Coins trading hands, secrets finding the right ears - all carving the path that had brought her to the inner circle of the Isobel. Even within the inner circle, there were those most trusted - as they had fought through thick and thin together. There was a difference and Reinette understood the language of those nuances and played with them accordingly, never pushing her chances too far, only ever far enough.

She had to go through her share of thick and thin too now. Come what may, things would change tomorrow.

She would usually spend her time writing correspondence, weaving through the swaths of soldiers to offer any required healing touch, and taking her seat at the table with an educated tongue and useful knowledge and experience of Castle Skingrad. Her assertive and confident manner had won her fair favour too. But despite it, Reinette wasn’t often found amongst the group in personal conversation, save for once or twice - usually in an occurrence just like this, when she wore the signature flushed cheeks of slight inebriation. She kept herself to the fringes by choice.

She knew that she would do what was asked of her come morning. That she would make some fireworks alright, would they be expecting any of the tricks that she had up her sleeve, she wondered? With a smirk she raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers and as she splayed them out in front of her face, she caught the sight off in the distance of the young Breton boy, Henry. Reinette likened him to a fawn in spring. Wide eyed and bright, still finding his feet in life. Moving and stumbling all the while, but never stopping — for how could he stay down for long when his need to impress and desire to do right was the very string that kept pulling him back up?

The blonde moved silently across the camp to reach his side and take a seat, watching him like a hawk all the while, with an intense gaze that caught the flakes of gold flame from their campfire amidst the storm grey of her eyes. They always appeared that way at night after the darkness had fallen in and swept out the blue. Gently she cleared her throat, so the young man would know she was there. With wine in one hand, she crossed her legs and propped an elbow on her knee - her smile feline in nature; “Young Henry, what say you to keeping me company a while and resting your feet?” she asked in her low voice.

Henry turned around and almost dropped what he was holding when he heard Reinette cough. “Oh, hi, Reinette,” he said and smiled and reached up to scratch his head with one hand, but that once more almost caused him to drop what he was holding with the other, since it was a pretty heavy box that he needed two hands for. Muttering a quiet ‘oops’ to himself and deciding that he was better off not holding anything for the time being, he put the box on the ground and gingerly sat down by the fire next to the woman. This wasn’t the first time they had talked but she continued to intimidate him a little. All of them did, really. But Henry supposed that she wasn’t as scary as the orcs, or the girl that might as well be an orc, so his smile widened. “Sure, I could take a break,” he said, and then quickly added, “and it’s nice to speak to you, of course.” He cleared his throat, and with wide eyes he asked: “So how did it go? The meeting? Tomorrow is the big day, huh?”

“Ah - the meeting,” she replied with an overly pursed lip and a wave of her hand. “You’re curious,” she answered frankly and with little in the way of emotional resonance. “I’ll spare you the details of course, it’s not entirely why I chose to speak with you, to recount it. Unless you really wish to know? Little birds around camp tell me you’ve been training well with the others. Is it true?” She locked her eyes to his to gauge his reaction, holding back from raising a brow.

Pink shades of embarrassment crept up Henry’s cheeks and he stammered something unintelligible. Then he cleared his throat again and laughed, clearly at his own expense. “I wouldn’t say well, but… yes, I have been training with the others a few times. With Janus. And Akamon, once.” Henry pulled the dagger he wore sheathed at his waist free from its simple scabbard and held it, clearly a dangerous animal or foreign artifact to him, precious yet fearsome. “Isobel gave it to me,” he said softly as he looked at the short blade. “For self defense, but…”

He trailed off and looked up at Reinette and said something else instead. “I think I’m to stay here.” The boy sounded relieved. Then he chewed his lip and looked away again and his grip around the hilt of the dagger tightened, and at last he sighed and put it away. “Are you going?”

Her eyes tracked his movements carefully. The way that he held the dagger with a looser grip than she’d seen him with a knife while he cooked until his nerves took over and his touch turned anxiously fierce. He had no business with a dagger and yet she understood he needed it. It seemed as though he’d hurt himself before anyone else, if push came to shove. Reinette slowly drank from her glass as she observed him. “I shall be, yes.” She nodded slowly, running her tongue over her teeth before drawing in a long breath through them. “Castle Skingrad is my home, and I shall be needed.” She paused again and looked back at the young Breton. “But I will be back. We’ll be back to bring you when we are victorious.”

“You sound certain,” Henry remarked, and then chuckled and shook his head. “I mean, of course you are.” He had watched the meeting from a distance, eyes wide at the collection of heroes. And when Beordan himself had stepped into the light! Oh, what a sight that had been to young Henry, who considered himself quite fortunate that he was able to be that close to history in the making. Then he thought about what Reinette would be doing. “How does it… feel?” he asked. “To heal like that, I mean? All the blood and such, is it scary? What do you do if someone, well, you know.” He noticed his foot was tapping rapidly and he stopped. “Sorry.”

That question took her by surprise, and in the moment, she broke her gaze from Henry to stare into the flames. She saw no sense in wrapping the reality of death in a ribbon and coating it with sugar. “If I lose someone?” She asked bluntly, “I remember them. Always. So that next time I am better, and if it wasn’t my fault, I remember them still, preserve them in memory as a blessing.” Reinette let the words hang in the air before she broke the silence with a smile, turning back to Henry. “How it feels though? I can show you — it is easy for people like you and I, you know. Our blood is special.” Brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she placed her emptying glass on the ground at her side and slipped off one of her gloves. “Give me your hand,” she said in her usual assertive manner, holding her own small hand out. “Place it in mine.”

“You sound like my mother,” Henry said without derision. It was a statement, matter-of-fact. “She said the same thing. And I think she wanted to teach me, too, but I was too young.” He looked very small for a moment.

Then he did as he was told and placed his hand in hers, and he smiled at how much larger his hand was, even though it wasn’t quite yet the hand of a man. Reinette’s hand was cold to the touch but soft and delicate too, and Henry found it strangely comforting. “Now what?” he asked quietly, in reverence of the secret she was about to show him.

His comparison, for a second, took Reinette’s smile and some of the spark from her eyes — until she simply breathed out a small laugh. “It sounds like your mother was a wise woman.” With another breath, a long one this time — steady and controlled, even with the wine and the general noise of camp. Quickly, a wisp of golden light formed in the spaces between both of their hands. Sparkling and with a feeling not entirely unlike warm, gentle sun on bare skin on a peaceful day. “Do you feel it?” She asked, willing it to move through his hand until she could see the glow of it on the outside of his skin as it grew and swirled into his wrist. “Tell me how it feels, focus on how it feels, listen to that feeling,” she said softly as it hummed and chimed away.

Henry stared intently at the light and focused his as best as he could on the sensation of its healing touch. His wrists had been sore from lifting things and cleaning things and peeling things all day, and he felt that soreness fade away, scooped out of his tendons and replaced with honey and birdsong. “It feels good,” he said unhelpfully. “Soothing… cleansing… like a really good bath.” He spent a moment intensely missing what a really good bath was like before he returned his attention to the sensation. He tried to do what she had said, to listen to the feeling, but he couldn’t hear anything. Was it supposed to be telling him something? And then he heard it -- but not with his ears, for it was a soft buzzing, the slightest hum, a swarm of bumblebees down at the edge of the field, in the back of his mind. “Oh,” he breathed. He looked at Reinette. “How do I… ?”

“Sometimes…” Reinette began, a whispered response, “just a gentle nudge…” her hand began to move away from his, the light dripping away from her fingers — falling away like sand into Henry’s. “Is all it takes to show us how to do it,” she spoke out in concentration, letting her healing magicka stay with him. She could see that he had it, at least for now. Her eyes remained fixed on his hand and arm as she watched patiently for the infusion to take completely. “This light belongs to you now Henry, you have to take care of it.” It would soon enough tap into whatever pool he had within him, and she held on for the moment that it would, meeting his eyes once more.

Somewhere deep within Henry’s being something clicked, and he felt a waterfall pour into the light into his hand, and the humming was coming from him now. “Forever, you mean?” he asked and panicked. “I can’t, I have to do other things too, I have to feed the horses!” The light flickered in his confusion and he held his breath and focused on the waterfall. He didn’t want Reinette to be mad at him for letting the light go out.

That was an unexpected, if not completely endearing response. “Yes. Forever,” she answered with a chuckle, “but not forever in your hand. You can conjure it up again, I promise.” Slowly, Reinette placed her own hand back on top of his and with a gentle movement she closed his fist. “You just need practice the feeling. Perhaps each day. Perhaps only every other day.” Finally, she let go of his hand, and placed her own back in her lap neatly. “If you do that, then you will find control of it, you can start small. With scratches and tiny aches,” she smiled.

Henry stared at his closed fist for what felt like a long time. Then he looked up at Reinette. “I can do magic now?” he asked, dumbfounded.

She moved her face closer to his and smiled at him. “You’re Breton. You always could.”

The thought made him laugh. “I just had to be shown how,” Henry said, repeating what Reinette had said before and demonstrating that he had listened closely. “Wow,” he breathed and flexed his fingers and rolled his wrist, enjoying how easy the movement came to him now even after such a hard day’s work. It wasn’t big, grand magic like he knew Elara was capable of, spells that could kill and spells that could summon Daedra, who could then kill people for her, which seemed like the height of luxury and power to him, but if he practiced and then he could cast away the soreness from his limbs -- that was good enough for him. “Thank you,” he smiled.

“You’re welcome, Henry.” Reinette found herself smiling too much at the boy, feeling too familiar beside him. She had more patience for him than just about anyone else here. Of them all, she couldn’t justify his presence here. He was too young for this. “I… it’s a useful skill,” she added, a sharpness in her voice all of a sudden, different to the softness from moments ago. “You practice it and you may save someone’s life. This is to be regarded with as much importance as the self defense you were learning.”

Taken aback by the change in the tone of her voice, Henry wondered if he had done something wrong or said the wrong thing and he just nodded enthusiastically in agreement with what she said, doing his best to look very serious and dedicated to the cause of saving people’s lives. “I will,” he added after a moment. His curiosity got the better of him and he dared to ask a question: “You saved the dark elf’s life, didn’t you?”

With a quirked brow, she looked at Henry again, “Velyn? Yes. That’s correct, he was in a poor way… Why do you ask?”

Henry shrugged, he himself unsure why he had asked. Then it came to him. “Because he looks so sad,” the boy observed. “Sometimes I wonder if not all of him was saved. Not that I think you did a bad job! Or anything like that. But it’s like he’s only… I don’t know, like only half of him is here. You know what I mean?”

“Well,” her hand instinctively reached for her glass, and she finished the last of her wine before sighing. “Henry,” Reinette began, quite seriously. “There are maladies that are deeper, and different to wounds of the flesh.” Her hands formed the shapes of explanation in the blank space before them, casting long, dancing shadows across the ground. “While we can fix flesh, there are some things that are harder to mend. To explain, I shall say they are shadows of the mind,” she added, running her thumb over her lip. “So we must try other things. Sometimes we have to… Encourage people, and walk beside them, and in turn allow them their quiet when they need it.” It was simplified. She knew it was.

The blonde woman shrugged slightly. “I theorise that the shadows are always walking with them. Some days they are close, very often they are suffocatingly close.” Her hands fidgeted again and she quietened her voice in order to watch the camp, to scan across her surroundings while she tucked a foot under her ankle to adjust her comfort. “And of course there are the days that they are further away, so far that they can barely be felt at all.” She stopped, and bit at her lip. “Does that… Make sense?” Today, she felt that her own shadow was beyond the trees, simply watching with ready eyes.

Before Henry could say anything, Akamon the Redguard appeared and sprang out of the darkness and onto the other seat next to Henry with a bottle and a cigar and a grin plastered on his face. Compared to Reinette’s dark clothes and Henry’s simple garb he was a bright apparition, wearing white robes beneath scale armor that shone like polished silver and a red sash around his waist. His sword was sheathed across his back and Henry’s eyes flitted between the hilt and the warrior’s face, until Akamon’s own gaze forced him to look away, bright as it was, brown and green and full of spirit and joie de vivre, and Henry felt small and diminished by comparison.

“What are you two gossiping about, eh?” Akamon asked, oblivious in his revelry. Where others were solemn on the day before a battle, he seemed emboldened and empowered and entirely absent of shadows. He shook the bottle and the cigar as if they were tambourines and laughed. “Come on, you can tell me.”

Unlike any other time that Akamon had bumbled his way over to her, or around her in a social setting, Reinette was slightly grateful for it this time. Although she did wonder how Henry felt about their conversation, and about what she’d said. The woman hoped his question was at least somewhat answered. With a raised brow and pursed lips, she held out her empty glass expectantly in Akamon’s direction - hearing the healthy slosh from within the bottle. “Nothing really, I was simply explaining my entire life story to Henry. He’s rather riveted as you can tell.”

He raised his eyebrows when Reinette held out her glass for him to refill, as if to ask ‘you sure?’, but then he shrugged and did as she asked. It was not wine -- it was a rather dark liquid, halfway between amber and chestnut, and he only filled the bottom of her glass. “Stros M’Kai rum,” he explained. “Kicks like Beordan.”

Then he looked between the two of them and nodded slowly, impressed. “Her life’s story, eh? I must learn your ways, Henry. You’re the first one to get that particular tale out of her. Many have tried,” he said dramatically, then gestured towards the boy with the bottle. “Only one remains.” It was a rather butchered delivery of the famous Zurin Arctus quote, but it would have to do. “I salute you.”

Sparing Henry the effort of having to come up with a reply, Akamon turned to Reinette. “So! Excited to get your home back?”

“I will be pleased to take back whatever is left of it,” she answered, lifting the drink to her nose first before taking a sip. Akamon wasn’t wrong, her cheeks immediately felt hot - and then her throat as it travelled. “God’s,” she croaked. “That would burn the warts off a mule.” As she said it, she chuckled and daringly went in for another sip. “So long as my quarters were not touched — In saying that, I shall be thankful to return to any of it, whatever the state may be… Many of my colleagues were not fortunate enough for even that.”

Akamon grinned and nodded appreciatively when Reinette went back for seconds after nearly burning her throat the first time. But she brought up, if veiled, the deaths of those she had known at Count Hassildor’s court, and a more respectful expression came over Akamon’s face, and he hummed and swirled the rum beneath his nostrils. “Damn that man,” he cursed into his glass, and took a sip. The taste agreed with him and he smacked his lips. “May justice be served tomorrow.”

A question had been burning on the tip of Henry’s tongue and he blurted it out at last. “Aren’t you scared?” he asked Akamon.

“We’re blessed by Arkay,” the Redguard replied with a sparkle in his eye. “Guifort said so, so it must be true. What is there to be afraid of if you walk in the light of the God of the Dead himself?”

That seemed poignant to Henry, and he nodded.

Reinette too swirled her glass, staring down into it intensely. “He will receive his justice,” she said darkly. She’d held back at the meeting, played along. But now she felt bold again to speak her mind. “He will feel true fear, I guarantee it. I’m not frightened of tomorrow, I’m excited. I’m ready.” Again, she drank from the glass — at the third taste she had become used to it, the inside of her cheeks slightly numb. “I’ve been ready, for so long now.”

“Ready, eh?” Akamon wiggled his brow boyishly but then remembered Henry was there and stopped and said nothing more on the subject. “It’ll be a mighty fine fight. One for the history books,” he pivoted, and looked at the Breton youth. “Do you know anything about history, my friend?”

Henry smiled at being called friend, but then fidgeted with his hands. “I don’t think so… no, not really.”

“Hm,” Akamon said, and bounced his knee up and down and rubbed his chin and without knowing it he was the spitting image of his uncle Amir, when he was sat around the campfire in the Alik’r desert. “There was a woman, long ago, who freed the people of Cyrodiil from slavery at the hands of a cruel race of elves. She founded the first Empire. She was a slave before she rebelled, and her most trusted companion was half-man, half-bull."

Henry's eyes lit up. "Saint Alessia. I know about her." Then it dawned on him how much of what Akamon had just said also applied to Isobel and Beordan. He looked at Akamon, a slight frown on his face.

Preempting the question, Akamon shrugged. "Who knows? But it's funny, isn't it?" He smiled and moved his glass in a round arc in front of him. "They say time is a circle…" Then he glanced at Reinette. "What do you think?"

From her side, Reinette sat ruminating on it, eyes moving slowly from the treeline to the fires. She studied the shape of the darkness around their camp before returning to the glow of flame, perhaps for longer than she should have. “I would say it would suggest that we continue to make the same mistakes, and underestimate the power of women. If that means time is a circle…” her voice quietened, and she turned the glass in her hand, reflecting on her own insignificance under the weight of the story. She had never been a slave, and she had no Minotaur champion, she was simply a hand - nay, little more than a pointing finger and the thought turned in her stomach and soured her expression. “Destroy that circle for good this time. Break it. Drown it, even.”

As she finished the last drops of the rum from her glass she felt that her words had been sour, so she smirked, adding “beside that, you did not recall on the part of the tale where they were also lovers.”

“Details, details,” Akamon smirked and waved his hand. Then he used that same hand to point at Reinette. “You know, you remind me of a character from a book I once read. Some fantastical story where one of the Septim Empresses had three pet dragons and came back from exile to conquer her stolen empire. She said that she would ‘break the wheel’, referring to the endless violence that sees power transfer from one political dynasty to the next in a never-ending cycle.” He sipped from the rum some more and quirked a brow at her. “You sure you haven’t read that book?”

“I have not read such a book, I feel I’d remember such a vivid story.” Reinette laughed, adding a shake of her head. “You know, Akamon, it’s not always violence, in the obvious way that one may consider it either,” she said, her voice lower as she directed her quiet words his way. “Power transfer often happens through words, in the theft of ideas, the butchering of culture, the slow and sustained silencing of an individual.” She sighed bitterly, crossing her leg back over the other again. “It is easy to break the wheel with the force of dragons behind you. The strength of a demigod at your side, and it is certainly not my wish or intention to invalidate the efforts and erase the individual struggles of these fantastical women — but there are so many unseen hands of brilliance scattered across our lands too.” Her speech slowed ever so, and she pulled her knees up towards her chest. “They carry to their graves the unknown weight of their invisible work.”

The woman turned her head to look Akamon in the eye, and she watched him closely. While her gaze was curious, somewhere in those eyes was a telling shimmer of sadness. “For them to break the wheel, they must do so with their own bare hands, having survived the lonely climb to reach it.”

Henry looked between the two adults as they talked and the more they talked, the more he felt like he was a young child at the dinner table again, not privy to the secrets being discussed by the grown-ups, secrets that he could not understand even if he tried to listen closely to the words.

Akamon, meanwhile, thought it was an interesting take. All the history he had read had been focused on the exploits and lifetimes and downfalls of great heroes and kings and conquerors. “I suppose that’s true,” he acquiesced. “But do their efforts really compare to the way that Tiber Septim changed Tamriel forever, or the Tribunal, or the Nerevarine, or the Hero of Kvatch, or Ysgramor? Many unseen hands toil to keep the world turning, but the Wheel,” he said, and gestured broadly at the sky over their heads, “the Aurbis, turns upon Heroes. It is not those who carry to their graves the unknown weight of their invisible work who are mentioned in the Elder Scrolls.”

Then he shrugged. “Is that fair? No. It just is.”

“No, but it is those that are mentioned in the Elder Scrolls that sometimes benefited the most from their touch,” Reinette said with a wry smile.

“Henry,” she added, nudging him in the side gently with her elbow — aware that he was growing quiet, and perhaps bored of her dour and drunken ramblings. “Why not show Master Akamon here your new trick.”

The Redguard sat up straighter and looked at the Breton youth with interest, who suddenly felt very sheepish and made to stammer an awkward protest before resigning to his fate. He raised his hand like how Reinette had made him do and focused hard on bringing back the hum in his mind and a few long seconds passed before anything happened. Akamon glanced at Reinette in that time and his eyes lingered there a little too long and he almost missed Henry’s trick.

Golden sparks raised from the palm of his hand and swirled around his fingers, faint and unsure but definitely there, for a moment. They extinguished and Henry exhaled sharply and only then became aware that he had been holding his breath.

Akamon beamed and put the bottle on the ground by his feet and clapped his hands together. “Magic! Excellent! Healing magic, I assume. Very useful. Very noble. I never had any talent for it.” An arc of blue lightning leapt across his knuckles and he winked at Henry. “More of an elementalist, myself.”

Henry smiled and pride swelled in his chest. He could do something that Akamon couldn’t. The electricity that the spellsword commanded was intriguing too but he realized that the idea of trying to tame forces like that frightened him more than it appealed to him, and he looked back at Reinette. “I think I’ll stick to healing, for now at least,” he said, hoping not to offend Akamon, who nodded and made no attempt to convince Henry otherwise.

“Make sure you practice it, Henry,” Reinette said in as encouraging a tone as she could find through the rum and wine and looming thought of battle. “I can show you more once we take back Skingrad.” She sighed, and considered for a moment to reach out and ruffle the young man's hair before deciding against it. “I’ll even show you my study quarters if you’d like. If it’s something you’d like to learn. So long as it hasn’t been destroyed, I have some useful tomes and diagrams. Or did. Who knows.

I hope I still have a bed,” she mused with a tilt of her head and a light shrug of her shoulders. “And my bath. God’s, all of this will have been worth it when I slip into my bath.”

Akamon shook his head, feigning exasperation. “And an invitation to her quarters, no less! Leave some for the rest of us, Henry, would you?”

The boy turned beet red. He thought he knew what Akamon meant and he wanted to explain that such things weren’t on his mind at all and not on Reinette’s either, but as soon as he opened his mouth Akamon burst into laughter, and he realized that he’d been had, and he managed to laugh as well.

“Seriously though,” Akamon said and leaned over to Reintte, a boyish smile on his face. “Big enough for two? I could use a bath myself.”

Reinette frowned slightly and shook her head, “try surviving tomorrow and then we can talk.” Somewhere after it she laughed just so, a tiny dark whisper of a laugh. “It’s going to be a long one after all.” After she said it, she went to take another drink from her glass, before realising it was empty — there wasn’t a drop left in it.

Realising the weight of her words, Reinette looked at Henry again, and just beyond him, the shadows. “I should…” she began with a sigh, “probably make sure everything is prepared.” With another sigh, she stood to her feet, casting one last long gaze out ahead of her. “Goodnight boys,” she said before walking away.

Henry watched her leave and then looked at Akamon with questioning eyes. “What did you do?” he asked, having forgotten his place for a moment.

The warrior shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe she’s just worried about tomorrow. I’m going to be scaling the walls, after all,” he said and threw back the last of his rum. “Very dangerous. First into the breach. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Janus and Velyn as we fall upon the enemy, cresting the battlements as a mighty wave in a storm.” His eyes sparkled and he pantomimed the motions of war as he talked, and Henry looked at him in awe.

Then Akamon laughed and got to his feet as well. “I suppose I had better get some sleep. How can one be fleet of foot with Vaermina nipping at your heels? Good night, my friend.” He whistled a tune to himself as he wandered away to his tent and left Henry alone with his thoughts.

With just the fire for company, Henry looked down at his hand and the magic in his fingers there and smiled.

[spicykvnt]

An Apple a Day...

^{with sweet sexy @Leidenschaft}

“Are you still placing wagers?” came a resonant voice from the shadows of the camp as a figure moved out from within them and into the light beside Janus. As night carried on, it appeared that most had either taken themselves away for the night, or were continuing with last minute preparations. Reinette was too restless. She had prepared three times over at that point, all that was left was to wait for the break of dawn. Until that moment arrived, she couldn’t focus. “I have a coin or two of my own that I might wish to put on the table,” she smirked, narrowing her eyes in her mischief.

“I do wonder who’ll swing the axe on Hruldan in the end…” she sighed melodically, running a finger across her lip. “Don’t know that it’s going to be you. Lots of horses in this race.” The woman turned slightly to face him, to catch any glimpse of expression that would cross his face in the glow of the evening.

Janus had wondered whose footsteps were coming closer to him. An old habit he’d never break, simply because it had proven useful time and again to be constantly aware of his surroundings. And another thing that had proven useful was always being ready. Reinette had come around the side of his favorite sitting tree, he’d already unsheathed and tucked his knife under the bag of apples that squatted beside him. Even so, he was all smiles, “I do hope you’re betting on me.” Janus winked, “And if you’re not betting on me, tell me who everyone is so I can throw a few coins their way before taking the fall myself.”

He winked again, smirking as he bit into his apple. He chewed thoughtfully, looking past and away from Reinette until he swallowed, “You know, I was one of the first to come over to Isobel’s side when she came Skingrad’s way. Been loyal then, been loyal now. Know about almost everyone in this camp.” Janus nodded, sucking his teeth, “Don’t know you though.”

Janus cracked a teasing grin, wondering how she’d react to him, “Reckon I’d like to.”

She was almost tempted to chuckle, but settled for a slight unimpressed quirk of her brow instead at his choice comment. Reinette had watched him around the camp enough to know he spoke the truth, and so decided that she could share at least something with him. “As you wish,” she began to walk to his other side to take a seat, she answered him. “I was a Skingrad court advisor and physician, I’m now an informant to Isobel, and I’m still a colleague of Robespierre.

My coins are on the Orsimer, by the way” she added after a pause with a flash of a smirk that lit up her eyes - gesturing to Durzum. “Can’t say I know you enough to place any wager on you, so tell me, why do you think it will be you to get to him?”

“Oh, you shouldn’t take me so serious.” Janus spoke, taking another bite from his apple and chewing thoughtfully for a bit, “Mostly I just didn’t care for how the Orc presents himself as some dour patron of war when the only battles we’ve fought so far are scaring underpaid caravan guards away from their cargo.”

“He’s right,” Janus shrugged, “Not denying him that, but look at this army of ours. They’re wearing helmets that used to be nails and pots a few weeks ago, half of them don’t even have a shield.”

Janus looked around at their great revolutionaries milling about and making the last preparations for the assault to come by morn. Even the Irregulars were better equipped before the Baron shoved his fat belly through their commander’s tent flaps, “Every little bit of optimism we’ll need in the morning. Every little bit of thought about victory being had.” Janus looked back at Reinette, his smirk reappearing on his lips, “Plus, I like disagreeing with him. Takes himself awful serious. I don’t, not yet.”

“How serious should I take you?” Janus asked.

“I don’t know. How serious will you take me tomorrow if I have to put your organs back in?” Reinette said, a wry smile at the end of it curling over her lips. Janus was right though, and she set her eyes upon them all too, the younger ones particularly. “Don’t worry of course, I’ll make sure to put them in the right place.”

“Sorry,” she whispered as she came closer to the man, leaning forwards to grab an apple for herself too. “Not very optimistic of me…” with a darker smile, she took a bite and leant against the tree — casting her gaze towards everyone else again. “We won’t all make it. No guarantees I’ll make it, either. But we’ll win.”

“Oh, that’s the spirit.” Janus droned sardonically, “And that is why I’ll be sure to keep you as my closest friend. If I get opened up, I’d like to trust you not to get any ideas over something I’d said before then while you’re zipping my guts back up.”

He gestured to her and then the apples, “Off to a fine start, yeah? Reckon we sit here long enough with these apples we’ll have no secrets between us anymore.” Janus smirked, “Probably.”

“Keep eating those apples all night and you’ll not be able to get over the wall come morning,” she chuckled. “Go on then,” Reinette added, coming down to her haunches until she let herself sit. “Let me in on a secret. Show me yours, maybe I’ll show you mine.”

With a smirk of her own, she took another bite from the fruit. It wasn't quite ripe, and had a sourness to it that was delightful and she could help but savour it with a relaxed sigh. “This could very well be our last chance to tell a soul.”

Janus chuckled, throwing his apple core away from them into the tree line, “Digging for secrets?” Janus smirked at Reinette, looking her over in the dim light of the early morning, “I’ll tell you one. Somewhere in Hammerfell, there’s a chest filled with gold looted from Rihad during the Crisis, way back.”

“I know where it is, the map’s tattoo’d on my stomach. Perhaps you’ll see it one day if we know each other for long enough.” Janus shrugged, “If our bond proves strong, I’ll take you with me to find this gold, and we’ll not have a worry the rest of our days.”

Janus looked at Reinette, his eyes turning wistful as he held her gaze. He spoke low, his voice deep and husky in the quiet of the morning, soft enough for her to have to listen closely, “No, just a jest.”

“And if you get sliced in half tomorrow, when I’m done putting you back together the x might be in completely the wrong spot.” Reinette gave him a quick glance, but whatever tale he was trying to create didn’t elicit any excitement in her, the opposite even. “We’ll end up in The Reach,” she joked back, laughing dryly.

“Besides, if you took me to this supposed pot of gold, I’d simply betray you at the last second and steal it all for myself,” she said impishly with a smirk. “I could be the richest woman in all of Tamriel.” The blonde took another bite and stared off thoughtfully, the battle on her mind. She thought of the ring back in her bag, somewhere. He’d made a similar promise. “Don’t really want gold,” Reinette admitted, leaning back into the bark of the tree.

“I have a chest in Castle Skingrad,” she said quietly, reaching her fingers below her collar to fetch the chain from her neck and lift the key up. “I want what is in that chest,” she sighed, paying close attention to Janus, “more than anything else I can think of.”

Janus looked at her curiously now, the change in her demeanor from teasing to wistful. To sincere. He held his gaze on her while she had her reverie, admitted to himself it was rude to stare and then kept staring anyway. In this light, right before a battle. Well, Janus was a man first and foremost, “What’s in it?” He asked, voice low and attention rapt for her answer, searching her eyes and face.

Reinette gave him a sidelong glance, breaking her own spell with a quietly simpering expression. “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” She wasn’t serious, not entirely anyway. Her eyes glowed with roguery and as if to add to her point, she pressed him in the ribs with the tips of two fingers as if they were a dagger she’d had up her sleeve the whole time. “So I shan’t spoil it,” she murmured before placing her hand back in the lap.

“What would you find in such a chest? If it was everything that you wanted right now?” her brow quirked upwards and she tilted her head curiously at him. Wondering if he would pull a card of sincerity, or of jest. She wanted to hear something real from the man, something real from anyone.

Janus almost flinched feeling the tips of her fingers in his ribs. The spell of his rapt attention was dispelled and he chuckled. At her question he sobered some, looking at her again. As much as he wanted to brush her off, sidestep the question, something about her made him want to give something real. He kept his smirk, but his eyes turned wistful. She was quiet while he thought about the answer, and he remained quiet not knowing whether to lay a piece of his past bare. “Be hard to fit a palace in a chest, I think.” He smiled at Reinette, then brought his legs up and rested his forearms on his knees, toying with his hands and looking at the tattoos on his palms, “Baklava. Southeastern Hammerfell, they make baklava. It’s a sweet pastry, honey, mashed nuts and flaky crust.”

His wife used to make it very well. Over the years, as memory does, it escaped him slowly. He had forgotten her voice, but not her face. His daughter loved baklava more than he did. He found himself smiling wide like an idiot by the time he’d realized he was reminiscing on a life that wasn’t his anymore. He sobered some at that, “Some baklava.”

Reinette closed her eyes and nodded along with his words, sighing at the mention of the sweet food. “I know the one. Gives you a most satisfying tooth ache afterwards.” She loved the desserts of Hammerfell, her favourite being knaffeh. Then, surprisingly she started to speak openly too. “When I lived in Jehanna there was a cherry tree in my garden,” she smiled, making a motion with her hand as she spoke. “Beautiful fruit that always came out when the time was right. In my first year, one of the men took all of the cherries from my tree - the entire harvest.” With a frown she turned and looked at Janus with a slightly sour expression before continuing. “A long time later he returned.”

She let the key fall back against her chest and smiled. “He came back, having distilled a brandy, flavoured by the fruit. Completely unique,” she reached a hand out and gently placed it on his forearm, “terribly expensive.”

With a smile, she bit into the apple again. “That’s what’s in the chest — amongst other things,” she clarified quickly. “Was always saving it for a special occasion. Doesn’t get more special than perhaps the very last night of my life now, does it?” Realising that her hand was still against his arm, she gracefully removed it and moved to tuck her hair back behind her ear. “Brandy and baklava.”

Then she sat back, thinking of Jehanna and of the old gentleman who made the brandy. Of the violet sunsets and the sound of the ocean at night. She was wistful too. “Those fucking swines have probably looted it,” she cursed eventually.

Janus was still bristling with nervous energy at her touch, left lingering. He snorted at her last remark, “We’ll get vengeance for it if they did.” Janus chuckled, “I’ve never been. Jehanna. My grandfather was Nordic, from there. Only knew stories of him and the place he was from.”

Janus was caught off guard revealing pieces of his life, chipping away at the exterior of coyness and smirks. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t really feel the need to. And that was dangerous in his line of work, “Brandy and baklava.” He muttered, nodding with a sincere smile on his face, no cheeky and teasing smirk, “That sounds lovely.”

He cleared his throat, “Well, I figure I should start making preparations. Make sure our boys’ gear is checked and ready. Akamon’s probably wondering where the hell I am.” He smiled at Reinette as he stood, dusting off his backside, “We’ll see each other after the battle. Hopefully I’m still pretty.”

“Hopefully we all are,” she muttered under her breath as he walked away. One last time, she looked out across the scene, much of it was a blur under her tired eyes and she could feel the slight swaying in her head of the last echoes of alcohol.

That damned rum.

At least morning would be sobering, and so she chose to wait for it.

[an abomunist]

Anatomy Lesson

The meeting had ended, but Durzum still felt discourse in his stomach. He stood at the edge of a slapped together fire, arms crossed, eyes locked on the lapping tongues of flame. Conversations were drowned out by the noise of his own thoughts and emotions. Doubt hovered now at the edges of his soul, prodding at him; its frayed edges felt wrong, like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. He often wished he could simply cut himself open and spill it out. Durzum felt a sudden weight on his foot- merely someone's misplaced hand, but it snapped him out of it.

"This is no way to spend the eve of battle," he thought to himself. The sentiment was a familiar one; several times had Durzum found a Voshu gazing at the horizon or a flame, eyes locked on nothing far away. His thoughts spilled into the Wrothgarian Mountains, then to Bruk giving orders, then-

Durzum shook his head- felt his tongue jostle in his mouth and his cheeks wobble. Tightened his fists and relented a few times. Steadied his bouncing heel. It was the eve of battle, but Durzum's conflict began now. Wordlessly, he turned from the fire, paused a moment to appreciate the heat on his neck, and retreated to his tent. Pulling back the rough hewn flap, he took quick stock of his mace, shield, and pack. Crouching at the lattermost, he fished around until he felt an odd textured metal. His Voshu token, a septim, one side blackened.

Emboldened, Durzum felt a new lump of frustration growing, aimed at his doubt. This conflict of soul was ending tonight; to march tomorrow otherwise would tarnish both the Voshu and Trinimac. Durzum wrapped his fingers around the haft of his mace, pulling it so the weapon now laid across his lap as he sat cross-legged in the middle of the tent. This was a technique he favored: to sift through scenes from his life that reminded him of how and why he ended up here as he bespoke Trinimac for wisdom by reciting the temple creed. "Like the burning of dry fields," Durzum muttered to himself. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began:

---

'Never let your trials burden you, for from your conflicts you shall be transformed-'

"Durzum! Don't run near the traders! We've discussed this, boy-" the voice of his father boomed. It was one of his earliest memories. It was a brisk autumn day; the enticing scent of Grasza's roast permeated through and around the tight grouping of squat stone hovels along the main road through the city. The young Orsimer boy looked up confusedly at his burly, iron-clad father, then over to a thinner, beige-skinned man, loosely holding the leather reins of a barrel-laden, horse-drawn cart. The sudden roar from his father made the young Durzum forget his intention of petting the horses.

Moghul, axes at either hip, raised a quick apologetic hand towards the stranger. Looking over, Durzum saw a flicker of emotion dance across the Imperial's face- fear. The young Orsimer felt something sink. He had been taught the stigma the other races leveled at Orcs, but this was the first time he had ever seen it. Perhaps the displeasure came from an early realization that what he had been taught was true, or perhaps he was simply upset because the trader was upset. Either way, Durzum felt he was wrong. That he had done something, oblivious to the fact that to this Imperial, Moghul was nothing more than an addled barbarian looking for any reason to make him pay Blood Price.

'The Eternal Champion will chisel away your coarseness-'

"By the Code of Malacath, I would fight you to defend my honor!"

Durzum was still young, but his voice was now deep. He stood on one of the short and wide temple steps, dressed in matted furs over itchy, simple clothing, hefting the weight of his smithing hammer in one coal-stained hand; Durzum was being taught the basics of the forge at the time, but he never took to it. His resentment for the Orsimer stigma had turned into hate when Moghul left Orsinium, and poured over into lots of training.

Durzum's mind was racing so fast, he still doesn't recall what the other Orc had said, only that it stemmed from his worship of Trinimac against Durzum's worship of Malacath. He measured his opponent- the other Orc had a height advantage, but Durzum knew his own strength was superior. The other Orc obliged, but insisted only on using fists. No matter.

"Durzum, listen to me closely. We Orsimer have only our honor and our word. If we uphold those, Malacath will make us perfect." Moghul's words flashed through Durzum's head, calming him somewhat.

Stepping forward, hands raised in a high guard, Durzum flicked a few jabs at the sodding pig-faced idiot across from him, looking to draw out a response he could counter. Luckily, his opponent bit- Durzum accurately read the torque in his hips, which meant a spin was coming. Deftly ducking under a spinning elbow, Durzum stepped in as he put his full force behind an uppercut- a bolt of pain shot down his arm from knuckles to elbow as he felt his opponent go limp. Durzum thought the gathered crowd would be cheering, but instead he found only a deafening silence.

"Feel honorable now, heretic?" Someone in the crowd called. A mix of emotions settled onto Durzum- frustration at their lack of understanding, anger at their refusal to acknowledge victory or Blood Price, sorrow at the absence of glory. His face flushed with embarrassment; tears were beginning to well in the corners of his eyes. He had no one to turn to- a Malacath worshiper amongst a populace of Trinimac loyalists was wont for friendship, and Moghul had been gone for months now. That feeling of being wrong was back, like a wad of wet blankets sloshing around his gut. In that moment, he hated everything- Malacath, himself, Moghul, the Orc whose crass comment started the whole ordeal. In his jog home, clutching his furs tight to his body, blinking away tears, Durzum made a promise to himself- he would prove to Orsinium, prove to Malacath himself that he could be perfect. That Orsimer could be perfect. They just need to follow the Code.

'Perfection will be yours, the sword of your God its vessel-'

A crack and a thud echoed throughout the dome-shaped chamber of the dark-stoned temple as a wooden head left its body and clattered along the floor far behind it. It came to a sudden stop as a burly, well-dressed Orc caught it underfoot.

"Nice hit, Durzum," Bruk said, smiling, rolling up the sleeves to his maroon tunic as he bent down to retrieve the now cracked lump of timber. Where once was carved a face now stood only a spider-webbed mess of splits and fractures.

Durzum shrugged at the compliment. Should Bruk expect any less of him? He had been adamant in his training routine the last few years, which had only supplemented by their new guard duty. Even on days like today, when the smell of a torrential rain filled the temple halls, Durzum would wait until the clergy cleared and move his fletched dummies inside. The irony of a Malacath faithful training martial skills in a holy place of Trinimac wasn't lost on him, but it was just that- the temple was simply the largest indoor space around, and Durzum liked to measure how far he could make the heads roll.

A slight chill slithered down Durzum's exposed back. Sweat came off of him in large droplets.

"Maybe someday I'll have to come in here and treat myself to the real thing-" Durzum jested with a chuckle. Bruk gave a puff of a laugh as he took a few steps forward and tossed the cracked head into Durzum's arms. Had he not been using a training mallet, Durzum was confident the whole thing would've splintered. A few moments passed as Durzum plunked the severed block awkwardly back onto the body.

"I mean it, you know. I've seen you train a few times in here. Your form could use work, but your sheer ferocity and determination are impressive."

Durzum shook his head. He was never good at accepting compliments. He always overthought what he should say in return to the point that he never would say anything at all. But this was a trait he admired in Bruk, the fact that he would speak so suddenly and poignantly about anything. Perhaps it was due to Bruk being the first true friend Durzum had made since he was a child, but compliments meant something coming from him. He wasn't like the other Trinimac worshipers.

Bruk's hand clasped hard on Durzum's shoulder.

"I know not what troubles you, Durzum, but I would be remiss to not share my admiration for your struggle. You've grown strong, and if I had a mere droplet of your determination I would be King tomorrow."

Durzum chortled, "Please, I'll never seek a crown, perfection's an easier goal."

"Durzum I don't think you understand- you've been following in the ways of Trinimac for a while now, you just need to..I don't know...see it. You already are perfect in his eyes."

The statement wormed through Durzum's brain down into his heart. His chest felt warm. Durzum had never made the connection before; he had long looked for what other Orcs saw in Trinimac, but Bruk had just made him realize it: they saw themselves. Somehow, what Bruk just said felt right.

Durzum smiled. "Alright, maybe I'll show up to the next sermon here."

Not more than a month later, Durzum's mother kicked him out of the house and left Orsinium a week thereafter, likening her son to a cultist.

'Take heart in your own strength. Take control of your own path. Take comfort in your own honor-'

Durzum's arms and legs were shaking- it was equal parts fatigue and the biting cold. His eyes remained locked on his boots as he followed in Bruk's footsteps through the deep snow of the Jerall Mountains. The aftermath of the Battle of Bruma was behind them, literally, but the two had shared little conversation during their day of travel afterwards. Durzum had spent the better part of the day in thought of what he had seen both leading up to and during the battle.

"We owe Trinimac our lives, but I think this is a lesson," Durzum had said to Bruk, "honor is not strict codes of conduct. Honor is minimizing suffering." Bruk had remained silent.

Now under a small rocky outcropping that at least buttressed them against the icy winds, Durzum dropped his warhammer and fell to his hands and knees. His armor felt too tight; he felt so weak. His worldview was shattered. He and Bruk had come here looking to honor their God, but found something unholy instead. It all felt wrong again.

"You're right, Durzum. There is nothing holy in something that causes such torment."

The supine Orsimer stretched his neck to look at Bruk, expecting him to be gazing out at the remains of the battlefield. Instead, he was gazing directly at Bruma.

Bruk draped a weary hand over his face and tried to fight the memories; Refugees starved in the streets- some took to killing for food. Mothers and fathers screamed at the heavens for children they could never see again. Some would stare into the distance with cloudy eyes until disease, despair, or Daedra took them. All of this for a war they won. This wasn't perfection, it was plague.

---

"In this, be perfected, and stand the unified and virtuous of Trinimac." Durzum whispered the final tenet of Trinimac to himself, taking a few more deep breaths afterwards. Opening his eyes, his gaze wandered from his mace to the token in his hand. His thoughts and doubts were seceding, at least for now. The reality of the morning was finally seeping in and he wanted something of a gameplan of his own. He thought of the Voshu goal- if even one person hears the tale of what will happen to Hruldan come the siege and acts more amicably, then this was all worth it. It had to be worth it.

'The Count has a wife and two sons; I should seek their ends as well. Nothing would stoke the fires of conflict more than a deposed heir, let alone three.'

"The burning of a dry field."

Durzum felt right again. All here would be transformed by the conflict- even Durzum. For he was Voshu Ornim, faith and steel, a worthy Orc.

[Spoopy Scary]

The Eve of Blood

_{ft. @Hank}

Reyna made sure to watch the crowd of the meeting leave the tent before leaving Isobel to herself, with the exception of Beordan’s company. There were some who lingered, whether to talk amongst themselves or talk to Isobel directly. She would linger longer, of course, to keep an eye on them before leaving herself, her eyes like a painting on a wall that would seem to stare at you no matter where one walked. Her gaze was a penetrating menace that sought to see through the barriers of flesh to seek their intent, to manifest her anticipation as lightning coursing through her veins. It was all to keep sure Isobel remained guarded--that which she felt was her responsibility. While the woman she held in such esteem had Beordan’s more than capable company at her side, who Reyna has personally witnessed destroy all those who entered his arena with him, it only takes a moment for things to change. Only a moment for someone to die. If Beordan wasn’t prepared for that single moment, or isn’t able to react fast enough for it, then she would be. At least, that was the idea.

The night had already fallen, her assigned patrol already over and the resolution of the meeting hallmarking the eve of blood, a name that was beginning to circulate around the camp. Some of the rebels were former militia members who would be invading and ransacking their own homes, but mostly farmers. They had a connection which tied them to this struggle, whereas Reyna fought out of loyalty to a debt. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like for them. Her own home is long gone, and any place she was otherwise “raised,” to be as liberal as possible with the term, she would be delighted to see crumble beneath smoke and fire. She thought about it often, and so she wasn’t quite so sure that it was delight she’d be feeling, no; it’d be anger. Anger fulfilled and appetite whetted, and when it's very memory invokes pain and rage, one can only help but think of crushing the hot coal that’s been used to poke and prod and brand you in your bare hands and the satisfaction you get from its destruction even when the burns and pain continues to linger.

Would these people feel that? Would they feel a painful satisfaction in burning down their own home, or would they seek to preserve it? How would they do that? And how would they react if what they fought to defend was taken from them? It was a dark thought perhaps, one that was birthed by the orcs and seeped into her own brain like venom, but it was a tactic that Hruldan could employ nonetheless: burning down his own city. Would that take away their reason for fighting, or simply replace it with what Reyna had? It was hard to say. Some of them seemed too weak and she herself was no philosopher, not like some of the other so-called “warriors.”

She returned to her own tent: a small, pitched thing that only had room for her bedroll, a crate, and a mess kit. She’d undo the buckles and straps of her armor and drop its pieces into the crate and slide her gladius in after it. It was positioned such that its handle was sticking up and pointed in the direction toward the bedroll for her to reach if need be, though she still kept the orichalum dagger secured in one of the tied wrappings of the toga just at her tailbone. The longer left-side of her red toga was now free to uncoil itself from her arm and hang freely in the air just above her knees, her black garments beneath just short and breathable enough to allow some airy comfort in the warm air of the night. The Cyrodiilic chill had little persuasive power over a nord, especially one raised in the Wrothgarian mountains. The pressure of her breastplate and gauntlet still weighed on her body though, its memory imprinting itself upon her skin. She let out a gentle sigh and moan as she rocked her neck and back side to side, making sounds in her back pop like when she would crack open a mudcrab’s leg.

An uproar of laughter from a nearby fire disturbed her moment of peace, replacing it with a moment of bitter and resentful growling, but when her head erupted from the tent flaps, she only saw men. Men with smiles and drinks in their hands, telling stories and jokes and whatever else, as if they had no idea what lies in wait for them tomorrow. It made her mind buzz with confusion, like a swelling of emotion that she couldn’t begin to organize or pick apart—where could she possibly begin? Why drink and dull the senses? Why stay up and tire yourself in the morning? Why make such loud ruckus, possibly letting every hunter and predator and killer nearby know where you lay your head? Why were they so comfortable doing the things she was never allowed? She didn’t have those luxuries, or rather, it is because she avoided them that she’s alive today. What did that mean for these men? What lies in wait for them tomorrow? This must be a mistake.

She’d make one last trip to Isobel’s tent.

It was during the march that she’d walk past some of those who she saw in the tent but did not know personally, or even particularly care for. Folks like Janus and Akamon, some nords and bretons like Quintus and Guifort, and one of the orcs she saw in the distance in the dry, blazing heat of their forge, all until she finally made it to the tent of Isobel Aurelia. She was hesitant to enter at first, remembering from her earliest childhood memories that it was polite to knock before entering someone’s quarters, but having not had to worry about that at all for such a while, she wasn’t quite sure if a tent technically counted. So, she opted for something simple, if still bluntly direct as is expected of her by now.

“Aurelia, I’m coming in,” she said, warning the occupant of her arrival in her distinct, underused voice. The pitched voice of a Nord girl with a similar grumbly inflection to the orcs they worked with. She pushed her shoulder past the entrance and found that only an empty tent awaited her. Not entirely empty, of course -- there were scrolls and clothes and equipment, but no Isobel. Instead, her voice came from outside the tent.

“I’m here, Reyna,” the Imperial woman said, calling out from a dark corner of the camp a little ways away from the tent, where she and the minotaur Beordan sat on a fallen tree, she on the stump and he on the trunk, in shadow and silence. “We were taking a moment to pray,” she explained, “but come. I would like to speak with you.”

“Me too.” The girl replied. She didn’t necessarily care much for or put much stock into praying, and she would’ve scoffed at anyone else who did, but she didn’t feel as if she had any particular ground to stand on in judging the woman who brought everyone together and saved her life. The woman could streak butt naked and croak like a frog for all she cared, if she thought it’d help her find her center. So Reyna paced forward, wading her feet through the cold grass as she went, until they brought her in front of Isobel and Beordan, who she addressed with a respectful nod (though more in a way that suggests “real recognizes real,” rather than any particular reverence). Like old friends. She couldn’t actually bring herself to care about the religion of the Imperial pantheon, or any faith really, but she cared about what Isobel thought and Reyna thought she was good at organizing people, so she found herself wanting to know what she ought to be looking for tomorrow morning.

“Which one is it this time?” Reyna asked irreverently. When the moment came she was given the inevitable look of confusion, she explained, “You pray to nine different people right? Which one are you praying to this time?”

The question made Isobel laugh. “Nine different gods,” she corrected the young woman. “Today it is Talos, who was Tiber Septim in life. He conquered all of Tamriel and created the Empire. He ascended to the heavens when he died and became a god. It seems only fitting to pray to him today, given that it’s his Empire that we’re trying to… protect, I suppose.”

“Repair,” Beordan grumbled.

She ignored him, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then Isobel looked at Reyna more intently. After she mentioned Talos, she found her muttering Talos’ name under her breath, feeling the shape of his name in her mouth, and it suddenly made her seem much more like the nord she was supposed to be. “Who did you pray to, when you were alone in your cage?”

“I prayed to my enemies.” Reyna answered simply. “I prayed that they were weaker than me so I could live. I didn’t know any gods there. Ma and Pa used to pray to gods, I think.”

The implication of the allusion to her parents was clear. She wasn’t placing much stock into gods or things she couldn’t see, and the very word, “god,” seemed to fit uncomfortably in her mouth as if it was too big and unwieldy for her to use, or like she sat tasting it and found the flavor of the word unsettling and bitter. As far as she was concerned, she was alive today only because of dumb luck and her own strength. She found her eyes wandering towards the minotaur, privately suspecting that he was the same and had no experience with or has any need for these gods—even if he was here praying with her.

“Is that why you brought people like the half-breed with us? Because they pray?” Reyna asked. The question may have sounded accusative and aggressive, but she was earnest in her curiosity. She wanted to know what Isobel saw in them that she couldn’t, those who she rated based on what she assumed was their ability to survive conflict. Guifort, the name she could not remember, looked to her as the sort who would not survive very long. He wasn’t alone though; he was among company with the other soft-skinned and untempered fodder of the rebellion. She trusted Isobel's judgement, but she also sought to understand it. That was why she was here at this hour. She leaned in and said, “They’re going to die.”

Isobel shook her head. “Everyone here has their own way of contributing. There is more to war than just fighting. Guifort prays, yes, and in his devotion to his god he finds wisdom, and he uses that wisdom to speak encouraging words that can fortify the spirit. He knows healing magic to keep the wounded among the living, and funerary rites to guide the souls of the dead to Aetherius. You only see the fight, young Reyna, but Guifort sees what happens before, and after, and tends to us then,” she explained. “Reinette is the same, in her own way.”

“Not just them.” She insisted. “Witches who heal... I think I get it, but I’ve never seen it,” she glanced toward her own scars, healing either on their own or with the help of conventional medicine and bandaging. She shook her head as if to shake the memories off of her and continued, “not just them. Even the ones who will fight. No matter how long the lazy one makes them fight the air, they’ll never learn to kill. They’re loud and they’re drinking and they’re laughing… and they don’t know. Not like they should.”

Reyna exhaled a deep breath, unaware of the weight on her shoulders she was carrying previously. She wasn’t sure if she was communicating her thoughts exactly the way she wanted to, and it frustrated her. For the longest time, she only thought of fighting and killing as a means to live, but here she saw only men and women eagerly rushing to their own deaths just so they could fight. What kind of life was that? With a tone of finality to her voice, she added with certainty, “They’ll die. Some will run. A couple might live. Why are they fighting? What’s more important than living?”

“Freedom. Justice. Peace.” Isobel watched Reyna’s face for any changes to her expression and then laughed. “You didn’t grow up in the Empire. Survival is all you’ve known for years. I don’t expect you to understand what I mean. But many people here are fighting to create a better world for their fellow citizens. They fight for a good cause, something larger than themselves, larger than their lives. Hruldan is a cruel and greedy man. As long as he rules Skingrad, the people here will never be treated fairly. All we can do is take up arms for those who believe they are too weak to fight him themselves so that they might learn their own power, because rulers should always be afraid of their own people. And now there’s an army, two-hundred strong, inspired by our example, ready to fight. Ready to die, if they have to. So that their friends and family can know freedom, justice and peace again.” Passion had crept into her voice and she realized that she had leaned forwards while talking. “Sorry,” Isobel smiled and leaned back again, away from Reyna’s personal space when she noticed her muscles tensing up. “I just get fired up when talking about it.” She glanced sidelong at Beordan, but the minotaur was studying Reyna and did not say anything.

“All this air,” she responded, looking all around her, “the space. It’s new. Quiet. Gives me time to think about… things I haven’t thought about before. I don’t know what to do with it—the space—but I’ve thought what if I didn’t have it anymore. If I went back. I fought too hard to live just to die for it, but… I do want to keep my quiet. I think I get what you’re saying, but I don’t wanna choose between life or quiet. I don’t like that choice. I wanna live and have quiet too. I’ve been killing to live so I don’t have to kill anymore... but they don’t know how to kill. They don’t know that choice—not until tomorrow.”

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” Isobel said. “We can show them the way. You, me, Beordan, Ando, Akamon, Janus… there are plenty of experienced fighters here. And I’ve talked to the people. The farmers, the smiths, the tanners. They don’t feel like they’re making a choice to fight. They feel that it’s their duty to fight.” She smiled and pointed at Reyna. “Like you feel you have a duty to me. What you feel you owe to me, they feel they owe to Skingrad and its people. Their sons, their mothers, their neighbours. Do you see what I mean?”

“Not duty. Blood debt. But maybe. We’ll see what duty gets them.” Reyna found this type of… philosophical talk and playing around with words and semantics far too heady and annoying, and it gave her something of a pins and needles sensation across her skin, something that caused her to ruffle her hair with her hands and itch at her scalp as if it was her way of centering herself. A moment later her hair was looking wild again and sticking out in different directions, but there was a laser focus in her eyes, as if she finally committed herself to something, like the doubts plaguing her when she first arrived at the conversation were swatted away. Her focus realigned on Isobel with her composure returned. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something too.”

“Yes, I did,” Isobel said and shifted in her seat, uncrossing her legs and straightening them out on the forest floor, her hands ironing the creases from her tunic, with a look in her eyes that said that she wished she could do the same to all the worries and concerns that weighed on her mind and her heart. “Once Hruldan is defeated and order has been restored in Skingrad, there might be… well, a place for you there, I suppose. Robespierre will be the new Count and he will know all that you have done for him and his people. It would be the perfect opportunity to have your quiet, as you put it,” she explained and smiled. “You could have the life back that was taken from you. Not have to fight to survive. Learn how to read, how to work -- not killing, something peaceful. You told me once you still remember the farm, herding the sheep. Would you want that?”

“I…” Reyna started to speak but she stopped and she stared straight ahead like there was a ghost. Suddenly that composure she fought to reclaim was lost again. Her mind traveled to this suggested land of quiet, of stone walls and bridges wrapping around the thoroughfares of a Colovian hamlet, of the farmlands that covered its countryside. The fires that might light them. The past replayed in her eyes, and for a moment she didn’t seem present. So when her own words were caught in her throat, unsure of how to communicate the confusion and feelings of conflict in her heart, or the terror in her memory, words which threatened to choke her, she did as she always had when she felt in danger, and with no enemy to fight her feet slowly shuffled away from Isobel before fleeing away like wind back to her tent.

Beordan stopped Isobel before she could call out after the girl. “Let her go,” he rumbled. “All she has known is war. You threatened her with peace. It will take time.”

The Imperial woman lowered back onto the stump, having gotten halfway up on her feet. “I wish there was more I could do for her,” she said and chewed her bottom lip. “She fought so hard to survive and to escape and now I am leading her back into another fight? What if she dies tomorrow?”

“Her choice, not yours.”

Isobel hummed quietly and looked at her lap. Beordan sat back and exhaled in content silence, the burst of breath from his nose fogging in the cold night air. When Reyna arrived back at her tent, she was out of breath. Though the distance was not so long for her, it was only then that she realized she was holding onto it, keeping her breath from escaping her burning, rebelling lungs. It was enough even to cause a buildup of cold sweat beading up on her forehead, to which she quickly felt their chill in the cold night air and brought her some sense of comfort. Their icy touch pulled her back to reality, and soon she felt her breathing begin to slow and steady itself. Still, heat welled up in her chest again as she growled and snarled and groaned to herself, at no one in particular, before throwing herself onto her bed roll and clutching the straw pillow to her head, as if she was trying to wrap it around her and so firmly that she nearly ripped it into halves in her hands. She eventually would release a sigh, expelling all that anxious and flustered energy into the air of the tent, and allowing the heat in her chest to climb its way up to her face and cheeks, where she’d wear her embarrassment for the rest of the night until she slept. She put the orichalum dagger wrapped at her tailbone beneath her pillow and firmly in her hand, which would help to cushion that which she nearly destroyed.

Sleep, she told herself. Sleep for tomorrow. She could let it all out tomorrow.

[Kassarock]

---

---

N E E D

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---

Velyn Virith hurried back to his tent in the darkness of the rebels' camp. While others broke away from the meeting to drink and talk and make merry, he moved with a sense of urgency and with a singular purpose. The meeting had gone on for too long, the hour was too late. It has been all that he could do to stay the shaking of his hands and ignore the nauseating pit deep in his stomach, as the cold sweat began to drip from his brow. He had almost felt delirious by the end, the sickness was so acute, that he had started muttering things, old words and sayings from the life he had lived before. That dream he had been thrust from, into this waking nightmare.

He needed his fix. It would all seem better afterwards.

As soon as Velyn reached his own tent he darted inside, closing the fabric flaps behind him as quickly as he could, with naught but a furtive glance to see if anyone was watching him. He had to be somewhat circumspect in the camp, this was not the slums of Chedinhal, these were not people who would necessarily understand his need. For that's what this was now truly, a need, for Velyn felt sick when he went without it, in body and in soul.

It had been worst when he had first come here, half dead from the skirmish on the road. Mistress Deserine, Reinette, had healed him as best she could, but when he had awoken... it was not just the wounds he had taken that left him in agony. Somehow he had managed to crawl from his pallet, find his pack and open a vial. He had spilled it on the floor, and had licked it up from the dirt in order to get his fix. Skooma was not meant to be consumed that way, it had burnt his tongue and he had reopened some of his wounds in the process of rolling around on the floor. But it had been worth it, for surely he would have died without it.

Since then he had been careful. Only a little each morning and evening, taken in the privacy of his own tent. Enough to take the edge of his hunger off, stop the shakes and dull the ache in his heart. But still, Velyn's tolerance had somehow grown, and he had found himself needing more and more, until his remaining supply was a meagre thing.

He removed that meagre supply now from its hiding place. The sealed vials were hidden inside some of the empty slots of his scroll case, they fitted nicely in the spaces where once there had been poetry and sermons. He fumbled with the clasp that held the lid shut until burst open, spilling the vials onto his open bedroll. Gently he picked them up and turned them over his hands.

"Three vials." He spoke out loud, softly, almost as if trying to reassure himself, before carefully setting his precious supply back on the bedroll.

The pipe itself was something harder to conceal. Velyn had considered getting rid of it at one point, and just diluting his skooma with alcohol, the way that many of the native Cyrodilics consumed the drug. But drinking it he found had its downsides, it did not provide the same immediate rush of relief that the water pipe provided. Besides, such instruments were not only used for the consumption of skooma. Back in Morrowind it had not been uncommon to see a Dunmer fill its bowl with dried Hackle-Lo leaf, or some other fragrant herb. Still he did not remove it from his pack outside of the confines of his tent.

Quickly he began to set up the apparatus. He kept a cracked ceramic pitcher of water in his tent just for the very purpose of filling the lower chamber of the pipe. The stub of a candle that heated the skooma he lit by putting it across the edge of his enchanted glaive, the flame where springing to life at his command. He had once used that blade to slay daedra, ash ghouls, corpus monsters, necromancers, An-Xileel warriors. Once the candle was lit there was only one thing left to do.

Velyn picked up the vials from where he had left them on his bedroll. He turned them in his hands again, feeling the viscous liquid gently slosh against the inside of the inside of the glass. They felt reassuringly heavy in his light trembling grasp.

"Three vials. Three vials." He repeated the words he had said before. Like some kind of incantation, some kind of prayer.

Three vials, he reasoned, was more than enough to see him through the coming days. He had a plan, a schedule, and three vials would be enough. One vial would get him through the battle and its aftermath, then his duty here to the rebels would be discharged, and he would be free to go his own away again. The second vial was for the journey south, to Bravil, where he had been trying to go before he had somehow got entangled in the lives of these people. The third and final vial was to tide him over in Bravil until he could find a new supply there, which he did not think would be too difficult.

As long as he was sensible and rationed out what he had left, he would be fine. It was more than enough to see him through.

More than enough.

More than enough meant there would be some left over at the end of all of this, and now he was sat here, with it in his hands, that seemed... wasteful... somehow. Surely he could make an exception from his plans, just for tonight? Do a little bit more than just take the edge off. The battle was tomorrow, he wouldn't be any good to anyone if he was too sick and shaking to fight. Better that he took that little extra now, tonight, than leaving it until he was in Bravil where they said good skooma was plentiful and cheap.

It seemed like a sensible idea to Velyn.

It was just one exception, taking a little bit more tonight, not to be repeated. After tonight he would stick to his plan, stick to his schedule, and he would still have enough to make to Bravil. He would be fine. And he would feel fine too. Just as soon as he had his fix.

So Velyn measured out a spoonful of the viscous liquid, careful not spill a drop despite his shaking hands, and placed it in the bowl of the pipe. He hesitated for a moment, adding a second spoonful. Two would do more than just take the edge off... but still he hesitated once more. This could be it, he thought to himself, this could be my very last chance. I could die tomorrow, many of us probably will. What good will any of this do me after I am dead? I shall not be joining my ancestors, there are none here who will care for my ashes. I will simply be gone. What need have I go any of this then? Better to use it now and dream for one last time.

Velyn added a third spoonful to the pipe bowl.

He closed the lid of the bowl, and sat there trembling as he waited for the skooma to heat up. Perhaps it was not wise to take so much on the night of a battle. But Velyn was through with wisdom now. Let him be a fool, and think only foolish thoughts, and believe in many foolish lies. That was what the skooma let him do. It let him forget the ugly truth, and it made his beautiful foolish lies whole and shining once more.

Velyn put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sucked hard upon it. Sweet vapour filled his lungs, calming his shaking nerves and soothing his aching soul. All the sickness, the pain, it went away. He could hear now that the night was full of music, and laughter, and merriment. He could perceive, despite the darkness, that his tent was filled with the most beautiful of shining light. It was an inner light, golden like the fire of enlightenment.

Another lungful of the sweetly cloying smoke, and Velyn began to feel distant, dizzy. He pushed aside his tiny horde of precious vials and lay down on his bedroll. It felt warm to the touch, like that of a living person, caressing him as he lay down. It had been a long time since had been caressed like that. A long time since had been someone's lover.

"Salas..." He breathed remembering the youth who taken his hand and shown him, hesitant and unsure, how to forget the world and to live inside a dream instead. They had comforted each other for a time, Velyn had tried to teach him what he had known, just as Salas had taught him. They had not loved each other, but he had come to care for him. What ever had happened to him in the end?

Velyn raised the mouthpiece once more and breathed deeply. He thought of Salas no more. The inner light grew brighter, the sounds from outside faded into a orchestral blur. He let his mind wander and drift upon an ocean of memories. He dove down into that sea, swimming deeper and deeper.

Until he found him.

Beautiful, golden, shining with all the light of His Godhood. His glory untarnished, just as Velyn remembered Him. The inner light had always been His, the secret fire. It was His warmth he felt against his skin. It was His touch that healed the hole in his chest where his heart had once laid. A voice spoke to him, familiar, dripping with lyrical power and sounding with all the secret syllables of the names of the divine.

"The fire is mine: let it consume thee."

He did as he was bade, and let the warmth and the light rush through him. He let it consume him, burn through him until he was only ashes, and longer still, until there was nothing left at all. Until he lost all sense of self. Until Velyn Virith had been dissolved, disintegrated, annihilated, in the face of God.

He lay there for a while, insensate, dreaming of his own sweet destruction.

Deep down he knew it was lie, but it did not matter, for Velyn had chosen to forget the truth.

---

---

[psych0pomp]

12𝔱𝔥 𝔬𝔣 ℜ𝔞𝔦𝔫’𝔰 ℌ𝔞𝔫𝔡, 4𝔈15
ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔶 𝔖𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔞𝔡, 𝔚𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔚𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔡, ℭ𝔶𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔦𝔦𝔩
𝔊𝔲𝔦𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔱'𝔰 𝔗𝔢𝔫𝔱 & 𝔐𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔣𝔱 𝔖𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔄𝔯𝔨𝔞𝔶

“What do you see in war? What long future does it hold afterward? Will the world change but for a moment before returning to more of the same? Can men and women made of battle ever know peace? Or much like the Wheel of Life, does the mortal’s strife seem cyclical?”

Those weren’t words Father Peryval had ever said, but Guifort could hear them in his voice. The timbre of his tone crackling a bit like a fire on its dying embers. The meeting had not assuaged Guifort’s fears but only made him warier of the company he kept. The Inner Circle was filled with smart and capable people, but they all wanted to taste blood. Even Reinette had spoken with vitriol undampened, but Guifort knew she was from Skingrad—there was motive. Yet, she was the practiced physician of their group and according to many, their primary healer. Guifort tried not to take that personally, it wasn’t as if many saw him as anything but a priest. He wondered how many knew his name or if he was just “Father” to them. It was an amusing thought to have, but he was letting them get away from him. He returned to his journals.

Throughout the evening, a few farmers and the like visited him. They’d wished for weapons blessed or prayers said over their brows. A few voiced concerns that their god of choice was not Arkay, but that Guifort was the closest thing they had to a temple. He’d nodded. The gods weren’t warring and separate entities—they were not Daedric Princes or the various countries of man. In those moments between, he wrote and sketched. Occasionally he’d glance up in hopes of seeing Akamon’s smiling face, Reyna’s dour countenance, Quintis’s barrel-chested frame, or Elara’s powerful gaze, but he was just greeted with the sight of the other tents and the trees that crowded them in. They were all tending to their duties, he figured. It wasn’t as if he’d be abundantly necessary for the fight to come. Unless Count Hruldan decided to escalate his villainy beyond just the regular fare and into the dark arts of necromancy, Guifort didn’t have a place to shine. Oh, he did wish for an evening where they’d be set upon by skeletons. Their hollowed eyes transfixed on the camp, and their chattering, teeth-filled maw screaming out that no one could stop them! Ah, but they were wrong, Guifort was there! Divine Priest of Arkay and smiter of the undead. He chuckled to himself, his smile hurting his cheeks. It was an amusing fantasy but a fantasy, nonetheless. For one, skeletons couldn’t even speak. No, he was fine with his current duties. It was just that he’d been reminded of Yarvis, and the man’s wild tales. Not that Guifort didn’t have any of his own. It was just that his talents usually lied with the observation and the recording of such tales. It was a humble life, but it was his.

He sat his journals aside, wrapping the leather straps around them tight to make sure that no dirt, mud, or water found their way between the pages. He then stood from the poorly upholstered log that he’d been using for far too long as a chair. Stretching out caused his back to crunch and pop like that of a horse’s hoof over bonemeal. Speaking of which, he needed to perform his due diligence and put together some potions for tomorrow. Maybe some fortifications to strengthen their resolve or empower their swinging arm? He surely had the ingredients for those.

Guifort removed his hat, setting it on a low-hanging branch. He also removed his fur-lined jacket, even if the coolness of the evening was becoming more prevalent. The sleeves would get in his way. He rolled up the arms of his tunic and dug into his things, procuring his various preserved herbs, minerals, and additives. He grabbed a book from the midst of the bag that smelled of sage and was penned by an alchemist of higher standing than Guifort could ever be. A thin ribbon was used as a placeholder. He opened it to that page, only to pause. His fingers slid down the old parchment, feeling the roughness of the grain. The ribbon was red, thin, and it had been once tied in a young girl’s hair. Next to the recipe in the book was a half-finished portrait that had been ruined by water damage. He flipped a few pages, leaving the ribbon where it lay. Right, there the recipe was.

He couldn’t make everything in this book, and not everything in there was a potion. Some of them were simple poultices that any commoner could make. They didn’t even have to read, Guifort had drawn in a lot of the herbs. The few potions that imbued any sort of abilities were common enough one might find them stocked on the shelves of any apothecary. There was nothing there that would confound the mind or boggle the professional. And Guifort had no plans to create a suspect concoction. Instead, he opened a few of the handmade satchels in his pack and procured some mushroom caps. They weren’t anything rare, just a fly amanita, mora tapinella, and scaly pholiota. Jokes had been made about how Guifort was akin to a pig when it came to mushrooms, keen on finding them and delighted when he did—though it did make him self-conscious of his round middle. But they were for moments like these. He then glanced around, as if anyone would be near him, and pulled from one of his satchels a dried bee. No one had to know about this ingredient. He tossed it into his mortar with the mushrooms.

“Can’t have Akamon falling off the side of the wall tomorrow, then who would I talk to in this camp? Huh?” Guifort rechecked his surroundings, finding that he was completely alone. He sighed. “Guess I’m talking to myself…” he trailed off.
He glanced up at his hat, and it bobbed a little on the branch. Guifort pursed his lips and pitched his voice out of the side of his mouth. ”I may just be a hat, but I agree! If Akamon dies then the rumors will only get odder. I mean you already wear me for Arkay’s sake.”
“Only in a rebellion would a priest be viewed as useful as a kicking stump.”
”Well, you haven’t gotten kicked yet, but I bet Reyna would be the first one to do it. You should see the way she looks at you… and me for that matter.”
“Speaking of which, you have a good view of things. How does Elara look at me?”
”You know those words I said about the rumors being odd? This isn’t helping, Gui.”
“Elara may be a little strange. She sure does love talking herself up, but I don’t think she’s that bad. But maybe you’re right.” He crushed the ingredients with the pestle harder until they became broken up enough that he could get them into the glass bottle. Then he’d need his calipers, a good fire, and some water. After that, he’d have to strain and put in additives for flavor and consistency. No one needed to be able to tell he put a bee in this. “Alright, what about Ja—”
”I was referring to having this lengthy conversation with your hat. That’s odd. Not your choice of what… bedfellows?”

Guifort chuckled to himself, running a hand through his hair as he did so. He was truly happy that no one else was around. What would they say if they found that their religious counsel had taken to talking and laughing to himself? The weight of his words might easily be lost. It would be strange of them to think he was continually a pious man. Guifort didn’t spend every waking moment in rigorous prayer. Even now, he was tending to alchemical instruments that might remind them of Reinette. Well, if Reinette was prone to brewing by the fireside with subpar implements. Right, he was the subpar implement here.

Yet, Arkay didn’t care that he wasn’t a trained physician with the best equipment septims had to offer. No, his god only cared that he was there—protecting them in Arkay’s name. Guifort stood, surveying the corner of camp that he was in. He remembered the very first thing he learned about Arkay, sitting on the pew under the stained-glass rendering of the Nine Divines. It was that Arkay had been a mortal man, like him, and that he had taken it on himself to learn all he could about life and death. And when the end of his life came, he prayed to Mara that he could continue. He was so close to learning the true meaning behind it all. She granted his wish, and he became a god. It might have seemed hypocritical, considering the way that Arkay advocates for the Wheel of Life. Guifort didn’t think so. Because Arkay shouldered the burden of that duty to help facilitate the rest of the mortals’ existence. So, maybe what he, the priest of Arkay, did seemed like nothing to the eyes of the warriors and mages within the camp. But Guifort liked to imagine that he’d shouldered all their burdens so that tomorrow they could fight with lighter hearts and quicker weapons. And when they fell, they’d fall peacefully. And when they were laid to rest, they’d rest peacefully. Guifort could speak of their conflict over their grave—unburdening them both of it. Until then, he’d tend to their worries like nursing a wound.

His fingers slipped to the amulet around his neck. “I need a drink.”
”Just to let you know, drinking alone is also odd.”

[Auz]

Burdens

---

“Ghosts of the past speak to all who will listen.”

---

It was the quiet before the tempest and all members of Isobel’s most trusted had retreated to their corner of the camp to prepare for the final battle. Bahk had marched from their leaders’ war tent with a threatening gait. An air of exasperation enveloped him as he made his way across to the armoury for a final once over of their arsenal.

“Fools.” The Orsimer snarled. “So many fools. Filling the air with such utter nonsense.” Pushing aside the curtain to the armoury, Bahk entered without missing a beat. “Like that mage. She draws her words from books, not experience. The witch threatens us all if she cannot deal with the reality of battle tomorrow.”

The space inside the tent had been split several ways. Weapons stands, crudely cut from stolen wood, lined the circumference while barrels and crates had been laid out in the centre creating aisles. Of course, no one’s personal items were stored there, instead it was just a mix of scavenged gear and reforged basic weaponry. Pieces of armour were also scattered few and far between. A bit of chainmail here, a gambeson there; most of the army would be fighting with nothing but the cloth on their back.

Allowing his hand to bump along the wooden staves of the barrels, the Orsimer began to pace up and down the aisles. “And the heretic.” He continued, spit flying from his mouth as he talked through gritted teeth. “I’ve heard what he calls himself. Our Kingdom lies in ruin and our people scattered, yet here he is, fighting for a cause that has nothing to do with him. If he is as worthy as he claims, then why are his boots not thick with the dirt of Skyrim?”

Fury coiled it’s way up from the pit of Bahk’s stomach. His lungs filled with fire as he turned to one of the sealed crates in the centre. “He talks of philosophy and war like he is the master of either!” The veins in the Orsimer’s arms pulsated as he gripped the lid. “All I see is another barbarian out for blood!” Tearing it from the box, he unleashed an almighty roar before tossing the wood aside.

Skipping across the ground like a stone across a lake, the lid came crashing into a stand, knocking several bits of armour from its shelf. The clang of metal caused Bahk to whip around, the palm of his hand slapping his forehead as he realised what had happened. Feeling the warm hue of embarrassment flush over his face, the Orsimer cursed his stupidity. The irony of his final statement was not lost on him as he ambled over, picking up the mess piece by piece.

“Focus.” He breathed. “This is not the time, nor the place, there is too much to be done.” Neatly stacking everything back above the rack, the giant's hands fell to his hips, a sigh of frustration escaping through his tusks as he looked up and down the line. A minor insignia, the crest of Skingrad, predominantly adorned most of the weapons that had been recovered from their raids. Longswords reigned supreme for the most part, with a hammer, axe or claymore dotted here and there. Perhaps that’s why Isobel had wanted the frames to be made in the first place, they were more trophy cases than weapon stands.

Bahk closed an eye, cocking one of his brows as he drew close to one of the swords. “They’ll wear these things down to a damned nub the way they sharpen them.” He growled, studying the blade emphatically. Running the backs of his fingers down the steel, the sword glistened, fire from the torches dancing in its reflection. It made the Orsimer sick.

“Amateurs, the lot of them! Men who have never held a blade faun over their razor-edges, taking them to the whetstone each day!” He picked it up, blade in hand, catching the sneer awash in his own face. “Dreams of glory blind them from the simple truth, that most of them will die tomorrow.”

Moving over to a torch strapped to one of the tent poles, he inspected it further.

“Maybe the elf could write this one a song,” he teased, “and the pretty boy could dance along with it. By god what f…” Bahk stopped, loosening his grip as he watched as a glob of his own blood drip down the blade.

“Damn this!” The Orsimer dropped the sword into the dirt below. “What is wrong with me? Why is being here not enough? Why is tonight so different?” He turned away, swatting away an invisible fly before heading over towards a shelf stacked with cloth. Tearing off a strip he wrapped the wound tight, ignoring the stings of pain vying for his attention.

With another deep breath in and out, the giant bounced on his toes, shadowing a few of his hand to hand moves. With a final shake, he turned his attention to the barrel next to him. Bundled together, spears fashioned from scythes huddled like penguins hiding from the cold. Grabbing one by the neck, Bahk removed it, tapping the tip with his finger to test its sharpness. Contrary to the swords, spears could never be whetted enough. What remained of the Counts guard were well armed and armoured, the rebel troops would need to pack a serious punch if they ever hoped to do more than just dent their enemy.

Bahk inclined his head. Somewhat satisfied with the result, he moved on to the crate alongside the barrel. Dull and lifeless, the box was filled to the brim with axes. The rebels' seizure of the Count’s wood shipment had taken its toll on the weapons.

“Axes first.” Bahk thought, running a monstrous green finger down the dulled blade of the woodcutters tool. “Axes and then spears.”

The crate teetered as the Orsimer pulled it onto the corner of its edge, scooping out its contents onto the floor. He then set about piling them neatly next to a stool before taking up a handheld whetstone found on a nearby shelf. Sitting down, Bahk began to grind away.

The gnashing of the sharpener was memorising. A hypnotising monotonous tone, it drew Bahk deep into his own mind. “I lived for years without a spark of anger and now it’s nothing but a stone's throw away. Perhaps this is the will of Malacath.” He reasoned. “Perhaps he seeks to fill me with the will to find a good death.” Placing a finished axe to one side, the Orsimer picked up another.

“She would know.” He thought. “My Zaz always knew.” His stomach shifted, pulling down on the strings of his heart, threatening to eat it. The whetstone slipped, causing the sharpened blade of the axe to piece the skin of his pinky finger. “Ah you little bastard!” Bahk exclaimed, tossing it to one side.

“Oh you big silly Ogre!” Her voice was always so smooth, like running hands across silk. “Are you ok?”

Bahk swiveled on his stool like a child in timeout, hellbent on continuing their tantrum. “Don’t Zaz.” He snapped. “Don’t do that.” Getting up to tear more cloth from the bundle on the shelf, he wrapped another wound.

“They were just looks you know.”

Settling back down on the stool, the Orsimer picked up another axe, his face meaner than usual. “What do you mean?” he replied.

“In the meeting. People were just paying attention to your commander's gesture. She nodded, they looked at you. It didn’t mean anything.” Bahk was always amazed by the tone of her voice. It always managed to walk a line between caring and sternness. It never failed to pierce his thick hide.

“Hm.” He grunted, casting another axe to the side. Grabbing another, the giant ground it that little bit harder.

“And the priest? He was just doing as priests do. Do you chastise the rooster who caws at the sunrise?”

“Stop this.” His voice was low, hidden under the weight of heavy breath.

“And the mage? She has passion and war is often romanticised by those who have never been privy to it. You know that better than anyone.”

“And what of the heretic?” Bahk’s comment lashed forth like a whip. “What words of defence do you have for him, huh?”

“You know why he stands in that circle. You know why your commander calls upon all of you. Why she called you all forth tonight and why that meeting was necessary. I know you do. Your father would have -”

“What?! My father would have what?!” Bahk shouted, his knuckles whitening as the grip around the handle tightened. His eyes widened, adrenaline flooding his system.

“Understood.”

Bahk let loose the axe, heaving it away from him with all his might. Off it flew through the back of the tent, tearing a gaping hole in the cloth and disappearing into the night. Standing, the giant bellowed, “AND I AM NOT MY FATHER!”

There was no reply. The room stood empty. Not even the equipment moved under the weight of such words.

“And you… you are not here. Not anymore.”

The weight of a mountain burdened the Orsimer’s shoulders as they fell through the floor. His attention dropped, falling to the ground in front of him as his hands crept into view. Calloused, bruised and bloody, the mer tried to draw his fingers in, attempting to ball his fists. The energy was gone and the anger had melted away. A wind rolled forth through the gap in the tent, caressing the beads of sweat on Bahk’s forehead, cooling him. It beckoned for his attention but he couldn’t bear to look across. Instead he left the tent, ducking out into the moonless night in search of the wayward axe.

Wandering around behind the armoury, Bahk spotted the weapon lodged squarely in the trunk of an especially thick tree. Somberly, the Orsimer approached, stopping just a few feet away. Looming over his head, a long, sturdy looking branch caught his eye. The image of his son swinging in the wind flickered across his mind. Grunting in exhaustion, he pressed on, trudging forward until he reached the base of the tree. Placing a hand on the trunk, the giant was barely able to feel the knots of the bark under the calluses of his hand.

For a moment Bahk stood there, waiting for the words to come. Beautiful things to weave a tapestry of remembrance for his boy. But there was nothing. No words rolled forth, not even a single tear stained the mer’s cheek. A deep sigh broke free as Bahk pressed his forehead against the tree. The wind behind him shifted, blowing right at his back. There in that instant he could feel them; his wife, his son, his father, all three of them standing before a sea of ghosts, the whole of Orsinium.

“I’m sorry.” he croaked.

Drawing back, the Orsimer grabbed the handle of the axe with both hands, yanking it free of the trunk. Darkness was all that greeted him as he turned around to head back, the sound of fading chatter playing in the background as the camp packed it in for the night.

Lifting up the weapon, Bahk flipped it back and forth, giving it a final once over.

“Axes are done. Spears are next.”