[IC] The Alessian Resurgence

[Crya]

"Beware the fall!" proclaimed the preacher on the rock, overlooking the travelers of the road between Bruma and Falkreath, which was bustling with activity, mostly refugees. "The fall is coming! The fall of man! The fall of mer! The fall of land!" He stretched his arms out to the heavens in a bid to draw any attention he could. The members of Dragon's Eye were among his audience, freshly rested and on the road to their first mission as an infiltration team. "Our only hope is to ride it out! But who among us can ride time? Can you? How about you? Can you, my dear? No? Indeed." The preacher turned away from the crowd. "I turn my back on you, as all the gods have! The wheel turns, but who is left to see it? I wonder..."

Quarivier, dressed in his leather with a hood pulled tightly over his head to hide his Elven features, scoffed at the preacher. "An insane, and blasphemous, old man. My people will not fall to anyone. Not to the likes of a butcher, nor anyone. I bet he worships Talos as well. If we weren't on our mission..." The Thalmor agent was interrupted when a group of Bosmer, likely a family, passed close by. An old woman was sobbing into the arms of a young man.

"She was a priestess," the old elf cried out. "They warned her to leave, and she turned to Mara for help. And now she is dead. What if he's right? What if the gods really have left us? How else could Mara let her own disciple be abducted from her own temple!"

The young Bosmer comforted her. "She loved everyone until the end, like Mara instructed. Mara turned her back to no one. It was the Alessian Empire that turned its back on Her."

Quarivier frowned at the exchange. "But we are on a mission. The Alessian Empire is a menace, and it must be stopped. These men presume to dictate the fate of mer, and I presume to dictate the fate of my knife at their throats."

The small squad of Dragon's Eye was bound together by no uniform or commanding officer. They were to enter Falkreath, one by one, disguised if need be, and gather information on the Alessian Empire. It might be tricky, considering Jarl Dengeir's famed paranoia, but it was their mission. For now, they stood by a simple road, but it symbolized so much more. The squad could see shades of the three Elves streaming from the direction of Falkreath, most in utter disarray and carrying nothing except the clothes on their backs. Some looked very much like prisoners of war. Fathers carried crying babies. Former nobles walked barefoot. Children walked alone.

And then there was the other side. Fit, young men and women of man or beast descent looking fresh and eager on their way to Falkreath. Some even had the audacity to keep their Legion armor and sword as they marched to kneel before another Emperor. The two sides avoided contact, casting their eyes to the ground when they passed. Both sides knew of the other's intent. Neither wanted to acknowledge it.

"We are playing with fire! Following mortals who play with a power they do not even come close to comprehending!" the preacher continued, facing the road again. "The wheel turns upon children playing with fire!" he repeated in an exasperated tone. "A fire that threatens the fabrics of the all and none!"

Falkreath was just over the next hill, according to the sign. Most of the journey had been taken in silent anticipation for what was to come. Quarivier had broken it with his musings on the preacher. The members of the squad seemed to look around at each other for the first time, actually noticing the people they were traveling with.

[Terminal]

The madman in their midst had the strangest feeling of deja vu as he glanced up at Magnus. He wore a simple leather vest over a simple white cloth shirt and pair of pants, and he seemingly carried nothing with him. His race was hard to distinguish due to his age and stature - he could have been Nord, Imperial, or Breton. The odd greyish tint to his skin was not common amongst any of the three races of men, the folds of his forehead could have easily been mistaken for age creases (had they even been visible past his headband), and his accent was decidedly unaffected - dry and rasping was its best characteristic.

He could swear the damned thing was moving backwards now. Not that he held moving backwards against it, but there were so very few means of reliably telling the wherewhen. Magnus was resplendent with an Aetherial light that shone through the limen, illuminating both time and space. For a single instant whenever the old man looked up at it, he knew he was herenow. Those moments lasted for only an instant though - the moment he looked away, uncertainty allowed itself back in. How could people expect him to know precisely what time he was supposed to be at when time was not linear? He scarcely remembered he could look at the world, so that he was only looking forward - but he couldn't seem to do it. He had seemingly lost his sense of time in his old age.

The light of Magnus burned into the blind man's unseeing eyes, and a flicker of triumph flashed across his face as he laughed out loud with glee.

"We're heading from Falkreath to Bruma!" He announced excitedly. "And so many people joined us there! Fortuitous!" He glanced up at the sky again thoughtfully for a moment. "Hrm. But we're walking backwards again. I guess that means we're actually heading to Falkreath? Or were we going forward into Skyrim again? Tricky business there. A lot of people just up and leave, the ingrates. Hail, you there!" The old man turned his blind gaze to stare unerringly at a young Dunmer man with red eyes and a small ring looped through his left ear. In a way it was strange - depending on how the old man looked at it, either the dark elf would have already been traveling with him for some time, or had just joined him, or was just about to leave - more importantly, he was still blinded by the illusion of time, and so could definitely tell the old, actually blind lunatic when they were.

"I'm terribly afraid I've lost track of the time. How much longer until the next Dragon Break?"

[Rock Killjoy]

"Alana!! Alana!! You get back here this instant!" A middle aged forsworn woman yelled, as the small settlement stood around to see the spectacle. After all it wasn't a big place word of a member of the settlement leaving, to assist in the war was the most interesting thing to see. The young admired her choices and mind set, the old frowned and scowled upon her actions. None of that mattered to Alana as she faced the middle aged woman, "No mother! We cannot sit back while this war rages on! We are part of this world as well are we not!?!" Her mothers face was ripe with a nasty cocktail of emotion, she was worried about her daughter, what mother wouldn't be? She also had high amounts of disapproval towards her leaving and helping those that have 'wronged' the forsworn. A senseless battle, in a place where there was more then enough game and land for the Nords and Forsworn to live and co-exist. Alana turned and continued her descent down, the snow covered steps of the settlements main road so to speak. Some elders of the village retorted to Alana's comment, "Why should we help those that have taken our land!?" "Our fathers mothers brothers and sisters our children and spouses?!" Alana faced them as she stopped once again, a firey look of passionate emotion on her face, pouring through her hazel hued eyes. "We have done the same thing! Each of you have done the same to the Nords! When does it stop?!" The elders sat in silence, unable to come up with a response other then when one side was exterminated. Alana spoke again facing the whole of her settlement alone, "I'm leaving because I believe in peace! I believe we can all exist in this world peacefully!! I believe in the souls of men and women, that we can stand together and be stronger then any force known or unknown!" She hardly stopped for a second before picking up with her speech, "and I ask of you one thing! May each man and woman here search his and her own soul! Then..... tell me what you find." With that she turned and walked away the entire settlement awe struck paralyzed by the conviction of the young girl, all but one man watching from with in a small hut her father. He had nothing but a smile for his daughter and a whisper of good luck, to achieve something he'd once believed in himself.

Alana walked with the rest of the volunteer squad she had become a member of, the Dragons Eye it was called. She felt a pang of emotional hurt, at the hardships these people were experiencing. Alana had received a few aggressive looks and gestures, mostly from Nords but she had expected as much. She expected such hate, keeping in mind she never disguised herself, she was in her forsworn 'uniform' so to speak. It was made up of deer hides, bear hides and leather, it had an array of small animal skulls dangling loosely from a rope off her left hip. The armor covered her upper chest, cleavage and her shoulders, while it left her ab toned mid riff exposed; it included a strap on the back, where her ancient Nordic Great-sword was kept. Alana walked and looked as the man preached about the fall of the world, and how the Altmer in her company talked.

"If the world is to fall better to fall fighting is it not?" She put the words out in the air for anyone of them to critique. That and she had been dead silent since the journey began, which was for more then one reason absolutely killing her. She was excited to see the world finally, that was apparent, in both her tone and in her face. Alana was also curious and cautious with a mix of the pain she felt for these people, she just couldn't stand the silence anymore. She couldn't really believe it she was in the company of a High elf, a Red Guard, an Argonian and a Dark Elf! All to go on a quest, one that would in her hopes and young dreams end with peace; and prosperity for all people of all races.

[Leidenschaft]

Fucking Gods, Finnen cursed in his head, still sore in the legs. It had been a good number of years since he’d walked so much miles in so few days. He understood the urgency, or at least was yelled at about it many times by Bennet back in Cyrodiil, but the road puts a hurt in a man’s legs like none other. He sat with his back against the tree, whittling away at a piece of wood, contemplating a good way to get the wandering priest blabbering on about circles or wheels and fire and boys or whatever the hell he was talking about to shut up and let him get some quiet rest. Instead, he settled for looking as disinteresting as he could by putting on the look of every refugee around him. It was easy, he was tired, distraught and a wee bit angry just like them, definitely not one inviting passersby to talk at him. He looked over to the Altmer in their group, an open member of the Thalmor. Bennet had given specific instructions to keep an eye on him. He would, but only because he knew the look of a killer when he saw it. He’d lived with a few and killed a few men himself, so he ought to know.

He didn’t like how the Altmer could disappear in a crowd. He knew how easy it was to fool the eye himself, so meeting one who could fool his own for a few moments at least was…different. And not in a good way. As if the Gods set aside this day to make Finnen contemplate taking his own life out of hopeless exasperation, the lunatic walked past him to ask a Dunmer a question about the things he usually talked about. I have to wonder why we keep him around, he mused. Although, the man was reported to be a competent mage and the way he dealt with those wolves in the Jeralls was a sight to see. Definitely not for the faint of heart but a sight to see.

Speaking of those he had to ask himself why they associated with, there was his kinswoman. A fellow Reachman, still dressed in the fur loincloth, looking like the savages everyone makes his people out to be. He spat at that, it didn’t matter where he went, no one trusted a Reachman because of those Forsworn lunatics. The elves saw his blood no better than dirt and the Nords would sooner crack his head open than say hello.

“If the world is to fall better to fall fighting is it not?” She said in a tone welcoming a response.

“I’d rather stay alive, Alana.” His voice was heard for one of a few times on the road to Falkreath.

[TaliPaendrag]

Though consulting some of his notes on the realm of Skyrim, which had been jotted down rather hastily before he had left the College of Whispers to travel, Syndelius was still aware of what was going on around him. His experience in combat had led to the development of his multitasking abilities, a necessary skill for survival when you were surrounded by people who were actively trying to kill you. Even now, he could sense the hostility emanating from some of the Nords and other races. No doubt it was because he was a Dunmer, or Dark Elf. But it didn't matter much if they didn't actually act on their hostility and attack him.

Having been selected for the mission by the head of the College of Whispers had been a little surprising, though Syndelius supposed that it shouldn't have been considering he had been one of the finer battlemages during the unrest caused by Skyrim's Civil War. What wasn't surprising, however, was the diversity of the group. Clearly the higher-ups wanted an elite squad to help ensure that they won the war and not General Sidonis, and it wouldn't have made sense to have picked only people with certain talents for the task.

And they were certainly diverse enough, what with consisting of three stealthy individuals, two mages, and two warriors from the races of Men, Mer, and Beast. For the most part, however, none of the group on the road with him had seemed particularly interested in getting acquainted. Too many of them seemed like life had slapped them silly a couple of times, unwilling to talk much beyond a few monosyllables. In fact, a few of them, like Alana and Finnen, spoke for the very first time at this location in front of the priest who was rambling on about the end of the world.

As Syndelius was contemplating all of this, the other mage approached him and asked how long it was until the next Dragon Break. He was an older individual of Altmer descent, though it had been rather hard to pin that label on him due to his faded features, but there was something about him that seemed familiar for some reason, though Syndelius was unable to put his finger on what exactly it was. It was apparent that he was quite decidedly a raving lunatic, and Syndelius was certain that he had never met a crazy Altmer before, so he pushed the tickling sense of familiarity from his mind and answered his question.

“Given the present societal climate, it could very well occur in twenty years or so,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal. Few would understand what a Dragon Break was, so there was a relatively low chance of instigating a local panic. In fact, it was likely that the Altmer didn't know what he was asking either. Hopefully, however, the old mage didn't react negatively to Syndelius's answer. Crazy people were, by definition, entirely unstable, so it was up in the air as to how he would react to something so simple.

[GreivousKhan]

"The sword is the self. Its edge is the mind."- Ansei Frandar Hunding,

The light breeze of summer’s morning was cool against Kiania's skin as it pulled at the edges of her cowl just so. The corners of her traveling cloak took up the motion of the wind whenever it changed direction, but otherwise trailed behind her lithe form. It seemed only a short time ago that the fresh air had slowly become supplemented with the scent of pine trees as party, the Dragons Eye, moved deeper into Falkreath hold. It had been a rather uneventful journey thus far, and aside from a run in with a few wolves in a few days ago, nothing eventful had taken place; but by Tava was it cold! Kiania was no stranger to the cold or even freezing temperatures, having spent most of her life in the ice cold waste of the Alik’r during the nights when Mundus was no longer gracing the land with its unforgiving heat.

Still she found she was no fan of the colder northern realm of Skyrim, but she was sure her training would help he persevere. To take her mind of the growing cold, Kiania let her mind wonder to other subjects. Namely that of her traveling companions on this most important of missions. The first that had caught her interest first was an old man, a Breton she would guess from his slight frame, or maybe a very frail Nord. His milky white eyes and jerky strut made it clear the old man was blind, that fact alone grew a kind of empathy for the man; even if he did seem a few whetstones short of a sharper mind to say the least. Aside from the peculiar old man, there was another strange sight. The first was what appeared to be, by all appearances, a Reachmen, or more acutely women.

Her chosen attire made it clear enough to her origins, and the thought of how out of shorts she appeared struck Kiania as a potential problem in the near future, after all their main goal was one of anonymity. Perhaps a change of wardrobe was in order sooner than later? Already many were eyeing the group, mostly Alana, and it would seem merging seamlessly in with the flux of bodies heading into Skyrim was now a fools hope. Perhaps her marital talents would make up for her lack of discretion. Kiania sighed, her breath fogging in the cold air as she considered how they would address that problem. The other two of their group seemed more akin to being inconspicuous.

One from what Kiania could judge by their height and slight frame was a high elf, of that she had little doubt. She didn’t like the way the mer handled himself, something about him just rubbed her the wrong way. But it was likely her prejudices that were rearing their head, so she would hold her judgment on the mer until she had come to know him better as an individual. The next member of their little group was a hard one to pin down, to be sure, reclusive bordering on anti-social; he had said the least of everyone thus far, with the mad old man being the most talkative of the lot, though he rarely if ever made any sense. She guessed him to be a Breton, he was too short and pale to be an altmer or dunmer, and lacked any grace expected of a bosmer.

She found she disliked him almost as much as the high elf, for no better reason then she merely found his presence unsettling. He had the looks of a killer on him, and reminded her of the bandits she had rescued her father from years prior. She could not fathom why exactly that was though, for by all first appearances he seemed a rather unintimidating a man she had ever met. Kiania had been on the road long enough to know that appearances were often deceiving however. Kiania pulled her cloak tighter around her frame as she inconspicuously took in the many people passing them by. It seemed the group had stopped for the time being before the preacher raving about gods, wheels, and whatever else, she was not really listening.

Kiania was itching to get started herself, though it seemed the group as a while as intent on waiting. Well if they were going to stop for the moment they might as well attempt to assemble at least the vague idea of a plan upon infiltrating Falkreath proper.

Head bowed and speaking just loud enough for her companions to hear Kainia began. “Well, it would seem the first leg of our journey is near at an end.” She clapped her hands together against the cold, warming them by rubbing them together. “I assume everyone has an idea of how to go about the next leg of our purpose?” She left it cryptic to an extent; they all knew what she was talking about. There was hardly a need to say anything that would mark their true purpose there was. Not this close to their first objective.

[Hexaflexagon]

The Argonian known as Numtvee Caynes or as her newfound companions in the Dragon’s Eye knew her as Followed By Night. Night as most ended up calling her not wanting to waste the time saying her full name eyes were focused in the distance towards Falkreath. The Great forest of pines at first was nothing more than a few dotting the pathway here and there. But now it was as if they were entering a sea of pine that stretched out far into the distance. She had known a Nord from Falkreath once. Bled like a stuck pig he did on the side of the Gold Road and he whined like a newborn hatchling looking for its birthmother. He did eventually quite down when Night sunk her blade into his throat they all usually did quiet down after that.

Night had her own share of experiences traveling through the rugged north that was Skyrim. She was not necessarily a fan of the ancestral homeland of the Nords. It was a land she found of constant frost and snow, and when it was not snow it was rain and heavy storms of thunder and lighting. The people were all closed minded thinkers even by Argonian standards and they were dead set in their traditional ways. It was nothing that she didn't expect from the races of Men but it was a bore still the same. Though the social climate of the land might be much different than what it was when she last visited. More people angered and spurred on by the words of Sidonis to come and join his glorious revolution against the races of Mer. And his words did hit home with many it seemed for as they walked the path towards Falkreath it was never without the occasional recruit from the new Alessian Empire, some were old veterans haggard by war and others were young bloods barely old enough to hold a sword yet alone participate in the massacre of an entire people. They came in all shapes and sizes some of them were of Men and others were of Beast such as herself the occasional kinsman walking down the path where Night would give them a knowing look and maybe if they were feeling polite a traditional greeting. But most of the time they just pushed forward to heed the call of Sidonis.

Her breath was visible on the air if only barely and it seemed as if somewhere along the way to Falkreath the northern winds had taken hold and replaced a generally mild cyrodiilic summer. Having just came from spending the past year in the Anequina Badlands where the only thing that did not sweat was the dead, guarding a merchant caravan before the Thalmor contacted her. So the cold winds of the north seemed almost like too much of a good thing for the Argonian mercernary. Though when she came to Cyrodiil the heart of the once glorious empire it seemed as if it was slowly become a vestigial one. The people in chaos and slowly losing territory and men everyday. The one proud imperial legion to her eyes know seemed to be taking anyone with a pulse to prevent the fall of the Empire and Tameril as a whole. It reminded her of the Dunmer and their state after the Argonian Expansion the same hollowed and distant expression on the faces of the peasantry.

As they neared the Falkreath border which was marked by the evidence of the mass exodus of Mer as they fled from Alessian clutches into the “safety” of Cyrodiil. The remains of carts and wagons left on the side of the road where they had broken down, the occasional lose flask or fallen piece of linen. From refugees not caring about things lost just trying their best to get away before the Alessian soldiers came through. Some of the refugees they had passed had given Night looks of anger. Something that was to be expected being what she was and their history with the races of Mer she would expected no love from the people she was hired to save. When they past the mad priest raving on the side of the road, Night payed little attention to him as he chanted about the fires of Oblivion coming to destroy them all. People like that were expected by Night in that retrospect having met the occasional mad doomsayer in her time. Most of them were common in Morrowind mad Dunmer that would come running out of the woods telling how the Tribunal had abandoned them and that the darkness was soon to come and wipe them all out, they would still chant their prophecies of doom as the Argonian soldiers ran their blades through them.

The other small group they had passed the Bosmer refugees trying to escape the reach of Sidonis’ grasp was also familiar to Night. Those displaced by bandits, warlords, or more predominantly in her memory Argonian war parties. They would sit on the side of the road in a state of shock most of them women and children covered in the blood of maybe their sons or brothers or fathers that had tried to defend them and were cut down in response. Their villages burned to the ground and their homes sacked and looted. Sometimes the cries of a child would anger an officer too much. One would be surprised how easily the skull of a Dunmer child is crushed under the clawed foot of one of her kind when the right amount of pressure is applied. It was like an egg.. crush.

Taking a deep breath she tried her best to think of anything else to not allow herself to be caught in the memories of a life she left behind. So she brought her thoughts to that of her traveling companions, the rest of the so called Dragon’s Eye. Volunteers the most of them, maybe some were hired out like her by larger interested parties but still mostly just able bodied warriors with a death wish it seemed. There was the Altmer the one that had the ability to seemingly blind into any crowd not a skill one just learned from playing Conceal and Search as a child. Though how he carried himself presented at least a semblance of experience so she could respect that. Next was the Dunmer, one of the mages the little group had in their midst. Night had a feeling that the Dunmer did not like her or at least did not trust her. She of course could not blame him for such misconceptions for in any other situation she would be gladly running her blade through his pompous behind. Even when they were exiled from their own homeland by a bunch of lizards they were still an arrogant punch it seems.

Next of course was one that would be very hard to forget. The other mage and the one that was as mad as Sheogorath himself. Though judging from their encounter with the wolves earlier on the road.. their was at least a reason they kept him around. Night had no real trouble with him though his mad ramblings did seem to never stop and were always finding new ways to confuse her brain. After that was the Forsworn lass nothing more than a hatchling really. Dressed in garb that was to say... traditional of the Forsworn she drew the eyes of many passerby on the road. Though they for the most part chose not to say anything maybe due to the large great sword strapped to her back and the look about her that she knew how to use it. Night had fought against the Forsworn once part of a band of mercenaries hired out by the nobles of Markarth to deal with a camp of them that had been getting too aggressive of late. They were strong and admirable fighters though they died just the same, some might argue even quicker due to the simple furs they choose to protect themselves with. Then there was the one talking to her, having the general appearance of a Breton did not talk but much like the others seemed to show an air of experience around him. Night couldn't make any other observation really about him just yet though.

Last was the Redguard women who from first looked could be notched down as a experienced warrior. Night like most of her people had developed a begrudging respect for the warriors of Hammerfell, a contingent of them had been hired out by the Dunmer during the later half of the offensive to try and hold the line against Argonia’s advance. They fought better than any of the knife ears ever could. They tore through Argonian lines but their was only so many of them that the Dunmer had hired and they too were eventually overpowered. But they left many dead Argonians in their wake and because of it the Argonian military has developed respect towards the warriors even going as far as to hire out a few of them to go to Black Marsh to help with the training of new recruits. In Argonia respect was made through power and combat the weak got nowhere and the Redguards had shown themselves as far from weak. It was around then that the Redguard women spoke about and Night heard her speak and she was right. Skyrim’s border would soon be upon them and before they reached it they all had to find a way through. Night nodded in agreement as they walked her tail swishing behind her. “Hopefully we all get where we need to go without any unpleasantries from the Alessian’s along the border. I've heard that they are not too fond of outsiders even if they are just traveling through.” Not too found being an understatement with the Empire’s agents explaining to them before they set out that they had sent in spies before and when they were found out they would be returned to the Imperial City in a bag.

[Crya]

The preacher overheard Ormoneric and raised his arms yet again. "Ah, we have an enlightened one among us! I hope you can all reach the heights that this man has achieved!"

Quarivier rolled his eyes. "I think that just might be our clue to get moving. Here, let's review our orders." Quarivier took out a small parchment of paper and passed it around the group. "I was technically supposed to burn this, but I'm a sentimental person."

Dragon's Eye,

You are to enter Falkreath discreetly, and not as a group. The men and beasts among you should be able to walk the streets with ease, gathering information and spying on the elite of Falkreath. Your job is to learn about the Alessian Empire, its command structure, the leaders, its plans, and the actions of General Sidonis. To the Elves among you, your job will be more difficult. You will enter disguised into the city and attempt to learn about the ongoing mass murder of the Elves. As an Elf, you will be able to find other Elves who are hiding from Alessian control with greater ease. You will be able to get closer to the sites of the murders. We do not know exactly how the Elves are being killed, so your insight is vital to efforts to save them in the future. Being hooded and completely covered, you will draw suspicion, so stick to the shadows. Do not draw attention to yourself.

Do not worry about leaving Falkreath. We will lay siege to the city tomorrow morning and show these upstarts true Legion grit. If you are needed, a contact will deliver further orders to help in the siege efforts. Unless so contacted, lay low until you see Imperial banners raised above the city, and report to me for your next assignment.

Of course, if by some miracle General Sidonis is in the city, eliminate him at all cost.

-- Audinia Vantus, Acting Captain of the Imperial Legion

"I suppose I'll start, then. See you on the other side." Quarivier drew his cloak around him and walked off the road, disappearing into Falkreath's forest. He crept through the woods until he reached Falkreath's wall. It was impressive, but nothing like the walls of Solitude or Windhelm. It could be bypassed, Quarivier climbed the nearest try and was easily able to hop onto the wall's walkway. The elf dropped onto a roof, and then onto the ground, inside Falkreath. Quarivier had spent so much time cooped up in Alinor without any work, he knew how to make an entire city his playground. From there, he tightened his hood and pulled his gloves on tight over his golden hands. He passed as a lanky Nord well enough. The Thalmor agent walked casually out from behind the building to get his first good look at the Alessian controlled Falkreath.

The streets were busy. A large sign in the town square read "Recruitment Center" and dozens of men and women were crowding around the small booth. Flags bearing a red diamond - Quarivier recognized it from the history books as the Amulet of Kings - hung around the city. It had apparently replaced the Imperial dragon as the symbol to this new Empire. The guards, who were stationed practically everywhere, bore the diamond on their shields. Standing farther away, alone, Quarivier marked as Falkreath's guard captain. He was a Nord, tall and broad shouldered, with a white beard and scars marring his face. For one of the humans, he could make a good target for information.

Quarivier saw no trace of the Elven genocide. No Elves walked the street, but there were no bodies lying about like Quarivier expected. No barbaric Nords eating corpses in the street either. The Thalmor did see Jarl Dengeir by the recruitment booth. He also bore the diamond on his clothes. He was shaking hands with everyone who signed up with the Alessian Empire. He looked quite pleased with himself.

The Jarl's longhouse was sure to hold some information. Other targets were the temples, the jail, or the inn. Quarivier began exploring the alleyways of the city, looking for any evidence of the deaths of the Elves.

[Terminal]

Syndelius said “Given the present societal climate, it could very well occur in twenty years or so,”

"How very odd..." Ormoneric muttered. "I could have sworn we were right on top of one..."

The Preacher said "Ah, we have an enlightened one among us! I hope you can all reach the heights that this man has achieved!"

The old man's head turned inexorably to stare blindly straight into the priest's eyes.

"The depths he has risen to are greater than the heights you have been cast down and smote upon. Strange would it seem, to see what it is that he sees..."

From the priest's standpoint, he might have sworn that the mage's eyes shone with magicka as he felt the weightless grip of a spell clamp onto his being.

"See what it is that I see." Ormoneric said with a complete deadpan. He then turned from the Preacher as quickly as he had originally cast his gaze at him as Quarivier began to speak.

Quarivier said You will be able to get closer to the sites of the murders. We do not know exactly how the Elves are being killed, so your insight is vital to efforts to save them in the future. Being hooded and completely covered, you will draw suspicion, so stick to the shadows. Do not draw attention to yourself.

The madman laughed. "So we are heading to Falkreath! It seems much of our company will not persist past herenow. The place is touched by Arkay, and all the divines, and all of the daedra, and all of the magne ge, and by all of us." He gave the group a sweeping gesture with one of his arms. "It is a place of ends, more than beginnings, and is home to one of the largest cemeteries and barrows in all of Tamriel. Thousands of rows of headstones, creeping with a dusken light that does not die. I shall speak with an old, poor man who came to my shack soon. I will attend to his needs as Arkay wills, but why are they gone? Where have I gone?"

The old man continued to mumble to himself as he turned and began to walk over the hill to approach Falkreath. One advantage he had over the others was, of course, his disarming presence. Apparently entirely unarmed, and the sight of silvery hair was not exactly uncommon in Skyrim - he at least, would not need a disguise. He made his way through the streets, crowded with young men and steely-eyed guards, without any issue. He stopped at a well, where several women were retrieving water.

He did not know quite know whenwhere he was. That was fine though. He needed to see the thenhere, to go to the soonthere. Rather than looking up at Magnus, he approached the lip of the well and looked straight down. If there was a faint show of magicka spilling from his eyes, it was easily missed for a trick of the refracted light in the well.

The old man looked up from the well, and saw with unseeing eyes a very strange sight. An Altmer in Falkreath. There was something faded and transient about the Mer, as he walked, untouched and unnoticed by the surrounding crowd of Allessians. The blind man followed him, and the wraith led him exactly where he had been looking to go.

The graveyard...

[Rock Killjoy]

"I'd rather stay alive, Alana." She looked towards her fellow reachman and nodded "Fair enough I suppose." She took a bit of a pause as she often did, before giving the jist of an ideal she felt strongly about. "But! if I'm lying in my bed many years from now, old and close to death. I'd rather myself have taken the chance to show the world maybe had a chance after all." Alana gave a small smile, one that showed her naive, hopeful mind and attitude. As she hopefully awaited a response from her Kinsman (as she was overjoyed someone had spoken to her and she could respond), she fiddled with the small quiver of crossbow bolts, which she had on her thigh. The crossbow was as always loaded and set on her lower-back, out of the way of her sword.

Alana looked forward and saw another of her companions, the Thalmar agent speaking of their orders; before the company split up to infiltrate the city. She had no other garments with her, she had no money if she needed more clothing she would hunt and repair her current set or simply make a new set. Regardless of that she had no time to do these things, she decided it would be best to just go straight through the gates.

Alana headed up with the trail of people filtering into Falkreath, and took a deep breath as she entered the tall gates. The walls looked mighty in her eyes an immovable defense, and she stared upon them in awe. Her sight-seeing was abruptly interrupted, as a Young Nord man in worn clothes bumped into her. Perhaps to signal her to keep moving, or perhaps just from spite more then likely the latter however she responded with "my apologies.". Before she continued up towards the large gates, she straightened up her shoulders and tried to blend in the crowd.

Unfortunately as her red guard companion privately thought, she stood out.....like a wolf in a hen house. Alana had drawn the attention of the guard captain himself, he made over to her and ordered her aside out of the flow of people entering the city. She gulped and looked to and fro nervously as he came out where the broad man ordered. She knew she was good but if this broke into violence she wouldn't stand much of a chance, against the sheer numbers trained or not.

"What is your business here woman?" The captain asked her, Alana looked at him nervously and opened her mouth to respond. "Well sir I've been exiled from my settlement." She quickly said in a slightly upset tone, he looked at her and his look said he was inquiring more. Alana spoke again starting to get more upset sounding in her tone, in order to be more convincing. "You see my people had taken several children as hostages, and demanded a large sum of gold. However they planned to kill the children regardless of the gold sir, I couldn't let them die...." She looked at him and severely hoped her ruse had fooled him, she'd never really lied before; other then if she'd taken an extra sweet-roll as a child.

The Captain nodded his head as if in approval, "Well Lass, you seem to have a good heart. I'm sorry you had to lose your home, but we are much more civil folk here." Alana nodded and wiped her eyes of the tears she managed to produce as he continued. "As a matter of fact you should accompany me young lady, just until the people here know you're a good seed." Alana figured the captain had to know something, as well as being with the captain would rescue the friction she'd cause with the local Nords. "Thank you sir, you're much to kind" he gave the young woman a smile and beckoned for her to follow him, as he walked back to his post at the gates of the city.

He eyed her sword and asked her as she stood with him on the grass to the side of the trickle of people entering the city still, "That's ancient Nordic work isn't it? How'd you come upon such a master piece?" Alana smiled and responded to the man "It was fathers, he hadn't found much use for it hunting so he handed it down to me when I was just a girl." He nodded and looked at her, "could I hold it?" She nodded as she talked "I can not see a reason to say no." She pulled the large bladed intricately carved weapon from its sheath and handed it to the captain, whom spent a few moments examining the craftsman ship on the sword. He gripped it and looked over it then towards Alana, she then asked the captain "Excuse me but who is that man over there and why is he at the booth with those people?". The captain looked at her and told her "That's the recruitment center for the Alessian empire and the man is the towns Jarl, Jarl Dengeir." Alana nodded, one of her companions had explained to her what a Jarl was on the road into the city, a man of great importance here. She curiously asked albeit knowing all the basics of it "what's the Alessian Empire? If you don't mind explaining that is." He chuckled a little and handed her sword back which she promptly sheathed, "It's not a problem Lass, the Alessian empire is the force that will usher in the newest era of peace not just in Skyrim but in all of Tamriel." Alana nodded "I do not see any elves over there sir, but surely there are many here?" The tall Nord captain scoffed "Between you and me lass this world is better off with out those pointy eared bastards, I just can't trust them backstabbers and plunderers the lot of them."

Alana listened as the captain began to ramble off more then likely unintentionally, "It's only to bad the Jarl wouldn't let us exterminate the ones that left...." He had put a emphasis on the words 'the ones that left' Alana caught this and decided to inquire upon this. "Well sir, what would be done to the elves?" He chuckled again and put one of his large hands on Alana's shoulder "Well lass what 'would' happen is we 'would' line the lot of them up and gut them like the swine they are." Alana nodded a bit disturbed "But that couldn't be a good public spectacle could it? What of the local children?" He smiled "you are a clever young woman, well it 'would' be someplace no one can hear them, now enough of such talk I never received your name."

Alana stored away what she had learned inside her head, but was disappointed she couldn't get more than a highly vague location from the man. "My name is Alana sir and yours?" He responded "Captain Firebrand and no not the wine." He chuckled at his own joke and nodded towards her. "Well Alana I shall tell the guards you are not to be dealt with as a threat." She nodded and spoke while popping her knuckles" thank you very much Captain Firebrand." She had kept up her charade of happiness, despite her want to force the man to tell her what she wanted to know about the elves. But that wasn't her mission her mission was to get information about the Alessian empire itself, Alana wasn't sure how she'd do it but she didn't want to be a disappointment there had to be maps or war plans in the city. Her hunch told her the captain could get her to these plans, but how would she do it? She formulated a plot in a few minutes of silence, as her and the captain stood at the gates over seeing people.

"Uhm captain? Do you possibly know of place I could get alchemy supplies but not a shop I haven't any gold." The captain looked at her and thought for a minute "Yes in the Jarls Palace, the court wizard perhaps the man loves visitors and id like to get out of this cold." He walked off to the side of the road Alana following him towards the Jarls palace, she was correct and smiled gleefully about her small personal victory. She drew the conclusion the Jarls home was the largest and would likely house the plans. She drew the assumption there was a wizard or alchemist from her brief stop in a field which lead her to the Jarls palace in Markharth, Divines know she was glad when she had left.

[Leidenschaft]

When Quarivier signaled to the group to meet with him, he heeded the call. He tucked away his piece of wood he’d been shaving thin pieces off of and got to his feet. Walking a few steps to join the group as they passed around the letter, he could already guess what they needed to do. Infiltrate, get information and then be on their way. When it finally came for him to read the letter, his brow furrowed at the bit about the siege and them helping in it. He wasn’t fond of fighting battles he stood a chance of losing and was not looking forward to the prospect of being in a pitched battle. Support role or not, he was an assassin, not a soldier. The field was not a place for him. He frowned, passing it the member next to him. Not wasting any time, he nodded to his fellows, “Best not let our impetuous leader and the old coot get lonely.”

Pulling his hood over his head, he began the walk to Falkreath on the road, sticking to the crowd. The mild beard he’d managed to grow after days of not shaving was still there, and not to mention his plain, versatile features helped him to blend in and disappear. The weight of the dagger at his side and on his back, as well as the smaller implement in his boot helped to reassure him should any trouble be bent on finding him, no matter how much he hid from it. Of course, he couldn’t just stroll up to the guards and ask politely to tell them of any troop movements and even then, he doubted the faceless grunts would know about anything beyond their little place in the war. An officer would be better, but he knew nabbing one would prove more difficult than just bopping him on the head and dragging him around the corner.

He entered the city unhindered like the rest of the group he’d latched on to and followed the larger group that split off from the main one he’d entered the city with. The gates parted for them easily enough and after a simple mumbled, “Passing through.” By Finnen, he was inside. For a great evil army of genocidal men and beasts, they opened their gates easily enough. He knew it had to have been quite the different approach for Quarivien. He felt relieved he still looked like Man, no matter how watered down his blood was through centuries of interbreeding with Breton, elf, Aldmer and Orc. His people were mongrels to the Bretons, mongrels to the Nords, outcasts everywhere but their own villages. This mongrel had been let in with nefarious intentions that would be carried out against them thanks to them. Finnen gave a soft smile.

It disappeared as he eyed the captain of the guard. He had more scar tissue than face, it seemed. An ugly bugger, but all men bleed the same. He couldn’t help but think that whoever gave him those scars thought it easy and found out the hard way it wasn’t. Finnen wouldn’t make that mistake. All men sleep. Their mission didn’t call for the death of the guard captain though, so he was safe for now. The jail could hold documents or notes passed around about murders, complaints and the orders that spawned then and even some prisoners who could shed light on their trespasses. The Jarl’s longhouse was likely to hold a trove of documents and he did have his picks. He figured the best way to wait out the time he could go to either the jail or the longhouse would be night.

To the tavern then, to buy a room, get some food in his stomach that wasn’t oats boiled in boiled riverwater or dried meat and wait out the day, listening for gossip. As he neared the tavern, a rather attractive and straightforward woman singled him out among the men, “Shor’s bones, a handsome man in Falkreath.”

“And there are others, dear.”

“But only one of me.” She said, playfully.

“I’ll call for you if I want you.” He said, slightly annoyed. The comforts of a woman could wait until the mission was over. He preferred to get the work done before he started playing.

[Sovi3t]

Enroute to Skyrim Border

Jartod seemed to feel the cold air of Skyrim, himself somewhat shivering.
Jartod was no stranger to harsh environments. His Day in Argonia showed how much a place could cause havoc and disruption in a Man’s state, yes. But the cold air of Skyrim was something else. A land where people try to farm and make a living while surviving in almost impossible conditions, well atleast in Jartod’s terms. Jartod walked with the squad past Bruma, it seemed like a nice prelude to the weather in Skyrim.

Jartod really felt somewhat pisst off to the events that occurred in Skyrim. With the new “Alessian Empire” striking up, he felt that the man behind all was a madman. Hell, maybe even Sherogoth in disguise. But, it was somewhat of a wakeup call as well. How can the Jarl of Solitude, The Leader of the Rebellion and the head of Thalmor operations in Skyrim die so easily and quickly? Hell, one of them even knew the voice! It was a troubling thought in deed, has the squad stayed in Bruma. Jartod seemed to grab some food and some mead to drink, for the long walk to Falkreath.

Jartod never really had been to Falkreath. He has read a few books on the town, but never really been there. It’s supposedly pretty damp, compared to other places like Riften or Markarth. He also heard it’s known for it’s graveyard, and has a lot of Nord Hero’s and whatnot. It seemed like a pretty quiet town as well, since the average bustle and hustle was in places like Whiterun and Solitude. Still, there is a Ominous Mood in Skyrim, and Falkreath is no different. The Jarl of Falkreath, is a stranch supporter of the cause of this new “Empire”, and judging by the briefing given by the officers back in the Imperial City, it seemed like they were many more Jarls who had their support to this new Empire. Jartod was still somewhat cold to the Imperials yes, but he was willing to work for them on this condition. Who would want a mad man emperor on the throne? Of course, Pegasus the Second was the odd exception..

---

FALKREATH

Jartod walked with the squad to the hill overlooking Falkreath, he nodded to Quarivier has he said the orders, it seemed apperantly the guards were that smart.

Jartod began by entering the city a far while after the others. He hunted various pelts of deer’s and other animals, before arriving the city pretty late. He also changed into a Hammerfall Garb, to forge his identity has a Hunter, he placed his armour discreetly outside of the city gates.

Jartod managed to enter the city unhindered, has he began to sell some goods to the local merchant. Making a loose profit, he then went to the tavern, before nodding to the bartender, Jartod then would spend the rest of the night in the Tavern, drinking a light blend of Ale.

[TaliPaendrag]

The old man seemed to take Syndelius' words into consideration, mumbling something about how he thought that they were sitting on top of one. The priest who had been rambling on about the gods abandoning them from the top of the large black rock seemed to think that the old man was enlightened, though what that said about the priest was really yet to be seen. Almost at once, however, the eyes of the crowd darted to the old man to see if he had any words of wisdom of his own to share with them. With the tension in the air from the current events, it was really no wonder that the people latched onto the words of a doomsayer to explain everything. They needed something to believe after all.

The Thalmor agent that was a part of the squad pulled out some documents, explaining that they were their orders for the Falkreath mission before passing them around to the members of the squad. Syndelius nodded along as he read the details of what they were to do. Nothing in the documents were all that surprising given the circumstances, though he hadn't been aware of an impending Legion attack on the hold. Once he had finished reading the documents, he folded them and tucked them into his belt pouch, having been the last to read over them.

Considering the fact that they were to enter the city one at a time, Syndelius figured that he would stay out on the road for a little while longer enjoying the pleasant breeze and the shade of the tall evergreen trees. It would probably be a good idea to see if he could gain any valid information from the refugees before entering the city itself. It wasn't likely that he would get anything good from the refugees, but there might be a pattern in their rumors that would help him find what he was looking for once he got into the city itself.

“What goes on in the city, traveler?” he asked an approaching Bosmer with bright green eyes and brown hair, though whether it was dirty or naturally that color was hard to distinguish. He jumped at first, clutching tightly to the bag in his arms before he realized that he was looking at a fellow Mer and relaxed a little.

“The Alessian's are getting torch-happy from what I've heard,” he responded with an involuntary shudder. “Anything and everything that belongs to an Elf is liable to get burned, and that includes the bodies of the Elves themselves. That's why I've packed up and left. I'm not staying around until its too late, whatever my idiotic brother says.” He didn't wait for another question or response, instead stalking off, his fear momentarily replaced with fury and indignation.

The next individual wasn't very helpful, what with her claims that the Alessians were killing every Elf in the streets and devouring the children. Nor was the next, as they claimed that the Alessians were tearing Elves limb from limb in the comfort of their own homes. Basically dozens of rumors over the exact actions of the Alessians, though it was a common feature that their target was anyone of Elvish blood.

Another feature that seemed to show up more often than not was that the atrocities were taking place in either the prison or the basement of the Jarl's Longhouse. Syndelius doubted the latter, but it would certainly be worth checking out the prison if he could. Regardless, it gave him a bit of direction as he pulled up his hood and made his way towards the city.

The guards at the gate certainly posed a problem, as they would never let someone into the city if they had a hood covering their face like Syndelius did. Well, not unless they were complete idiots, and Syndelius wasn't willing to bet on that. Instead, he ducked off the road so that he was hidden by the woods and began channeling his magicka to cast Magelight and attach it to a tree close enough to be seen by the guards, who should go and investigate.

Once the eerie glow was spotted, the guards charged after it, no doubt expecting it to be some sort of Elvish resistance to the new regime. This allowed Syndelius to slip through the gates with no real opposition. Even though one guard had stayed behind, he had been too focused on what was potentially going on than doing his job and watching the people entering the city. From the gate, Syndelius slipped down a dark alley and began to prepare his next move.

[GreivousKhan]

“A closed line is not open."-by Frandar Hunding

Quarivier wasted little time in calling the party together and passing around the letter that held their mission. Kiania had seen the letter detailing their objective before, but a refresher wouldn’t hurt. As the group slowly split off into individuals, Kiania waited a moment before doing the same herself. She calmly walked down the well-trodden path at a relatively slow pace, she even pulled her hood back, revealing he war paint tattoos and clearly marking her Yokudan heritage, her long braid swaying in the wind. Kiania decided the best route of action in entering Falkreath itself was not jumping over a wall, or sneaking in with a crowd. Her dark skin and armament made he stand out to much for her to keep hidden for long, so she opted to hide in plain sight as it were.

As she neared the gates she even brazenly shifted her cloak so as to reveal her beautifully crafted swords strapped to her waist, her bow in its sheath on her back with her quiver of arrows attached to her right leg. It did not take long for the guards at the gate to spot her as she approached. One guard elbowing his companion to get his attention and point in her direction. She worried for a moment they might intervene and approach her, then one guard spat to his side before shaking his head. “As if Skyrim didn’t have enough problems without sell-swords from Hammerfell strutting about.”

Kiania hid her smile, deciding her disguise as a simple mercenary would work for now, after all she technically was a sellsword, and they were hardly uncommon in Skyrim. Kiania took the time to fully take in the city as she passed through the gates, the guards begrudgingly allowing her entry without molestation. The city had a strange…air to it Kiania could not quit put a thumb on, like it was simply lifeless. The city lacked a market square as it would seem, leaving the largest flux of people to huddle around what Kiania would guess by experience to be a recruitment station, not to mention the sign was a dead giveaway. She made a bee-line for the booth, noting all the eager young nord men among the crowd. In her mind’s eye she mapped the position of every guard she had spotted, her warrior instincts allowing her to fully take in her surroundings without making it evident to those watching.

It took a bit of waiting in line before her turn came next, the recruiter stood behind a wooden table of shorts; a few documents well organized were sorted atop the easily mobile piece of furniture. He was rather a surprisingly fat fellow, a large nose and big ears adorning a round head. He had beady eyes for a nord, his bread was cut low, give him the appearance of a cultured man. He looked Kiania up and down, the hint of a lewd smile on his lips as he said. “Welll, aren’t you sweet, you’ve got the wrong place honey, tavern wrenches sign up at the Dead Man's Drink down the roa-”

Before he hardly was able to finish the sentence, and quicker than the guard standing off to the booths left side could hope to react in time too, Coldfang sang as it swung through the air faster than the eye could follow. The fat man’s eyes bulged in their sockets as his heart skipped a beat, staring down at nearly 34 inches of cold Ra gada steel.

“Show me yours tough guy, but I’m guessing mines bigger.” Her voice void of emotion, all the while the guard stood dumfounded at the sudden threat. The big man recovered quickly enough as he gulped down nervously.

“I-I meant no disrespect of course,” He said while waving the guard away, who by now was readying to pull his sword free. Kiania eyed the man and gave the guard a side long glance before slowly placing Coldfang back in its sheath in a calm manner as if nothing had happened. A few others in the back were murmuring with some apparently impressed with the show of skill. The guard moved his hand back to his sides, but it was obvious he was on edge now. Which was fine for Kiania for now, a nervous man was a predictable one. One of Hundings many lessons.

Rubbing his neck where her sword had just nicked him, the man continued. “Well, impressive, I take it you here to fight then?”

“Sure, if this is the place to go after the empire and the knife ears.”

“This is the place, of that you can be certain of- so are your seeking to join as part of the Alessian forces?”

“That I am, why else would I be here,”

“Excellent, well then, standard fee is 500 septims a week, you get paid at the end of each week, if you die any companions you bring with you don’t collect your share, you must provide your own weapons and armor.” His eyes flicked to her scimitars at that before he continued, “Looks as if you have that covered, and no; this does not make you an official member of The Alessian Army. Not until you have served at least two months of faithful service.”

Kiania fought off a sigh of frustration at that, but she did not expect to be welcomed into the fold so quickly. Even if she had she doubted the common foot solider would be privy to much information on The Alessian forces and their operations. Still this was a step in the door, which might at least get her close to people who did know the information she needed. The fat man began to ask her a few basic questions, in turn she offered him a false name and place of birth, and then was shepherd on her way.

Heading to the barracks she was suddenly stopped by a call from someone, she turned around and was surprised to see a well-dressed older nord sporting the Alessian’s blood diamond and colors flagging her down. With a smile on his lips the man introduced himself. “Hello there, I see you’re another new recruit, and a redguard no less, I’m the Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn. Glad to see so many willing to remove the power of the old and dying Empire.”

Kiania returned the friendly smile quickly enough, and even managed a half bow of respect. “Jarl Dengeir, an honor, and I thank you for the warm greeting; I only hope I can do my part. The Empires callous disregard and abandonment of Hammerfell must not go unpunished, nor the crime of the thalmor. I suspect with time more of my folk will follow my example.” She spoke with what she hoped was convincing conviction, it helped that she generally did hold a little resentment to the Empire and the Dominion.

The act seemed enough to convince the Jarl however, as his suspicious look melted into another warm smile. “Ah, yes, it’s good to meet another kindred spirit who too has felt the harsh hand of the false Empire. But I must make my leave; perhaps we may continue this discussion later, at my longhouse perhaps? I’m hosting a small dinner of shorts as a kind of congratulation for those brave new recruits into the Alessian army.”

Kiania bowed again before responding. “Of course, I would be happy to attend.”

Dengeir gave another eager congratulation before turning back to the recruitment center to do the same to another new recruit. Kiania turned and made to head to the barracks, glad she had obtained what seemed the perfect excuse for entering the Jarl’s longhouse later. If Tava continued to smile kindly, perhaps the rest of her group would meet equal or better luck. In fact a plan to further gain the Jarl’s good grace was forming in her mind even now…

For it to work however she was going to need the aid of one of the merfolk in her party, that is if she could find them.

[Leidenschaft]

Once the door to the tavern was opened, the full brunt of the smells and sounds hit Finnen like that skooma-head in Riften a couple years back. Which is to say, it wasn’t too good. The smell, at least. Twenty people packed into a hot tavern smelling of sweat and road-stink was nothing Finnen liked but he probably smelled of it himself, so that made it fine, he reckoned. He took his place in a corner, overlooking the entirety of the tavern. His eyes took in the information they needed, the wench from earlier pulling the same act she did with him on some other man, a lot of people conversing. It seemed the recruits who’d just signed up were flooding the tavern with their shit, raising tankards and flagons to the Alessians. The waitress walking up to him and asking what he wanted to eat. Today wouldn’t be as bad as he first thought, he guessed.

“What’ll it be, love?” She asked.

“You have pork?” Finnen asked, throwing his hood back and scratching at his scalp.

“We have chicken in a stew. Everyone’s already eaten the pork we had yesterday.” She looked up at him from her parchment, “I wouldn’t be too far off in thinking you want chicken?”

Finnen nodded, “And wine.”

“We have mead.”

“Of course you do.” Chicken was alright. Too lean to be eating if one was traveling, especially on foot. He’d have to ask Quarivien if they were allowed to steal any horses they’d find when the time to leave came. The waitress disappeared from sight to fetch his food and he quietly waited. A small commotion was heard before all the sound in the tavern died down. Someone shouted something about a no-good elf. His brow raised and he looked around for Quarivien or Syndelius in the crowd. Finding neither, he was somewhat relieved before the mer in question was sent tripping to the ground in front of him. The mer looked him in the eyes and Finnen looked back. They shared the moment as a heavy boot came down on his head. He couldn’t have been older than what Men would call sixteen summers.

“You have a problem with how we deal with filth here, son?” The old gray-bearded Nord asked.

The Bosmer on the ground stirred, letting out a groan. Silence, the whole room thick with it. Finnen didn’t know what to make of it, but the elf-boy was young. Too young to wrong anyone. For a second, he saw a different person on the ground under that Nord and it made him want to cut the Nord’s pride from him. It’d be easy, confront him like a man, get in his face, too close for him to do anything. Last second, go for the heart, or move to the right, stab lung, go behind, femoral cut, then stab for spine, watch him writhe. Lots of blood.

“No. But don’t you think spilling blood in a place of celebration on a day of the same mood is bad luck?” He offered, he even went so far as to spit at the elf, “Leave, trash.”

The deed tasted bitter. Chicken was good. Mead was fine. His food and drink came and he took a seat with his back to the wall afterwards as the commotion started back up, the crack-voiced bard kept crooning out a song about the Alessians probably written just the night before and the Nord nodded to Finnen before slinking back to his friends.

Jartod moved backed into town after a sucessful hunt, holding various pelts and meat from the animals he had slain. He looked around Falkreath as he saw the city still bustling with action.

"Hmph, so many people in this hellhole?" Thought Jartod has he went to the General Store

"Welcome back, Redguard!" Exclaimed the Imperail Storeowner

"Three wolf pelts, two foxes, one deer pelt and a moose pelt with some Fox and deer meat." Stated Jartod, looking the Imperaial in her eye.

"Hm... good quality...75 Septims?" Asked the storeowner.

"Make it 80." Stated Jartod

"Sold!" Exclaimed The Imperial, placing the furs to the side.

It seemed petty to use the guise of a hunter to gain informaiton on the whereabouts of money in Falkreath, but Jartod didn't have any choices to begin with.

"What are the main trades in Falkreath?" Asked Jartod as he picked up his coins

"Well, you have wood mills all over the place, the one that really does have a major stake is owned by a nord." Stated the female as she placed the furs to the side, " Wood and Furs is all we have, a few odd mines here and there but other than that, nothing really that big on that front."

Before the store owner could look to the side, Jartod was gone.

Jartod looked left and right at Falkreath, has he slowly moved off towards the tavern to gather more information on the mill. The Mill, if in his hands would help him generate profits but also allow him to set up a disguise for himself, not only that but it could allow him to learn about where the gold in Falkreath is heading to, and who is getting it mostly.

Finnen occupied himself with eating and drinking. Nothing like a room temperature mead to wash down tough, dry chicken and bland stew. He did have to admit that after days on the road, stew and mead were a very welcome change. He caught sight of his tall companion enter the tavern and spared a glance to the Nords from earlier. He hoped the Nords wouldn't try to start any trouble, but their anger seemed to only extend to that of the mer races. As he looked at the tall Redguard, Finnen nodded for him to sit in the chair next to him. It was a risk being seen associating, but he wouldn't make it obvious. He wondered why he hadn't seen the Redguard about town while he was here, though he'd hardly left the tavern. Once the Redguard sat, Finnen, without looking at Jartod, spoke, "Tell me, what are you doing with your day, Redguard?"

Jartod seemed to sit right beside Finnen, he nodded to the barkeep , before saying to the Breton right beside him. " I hunt for a living Breton, what about you?" said Jartod, before he looked to the keep. " Three bottles of ale, two for me and one for this man right here, also place a good Vension stew on the pit and some nice Vension as well, two pieces" stated Jartod. Jartod then grabbed a piece of paper nearby , with a quill also in reach. He wrote in cursive, the message:

"I Need help with an task, meet me outside of the Tavern when you're ready "

Jartod folded the paper up into a perfectly square piece, before he tossed it on the ground nearby for Finnen to reach.

" I think you dropped something Breton." stated Jartod

Finnen smiled to the Redguard, craning his neck to look up at him before leaning down and snatching the paper up, "I fear it is time I retire. I wish you good luck with your endeavors. Until we meet again, Redguard."

With that, Finnen returned to his room to get some actual rest after reading the hasty but neat note, unlike the excuse for it they settled for on the way to Falkreath. Sleep took him easily and he woke up not an hour later, feeling good enough. He stepped out into the barroom of the inn and did not spot Jartod. He assumed he was outside and made his way in that direction. Once he stepped outside, he took in a lungful of the forest air. The sounds of the smithy emanated not far away and people mingled and meandered to and fro to different areas of the town. He hardly had to look before he spotted the tall Redguard. Finnen watched for any nosy people and, spotting none, he made his way past the Redguard, "Follow at a distance." he said as he kept walking.

Once he slipped around a corner out of the way of the main traffic coming through the town, he addressed his companion, "You need my help?"

Jartod sipped the bottle of ale, nodding to the Breton

"Let's get straight to the point shall we? "

Jartod pulled out a crude map of the area around Falkreath, a place circled probaly a good 2-3 times laid on the map. Underneath, the words "DEADWOOD LUMBER MILL" were there.

"To gain acess to the economy of Falkreath, I somehow have to appear to be a major player. With some research and asking here and there, there's a huge mill, owned by a Nord. Rumor has it, this Nord is a Stormcloak, thus Alessian Empire Sympathiser. I want to somehow gain access to the deed of the mill, my thoughts are either a forgery copy in the real deeds location, steal it or murder.. thoughts?"

Or we could save time and blow it all to Oblivion, Finnen mused, "I vote we blow the pile of stone and wood to the void, Redguard. Gaining access to the economy of Falkreath could all just be a fancy word for smashing it to pieces. We should wait until the Imperials send us word that they're coming and start causing trouble. What bigger trouble could there be than blowing up one of their sources of income? I reckon a few of their officers could take a walk to the other side too." He remarked.

"I have pressing business to attend to. Make sure to find me again if you want to have a chat. I'm open to suggestions." Finnen said.

Back in the inn, he made himself comfortable on his bed, drfting to sleep before awaking in the dead of night to slink into the barracks.

[Chrononaut]

Broken glass, falling, snow drifts, a haze of sensations and emotions that cascaded from the clanking of tin cups. Maribelle fell back into her body, smelling shit and sweat and mead. She wasn't sure if this was coming from her or the cell. A painful, shrieking light came from a small notch far above. The fading lumiscence fell on top of Maribelle, making the potato sack she had been squeezed into as clothing glow faintly. This glowing made her eyes hurt.

Gathering the strength to move even the tiniest, most insignificant amount away from her lying position, Maribelle ended up pushing herself off the cot she now severely regretted leaving. The ground was worse than the fetid straw that made up her place of rest. Whichever benevolent soul had placed her there she owed at least a drink.
Or not, the drinks are what lead her to this cell. Or what lead a probably extremely unamused guard to throw her into the drunk tank. She'd probably offered him a drink too already and he certainly hadn't accepted the offer. After a few moments to try to ignore the brain gouging headache, she got onto her bare feet and slid her arms through the bars, shouting coarsely. "Guard! Guard!"

A absolutely huge fellow, Nord, tiger armed and towheaded approached the cell and gave a disinterested look that did nothing for Maribelles confidence. "What do you want?"
Maribelle gripped two bars, "My freedom and my armor. Also, recompense for the wrongs committed by the guard when I've clearly done nothing wrong."
"You attempted to duel an unarmed vagrant after jumping off the roof of the tavern, Talos knows how you got up there."
"That seems pretty concrete actually."
"It is."
She retreated back onto the cot, landing flat on her back. After a moments contemplation, she arose again and called out, "Wait, how did I end up in this sack dress?"
"That's just something we did for fun."

Currently simmering behind his stolen helm, Finnen descended the stairs, nodding to the huge Nord. The other guard left and after hearing the slamming of the jail doors Finnen removes his helm, his cautious eyes flitting about the room. Sensing no immediate danger, he quickly decides to start shuffling through the small stack of parchment on the table in the center of the room, ill-lit by the fading sunlight streaming in from outside and a few sparse sources of candlelight. It seemed nothing, except for a few reports on arresting mer for vagrancy, one of killing another for "resisting arrest using deadly magicks" and another for restraining a young Breton woman who'd "drank herself into oblivion(not literally)" and had to be thrown into the cells to sober up after trying to "duel everyone inside and outside of the tavern."

He spared a glance to the jail cells, his eyes locking onto a woman no younger or older than he, perhaps one summer ahead or behind. He looked back at the reports of the jailings and killings of mer and back to the woman. Trying his luck, he approached her cell, tapping them gently, "Oi, wench, you wouldn't be too drunk to give me information I sorely need?"

Lifting her head up to see who was bothering her, a guard presumably, she gave a groan and threw her legs over the side of the cot and stood up reluctantly. "Information? What could I possibly know that you need?" she asked, grabbing for the cell bars and trying to get a close look at the guards face.
"On the off-chance that you aren't a worthless drunk, I need to know if you know anything about the guards killing elves." He said, inching back as the woman came closer to him.
"What's that worth to you, exactly?" she said with a amused grin.
He magicked his lockpick from behind his back, dangling it in front of her, "People who help me tend to get helped in return. And I won't leave you here to rot on multiple assault and resistance of arrest charges. I think I could add a bit about you pissing on the barkeep too. The quill and ink's right over there."
Furrowing her brow, Maribelle said with something of withheld spite, "Fine, I witnessed the slaughter of several Elves to armed louts. How do you think I had so much gold? Elves are notoriously fickle."
Finnen raised a brow at that, "You stole from dead mer?"
She raised a finger, "No, I, as the only beneficiary residing around the place of the death of several unnamed bodies with no known next of kin or last will, acquired a small fortune of septims from dead Mer."
"While we're making things up for ourselves, love, I'm next in line to the throne in Daggerfall. Come with the handsome prince and he won't stab you for being mouthy," He smiled, " And, well, as the head of a monopoly on lockpicks in this room, deary, I can let you out of here. Might have to pay the fee of a few septims for my services."
She humphed for effect, brushing a lock of unkempt hair to the side. "Fine, but we're finding my armor and sword before we leave. I believe it's somewhere in the Captains quarters, if I had to guess."
"It's where I'd put it." He said, inserting the lockpick into the keyhole, hearing an orchestra of clicks before one loudest click signaled the finale.

He opened the door to the woman's cell and sketched a mocking bow for her. They made it upstairs unhindered, before the skeleton crew of guards were seen congregating in the common room. Finnen nodded to the captain's quarters upstairs before hooking his thumbs into his swordbelt, walking amongst the guards, he grabbed their attention by regaling them all a bawdy tale about an Argonian maid, a drunken Knight and a cave in Black Marsh while the woman made her way up the stairs. It was a few minutes before he left the rest of the guards, letting them sleep. He took the steps upstairs to rendezvous with the woman he'd freed and to possibly nab himself some coin.

Leather, check. Elaborate draperies, check, boots, metal parts, all good. Satisfied she hadn't forgotten a piece of the armor, she set about finding her septims. Which wasn't hard as her bag of loot was set next to the Captains own chest, which if she had a lockpick would be fairly easy to open. She grabbed her sword and sheathe which were set upright next to the chest and looped them to her belt, waiting next to the chest for what she expected was a thief to arrive.

Finnen closed the door behind him, his brows raised to see the woman still there, waiting for him, "I don't suppose that bed's going to get any use. What else do you need, hm?"
She gestured to the chest she was standing next to, kicking it to indicate that it made clinky, goldlike noises.
"Sounds like happiness, it does." He smiled, kneeling down in front of the chest and going to work.
It was seconds before the chest was opened. He dipped his hand in and like sand, golden, circular sand, fell from his hands and back into coins just like them. He looked back at the woman, "I'm open to suggestions of how we'll get this out of here."
"I was thinking I could burst down there, take down a few of the guards while you ran out carrying as much as you could carry." she stated matter of factly.
He looked at the woman, a slight look of incredulity mounted upon his face before he chuckled, "I'd rather not have to answer for murder. I'm here for a long stay, love."
He looked about the room, searching for something, anything to aid in their escape, preferably that allowed them to carry the immense amount of coin away from here. His eyes settled on a window and a shrug raised his shoulders, "Window?"
Maribelle shrugged, "Window." prying it open with her sword sheathe and clambering out as best as she could in her steel and leather getup. Upon landing, she rolled as to not hurt herself. She stumbled onto her legs, shouting "You coming down you ponce?"
Almost as if in retort, the chest made a heavy thump into the soft ground below and right next to Maribelle. Finnen popped his head out, "Watch your head, love."
He dropped out of the window, landing in a roll before getting to his feet. He looked around, sighing, "I'm going to the tavern. You're coming. I've got a few friends who'll love to hear your confession. You'd be helping a good cause."
"Am I going to be paid?" she asked. "Gold loosens the tongue, so they say."
"I assume we get to steal our pay. It's what we just did." He said, "You'll find a lot of chances to get your pay with our lot, love."
"Fine, but if they're a bunch of droll cheese-curdlers I'm not talking."
"Quite the opposite, deary," he slipped off the guard's chainmail hauberk and quilted leather armor to put on his own simple cloth shirt, "Quite the opposite."