There was something about charging readily into battle for- quite frankly- the first time in his life that felt almost… surreal, to Burkswallow.
True, Harding had seen it fit to turn most of the enemies front lines into lumps of smouldering flesh, and Sweeps had- quite shockingly- been happy to follow that assault up with a few expertly thrown balls of lightning, rendering the battlefield a sort of horror show before the true fighting had even begun, but…
Despite all that whirling magic, bright lights and clashing blades, it didn’t feel like he was on a battlefield.
It- almost peculiarly- gave him a pang of home sickness, for the first time in his joyously theft-filled life.
Because Burkswallow had never been a man of the blade: He much preferred sweet talking and deft-of-hand.
But he could use a sword, and that was because, once, he had been Melancholius Arturo… nobleman.
As his blade rushed to greet that of an attacker, colliding with a din of sharp, sheering clatters, he could think only of how once he’d been a younger, more honest man, who would never have raised his weapon with the intentions of hurting another person.
He’d been taught to fight for the sake of self defense, and nothing more.
And then as he quite adroitly severed his opponents thumb, and promptly disarmed him, he realised something else. He’d hated that kid.
He was the sort of boy who said “father” and “daddy” even when his hair had begun to grey, and was destined to wear an ostentatious suit and look the spitting image of his businessman father until the chain was eventually severed by a weak link who decided to burn the warehouse down for the insurance money.
So he supposed, in a way, driving his glass cutlass through that same attacker’s throat was oddly symbolic: It marked the grave of Melancholius Arturo and finally completed his metamorphosis into Burkswallow, Gentleman Thief and occasional murderer.
Then the battle became real again.
And Burkswallow leapt fully into action.
Certainly, he was no Randagulf of Clan Begalin, nor a Captain Harding, but Burkswallow’s moderate skill with a sword was not to go unused in the conflict: By the time he sheathed it again, he’d taken at least two heads, and half a dozen lives in total, no small feat for a man who’d never seen combat before.
Sweeps, too, had carved a reasonable notch in their numbers, having displayed a totally unexpected skill with destruction magic, which was made all the more worrying by how keen Burkswallow was to constantly irritate her.
“Oh well,” he’d thought, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
As for his other two compatriots, Bethilda had been happy to remain and knock some heads whilst the battle was waged, but opted to leave for the ship once the conflict was done, and Vingard…
Vingard looked to have disappeared before the battle had even begun, no doubt lounging around somewhere on deck.
Perhaps Burkswallow had spent too much time around Harding, because his first instinct was to bitterly refer to him as a bilge rat under his breath.
As the crew moved on, Burkswallow remained uncharacteristically silent, pondering on the importance of what had just happened.
He’d promised Zaveed that his blade would see use: Was this, therefore, its christening? How much harder would things get from here?
He supposed things needed to get worse before they could truly get better…
But on a lighter note, Sweeps had proven without a doubt that she could carry her weight now, so at the very least she’d become an asset as opposed to a handicap.
He’d never have said it to her aloud, of course: Then she’d have made him handicapped.
Because of this thought- and also the insane amount of adrenaline rushing through his system- Burkswallow didn’t really register exactly what it was that was happening when finally they rendezvoused with another group of people.
At least, not until Harding introduced him personally.
“This here is Burkswallow, your brother sent him to me in an attempt to make me give a shit about the dwemer. He can fill you in on what trouble Zaveed’s been getting himself up to these days.”
He found himself stepping forwards, almost instinctively, until he was looking down at her.
He didn’t speak, he just looked, his pale irises reflecting her features back at her unwaveringly.
“Zaveed sent you.”
And then it happened… he hesitated.
He toyed with the idea of some quick one-liner, like, perhaps, a playful jab at how silly faces must’ve run in the family.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not again: Be it through his own nerves or Nocturnal’s meddling, his gift of the gab had become more of a restraint than a tool as of late.
He’d tried it on Harding, and could very easily have lost her interest: It was his gift of the free booze that forged that particular friendship, not a fast flowing tongue.
He couldn’t afford to complicate things further, not until he was sure they’d blame somebody else, anyway.
So instead, he addressed her in a tone civil and soft.
“No,” he began, simply, “Zaveed didn’t send me.”
He reached into his bag, and slowly retrieved a copy of the list Bethalda had issued him, and showed it to Marassa as some small gesture of trust.
“I’m here by my own accord, by request of The Thieves Guild of Skyrim… but your brother did help me in getting here, most definitely.”
He took his list back, and folded it gently before returning it to his inventory.
“Your brother’s doing well,” he gestured to his cutlass, smiling lightly, “He has combat skill to spare… but it sure wouldn’t hurt him to have a few more numbers.”
Burkswallow might have spoken more then and there, had a large silhouette not then been cast over him.
For a moment, he rationalised it as being Bethalda: But, upon turning, found himself gravely mistaken.
"Are you the Moon Shadow?"
The Breton was staring up at the imposing stature of an Orc.
An Orc asking him questions.
Moon Shadow?
The thief glanced down at his Nightingale attire, and then took a millisecond to take stock of how he wanted to reply.
Did he want to live?: Yes.
Would that involve telling a lie: Probably.
Was he okay with lying?
"... yes, some people call me that," he answered, coolly, "The armour should be an indicator. Can I help you, friend?"
"You know, you could be a Nightingale, if you wanted..." Nocturnal's soft voice chided from somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind.
"Quiet, you."
ButtsnBalls