Dervish

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Calm Night at Sea

Hank and Dervs Scribblings
Sunrise, 14th of Sun’s Height, 4E208
Southern Druadach Mountains, West of Falkreath Hold

---

Thunk. Thunk.

The tree had seen better days, and not because of the pair of twin axes now buried a quarter of the blade into them. Age, disease, insects, and inclimate weather had taken their toll on the ancient thing, its branches largely devoid of needles, and the few that remained had few green holding on defiantly in a miniature forest of brown decay. Zaveed felt a sort of kinship with the tree; he knew what it was like to hold on when life seemed all but forfeit. It seemed the only reason some lumberjack hadn’t come to harvest the damned thing was because of its location; the nearest river quite ways away and if Skyrim had an abundance of something that wasn’t cold rock, it was trees.

At least I don’t have allergies, the Cathay thought, stepping over to his axes, placing a boot against the trunk of the tree while gripping the handles and pulling the axes loose, his arms and leg working in concert to push them free. He admired the Dwemeri craftsmanship for many reasons; for one, it never seemed to lose its edge, and scratches barely found a way to marr the coppery finish of the alloy.

On the other hand, the axes were damned heavy compared to the steel and wood axes he’d trained with and he’d once been able to throw those axes with the precision to split a man’s head at 20 yards. Now, with these Dwemeri axes, they came down like hammers and broke through most defenses and cut through damned near anything, but they were exhausting to use for long and while he was able to do the modest accomplishment of hitting the fucking tree trunk, they seldom landed close to one another. In this case, they were half a meter off of where he’d been aiming each. Too high, too low. All from ten paces away.

His ear pivoted and he looked over to the source that had caught his attention. “If there’s one thing about your current condition that is worth commending, you’re much quieter now than you were in life.” Zaveed observed, stepping back to the pair of stones he’d placed to mark his throwing line. The first axe sailed, landing only inches from the last throw. “Shit.” he muttered.

Zaveed spoke the truth; Gregor's approach across the forest floor had been like an owl's flight. He had come to a halt some yards away from the axe-throwing Khajiit and watched him practice, the faintest hint of his glowing eyes visible behind the visor of his helm in the gloom of the early morning. Pine needles still covered his cloak, which hung draped around his shoulders. His clothes had dried overnight and were now merely wrinkled and dirty. Gregor looked like he'd walked straight out of a woodland folk legend.

"You're not satisfied?" Gregor asked when he heard Zaveed mutter a curse. "That looked like a fine throw to me."

Zaveed scoffed. “Give a child half a day of practice and they can hit a tree. I’ve been doing this for damn near three decades and I’d put a javelin thrower to shame.” as if to prove his point, he tossed the other axe. It actually landed close to his target, somewhat lower than the first axe. “The weight on these things are just atrocious. Imagine trying to joust with a poleaxe.” he shrugged, turning to face Gregor, his hands instinctively reaching down to rest on the axes that weren’t there.

Instead of admitting to doing something embarrassing, his thumbs found their way into the hoops and he crooked his head. “So, how many I be of service? I presume my little practice session here isn’t of particular interest to one of your proclivities.”

Gregor didn't answer immediately. He clasped his own hands behind his back and straightened up. "I came to express my gratitude for what you did in the prison. You saved me from your own brother. It doesn't matter to me why you did it, what matters is that you did. So… thank you," the lich said and inclined his head in respect.

"And I think it's high time I offer you an apology. What I… tried to do to you, and what you had to witness in the prison… it's unnatural. Horrible. I'm sorry." Gregor fell silent after that and waited for Zaveed's response, his eyes fixed on the Cathay's.

“We were allies, were we not?” Zaveed asked neutrally. “I’ve told people time and time again I don’t dwell on the past and let it dictate my present actions. We had been enemies before, but that day we had a common cause. It’s not exactly uncommon in my line of work to befriend enemies and to fight your friends. The lines get pretty blurry sometimes… it can be tiresome.” Zaveed admitted with a shrug.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. You used the tools at your disposal to survive, and we were pitted against one another due to our opposing allegiances. I hunted and harmed your companions and lover, why would I begrudge you for hating me for it?” The Khajiit asked. A wry smile suddenly crossed his lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m rather grateful you failed in that endeavor and I still have nightmares about the whole thing and what came after, but much like I honed my skills with my axes, you honed yours on another craft.

“Unlike others, I don’t really hold it against you. I couldn’t tell you if soul trapping me would have been worse than the fate that Naamira has in store for one such as myself, so it’s not quite as ghastly for me as it might be for another.” he remarked casually, as if discussing sports bets run afoul.

It was hard for a man like Gregor, who had never been any good at letting things go, to understand someone like Zaveed. He digested what the pirate had said in silence.

"Are you sure? If you have nightmares about what happened, it stands to reason that seeing it done to someone else in the prison might have been… tough," Gregor said at length. He wasn't sure how to phrase what he wanted to say next. "That wouldn't be a sign of weakness."

“I was weak… once. I decided never again.” Zaveed said vaguely, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “If you’re asking if I think you’re the same as that Dwemer necromancer, then not quite. Not everyone who wields a blade becomes an assassin or highwayman, for instance. You never struck me as the sort who had an assembly line of victims, you had a peculiar sort of code.” the privateer said, walking over to his axes on the tree and pulling them free with a grunt. He paused, studying his blade.

“What happened in the prison was uncomfortable, certainly, but so’s seeing the guts of someone you’ve known for years spread across the deck of a ship after they didn’t get out of the way of a boarding axe. You don’t let it stop you from doing what needs to be done, and Sevari shooting you could have subjected him to what you did to me, or losing Sirine, or failing to fulfill my promise to her of rescuing her brother.” he shook his head, returning to the line. “People might perceive me to be a monster, but my word is sacrosanct.”

Gregor nodded. "I thought you were irredeemable scum," he admitted, and then hastened to add: "But not anymore. I see a lot things differently now." It was a strange feeling to finally say those words out loud, after the absolute vigor that Gregor had hated Zaveed with before. The truth was undeniable, however. He simply didn’t hate Zaveed anymore. The way the Khajiit had stuck to his promise to Sirine to rescue her brother was… admirable, even.

“I suppose redeemable scum is a bit of an upgrade.” Zaveed replied with a grin and a wink, setting himself back up on the throwing line.

A moment of silence passed between them and Gregor looked up to see a flock of migrating birds traveling overhead, their calls to each other echoing faintly through the valley. It was good to be back in the north. "What does Namira want with you?" Gregor asked and returned his gaze to Zaveed, his curiosity getting the better of him now that the matters he had wanted to discuss were resolved unexpectedly quickly.

“Another soulless Dro-M’athra for her personal army, I suppose. Who can know the will of Daedra?” Zaveed replied after a moment’s consideration, his tone terse as he threw the axe hard enough and without enough care it missed the tree entirely. “Bent cats, Dark Behind the World. It’s what happens when your soul is rotten enough to not be touched by Jode’s light and you have a dark spirit. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never been pious, or because I’ve been a rotten bastard, but after our little dance, I faded in and out of consciousness as I struggled to stay alive. Forms that look like Khajiit that are blacker than the dark of the moons with pale blue eyes that glow like fireflies reached out to me, trying to pull me into the Dark Behind the World.”

The axe slipped down his hand until the head hit the ground with a think, his hand holding the very end of the haft. Zaveed’s head was bowed, a frown across his countenance. “It is a dark, cold place where all of the spirits look and act alike. It’s the death of an individual and the birth of yet another faceless drone that barely resembles the person they once were.” he barked a laugh, worry etched into his eyes. “As if something like that would ever be able to domesticate me! Namiira would spit me out; the so-called ‘Great Darkness’ cannot extinguish a fire so bright, no?”

The afterlives of the Khajiit were a mystery to Gregor and he frowned at this revelation. He had seen Zaveed like this only once before -- when he was about to die at the edge of Gregor’s claymore. It was a sobering sight to see the normally so cocksure Cathay afraid, and defiant in his fear, of the fate that awaited him beyond the veil. “It almost sounds like the Soul Cairn would be a better place for you,” the lich said somberly. “We all have gods to judge us. The Divines no longer answer my call at their temples and their shrines. I know what that means, what Arkay has in store for me. That is one of the reasons why I did… this. I understand your fear.”

Gregor followed the trail the thrown axe had followed after Zaveed had missed entirely with his eyes while his thoughts worked. “Perhaps that is the point of the second chance Raelynn gave you. You are not old yet. There is time to repent, to avoid that fate,” he said and cast his glance back at Zaveed. “Defy the Great Darkness.”

“To be clear, that’s not an invitation to finish the job in my sleep.” Zaveed said half-jokingly, the faintest of upturns to the side of his lip. “Maybe I’ll take up late-life Daedra worship if it all doesn’t pan out. I figure I still have many years to go even more grey to go. I’ve heard I am remarkably hard to kill.”

The axe was kicked back up into his hand fluidly, the blade curled over his shoulder like it belonged there. “I’d like to think I’ve done well so far since Raelynn’s gift. I’ll admit it’s given me some perspective. I’ve risen a friend out of servitude, saved a life, at least attempted to make amends with those I once called enemies. Not bad for a few weeks’ worth of effort, if I do say so myself.”

“I agree,” the Imperial said. He, too, had learned recently what it was like to be surrounded by people he had a lot to make up to. Zaveed had taken to it remarkably well. Gregor shifted his weight on his other foot and crossed his arms over his chest, unsure of what Zaveed’s reaction to his proposal was going to be. The thought had come to him while he watched the Khajiit throw his axes.

“There is something you could do for me, actually. Maybe it’s wrong of me to ask and I won’t blame you if you tell me to fuck off, but… I need to learn how to fight again.” Gregor let the words hang in the air for a bit before he continued. “You’re the only one among us that’s ever fought me. That means you know my style better than anyone else. And if it weren’t for my magic, you would have won. My body is different now. Slower than before, but stronger too. I’m hoping that by sparring with you, we can create a new style for me. What do you say?”

"Hmm." Zaveed uttered, retrieving both of his axes as he pondered it over. It was an oddly reasonable request and strangely polite coming from what had been not long ago a rather belligerent bastard with egomaniacal tendencies.

It would seem both men had been tempered in such a short time, unspeakable experiences and a shared trauma chipping away at edges that had once been seen as protective rather than merely obstructive. He returned to Gregor, his weapons held by the haft, just under the head, and he studied Gregor's eyes through his helm's eye slit.

"I will help you train." He decided. "I might be the only one who seems to think this misadventure of yours has been for the better of your temperament. Gather your weapon, we'll make the most of that clearing over there." Zaveed said, pointing with his weapon and nodding his head.

"Let's see what you can do."

[Hr]

"Alright. Before we get into the fun stuff, picture a foe standing before you, some conjuration of your imagination. Show me how you move, swing your sword, block. In sequence; advance, attack, block, retreat. I want you to repeat that using different angles of attack each time." Zaveed instructed, standing off to the side.

Gregor smiled at that. Zaveed’s instructions reminded him of the sort of things his father used to say. Gregor pulled the great claymore free from its clasp on his back and grabbed the hilt firmly with both hands before doing as Zaveed had asked; he advanced, slow and steady, his stance a little wide and a little low, before swinging the blade in a diagonal slash in front of him. Like Gregor had said, the attack wasn’t as fast as he had been able to muster before, but the heavy steel whistled through the air with satisfying power. Gregor lifted his hands and angled the blade down, a position from which he could parry and deflect incoming strikes, before retreating back to his starting position.

The lich cycled through the same pattern, dutifully picking a different angle from which to attack and changing his defensive grip to cover alternate angles while defending. After doing so four times, Gregor began to glance sidelong at Zaveed, wondering when the Khajiit was going to say he’d seen enough.

"Inquiry; do you tire in your current state?" Zaveed asked, approaching. "Your form is predictably perfect, just a bit on the slow side as you said. Observe."

He stepped back and angled himself away from Gregor, doing the same sort of exercise he had Gregor commit to, admirably without fuss; the difference was Zaveed was impressively quick and fluid and his weapons changed angles and directions without much of a discernible pattern; his obvious overhead swings were joined by subtle low angles, his retreats a mixture of feints and parries.

A few times he demonstrated the power behind a joined pair of heavy strikes, and a deliberate dance of footwork and moving axes to ward off what Zaveed imagined as a determined spearman. He stopped, breathing heavier.

"And perhaps that's where you might have fault; you need to be able to be unpredictable with your movements, and in your case you need to be aware of openings with that huge fucking sword. Every time it is away from you is an opening. How would you defend against someone like me?" The Khajiit asked.

Seeing Zaveed demonstrate his skills brought back memories of their fight and Gregor could almost feel the agonizing bite of the axe-blades in his collarbone after a particularly heavy swing. “Keep my distance,” Gregor said after a moment’s deliberation, but his voice betrayed his uncertainty. “Capitalize on the range advantage of my sword, punish you when you overextend.”

He laughed quietly and shook his head. “We both know that’s not what I did when we fought, though. And no, I don’t tire. The magic that binds me seems to be infallible.”

Zaveed smiled. "I want you to try something. See how everything around us is open?" He asked, turning in place with his arms held wide. "Nothing to get your sword caught up on. If you don't tire, why should you ever lose momentum on your sword?" Zaveed asked, stepping back. He put one of his axes back in it's hoop and began to move through a range of motions around him.

"The thing with an axe or a mace is all the weight is at the front; it's hard to stop so to reset yourself, you follow through and keep the weapon moving." He said, rhythmically starting and stopping the momentum when he finished a rotation, alternating between wide swings and simple wrist rotations.

"Your greatest asset is the sword's range and your formidable strength; if you keep your weapon's momentum going, it doesn't matter as much if you can't swing it as fast since it's already moving. For many foes, it's going to be incredibly hard to find an opening if you never tire and your sword can suddenly come down with power mid swing." Zaveed explained. "It's also going to make you terrifying on the advance."

He retrieved his second axe and held them both at the ready. "I'm going to try to find an opening, when I make a move, I want you to parry the axes. Ready?"

It was a novel idea and one that Gregor certainly wouldn’t have come up with by himself. He nodded tentatively but he held up a hand first. “Let me have a go at it by myself,” he said. After finding proper support in the earth by digging his heels in, Gregor began his attempts to replicate the swirling, rotating motions that Zaveed had demonstrated with the axes. It was relatively easy to bend his wrists and move his arms so that the heavy claymore moved around him in vertical circles, but Gregor’s fingers fumbled when he tried to switch to a non-dominant hand grip to cover his left side and the sword fell to the forest floor.

“Not as easy as you made it look,” Gregor commented with a chuckle and retrieved the blade from the ground. He tried again and maintained the motions this time -- slow and not particularly powerful, but Zaveed was right that the momentum would make the sword hit hard if Gregor turned the circular motions into a strike mid-swing. “Alright,” he said and nodded with more confidence. “Come at me.”

Zaveed watched the greatsword with a concentrated frown; his back still had phantom pains thinking of the last time he encountered it on the opposite side of their duel. He held his axes low, his posture crouched, predatory; he would be able to pick a direction and move at full speed once he saw his opening. The problem was, however, that finding an opening was damn hard when the sword kept its own rhythm, like an irregular pendulum that occasionally changed frequency and direction without much of a regularity to it. But Gregor was like most creatures of habit, and eventually a faint pattern emerged, a distinct cadence in a sea of noise. It took years of training for Zaveed to learn how to subconsciously mix up his movements and do away with predictability, but there weren’t many men like him.

“As you wish.” he said.

Zaveed was after Gregor like a shot, his axes twirling in his hands as he made to bring one down high while the off-hand, lower axe was angled high, aimed for Gregor’s guts. Suddenly, the blade of the claymore was brought up, catching under the head of the high axe and Zaveed felt his momentum shift as the force of the blow ripped the axe out of his hand, forcing him to scramble to block the sword’s circular momentum as it went up and over Gregor’s head and then horizontal, a perfect trajectory to taking a man’s head. Zaveed managed to stop this strike, barely, with both hands. His feet dug into the earth; it felt more like stopping a charging animal than blocking a sword.

“Well, this is embarrassing.” Zaveed muttered, collecting himself and rolling his neck with a couple of pops while he went to fetch his wayward weapon. “Did you realize you were that strong?” he asked, kicking the wet sand off of his axe after fetching it from the dirt.

Gregor had blinked in surprise at how easy it felt to yank Zaveed’s weapon out of his grip. “No,” he admitted in all honesty. “I guess I could have known. Fjolte had me climb a large rock back in the desert and that wasn’t very difficult either.” He lowered his claymore by his side and smiled inside his helmet at Zaveed’s embarrassment. “I, for one, think it’s encouraging. Your ideas are proving very useful,” the lich said, his voice betraying nothing of his small moment of amusement.

“Again?” he asked and moved to grab the sword with both hands once more.

“I’m just thankful we aren’t trying to kill each other anymore.” Zaveed smiled tersely. “I think you have some pretty solid foundations on the defense; let’s see how you do on the attack.” the Khajiit said, clanging the sides of his axes together in a ring. “What will you do when the enemy is forcing you to come to them?” he asked, weapons at the ready as he began to step backwards.

That was a good question. Gregor raised the claymore back up and began swirling it around himself in circular motions once more but instead of waiting for Zaveed to attack him, he approached the retreating Khajiit. Every time the irregular pattern of the blade’s movements swung towards Zaveed, like a razor-sharp pendulum, Gregor put more force and weight behind the steel and turned it into a slash to test his defenses. Bizarrely, Gregor was reminded of a circle saw blade bearing down on a log of wood. Improvising, Gregor took a few steps forward as fast as his feet allowed and pivoted on the spot, the momentum of the sword becoming a wide, horizontal strike as Gregor stretched his arms out. The blade sang through the air and in that instant Gregor knew it was not an attack that Zaveed should try to parry.

The privateer came to the same conclusion, instead using agile footwork to keep ahead of the deadly man-scythe coming to harvest his precious internals, and between ducking and weaving and a healthy dose of back peddling, Zaveed managed to keep ahead of the blade, which despite moving slower than he would have expected, the raw power behind it was enough to turn a friendly spar and training session into a tragic shower of gore that Zaveed was entirely confident was outside of Raelynn’s particular expertise to mend.

It took all of Zaveed’s concentration to keep ahead of the blade and not trip on anything behind him until he backed into a copse of trees, where the greatsword suddenly didn’t have range of motion. Not wasting any time, Zaveed went on the offensive, turning around a tree suddenly and coming around with the swing of one of his axe towards Gregor’s flank.

That was unexpected. Gregor tried to maneuver the claymore so that he could deflect the axe, but the rippled steel of the flame-bladed sword caught on the bark of a tree and Gregor was forced to back away and out of Zaveed’s range instead. This wasn’t going to work. He kept the tree between himself and Zaveed as he drew his silver longswsord, a one-handed and more agile weapon, instead of the claymore. But how well would it serve him? He had lost against Zaveed when he had been forced to use the longsword during their fight in Gilane and now he was even slower. Gregor clenched his jaw behind his helmet and advanced on Zaveed again, attacking with a series of strikes that his father had taught him all those years ago; well-practiced but painfully predictable. There was no space for the momentum-based style and the longsword wasn’t heavy enough to make it effective either way.

Zaveed managed to parry these blows much more effortlessly, almost as if he were warming up. He waited until Gregor made a thrust, where he easily sidestepped it, reaching out and catching the crossguard with the nook of his axe while the other stopped inches from Gregor’s neck. Relaxing, Zaveed pulled his weapons away and slipped them back into their hoops with a nod. “Your boat oar of a sword is definitely fine, but we both knew that. For now, you’re going to want to save the longsword for pests and vermin without any particular skill or recognition of what a blade is; until you adjust to this new body and truly understand your limits, you should think of yourself like a tower.” Zaveed said, reaching for a water skin on his belt and unscrewing the cap and taking a sip to ease his dried mouth.

“You need to let the enemy come to you; pursuits won’t do you any favours, especially if you’re trying to protect someone or something. If someone lures you out, you won’t be able to get back in time, and you will always need to take every advantage you can to fight a skirmish on your terms, not theirs.” the Khajiit pointed out, gesturing for them to leave the woodlands as he swatted at a mosquito. “The one thing you have going for you now that’s more important than your endurance unending is what’s going on in here.” he tapped a finger against his temple, stopping to face Gregor head on.

“When we first fought, you were ruled by emotions, you let me goad you into the alley where I knew your sword would be clumsy and hindered. Had it not been for your necromancy, you would have died there and I might have still been an agent of the Dwemer and not my own man… Raelynn wouldn’t have made me realize I was on the wrong path, and I would have never have met Sirine. You probably don’t hear this much, but you almost killing me was one of the best things that could have happened to me.” he extended a hand. “Thank you, for being the catalyst that I needed to kill Captain Greywake and remember that young boy from Senchal that should have never gotten on that ship.”

Gregor looked at the offered hand and hesitated before he accepted it and the two of them shook on it. His indecision hidden behind his helmet, Gregor opened his mouth to reply but closed it again, unsure of what to say. He bought himself some time by sheathing his longsword first and making sure his armor was still properly fitted in place.

“Strange,” the lich said eventually, “that divine intervention should happen in a fight between two godless killers. I just wish...” Gregor sighed and shook his head. “Nevermind. Continue to prove Raelynn right and I shall be glad that things turned out the way they did for you.”

Zaveed smiled, without sarcasm or distaste on his countenance, but rather genuine warmth emanating from his features. “It means a lot to hear you say I’m proving her right. I’m still figuring things out, but being here, now, and trying to walk a different path feels right.” he chuckled suddenly, his smile breaking into a grin.

“I’m not sure if I’d credit dear Nadeen with being divine, because that would mean she’s better than all of us. But speak your mind when you’re ready; I’m not your foe, and I just might be one of the few people left who doesn’t seem to think you’ve become a monster.” he shrugged, looking back at the camp and his eyes settled on the rest of the camp. “I should probably get back soon and return to my duties. And what of you?”

The idea of Zaveed becoming a confidant was so strange Gregor couldn’t help but laugh quietly. It didn’t feel wrong, however. Perhaps there was a way for the pirate and the necromancer to become friends after all. “There are other people I should talk to,” he said, the tone of his voice betraying his mixture of apprehension and newfound confidence. “Other people deserving of an apology. After that I shall continue to keep an eye out for trouble.”

Zaveed nodded, placing a hand on Gregor’s shoulder in a show of solidarity. “Believe me when I say I know what that’s like. With these very people, in fact. Just remain sincere and the storm will eventually pass, I think. I’m hardly well-regarded with this lot, but I don’t think I’m quite the monster they had all conjured in their hearts when we first met.” He paused in contemplation, before he nodded, having said what he needed to. It was going to be a difficult journey for Gregor, but hopefully he didn’t feel so isolated anymore.

The Khajiit knew a bit too well what that was like. Eventually defiance gave way to defeated resignation, no matter how unwavering one’s convictions.

“Well, I won’t hold you. Farewell, Gregor; I won’t be far.” Zaveed promised, stepping away with a single wave of the hand. He managed a few steps before suddenly stopping, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, and Gregor? The armour suits you.” he said with a grin and a wink before finally departing.

Mass Effect: Renegade

@Xanadu I just might chip in for this, depending on my schedule! I love me a Mass Effect merc RP.

Limited slots?

Just outline the OOC standards and stuff like that and explain what you're after. Maybe setting the game to Jump-In and explain that a character sheet needs to be approved is best?

Limited slots?

Keep in mind the character tab might not be representing active characters; the post with the sheet will still be there regardless if a player is still active or dropped out.

It mainly comes down to how a GM wants to run their RP. Some, like myself, focus more on character driven plots and player engagement so having massive quantities of active players would be a nightmare to manage. Other times, the story itself calls for a very limited number of characters (a rough example off the top of my head, a RWBY RP where canonically teams are 4 people), and so on.

So yeah, it's common, but there's always a reason for it.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

6:30pm, 13th Sun’s Height 4E208, Southern Druadach Mountains, West of Falkreath Hold…

The heat of the desert was behind them.

The climb had been long and arduous, even taking into account that this was a low pass through the Druadach Mountains many leagues South of Markarth. It was a passage that was used for generations by hunters and nomads, farmers and creatures of the wilderness alike. It was also a particularly popular place for bandits, the farmer had warned who had charged the party’s path through the mountains on their maps to wish them safe passage. The Alik’r and villagers along the way helped provide proper clothing and supplies for the journey, and nearly a week of scaling rough terrain with increasingly sparse vegetation, watching the temperate climate give way to a cool and rainy alpine climate, the absence of Dwemer patrols became a stark contrast to the past two months of their near-constant presence. One could be forgiven for being out in this remote region and thinking that the world was always as it had been, and that the troubles in the cities were from a different time and place.

For many, the absence of contact with the outside world was trying, and tensions grew and faded between various members of the party with infrequent arguments or debates, but it was at least a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that had dominated their lives for so long that what their lives had been before were daydreams belonging to the strangers they had been a few short months ago. Although supplies were dwindling and their rations were supplemented by hunting and gathering, there was a beautiful simplicity to the journey that was in a way liberating. Nights were spent around fires, and while some days left them hungry or miserable in the rain, time was passed with stories and song and it was easy to forget the troubles they all faced on the selfless mission they all agreed to take on. They all knew reality would set back in before too long, so it was worth appreciating the merits of a somewhat cleansing journey.

They had crested the worst of the range on the night of the 13th, heading down the Eastward slope into the Reach proper. The rain clouds that had hounded the group for two days at that juncture began to part and to the Southeast, far towards the Jerall Mountains way in the distance, and a sickly green glow filled the sky like a perverse and unnatural thunderstorm. Had any experienced the Oblivion Crisis, it would have contained a pervasive feeling of dread for those who understood what they were looking at. Daro’Vasora, clad in the red and brown Nordic-style leather armour she had acquired from traders, stepped ahead, her eyes narrowed and ears pulled back. “This is where it all began.” she said, a thousand memories rushing back. She recalled the expedition camp, marked now where the green light was emanating from like a pyre, how many dozens of lives lost? The Khajiit’s fist was clenched tightly. It was a decision that had cost far too many lives, and she shouldered her share of the blame.

“One day, people will look back in the history books and see this as just another obscure footnote in history, much like I have done so many times before. Never before have I considered what it must have been like for those who had their lives destroyed by the events that enraptured me as a young girl, and even now as a grown woman. Those stories only tell of the heroes and those who survived to make their mark in history, not the countless innocents whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She said, looking down at her clenched fist before turning to the others.

“I was where that light was on the fateful day that changed all of our lives, one of Rhea’s chosen for an expedition that shouldn’t have been different from the many I have done before, as were many of you. It’s hard for me to not look at all of your faces and think that you weren’t there in the beginning, and I remind myself daily that for many of you, it wasn’t your decisions that led to the Dwemer returning and destroying your lives and so many others.” Daro’Vasora said, her eyes meeting Shakti’s for a moment with a furrowed brow and a frown. “I can never find the words that would ever make up for the mistake that cost you everything, but for standing here today, as resolved as those who were there in the beginning, you have my undying gratitude and humility; may my actions prove my resolve in setting this all right again, and ending that.” she said, pointing behind her towards the green pillar of light.

She sighed, crossing her arms and disturbing the dirt beneath her feet. “It’s going to be dark soon, this looks to be a good enough spot to set up camp. I’m going to help pitch tents and get the fire going. If any of you have strength to spare, see if you can gather up some food in the wilderness.” she paused, nodding to herself. “Alright, let’s get to it. At least it’s an interesting view.” she said, stepping away from the group to go unload the horses.

---

“You’re from here.” Latro heard Sevari say. The two of them had filled the spaces between them only with the sound of their horses’ hooves in the dirt and awkward glances. Latro couldn’t say he held much scorn for the Khajiit, and it looked as if the man had taken it upon himself to do that for him. He scratched at the short, black beard his jaw decided to give him in the wake of a razor’s absence and the energy to use it.

For whatever reason, Latro couldn’t see the reason for Sevari’s hesitating. He shrugged, working at Faolan’s saddle straps. “Aye.”

More silence. Just the sound of buckles and leather, Sevari grunting as he hefted the saddle from his horse and set it down beside Stranger. He groaned as he sat on his new seat. Latro payed it no mind, or at least tried to. The constant stilted interactions between them was starting to grate him. “Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

“I don’t know.” Sevari said, “We haven’t even spoken much since we met back on the roads with the stagecoach. The last time we spoke was…”

Again with the forlorn head-hanging and dropping shoulders. It was starting to get old. How a man like this was rumored to be the bloodiest outlaw and most feared assassin in Southern Tamriel with an attitude like this was beyond him. But taking a look inward made Latro feel too much the same. He’d killed twenty-four men here. Exactly twenty-four. He kept count. And for all that fearsome reputation he’d made for himself all he did with it was try to make like he didn’t have it. “The last time we spoke was an argument.” Latro cleared his throat, “Where I threatened to kill you and Jaraleet.”

“Mm.” Sevari grunted, nodding his head but not sharing a gaze with Latro as he spoke. “You weren’t you. It was the stress, and the news, and everything.”

Sevari finally looked him in the eye and sighed, “I know how it feels.”

Latro thought back to the argument. He thought back to how it felt like he wasn’t even there. But to fool himself into thinking that Finnen Pale-Feather of the Crow-Wife Clan wasn’t the one to be blamed for taking his axe and breaking apart Nord heads and poisoning men was an affront to the dead. “You think you do.” Latro said, growling as he picked Faolan’s saddle off of his back and dropping it to the ground, “But you really don’t.”

Latro turned and left Sevari, keeping his eyes on the dirt underfoot and not even glancing at the trees and rocks around. The foolish notion that if he ignored the Reach it would be like they weren’t there. Until he agreed with himself that it was stupid and looked out at the horizon. That green pillar like a headstone, a monument to the great mistake shone against the gray iron of the clouds as they pressed down on him with the same weight. There was no rest to be had for him. No stop for the reminders of what his life had wrought.

Not until he was dead.

But thoughts like that would do him nothing. He slipped his shirt off and draped it over one of his shoulders, letting his skin feel the cold mountain air. As much as he did not want to remember what happened here, his soul would always yearn for home. He indulged himself in the cold at least, reveling in something that wasn’t a scorching sun and nothing but rolling dunes as far as the eye could see like a dead sea. As he strolled about to find Sora he locked eyes with someone he very much did not want to.

But as much as regretting the past would do him no good, neither would trading glares with their newest comers. Zaveed of Wherever the Fuck stood opposite him and instead of bearing his teeth or scowling, or any other sort of useless and petty posturing, he nodded. He took a few tentative steps closer like an animal at the edge of the fire’s light until he put some confidence in his steps. He stood opposite the Khajiit now. He was once a faceless bogeyman and then a sneering enemy. Now though…

He offered his hand out. “No ill will.” Latro said, though his voice held no warmth, “How’s that?”

Zaveed had looked up from plucking the materials from his pack to see Latro approaching, the memory of the Reachman’s face in the Gilane crowds forming nebulously in his mind. Back then, it had felt like such a triumph to see the despair, the anguish, the resignation upon Latro’s fair features. He’d been an enemy, simply another target to bring down on the hard climb to freedom, and now things were so much different. The two had avoided one another for weeks, doubtless fueled by the many unsavory actions and stories that had built something of a wall between the two of them, and this group at large.

And now, Latro approached, the offered hand like a crack in a dam.

He smiled, not snidefully or with any lingering animosity and took the offered hand, giving it a brisk shake and helping tear the crack asunder.

“No ill will.” Zaveed agreed, nodding his head. His ear still ached somewhat from the golden piercing he’d acquired from the Alik’r before they’d left for the journey East, nestled on the opposite lobe of the Dwemeri metal one he’d gotten in Gilane. He still wore his customary sleeveless armour, the pistol strapped to his chest and the axes on his hips. If the cooler weather bothered him, he didn’t show it; he’d weathered worse storms than mere cold mountain air.

“I know my presence among you is a point of contention for all of you, Latro, and there is precious little I can say that will make amends for the things I’ve visited upon you, but I do sincerely hope that my actions since then have proven my intentions are just.” the Khajiit said, coiling the thin rope around his spare hand that would act as a snare for some rabbit. He considered the many things he wished to say like a catalog in his mind before deciding to go forth without much hesitation for the consequences.

“I’d like to think that men such as us, men of violence and action, often make the choices or have the choices made for us that could just as easily turn the people we meet into friends or foes.” Zaveed said, pausing as he met Latro’s gaze. “While I regret we met as foes, I will not apologize for what I have done. Am I wrong in thinking that perhaps you had been in a situation such as mine, where those set before you were enemies when under other circumstances they might have been friends?” he asked conversationally, addressing Latro as if he were someone he’d known for some time under much more pleasant circumstances.

Latro bristled, however briefly, at Zaveed’s mention of never apologizing. But he knew his words held truth in them. He never knew why foreigners took up arms in the Dwemer name, but he tossed that aside for the now. He nodded, “I won’t fault you.” He sighed, “This was my land once. My home, and the things I did to fight for it would make me a monster in these peoples’ eyes that we have with us.”

He glanced back to Sevari sitting alone and maintaining his array of weapons before turning back to Zaveed, “We do monstrous things for noble reasons.” He nodded, slow, “No forgiveness needed, no apologies needed.”

Latro frowned at Zaveed, though not in anger, just curiosity. “Why?” He asked, looking the Khajiit over. He seemed no more a monster than himself. “You three could’ve gone anywhere after the prison. You killed probably as many Dwemer as myself back there when at first you stood with them and did their dirty work. Why’d you stay?”

“The Dwemer took everything from me.” Zaveed replied simply, resting his wrists upon his axe heads. “I was a privateer of some renown in the Dominion’s service, Captain Greywake. I had a mighty vessel and a crew of 50 who were my family because my whore of a mother sure wasn’t much of a parental figure when she abandoned my sister and I onto the streets of Senchal when we were two, and the bastards who abused me when I took to their ship that would one day become my own sure weren’t very inspiring role models before I decided to kill them to give myself a good night’s sleep.” the Cathay shrugged. “What came after, however, was the best time of my life. A warm place to sleep, building fame and reputation, never going hungry again. The Wrath was my home.”

Zaveed’s gaze turned to the pillar of green energy with a frown. “It was a storm, and unfamiliar waters for a job taken out of obligation to blood rather than the substantial coin that came with it that unraveled my entire life like a torn thread. My ship went down, most of my crew lost at sea.

“The rest of us who managed to make it to Hammerfell’s shores were quickly set upon by Dwemer patrols. I was given a choice; become their knife in the dark and maybe, just maybe, I could earn my freedom and a comfortable position in their new empire. Refusing meant dying in some fighting pit for the dear Governor’s amusement. I have learned that one should never rue the cards they are dealt, but rather play their hands the best they can.”

He sighed, returning his attention fully to Latro. “Apologies for the lengthy tale of woe that I have served you, but I figured it would give some context as to why Sevari and I came into your lives the way we did, and that when I say that life dealt me another hand after Raelynn saved my life, I decided that my honour depended on how I used that gift going forward.”

Zaveed smiled. “I got my brother back after not seeing one another for over two decades, I found my sister once more, and I found someone who saw me as I was and not a near mythical figure and decided I was worth helping. So, it became a rather simple choice; we were going to that prison to retrieve Sirine’s brother whether or not fate put our two groups together again or not. We served each other’s interests, and after that it seems Sevari’s taken a soft spot to you in particular. He’s not particularly well versed in the art of friendship, so you’ll have to forgive him for calling you one.”

“We beat each other to shit in a warehouse.” Latro shrugged, “What came after… he saved my life. I helped him in Al-Aqqiya, saw him kill his own brother.”

Latro sighed, shaking his head, “It’d just feel wrong not saying we’re friends after all of that. No matter how much of a dour, violent prick he is, anyways.” He crossed his arms, “Maybe we’re not that different, like you say. There was a time when I was death in these mountains, Forsworn. A time when I was a whore in Wayrest, and a time,” he looked at the green light in the endless distance, “when I pretended I was never any of those. I forgot in the process what kept me free and alive.”

“I played the hand I was dealt the best I could, like you.” He smiled something that had a twinkle of cruelty, “I killed the men who thought they owned me and the men who raped me. Burned the brothel and a good part of the docks down with them. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I like the way you think.”

Latro rubbed his jaw full of dark, long stubble and pointed at Zaveed’s own with his chin, “How was it, by the way?”

Zaveed tilted his head, gazing back at the light. “I’d never allowed myself to forget what I was. The reason I introduce myself as Zaveed of Senchal is not so much to give myself a pompous title, but to rather remind myself of what I have pulled myself out of. I wish I could say I do not understand what it means to be passed from man to man, and sometimes woman, for grotesque gratification, but it’s a pain I know all too well.” His eyes darkened and a scowl crossed his features.

“It is an indignity I vowed I’d never suffer again, and I would not permit any under my influence devolve to such depravity. So one night, after how many weeks of never sleeping the whole night through before some creature I was supposed to call a crewmate gagged me and tied me so I could not claw their fucking eyes out, I took an axe and opened their throats while they slept. The last one I left it there, splitting his skull on an angle, like so,” he explained, tracing the path with a claw down his temple, between his eyes, and across the dimple on the far side. “And then I went back to my hammock, and I slept soundly for the first time in as long as I could remember, knowing full well I could die the next day.”

The Khajiit sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe, in another life, it would have felt satisfying, but I was so fucking weary of it all. I came to the ship to escape starvation and disease and found myself the plaything of things worse than a boy who was barely a teen could understand.

“And instead of being given death for murdering half a dozen of Dar’Narra’s prized sailors, he gave me back my axe and forced me to fight every single day against everyone else. If he didn’t think I fought hard enough, or suffered enough, I wouldn’t eat that day. Instead of withering away and accepting death, I fought, I grew stronger and more ruthless. Eventually, it gained me respect. The dagger at my back is my prize for surviving all of that and looking fate in the eye and spitting in it.”

“Every day I live as a free man is my prize.” Latro nodded, remembering what it was like being trained by his father to kill with axe and knife. It wasn’t dissimilar to Zaveed. “The Reach loves its children in its own way, and Hircunnen, or Hircine in the Empire tongue accepts no prayers. Everything you need is already in yourself. Pray for mercy and he’ll grant you death.”

“The Reachtribes breed wolves of men.” He frowned, “And on the night I shrugged off my slave’s chains and whore’s silks, they learned it. I tied the man who payed for me and the man who owned me to a wagon. I dragged them behind me, made them do what they did to me to each other.”

“And then did what I wanted with them.” He mimicked tapping a nail with a hammer, “Ever since then, I’m remembering what it was like to gain my freedom back. No pretending to be a prissy Breton ponce. Not a whore anymore, not a slave, not Forsworn. Finnen.”

He looked around himself, at the foothills and the mountains. At the river valley far, far away. At the pale green pillar of light. “I’m home now.” He nodded, “I’m back.”

He looked the Khajiit over once more, “We’ll have to talk more sometime, Zaveed of Senchal.”

“Finnen.” Zaveed repeated the name, as if testing the waters with a raised brow. “And indeed we shall. Is that the name I shall call you?” he asked, before nodding towards Daro’Vasora. “Or perhaps what she calls you? You’ll have to tell me the story of how a hardened killer of the Reach won the heart of someone like her; you two are from quite different worlds.”

“Finnen.” The Reachman nodded, “Finnen Pale-Feather.”

And then he too looked at Sora, going about her work. The cruelty of remembering Wayrest lightened at the sight of her. “It’s something to do with that,” He nodded at the towering light, “And this.” He patted the lute on his back. His easy smile was there. “Well, work to be done.” And Finnen nodded to Zaveed and went his own way.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Dervish's Guide to GMing

@RedVII I appreciate it! I hope one day someone can come back and say it helped them a lot in running a game or gave them confidence in GMing. Everyone's got a lot of potential, they just sometimes need to be shown where to grab onto first. I hope it helps, Red!

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Gift

Greenie and Dervs

19th Midyear 4E208, near noon, Alik’r camp...

---

Things were starting to fall into place. After a morning meeting with various tribal leaders who wished to speak to the one who led Shakti’s group of friends who had done the Alik’r a great service. She calmly and rationally explained her goals and plans for ending the invasion, and while the leaders decided to confer with each other about what the Alik’r would do in response to that information, they did at least agree to help outfit the expedition to reach the border and provide supplies and protection for the group to make it to Skyrim. From there, it was anyone’s guess if they would pledge warriors to the cause.

It was, at least, a far more pleasant exchange than what had occurred as a part of the insurgency; Daro’Vasora vowed to herself that she would never let herself or the others become a part of anyone else’s cause, theirs would be their own and anyone they fell in with would be allies, not commanders or benefactors. What was at stake was too damn important to leave in the hands of strangers with unknowable agendas.

After packing most of her supplies, the Khajiit decided there was one more thing she wanted to do before being stuck with a caravan for weeks with little privacy or room to think. Daro’Vasora went to the market and found the woman who had given her her poncho and purchased a long green and gold scarf, insisting she wanted to support someone with such generosity. With the gift obtained, she set out to find Megana. There was a lot left unsaid, and she needed to correct that.

A few moment later she stood outside of Megana’s tent, stopping herself from knocking on the fabric when she realized how silly that would have been. Instead, she called softly. “Meg? Are you in there?” she asked.

There was a momentary quiet that followed before shuffling could be heard, and soon enough the tent flap was pushed to the side to reveal the Nord woman, peering out. One look at her was enough to tell she had clearly not had enough sleep the previous night, dark circles under her eyes, hair still rather messy and uncombed, though there seemed to have been some attempt to slick it back with water. “Sora!” There was a note of pleasant surprise in her voice as she held the flap to the side with one hand and ushered the Khajiit woman inside with the other. There was a small mess within, including clothes and empty bottles strewn about.

“Uh… sorry ‘bout the mess,” she intoned, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I’m still packin’ up, didn’ get back in last night ‘til late.”

Saying that, she hastily pushed aside most of the clothes and other items and picked up her bedroll, dusting it off before setting it back down. “Uhm, sit down! Please!” She fussed about some more with stuffing things in her pack before pausing, feeling the effects of the previous night summoning another headache. Deciding that perhaps a little break was in order for herself as well, she sat down on the ground, eyes on Sora.

“So… how’re you?” After all… that?

The Khajiit entered as gracefully as she could muster, carefully navigating the clutter in the tent before finding her way to Meg’s bed and gently setting herself down. “The day one has to apologize for having a messy tent on the day they are preparing for a journey is the day I stop treasure hunting.” Daro’Vasora said tactfully with a smile, carefully not letting her eyes linger on the empty bottles for long, as to avoid giving Megana the impression that she was being judged for coping with her troubles in a far too common way.

“I’m… as well as I can be, I suppose. That trial wasn’t something I ever wanted to go through, but I think it went about as well as could be hoped for.” she said with a resigned sigh, her mind wandering over everything that had happened yesterday. It had felt like it didn’t want to end and the mood was so foul Latro and herself hadn’t even attempted to engage in anything resembling lusty behaviour. They’d quietly gone to sleep holding each other close before sleep eventually took them.

Eventually.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem like you’ve been having a rough go of things. How are you holding up?” she asked, suddenly remember what she was holding. “Oh! And I picked this up for you. I thought it was your colour, and you might like something nice when we go back to your homelands.” she said, offering the scarf to Megana. “It’s a small way of saying thanks, for everything you’ve done for me that I haven’t had the chance to say yet.”

Surprised by the gesture but more than a little touched, Meg left whatever gathering she had been attempting and gave her full attention to Daro'Vasora, walking over to where the Khajiit woman sat and settling down beside her. She took the scarf very gently, as if it was made of glass and she was worried the slightest bit of force may ruin it. A smile came to her lips thereafter and she held it in a more familiar fashion. "Yer right, I love the colours, green's m'favourite… always been since y’don’ see too much of it in Skyrim, ‘specially durin’ winter." She paused in her words as she quickly wrapped the scarf around her shoulders, wanting to show her appreciation as soon as she could.

"Y'don' have t'thank me for anythin'," she replied, and without warning she reached out to give Sora a heartfelt hug. "You'd've done the same, no? Friends gotta have each others’ backs." There was a small sniffle and she pulled away, looking sheepish as she wiped a lone tear. "Looks like these bloody things don' know how t'stop bein' wet."

“I’d like to think I would, Meg, but until you’re put into that kind of situation, it’s hard to say.” Daro’Vasora admitted quietly, but she felt like she would have. As she leaned into the hug, returning it, her thoughts turned to Roux, how she had tried to save him, and Raelynn, in turn. She acted instead of hesitated; it wasn’t a question that she needed to try something.

“But maybe I would have done what you did, I hope I would. There’s been a lot on my mind lately, the acts of others, my own. Even with this whole thing with Gregor, it didn’t feel right considering casting him away after all we’ve been through… I couldn’t stop thinking how it must have hurt Raelynn. They both threw themselves at our mercy because they trusted us, because they are our friends and want to show that means something when it matters.” she sighed, pulling away slightly but pulling Meg’s hand into her own.

“All of it has got me thinking that you risked your life to save me when you thought no one else would. You didn’t even question it; I’m someone you barely know, and I sure as shit didn’t deserve the kind of love you all show me but I’m trying so hard to earn it. I couldn’t even say thank you when we met again, I was just so caught up in everything… Meg, I am sorry.” The Khajiit said, her words coming out in a torrent before she caught herself with a deep breath and closed eyes. “I don’t know how to repay this. I don’t know how to earn this.”

"No, no, no, y'don' havta say sorry!" Meg seemed slightly panicked, and she tightened her grip on the hand that was held by Sora's. She sighed softly before smiling at the Khajiit woman. "You've been through so much for us. Y'didn' have to, y'chose to. Rhea was gone, but y'kept us together, even when things were hard... shit was really hard..." Her lips curved downward, looking at their hands as she shook her head. "The decisions y'had t'make, when we left Gilane... last night even." Once more she shook her head. "None of that is easy... someone's always gonna be angry... I dunno if I'd be able to..." She paused, thinking of her own decisions and how blindsided she had been. "I woulda been shit at doin' half the stuff you've had to."

She looked up at Sora, meeting her green eyes. "We're the ones who should be the one's thankin' ya. Ain' like we've made it an easy job..." She sighed softly, attempting to smile once again. "'Stead y'come here an' ask me how I'm doin', an' sayin' thanks t'me." Her smile brightened a little. "Yer s'posed t'be all haughty an' order folks aroun', Sora! Y'need lessons I think!"

Daro’Vasora smiled at that and offered a chuckle. “Oh, live life like me and just be a selfish asshole for most of your life and being the bad guy in someone else’s story comes real second nature. I’m used to making people angry; the hard part is figuring out how to make it right again later. That’s where I’m at. But if you have lessons for how to be a haughty hardass, I’m all ears.” she said with a playful elbow to the ribs.

She said in comfortable quiet for a few moments before asking. “So, how have you been handling everything lately? I’ve been so caught up in my own thoughts and problems I never thought to check in on you. You seem… distraught, I’d venture to say? I’m here if you need someone who’s impartial and not in the middle of it all, whatever it is.”

Meg couldn't help but laugh at Sora's response to her silly remark, and her cheery look remained until the latter's question. Unable to help herself, she fiddled with the hem of her shirt, pulling at some stray threads that had probably been pulled out by getting caught in something or other.

"Guess I am," she finally admitted, looking away from the thread and back up to Sora once more. "I can't help thinkin' 'bout m'family back home... an' what might've happened there. Any time I do, all I can see are the streets of Imperial City an' all the people jus'-" She stopped, knowing full well Sora would know what she meant. "On top of that..." Her eyes shifted as she looked away to the side. "I... well..." She let out a huge sigh. "After the meetin', Jaraleet came t'talk t'me, 'bout what happened, 'bout his own past. It wasn't really a... happy chat. But he also saing he loved me. I should've been happy, but I... was sad. Angry. I couldn't say it back. I know I must've hurt him."

The Khajiit blinked slowly. “Huh. He said he loved you? I didn’t think Jaraleet was capable of complex emotions…” she muttered, shaking her head. “I know you guys have been getting closer, but didn’t realize it was to that stage for him. Question is, do you feel the same way, putting aside all of the complexities going through you right now? Why are you sad and angry, towards him, or something else?” she asked.

Meg couldn't help but sigh yet again, feeling childish yet unable to keep herself from talking now that there was someone who might be able to... something. She wasn't exactly sure what she wanted truth be told.

"I like him," she finally replied, looking embarrassed but continuing nonetheless. "More than a friend... but..." She looked down at her hands, unsure how to continue, whether it was fine to mention who he really was. "He never tol' me 'bout his past 'til last night... Righ' now, I feel like I don' know anythin', that everythin' I knew was jus'... not true." She chewed on her lip for a moment before wincing, having bitten a little too hard. "He knew Gregor was a necromancer, but he never said anythin', he said he didn' want Gregor t'hurt us, t'hurt me. But tha' kinda secret... I dunno, Sora. I'm jus' really confused right now."

“It’s like finding out the person you knew was a stranger all along.” Daro’Vasora nodded in understanding. “It’s hard to say if you can really love someone if you don’t know much about them in the end… it’s just infatuation otherwise.” she said gently, filing Jaraleet’s knowledge of Gregor’s condition away but deciding not to bite into it now. Meg needed support.

“It’s like this… can you even name anything about him that most people would know? What are his hobbies, his aspirations, his goals? What’s his favorite colour, food, just anything at all?” Daro’Vasora pressed with a frown. “You cannot love someone unless you know their heart, the essence of who they are. For all we know, Jaraleet isn’t actually his name and he’s allergic to mammoth fur or whatever people in Skyrim like to line their blankets with. You might not like the truth when it comes to light, whatever it is. Are you willing to risk all of that?” she asked.

“I…” Meg paused, unsure of herself and her thoughts. Once again she was playing with the stray threads on the hem of her shirt, pondering over what the Khajiit woman was telling her. She knew Sora was trying to help and looking out for her, and she knew what was being told to her was true. What did she really know about Jaraleet before last night? There was so much they had done together due to the dwemer forcing them into a group, and as such she felt affection for him, especially since he had approached her when she was the most lost and loneliest since the invasion. But what he had told her that day hadn't been the truth, even if his intentions were kind and sincere.

Was caring for a person enough? Would that help solve all differences and ultimately help prevail over all obstacles? She had spent more than a year with J'raij and had known him better than herself, yet hadn't been able to confess to him. Why had this been different? Because she was lonely and death seemed only an accident away? Meg didn't know, and the lack of this knowledge made her want to curl up and hide somewhere no one could find her. But… she couldn't. She couldn't ignore this and hope it would never resurface.

“What do I do then?” she finally asked, her voice low and filled with uncertainty.

“You need to figure out what exactly it is you need, what's important to you.” Daro'Vasora replied with confidence. “It's clear to me you need honesty and trust in a partner, and that secrets and deceit hurt you… which is healthy, truth be told. I think you need to figure out of you like who the real Jaraleet is, if you feel you can trust anything he tells you, and ask yourself if that's someone who can make you happy when life goes back to normal.”

Daro'Vasora hesitated, looking at the scarf about Meg's neck and wondering about her own fears about Pale-feather and Latro's mortified talk with her the night before, about him being afraid he was going to hurt her. “The thing is Meg, we were all brought together because of a war and we didn't have anywhere else to go. Most of us wouldn't have even looked at some of the others in this group in our regular lives- me included.” The Khajiit admitted, no hesitation or remorse in her tone.

“But you have to ask yourself what bonds were formed out of genuine warmth or a response to the stresses and high emotions. Take away the common cause and what remains, what was even genuine and real? I know most of us are going to drift separate ways back to our old lives, but the question is who is going to remain close because their bonds went beyond a shared hardship? I am so used to people abandoning me and me then that I cannot tell what's real for me or not for the most part, but I feel more sure about Latro than I have about basically anyone in my life since I started adventuring on my own. I feel like Judena and I will remain close as family for the rest of our lives because of the bonds we shared beforehand, and I have no clue about everyone else.” She admitted, looking to meet Meg's eyes. “I just know I'm still trying to rationalize that people cared enough for me that they risked their lives to save me. Doesn't make much sense, but I am humbled.”

She squeezed Meg's hand and leaned her head against her shoulder. “You need to ask yourself if Jaraleet is someone you can imagine yourself settling down with, starting a family, living in a home. A life past war and adventuring. Can you see that future, or do you feel that these feelings and attraction is based entirely on a shared hardship and feeling like life could end tomorrow, so might as well find pleasure and comfort where you can?” She asked.

"Tha's the scary part," Meg mumbled, letting out a breath. There were so many hard hitting questions she knew she needed to answer. She could take advice from others, but ultimately finding out what she wanted- needed- was her own journey she would have to take up on her own. She was alone in this matter; it was a scary thought, and once more the urge to curl up and hide crept up on her.

"And that's when you should be bravest then."

"I'mma havta figure all that out," she let out after a good moment of silent contemplation. "I dunno the answers to any of that..." She looked to Daro'Vasora, feeling pitiful, ashamed. "I told Sevari last night that I wasn' a child... but maybe I really am. Hearin' what yer sayin', understandin' it, it's all easy. Actually doin' somethin' an' not just... feelin' sorry for myself is the hard part." A scoffing laugh left her. "Fightin' off a frost troll seems easier than havin’ t’deal with this sorta shit.” Once again she was chewing on the inside of her lip, thinking to the two separate conversations she’d had the previous night, one completely sober, the other anything but. “Maybe it’s my own fault, y’know. Preservin’ my innocence? More like feedin’ my stupidity.” She paused realizing Sora wouldn’t know what she was talking about. “Somethin’ Gregor said t’me at that party… he’s said if Jaraleet hadn’t told me anythin’ ‘bout his past, t’was ‘cause he was preservin’ my innocence.”

“Respectfully, that’s not his choice to make.” Daro’Vasora replied, perhaps a bit more tersely than she had meant. She sighed, pulling away somewhat. “What I mean to say is it’s not his choice of what innocence is to you, or what he needs to ‘protect’ you from. If he’s not willing to let you in because of that, it’s not because he sees you as a partner, it’s because he sees you as a dependant that needs to be shielded from the big-bad shit he’s done.” the Khajiit said, rolling her jaw.

“You’ve travelled, been in danger. You’ve killed people, for fuck’s sake. You aren’t a child; you have just as much stake in this fight as anyone else. If he wants you to be someone special to him, then he needs to see you as someone he can trust with the burdens he carries, and that you’re strong enough to carry them. It goes both ways; give and take. It’s what I told Latro when he told me he was worried about his own demons coming back to hurt me; he could never hurt me, and if this part of him does, it was my choice to be there for him because he shouldn’t have to face them alone. Jaraleet shouldn’t have hid all of that shit from you, and certainly not with some toothpick-thin reasoning.” Daro’Vasora said.

Nodding rather slowly, Meg couldn’t stop herself from sighing once more. It was hard not to feel as if she was responsible for this situation, though she had to agree with what Daro’Vasora was telling her; as much as the words were hard hitting, she knew they were true. Did she want to live her life always wondering if there were things she didn’t know about her partner, whoever he may be? No, that was an obvious, as Sora had pointed out earlier. If she had been fine with it, then she wouldn’t have been feeling so shitty and conflicted right now.

“Thanks,” she finally murmured, looking to the Khajiit woman. “I mean, for sayin’ all tha’. I dunno wha’ I’mma do… bu’ I needed t’hear tha’ an’ I dunno if anyone else would’ve tol’ me all tha’ y’have. Maybe it ain’ so bad t’be alone for a while more… ain’ like I don’ have friends, righ’?” Even if nothing was to pan out for her, it didn’t mean that she had to lose a friendship, right?

“Well, you aren't alone with me, provided you don't expect there to be kissing.” Daro'Vasora smiled, playfully patting Meg's arm. “You don't need intimacy to give yourself worth in people's eyes. You're someone with a big heart and a lot of courage, it inspires me when I sometimes lose my way.” She admitted.

“So, enough of that. Are you happy to be heading back to Skyrim? Who's waiting for you back there? I never asked about your family before.” Daro'Vasora said.

“T’be honest, I'm kinda worried,” the Nord admitted, her smile from Sora's previous comment lingering for a moment before wavering. “I have my Pa, my step ma an’ my li'l brother, Sylven. I'm sure they're alright…” Her voice trailed to a small pause before she continued onward. “The whole time we were in Gilane, I jus’ couldn’ wait t'head back t'Skyrim, an’ that want was even more in the bloody hot desert… knowin’ the Dwemer are there, guess I'm just scared that wha’ happened in Imperial City happened there too. I dunno if Pa's alright… Sylven's jus’ a kid...” She shrugged. “Guess I shouldn’ worry 'bout that's jus’ yet though. We gotta get t'Skyrim first.”

Daro'Vasora nodded, her features resigned. “I'm not going to pretend like everything is going to be okay. But thing is, this whole mess is on us and if we can't protect the ones we love, we sure as shit are going to avenge them. You just can't worry about what you're going to find when we haven't even reached there yet.

“My sister was coming to visit me, a couple weeks after the expedition. I pray to S'rendarr she wasn't on the road when the invasion hit, that she was still in Leyawiin when the news reached her. There hasn't been a day I haven't thought about her, and I'm worried if I think of her and Roux and Zegol at the same time, she shared their fate.” She shook her head, barking a rueful laugh. “What a stupid, irrational thought, right?”

Meg shook her head. “Maybe, but I can get ya. So much has happened, ain’ a surprise t'just end up paranoid an’ think anythin’ can cause somethin’ or other.” There was a small frown on her face as she thought of the various misfortunes that had fallen upon the group since they had first met on the expedition. And with that, she ended up smiling. “I guess we jus’ gotta remember the good stuff too.” She nudged Sora gently. “Like you findin’ yerself a lover, eh?” She allowed herself a cheeky grin before continuing. “An’ so much more… guess sometimes it's hard t'remember, but maybe that's just means we gotta try hard to.”

“Daro'Vasora, finder of relics and men with exceptionally peculiar standards. Lucky me.” She smiled somewhat bashfully. “We're going to look back at all of this as some grand adventure, I'm sure. But Meg? I've been thinking about this whole thing for weeks now and I don't know if it helps, but I have a suspicion the Dwemer massed for a massive attack on Cyrodiil because they knew it was the capital. Nobody heard any rumours or had any idea what was going on, right? It was a big shock. But that's what doesn't add up; if they came from the North, if they invaded Skyrim first, there would have been refugees, messengers, the Legion, all of that. Why wasn't there any?” She asked, looking to Meg to see if she could come to the same conclusion.

"Huh..." Unable to help herself, Meg brought a finger to her mouth, chewing at the tip as she thought over Sora's question. "That's... That's bloody strange. Nords wouldn've just let a buncha mer walk all over 'em... there shoulda been a whole lotta noise... Gods knows Ulfric knew how t'make people regret bein' in Skyrim..." She blinked, thoroughly confused. "D'you think they were subdued somehow? Or maybe they joined forces with the dwemer." Both seemed unlikely to her, truth be told.

The Khajiit smiled. “Well, if I had a fancy airship armada that can fly over mountains and make trips in hours that would take a marching army weeks, why wouldn’t I bypass a bunch of rustic stone cities with no strategic value and instead go to rip out the throat of my enemy? If I know that the Imperial City was the center of everything, the crown jewel of Tamriel, somewhere I could stage and protect my fleet that can reach all corners of the continent from the most easily defended city of all, why not surprise my enemy and take it when they aren’t expecting it? It would be a lot easier to topple such a prize if you take initiative than to slowly work your way slowly hold by hold.

“With the Dwemer, we can’t think like a traditional army; they don’t have to worry about chokepoints or passes or leaving cities unchallenged. They can go wherever they want and nobody can do a damn thing to stop them from doing it. So with that in mind, I think there’s a good chance that most of Skyrim’s avoided the worst of this invasion and at worst, they probably had time to react to what they saw and plan ahead. Your people are Nords; give you a day, and you can turn your dining room into a barracks. Give your people a week, and your dinner table just turned into a battering ram. Give it a month and your entire house is now a siege tower. Never before has there been a people more enthusiastic for a good war.” the Khajiit grinned at Meg.

Meg's finger dropped from her mouth as easily as it had found its way in, landing in her lap as she gaped at Sora. "Huh!" She blinked a few times before shaking her head in bewilderment. "I didn' even... I didn' even think of that. Of course... that makes a whole lotta sense! They could've just flown over like dragons an' headed to wherever they wanted... and in the meantime, givin' Skyrim the chance t'prepare, jus' in case."

She breathed out, feeling a sudden spark in her light up once more, one she had thought had been diminished for good the night before. "Pa, Marne, Sylven... could be they're doin' alright then." She looked to Sora and spontaneously clasped the Khajiit woman's hands, hope seeming to light up her eyes despite the dark marks around them. "Thanks, Sora. For everythin'. The scarf, yer words, an' all the rest." Her grip tightened. “Yer a true leader, an y’can count on me t’follow ya ‘til the end.”

Daro’Vasora smiled slightly, squeezing Megana’s hands back. “And here I was coming to thank you for saving me and all of that, but I suppose we both have things to be thankful for. I promise that whatever this end is, I’m going to do everything I can to get us home safe. You better introduce me to your family if we find them, alright? You’ve got a pretty new scarf to show them.”

Meg let out a chuckle at that. "Pa's gonna be wonderin' what's gotten t'my head, wearin' pretty things; he's used t'seein' me dressed up like a boy since I was just a li'l kid. Still..." She lowered her head a little so that her nose was pressed against the scarf, hiding her lips though the smile could still be seen in her eyes. "I love this an' I'mma treasure it. An' I'm sure Pa'll be happy t'meet ya. Sylven will for sure." She hoped anyway, she had plenty of stories to entertain her family with about the motley group she had spent time with.

“Take it from me; you can still be rough and tumble without losing feminine charm.” Daro’Vasora said, patting Meg’s thigh as she stood up. “I never thought you looked like a boy, just practical.” She reassured her friend with a warm smile. Her gaze turned to the tent’s opening. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, we have a long journey ahead of us. But if you need to talk to someone who isn’t an emotionally stunted murder-lizard, I’ve always got time and two very large ears.” the Khajiit said, rolling her shoulders back and cracking her neck. She began to leave the tent before turning back one last time. “The green, it suits you. I look forward to seeing you somewhere that feels like home.” she said, and soon, she was gone back into the tent city.

Meg watched Daro’Vasora leave before returning to her previous task of putting away her clothes. Looking to the bottles, she blinked before deciding to hand them off to the Imperial Redguard pirate, who seemed to have a thing for storing water in them.

The scarf remained loosely wrapped around her, a reminder of good things, past, present, and future.

Dervish's Guide to GMing

@GreenieIt is my genuine pleasure, and you best let me know how it goes when you try again!

Dervish's Guide to GMing

@Gcold no u ;D