RolePlayerGuilt — Roleplayer Guild

"A pleasure to meet you, master Gawain." Ariane replied. Her pleasantries came only as force of habit. In truth, she was feeling anything but pleasant. The same disruption felt earlier returned when her hand made contact with that of Marcel's, and at the same time, her amulet lit up bright in her pocket, quickly pushing magicka through whatever obstacle surrounded Marcel. On the opposite end, Marcel would suddenly feel light-head for an instant as his vision quickly flickered.

"Are you-" Ariane withdrew her hand and cocked her head at this polite, but definitely peculiar man.

"He is a just a guest." Faralda cut her off. "You should see him to safety, for we do not want innocents to suffer as we do." From her tone and expression, and plain expression not bothered to be hid, Faralda was absolutely more concerned removing Marcel than worrying for his well-being. 

Nodding her head, Ariane stood up and looked over the rescuers in the hall. Majority of their supplies are soundly transported to the Hall of Elements. The EEC and thane's sailors carried up the final crates trailing behind the mercenaries. Those rescuing with the medical knowledge have already applied limited treatments and help the better-off patients to their feet. Everyone worked with a sense of urgency. Why would they not? The howling blizzard only hastened their tasks.

"We shall depart now; it seems like the supplies have been loaded." Ariane said to Faralda. The Altmer sorceress stood wobbling, blinking at the crates of food, clothing and tools that she desperately needed. Already, Colette was busying herself extracting the medicine. The supplies supposed to last weeks, but there was no telling how much longer such climate could be staved off. "We will return for you, I promise." Ariane clasped her hands over Faralda's. She raised her head upward to meet the Altmer's eyes, letting out a rare tinge of empathy in her words. "Stay strong."

Faralda said nothing, and it only made sense seeing how empty Ariane's promise seemed against their odds. Bidding their goodbyes, Ariane made for the door, where Farid entered with the last crate. "Walk with me." She told Marcel. "I never expected so many of my kin, Bretons, to be at such distance from High Rock. What drove you to this college, master Gawain?"

Speaking of Marcel, Farid's reaction to the Breton man was one of surprise. "Hold on, you were the one outside." The Redguard remarked as he entered.

"We'll introduce later." Ariane dismissed. "Do you have everything up?"

"Last one here," Farid pointed to the crate, "ten wool blankets." He ran his fingers through the topmost blanket. "We never got anything this good in the Reach, or Windhelm, or on the ship, for that matter. Damn shame I can't keep one for myself." 

One burly Nord followed from behind Farid. He was clearly panting and sweating as the result of so much lifting. "Fontaine," the sailor managed between gasps of breath, "we can probably do up to twice the mages as our own." Motioned the Nord. "One or two per person; we can't afford taking anyone who can't stand up." He was right by all accounts; icy cliffs and shaky ladders make horrible combinations with stretchers.

Soon, the mercenaries gathered and Ariane informed everyone to prepare for the trip back. As planned, everyone took one or two mages with them. Marcel Gawain went with Ariane, and Farid supported a pair of Nords, brother and sister on their way down. The brother had bandages wrapped around one eye, the aftermath of a glass shard puncturing what had formerly been seeing. He was a little younger, but the face bore an uncanny resemblance to Dumhuvud. The way down was quiet, though probably none paid attention to it, there were several more piles of magic dust scattered throughout. According to the sailors, they had branched out and cleared out adjacent tunnels of anomalies. They also found strange altars, shrines and even doors holding matters best left unmentioned. One sailor even claimed she spoke to an "Augur of Dunlain", who told her the calamities originated from the east. 

Having only one ladder made the descend awkward. Most that climbed up climbed down. Thanks to Farid's belaying system, the sheer ice surface was made much more traversable. The ladder was carried down once the mages made it passed the trapdoor drop, and was fortunately no more than a few step shorter than the cave heights. By and large, the mages were not comfortable going this hidden way. Some had superstitions (justifiable to some degrees) about the Midden, but starving out more than a week was motivating enough for most to brave the danger to reach a warm bowl of stew somewhere. 

Shepherding the boats was Keegan, an Altmer drenched in hail and shivering non-stop. According to him and the few that remained below, they made one trip transporting the nearly-drowned EEC employee and supplies unsuitable for the rescue. The process was so harrowing that it left Keegan bunched up fetal position, and even hardened sailors didn't laugh at him. The way to the ships would be dangerous processes. Docking to far was obvious foolish, but so was docking close to the college foundation, because one strong wave would sent the ships straight into rocky formations. So the recall, several minutes of life-or-death rowing, continued three times for most boats. The mages were told to empty anything beside the bare essentials; it was amazing how someone tried to migrate an entire alchemy lab in their packs. In the end, the vast majority made it to the ships safe and sound. Well, one person actually lost balance and dragged another into the waves. For all intents and purposes, a total of three casualties was rather tame.

"Thank the gods." Someone prayed to the skies.

Unknown coast, Skyrim

2350, Sun's Height 15, 4E 205

Against terrible men and beasts, one often forgot the might of the earthbones. One and a half days tumbling on treacherous crests and troughs, a day and a half of restlessness. The mighty warriors that once faced down snow demons and lived felt powerless at sea. At least you could run from Kamals. But on the seas? No one was going anywhere. The storm never relented as time and distance came to pass. Perhaps EEC Nibenay Onyx was smart to head east for Blacklight instead west following the storm. The East Empire captain disregarded the warning about possible Kamal fleets, and wagered his passengers' safety on a far north detour. For the Nordic ships, the Courtesan and the Steelhead kept barely out of collision range. Very often would one ship vanish from the other, but minutes later, they would find each other again. Near midnight of the second day, any false sense of security would be rendered moot.

The Courtesan was following the Steelhead at three quarter past eleven, both staying in shallow waters close to the shoreline. Their voyage was choppy, having either lagged behind a planned safe cove or overtaking by accident. As one giant thunderbolt seared against the water ahead, tall waves rolled above Captain Atgeir's ship. The Courtesan canted nearly forty-five degrees port side, almost flipping over. When the wave cleared, the Steelhead was nowhere in sight. Now, this happened enough time during the day to not warrant distress. However, the pitch darkness did nothing to calm tired and on-edge nerves. But what came as a shock to everyone was a sudden impact against the port side. There was a sharp jolt and the splatter of water through wood; the vessel was hit. Looking past the gunwales, a sailor discovered that either a reef or an iceberg penetrated the hull. 

"Everyone up!" Someone ran through the cabin, thankfully compartmented and not leaking. But the adjacent area was already swamped up near knee height. An oval hole with circumference over an arm's length pumped water into the lower decks. Desperate mates tried to nail down wooden planks or throw out water with buckets, but nothing was having an effect. 

"Listen!" The door swung open to reveal one of the ship officers. "We lost controls. Prepare to abandon ship!"

Abandon ship, why? For starters, the rudder was not responding. Which meant it was jammed or destroyed. Jam was the likely suspect, due the stern being pretty much undamaged and the wheel did not turn at all, rather than turning with no results. So the object earlier must have been a reef, though it wouldn't be impossible to be tangled in ice as well. Anyhow, the best hope now were the two dinghies. But wait, each dinghy could carry an optimal six people, with the possibility of eight or nine if they're stretched to the limit. This sounded just right when leaving Dawnstar, except that the Courtesan had taken the pair from the coast and a dozen mages from the college. That's twice the amount both boats can carry, and the mages, well-versed in arithmetic, were quick to figure out the odds. So eight or nine mages made a beeline for the nearest dinghy, settling down before the sailors got their bearings and cut themselves loose. There was one problem; zero out of the nine had nautical training. As soon the dinghy hit the sea, it was caught by a wave and tossed over more times than they could count. Everyone that rushed onto the lifeboat drowned in no time. In essence, all the hard work rescuing was gone in a heated, stupid decision. 

One boat left, fifteen-plus still stranded. By some bizarre miracle, the rudder finally responded. They were moving, albeit slowly, wavering and taking in water. The Courtesan leaned heavily to the left, and it was uncertain it could be steered or not. At that moment, a break in the rocky coastlines could be seen in distance. The water here was shallow enough to row the boat there, provided proper launch and rowing procedures are observed. Jumping ship was a safer bet versus staying on, the officers agreed, no matter how slim the window was, eight or nine people are better off rowing.

Orakh reached the second boat first. Leaning on his shoulder was Trius, who barely recovered from his allergy in that he could stand and face didn't puff like a ripe watermelon. "You're going! Come on, we need handy folks guiding the ship in, and you ain't no working shape." Orakh informed his Dunmer friend and lifted him into the Dinghy. 

"What about you?" Trius shouted as loud as his puffed up throat allowed.

"Staying with the cap'n!" Orakh shouted back. He put his arm up to cover against a harsh ice wind, but what landed on him was warm and foul smelling. Keegan Vasque stumbled to him and proceeded to vomit all over the Orc.

"S-sorry!" Came Keegan's meager apology; he looked like a dead man walking.

"Alright, you too, golden boy." Orakh lifted Keegan to Trius' side. "You owe me a new shirt!"

Next came Dumhuvud, despite looking rancorous as always, he didn't even bother fighting for the boat. "Fill the boat the up and give me a hand down here." The Cat-Kicker commanded. "We'd get more done than half of these vegetables combined. You're not letting me down again, are you?"

Orakh tightened his grip on the railing. His blood boiled hearing Dumhuvud, but deep inside, he knew the Cat-Kicker was handling this as well as he could. For a flash, the faces of those he left behind during his time in the stronghold flooded back. No, he would not leave his people, friends or strangers, behind again. This was the promise the elder Orc made to Malacath, and if it meant drowning, well, that would be the blood price he pays. "Come on!" He waved to Kattun and R'ihanna. Only R'ihanna was leaving; Kattun decided to remain behind.
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Suffering for Mahz's Sins

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