RolePlayerGuilt

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

I live on the west coast.

Docs here prescribe weed for dankness deficiency.

Though I prefer a strong dose of memes over anything else.

Projection

Projection

"I have arranged the funds." Schwarz answered. Opening a suitcase at his feet, he took out a bundle of cash. "Adina will accompany you for any required purchases, I'm sure she'll help you find whatever you need." Indeed, as Stephan Burkhart and Eshref Nafiz had left, Schwarz's secretary would stick by Evelyn Grey until they boarded the train.

In the mean time, Stephan hustled back to his apartment and packed up his belongings. Besides the basic clothing and mission equipment, he had taken to buying a Spanish phrase book. Didn't seem like anyone in his group spoke Spanish, and it could be trouble while in transit. If everything goes according to plan, then all they have to do is present Schwarz's slip to an auto garage. Of course, no mission ever went through like that. It was with this thought in mind that Stephan begrudgingly left any German literature behind. He had heard of an agent being executed solely for possessing a German book. Thankfully, he bought the English edition of Solveig while abroad, which was originally to keep his reading sharp. Another novel of the series, Jorwen the Red Bear, was also with him in the English publication (there wasn't a German translation yet). Thirty minutes was enough of a window to finish the next chapter of Solveig, and suffice to say, Stephan's all worked up in anticipation of the shield-maiden reacting to her boyfriend's gift.

Suppose he'll have ample time for reading on the train. Arriving at station approximately 2:30 PM, the train left at 3. It was a Swiss sleeping coach, replacing the more luxurious French lines prior to 1914. He had to share a cabin with Eshref Nafiz, a double bunk and drawers separated from the walkway by only a sliding door. Similar arrangement was made for Adina and Evelyn. Schwarz, being the slick bastard he was, had his own first class room.

They spent the first night gathered around a reserved dinner table, rehashing critical steps of the plan. Being in Austrian, and later in German-speaking Swiss territories, they were able to converse in German without arousing suspicion. Of course, speaking his native tongue was easy since Stephan's birth. Adina talked with an ever present Hungarian accent, sometimes over-correcting herself to sound Austrian. The English woman spoke with surprising fluency, albeit Berlin rather than Vienna. The Turkish mustache man, who could technically understood the fine details, wasn't so fast on the slangs; it seemed like Mr. Nafiz spent considerable efforts studying, but not immersing, in the language.

Because pulling out guns and gas masks around dinning was considered rude, Schwarz took several demonstrations to his private cabin. Somehow, Stephan found himself in wider space with four others in Schwarz's room, than being stuck with Eshref Nafiz in his bunk hole. The first thing to double check were guns. Stephan really did not need to explain his standard intelligence issued kit, and when he did, he told the others that his Frommer Stop took 9mm cartridges. Going through Evelyn Grey's revolver, Schwarz wasn't particularly impressed with it's lack of modernness, but relented on a classic German production. Finaly, there was Nafiz's vintage gun bag.

"Martini-Henry?" The handler raised his eyebrows. "How did you even find a cut-down rust-bucket like that? And tell me you brought the ammo, because our man in the field sure won't have any."

Another concern brought up was driving. Eshref, again, got the short stick from Schwarz. He shook his head hearing the Turk never having significant motor vehicle operations during all of his army career. In his defense, Stephan knew the Ottoman forces never got motorized in the first place. Heck, even the Germans and Brits, the industrial leaders of Europe, couldn't weaponize land vehicles until that monstrous tank thing rolled onto the Somme. At this point, Schwarz's "well, that's unfortunate" felt more like putting down Nafiz than anything constructive. Maybe their boss felt his stubby goatees were under threat against some fine Turkish fur.

So it was decided that Evelyn, who actually drove rickety ambulances through war zones, should take the wheel on this one. This was not wise to Stephan. Seriously, who would let an ex-British subject control their own means of transportation? "Sir," Stephan raised his hand, "I can take over if the lady doesn't wish to." He did not want to look at Evelyn while saying that, so Stephan kept his eyes trained on Schwarz.

"I think the lady will be fine." Schwarz dismissed. "Is that right, Miss Grey?"

Third topic was secrecy. For the sake of not attracting attention, everyone was to speak strictly English once they exit Switzerland. Hahn Schwarz did half of his briefing in English just to drive the point home. Stephan had to give Schwarz his due. For all his outward unpleasantness, he managed a fine Southern US accent when it counted. "When won't you accompany us?" Stephan asked, feeling like he was the only one with a modicum of curiosity. "You know, sir, you'd have no problem talking your way through anything."

"Well," Schwarz started, then he paused. "Someone got to anchor the operation. I need to be there, Switzerland," he pointed to the snow-peaked Alps basked in dusk light, "to monitor important channels." Turning to tug down the blinds, Schwarz pulled out a small bottle of golden liquor from his drawer. Damn bastard didn't even bother to share; Stephan liked to imagine Mr. Handler was drinking hot urine.

"You don't need to worry about me." Schwarz resumed after a long drag. "What you do need to worry about, however, is sending the proper telegram." A code book was passed over by Adina. "This is the address and the channel is here." Their handler marked one particular page. "These are the cipher; never send me anything unencrypted. Mr. Burkhart; see to it." Of course, the book was given to the man with actual number crunching capabilities.

"And one last thing," Schwarz reminded. From his coat pocket came a sleek, gilded business card.

"Gunther Ansel?"

"Yours truly; auto enthusiast. Also known as Acosta's best friend."

Adina immediately grabbed the agents' attentions upon exiting the briefing. Schwarz was safely locked inside his room, no doubt having the night of his life with that alcohol and some strange squeaky noises. Their Hungarian secretary led them back to the dinning car, where the last round of late snacks were being served. Puzzled by Adina going to the lavatory immediately, Stephan decided to eat first and ask later; no way he could resist fruited biscuits.

When no sign of Adina persisted after two minutes, Burkhart chose to break the awkward silence. "So, nice wea-" He stopped himself mid speech, realizing how painfully mediocre the conversation almost went. "Uh, Miss Grey. Your German was very fluent, for an Irish lady." Stephan played with his biscuit nervously, unwillingly grinding crumbs onto the tablecloth. "Have you lived, perhaps studied in Germany? I have spent time in England, Bath; it was quite a time to travel back then."

Enough time went by just for Evelyn to answer, followed right after by Adina returning to her seat. "Sorry. I had to, you know." She shrugged towards washrooms. "Anyways, listen." She leaned closer into the table. "Mr. Schwarz had been acting furcsa recently. He had been drinking, wondering and exchanging communiques with unknown sources. It was like he changed persons since his brother was killed and his son went missing."

"I'm saying you should only contact him, us, when it is absolutely safe to do so." Adina feigned interest in her tea when a group of drunks slurred danque mêméx past her. "Don't give out precise locations; you've never heard this from anyone."

"So, lady Evelyn." Adina brusquely switched conversations. "Does Ireland still have its own nobility? And you sing? Have heard of Irish Blood, by Ada Jones?" It would be as if the group only ever talked about casual topics.

The first night was uneventful, and so was the second day. By the middle of day two, their trains have transferred over Zurich, which dropped off Hahn Schwarz and Adina Tividar for their grand Swiss telegraph adventure. The agents themselves boarded another Swiss train, a mostly French speaking one, for Toulouse. Now only the three of them, Stephan grumbled at still bunking with the Turk man. Not that he had anything against Eshref, but just the fact that the entire room tend to smell like Anatolian meatsticks all throughout the night.

Within the privacy of their room, Stephan could converse freely in German, which should a blessing for Nafiz as well, given his English was even less effective. Evelyn was also invited to discuss some finer details, which drew questionable stares about why a red-headed noblewoman would enter a narrow cabin with an Austrian midget and the middle eastern meathead. Important topics like the exact route from Seville to Gibraltar was discussed, in addition to rehearsing their roles. Mission-unrelated discussions were had as well. Stephan, for one, cherished the chance to show off his fantasy novels with someone other than senile grandmothers.

"You've got to read Jorwen the Red-Bear!" Stephan recommended the book like a book salesman. "It's just pure action next chapter; mercenaries versus snow demon lackeys! Sevine the Huntress and Marcel the Prude are real delights; I hope they don't perish."

The world outside was far less delightful than luxury trains and escape novels. France was a country at war; it's scenery painted just as such. Despite not traveling through battlegrounds, there splayed visibly derelict farm houses and towns. One ville the train stopped in was like a ghost town. Few frequented the streets, as if they were ghouls in their miseries. The sky was clear blue, yet, the air was anything but clear. As steam cleared from the train engine, a group of limping soldiers stared blankly at the passengers. These men, mostly young under layers of mud and blood, stood from a whole world away; many missed significant pieces of their body.

"I heard there was a great desertion last year," Stephan remarked, "lots of French soldiers gave up and ran away." He wanted to rehash patriotic propaganda; "a complete rout!" or "we showed them!" But looking at the hollow faces staring into oblivion, he could not bring himself to say a single thing.

Trains would change again a day later; now a Spanish carrier with a significantly different flair. During the last night on the French train, Stephan asked about the Sinai and Palestine campaign. In was curious to hear Nafiz describe desert warfare. "How was it possible for this Indian, the Sikh, to kill two targets with one bullet? While jumping off a citadel, spinning and not aiming? Did he actually shout get wrecked as it all happened?" The question was referring to the British-Egyptian newspaper Schwarz read out back in Vienna.

En route to Seville was another neutral country. Unlike Switzerland, Spain had its own woes outside of the war. A fever devastated the country, claiming unseen amounts of lives since the Black Death many centuries ago. Sanitation posters hung everywhere, from public train cars to the stations, it was clear the severity of this flu forced Spanish authorities to take things very seriously. Passengers coughing a little too often were escorted off to quarantine, and those deemed healthy were handed masks to prevent infections. Compared to the military grade gas masks he was issued, Stephan couldn't help but laugh at the flimsy paper.

The agents did not catch any flu, though that didn't prevent them from catching the attention of railroad authorities. A grim cadre of inspectors pinned our agents down in the train. As the flutter of dull coats swept towards him, Stephan was confronted with a sudden urge to seek the urinal. Bottoming out on two cups of orange juice, a bowl of cereal filled milk and a large cup of coffee wasn't the best idea, in hindsight. So when the inspectors begun questioning in a language he had no clue about, Stephan had even less clue as to how he could answer them. Showing them his ticket was apparently insufficient. Digging out the Spanish phrasebook only resulted in it being slapped out of his hands. At that point, Stephan began to fear the people ahead of him were Allied spy hunters. No way they could figure who he was this fast? Or could they? If they have, then they're simply toying with him...

Thankfully, the situation was defused by Grey and Nafiz. Their Spanish was just as non-existent as Stephan's. Yet for some odd reason, a series of gestures, pleads, the occasional threats and the frequent awkward dictionary recital managed to get the agents back on track. Suppose calmer heads tend to break through more often, or at the very least, not having a near-exploding bladder made things a lot easier.

Right on time; Seville appeared towards the end of the second day through Spain. Finding and reaching Acosta's garage was easy, but, Acosta was not there. Running the garage was a woman. Based on her limited English, she was either the wife or cousin of Acosta, or both. In contrast to elaborately dressed clowns fighting bulls, which Stephan saw plenty of posters depicting (and someone actually herding oxen through the streets), good old fashioned "family love" seemed almost normal in this part of Europe. For some reason, it was also normal for the absent Spaniard to spend weeks in Valencia. "Flying", that's what Acosta's cousin-wife told them. She had a brochure to back it up. By the looks of it, Acosta was charting airmail routes to Tunis.

All that mattered was getting the damn car. Showing the business card did not fully convince their contact. Instead, the Spanish woman insisted on some more than generous "tips". Thirty Pounds had to be forked over between the three of them, and she remained reluctant. Enough was enough. Stephan figured she either cough up the vehicle or was a con, or worse, trying to dupe out a money trail for potential foes. Hell, did she even know Schwartz? She said "they friended in potato catching, mountain dew and dog tings"; sounds like she's simply blurting out every English word she could muster

Eventually, Mrs. Acosta(?) handed over the car with Eshref's "persuation". The car was a 1916 Ford Model T, the Tudor sedan model with two rows of seats and a convertible, semi-rigid roof. Riding it to Gibraltar was fast and smooth. To her credit, Ms. Grey was an excellent driver. Though that didn't stop Stephan from requesting the wheel. What was originally concern for his safety and Evelyn's reliability gradually changed to wanting to try out this slick automobile. Cruising through the Spanish countryside brought a sense of thrill, it was the freedom and speed he never experienced while chauffeuring officials through Vienna. As he rolled up his sleeves to feel the refreshing wind on his arms, Stephan made a mental mote to take a road trip when the war is over.

The last night before Gibraltar was spent in a rustic lodge, somewhere in south-western Spain. This village was close enough to their destination that less than three hours of driving remained. On the gala day, the Ford Model T rolled up to Gibraltar checkpoint near noon. They were back to a wartime country. Sandbags, barbed wires, and even a machine gun guarded the road. Khaki clad men filtered foot and vehicular traffic with rifle in hand; a pair of them came alongside Stephan, Eshref and Evelyn.

"Identifications and destination." The soldier ordered.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

No, no.

I guess I wasn't invited. >:[

@Leidenschaft

Someone just got...

...Schafted!

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

@MacabreFox, safe trip.

Collab to your heart's content, and you may want to bring @Leidenschaft too.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Be advised, @Dervish will be assuming direct control over the Kyne's Tear crew until further notice.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Featuring: @Graviloquence@Leidenschaft@POOHEAD189@Peik@MacabreFox@MiddleEarthRoze

---

What had started out as a rather simple pity-party between the Huntress and her bottle of rum, had turned into something more chaotic. For starters, she could have sworn that she hadn’t finished off her rum, and nor had she fallen asleep in the chair, head tossed back with a line of drool leaking out of her mouth. But of course, that was indeed, the truth. She had passed out after finishing three-fourths of the spiced rum, the purpose of which she had used for disinfecting her wounds.

At first, she thought she was dreaming, for the shouting and the ruckus that followed roused her from her sleep, leaving her quite disoriented as her head snapped up to the noise from outside that filled the hall of the inn. Bleary-eyed, Sevine struggled to pull herself together as she noted the panicked look of the fellow that just barged through the inn door. She could tell with some ease, that something was amiss, it still didn’t register in her mind. That wasn’t until she staggered to her feet, wherein a fiery spout of pain shot up from her ankle, and set her knee ablaze.

“Agh! Oblivion be damned!” She hissed, “What in the bloody blazes is going on out there?” She yelled, clutching half her face with one hand. More importantly, where had she put her boots?

Since his early morning didn’t include much sleeping, Keegan caught up on that late morning and afternoon. Now between late afternoon and early evening, Keegan had just finished eating and cleaning himself up. His headache had subsided (though it still faintly lingered), and he had the chance to wash with whatever the inn could supply. However, he could never have been prepared for the sudden cries of battle. Jorwen’s familiar shouts were echoing through walls, and despite how much Keegan have heard of it, he probably won’t ever get used to the old man in his fury. Plus, “knife-ears to trim” doesn’t sound good in knife-ears.

Stumbling out of doorway with his staff in hand, Keegan found Sevine stumbling around a chair. Last time he checked, the Huntress was passed out in that same chair; guess she passed back in too quick for her own good. Wait, was she looking for her boots, and what was that pair of leather right outside Keegan’s room? No wonder rotten feet kept drifting into his sleep.

“Easy, are those yours?” Keegan rushed the boots to Sevine, turning his head away (and wincing) the same time to avoid fetid fumes coming out of them. Did she puke in them or something?

Interrupting, or at least not intentionally, was Fulrog. The heavyset Orc arcane smith (half equipped in a hurry) wanted a peek outside, but as soon as he did that, an arrow flew into his eye socket. He dropped dead instantly, an unmissable thud announcing his Dwemer steel clad body twitching in his own blood.

She had little time to apologize for the nauseating odor radiating out of her boots as she managed to stuff her feet into them. Blood, sweat, mud, and the smell of infection was putrid enough to make any man sick to his stomach. In a split second, she raced into her room, fetched her leathers, and came barreling back out with her axe at her hip.

“Gods, he’s dead!.” Keegan grimaced. He scanned the area for Bharzak, wondering if she still needed help from Fulrog. In his current state, there’s no chance of the old Orc seeing to that. Additionally, the younger Orc could have ran away, and if she did, she better not have done so in relation to the latest threat. “We’re under attack, again. I heard Jorwen shouting outside a moment ago. Also, have you seen the Orc woman from before?”

“Under attack?! Is it the Kamal?” Colour drained from her face at the possibility of the snow demons finding them again, her eyes flickered from the dead orc to the door. “N-no. The last I saw, she was outside getting some fresh air.” She answered, hastily tying her leather armor together. While this would have been an easy process, as she had done so many times before, her right hand slowed the pace, the freshly bandaged muscles in her forearm were aflame. Finally, as she tied the last remaining knot, she looked at the Altmer, and then turned to gaze about the room. Where was Rhasha-Dar, Marcel, Dax and the newcomer, Bharzak?

When Rhasha’Dar awoke from a fitful doze, he assumed he was still asleep; stuck in some kind of nightmare - a panicked mention of Kamal in the distance only strengthened this belief; but as the seconds ticked by, the Khajiit realised with a start that everything was all too real; the screams and clash of fighting; the throbbing pain from his wounds; the fires flickering outside his room’s window. Bolting into an upright position, Rhasha looked around in a panic, losing his head monetarily in a haze of sleep-deprivation and confusion. Clothes were applied hurriedly, so fast that in his rush to get ready and leave the room he did something rather embarrassing for a Khajiit - he tripped over his own tail. Hissing with pain as he hit the floor, Rhasha’s breath seemed to hitch in his throat as his heart pounded. What could this group possibly do, if the Kamal were attacking? This inn was nothing to the stoic city of Windhelm, and that had fallen all too quickly for a place built like a fortress.

Finally having dressed himself, he reached instinctively for the amulet of Azurah he had placed on his bedside table - but then, hesitated before his hand could each touch the pendant. What good would it do? Azurah hadn’t saved him and the others earlier; the quick thinking of his comrades had. She certainly hadn’t done anything for poor Daelin either. Fingers curling into a fist, Rhasha’s jaw set square as he left his room, leaving the amulet behind and glinting in the torchlight.

Finding Sevine and the others by the door, Rhasha felt slightly guilty upon looking at his friend; in the desperation of saving the Bosmer and dealing with his own injuries, Sevine didn’t seem to have received any aid. Letting his spear rest against a nearby table, Rhasha handed her one of the few health potions he had managed to brew. He was far too low on ingredients now - any more potion brewing would have to wait until they re-stocked at Dawnstar. If they got back, that was.

Keegan greeted Rhasha with a curt nod. He wasn’t fond of speaking to the Khajiit, especially after finding out that he was the one ultimately responsible for the crossbow friendly fire.

Sevine was shocked to see Rhasha-Dar up and walking, she remembered that the Khajiit barely had enough energy to heal Daelin, let alone himself. As he neared, she clasped him on the forearm, a sympathetic look in her eyes.

“This one can’t do much for your wounds in the time we have, but he can ease the pain somewhat.” Holding out his hands and readying a healing spell, he glanced at her arm. At least it was bandaged well.

“Save your potions, the rum has much dulled the pain.” She said, passing the bottle back to him. Truly, she wasn't in much pain, save for the stiffness in her limbs.

“Is it the Kamal we are to fight?”

“We’ve yet to learn.” She nodded to the Orc lying dead on the floor, “If it is, we’re no match for them here.”

In truth, Marcel had expected something, not necessarily something like this, but something, for some time now - and frankly, for him, the news of an attack was in a twisted way a relief, even though it had woken it up from his troubled but still blissful sleep, in that he no longer had to be worried about something. He silently cursed his constantly worrying demeanor as the cries about the attack became louder and louder, rubbing his teeth against his upper lip, and began arming himself, quick, but not panicking, in a show of concentrated effort. Even though he acted, and felt, normal, a feeling in his gut told him not to expect this to go well. Upon getting fully dressed, he opened the door, to witness an inn in panic.

Marcel witnessed a half-dressed woman rush to her room as a heavily-armored Orc walked by him, trying to put on his helmet while also trying to get a view of what was actually going on through the inn doors. Marcel decided to go along with the mer, and peeked out alongside the Orc himself. After a 'thud', Marcel decided to warn the Orc that it could be dangerous to keep peeking out of cover like that - and turned to see the Orc twitching on the ground, with an arrow sticking out of his eye.

''Well then,'' Marcel said to himself, deciding to heed his own warning.

---

Meanwhile, the Hunter stalked…

Daixanos too had felt a bit downtrodden for a short time after his fall and failure in the battle against the Pyromancer and the Necromancer, respectfully. His dispatching of a single atronach did little to ease his frustration, but all is as the Hist wills it, and he pushed it far from his mind as soon as he had regained full consciousness and strode out of the cave, merely groggy from the blow to the head.

He had spent little time with the group once they had made it back to the Nightgate Inn, only staying near the fire’s warmth for a short amount of time and eating his share of food, before going out into the wilderness to take some time for himself. The group he was with were decent and hearty folk, but their measure and compassion did not take away his longing for solitude.

He spent no time hunting, though he tracked a rabbit for a short while until he realized he was simply doing so to preoccupy his mind. After a small time, he decided to stay within eyesight of the Inn, but travel to a higher elevation and keep watch with his bow upon his lap, readying himself to accept the sun’s rays when they would first decide to peek over the horizon.

It was not the warmth of the sun that greeted him next, however. But the cries of battle and the clash of violence. The Argonian warrior had not noticed the dark figures of the approaching invaders until they had attacked, but they had not seen him either. He let out a low and guttural growl.

Unfortunately for the Kamal invaders, violence was just as welcome as the sunrise.

---

“Regardless of what happens, we’re going to have get out of here. This inn will become a tinderbox if one of those archers dare looses a flaming arrow.” Sevine commented to the assembled group. “We’ve no time to waste. We don't know who's on the outside, and if our comrades are out there, we have to help them.” Her mind flickered to Jorwen, she hadn't seen him inside the inn, and presumed him to be engaged in the fighting. Perhaps the orc woman was out there with him? And Dax…

“Look, we have three options. We can stay inside like children, or we can join the others. If we join the others, we face a problem. As soon as we open that door, we're likely to end up dead like this bloke by a flurry of arrows. So, we can either charge out, weapons raised, without protection, or, we can form a barricade outside.” While speaking, she moved to one of the smaller tables and began examining it, glancing from the table to the door repeatedly, as if to determine if it would fit through the door. As if satisfied with the answer in her head, she cleared everything from the table top with one mighty sweep of her arm. There she began drag it over to the entrance, where she set it off to the side.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Keegan murmured to himself. “The front door is just where they expect us to go!” He threw his hands up at another one of Sevine’s thoughtless plans. “We should regroup out of the back door,” the Altmer realized there probably wasn’t any, “or windows!”

“Harumph. Well have you got a better plan?” Interjected Sevine, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I'll listen if you do.”

The witch hunter merely watched as the warrior-woman, whose name he remembered as Sevine, explained to them their quandary, rightfully anxious about the situation. She suggested to them that they should charge out, lest that they get burnt down in the inn. He kept quietly observing as she cleared off a table of its contents through an arm swipe, likely seeking to use the table as a shield. Before he could say anything, he heard the Altmer intervene, voicing a valid complaint, and an equally valid suggestion. Mer usually tended to be smarter than Nords - it seemed this instance wasn't an exception.

''Keegan has a point,'' Marcel interrupted hesitantly. ''A table may protect against arrows, but definitely not against magic.'' He amused the idea of the trio accidentally dropping a flaming table on their own men in a panic in his mind for a moment, then came back to more sensible ground. Yanking the collars of his greatcoat away from his neck to stop the constant static charge from growing further, he looked again at the dead Orc, then to the rear of the inn.

''Who wishes to lead?'' He asked, brows raised, half in expectation, and half in anxiety.

“I will. I take it, that from us gathered, I'm the one with the most experience.” Sevine nodded, that wasn't a problem with her.

Before jumping from one reckless move to another, Keegan decided on casting a detect life spell to check their surroundings. He found focusing was a bit difficult, with interference from Marcel like he had in Winterhold. Still, the Altmer was able to power through and trace a few lives on the northern side of the inn, where the main road was. Nothing against the southern rooms, or at least, no living things near the wall. He could attempt to map out the distance, but that would require more time to focus; a luxury they did not have.

“This side.” Keegan told Marcel. Approaching talking distance with Marcel was uncomfortable in itself, as the Breton oozed of magical static. “I see, uh, felt a couple of living beings on the opposite side.”

Before proceeding to smash out the windows, Keegan searched for the innkeeper. Destroying someone’s property, even in life-and-death scenarios, could be considered rude. Hadring was nowhere in sight, like because he went to hide in his cellar. It wouldn’t be a bad idea in a normal bandit raid, but with a strong possibility of snow demons, cowering merely prolongs one’s death. The smarter move was running, or at least, that’s how Keegan survived last time around this place. He sent his staff pommel into the nearest window, and upon seeing cracks appear, a follow-up blow took out the tinted glass. He then swept the dwarven steel blades over the window base, which cleared out smaller shards. Even so, the window would be a tight fit for many; himself included.

''I would say 'ladies first', but in this case that would not be very courteous of me,'' Marcel mused as he inspected the small window with suspicion. He wasn't sure if he would fit, but at least, it seemed he had a chance. Plus, he was covered with buff leather well enough to make sure that no stray shard would pinch at his flesh. He didn't want to start bleeding here.

''Shall I?'' Marcel asked the other two, right hand feeling the window frame. He twitched for a moment out of the static caused by the friction, and smelled a hint of charred wood underneath his hand. ''Or would the two of you be interested in leading?'' Or maybe the cat-man would, but Marcel could not see him in his immediate vicinity.

“Allow me.” Sevine gestured, lifting her axe from the leather ties at her hip. With both hands curled around the handle, she stepped forward, axe raised as if it were a wood axe, and gave Marcel plenty of time to step aside. Just then, she swung the axe down. It bit into the frame, splintering from impact. What she didn't anticipate was the pain that shot through her forearm. Grimacing, she repeated the action again, and again. Finally, she had chopped away enough on the window frame that it could accommodate them more appropriately.

“There.” She panted with a grin. With grave caution, she popped her head out the window, checking that the coast was clear. Once discerning that no one had been drawn immediately to the sound of her hacking away at the wooden ledge, she wriggled out, and dropped to the ground on the other side.

---

At this time, a somewhat confused Orsimer mage was attempting to get back to Nightgate Inn, unsure of what exactly was going on—though she was certain that something was off. After Fulrog had removed her tracking collar, she had found herself still full of nervous energy, and, upon leaving the shelter of the inn once more, intended to go on a brief walk around the inn’s grounds. During her nighttime excursion, she came across a nearby pond with a covered pier, deciding to take the time to walk out on it, at this time unaware of the impending peril that would soon reach the area. She spent some time looking passively out across the still, murky water, stars reflecting dimly on its surface as she wondered at what the future might hold, and how she might best prepare for it. While she had been wearing the collar when she reached the inn, she still highly doubted the Kamal would be headed in their direction, and, at that moment, was primarily preoccupied with whether or not she would be trusted enough to join the company that had rescued her from her previous ‘occupation’—or, at the very least, allow her to continue on with them until she reached a place of relative safety.

Of course, that had been before she had heard a rather urgent yell, one that sounded like a call to arms despite the fact she had only caught snippets of what had been said. The individual who had spoken had been far away enough that most of their words had been incomprehensible to her, but the urgency in their voice was clear. Immediately suspicious, Bharzak turned her back on the pond, a hand on the hilt of her axe as she half-jogged back down the pier. They can’t possibly be here, can they? she wondered, guilt flooding her as she jumped to conclusions, Did I actually bring the Kamal here? I wouldn’t have thought they would care that much about a ‘defector’. I need to get back–

She paused, suddenly conflicted as she looked back in the direction of the inn, the slightly wooded hills around her filling the orc with apprehension. Would she even be wanted among the other members of the resistance during this fight—would they automatically assume her to have been a plant and attack her on sight if she returned?

Suddenly disgusted with herself, the mage shook her head slightly, as if trying to purge that question from her thoughts. It’s a risk I’ll take. I can’t leave. It’s not right.

The orsimer jogged with renewed urgency and speed towards Nightgate Inn, almost running, and as she neared her intended destination, it became immediately evident that they were indeed under attack—and she was a rather open, easy target for any well-hidden marksman. No sooner had she thought that, something whizzed past her shoulder, tearing at the fabric of her robes as it passed. Immediately she searched for its origin, and caught a flash of movement as something—someone—disappeared behind the trunk of a particularly large conifer. Bharzak withdrew her axe and moved cautiously towards the tree, holding her weapon in a defensive position as she sought out her attacker, knowing they likely had more weapons than just a bow on their person. As an afterthought, she cast Ironflesh, hopeful this would prove a suitable defense against any more long-ranged attacks from her current adversary.

Upon reaching what she assumed was their hiding place, she quickly moved to apprehend them, coming nearly face-to-face with a surprised looking khajiit, apparently startling him enough to make him freeze up momentarily. This was opportunity enough for the mage to strike, and she lashed out at the archer with her war axe, intending to disable him from continuing to use his bow. He recovered in time to block the blow with his weapon, though the orcish weapon bit into the dry, pliable wood with considerable force, slicing about halfway through its grip. Bharzak attempted to withdraw her weapon from the nearly-ruined bow to strike again, but found it stuck fast, and abandoned it as she realized retrieving it would put her in certain doom. Concern and annoyance filled her as she noticed attacker’s free hand now held a wicked-looking steel-bladed knife, something she’d anticipated he might have but currently had nothing to use to defend herself from it. Seizing his chance, the archer lunged at her, but in that instant the orc came up with a plan, a grim smile crossing her face as she moved to meet him, casting Magelight in his direction.

The sudden, brilliant—almost blinding—light hit the khajiit full in the face, and he dropped the knife with a yelp, his hands flying up to his face. Bharzak almost found herself pitying him, considering khajiit were usually able to see quite well in the dark; the artificial light must’ve been far more unpleasant than she’d expected. She quickly dismissed the thought as she scooped up his weapon from where it had fallen, easily knocking over the disoriented marksman. Now practically on top of him, she moved to stab her opponent in the jugular, noting as she did that he appeared to be a Kamal ‘collaborator’ himself. For a fraction of a second, she wavered, feeling the slightest bit of pity for the individual she was about to kill. But nothing about their fight had hinted at the khajiit particularly wanting to avoid killing for his newfound ‘masters’, and if she did not kill him, there was no doubt in her mind he would not return the favor.

She ended his life as swiftly as she was able, grimacing as hot blood spewed from the wound, coating the blade—and her hands as well. She was quick to stand, ‘sheathing’ the knife in her belt before bending down to retrieve her axe, wanting to be ready should the marksman have any ‘friends’ nearby. Now that she was no longer in the middle of a fight, she was able to break the bow the rest of the way and retrieve her weapon, annoyed by the delay it had caused.

The mage redoubled her speed now that the inn was well in sight, hoping that she had arrived in time to fight off the Kamal—or, at least, their lackeys—with the others. As she rounded the barely visible path back to the inn’s front entrance, she noticed with some dismay that someone clad in dwarven armor lay dead near the door. She practically ran up the steps, identifying the corpse as the enchanter who had helped her just a couple of hours ago that night; Fulrog. Both anger and guilt simmered within her as she cursed herself for not sticking around the inn where clearly everyone capable of fighting was needed, and briefly wondered if more of the inn’s previous occupants had been cut down as well. She stepped through the doorway cautiously, half-anticipating being attacked as soon as she entered.

---

She appeared on scene right as Rhasha’Dar slinked out of the window, graceful in ways only a cat could. Between the Altmer and Marcel, Keegan noticed the intruder first. He leveraged his staff towards the entrance, electricity charging between its blades. Then he saw the familiar robes, the green skin and a face split between anger and guilt. Keegan lowered his staff.

“Bharzak?” He called out. “Get inside! The archers got the entrance lined up!” He paused when the glow of mage armor and the blood stained knife became apparent. In order for the Orc to get through from the outside, and looking like she just lived through a fight, there’s a good chance that she killed their attacker. “You killed them? The archer, or whoever killed Fulrog.” Keegan asked carefully, noting that Fulrog no longer twitched violently as before. At the same time, the Orc was now lying in a sizable blood spill, something no one could avoid coming in or out.

“Oi, Marcel!” Alerting his Breton comrade, Keegan waved him away from the window. “I think the door’s clear.”

While someone else in Marcel's place may have made a comment on the ample rear of Rhasha’Dar trying to wriggle itself from the shredded frame of the window, a man of such upstanding moral quality and prudence such as Marcel would have none of it, and turned his head away as the dirty and wounded Khajiit finally squirmed through. Not wishing to go through the same, and also not wanting to deal any unnecessary damage to his greatcoat, Marcel hesitated for a moment.

In his display of morality, Marcel had completely lost track of his Altmer colleague, and his attention was brought back to him when the illusionist called out his name directly. Quickly turning his head back, he was surprised by the presence of the Orc that they had met in the mines during the job.

''Oh, excellent news, my good man,'' Marcel exclaimed as he pulled his steel sword out of its scabbard in a somewhat showy display, and lowered its tip slightly alongside his head, in a show of courtesy for the newly arrived Orc woman. ''En garde, then,'' he mused as he walked forward with unexpected confidence, although a strong onlooker would be able to see the fingertips of his gloves twitching, like the collar of his outfit.

The three of them then exited the Inn. Greeting them was an enemy with arrow drawn; an enemy fell by the arrow of Daixanos the Hunter.

---

Jorwen was hid behind his shield, his big seax held in a fist, eyes peeking over the rim. The moon cast all around him a ghostly pale where the fire’s light failed to reach. He still had blood on his sleeve, each touch sending a shiver up his arm with the coldness of it. An arrow thumped into his shield and he advanced, a couple newbeards behind him. They happened across a trio of Bosmer clutching a bundle of wet skin and hair he could only imagine were scalps. They stopped to look at each other, the Nord warriors and the Bosmer. The silence broke when the mer leapt at them, one kicked Jorwen’s shield and only recognized his mistake when the big Nord punched out with the boss of his shield. He heard the crack of bone behind his shield and thrice plunged his seax into the mer’s stomach as he howled, leaving him spitting blood and choking as he stepped over him.

As he did so, Sevine and Rhasha came into sight.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

Hmmm, I am a bit confused on where everyone now is atm in the doc, but I am attemtping to get my bearings and make my post. Will Dax's stuff be put back eventually in its spot? I'd rather not one long post for him so it can do a scene switch between the arrows thudding into the Inn, to then Dax stopping them, and then suddenly to all those near the Inn they can notice that there is a temporary lull in archer fire.
I'll write now though and we can figure it out^^. Sorry for that long delay, friends!

@POOHEAD189

So far:

-Keegan, Marcel, Sevine and Rhasha'Dar are pinned down inside the inn. Fulrog was with them but killed by an arrow through the main doorway.
-Bharzak was at the pond when the attack happened. She killed the archer aiming at the inn door on her way back.
-Sevine and Rhasha escapes through a side window. Jorwen sees them after killing an enemy.
-Keegan, Marcel and Bharzak leaves out the main door. An enemy archer attempts to shoot them, but was taken out by Dax.

Edit: posted because the collab is already long enough, at 4600 words.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

EDIT: I also just realized I have no idea how to contribute at this point, as I wasn't available earlier in the week. Is it better to just sit this collab out?

@Graviloquence

For starters, tell us where Bharzak is and what she is doing. After that, tell us what she plans to do and whether or not she will meet up with the rest.

There's two groups at Nightgate. Jorwen and Dax are battling Kamal collaborators outside, while Keegan, Marcel, Sevine and Rhasha'Dar are trying to avoid being trapped inside the inn. Oh, and Fulgrog is dead right besides the door, which may be something Bharzak wants to react to.

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 1 (Completed)

<Snipped quote by gcold>

sir yes sir

@Peik

Who gave you permission to shit post, private?