The light from the fire cast Blade's face in stark relief as shadows flickered across his predatory features, marked with fresh scars, pale against the black scales. Though his imprisonment at Razlinc's arena had been short, a few days at most, it was also brutal. The argonian was sitting on a piece of rubble while he reminisced on the events that had transpired, his sheathed greatsword resting against his shoulder with the tip in the ground.
The dwarven Govenor had done her best to break him before the crowds of onlookers, pitting him against overwhelming odds and allies alike. Yet despite his injuries, he'd cut down her champions, bloodthirsty criminals used as executioners to slay political prisoners and anyone else who otherwise needed to be made an example of. And though he'd been forced to kill allies of the rebellion as well, there was no malice in the act. They all knew that if they didn't lay their blades into each other, then Razlinc would order the dwemer war machines to do it instead, and none of them would survive. So they fought each other, but did so with honor, hoping that whoever survived would find a way, some way, any way, to avenge the deaths of the others. No I'll will was harbored for those who made it out of the ring alive. It was a lose-lose situation for everybody.
Blade's eye twitched as images of blood soaked sand churned beneath the feet of desperate men as they fought for survival and for the entertainment of their dwemer captors. Screams of fury and cries of agony clashing with the sounds of cheering. He stared blankly into the flames as the words of Razlinc's best fighter/executioner -a brute of an orc who had been convicted of a score of murders- gasped out his final words as his guts spilled from his severed stomach. You would think to judge me, but I know what you really are. I can see it in your eyes. You're just. Like. Me. The orc went laughing to his death as Blade cut his head from his shoulders. The other prisoners praised him for killing the one who had taken the lives of so many of their friends. It was one small victory for people who had no hope.
These things troubled the stoic argonian. The orc was right of course, Blade had no illusions of being anything other than a killer. A monster with just enough self control to be able to direct his fury upon those who deserved it. There was no shortage of those now, in the midst of a war. But what about when the war ended? Before the dwemer attacked he'd been lucky enough to find a small refuge where murder was legal, but people would have no use for an arena whenever the war ended, having grown tired of the constant bloodshed.
And so it baffled Blade that, yet again, he found his fame as a symbol of the resistance growing. He was no leader. He wasn't a brilliant tactician who directed troops to victory. He was just better than most at ending the lives of others. Surviving fights the would crush any other man or mer. But people keep latching onto this for some reason, making him out to be some hero. That image only grew when the insurgency managed to break into Razlinc's palace and free the prisoners in the process. Unlike the other captives who were lead away to escape through the entrance, Blade commandeered weapons from fallen guards and joined the attempt on Razlinc's life, killing one of several officers found by the insurgents himself. His allies seemed to think he was doing these things for them. That he had some stake in their resistance. Would they be so welcoming if they knew it was all for personal gain? That it was just to sate his bloodlust and hunger for vengeance?
Speaking of which, Blade was none too thrilled to be back in Skyrim. A weight had slowly been building on his shoulders as he and his companions neared the tundra of his old home. Now memories of the past haunted him more than ever, making him even more irritable than usual, no small feat. The coals of hatred within his breast, which had lost some of their heat over the years, were burning hot again, ready to flare up in an instant. These dwemer bastards represented an evil all to familiar to him, and he'd have their blood on his steel soon.
Blade's slit pupils looked up from the fire as the new khajiit woman made her opinion known. Something about the way she said it rubbed his scales the wrong way, a certain measure of certainty that he took for arrogance. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. As if the group should just take her word for it. She may be Zaveed's sister but she was still a new comer and he didn't trust her. But then again, she favored plate armor and a greatsword, how bad could she be?
The others didn't seem to sense what he had and agreed with Marassa. Despite his misgivings about her attitude, Blade couldn't deny that the suggestion was logical. But after a month, he'd grown tired of running. "I don't care what we do as long as it means we can take the offensive soon," he growled. "The longer we fight the dwemer with our feet instead of our swords, the more land they take and the more entrenched they become. There are only so many places we can go before you run out of holes to hide in."