[center][b]Ana Stormcaller, Inside Bruma[/b][/center]

The purple-grey robes of a master magician blocked out most of Bruma's cold from Ana. None of her body, save for her neck and the lower part of her face, could be seen beneath the mass of fabric. Slung to her hip was a sword of Nordic make, just above a satchel that jingled and jangled with coins. It'd been a week since she'd gotten into the city, mostly on the fact that she wasn't part of the refugee rabble coming in from the south. As the days wore on and more and more civilians fleeing the terror in the south, she could only feel more and more pity for them. But, alone, there was nothing she could do for them. She wasn't rich, nor influential. She'd force Bruma's doors open if she didn't think it would just lead to the city falling into chaos.

It was on that day that she was ready to head south to the Imperial City and join up with one of the Legions. The Dominion, the Thalmor, whatever those damn elves wanted to call themselves, they'd pushed too far, cost too many humans their lives. And she was going to make sure that they knew the fear that the Stormcloak rebels knew. She might be older, but that only meant that her magic would be far more honed and deadly. The elves wouldn't know what hit them.

But it seemed that it was not to be, at least not for right now. As she headed towards the gate, ready to leave the northern cold for good, the massive doors opened wide. In came a procession of soldiers, legionnaires, lead by whom she presumed was the legate. Her eyes narrowed. What was a Legion doing this far north, when the Empire needed them down south? Deep inside, a burning anger was forming, but she suppressed it. She came to make nice with the legion and join back up, not insult their commander for heading in the wrong direction. If nothing else, it saved her the trouble of having to go to the Imperial City first.

As she headed towards the throng of soldiers and the occasional stray refugee that had managed to smuggle himself in with them, she could hear someone ask what was going on. An apt question, but for the moment, not appropriate to ask. Though, it did make her look closely. The men were tired, dreary, and looked like they'd seen the face of Dagon and lived to tell about it, but were not pleased with what they'd seen. Something bad had happened, worse than the elves. Or the elves had summoned up something great and terrible.

Sparks jumped around her fingers, a sign that she was becoming agitated. She hated playing the waiting game, but for now she'd need to just sit tight and wait for an opening to get in close to the man leading the soldiers. So, she merely followed up beside the soldiers, near the head of the procession, keeping a keen ear ready to listen to any bits of conversation to be had.