[centre][b]Bruma City Square [/centre][/b]

The priest of Arkay took Vorenus off guard, he turned with his hand firmly on his pommel. He had no intention of drawing his weapon, it was just a habit brought on by nerves. He could not say much to the priest without first informing the count himself, there were formalities that had to be followed and Vorenus had no intention of causing offense on their first encounter.

However, the longer Vorenus stood still the more of a crowd gathered around him. There was some mumbling, and the crowd stood on the brink of a crevice between panic and despair. He swallowed his fear and approached the priest outside the chapel. 

"You are a priest of Arkay, no?" He asked the question he already knew. "Come with me, chaplain. It is best you learn of this."

In times of crisis men of faith were in their prime. When the news washed over Bruma of the hardships ahead people would fall prey to their vices: Alcohol, skooma, whoring and religion. If that failed people would turn to violence, it was crucial they did not collapse upon themselves within these walls. Cyrodil did not need a peasant revolt on top of everything else.

He walked forwards, taking long strides up towards the castle. His fingers still rested on the pommel of his sword, intimidating enough that the guards of Bruma Castle pulled open the portcullis of the castle gates and led him inside. 

The castle was warm, and the torches were lit brightly. It did not take long for a servant to emerge and offer a glass of wine, and soon the count was before him, surrounded by his guards and dressed in his evening wear.

"You must be Torrhen's son. You have the look of him," Count Carvain said. "Although, he does not usually give me the gift of hundreds of mouths to feed,"

"I apologize for arriving with such a burden, Carvain." Vorenus spoke with strength he did not feel. He took a sip of wine, feeling the bitterness on his tongue. 

"The Imperial city has fallen then?" He guessed, as he paced the room. His eyes stared upon his family crest. "Thalmor?"

"No, a different enemy. Something that Tamriel has never seen before," He continued to tell him and the Priest of Arkay everything. How the city was burning black, and the creatures that had fell from the sky, how The White Tower was inaccessible, and how the dead rose up again as enemies. The Count listened without speaking. He was old, aged past his sixties if Vorenus was to take a guess, his hair was long and grey and his eyes green.

"And the Empire?"

"We could not reach him," He couldn't hide the quiver in his voice this time. "It was--"

"It is done," Carvain broke in. "I will take in your army, and send word north to your father. The refugees however must move on. It is always winter in these mountains of Bruma, and the harvest is limited. They must not stay here."