"You may slight my deeds, my honor, my abilities, I don't care. But I warn you now cat, if I hear you sully the memory of those who have fallen or their allies again, I will rip that poisonous tongue from your pompous mouth."

	No they were not children, with their arguing and their ‘I’m far more braver than he or she is’. They were beasts. Provide the slightest stimulus between them, show that there wasn’t a clearly defined chain of command, and they’d turn on each other, snarling and snapping. It was like a pack of dogs fighting in an alleyway. Ignore the fact that every ounce of energy wasted over such trifling matters brought them further away from their goals and closer into the hands of the Dwemer forces, there was a manhood to be measured. 

	Zaveed, that was the name he kept hearing. One of the heroes of Tamriel, if memory served. He had clearly been the one to lead this group in the past, and judging by how they had so easily fallen apart, he must have been either an intimidating figure, or a silver tongued bastard. Only one who could inspire a mountain of fear, or respect, could have kept that bunch of savages in line. 

	The pile of scales threw the staff over his shoulder and left the tower, allowing his last words to settle over them. [i]‘if you choose to put your faith in Miss Perfect, don't be surprised to find a dagger in your back when you needed her’[/i].

	The orc female was up in a moment. She cleared the tower in little time and was out in the storm before Valsiore could understand what had happened. The orc marched through the rain and mud until she was only a few paces behind Blade. She screamed at him, her voice cutting through the storm and clearly heard back at the tower. 

	Then there was a punch, and Valsiore became aware that it was entirely possible for someone in the tower to die that night. 

	As exciting as it would have been to watch two barbarians slug at each other until one was but a pile of flesh and broken bone, it would not have been good for their group. The two of them were each a mountain of muscle, and were too valuable to lose on their trip to Falkreath. 

	The Altmer placed his bowl to the side and stood up, dusting off a bit of dirt that had accumulated upon his clothes. He threw his hood upon his head and made his way out of the tower, boots squelching as they splashed into deep puddles that had accumulated on the ramp out of the tower. 

	His feet had not taken two steps out of the tower before he entered an entirely new world. Without the sturdy walls of the half-ruined building, he was tormented by sharp, cold winds that immediately set about peeling his skin from his face. Rain pelted him, causing dark splotches to appear across his robes. He had gone from a warm fire and comfortable bedroll to a freezing shithole in less than two steps. 

	Immediately he was angry. Angry that the bastards for forcing him out into the cold. Angry that he was in the middle of nowhere. Angry that he was about to embark on another journey across Skyrim. Angry that everything he had known was now burnt by some group of mer. Angry that that his soup was getting cold. 
Once he had closed in on the two animals, he held out his hands and placed them upon their bodies. Damn asking for permission, he had neither the time nor the inclination, if they were going to act like dogs, he would treat them like such. He willed them to be calm, and a warmth spread to his palms as he cast the spell, attempting to soothe their anger and still their nerves. 

	“We are a very, very long way from Falkreath,” he growled, “with a thousand Dwemer and their assorted war machines between us. I have not the slightest problem with one of you killing the other or fighting over who gets to lead who, but to do it here is foolish.” He urged the spell to grow, trying to force down the flames of rage that he could feel inside the two of them. 

	“The best you can accomplish is to wound the other, and that leaves us with a body that we will have to care for and that will drastically slow us down. At worst both of you die, and we are without two swords that could help us against any dwemer we run across.” 

	He looked the orc in the eye, “How long do you think we will last if we’re carrying the wounded? How long before a dwemer patrol stops us and realizes we’re travelling with the bloody [i] Heroes of Tamriel[/i]? How long before we’re strapped on tables with an interrogator between our ribs? I’ve been at that table, and I assure you it is not a place you want to be.