Helgathe’s main arteries pulsed with a ferocious, all-consuming beam of gold that ploughed through debris until only red remained behind it. Those untouched by the rebellious streak swore to never goad their oppressors so openly, as theirs was a brand of vengeance both chaotic and thorough. Peasants were counted among the slain, five for every rebel struck down, and luck certainly deserted those who missed the window of retreat. Joined by a large Nord toting an unconscious Breton, Thyra, Qara’Sion, and his pack narrowly escaped the Dwemer barrage as it began laying into the square. They moved swiftly and without the degree of care required for a covert escape, as the slaughter covered all traces with blood and noise.

Several hours after the riot, phantoms of guilt still clawed at her legs, and she could hear with almost perfect clarity, the ignored pleas of allies left to their fates. Flaring hungers were certainly sated, but when the battle came to its crashing finale, it left her bitter and regretful. She had tasted many harsh flavours of defeat before this one, but never had it burned her so. The weight of sudden stillness, the throbbing pulse leaping from chest to throat, the restless ache in every muscle, could not overcome or quell the sensations sown by a battle won through losses. On the outside, Thyra looked deceptively calm, but the same veins that sought to take the stiffening ice from every muscle, pumped out a raging, fiery urge to explode violently, in full bloom, at the centre of a bronze-coated square.

As darkness fell, torches and healing magics kept the ancient ruin alight. It was a glow devoid of warmth that simmered in pots and pits, or at the ends of sticks, teasing colour from the chipped mosaics beneath the high dome. Blank stares gathered around, rendered stiff by concentration or internal, more personal trauma. The few lead figures that survived called it a technical win, but those who actually fought in the riot didn't view themselves as victors. After a quick and pointless debriefing, where the results were praised and the remaining threats were understated, Thyra picked a spot for the night between two statues, away from the crowded bonfires. It was an odd move that none had the care or nerve to question. Unlike Qara’Sion, the resident healers took her gruff, axe-aided gestures to heart. If the Nord wished to be bitten raw by insects, and wake to symptoms of Rockjoint, then so it shall be. 

Freshly healed wounds were not nearly as pliable enough to have her fit comfortably where she sat, but the open view of the mosque was worth the growing cramp. From her perch, she could see Qara’Sion, swaying dreadlocks, twitching whiskers and all, returning from his doomed conversation with Zaveed. Thyra tisked at his folly. Forethought was a crucial trait he needed to learn, unless he walked willingly into that trap, then the issue was more along the lines of ‘big brother’ syndrome. From all the tracking and hunting in The Pale, she knew the risks of encountering volatile creatures, and Zaveed's temperament had all the welcoming signals of a snowy sabre. By his look, ‘Sion was more hurt than shaken up, his distant voice was darker still, and there was the disheartening way he slumped over the table, where his sister was only too willing to straighten him out.

Elayna’s interests lay in her fox, books and bowls, and weeds with long, unpronounceable names. Tracing right, then flicking to the left, her green eyes followed her quill’s fluttery sway. So absorbed in her study she was, that the effect her presence had on some of the men was completely lost on her. Over the maiden’s shoulder, the distant image of Thyra’s hunched and brooding figure conveyed promises of death to all who looked the Breton's way. If she were not only grazing the axe with whetstone, its edge would've suffered from her distraction. At least, it painted an easily grasped contrast between nice and not so. Not all men who fought for others held benevolent virtues. There existed those who would submit to any deplorable act, if it meant living to see and spread violence wherever their heavy hands landed. Thyra knew of warriors more monster than man, and some of those gathered around Elayna had that barely concealed look to them.

The tall Nord, for instance, could have attacked on an endless loop, as if it were the one thing that kept his heart beating. He did so with a ferocity more blind and intense than any measure of Nord battle-glee she had ever seen. Where skill abandonned him, savagery thrived. They were shows of strength that upheld her people’s reputation quite admirably, but she was yet to see how far from that crazed thirst his Breton friend could keep him. Zainat arrived during the pair’s conversation with Elayna, and based on the reception he got, Thyra was the only person relieved to see him. Blade’s absence was most likely at the root of their concerns. Before they learned of Gorzath's fate, allied losses were admittedly not that important to Thyra. They were a point marked against them and not worth a second thought. Gorzath’s death, however, opened up the vault of fears and pain Mashad’s execution only scratched the surface of. If the Argonian continued to evade scout reports and feedback, it was a stab they would feel again. Some sort of tiff unfolded in the time Thyra spent looking towards the door. The Ashlander had a talent for rousing people. At just over half a child shorter than the Nord, he yelled up at his opponent with the fancily-dressed Breton man wedged between them. For the first time in a while, a smile managed to split her gloom.

Soon, the lines of communication grew silent, there were no new arrivals to give updates on the situation outside, and for all within, fatigue was quickly eating away at the unease. Wondering when the Dwemer assault would reach them, and how, filled her head with poisonous fog no tonics of Elayna’s could clear. So, in the absence of drink, her therapeutic activity became the tightening of rivets, the combing of blood from fur, and buffing of steel. Her mind was forced to focus on wounding damaged leather into usable thread, then spread wider to consider other tasks that needed doing. But very rarely can any mortal forgo their limits. Thyra met hers at the riot that day, and as she pondered taking night watch, the long stretch of mental distraction swiftly carried her to sleep.

------------------------

Rainfall cast a thousand echoes in the deep, mist veiled valleys that spread throughout the western Reach. Kyne's voice was a divine burst of sound too powerful for mortal ears to bear. Her melodies broke into booming waves upon entering the mortal sphere, at times it was a rolling echo, like distant cannonfire, but at this hour it looked to dismantle the stone cradle upon which a lone tower was built. 

Sheets of rain flew sideways and bled through the awning of a tall ramp, dappling the metal skin and blonde hair sheltered beneath. Mingling for a month with the sweat of her crown, blood and dirt hung in twisted knots around Thyra's head, parting at the centre just enough to let her clear eyes through. Dark water dripped onto her chestplate, pocked and scarred by endless battle. It ran like molten quicksilver over cooling steel, and where the moonlight struck, a glimmering lattice was revealed the outlines of a shattered soul. Her face held that same implacable expression it did the day the sky fell, but in her eyes was a hidden terror; a nervous energy that pulsed when claps of thunder sent shivers through the mud, for it was a similar noise that woke her a month ago. The belt of hilly terrain straddling the border drew a dark line broken only by pine fronds. She followed it skywards until the Druadach disappeared behind clouds. The trail of their descent was naught but a hint, heard in the great river, gushing with borrowed vigour, into the Lost Valley below.

She turned her gaze outwards and drank in the grand vista. For two years, she had sought every reachable path that led out of and away from Skyrim, not knowing that her fleeing would inevitably draw her closer. The hate and shame she associated with home faded like an angered breath steaming up the icy air. When recent turmoil forced the Rebels north, the familiar surrounds appealed to a sense of yearning, unknown to her until that moment they crested the Hammerfell border. A voice boomed from above, not from the cloud-kissed lips of Kyne, but from a more mortal, mundane and malignant source. The air turned to mist, [i]"Bickering again,"[/i] she thought with a sigh. 

Specks of dirt fell into her view and a shadow entered the darkness, obscured by needles of moist and the winds that swept them. Lightning softened the gloom and the shrinking image of Blade was, for a moment, clearer to see. Another set cantered after him, causing debris to tumble in clumps, though this was one she didn't need to see. It was clear by the announcement made to the world, and any bandits camped nearby, that Urzoth had come to defend Marassa's honour. To be fair, Zaveed's sister compensated her lack of congeniality with an excess of biting wit, so friction was a guarantee. Unfortunately, Blade was one who cauterised wounds - literal and figurative - with blazing fists or sword. It was an inevitable collision, and one Thyra wasn't about to break up.

More people came and made noise on her roof, a pair of boots with an orange tail, and another housed in robes. She yawned loudly and stretched as lifted herself from the wall. Armed with a glowing hand, the Altmer, whose name she had no reason to use yet, stood primed and ready to play referee. For a second, she lingered on the want to apprehend his Calm spell, knowing well that the need to expell that kind of energy was not something to be resolved by the arcane. Blade survived the brutality of Helgathe's Arena, he could take whatever the Orc General threw at him, despite what legends say. The cat's fur showed every inch of shock coursing through him as the two passed each other, and had Marassa not moved, she might have nudged some sense into him. Elayna was already tucking into a bowl... or jar, when Thyra opened up the pot of venison stew. She pulled a tankard from her bag and scooped its fill of sustenance then settled into a spot next to her.

Showing a little more emotion than normal, she offered the Breton a nod and hoisted her tankard, "Needs more salt," she slurped. A large space on the wall, previously filled by the half Orc, half Giant, renewed her interest in the brawl outside. Looking past his childlike manner and the sickening way he pined for Zaveed, Cub was a marvel of a different kind. The type of beast that keeps hunters from venturing too far into Hircine's domain. But with two Illusion-casters and a Marassa on stand-by, there was little chance the fight would get interesting. Every member of their group had survived unspeakable horrors long before fate forced them together, however, very few looked as disturbed and bent on revenge as the 'fancy' man. He - Francis, she learned - lost his sense of security, perhaps the only person that kept him tethered to this world, if his whimsical manner at the mosque was not a front. The person sitting opposite her was not the same one from back then. Change and grief was what they all had in common. Remembering who was truly accountable for it, will keep them from tearing each other apart. Thyra wasn't going to enjoy her homecoming, but going back to Falkreath was the only way forward.