Merci swore in Breton and not for the first, or tenth time. The fog and the forest made what would have been a difficult task nearly impossible. Blindly, she stumbled between tree bohles that must have been ancient when Tiber Septim walked the earth. Forests were not her strong suite, sure, she had played in the woods as a child but this was something else. Her mind conjured all manner of enemies in the oppressive fog, spiders, wolves, worse.

Deliberately she stopped and calmed herself. Old Jaq, her tutor in the arts of stealth, always maintained that taking a moment to catch your breath never hurt. Of course Jaq had been killed taking too long in a burglary, so the advice was of dubious quality. There was no true quiet of course, the wildlife chirped and called undisturbed, but without her crashing around, she might be able to hear something.

Distantly, muffled through the fog, she heard voices. Cautiously she pressed forward through the trees. Pausing for a moment she considered the possibility that it was bandits or some other enemy. It seemed unlikely this far off the beaten path, and there was the chance of taking an arrow or blade in the stomach from a nervous ally to consider as well. Comprising she called up her magicka, enjoying the surge of it in her soul. Then she created a magelight, a weak and sputtering thing, but obvious in the fog. With an effort of will she propelled it out ten yards in front of her and started forward.

“Hello?” she called questioningly.