[i][h3]In the Sewers[/h3][/i]

[color=39b54a]"Agreed,"[/color] Maulakanth said to Vendel. He hadn't gotten the measure of the Dunmer yet but the spear-wielding elf looked like he could take care of himself, which meant that Maulakanth had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being. 

No, it wasn't the company that got on his nerves right now, despite the silent presence of the sneering Altmer. The shit-water they were wading through at waist-height was the current problem. It was disgusting and humiliating -- here he was, the Hand of Mauloch, crawling through the sewers like a skeever. Maulakanth snorted and muttered a curse for the umpteenth time that day. Like Valen, Maulakanth had his weapons in his hands and he idly twirled the orichalcum blades while he looked around for an exit. [color=39b54a]"Altmer,"[/color] Maulakanth said, failing to remember the Vigilant's name, [color=39b54a]"can you make some light here?"[/color] 

Cyrendil didn't like the fact that he'd have to go anywhere but walk the streets, as if he could not blend in, the thought was preposterous at best, insulting at the worst. Had this been years ago, he was sure he would have vomited by the smell alone, but while it was not at any stretch pleasant, he was able to keep everything down, his shield strapped high to his back, and he held his silver blade high, his other hand  lifted up, and he took a glance back to the orc.

"I've got something, not much. but it will work... Tell me, has it not crossed your mind Orsimer, why all the ones they decided to send down to the sewers were elves? You'd think the men don't care for us too terribly much." Cyrendil said with a dry tone, and raised his hand up, a small golden outline coalesced and started to fill with a warm golden light the light illuminated some of the path in front of them, but it was no magelight spell, this took concentration to make any brighter, and none could be spared at the moment.

"I don't see why the beggar or one of the Breton men could be the ones down here, It's their own races filth. They should take a stroll in it." He said, peering sharp eyes into the fading darkness and shadows. "I wish I could say this is the worst place i've smelt. What about you two? Anything quite like this in your lines of work?"

[color=ed1c24]"I get paid. I do the job. I shove the filth down their throat should they chose to make a point of it."[/color] Valen looked about them as the warm golden lifght elluminated the path and the walls around them. He pointed to a rather rusted but thick set of iron girding. A lock held the gate of it in place. The lock itseld was not as sturdy, and using his speartip as point for the lever of the spear shaft, he broke it open. "There. Let us get out of this muck." 

Maulakanth laughed a little at the Altmer's remark about all the elves being sent on the sewer mission. The big orc didn't think of himself as an elf, but he had to agree that Cyrendil (the name just came back to him) was right on a technicality. [color=39b54a]"Men and elves don't get along. It's the way of the world. And no, I've never seen anything like this before,"[/color] Maulakanth grumbled as he watched while the new guy opened up a gate for them. [color=39b54a]"About damn time."[/color]

Not wasting a single second, Maulakanth heaved himself out of the shit-water, through the gate and into the low, damp passage beyond. The slick floor sloped upwards, which was a good sign. Up meant out. The orc shook his head to get his braided dreadlocks out of his face and cautiously made his way forward, his blades lifted to greet anything that might jump at them out of the shadows. He'd heard stories of entire vampire clans hiding down in the sewers of human cities.

For a good while, nothing happened. The trio was able to safely make their way up to a wooden door, locked, that barred their path. Based on the neat cobblestones in the wall surrounding the door, Maulakanth guessed that it must exit out into the castle. Hopefully into the dungeons -- that's where the little lord they were supposed to rescue was supposed to be. Supposedly. Maulakanth had no patience for locks and he bashed the door open with his shoulder, swords brandished as he stepped out into a candle-lit corridor, ready to cut down any startled guardsmen.

Empty. The corridor was empty. Disappointed, Maulakanth looked around and saw more emptiness -- empty cells, devoid of prisones. Somewhere above him was the sound of battle. [color=39b54a]"What in Oblivion..."[/color] he whispered and looked over his shoulder at the Altmer and the Dunmer. 

The Dunmer in question had felt a slight tremble in the ground just then. Like something above them collapsing. [color=ed1c24]"Seems our friends could not wait to get started?"[/color] He asked, more to himself then anyone present. He moved slowly, taking care to clear his feet of any muck that could make him slip. He pushed past the orc to take point with his spear and shield. As much as he didn't like tot have them at his back, instincts from pitched battles and endless training of keeping formation won over suspicion. The dank stone was slippery beneath his feet as they made their way up and up again. 

Soon, stares gave way to yet another door. This one splintered and a slumped body laying in the wreckage. A mighty blow had been struck across the mans face, the pulp of his brigand seeped out of a sizable hole in the skull. His instincts screamed at him to be careful as he stepped out in to the fresh air. He looked around him. The smell of charring flesh and burning thatch filled the air and made his eyes sting.

 Out of the pyre that was the castle, came a half nude bosmer running at him. The wood elf was complete out of his mind with bloodlust and didn't take note of the Dunmers spear untill i twas to late. The Bosmers life came to abrupt end as his blade hit a sturdy shield and as short spear was trust hard into his thigh, likely severing his femoral artery and making sure he would never have children, live or die. 

Valen kicked the howling raider to the curb and shoved his spear trough his throat with the precision of a military man who gotten corpse duty in many a won battle. "[color=ed1c24]By the Deadras vilest curses. Does only death follow you lot?"[/color] He asked out loud as the group made it trough the crumbling castle towards their goal. 

The courtyard was already occupied by the remains of their 'merry band' and the Dunmer simply spat. [color=ed1c24]"Well this sure wasn't worth the trek trough the shit. Were is our prize?"[/color] He half spat as he jogged over a brisk pace. [color=ed1c24]"There are raiders all over the fucking town. And I am stinking sober."[/color]