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''Double, double, toil and trouble. Fire burn and cauldron bubble.'' 

The lone Breton mumbled to himself an old poem, uneasy, as he looked at the cup of honey milk in front of him. Next to it was a small bowl full of cinnamon rolls, yet despite it all, and the events, Marcel was not feeling hungry - in fact, he was anxious, more than anything. He could feel the edges of his hairline stand up with static magic, as well as the fabrics in his clothes. Perhaps it was because of all the absorption from that cabal in the cave. Or perhaps it was the feeling of a loose end because of the mages that were let go. Or the Orc, and her collar. Or perhaps it was something else. He looked down at the milk again. His throat felt squeezed tight - there was no point in trying to drink. 

As soon as Jorwen closed the door behind him, he felt warmer. He'd send someone out to keep watch in a bit, but he felt like sitting in front of the fire for a bit. He sat down far from Marcel, the hall's shadows playing with his face and making it seem uncharacteristically hard. He rubbed his palms together, wondering if Marcel blamed him for Daelin's condition, wondering if Marcel thought he should've kept his lips shut. He shook his head, sighing into his cupped hands and standing, taking a seat next to Marcel. Hadring came by and asked what Jorwen would be drinking. A few moments later, Jorwen was nursing a cup of warm apple ale. Between him and Marcel though, was silence. Jorwen took a sip of his drink before asking, "How are you holding up?"

''Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.''

Marcel sneaked in glances at the redheaded brute as he walked inside the inn, and turned back to his mumbling after seeing the man sit in front of the fire. Only such flames looked like fitting companions for the man of such fiery appearance, and, Marcel assumed, temper. He took a bite out of one of the cinnamon rolls in front of him, and tried to wash it down with his drink, but he struggled to do so. He felt an itching, almost a pricking, in his fingers - looking up, he noticed the Nord sitting by him. He kept quiet, not knowing what to say, until the man asked him about his situation. Marcel kept on with the silence, again unable to find something to say, but he eventually coughed something up.

''I am fine, thank you,'' Marcel said, although he really didn't feel fine. ''What about you, though? Such close encounters with such potent magick is not exactly healthy for one's body, or spirit. I suppose we have testaments to that.'' He coughed. ''Although they're alive, thankfully.'' 

"Mm." Jorwen nodded. If Marcel found Jorwen at fault, he didn't show it. There was a certain apprehension in the Breton to talk, but he'd noticed his quiet nature at the beginning of all this, and did not fault the man for it. "As a Nord, I never trusted in the arcane." He said. "I was a legionnaire in the Great War, going up against Thalmor. I saw hedge magicks in the Reach too, never cared for the stuff."

Jorwen sipped at his drink, "You seemed none too disturbed by it. You don't act like most of the others in the Company, a few I've seen look the type to turn to banditry at first chance. Others are leftover Names. If you don't mind me asking, where does all that coolness come from, in the face of conjured demons and necromancers like...like that man I knew?"

''Uh, neither have I trusted magick, admittedly,'' Marcel replied, monotone, holding the cup in his hand. Memories of chasing covens and clans, hunts for holdout Daedra, rumored to be left over from the Oblivion Crisis, and various other beasts flashed by in an instant. ''For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble.'' He did not have any reason to trust magic. And it seemed magic did not trust him either - it wasn't him who had started the unique relationship, after all.

''I guess I have never been much of an expressive person. But I do have some experience against such things, and once you earn some sort of familiarity with them, you no longer feel as afraid as when you did, when you did not know the extents of their power.''

He took off his gloves, for the charge from the static felt too strong to ignore.

''And, of course, to use that against them is another thing entirely,'' Marcel muttered, before raising his voice back to 'easily audible'. 

''So, you knew that man? The Redguard?'' He paused for a second. ''I suppose we all have made some past acquaintances that we regret.'' Marcel remembered his misadventures alongside the Disciples of the Order of the Morning Star. Had they gone underground after accusations of heresy? He wasn't sure. He wasn't very keen to find out, either. 

After spending what had seemed like hours by Daelin's side, Rhasha'Dar finally retreated from the Bosmer's room, heading into the main hall in a defeated manner. Daelin's injuries had been extensive - not just wounds from the fall, but the fire had caused even more problems. Burns, and who knew what state his lungs were in from the smoke and suction of oxygen from the mines. Rhasha's alchemy was useless beyond some poultices for Daelin's skin, as he was in no state to swallow even water, let alone a potion. His restoration magic had been exhaused as of then, but the Khajiit's stamina seemed to have been drained from him as well. He felt a weariness deep in his bones, one he hadn't felt since the werewolf attack many years ago. It wasn't just that he was wounded - all of which had thankfully stopped bleeding but still needed further healing - but there was guilt and fear fresh in the Khajiit's mind. Everything that had happened; the Spriggans, the mine-fire, the Kamal... the day just seemed to grow more dangerous as each hour passed, and even in the warmth of the inn there was an obvious tension to the air; like the quiet before a storm or the eerie echo of the beginning snow falls of an avalanche.

And then there was his guilt; when he had fallen on the battlefield, Daelin had risked his own life to save Rhasha's - protecting him from the Spriggan Matron and forcing a health potion down him. If not for their leader, Rhasha would likely be dead - and now here was Daelin, in just as rough a spot and Rhasha could do nothing more to help him.

Sighing quietly, Rhasha made his way to the back of the hall where the fire lay, hearing a hushed conversation between two silhouettes sat there; upon closer inspection, it appeared to be Jorwen, and the Breton fellow they had picked up in Winterhold - Marcel, he believed. 

"May this one share in your company?" He asked the pair, weariness evident in his still gravelly voice - while he was sat down he could probably apply a bit more magic to his wounds. And get a drink - he certainly needed one.

Marcel lifted his head up weakly after hearing the request to sit alongside them. The brutish Khajiit stood in front of them, no less intimidating in his wounded state in its resemblance to wild cats. The Breton gestured for the fellow to sit down and be comfortable - it was not sporting demeanor to keep a fellow standing up while others were enjoying the comfort of their seats.

''I wouldn't mind. Would you like a cinnamon roll?'' Marcel asked, pushing the plate forward gently, eyes occasionally inspecting the stripes on the cat-man. He could feel his mind drifting off into uncomfortable depths - the uneasiness hadn't dissipated. In fact it had gained strength, almost. 

''Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, for the ingredients of our cauldron.''

"'Course." Jorwen said, offering a smile to the Khajiit. He hadn't shared many words with either of the two here. They both seemed beaten and tired, of course he couldn't tell if that was just how the Breton was. The Khajiit, he was one of the first to fall back in the charred forest, but now looked to be in much better condition. He was glad. "How do you fare? I know your wounds were not the lightest."

Taking one of the seats and sitting down heavily, Rhasha refused the offer of the cinnamon rolls with a grateful shake of the head - he couldn't stomach any food as of yet; the appetite seemed to have been wiped from him alongside his energy. As the innkeep walked by Rhasha asked for something warm and alcoholic, not particularly fussed over what it would be; the Khajiit just needed something to put some warmth back in his body. A fireplace did wonders for warming you up on the outside, but his insides seemed frozen; just as tensed up as the atmosphere.

"This one will live - but he's seen kinder days." Rhasha replied to Jorwen, his hand drifting to his chest where his wounds lay. As the stab wounds to his midriff had been the most serious, he'd used as much magic and potions he could spare on them; now they were completely closed up, but still extremely tender. The flesh where the 3 puncture marks had been remained raised and an angry red colour; the tendons and muscles within were knotted with newly formed scar tissue. Still, he was in no danger of infection from them now.

"And yourselves? From what this one has seen, the mines were no safer than the forest." He questioned, hoping the pair weren't harbouring hidden injuries. More than once, he'd seen a brave warrior ignore a cut because it seemed harmless, only to succumb to illness because of it days down the line. Marcel seemed to be drifting in and out of the conversation, but that didn't necessarily mean injury - from what everyone had seen, it was only natural for one's mind to wander. As for Jorwen, well... Rhasha didn't know the fellow well enough to discern whether he was acting differently or not.

As he spoke, the Khajiit rolled up his arm sleeve and began wrapping a clean bandage around it; he'd long since taken his armour off to tend to his own injuries, and had been wearing a loose-fitting shirt for the past few hours; a blessing for his smarting chest and back. Long cuts still remained on his arm, face and neck; while they'd been cleaned, he still wasn't happy leaving them open as they were; deep enough to warrant stitches, he had a lack of both thread and skill to sew the wounds in the old-fashioned way, so bandages would have to do for his arm. For his neck and lower jaw - magic, once he'd refueled, that was.

''It was a somewhat heated experience,'' Marcel replied to the cat-man nonchalantly. ''I should be fine. Can't say that for all of us, though,'' he continued, as his eyes shot a gaze at the door of the room where Daelin was resting. Poor fellow had been burnt pretty badly - he would need constant attention, and, without magical aid, would need constant change of bandages. He knew how uncomfortable it could get, stripping scars bare like that - the gauze tearing off the flesh, especially worse with burns. He squinted with discomfort for a moment. ''At least the mission's a success,'' he said, taking a sip of his sweet milk.  

Jorwen nodded gravely at Marcel's calling the mission a success. They killed the Pyromancer, he wouldn't be a problem anymore, that was the task Ashav gave Daelin and the rest of them. The fact still remained that Jonimir's appearance muddied the waters a bit. He'd never known the Redguard was a necromancer, and carried one of those black crystals he'd only heard of in wives' tales and talks around the fire. Those collars too, he wondered if anyone else was driven mad with trying to figure out the importance of them and what they did, exactly. "A success, aye." Jorwen frowned, taking another sip of his warm apple ale, "Those collars, have any of you shared a word with our Orc friend since we left the forests?"

Thanking Hadring as he brought over his drink, Rhasha sighed as he sipped the mulled cider; this sigh more content than weary, as the warm liquid flowed through him. Listening to Jorwen, Rhasha shook his head in reponse.

"This one hasn't talked much to her, beyond discussing what to do for Daelin. But I agree with your concerns - these collars are showing just how much reach the Kamal have. With things like that controlling people, the Kamal won't even have to leave their ships to move inland." From what he could guess, the collars must be enchanted in some way; it was hard to believe it would be impossible to remove them from the necks of their holders. Without killing them, that is. 

''A collar?'' Marcel mused, after the tiger-man responded to the man-bear, looking at the cinnamon rolls in front of him. ''It must have slipped my attention.'' After a pause of pondering, he continued. ''I had heard that the Dunmer made use of magicka-draining bracers to make sure their slaves did not run away, but collars, that's interesting. Is... our friend able to cast still?'' He asked, his eyes darting around for the mage woman. 

''Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witches' mummy, maw and gulf...'' 

Jorwen hadn't seen Bharzak cast a spell since she joined the band. He did remember that Altmer in Jonimir's trio using the spell to keep Daelin alive, so chances were that Bharzak could cast if she wanted. "Mm, I would think so. Why send mages with no spells to deal with a Pyromancer?" And he shook his head at Rhasha, "As far as I could tell, she is still at the helm of her own mind. The Kamal might be terrible, but they will still have do their own soldiering."

[i]"So... the mages are acting out of self-preservation, not mind control..."[/i] Rhasha could not decide as to whether this was better or worse. Better, in one respect; you could sway the mind of someone as long as it still belonged to them... but worse, that they could potentially be wreaking havok for the Kamal of their own avolition. When people were fighting for their own life, they could become desperate - and desperate meant dangerous. 

"This one hopes the Kamal do not snatch up anymore people, especially from our own folds. Those Ice-Demons earlier today got too close to us... this one believed it would be his end." Shaking his head slightly to mask a shudder of fear, Rhasha took another gulp of his warmed drink. "Where do you think they were going? A scouting mission, perhaps? This one hopes they're not targeting Dawnstar next."

‘’Well, from what we’ve seen, I can guess that the Kamal wanted the same thing as us – that fire mage out of commission. We may have inadvertently given them an opening to advance,’’ Marcel quipped grimly, in response to the cat-man musing about where they were planning to go to. Then immediately he mentally chastised himself for voicing such grim possibilities out loud, for the party was already battered, and thinking of such things would not help them recover any faster. ‘’But I would say it’s better not to think of such things. We should enjoy our… victory, for a few moments,’’ he said, trying to put up a smile as he took a bite of cinnamon roll. He couldn't think of anything else that could help the party at that moment.

Jorwen halfheartledly raised his cup, "Aye, victory." And swallowed a mouthful of the warm ale. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and sighed. "It's obvious enough why they were after the fire mage. We all know they can't stand fire or fire salts. I swear to the Gods I'll never part with a pouch of the stuff after this."