[center]Featuring: [@Graviloquence][@Leidenschaft][@POOHEAD189][@Peik][@MacabreFox][@MiddleEarthRoze][/center] [hr] What had started out as a rather simple pity-party between the [i]Huntress[/i] and her bottle of rum, had turned into something more chaotic. For starters, she could have sworn that she [i]hadn’t[/i] finished off her rum, and nor had she fallen asleep in the chair, head tossed back with a line of drool leaking out of her mouth. But of course, that was indeed, the truth. She had passed out after finishing three-fourths of the spiced rum, the purpose of which she had used for disinfecting her wounds. At first, she thought she was dreaming, for the shouting and the ruckus that followed roused her from her sleep, leaving her quite disoriented as her head snapped up to the noise from outside that filled the hall of the inn. Bleary-eyed, Sevine struggled to pull herself together as she noted the panicked look of the fellow that just barged through the inn door. She could tell with some ease, that something was amiss, it still didn’t register in her mind. That wasn’t until she staggered to her feet, wherein a fiery spout of pain shot up from her ankle, and set her knee ablaze. “Agh! Oblivion be damned!” She hissed, “What in the bloody blazes is going on out there?” She yelled, clutching half her face with one hand. More importantly, where had she put her boots? Since his early morning didn’t include much sleeping, Keegan caught up on that late morning and afternoon. Now between late afternoon and early evening, Keegan had just finished eating and cleaning himself up. His headache had subsided (though it still faintly lingered), and he had the chance to wash with whatever the inn could supply. However, he could never have been prepared for the sudden cries of battle. Jorwen’s familiar shouts were echoing through walls, and despite how much Keegan have heard of it, he probably won’t ever get used to the old man in his fury. Plus, “knife-ears to trim” doesn’t sound good in knife-ears. Stumbling out of doorway with his staff in hand, Keegan found Sevine stumbling around a chair. Last time he checked, the Huntress was passed out in that same chair; guess she passed back in too quick for her own good. Wait, was she looking for her boots, and what was that pair of leather right outside Keegan’s room? No wonder rotten feet kept drifting into his sleep. “Easy, are those yours?” Keegan rushed the boots to Sevine, turning his head away (and wincing) the same time to avoid fetid fumes coming out of them. Did she puke in them or something? Interrupting, or at least not intentionally, was Fulrog. The heavyset Orc arcane smith (half equipped in a hurry) wanted a peek outside, but as soon as he did that, an arrow flew into his eye socket. He dropped dead instantly, an unmissable thud announcing his Dwemer steel clad body twitching in his own blood. She had little time to apologize for the nauseating odor radiating out of her boots as she managed to stuff her feet into them. Blood, sweat, mud, and the smell of infection was putrid enough to make any man sick to his stomach. In a split second, she raced into her room, fetched her leathers, and came barreling back out with her axe at her hip. “Gods, he’s dead!.” Keegan grimaced. He scanned the area for Bharzak, wondering if she still needed help from Fulrog. In his current state, there’s no chance of the old Orc seeing to that. Additionally, the younger Orc could have ran away, and if she did, she better not have done so in relation to the latest threat. “We’re under attack, again. I heard Jorwen shouting outside a moment ago. Also, have you seen the Orc woman from before?” “Under attack?! Is it the Kamal?” Colour drained from her face at the possibility of the snow demons finding them again, her eyes flickered from the dead orc to the door. “N-no. The last I saw, she was outside getting some fresh air.” She answered, hastily tying her leather armor together. While this would have been an easy process, as she had done so many times before, her right hand slowed the pace, the freshly bandaged muscles in her forearm were aflame. Finally, as she tied the last remaining knot, she looked at the Altmer, and then turned to gaze about the room. Where was Rhasha-Dar, Marcel, Dax and the newcomer, Bharzak? When Rhasha’Dar awoke from a fitful doze, he assumed he was still asleep; stuck in some kind of nightmare - a panicked mention of Kamal in the distance only strengthened this belief; but as the seconds ticked by, the Khajiit realised with a start that everything was all too real; the screams and clash of fighting; the throbbing pain from his wounds; the fires flickering outside his room’s window. Bolting into an upright position, Rhasha looked around in a panic, losing his head monetarily in a haze of sleep-deprivation and confusion. Clothes were applied hurriedly, so fast that in his rush to get ready and leave the room he did something rather embarrassing for a Khajiit - he tripped over his own tail. Hissing with pain as he hit the floor, Rhasha’s breath seemed to hitch in his throat as his heart pounded. What could this group possibly do, if the Kamal were attacking? This inn was nothing to the stoic city of Windhelm, and that had fallen all too quickly for a place built like a fortress. Finally having dressed himself, he reached instinctively for the amulet of Azurah he had placed on his bedside table - but then, hesitated before his hand could each touch the pendant. What good would it do? Azurah hadn’t saved him and the others earlier; the quick thinking of his comrades had. She certainly hadn’t done anything for poor Daelin either. Fingers curling into a fist, Rhasha’s jaw set square as he left his room, leaving the amulet behind and glinting in the torchlight. Finding Sevine and the others by the door, Rhasha felt slightly guilty upon looking at his friend; in the desperation of saving the Bosmer and dealing with his own injuries, Sevine didn’t seem to have received any aid. Letting his spear rest against a nearby table, Rhasha handed her one of the few health potions he had managed to brew. He was far too low on ingredients now - any more potion brewing would have to wait until they re-stocked at Dawnstar. If they got back, that was. Keegan greeted Rhasha with a curt nod. He wasn’t fond of speaking to the Khajiit, especially after finding out that he was the one ultimately responsible for the crossbow friendly fire. Sevine was shocked to see Rhasha-Dar up and walking, she remembered that the Khajiit barely had enough energy to heal Daelin, let alone himself. As he neared, she clasped him on the forearm, a sympathetic look in her eyes. “This one can’t do much for your wounds in the time we have, but he can ease the pain somewhat.” Holding out his hands and readying a healing spell, he glanced at her arm. At least it was bandaged well. “Save your potions, the rum has much dulled the pain.” She said, passing the bottle back to him. Truly, she wasn't in much pain, save for the stiffness in her limbs. “Is it the Kamal we are to fight?” “We’ve yet to learn.” She nodded to the Orc lying dead on the floor, “If it is, we’re no match for them here.” In truth, Marcel had expected something, not necessarily something like this, but something, for some time now - and frankly, for him, the news of an attack was in a twisted way a relief, even though it had woken it up from his troubled but still blissful sleep, in that he no longer had to be worried about something. He silently cursed his constantly worrying demeanor as the cries about the attack became louder and louder, rubbing his teeth against his upper lip, and began arming himself, quick, but not panicking, in a show of concentrated effort. Even though he acted, and felt, normal, a feeling in his gut told him not to expect this to go well. Upon getting fully dressed, he opened the door, to witness an inn in panic. Marcel witnessed a half-dressed woman rush to her room as a heavily-armored Orc walked by him, trying to put on his helmet while also trying to get a view of what was actually going on through the inn doors. Marcel decided to go along with the mer, and peeked out alongside the Orc himself. After a 'thud', Marcel decided to warn the Orc that it could be dangerous to keep peeking out of cover like that - and turned to see the Orc twitching on the ground, with an arrow sticking out of his eye. ''Well then,'' Marcel said to himself, deciding to heed his own warning. [hr] Meanwhile, the Hunter stalked… Daixanos too had felt a bit downtrodden for a short time after his fall and failure in the battle against the Pyromancer and the Necromancer, respectfully. His dispatching of a single atronach did little to ease his frustration, but all is as the Hist wills it, and he pushed it far from his mind as soon as he had regained full consciousness and strode out of the cave, merely groggy from the blow to the head. He had spent little time with the group once they had made it back to the Nightgate Inn, only staying near the fire’s warmth for a short amount of time and eating his share of food, before going out into the wilderness to take some time for himself. The group he was with were decent and hearty folk, but their measure and compassion did not take away his longing for solitude. He spent no time hunting, though he tracked a rabbit for a short while until he realized he was simply doing so to preoccupy his mind. After a small time, he decided to stay within eyesight of the Inn, but travel to a higher elevation and keep watch with his bow upon his lap, readying himself to accept the sun’s rays when they would first decide to peek over the horizon. It was not the warmth of the sun that greeted him next, however. But the cries of battle and the clash of violence. The Argonian warrior had not noticed the dark figures of the approaching invaders until they had attacked, but they had not seen him either. He let out a low and guttural growl. Unfortunately for the Kamal invaders, violence was just as welcome as the sunrise. [hr] “Regardless of what happens, we’re going to have get out of here. This inn will become a tinderbox if one of those archers dare looses a flaming arrow.” Sevine commented to the assembled group. “We’ve no time to waste. We don't know who's on the outside, and if our comrades are out there, we have to help them.” Her mind flickered to Jorwen, she hadn't seen him inside the inn, and presumed him to be engaged in the fighting. Perhaps the orc woman was out there with him? And Dax… “Look, we have three options. We can stay inside like children, or we can join the others. If we join the others, we face a problem. As soon as we open that door, we're likely to end up dead like this bloke by a flurry of arrows. So, we can either charge out, weapons raised, without protection, or, we can form a barricade outside.” While speaking, she moved to one of the smaller tables and began examining it, glancing from the table to the door repeatedly, as if to determine if it would fit through the door. As if satisfied with the answer in her head, she cleared everything from the table top with one mighty sweep of her arm. There she began drag it over to the entrance, where she set it off to the side. “That’s a terrible idea.” Keegan murmured to himself. “The front door is just where they expect us to go!” He threw his hands up at another one of Sevine’s thoughtless plans. “We should regroup out of the back door,” the Altmer realized there probably wasn’t any, “or windows!” “Harumph. Well have you got a better plan?” Interjected Sevine, crossing her arms over her chest. “Because I'll listen if you do.” The witch hunter merely watched as the warrior-woman, whose name he remembered as Sevine, explained to them their quandary, rightfully anxious about the situation. She suggested to them that they should charge out, lest that they get burnt down in the inn. He kept quietly observing as she cleared off a table of its contents through an arm swipe, likely seeking to use the table as a shield. Before he could say anything, he heard the Altmer intervene, voicing a valid complaint, and an equally valid suggestion. Mer usually tended to be smarter than Nords - it seemed this instance wasn't an exception. ''Keegan has a point,'' Marcel interrupted hesitantly. ''A table may protect against arrows, but definitely not against magic.'' He amused the idea of the trio accidentally dropping a flaming table on their own men in a panic in his mind for a moment, then came back to more sensible ground. Yanking the collars of his greatcoat away from his neck to stop the constant static charge from growing further, he looked again at the dead Orc, then to the rear of the inn. ''Who wishes to lead?'' He asked, brows raised, half in expectation, and half in anxiety. “I will. I take it, that from us gathered, I'm the one with the most experience.” Sevine nodded, that wasn't a problem with her. Before jumping from one reckless move to another, Keegan decided on casting a detect life spell to check their surroundings. He found focusing was a bit difficult, with interference from Marcel like he had in Winterhold. Still, the Altmer was able to power through and trace a few lives on the northern side of the inn, where the main road was. Nothing against the southern rooms, or at least, no living things near the wall. He could attempt to map out the distance, but that would require more time to focus; a luxury they did not have. “This side.” Keegan told Marcel. Approaching talking distance with Marcel was uncomfortable in itself, as the Breton oozed of magical static. “I see, uh, felt a couple of living beings on the opposite side.” Before proceeding to smash out the windows, Keegan searched for the innkeeper. Destroying someone’s property, even in life-and-death scenarios, could be considered rude. Hadring was nowhere in sight, like because he went to hide in his cellar. It wouldn’t be a bad idea in a normal bandit raid, but with a strong possibility of snow demons, cowering merely prolongs one’s death. The smarter move was running, or at least, that’s how Keegan survived last time around this place. He sent his staff pommel into the nearest window, and upon seeing cracks appear, a follow-up blow took out the tinted glass. He then swept the dwarven steel blades over the window base, which cleared out smaller shards. Even so, the window would be a tight fit for many; himself included. ''I would say 'ladies first', but in this case that would not be very courteous of me,'' Marcel mused as he inspected the small window with suspicion. He wasn't sure if he would fit, but at least, it seemed he had a chance. Plus, he was covered with buff leather well enough to make sure that no stray shard would pinch at his flesh. He didn't want to start bleeding here. ''Shall I?'' Marcel asked the other two, right hand feeling the window frame. He twitched for a moment out of the static caused by the friction, and smelled a hint of charred wood underneath his hand. ''Or would the two of you be interested in leading?'' Or maybe the cat-man would, but Marcel could not see him in his immediate vicinity. “Allow me.” Sevine gestured, lifting her axe from the leather ties at her hip. With both hands curled around the handle, she stepped forward, axe raised as if it were a wood axe, and gave Marcel plenty of time to step aside. Just then, she swung the axe down. It bit into the frame, splintering from impact. What she didn't anticipate was the pain that shot through her forearm. Grimacing, she repeated the action again, and again. Finally, she had chopped away enough on the window frame that it could accommodate them more appropriately. “There.” She panted with a grin. With grave caution, she popped her head out the window, checking that the coast was clear. Once discerning that no one had been drawn immediately to the sound of her hacking away at the wooden ledge, she wriggled out, and dropped to the ground on the other side. [hr] At this time, a somewhat confused Orsimer mage was attempting to get back to Nightgate Inn, unsure of what exactly was going on—though she was certain that [i]something[/i] was off. After Fulrog had removed her tracking collar, she had found herself still full of nervous energy, and, upon leaving the shelter of the inn once more, intended to go on a brief walk around the inn’s grounds. During her nighttime excursion, she came across a nearby pond with a covered pier, deciding to take the time to walk out on it, at this time unaware of the impending peril that would soon reach the area. She spent some time looking passively out across the still, murky water, stars reflecting dimly on its surface as she wondered at what the future might hold, and how she might best prepare for it. While she had been wearing the collar when she reached the inn, she still highly doubted the Kamal would be headed in their direction, and, at that moment, was primarily preoccupied with whether or not she would be trusted enough to join the company that had rescued her from her previous ‘occupation’—or, at the very least, allow her to continue on with them until she reached a place of relative safety. Of course, that had been before she had heard a rather urgent yell, one that sounded like a call to arms despite the fact she had only caught snippets of what had been said. The individual who had spoken had been far away enough that most of their words had been incomprehensible to her, but the urgency in their voice was clear. Immediately suspicious, Bharzak turned her back on the pond, a hand on the hilt of her axe as she half-jogged back down the pier. [i]They can’t possibly be here, can they?[/i] she wondered, guilt flooding her as she jumped to conclusions, [i]Did I actually bring the Kamal here? I wouldn’t have thought they would care that much about a ‘defector’. I need to get back–[/i] She paused, suddenly conflicted as she looked back in the direction of the inn, the slightly wooded hills around her filling the orc with apprehension. Would she even be wanted among the other members of the resistance during this fight—would they automatically assume her to have been a plant and attack her on sight if she returned? Suddenly disgusted with herself, the mage shook her head slightly, as if trying to purge that question from her thoughts. [i]It’s a risk I’ll take. I can’t leave. It’s not right.[/i] The orsimer jogged with renewed urgency and speed towards Nightgate Inn, almost running, and as she neared her intended destination, it became immediately evident that they were indeed under attack—and she was a rather open, easy target for any well-hidden marksman. No sooner had she thought that, something whizzed past her shoulder, tearing at the fabric of her robes as it passed. Immediately she searched for its origin, and caught a flash of movement as something—someone—disappeared behind the trunk of a particularly large conifer. Bharzak withdrew her axe and moved cautiously towards the tree, holding her weapon in a defensive position as she sought out her attacker, knowing they likely had more weapons than just a bow on their person. As an afterthought, she cast Ironflesh, hopeful this would prove a suitable defense against any more long-ranged attacks from her current adversary. Upon reaching what she assumed was their hiding place, she quickly moved to apprehend them, coming nearly face-to-face with a surprised looking khajiit, apparently startling him enough to make him freeze up momentarily. This was opportunity enough for the mage to strike, and she lashed out at the archer with her war axe, intending to disable him from continuing to use his bow. He recovered in time to block the blow with his weapon, though the orcish weapon bit into the dry, pliable wood with considerable force, slicing about halfway through its grip. Bharzak attempted to withdraw her weapon from the nearly-ruined bow to strike again, but found it stuck fast, and abandoned it as she realized retrieving it would put her in certain doom. Concern and annoyance filled her as she noticed attacker’s free hand now held a wicked-looking steel-bladed knife, something she’d anticipated he might have but currently had nothing to use to defend herself from it. Seizing his chance, the archer lunged at her, but in that instant the orc came up with a plan, a grim smile crossing her face as she moved to meet him, casting Magelight in his direction. The sudden, brilliant—almost blinding—light hit the khajiit full in the face, and he dropped the knife with a yelp, his hands flying up to his face. Bharzak almost found herself pitying him, considering khajiit were usually able to see quite well in the dark; the artificial light must’ve been far more unpleasant than she’d expected. She quickly dismissed the thought as she scooped up his weapon from where it had fallen, easily knocking over the disoriented marksman. Now practically on top of him, she moved to stab her opponent in the jugular, noting as she did that he appeared to be a Kamal ‘collaborator’ himself. For a fraction of a second, she wavered, feeling the slightest bit of pity for the individual she was about to kill. But nothing about their fight had hinted at the khajiit particularly wanting to avoid killing for his newfound ‘masters’, and if she did not kill him, there was no doubt in her mind he would [i]not[/i] return the favor. She ended his life as swiftly as she was able, grimacing as hot blood spewed from the wound, coating the blade—and her hands as well. She was quick to stand, ‘sheathing’ the knife in her belt before bending down to retrieve her axe, wanting to be ready should the marksman have any ‘friends’ nearby. Now that she was no longer in the middle of a fight, she was able to break the bow the rest of the way and retrieve her weapon, annoyed by the delay it had caused. The mage redoubled her speed now that the inn was well in sight, hoping that she had arrived in time to fight off the Kamal—or, at least, their lackeys—with the others. As she rounded the barely visible path back to the inn’s front entrance, she noticed with some dismay that someone clad in dwarven armor lay dead near the door. She practically ran up the steps, identifying the corpse as the enchanter who had helped her just a couple of hours ago that night; Fulrog. Both anger and guilt simmered within her as she cursed herself for not sticking around the inn where clearly everyone capable of fighting was needed, and briefly wondered if more of the inn’s previous occupants had been cut down as well. She stepped through the doorway cautiously, half-anticipating being attacked as soon as she entered. [hr] She appeared on scene right as Rhasha’Dar slinked out of the window, graceful in ways only a cat could. Between the Altmer and Marcel, Keegan noticed the intruder first. He leveraged his staff towards the entrance, electricity charging between its blades. Then he saw the familiar robes, the green skin and a face split between anger and guilt. Keegan lowered his staff. “Bharzak?” He called out. “Get inside! The archers got the entrance lined up!” He paused when the glow of mage armor and the blood stained knife became apparent. In order for the Orc to get through from the outside, and looking like she just lived through a fight, there’s a good chance that she killed their attacker. “You killed them? The archer, or whoever killed Fulrog.” Keegan asked carefully, noting that Fulrog no longer twitched violently as before. At the same time, the Orc was now lying in a sizable blood spill, something no one could avoid coming in or out. “Oi, Marcel!” Alerting his Breton comrade, Keegan waved him away from the window. “I think the door’s clear.” While someone else in Marcel's place may have made a comment on the ample rear of Rhasha’Dar trying to wriggle itself from the shredded frame of the window, a man of such upstanding moral quality and prudence such as Marcel would have none of it, and turned his head away as the dirty and wounded Khajiit finally squirmed through. Not wishing to go through the same, and also not wanting to deal any unnecessary damage to his greatcoat, Marcel hesitated for a moment. In his display of morality, Marcel had completely lost track of his Altmer colleague, and his attention was brought back to him when the illusionist called out his name directly. Quickly turning his head back, he was surprised by the presence of the Orc that they had met in the mines during the job. ''Oh, excellent news, my good man,'' Marcel exclaimed as he pulled his steel sword out of its scabbard in a somewhat showy display, and lowered its tip slightly alongside his head, in a show of courtesy for the newly arrived Orc woman. ''En garde, then,'' he mused as he walked forward with unexpected confidence, although a strong onlooker would be able to see the fingertips of his gloves twitching, like the collar of his outfit. The three of them then exited the Inn. Greeting them was an enemy with arrow drawn; an enemy fell by the arrow of Daixanos the Hunter. [hr] Jorwen was hid behind his shield, his big seax held in a fist, eyes peeking over the rim. The moon cast all around him a ghostly pale where the fire’s light failed to reach. He still had blood on his sleeve, each touch sending a shiver up his arm with the coldness of it. An arrow thumped into his shield and he advanced, a couple newbeards behind him. They happened across a trio of Bosmer clutching a bundle of wet skin and hair he could only imagine were scalps. They stopped to look at each other, the Nord warriors and the Bosmer. The silence broke when the mer leapt at them, one kicked Jorwen’s shield and only recognized his mistake when the big Nord punched out with the boss of his shield. He heard the crack of bone behind his shield and thrice plunged his seax into the mer’s stomach as he howled, leaving him spitting blood and choking as he stepped over him. As he did so, Sevine and Rhasha came into sight.