Haraden Inn, Stros M'kai, several days ago...

It had been a long, exhausting day for everyone in the party that had raided the mountain to put an end to the goblin threat. It remained to be seen what would come of it, but they had done their part of the bargain, and proved that there might have been some validity to this 'hero' label. Despite the fatigued celebration over mugs of ale and wine, there was a sombre tone to the celebrations. There had been losses, and nothing was as straight forward as it would seem. And then, of course, there was the fate of the barrels of gas. Zaveed wondered if it was the last he had heard of it.

He sat at the large, rectangular table near the end, his boots crossed, resting on the surface with a mug in one hand and a Septim flipping between fingers on the other. He listened to the stories the others spun, and he joined his laughter with theirs, although his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere around his third mug, he excused himself from the table. "I beg your forgiveness, friends. I am simply going to get some air." He slapped Zainat on the shoulder as he rose. "Keep my mug filled, will you?" he said, heading towards the door and out into the darkening skies.

The air was clean and crisp, with the salt of the seas giving the familiar, comfortable sent as the warm night had begun to set. The sun had only recently descended into the horizon, and the sky was turning from vibrant orange to sombre reds and purple. Up in the sky, the twin moons hung, their features as clear now as they were from Zaveed's Youth. The sky is different here. he thought, studying the pock-marked surface of the celestial body. The stars were coming out, painting the sky with countless millions of brilliant white lights while the reds of the cluster of stars became more vibrant. There were few things as universally captivating as the sky at night. He even found the auroras breath taking once, before they meant near-certain death. They seemed more like a foul omen now than anything.

Zaveed found a seat on the patio and removed his boots, loosening off he buckles that kept them binded to his feet and unfastened the armour around his torso, carrying both with him out into the sands towards a sentinel palm tree swaying gently in the breeze. Bare chested and calm, Zaveed sat, digging his feet into the sand and looking out into the dark waters that lapped against Stros M'kai. The scene was serene, but his features were heavy. He knew he should be elated, so... what was troubling him?

Reigenleif had just finished her second bowl of whatever fish based food it was the Inn was serving that night. She was ravenous after the amount of energy she'd expended battleing the Goblins, not to mention after not eating a proper, cooked meal in several weeks. This was one of the luxurys she indulged in every time she came to a town - proper food. Normally, her food consisted of dried things that lasted a long time, or occasionally some creature she'd caught and brazed to a charred state - the extent of her cooking ability. Now that she'd had her fill though, it was time to indulge in the other luxury of a town. Seeing several bottles of mead behind the bar, she dropped a few coins for the bartender and pointed to them. Quite fortuitous that they'd had some imported, but these were the blessings of being in a port city. Anywhere else and she'd have to deal with whatever the local standard was.

As she took the bottle of sweet alcohol, she noticed from the corner of her eye that Zaveed was leaving, before he'd finished his drink even. From the stories she'd heard, that wasn't very like him. She thought about staying were she was for a moment, maybe talking to Thyra, but then she noticed the heat from the fire nearby. This country was too hot without a fire, and she figured that it'd be cooler outside with Zaveed. That, and he had to make sure he wasn't slipping away before she could study him. He'd returned her key, which'd made her a very happy Nord, but there was always more to be learned from magical anomalies like him. She took the unopened bottle in one hand and wandered out into the fading light of the sunset.

It took a moment to locate the Khajiit, but the light was still easily enough to spot him, leaning against a tree facing towards the sea. She walked over casually, opening up her bottle on the way. When she reached him, she looked down at his shirtless form and said "What are you doing out here? The stories said you'd drink the taverns dry, and uh, that Tavern still has drink." With that she took a sip of her mead, screwing up her face as she realised it was still warm. "Ugh, just like everything else in this country" She muttered, raising her free hand and bringing a cold wind about it as she prepared her drink-cooling spell.

The privateer offered her a smile as she cooled the drink, a rather handy and practical trick of a mage, he thought. He gestured to space next to him, the soft sand against the tree. "The night is still young yet, I just like to give my quarry the illusion they have a chance. One should not crush the hopes of the establishment's owners too soon, no?" he chuckled humourlessly. He inhaled deeply through his nose, turning back towards the sea. "I suppose I needed some time to reflect, to remember who Zaveed is, to step away from being Zaveed the Hero. Being a leader is never something I intended, it's just something that... happened. Never in my life did I expect anyone to look up to me the way the people at that table do, or those who helped me kill an Emperor. I can grin, put on my dance, and march into the Gates of Oblivion and people will follow because they see the fearless, bold man that saved their souls. They don't see the tired, wary sea raider that never in an era wanted to be someone people depended on." he looked back at Regeinleif. "You know, I was so numb to losing people after my ship went down along with everyone I had ever known in my life. I wandered from place to place in Skyrim, scrapping by with no direction or goal. I was... terrified. For once in my life, I didn't know what to do. In some stupid, backwards way, those auroras may have saved me and gave me a purpose again. At first... it was just about revenge, killing the man who wanted me dead first. The people who would become my fellow Heroes of Tamriel were just strangers who I saved from certain death and told them that I was going to march into Cyrodiil and plant my axe in the Emperor's skull." he smiled at the memory.

"The hardest part about learning about what it means to let people into your life again is dealing with their deaths and uncertain fates. Of the dozen or so of us, only four of us showed up at Imperial City a few weeks ago for the celebration in our honour. Some... we lost doing our quest. Others, I don't know what happened to them. All I know is I'm in a position where people are lining up behind me once more to take on impossible odds and come home with more glory and praise than we'd know what to do with. I suppose what's troubling me is that after what happened to Vurwe and that Redguard fellow that was with Polux, Jasalin, and Talshal, I just look at that table and see a lot of empty seats. Gorzath was sent with the others to deal with a necromancer, and I don't know if I'll see them again, either. This road we all walk down..." he ran his fingers through the sand, letting it flow through his fingers as pale blue eyes watched. "Well, I don't know how many people are going to be lost along the way because they trusted me to lead them. None of you would be in this situation if I weren't so stubborn, I felt that because I did the impossible once, I'm supposed to do it again. What in Oblivion is wrong with me?" he said, shaking his head exasperated as he leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. It was a few long moments before he spoke again. "I don't know why I just said all that to you."

Reigenleif didn't know what to say to this sudden outpouring. People didn't never bothered telling her anything like this, in the few occasions when people were there to tell her things at all. She'd decided to sit halfway through his talking, having felt awkward standing and looking down at him while he shared such feelings. At his final comment she could at least say something, even if it was in jest. "Maybe I have a trustworthy face?" She said with a smile. The temperature was finally starting to feel comfortable for the Nord woman, more so as she took a swig of the ice-cold mead. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm following you because you're a magical anomaly. The chance to study one of the heroes of Tamriel was too much to pass up." She realised then she'd called him a hero again. He probably didn't want to hear that word right now. "By which I mean, um, someone who was immune to the aurora's. Like I said earlier I wasn't and well, I find it fascinating that some people were. And so, you're fascinating. From an academic standpoint of course." What was she saying? She hadn't even had a single bottle yet and she was already making a fool of herself. She looked at her bottle of mead. "This isn't going to be enough I think."

That got a laugh out of Zaveed, a light comfortable chuckle. "Maybe you do. Although, to be fair, I consider anyone not actively trying to kill me fairly trust-worthy, so there's that." he crooked his head, amused. "I've been called many things, my dear, and 'magical anomaly' was never among them. I'm hoping this study of yours doesn't involve cutting me open, because I assure you, I still need all my organs." he grinned at her. "And only fascinating in an academic standpoint? Are you sure it's not my roguish good looks, my pockets full of coin and gems, that I'm an independent man with my own ship? You wound me. And I assure you, if you were to write about me, the story of my life would be much more fetching than the boring circumstance that I wasn't enthralled, because I rightfully have no answer for that. Maybe my grandmother had a wild affair with Sanguine and blessed my family with superior alcoholic tolerance, or maybe my father sacrificed puppies to Boethia, who's to say?" Zaveed said cheekily, regarding Reigenleif's bottle with no small amount of want. He reached into one of the pouches in the armour beside him and produced a small cut emerald and handed it to Reigenleif. "Next rounds are on me. I'm sure this will go well towards drying up the tavern." Zaveed promised. He looked into Reigenleif's eyes. "So, that crystal orb that you so fancied. What do you plan on doing with it? If you plan on using it as a paper weight, I assure you spheres are terrible objects for that."

Normally she'd be unhappy with someone suggesting such a mundane use for a precious artifact, but she couldn't seem to get angry at Zaveed for that, instead laughing at the absurdity. "Oh I definitely have plans for this." She said, taking the fist sized object from one of the pouches on her belt. She wasn't letting it out of her sight now, not after she'd gone through so much to get it. "But I'm sure I'd send you to sleep if I started reciting the technical things I'll be doing to it... Some of which may or may not be experimental and likely to not work in the slightest." At the prospect of paying for the evenings drinks with an emerald, her eye's had widened slightly. Not at the sight of the gem, she'd seen her fair share of precious stones after delving into ruins across Tamriel, but at the idea of using one for such a mundane thing. "Do you often use gemstones to pay for your tab? I'm starting to see why the Innkeepers let you drink them dry...." She said with slight amazement, taking the small green stone from him. She looked at it for a moment, next to the Dwemer contraption and its far larger crystal it looked fairly insignificant, at least in Reigenleifs eyes. Then quite suddenly she said "Cut you up? And ruin that fine fur coat of yours? Never. Besides, I'm sure you've got plenty of women following you around for those reasons. I'm adding some variety to the list." She added with a cheerful laugh and a smile. "So you're a ship captain then? I used to live by the sea when I was just a girl. Its still comforting to hear it, though its not quite the same without the grinding of icebergs. Those were simpler days. Despite that, my few experiences sailing have been rather dull."

"I have never been one for the mystic and arcane things, I always expect my long-dead civilizations to stay that way, especially when they come back with a vengeance." Zaveed said, eying the curious dwemer crystal. "And perhaps you'll have to try me sometime, I'm quite fond of things that make the world somewhat more... interesting. Although, I am curious as to why it was so important to you to risk your life like that. I certainly understand passion, but to die for an old bauble that you may or may not be sure of its purpose? Perhaps you're crazier than I am. I like that." he said with a grin as Reigenleif took the emerald from him, and she seemed rather surprised that he'd use that for something so mundane a purpose. He explained, "It was not I who decided that shiny rocks had value, and I could never fathom those who would spent weeks of savings that could be used for food or tools to buy what's ultimately a worthless, translucent pebble." he said, looking at the Nord woman beside him as she looked at the small, green gem. "But to answer your question; all the time. I come across them often enough in my... line of work, so the novelty wore of somewhat quickly. I discovered that they're rather useful for bribes, and you'd be surprised what people are willing to part with for a shiny stone that, once more, has little real practical value. I give a bartender the stone, I don't worry about anything for the rest of the evening, and even have a bed at the end of the night. It's so much simpler than fumbling with a pile of coin, wouldn't you agree? Sometimes, you can even press your bartender for information. Ports are the networking hubs of the world, you'd be amazed at what gets around these sea-side taverns."

He had to laugh at her assurance that she wouldn't carve him up like some sort of mad mage that butchered bodies in pursuit of knowledge. But the infliction of her voice hinted at, what? Affection? Zaveed could never be sure. He was still learning what it was like to interact with women without exchanging coin for services. It only reminded him how utterly skewed and twisted his upbringing was. "I'm never in any place for long enough for women to follow me. Probably for the best, it would rather complicate my job. A problem with being a so-called hero is everyone is in love with the whole romanticism of the story of me instead of paying heed to whom I really am. I suspect many of those people would be in for a shock. But variety... I can learn to do with that." he smiled. "Yes, it was one of the boons I received for murdering the last Emperor, well... I wasn't the blade man, but there's things to be said for teamwork. I requested a pardon for my corsair activity and asked for a letter of marque and a ship so I could make up for the lost time the Thalmor took away from me. They're the reason I am who I am today, you see. I always sailed the warmer seas, and I would rather avoid the Northern shores again... it turns out that Skyrim's seas are a bit treacherous for my liking. It's how my first ship went down and I was the sole survivor of my old crew. That was five months before those auroras started up and made you do things that are rather uncharacteristic of yourself. But, when things settle down and we stop having extinct bastards trying to strangle us with hubris, I propose you join me for a while aboard my ship. I promise there's rarely a dull voyage with me." he pointed lazily to the gem in the Nord's hand. "Things like that come and go, like waves lapping the shore."

"Are you really sure you want to know what I'll do with this?" Reigenleif asked. "Because I assure you, a few more of these-" She said pointing to the mead "And I wont be able to tell you anyway. As for why I'd risk my life for what looks to most like a petty bauble... Well, you'll need to make me forget what I'm doing with it before you know about that." As if to prove a point she took another swig, finishing off the bottle of mead. With that she stood, putting the Dwemer object back safely inside its pouch. She looked down at the Khajiit and said "What'll you have then?"

"I am partial to Alto wine, if you would." He responded.

She nodded her acknowledgement and wondered back to the Inn to get more drinks for them. On the way she thought about his offer... inviting her to travel with him on his ship for a time. Her immediate thought was to deny it, after all, ships were boring. Right? Somehow she couldn't quite dismiss it out of hand though. Even with the prospect of finishing this latest stage of her research so near at hand. She found herself handing the bartender the small green stone and requesting the drinks, and before she knew it she was walking out of the Inn again, cooling the drinks as she went. What would she tell him? Did it even matter? So much could happen between now and the defeat of the Dwemer. Then she was handing the cooled wine to Zaveed and sitting back down next to him. "I don't know... Ever since I've started my research I've let nothing stop me... Tell me, do the elves usually carry any artifacts on their ships?" An amusing thought occured to her then. "Although I suppose if you're raiding Thalmor ships I'd finally get to fulfil my childhood dreams of joining the Stormcloaks to fight them. Figuratively speaking of course... Your ship isn't Stormcloak owned. And they're a much different order now. But you know what I mean." Blabbering. Again.

"I find inebriation is exactly the state of mind people need to be in to take on the mental burdens of the world." Zaveed said with a grin, accepting the chilled bottle gratefully. "You know, now that you've started your wine cooling service, I'm not going to let you get away from it. "As for what the elves carry aboard their ships, most is mundane but useful things, their rations are highly prized, and a lot of their cargo fetches a high price on Imperial markets due to the quality of it all. As for artifacts, it's difficult to say to the uncultured eye, although most of it was altmer fare that was usually the captain's own personal stash, unless the ship had particularly luxurious cargo... something of a rarity in times of turmoil, I'm afraid. But I have never come across dwemer inventory, the altmer never had to deal with them in the Isles." He drank deeply, feeling the bittersweet burn in his throat. Thirst parched for the time being, Zaveed turned back to Reigenleif. "You wanted to be a Stormcloak?" he grinned mischievously. "But you're far too accepting of the likes of me to subscribe to Jarl Ulfric's vanity. Although, the Sons of Skyrim are much more agreeable. I suppose you got your wish after all." a wink crossed his fine features. "But you're more than welcome to pretend you took up the blue and are after the bastards, if it pleases you. I've grown rather fond of culling off the arrogant bastards to the point where the Stormcloak-style, mouth-frothing rage against the Thalmor makes perfect sense to me."

Reigenleif laughed at that. Tamriel had changed so much since those early days. "I was a much younger, much sillier girl back then. It was all about heroes and villains, glorious battles and saving the day. I didn't know about all the terrible things Ulfric stood for, and I wouldn't have understood even if I did. You've got to be careful hanging around my wine cooling business though." She grinned, changing the subject back to one of a light-hearted nature. "Do you know-" She started slightly playfully "How I can tell when I've had too much to drink? Well, I lose control of the magic, you see you've got to be very precise to properly cool alcohol with magic, anyway I lose control of the magic, and over-freeze the bottle. Then, the liquid inside expands and the bottle, well the bottle can do anything from cracking-" She stiffled laughter as she remembered the aftermath of some of the more extreme incidents of this. "To exploding! Like an icy, alcoholic fireball!" She gestured as if to show the effect, grinning the whole time, the mead remaining in her bottle sloshing as she did so. She didn't really know what to say to his request to travel with him. Neither did she want to agree to anything so major while so close to losing coherent thought.

Zaveed chuckled. "You mistake me, I certainly am not questioning your younger self's judgement. After all, I was 3 when I was forced to become a corsair. It does sound very young, but be mindful that khajiit tend to grow and mature fairly quickly. At least the Stormcloaks give you a uniform; I was lucky if I had slacks that fit." he said, grinning at Reigenleif's detailed explanation for what would happen if she became too inebriated. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her drunken mirth made Zaveed wish his alcohol tolerance was not so high. He drank deeply in an attempt to rectify this. "You'll need to demonstrate that for me. I've seen what you can do to a goblin, but let me tell you, bottles are the real threat. Sometimes you need to make an example of them, no?" he said with a wink.

"Oh yes." Reigenleif replied. "The bottles are a terrible enemy. Standing between us and the mead. There is only one thing worse. One people I mean. Species. That's it. The Falmer." She still wasn't as drunk as she normally would be to tell this, but something about the Khajiit made her want to tell him. A trustworthy face perhaps. She didn't care right now though. "The Falmer killed my mother... and my father. Almost me too. Its because of them that I'm a mage too. So I guess they aren't all bad... But ever since that day I've been trying to figure out why. Why they did it. Why they are how they are. Why the Dwemer did what they did to them. I think I got a bit out of hand though... I've started asking why about all the old dead races. That's why I wanted this." She held up the Dwemer Sphere. "I think it can answer one of my questions. Who knows. Maybe it can save the world too." She put it down in the sand then. "But one thing at a time. I've got lots more bottles to show who's boss yet."

The conversation took a decidedly darker turn, alcohol tended to lay people's feelings and emotions bare. Within the span of perhaps a half an hour, both Zaveed and Reigenleif had opened up to one another in ways he suspected they had seldom done with other people. It felt good to have her confidence, someone who didn't look up to him as a captain or a leader or hero, but a peer, or even friend. It was one of those things Zaveed never quite realized was a void in his life until he finally had experienced it. Turns out, being raised with a group of sea raiders, murderers, thieves, and rapists tended to irreparably skew one's world view. Zaveed knew all too well how unpleasant the falmer were from his time in New Atmora, indeed is was a wonder none of the party died. Most of them spent days recovering from the poisons that the falmer filled their weapons with. But to lose both your parents? Even Zaveed couldn't have claimed to know what that was like, he eventually met his again as an adult, as painfully uncomfortable of an event that was.

"I find that sometimes the most pressing questions never have a satisfactory answer." Zaveed answered softly, staring off at the emerging starlight. This place really was beautiful at night, with the warm salted ocean air, crisp sand, and broad leaved palm trees lining the coast like lonely sentinels. His eyes caught the dwemer sphere, the one that Reigenleif wanted so badly. He regarded it for a moment before looking towards the Nord's eyes which were filled with the unfocused pain of someone who had been drinking and thinking of the past. "Once you find your answers, what then? The past can never be changed, and trust me, I have tried repeatedly. One must accept what has happened and move forward, since it is the only way that isn't locked to us." he drank from his own bottle deeply, starting to feel the warm, disassociated warmness and detached feeling he got when it was starting to take hold. When he took the bottles from his lips, setting it down between his outstretched legs, hands resting around the neck. His head leaned back against the trunk of the tree as he stared forward.

"I lost my parents, after a fashion, as well. I was taken from them as I mentioned, and until two years ago, I never thought or knew to look back. My sister, Marassa, spent years trying to locate me, to bring me home. When she finally did, I suspect it made things rather worse. Their innocent, skittish youngest son came back a grown man full of confidence and swagger, the hard eyes of a killer and the body to support it. How does one relate to people who he does not know? They had long ago accepted I was dead and moved on, and here I was, complicating things. I had become the thing that had taken me from them to begin with, a man who's shed more blood and bedded more women than I care to remember. More than that, I became someone who saved the world in many people's eyes. I might as well have been three separate people, the one they wanted to see buried under the weight and presence of the other two. Who is Zaveed to strangers, I have often wondered. A khajiit not of the sands but of the sea, one of greed and ambition instead of hedonism and disassociation. My point is, I don't belong to home anymore. Finding the answers of whom my parents were caused more emptiness and pain than had I never found out." he waved a lazy, dismissive hand. "So, what about that sphere is so important? You certainly risked a lot to obtain it." he asked.

"Oh, don't worry about me going off on some big revenge spree or anything... There are always more things to learn, and if I'm the lucky archeologist that explores all the ruins and finds out all there is to know... I'll just have to go into a different branch of research. One day, I'll have some of the answers I seek, true, but if there is one thing I've learned in my time exploring Tamriel, its that there is always more to see, more to learn." She'd never really considered the possibility that she'd find a definitive answer to her question. Especially now, she was a woman of the scholarly pursuit, and Zaveed's outlook and goals as more tangible things had taken her slightly by surprise.

Her eyes followed his back to the sphere again then. Apparently he was intent on knowing what it did, the specifics of it. "Well..." She started, uncertain about it herself. "It is, to my knowledge, a one of a kind artifact. Even that on its own makes it worth a great deal, but its what it does that's more important to me. It opens a door, so, I guess you could just call it a key, but that would be a bit of a disservice. The magical aspect of it powers the mechanical aspect, which interacts with the mechanism on the door, telling it to unlock and deactivate all the nasty traps waiting for the unsubtle. Well, at least I really hope it deactivates the traps. Some of those Dwemer traps can be really nasty, even so long after they were made. So I guess you could say I want it to stop myself from getting stabbed, boiled, burnt, electrocuted, crushed and whatever other horrible fates the Dwemer dreamed up for trespassers." She thought for a moment, trying to make sure she hadn't missed any of the common trap varieties, when a thought occurred to her.

"You know... If I follow you and your merry band, I may not get to test this out until.... well, until we've stopped the Dwemer probably. It's such an unwieldy thing to lug around though." She turned the sphere over in her hands, examining its detail with unfocused eyes. She was hardly in a state to figure anything out about it, and was really just admiring the way it caught the starlight.

"There is always something new to experience." Zaveed agreed, looking back at the Nord. "I have seen many places and many people, and no time have I set shore have things ever been the same. I am not an old man, but I have lived many lifetimes worth of experience.Too bad I am none the wiser for it." he said with a chuckle. "I can see why your improperly shaped key would be very useful to someone such as yourself, even without the value associated with it. Curious how you believe it should work in most, if not all, ruins, but it is the only one of its kind." he paused, considering. "Perhaps that is a mystery worth solving, no? Why would the dwemer not make many of the same artifact if it is universally designed and has such a benign function? Surely, most people would prefer not having a spike lodged up their posteriors because they could not disable them."

He offered Regeinleif a reassuring smile, which coming from him only promised danger ahead. "Oh, never put too much thought into what the roads will bring. After all, when my companions and I were on our way to kill us an errand Emperor, we found ourselves in one of the largest dwemer ruins and came out to share the tale, despite all the falmer and automation that were rather driven to kill us. It was a rather unexpected detour from the seemingly simple path of marching to Imperial City from Skyrim. Besides," he shifted to face her better, and to let his back catch the breeze. "We are pitted against the dwemer, are we not? I would suspect your talents and experience will be rather priceless in the days to come, even if we do not know what will fill them." he finished the bottle and placed into the sand, burying it several inches. "So, tell me, do you have family waiting for you back home? A lover? Somebody who might ponder why you are gallivanting across the sands in search of ancient treasure, perhaps?"

Reigenleif was quite surprised to hear that question. She'd never really thought about the idea that anyone might be looking forward to her return to Winterhold since her family had died. She'd never once considered settling down anywhere, much less with someone. She'd never put any meaning on the few passionate nights she'd experienced in her travels, never considered that maybe one of those men might've wanted her to stay for the sake of her company. Her surprise was evident in her voice as she answered. "I uh, no, no there's no-one waiting for me... At least none that I know about." A nervous laugh escaped her as she paused. "Since my family died the only people I really know well are the college mages. At the college we're all usually too busy discovering the secrets of the world for romance." She added with a smile, amused at the absurdity of it all.

She looked intently at the Dwemer artifact again then. "Well, its not the only way to open Dwemer doors... It just makes it easier and safer. I guess... you could call it a Dwemer Skeleton key? There was just this one door in the local ruins here that refused to open the normal way, or the crude way, or any other way I tried and I tried everything. I was about to test this when the Goblins decided it was pretty so... I don't actually know if it works or not. I'm just happy that strutting Breton idiot wont have a chance to ruin it for the gem. Its not as if gems are hard to come by, even big ones like this! Why did he decide my gem was the best one? Idiot." People mistreating artifacts was one of the few things that really got to Reigenleif, and Jareth had been up with the worst offenders in that regard. "Sorry." She said, realising how irate she'd become before quickly switching the subject.

"Anyone waiting for you?" She asked regretting speaking the words the moment they passed her lips. He'd just told her he'd never had any relationships that didn't involve money or fame, and her cheeks went cheery red as she realised she'd once again made a fool of herself.

Reigenleif's blush wasn't lost on Zaveed, who offered her a toothy grin in response. Colour was a flattering thing for the Nord's complexion, he decided. "Romance wasn't particularly a word this one had understood until somewhat recently. When you're raised by cut throats, thieves, and rapists, you kind of develop a rather... coloured perspective of the world that is rather, how should we put this delicately? Decidedly improper. I took part in the former, the latter... never. I was always of the opinion that people weren't something you took to satisfy your base desires, something that made my eventual reuniting with my parents much less awkward when I finally managed to find my way home again. My mother was raped and impregnated the night I was taken from them, something I didn't know until the child from that union tracked me down two years ago outside of Whiterun, you see. But, I wouldn't consider my parents family or my two brothers. Meeting them was much like any other strangers, it was just nice to know where I came from, and to offer them closure. I did not bothering returning after the one time, I saw no purpose. I did not wish to remind them I had rather become the monster that had visited misfortune upon the family. Long story short, I have never raped, but I've had my share of women, usually after a negotiated fare. I may be a killer, but I'm not an utter bastard." Zaveed said, sitting up against the tree more.

"But if you really must know, I have recently gotten over a long-distance romance of sorts that had lasted but a few weeks with a khajiit assassin who was rather agreeable about the whole idea of helping me kill a certain Emperor Felix Mede. It was the first time in my life that I had emotional stirrings of courtship, that there was more to relationships than casual sex and bribery. As I mentioned, I have had a rather curious upbringing that few people would consider healthy." the khajiit said with a laugh and a grin, his blue eyes catching the moonlight. "She went after the Praetorians when we arrived at Helgen, killed a dragon, and she decided if they weren't going to play fair, then she was going to make sure they wouldn't be able to wake up in the mornings thereafter. It was the last I've seen of her. It was funny, the attraction between the two of us was almost immediate, although I was convinced for the first few days that she was looking to take advantage of me and steel from me. Turns out, she was a lot like me that she sees a man she finds attractive, she just goes for it. Another one of my failings is when the table is turned on me, it's been my experience that there's something else the woman is interested in. I think I've worked my way past that, having spent enough time around well-adjusted people the past couple years. I do have my redeeming qualities."

He leaned over close to Reigenleif, inches from her face. "You're rather alluring when you're flustered by things no normal person could possibly be concerned with. My point was, I am not normal." he closed the distance and kissed her gently on lips, the fur on his face brushing gently against her smooth skin, he leaned back with a wink. "See, I'm not too far gone to realize that your interest in me goes further than the fact I'm a magic enigma."

Reigenleif listened to the Khajiit's telling of his past, sipping at her mead and trying to make it last. She didn't really know what to think about his tale, it was filled with the sorts of things of a very personal nature that she simply could never know while looking at ancient ruins and studying lost cultures.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he was kissing her. Not only that, but she was kissing him back. Normally when alcohol filled men tried this they found themselves half frozen, but Zaveed was no normal man. When he sat back again and winked at her she went redder even than before, now totally flustered. "I uh, well, um..." She started, totally lost for words. "I'm speechless..." She drained the last of her drink, placing the empty bottle with the others. "I think we need some more to drink..." She said, not taking her eyes of Zaveed or making any attempt to get up to get a resupply.

"Then do not speak and enjoy the company. I apologize for being forward, my dear, I've just never been one to skirt around things I take interest in." he smiled, raising the woman's chin with a finger. "Do try to relax. You're amongst friends. Now, I do believe it's my turn to fetch refreshment. Try not to vanish on me; I'd never much enjoyed drinking on my lonesome." He rose, perhaps a bit unsteadily from the drink, offered a wide-armed theatrical bow and headed to the in, crossing the sand barefoot and shirtless as he went to fetch more drink. A few minutes later, he returned, a bottle of alto wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. He handed Regeinleif the bottle as he sat down beside her. "I trust you've found your words again. I suppose I found your capacity for action and your drive rather admirable. Normally, Nords do not hold my interest, but something about you makes it hard to turn my eyes. Maybe it's because we both share at least one bad habit." he said with a chuckle as the Nord handed back the chilled bottle. Zaveed pulled the cork free with a claw and poured the two glasses, handing one back. "I haven't had the opportunity to share a quiet moment with someone who sat with me as an equal for quite some time... I thank you for that."

Reigenleif remained speechless while Zaveed stood and left. She remained were she was, absently looking out to sea. What was he doing? One of the Heroes of Tamriel, no, a remarkable khajiit, had taken an interest in her. Her, just a young Nord mage from Winterhold. It all seemed like a dream, one that she wasn't yet sure if she liked. It was all so strange, and happening so quickly. No way could she decide something like this so quickly. She still had so much to do! Despite it all though, she couldn't find it in her to turn Zaveed away. She was still sitting in the same place when Zaveed returned, this time with Alto wine. Thyra must've drunk all the mead by now.

She listened to Zaveeds words casting her drink-cooling spell as she did so. The bottle didn't crack or explode in her hand, so she was still not completely drunk. She kept listening as she drunk the red liquid, probably faster than it was meant to be drunk. "I still don't really know what to say... I was alone so much that I think I'd forgotten why anyone even enjoys the company of others... Its a lot to adapt too. I don't waste time getting to the things I want either... Once I know what it is I want. Barely a few days ago I still thought the Dwemer were dead and that I'd be alone all my life, now look where we are. My whole world has been shaken up in a storm, I'm just hoping the snow settles soon so I can see again." A glance and smile towards Zaveed escaped her then as she refilled her glass. "I don't know what to do."

"If you told me a couple years back that I would have a choice in what to do with my life, I would have laughed at the silly tale you were spinning. It never occurred to me that one day I'd be able to decide my own fate. I was always with people, but in a way, I was kind of alone. I never learned what it meant to have a friend, or Alkosh forbid, a lover. Being shipwrecked in Skyrim gave me some rather interesting time for introspection. The people I gathered to kill the Emperor I saw as a crew, little more... somehow they became friends. It just took me a while to realize that. Maybe it's after I was run through by one of the mentally infirm of the party and they struggled to save my life. I find near death experiences quite enlightening." Zaveed said, chuckling. He placed a hand on the Nord's knee beside him. "The reason I say that is it's rather silly to dedicate your life to one path when so many more present themselves. Go where the current takes you, go with your intuition for once. There's much more to life than rummaging around a dark ruin, life's a gift that one shouldn't squander. Would you not have regrets had events not shaken your expectations?" he smiled, looking Reigenleif in the eyes. "As for what to do, why not just follow what your heart tells you for a while? It seems your head has gotten away from you and you've forgotten how to enjoy yourself. Be selfish for once. Live." Zaveed teased.

Reigenleif listened to Zaveeds words as she looked out across the sea, the moonlight from both Masser and Secunda causing the waves to shimmer brilliantly with colour. It was an unlikely source for words of such wisdom, but she'd found in her explorations that often the unlikeliest sources held the best of wisdom. She smiled at his telling her to be selfish, it seemed so ironic now after the mages of the college always told her her studies were selfish.

The distant sound of laughter reached her ears from the tavern behind her then, and she was reminded of how long she'd been alone. Here was an extraordinary man who actually seemed interested in her for more than her body and she was busy fussing over being surety and the apparent end of the world. She suddenly laughed at the absurdity of it all, smiling and leaning her head on Zaveeds shoulder as she put an arm around him, still looking out at the sea. "Alright then... I'll be selfish." She said, her voice full of mirth.

The khajiit wrapped an arm over her shoulder, enjoying the intimate touch of the Nord woman, he returned her smile as his gaze joined hers, watching the waves lap the beach, whitecaps catching the moonlight. He was so used to either being seen as an untouchable authority figure, or a man to be feared, or a celebrity of sorts that the vulnerability was something he craved. Here was someone who accepted him for who he was as a man, not the avatar of his reputation. Reigenleif was certainly a captivating woman, someone who was consumed by her own obsessions that she too had created an isolation about herself in pursuit of her own gains. The two of them had spent so many years moving forward and disregarding anything resembling a normal life, they'd forgotten how to just stop an enjoy a moment. Zaveed had seen such wild lands, such unimaginable sights and done incredible things all the while, but at that moment, he wouldn't have traded any of it for this moment. He could almost forget that he was caught up in such insane circumstances and danger, that he soon wouldn't be marching into a war that he had no idea if there was a way to win. But for now, there was this.

Several comfortable minutes of silence passed before he spoke once more. "Do you ever wonder how else life could have been?" he asked. "If you could tear out the pages of your life and write new ones with different experiences? I wouldn't have been some dashing cutthroat had I not been stolen from my family when I was a child, I was raised into who I am by men like me. I didn't realize there was another life, another way, until the last two years. There's a chance that had my family homestead been overlooked that night, I would have been tending a moonsugar cane field in the hot Elsweyr sun, never to have hefted a weapon in my life, perhaps never to have known a woman's comfort. Or perhaps I would have married and had three awful children that would have drove me crazy enough to take up piracy just for some peace and quiet. Senchal is a port city that's crawling with criminals, after all." he chuckled. "Have I ever told you about my sister? No woman has ever been so disinterested in the events of the world while finding herself in the middle of it all. She spent years trying to find me, even when the Auroras filled the sky. Being hunted by battle mages bothered her so little that when we spoke of our experience with the Emperor's madness that she might as well have been talking about the weather while honing the edge on a sword that's nearly as tall as she is." he paused, working his jaw in thought. "She's really all I have in this world, and it's starting to seem I may never see her again."

Reigenleif laughed at the idea of someone who could so casually ignore the terrible events of the Aurora crisis, especially this deep into the bottle it all seemed quite crazy. She thought for a moment about how her life could've been different then. It was something she'd done often in the early years of being at the college of Winterhold - wishing with all her being that the attack on her home had never happened. It was strange to think back to that now, but it was definitely the one event she would change if she could. Despite all magic had given her, she would give it all up to be that idealistic young girl learning how to swing an axe with her parents again. "If I could change my history... I'd probably be a simple farm girl in Winterhold my whole life." Thinking about that only made her sad again though, and she picked up another bottle. As she focused her magicka into it, the glass cracked quite suddenly, making her jump in surprise. "Oh... That means no more for me..." She said, grinning from ear to ear. "I never had any siblings you know... Its a hard life in the far north, I don't think my parents believed they could provide for another child." She turned her head and pointedly looked at Zaveed then before continuing "Maybe we should seek out this sister of yours? At least find out if she's still alive? The terrible events don't really seem to be going away after all." She'd taken on a more serious expression now. It certainly seemed that fate had decided Tamriel would have to weather a storm of misfortune before any more peace would be afforded its people.

"With any luck, she stayed home and continued on with her life in the Dominion. However, knowing her, she's probably on the road again looking for Sevari or myself." Zaveed replied, returning the bottle to his lips. "She's very persistent. But I will not go in search of her, especially since those people inside have decided that our common cause is bigger than any of us. What message would it send if I stopped my pursuit of the dwemer for my own selfish reasons? It would be no different than if I decided my own life was more valuable than the rest of Tamriel during the Siege of Storms." he shook his head, smiling with a melancholic expression. "Peace. There's something I shall never know. We do not live in a land that permits such things. If the dwemer did not return, the Dominion would have invaded the Empire again in time. Even if we somehow stop the dwemer, the Dominion is still going to be taking advantage of all of this... I don't even know if the Emperor is still alive. But let's not worry about such depressing things now, shall we? Here we are in good company on a rather lovely beach with more than a share of good drink. Who could want more?" Zaveed grinned.

Reigenleif had put her head back on Zaveeds shoulder as he spoke of the terrible state Tamriel was in. It wasn't very pleasant to think about, what with almost every group of elves in the world trying to kill anyone whos ears weren't pointed. Reigenleif hadn't realised how sheltered she'd been from everyones wars while she galavanted about the country side exploring ancient ruins, and it began to drive the point home to hear Zaveed speak of it. She didn't want to think about that now though, she was supposed to be enjoying herself! She turned and looked at him again and said "You're right. Tomorrow we'll worry about elves and wars. Right now we can just enjoy the moment..." There was a hint of admonishment in her voice, and she added mentally before someone, or something, takes it away...

Reigenleif walked the streets of the hot, dry city, trying to not look conspicuous. Of course her efforts were unnecessary, she looked for all the world like a pale Redguard with the clothing she now wore, but nonetheless she couldn’t help but worry. She’d been given mage-robes in the Redguard style for her cover, and though she was loath to leave the hardy college robe that’d seen her across all of northern tamriel, the Redguard garb was actually surprisingly comfortable. The dark fabrics were thin and lighter than they appeared, helping to keep her cool in this inhospitable place, and the headscarf kept the sun off her fair skin. To conceal her face a small piece of coloured material was drawn across, leaving only her eyes and forehead visible, though easily unpinned should it prove stifling. Not only was it comfortable, but some pieces of the garb were quite intricately decorated. Reigenleif felt almost lady-like, for the first time since her childhood. Thankfully, it also had similar enchantments to her normal robes, though not quite as powerful, it meant she was not nearly as hampered in battle as the more martial of her comrades.

One of the primary contributing factors to her present worry was that a squad of guards had just rushed past her as though hunting a wrong-doer. When they had initially came down the street, she had thought that they were coming to seize her, thinking that someone had ratted her out. She had nearly thrown a preemptive fireball at them, but at the last moment she had realised they weren’t rushing for her, but past her. That had still left her on edge though. She couldn’t help but worry over which of her newfound friends had been found out. The thought of Zaveed captured bugged her more than the rest, but she tried not to think about that now.

Also contributing to her worry was the fact she’d had to leave behind a number of priceless and irreplaceable items for her cover. Though probably not so irreplaceable now, her Dwemer cloak was left with the rebels, as she couldn’t exactly wear an ancient Dwemer ceremonial cloak while trying to not get noticed by the same people who made it. What weighed more heavily on her mind though, were the Dwemer mechanism she’d fought so hard to retrieve, the key that would open the way to so much knowledge of their kind, and the Ancient Snow Elf dagger. Both of those items were unique and very precious to her, and leaving them in the hands of some redguard militants who not only didn’t know what they were worth but also despised everything to do with the Dwemer… It made her stomach turn. Heads would most certainly roll if she didn’t get those items back in exactly the same condition she left them.

She pushed those thoughts away for the moment though. They didn’t help her do what she was doing.

What was she doing though? She didn’t have a clue where to start in this grand plan. She was good at studying things that had been left behind by long dead people, and while she had some talent in helping individuals to join the long dead in Sovngarde, the subtlety of destabilising a government was most certainly not something she had in any great (or useful) amount.

What she would give for the chance to go and stare, poke and prod the Dwemer guards… The things she could learn studying live Dwemer! But no, they wouldn’t be very happy letting her

Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme
Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine!

Francis lifted his tankard as the bard began his last song for the night. He and Vendel had come to the tavern not a septim richer than they had come to Hammerfell with, but they still managed to impress a few fellow patrons with tales of their exploits and skills to get them to buy a few tankards for their enjoyment. They took a liking to the rough Vendel a bit more to the politeness and crisp speech that Francis had. Francis took no offense to it, though, as he knew what kind of men the Redguard were, the same kind of men they appreciated- warriors. Where Francis completely excelled at any fight where rules came into play and an honor between two skilled opponents was expected, Vendel was the complete opposite. Rules were poppycock for Vendel, anything was a weapon for him, the stool he sat upon, a bucket of water, the dirt his boots crunched down on; Vendel was a killer, through and through, where Francis was a duelist. The two could claim to both be duelists, but Vendel was more the killer. Anyone who had taken a life could tell the difference, and these Redguard men could tell the difference.

But these merchants couldn’t, and so were untainted by blood spilled upon fields of battle or flagstones of castles. Francis was all the killer that Vendel was, but safer, and the merchants appreciated that. Appreciated it so much that they threw down septims for Francis’s ale. The merchants had stumbled off to sleep in the rooms above and left Francis to drink alone. Even Vendel left for upstairs and the sleep it promised in their room. So, Francis sat and ruminated upon today’s events. He didn’t learn much, just not to buy rugs off of Dunmer merchants. One thing kept snagging on his thoughts, kept catching the gaze of his mind’s eye- The Breton girl. He’d seen her face before, in some memory that he refuses to bring back to the surface. No good can ever be brought by looking into dark places, Francis had learned. But where had he learned it? It was on the tip of his tongue until the bard finished his song and let his weight fall into the stool next to Francis’s own. Francis looked the bard over, he didn’t look the complete image of a bard. Shoulders too broad, you didn’t need broad shoulders to strum a lute or a blow air through a flute. His forearms were too thick, cords of muscle rippling beneath the skin with each movement of the fingers.

“You’re a fighter, no?” Francis began.

The bard stopped, his whole body frozen, the ale not having touched his lips in the tipped tankard in-hand. A slow hand returned the tankard to the bartop and a wary eye placed its gaze on Francis. The Breton felt a touch uncomfortable at that. He wasn’t expecting the man with such a sweet but road-worn voice to now be staring discomfort into him. The bard smiled, “Once.”

Exhaling a sigh of relief that wasn’t easily caught, Francis inquired, “What time was ‘once’, Bard?”

“You ask many questions. I came here to drink, but you’re making me talk.” The words held an edge, like knife held out in front of him to ward Francis off.

“So do both.” Francis wasn’t scared of knives, and he wanted to talk to this man for some reason.

“Imperial City,” The bard spoke, and took Francis’s suggestion, drinking after, and continuing, “The Great Forest, Anvil.”

“That sounds awfully more than once, bard,” Francis cocked an eyebrow and drank, “Tell me, what is your name?”
“It felt like one long moment to me,” The bard said, taking a swig, “My name is Adulvald. Adulvald Whose-Voice-is-Honey, Adulvald of Anvil, Adulvald Whore-Blood, Adulvald the Drunk, Adulvald the Wanderer.”

“You have many names, my friend.” Francis smirked before taking a swig from his own tankard.

“I have many stories.” Swig.

“Fair enough. Anvil, then.” Francis took a shot, hoping it hit its mark and Adulvald would tell his story. Or one of them.

“You know the Dominion attacked,” This came phrased as a question but Adulvald put it as more of a statement, he knew everyone knew, “I was there, part of the Town Guard that fought for Anvil. We were called to the walls and it was not long before we were overwhelmed. The Legions were crushed, we knew, and we also knew that we would be too if we didn’t fight hard as we could.”
“We fought hard. Hard. Anyone who tells you otherwise, put a knife in their neck for me if I don’t do it first. They breached the walls in minutes. We only had enough time to slow their advance towards Castle Anvil. Those Gods-damned mer burned us down, the Khajiit ripping throats. It was man’s blood that spilled the most upon the white stone of Anvil. We fought, though.”

“What happened, though? Why are you here?” Francis asked, drawing out a scowl from Adulvald.

“I was a prisoner, like many others. There were whispers that the Heroes were in Anvil the day of the attack, some say they knew. I thought I would have the chance to fight alongside the Heroes of Tamriel, that they would inspire the same courage in us lowly guards that they inspired in an army of Nords in the Siege of Storms. Instead, I got news that they all had abandoned us. All but two.”
Swig
“Sevari stood with our Count and Countess until the end and became a prisoner, I even think I saw him, and he nodded at me. I heard that he had slipped his bonds with help from a second Hero, Marassa, if rumours are to be believed. Again, I was foolish enough to think that they would pay me the debt- pay us the debt that their comrades owed by cutting our bonds and leading us to slit every throat we could find in the camp. To right wrongs, to drown those mer in their own sins and blood. All we got was more abandonment come morning. It took a mutiny to free us prisoners, but that was days from when we were captured, after Sevari escaped with that pretty little thing of his. The mutiny wasn’t what we hoped for. It wasn’t a revolution started by one of our own, it was started by a damned Cat. I left after. I crossed the border, got helped by fishermen and now, I am in Rihad.”

“So the Heroes abandoned you?” Francis asked, not entirely trusting the words in his mouth.

“The only Heroes are the ones that fought and died in the Battle of the Gold Coast and the Siege of Anvil. Not the ones who left, stranger.”

“Francis.” The Breton said, offering his own name.

“Ah, Francis. If you meet one of the Heroes, don’t trust yourself to them. It will do you nothing but wrong. I would know.” Swig

“The Mausoleum.” Francis whispered, suddenly remembering with the talk of Heroes, “Her name is Elayna. One of the Heroes was there too.”

It was then when Vendel’s heavy steps were heard before his voice was, slurred a bit, but completely sure, “Francis, the girl in the marketplace, she was with us!”

“She knows the Heroes.” Francis said.

Adulvald looked at the two with a cocked eyebrow, not knowing quite what was happening at the moment, “Is any of this supposed to mean something to me?”

“What you said about the Heroes? We may speak to them soon enough, Mister Adulvald.” Francis grinned.

Fuck it, we're doing it live: Collab edition ft. Dr. Dervs, M.C. Witty, and Biggie Psyker

16 Rain's Hand, North of Rihad...

Whether the stable hand was a collaborator or another citizen of Rihad reported the odd trio, Marassa, Hralvar, and Cub did not have much breathing room before being forced to vacate the road and take a chance in losing themselves in the woods to throw off pursuers. The plan had went off without a hitch; Marassa obtained the maps, Hralvar picked up supplies, and Cub had the horses ready for his companions by the time they arrived. Half an hour after they left the gates and were beginning to pass Chougand with the forged documentation provided by the dwemer, the three had only noticed by chance pursuers behind them, a group of horsemen galloping behind them. After what had been a contender for world's shortest argument, Marassa led her companions in a hard gallop into the forests north of the small town, thoroughly losing themselves in the thick brush. Fortunately, if their pursuers had followed them in, they were equally lost. The khajiit allowed herself a moment to relax, drinking from her water skin and pulled out the map, for what good it did in an unmarked forest. "We should try to exit the forest in a different place than we went in, our pursuers are likely staking it out for us. I'd rather not meet them." she said, her white and brown spotted horse snorting as if in agreement before it decided to munch on some leaves from a low hanging branch. She looked around to try and find her bearings, feeling the weight of her armour return as the feather spell slowly wore off, much to the horse's displeasure. The normally docile beast had its world turned upside down, running faster than it had in weeks and being ridden by someone in full armour, something decidedly uncomfortable for a creature that wasn't a trained warhorse. Still, it could have been worse as Cub illustrated, desperately tugging the ratty ends of his once regal travel cloak from the jaws of his impertinent mule.

Considering their escape and disorientation, there was one course of action that made sense; taking a quick break. Fortunately, Marassa's sensitive ears picked something up that was at once encouraging and irresistible; a stream. She told the others as much, dismounting her horse and taking its reigns, delighting in the opportunity to stretch her legs. "Come on, we'll figure ourselves out there." she said, leading her horse down what appeared to be an old game trail.

Marassa moved ahead deeper in to the underbrush, her acute hearing leading to what the others heard not. "Hey, wait! Hold on!" Cub called in frantic hushed tones as he wrestled his cloak from his steed's overbite, careful not to alert their pursuers to their location. The thought of simply prying the beast of burden's mouth open crossed the Orc's mind more than once but each time he batted it back down. No sense in maiming the damn thing when they still had far to go! No, instead Cub simply trudged forward behind Marassa, tethered to his new equine accessory as a human(ish) lead.

"I'm gonna name you Shavie. You didn't know him, or maybe you did, I don't know. He was a Scaly who made music and talked to the dead. I left him in a dungeon once. We didn't talk much after that." Cub spoke in hushed tones to the mule though his words were met only with apathetic eyes and munching sounds. "I wonder if Shavie died, could he talk to the living? Does it work both ways? What if Shavie is here right now but we can't see him! What if..."Cub eyed the mule suspiciously. "Shavie? Did you come back as a mule? Are you eating my cloak because I left you in the Palace of Kings?" Again the mule continued munching. "No, that's crazy." Cub smiled to himself for such a silly thought. Then he proceeded to walk more quickly away from the mule. Just in case.

The khajiit ducked to avoid a branch. "I rather hope Shavi is still around, somewhere. Considering he was a necromancer and a conqueror, he definitely seemed better adjusted than Gorzath and a lot more easy to relate to. Zaveed liked him, too. If he did pass on, I have no doubt he'd figure out how to return from Oblivion to talk to the living." she paused. "It's happened before, I believe. But I don't think he's here now, Cub. He'd say something." Marassa said, not really sure if she believed any of that, but it was easier to humour Cub than to debate philosophical things. She did, however, hope Shavi was still alive. How was he handling the invasion?

Before long, the group came to a small clearing, and a fairly large stream, which came something of a relief. It was a chance to refill water skins and water the horses. She looked around at the brush, scanning from anything that looked amiss. Predators sometimes lurked by sources of water, especially in hot climates, waiting for unwary prey to stumble into their reach. The khajiit listened intently, sniffing periodically, noticing only the familiar scent of her companions and the horses. "I think we're clear." she said, leading her horse to the fast flowing, clear water. There must have been a spring upstream, as was common in mountainous regions. As the mare dipped her long head down to drink, Marassa stroked the animal's neck, eyes still cautiously darting around. Something felt off, like things were far too quiet. Outside of the ever-buzzing sounds of insect life, there seemed to be something missing, but what?

"Yeah, but what if he can't say anything because he's a mule? Or because his mouth is full of my godsda-" Cub was cut short by the sudden suspicion the Khajiit showed. Was it something he'd said? Was talking about Shavie like talking about Sevari? How much had he'd missed not paying attention in Rihad? "Listen, maybe it's not Sha..not you-know-who. I just meant maybe if you-know-who was a you-know-what he might come back as a who-knows-what. You know? I didn't mea-" Again Cub was cut short, this time by the sharp snap of a twig as Hravlar lowered himself gruffly from his steed.

"You feel it too?" Hralvar shifted inside his cloak, scowling as he whispered to Marassa. He'd noticed her looking around suspiciously and had come to the same conclusion she had: something was definitely off. This was a bloody forest, so where in Oblivion was the wildlife? No birds chirping, no frogs yammering about, nothing. But then again, Marassa didn't tell them that anything was off when she sniffed around. Surely she would have smelled out any nearby predators or bandits, and the only other plausible scenario was that the dwemer sent in those damned steam machines they kept around their ruins. Although that didn't fit either, given that those metal contraptions were hilariously noisy, and they would have heard the things coming from a mile away. "Smell anything around, lass, or have I finally gone senile?" The old Nord asked quietly, one hand reaching down to his sword while hiding his other, magicka-charged hand inside his cloak.

"Your mind isn't fleeting yet, Nord. Something, or someone, is here." Marassa said back, hand reaching back to grasp the grip of her sword. The khajiit breathed evenly, deeply, as she studied the trees across the stream. "But where..." she pondered.

Cub hadn't noticed how heavy the air hung, too busy trying not to be eaten by a scorned mule-gonian.
The rippling of the stream and the buzzing of insects played an uneasy calm to the lifeless brush.
Maybe this oasis really was haunted. Maybe Shavie really was here...

Cub's mind raced as all three stood at the ready, eyes and ears peering into the growth around them. Suddenly, as if on cue, something moved within the trees. A shape, lithe, eased itself against the green and cast large shadows on the fronds. Bracing themselves, the trio readied themselves as the shadows grew larger and larger as the creature neared, parting the plants in its wake. Finally, the thing emerged from the forest with a bellowing,

"Oh, hello."

The figure emerged from the brush, a lithe but sturdy looking Redguard woman in practical scaled armour who walked as if she were well accustomed to shouldering its weight. She appeared to be around Marassa's age, in her early 20s without a scar to blemish her attractive features. Almond coloured eyes surveyed the group, dark bangs barely above her eyes before being tied back into a single braid along her back. On her hips were sheathed two swords, surprisingly dwemer-made. If there was one thing that was apparent about her, it was that she was dangerous.

"Oh, don't look so shocked, please! Be at ease. I am but a girl on a walk in the forest, I am no threat to you. But please, excuse my manners, I am the Lady Marion. And who might I have the pleasure of acquainting myself with?" she said, her disposition cheerful and friendly. A deception.

"She's not alone." Marassa said to Hralvar beside her. She rose her voice to address the girl. "A girl who approached an armed group of strangers in the wilderness is either a fool or plotting something. If your companions chose not to reveal themselves, and you do not depart, you will force our hand." The khajiit said, ears pulling back as she glared at the Redguard across the water.

"You're not Shavie."

Cub was relieved when the form that stepped forward was neither the vengeful spirit he'd envisioned nor some desert beast seeking refuge in the shade, short lived though it was as Marassa sensed others within the brush. With a sorrowful rip, Cub tore his cloak free from Maybe-Shavie, leaving a large portion clasped between the mule's grinding teeth. Better not to be bound should Woman-Not-Shavie indeed mean trouble. ... Then again maybe she really was just here for the stream. Would it be worth to attack her not knowing? Marassa seemed to suspect danger but he wanted to be strong, not a murderer! The doubt was there. He couldn't prove she WASN'T a traveller anymore than he could prove his mule wasn't an Argonian Necromancer. Or rather, the opposite. A dead person who speaks to the living. Ghost, that was it.

With an exasperated sigh, Cub, as in all times of mental stalemate, asked himself the deciding question. What Would Zhaveed Do?

"Miss, you seem to be, uh, in a rather dense predicament here. Not, not that you're dense, the trees here are dense. And, and so is the situation. I-I'd even say you're in the thick of-the thicket of it now. You should, uh, leave, uh, leav-leaf, leaf! You should leaf before this branches any farther, furth...fern-er."

Nailed it.

Marion shot Cub a gaze that was caught between bewildered bemusement and a tinge of annoyance. "While most girls don't walk through the woods alone, neither do they keep the company of an old man and a mentally crippled orc. Very well, since this encounter is rapidly becoming most unpleasant..." the woman raised her hand, as if to bid the group farewell when out of the brush came a pair of ice spikes and a javelin, visible just long enough for Marassa and the others to avoid impalement. Emerging from the foliage were two of the woman's companions, an almost apologetic-looking argonian in priestly robes who did not appear to be armed and another Redguard man, in similar scaled armour as Marion with a finely trimmed beard, cradling a scimitar and a small, round shield, in his arms. Upon his hip was a quiver, filled with three more javelins. Marion smiled sweetly at the group across the creek. "Although my late-husband Robyn can't be here, he would have liked us to carry on his work in light of this war. Part with your coin, and you can part with your life, or you'll be parting with your heads. Simple enough?" she said.

Marassa spat, sword in hand. A flicker of light covered her armour and her greatsword as she held it at the ready. "Thieves. I've killed for less." she said simply. "It would be in your interests to move along before you do something you won't live to regret."

"Oh, have it your way. Tucks-His-Brow, Nasir, let's lighten their purses, shall we?" she said, drawing her own blades. A familar white shimmer crossed her dwemer arming swords as she advanced with Nasir, who headed right for Cub while Marion headed for Marassa, her feathered weapons a threat. In the back, Tucks cast a rally spell upon his comrades, further increasing their will to fight as well as removing their anxieties. Marassa yelled a battlecry, charging to meet Marion in the creek, both woman's blades clashing above the shin-deep water, the battle joined.

Meanwhile, Hralvar raised his left hand and charged up a bolt of lightning, firing it at the Argonian, who raised a hand of his own to conjure a ward, blocking the electricity. Frowning, the old Nord let the magicka dissipate, charging up more in his hand as he leveled his sword at Tucks-His-Brow, raising an eyebrow at the Argonian's attire.

"Aren't you a priest? Correct me if I'm wrong, lad, but I'm fairly certain none of the Divines condone banditry." Hralvar quipped before letting loose an even more powerful thunderbolt spell at Tucks.

The argonian shot out a pair of clawed hands, absorbing most of the thunderbolt with a rather impressive ward. What little made it through and connected to his body ran down his arms, which he was able to make a good show of ignoring. "And what, I implore you, is a bigger travesty; taking from the mercenaries and rich of the land so those unable to help themselves may live another day, or sitting by and do nothing while a war ravages the provinces, consuming all in its path?" The argonian replied, as if to a spoiled child. Once Hralvar's attack played itself out, green energy enveloped his hands, which Tucks threw towards Hralvar, a Pacification spell. "Now, cease this nonsense. We only wish a charitable donation to help feed and shelter the unable. You will be saving lives." the argonian's voice, while rough like much of his race to non-argonian ears, was oddly soothing.

Thun-Thun Thu Thun.
Thun-Thun Thu Thun.
Thun-Thun Thu Thun.

As the Redguard man made his steady march toward Cub, his body awash in green and near quivering with the Rally spell that rushed over him, he raised his buckler before him and rapped out a small warsong with the broad end of his scimitar.

Cub furrowed his Cro-Magnon brow as the would-be minstrel edged closer. Slipping the Dagger from his gauntlet and his cloak from around him, his dwemer chestpiece shone in the high sun. Nicks and scratches covered its surface mirroring the crimson veins beneath, parting gifts of a flying lizard. The telltale puncture hole above his left breast however had no equal. Indeed it was still completely foreign to Cub as to how the Dwemer staves had made it with no visible magic to speak of. Then again, many things were foreign to Cub these days... Wrapping the Dagger tightly in the cloak, Cub stashed both in one of his steed's saddlebags. "Don't touch that Shavie, I still don't know what it does. And for gods' sake, don't eat it!"

The Redguard man had nearly reached the water's edge, a product of his methodical (Cub might even say melodical) advance and his position further behind the woman. As Cub pulled forth his hammer and prepared to charge the man down, he was startled as the Redguard abruptly ended his song. With a wry grin and a traditional accent he spoke. "Must you be so quick to rush to your death? We've barely even met!" As his last syllable fell, so to did his buckler-ed hand to where his javelins hung at his hip. Firing one quickly forth, Cub was narrowly able to deflect the projectile with his hammer, still not sure how to react to the man.

Trying his damnedest to look nonchalant, Cub called back over the river. "I don't usually stop to chat with my enemies, my hammer does the talk-" Another javelin, this one barely deflected be the head of the hammer, pinging off somewhere in the jungle. "Will you stop that?!"

Nasir let roar a deep laugh as he regarded the large mouse before him. Robyn had always warned him playing with their food had been many a cat's downfall but what had his brother known? Nasir was the one still living after all.

"My friend, for such a large head, you must have a very small brain. Are you not capable of more than one thing at a time then? Truly your lovers must be a sad bunch." With another hearty chuckle, Nasir pointed his curved blade toward Shavie. "Though it appears you saw fit to bring her along anyway!"

With visible frustration, Cub hoisted his hammer and charged the infuriating Redguard ready to shut him up once and for all.

The arming sword was barely dodged as Marassa was forced to lean way from it, Marion pressing the advantage of having two, swift weapons against Marassa's much larger, cumbersome greatsword. While the khajiit dodged one strike, the other struck her armour, although at an angle where the curves directed the blade away from her body. This bought the warrior a chance to buy herself space by driving the pommel of her sword into the Redguard's chest and taking to large steps back, where the length of her sword had the advantage. The two circled each other, searching for an opening. Marassa cast a shield spell on herself, hardening her armour even further. "You're quick, cat. You wouldn't think it to look at you." Marion said, holding her own weapon in a style that favoured parrying. Her wrists began to glow and suddenly, one of her blades was charged with electricity and the other with frost, surprising Marassa. Usually that kind of Alteration spell was typically only done to shields, the mass better able to retain the spell. Marassa prepared for what was coming next.

The woman charged, weapons being used in flourish, their spells acting as blinding distractions. The khajiit was prepared however and swung mightily at the charging Redguard, who had to break off her attack to avoid being cleaved. With a quick thrust of her hand, Marassa released her sword with one hand, launching a magelight into Marion's chest, the blinding orb latching to her armour, unable to distinguish between it and a cave wall. The bandit tried to slash blindly at the khajiit, which resulted in Marassa catching the woman's wrist, casting a burden spell on the woman's gauntlet, suddenly increasing the weight, which was substantial enough to have her arm drop, along with her weapon, throwing the Redguard off balance. Not offering a chance for Marion to recover, she backhanded the woman across the face, striking her fine features with the hard Nordic gauntlets that protected her wrist, sending the woman sprawling into the creek. As the woman tried to right herself and locate her blades, Marassa advanced, sword ready to strike. "Call your goons off if you value your life." she snarled.

Instead of a snarky remark, Marion shot her hand out, launching a fireball that was impossible to dodge at that range, exploding on the khajiit's breastplate and causing her to stagger. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot across her jaw as Marion had launched herself from the water and landed a punch with her weighted hand, using her handicap to an advantage. Her other hand was quickly at Marassa's throat, sending a jolt of electricity into the khajiit's flesh with a shock touch. The pain was excruciating and she found herself unable to breathe, clasping at the wrists at her throat, panic preventing her from casting any spells that could possibly help as the woman forced her to her knees, and back towards the fast-flowing, clear water.

Meanwhile, Hralvar snarled in fury as he tried to resist the calming effects of Tucks' Pacification spell. It would be easy, so, so easy, just to give the bandits and go on the way. And the priestly bandit had a point. But there were bigger things at stake.

"To Oblivion with you." The old Nord rasped out as he brandished his sword, shaking off the Pacification spell. "You want to help the poor and needy? Those displaced by the war? I'll tell you how." Hralvar scowled as he advanced on Tucks. "You end the damned war. The longer the dwemer are in control of the provinces, the worse things will get. If you're too much of a shortsighted fool to see that you should be taking the fight to the dwemer instead of us, then you don't deserve to live." Hralvar lunged at Tucks, clasping both hands on his blade as he attempted to plunge it into the Argonian's chest.

"You speak as if you think a solitary man and his companions could suppress the whims of an army. I pity you, Nord. Always thinking with the blade instead of the mind. You think we do not take steps to oppose the dwemer, that they're the only blight upon this land?" The argonian scoffed, his hands glowing with a purple-black shroud as a Bound quarterstaff appeared in his hands, catching Hralvar's blade. "Brigands and bandits of all sorts have come down on the innocent just as surely as the dwemer have, and I assure you, we've taken our fair share from the invaders. You're just narcissistic to think you and your ilk are special." he said, knocking Hralvar's sword to the side and following with the momentum of the long quarterstaff, intended to strike the Nord's flank.

Meanwhile, Nasir easily side-stepped Cub's wild charge. The orc didn't seem to be the most clever of foes, but given his impressive size and strength, it was clear to the Redguard that he didn't want to find out how hard he could hit. "I'm over here, you know!" he taunted, laughing at Cub's visible frustration and anger and keeping mobile enough to not get locked down into a situation he'd have to physically deflect one of the orc's savage blows. "I can see you're a busy man, but maybe you should take a minute to consider your lady-friend. I heard cat's don't much like water." Nasir pointed his scimitar towards Marion and Marassa, whose head was forced under the water, he claws digging harmlessly into Marion's bracers as the Redguard forced her back. The khajiit was clearly struggling to break free, her legs kicking feebly against the firmly-planted Redguard woman.

"The way I see it, and I know it's hard for you to think hard about anything, but you've got yourself a choice; you keep fighting, your friend dies, for what? Some pocket coin? Rather anti-climatic for a seasoned warrior such as herself and then you have to live with that up until I open your belly and see how many children you've had for breakfast. Or you and your old-man calm yourselves, and we can get down to conducting business." Nasir said smugly.

A roar filled the air, coming from the brush.

"Or would you prefer meeting Little John on bad terms?" he asked.

The Orc heaved, his breath catching in his lungs as the nimble Redguard darted about him mockingly. All around the two were splintered logs and crushed saplings, unfortunate victims of the frantic singing pendulum in Cub's hands. The sun sweltered and blazed his green skin beneath his armour, heat and discomfort adding to his frustration at the thrice-damned bastard before him. So eager was Cub to disprove the man's chiding remarks, he shut out the world around him. The river stopped flowing, the insects stopped humming, all that mattered was crushing the insolent prick before he could mouth off one more time.

It was with no small measure of embarrassment then that Cub realized he had played right into his hands. Apart from the spears he hurled, the sunkissed man's barbs were the most damaging; likening Cub to a mindless animal incapable of thought drove him to be just that. He hadn't the fearsome roar from deeper in the oasis until the Loud One had pointed them out. Not until the bastard pointed up stream did he see Marassa struggling beneath the water, electricity coursing dangerously close nearby.

"Hravlar! Enough!" Cub spoke before he thought as he called to the old Nord. This was of course nothing new as Nasir was more than happy to point out but took even himself by surprise. The winded Orc hoisted his hammer and charged toward the female from earlier. His massive form moved sluggishly from his prior exertion but would build up more than enough steam to topple the woman to the water's edge herself. The female Redguard looked toward the sound to see the large warrior barreling toward her. Releasing her grip on the Khajiit, she turned to face the newcomer, blades twirling and surging with energy only to witness the beast collapse a short ways from her.

Cub felt a shooting pain through his leg as he toppled midsprint. The gleaming javelin had found its mark, the knee joint hinge of his armour, and was now protruding from the wound. Jovial laughter accompanied the sound of Cub landing hard upon the ground. "I seem to remember giving you two options and neither of those involved charging my dear Sister-in-Law. Perhaps the high numbers confused you, I do apologize." Nasir strolled casually toward the stream and chuckled again. Cub snarled as he tried to lift himself with the help of his hammer but Nasir merely kicked him from under him. Moving toward Marion's side, he called into the brush. "Tucks, stop playing with the old Nord and see to the fat one here and the cat. We have business to discuss."

Elayna stepped through the streets of Helgathe, her strides quick and purposeful. Her destination was the docks. Sasik had to be wondering where the Breton had gotten, and she didn't wish to upset the elderly man this early. Wisps of the spring-colored garment which adorned her blew back in the sea breeze, the slight fluttering drawing her attention behind her. Francis and his companion could be putting the pieces together, and that worried her. Elayna didn't want to be the one who ended up ruining everything by bringing anyone to the group's doorstep. Maybe she was being overly-cautious, but even the most minute possibility of not seeing her home again drove her mind to run constantly.

As she made her approach to the Helgathe docks, Elayna reflected upon Sasik's words regarding his hindered stores and abilities due to the Occupation. It was clear that he held disdain for it, as both a merchant and medicine man. The desert was no place to cultivate the more grassy medicinal herbs found in the other provinces. In fact, she hypothesized that fungus, aloe vera, and other hardy specimens like spiky grass, would be all that survived in the harsh heat. Sasik was doing all he could, but at the rate things were going, he'd end up having to lie about his remedies. The thought of the Dwemer putting one of her discipline in such a position irritated her to no end. How would he survive if this shipment didn't make it through? The old Alchemist had mentioned in passing he had a few plants cultivating in his basement, but they'd only go so far! The Breton woman was determined now, economical formulas that would lengthen the supply percolating in her mind.

It was not long before she arrived. The ocean looked beautiful, in it's azure expanse. Perhaps she would have enjoyed it more without the Dwemer guard going about, checking every shipment. With the ships docking to her right, and stalls and buildings lining her left, Elayna's eyes were set to a particular stall with a canopy of green, not much darker than her clothing.

The man attending the stall wore traditional Redguard garments of reds and browns, and his dark complexion told a tale of a life spent entirely in Magnus's gaze. At his storefront were vegetables, fresh from farms beyond Helgathe. However, the selection was very sparse. Tomatoes, lettuce, and carrots were all that the merchant could offer. His dark eyes locked onto Elayna's. "Can I interest you in some of the freshest produce Helgathe can offer, my dear?" He struggled to keep sarcasm out of his tone. It wouldn't be hard to believe that these were all Helgathe could offer. Elayna, of course, did not wish to waste more time. "Actually, I'm here to pick up an order for Sasik. I understand he requested a barrel of assorted produce?" She motioned to the paltry store front, and the man glanced around before sighing. He motioned to the barrel that sat behind him, on a a small pull cart. "Tell him that I'm not going to be able to do this again. It's just too much hassle, and it isn't worth my life. It's packed pretty well, but...well, I'm sorry." The man said in hushed tones, appearing to be engaged in normal conversation with the roar of the sea and bustle of the port filling the air with sound.

Elayna frowned, a subtle drooping of the corners of her mouth, as her eyes clouded with worry. If Sasik could no longer rely on this man to get reagents, then how would he fare in the future? The desire to remove the Dwemer stranglehold on the city was growing more and more within her, and it took all she had to not lash out on the shopkeeper, another victim. She heaved a sigh as well, nodding slightly. "I understand. I just hope he does as well."

The man offered to deliver the supplies as consolation, but Elayna refused and decided to deliver them herself. It was what she was told to do, after all. Elayna didn't have much trouble, thanks to the cart, bringing the barrel back to Sasik's shop. Entering with a heavy heart, she found the older man behind his counter in the dark, cool structure. He started at the sudden intrusion, looking up from his mortar and pestle. Sasik relaxed as he realized who it was. "Ah, Sylvia! It took you a bit longer than expected...everything alright?" He inquired, returning to his work.

Elayna stepped forward, a laden tone to her words, "Yes, of course...just got held up by a scuffle in the market. The shipment is just outside on the cart..." Her voice dropped, and being the wise man he was, Sasik pushed up his bushy gray brow, before it settled again.

"Anything happen at the docks?" He asked knowingly.

Elayna opened her mouth to speak, but simply looked to the floor. She couldn't help but feel like she somehow failed. "...The merchant said that he could no longer deliver. It was getting too dangerous for him, it would seem."

Sasik heaved a sigh of sadness. "I'd anticipated as much. I do hope this will last us...come, let us begin unpacking. I'll even treat you to a salad." The elder smirked as he shuffled past Elayna, and she couldn't help but smile. He reminded her so much of Dominus that it was hard to believe he'd been gone for weeks now.

"How about I pay for that lovely meal with some streamlined formulae I've been kicking around?" She offered.

The Redguard turned to her, a smile so genuine upon his face her heart glowed. "Why, that sounds like a fair trade if there ever was one."

In that moment, sorting through dried flowers and herbs while sharing techniques and crunching on somewhat dusty lettuce, Elayna had been reminded of what she'd missed with her own grandfather during her time in the Imperial City. Knowing that he and her grandmother were both safe after Chorrol...well, she had plenty to fight for, that was for sure.

Wall scones sent shadows dancing on the walls of the tavern. In full light, the walls looked aged, with tapestries and trinkets centuries old hung here and there. Before the occupation the boisterous might sing and wave about their drinks. Before every citizen of the Hammerfell had to look within themselves for their alliance, this was a place of excitement and revelry. Now men and women solemnly sat, talking to those around them in hushed tones. Fools might bust in calling for a drink, but their painted smiles and forced missteps died down eventually. As the shadows danced upon the walls, the occupants faced each other with hard looks.

The Dark Pilgrim sat under a particularly vibrant tapestry in a back corner of the tavern. From across the room the colours silhouetted and consumed him, but the fact was no bother. A surprise, but still, no bother. He brought the ceramic cup to his lips and sipped his spice wine, eyeing the several documents on the table as if all at once. A leather codex lay at the center of the assorted papers as well as a sharpened and wrapped bit of charcoal. As the flavourful drink played on his tongue, his thoughts ordered and the reality of his situation emerged. Reality often came to the Pilgrim in the form of some hard, immovable obstacle, but never before this big. Never before like the Dwemer.

Shamoun assembled the documents and shut them within the codex. He slid the leather-bound heap aside, then scanned the tavern curiously. Working with the resistance felt closer to his days lurking about in the shadows, plotting and preparing among his the children of Sithis. Oddly, he even found himself smiling. He must look the fool, sitting alone, the smell of wine on him, and a grin far too content for the setting moronically stretched across his face. But Shamoun felt closer to the old days than ever before. How many nights had the Redguard waited for a contractor in a tavern? How many jobs came first as surreal musings of those too cowardly or too weak to commit it to action personally? The smile grew. He spotted the Argonian.

Blade looked about the dim surroundings as he entered the tavern, getting a feel for the mood, which happened to be as dark as the room. There were no songs, no laughter, not even any fights. The atmosphere was sour, but not in a take-the-fight-to-the-Dwemer kind of way.

How was he supposed to motivate these people. He wasn't a leader. He couldn't move people to action on a whim with brave words. He spoke with his sword, and if people chose to follow in his stride then so be it. But that wouldn't cut it this time. He had taken on the mission to lure the guards away from the barracks because distractions were right up his alley, but he alone wouldn't be able to draw enough of the guards away, so he'd decided he would start a riot... somehow.

He'd spoken with Darak Mashad and told him his thoughts. Darak in turn told Blade to speak with one Shamoun, and the tavern he frequented. Blade spotted the Redguard now, with a table to himself beneath an impressive tapestry. The scar on the argonian's brow and cheek was pale in contrast to his black scales in the glow of the torches as he made his way over to Shamoun. He pulled a chair aside and took a seat across the table.

"Shamoun, you can call me Blade. I'm here to help the resistance along, and Darak Mashad tells me that you can help cause a bit of a disturbance."

Straight to the point, Blade watched the Redguard while the question hung in the air. The Argonian came armed with all the right words, but the Dwemer did not seize Hammerfell by force alone. Several braids spilled over Shamoun's shoulders as he leaned forward and slid a second cup toward the Argonian. They sat quietly a moment longer before the Redguard let out a sigh.

"So bold, for a moment I thought you a spy. But what do They need with cloak and dagger?" Shamoun asked and took a drink. Nothing struck him as curious about the Argonian yet. "Your words are welcomed, Blade. Please, continue."

Blade welcomed the drink and took several deep gulps while Shamoun spoke.

"Well it seems that your own Captain of the Guard has sided with the dwemer. The people haven't taken too kindly to that and wants him gone. They plan to remove him, but need the barracks to be cleared before anyone can make an attempt."

Remembering the clandestine nature of the conversation, the argonian spoke with vague terms where he could, lest there indeed be a spy within the tavern.

"The problem is, a reptilian stranger like myself would have a difficult time moving the people to action under the best of circumstances. I can help when it starts, but we need one of their own to convince them."

Blade poured the last of his drink down his gullet and placed the flagon on the table before leaning back in his chair, arms crossed and brows furrowed in thought.

"I figure multiple small pockets of vandalism spread through the city would spread the guards out well. Torching checkpoints or any other government buildings. If you can do that, then my people can take care of your other problem."

The Redguard nodded and sat quiet a moment. His old talents in gathering information had grown useful as of late, something was surfacing. When his eyes lit up, Shamoun leaned forward and explained in a quiet voice, "Vandalism is all well good to rouse barbarians, but this is Hammerfell. We fight and die with honour, anything less is an affront to our people." He smiled, and met eyes with Blade. "The traitors capture some resistance fighters and conspirators. To break our will, they lead their prisoners through the streets on the way to the jails. Good bit of tension there. Allow me to work with that and you'll have all the distraction you need. Deal?"

Blade grinned wolfishly at the good news, his fangs glinting in the candle light. He growled eagerly, "Now that sounds more like the Redguards I've heard so much about. Glad I'm not the only one who plans to do a little more than deface a building or two. Deal. Have your people draw out the city guard, and I'll go with mine to remove our mutual acquaintance from office."

The argonian rose from his seat and prepared to take his leave, speaking as he did, "We'll be ready to make our move in a moments notice, so don't wait up for us. Shall I expect to be seeing you more during this little campaign of ours?"

"I should hope not," Shamoun replied with a smirk.. "I will have Brother Mashad send one of his boys before we strike. Until then, Argonian."

17 Rain’s Hand, Helgathe, Dawn

It was time.

The Heroes of Tamriel and their companions set out from Mashad Textiles’ basement before first light, leaving in small, spaced out groups as the three teams moved towards their objectives; the guard barracks, the dungeon, and to the streets, where the early morning disturbance was sure to draw the attention of the otherwise unoccupied guards. It was a time of day where the shady element of the city went to ground, away from the eyes of the law and the honest folk rose to begin another routine day. If only they knew.

The night prior, in the relative comfort of the cellar with his companions, Zaveed went over what he had learned from the prostitutes in the brothel. The guards, despite their punctuality and the great pride in maintaining their appearance, were mostly all of this opinion that Helgathe was a cozy position, well away from any real harm. They were not the divisions scouring the harsh Alik’r sands for rebels, risking an ignoble death from an unseen archer in the sands. They had a comfortable routine, patrolling streets that seldom gave reason for force. The troubles in some of the other cities were miles away, someone else’s problems. This was the seat of the dwemer government in Volunfell, under the watchful eye of Governor Razlinc Rourken. She was a popular figure amongst the dwemer, and the locals thought that while the dwemer could be harsh, they were at least fair and interfered little in most people’s lives. While generally wary, they were generally relaxed, not unlike a guard in any other hold. After all, very little had stood against them now. Who could oppose them?

Likewise, the Helgathe Guard were similarly sure of their authority. Enjoying the backing and increased numbers thanks to the dwemer soldiers who maintained a presence in the city, their positions were more secure than ever, and crime was much less likely to be so brazen. Some of the guards let the power go to their head, doubtless thanks to the influence of Captain Doshin Ismal, and had grown somewhat cruel in recent months. However, the majority were simply the men they were before, common folks who wished to preserve peace and order in their home. Interestingly, there seemed to be something of a schism in the guards, many of the guards who were outspoken against Captain Ismal’s practices seemed to be petitioning to have him step down from power in favour of a much more moderate commander.

With that information shared, as well as words by each of the others, each companion moved to their destinations, with the distraction team leading the way. The success of the other two groups depended largely on what they accomplished today.

Zaveed carried with him a mostly empty bottle of wine and walked with a drunken swagger, something he had grown rather used to mimicking for a variety of reasons. While the others who were joining him on the prison break kept spaced and indifferent to him, to maintain the illusion that they were not acquainted, there was no question they were all headed the same way.

Suddenly, a commotion in the distance caught people’s attention, and Zaveed watched carefully to see what the reaction would be. Soon, a group of four guards passed by the khajiit, annoyed at the morning disturbance but none the less on guard. He chanced a look back with a brief nod. This was their chance.

Several minutes later, Zaveed was in sight of his destination. A pair of guards stood at the gate of a 12-foot span of iron bars that encased the front of a solid building with two barred front-facing windows. Zaveed made his way towards the guards, who soon caught sight of him.

“Hoonding be good, it’s another drunk cat.” Zaveed heard one of the guards say all too loudly. He couldn’t make out what the other said, but the tone wasn’t flattering.
“J’Karna begs forgiveness, friends!” Zaveed exclaimed, staggering towards the guards in an unsteady manner. “This one ish lost and cannot find his home. The other guards refuse to help thish one! Please take pity… sirs.” He said lifting the bottle towards them. “This one’hll let you finish his drink, I have coin…”
“Get lost, you drunk.” The one guard called back, irritated.

The other elbowed his friend. “And people keep saying the khajiit are Thalmor spies. Look at this damn fool.” Despite their dismissal of the khajiit, both seemed to be very weary of him.

“J’Karna is sorry, he is. Can he offer you… drink?” Zaveed asked, raising the bottle towards the one guard, who swatted it out of his hand. Zaveed used the motion to stumble into the guard, who threw him to the ground.

“That’s it, you’re going to the keep to sober up and pay the fine for disorderly conduct… and littering.” The guard said smugly, reaching down to pull Zaveed from the cobblestone. “This is why I can’t stand you out-“he began before gasping in surprise and pain. The Redguard looked down, speechless, as his eyes found the dagger that had been concealed within the khajiit’s robes was buried in his chest, expertly placed between his ribs. Zaveed pushed the body away, removing the blade. If he was lucky, his companions had already sprung upon the other guard. If not, he had very little time to react before he’d be dealing with a frantic, infuriated and very loud guard with no small amount of skill with the sword on his hip.

Resting his back against the wall of a nearby building with arms folded, Qara'Sion watched as people walked by; those who were ready to start the day and those who were ready to start the fight. His heart was becoming a real nuisance to his already growing mental anxiety as it mixed up between beating faster and slower. Occasionally he looked down at a book from the one eye he could see out of, but all the action was to give the illusion that he was simply reading. The khajiit brought his hand over the eye-patch, scratching the uncovered area above it. "...This thing is really annoying..." He thought.

.....................................................................

"I cannot believe you're actually going along with this. I thought you were going to tell them you would have no part?" Shenzi sighed, as she, her friends and brother stood outside of the shop. Qara'Sion looked down away from her before picking back up his head a moment after. "I just decided to help them out a bit longer, until I can get back to Skyrim again. They don't need to know my decision yet. Besides, do you know any safer way to travel at the moment than with some of the better fighters currently in our world?"

His sister groaned as she held her head. "That doesn't mean we should fight too. We're just normal men and mer, not dispensable tools."

Then there was silence amongst them. Qara'Sion knew she was right, but he also knew they needed ways to survive from the current threat at the moment. "You know me, Belle, and the fat-one over here aren't going to battle this time right? You were lucky the three of us showed up back during that goblin issue and we all, almost didn't get out of that. I don't want you to be following the heroes into death, because even if there may be only a few casualties during this mission, you may be among the few." The younger khajiit bit his lip listening to her words. It began to bother him once again to think about what he was going to do. But he simply shook his head before responding to her. "...I know. But I'll be fine, I can simply hide myself from any danger, it won't be bad."

"And how do you plan on doing that? If something DOES go wrong, its not as if this-one thinks he can simply hide just like that; even with your magic. Your eyes alone would simply draw attention to you and make you recognizable."

Qara'Sion listened once more. He closed his eyes as he dug into his pocket, taking out an eye-patch. He held it up to his sister, who's face changed to one of confusion. The younger khajiit simply placed it over his blue eye and crossed his arms in front of himself.

And his sister's face turned into a snarl. "Take that damn thing off. You look like a miniature Mufasa." "Do you have a better way to keep yourself anonymous? Because I can hide the length of my mane, I can't do anything else about my eye. I can easily appear as someone else by simply changing only a few things to keep myself out of trouble as well as do my part in this mission-" "What? Did you learn that from him too?-" "As, I, said. If you're not going to fight, one of us has to in order to keep our place with the strong."

Qara'Sion's face turned into slight shock, as did Shenzi's. Both of them had the same thought from his words. No, not a thought. A memory.

He watched as his sister shook her head before holding it once more in annoyance. "Just... take off the bloody eye-patch. One of the last things I want to think of when I look at you is a killer." Qara'Sion obliged, sensing the temper she was known to have turn into something else. "I will admit though, if worse does come to worse, you better be able to take someone down like him." Shenzi added to her sentence. The younger of the khajiits sighed mentally. He knew he wasn't like his eldest sibling, but that didn't mean he couldn't take care of himself, or keep his sister happy. "Don't worry, I'll be okay."

The argonian moved a little closer and knelt down to Belle's ear. "I'm shocked Shenzi is showing compassion aside from her yelling all the time." He spoke. Belle gave a little chuckle as she whispered back to him. "Hehe, I will admit, I can kind of sense the two of them are alike; compared to how much she loathed her fam-" "WE HEAR YOU!" The two khajiit barked, although they didn't hear the second part of Belle's sentence. Both flinched from the khajiits. "Yes, they are alike..." left the argonian's mouth followed by a simultaneous "We are not!". Yet soon they all laughed at their reactions. It certainly was a good change in pace from the thoughts of what was approaching soon, even if it was ridiculous.
............................................................

He looked up, watched, then back down to the book. Then back up again, watched, and then back down; keeping his attention on the book for a bit longer. Qara'Sion didn't want to fight, but he wanted to keep himself alive. He wanted to keep his sister and her friends, as well as his own friends alive. But he didn't want to fight. This wasn't for him, but it was something he could do. Too many thoughts and too many wants. No one was forcing him to do anything, but he didn't have many options, or any he could see.

Sighing, he shook his head and lifted his head.

"...Come on guys. Let's just get this over with before I lose my nerve..."

As his sword was knocked away, Hralvar wasted no time in conjuring a Bound Sword to replace it, shifting the ethereal purple sword around to parry Tucks' conjured staff. Snarling, he pushed against the Argonian's weapon, glaring at him all the while.

"Individual men have done it before, Argonian. The Dragonborn, the Champion, and the rest of those heroes, they've all saved Tamriel before. And they damn well didn't do it by giving up and resorting to banditry. Oh no, they fought, just like I plan to. The dwemer are the greatest threat to Tamriel and to everything you know. They massacred innocents in the Imperial City, and they're rolling over the rest of the provinces! Life under dwemer rule would be no life at all, boy. They treat men and beasts as slaves or worse. You think conditions are bad now? They'll be worse if the dwemer win for good." Hralvar scowled, forcing the Argonian back with a shoulder check before whirling around to see Cub calling out to him. Both the orc and the Khajiit lay defeated at the hands of their foes, and the old Nord resisted the urge to rage about the situation he'd been put in.

"...Oh, damn it all to Oblivion." He groaned, letting the bound blade in his hand dissipate as he buried his face in his palm before raising both hands up in a gesture of surrender. If those two bandits had managed to take out Cub and Marassa of all people, then there was no chance that he could take all three on at once in a straight battle. No, best to just give in for the moment and wait for their guards to drop. If worst came to worst, Sovngarde was still an option.

___

Once again, Hralvar found himself bound and imprisoned. Well, not exactly imprisoned, per se. But considering that the bandits were still standing guard over them, it amounted to much of the same anyway. They had been like this for hours, but the bandits had at least given them water and some small amounts of food. Considering that the bastards had already taken their septims, Hralvar had no idea why they were still being kept alive, but he wouldn't complain about that. However, the sounds of battle began ringing through the forest, causing the old Nord to perk up, yawning.

"Oh, would you look at that." He muttered to Cub and Marassa next to him. "I'm hoping it's rescue, but knowing our luck, it's probably the dwemer. Who'll then try to kill us anyway. You two up for another fight?"

Under the cover of night, a handful of youth dispersed with a variety of tasks. One would walk a road, identified by his eerie benefactor, and every ten paces paint a yellow line, maroon for the twenty-marks. Another drew crude sketches of apparently Dwemer figures stepping, shitting, and generally preying upon the people. Without orders one lass went so far as to break the windows to shops after hastily painting 'Your Land is Ours, Red-skin Scum'. The Dark Pilgrim watched awhile from dark alleyways and in the shadow of the guard. When the occupiers' law came round, the young scattered a drop of ink in a pond. A few gave chase, but all for not. Satisfied the brash lot could protect themselves, Shamoun took his rest.

---

Sleep came and went and like the sun inching above the horizon, so too did the Pilgrim creep along the rooftops. The rumbustious youths from the night before had done their job splendidly. Shop and barkeeps and merchants of all sorts came upon their places of business to prepare only to find chaos. Despite the gentle whoosh of the breeze rocking the tall palms, Shamoun heard many curse occupation. As he crept the length the rooftop, crouched all the while, he watched as the agitated bunch conferred with one another. The conversation started with wide gestures and expressions that said without words 'you wouldn't believe'. Each newcomer opened the same way only to find a dozen stories similar to their own. A deep anger surrounded them that the Pilgrim suspected even a man without senses could feel. When the group had swelled to a little over two dozen, Shamoun climbed down the back of the building onto the roads.

Shamoun emerged from an alley a proper mess. His long braids hung loose, swinging as he jogged toward the group. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow and darkened from the dirt on his cheeks. The Pilgrim bent forward, his hands rested on his knees, and took a series of quick, wheezing breaths. One day this would take no acting, Shamoun thought with a grimace.

"Take a breath, brother. There's no need for such exertions," a shop-keep instructed, his anger for now subsided.

Swallowing hard, the Pilgrim brushed his braids and shook his head. "I fear you are wrong. The guards have taken prisoners, they're parading them through the streets."

"Hardly new," another snorted. "Political dissidents are imprisoned. Make no mistake, I do not approve, but to keep your head down than be arrested. Likely them who destroyed our shops anyway!"

Shamoun stood upright, but maintained a hump at the base of his neck. He shook his head once more, "You think our sons and daughters political dissidents? They took my boy from his bed! Blamed orders. Said we lived here at the leisure of our 'Lords and Masters', that they could make and do as they pleased. Our children are taken, businesses destroyed, and you blame our young? Pah!" Spitting on the ground, the Pilgrim turned on his heel and stumbled further down the road. After five paces he began to doubt his plan. Alternative ways to rouse the masses pooled in his mind until a voice broke the thoughts.

"Brother! Brother, we believe you. On what road have the bastards taken our kin?"

Not an hour later, Shamoun arrived to an unremarkable intersection. The buildings here were no taller or shorter than others, nor was territory an issue. He walked the dusty streets wide with his braids bound back tightly and his black, Alik'r head covering drooping low so that it cast a shadow over his face. For now the streets were quiet and though they were wide enough for the busiest of days, for now he spotted only three others. Standing at the corner of each intersection, the figures rested each in their own way without any mind to one another. Shamoun stopped at the remaining empty corner and leaned against a wall. Behind him, a stick figure cartoon of a fat Dwemer warrior with absurdly small genitalia assaulting a child, while below and far more subtle, a simple maroon line. He smiled within himself, waiting.

What began as a hum had grown into an outright roar. Perhaps a hundred voices echoed into the intersection, none of which content. Shamoun and the others glanced about as people trickled into the center of the meeting. Many appeared red in the face from frustration or shouting, but so far none had raised a weapon. When a decent group formed the four figures joined them. From within the mass, they drew the mob out so that they reached each corner of the intersection like a blockade. The squeak of oil-deprived wheels queued Shamoun and his company to begin their work. Each did their part in sharing their incendiary stories, pointing out the anti-Redguard graffiti, and eventually, taking arms. The Pilgrim picked up a palm sized rock from among the many scattered throughout the road, courtesy of the youths the night before. He tossed the rock to a particularly animated member of the mob and raised a fist. They cried out as the guards escorting their prisoners rounded the street. Without a word, the mob charged.

Men, women, and beastfolk surrounded the troop of guards at once. Shamoun wove through the crowd as stones flew in an arch from the rear of the mass into the center, presumably atop the guards. He watched as blind throws sent shots of blood into the air as other dissidents caught fell. Metallic pinging put a smile on a his face though. When the Pilgrim finally caught sight of the guards he ten paces away, but separated by four lines of people standing shoulder to shoulder. Only four of the guards had worn metal armour and they were the ones standing. The others had likely caught blows to the head early on, now no more than a mash churned under the heels of the mob. He saw the flash of steel as a soldier swung his scimitar, slashing a club wielding woman at the waist. Somehow the sword seemed to snag, maybe on another person, and Shamoun grimaced as the very woman brought the club down against their helmet. The thud sounded through the shouts and ring of steel, and either from confusion or pain, the soldier collapsed. He watched the remaining soldiers form a tight triangle against the pulsing crowd. When those amongst the mob stepped, the guards cut air and snarled. Resigned to death, but on their own terms.

Shamoun struggled two rows closer to the action and placed a hand on his dagger when a sharp clang rang out. In protecting themselves, the guards had left the trailer holding the prisoners unprotected. Chains fell from the gate, but as the prisoners escaped and formed into the crowd, the guards made their move. All three lunged forward at once with broad strikes. Those in the first crowd stumbled backward, their chests, faces, and shoulders gashed wide with show of blood. Shamoun fell back in the mess from a man taken by fright. The man lashed out immediately, but the Pilgrim caught him in a bear hug. Suddenly, the man pressed against him guard. The pressure began at the chest, then moved down near his groin. Shamoun balled himself beneath the man so that his head and feet were covered. He felt warmth on the back of his neck where he'd felt the chest, but now, something like heavy and wet blanket. The feeling sent chills through Shamoun, and taken by that, he pushed the body aside with all his might. He lost his breath as three weights fell atop of him, but after a second shove he felt the cool air.

A breeze made the moist on his face hard and thick. The Pilgrim shuffled onto his hands and knees, just tall enough that those around no longer mistook him for the road. He caught the glimmering steel and a modest ring of bodies. In a few moments the guards had reduced the mob by a third. Shamoun rose to his feet, heavy from the blood and tears of those who'd fallen atop of him and unsheathed his dagger.

"We need to keep the mob roused before reinforcements arrive. Can you handle them?" came a voice from beside the Pilgrim. He recognized them as one of the three hooded figures before, his fellow conspirators in this business.

"Gather up whatever weapons you can," Shamoun instructed, the two walking toward the guards as they fell another rioter. "If the next batch come with Dwemer arms the streets will run red with innocent blood. Go."

“There is a time to fight, and a time to die. This is neither.” Marassa replied, her back leaning against the stone wall of the basement that they were being held in, arm draped over a raised knee. “None of us have our weapons, and you’re the only one who knows offensive magic. Whatever is happening outside isn’t a rescue, since no one knows where we are. Besides, if they wanted us dead, they would have done so already. It’s easier to take coin from a corpse.” She looked towards the Nord, offering a rare grin. “However, I am not one to ignore opportunity.” The khajiit rose from the dirty floor and walked to the step-ladder stairs to the hatch above. She pounded on it with a fist and shouted. “What’s going on out there?”

It was fully her intention to grab and bash whomever was dumb enough to open the hatch’s head against the stone lip of the hole, but nobody answered. Curious, Marassa placed her ear against the hatch and listened. She could not hear a single person in the level above. She stepped down and turned to the others. “It seems that whatever is happening out there has drawn off our guards. This is an old lock, I’m certain I can open it with an Alteration spell.” She said, looking back at the door. “First thing is first. We locate our weapons, pocket any coin we can find, and then see if it’s worth it to make a break for it or join swords. If I find the bastard who took my sword, I will beat him within an inch of his life.” She growled, scaling the ladder once more and placing her hand by the lock, keeping a visualization of it open in her mind as she cast the spell. Suddenly, as if someone on the other side had slid the bar free, the lock moved open and Marassa was able to lift the floor hatch, peering out into the room around her. She climbed out and kept low and near walls while she waited for Hralvar and Cub to emerge, giving her enough time to reflect on the personal importance of the Skyforge Steel greatsword. It was a gift to her from her Master, something he put her money she had paid for her lessons towards without saying a word. It was a weapon of the utmost quality and sentimental value, one of the very few things she absolutely prized. Khajiit weren’t supposed to put a pride on personal possessions, but that sword was more than a weapon, it was a part of her identity. She would kill whoever had it.

The trio was still unable to identify what was happening, but it was clear that the three of them were the least of the bandits’ worries. Marassa was willing to bet it was the dwemer, whom she was none too eager to get caught up in a fight with unarmed. She turned to the others. “Do not fight unless you must. Grab what you can, and we leave. If we get split up, head North. I will send up a single Magelight at dusk. Keep heading towards it until we all meet again.” She steeled herself before continuing. “Of course, if that happens, there’s a chance none of us will see one another again. So don’t get lost.” With that, she moved to the door, inhaled deeply and then opened the door into the chaos beyond.

The bandit camp was a veritable warzone, with several dozen men and women of various races fending off their assailants, whom to her surprise were not the dwemer, but rather what appeared to be well-equipped mercenaries, some of which seemed to be more intent on capturing than killing. Many, however, carried dwemer weapons and appeared to have arrived on the encampment with what appeared to be dwemer-designed horseless carriages of much larger scale. Marassa hurried out into the sun and heat and took a surveillance of the battle, spotting several tents, another farmhouse with stables, and hastily made fortifications like sharpened logs and barriers. But still, no sign of her sword.

Almost as if arriving to answer a question, a man leapt the small stone wall she had taken shelter behind and landed nearly on top of her, surprising both parties. Marassa was quicker to recover and soon had the man pinned against the ground, claws drawn and at his throat. She soon recognized him as one of the bandits who captured her and the others. “Tell us where our belongings are, and you keep your throat. Do not keep me waiting.” She snarled.

The understandably alarmed man, a bosmer of all things, had his gloved hands raised in surrender. “Easy there, khajiit. Most of your stuff is in Marion’s personal tent, although your weapons got handed out to the troops.” His eyes darted towards where the battled was taking place. “Although, the way it’s looking, there’s a chance whoever took them are dead or captured.”

“My sword, then. Skyforge Steel. Rather unforgettable. Who took it?”

“Grolash-Bar Dun, big orc. Last I saw him, he was organizing the defenses to the South-side of the camp.” The bosmer replied, surprisingly composed all considered.

“Take me to where you saw him last.” The khajiit ordered, only taking the pressure off of the bosmer when he nodded agreement.

“Fine. I’d rather take my chances with you getting your weapon back than getting my throat ripped apart. Just, think about helping us, okay? I know it’s a lot to ask, considering, but most of us are trying to do good.” He said, preparing to vault the wall, short sword in hand. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He muttered.

Soon, the bosmer was up and out of sight. Marassa was right at his heels, not paying heed to what her companions were doing. This wasn’t the first time Marassa ran straight into danger completely unprepared. She cared not; her only concern was obtaining her sword. The rest of it could be damned.

The early mornings were never a kind thing to a man who had spent the night drinking. Any amount of light that managed to peak its head into the darkened room of such a man was liable to cause a surprising amount of pain and discomfort. The very act of moving in the wrong direction elicited a response from the Breton not akin to an ox with a nail in its hoof trying to walk. With great effort, the Breton managed to raise himself into a sitting position, cradling his head in his hands as he felt like his stomach was trying to wrestle itself out of him. He rubbed his eyes in small circles, tracing a ring of skull around the soft orbs in his head, which oddly made him feel a little better. His mind drifted to Vendel, wondering how he was holding up. He gained his answer when he heard yelling from down the hall that felt like whoever was doing it was instead punching his eardrums with an iron cestus. He let the yelling go on, thinking it might subside in a few moments, but he grew angry as it dragged on and on. He quickly rose to his feet, grabbing his dagger and poking his head out into the hallway to catch the full brunt of the blunt-force yelling match being held in the narrow space of the hall that the doors to all six rooms were attached to.

Francis’s squinty eyes squinted a bit more and a corner of his mouth raised in contempt at the obnoxious racket. It turned out a tenant refused to pay for his room yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. The man had apparently swindled his way through three days of free lodging and was now arguing over whether he could stay for one more day after the fact. Francis was about to leave his room, dagger in hand before he saw Vendel’s large frame loom into view. The broad-shouldered Nord pushed past the small crowd that had gathered around to watch the duel of raised voices. Needless to say, the noise quieted down when they saw the long-haired barbarian with angrily heaving shoulders staring daggers at the swindling patron. An outstretched Nordic hand wrapped its callused fingers around a Cyrod throat and the two disappeared behind the slammed door. Nothing could be heard for a few moments, and Francis remembered that choking a man to death could be surprisingly quiet. Thankfully, Vendel returned with four days’ worth of Septims and shoved it into the Tavern owner’s chest.

“More for us inside. Our friend tells me that he’s overladen with gold and simply must find someone to give it all to. Naturally, I nominated us as the recipients and he happily agreed” Vendel smiled at Francis’s smile before turning his head to the gracious man, “Did you not, friend?”

A simple nod from the man and Francis clapped Vendel on the shoulder before disappearing back in his room with a mockingly courteous bow to the gentleman. From his silks and splendor, Francis could guess he was a merchant. A good one. With coin. Lots of it.

============

Francis stepped out of his room feeling just a small bit better. He’d stepped down the stairs with no simple amount of care before plopping himself down in a chair next to Vendel and ordering a water. He was a bit surprised to find that the tavern owner would give them whatever they wanted for a bit of a discount. Francis nodded as he knocked back the liquid and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. He would be ready to search once again for Elayna and her friends once he was over the hangover he had been weathering for the majority of the morning.

“How many septims, my boy?” Francis asked, rubbing his eyes and taking a breath.

“Not enough. A lot, but not enough. We’ll be able to pay for our rooms here for a while, maybe afford a few drinks every other night. Nothing too grand, so let’s not depend on it too much, friend.” Vendel said, taking a gulp of mead, likely bought with their newly acquired funds.

“We’ll have to find a steady income then, my friend. We’ve already tried performing and it ended with us fighting some Dunmer bastard.” Francis snorted.

“I’m not one for menial labor, Vendel.” Francis grumbled.

“Neither am I.” Vendel agreed, taking a gulp of mead.

“Do you ever reach a point where you say to yourself, ‘I should stop drinking?’” Francis asked, looking at his friend.

“I did, last night, but it isn’t last night anymore, is it?” Vendel said before swallowing the last of the mead in his flagon.

“You are quite the man, Vendel.”

“Thank you.”

Francis nodded as he watched his friend place both hands on the counter and let out a loud belch. Being in the tavern made him miss home in Wayrest, as gritty of a town as it was, it was his town- his home. Francis looked about the tavern, wooden walls and a bead door at the entrance were the only thing keeping the outside outside. Sparse decoration, save for the fireplace of intricately carved sandstone, floor cushions and low tables for anyone looking to sit and chat, the bar for anyone looking to sit and drink. There was an unsurprising amount of people inside today, as is to be expected of a tavern in the morning, where the patrons were either still in their rooms or leaving hungover. This place wasn’t too different from the taverns he knew in Wayrest, perhaps not as violent but he could get used to that. He remembered one day in the Dancing Dragon where he and his sister lived. A hedge knight had stopped at the tavern and bought a round for everyone and a room for him and his three mates, who looked to be his squire and two deserters from some army.

When Francis asked this man how he had earned all of the gold he had, because Francis knew it was definitely not made from the man’s time in whatever army he came from, the hedge knight simply told him that he had made it from holding a Pas d’Armes outside on the main road to Wayrest. He’d bested sellsword, hedge knight, brigand and baron alike and taken a portion of their gold for losing to him. The bandits, well, he had to kill, obviously. The sellswords, hedge knights and minor noble’s sons all gave him his due. Francis perked up with wide eyes and open mouth remembering that hedge knight.

“Vendel, I know how we can make a fair bit of gold.” Francis beamed.

“Oh?” Vendel asked, his eyebrows raised, waiting for the next half-baked plan out of his friend’s mouth.

“First, though, we need to go to the brothel.” Francis said, holding a finger up.

“Francis, what is the meaning of this? I may be handsome but I am not going to-”

“No, you idiot. We are in need of a damsel for any brave combatant to save.”

“I’m not following, friend.” Vendel said.

“All will be explained in due time, Vendel,” Francis said, bringing a small coinpurse into the air and back into his palm, “In due time.”

Cub opened his eyes twice. The first he noticed the expanse of darkness he hovered in was just as dark as if he has still had them shut. Clenching his eyes tightly closed again then opening them more slowly allowed him to see a bit more of his surroundings...not that there was much to see as he floated helplessly in the void that currently engulfed him.

In almost any direction Cub looked all he saw was an infinite blackness. Almost because just a few feet ahead of him was a familiar grimacing Orc. His arms and legs lashed to inky tendrils, Cub's doppelgänger eyed him viciously. His Orchish armour was stripped revealing the same draconic bite marks Cub carried over most of his own green skin with one minute difference between them; namely the crudely fashioned cloth bandage around his throat, still red from Cub's "fatal" blow the last time they fought.

This was all a lot to take in for Cub who had, last he remembered, been playing whack-a-mole with a particularly bothersome Redguard. As if reading his mind, the Copy spoke; his voice no more than a hoarse whisper though if this was a side-effect of his wound or merely from disuse Cub couldn't tell.

"You allowed yourself to be captured." The Copy made a show of spitting in disgust though he could only muster to force air through his chapped lips. "Willingly" The word was hurled as if it hurt its bearer to even utter it.

"I had to," Cub protested, "they were going to kill Marasaa; I had to save her; Zhaveed and I have to save every-" Cub was cut short as the Copy lunged toward him in a rage, springing back against his bindings fruitlessly.

"You save only yourself!" His words caught on the bloody lump in his throat as they charged forth, mingling coughing, choking and blind fury into his words. "That's why you wear that Crown! You left them to die!" As his lungs would leap from his body, a roaring fit of coughing churned a spray of blood and pus from his lips, mocking his previously failed attempts as chastising Cub with spittle.

Cub turned on a dime, his meek protests turning to accusations of his own. "How do you know about my Crown? Hey! Hey, I'm talking to you!" Cub's probing went unanswered as the Copy moved to coughing to hacking and back again before finally choking out a phrase that made Cub's skin crawl.

"I know everything."

As Cub fell himself falling, the tendrils pulled their prey back into the darkness, his coughing stopping abruptly as Cub plummeted, his vision darkening as he fell.

With a start, Cub awoke in a musty cellar. The hatch above had been left open letting in streams of light and the sounds of battle. Looking around he saw not only was Marassa missing, but so was his hammer.

More importantly though, so was the Dagger.

Without a thought to Hravlar still in the makeshift cell with him, Cub limped forth in to the light of day, his javelin wound still tender though healed, presumably by the Argonian. He would find Shavie and the Dagger, get his hammer back and meet up with Marassa. His Copy knew something Cub didn't and he intended to find out what.

It was just a matter of how many would be foolish enough to stand in his way.

The night before the operations began, Elayna sat in the basement along with the rest of her comrades, fervently brewing and refining mixtures from some samples Sasik had given her in payment for her help. He had given her some some wheat and fennel seeds from Cyrodiil. The seeds had quite a few negative aspects, including a nasty joint-locking effect if not prepared correctly. She'd know; It was fennel seeds that played a role in her grandfather's temporary paralysis when he ingested one Elayna's first potions.

As she was so enthralled with her work, Elayna almost neglected to listen to Zaveed's explanation of the situation. Almost. She knew that she had to be completely clear with everything going on. The Breton would also have to decide on who to go with. While her first intention had been to aid in the distraction, she wasn't exactly sure how to create such a thing. It seemed Blade had that area covered, anyways. Instead, she settled on going with those attending to the prison break. The young Alchemist was sure that she could help tend to any wounds and lack of strength that the prisoners might have had. The wheat and fennel seed mixture could revitalize the weary souls, and help heal damaged muscle for battle. There was no doubt that she would most likely take the life of a guard or two, but in such a situation, it couldn't be helped.

After the explanation, she'd managed to concoct two vials of revitalizing brew, enough to pass around to the prisoners. There was some muddled leftovers, a mishmash of less savory alchemic aspects that sort of cancelled each other out to create a generally null poison. Normally, Elayna would throw out such a byproduct, but seeing the amount of effort it took to get these ingredients, she was encouraged to waste as little as possible. Her eyes heavy, she closed them for a brief rest before the sun dawned with the rebellion.

---

As the early morning came over the sandstone buildings of Helgathe, Elayna moved with Zaveed and the others on their way to the prison. The group was spread out, enough to not be noticed, with their Khajiit leader stumbling in front. From Elayna's spot near the middle of the group, it seemed like an awfully familiar motion for him. She shook her head with a grin, before remembering the dagger at her hip, concealed by folds of lavender fabric. Right...business.

Their destination was fast approaching, and Zaveed quickly set into character and action. Elayna hung back momentarily as he took down the first guard with ease. The second began to make his move, and the Breton had one of two choices; She could mimic Zaveed, running up and planting her blade in the guard's belly, or use an Ice Spike to dispatch him. With her distance, she wouldn't make it in time before he fully raised his guard. The Ice Spike would have to suffice. Pooling her magicka into her palms, and focusing on her intent, the Alchemist formed the frozen projectile and sent it forth. However, the lesser amount of moisture in the air restricted it's size, creating a streamlined missile which flew faster than before. The sickening sound of flesh being pierced played in what seemed to be her ear's alone, as the spike hit the second guard.

A headache pounded in her skull, the extra strain from focusing so hard so quickly clearly evident. But she did better this time, didn't she? Elayna looked to the body, then to Zaveed.

No...she'd never get used to it. Only more numb.

A long overdue collab with Drippah and myself

The Previous Night...

"Ah hell..." Zainat muttered as he climbed down the side of the building he had been hiding on the top of for the past several hours. "Much easier climbing up...." He glanced down at the mostly empy street, and exhaled softly. Thirty feet, he supposed. "Not too further." He sighed, and continued to climb down. After a moment, however, he shrugged, and Decided to take a shortcut. "Not too far. I had to fall farther for my coming of age..." He inhaled sharply, and then vaulted off the wall, a wild, loud warcry on his lips as he fell.

Stepping out of the incense-filled confines of the brothel, Zaveed stretched in a quite exaggerated manner, groaning as his back and shoulders cracked in relief. His thumbs slid into the long belt tied about his waist, and he offered a grin and a wink at a man who was standing outside, coin in hand, looking as if he needed the last bought of courage to walk through the door. Perhaps man was a generous term; the boy looked like he was barely old enough to shave, and was at the awkward stage between being a teen and an adult, by human standards. In that regard, khajiit had it much easier. Zaveed as a three-year-old was as able and lucid as a seven-year-old human.
"Take the one with the firey hair. She's rather... limber." he advised the youth, strolling past with a song on his lips. He didn't need to turn around to know the sound of the door opening and closing in a hurry was his new friend.

It was funny, in a way; only a few years ago, when a dragon had decided to attack his old crew's ship off the coast near Eastmarch, sinking it and claiming the lives of most of the crew, Zaveed was a decidedly different man. Had that man been in the brothel, he likely would have claimed the company of two or more girls, depending on how much coin would grant him, and take the one who he fancied the most. There was a lot to women past their looks, after all, even if they are paid to make you think they like you. Now, with significantly less coin in his purse, it was his mind that was satisfied more than his pride. At least he didn't have to scrounge together enough money for a cure disease potion, which not coincidentally were always more expensive the closer to brothels you went.

Perhaps I should have taken up alchemy when I had the chance, but damned if I can tell one ingredient apart from another, which one would give me the shits, and forget actually having to taste s-

The khajiit yelped in surprise as something decidedly man-sized fell from the roof, collapsing into a heap on the ground. He had lept back to avoid being struck by the corpse being tossed from a window, perhaps someone who had not paid his debts? It served as a reminder to pay attention to his surroundings; assassins tended to not be so conspicuous or forgiving. He gaze looked down at the still figure to determine the exact cause of death.

No, nevermind. The body was moving.

And he recognized it.

"The last we met, you were somewhat more graceful." Zaveed said, crouching before the prone dark elf with a grin. "Levitation spell failed you, I presume?"

"Azura...save..me" Zainat groaned as he lay in a heap on the ground on the ground. His eyes darted open once he heard the voice of Zaveed. "...Of course you would find me." He muttered. He struggled to his feet, and shook his long hair from his face - The impact knockking his hair out of his usual topknot. "I'm plenty graceful!" The Dark Elf said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't like, nor do I use magic." He said, glancing up from where he had jumped. "I misjuged the distance from there to here." He said as he pointed up at one of the nearby buildings. The spot he pointed at was a good fifty feet in the air, much farther than he had guessed.
"I ended up... Blowing my cover, and had to make a run for it.." He said, rubbing the back of his neck, obviously embaressed. "Bastard nord pulled a sword on me that was about... A cubit and a half long." Unknown to him, the right arm on his redguard outfit had slowly changed colours, from a dusty white to a deep, bloody red, ever since the impact, when he had landed on his shortsword.

"Enjoying the women of this city, are you?" He asked with a grin, having visited Helgathe in the past. He had spent more than a few hours in the establishment they were standing infront of, spending quite a bit of Septims on a dunmer woman with white hair. And if I recall... She could do things with her tongue... He shook his head and chuckle softly, remembering her fondly. "Was there this Dunmer woman with white hair, a small scar upon her left cheek?" He asked, grinning widely at the khajiit.
Zaveed tilted his head with a smirk. "You can use whatever term you wish to describe your circumstance, but I've seen skooma addicts who are better put together than you are now." he looked at the elf's hair. "And what do you use with your locks? You seem to be more vain about what's atop your head than most women I know." he listened as Zainat explained how exactly he ended up falling from a roof into the shambling litch that stood before him. A pool of crimson leaked through the light fabric of Zainat's clothing. Zaveed pointed it out.

"You seem to have opened your arm." he said pointedly. "Let's get you off the street and find a healer. You've already put on quite the show, let's not attract more attention from your blood loss, shall we?" he said, leading the dunmer down the finely constructed streets, trying to recall where he had seen a church, mosque, or house of healing. Even a potion shop would do.

He looked over at Zainat as he brought up his visit to the brothel. The khajiit raised an eye ridge at the elf's line of questioning. "Saw that, did you? And I enjoyed their company, although not for obvious reasons. What is the expression, work before pleasure? I haven't laid with a woman I bought in some time." he said with a dismissive hand wave. "That's a game for a younger, foolish khajiit with no small amount of ruthlessness and the inability to see a tomorrow past what today and yesterday looked like. And I wouldn't know; the woman I consorted with had spent time with gentlemen such as them." he said as a pair of dwemer guards walked down the street in the opposite direction. "Turns out they suffer from the same weaknesses as any other men, much to my delight."

Zainat smiled softly at Zaveed's mocking of his hair, and he shook his head slightly, amused. "I use some Breton solution made from leaves of Willow, treacle water, and honey, boiled in oil collected from a Lizard's skin. I was told how to make it by a Breton." He said without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Obviously you've never met an Ashlander woman, if you think this is ornate... Nor have you glanced at Qara'Sion." He said, grinning, before he paused a moment, a look of confusion flashing arcoss his face. "Opened my arm..?" He said, before glancing down at his bloody appendage. "Oh. That isn't too bad. I've had worse" He muttered, but nodded at Zaveed. "A good idea I suppose... Get it bound and cleaned"

When the dwemer had passed them, he spat on the ground, glaring at the dwemer's backs. "You taint yourself by laying with a woman who spends time with the Dwemer." The dunmer sighed softly, and continued to follow the Khajiit, his thoughts turning to the city.

Zaveed chuckled. "My friend, if you think that the only reason a man would have to consort with whores is to satisfy certain base urges, you must be rather inexperienced." he grinned. "Let's just say you can learn a fair deal about a man by visiting those who are paid to pretend to be interested in the words they speak."

He gave the dunmer a sideways glance. "You may wish to hide your contempt a bit better. There's no telling whom may be interested in ratting out a possible insurgent, and a foreigner to boot. I've seen dwemer kill for less. Come on, let's wet our tongues on the local fare and see about having you stop bleeding all over the place. It's putting a damper in my appetite."

"Inexperienced? Me? Let me tell you, Zaveed, when I was doing some work guarding a trading caravan a few years back, this merchant named Argath, had these twin daughters... Britte and Greyf were their names. I think." He rubbed his chin, and then nodded slightly. "Yes, Britte and Greyf. Britte had red hair, Greyf had blonde..." He paused a moment, and shook his head. "But I understand. But you..." He gestured at Zaveed, trying to describe the Khajiit. "You look like a man who spends much time with whores and harlots. Not that that is bad, mind you." He grinned, and opened his mouth to continue, before he nodded grimly.

"They didn't see me, but I see your point. The Dwemer are not known for their forgiveing nature." At the mention of food, Zainat's eyes lit up, and he nodded happily. "I came to Hegathe before, a few years back. If it is still open, I am pretty sure we can get something good from there... And I might know a place we can get some bottled magics for my arm."

"Once upon a time, I was just the sort of man you figure me for." Zaveed admitted, no shame in his voice. "I've lain with about as many women as men I've killed, who can keep track? When you live most of your life on a ship, the brief time you spend on land you partake in what indulgences you can afford to take. Or not, as was often the case. You become rather swift when you willingly choose not to pay a whore and try to sneak out on her." He chuckled. "And it's less the dwemer you should concern yourself with as those sympathetic to their cause. They can be any person who walks these streets, so be mindful of your tongue and actions. Us, being minorities as it were, aren't exactly loved. Selling us for a handful of coins wouldn't cost many a night's sleep, I imagine." He raised an eye ridge at the dunmer. "You've been here before, have you? Most of my time was in the East, this is all new to me. So, I will follow your lead and try to not look too much like a tourist."

"I'm sure you killed quite a few women as well." Zainat said sofly, patting the Khajiit on the shoulder gently. "I don't like ships or horses, so I wouldn't know about taking indulgences once you arive on the land." He chuckled, and eyed the Khajiit's body. "Ah, that explains your swiftness. I assumed it was because you are a Ohmes-raht." Zainat paused, and stopped walking for a moment. "You think that the Dwemer would have the common citizens they butchered work for them?" He asked, obviously havng trouble understanding the concept of a quisling.

"I was." Zainat said in respone to Zaveed's question, a small grin forming on his face. "See that building right there?" He asked, discretely pointing at a run down old building down the street to them. "Skooma Den, incase you or Qara'Sion get a craving for the Sugar. I had to drag my friend, Swims-in-Cold-Water out of there after he got a little too friendly with his Skooma Pipe." He chuckled softly.

"More than a few." Zaveed admitted, flash of his axes and spray of blood flooding his mind. "And I am Cathay, Ohmes-raht look more like men, if men had fur and tails." he stopped his strides when Zainat did, he turned to face the dunmer. "Of course. Fear and coin can purchase a peculiar brand of loyalty, and you assume people's loyalties start and end at their race. I'm living proof that that is rather... incorrect. Besides, many people haven't suffered from the dwemer. What we saw in Cyrodiil does not appear to have been the case here. Either they decided to handle Hammerfell with kinder gloves, or the ones ordering armies in various regions aren't of the same mind." he shrugged. "Either it has helped us, or it has not. It makes little difference to me. My objective remains the same." his gaze did not follow the dunmer's finger. Zaveed gave him a long look. "I'm going to assume you are trying to be a gracious host or a poorly timed gesture instead of assuming all khajiit are skooma addicts. If you wish to press the point, we will go there, I will buy the entirety of their wares, and force you to consume it all."

Zainat blinked at him, and returned the look, before a sly grin grew over his face. "I like you more and more with each passing second." He chuckled softly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry I did not get your people right. It should be easier for me, as a Dunmer, to know the diffrence between certian groups. Houses and tribes, you know. I did not intend to offend." He laughed again, and continued smiling at Zaveed. "Not skooma addicts, but I know that the Khajiit often use Moon Sugar for religious reasons, and thought you might like some for prayer." He bowed his head slightly, and then sighed. "I tried smoking skooma once. I woke up two weeks later, half naked in The Chill -Thats the Prision in Winterhold, mind you, in the arms of a very large, very strong, and -VERY- hairy Nord woman named Cob. I'll never touch the stuff again." He shuddered in revulsion, as if the very mention of Cob would summon her there. After a moment, however, his eyes sparkled lightly, and a mischievous grin spread across his face, one that made him look strangely sinister. "I have an idea to use that skooma den for our advantage, though... I'll tell you over dinner."

"A few streets down, there is a tavern that sells the regional food around here... You might like it. I know I will." He laughed, and slapped Zaveed on the back, before wincing as his injured arm throbbed painfully. "By Azura, that hurts." He muttered, doing his best to look as if it didn't hurt badly. "We should find a seller of Bottled Magics, and buy one... Although, if they have any Corkbulb Root, Marshmerrow, Wickwheat and Saltrice, I could make one myself."

"I would not concern myself overly much. It took me years to get the 17 breeds right." Zaveed replied, smiling. "Besides, I could not begin to tell you the different houses and tribes of Morrowind. Perhaps it makes me a bad person, although I am for decidedly other reasons. As for my faith, I acknowledge the Divines, but I would not say I'm particularly religious. I did not grow alongside my culture, so Moon Sugar never played a role in my life. I was too busy to stay alive than to worry about such trivialities. It's hard to justify narcottics when getting fed depends on how well you perform. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that that wasn't normal within the past few years." he glanced at Zainat with a sly grin when he mentioned the bear-like Nord woman. "Cob, hm? Perhaps I will search her out when this is done and inform her that you miss her companionship and mourn for your time apart."

The sudden exclamation about having an idea for the Skooma den surprised and gave the khajiit no small amount of apprehension. He didn't like to be anywhere near the shit. "Please don't tell me it's a plan that's about as well-thoughtout and executed as your adventure on the rooftops." he said, prodding the dunmer in the wounded arm. "And let's just find a potion shop. It's much simpler than juggling the rigors of alchemy when I am sauntering around on an empty stomach."

"Go ahead and look for her. She's probobly still in The Chill, so why don't you try mugging someone in Winterhold, eh?" He grunted, and then grinned at Zaveed's comment about the rooftop adventure comment. "No. For use in the erm..." He leaned in, and wispered into the cat's ear. "We'll use it for killing the Captian of the Guard. I sneak into the Captian's quarters by the Window, and force enough Skooma down his throat that he dies from it, and plant the suggar and Skooma around his room." He nodded slightly, and smiled at Zaveed, clapping him on the back.

"I can name all four of the Ashlander tribes, but only one of the Great Houses." He admitted, before pulling Zaveed into a small alleyway that a small potion stall he used to frequent was located in. "The woman who runs this stall... I have not seen her for three years, but she always gave me lower prices in exchange for... Services... In the bedroom... And how can you worship The Divines? What do they do? Azura, Boethia, and Mephala... They do much." He smiled softly again, and then stopped infront of a stall that was stacked with potions, ran by a red haired, voluptuous Dunmer woman, her hair hair done in a style women decended from House Telvanni tended to favor, a Bobcut. A small female child sat by her feet, playing with a toy animal carved from wood. She blinked at him when she saw him, looking shocked. "Zainat?" She asked, before her face took a harder edge to it. "Have not seen you in a long time... What do you want?"

"You can keep Winterhold all to yourself. Too damn cold for my tastes." Zaveed snorted, involuntarily shuddering when thinking of the snow and ice and gusting winds that felt like daggers. Hammerfell was much, much more agreeable. He listened to Zainat's plan. "We aren't trying to make it look like the man had an addiction problem, we're trying to kill him. It's to send a message, not cover our tracks. Do you not think it would not look suspicious if the man with no history of drug abuse suddenly overdoses the same night a lot of political prisoners are released back into the streets and a riot is orchestrated to draw off his personal guard?" Zaveed asked incredulously.

The khajiit had to bark out a laugh. "You, my friend, are full of shit. No shopkeeper in her right mind would take some begger off the street and fuck him in exchange for a discount. Trust me, I've tried. More than once." he said as they approached the stall. He spared the woman a lingering glance before looking at the child, an oddity in a place that was soon to see much bloodshed. Innocence weighed against the guilt of an entire city, it was interesting to behold.

When she spoke Zainat's name, Zaveed had to blink. He looked at his companion with apprehension. "I wasn't aware this was a social visit. Allow me to take my leave, then. It is clear I am intruding on a... intimate moment." he said, preparing to step back and disappear into the streets.

"I wanted to see you." He said, before moving towards the woman, obviously intent on embracing her ... Before she struck him across the face, fuming angrily. "A full year!" She screeched at him in Dunmeris, her eyes filled with anger. "A year with no word, and you just show up randomly!?" She struck him agian, and the child began to cry, obviously upset by the yelling. The woman bent down and picked up the child, hushing her, glaring at Zainat the entire time.

"I'm... sorry, Mehra. I was working, and..." Zainat said softly, looking at the child for a long moment, and then back at Mehra. "I... That child is mine, isn't it." She nodded slightly at him, and Zainat glanced at Zaveed, almost silently begging him not to leave. "What is her name?" He asked softly.

"Tashpi Ashurnasaddas." The woman said, and Zainat looked rather surprised to hear the obviously ashlander name... As well as his own last name. He glanced at his feet again, and then looked at the baby. "She's beautiful." He said, obviously unable to think of what to say.

Zaveed stepped close to Zainat, grabbing his arm and leaning in close, head turned away from Mehra. "While I can appreciate this moment, you need to be very careful. If people recognize you, she's in danger. After tonight, there may not be time to relax. Live in the moment; you may not have another for some time." he patted the dunmer on the shoulder before smiling warmly at Mehra. "I must apologize for his absence, he's been an associate of mine for quite some time. I promised him good coin for good work, and he wished to provide for you when he came back. You know how the whims of men can be, good in intentions, poor in actions." He shot Zainat a curious glance. "Although, he failed to mention that he had a rather lovely woman waiting for him back in Hammerfell. Had I known, I would not have taken him all the way to Cyrodiil and Elsweyr." He smiled apologetically. "Please, accept my apology for keeping your beloved from you for so long. I for one know the pain of seperation."

The image of Semedar's face flashed through Zaveed's mind, and the warmth of Reigenleif against him under the base of the palm tree, drink in hand. A sudden surge of longing filled him rather unexpectantly. He looked between the two dunmer, and he glanced at the child. "Seeing as he's done dragging me through the city in search of you, I suppose it's only proper I take my leave and let you two spend the time you deserve together." he fished through his pouches, finding what was left of the coin purse he was provided a few hours ago, before placing it on the stall. "It's about 20 Septims, I hope that should cover any losses for closing early." he said, stepping back. He looked at Zainat one last time. "I won't wait up, just make sure you're back by morning. You still have work to do."

'Thank you, Based Daedra.' He prayed silently as Zaveed stepped in to save him, and he continued to offer thanks to any Daedra that were listening as Mehra's face slowly softened, her smile slowly replacing the scowl upon her face. She blushed softly at Zaveed's complement, and then gasped as she saw the wound on Zainat's arm.
"Thank you for bringing him to me, although I would have prefered that he wasn't injured..." She said, pushing a potion of healing into Zainat's hand, and then begining to close the stall, obviously interested in catching up with Zainat. As the potion of Healing slowly closed Zainat's wound, he glanced at Zaveed, and nodded slightly. "I'll be there. Everyone has a job to do, after all." Then he began to help Mehra pack away her potions, a small grin upon his face.

The khajiit gave Zainat a parting glance before mingling with the crowd on his way back to the safehouse. "Yes, we do." he said quietly to himself before he was lost to sight, leaving the two dunmer lovers back to their affairs. It would prove to be the last quiet night any of them enjoyed in some time.

Meanwhile, during `The Blunders of Burkswallow`...

If ever there was a more infamously crime infested, eminently unlawful hole on Nirn than “The Snake-Eyed Skeever”, then Burkswallow had neither heard of it, nor would he ever want to.
The legends that abounded the place were as fantastical as they were farce, and there came a time in every professional thief’s life in which they would sit down and hear them all.
“It’s the place where piracy was born!”, some had said, “It was a naval bar, and they all went sour!”
“It’s where the black market starts, and ends,” say others, “If ever an item entered circulation, it started and ended in the Snake-Eyed Skeever, I guarantee!”
“The wenches there’ll steal your heart… and everything else that isn’t nailed down!”
And, the all-time favourite, “Nocturnal and her Nightingales drink there: One even tends the bar!”

Yes, no matter where you stole, how you stole or what you stole, if you were a thief, you’d heard the mythos and learnt the lore.
They said that, in the Snake-Eyed Skeever, if nobody saw it, it was legal: If someone did see, then they’d want a cut.
It’s even been theorised that Torradan ap Dugal, the “Scourge of the Abecean Sea”, the “Terror of the Gold Coast”, and the “Cutthroat of Hunding Bay” had once been a mop boy, there: And his crew, the dish washers.
Some even dared to suggest that, unbeknownst to the thieves guild of Skyrim, the true crown of Barenziah lays within the Skeever’s walls, and the one they possessed was only an expertly crafted, but totally worthless, replica…
Most concurred, however, that it was a bar patronised solely by liars.

All this and more was promised in the thief’s sagas: And all of it behind one door.
The Snake-Eyed Skeever, nestled somewhere within the heart of Hammerfell’s uneasy political capital: Sentinel.

Inside, spectral streams of pungent rotgut danced idly between the erosion and corrosion of the bar stool legs, too heavy to hover more than a few inches from the unaired must of the dark planked floor, and too thick to be dissipated solely by the movements of patrons.
The main room was dusky, and dank, as it lacked the windows with which to permit even the most basic levels of light to enter: It offered only a rapidly degenerating bar, a series of stools, and a small cluster of ring-worn, blotched and discoloured tables, some very literally standing on their last legs.
The walls had been abraded by the countless decades, eaten away by the chemical stains of bar-fights passed: And on those parts where the wall was still whole, they often still bore scars in the form of smashed lanterns and tattered portraits.

But by far, the most tragic blight this watering-hole was ever wrought with was most of its patrons.
Small, beady creatures in most respects, with eyes as glazed and milky as spider eggs, and long, spindly limbs with which to complete the illusion.
Their clothes reeked of the devil’s nectar, and their faces were uncouth, and often gaunt.
It would not have been irrational, nor erroneous, to wonder if they’d never seen daylight at all.
And, scattered sparsely amongst them were the few and the fortunate, with features that were more reminiscent of men than monsters: But despite their appearance, they were the most savage and treacherous of The Skeever’s frequenters…
The pirate heads.

All was quiet, all was still: It was only on occasion that men would wander from one table to another, and often only for as long as it took to retrieve a drink.
They spoke in hushed tones, if they spoke at all: Exchanged legends, information and, should their companions ever face the likes of the sun again, advice.
It was only those healthy few who occupied the back tables like toothache who bothered to speak any louder than a whisper, and even then they deemed their plans- of marauding and heists- to be of such importance that they did so barely.
The only thing that moved for any longer than a moment at a time was the dust in the air, which hung like a weighted billow throughout the entire establishment- as if perched atop the liquor’s virulent vapours- and drifted lazily from side to side, without cause or direction.

Bang
With a sudden, explosive clatter, the door- some mottled old oaken thing, ancient and thicker than bone- flew open, and soared across the barroom floor, before shattering into an innumerable myriad of thorns, of splinters and chunks.
And like the red sea, all the dust, the vapour and shade that had collated over the sub-rosa decades in which the tavern had stood here, parted in one glorious wave-like motion, to be replaced instead by a single fierce, triumphant beam of radiant, golden light.
A sweeter smell swept in with it, riding upon a tropical breeze and dissipating the sour stench of moonshine almost as soon as it’d arrived.

And in the heart of this newfound light, there stood a slender figure, tall and in a distinct, and familiar, leather armour: The kind of armour these men susurrated about in flights of fancy, whenever it was they dared to suppose they’d spotted it before, in brief glimpses through the ceiling tiles, and when they’d heard the rattle of footsteps upon a village’s rooftop grates…
Nightingale armour.
His face was obscured by the tenacity of the sun’s rays, save for the darker features, such as the light but undeniable presence of facial hair- which occupied his jawline, and faintly outlined his mouth in the process- and the flowing curls of his hair.
In one hand, he wielded a jade-green scimitar, which almost seemed to glow as the light passed through it.
When he spoke, he did so in a tone strict and clear: Which, to ears so used to secrecy, must have sounded thunderous, “Tell me where Harding is.”
It was clear, at this point, that his patience had run dry.

"My, aren't we demanding." a woman's voice came from behind him. The speaker sat at a table, feet propped up on the surface with several men and some women who appeared to be her crew mates, evidenced by a red bandana tied somewhere to their bodies, sitting around her. She was a Breton looked to be about thirty with short, chin length red-hair that was as straight as the dagger she was using to clean her nails out with. Her leather armour covered a white bodice, both unclasped at the front, giving a rather generous view of her cleavage, which may have distracted from the mace at her hip, or the trio of throwing hatchets on the other. She was rather comely, save for a long scar that ran from under her left eye, cleaving her lips, and down to her chin. It was almost as hard and unnerving as her green eyes and smirk, which conveyed a sense of menace under her mirthful gaze. Her tanned skin and calloused hands more than hinted at a demanding life.

"What's a lost pup doing in the old Skeever, eh?" she asked. "Nice armour, did your mum sew that up for you? Here's a tip, since you fancy being a thief enough to try and look like one of those Nightingale fellows; lose the outfit. You'll draw less attention that way, and maybe actually find some friends." her crewmates around her chuckled, staring down Burkswallow with predatory gazes. One of them was even busy sharpening a cutlass. "But aye, I'm Harding. You found me. Usually the only men who come a-calling me name are the fucks who want to fuck me, the fucks who think they deserve a part in me fleet, or the dumb fucks who think that I wronged them. I ain't seen your face before, and I certainly ain't invited you to my sheets, so shall we call it the third?" she challenged with a grin. "You fancy yourself a sailor boy, do ya? A length of rope in your hands, the sun lickin' your flesh like a feisty wench, the taste of steel in your hand as you drive it into another man's heart and takin' all he cares for? Out with it, pup. My drink is only gettin' warmer while my heart grows colder."

Following Harding’s introduction, there was a brief moment in which this newcomer’s silhouette, still basked in the keen and unwavering glare of the tropics, was motionless, save for the turning of his head.
He simply stood, resolute, and stared her down: His eyes obscured by day’s flare, but their presence apparent all the same, as if sensed by some deep, primal instinct, which told one man when another was scouring his form.
For weakness… for a solitary chink in the metaphysical armour which, when exploited, might bring a juggernaut to his knees.
But with what intensity he examined her was imperceptible, cloaked in daylight.

Then, he took one solitary step forwards and, transitioning from the gleam of day, stepped abruptly into Harding’s world.
Forsaken by the light, shade overtook him, and in doing so, unveiled his features as though it was his natural habitat.
His features, contrary to what Hammerfall’s day might have suggested, were dark as opposed to pallid: His skin was olive by nature, but baked a shade of light umber by the persistence of Magnus’ brilliance, and his hair fell in complimentary locks of chestnut brown, although betrayed hints of having been darker, before the sun’s rays had bleached it.
Only one feature betrayed this, and that was his eyes: A pale alabaster blue, which gave- almost- the impression of sightlessness.
Furthermore, his countenance was of sharp and defined features: High, pronounced cheekbones, and a firm jaw, which- whilst not the most rugged, by far- held well enough in width to maintain a respectable short beard, were both the most noticeable of them.

And when he spoke, they were all the more apparent.
“I’d trust a pirate to make that mistake,” he upbraided, with the gentle shaking of his head, “A thief can wear whatever he likes. I don’t need to worry about drawing attention,” he took another step forwards, and gave her a warm, comfortable smile, as though completely disregarding the presence of her somewhat foreboding crew, “Because I’m only seen if I want to be.”
He reached forwards, and slowly dragged the chair opposite of Harding backwards, withdrawing it from her table.
Then, he paused.
“Friends…” he mouthed, almost as though she’d triggered some faint memory. Then, he nodded- to himself- and turned towards the door, before whistling sharply in its direction.

Then, without any seemed precedent, the earth beneath The Skeever’s foundations began to quake, rumble and churn: Planks groaned beneath an invisible weight, and what few (unlit) lanterns remained whole shook, and threatened to topple unceremoniously to the ground.
Following this was a total eclipse of the noon, as some inhumane spectacle, some massive, tightening congregation of muscle and leather, forced its way gracelessly through the aged wood of the bar’s doorframe, before lumbering to the first figure’s side, with rigid, stiff movements.
She towered above him, and indeed, everyone: Her skin was as pallid and wan as moist chalk, but of such a coarse texture that it better resembled stone.
Her face was a battlefield, marked by the presence of dappled, calico scars, and deep, ink-reminiscent bruises, and her hair- which she’d, for whatever reason, taken the liberty of tying back- consisted of clotted curls, stained with all different shades of blood.
Her body- which, truly, looked as though it would have better matched the likes of a firedrake in its girth, muscularity and leathery exterior- was a spectacle all of its own.
“This would be Bethalda Leatherhide. I tell you this with words, because she speaks her with fists.”

Following Bethalda’s arrival- which, upon completion, allowed light’s intrusion upon the Skeever’s interior once more- came another body, decidedly more slender than the last.
He, too, was a taller gentleman, although my no means did he reach the threatening- and frankly, unhealthy- size of Bethalda.
What he lacked in height, however, he made up for in armaments.
His body was clad in a leather not dissimilar from the figure that’d greeted Harding first: However, his was adorned with all manners of sharpened knives, elongated stilettos and blades.
A bladed chakram hung loosely from the belt that travelled thrice around his waist, accompanied by a series of throwing jambiyas.
And on his back he bore two sabres, seemingly bejewelled and- as one particular man well knew- deceptively dangerous looking, despite the terrible materials that they’d been crafted from.
Facially, he was not massively different from any Nord of his type: Long, shaggy black hair, blue eyes and pale skin were his most notable features, excusing his lazy eye, and a braided string he dared to call a beard.
“And this is Vingard. He’s… resourceful.”

Finally, a third and final shadow ventured across the threshold, her hips rocking lightly as she journeyed to her supposed leader’s side.
She was slightly shorter than the rest of the troupe, and although still humanoid, was decidedly a hint scalier, to boot.
Her skin was a dark verdes, reminiscent perhaps of a deep sea green, and her form was wrapped in tan bodice that rivalled Harding’s, although it offered far less in terms of her thorax.
A long amber skirt concealed the rest of her body, save for her goatskin boots, which- perhaps- betrayed the presence of further armouring beneath.
Her tail, notably, penetrated the back of this gown, and swayed impatiently from side to side as she eyed Harding up, as though she considered her a potential threat.
“And of course, Sweeps… harmless looking, isn’t she?”

He turned to face his reptilian companion, which spurred her to snap her fingers, and generate- seemingly from some invisible plane of Oblivion- some massive, twirling flame, which danced eagerly atop her fingertips, before dissipating the moment she grew weary of it.
“… but she has her uses.”
Sweeps growled: He chuckled to himself.

“But of course, I didn’t bring them along to fight you! What madman would want another fight, in times like these?”
He happily took a seat in the chair he’d withdrawn earlier, and slid himself to Harding’s table again, trusting that Bethalda would be enough of a deterrent for her crew’s threats.
“I’m here to discuss neither, nor… I’m here to talk business, Harding. I’m here to talk survival,”
he explained, leaning across the table.
Then, he grinned playfully, “And hey… don’t make rash judgements. Give it an hour, and you won’t be inviting me to your bed… you’ll be begging me.”
He extended his hand to her, with a sportive wink, “They call me Burkswallow.”

“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that, but I’ll also take that you aren’t much for brains.” Harding replied, staring at the Breton across the table, ignoring his companions and his offered hand. “So you brought a half-ogre woman, a Nord who seems more content to show off his shite goods than use them, and an argonian wench.” She raised an eyebrow at his last crude comment. “And you have lofty aspirations, as do most narcissists, Burkswallow. You look more feminine than you’re two companions. I’m sure Burk isn’t the only thing you’ve been ingesting.” She said boorishly, continuing to pick at her nails. “I won’t point out who is who, but let’s say that one of the men at this table’s made a hobby of chopping off gabby fuckers’ lower jaws as trophies, and another is quite fond of pinning people by their hands to the rail of a ship with ice spikes. You can picture how that turns out when the ice dissolves.” She said, leaning forward to bury the dagger in her hands into a well-notched table with a heavy thump. “So let’s not compare cock sizes when it’s an obvious enough sight for a blind man to see that you do not want to fuck with me. Mine's bigger, me thinks.” She said.

“So, survival is it? It’s not as if me crew and me haven’t been doing that well enough our own.” She grabbed a tankard off the table, dunking two fingers into the wine before pulling them free, running a thumb through the liquid that cling to her flesh when she withdrew them. “Darad, the cheap fucker. What kind of grimy shite does he think we drink?” she said, tossing the tankard casually over her shoulder, landing with a loud clatter. “Survival’s the least of my worries, pup. Ain’t a man on these waters who has bested me, and they ain’t about to start. Didn’t think you noticed, but the deep elves ain’t exactly sailors or brigands. They’re too busy worried about the land rats nipping at their heels than those of us who make the sea our home. Notice how you managed to get here without delay? That’s because they know if we’re causing problems out there, we don’t add to their own in the lands they claimed as their own. They could, at any moment, march their silly armoured troops down these docks and into this tavern to stop us. But they don’t because us pirates are like the slaughterfish that guard their castle moat. Whatever fool wants to cross into their lands by sea has to run the risk of running afoul those of us who would cut their throats and steal their cargo. Because there’s a war on, people are more desperate than ever for supplies, which I’m all too happy to provide at the expense of someone else’s honest work for quite the mark-up. Business has rarely been better, pup. So why in Oblivion would me and my men be worried about survival?” she asked.

Burkswallow’s smile didn’t waver, although it took near all his effort to resist its attempts to twist and become derisive.
“If I was you, wouldn’t mock a soul on Nirn for what they ingest, Harding,” he said simply.
He made the motion of withdrawing a pen, and began scrawling across an invisible piece of parchment, “Hello, Kettle? This is pot: You’re inconvenient to have in an inventory. Also, you’re black.”
He placed his intangible quill neatly behind his ear, and leaned against his palm as she spoke.
Occasionally, he would nod in response to her threats, and muttered “Mhmm”, just to assure her that he was definitely, most certainly not paying attention.
“Well, it’s nice to have hobbies I suppose,” he muttered, mordantly, eyeing her crew, “Don’t worry boys, keep compensating, I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, he reached forwards, and- with minimal effort- unsheathed her dagger from the table wood.
“Oh, you think? That’s a nice trick,” he observed, before laying her dagger gingerly down on the table, “Don’t wager on it, though. I wouldn’t advise using your crew for reference,” he chuckled softly, tauntingly almost. Then, he slid the dagger back to her, and locked eyes, “My tongue might be my weapon, Harding, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t the sword to run you through.”
Sweeps cleared her throat.
“But enough of idle threats.”
She sighed, irritably.

Burkswallow said no more, for that time: He simply turned around, and gestured for Vingard to approach him.
As Harding expressed her disgust towards her beverage, Burkswallow uttered some unheard order, and the tradesman nodded right away. He began rummaging through his bag, and Burkswallow returned his attentions to Harding.
“You’re underestimating them,” he explained, shaking his head softly, “Have you ever seen a Dwarven ruin? They were built eras ago, and they still make most of Skyrim look like it was constructed by one-armed, cock-eyed giants. Give it time, they’ll build something. Luck’ll only get you so far: Take it from me, mine ran out a while ago.”
He smiled wryly, as some indignant cough made itself known in the deepest depths of his subconscious.
“You should be worried because war never ends. They’re starting with the people who’re antagonising them now: But what happens when they’re gone? That leaves you.”

He paused, and then waved a dismissive hand, “But let’s not make any choices just yet,” he suggested, gesturing towards the drink Harding had thrown away, “This is a bar, not a courtroom.”
Vingard leaned over Burkswallow’s shoulder, and rested a pair of translucent green bottles betwixt the two debaters.
Burkswallow picked one up, and gestured for Harding to touch hers to his, “Firebrand Wine, courtesy of The Thieves Guild. By which I mean, annexed from The Thieves Guild.”

Harding snorted. "Skyrim's still constructed by one-armed, cock-eyed giants. Why do you think I'm out here instead of over there?" she shook her head. "And no, I have not had the distinct displeasure of crawling through some festering hole in the ground to marvel at the work of dead men, and I don't see why any bastard would. You may have a reasonable point about them inventing something to overcome their apparent fear of going for a swim." she took her feet from the table and looked forward. "And you ain't me, pup. I make me own luck."

The pirate grinned. "You ain't seen how these lands work, have you Burkswallow? So long as the deep elves wander around like pompous cunts, there will be someone who wants to take 'em down a peg of three. If they were so untouchable, so unstoppable, then why in the fuck did they get so desperate all those thousands of years ago to just," she snapped her fingers and slammed her palm onto the wood. "Disappear, probably because they fucked up. They can have all their fancy toys they want, but look where it got them before, look where it got them now. Notice how the only reason we know about what's inside those ruins of theirs is because people went in there and out again? That's because people fear what they don't understand, and they don't realize that for all their fancy self-propelled murder devices and elaborate contraptions that they still can be overcome. Ever see a deep elf cast a spell? Didn't think so. The rest of us got by just fine without trying to emulate what we saw them do. The Alyeids didn't conquer Tamriel with metal spiders, I'll tell you that much, and Tiber Septim certain didn't create his own Empire from fancy trinkets, either. 'Course everyone's shitting themselves, they ain't seen this shit before. That'll pass. The deep elves will find themselves in deep shite once people get used to seeing their automations, that's a damn guarantee pup." she drank heavily from the goblet before her, draining it on a single breath. The metal tankard slammed onto the table. "Plus, it's fucking hard to catch something that don't stay still. Ocean's a big place with more places to hide than a few measly ports. And Talos forbid Tamriel suddenly finds itself even more hostile to my kind than it is now, well I hear Akavir is lovely this time o'year."

"This is a tavern, aye." she agreed, plucking the offered bottle. "Stealin' from thieves, eh? Always found the bastards a bunch o' spineless cunts, if y'ask me. If you're going to take from a man, have the guts to look him in the eyes before you do it." she knocked bottles and threw hers back, drinking heartily. "'Course, I usually kill 'em right after, but manners still count for something. I like you, Burkswallow. You may be a terrible negotiator, but you aren't bad as far as company goes. Might buy you a favour or two, if you ask nicely and the prize sparkles brightly enough for me liking." she said.

"Hard to hear you're not so fond of thieves," he took a long, indulgent swig of his ale, before wiping his upper lip, "But I don't steal because I need to, and I can't make an honest coin: I do it for fun. For the thrill," he put his bottle down, "Life's a lot more interesting that way."
Then, he glanced back at Sweeps, "I even stole a woman, once. Bad choice, don't do it."
"Hrmph!"
"And if you do, endeavour to leave her attitude behind, at least. Nobody likes a perfectionist."
The Argonian huffed, folding her arms across her chest bitterly: Burkswallow shrugged, and retrieved his bottle again.
"And that's because negotiating is for politicians. I'm a different kind of crook," he chuckled, "And yes, I've heard enough cheap ale makes me much more tolerable. Like me now? Give it a while, you'll love me," he laughed again, with a sort of dry mirth, "Of course, we'll be drinking a lot before I start asking nicely. A gentleman's got to have his pride, no?"

"And so, you're a dishonest bastard. I can respect that." Harding said with a grin, enjoying the playful and almost affectionate banter between Burkswallow and the argonian woman. She clasped her hands together, rubbing them quickly a couple times. "I'll tell you what. We're leaving tomorrow before first light, playing the role of some smugglers this time around. We have some cargo we need to offload, and we have some contacts in the East that are offering some pretty substantial coin and other forms of payment for it. You'll have a couple days, at least, to convince me that I should put me and me crew in danger for your silly cause, but if not, the people we be selling to seem to share your hopeless idealism. You'd more like find a sympathetic ear there than here, aye?" she asked, raising an eyebrow almost flirtatiously. "Hard to say no, aye?"

"Harding, my dear, you piqued my interest at 'sympathetic ear', but had me at the eyebrow," he assured her, swigging the last lees of his wine, "I say we put Bethalda in a crate marked 'warning: bear' and be off, then!"
Burkswallow then climbed out of his seat, kicking it back a few inches in the process, "Zaveed gets a war to fight, and I get a cruise... Gods I love my job."

A day ago…

“So, we’re all here. Now, to find out how to spread the word that an honourable duelist is holding a pas d’armes on the main road to Hegathe. Surely, Redguards would line up to test their skill, being a martial society and everything.” Francis said.

They were back at the Leaf on the Wind tavern with their newly acquired damsel. She was a young, lithe thing with a pretty face. She was much more than that, though, as she used a few colorful words to describe what she’d do to Vendel’s nether regions if they didn’t let her have a portion of the money they would be accruing through this particular venture. Francis had no choice but to assure her that there would be no problems in getting the payment to her, and nothing she said she would do would have to be done. Vendel made sure that Francis made that last part doubly clear. Something about that brown-eyed beauty’s face contorting in anger while detailing the full list of harmful techniques she would employ on Vendel gave her words an extra amount of seriousness. A woman with her kind of intimate knowledge on the male form could probably do everything she said she could too.

“They’d better. I’ll be awaiting payment all the while you boys are play-fighting.” Lawrenna, as she had introduced herself, spoke up.

“We know, and we will get it to you. This ‘play-fighting’ that we will be doing, as you call it, will be paying your wages for the day and maybe the next few if I’m as successful as I’m known to be,” Francis ignored the sarcastic glance from Vendel, “so I’d show a little more respect if I were you.”

“Your friend’s favorite toy hopes even more than I do that you’re right, Fendel.” She said as if the act of examining her nails called her attention more than Francis talking.

“My name is Francis, and he’s Vendel.” Francis corrected.

“I don’t care what your names are so long as you’ll be getting me as much coin as you promised.” She shot back.

“I thought women-of-the-night were supposed to at least act more friendly than you are right now.” Vendel said from his seat situated a good deal far away from Lawrenna on the other side of the table.

“Only in my bedroom. This is not my bedroom, little boy.” She mocked the stout Nord and got a dirty look in response.

“I’ll pay a few merchants to spread the word, let’s go before we end up killing you.” Francis shot at Lawrenna, who only looked at him the same way one would look at an annoying child who’d overstayed his welcome.
============================

3 hours, forty septims, a long brisk walk filled with constant arguing later…

One the road to Hegathe, no one tells you how short the ride seems when on a cart and they even less often will tell you that it feels significantly longer on foot. It was less the ache in Francis’s feet but more the arguing behind him that was not letting him get any respite and was sapping his morale. By the time they got to the desired spot- a small stretch of road- he felt he’d not be able to lift himself, much less his sword, after having to sit through so much bickering. Like children, did Vendel and Lawrenna regard each other and never a kind word was uttered between the two.

“Lawrenna, dear,” Francis said, “give me a handkerchief, glove or some other object under your ownership. I must show anybody willing to rescue a damsel from Vendel and I, your captors.”

Lawrenna scoffed at that, making it loud enough for her to be sure he and Vendel could hear it. Francis really hated that about her. Well, that and everything else. Francis got a handkerchief from her and kept it on his person to show to any would-be competitors. He still had a few septims left over if any merchant passed by on their way to any other city. Food would be good to buy off of them and Vendel began making camp near the dunes as Francis watched him on the bridge. Vendel always worked best alone and sure enough, the tent was up in less than twenty minutes, fire-pit made in less than fifteen and they’d bought dried camel dung to use as fuel for a fire. They were told it was lighter and easier to transport and it wasn’t as if the nomad was carrying dried shit on the offchance that an outlander would pay gold for it.

The sound of hooves caught Francis’s attention and moments after Francis’s head snapped towards the sound, so did Vendel’s. Lawrenna was left wondering what the fuss was about, obviously becoming spooked at the fact that they knew something she didn’t. She made to speak and only the first inkling of a sound made it out of her mouth before Francis held a hand up.

“Two, maybe three horses.” Vendel’s voice rose.

“Yes, my friend. They aren’t in a hurry either. We’ll see if they’re willing to show their skills to us for a good practice and maybe even rescue a lady and take her back to Helgathe.” Lawrenna cleared her throat at that, “Of course, under armed escort by Vendel and I, no one can ever be sure with the people they meet on the road.”

“No, you can’t be. For instance, Francis, do you remember that old monk we met? Easy to kill, he was. I bet he was sure that wouldn’t happen!” And a boisterous laugh lifted itself out of Vendel as the Nord bent over from the humor he had granted upon the world at that moment.

“My friend can be like that sometimes. We never killed an old monk.” Lawrenna’s previously concerned look turned just a bit more relieved at that, “But young monks?”

Lawrenna scowled and pushed Francis away before walking down to camp to watch Francis do his work. If it got out of hand, Vendel would step in. Such were the roles of the pair, Francis the duelist and Vendel the peacekeeper, there to keep a professional air about things. If any fighting was to be done, Vendel would do it. Not many in their right and even a few in their wrong mind wanted to go toe-to-toe with Francis and Vendel after seeing the big Nord bring his blade to bear. Hopefully, none of that would have to happen now.

The two riders broke mirage, their Redguard-style helmets- a conical steel helm wrapped tight with a keffiyeh- and brightly coloured robes covering chainmail. They made an impressive show of themselves, but their prowess with the sword was yet to be seen. Perhaps a Knight and Squire was what they saw today, or perhaps a pair of sellswords. For all they knew though, they could be the advance party of bandits that called the surrounding sands home, or who could be watching them from the dunes at this very moment.

Francis hailed the two riders and they stopped a small distance away from him. They said something to each other in Yokudan before one of them stepped forward, “My friend says that you look like warriors. You stole this woman, no?”

“She’s yours to have if you manage to beat me, my friend.” Francis said.

“Beat you? You are Francis Martell of Camlorn, a duelist come to make coin in Hammerfell and to test the reputation of Redguards’ martial prowess then?” The man asked, a smile growing on his lips with each word.

“The very same. What say you? Duel me and either hand over a small portion of your coin in the event that you lose or accept the woman and some of my coin if you beat me. A fair deal, no?” Francis offered.

More Yokudan. Things he didn’t understand. “We agree. My friend wants to fight your friend first before I fight you.”

“That isn’t part of the deal.” Francis’s eyes narrowed.

“I could tell the guards that you stole this woman from her brothel and plan to do grotesque things to her out in the sands or I could tell them that you are part of the insurgency. Whichever one suits you, my friend.”

“You drive a very hard bargain. So be it, have your friend come and challenge mine. Vendel!” the big Nord looked over to Francis and his conversation. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he had since removed the padding from under his maille, brigandine and furs, “This man here wants to duel you. What say you to this?”

“I say I accept!” Vendel yelled back as the rasp of the sword being freed from the sheath underscored his point. The Nord hefted his shield and cracked his neck before spitting into the sand and making his way to the road to meet his opponent. Both duelists took their stances, the Redguard taking a high stance while Vendel bent at the knees and let his shield protect his left flank, his sword-arm being his right. The two circled each other and Francis watched intently.

The Redguard’s curved blade flashed through the air glancing off of the hardened leather and wood of Vendel’s shield. Vendel stepped back to receive another blow to the shield before shifting a foot forward and bring the edge of the shield hard into the man’s chest, stumbling him back. Vendel gave him no chance to recover, raising his shield to protect his left side, stepping forward onto the Redguard’s foot and once again punching hard with the shield, sending the Redguard to the stones of the road. A sword-tip leveled at his throat gained Vendel the first yield of the two he’d need to win. One more and Nords could claim a victory over Redguard.

“You should tell your friend to be careful.” Francis smirked.

“We shall see.” Was the Redguard’s response as Vendel squared up against the Redguard.

The two began to circle each other again. Whatever tactic this was, it didn’t work last time. Vendel took the initiative and decided it was the right time to strike. He raised his shield to protect his left side, his blade trailing the brim in a heavily protected cutting edge, his shield providing protection to the entire left-side of his body, forcing his opponent to put himself at a disadvantage from attacking from his non-dominant side. That did not happen. The Nord pressed his attack knowing it would not, once again stumbling the Redguard as he tried to avoid the six inches of steel protruding beyond the shield’s range, hunting for flesh to part. Francis chuckled. Peculiarly, the Redguard did too.

Vendel yelled out as sand was kicked in his face from the Redguard’s non-dominant side, forcing Vendel to pause in his offense and give the initiative to the Redguard warrior. Crafty man as he was, he was just as fast. A glint of steel in the sunlight, scraped off of the brigandine that Vendel wore, signifying a blow and the equivalent of a yield. Francis growled, and only the Redguard was left to chuckle alone.

“Redguards bend sand to our will, from the sand magic of the Alik’r mages to a simple splash in the eyes of an enemy. Everything must become a weapon for the warrior, so he is never unarmed. The warrior must become skilled enough that torn from his physical form, his very conscious is its own weapon.” The Warrior said.

“What is your name, Redguard?” Francis asked, growing curious at the display his friend had shown and whatever skill may lie beneath his words.

“Hassan. I am a duelist. Arrived from Stros M’kai.” Hassan’s name rung bells. Bells. Klaxons. Captain Alaire St. Tarley, he was hired by a woman named Nadeen and her bodyguard was named…

“I will give Captain Alaire your regards next he and I meet, my friend.” Francis said.

“We do not have to fight. I can simply give you coin in exchange for your loyalty for some time.”

“As gracious as that all sounds, Hassan, I’d like to see what skill you have.” Vendel stood over the Redguard in triumph. He had won after all. Francis had his doubts, but he had more faith and confidence in his friend.

“So be it.”

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

Marble giants dominated her side view, standing tall and proud, with fearless gazes soaring across the starry plane. Likewise, their salutes pointed skywards, one towards the open blue, and the second at a tall construct. Its box-like silhouette was filled close to the top with varying shades of black, bearing the faint outline of its skeleton. A burst of orange and gold erupted from its peak, and within the sphere of its glow, Thyra first saw the lone Guard; watching her tread through the empty square.

Not an hour earlier, Thyra was among the crush of retreating market-goers, hustling through narrow streets to escape what most believed was a haggling duel gone wrong. Pushing and bumping, they shoved each other towards the temple like a herd of cattle. Thyra, with her foreign face and rigid demeanour, stood out like a stick of chalk. She chose her steps carefully, dwelling in shadows until the patrols passed, and darting between outposts. Sometimes she’d overhear vivid accounts of guard cruelty, and it enraged her to no end; hearing of how they viciously beat peasants in the streets for crimes feeble and imagined; of house raids and curfews; of businesses beggared by soaring tariffs and one-sided policies.

Insurgency seemed all the more appealing after making those observations, than when it did when first proposed back at camp. What she wanted to do wasn’t heroic, unless overthrowing a government purely for the chance to stomp the brains behind this insane regime counted as such. Her blood boiled at the thought of such abuse, Mara save them if she ever bore witness to it.

---

Airy tendrils brushed against a bronzed and dewy brow, treating the weary soul to sweet scents and music from sailing in from the tavern’s door. A smaller breath of air flew forth in response, swatting at the strand of auburn hair that hung beside its puckered source.

Street lamps chased the night’s gloom off emptied streets and pathways, outlining the various routes streaked across the landscape. The impatient Guard couldn’t wait to follow the more brightly lit one, joining the watchtower to the doorstep of the “Voiceless Dagger”. One set of fingers drummed at the wooden railings, and the other clung tightly to a blazing torch held over its edge, spilling rays of soft light onto the pavement three storeys below.

Despite being an hour late for their shift, two Guards approached clasping the others shoulder with their opposing hand, cheeks as red as roses, and smiles as wide as Masser. Their drunkenness was obvious to the Archer’s eye. They stumbled forward and gave a mock salute, which was responded to with a nod and a hidden finger. Another joke here, another ‘Remember when’ conversation there, and the finally encountered the steps, climbing as slowly as possible to the sound of deep giggles. The Guard still-on-duty focused on a point of contrast by the Mosque, a lone figure out later than they should be. Tall and broad-shouldered, skimming the tiles with their shifty footsteps, keffiyeh worn like a mask; it was a damning sign of trouble.

Curfew or not, Helgathe’s denizens maintained their holdings, but to investigate their secret affairs meant leaving the outposts and getting dirty, possibly injured. Possibly killed. No sane person on the City Guard’s pay-scale, with the infamy that garnered, would care. Except for the Archer waiting atop the outpost. She cared deeply for her countrymen, the same as any honourable Redguard, but not enough to abandon the old man sitting at home, awaiting her arrival.

When, at last, their eager footsteps found their way across the Dagger’s threshold, the Guard didn’t slow until the barkeep was near. The scent of spice, lemon, alcohol and vomit combined with her natural musk, correlating with the smears on her tavern garb. Her gaunt face bore such clarity, one could almost see through the deep fissures of her brow and frown, and into her mind, no doubt where the assortment of muttered curse-words came from. The Innkeep was a more welcoming sight, twice as short and twice as wide as the door she dragged her many robes through. No two people in the city could have more contrasts between them than Salomei and Madira.

“Welcome to the Voiceless Dagger, you’re free to any one stuck in my back,” Salomei croned in her high-pitched nasal, sarcastic tone.

“Late for you, Naya,” came the earthy voice of Ole Madira, her chins wobbling with every shake of her head. “Old Man be thinkin’ strange to let you out this long.” Her long sleeves dragged across the floor as she gestured to a stool.

“He’ll survive one drink,” she grinned back at the old woman and settled herself on a separate stool. Professional artisans in every sense, only a tiny ripple raked through their demeanours, but the Archer noticed. As expected, there was something amiss about the character next to her. Salomei dropped a broomstick against the counter and fetched Naya her usual grog.

“Here’s to a peaceful Helgathe.” Half the drink disappeared on that toast. It was neat, with the right amount of honey, and served in a clean glass. Naya made a humming noise and looked at it cautiously.

“I hear you got promoted!” Madira cut in quickly, “Praises be, child, we gonna see less of you now?”

A knowing smile spread across her lips. “Something like a promotion. The city square’s a stage, no fools around to break law, and nobody paying mind, anyway. I feel no shame admitting that it gave me easy money, but I’m happy to go. The docks have more air and empty space, you know?”

“That all?” Salomei asked bluntly, referring to Naya’s glass that was now empty.

“No, no,” she chuckled, doffing her hood. “One more for me.” At Madira’s inquisitive eyebrow, she laughed, “Rostered leave. New government’s good for some things, huh?”

She stole a glance at the stranger sitting beside her, someone who clearly disagreed with that statement, unless that cough was coincidental. The air stilled as Salomei twisted to look over from the stack of barrels, and Madira continually clutched her chest in search of a heartbeat.

Naya grinned. “Aunt Sal’, can we get another, um,” she gestured at the tankard lying empty below a pale hand.

“Mead,” the stranger replied.

“Yes, that,” her eyes flicked sideways. “A northern drink. You from there?”

“‘cause I like mead?” her voice was louder now, and feminine, if it could be believed.

Naya took a proper look now that she wasn’t affected by shadows and distance. Without the keffiyeh obstructing her face, she could see the green design painted on her pale skin, white-blonde hair, and blue eyes that avoided her. She hummed, “I can think of some other reasons. What has brought you so far from home, Nord?”

“This,” a hand shot forward to receive the refilled tankard, the loose sleeve peeling back to reveal scars and lean muscle coloured white and silver. Naya made no attempts to hide her surprise.

“New to Hammerfell, a?”

Silence.

“Any more of you? Travellers, I mean. I didn’t see you last night, can’t remember ever seeing you before, that’s how I can tell you’re new.”

“Is it your business to know?” Her voice was louder now, not a shout, but the words were projected with force that they could probably be heard from upstairs.

“No, it’s not. And it won’t be at least for the next few days,” Naya’s response garnered curiosity from all listening. She nodded and turned her head suddenly, catching the Nord unaware. For the first time, amber met ice. “It is hard to switch off when the day is done,” she sighed. “Adenai.” Her body turned to offer out a hand.

Thyra raised an eyebrow. For all she could remember, those new identity papers were blank. Her mind was blank. Her expression was blank. Everything was blank. Only one thought existed in the vast expanse of her empty mind: this Redguard is exactly who she should be avoiding.

“Sigrid,” an answer came, but not from the Nord woman. Madira smiled warmly and resumed her task of re-drying the plates that happened to be on a shelf right next to them.

“Sigrid then,” Naya took her hand and shook it. After swilling the remains of her glass, she propped her hood back up and rose. “If you’re still here in a couple days, I’ll be at the docks. You do owe me.” She farewelled the Innkeeper, pushing enough coin into her hand for all three drinks. Thyra stared after her as she disappeared behind the narrow curtain, mouth still partly open.

Madira approached her, chuckling. “Too close, that one. Here,” she pushed six gold coins into her hand. “You’ll be needin’ ‘em more than the one in your pocket,” she gave a wink. “Now! You better lay up if you wan’ catch the early morn’. Can’t have you turnin’ up drunk. Little Boss will throw a fit!”

Thyra gave the woman a genuine smile. As soon as she finished, she trudged upstairs and into a room set up by Salomei, on an isolated side of the Inn. Through a split between the curtains, moonlight fell, drawing a bright line on the wall opposite her bed. She watched it until her vision narrowed, and her head filled entirely with that bright light.

The road smelled of a death. A foul odor crept from below, a sick mixture of blood, bile, and shit that could spoil any appetite. Water and wine spilled from torn skins cut the mess below with little effect. Worse still, the wounded coiled and writhed in the muck, their gashed bellies undoubtedly spoiled. Atop of the unfortunate dead and dying stood the huddled masses, jaws set, minds made up despite the gruesome sight.

Shamoun stood among the tensed mob caked in the same mess as below. They surrounded three figures armed with blood-slicked scimitars and dressed in clouded steel. A layperson to war might arch a brow at the standoff. Dozens clearly determined to see the dark business done against three guards, who for all their training and armaments remained pathetically outnumbered. That layperson paid no mind to the mob’s arms – various tools better for parting earth than flesh – and glanced by the rioters fallen at the guards’ feet. Numbers would not drive a broom handle tipped with a bit of metal through a steel cuirass. The Pilgrim reached beneath his cloak and drew a curved, Elven dagger from its scabbard at his waist. Calling from the pit of his stomach, Shamoun bellowed, “Forward!”

When the Pilgrim charged, he did so without a mind for care. A shove here, a stumble there, and soon those around him scoffed loud. Collective grunts sounded as if in approval, as if ready to charge, so as he moved forward the mob followed too. The guards raised their swords and pikes to form a wall. Drawing nearer through the mass, Shamoun could see their exposed, glistening skin beneath their helmets. Three paces closer and the guards, exhausted, stepped back. Once, twice and on the third step the steel backs of their cuirasses clashed. Like a sounding bell, the clank of the armour stirred one of the guards who began to swing their scimitar wildly. The mob, too far to be struck, raised their pikes, shovels, and pitchforks only to have them nicked by each blow. Shamoun noted the quick glances from the rest of the guards and immediately grabbed a stone from the muck. Less than ten yards away, he threw the stone just barely over the heads of the mass. A sharp, metallic ping echoed off the buildings around them as the crazed guard stumbled back. Shocked, or perhaps dead on his feet, the guard dropped his scimitar. Suddenly and without mercy the crowd flooded.

In the brief moment, Shamoun dashed to into the second row of the mass. His elbow raised, cocked back as if drawing the string of a bow, instead with his curved, Elvish dagger in hand. Such proximity required speed and accuracy. Emerging ahead of the mass, he grabbed one guard by the spaulder, burying the blade deep inside his throat. Ignoring the barrage of wooden farming tools breaking upon his armour, the final guard fixed his attention on Shamoun. The guard turned on a heel and, arm straightening, stabbed the scimitar point toward the Pilgrim's middle. A moment too slow, he let go of his knife and jumped aside with a burning pain just over his hip. Shamoun slammed his right arm against the guard's fully extended sword arm, then in the same motion, launched himself atop his enemy. He caught the steel helmet in his hands, grabbing the guard's nose in the process, and pulled him back into the muck. The two fell, the guard onto his back, and Shamoun onto his shoulder. Lashing, the guard slid their head from out the helmet and rolled onto their knees. Soon Shamoun was on his back, straddled by the guard, surrounded by the confused crowd. Farm tools rained down, bested by the steel armour, and utterly ignored as the guard brought a metal fist down toward the Redguard. Shamoun raised the helmet, still in his hands, and barely caught the blow. The side of the helmet that might protect a cheek shot back from the punch, splitting Shamoun's brow. Feebly, the Pilgrim threw the helmet up, catching the guard square in the face and sent him recoiling onto his back.

Shamoun remained on his back and took a leisurely breath. His head rang, a stream of blood running from his brow down the side of his scalp into the braids. For a moment the world went from red, to black, to blurred imitation at the sight from before. He felt a dizzying pain in his cheek and, behind his eye, a deep pressure like a head's lament after Argonian wine. Mouth still watering at the metaphor, Shamoun felt hands grasping his arms and shoulders. He relaxed his vision until general shapes took detail. The mob raised him to his feet, a few patting his back, others inspecting his brow and looking over his body for wounds through the layer of bloody muck. Shamoun gawked a moment, mouth falling open briefly as he caught sight of what could have been his death's charge. The guard's nose was crushed, perhaps from the helmet, and readily flowing blood. However, despite that very clear injury, death looked to come from odd severe denting all over the steel cuirass. A pitchfork or a knife and a lucky strike, it didn't matter. Shamoun stumbled until his balance held true, then spotted his first target. Bending down, he pulled his dagger from the man's throat and wiped the mess off onto the body before sheathing the blade.

"Weapons! Arm yourselves here. More soldiers are coming," a familiar voice exclaimed over the crowd.

Shamoun turned to the voice and spotted his hooded allies on the rooftops. They dropped staffs, sheathed swords, daggers, spears, and a surprising number of bows and arrows. The third figure could be heard on street level organizing the mass. Bows would be little help if the soldiers were allowed to march onto them without resistance. Taking a deep breath, Shamoun recovered as much as he could in a short time and returned to work. More rioters had collected already, they'd need to prepare the line.

And it began. Both sides engaged each other as the riot began, however the khajiit did not begin to move himself. Through the one eye he could see out of, he remained by the wall and watched as if he were a statue. Instinct told him to stay away and let the others deal with staining their hands and blades with blood, while his morality told him to help fight, so his allies would live to see tomorrow. Regardless, he knew he had to make a decision. But once that decision was made, there would be a slim to no chance of him being able to turn back. What he wouldn't give to be back at the college, instead of joining this... this... war. He couldn't even think up of a degrading word for it. It was, what it was: war.

Yet for a riot involving civilians, the unmistakable scent of blood was in the air and more of it than he expected. Damn his senses. Damn the dwemer, and Damn Aron for dragging him to Imperial City. It was beginning to fester in Qara'Sion's mind more and more to just leave it all behind. Gods, he just wanted to be far, far away from this. He had his own life goals, and playing a role in this was not one of them. He finally managed to move his hand, albeit in pure annoyance to rub the eye patch covering his eye and froze up once more. He remembered how his sister compared him to their eldest sibling if only by appearance. He didn't see a single resemblance though in terms of how he looked, or what he did. His brother was strong, and he wouldn't have hesitated from terror had he been placed in Qara'Sion's position. He would have either fought, or played it smart, saved only who and what mattered and kept away from this.

...That's right. He still had to find his brother and sister to know they were safe. He couldn't die here. And the dwemer were currently in his way. In his way of safety, in his siblings' way of safety, and his friends way of safety. And the khajiit knew who to put his loyalty to. With a closing of the book, Qara'Sion marched forward, step by step. Heart still racing, he snapped his fingers and turned invisible.

"...I'll make them feel just as horrified and weak, as they have made everyone else."

The slow march of the khajiit quickened in pace as he moved nearby the swarm of guards fighting the rioters. His gold eye scanned for the nearest open guard to dive behind as the fight raged. It took him a few long seconds, but he did manage to spot one between two guards dealing with a hefty nord man. One backed off of him to guard their backs while the other engaged, swords clashing all the while. A perfect chance.

Qara'Sion slipped behind the guard and tapped him on the back with a rout spell. For a second, the khajiit revealed himself but immediately turned invisible again as he hopped away. The expression of the guard wasn't visible, however, the action of said mer running from the nord in a blind panic was. The guard clumsily ran straight into his ally and tripped over on the ground. His ally staggered, spinning around to find his comrade impaled on the pavement by the nord.

The khajiit kept on moving, weaving and ducking through each combatant as he tried to find the next target. Thank the Gods he at least knew how to dodge, lest a stray sword slice him. Too bad he wasn't good at using one. However as luck would have it, another guard a few feet from was holding a woman by her wrist; shaking her with force. Qara'Sion neared them as the guard lifted his sword and bashed the woman on the forehead with the hilt. She staggered back in a daze, yet remained on her feet although she was being supported up by the guard. The khajiit brushed behind the guard and slapped him on the back of the head with a calm spell before turning invisible again. The confused guard weakened his grip and noticed behind the woman for a split second was a one-eyed khajiit with a hand on her back. The khajiit immediately disappeared, and the woman with a look of a mad dog tackled the unsuspecting guard to the ground. Immediately she stabbed him in the one open spot on his neck, yelling "Give me my husband back!" all the while.

With ease, he spotted a redguard in battle against one of the dwemer himself. Another easy target. Qara'Sion began to make his way to the older man when something hard collided with his face in the direction he couldn't see out of. His invisibility broke as he practically flew onto the blood stained pavement. Quickly and with force of habit, he stood up and turned himself invisible once more. The khajiit saw as a helmeted guard began to walk in his direction. No matter which direction Qara'Sion moved, the guard still followed him whenever he was done easily cutting his way through the opposition. Which could only mean one thing...

"...The bastard can see me. Shit!" The khajiit cursed in his thoughts. He couldn't afford to break the effects of his spell as his magicka began to run thin and he would need more time to rest. He was only armed with a dagger which definitely was not, going to beat that sword. The only logical reason he wasn't cut with the sword instead of punched in the face had to have been because the guard probably didn't want to waste energy swinging it if he wasn't really there. So, the only thing he could do, was run.

And Qara'Sion ran. And the guard chased him. He sped away from the crowd of people as the guard pursued him, not letting up once. As the two ran past one person, the guard yelled as he fell on one knee. The khajiit turned his head to see a hooded figure knelt down near the man and inserted a dagger into the back of his other knee. Quickly, almost as though he was commanded, Qara'Sion turned right around, charged at the guard and punted him in the face to knock him over. Qara'Sion and the hooded person immediately pounced on the guard and stabbed him in the neck using a dagger that each had. Breathing heavily, the khajiit looked at the hooded person and a smirk grew on his face.

"I thought... you weren't going to fight?" He asked his sister. "Just a bluff to convince you not to join this." A chuckle came from the younger of the two's mouth. "Don't laugh, had you not decide to run in this direction, I wouldn't have been there to stop him."

The two stood up and moved a few feet to the side away from the fighting. "If you are, going to go back in there, you might want to regain your strength first. Doesn't make sense to be that afraid and act foolishly." Shenzi added before lightly nudging her brother on the shoulder. With a silent oblige, Qara'Sion moved away along with his sister, but the two remained on guard. The only mistake about resting though, was that his adrenaline rush would slowly subside until nothing but his common unbearable cowardice remained. And having his sister around made him relax a bit more.

First and Second hand instinct guided Qara'Sion's steps. The fear remained controlling him as if he were a child's doll.