[I]Eastern Hammerfell, North of Rihad…[/I]

Marassa reacted before she recognized what had been lobbed at the encirclement around her. Her sword was held at the ready and she had pivoted to face the threat, observing the angle of the javelin and working out that by its shallow incline, it likely was at the end of the thrower’s range. Her eyes scanned upwards for the assailant and was surprised when she saw Cub sauntering towards her, his face hard in a way she was immediately unfamiliar with; the orc always seemed to have a child-like wonder to him, an innocent that tempered his violent outbursts. What stepped before her and the others was not anything like the Cub Marassa knew, and she felt as uneasy and shocked as Marion felt. 

The Redguard woman placed a hand over her mouth, staring at the javelins in recognition. When Cub spoke, it further drove the suspicion that something was horribly amiss. Marassa had never heard him speak like that, and she could not recall a time he put a man out of his misery. The thought of him being found coming out of the sea crossed her mind, the uncharacteristic action of the usually lovable orc. The khajiit paused, her frown cementing. Had she absolved Cub of suspicion on account of his open loyalty to her brother? He had always been so vocal with his intentions and his actions never conflicted with that, so what had she missed? As she stared at the orc, it occurred to her that past travelling for a few months with him, she perhaps did not know him at all. The man before her was a stranger.
And it was very unnerving. 

However, this was not the time to let divisions become known. She could square aware her unease with Cub later; right now, leaving intact was priority. When Cub regarded the Breton man and asked him if he was Moon Shadow, she all but decided that he must have suffered head trauma. Whatever in Oblivion Moon Shadow was, or why Cub thought this Burkswallow was him was irrelevant, if odd.

Marion called her men off, pain spread across her normally fair features, and Harding was soon called over by one of her men looking at the spoils from the fallen man hunters. Marassa glanced at Cub before turning her attention back to Burkswallow. “He’s had a trying week, he isn’t quite himself.” She said as a way of apology for Cub’s behaviour, although Burkswallow seemed to take it in stride. The khajiit glanced at Burkswallow’s list but did not reach out to inspect it. “You’re here of your own validation, but at the behest of the Thieves Guild.” Marassa stated, staring down Burkswallow. “Either you have a different opinion of what doing things on your own accord means, or you’ve been pressed to do someone else’s dirty work. I particularly do not care.” She looked at the pirates, in particular a pair who were making a corpse do obscene things like an overlarge puppet. “My brother is always looking for people to join his silly causes. It doesn’t surprise me he roped you into it, as well.” Her gaze returned to the Breton. “If it is your aim to return back to Zaveed as soon as possible, then we have a common objective. If not, then my companions and I will find our own way. I do not care what the pirate woman says, although a ship is a welcome change from walking or riding. I’ve been doing that since Senchal.” 

Movement caught the khajiit’s eye, and she espied Hralvar walking back to the camp, not in fetters or chains, but on his own accord, talking with the argonian priest he had been fighting with the day prior. It felt like a rare victory in days that had exceedingly few; her companions returned unscathed and now had what was potentially access to wherever Zaveed was hiding.

Only a few hours later, Marassa, Cub, Hralvar, Burkswallow and his companions were back on Captain Felicia Harding’s vessel, leaving their grieving captors with several dead, but perhaps a few more days of freedom. Maybe they would recover, maybe they would not. Harding had watched her crew make off with no small amount of gold, provisions, and as a boon, the finely crafted dwemer weapons they had taken from their fallen adversaries. While she regretted the deaths of five of her crew, it was a part of the job and she’d make those numbers back the next time they made port. Her mind lingered on Burkswallow’s warnings about the dwemer capability. Perhaps he was right and she needed to commit resources to stemming [I]that[/I] tide, but tangling herself in a war that was not her plight was asking to lose everything, and Felicia Harding was a very sore loser. Regardless, she had all the way to Wayrest to figure it out, and the Corsair’s Republic would have some inkling of what other crews decided to do. Pirates were often independent and self-serving bastards, but in time of great peril, it wasn’t uncommon for them to band together. 

The Breton woman leaned on the bannister forward of the wheel, staring down at the various groups on deck enjoying their evening meal as the sun’s last minutes of light kissed the horizon, bathing the sea with a brilliant hue of red and purple. Her crew, men and women of all races and creeds who fought under her flag and often died at her command, those who shared in her spoils and stories and drank with her in times of good, and times of bad sat in their social circles, drinking grog and eating dinner, a catch of fresh sea bass, corn from the mainland, and bread. Her eyes lingered on the group of visitors near the bow, an unlikely lot. In particular, the khajiit who had eaten wordlessly and reserved herself to staring at the approaching horizons, as if restless for the journey to end. If Zaveed’s words were to be trusted, and Harding often knew them to be, Marassa was a very focused woman who had a difficult time easing off from her goals. Unlike some of the others, her armour remained draped to her form, a sign she did not trust the company she kept aboard the ship. 

A crewmember approached Harding, handing her a goblet of unspecified booze, from the scent a mead of sorts. The sensation of the Nordic scents combined with the khajiit’s armour took Harding back with a smile. A cat who fancied herself a Nord? Preposterous. 

Still, the Breton woman had to smile as she raised her flagon to the back of the khajiit in wordless tribute, and she too turned her own gaze to the approaching horizon. It wouldn’t be long until she’d have that lot dumped off near Hegathe to find Zaveed and their other friends. It wouldn’t be long until she was going to have to give Burkswallow an answer to why he ventured aboard. Bugger.

A wicked smile crossed her features. There was more than one place to discuss business, and there were few rules, especially among pirates, that said you couldn’t mingle pleasure with it. Her cabin, after all, was plenty spacious enough for two. She’d even be finished her own drink by the time she dragged him off to extract Burkswallow’s payment for his voyage.