"Beware the fall!" proclaimed the preacher on the rock, overlooking the travelers of the road between Bruma and Falkreath, which was bustling with activity, mostly refugees. "The fall is coming! The fall of man! The fall of mer! The fall of land!" He stretched his arms out to the heavens in a bid to draw any attention he could. The members of Dragon's Eye were among his audience, freshly rested and on the road to their first mission as an infiltration team. "Our only hope is to ride it out! But who among us can ride time? Can you? How about you? Can you, my dear? No? Indeed." The preacher turned away from the crowd. "I turn my back on you, as all the gods have! The wheel turns, but who is left to see it? I wonder..."

Quarivier, dressed in his leather with a hood pulled tightly over his head to hide his Elven features, scoffed at the preacher. "An insane, and blasphemous, old man. My people will not fall to anyone. Not to the likes of a butcher, nor anyone. I bet he worships Talos as well. If we weren't on our mission..." The Thalmor agent was interrupted when a group of Bosmer, likely a family, passed close by. An old woman was sobbing into the arms of a young man. 

"She was a priestess," the old elf cried out. "They warned her to leave, and she turned to Mara for help. And now she is dead. What if he's right? What if the gods really have left us? How else could Mara let her own disciple be abducted from her own temple!"

The young Bosmer comforted her. "She loved everyone until the end, like Mara instructed. Mara turned her back to no one. It was the Alessian Empire that turned its back on Her."

Quarivier frowned at the exchange. "But we are on a mission. The Alessian Empire is a menace, and it must be stopped. These men presume to dictate the fate of mer, and I presume to dictate the fate of my knife at their throats."

The small squad of Dragon's Eye was bound together by no uniform or commanding officer. They were to enter Falkreath, one by one, disguised if need be, and gather information on the Alessian Empire. It might be tricky, considering Jarl Dengeir's famed paranoia, but it was their mission. For now, they stood by a simple road, but it symbolized so much more. The squad could see shades of the three Elves streaming from the direction of Falkreath, most in utter disarray and carrying nothing except the clothes on their backs. Some looked very much like prisoners of war. Fathers carried crying babies. Former nobles walked barefoot. Children walked alone. 

And then there was the other side. Fit, young men and women of man or beast descent looking fresh and eager on their way to Falkreath. Some even had the audacity to keep their Legion armor and sword as they marched to kneel before another Emperor. The two sides avoided contact, casting their eyes to the ground when they passed. Both sides knew of the other's intent. Neither wanted to acknowledge it. 

"We are playing with fire! Following mortals who play with a power they do not even come close to comprehending!" the preacher continued, facing the road again. "The wheel turns upon children playing with fire!" he repeated in an exasperated tone. "A fire that threatens the fabrics of the all and none!" 

Falkreath was just over the next hill, according to the sign. Most of the journey had been taken in silent anticipation for what was to come. Quarivier had broken it with his musings on the preacher. The members of the squad seemed to look around at each other for the first time, actually noticing the people they were traveling with.