[i]Fucking Gods[/i], Finnen cursed in his head, still sore in the legs. It had been a good number of years since he’d walked so much miles in so few days. He understood the urgency, or at least was yelled at about it many times by Bennet back in Cyrodiil, but the road puts a hurt in a man’s legs like none other. He sat with his back against the tree, whittling away at a piece of wood, contemplating a good way to get the wandering priest blabbering on about circles or wheels and fire and boys or whatever the hell he was talking about to shut up and let him get some quiet rest. Instead, he settled for looking as disinteresting as he could by putting on the look of every refugee around him. It was easy, he was tired, distraught and a wee bit angry just like them, definitely not one inviting passersby to talk at him. He looked over to the Altmer in their group, an open member of the Thalmor. Bennet had given specific instructions to keep an eye on him. He would, but only because he knew the look of a killer when he saw it. He’d lived with a few and killed a few men himself, so he ought to know.

He didn’t like how the Altmer could disappear in a crowd. He knew how easy it was to fool the eye himself, so meeting one who could fool his own for a few moments at least was…different. And not in a good way. As if the Gods set aside this day to make Finnen contemplate taking his own life out of hopeless exasperation, the lunatic walked past him to ask a Dunmer a question about the things he usually talked about. [i]I have to wonder why we keep him around[/i], he mused. Although, the man was reported to be a competent mage and the way he dealt with those wolves in the Jeralls was a sight to see. Definitely not for the faint of heart but a sight to see.

Speaking of those he had to ask himself why they associated with, there was his kinswoman. A fellow Reachman, still dressed in the fur loincloth, looking like the savages everyone makes his people out to be. He spat at that, it didn’t matter where he went, no one trusted a Reachman because of those Forsworn lunatics. The elves saw his blood no better than dirt and the Nords would sooner crack his head open than say hello.

“If the world is to fall better to fall fighting is it not?” She said in a tone welcoming a response.

“I’d rather stay alive, Alana.” His voice was heard for one of a few times on the road to Falkreath.