One of the issues with hand-to-hand combat, for Sarel, was it’s necessary brutishness. Sarel had learned long ago that all battle was evil and only led to sin, but he also knew that some styles were more graceful than others. The dichotomy of battle was what drew Sarel to it. The battle he had last night was of brutish quality indeed, and was most certainly evil. 

Sarel could not find anything to successfully stay the attack from the Redguard warrior Owyn. Owyn had decided that taking the stairs would take too long. He readied himself, peered out of the body sized whole at the end of the corridor, and sprinted toward it. At the splintered, cracked, end, Owyn jumped onto the bough of a tall tree which sat near the back of the tavern. Sarel watched Owny slid down the hard bark with only one hand to work with. He left a small line of blood down the tree and Sarel saw something beautiful in that: a single trail of blood traced down the length of a gorgeous tree, illuminated by the brilliant moons’ light. Suddenly Sarel felt something in him click, he’d been realigned somehow, someway. He wasn’t sure what it was until he was ablaze with the aura of his ancestors. It was a nerve-racking thing to be enveloped by the ancestors after so long, and with such little warning. Owyn was not perturbed by the sight of the Dunmer on fire, he seemed to accept it. Sarel realized what had happened to him, the dispelling poison had worn off, finally. He filled his left hand with a ball of fire, charging it’s energy with the little magicka reserves he had left. Owyn was quick, he lept forward, without warning, and kicked Sarel in the chest. The Dunmer fell back and felt his breath escape him. Owyn produced a dagger with his left hand and fell downward, onto Sarel. 
The dagger sunk into the Dunmer’s chest, slightly to the left of his heart, he could tell. Sarel’s fireball had missed, it collided with the branches of the tree behind the Inn and lit it ablaze. Owyn shrieked in pain as he laid atop Sarel’s enflamed body, his flesh burning to a crisp. Sarel held Owyn close to him, hoping the screams would end soon. And they did, so he tossed the crispy burned corpse to the side and sat up, his ancestors flame dispersed as he did. Sarel wasn’t sure why he was shocked when the guard came over, his sword brandished in front of him, ready to strike. Perhaps he expected the guard to have already been there, maybe to help. It doesn’t quite matter because Sarel was furious. He screamed of his innocence and the guard’s incompetence as he was hauled away to the jail. 

And so, battered, bruised, and a little more than perturbed, Sarel sat in a dank dungeon cell with little more than sacks for clothing and a lit candle near his jail cell, perhaps placed there so that he may read the brief history of the empire which sat atop a small stool near his bed. There was a pale beside him for his excrement and a window, set twelve feet above the ground for his viewing pleasure. Sarel was quite sure he would kill himself before he got out of this jail cell. His blue feet splattered against the wet, rock floor as he eyed the jail cell gate. It was well made steel, reinforced. The lock was a little older, likely simple corundum. Sarel had dealt with things like this before. Beilin had once taught him a method of superheating corundum locks in order to overcome them. He waited until he was sure there were no guards near, sauntered up the gate, and placed his hand on it. He let the magicka flow through him and he tried to direct it into flame. He quickly felt his reserves being zapped, and nothing came from his hands, aside from a small, translucent thread of energy. It flowed from his hands and out of the cage and to his right. Sarel cursed and smacked the bars. 

“That won’t help you” a voice said from across the way. It was young and confident, and bore the semblance of perhaps a Mer. Sarel was unsurprised to see a high-nose Breton peering from the darkness from the cell across from Sarel’s. The Breton were like that, unknowable, ambiguous. “The Collage of Whispers paid a visit to a couple of the jails in Cyrodiil recently. [I]'In an attempt to assist the less prosperous cities of the Imperial province with a recent influx of crime, the Emperor has sent some of the most creative minds in the College of Whispers and the Penitus Oculotus in order to reinforce the jails of these cities, and provide a safer environment for its citizens.'[/I]”

“Very impressive, are you planning on reciting the Imperial oath backwards now?” Sarel was not interested in the Breton, and the last thing he needed was someone speaking to him as he tried to think of a way out of this. 

“I’m just trying to help. There’s a device the College made using soul gems, it’s sucks up all magic in the area. Your trick’s no good here.”

“I don’t believe I was asking for your help”

“Well either way, you got it.”

Sarel fumed in his bed as he tried to get the Breton out of his mind. Why did he know so much about the movements of the Empire? Maybe he could be helpful. Sarl cursed himself under his breath, he tried think about what he knew about Imperial law, it might come in handy later. But, how did this Breton know the movements of the Penitus Oculotus? He might have valuable information. He could be a spy. He might also be helpful.

Sarel resented himself as he stood from his bed and walked over to the gate. He gripped the bars with his hands and allowed his dark red eyes to pierce into the darkness across. “How do you know that stuff?”

“I have a cousin in the office of commerce.” The Breton joked. 

Sarel let his head bang on the bars as he immediately regreted speaking to this man again. 

“I’m in the Legion, isn’t it obvious?”

Sarel silently thanked the man for his mercy, he wasn’t sure if he could take another sarcastic remark. “Probably not as obvious as you’d like.” Sarel said, taking on a more friendly tone. He sat at the edge of the cell gate, he could see the Breton perfectly from where he sat. He had tattoo’s on his crown which wound in complex fractal patterns. His nose was tiny and delicate but his eyes were passionate, yet forgiving. He’d seen battle, of that Sarel was sure, but he also bore a softer side. He seemed endlessly interested and entertained. 

“I’m Serge. What’s your name?”

“Sarel.”

“Of which noble house?”

Sarel was shocked when asked that. Not many people remembered the noble houses, and almost no one asked for it by way of introduction. “My family name is Drevan, but I am Hlaalu at heart.”

“Drevan? Truly? I knew of a Baltis Drevan in High Rock, he worked ebony at the jewler in Sentinal.” Serge was out of his bed now, in a better spot to look at Sarel. 

The Dunmer was dumb-founded when the Breton mentioned Baltis. The two had met briefly when Sarel was attending a youngsters party in a cave between two mountains. They became aquainted because of their shared name but made no other connection aside from that, other than they both liked drinking wine. Sarel had all but forgotten about Baltis. 

“It’s incredible that you mention that, I did meet him once, no relation, though. I think. How is he?”

“Oh, quite dead. He fell into a whirlpool whilst drunk. Poor fellow.”

The two were silent for a while as a far off dripping periodically breached the silence. Then, with seemingly no reason, and yet exactly at once, the two men started laughing hysterically. The laughed until they were wracked with coughs and even until the warden came. He screamed above their laughter and banged on Sarel’s cage. 

“Quiet you two, don’t make me send ye’ down the hole.” He made a sort of disgusted face then shuffled back to his desk down the torch lit corridor. 

Sarel looked over to Serge who was back atop of his bed, beaten by the disruptive power of his captor. “The hole?” he asked.

“Another invention of the College.” Serge said, no longer entertained or interested.