[b]A collab between Derv and I[/b]

Hours had passed, the deck of the ship baking in the sun and chasing all of Urzoth’s party down into the depths of the hold after only a few minutes of watching the bright sea drift by. Durb had his knees up to his collarbone, resting his chin and spinning his axe slowly, one end on the floor, the other beneath his fingertip. He looked up, eyes glazed over with boredom, and sighed softly. 

“I thought ship riding was gonna be fun.”

Ushtur stared blankly at a wall, rocking slightly with the bouncing of the ship against the waves. Her stomach tensed with a little hum of recognition, but for once she said nothing. 

Bulag slept.

Urzoth paced the length of the hold, one end to another, anxious to leave after the taste of land she’d spotted only hours before. To think she was so close to feeling solidly placed again made her blood shiver in its tunnels, pumping into her legs and fueling her need to move. Light from minute cracks in the sealed boards to her right flashed across her darkened face, catching in her eyes every so often and making her squint and growl impatiently. How foolish she must look! A Hero of Tamriel, pacing nervously in a boat, getting pissy at little flecks of sunlight.

“Hegathe up ahead!” A sailor, outlined in blinding sun, had swung open the trapdoor and called down into the hold, then stepping away from the open door and going back to his business. Urzoth watched his earth-toned feet shuffle away and rushed into the heat of the day, followed closely by her companions. They clamored to reach the edge of the ship, where a port up ahead promised solid footing and some real food.

Buildings sprouted up like beanstalks in Hegathe, toned like the sands and bleached by the scorching rays of Hammerfell’s burning sun. “By Malacath, how do these people see?” Urzoth tilted the shade of her helm into her eyes, blots of ink swimming in her vision. She impatiently waited for the sailors to reach the docks, drop anchor and lower the gangplank before immediately heaving her body onto the gangplank, crossing it with steps guided purely by the surety of her arrival, and landing down onto the dock, where she paused to come to terms with how… level the ground was. Finally, no swaying. Her head raised at the sound of a call to the departees, and as her group gathered behind her a group of guardsmen approached.

"Hail, travelers." The Sergeant, a dwemer of indiscernible age approached, helmless in the blazing heat of the day. "Please produce the manifest and documentation. Be advised that the city is currently under martial law, so the liberties of the populace is currently suspended. You will be permitted to stay in the Harbour District, but be advised that there is a curfew from sunset to sunrise and anyone caught breaking it is subject to incarceration and runs the risk of being shot on sight." the Sergeant said, as if reciting something he'd said dozens of times already. He looked at the looks, a look of curiosity crossed his eyes. The four other guards with him stood motionless, watching the proceedings diligently but with only passing interest. The real threat was inside the city, and there were enough counter-measures in place to all but ensure an attack by a rogue crew would be thwarted with ease. Trade had to continue, if for no other reason than to legitimize the dwemer claim to their lands in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Most ships came and went without incident.

Urzoth eyed the Sergeant, his racial features not unfamiliar but odd enough to make her stare at him a little, like spotting a previously unknown species of dog. She seemed reluctant to produce anything, especially at the mention of martial law. This man looked bored, which meant he hadn’t seen much conflict all day. “I didn’t think I needed documentation,” She said, leering down at him. 

Bulag hurriedly produced the necessary papers, uncurling the little slips and passing them over. His voice quivered with both age and pride. “We are the Hero of Tamriel’s accompanying—“ Urzoth grunted impatiently. “—accompanying party from the mighty Orsinium! She is Urzoth gra-Morshum, of stronghold Morshum. Bearing no weapons un--” He broke into a prompt coughing fit, half-doubling over and making Durb smirk very slightly.

Urzoth snatched back the papers as soon as the man seemed finished with checking them. “Which way is the Harbour District?” She gripped Bulag’s bicep as he finally ceased coughing.

"Hail, travelers." The Sergeant, a dwemer of indiscernible age approached, helmless in the blazing heat of the day. "Please produce the manifest and documentation. Be advised that the city is currently under martial law, so the liberties of the populace is currently suspended. You will be permitted to stay in the Harbour District, but be advised that there is a curfew from sunset to sunrise and anyone caught breaking it is subject to incarceration and runs the risk of being shot on sight." the Sergeant said, as if reciting something he'd said dozens of times already. He looked at the looks, a look of curiosity crossed his eyes. The four other guards with him stood motionless, watching the proceedings diligently but with only passing interest. The real threat was inside the city, and there were enough counter-measures in place to all but ensure an attack by a rogue crew would be thwarted with ease. Trade had to continue, if for no other reason than to legitimize the dwemer claim to their lands in the eyes of the other kingdoms. Most ships came and went without incident.

Urzoth eyed the Sergeant, his racial features not unfamiliar but odd enough to make her stare at him a little, like spotting a previously unknown species of dog. She seemed reluctant to produce anything, especially at the mention of martial law. This man looked bored, which meant he hadn’t seen much conflict all day. “I didn’t think I needed documentation,” She said, leering down at him. 

Bulag hurriedly produced the necessary papers, uncurling the little slips and passing them over. His voice quivered with both age and pride. “We are the Hero of Tamriel’s accompanying—“ Urzoth grunted impatiently. “—accompanying party from the mighty Orsinium! She is Urzoth gra-Morshum, of stronghold Morshum. Bearing no weapons un--” He broke into a prompt coughing fit, half-doubling over and making Durb smirk very slightly.

Urzoth snatched back the papers as soon as the man seemed finished with checking them. “Which way is the Harbour District?” She gripped Bulag’s bicep as he finally ceased coughing.

The Sergeant was either indifferent or uninformed regarding what "Hero of Tamriel" meant, as well as the towering orcs' stature. He handed back the presented papers after stamping them, clearing them from inspection. "Yes, documentation." he repeated boorishly. "It's part of the customs of assuring you aren't pirates and are legally authorized to make harbour in Volunfell sovereign territory. Since Orsinium is, as I recall, something of a rogue state with little in the way of structure, this will doubtless be a delightfully droll undertaking to sort this out." he gestured to a squat building to the right. "Have the captain report there to register the vessel and his cargo. The rest of you are free to make refuge here." he eyed Urzoth with impatience, as if he were explaining something that most people should have already been able to decipher on their own. "You're [I]standing[/I] in the Harbour District. Every building, shop, inn, and tavern you witness on this side of the walls that lead to the city proper is the Harbour District. Considering it's exposed to the threat of sea raiders and piracy, it's rather ironic it's likely the most stable and safe spot in the city at the moment. You'd do well to mind your own affairs while here and stay without incident." the Sergeant said, the unspoken threat lingering in his words. "Now, is there anything else you need to know? There's a khajiit fishing vessel that I had to impound because the captain and crew couldn't seem to come up with a justification of why half of their hold is filled with moon sugar and skooma instead of fish I need to deal with." he sighed, looking as if his eyes were pleading for the band of orcs to actually be on their best behaviour.

Urzoth frowned and sighed, exhausted, at the Sergeant’s reply. [i]Stupid! What’s wrong with you, Urzoth? You’re losing your sharpness. [/i] “Right,” She muttered, and crossed her arms. She hated talking to people she didn’t know anything about. She was nearly tempted to ask the man for directions to an inn nearby, but right now she only wanted to leave and find her old friends as quickly as possible. “No, nothing. The captain will register with your men.” She started walking off, letting Bulag go so he could leave alongside with some dignity.

The guard, miraculously, left them be, and soon enough the smell of the harbor and the meandering of people absorbed her party entirely. Urzoth hung close to the head of them all, pushing through the swaths of Redguard and making herself look like she knew where she was going. The larger street eventually split off into thinner streams, where storefronts and homes were more modest and shaded. A little sign, half off its pole and looking heavily worn, bore the symbol of a little moon encircling a pint of ale. She could scarcely make out the name; something about the moon and ale, probably. Durb tugged on Urzoth’s bracer, making her stop before she could walk on by and look down at him. “This looks like a place to stay if we wanted to be robbed, Durb.”

The lean warrior shrugged. “You sleep in most your armor anyway, General. And they won’t be so worried ‘bout us breaking stuff.” His eyes looked a little hopeful, and she furrowed her brow deeply.

Urzoth, through further argument on Ushtur’s part, found herself pushing the old, old door open, half expecting it to turn to splinters beneath her rough palm. Only a few narrow windows above the door provided any sunlight, bathing the plain, sandy room in darkness wherever a short puddle of a candle couldn’t stretch its glow far enough. A few characters of ambiguity sat on stools, sipping sparingly from mugs that could be smelled from across the room. An innkeep looking as if he’d risen from the very dregs of his oldest keg hunched over by the entrance, dark fingers idly dusting little flecks of sand back and forth across the rotting wooden counter of his bar. He perked up as he heard the door open, and in the flickering light Urzoth could see the milk of blindness in his eyes. Glancing back at the patrons whom held a sudden interest in the large group of Orcs with expensive accoutrements, Urzoth cautiously approached the bar and set her hands upon it. She tilted her head over, looking at the tunnel of doors to her right that she figured served as the section for rooms. “I need two rooms for a night.”

The innkeep looked up to the voice, glassy eyes contrasting with his dark skin. "There's more than two of you. What do you plan on doing, sleeping on the floor? I strongly suspect the lot of you aren't joined under Mara's light." the Innkeep said, his voice deep and rich. "There's four available. I don't need a room of writhing green bodies doing debaucherous acts that would make Dibella herself blush. I already had [I]that[/I] happen enough this month. One room per married couple, those are the rules. If you don't like them, you can try your luck down the road at the 'Never-Vacant Lodge' or the 'You Could Buy a House for Yourself For the Cost of One Night Inn'. Since most travelers aren't allowed in Hegathe past the Harbour District since those idiot rebels got their loincloths twisted, it's gotten damn busy in these streets of late. So, what will it be? Four rooms or try your luck elsewhere?"

At the mention of ‘writhing green bodies’ Ushtur and Durb collectively snorted, holding in their snickering like a dog holds in its own piss while Urzoth slumped and grumbled at the counter. “Fine! Four rooms. We’ll try to contain ourselves.” Not as if she’d actually be capable of sleeping in some rickety human-made bed, but she didn’t bother to make that point known. It was clear he only wanted more money out of them. She pawed through her coinpurse, drawing up the funds needed to hold them for the night, and let the Septims clatter to the table. “I hope your bronze-licking overlords still accept this as currency.” She grabbed the keys to the rooms, passed three off to her respective companions, and tucked her own in a pouch at her hip. While they went off to explore their tiny rooms and peel away their heavy backpacks and equipment, she remained at the counter, opting to stay standing after a brief glance at a twiggy stool nearby. “I’ll have whatever ale you’ve got.” 

The glassy-eyed innkeep smiled as he swept the currency from the counter top to drop in a small pouch at his waist. With a confident swiftness and precision that seemed unlike that of a blind man, he found a large tankard and filled it from a nearby barrel, stopping the flow from the spout before the foam could reach the rim. He returned and slid this over the orc. "Big girl like you, I was expecting more of a fight. You're alright." he said cheerfully, polishing a glass with a clean rag. "So what brings your lot to a war-ridden town like this?"

She hummed at his words. [i]Alright?[/i] She rarely viewed herself as one people could get along with. She supposed a man who couldn’t actually look her in the eye when he spoke to her would be the exception. She glanced over to the people in the corner and took a swig of her ale, hardly cringing at the taste. It wasn’t much worse than the mammoth-killing swill the young warriors of Morshum would drink as a rite of passage. “I heard the Heroes of Tamriel were around. Got curious.” There wouldn’t be spies in a place like this, would there? Of course, the innkeeper smelled like the kind of man who might sell his soul to his invaders for an easier ride. 

"Ah! That lot. I was rather hoping they'd stop by here, drum up some business." The Innkeep said with a slight upturn of the lips. "Then again, the trouble in town started shortly after they arrived, like they kicked the viper's nest. Word's about that there's more than the actual Heroes, like they had companions or something like that. There was that one khajiit, Zalee or something, and that big orc necromancer, I know he was called Gorzath, 'cause he was killed earlier in the day today in the fighting. People are saying the dwemer pulled him out of a house and shot him in the street with one of those tiny staves." he said, pausing what he was doing reflectively. "Damn shame, after what he and the others did two years ago. Didn't effect me on account of being blind, but it doesn't mean I was immune, probably why the Praetorians never bothered me. Anyways, no idea where they went after the day's fighting, but you can bet if Zally was killed, the dwarves would be boasting about it. The bladesmith across the street might know something, he's got connections with some of the insurgents, I hear. Just don't go making too much of a scene, last thing any of us want in the Harbour District is for there to be a stronger military presence." he advised, frowning at the orc. "Let me put it to you this way, my friend. We don't give the dwarves a reason to put too many of their men and arms here, the easier it is for us to get supplies into the city for the honest folk who are caught up in this shit. I know it's hard for some people to understand, but most people don't care who's running the town, all they care about is making enough to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads. Not everyone can throw caution into the wind and fight for a cause. You need to look after who's important, you know? Anyways, that's enough talk from an old man. Didn't mean to talk your ear off, traveler, but take it from me, I've been dispensing advice for the better part of thirty summers now. Old habits die hard."

The bladesmith it was, then. The light outside was fading. Would his forge even be open by now? She anxiously finished her ale and paid for it. “You know much, old man.” That was about as close to a thank-you as she would get. She could feel tiredness tugging at her bones, her eyes, making the whole of her armor feel constrictive and overbearing. In the hallway to the rooms, she could hear Bulag’s quiet huff as he flopped down into his bed and knocked at his door. With a muffled groan and a bit of time, he answered and stroked his beard into a more orderly shape.

“Hello, general. These quarters are acceptable. I appreciate you giving me a bed to sleep—“

“—You’re welcome. I need you to be sure Durb and Ushtur remain here in the morning. I’ll be gone for a little while and I don’t want them stirring up any kind of trouble.” Absently, she leaned a shoulder against his doorframe.

His neck gave an excited quiver, at the prospect of ordering those two around or at the idea of Urzoth placing trust in him, she couldn’t tell. “Yes, Champion! They will not even dare to speak in my presence.” He bowed, a motion she found altogether far too frivolous, and stepped back into his room, shutting the door swiftly. The bed creaked, a muted sound. She straightened and sighed out, feeling for the key in the pouch at her belt and looking to her own room. The door opened with a painful noise, leading into a tiny cubicle of a room, a small table by a wooden bed with a straw-filled, sandy mattress. The floor was a little less spacious than she’d hoped for, and she shut the door behind herself. In two steps she was as far back in the room as she could go, and she peeled away her helmet, gauntlets and greaves. Now at least slightly more comfortable, she rested her warhammer in her lap where she sat leaning against the wall across from the bed. Her head dipped back, she passively squeezed the hilt of her weapon, and a sort of half-sleep began to wash over her.