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

[i] Drumming. Distant and sure, like a mountain on the horizon, like the river beneath it. Where Urzoth sat, she couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the ground or the air, and in the distance steady drumming echoed across the horizon of vast, swallowing void. Above it a familiar voice was humming a little tune, off-beat, something the bard at the Bannered Mare might whistle between real songs. She could hear the voice slip his quiver over his shoulder, string his bow with practiced fingers, and shuffle to the door. In the oblivion of it, half a home appeared, her home, in Whiterun, and there he stood, by the door. His features were just a little off. He looked like a word she just couldn’t spell right for lack of memory, and the realization left her feeling heavy, cold. The drumming grew louder and she clenched her fists, aching to say something.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few days. Don’t worry about stamping out the fire if you’re at the forge, I can relight it.” The drumming turned to the thunderous beating of massive strides. It spread outside the door, a chorus, and still Urzoth was frozen. He chuckled. “Don’t want to come home to see the house burned down.” Clubs, all around, crashed through the windows, unwieldy, stony things, hideous and ill-made, their owners stamping deformed feet into the blackness beyond. He paid them no mind, as if they were birds flitting about outside, and shrugged at something Urzoth must have said. Her memory was a fuzzy thing, poisoning his appearance, even his voice, which now sounded as unsure as her remembrance. She cursed all the blows to the head she’d taken before she knew she would lose him. “Come on, don’t be so worried. I’ll be with Hafirs and Naetna. They know the area really well.” 

A grey, gnarled hand shot through the door, gripping him by the middle and ripping him through the threshold like a weed plucked from parched earth. She could hear his neck snap at the impact of his head hitting the doorframe, and through the window Fuzrath’s broken body was framed with ink. The sight of the beast that jostled him, the defiler, storming into her life and throwing away everything, filled her with a loathing that made her chest jump up and ache with burning hatred. The giant’s maw opened and from it spilled alien words that made all the rage turn to chilling fear.

[b]”YOL TOOR SHUL!”[/b][/i]

“Ghrghh!”

Light hit Urzoth’s eyes from a ray of sun that had, miraculously, pinpointed the exact crack in the opposite wall through which it could shine like a smiting beam. Her head swung forward from the wall, and in the silence after her waking gasp, she shook in her metal skin and awaited the sound of distant thumping. Met with only the plodding of early morning merchants plying their trade and hauling wagons to and fro across the street, she stood, shook out her numbed legs and slowly reequipped her armor. She was dragging her feet with more difficulty than she would’ve liked, and in annoyed response she hauled up her warhammer and briskly went into the main room to have a drink and some semblance of food. She arrived at the counter to see a new, younger bartender, a man with eyes that darted from her weapon to her face and very quickly to his counter. He looked like the older man’s son. Or grandson. “Can I get you anything, uh, madam?” 

She looked down at him and laboriously stilled her shaking breath. “Just a bowl of something hot. A lot of it.” The man looked like he was about to request specification, as if she cared what she ate, but he simply nodded and went to fetch something. He set a large, sloshing bowl of some form of stew on the counter, held up a few fingers and pinched away the coins she gave him. Overall, not the most exciting dish she’d ever had, but it tasted enough like the herd insects she ate in Orsinium that she could hardly tell the difference. She was just slurping away the last of her breakfast when Durb came wandering out of the hallway. 

His hands were stained a muddy red, and he reached for a rag the barkeep left on the counter to wipe them off. He looked up from his furrowed brow at Urzoth’s face and put forth, simply, “There was a rat in my room, General.” Urzoth felt a little sorry for the rat. Durb sat beside where she stood and promptly began devouring about four or five burnt little scorpion kebabs, stopping to snort for air between bites.

“Bulag is in charge of you lot until I return, Durb. I don’t want you getting in one of your moods while I’m gone.” She frowned at him as he peeled a tiny plate of carapace off of his meal, assuming he heard her by the fact that he nodded, and made her way for the door. Outside, the sounds of the Harbor District were a little clearer, and the sun now blasted down onto her face like a hellish blaze. Cursing in her native tongue as she marched down the wide, sandy street, dark faces turned to peer into hers and glanced away quickly, as if struck with acid. A few Orcs she assumed were Orsinium traders gave her nods of acknowledgement from their wagons and stalls, having half the mind to not bother the woman they knew would be likely busy. The city dwellers were enjoyable like that. She eventually spotted a sign waving gently in the seabreeze brandishing the symbol of an anvil and blade, making her veer to the left to reach the lonely, glowing forge amidst pottery and crates. The sight made her think of home, and her heart ached, brow furrowing underneath her helmet.

When Urzoth entered the Bladesmith's shop, she would see a sizable establishment with numerous weapon racks on the walls and in the middle of the floor, a middle-aged Nord man with a thick brown beard and blue eyes working behind the counter, reading a note left with a blade a customer had wished to have sharpened. He looked up from his missive at the sound of the creaking door and caught sight of the orc coming through the threshold, her face illuminated by the ample light pouring in through window. He smiled warmly at the newcomer; an orc was a woman who knew the value of a blade. It would be his pleasure to make a sale, as Vargar prided himself on his ability to forge a blade.

"Hello, friend. Welcome to Vargar's Swords, please take a look around and let me know if you see something you like." he called out warmly.

“Hmm.” She nodded to his greeting stonily and gave a sweep of the weaponry he so proudly displayed, surveying particular pieces that stood out. Many appeared faintly Nordic in style and build, with strong, symmetric blades and hilts, while forged from the rich resources of Hammerfell: Some intricate and given a noble’s flair, others smoothly efficient in design. She hummed and reached for a small, thin knife off a rack that had a poised balance and wicked edge. She ran a thumb over the brass pommel, tilting it to watch it shimmer, and balanced the center of the knife’s guard near perfectly on the tip of her finger. “You have a fine craft.” Half of her knew he’d be more willing to give her information if she bought something of his and complimented him. That was how Zaveed did it, anyway. The other half of her really wanted the knife, and so she set it on the counter. “How much for this?”

"You have my thanks, my family's been forging daggers like that and fighting with them for generations. As far as I can tell, few other bladesmiths make a better cutting knife with as fine of a grip. It doesn't matter how rough it gets, that blade isn't leaving your hand unless you want it to." The Nord said, running a hand over his chin. "Usually, I charge about 150 gold for that kind of blade, it ain't fancy, but it's a hell of a lot more functional than those ridiculous ornate elvish blades with all the pointless flourishes. I'll sell it to you for 110 since business has slowed down since the city went into martial law. We in the Harbour District have been cut off from most of our clients in the city, so it's a damn sight for sore eyes when a traveler like you finds her way into my shop. I'll even throw in a whetstone and some oil, free of charge."

Urzoth nodded and set 150 Septims on the counter, leaning forward against it slightly as if telling a secret. “These dwarf bastards shouldn’t run your trade down.” She shook her head, hoping that her lack of finesse was made up for with her words. “They’d have to open my belly and burn all of Orsinium before they could take it like they’ve taken this place. Surely there is fighting somewhere, from what I’ve heard.” She attempted to act as if she was not hanging on every word she spoke by examining the dagger again. [i]Sound casual, dammit! This is barely how Zaveed would do it! Damn cats.[/i] She suddenly shook her head, deciding against a subtle approach. “Listen. I am Urzoth gra-Magul, a…” She hated the title. “A Hero of Tamriel.” She sighed and took off her helmet, setting it aside. “I heard that you held ties with a particular group that may know where my companions are. The dwarves are an issue that the king of Orsinium will not allow grow to his borders.”

The Nord blinked once slowly before running his hand over the small pile of coins, quickly counting it and finding it to be the promised sum. He was surprised; he half expected the orc to try to haggle him down further, as he was accustomed to with more than a few cheap, worthless sailors. He let her words wash over him without expression. "Isn't them that's causing my hardships, not strictly anyways." he replied carefully, reaching under the till to place a whetstone and a small oil bottle on the counter as he swept the coins into a coin purse that dangled from his belt. He looked at Urzoth with curious brown eyes. "There's fighting everywhere you go here, we just make due with what we have to. I ain't Redguard, it isn't my fight. Unlike some of the other shopkeeps in the city, I don't intend to have me and my kin dragged out in the street and shot." he said, the tone of his voice suggesting Urzoth use a little more caution. He tilted his head and took the orc in a different light as she identified herself. It wasn't like he could confirm her identity, but it would be pretty damn exciting if what she claimed were true. "And who told you I'm that kind of man? Lots of people trying to do one another in for various reasons, can't trust anyone these days. Frankly, what happens outside these doors ain't my concern, Hero. You'll have to give the King of Orsinium my regards." he stopped himself before chuckling. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse my tone. My wife says I should be more polite to customers, especially ones as generous as yourself." he leaned forward, picking a Septim he had missed up in his fingers, turning it as he observed the face carved in it. "If you are who you claim you are, you might be happy to know that it's pretty common word that more of your fellow Heroes have been seen around the city, caught up in the uprising. One of them, one of the other orcs I've heard, was killed this morning if rumours are to be believed. One of the khajiit men have been seen around, some say Sevari, more say Zaveed, hasn't been seen for a while, but he isn't alone. Problem is, nobody knows the company he keeps or where he's going. Probably for the best for him if he doesn't want the dwarves figuring it out. So, how did you end up in Hegathe? Can't be coincidence you ended up where some of your friends are."

An icy chill of sharp, stabbing horror made her eyebrows twist and eyes widen. Was Cub dead? His words became a blur, Urzoth’s blood beginning to stir, pumping like lightning along a mountainside, arcing for something to set alight. She vaguely heard his voice inflect upward. Did he ask a question? She shouldn’t be surprised that Cub could be dead. He was unstable and monstrously out of place wherever he stood, even among other warriors and men of similarly bestial proportion. But she had seen him fight and it stirred in her memories of being a little child, standing at the waists of all the adults, watching them spar like clashing titans. Whatever could kill Cub was surely formidable, and she was surely going to destroy it. She leaned forward against the counter, murmuring, “…Hegathe? I’m…here for reasons my own. Perhaps coincidence.” She seemed to have gathered herself, but as she scooped up the dagger her elbow grazed a breastplate on a stand and tipped it forward towards the floor. Her arm swooped under it, catching the fine steel and heaving it back towards its rightful position on the countertop. She let out a string of curses in her native tongue, setting it aright again, and went immediately after for the oil and whetstone, tucking them away in a few pouches. Something felt hollow within her, and she was angry with the man for reasons she couldn’t quite explain. “You are a smith of Skyrim who would sit on his hands and watch invaders fester like a wound?” Her rumble was laden with hardly-repressed aggression, a trademark of Orc mannerism, and she sighed out deeply. “Thank you for what help you have offered. But soon enough you will be forced to defend your wife and kin beyond stepping aside like a servant.”

Vargar looked back impassively, as if he heard the same speech dozens of times. "Uh huh. I'm from Cyrodiil, and if anything happens to me, then what happens to my family? The thing about most of you so-called heroes is you don't have people depending on your income. And you can be sure if a time comes where I need to spill blood to protect my family, there will be no force on Mundus that will get by me. Until that day, I'll leave the reckless heroics to the people like you and the others who watched their families get executed in the streets before they had their throats slit. I'm sure they accomplished a lot before they died unceremoniously in the streets and the cost of their life justified their accomplishment." he said dryly. "Look, I moved here after the White-Gold Concordat was signed and my Legion brothers refused to carry on the war with the damned Dominion, so I thought Hammerfell and her defiance would continue the good fight after the damned Thalmor killed my first wife in the streets of Kvatch. I didn't get my vengeance against the elf bastards, and then the Dominion left but is still out there. For years, I plied my family trade here to put together a mercenary company to take the fight into the Dominion and make their families bleed instead, but people here tired of the war, too, and I spent a long time with a burning hatred about the things left undone and the cowardice of the people around me, and then I started to realize that the reason people don't keep fighting a war is because they have other people depending on them, families of their own. If you ever marry and have kids, you'll understand that the grand scheme of things just doesn't matter compared to keeping the ones you love safe. I met a local here, and have three young kids, and you're telling me to do, what exactly? Run out there to cleave some heads before I get cut down? Then what happens to my family? I don't like the dwarves any more than the next man, but they didn't start killing people until the uprisings started, and my family's safe. I've already filled my heart with hatred for one enemy, and that's been enough to last me a lifetime. I'm not going to do something foolish and replace that with another."

His logic calmed her somewhat, and she forced herself to cool down and mull over what he was saying. Her fury could not sustain her, and blind assault could not sustain men like the one she spoke to now. Shaking her head at her urge to charge ahead without any knowledge of the situation, she slipped her helmet back on and felt her blood slow. “I must respect your adherence to your duties. Protect your family. Fight well when you must.” [i]Idiot! He probably does not even think of you as a Hero, with how awkward you are.[/i] A peddler cried out in the street, advertising his fish with a parched throat, and the sudden noise put in her a decisive spirit that sheathed her new dagger. She silently stepped away and made for the door, feeling overall as if she had failed something, as if he knew more than what he was saying about the resistance. Why did the innkeeper tell her he had ties? She turned her head to look at him, pausing right in the doorway, and listened to the currents of the people walking back and forth outside, scuffling and chatter. “What was his name? The Orc killed?”

"From most voices, I'm hearing Gorzath, they say he was the conjuror. From what I hear about you Heroes is the third orc in your companions was monstrous in size, and nothing like that's been thrown around, so it probably wasn't him." he sighed, frowning somewhat as he looked at the orc. "Alright, come on. I have something to show you. You seem like the real deal, not some kid who's got a death wish. Lock the door behind you."

With that, he led Urzoth to a bookshelf that had been re-purposed for displaying shorter arms and other trinkets. Reaching under the second lowest shelf, Vargar grabbed something out of sight and pulled it to the right and something was heard unlatching. Reaching on top, Vargar pulled down a hooked bar of metal and led the hooked end down towards where a natural hole in the wood was located near the center. Hooking it securely, the Nord pulled the shelf towards him with care, supporting the upper half with his free hand. Soon, there was enough of a gap behind the bookshelf that Urzoth could clearly see the rollers the shelf was mounted on. "I have to keep a low profile so the dwemer don't have any reason to check my shop thoroughly, but this passage has been here for Stendarr knows how long, but let's just say the last man who owned this place ended up getting hung as a thief. Anyways, this way."

After leading the orc through another set of doors, Urzoth could start to hear the sound of flowing water and down a curving staircase, lit by Welkynd stones to give enough illumination so the stairs were visible. Another set of doors opened up to the sight of flowing water, rushing towards the Harbour district. Light was visible through grates on either end of the tunnel. "This is a stormwater drainage channel that's gated off with heavy iron on either end to deter invaders. The one at the low end," he pointed towards the Harbour, "Doesn't open, and probably hasn't had to in some time. The lock's been cemented and then transmuted into some kind of metal, so it's pretty much useless. The other end, however, only has a lock accessible from this side, as well as a hidden latch that's only visible on this side. Anyone on the city side of the grate isn't going to see it, especially since there's a stone archway above the grate that obscures visibility and makes it difficult to reach. Normally, it flows about waist deep, but if it's storming, or if they open the secondary storm pond in the district, the water gets as high as the top of the bars, so needless to say, unless you're an argonian and somehow able to fight against crushing currents, don't try accessing it when it's high water. You do not want to try to go through there when it's night time because those bars are loud enough that the sound will travel, but during the day when the streets are alive and the guards are all busy? You can get through unnoticed. Probably." He shrugged.

Urzoth made her way further down the tunnel, hunched slightly, and swept a hand across the old stone walls, feeling the water-pounded smoothness of it. Her fingertips came away with the green of algae that had also been brought in thanks to the tide, and she turned to him, nodding at his words. “Reminds me of the sewer I had to crawl through during the Imperial City battle.” She peered over the flow of water into either side of the T-shaped passage, up, then down, and looked up again. “And this exit leads to more of the Harbor District?” She hoped he would prove her wrong; that perhaps it led to a separate section of the city she could traverse in search of her companions while having unguarded passage back to where she was intended to remain. The water sloshed by dully, a plain grey color, and the hush of the sea and the odor of salt and fish hung pungent by Urzoth’s head. Deciding to look for herself, she glanced back at Vargar before plunging a leg into the warm water. It came up to her knees, and while the polished leather lining on the inside of her armor kept most of the water from soaking into the fur underneath, she could feel it by her joints and seams. No worse than sweat, she supposed.

Vargar shook his head. "What you see is what you get with the Harbour District. That goes into the city proper, it doesn't make a lick of sense to have a drainage passage from one side of the district to the other. No, across the grate goes into the Garden district, where the stormwater ponds tend to collect. There's also a few Mosques and a couple Temples around there, so it tends to be a bit more peaceful and quiet. Given the uprisings, the dwemer are mostly concerned about trouble spots, so I can't imagine there's more than a few guards around this district, save for the passages to other districts." he replied.

The sunlight grew stronger as she climbed up to greet it, peering cautiously through the bars of the grate. Figures passed by, blotted out by the sudden rush of day, and a few children terrorized a chicken mere feet from where she stood in the little channel they hopped over. As a wagon with a particularly vocal mule came clamoring slowly by, she made her descent back to Vargar. She hauled herself back up onto the little ledge and shook some water out of her boots, then rising to her full stature. “Know any rebels I could talk to? Maybe a few battling alongside the Heroes knew where they went.”

"Can't help you that way, I'm afraid. Part of keeping my head down is not poking my head where it isn't needed. I just get the occasional person through, what they do is their own business. I know a bunch of the merchants are in league with the insurgency, so if you can find a Merchant Guild store that's still intact, you can probably find somebody who can point you in the right direction. Just don't mention me." he cautioned.

She felt stirred to show him gratitude in some way, and clapped a hand against the side of his arm that risked sending a smaller man tumbling sideways into the water. “I will not.” She ceased the contact very quickly, and began to make her way back up to the passage directly connected to the store. As she went, she admired the glowing stones along the walls, inspecting them curiously. They looked similar to the ancient stones she occasionally spotted during her time as a sellsword, sifting through ruins for nervous little merchants, and the gentle glow she likened to a forge at dawn. She waited for Vargar to reopen the hidden door, hovering by the wall, feeling the weight of several sparsely-rested days begin to tug at her eyelids in their familiar urgings. Her head tilted forward and she watched the motion of Vargar making for the door, sighing. “I should have been with my companions from the beginning.” If she had never accepted Nagamog’s offer, would anything have changed at all? Would she have known Ushtur? She wondered at how different things may have ended up, if she had simply remained a smith, if she had gone to the celebration in the Imperial City.