The conversation, if it could be called that, offered Marassa a reminder of why she preferred to travel alone. Her thoughts were less chaotic, and she found herself arguing with herself far less often than this lot. This was the side of heroism that they never told in the stories, and the khajiit wondered if Tiber Septim spent his nights in his council tent arguing with his companions over trivial matters instead of decisively making decisions to move forward. She was pleased most people echoed her sentiment of moving away from the dwemer towards what she hoped was an untouched hold, it was a logical and safe choice to get supplies, information, and perhaps find a warm roof over their heads while they made their next choice. The khajiit learned long ago not to plan too far ahead, and simply focus on the matter at hand with a general goal in mind. Now it was decided they would go to Falkreath, all that mattered was getting there, which might prove impossible if the shouting match didn’t subside.

Things were going smoothly until the argonian opened his mouth, proclaiming his desire to die in a glorious bloody heap. Others, understandably, argued against this. After all, if the Insurgency in Hammerfell failed to make the impact that was hoped for, a small group of arguing misfits was going to die even more surely. At least Sion and Valsiore were thinking logistically for their own needs, and Marassa made a note to find them soul gems if possible, the stronger of the two going to the altmer mage and the weaker ones going to the khajiit and his mysterious dwemer weapon, it was a far more productive use of one’s voice than trying to drag others into getting killed. Marassa kept quiet, as others like Cub, Urzoth, and Francis more or less voiced her concerns with the argonian’s boisterous manner. The mention of her brother’s failure sat like a tightening knot in her chest, however; so damn close and yet so far, only this time there was cause for concern and Marassa was truly afraid she had lost the only family she had left, a brother she barely knew and dedicated her entire life to save from himself if for no other reason than to earn her own right to live in her parents’ eyes. 

Marassa glared at Francis when he caught himself from saying Zaveed was dead. It was an abysmal opinion she would not abide, not until she saw Zaveed herself. She grasped the offered bottle from the Breton man as she stood, meeting him eye to eye. “I spent years searching for Zaveed without knowing if he were alive or dead, and this is no different. I will find him again, in one way or another. If you cared about your friend, truly, you would do the same instead of bemoaning his loss like it is a certain thing. Either he is or he isn’t, but you’ll never know unless you find him and find closure. You can stand here and mope about it, or you can do something. I chose to act.” She pulled the bottle free and drank deeply, not letting the unpleasantness of the burn show upon her face. She was not a drinker, all told.

She went over to Cub, reaching up to place a hand on his hulking shoulder. “You know that Zaveed is dearly important to me, Cub, so you know I hold him in high esteem, but Francis has the right of it; he’s one man, and he is prone to foolhardy mistakes like anyone else. If it were not, he wouldn’t have found himself captured and missing, which,” she said, turning back to stare at Francis. “We were told that Zaveed and several other prisoners went missing the night [I]before[/I] their prison was assaulted. That accounts to his body not being discovered. If they were removed, then we need to find out who, if not the dwemer.” She returned to Cub. “Believe in your own strength, Cub. My brother is not the only compass you should follow, chiefly because he’s an idiot.” She stepped away from Cub, drinking from the bottle again before handing it off to the next person as she stood next to the fire, a podium of sorts. 

“Perhaps they removed a portion of your brain when they lopped off the end of your tail, Wets-His-Blade, but the way I hear it you and many others took the fight against the dwemer directly and death and loss was all that was shown for it. It’s become starkly obvious that meeting the dwemer head-on is foolish and dying pointlessly accomplishes nothing. Patience is something you would do well to learn; all predators learn the ways of their prey before they pounce, and we are no different. We listen, we learn, and then we act. I wish to find out where my brother is, but I’m not chasing blindly after him, otherwise I wouldn’t have made this futile journey in the wrong direction, because hope is lost in Hammerfell and Skyrim may hold answers yet to be discerned. If the dwemer have a weakness, then it is our only option to discover what that is instead of wandering blindly into treachery unknown. Any idiot can swing a sword and kill, but the same idiot is accomplishing nothing if he dies with only a handful of kills to his blade. Stop and think, if you find yourself capable of it.” She said evenly, looking around at the group at large. 

“And so, it appears we are in concordance. Falkreath is nothing more than a place to gain information and supply and, I hope, a new heading in our journey. We are not going to find ourselves joining some misguided band to fulfill their own purposes and goals; we only have one another. The people in this room are the only ones you can depend on, and even that’s in question if you cannot stop squabbling like kittens over a mother’s teat. Truth be told, were it not in my interest, I wouldn’t be spending what precious time I could spend looking for my brother in the company of strangers who are held together by the faintest of threads. Two of you among us I can call friends, the rest are an enigma who I rather hope aren’t ineffectual fools who want to die pointlessly because they can’t pull their heads out of their asses to do what has to be done. So, make peace with one another now so we can focus on our real foe, or find a way to die quietly because I’d rather not be caught up in your brash stupidity.” Marassa said, stepping away from the fire to return to her vigil, leaning against the wall by the window, staring at the unproven people she truly despised, save a few.