Keegan was shivering, he shook the whole journey. The Reach was cold, Whiterun was cold, and Windhelm's turbulence could out-chill both. Seriously, it was summer, and it was colder than the coldest winter on Alinor. He lived in High Rock, where the final months actually brought snow. But here in Skyrim, flowers blossomed in the field while water froze in nearby pounds. 

In spite of his hardships, Keegan just couldn't endure much of mercenary work. He witnessed Lucex quitting at Whiterun, and to be honest, the Altmer considered the same. He earned a decent share, though without the promised bonus, this share would be insufficient to settle his debt. Perhaps the rest would have to come from safer work, something that does not entail the risk of daily dismemberment. He could stop at Whiterun, but before the chance of exploring the city, Madura had whisked their horses away. The journalist, Keegan somehow found him more approachable than most. Members like Farid were too far absorbed in themselves, certain kind as Jorwen were no doubt mourning their friends, and others such Utu-ja just didn't strike the social impression. Keegan noticed a young Altmer woman joining them on their journey, she was apparently rescued and promised a fat reward for her rescuers. He would converse with her but she was too busy leading idiots around with false promises. So as much as Keegan was annoyed by Madura's incessant questioning, he found these interviews a decent way to pass time.

Pondering the question of his past and many more recent problems, Keegan rocked through days of rickety wagon ride and found himself in a barren warehouse. Of course, no one celebrated the works of hired soldiers, no one would bother treating them like regular human, elves or beastfolks needing proper sleep. Now, what truly was miserable was his unruly “comrades”. For some reason, they decided dumping Keegan's food and hygiene items into the port was a humorous jest. 

Keegan was not impressed. It was an unfriendly prank at his cost, and it was tempting to repay the favor. Though he could weave some kind of illusion to knock the scoundrels out or make them perform undignified actions, Keegan also weighted the risk of failure which could have himself thrown in with his stuff. That might not be the worst; the others could beat him up for it.

Right, being beat up, that was his lot one hour after. In the hour leading up to him lying helplessly on the floor, Keegan had been scouring Windhelm for replacement supplies. He first went to where the Nords set up shops, but the merchants either have no matching items, or they rejected him on the basis of being “a piss skinned prick”. Funny, how hypocritical for the “pricks” to call others that. Anyways, he diverted for the Gray Quarter, where a Dunmer-ran general goods store still had an open door.

“Hello? Oh! Uh, well, huh, excuse me for a moment.” The store owner, who Keegan caught no more than a glance, stammered. The merchant seemed to be surprised looking at Keegan, and the man looked down behind his counter and disappeared behind a corner. 

“Uh, he's here, you should, uh, eh, help him.” The same merchant was apparently nervous over something in the back room.

“Are you alright?” Keegan inquired, first concerned but then worried as two fully armored individuals emerged. They were covered from head to toe in heavy combat gear, with their faces covered he couldn't even make out their race or gender.

“Are you Keegan Vasque?” One of them, a deep voiced man, asked.

“No.” Keegan shook his head, he dared not to make eye contact with their helmet slits. As he backed up nervously towards the door, it opened before Keegan could reach it. Two more people, also clearly armed for a fight, cornered him from behind. “If you'll excuse me, I have to be on my way.”

“Not so fast.” One stood like a brick wall in Keegan's way. This person was shorter than Keegan, but they were wider with brutish muscles. “Don't think you can get away this time.”

These were debt collectors, he ran into folks like them when he escaped from High Rock. “What do you want?” Keegan shivered. Damn it, his legs are shaking.

“You know what we want. Pay up for your crimes.” The leading brute demanded. Behind the row of muscle and iron, the shopkeeper peered carefully around the corner, his gaze darting away from Keegan but conflict could be seen.

“Su-sure, just take my money.” Keegan offered them his pouch coin, the payment for mercenary work. It was hard-earned and all he got to live on. Still, it was better to live poor for a while then not to live at all. 

“That's it?” One debt collector sneered as he weighted the pouch and then snatched it away. “We'll consider this your apology for being difficult, now you still need a couple thousand for your crimes.”

How could he whip up thousands of gold coins out of nowhere? What did Horace Fontaine expected? Who in Oblivion carries thousands of septims in their pockets? Keegan had reason, but he understood this situation was an appeal to force. He could not win by the proper way, so he played dirty instead. While the enforcers studied the pouch, Keegan lit up a paralysis spell and fused it into the closest man.

One enforcer collapsed but three more quickly caught on. Keegan bolted for the door while recharging the spell, but in close quarters the brutes got the jump on him, literally. They wrestled him to the ground and restrained his hands. They tied up his wrists and directed his palms in an unoccupied direction. These men knew how to fight a mage.

Yes, present time, Keegan was getting beat up. His helpless body was contrasted with his panicking mind; it race a thousand miles a minute. Could this be the end of Keegan Vasque?

Punches and kicks descended down to his prone body. They struck everywhere and it hurt everywhere. These enforcers used not their weapons, but only their metal covered knuckles and feet. They made sure he turned a ghastly purple but avoided vital organs the same time. Keegan was in pain but a long way from being killed.  

Just a minute into his ordeal, someone opened the door and intruded on the scene. 

“What is happening?” A woman's voice sounded.

“Don't worry about it.” An enforcer waved her off. “Nothing's happening, be on your way.”

“Why are you crowded around-oh...” The woman's sentence trailed off when she discovered a bruised Altmer on the floor. The enforcers shifted away from Keegan and turned to the woman. They reached for various armaments, and the woman responded with a spell that emitted metallic noise. Two enforcers' weapons disintegrated, and the last one attacked with his dagger. However, the woman called forth a bound sword and parried the dagger away. In the next stroke, she sliced off two fingers from the enforcer. 

“Had enough yet?” She taunted. The enforcers hurried off through the door, one of them clasping his bleeding hand while another hauled off the unconscious brute. “By Stendarr, they surely did a number on you.” She said, untying Keegan and helping him up.

To Keegan, the woman was much shorter than he. She was a human, and judging from her lower height and medium complexion, a Breton or Imperial. She wore a sleeveless robe that flowed like a dress and an orange shawl most likely knit from spider silk. Her face was ordinary, her nose was slightly retreating and her ears minor alongside rest of her features. On top of her head was black and short curly hair. She carried no weapon.

“You got here just in time, if you haven't came along...” Keegan uttered, he dared no think otherwise. 

“You and me both.” The woman nodded. “I take it shopping here was not too pleasant.” She raised an eyebrow at the cowering merchant, who lowered his head and cowered in a corner.

“No, not really.” Keegan said. He didn't want to bother with this crappy part of town any more. He should get back to a safer place, maybe Ashav, who values his life on the basis of a semi-valuable employee. “I should go now.”

“Just a second.” The woman pulled on Keegan's arm. “We should stick together, in case anything else may hinder us.”

“Fair enough.” Keegan admitted. The encounter left no severe injury, and nothing a healing potion couldn't mend. Nevertheless, he was in neither shape or mood to fend off additional assailants. So they went off on their way. Keegan last saw Ashav heading to Candlehearth, and that's where he will go. The woman also bounded for the same place. Keegan learned her name; Ariane. And when she asked for his, he hesitated for a moment before giving her one his “pseudonyms”.

Behind the largest table was Ashav, sheets of paper splayed about and small groups of awed individuals sat around him. Madura was smiling and wrote quietly in his journal, as he always did when Ashav said anything. Ashav, the man himself, had several flagons placed in front of him. Evidently, he was buzzed with alcohol, and more buzzed than healthy.

“Up your bottoms, I mean, bottoms up. Ah, let us welcome my troops, come sit down.” Ashav slurred. He tried to pull aside a chair, only ended with it tumbling back. He was as loud as his guttural voice could be, but in that drunken moment, the Redguard held everyone's attention. “Meet Keegan Vasque, our very own trickster, and Ariane Fontaine, the, what-do-they-call-you? Musical? Oh right, mystic”

Two of them stared at each other dumbfounded, they finally sat down after Madura pulled the chairs upright. Ashav was already forgetting the newcomers. He blabbered on about a particularly exciting adventure in Black Marsh. Most of the folks around the table, young and callow, were bewildered. Ashav garnered a healthy turn up, and collected assorted talents from the large crowd. Recruits or not, these men and women were lively. Ashav was letting his hair down (figuratively, as he is bald), maybe too much.

“Fontaine, you couldn't be related to Horace, could you?” Keegan breathed nervously. 

“He is my uncle.” Ariane wasn't feeling joyous either, she was fidgeting with her showl. “And he mentioned your name at times. The fire starter who burned down a theater, now I know why these brutes were attacking you; they were bounty hunters.” 

He gulped, this was going to be a long night.