Utu's eyes adjusted to the daylight glare more slowly than usual.  His nose was sluggish as well.  But adjusting slowly does not make one blind, nor deprive one of a sense of smell.  Utu's tail stiffened, ceasing its usual balancing movements.  He stood perfectly still, hardly blinking as he took in the view of the docks.  Many of the dead had already been removed by this time but some still remained, or at least pieces of them.  The stones were covered with blood and organs.  The place smelled like a slaughterhouse that had never been cleaned.  It was testament to his years of experience hunting and hard upbringing that the argonian did not add the stench of his vomit to the stones.  As it was, they were perfumed with horror and bathed in death.

He suddenly remembered the words that he had just said a moment before.  His mouth felt dry and his stomach churned as his face twisted into a grimace.  Cocky... arrogant, cocky and stupid.  That was what those words had sounded like.  They were the words of a child with something to prove and a strong desire to belong, to be accepted and acknowledged.  He was too old for that now.  He had come too far and survived too much to live like a child any longer.  All of his careful planning, all of the angling for position and working his way closer to those with the power to protect him, it was worthless.  It was less than worthless.  It had distanced him from anyone who might have fought beside him.

Someone saved his life, pulled him from beside the water after his daedra cursed, fool stunt.  He'd managed to kill one and nearly lost his life for it.  Everything else he did during the battle was like throwing shiny toys at a giant, hoping that they'd stop to play and forget to kill the people running away from them.  And, he hadn't even been brave.  He'd been sneaky and murderous.  He had hunted that armored warrior like it was a beast in the forest.  Utu knew that some others would tell him that he had saved lives, that the way he fought wasn't a problem.  But it was.  It felt like his soul was being sharpened the wrong way on a coarse rock.

The intact bodies and identifiable remains were being gathered away for burial.  The humans were seeing to their dead.  If they all shared the same air for their first breaths, if they all would join with the same earth in the end, it didn't matter if they thought he didn't belong.  Family doesn't always share blood.  Family doesn't always share anything more than air and earth.  The scattered organs and disparate body parts were being overlooked by many of those who were cleaning up the docks.  Warriors deserved better.

He steadied himself and slowly began gathering the parts that people hesitated to touch into his arms, the bits that had been full of fear and strength such a short time ago.  Then he began to carefully carry them to the Hall of the Dead in his arms.  Some of the guards looked like they might accuse him of some vile perversion.  But, the priests of Arkay heard his request, even though they could not grant it.  In the end, the parts went into the mass graves with the other bodies.  There was no time to treat the dead properly.  He went back for more, and then again.

Utu's body still felt wrong, he couldn't move quickly or well, but he slowly trudged the distance over and over until every part large enough to be carried had been brought to burial.  Then he went back to the warehouse, numb, weary, and sad.  There he washed himself until he could not detect the smell of blood on his body or leathers.  The armor was full of holes.  It was not a quick fix.  He would need new leathers, not that they would be able to do much in the next fight.

[@Frizan][@gcold]
It was a short time later that he found himself sitting in the shadows beside the entrance to the Candlehearth Hall, cold and weary.  He breathed slow and shallow, his eyes fixed on the stones.  He heard the murmur of voices and the dull clunk of tankards mingling with the crackling of the fire within.  It seemed that no one saw what he had tried.  Either that, or no one cared.  It wasn't like it had made a difference.  All he had done was kill one and then get saved by somebody who probably didn't even know how the stupid lizard ended up in the water in the first place.  He still felt queasy.  But, warriors often seemed to turn to ale when the battles were done.  Maybe it was time he gave it a real try.  The only thing keeping him seated in the cold was the stale stiffness of old fear, the fear he had learned from his mother all those years ago.  The blind fear that no nord would really accept an argonian, no matter where they were from.