[center]Featuring [@Peik][/center]
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[center][i]2130, Sun’s Height 10th[/i][/center]

Civilization at last, what a relief. 

The lights of Dawnstar glowed bright like its name, a shiny beacon of hope for survivors of horrible ordeals. While it was night, and damn late night it was, seeing the few lantern glows alone warmed the heart of many freezing travelers. For the past two days, a mercenary company and part of a Khajiit caravan legged in out across the unforgiving terrains of the Pale. Sure, the time was early summer and bandit activities surprisingly few (highwaymen likely fled hearing Kamal intrusions), the bleak pine forest provided little comforts for those unprepared to weather its cutting winds. 

Ashav visited this backwater shithole a grand total of once, on a layover from Solitude to Blacklight. He remembered staying at the Windpeak Inn, which stood proudly in the winds today as it were many years ago. The Khajiits pitched tents outside of town boundaries, a fate accepted by most cat-folks. Seemingly the Khajiits of the company were unbound by this convention, as they followed closely behind the senior Redguard.

At nine and half hours past midday, Windpeak was winding down its evening festivities. When Ashav and the twenty-some hired swords entered its lobby, they found an unlively scene. Empty tables outnumbered occupied ones, and those filled with people tend to be hosting professional drunks or professional drunks-in-training. Even the inn staff were getting off their shifts. No barmaids or tavern boys took orders. Thoring, the inn owner, busied himself with kitchen clean-ups, while his daughter, Karita, was stowing away musical instruments. Only one of their hired hands, Abelone, remained in the meadhall, sweeping around bread crumbs and half-heatedly berating alcoholics.

“Hello?” Abelone greeted the newcomer. Wait, newcomers. Twenty of them. “Thoring, we've got a problem here!”

“Evening,” Ashav hailed as politely as he could. “We came from Windhelm and is looking for-”

“Twenty of you!?” Thoring peaked out of the kitchen. “Is this a jest?” He came out and rubbed his eyes. Sure enough, the inn owner wasn't hallucinating; a herd of armed folks flooded in his inn. “You're mercenaries, your type are not welcomed here. Get lost before I call the guards.”

“Listen-” Ashav went to his coin pouch, filled with not as much gold as he would like. The Jarl payed portions of his contract, for repelling two Kamal waves and containing rioters. However, the rest didn't get a chance to switch hands before certain snow demon turned Lodvemar to paste.

“I said out!” Thoring barked. He sounded tougher than he looks, though he would be reasonably fearsome with his frying pan, to youngsters at least.

“Thoring, he's with me.” Someone stood up from one of the tables. It was a finely groomed Nord man, in his late thirties or early forties. He wore the trappings of a nobleman, with polished metal pieces suited for decoration instead of protection. “This is Ashav, I booked rooms for him and his companions, remember?”

“Him?” Thoring gasped. “Talos damn it all. Alright Gustav, they can stay on one condition; double the deposit. You know, in case of property damage.”

Ashav grumbled under his breath. Coins it is then. He unlatched the purse, only to have the noble-looking Nord beat him to it.

“On my tab.” The high-class man, Gustav assured. “Seven rooms are reserved for your men, on the right.” He waved.

“Ugh, this way, I'll fucking show you to your rooms.” Thoring sighed, not giving a single shit about customer service. “Entitled hooligans.” He muttered under his breath.

“Sit, Ashav.” Gustav nodded to his table when the bulk of the company went to their rooms. The Nord's attention then shifted to Sadri nearby, a smile plastered to his features when the Dunmer came in view.

“Ah, Madura Dalas! I heard you are with the company.” Gustav clasped the only Dunmer around by the shoulder. The real Madura squatted in a bush somewhere, defecating for the umpteenth time as the result of consuming 40-years old turkey that morning.

“Actually-” Ashav tried to interject, but Gustav hushed him with a raised finger.

“I know who this is. Madura Dalas, author of the [i]Reexamination of the Lusty Argonian Maid[/i], correspondent in the Narsis skirmish, connoisseur of Nibenese mudcrabs. Can't say how much I admire your works, come, join us and let me buy you a drink.”

Sadri had still been trying to wrap his head around the sheer stupidity that had gotten Windhelm occupied by invaders from Akavir. He had tried to wrap his head around it as he attempted to balance himself on a dampened plank on the verge of cracking under his weight. He had, again, tried to comprehend the mental course of action as he ran from a metal-clad giant centipede-thing chasing him, and he still had tried to understand it as he slid across a frozen river as the river cracked under the weight of the beast chasing him. Despite the dire circumstances he had gone through in the last few days, Sadri’s mind gave precedence to attempts on understanding the Jarl’s son’s orders rather than survival, for Sadri was, for better or worse, a man who had been through worse circumstances – but never in his adventurous life had he encountered such tragedy caused by such stupidity.
 
Deep down, Sadri felt bitter about the city’s loss – not because of the fact that it was lost, but because of the manner in which it was lost. He had lost acquaintances all his life, and he had grown accustomed to it, even, but still, senseless waste of life still managed to make him feel bad. Perhaps he wasn’t as sour as he thought. He had even felt a degree of comfort in seeing Cilo alive.
 
The sight of the inn in Dawnstar was a comfortable sight for Sadri, for the events of the last few days had really gotten to his nerves. On the march, he had been unable to have Mora relieve pressure from his bad eye, and by now, he felt practically half blind. Phantom itches ravaged his lost ear and arm, and lips, cracked because of the cold, tattered as he subconsciously bit on them in frustration. All in all, he wasn’t in that bad of a situation. He scratched his bonemold arm.
 
Then suddenly, someone put his hand on his shoulder, almost putting him off balance. The man addressed him as Madura Dalas, and invited him for a drink. After an instant of complete surprise, Sadri’s eye met Ashav’s, and then, he felt that he had to make best of the situation. ‘’It is, it is good to have someone who appreciates the work I have done. And you are…?’’

Ashav’s mouth hung open in disbelief. He raised his arm to clarify but Gustav paid him no attention. “Gustav of Solitude, founder of the Snow-Peak Company, loyal subscriber to the Gazette for eight years.” Indeed, this highborn man bubbling as if he just met a legendary hero. “You know, I’ve donated to your associates here in Skyrim many times, infact, the last was merely a month ago.”

“Ah, where are my manners. Sorry, it is such a relieve seeing someone of your talent not becoming casualty.” Gustav held out his hand to shake. Noticing the Dunmer’s prosthetics and missing parts, he raised a curious eyebrow and winced. “Was that from the so-called snow demons? I never knew you are a fighter as well.” 

“You know,” Ashav blinked. “Nevermind. Where’s that drink you promised?”

“Thoring!” Gustav called out. “Get us three mugs of your best, the Blackbriar stuff.”

“As you wish.” Thoring bleated without enthusiasm. “Not getting paid enough for this shit.” He mumbled a bit too loud, probably on purpose.

‘’Ah, well, you see, Sir Gustav, if I were a fighter, I reckon I wouldn’t have to bear this now, would I?’’ Sadri jokingly replied to the man as he waved his absent arm. ‘’I am lucky to have, not to brag, some rudimentary knowledge of enchantments, however, to make sure this is only a minor inconvenience for my career.’’ As Sadri kept speaking, the notion that this wasn’t a good idea grew more and more in his brain – but it was too late now, it had been too late since his reply to the man.

“Honey mead for three, last of the evening.” Thoring slammed three mugs down so hard that a quarter of their content spilled out onto the table.

“Ah yes, enchantment, been trying to get into it myself.” Gustav flashed a smile, then dropped down to frown at the mugs. “Don’t mind Thoring, he’s not his best on evenings.”

Ashav let the little spectacle play out for a while, and amusingly, it was the first time “Madura” did the answering. If half of the company barely stood Madura, oh boy, this Gustav is not going be fun. In one long gulp, he downed half of his mug, burping twice afterwards. 

“Will you write a piece on enchantment, master Dalas?” Gustav pressed on, not bother to skim his liquor. “I can’t tell you-”

“That’s enough.” Ashav slammed his mug, now empty, as hard as Thoring did. “You can interrogate Sadr-, I mean, [i]Madura[/i], later.” Leaning into the table, Ashav jabbed one finger inches from Gustav’s fineries. Damn, that shirt must costed more than a month’s pay. “How in Oblivion do you know me? How the shit do you know we’ll be here.”

Gustav sighed. As several candles were snuffed out, he leaned back against the wall, face concealed under shadow. “I am a wealthy and influential man.” He shrugged, also drinking from his mug.

“What a surprise.” Ashav sneered in mockery. His arms rested on the table, except it was too dark to see mead until his sleeves soaked in them. 

“I hired you. The Reach, Windhelm, who else do you think paid for the arcane charges, the caravan ride, the bunkhouse in Windhelm.” Gustav counted.

“Bunkhouse my ass, it’s a naked warehouse. Have you tried tucking in with a couple hundred Kamals.” Ashav rebutted. 

“That I do apologize, I should have never trusted Snake-Oil.” Gustav admitted. He spoke without much heed to Ashav, instead, he bore his gaze on the Dunmer primarily. “Now, now, surely it couldn’t be that bad? Master Dalas?” 

Sadri felt more and more out of his element as this man revealed himself to be his employer’s employer – careful manipulation of words would be needed, and hopefully Ashav wouldn’t burst right through them. He hoped that Ashav would manage to stay as the primary subject of the man’s attention, but, unfortunately for our lovely impostor, it seemed that things weren’t going to be that way.
 
‘’Uh, our esteemed warrior Ashav here has a point – I have to say, I noted many of our brothers having to pay from their own pockets for better accommodation, including myself – the conditions were, to be frank, horrible.’’
 
Sadri looked at Gustav, his good eye meeting the man’s eyes, and then pulled out the small flask that contained Mora. ‘’Do you mind? The Snow Demons’ barrage put me in a situation that requires treatment, you see…’’ He asked as he dipped his fingers inside the flask and pulled out the small leech which flexed around the familiar hands of its owner.

“Ew, filthy worm.” Gustav jerked back in his chair, smashing his head against the wall. “Sorry, it’s just, well, in your journal of Stormhold, you expressed specific disdain for oligochaeta. I guess desperate times calls for desperate measures.”

“Again, an oversight.” Gustav returned to the topic of Windhelm. 

“You’ll get used to it, he had it for a while.” Ashav said about the leech. “I mean, had it for a while since encountering Kamals.” The Dunmer was so focused on his facade that his mead was spared. Ashav took “Madura’s” mug and drank half of it, gods know he need it after so long.

“Speaking of Kamals, was that an oversight too?” 

“Yes, uh, no, look, let me explain.” Gustav adjusted his tone. He was talking serious now, focusing on the Redguard instead of the Dunmer. “I was advised by a wise man, a prophet. This was the same man who helped my business endeavors.” The Nord took another swig before going forward. “Two months ago, he told me a crisis looms on the horizon, that we are to build up a shield should we to weather it. So I did, using the Reach campaign as recruitment and field trial. Two weeks ago, the prophet sent another message, he said the first flashpoint would erupt in Windhelm, and our forces should be there on standby. I never expected that crisis to be Akavir, and never a flashpoint so quick. Should I knew, I would have better prepared.”

“On the bright side, you two and the rest are here. It makes for one wicked story, wouldn’t it, master Dalas?”

While Sadri had planned to put away Mora at first, he decided to go along with the procedure after Gustav misidentified it as a worm, even though it was not a worm but a leech. He purred Mora’s belly (or was it back? Sadri couldn’t tell) and then held it to the side of his forehead, and let it stick as he intently listened to the man’s conversation with the hammered Redguard, sniffing out of his nose half-audibly with every slip-up the man made regarding his identity.
 
The man’s story came off as somewhat wild, but somehow, that made it all too believable for Sadri. He sighed as he put his hand on the edge of the table and began speaking deliberately.
 
‘’As evident your interest in my works is, I’m afraid I will have to correct you by pointing out that this particular creature is not of the oligochaeta, but is in fact a hirudine,’’ Sadri replied as he felt the pressure relieve from his eye. How a term that he had last seen a decade ago came to his mind, he did not know, but Oblivion be damned, his brain was doing a good job. ‘’As a journalist, of course I am interested in how captivating the story is, but I would also prefer to see to the end of it without any problems, and to see that my compatriots also do so. But of course, I would also like to see this scourge of beasts leave our beautiful Tamriel undefiled, so I may continue reporting the many beauties hidden amongst its landscape, people, and societies.’’
 
Sadri breathed out from his mouth slowly. That was a mouthful.

“Uh, right.” The leech continued disturbing Gustav, this man does not get along with leeches or worms. “We are on the same page, master Dalas. I would not rest until these snow demons are gone for good.” He declared.

“Oreochip, herpuderp, what?” Ashav glanced around confused. Hammered was an accurate description, seeing how the Redguard emptied the Dunmer’s mug as well. His speech started to slur and words came out less and less coherent. “Kill snow demons, what do you know, heh?” Ashav slouched back, kicking a leg on the stained table. “Where, what, no, [i]why[/i] are you here? Where do you want us to go?”

“Drunk already?” Gustav mouthed silently to the Dunmer. “I came here to assess the situation, to either aid you or find replacements if necessary; won’t be the latter now.” He explained.

“As for the next step? I’m not sure.” The Nord admitted. The last few candles were dying, and the drunks either stumbled out or snorted on their seats. The room was nearing pitch darkness, quiet save for mercenaries getting ready to sleep. “I suppose we wait for the prophet, and in the meantime, recuperate. The jarl here also wanted an expedition to Winterhold, because someone came from that direction this morning, screaming like mad on how the entire city crumbled, again. Strange thing was, the college still stands, or so they said.”

“Madura, if you don’t mind me calling you that.” Gustav grinned. He felt like he made friend with the most popular kid in the sandbox. “Perhaps the Gazette sent you an early draft? We could start with their leads.”

Sadri gave Ashav a blank look as he watched the man move sluggishly in his seat. Things were getting serious, and all of a sudden, it felt as if he was in deep trouble. Every second spent on the seat next to Ashav was making things worse, it appeared, but he couldn’t just get up and leave. Things were becoming somewhat uncomfortable, even for a person like Sadri. He just hoped that this business would be over with as soon as possible. Then he’d have to take care of Madura somehow. Maybe he had some of these drafts the man was talking about.
 
‘’Gustav, I’m afraid I haven’t been able to keep up correspondence with the Gazette for the last few weeks,’’ Sadri spoke with a hint of hesitation that he tried to shape into regret. ‘’I suppose we will need to wait for your… prophet, as you said.’’

“That’s just too bad.” Gustav wiped mead drops from his chin. “All the more reason to sail for Winterhold.” With Ashav at a semi-lucid state, Gustav whipped out a notepad and a quill. “A request, Madura, may I have your sig-”

“Ashav!” Another Dunmer bursted into Windpeak, his howl rivaled wolves. This Dunmer was rather shabby looking, his face was white, and something dripped from behind. His britches wasn’t even fully fastened, and pieces of leaves clung to waterproof enchanted gear. “Where are the, uh, sanitation supplies?”

“Another Dunmer.” Gustav mused. “You with the company too?” He asked the newcomer.

“Sure, I just need wipes, after that I’ll tell you all about myself, Mad-”

“In Edith’s room, third to the right.” Ashav waved squiggly to the left. “Cuckoo, that jour-” Ashav made swirls beside his head, his intoxicated eyes scanned Gustav, the Dunmer, the Dunmer[i]s[/i]; he caught himself just in time. “No, leave! Go wash yourself in the sea, salt water’s good for your skin, trust me, I do it all the time, hehe.”

The latest dark elf spat out a string of curses, fumbling with his pants so he won’t trip himself on his way to Dawnstar bay. When he left, Gustav sniffed the air, something was foul. “What just happened? Ashav?” Prodding the Redguard yielded nothing. Why would it be otherwise? The man just collapsed on the table. “Madura, you alright?”

Sadri could barely contain himself from jumping straight out of the window once Madura had walked in, though thankfully, Gustav did not recognize Madura for who he truly was, and Ashav was able to control the situation in one last bit of sobriety before falling back to his stupor. Madura, the real Madura, wasn’t really that strong of a character, and given his shitty situation, it was no wonder why he didn’t object to Ashav’s order to go wash himself in the sea.  
 
As Gustav asked about what happened, Sadri couldn’t help but think he had screwed up majestically. At least they would have to leave for Winterhold, where hopefully he wouldn’t see any more of this Gustav fellow. One way or another, the situation had to be resolved, and he did not want it to be resolved against his favor.
 
‘’Uh, that was Renym. Ashlander, you see, not much in the name of manners. He doesn’t know much about the basics of sanitation.’’
 
Sadri sighed. ‘’I’m alright, Gustav, thank you. It’s just that these latest events haven’t been terribly kind on my health. I’m afraid I may have to take my leave, but I shall definitely see you later.’’ Sadri shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eager to leave, and possibly have a talk with Madura. It appeared that they were going to get sent to Winterhold this time. He wasn’t all too enthusiastic on where that would lead.

“Ashlander? Don’t you have ashlander lineage?” Gustav raised an eyebrow. The more they talked, the suspicious he was of the dark elf. “You said they were quite proficient in the ways of sanitation.”

“Ah, what the hell. I am tired and our friend Ashav is drunk.” Gustav resigned. “Well, I can imagine traveling must be hard on you, so I won’t disturb the rest of your evening.” The Nord man stood up, surveying knocked-out drunkards splayed about the room. Only two candles burned, which meant moonlight seeped in through roof-mounted apertures. The light was bloody red. “It was nice meeting you, Madura. Don’t be afraid to give me a shout if you need anything, I am in the deluxe room down the right.” He extended a farewell handshake, then shook Ashav lightly on his way out. The company leader was out cold, not even snorting in his comatose state. 

Sadri extended his right arm back for the handshake as the Nord nobleman took his leave, but realized that he was offering nothing in the manner of a handshake, what with the bonemold stump. He gave an uneasy laugh, which one could assume was because of extending an arm that wasn’t there, but was actually because of having managed to avoid the man’s last probe.
 
‘’Hm, now that you mention it… I think you may be able to give me a hand,’’ Sadri smiled as smugly as the situation would allow. He just couldn’t help it. 
 
Perhaps this could lead to [i]something[/i] good.

“A hand, ha, you are a witty man, Madura.” Gustav chuckled. “An enchanter in Solitude makes just the sort thing, looks like I’ll have to call her debt in.” Brushing off his expensive coat, Gustav cleared his throat. “A prosthetic hand it is. I’ll have it out tomorrow morning, you can count it.”

“Oh, one more thing.” Gustav added halfway down the dark hall. “They’ll have to mail it back on Gazette couriers, you know how it is, regular parcels get “lost” during wartime. Pickup’s kind of messy, need credentials and such, but a weighty name like yourself should have zero problems.”