How would one explain [i]Soultrap Go[/i]? A dreamsleeve game where virtual competitions take place on Mundus, which players show off to strangers their rarest catch? No, that sounded absolutely ridiculous. Keegan was a man of rather peculiar interests, but to take on the challenge listed on some obscure poster was even difficult for him to comprehend. Still, a man needs hobbies, right? In grim times like these, the Altmer would gladly squeeze in every ounce of fun possible.

"Catching it was just a test." Keegan started. "My real cause is to train..." Auriel damn it all, that stupid song always popped into his head at the worst times.

At least it's over, right? Keegan found himself in the middle of dead cratures, while the more eager members chased off the archers. He took a deep breath, but what flooded into his nose was odor toxic enough to make his head explode. The embarrassed Altmer coughed and turned for the cave mouth, but his hopes and dreams of fresh air were crushed by Dumhuvud.

"Where are you going?" The Cat-Kicker raised an eyebrow. "Get back to the fight!"

"I need to, uh, do my thing?" Keegan squeezed his knees together. He suddenly realized that he wasn't lying, it's been hours since he last relieved himself, and many handfuls of melted snow from there. "It's clear inside but I didn't find any washrooms, because, you know, Falmers aren't big on sanitation." Keegan protested. "Can I please go now?"

Dumhuvud stayed quiet, but he moved out of Keegan's way. In the presence of a much reduced snow storm outside, Keegan found a private corner right beside Sevine's horse. Maybe because Asper watching gave him pressure, or because he was still nervous, or it could even be the temperature being too cold for his comfort, Keegan failed to squeeze out a single drop. 

Suffice to say, he was pissed.

[hr]
Orakh was having a grand old time.

Considering an Orc's favorite pastime is killing things, Orakh was joyed to kill relatively regular monsters for a change. His weathered shield shrug off more than a few arrows intended for himself and others, his Orcish axe ripping apart dirty bugs and degenerate elves like lumberjack cutting down trees. The old man had not felt this excited in weeks, and for a brief moment, his berserker rage overtook him. Ariane was shouting for him to wait, something about a light and magic hocus pocus. Orakh didn't care though, he needed no light, no magic; he had his predator sense locked onto the foul scents and orichalcum ready to dish out pain. In all sounded so poetic in his head.

That was, until he found himself tripping on Sevine's dropped shield and lost his footing. 

"Where am I?" Orakh confused. A rock to the face makes a wicked wake up call. Orakh woke up from his berserk alright, he remebered charging in but not the seconds after. His weapon and shield got dropped somewhere, he didn't know, he couldn't see. Then he could see, because Ariane tossed a magic glow his way. He saw one thing and he didn't bother to think again; Tsleeixth was fighting a Falmer.

With only his bare hands, Orakh rushed the Falmer and tackled it to the ground. The Orc landed his knee on the monster's chest and punched that ugly face left and right. When it refused to die, Orakh smashed his head into Falmer's, and when it still refused to die...

"Aaa!" Orakh was cut though a gap on the waist of his cuirass. "Fuck you!" Stumbling back, Orakh seethed. The Falmer had a knife in hand, and it wanted to get up. Not on Orakh's watch. He dashed forward to kick the knife away, then dropping to his knees, the Orc took the Falmer's head and mashed it into a spiky rock formation. Cracks followed by patchy grind as the skull broke to allow a rock spike through its eye socket. Blood soaked his gloves, Orakh frowned to see his enemy had died. 

"Ain't this a bitch." Orakh groaned to Tsleeixth. He was about to say how he saved the lizard's life, but his vision blurred and his head swam. The second half of his berserk was gone, with clear thoughts more or less prevailing, he realized Tsleeixth could probably take care of himself. Oh well.

"Let's skedaddle."

[hr]
"Got what you deserved." Farid snorted. Dragging Sagax back, Farid set the Imperial down and loomed over him with a smug grin. Shoving Sagax's hands from his wound, Farid sneered at the mangled piled of red around the arrow hole. "Horrible choice of color, really." Reaching into bag, he produced a medium sized handkerchief for bandage. "Here's a second canvas, go ahead and ruin it, I don't have high hopes for you."