Perhaps it was because of that he had forgotten how bloody and painful his line of work could get, or perhaps it was simply out of sheer boredom, but Marcel was quite happy that Ashav had kept his word and recommended him for a job. Admittedly, he had never worked with a group as large as this, and he hadn't exactly fought a lot of Spriggans - but he had at least some experience with them, and that was probably more than some of the others in the party. His enthusiasm, however out of place it seemed amongst the other members of the party, was only a plus.

The journey southward, towards their destination, was quite an enjoyable one for Marcel. A man of simple tastes, he very much enjoyed the companionship of the wild, and the companionship of the party, although he couldn't help but feel they weren't at ease with him (whether this stemmed from his disruptive capabilities, their lack of familiarity with him, or just his personality, Marcel did not know). He had enjoyed a small chat with a young lad named Cilo before their departure, but given the fact he wasn't part of the party, and given the fact his current companions weren't as foolishly jovial as the lad, he had to make do with only the mere presence of the party and make the best of enjoying the silence.

Lunchtime, on the other hand, was a whole different experience - the party, having settled down for a rest and meal, had suddenly gained much more social traction. Conversations and jokes were had, and although Marcel did not participate in them himself, he nonetheless enjoyed the sense of belonging he had created by laughing along to the party's jokes and listening with an interested expression to their tales, despite not having many ideas about what they really meant. He had perfectly made himself forgotten amongst all the personalities, become a part of the backdrop. He preferred things that way.

After lunch, however, simply enjoying the scenery became somewhat harder for Marcel, and likely for the rest of the party as well, considering the change of tone. The air had gotten heavier, irritating the eyes, harder to breathe. He would understand the reason for this once the woman called the Huntress would take him and the rest of the party to the scouting position. Beyond them lay a swath of annihilation, laden with complete silence. Ash, smog and smolders had worked together to create a landscape of desolation that Marcel had previously only seen in nightmares and macabre paintings from northern High Rock. He poured some water into his hand and wiped his face with it to feel somewhat refreshed, and to help against the traces of ash still carried on in the air.

He could feel traces of movement far away, not certain enough, but he could feel it in his gut. Deciding to heed his gut feeling, Marcel unsheathed his silver sword and kept it ready as the party moved forward. As the party leader, a pocket Hercules of a Bosmer called Daelin, called to give him an order, a sudden shout cleared through the circle as a middle-aged, burly man came rushing through the woods, flaming and axing at conjured sprays of insects. The group moved in to engage, and Marcel, having infiltrated the backdrop through his mundanity, also did, moving forward in a feat of stealth so profound that it seemed nobody noticed him, not even the party, let alone the Spriggans, it seemed.

Beyond him he could see the Altmer duke it out, albeit quite amateurishly, with the seemingly leading Spriggan. While he moved in to help the Altmer, a sudden dash by a wooden, feminine figure intercepted Marcel's movement. As the Spriggan raised its arm to spray Marcel with whatever magic it held in store, he brought his sword downwards, splitting its bark-covered limb in half. The creature gave an unnatural, ringing hiss, only to be muted when the silver smallsword lodged itself through the dryad's mask-like face, poking out the other side.

Anxiety clutched Daelin’s chest as Sevine and Keegan went down, the very real fear of their deaths filling his heart with dread. So soon under his command, the first real challenge, and two of his people were fighting against the mortal coil, nature’s fury rending them down. The spriggan that Keegan had foolishly harmed had focused on him ever so briefly, but from unsteady hands from a faulting resolve, Daelin managed to loose an arrow with respectable precision, burying itself in the flank of the spriggan, which in turn left the unconscious altmer to its devices. Daelin’s neck flushed with hot relief; he might just have saved Keegan’s life.

Likewise, Sevine was rescued by an expert shot of Daixanos’, the argonian standing confident and assured as he took aim at the beasts that ravaged his comrade. Jorwen also charged in ferociously, bellowing a deafening war cry that startled the wolves enough that they perhaps wisely chose to focus on other threats. One had tried to take down Red-Bear, who lived up to his reputation by unflinchingly cutting it down, sword digging through its legs and chest as the wolf’s momentum and Jorwen’s slash met, the old warrior’s well-tended weapon working flawlessly as it should to end the beast’s life. It landed with a wet thud, and although it was no longer able to fight as it was disabled and bleeding out, it still bled and whimpered in the dirt, living the last moments of its life in agony.

Rhasha’Dar managed to down one of the nature spirits with brutal aggression, but wounds raked his body in long, bloody gashes as he had thrown himself into battle with reckless abandon. To Daelin’s horror, the matron spriggan, glowing orange with autumn hues, came up behind him as he finished his work with axe in hand, and he was helpless in its grasp as it plunged dagger-like tendrils deep through the khajiit’s back, letting him slide off of its digits as if it were discarding its own leaves. Daelin was horrified, and the bosmer rushed over to try to rescue the khajiit. “Arkay, spare him, please…” he begged under his breath as he scrambled over the dozens of meters to save Rhasha’Dar from the great unknown. For all the difference it made, he might as well been leagues away.

As if his prayers were heard, Daelin watched in surprise as a hatchet sailed through the hair, burying itself in the back of the Matron. The old Nord that they had rescued from the wolves stood, covered in blood from the dead wolf that laid where it had tried to take him down, skull cracked open from a ferocious blow with a carpenter hammer that was still buried in its head. The man’s were as intense as the flames that engulfed his hand that pounded against the leather apron he wore, his muscles and veins bulging as he roared defiantly at the spriggan, spittle flying from his mouth. “Come, you foul bitch! It’s me you want, come meet your end!”

It certainly got the Matron’s attention, and now the spriggan closed on him, insects beginning to emerge from its body and a sickening hum of dozens of awakening wings began to fill the air. If the spriggan were capable of expression, it certainly would have been a mask of utter malice. Daelin skirted into a slide when he reached Rhasha’Dar, cradling him in his arms. “Come on, Rhasha, stay with us… it isn’t your time!” he pleaded, fumbling for a potion off of his bandoleer.

The only adversaries remaining other than the Matron were two final spriggans, one of which still had Keegan’s weapon lodged in its torso.

As he boarded the Kyne’s Tear, Tsleeixth reflected upon the assignments that the company had been given by their patron. Roughly half of the company would head to the Pale to investigate the cause of the sudden forest fires that seemed to occur at random and that seemed to be enraging the Spriggans that were in the area while the other half, and the group of which he was part, would go to and old Dwemer ruin by the name of Bthamz in an effort to acquire the stockpile of weapons that the ruin supposedly hid and to use those same weapons to attack a supposed Armiger base in Bleackrock isle.

The fact that the company was being split in two didn’t sit well with the Argonian spellsword, who doubted that anything good could come up from dividing their forces. Perhaps the return of the Kamal’s to Tamriel, along with the revelation that Morrowind was allied with them, had left him reeling more than he had thought initially and perhaps it was from there that his fear of separating company originated from, from the fear that a new enemy -like the mysterious mages that had destroyed Winterhold- would appear and destroy the sea parted groups of the company.”Gah, it's no use worrying about that now. Can't let your fears get the best of you.” He mentally chided himself for such foolish thoughts.

During the trip to Bthamz Tsleeixth didn't interact much with anyone, preferring to stay below decks and reading so as to pass the time before they arrived to the Dwemer ruins. The times he did went to the upper deck the tension between Leif and Do’karth was palpable, albeit its origins eluded Tsleeixth for the moment, as was Roze’s and Sagax’s fame at their feat of having destroyed one of the Kamal’s ironclad during the Siege of Windhelm. As such the trip to Bthamz went relatively quickly for the Argonian, with not much of note occurring to him during the trip.

Luckily, arriving to the isle were Bthamz was proved to be simple, with no troubles for the group as they descended the flight of stairs and entered the elevator that led them deeper into the ruins. At Edith’s words Tsleeixth drew his new sword, his eyes briefly looking at the Falmer-made weapon that was now his a small shiver running through him as he remembered the trip back from Winterhold after The Courtesan had beached due to the storm near the ruins.

As the elevator came to a halt, they were greeted by the corpses of Dunmeri armigers. They seemed to have been there a long time by what the spellsword could tell and yet their bodies were undisturbed “Probably not the Falmer that killed them, but then what?” He thought with a small frown, his question soon answered as Dwemer automatons began to swarm the camp that had once belonged to the dead Armigers.

“Ah, crap.” He muttered lowly as one of the Dwemer spiders approached him on it’s skittering legs. He was no stranger to the Dwemer’s creations having encountered them before he had joined the Company -courtesy of an expedition the College of Winterhold had once done to one of the ruins of the lost Mer group- and as such didn’t look forward to fighting the automatons, knowing full well that the deeper they got into the ruins the more dangerous kind of Dwemer creations they’d find.

“Bah, idiot, focus on that later.” He mentally chided himself as he parried one of the attacks from the spider automaton that had approached him, quickly evading a bolt of lightning that had originated from the soul gem that powered the construct. They couldn’t afford distractions now, with both Leif and one of the new members of the company -a Dunmer woman that he had never seen before the boat trip towards Bthamz and who, if he recalled correctly, went by the name of Elmera- were down for the rest of the battle, possibly for the rest of the expedition.

Dodging another incoming attack from the automaton that was targeting him, Tsleeixth re-focused solely on the enemy in front of him. He couldn’t help anyone if he was dead, and if he kept getting distracted that’d be exactly what would happen to him. The battle itself proved to be easy once he put his full effort into it, with the spider automaton soon dispatched as Tsleeixth destroyed the soul gem that powered it. Looking over he saw that both Elmera and Leif had been saved from the automatons that threatened to kill them. Taking a moment catch his breath he only could hope that the other group was doing better than they were as he went to fight off one of the few remaining Dwemer spiders.

_{Featuring the sublime Swede @Hellis and the grandiose gamemaster @gcold}

It had been a day since their daring escape.

Niernen stared out over the dark, impenetrable sea and the thick, opaque mist with unseeing eyes, her gaze fixed on the middle distance. She was a Dunmer, thirty-one years old, with a (by Elvish standards, at least) beautiful, lithe face, marred only by an old scar that ran down the left side of her brow and cheek. She had large eyes, full of life and emotion, that were coloured a peculiar shade of rich, ruddy copper instead of the crimson that was typical of her race. Long black hair, tucked behind her ears, spilled down over her shoulders and shone with a luscious luster -- oh, wait, no. It didn't. Not anymore. It was stiff and dull and full of tangles, her once-beautiful face was ash-pale and sunken and her eyes were as dead as a shark's.

The Kamal had treated her horribly. Niernen had been there with the Company when Windhelm was besieged and fought against the Akaviri snow-demons, side by side with the likes of Do'Karth, but she had fallen into the sewers after a collapse and fled outside the city limits. There, the Kamal had hunted her down in the darkness of the night and killed her beloved Nix-hound, Garm. Niernen had used her precious scroll of Fire Storm, a gift from one of her old Redoran war-wizard mentors, to save her own life and kill the Kamal that pursued her. She shuddered at the memory. The days that followed were a blur of cold snow and hunger as she made her way towards Morrowind, wrapped in a pale gray cloak stolen from the corpse of a dead traveler, desperate to see her family and make sure they were safe in Blacklight, only to be ambushed by the thrice-damned Armigers and -- much to her furious indignation and bone-chilling horror -- sold to the Kamal as a slave. 'Fighting for a foreign power,' that's what her crime had supposedly been. It was insanity.

Then came the frigate. Niernen was unceremoniously shoved into the hold and forced to do manual labor. Manual labor, of all things! Niernen couldn't swing a pickaxe to save her life, not after the Shadowscale poison that had nearly claimed her life in Blackmarsh years ago and left her with all the strength of an old man with rockjoint. But, since the only alternative was death, she complied and made up with telekinetic magic for what she lacked. The Kamal worked them to the bone (of which Niernen broke several when a vicious Kamal taskmaster beat her half to death for working too slow), she and four other Dunmeri slave-captives, and Niernen knew for sure that, after one week, one more day on that damned ship would have been the death of her. The Kamal barely fed them and only allowed a handful of hours of sleep, and when one of the other Dunmer slaves collapsed he was killed and his soul fed to the frigate's magical engines. Haunted by the memory of the elf's dying screams, Niernen shuddered again and pulled her gray cloak tighter around her body. She resisted the urge to cry.

That's when the storm had happened and the pirates attacked. It was good fortune of the most absurd kind, since the pirates didn't have a chance in hell against the Kamal, but not an opportunity she was about to waste. She'd escaped amidst the chaos with one other Dunmer, snatching up their possessions as they ducked and weaved through the frantic boarding action, jumped into a lifeboat and, well... here they were, drifting around and waiting for something to happen. That brought her to her fellow escapee, sitting opposite her in the small, wooden lifeboat, looking as grim and sullen as she felt -- Valen. Niernen owed him her life. She never would have made it off the frigate and into the lifeboat if it wasn't for Valen's strong shoulder to lean on. He'd complained the whole time, of course, as Valen was a right sour bastard, but apparently not heartless enough to leave her behind. She would be forever grateful for that, though it remained to be seen how long 'forever' would actually be for the two of them.

Many things ran through the head of Valen these difficult past weeks. But he had not lived a easy life, and he had been so deeply rooted in his own despair and self pity that to him slavery seemed like just another kick by the fates. The Armigers had found him in a tavern. What they did there, he still hadn't figured out. But they had struck up conversation with him, curius as to what he did so far from home. He had know to bite his tongue, to keep from telling them what his profession was. To make it sound like he had legitimate buisness to tend to.

But one of them had seen the little book he kept. And the locket. They had placed him immedietly after that. He had not gone down easily nor he had not been the good slave however. When he had first been captured, he had been drunk and full with such piss and vineager that he had taken a man's ear with his teeth. Some of the slavers had referred to him as a wild dog, not believing that he was the once noble warrior that it was claimed.

But even when left to die all those years back, he had never once been treated nearly as bad as he had been as a slave. He was a physical specimen, wirey but built, with scars and hard eyes. The kind that small men loved to push into the dirt so they could feel big. The kind of slave they knew could take a beating. His captors nor his later wardens had forgotten his wild nature however. Even as he grew more docile from the lack of alcohol, they would try and rile him to get another chance at smacking him down again. He also proved as a warning example to any slave thinking they were above their new lot in life. But within that mind of his, vengence had stewed. Another chip on his shoulder, another stone to his ever growing basket of boulders. This had changed when the Kamal had taken over his care. They were no small men angry at their loss of dignity as such a violent a prize. They relished breaking him like you relished breaking a bull. And they were massive beings possessing the brute force to keep him in check.

Their escape had come as their slavers frigate was onset by another ship. In the fighting that broke out, Valens instincts had kicked in. A broken oar was a fine spear in the hand of angry, desperate man with nothing to lose. And somehow, he had made it out to the life boat. He attributed this partly to Niernen's magic, as even a warrior of experience such as him was little more then a broken shell of a man at the time of their escape. And he had not the heart to abandon her once her legs gave out. He had dragged them the last part, cut the ropes as fire and arrows rained across the frigates deck.

For her part, she had made sure they had their possessions again. He had used the bow to shoot down a bird that they had eaten. The raw meat of a bird could have given them more complications then sustenance, but from the look of Niernen, it was worth the gamble.

Now however, he stared out onto the sea, watching the black water swell and crush in waves of foam white. That struck him as odd. There was a lot of white foam ahead. He eyed the breakpoints of the water when it hit him.

"Land.." He muttered. "Or atleast rocks. That means land." He looked over to his travelling "companion". The woman was of his race and had suffered as much or more then him. He gritted his teeth. "I will try and keep us from smashing on the rocks."

He was right. Niernen's heart skipped a beat as she followed his gaze and saw the vague outline of rocks materalizing in the dense mist. "Azura be praised," she said, her voice hoarse, and managed a weak smile -- the first in weeks. "I'd help you, but, well," she added and winced as she moved her left arm, "I think you're on your own." Niernen's jaw worked and she cursed under her breath. She knew that the old Niernen, the headstrong elven lass as fiery as her magic, would have been angry at the pain and the broken bones... but all she felt now was exhaustion. "Let me know if there's anything magical you need done."

The notion that he was on his own led to a bitter laugh. "What else is new in this wretched existence." He struggled with the oars as dark water pushed them this way and that way. But a desperate strenght born from desperation, hope and purest fury put them somewhat on the right path. After a while, they saw the shore line. "Hold on." He half spoke, half growled as the boat was picked up by the currents that ran perpendicular to the shore, about 30 meters out. He struggled through it, feeling as if his arms were going to fall off. But they made it.

Once more Niernen felt a strong surge of appreciation for Valen and she shot him a grateful look as their little vessel bobbed against the rocky shore with pleasantly surprising gentleness. Now she was forced with the prospect of getting out of the lifeboat. Over the past day, Niernen had used a little Restoration magic to alleviate the worst of her leg's injuries but there was a fracture in her shin that she was afraid to deal with until the bone had been set properly. For the time being, she was just going to have to grin and bear it. Niernen slowly got to her feet and gingerly lifted one leg over the edge of the boat, wobbling unsteadily on one foot, and said through clenched teeth: "This is embarrassing, but... help?"

"On it. Hold on." He said as he got out with a certein lack of grace only the shipbound and malnourished could achieve. He grabbed her leg under the knee and and let her lean against him as he expended what strength he had left to lift her enough to get over the edge of the boat. Then, as they hobbled ashore once more, he returned to quickly retrieve their things left in the boat. "Alright." he said finally, looking down at her leg. "We are gonna have to set that, don't we?"

The mere idea turned Niernen's face white as a sheet and she bit her lip. It was true that it was very painful for her to stand and it seemed like the rocky islands they made landfall on were so uneven that traversing them on foot would be all but impossible for Niernen. "Y-yes, alright," she stammered and sat down on the pebble-strewn shore, trying to control her breathing. Looking at her leg, it suddenly occurred to her that she didn't even know how to mend broken bones with Restoration magic and cursed again, a hint of desperation to her voice. "Make a splint for me, please," Niernen said to Valen and tore a strip of cloth from the edge of her cloak with trembling fingers. "And then... do it. Quickly, before I lose my nerve." Niernen turned her eyes skyward and started mouthing a prayer.

Valen nodded as he looked around him. "Shame I don't have an axe." He said, more to himself then to her while picked up some driftwood that was far away from the shoreline to be somewhat dryer. He then took the task to chop and bend two somewhat similar pieces of wood of the boat. Cutting the lower part of his left panntleg, he turned it into long enough ribbons to tie the splints in place once the bone was set. Then he walked over to Niernen. "Steel yourself" He said but instead of waiting for her to do just that, he grabbed her leg and set the bone in one go. As much to get it over with as to catch her unaware and not have her brace poorly. He was no surgeon or healer, but he had set a bone once or twice. You didn't make it without some basic knowledge of injuries when you spent years at a gods forsaken outpost trying to survive.

Niernen bit down on the strip of gray cloth she'd put in her mouth just in time for Valen to snap the fractured bone in place in a single, practiced movement. She screamed a muffled scream into the fabric and clenched her fists. The pain was fiercely blinding and stars danced in front of her eyes. It seemed to radiate out from her leg and into the rest of her body in sharp spikes of agony and it took all of her restraint not to savagely pull away from Valen. Gathering her thoughts, Niernen focused through the pain and moved her hands up and down her shin, palms glowing with Restoration magic -- she could not mend the bone but she could soothe the pain in her muscles and tendons. She breathed a sigh of relief as the pain dropped to manageable levels and she wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Thanks," Niernen whispered. Leaning on Valen once more for support, she got to her feet, gently put some of her weight on her leg and took a few unsupported steps away from Valen. She turned to look at him and gave him a thumbs up and a wan smile -- it still hurt but at least she could walk.

Now that the grisly task of (somewhat) fixing her leg was taken care of, Niernen looked around at their surroundings. They were on a small rocky island, one of several in an island chain, it would seem. The thick banks of mist were slowly disappating as the weather improved and she could see further now than when they had first made landfall.

"Well, it will have to do" he mumbled, more to himself then to his travelling companion. He wasn't going to wait around to see what wildlife would be interested in to wary travellers. They needed to find either shelter, or signs of civilization. "What do suggest we do now? You're the hobbled one, so you tell me if we should try and move."

"Yes, rub it in, why don't you," Niernen said absent-mindedly as she looked around, chewing the inside of her cheek. The little island they were on offered absolutely no shelter from the elements -- calm as they were, right now -- and was utterly devoid of life. "I think we should move," she said and looked at Valen with a shrug. "Nothing for us here, and..."

She trailed off as her gaze fixed on something in the distance behind Valen's shoulder. Her coppery eyes widened and her mouth fell open. "Valen," she stammered, and pointed behind him with the index finger of her unharmed right arm. "There are other people there. People!" Niernen moved past Valen, hobbling as fast as she could, and stared at the three sauntering figures in the distance. They were too far away to make out who they were and Niernen directed a fierce mental prayer in Azura's direction they weren't Armigers, but if they were friendly... then they were saved. "Come on!" Niernen yelled at Valen and made for the silhouettes in the distance.

The small islands in the island chain were all close enough together that Niernen could step from one to the other without getting wet, even without Valen's support. The splint was doing its job well.

Valen's head jerked violently over to look where she was pointing. It was indeed poeple, she might have spotted the end of their current troubles. He was however, the eternal cynic and a proffesional skeptic. So he grabbed the spear and had his shield out as he followed her towards whoever they were.

The short and malnourished she-elf took a second to look back at Valen and saw how he had armed himself. Niernen realized it would be a good idea to approach the distant strangers in a state of preparedness and briefly paused to conjure a Flame Atronach from the depths of Oblivion. It took a lot out of her to expend so much magicka after so long without proper rest and food, but Niernen figured it was better to be safe than sorry. The floating woman-shaped entity coalesced in a rush of flame and heat and turned it's featureless face towards Niernen. The last time she'd summoned the creature had been aboard the Kamal frigate with explicit orders to hurl itself at the nearest enemy and detonate. The Dunmer could almost feel the Atronach's judgement in its... well, gaze, for lack of a better word. "Sorry about that," Niernen said quietly.

She turned back to the three figures ahead, now merely two islands over, and resumed her hobbling stride. Niernen figured that the three must have seen her and Valen by now and took the fact that she hadn't been shot at with arrows or something of that ilk as a good sign.

And that's when she recognized one of them. "No way," Niernen breathed, astonished, and came to a sudden halt. "Ashav?" she asked herself aloud and turned to look at Valen. "I know them! Or at least one of them, it's the commander of the mercenary company I was with in Windhelm," she said quickly and excitedly. She waved at Ashav and his company and yelled out a hoarse cry in greeting. She wondered if Ashav would recognize her. He had hired her in person back then but she'd lost a lot of weight in the last three weeks and obtained the long gray cloak that now shrouded her form. Still, her distinctive copper eyes were the same and her facial scar hadn't moved.

Valen eyed the strangers with a wearyness, he opted to stay back and let her do the talking. He was still impressed by her summon, it had saved them back at the ship. And for her to create another in her state was considerable feat. "Let's hope they care about comraderie and won't turn to banditry."

Niernen frowned at the suggestion. The thought hadn't crossed her mind at all until Valen mentioned it. "I should hope not," she said as they walked. "He seemed like the honorable sort, but I have to admit I don't know him very well."

It was not long until the shipwrecked duo and the mercenary trio linked up, coming face to face in the middle of one of the tiny islands. Niernen was the first to speak, a hopeful smile beaming on her gaunt face. Up close she also recognized Madura, the journalist that had interviewed her and Do'Karth in Windhelm. The third fellow, a Nord, was a stranger to her.

"Ashav, I can't believe it's really you! What in Oblivion are you doing here? We just arrived here after escaping from a Kamal ship, I was captured by the damn Armigers after Windhelm, they're working with the Kamal now, can you believe that? They sold me to them and we were slaves on one of their ships together and then pirates attacked and--" Niernen's hasty rant suddenly stopped short and she bit back a strangled cry as the weight of all her suffering of the last few weeks threatened to break her. She took a deep breath and blinked away the tears. "Anyway, this is Valen, he helped me escape. He's good people," she added and managed another smile, her eyes bright with emotion. "It's so good to see you, and you too, Madura. I can't believe our luck!"

The trio was hesistant to approach, and when they did do so, they approached with weapons drawn. Well, Ashav had his new glass sword and Hargjorn had his falchion, but Madura, who was an non-combatant for all intents and purposes, looked he could easily cut himself with Hargjorn's boarding axe. They kept a safe distance away, considering the fact there was a man with a spear and a flaming daedric entity. When the Dunmer woman finally spoke up, none of the three were ready to hear what she was about to say. They expected her to ask them to surrender in the name of Morrowind, instead, she demonstrated that the Nerevarine was not beyond subjugating his own kind. She and the man seemed beaten and starved, but their sorry state did not excuse them from being a threat. If anything, experienced fighters like Ashav and Hargjorn knew the desparate opponent is most dangerous one.

"Who are you anyways?" Ashav questioned the woman. She appeared familiar, and claimed to be from Windhelm, but Ashav could not quite recall her exactly. "Put away the atronach first and then we can talk." The Redguard reaffirmed his combat stance.

"Ashav, she's Niernen, the Redoran battlemage!" Madura was quick to let his guard down. "She incinerated two Kamals with Do'Karth's help. I interviewed her, she's on our side." The journalist went forward to greet, but Hargjorn dragged him back with his free hand.

Though Ashav seemed somewhat convinced, Hargjorn was anything but. He pointed his sword at Valen and stood his ground. "You escaped a Kamal ship, how is that even possible?" He raised an eyebrow. "Ashav told me they are of impregnable metal." Shaking his head, his weapon did not lower. "Nevermind that, put away your summon and spear first."

Valen looked at the man pointing a sword at him. "And what insurance do I have, with a sword pointed at me? Impossible to escape you say. It was certeinly no easy feat, but we were aided by the distraction of slaughter. Those infernal creatures were too busy slaughtering pirates to care much about the lives of some slaves. And Niernen's magic was our savior, as I had but a broken oar to fight with. But we escaped, and we stand before you now." He said, standing ramrod straight as just being in the face of civilized people and on shore was such a relief he had hardly the words.

"You can chose to not believe us. You can chose to draw your blade against us. But before you stand a mage witha broken leg who claim you comrades. And me, who claim no such thing, but will die by my spear rather then be sent to die a withering death. If I die shoulder to shoulder or facing you, is up to you to decide." Valen spoke even as he was swaying a little from the exhaustion. It was all catching up to him now.

Hargjorn stared intently at Valen while he spoke, and a few seconds of silence later, he let out a laugh. "Ha, I like you, you got some spine." Hargjorn nodded and lowered his sword, though keeping it in hand still. "And you do know this woman, Ashav?" He glanced at the Redguard, who nodded in return. "Well, then I suppose it's a sailor's honor to take in the stranded. We can ferry you to Dawnstar and provide bread and water along the way, but know this, you will not walk about with that spear in hand; you do not have all my trust yet."

"This way." Hargjorn pointed to the direction he came from. "See that spire-like structure through the fog? Our boats are tied just behind it." He motioned for the Dunmers to go first so that he and Ashav could be certain there was no backstabbing. "And Neren," misspeaking her name, "I don't know about Kamal ships, but normal ones like mine do catch on fire. Please banish that damn thing to Oblivion."

Once everyone started walking again, Madura wasted no time interrogating the newcomers. "Niernen, how was it you escaped the Kamals without the rest? I remember sprinting my lungs out, and let me tell you, it was the most exercise I've-" The journalist promptly stopped as Ashav turned to face him. "Sorry, it's just-"

"No, Madura's right." Ashav said. "Sorry we couldn't help everyone back then. We'll get you both patched up, but no one can be too cautious in these times." Hargjorn grumbled at the word "we" but Ashav continued. "I have to know though, are there any other survivors beside you two?"

Niernen hastened to obey Hargjorn's command and banished her Atronach with a quick snap of her fingers. The entity dissolved into a cloud of smoke that drifted away over the foamy sea. "Thank you," she said, her voice full of gratitude. She placed her hand on Valen's shoulder and whispered: "Please do as he says."

After that she turned to Ashav and answered his question. "Not as far as I know, I'm afraid. It was chaos when the pirates attacked and only me and Valen made it to the lifeboat in time. There was fire everywhere and it rained arrows. As for Windhelm..." Niernen looked at Madura, her pain clearly etched on her face, and averted her gaze. She said no more.

"I can accept that." Valen as as he put his spear on his back with his shield again. While they kept moving, he didn't say much, as he was still trying to get a feel for their new travelling companions. Hargjorn struck him as the kind you would see first out to go brawling and last to leave. Ashav seemed to be the leader of the bunch, if not in rank then in natural charisma.

Listening to the their discussion, he chose to put in a word or two. "We were the only one to make it to a boat from what I could see. Most slaves were to broken in mind or body. I do not think there are many survivors left." He gritted his teeth as he spoke, the memory of whips, massive hands and bone clubs fresh in the back of his head.

"You have talents, Niernen. They can't possibly hold you down for long." Ashav commented, remembering how the seemingly frail battlemage took down more Kamals than a detatchment of guards. "And Valen, I suppose only a rugged fellow like you could keep up with her."

Besides encouragements, Ashav stayed quiet to not bother the dark elves. They hiked up a rocky ridge as the morning fog dissipated into shimmering sun. The vantage point near the dwarven spire divided shallow waters around the island in two lagoons. One to the south-west was closer, where the Dawnstar-originated ships moored. There was another lagoon further north-east, a natural bay formerly covered by fog now revealed a docked cutter. The cutter was bonemold, and on its side hang a Ashlander type banner.

"That's not your lifeboat, eh?" Hargjorn squinted to get a better look. Ashav waved everyone down, in case whoever one the vessel could be hostile. "Could be the Armigers; let's go have a gander."

"Madura, go inside the ruin and warn Edith that she may have company." Ashav ordered. Sharp winds suddenly blew over, drowning down his raspy voice. "I ask again, can you two follow or do you need shelter?"

The buzzing of the Spriggan's attack still ringed in Dax's ear holes as he lifted himself up to his full height, snake-like eyes flashing with a cold anger only matched by the steel of his Axe he now held in his powerful hands. As he had lifted himself off the ground and lamented that he had to fight beings with foul magicks, he saw Rhasha’Dar and Daelin's plight. Like a predator honing in on its prey, Daixanos began to move on instinct towards the Matron.

In his heart, he knew he would not get there in time, for there was another Spriggan in his way as the Matron loomed over her newest Khajiit victim. Luckily, the Nord's hatchet seemed to have stalled the Matron and annoyed her enough to have her turn around and advance upon him. Daixanos dearly wished for this farce to end, and his anger gave an adrenaline fueled strength and natural dexterous instinct to his body's movements.

He sprinted towards the Matron. The footfalls of his taloned feet, while soft, were not concealed as they often were when stalking in the woods. One Spriggan, the one in his way, spun and leered at him. Its whip like branch slashed at his lower body like a lash. Without conscious thought, Daixanos sprang. The appendage swung low, beneath his sailing feet. His Axe now leading with his momentum and cleaving through the Spriggan like so much plywood. His foot shot out and shoved the dead thing to hit the ground just as Dax did in a roll.

As a final follow up, his roll led him straight to the Matron as the thing glided toward the Nord with menace in its eyes. Daixanos' Axe swung just as he righted himself, embedding his blade into the Matron's backside and cutting deep. His Axe did not have the balance that it had when he jump cleaved the last Spriggan, but he knew he had damaged the Matron and perhaps killed it. The buzzing and leaves about the Matron jarred his senses, however. Did it work?

Before Jorwen could cleave into the beasts mauling Sevine, they were struck down by the other members of the party. The Khajiit was run through by the Matron's talons and Jorwen watched as Keegan was brought down some ways away from him. For a moment, he was stunned with panic, seeing already three of his number laid low. As Daelin loosed an arrow that saved Keegan's flesh from being rent by the thing's claws any further, and watching as the elf ran to Rhasha's side, he felt somewhat helpless. Doubt encroached on his mind and the coward in him told him to run. His grip loosened on his weapon and the urge to drop it and replace its weight in his hands with Sevine's and carry his friend and comrade to safety almost took hold. Were it not for the ferocity of the aging Nord bellowing a cry of battle, Jorwen would have left for his wife and that farm he talked of.

Seeing the near-feral display of the old Nord stoked something in him. He felt the old battle-lust whispering hot in his ear, his nerves steeled by the man's own anger. “Don't be a fucking coward,” Jorwen whispered to himself as he looked from Sevine to Keegan, to Daelin and finally the old Nord with the Matron closing on him, “Don't be a fucking coward, Jorwen.” His sword's tip laying heavy on the ground and he felt the jaggedness of his coughs clawing up his throat.

He let a few coughs out until he sat there, bent at his waist. Dax sprang forward and managed to slay one, ranging farther from the group's lines and landing near the Matron. The Red-Bear wouldn't be outdone, especially not by that lizard who killed Farid. His heart quickened, and not just from the coughing attack. He drew in a breath and let out a growl, he began to snarl, working himself up like he did in the older days, he beat at his chest and shook his sword as if he was throttling the life out of an enemy and he let out the worked up anger in the loudest, throatiest roar he could muster as he charged forward. Blind hatred he had filled himself with for the Matron closing on the other Nord. He would show this forest spirit what it was to stand against the man that burned villages and slew warriors like lambs.

While the thing was focused on Dax, Jorwen swung his sword in a vicious arc, the sharp metal whispering through the air but failing to meet its mark. The Matron sprang back and Jorwen's mad, wide eyes held its mask-like own as he charged forward. It raised its arm to spray him with stinging bees but Jorwen's blade lashed out like a splitting axe to a log and hacked the appendage lengthwise. The Matron's hiss was loud and high enough to hurt Jorwen's ears. “Quiet!” he roared, madly swinging his sword again, the blade searching for the thing's head, but burying itself in its chest. As it stumbled, Jorwen let out another roar and brought his big sword down like an axe into the shoulder of the Matron. The thing's slumping weight was surprisingly heavy, dragging Jorwen's sword down with it, Jorwen let the big blade go and unsheathed his seax. The Matron lashed out desperately and its claws slashed across Jorwen's arm, only adding to his malice.

Using his longseax like a butcher's knife more than a weapon of war, he hacked away at the thing like a savage. He stood over the dead thing, his shoulders rising and falling with his breath and finally, the coughing came again. He was brought to a knee, hacking with his eyes screwed shut, his very lungs feeling like they were being filled with icy water. Finally, the attack ended, he stayed there, his vision hazy and feeling more tired than ever. Working at not letting his fatigue show, he grunted as he rose to his feet and nodded to Daixanos, “A good kill, aye?”

The first Dwemer fight went swimmingly. By Edith's standards, this first fight scored fairly high. The veterans most performed as expected and the newcomers pulled their weights as well. Hell, even the potty girl Raelyn did something useful besides hauling shit buckets (and that's definitely a plus over Dough-Boy). Even though she was somewhat of an optimist among the company leaders, Edith had prepared her grim face the moment she saw scores of Dwemer machines. No one died. One got her leg skewered and another got his face mauled, but both were in stable conditions, more or less. Upon dismantling the last automaton, Edith ran a quick assessment of the group. Elmera had the fight taken out of her for certain, and the new Dunmer would be relegated to watching the elevator. Leif was pretty screwed up too, but the Nord man could see, hear and speak despite the tangle of charred and cut flesh. It would be up to him to decided whether he will join Elmera or the rest.

The rest eventually proceeded down the only hallway. It was poorly lit with intermittent Dwemer lamps and branched out in opposite directions not far away. Upon closing distance to the junction, it was clear that one way was buried under a ceiling collapse. The other way, however, looked like it had been cleared out recently. Edith immediately thought back to the dead Dunmers from the entrance room. Those two were dressed in torn up fur and tattered cloaks, none of them had the conspicuous burnt bone armor that Dumhuvud described. So that meant the shadows Edith saw creeping down the junction were likely something else, or perhaps the Armigers learned disguise. Either way, the next hallway had more lighting than this one, and as the shadows sharpened into four humanoid shapes, Edith waved everyone down and quiet.

"I tell you, it's nothing." A woman with Dunmeri accent spoke. "Probably just a draft down the entrance; we've cleared out the machines already."

"You're right." A male Dunmer voice came. Along with him, the footsteps seemed to halt beyond the turn. "I swear the boss likes to watch us hirelings sweat. Damn Ashlanders, can't even understand what they're saying."

"And who are you to complain," an Imperial man spoke up, "at least you're dark elves. You should see the way he looks at me, like I'm a horse to be slaughtered. You, I mean, the Ashlanders do eat horses, eh?"

"I'm about sick and tired of you mouths." What was assumed as another Dunmer man ordered the rest. "How about I take what you said to Dalas and see what he thinks?"

"Yeah, no thanks. I'm good now." The Imperial backed down. "We're just here for the coins, not worth the trouble. Though I don't know why you're here, aren't you related to the Hlaalus or something?"

Puzzled by their conversation, in Cyrodilic nonetheless, Edith looked to her group for ideas. Several rounds of whispers and nods yielded the solution of sending Do'Karth to negotiate with the strangers. But as soon as Do'Karth made himself known, the four opponents instantly launched three projectiles at him. A knife, an arrow and a crossbow bolt all flew towards the Khajiit. All three missed, somehow making a spectacular flyby on the sides of Do'Karth's head and between his legs (the bolt dangerously close to his genitals).

"How did they all miss?" Edith gasped in disbelief.

"How did we all miss?" The opposing four asked similar questions, exchanging surprised looks.

At this point, it was obvious a fight was at the point of no return. The supposed Hlaalu man, who was the best dressed in a orange robe, ordered the three individuals clad in miner cloths and mismatching iron to attack. Discrepant outfits also translated to armaments, as the Hlaalu held a dwarven crossbow, but his comrades wielded only low-quality bows and short blades. Their momentary confusion and the false assumption of Do'Karth as the lone intruder should be sufficient for the numerically superior mercenaries to overwhelm.

Niernen chased after Madura. As soon the journalist mentioned something about Do'Karth, the beaten sorceress took off with a renewed sense of vigor. Who knew one Khajiit nomad could be so popular? Not Ashav and Hargjorn. Regardless, now it's only two human with an elf who looked like he hasn't been able to stool for a week straight. Well, for all Ashav and Hargjorn knew, the Kamals might have actually tortured Valen with a fiber-less diet. The man looked really on edge, and it would do to give him some outlet.

The mysterious cutter was just that. It was bonemold and cohesive bonemold. It was a ship of recent manufacture, and clearly had been sailed not long ago. The question for Hargjorn was who could have left it there. A ship this size should have at least a half dozen crews, and could accommodate up to twenty. "This is no sailor, it's a nest o' sailors." Hargjorn observed. From a distance away, it looked like something was moving on it. With the fog not yet clearing, no one was certain what, if anything moved at all. Upon closer inspection, there still lied ropes, banners and a lever system for loading. The boat measured just over thirty meters, with Ashlander markings.

"Ashav, Valen and I will check behind." Hargjorn planned. "Have a peak topside." He pointed to a ramp. As Ashav walked on the deck, Hargjorn took advantage of the low tide to wade for a hatch on the aft. It turned out to be only half of his height, therefore, going in was messy and done with sword sheathed. Dark, stinky corridor the width of only one person greeted the Nord sailor. In the split second it took for him to adjust to the dimness, one hooded assailant charged out of a cabin with knife drawn. Hargjorn barely braced in time to keep the blade from his neck. However, he was now pinned against the wall and knife inching ever closer.

"No, please, help!" Hargjorn cried out, hoping desperately his attacker would back down, or someone could pry this rude fellow off him.

Sadri’s quip as he came to his rescue, punting the arachnid automaton off him as if it weighed nothing more than sheep’s wool while cleaving the other in two, put him in a foul mood, stemming from shame at the incident of being rendered near useless. He rushed to his feet, but not before blood stung his eye. Above his right brow and down to his ear, stretched a vicious wound. Were he to put two of his fingers together, it would measure the area of the afflicted portion of his face. While it was not a cut, for he had been cut before by blades, this felt more like a burn; a burn that did not hold the familiar pain of being burned by fire. This burn, lightning in nature, left the area around the wound with a sensation that he needed to scratch at the unmarred skin. With haste, his eyes swept over the remainder of his body, and noticed that the spider’s lightning powers had ripped through a portion of his tunic, exposed through the gap in his armor, and there, the color crimson had seeped through, a wound similar to the one on his brow, though, as his fingers probed underneath his armor, did not feel as deep.

When the time came for the rest of the company to move out, he was struck with a difficult choice. While part of him wanted to remain behind with Elmera, another part of him, perhaps the explorative nature in him, wished to carry on with the rest of the company. However, leaving Elmera behind, alone, to guard the entrance to the elevator shaft, did not sit well with him. A woman shouldn’t meet a fate meant for a man, if it can’t be helped. Not to mention, as those that were not injured were readying to go, he took immediate note of the injury that she had sustained in the first assault. That settled it. He would stay. Gathering his rucksack from off the granite floor, he made his way over to Elmera, and sat akin to her. Here, he let out an exasperated sigh, one filled with hidden annoyance that he had not chosen to continue on with the expedition. His eyes shifted sideways to gaze upon the Dunmeri woman, and noticed, that much like Sadri, albeit without the numerous scars upon his face, appeared to be close in age to him. Though, to be fair, he had a hard time determining how old any given Mer were in age. For the time being, he preferred to sulk in silence.

Do’Karth was pleasantly relieved to have had the first skirmish of the mission pan out as relatively simple as it was, and the fierce dwemer constructs were dismantled with surprising ease for something made of metal and impervious to pain, which is more than could have been said for Leif and Elmera, both of whom were wounded in the fighting. Despite their differences and mutual loathing due to their decidedly non-mutual understanding and respect over Sevine’s affections, he did not wish to see the man killed and maimed, and if the situation between them weren’t so awkward and hostile, he would have offered to mend his wounds. He would if he were asked to, but the man deserved his space.

The khajiit felt for Elmera, the dunmer woman who made a rather strong first impression based on her cold and efficient debut for handling the argonian situation in Dawnstar, she was injured pretty badly and he’d likely have to attend to her puncture wound when the area was secure. She’d have to guard the lift, likely alone, and Do’Karth felt there was a real chance they’d come back and discover her slain, just like the two dead Armigers they stumbled across, and no one deserved to die alone in an increasingly hostile ruin. He offered her a sympathetic nod, and carried on with the rest as Edith ordered them forward.

While no one else in the group could see in the dark as well as Do’Karth, he easily made out the forms of the four people approaching, lightly armed and surprisingly having an Imperial in their ranks. They seemed rather casual, given the circumstances, and he listened to their conversation, gauging intent. The khajiit assumed anyone encountered in the ruins were hostile and not to be trusted, given that the island was occupied by the very same enemy that assaulted them on the coast days prior and were reputed to be allied with the Kamal, a combination that did little to engender affection for their well-being. Worst case scenario, these interlopers would play the victim under the pretense of slipping away and warning their masters, the best case scenario was they were forced to be here, although this was unlikely as they were all armed, unsupervised, and talking about pay.

It did not sit well with Do’Karth, and he was an individual who quickly dismissed his near-devouring via Charrus hours after the fact as something that wasn’t worth musing about.

The mercenaries broke into a bunch of hushed whispers that Do’Karth was not paying attention to as he continued to eavesdrop on the approaching adversaries to determine anything useful from their dialog, gleaning that they reported to a boss. If they could find this person and subdue them, they’d have a huge advantage to discover what they were up against and what the dunmer were doing here…

Suddenly, the wanderer was aware of a half dozen sets of eyes on his back and he turned around to find everyone staring back at him, expectantly. He felt the fur on his neck standing on end as he caught the gesture for him to go forth, likely to talk with the four unknowns with weapons, considering he was the only one without any form of armour and was sworn to an oath of not taking anyone’s lives.

It was a plan so insidious, Leif must have concocted it. Much like their past few days involved ships that wanted to murder him, nearly getting roasted alive by his close ally and possible friend while facing giant frost demons that laughed at puny attempts to defend against their hulking martial ability and then subsequently fleeing from their mounts that looked kind of like a prolapsed rectum with legs, nearly falling to his death down any icy shaft while balls of glowing death killed off sailors he didn’t know the names of and land only promising more death by fanatical dunmer warriors and horrors from the deep, Do’Karth decided that the world was trying its damnest to have him killed off.

This one should have just stayed on that raft on the lake in Colovia. he thought with a shake of his head as he stepped out, holding his staff with both palms open to show his lack of hostile intent. A quick glance at the expectant faces behind him made the khajiit wonder what made his companions pick the only member of a much maligned race by dunmer and Nordic eyes who spoke as if he himself were talking of another person, had a visage of any number of alpha predator wildcats that were known to eat people alive and was a self-professed illiterate who had such a lack of conviction when he spoke to others whom he was not close with that he failed to ask his boss to not send him on a godsforsaken ship instead of in the woods where he had the better chance of success.

In all, it was an awful plan that he felt was supremely unqualified for. “S’rendarr, keep this one safe…” he muttered, hoping his god was actually paying him some mind this day.

He stepped out into the open, in full view of the four unknowns. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was rather dry. Still, he managed, “Greeting, this one comes to sp-”

Immediately, Do’Karth was validated in his fears and the common knowledge that everyone hates khajiit on principle as the now confirmed hostiles did not even bother to speak as they simply decided to act upon their curiosity of if khajiits did in fact make nice rugs. A an arrow whizzed by his ear before smashing into a ornately carved wall, a pitted and ugly looking knife managed to tug against his sash off of his left flank with its hilt before clanging on the floor, and the crossbow bolt passed so close between his legs, he felt himself shrivel up on fear and his tail reflexively flicked to the side as the projectile smacked into the stone floor.

“Thanks, S’rendarr.” He said, turning his weapon to the attackers who had displayed impressively abysmal displays of marksmanship and now opted to try and get physical. One khajiit was surely no match for four of them, right?

Bringing his staff behind his back so he could quickly lash out on either side, Do’Karth looked forward to embarrassing them twice in a matter of moments while feeling simultaneously vindicated and slighted by having his suspicions confirmed. “Perhaps this one should inspect your weapons for flaws? Bring them closer so khajiit might have a look!” he taunted, counting down the seconds until they were in range.

After the last automaton had fallen, Sagax was surprised to find that when he turned to check on his comrades, very few of them suffered injury, mainly only Leif and Elmera. He himself suffered a minor flesh wound, albeit one to his head, which was probably getting more delicate by the day. If he remembered right, Leif knew Restoration magic, so the man could probably manage on his own, and knowing Leif he'd be more than happy to tend to Elmera. Can't fault a man for his helpfulness, though, no matter the origin or reason. Standing over the spider drone that attacked him, Sagax kicked the hunk of metal spitefully, sending the crystal on top scattering across the floor. He picked it up carefully, wary of the small, stray sparks occasionally reaching out. Sagax wasn't quite sure what to make of it...to him it just looked like a small red sphere that hummed slightly. Deciding that maybe he could find someone knowledgeable in Dwemer contraptions later, the Imperial plopped the orb into one of his pouches. Perhaps it could fetch a good price somewhere?

Following the rest of the party, he stopped suddenly, as did everyone else, when he heard voices down the way. Could they be foes? Maybe, though Sagax was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they were cut off from the exit by the machines? It was well worth a try to talk to the strangers, at least. Though...he wasn't quite sure how they would go about it. He looked to Do'karth, remembering his prowess in diplomatic speech. Or...was it another khajiit? No, no, definitely Do'karth. For certain. Even if he was wrong, though, it wouldn't quite matter, as everyone else was of the same mind as him. He watched Do'karth walk towards the group and attempt to make contact.

Sagax jumped when he saw the arrows fly and...completely miss Do'karth. They missed? They missed! Ha! Losers!

Under the command of the strange fellow in the orange robe, the enemy spelunkers began advancing on the unfortunate cat while their leader loaded up a dwarven crossbow. While Sagax had the utmost faith in his furry friend's combat abilities, he wasn't about to let him face them all alone. He recalled his failed attempt at a rallying cry back in the Falmer cave, but maybe he could succeed this time? It would provide a good distraction, if nothing else. Tapping Roze on the shoulder, he glanced towards her bow and nodded in the direction of the strangers.

Now, naturally, there was only one war cry befitting a pureblooded Imperial like Sagax, even if he didn't agree with everything the man did. Readying his blade, Sagax breathed deeply and steeled himself for the charge. Just need them to get a little closer...

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

Barrelling forwards to Do'karth's side, Sagax swung his shortsword low and to the right, aiming for the leg of the man to Karth's left. If all went well, he could down the lout and give him a healthy boot to the head to make him not as much of a problem. Hopefully he wouldn't take a bolt for his trouble...

There was a simple fault in this plan. Simple, but a very, very big fuck-off fault. Solveig only realized it when she saw Do'Karth, that fucking half-head pacifist who joined a mercenary company- albeit, he was her fucking half-head pacifist- walking headlong at a group of jumpy adventurers. She realized that if she was in any of their shoes at the moment, she wouldn't trust anyone who wasn't part of her crew. Much less a Khajiit. Her realization about the big fault in the shitty plan came too late, as a trio of weapons came sailing towards Do'Karth. She felt her heart stop and she closed her eyes,every part of her cringing, not wanting to see her friend killed. But then she heard Do'Karth's voice, “Do'Karth, you fucking idiot.” She whispered, hefting her shield and readying herself to move forward with her group to draw attention away from the Khajiit with a stupid lack of armor. How many times did she say that his refusal to wear at least a padded cloth shirt would be his end?

Before she could advance with everyone else, a completely out-of-place scream came from behind her in the name of the Emperor. She felt the wind of a passing sprinter and saw Sagax charging forth, bellowing his weird warcry. Her mouth was agape until she regained her wits at the multiple pieces of fuck-up in this disastrous puzzle they'd now have to solve.

“Sagax, you fucking idiot!”

She screamed as her semblance of a warcry as she rushed to help the runner-boy with a deathwish, hoping the others were following or else the only help she'd be giving Sagax was making sure he wasn't the only one dying. She stood next to Do'Karth, readying her shield and keeping the point of her spear in front of anyone hoping to advance on the Khajiit, “You know, your stubborn rejection of armor is going to kill you one of these days, you half-head.” She said over her shoulder to Karth, keeping her eyes on the enemies in front her.

It hadn't been hard for Marcel to kill the Spriggan, despite the fact he was not used to them, and the left over pieces of the dryad's body laying on the ground seemed to fill him with more determination and courage, rather than the usual feeling of melancholy he felt after a kill. Perhaps this was because the fight wasn't over, and adrenaline had not finished its rush through Marcel's veins. One way or another, he moved forward, smallsword at the ready, towards the Matron - only to witness the witch get chopped by an axe-wielding lizard. He hesitated for a moment, and realized that it was the Argonian from the party that had crippled the Spriggan.

It took a moment for Marcel to change targets, as right after the amped-up alligator's assault, the old brute of the party started to swing at the Matron, almost shearing off a good amount of Marcel's face in the process. Moving from behind the man to avoid an accidental faceful of zweihander, Marcel pushed himself forwards the last Spriggan, whose hands were wide open, perhaps in the midst of casting something, or perhaps simply trying to grasp the spear that had lodged itself in its bark. His silver smallsword pierced right through the witch's chest just as the glow of magick materialized around the Spriggan's hands, interrupting the dryad's action. It seemed quite perturbed by the sword impaling through the midst of its torso.

Marcel pulled out the smallsword shortly after the attack, and the Spriggan spent a few moments trying to perceive its seemingly lethal wound. Not wishing for it to do anything crucial before its death, Marcel lifted his sword and brought it diagonally towards the barky neck of the witch, chopping in deep, hard enough to take its life, but not hard enough to decapitate. Marcel found the strike well-placed nonetheless, and it would be asking too much to wish for a thrusting sword to chop through a beast of wooden make in one strike either way.

''I sincerely don't know how these witches come to be,'' Marcel spoke as he pulled out the Altmer's weapon from the carcass of the Spriggan. ''My master was able to speak their language. Shame I never learned it from him,'' he mused as he walked around, stabbing more holes into the bodies on the ground to make sure the party would not be surprised by a sudden regeneration.

-

Sadri was quite satisfied with the way the fight had went. Well, he was not happy about the pierced leg of Elmera, and Leif's crisped face, but he had seen such fights against the Automatons go much worse. He was fine, so was Solveig. Nobody had lost a life, or a limb (at least there was no need for immediate amputation). The Dwemer machinery were all dead. The rest he could pay less mind to. They still had a job to do, after all.

There was only one way forward, and go forward, the rest of them did. Leif had stayed behind with Elmera, to watch the elevator, and probably also to recuperate. Nobody could expect you to walk with a bolt through your thigh. That would be just plain rude.

Although he had hoped to go alongside Do'Karth, it seemed that the party was not able to decide on a second delegate, and thus, ever being the professional, he cursed internally at the ones he knew comparatively less for not letting him go alongside the Khajiit. He watched expectantly as Do'Karth moved out, and actually ended up happy that he wasn't chosen when bolts and arrows flew Do'Karth's way. Of course, he had a feeling that had he been alongside him, they wouldn't shoot - but then he remembered how he felt when looking at his reflection, and concluded that they'd have shot at him too, most likely.

He turned his head slightly to look at Solveig. He heard someone shout, and took an action-ready stance as the Imperial youth, Sagax, lunged forward like a headless chicken, shouting in the name of the Emperor, swinging his sword. One eye was still at Solveig. She was truly born graceful.

''Sagax, you fucking idiot!''

In these beautiful words, was partially the reason for his love of Solveig. She was honest, primal. Maybe he was just being too much of a romantic by trying to find aesthetic in his love's curses, but everything she did had an aesthetic of its own for Sadri. She moved forward, next to Do'Karth, and this was primer enough for the Dunmer to move.

There was something about a hushed conspiracy to send Do'karth to his likely death that Raelyn found exciting. She was sure there was some story to this, maybe Do'karth was a daft cunt. That would be the only reason they'd send a pacifist who looked like a beast of prey towards a group of Ashlanders. Raelyn, of course, suggested that she go instead of him, but they weren't having any of that.

She peeked around the corner, watching as to her horror Do'karths genitals were almost impaled by the a flurry of arrows. Well that and other parts of his body, but she hadn't been paying attention to them. She slid back, seconds before Sagax screamed "FOR THE EMPEROR" while flying forward in a manner similar to the long dead Cyrodolic species, the Dodo. Raelyn felt it was better that she live for the Emperor than die for him, so decided that considering the odds, she would be better off sitting back and adjusting her lute strings. She figured she could just join whoever survived.

Shortly after, Solveig followed Sagax in her own dead sprint, shouting a much dirtier, primal battlecry that was the basis of all battlecrys on Tamriel. "[NOUN], YOU FUCKING [Singular/plural(Insult)". This was still going way better than the mechanical spiders. She could understand people, people were easy. Just think of an animal, with all its urges of hunger and sex, then give that animal the ability to make incredibly stupid decisions without dying, somehow, against all odds. That was humanity, freefalling off a cliffside they'd approached to grab a pretty yellow flower, only to be saved by a branch that happened to be hanging below. Then, somehow, the flower would be unharmed. Then they'd use that flower to woo a woman, and it would all work out somehow. Later on, a Sabre Cat would find that same cliff, get attacked by a falcon, bounce off the tree, hit the rocks below, and then get eaten by several passing Slaughterfish. Raelyn thought this had something to do with love or what not, but more likely it was that humans had posable thumbs. Solveig probably had enough posable thumbs for everyone, so Raelyn didn't need to help.

"I'm sure you have all of this well in hand!" Raelyn called out, plucking a string and twisting a knob. She played a small part of Sioni Bod Da for fun, then transitioned to Pathway to Sovngarde.

The skirmish came to a close much as it began, in a swift and brutal flurry of violence. This last of the Spriggans collapsed, its form breaking apart as the forces that held it together dissipated. The old Nord spat upon the Matron’s prone form, the orange glow that sustained it subsided like a dying flame, and he took stock of the people who had rushed to his aid. A young Nord woman, the khajiit the Matron had run through, and a bloody Altmer of all things lay critically wounded, if not fatally so, and the man felt a profound guilt at the predicament he had put them in, albeit entirely unintentionally. He lived a good long life, and it didn’t do that it was extended at the expense of three others. “Gather your fallen,” he called to the other rescuers, knowing time would be of the essence. “What’s left of my camp’s not far from here. There’s a chance some supplies survived. You’re all welcome to them.”

Approaching Daelin and Rhasha’Dar, who was still breathing and had managed to take a few laboured sips of the potion, the man knelt beside the khajiit and looked the Bosmer in the eyes. “You all have my thanks. Let me help you move the cat.” He implored. Daelin didn’t speak, simply taking the feet as directed and helping the Nord man carry Rhasha’Dar to wherever it was he said his camp was. As it would have it, less than five minutes of walking later showed a clearing with the charred remains of a tent, as well as what were three other mangled bodies. The man didn’t pay them much mind, but he helped set down the khajiit on a patch of soft earth and directed the others helping the wounded do the same. Wordlessly, he carried onto charred chest, its wood and iron components blackened, and he smashed the lock thrice with his hammer, the weakened wood giving out from heavy blows. The lid opened afterwards, and inside were nicely layered and labeled potions, including for fire resistance and healing, that he gathered quickly and handed out to the survivors.

“I ain’t a mage, but this is the best I got.” He said, as if apologetically. Pulling the blackened hide that once made up the walls of the tent, he dragged it over the dead bodies of his comrades. Taking a knee, he said a quiet prayer, too low for the others to heal as they worked on helping their comrades. After a few moments, the man returned to the group, setting himself down heavily on the ground somewhere approximately centered on them all, facing them.

“Those over there were Iver Boulder-Fist, Sven Thunder-Ram, and Harold Skyhammer. They were my brothers, bound by blood and war. We had served the Imperial Legion for three decades, longer than it looks like some of you younger ones have walked this Nirn, and we fought in more battles than I care to remember and all earned their Names, well and true.” He lamented, working his bearded jaw, wishing the mead survived. “I’d have joined them in Sovengarde had it not been for you lot, and an odd one at that, begging your pardon. These old bones is called Rothvar Tower-Shield. Earned my name by holding the keep doors at Fort Greenwall single handed by jamming my shield into a crack on the floor and holding my weight against the Stormcloaks that tried to get at me and the others until we managed to find a way out that didn’t involve going through entirely too many rebels. Others were pretty adamant that I’m the reason we got out at all, so they were more than happy to drink in my honour and all that other shit that comes with getting a Name thrown your way. I ain’t a fussy man, never sought glory or any of that shit. I just wanted to do my job and get home to my wife and three kids.

“Anyways, that’s quite enough about me. What I and my Brothers were doing here was trying to figure out what in Shor’s name was going on in the these woods, and since we are all Siege engineers, well, the Jarl of Whiterun was rather adamant that somebody find a way to keep the flames from spreading down to the city, so the fact we weren’t Ulfric’s boys didn’t factor into the decision. So for over a week now, we’d been digging ditches, cutting down trees, and all that other shit to try and stop whatever was going on from spreading, but it isn’t a natural cause, you see. Twice over, we had to start anew to get ahead of the infernos, and each time, a new one would ignite behind us, upwind, wherever made the least amount of sense and rendered our efforts to shit. Gotta say, I was pissed. Still am.” Rothvar said, rolling his eyes and stretching his neck. The man was mighty cramped and his old muscles ached.

“So, about three days ago, we first ran into the Spriggans, and we’d been real careful to avoid where their sanctuaries are, you can usually see the signs and they usually don’t bother you if you give them their due space, but they were acting weird, and one night, around supper, they attacked. So we defended ourselves, burned the piece of shit out of spite instead of using our timbers.” Rothvar grunted, frowning heavily as his eyes narrowed. “Things didn’t get better from there, as you could guess.”

“Rothvar, an honour to be sure, and I am sorry for your losses, but what do you know of these fires? Our company has been tasked with finding the source ourselves, on behalf of the Jarl of Dawnstar. The more we know, the more we can help one another, wouldn’t you agree?” Daelin interjected.

The Nord nodded agreeably. “Right. A lot of words in these here lungs, I forget my manners from time to time. As I said, the cause ain’t natural, it’s a fucking man. We’ve seen him setting the brush on fire about two days prior, a bit after the first Spriggan attack, and bloody bastard tried to roast us. Our potions kept us safe, because you don’t work around forest fires without protection, y’know? Anyways, we gave chase, not really armed for a fight and lo and behold, he slips away between the rocks on those outcroppings to the Northeast there,” he gestured in the direction vaguely. “About a league or so from here? We decided not to give chase, since we didn’t want to march into an ambush and we wanted to figure out what was there. Maps say that in that area is Cindershine Mine, some long disused mine where they probably dug up Corundum ore Moonstone or some such ore. Obviously, we don’t have a map of the place, and we had another job to take care of. We figured we’d rest on it, and come up with a plan of attack next the damned mage surfaced. He never did, and before long we were hit this very morning by the Spriggans and wolves you fought today. I owe you lot my life, and you have my thanks.”

Daelin nodded, standing up to shake hands with Rothvar. “I’m sorry we did not arrive sooner, and I hate to ask you for assistance so soon after losing your Brothers, but my own people need attention. Would I be amiss for requesting your aid?”

Rothvar shook his head with a smile. “Anything for you folks. The dead are drinking with their ancestors, lucky bastards, and I can only hope I’ll catch up before too long, but in the meantime, I’ll do what I can for your people. There’s a stream not far from here, and I think a few of the cooking supplies survived, so I can fetch you some water, cook what’s left, and see what I can do to make you all comfortable. I’ll give you my map and anything else that might be of use if you’re planning on going after the mage.” He looked at the three prone figures. “Not sure if you want those three to be moving for a while, but it isn’t my operation.”

Daelin nodded and expressed his thanks before turning to his team, all of which looked pretty rough, even those who weren’t almost shaking hands with their afterlives. Checking on the conditions of the wounded, he said, “Okay, listen up. Two hour rest, we’ll see if we can’t get Rhasha’Dar, Sevine, and Keegan up and at least walking. I don’t know what we’re going up against, so if you three aren’t up for it, I give you permission to stay behind and recover. If not, anyone who thinks they can fight is more than welcome to finish the job. We need as many hands as possible. In the meantime, all of you, rest up, check your gear, and give Rothvar here a hand as need be. Dismissed.”

The remainder of the automatons were dispatched with a swift ease, and none had turned their sights back to Roze and the injured Dunmer - much to her relief. Making the most out of the brief respite the group was given, she turned her attention back to Elmera; and the bolt nestled in her leg. From what Roze could remember of the Dwemer - not a lot, other than stories passed down from her father, and various other people she knew in Riften as a child - they didn't particularly use poisons. Electricity and murder-machines did the job well enough without resorting to toxins, clearly. The bolt was in deep, and while barbed, wasn't particularly large - it would be painful, but it could be pulled out with some ease. Hopefully. Before leaving, Roze wrapped an impromptu tourniquet around the top of Elemera's leg, just above the bolt with a strip of fabric ripped from her shirt. She couldn't pull the bolt out, but perhaps that could lessen the bleeding somewhat.

"If I don't die out there, I'll check on it later, unless someone gets there before me." She said in a cheerful tone, standing up and brushing the dust from her trousers. "I'm no expert healer, but I'll do what I can." Seeing Leif's face, Roze couldn't help but wince - but all she could offer him was a sympathetic smile and a light pat on the shoulder before catching up with the rest of the group. He looked in a bad way - hopefully she could find some alcohol in this place. He and their newest Dunmer looked as though they could use the drink.

As it happened, finding alcohol didn't seem all that unlikely, what with the discovery of another group. The last time they'd ran into a group of Dunmeri, it had been the Armigers - who had tried to kill them all. But on the brighter side, Roze had also found a lovely bottle of Sujamma. Most of it had been given to Sagax, but still, it had been damn good. The additional presence of what sounded like an Imperial man meant it definitely wasn't more Armigers (Thank Talos), but they were still an unknown force. Roze felt uncomfortable sending Do'Karth by himself out there, but it was worth trying to find out if this group were friend or foe. They could certainly use some friends right now, after all.

Unfortunately, they were foes. Fortunately, Do'Karth hadn't been skewered and his genitals were intact (Sevine would be pleased). Readying her bow and sharing a grim sort of smile with Sagax, Roze steadied her aim, staying close to the wall and out of the way of the main fray... only to falter in her attack as Sagax charged forwards, bellowing like a Nord giant.

"Gods, Sagax! Don't be so fucking stupid!" The words spilled out of her mouth in disbelief, echoing Solveig's own profanities. That boy was crazy - she was going to be having words with him later. And his little ghost friend too! Shuddering every so lightly at the thought of scolding some terrifying floating dead person, Roze knocked an arrow and aimed for the enemy's groups own archer; holding a crossbow. Not so great when it came to long-distance range or aim, but damn, if they weren't nasty little bastards up close. Those bolts were powerful enough to pin a fucker to a wall if you were unlucky to get close enough. Letting her arrow loose, Roze was knocking another before even checking if she had hit the Dunmer archer - only to pause once again upon hearing music. Glancing behind her, she noticed another of their new companions, one she hadn't really noticed until now. A bard? Why did a bard join a mercenary group like this? Not that Roze was particularly complaining - the lute added a little lightness to their atmosphere while they slaughtered people. Letting out a light chuckle - simply at the ridiculousness of the situation - she readied her aim was again as she spoke out to Raelyn.

"Play "Rocky Road to Markarth"! Now that's a killing song if ever there was one."

---

---

For a moment, Rhasha'Dar was certain he was dead. Part of that was because, at first, there was a disturbing lack of pain. Lack of all feelings, really. There was a numb sense of shock, seeing the bloodied talons of the matron sticking out of his chest. But there was no pain, not like there had been when the Werewolf had attacked him all those years ago. And what was a few scratch marks to branch-like claws skewering your body? Nothing, apparently. As he fell from the claws, darkness rushed up to meet him - the ground was too far away and he was falling for minutes, hours...

When he hit the floor, the pain joined him - and it certainly put that werewolf attack into perspective. That pain had been sharp, jabbing, stinging. This pain was completely different - deep, hollow and burning. There seemed to be a great pressure building up in his chest; was it blood? Had his lungs been punctured, and was he going to drown in his own bodily fluids? Eyes snapping open, the horrified face of Daelin met him - he seemed to be saying something, but his words were drowned out by a strange ringing noise. The pressure was everywhere now; his chest, his ears; sitting on his eyelids to close once more. But seeing the potion bottle, Rhasha fought against it.

"Now is not the time to sleep." He told himself - silently, of course. Any attempt of speaking would be intelligible and likely paired with drool, and as much as he was in pain, Rhasha still cared some for his own dignity. With Daelin's aid, Rhasha was able to sit up and swallow some of the potion. Much to his relief, it seemed his lungs had been spared from the attack - or, were simply too busy trying to stay breathing to force blood - and the much needed potion - back up his gullet. Even the few sparse drops alleviated his fatigue somewhat; didn't do much for the pain, but the bleeding seemed to slow down anyway. Still unable to form a coherent sentence, Rhasha just nodded in Daelin's direction, hoping his eyes could pass along the heartfelt thanks he couldn't form the words for.

Things seemed to be looking up slightly after this; the Nord man had both healing supplies and answers for the group (Not that the journey to his camp was an easy one; although refusing to let his agony be known through screaming, hisses made their way through clenched teeth as Daelin and Rothvar carried him. Rhasha thanked the twin moons the camp was nearby.) While listening to the man talk, Rhasha felt a pang of sympathy for him; he was lucky, as were Sevine and Keegan, despite the latter still being unconscious, from what he could see. More potions relieved some of the pain, and after a few more sips, Rhasha was able to sit up without the aid of anyone else. The supplies given by Rothvar were invaluable - but it would do the group more good if they had more potions.

"Daelin..." Getting their Bosmeri leader's attention as he walked by, Rhasha winced as he shifted slightly. His voice sounded heavier; from pain, or damage to his diaphragm? Who knew - Rhasha was just happy he was still able to speak. "This one will remain behind. There may still be some ingredients untouched by the fire in the forest to make more potions - this one feels as though we will need as many as possible."

Jorwen set Sevine down as gently as he could. She'd closed her eyes and her breathing was slow but strong. He'd known it would take more than this to do in the Huntress, though she refused to talk, maybe out of the shame of having to be carried from the battlefield. Even so, the way her skin grew pale- or more pale than the average Nord's- was not a good sign. The bite of a wolf could carry disease and any wound could sour if not treated properly and at the soonest chance. He kept up with the pace of Daelin and the others, though it felt like he'd breathed in glass the whole time. When they made it to camp, he'd stayed beside her, where he was still as he sharpened his large sword. He had his knives and his seax laid out before him as he ran his whetstone across the edge of his big sword. The tool was old, almost as old as him and it had probably lost at least a couple centimeter's of breadth through all the sharpening through the years. An old friend, truly, or a curse. It certainly weighed him down like one these days.

He turned his head from his resting friend at his side and coughed a rough one into the crook of his arm. He looked up to see Rothvar standing over him. The two stared at each other and Jorwen's hand was almost ready to go for one of his knives until Rothvar held out a hand, “I feel like I know you.” The Nord said.

Jorwen took the man's hand and shook it, then Rothvar helped him up. The man was as tall as his daughter, though coming from any other man it might have been a snide remark at his height, it was instead an observation of the man's excess of it. “You spent much time in the Reach with Ulfric?”

“No, I never answered his call- first one or the second. I was a Legion man in both wars. You?” He asked.

“Aye, I spent my time carrying the Red Diamond. Time came I was under the Blue Bear though.” Jorwen swallowed, his eyes narrowing at an instant, readying himself for the discovery that Rothvar had some feud with him that Jorwen had forgotten.

“Were you at Greenwall?” Rothvar asked, putting his hands on his hips, dangerously close to the carpenter's hammer.

Jorwen shook his head, “Wasn't there, too busy tangling up the Legion Boys and Hjaalmarch's Chiefs in the swamps with Black Sutt.”

“So it is you.” Jorwen's hand crept closer to his smallest knife, still sheathed at the small of his back. “Only one Chief's Name I heard running with Black Sutt those days.”

He made it look as inconspicuous as he could, but his muscles were coiled springs, ready to jam the small whittling blade into Rothvar's eye before it could blink, “We aren't exactly on speaking terms no more, me and him.”

“Nah, some hard tales about the Red-Bear, but Black Sutt is something else. Reckon there's no hard feelings? Always good people on both sides of a question, no?” Rothvar shrugged, a nervous smile on him. Probably could feel the tension as well as Jorwen could, and he felt blankets of it.

“I've always tried not to hate a man for his choice of friends. One warrior to another, whatever might have happened those years ago are gone. Faced down those spriggans well enough, eh?” Jorwen smiled, the two of them grasping each other's forearms in warrior's gesture.

“Aye, we did. Shame about your folk, though.” Rothvar nodded to Sevine and the others with a frown, “You lot seem to have a good Chief there, and that matters a lot.”

“Mm, we'll live. I'm sorry about your friends over there. I know what it is to lose friends, believe you me.” Jorwen said, solemn.

“They'll get a good burial. Wouldn't want them spitting at me in Sovngarde for giving them a shitty one.” Rothvar chuckled.

“Any burial should be a good one. I'll help when this is done, be there for when you say the words over the graves.” Jorwen smiled, slapping Rothvar on the shoulder.

The old Nord nodded, “That'd be good of you. Time for other things, though, should get back to tending our weapons and our wounded. See you soon.”

Jorwen nodded, going back to his blades with his whetstone next to Sevine. His heart had been going good, alright, and he was still breathing like he'd run a good distance. Maybe he didn't have to worry about the Nord leaving him to die if he got wounded out there or staking him through the chest in the press of battle, but there were still more of those he'd crossed long ago who weren't as forgiving as Rothvar. Black Sutt among them. His trail of thought was cut happily short by another standing over him, Daelin this time. “Aye, Chief?”

“You coming along?” The Mer asked.

“Yeah, we'll see this through. Man hurt my friends, wouldn't do for a Nord to let that go, would it?” Jorwen tried to make himself sound a little like the black bastard he once was. Of course, these days it had to be asked if he was trying to convince Daelin or himself.

Daelin only nodded and Jorwen knew that past Daelin's veneer of stoicism was a man shitting himself at the thought of leading him and the others to their deaths. Jorwen had felt that way time and time again after he took the Hird from Aelfgar after he died. “No. No it wouldn't.” Daelin turned back to other tasks, leaving Jorwen with his thoughts again.

The Argonian moved with the silent grace of a predator, even once the battle was over and he strode toward his group casually. He was not trying to be stealthy or threatening, but there was an air of danger about him. At least, to those whom he did not call comrades. These ones before him were obviously hurt, and it seemed as he got there they had begun to pick up the wounded and greeted the Nord they had aided.

He walked at the fore of the small group after he had retrieved his hunting bow and the arrows that had slipped out of his quiver. His Axe was still out and at the ready, but they did not need to go far before they made it to the Nord's small camp. Dax did not need any healing. From the stings he had received, and the scratches upon his callused scales from the brief fight, he knew his minor wounds would heal in no time.

He gave a curt bow of his head at Rothvar Tower-Shield's story and lament, something that Daixanos was very deeply respectful of. For all of the differences he had with the Nords, he shared their fatalism and stoicism, and lament of past deeds. When their new host and Jorwen were finished with their interaction, Daixanos approached them and waited until he had the time to speak.

"Rothvar Tower-Shield." Daixanos said in greeting, placing a fist over his broad Argonian chest. "It would be my honor to help you bury your comrades, when there is time for it. And I thank you for your service in our aid." With that, Dax gave a warrior's nod, and turned to stride over to a slumbering but pale Sevine. As a fellow Ranger and Hunter, he felt it was his duty to watch vigil over her until she recovered enough to be coherent. He was not certain of how else he could help, for this was a task suited for him. To be a guard and lookout, though doubtless if anyone else had another suggestion, they would tell him. He kept an equally watchful gaze over the treeline.

Edith elected to remain behind the corner. It was not that she didn't wish to fight, quite the opposite, she wanted to put her shield where it could help. The problem was that the halls of Bthamz seemed to be narrow, with the four enemies standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder when they made contact. Projectiles going back and forth in such enclosed environment easily increased the odds to hitting allies when more of them are in sight. As demonstrated by Roze's stray arrow scraping a chunk out of Sagax, Edith could safely say that she, along with the spellsword and the janitor-bard, made the right choice.

Within the group that rounded the corner, Edith had faith only in Solveig. Like everyone else, Edith rolled her eyes at Sagax's rashness. The kid was too brave for his own good, maybe the head bang got to him? Whatever the case, Sagax somehow fared better than Sadri. He lucked out, plain and simple. The chances of running past two blade-wielding aggressors, then performing a perfectly non-lethal cut on the archer was so absurdly low that the "Imperial luck" must have been in play. The Dunmer, on the other hand, was less lucky. Beleth jumped after Solveig, likely connected to the attention he paid her recently, faster than anyone could drag him back. Chainmail was decent protection for Sadri, however, standing without a shield in a missile-filled hallway bound to end in some form of impalement. Sadri's saving grace was that the impalement did not happen in a vital area.

If Edith called her friendlies unfortunate, her enemies would be downright screwed. Out of the two people that charged in, the Imperial and the Dunmer woman, the latter died quicker than anyone could process. The Imperial survived the charge, only to be disorientated when his sword bounced off Solveig's shield. With all but three down, Do'Karth finally reached his retaliative goal. However, avenging his near-castration went as well as the castration attempt in the first place. Neither Hlaalu nor the Khajiit had the leg up over each other.

"Hold you shots." Having taken a peek at the entire clash, Edith advised Roze. "Watch the far end and let them finish." She placed a hand over Roze's Dwemer bow, which felt similar to the wall itself. Then music came from behind. Oh, right, the bard. Suppose a little audio entertainment couldn't hurt, could it?

"Do Die Milkdrinker Die next." Edith suggested the next track.

With his comrades rushing in to aid him against the aggressors, Do'Karth was emboldened to go on the offensive, charging the crossbow-wielding Dunmer in the peculiar robes, who was trying frantically to reloaded his weapon, now pressed against the floor as he pulled drastically on the string to reset the mechanism as a fang-barring khajiit closed in on him, quite intent to beat him to a darker shade of grey with a blunt instrument.

As Do'Karth was nearing his final steps and winding up his staff to bring down over the Dunmer's head, his adversary managed to slip a bolt into battery and he hastily took aim at Do'Karth, firing as the staff came down. With actual cat-like reflexes, Do'Karth cleared out of the direction the weapon was pointing as he was striking, pulling his weapon off point, but also avoiding being shot in the process. Do'Karth's weapon struck the Dunmer in the forearm with enough force to knock the weapon down, but not disarm the enemy since much of the momentum was lost in dodging the shot. Sadri yelped in surprise and pain, evidently the recipient of the second shot that was meant for Do'Karth, prompting the khajiit to jab the end of his staff into the dunmer's chest. "Surrender, or this one will make you wish you had. Your friends are dead," he said, fully aware he was assuming his comrades managed to overtake their adversaries. "Drop it." he hissed.

He noticed that while he had the end of his weapon pressing against the Dunmer's chest, the dunmer also had a dagger he had produced from somewhere in the folds of his robe with his free hand that was inches from Do'Karth's gut. Either combatant stood to do quite a bit of harm to the other if things went in another direction than the khajiit hoped for.

Was this crossbow wielding fool really so stupid to test his odds against so many?

"Oh, that reminds me. Lady Niernen, you might be pleased to know that your fighting companion from Windhelm also survived; the Khajiit, Do'Karth. In fact, he came with us to these islands! I believe he went with our quartermaster into the Dwemer ruins below."

Eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, Niernen turned to face Madura. "D-Do'Karth?" she stammered and wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. "You're sure?"

Smiling, the Dunmer journalist nodded. "Absolutely. Fear not, lady. He is in good company. I'm going down there now, I'll be sure to tell him that you're alive. I'm sure they're fi--"

Before he could finish his sentence, Niernen hobbled over to Madura and clutched him by the folds of his tunic. "Brown, striped Khajiit in a robe? Carries a quarterstaff?" she asked, breathless, her face inches from Madura's. Niernen's large, copper eyes, so devoid of life merely an hour ago, were now full of emotion -- disbelief, hope, desperation. Taken aback, Madura's iron helmet slipped over his face and he raised a hand to lift it before he answered. "Yes, yes, that's the one."

Niernen swayed on the spot. "Great gods of nowhere," she whispered. "I dreamed of him every night. Truly, Azura guides my path." She paused and closed her eyes for a few seconds, mouthing a prayer to the Daedric Prince. "Madura," she continued as she opened her eyes, her voice suddenly forceful. "I have to see him. Take me to him. Please."

It was clear that 'no' was not an answer. Madura nodded and motioned for her to follow him. Without another word to anyone, not even Valen, Niernen set off after Madura, renewed strength flooding her limbs, her heart racing in her chest. What she'd said was true -- every night since her escape from Windhelm, the kind-hearted and agile Khajiit had featured in her frazzled and disconnected dreams, a reminder of all that was good in the world as her situation continued to deteriorate, culminating in her capture by the Armigers and enslavement on the Kamal frigate. Do'Karth had been the only one that had ever showed any compassion for and understanding of her internal struggles after the campaign in Blackmarsh. Not her father, who had only been concerned for her physical well-being and and relieved when she returned alive, nor her brother, Narzul, who had been proud of her achievements and guilty of putting her in harm's way. But nobody had understood that Niernen's worst injury had been her own guilt.

To be fair, Niernen thought while chasing after Madura towards the entrance to Bthamz, Do'Karth hadn't fully understood her motivations for going to war either. He'd assumed that Niernen had done it for her family. The truth was that Niernen had done it to prove to everyone that her education had been useful for something and that she was just as competent as Narzul, just in different ways. It had been a selfish endeavor, reckless and stupid, that resulted in the horrifying deaths of dozens of Argonians and had almost gotten her killed too. What made Do'Karth special is that he had tried. She remembered how he'd placed a hand on her shoulder and met her eyes with a look of pride and mournful compassion during their talk in Windhelm and she blinked away fresh tears, followed by a strangled chortle. When did she become so sentimental?

During their descent using the Dwemer elevator, Madura shared some of his provisions with Niernen -- fresh water, dried meats and a small swig of something alcoholic. The food and drink reinvigorated Niernen and she thanked the journalist with a small smile. She fidgeted with the frayed ends of her pale grey cloak and tapped her uninjured, leather-clad foot impatiently on the Dwemer stones as the platform descended. She'd been inside one of their ruins before during her training. The war-wizard Vulthan had thought that testing out her skills on a few Dwemer automatons would make for fitting exercise. That had been... less than pleasant.

When the elevator finally reached the bottom, Niernen saw two people standing guard -- another Dunmer woman, though one that looked older and that she did not recognize, and a Nord male with a rather vicious injury to his face that looked familiar. A brief exchange between Madura and the pair confirmed that Edith and the rest of the expedition had carried on and Niernen followed Madura deeper into the ruins, limiting her interaction with the injured pair to a polite nod in their direction.

Niernen carefully sidestepped a few ruined automatons and noticed the splatters of fresh blood on the ground here and there. They had obviously fought the Dwemer creations here. Niernen hoped that none of the blood belonged to Do'Karth. Sounds of combat drifted towards them through the dimly lit and stuffy corridors and her breath caught in her throat. Madura looked back at her, a look of concern on his face, and they slowly crept forward, peeking around a corner in the corridor.

A scuffle of some size was happening ahead. Niernen immediately recognized several people that had been part of the company in Windhelm taking down and disarming several opponents and there, at the far end of the corridor, his quarterstaff pressed against the chest of a Dunmer in a queer, orange robe, was Do'Karth. She saw the glittering edge of a dagger near Do'Karth's abdomen and gasped. Like a hobbling cork out of a bottle, Niernen rounded the corner and shook off Madura's grasping hands. The journalist cursed and chased after her. "She's with me!" he hollered at Edith and anyone willing to listen. Ignoring the sharp stabs of pain in her leg as she ran as fast as she could, the Dunmeri sorceress raised her hands, fire forming in the basin of her palms and curling around her fingers. Heedless of any danger, she made her way past Roze, Sagax and Sadri. "She's with me!" Madura repeated, urging the group not to turn their weapons on Niernen.

"Don't you dare hurt my friend, you s'wit!" Niernen yelled at the Hlaalu man, her voice hoarse and trembling as tears ran down her face.