[center][i][b]Bthamz ruins[/b][/i][/center]
[hr]
All in all, the fight took about a minute. The reunion between Do'Karth and Niernen took a lot longer than that. When Niernen first entered the scene, Edith thought she was a sailor from the [i]Kyne's Tear[/i]. Of course, Madura followed up and explained the unlikely. With Madura being Madura, Edith had a lot of trouble believing what came out of his mouth. But then again, there was no time arguing about it. In the time it took Madura to recount his observation (with unnecessary, journalistic details), Edith found the Hlaalu man went from a certain catch to nothing. Madura wasn’t the only one to blame, as everyone in the party got distracted by something. The bewitching nature of dwarven decorations was the one to blame, or so the books say.

With two down earlier, and two fresh faces inserting themselves, the group was back to its original numbers. They moved again soon, reaching the end of the current corridor, turning into another, and another, before arriving at a crossroad. A few destroyed Dwemer machines littered along the way. One route was blocked by a metal double door similar to the set that guarded the spire above ground. The other way leads into another winding corridor. However, a piece of torn orange fabric laying in front of the doors indicated that Hlaalu might have went that way. Carefully poking the door with her sword, Edith found that it was not locked. Either Hlaalu forgone doing so in haste, or they were being led into a trap. Thankfully, the mercenaries had someone knowledgeable about hidden mechanisms. Edith called up Roze to examine for anything suspicious, and when nothing came out, she pulled open a door in one swift motion.

The next area was a giant chamber. The ceiling was twice as tall as the cramped hallways and the horizontal space equated to a rectangular ballroom. Interspersed along the floor were pipes and bronze tanks. Steam leaked out of valves and flows of water led to the opposite end, where Hlaalu stood among eight other individuals. They were all dark elves, all dressed in clothing native to Vvardenfell; netch leather, chitin, bone and occasionally augmented with Dwemer pieces. One man in their midst was likely their leader, chitin armor, red facepaint and speaking to Hlaalu with a sense of authority. They were speaking in Cyrodilic, voice echoing through the grinding of machinery.

“Narivar,” Hlaalu was croaking between pained grunts, “they killed the rest, at least six of them, we’ve got to move!” 

“I care not for them.” Narivar responded. He was looking at a wall, no, another door. A dwarven wrench in his hand was being used on a valve. Steam spew out each time he turned, suddenly, something was moving near the side wall. “Three weeks of work and we are too close to a breakthrough for pirates to interrupt.” 

“Narivar Dalas? What are you doing here?” Someone interrupted from the mercenaries’ direction. It was Madura. Edith came close to clocking the damn fool in the face; so much for the element of surprise. She had nearly forgotten about the journalist and the sorceress, thinking they both would be cowering behind the sturdier folks. On the contrary, here was Madura taking steps forward. If not for Edith snagging him back and clamping his mouth, the journalist would be blabbering his way ahead until he knocked himself out on a Dwemer furniture.

Unfortunately, Madura was heard loud and clear.

“Show yourself, pirate!” Narivar barked across the room. Steam began to fill, but both sides could still see the other. “Madura?” He said in a moment of shock, then quickly shifted back to a reassured posture. “You shouldn’t have came here, brother.”

“Why?” Madura shot back, managing to wrestle out of Edith’s grip. “Because you would rather follow old ghosts rather than family? So you stole our parents’ money just to play archeologist.”

“I have found my true family.” Narivar gestured to the eight Dunmers around him, all standing alert with various arms at the ready. “These are the nomads we descended from, and they have accepted me as a brother, as their leader.” Casting his dwarven tool aside, Narivar took a glass spear in hand. “We are wanderers no more, our service finally returns to the Nerevarine. The treasures of Bthamz belong to our true king.” 

“Your service goes a spineless appeaser!” Madura spat, dodging Edith’s attempt to catch him. “How could you kneel for the snow demons’ puppet?”

“What? What are these snow demons you speak of?” Narivar hesitated.

Madura was going to say something, but Edith seized him again and held him firmly in place. While the conversation between Dalas brothers went on, steam had greatly reduced the visibility in the room. At that instant, a large pipe above the mercenaries burst open, sending down jets of scorching vapor. Edith raised her shield in time to protect herself and Madura, while others stood far enough to avoid being blasted. Similar steam jets erupted all around, accompanying them were shaking on the walls. A large chunk of the left wall flew open, tearing through the hole was a Dwemer centurion.

“Get out!” Hlaalu screamed to his companions. “Fight through them!” He then proceeded to say things in Dunmeris, causing a stir among Narivar’s Ashlanders. For someone crippled, Hlaalu was uncharacteristically bellicose. Actually, judging by how the orange robed elf hid behind everyone else, he never planned to fight in person.

“Defensive positions!” Edith ordered the mercenaries. Shoving Madura back towards the exit, Edith unsheathed her sword once again. 

“Please, this is all a big misunderstanding!” Madura implored everyone. “We don’t have to kill each other, we can-” The rest of his voice was drowned out as the centurion walked to the room center. Steam had occupied so much space that it was difficult to see, though the artificial eyes of the giant construct stared menacingly between the two sides, as if it was sizing up ants to squish.