In an unpredictable turn of events that absolutely no one could have predicted, the journalist Madura knew entirely too many people and turned out being a mission compromising problem. The adage that the quill was mightier than the sword was rather stupid, in Do’Karth’s opinion; Madura’s weapon of choice was quill and parchment, both of which weren’t going to do a lot of good when his old friends decided his loud mouth needed to be separated from the rest of him… along with the rest of the company. The Khajiit rolled his jaw, irritated. He stepped back behind the loose line of the mercenaries, who Edith was trying her damnest to organize, as the jets of burning steam erupted, turning the room into an oily-smelling sauna. 

As Do’Karth was assessing the adversaries through the steam, a sight most unsettling burst through the wall, much like the dream he had had a few weeks prior about a sentient water pitcher that burst through Windhelm’s walls, shouting in excitement as the children cheered him on. A Dwemer centurion, a fabled construct the Khajiit had heard plenty of horror stories about, strutted with authority into the cavernous room, the steam concealing its appearance and making its visage, when visible, all the more hauntingly ghastly.

And for something that could not emote, it certainly looked rather murderous, Do’Karth decided. When Madura pleaded for peace, Do’Karth prodded him in the back with the end of his staff, hissing, “You brought this upon us all, you loud fool.  This room is full of enough hot air without you contributing, so be silent, for once in your life.”

Although Edith called for everyone to take up defensive positions, Do’Karth felt that was inviting trouble; the Centurion would have a much easier time deciding to kill a group of perceived intruders rather than multiple groups, and those Ashlanders might have an opportunity to slip away if unhindered. The choice was obvious; he had to stop them.

Slipping away, his bare padded feet silent across the floor as he moved, unencumbered by noisy and restrictive armour, the Khajiit moved in a wide flank to put distance between himself and his team, keeping half an eye on the towering machine that was still deciding what it wanted to engage. Steam concealed Do’Karth’s presence, and the typically vigilant Dunmer were rather preoccupied with the group at large and the Dwemer machine that posed an equally grave threat for both parties. 

And so, when the Ashlander finally noticed Do’Karth coming up behind him, he could not react in time as the Khajiit swept in behind him, swinging his staff about the Dunmer’s neck as he brought his back into the Ashlander, pulling him forward and over his back, slamming hard into his back. The Dunmer gasped, winded, but managed to bring his sword up, bracing it with both hands as Do’Karth’s staff came down, blocking the blow. Undeterred, Do’Karth kept his staff moving, the momentum being the key for his weapon’s effectiveness, bringing it back under his arm and down hard as the Ashlander tried to roll away, striking him hard in the flank. The Dunmer screamed, getting to his knee and thrusting out with his blade in the same motion, matching the direction of Do’Karth’s retracting arm and catching the Khajiit in the side with the edge of the blade, giving him a shallow cut just below his ribs. 

The Khajiit sucked in air, the sudden sensation of pain sobering, and he brought his staff down horizontally in front of him, smacking the blade’s second strike down before it could bite into his flesh again. Although it went against his code, Do’Karth viciously struck out, rotating his arms as if he were swinging an axe into the Ashlander’s head. Such a blow could be crippling, if not fatal, but in the heat of the moment, and as time was of the essence, he had to end the fight quickly. The Dunmer collapsed to his side, groaning weakly, and Do’Karth brought his weapon down in a flurry of heavy blows of his opponents back; between his collarbones, his spine, and the small of his back. The lack of decisive reaction was enough to suggest the enemy was incapacitated. 

Clutching his bloodied side, Do’Karth turned and for a moment, his eyes met with the carved face of the Centurion. He’d definitely caught the worst kind of attention, and he was unsure if he’d be able to outrun that thing if it had a quick stride.

“Madura, you ass,” Do’Karth hissed.