[center][h3]Some Debts are Paid Dearly[/h3][/center]

[I]26th Suns Height, shortly after the departure of the[/I] Steelhead, [I]Iron-Breaker Mine...[/I]

It took time for Bharzak's eyes to adjust to the dark and barely lit corridors of Iron-Breaker Mine, and no sooner did she start to make out the cold rock walls with her adjusting eyes did she have a pick-axe thrust into her arms by Leigelf, the owner of the mine since his divorced wife met her end at the end of a Dark Brotherhood Assassin's blade during the Stormcloak Rebellions. Now in possession of both Iron-Breaker and Quicksilver mines, the Nord was fabulously wealthy and the lack of competition between Leigelf and Beitild meant the quotas were far more relaxed for the Iron-Breaker workers. It was still hard work, granted, but at least now the iron miners weren't expected to outproduce the Quicksilver miners just to try and earn the mine a bit more and their jobs weren't on the line for falling behind. Bharzak held the well-worn too uncertainly; its balance was off from an axe, and its elm handle sturdy and sporting obvious grip and stress marks along its somewhat uneven shaft; at least there'd be no splinters from its use. She grunted quietly, accepting that this was her way of paying off one debt with another, albeit she was getting pretty sick of being sent into dark caves to pay these debts off. Jonimir forcing her into the encounter with the pyromancer was still fresh on her mind. 

Still, she was grateful for being alive, and rubbing where the collar had dug into her neck was a welcome reprieve she never thought she'd experience again. She'd effectively been a slave of the Kamal, and while there was a lot of distrust towards her given that unfortunate association, she'd rather deal with people not liking her based on fear and loathing than the alternative of displeasing a cruel master that held the keys to her premature demise. She was used to hate; it came with being an Orc; her people had been maligned and ostracized since the dawn of their race. She could handle scowls, they hurt less than being electrocuted to death or burned or stabbed. Not that she was afraid of a fight, but recently she discovered that the world was less interested in fair and more in wholesale slaughter.

And so, without fuss, Bharzak took the pick-axe and allowed herself to be lead to the end of the mine where they had been pursuing another sizable ore vein on account of the rusty coloured filament that was being struck free of the stone. Being shown how to handle the pickaxe and how to strike the rock without hurting herself by one of the experienced miners, the Orsimer got to work and even though she felt played out by the end of ten minutes, she kept going with only minimal breaks, taking turns with another miner every twenty minutes or so that they could keep their strength up. 

After two hours and already exhausted to her core, Bharzak and her partner were told to take a 20 minute break, the Nord excusing himself to take a piss. And so the Orc sat, eagerly drinking back an entire water skin due to her mouth feeling like sandpaper for how dry it was. It occurred to her then that perhaps, just perhaps, drinking nothing but ale to try and forget her troubles the night prior wasn’t a suitable replacement for keeping hydrated. Getting up to refill the skin from a water cask that had been brought into the mine, Bharzak realized that her partner had been gone for some time, their 20 minutes had to have been up. Perplexed, the Orc moved through the tunnels, finding an end where the light was extinguished for privacy, she assumed. 

“Are you done? We have to get back.” She called. No response.

About to give up on anyone being down the dark corridor, she caught the gleam of something in the dark grabbing a still lit torch behind her, Bharzak walked down towards the reflected light and realized what she was looking at. Prone on the floor with a crimson crescent dragged across his throat was her partner, who had died without anyone hearing a thing. Almost dropping the torch in alarm, Bharzak waved it back and forth in front of her, suddenly feeling very trapped in the mine without an idea of where the murderer was. She had to get out, warn the guards, escape… something!

“Everyone, get out!” She called out, hurrying down towards where the exit was, only to find the way ahead dark, the torches extinguished. Confused shouts came from up ahead, only to be cut short as if interrupted by an unseen hand across their mouths. This gave way to something far more blood chilling as a shrill scream echoed across the stones before being utterly silenced, a stampede of feet and alarmed and terrified shouts came from ahead, shadowy figures dancing across the torchlight before being snuffed out one at a time. She fled back to the back where she was working, tossing her torch behind her, hoping to hide herself in the dark and avoid whatever was lethally stalking the tunnels, the lights sequentially getting snuffed out.

Bharzak was so preoccupied by the lights further down the tunnel that she did not notice her own torch being picked up by a figure, who suddenly caught her attention as it moved towards her. Covered in layers of rags and eyes concealed by a pair of dark lensed goggles, the figure was the size of a man or mer, but far more ominous. It stared at Bharzak for a few quiet moments before it lifted a hand, and a flash of dark smoke made it disappear from sight, and a moment over, the torch was extinguished.

Bharzak grabbed her pickaxe and screamed.

~ ~ ~

[I]One hour later…[/I]

Gunnar had drawn patrol duty that particular afternoon, a welcome reprieve of dealing with corpses, something that wasn’t getting easier as the summer heat was forcing a decision about burial sooner rather than later due to the rapid decomposition that an old blanket only did so much to conceal. Behind his helm, Gunnar’s face was concealed and he allowed the disappointment and depression of the entire week to be shown only to himself. The people of Dawnstar needed their guards to look the part, even if they didn’t really feel like they were up to that particular job. Mercenaries were drinking the town dry, and more than once had he gotten off shift to find that there wasn’t a drop of mead to be had; by the Nine, the entire town was dealing with supply shortages, the Argonian refugee not the least of the problems. The sooner the mercs left for an assignment and the murderers were caught, the sooner Gunnar would be able to sleep.

Passing by Iron-Breaker Mine, Gunnar found it conspicuously quiet and usually there were one or two people leaving or entering over the course of an hour. It had been still and quiet, and it raised an uncomfortable tick in the guard’s instinct. Heading towards the entrance, he called out into the dark, “Hello! What’s going on in there?”

“Help… me.” A croaking voice said below him. A hand shot out into the light, blooded and covered in dirt. 

“Gods.” Gunnar gasped, rushing over to the man, who was covered in stab wounds. The thick scarf that had wrapped around his neck was bloodied, but Gunnar suspected it was the reason the man was still breathing rather than having had his windpipe severed. “I’m going to get you help, hang on!”

Soon, a mage was brought to the cave and a group of guards entered the mine to investigate the carnage, realizing that they were extremely fortunate to find even one survivor. Gunnar reached the end of the tunnel, a frown across his face. The green skin of an Orc was soaked with crimson; her head slumped against her chest. Bharzak, wasn’t it? He recalled that she’d been pressed into service in the mine to pay off a debt of sorts or to keep her under close watch, he recalled. 

“I’m sorry.” Gunnar said softly, crouching in front of the body, noticing that just out of her reach was a blooded pickaxe. Noticing all of her wounds appeared to be that of blades, nothing resembled the blunt and brutal puncture of a pickaxe; Gunnar had seen his share of those given that drunken miners and violent disputes were all too common occurrences in Dawnstar. 

He picked up the tool, looking at the Orc with a passing respect. “I know it isn’t of comfort to you, but you might have given us what we need to stop whoever did this. May you rest well among your ancestors; you died bravely, which is more than most of us get to say.” Gunnar said, standing and heading back to the exit, wondering what the wounded man would say. He wanted to visit the alchemist. Maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to figure out exactly what the blood soaked upon the iron belonged to. It was certainly more than they had an hour ago.