The grating of stone that had not moved in far too many years caused Daro’Vasora’s ear to pivot first, followed by the rest of her feline face. [I]So they’ve figured it out. Good for them.[/I] she thought, looking over at the now open portal of pitch darkness that promised some valuable that hadn’t been espied by mortal eyes for Alkosh-knows how long, collecting putrid, stale air and dust all the while, likely set down by someone with the intention to come back for it before some great calamity came and its owner never returned for it. Perhaps the Draugr had moved it, some semblance of their mortal lives breaking through like the tiniest ray of sunlight on a stormy day that prompted their curiosity, but Daro’Vasora had yet to witness anything resembling curiosity or intellect in their withered husks. Whatever remained in the bodies was tortured and mutilated beyond recognition. She hated them, that much was certain. 

Perhaps there would have been pity for their souls had they not tried to murder her on far too many occasions, but for her own sake, anything that dwelt above ground had a soul, anything that dwelt below was some soulless contraption of flesh or machine that only experienced mercy when they were removed from Nirn with extreme prejudice. And so the Khajiit never lost sleep over the amount of times she’d shoved a burning torch into the drooping mouth of a Draugr or left a goblin with a broken femur, screeching bloody murder while she made off with some shiny trinket it coveted. She didn’t fight or kill unless she had to, or a spell of anger clouded her usually sound judgement; you can’t cash out on some miraculous find if something better than you with a weapon is gnawing on your bones because you grew cocky. 

In her padded hands was a hunk of roasted venison that the Bosmer that had improbably claimed Falkreath has home had brought down, dressed, and quartered with morbid and curious efficiency that if Daro’Vasora had not known any better would have assumed she’d run back to town and picked it up from a butcher. However, deer in Falkreath were about as common as the flies and already she’d proven herself to be rather resourceful. It was a skill the Khajiit was glad someone in this motley crew had; she certainly did not. “Sjara. Sjara.” She’d worked the name in her mouth as if chewing over a particularly gamey piece of meat. A wood elf who claimed Nord culture as her own made Daro’Vasora ponder exactly how that came to be, but not care enough to go over and ask. She’d politely thanked the elf for the meal and was currently working through her portion slowly, peeling back each slice as if she were slicing a potato with the moonstone dagger that had been her constant companion since leaving home, keeping her hands and mind occupied as the tempting open door called to her like a Daedric Prince. If Skyrim was to be commended for anything, it was that its wild game was absolutely stellar.

Hector had returned then, Daro’Vasora’s current client and an Imperial who could be commended for being able to look past his initial base instincts about her race and make a judgement call about her based on her promised skills and markedly formidable knowledge about the various tombs dotted around Skyrim and what to expect. She never hid that she was an expert with picking locks, she did literally wear them on her sleeve, but she’d found early on her adventures that people were way more willing to take you at your word if you maintained an air that you had nothing to hide. In truth, she didn’t. She said what she meant, and meant what she said, and if given the chance demonstrated her worth without much fuss. Of course, most of her work was solo, but from time to time, someone such as Hector had made an offer that seemed worth her while. Daro’Vasora also appreciated the company; it got rather lonely at times travelling alone and if for no other reason than to remember that not all people on the road were wolves in sheep skin, she liked to remind herself that things tended to be much more pleasant in the right group. The jury was still out on this one, and if Hector was competent enough to keep everyone invested and trusting of his leadership.

Balen’s advice to let the air circulate was born more out of quality of life concerns rather than for health risks, Daro’Vasora thought. She’d been through a number of ruins and tombs after cracking the door and other than stale air; there wasn’t anything like a miasma present. They were like caves, in all honesty. Some even had been sectional collapses or exfiltration that allowed both fresh air and moisture into the ruins, which was a mixed blessing. On one hand, it often gave some light and refreshing air to breathe. On the other, standing water often brought mold, which could be toxic in a number of circumstances. She finished her fill of the meal and pulled out one of the sections of ribs to place between her teeth, which she began to subconsciously grind. Half an hour was going to feel like eternity, she thought. 

Grabbing her gear, she stood up and tossed her back over the top of her head and pushed her arms through the straps in a singular motion, tightening the buckles to the right length with an ease that made it rather apparent she’d done that countless times. Daro’Vasora wouldn’t go in until she was told to, no sense in giving the impression of being uncooperative, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t at least take a look at the door and study its mechanisms for future reference. Plucking her journal from one of the external pockets, she began to trace her fingers along the door, searching for the exact mechanism that Balen had triggered to open the door. “You sure you don’t want me to take a quick look ahead, make sure there’s no hazards?” she called out to Hector, flipping pages in her journal until she reached her section on the Nord ruins.