The drunk had decided to drink in the name of the now forbidden god. A great act of defiance. Cyrus did not hate this man, though nor did he really like him. They had conflicting qualities, that was for sure. A drunken oaf with the shortest attention span he had yet had the questionable joy of witnessing on his travels, though they still did not quite match some of the men he had had to deal with in his youth, but their heart was in the right place and they weren't afraid to act accordingly. He allowed a slight smile cross his face while Skall was emptying his flagon down his throat... in a way, though a long shot by all means, the man reminded him of himself. Ideals. Those were what was worth fighting and dying for.

Nobody seemed to have anything to say to him for a good while after that so he kept his focus on his meal, trying to get as much of it into his digestion as possible before they would have to move. He missed the many glances tossed around the campsite, but since he had been more than aware of that sort of thing going on, he could be certain he was on the receiving end of quite a few of those just as well. But for all that it was worth, the man chose not to care. They had already agreed to work together, so they would. Best they could do was prepare for themselves, not scrutinise how the others were doing it. Even if he did not agree with the methods of the Thirsty or the decision to send the Khajiit alone into the dark, he would not bring them to question. He had not been asked, so whatever they did would not concern him much. He had his own ideas on how to handle everything, of course, but he was not the leader this time.

What shook him out of his unresponsiveness was Raelynn mixing something at the fire, a puff of coloured smoke puffing forth from her pot. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at the sight and just as he had lowered it and taken another bite it was time to raise it again as she poured some of the liquid into Skall's flagon. He stumbled a second to get his own cup out and received his share with a nod. A slightly unsure "Thank you" was uttered and once the breton had moved past the imperial took in a whiff of the steam rising from his cup. It didn't smell bad, quite pleasant in fact, so he braved a sip of the liquid. Not too bad. Now that his concentration on his meal had been broken though, he followed the short exchange between Raelynn and Hector. He couldn't make out a single word, but it did seem like she was either flirting or passive aggressively complaining about something. Judging by Hector's face, it was the latter. He shrugged and turned back to his meal. None of his business.

He had barely managed to finish eating when the order to march on was sounded. He would have appreciated the chance to relieve his bladder, something unknowingly shared by the fellow proud former Stormcloak, but unlike him he could still hold for a fair amount of time. It was simply something he had learnt: Always take care of base needs before entering hazardous environment. But since they were busy, he decided to let the matter be for now. The grease that was on his face was wiped away into his hands, which were then wiped against his trousers. Gauntlets were donned, helmet shaken empty of anything that might have climbed or fallen in and placed on his head. He had everything he needed. The marching order was clear cut enough and he took his point at the back, giving a hopefully reassuring nod to the people of the back rank as he warmed up his shield arm.

In the tomb, the group were supposedly following the trail marked by the Khajiit, not even bothering to look around for valuables. A shame, for most nordic tombs were full of those that had once worshipped dragons and remained after as vile undead. There was no idea in leaving money behind for creatures like that when it could be better used to fund further righteous assaults on them, but it was not like they would be likely to find anything anyway. If he had his grasp on Khajiit correct, most would nick whatever shiny appeared before them as soon as nobody was looking. Perhaps Hector knew this too. Every now and then he thought he saw something glint in the pale light of the spell that illuminated the hallways they were passing through, but he could not be sure.

When it came to the traps and the markings left behind by their scout, Lord Vensor had to admit that there was nothing he could do to see them. Way too many people marched in front of him, so he simply chose to follow in their footsteps. If they had not triggered anything, he would not trigger anything. At one time most of them stopped to gawk at an axe in the wall, but he found it no point of major intrigue. Sure, it was in remarkably good shape for its age, but it was just another trap meant to end the existence of the poor sap who stepped into it. Had to be morbid curiosity driving the lot to do that. Yet as far as he cared, any trap that had not been triggered was a trap one should not trouble themselves about. It would lead to less nightmares about 'what if' situations. He had enough of those already.

The next room they marched into was peculiar in design. It looked like some sort of an arena with a dragon carved into the roof of it. Vensor stared at the dragon carving, biting his lip under his helmet. He had fought one of those creatures once. Peppered it with arrows from a distance, unsure if he was landing any hits at all, but also managed to avoid the brunt of the ice breathing creature's wrath. An experience he would rather forget. In that moment, he had been but an insect in the grand scheme of things. Helpless and insignificant. Feelings he would rather not experience again, but in this trade... he knew he was bound to encounter them again. He could only delay them for as long as possible.

And then the infernal racket began. He was immediately shaken from his thoughts and his hand grasped the handle of his axe. A quick turn was in order, his shielded arm guiding the others to move up towards the next door as he himself took a few steps back, the ranks rearranging themselves spontaneously around him. Hector called for him and Skall to join him, but... there was something off about one of the draugr. Lord Vensor was just about to shroud himself in an aura of Sun magic when the gust of [i]something[/i] pushed through the room, sapping him of his magicka and plunging the arena into total darkness. Dammit. Not a good start.

When the torches flared to life, and the others attacked, he was left slightly behind. With over half of the back ranks already zipping through the enemies front rank, he decided to abandon the shreds of cohesion this plan had once held and hopped up a few steps of the stairs, seeking clear line of sight to the most threatening figure, which he indeed got. He crouched down, placing his shield and axe on the steps immediately to the back-left of him and drew his heavy bow from his back. An arrow was drawn and nocked, and aim was taken at the undead would-be commander wielding a greatsword in its cold, dead hands. "Abomination...", the Dawnguard veteran muttered to himself. The shot was clear. He let the arrow loose and prepared to back further if the situation required it while already moving to pull out another arrow.

The fate of the made shot could not have been clearer though. It flew straight into the draugr's shoulder, puncturing the withered flesh and tissue, as well as shattering most of the bone directly around the impact point. That strike had to have busted a joint... it would not be swinging that sword again soon, that much was for certain. He quickly assessed the development of the situation and found the prowess of his allies to be satisfactory. The enemy was losing quite a few of their 'men' while they had yet to take a real casualty. Excellent.