[center][h3]Familiar Dangers and a Cowardly Flight[/h3]

[hr][/center]

The second day in the Imperial City, Brynja continued on in her stupor and antics. After the previous night of arm wrestling at [i]The Merchant’s Inn[/i], an even larger crowd gathered for the next evening. While she felt sluggish, a contributing factor to all the many pitchers of ale she downed, she pulled herself out of it with a hot meal from Cassius. As she shoveled spoonful after spoonful of piping hot cabbage stew into her mouth, Cassius placed a small purse on the counter before her. She raised her eyebrows at the sight, unsure what he intended.

“This is for you. I had Danica help me count the coin from last night, and well, I thought I’d be doing you a disservice for all of the new patrons you brought in last night. Here. It’s small, but I hope it helps you on your travels, wherever you go hereafter.” Cassius watched as Brynja set aside her spoon, glanced between and the pouch before he nodded at her to take it. She reached for the purse, still expecting Cassius to laugh in her face and snatch it away. Yet when that didn’t happen, she claimed the pouch and opened it.

“Cassius-” Her eyes widened at the glittering septims inside, a hard lump forming in her throat.

“Like I said, it’s nothing much. 100 septims. Should be enough to get you a room, and some hot meals wherever you go.” He put one hand on his hip and let out a guffaw.

“I tell you! I’ve never seen a woman drink so much ale, I have to admit, you did make a good wager. Out of all the liquor, wine, and beer everyone drank last night, yours was a small percentage. I’ll leave you to it, I need Danica’s help with cleaning this place up, and I can’t find where that silly girl has run off too.” He grumbled, turning away before Brynja had a chance to say another word. She sat there, glancing between the cabbage stew and the pouch full of coins. Divines be praised, she had never had such good luck all in one day. She swallowed hard, trying to fight off the lump in her throat.

[center][hr][/center]

[i]26th of Rain’s Hand[/i]

[i]I have avoided writing in this journal for many a day, and for that, I am at fault. These days, the quill weighs as heavy as my own sword. Even now, each pen stroke is tiresome. My last entry was the last day in camp before we descended into the depths of a mortifying Dwemer hell. I have little idea where to start, so it is best to be blunt. Those who did not join us in our underground endeavours, have perished. We few, those who delved into the abyss, are the sole survivors. Rhea, Gaius, Balroth, Alim, Judena, Solandil, Durantel, Anifaire, Latro, Daro’Vasora, Megana, and I, are all who survived. I am weighed with a heaviness, call it not by guilt, but perhaps the word petrified suits the need. 
I fear. I fear what will arise from this travesty. I am not afraid to admit that I wish it would all disappear. That I had never taken this contract, and that I was still on the roads in Skyrim. Then again, this event would still have transpired regardless if I had not penned my name on that line. And those lives would still be lost. I can only imagine how Rhea herself feels. After all, she hired every person, and brought them to that camp. I should not dwell on these thoughts much longer, lest I turn to the bottle too early in the day. 

On another matter, I have not addressed the company I kept while in the Jerrall Mountains. The first that comes to mind is Daro’Vasora. What a cat. She plays with hearts as if it were that, a simple game. Zegol, her mentor, is an endearingly kind Orsimer, and were it not for my oafish behaviours, perhaps I would have enjoyed a chat with the man on the peculiar items in his store. Alas, my wounded pride got the best of me. I am still at fault for facing those I have injured. And Daro’Vasora did not play into my request to deliver those flowers to him. The expression on her face alone, drove a dagger straight through me.

Nevertheless, there is the case of Latro. The pale Breton with raven-black hair. I can see why the ladies would find him attractive. And I have no shame in admitting that myself. He did extend an invitation to me on the first night of my contest here at the inn. He opened the possibility for me to travel with him. Though, I am not sure how he would handle a woman like myself with a pitiful habit of turning to the bottle whenever possible.

Then, there is the independent Megana, a fellow sister from our homeland. I insist on calling her by her full name, since she has yet to correct me. Although the same cannot be said for poor Judena, our sole Argonian companion. She is touched with what seems to be a case of shortened memories, making it near impossible for her to recall the names of those newly met, lest she records each encounter in her logbook. 

Ah, before I forget, as if I could, there are the three Altmers, each more different than the last. The first is the fragile, and seemingly dainty Anifaire. Durantel, an old codger who is defiantly set in his ways, and certainly his prejudices against all Men and Beast, save for his own kin. I find him particularly draining to listen to, though he is not inefficient as he would seem. And the last to mention is Solandil. As with Latro, I find him easy on the eyes, despite the looks he garners from others. It cannot be helped, with skin so pale, it is like me with my height. None can help but look. Though I am quite certain, after my lousy experiences with love, that someone like me with such manners would ever acquire attention from such men in general. I enjoy being alone, but being lonely is… well, a terrible feeling.

There is Gaius, and Balroth, who have served in the Legion together, though I cannot say if they were ever in one another’s company during the war. Nevertheless, they are seasoned warriors, and for that I can both appreciate and admire.

Lastly, there is Alim. While he bears many commonplace features found in Redguards, he revealed to me that he is also half Breton, an attribute Latro and him share. He possesses an endearing personality for the most part, though I would not trust him with my ale. I still have the foggiest idea how I received with an extra seven pitchers of ale that first night here, though I have a hunch he had a part to play.

For now, that is all. May these future days be filled with light.[/i]

By the third day, as promised, Brynja readied herself after a hot bath. She figured she’d best cleanse herself of the putrid smells that clung to her, sweat, alcohol, and bile. Not that it was her who had become sick, rather the contenders from last night. Her joints sang to the high heavens as she eased herself into the hot bath. For once, she skipped her armor, and decided to sport her leathers for the day. She saw no need to wear the heavy plate armor to a dinner party. Once she had readied herself for the day, Brynja decided to set out for Rhea’s manor. She had a hunch that she would become lost several times on the way over, so she thought it best to leave early in case that were to happen.

By high noon, she had indeed become lost. She had passed through the Market district several times, even though she had started off within the same place. There were far too many alleyways and side streets. As she settled into the square for a brief rest, she spotted the familiar dark hair of their leader, Rhea. She rose to her feet, elated that she would be able to find her way out with her guidance. And that was when...darkness fell. Like a wave cresting on the shoreline, a cool air turned many heads to the heavens. A wave of whispers, cries, and panicked voices rang out as the compelling sight of ships with wings floated overhead. She swore under her breath. Of all days! Brynja was certain that these ships belonged to the Dwemer, after all the mountain had blown up because of Dwemer designs. She scanned the area as people began to flee in terror. She should have done so as well, except for the fact that she was unarmed, and barren in terms of protection. Brynja was vulnerable. 

Her eyes located familiar landmarks, and soon found herself bursting through the door to [i]The Merchants Inn[/i]. Cassius was nowhere in sight, except for Danica behind the counter. Upon her entrance, the young barmaid raised her eyes at the sight of the towering Nord woman looming in the doorway.

“You must leave!” She shouted, not wasting a minute to spare.

“Why?” Danica asked, her brows knitting together. Surely, Brynja had drank one too many mugs of ale this morning for her to act so boldly. 

“Don’t patronize me girl, there are fucking ships in the sky! Where is Cassius?” She demanded, making her way to the bar.

“He went to the docks to pick up some more flour. What do you mean ships in the sky?” 

“For fucks sake.” She swore under her breath, “Listen. Whatever is floating in the sky can’t mean anything good. There are giant fuck off ships with wings in the skies over the city. The skies are dark as if this is the end of days. Go! Go home, and leave the city with your folks. This can only mean death for those who stay.” She abandoned Danica, and made her way up the stairs to her room. Never in her life had she slung on her armor as quickly as she did this day.

When she entered the lower part of the tavern, Danica was nowhere to be found. Good. With her rucksack fashioned over her broad shoulders, and her longsword clenched between her hands, Brynja emerged into the district to see a sight of horrors.

Three ships floated down, landing across the city. She swore again, the large crowd of people that once stood with mouths agape turned towards the heavens thinned dramatically. In an unfamiliar city, with her sense of direction robbed, Brynja knew she had to escape no matter what. She looked for the wooden sign posts, the horns and bells chiming echoing throughout the expansive citadel. By the braying sounds of call to arms, she could hear over the ruckus, the steady drum of soldiers rushing towards the ships in streets she couldn’t see. Following the tail end of citizens coursing through the paved streets, Brynja rounded a corner to see Legionnaires engaged in combat with an all too familiar Dwemer automata. She recognized the spheres and spiders that scuttled past, and headed for the citizens. She didn’t have time to understand what was fully happening, all she could see were the gleaming Dwemer metal, even in such dim lighting, figures that towered over the Legionnaires and made short work of them. The blood drained from her limbs, the longsword in her hand weighing heavier than she remembered. 

[i]‘Fuck this.’[/i], she thought. Brynja turned tail and raced, shoving anyone over in her path. Now was not the time to play victor.