[i]26th of Rain's Hand, 4e208, afternoon...[/i]

The soft rays of sun through curtained windows eased Latro's eyes open. His muscles tensed in a morning stretch, taking up a fistful of bedsheet in one grasping hand and his pillow in the other. He wondered at the time as he sat up in bed, then wondered where he even was. Memories tip-toed back to him to whisper faintly behind his ear. A tavern, there was a pitcher, a flash of Meg's smiling face and the hulking form of Brynja swaying. Then he remembered the lute and his heart almost stopped as he looked for it, eyes darting immediately to the corner where it sat, as if waiting for him to awake. He sighed, running long fingers through his locks. A hand almost made him flinch when it sensually found its way on top of his. He looked to its owner, who was still swaddled in the sheets, smiling. He struggled to recognize the face but came up short, “Good morning.”

“Good...” Something brought the soft staccato he'd been hearing since he'd awoken to the forefront of his mind and a curiosity overtook him. Was it parade drums? Soft thunder? Latro's visage contorted in confusion as he wasted no time in throwing the blankets from himself- an errant realization that he was still naked tossed to the back of his mind- and he threw the curtains aside for his eyes to take in a scene confusing as it was gruesome. There were bodies splotched with crimson littering the streets, as if they were spilled like grain from a sack. One in particular was split in half from shoulder to groin, armor torn through like silk. “What...” The woman brought a shaky hand to her lips.

“I don't know, we have to go.” Latro was already slipping his legs into his pants. He had just finished buckling his belt and grabbing up his lute and weapons. When had the city been attacked? By whom? What in the name of the Divines was happening here?

Latro threw open the door, axe in one hand and this stranger's hand in the other. He realized he was inside this woman's home and not an inn as he first suspected, but that hardly mattered now. He didn't bother himself with soft footfalls as he seemingly careened through the halls and down the stairs with the woman only barely keeping in step with him. His hand left hers and rested upon the doorknob, the last barrier until they were among the carnage and not hiding from it behind a window. He swallowed, taking his moment. “What are you doing!? We need to go!”

He cast an annoyed glance back at her before twisting the doorknob and pushing the door open. The street was quiet, save for the soft staccato still, and the newly found sound of crows gathering for the feast. He couldn't help but let a shiver run through him at the sight. And the smell, Gods, the smell. He heard his companion retch behind him and he could not blame her, he wanted to do the same. Still, he stood before the doorway, feet refusing to move.

He ground his teeth, trying to call some ounce of dagger-eyed Reachman back to him to at least take the first step onto the streets. He drew in a breath and let it out through his mouth, corpse-stench and all. “Follow.”

“O-okay.” Her voice was already trailing off by the second syllable as he moved, quiet and nimble as the ghosts of the dead around him.

“Guide us to the gates, the closest one.” he said, sharp eyes scanning the streets and wasting no time in the formality of eye contact as he spoke.

“That'd be-”

“Shush,” He whispered harshly, “Point, no talking.”

Almost taken aback but nevertheless cooperative, she pointed down the street they were peering down. Latro nodded and they continued that way for several more streets, using the backalleys at every possible opportunity. The last time he had to escape from a city he was a few years younger and very much more hot-headed, prone to frustration and recklessness. He would not be the same now. He did not like the fact that what was once a soft staccato had now developed into near crescendos and screams could be heard following the closer they got to whichever gate outside this city this woman was taking him. Even so, if it meant freedom, he would take the chance.

Latro skidded to a halt before breaching from the cover of the alley they were taking when a pair of Khajiit sprinted past the sliver of street the alley's opening gave them. Almost immediately after came the thunderous cracks and the death groans. Latro eased back from the alley's opening onto the street, keeping a hand out behind him to let his companion know to do the same. When towering, armored things not unlike the automata he'd seen in the Dwemer ruins came into view from the alley, he drew in a sharp breath. He grew cold all over and froze in place besides himself. The woman, on the other hand.

Her shrill cry and pounding footsteps made bronzed helmets turn his way, the lifeless, shadow-black pits carved as the eyes on the deep-scowling faces on the helmets bore into him. The automata raised their big staffs in his direction, but there was no thunder, only lightning in his muscles before everything went black and void...

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He woke up. An odd thing to note, hadn't he just done that? Was that a dream? Is this a dream? He couldn't hear and he wiped what felt like sand away from his ears, but even his forearm felt like there were stinging particles of gravel upon it. His body itched with it and then he realized his legs were weighed down by something. He looked down to the ground on which he lay, cobble street. The gutter next to him ran with crimson, dark as wine. He followed the stream to its source and saw the broken face of what might've been the woman he awoke next to that morning. Eyes stared into the fog of nothing beyond life's edges. His mouth dropped open and he made to get up before he remembered the weight on his legs. Rubble, a huge piece of rock. He looked up at the building that made up the alley, now a ruin. He pushed the huge piece of storefront from his legs and all at once it seemed his senses had returned. He jammed his mouth into the crook of his elbow as he screamed, feeling the unnatural grating of bone that comes with a broken ankle.

He struggled to his feet and almost fell when his left leg buckled, tears down his cheeks and still running from his eyes. He limped forward, of a sudden noticing the sky was that much darker than it was before he... awoke. The city- it had been attacked... by... Gods, he wrapped a hand around his mouth. No. No, no, no. He forced the shock away from himself and continued onwards, much less nimble and quiet now that bad foot was dragging along behind him. He needed help, he needed to not be alone. At the mouth of the alley, a barely consoling sight was one of his daggers and the lute. Miraculously unharmed, he noticed as he picked both items from the dusty ground and replaced them on his person.

He seemed to have wandered an eternity before a voice was heard from another alleyway, “Oy, you, boy.” Latro's eyes darted around the growing shadows dusk had brought before settling on a pair of eyes in an alleyway not far from him, “Follow me, there're others. Come.”

Latro was hesitant at first, then he decided to take whatever life put before him. Even if it was, ironically, death. A slumber without end was tantalizing compared to this hellish host of throbbing, sore, jagged pain. It seemed he would get his wish. The ground rushed to meet him...

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[i]4th of Second Seed, 4e208, somewhere in the Great Forest...[/i]

“Wake up, young one.” A soft, but assuredly male, voice called. Then again, “Come on, open those eyes, Brother.”

Brother? Was he now [i]finally[/i] dead? And delusional? He'd have thought the afterlife's greeting to a newly freed soul would be more grand than a soft voice telling him to wake up. He then heard the sound of snapping becoming more impatient with each one. Out of annoyance, his eyes shot open and he gripped onto the offending digits quick enough to make their owner flinch. He realized his eyes were wide and his teeth were bared. He cleared his throat, releasing the man's fingers and easing himself back into his laying position. “Apologies.”

“No need, my friend.” The man smiled softly, “It was the goal to get you up. My name is Kylian.”

“Latro.” He pursed his lips and looked around his meager surroundings, a tent, as it were. “Where am I?”

“Away from the city, from those ships.” Kylian said. “With the Rangers.”

“Ah, Rangers.” Latro nodded, as if he was already privy to the importance of Kylian's words. “What am I to do with this information?”

“Whatever you will. You seem quick and healthy enough to snatch my fingers quicker than I could move them from you. A mind clear enough to not break them off, though that was a hell of a face, friend. You've been out for two days, our healers had some steady practice with you, alright. Figure you've two choices now; You can go on your own, seeing as you're healthy again, or healthy enough.” 

“Or?” Latro asked, sighing. The thought of being alone on the road of a sudden not much more a grand prospect than a flux.

Kylian smiled. “Can you stand?”

Without a word, Latro found himself to somewhat shaky legs outside of the tent as he followed Kylian into the cold outside air. Arrayed before him like any merry band of misfits in the woods, in varying forms of rest were men and women in ranging garb- as the name would suggest. “Or you could stay with us.” 

“We need able bodies with as much fortitude as yours, and a vendetta wouldn't hurt much either, son. You were walking those streets ragged as a Wayrest cur when we found you and we'd been eyeing you a while to see if you were hopeless or not.” A bald man of burly stature stepped up to him, his very existence an affront to Latro's personal space, though he stood an arm's length away still, “I guess you answered that riddle. Brutus.”

“Daro'Vasora.”

“That's not what you told me.” Kylian's eyebrow cocked, “His name is-”

“Khajiit. She gave me the lute with me. Where is she?” Latro asked, fearing the worst.

“Not with you, or us.” Brutus shrugged, “I'm sorry. Not many remain alive after that day.”

Latro nodded, looking away from the pair of Rangers and swallowing something in his throat that made him trust his voice less than he'd trust a murderer at his door. Less than he'd trust the feeling in his bones now at the news of Vasora, or at least the implication. The feeling that everything he'd done to make himself peaceful was for naught. He could either lay down and let his friends die only to be forgotten or he could give them justice. He felt that their names would be spat upon if he'd do anything less than vengeance, or at least die seeking it. He swallowed, put his tight fists away instead for hands limp at his side. What could they do against an enemy that slaughtered the Legion in their great bastion? That slew the Empire's subjects at their Emperor's doorstep without a single thought towards being retaliated against?

If Latro were dead at the hands of these marauders, what would Vasora do? Or Francis? Surely, the murder of all those in the White-Gold city was the most righteous reason to visit violence upon those who'd perpetrated the grand crime. “Able bodies?”

“And a vendetta, lad.” Brutus frowned deep.

Latro looked to Kylian then Brutus. He took his moment. Brutus took his hand and shook it with a nod.

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[i]5th of Second Seed, 4e208, dusk...[/i]

“What do you make of that?” Latro pointed to the sky from where he sat in the tree, amongst the canopy of the Great Forest. They had been making good time so far, staying ahead of the rest of the Rangers. It was yesterday morn that Ronimo had spotted airship movement and it took them a bit of time to suss out that the airships had a clear route. They'd followed one particular route, waiting for any signs of activity so they could follow the ships back to their depot, no matter how slow in the sky those fantastical things seemed, even Latro couldn't keep up. They'd been putting together this particular route piecemeal out of several airship sightings throughout different times of day and night.

Kylian nodded to Ronimo, a Bosmer that made up for his lack in height with breadth, red warpaint adorning his cheeks and a loose mohawk that flopped from his scalp over one side of his head. Ronimo nodded back and made quick work of the climb from the ground to the highest branch, where Latro had perched.

“Airship.” Ronimo squinted, “Airship[i]s[/i].”

“Good.” Kylian said. “We're getting closer to one of their depots. Every front has a supply line.”

“An army marches upon its stomach.” Ronimo added before descending the tree as quickly as he had come up. Latro managed to make good time on his own descent, though his ankle still pained him at times. As of yet, he hadn't let it slow him down, much to the liking of Kylian. By the moon's precipice in the night sky, they had surely found their mark. Following bootprints left by wayfaring patrols into the forests, they'd come upon an Ayleid ruin none of the three knew the name of. Of course, they were not here to plunder ancient trinkets, they had red work on the mind.

“Ronimo, Latro, keep tabs on the goings-on. Guard rotations, airships docking, everything.” Kylian said.

“Will do.” Ronimo nodded.

“I'll report this to Brutus, high time we'd gotten something.” Kylian patted Latro's shoulder encouragingly. Truth be told, Latro had no idea what use the shoulder pat was for. If Kylian was looking for excitement in his eyes like that of a hunting dog, he should look elsewhere. Revenge is man's sport.