[I]26th of Rain’s Hand, Imperial City - 4E208[/I]

The day had started for Jaraleet as it did most days; he got up early in the morning, prepared his breakfast with what little food he could buy based on his meager incomes, and then go towards the docks present in the district. Once there, he’d help to unload one of the many ships that came to the dock each day and, preferably if possible, he’d help transport the cargo from the docks towards its destination inside of the city. It was a simple routine all things considered, but it was extremely important for the Saxhleel to follow it to the letter for it allowed him to wander around the city and, in some lucky occasions, get inside buildings normally closed off. And this, as an agent of the An-Xileel sent to spy on the Imperial City, proved invaluable, after all it’s much easier to collect info if one is to be expected inside a building and generally ignored as most workers are by everyone, with the exception of their superiors that is. In this last part, Jaraleet wasn’t all that different from the dock workers in truth; after all he was often ignored by most people but his superiors still kept tabs on him, the only difference lay in what his true work was. This routine went on for two years and it showed no signs of changing or stopping at all, that is until this day.

As Jaraleet was returning to the Waterfront district, the first sign that something was wrong was when the sun suddenly darkened before being followed by a cool breeze. The second sign were the number of screams and other assorted sounds of surprise that emerged from numerous passersby, who pointed towards the sky in apparent shock. The Argonian spy followed the direction of the pointed hands, his eyes coming to rest on what could only be described as a flying airship. The design of the flying contraption seemed oddly familiar, but Jaraleet didn’t stay to analyze the ships any longer in an effort to determine why they seemed familiar; he knew that whoever, or whatever, was piloting those ships presented a threat and, as such, Jaraleet did the only logical thing and ran. This decision proved to be the correct one as screams soon began to emerge from the area where he had stood but a few moments ago, quickly followed by war cries from who he guessed where Legionnaires.

“[i]Good, good, this gives me more time.[/i]” The Haj-Eix thought as the sounds of combat drifted to his ears, more and more faintly as he sped away from the combat scene. Of course running away wasn’t a foolproof solution, as more and more enemies started to invade the city. It was only when his path was blocked by one of the mysterious assailants that Jaraleet recognized who they were. “The Dwemer…” He said breathlessly as he gazed upon one of the Dwemer’s famed Animunculi. He was by no means an expert, but he had read about the automatons that littered the Dwemer ruins, a courtesy of the education provided by the An-Xileel, but he had never expected to encounter one in-person, and who else could be controlling them if not their ancient and, until now, disappeared masters?   

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Jaraleet dodged away from one attack from the automaton. The automaton, a sphere model, didn’t gave the Argonian much time to think, as it lunged towards him once more with it’s sword arm. Jaraleet knew that, unarmored and weaponless as he was, he stood no chance against the Animunculi and that his best bet was to escape. 

To do this, he did something unexpected and charged towards the automaton. The sphered shot towards him with it’s crossbow arm, grazing his shoulder, but Jaraleet was able to slide under the extended sword arm with which he had been attacked before. Once he had gotten behind his mechanical foe, the Saxhleel spy continued his mad dash towards the Waterfront district in an effort to lose his enemy. Once he had managed to shake away the Dwemer Sphere, Jaraleet continued at a more slow pace, trying to evade any enemy patrols or other citizens who could give away his position. In the end, he managed to get to his home in the Waterfront district through a combination of skill and sheer luck. 

As Jaraleet entered his home, he analyzed what little he had seen. The ancient Mer had appeared without making any sort of declaration or demands, and their forces butchered everyone they came across in the streets regardless of race or, apparent, wealth. Quietly cursing in Jel, Jaraleet moved the table in which he usually ate before removing the rug that was under that particular piece of furniture. With the rug out of the way a latch was revealed and inside of it stood an old travelling pack and, under it, a set of armor and two blades. The Argonian spy quickly put on his leather armor, then the metal vambraces with which he protected his wrists, before he took the sword and dagger that he had kept hidden. “I was wondering when I’d get to use these again.” He muttered as he attached both scabbards to the belt of his armor before slinging the rucksack over his shoulders and then closing the latch. 

“Only one thing left to do.” The Argonian said as he approached the oil lantern that he kept near the entrance to the house. Grabbing the lantern, Jaraleet smashed it in the middle of the room it’s contents pooling in the wooden floor. With that done, he grabbed the flint he normally used to start a fire and used it over the small pool of oil; a spark flew and made contact with the easily ignited substance, a fire starting almost immediately afterwards. Jaraleet turned his back and exited the house, closing the door behind him as he started to move away from the Waterfront district and the carnage that had taken hold of the Imperial City. 

[hr]

[I]4th of Second Seed, Skingrad - 4E208[/I]

In the end, Jaraleet had found himself joining with a group of refugees that had managed to escape from the Imperial City who were heading towards Skingrad. With no other plan in mind, and realizing that it’d be best for him to stay with a group for the time being, the Argonian joined the group in their march towards the southern city, lending his expertise in combat when it was needed to protect them from beasts, bandits, or monsters that roamed the countryside. The march had taken them days, a fact that didn’t bother Jaraleet all too much, but they had eventually reached Skingrad, relatively, safe and sound only to be turned away by orders of Count Hassildor. 

The group itself had dissolved shortly afterwards when more and more refugees started arriving, to look for any surviving family the assassin guessed, but none of that mattered now. Laying on the ground in front of him was an old Argonian, his breath slow and steady, that Jaraleet remembered from the Waterfront district. It seemed that, amidst the escape, he had been shot by a strange weapon that the Dwemer possessed and while the wound had been bandaged, the exertion imposed upon the wound due to the days of travel meant that it had reopened and, worse of all, become infected. None of this would usually matter for a Saxhleel, they were known after all for their prodigious resistance to diseases and poisons of all kinds, but the days travelling, coupled with the scarce resources amidst the refugees, meant that the old Argonian was most likely to die, either from the blood loss or the infection.

Jaraleet had done what he could to make the old Saxhleel comfortable, getting a blanket for him and using his rucksack as an impromptu pillow. Now, he sat in front of the old man in what were likely his final hours on Nirn. “Are you comfortable Talen-Ja?” The assassin asked, getting a nod and a small smile in response from the older Argonian.  They both knew that he was going to die unless he could get medical help, well more than what the refugees could provide that is, and so the only thing left to do was to wait the end. 

The silence stretched on for minutes until Jaraleet began to hum quietly, in an effort to make Talen-Ja’s last hours more pleasant. It was an old song in Jel, he didn’t remember where he had heard it but it always helped to calm him down and, apparently, it had the same effect on Talen-Ja, who was smiling peacefully as he heard Jaraleet. The hours stretched by until, eventually, Talen-Ja went limp, his head lolling to the side as his soul left his body. 

“Return to the Hist, honorable Raj-Deelith.” Jaraleet said as he closed the eyes of the old Argonian before taking his rucksack back and covering the corpse of the old man. Standing up, he turned to look at the walls of Skingrad and then towards the gathered refugees outside of the city. The sight didn’t bother him, he knew that Count Hassildor had made the right call to protect his city and that his fate didn’t lie with the other refugees. Walking through the rows of refugees with a cold stare, Jaraleet made his way to where he knew Brutus was; he had heard of the so called Colovian Rangers that the man had formed and he wished to join them. It was, he had surmised, the perfect way to turn this disadvantageous situation into an opportunity for himself. The return of the Dwemer presented many possibilities, and Jaraleet was determined to exploit them to further empower the An-Xileel and Argonia. 

As he began to approach the place where he knew Brutus to be, Jaraleet began to play the story he had crafter inside his head over and over; he was a small time mercenary who’s comrades and friends had been butchered by the Dwemer, and he wanted revenge. Soon enough he was brought before the leader of the Rangers. “Please sir, let me join you, these bastards need to be taught a lesson.” Jaraleet said before Brutus could speak, his voice filled with apparent rage at the Dwemers. Brutus smiled at him and motioned for him to continue, all that Jaraleet had to do now was to convince the man but he had a good feeling that he could do so. It took some time but, in the end, Jaraleet managed to convince Brutus to let him into the Colovian Rangers. Now, all that he had to do was to continue on with the charade and attempt to find what opportunities he could to take advantage of the situation with the Dwemer.