[h3][center]The Tallest Mountains Start off as Stone

The Raid on Elenglynn[/center][/h3]

[indent][I]Here’s the plan; we need to do a two-pronged attack. On one hand, we need to capture one or both of those suits. On the other, we need to stop those airships from taking flight. Kylian and I will lead the outpost group, we’ll take as many of the sentries as quietly as possible and only engage in a skirmish when we’re detected. Remember, the airships are the goal; take them, and our enemies have nowhere to go. We’ll have to find a way to secure the ruin’s entrance to prevent more from escaping. However, frost magic should do the trick, at least until we figure out something more permanent and damaging.
...
Right, you lot are mine. Drinks-Many-Rivers and I agree we’re most inclined to be able to neutralize those power armour suits with assistance. In order to give us a numerical advantage, I expect those with frost staffs and spells to focus on immobilizing the heavy suits and a shock spell to be handy in case they cannot be contained. Though it would be preferable to take them without damage, it is not prudent to trade lives for an object that may or may not come into our clutches at another time. While that is occuring, I need the escort party dealt with promptly. Dispose of them with all of the rage you can muster towards their indiscretions towards the Capital and then help contain the suits. I suspect we will have to pry the occupants out by force. [/I][/indent]

The orders had been given by Brutus and Pollux, their words still rang fresh in the ears of those they had gathered. Brutus had gone to gather the raiding party while Pollux had remained with the initial group that was now tailing the mechanical suits and the eight Dwemer skirmishers, four of which were armed with the single-shot rifles, and the rest were armed  with sword and shield with light armour. 


[center]~~~[/center]
Leading his Rangers quietly through the brush to set up along the path the patrol was embarking down, lamps lighting their way, the night was silent except for the thumping of steam-driven pistons and the heavy weight of the power suits marching in formation for what seemed to be a routine patrol; while the escorts seemed vigilant, they appeared to be relaxed, as if they had done the exact same route dozens of times already and they were not anticipating trouble this far out into the wilderness. Indeed, the soldiers seemed to be somewhat in awe of their surroundings, as if this were a vacation for them rather than an occupation of hostile territory.

“Wait until they are far enough from camp that they might be outside of earshot. We need to buy the others some distance and prevent reinforcement.” Pollux instructed. “We will strike from behind and cut off their retreat. I am willing to wager that those suits are not overly swift at turning around.”

After several minutes of tense silence, Drinks pulled a pair of mages close to him. “Get ahead of the column and fire off magelight directly at the heads of those suits. Blind them. That will begin our attack.” Nodding, the two mages scurried off through the hills while the remainder began to form a U formation around the column. Now the trap was set; all that was left was to wait. 

Looking at the Dwemer up close and in detail the others who didn’t happen to be Khajiit stirred up a few rather unpleasant emotions within Daro’Vasora. She wasn’t a fighter, and as much as she wanted to take down a few of the bastards on behalf of Zegol, she also wasn’t in a hurry to die. Instead, she studied the giant mechanized suits like a puzzle to be solved. [I]It’s not unlike a barrow, isn’t it? Some sneaky mechanism to open a door or trigger a trap. Someone has to get inside that thing, and I’m willing to bet they don’t do it on their own.[/I] she thought, her teeth biting into a stick that she plucked off the ground. Armed with a sleeve of lockpicks, a pry bar, and her ever trusty mace, she looked for a way to pry open the suit like a clam to get at the meat inside. [I]And the soul gem that runs the entire thing is the pearl,[/I] she reflected, smiling in spite of herself. 

Suddenly, a pair of blinding white lights caused her to shield her eyes and the Dwemer troops exclaimed in their Dwemeri tongue that Daro’Vasora could only make out a few words of. The effect was obvious, however; the battle had started. 

Pollux stepped out from his concealment with the contingent of mages and staffs with frost magic and began to close the gap on the suits, shards of ice spikes flinging towards the lightly armoured infantry while streams of frost began to encase the limbs, starting to slow down the suits, which were having difficulty seeing with the mage lights directly in the faces of the headpiece.  With a roar, the fighters joined the fray and charged into the fight while archers looked for targets of opportunity. Revenge would be sweet.

Unlike the other Rangers, Jaraleet didn't let out a roar or any other war cry as he charged towards the Dwemer forces. Such displays in battle were, in his opinion, useless, it was best to save one’s energy rather than waste it in something as trivial as a shout. Still, regardless of the silence with which he approached the battle, Jaraleet nonetheless joined the other Rangers in their fight for the suits that the Deep Elves used, his blade clashing with that of one of the shield wielding Dwemer. 

He dodged an attack from his opponent, using his swordbreaker to keep the blade locked down while he tried to stab at his enemy with the long sword. Unfortunately the soldier blocked his attack and managed to free his sword before charging towards Jaraleet. It tried to once more slash at the Saxhleel, but like before Jaraleet managed to block his opponent using his dagger; however, the sword attack had been merely a feint as the Dwemer soldier bashed Jaraleet in the chest with its shield. Jaraleet stumbled back, staggered by the shield bash, and barely managed to avoid a thrust directly into his chest, albeit he still received a glancing blow to his shoulder. 

Deciding to go on the offensive, Jaraleet charged towards the Dwemer soldier. His sword was raised in an obvious overhead strike and his enemy bought the faint as it raised its shield to stop Jaraleet’s attack with the long sword, however in that moment Jaraleet plunged his swordbreaker into the exposed side of his foe. The Dwemer staggered backwards, moving the hand holding his shield to clutch at his bleeding abdomen. Jaraleet took the opportunity and charged again at the Dwemer, the soldier was too slow and this time Jaraleet was able to strike him cleanly in his sword hand with his blade going through the Mer’s wrist. After that, the battle was practically over and Jaraleet soon put an end to the Dwemer by driving his sword through its throat. With that particular foe taken care of, Jaraleet turned his gaze towards the wider battle once more and began to look for his next target. 

Gregor, his enchanted claymore in hand, decided to stick close to the mages and act as their last line of defense against the Dwemer infantry. If the Deep Elves were smart, and he had every reason to believe they were, they’d prioritize the enemy units that were most effective against their own trump card; the power armor. The two towering suits of brass were definitely at the top of the list of the wildest things he’d ever seen, but now wasn’t the time to stop and gawk. He focused on the here and now (a mental trick he’d had a lot of practice with over the years) and scanned the fray for ambitious enemies. Gregor’s decision was quickly vindicated as one of the Dwemer foot soldiers, armed with a real fancy-looking spear, broke away from the incoming rush of Rangers and made for the circle of sorcerers. “Not so fast,” Gregor hissed and stepped in-between them and the Dwemer, who yelled something in him in a language he didn’t speak. The elf’s face was hidden behind a disapproving visage of wrought metal but Gregor imagined that his real expression wasn’t much different. The Imperial swung his his blade upwards and arced it down towards the Dwemer’s head, who blocked it with the shaft of his spear -- all according to plan. The claymore’s enchantment sprang to life and shock magic traveled down the spear and into the Dwemer’s arms. The following involuntary muscle contractions, exacerbated by the fact that the Dwemer simply hadn’t been expecting an enchanted weapon, were enough for him to drop his spear by accident. Gregor wasted no time and punished the fatal mistake with a well-placed thrust to the gut. 

His fingers twitched and a red hunger flashed in his eyes. It would be so easy… but no. Gregor was surrounded by people who would immediately recognize the rushing noise and bright flash that would follow. The Dwemer expired and fell to the forest floor, limp and useless, without having to fear for his soul. 

If the Rangers were terrified about going up against their hated and feared adversaries, it certainly didn’t show with the ferocity with which the men and women of the Colovian Rangers charged into the fray. Perhaps with the mechanized suits being somewhat handicapped without proper visibility and the frost magic managing to greatly slow down the limbs, death didn’t seem as certain as it had been before, and the escort group seemed to be scrambling to try and react to the sudden organized attack. Daro’Vasora did not charge in; she stayed back and watched the fight unfold before her, knowing her own strengths, which decidedly weren’t in the ‘kill professional soldiers’ category. She watched a large Argonian she had seen around the camp engage and slay one of the more traditional Dwemer fighters, and the ones with the rifles were taking pot shots at shapes they could loosely see. Some shots had found their marks; from where she was crouching behind a tree, five of the Rangers had been killed, some by shot, the others by sword. Meanwhile, the frost mages struggled to keep on top of the suits. She knew it wouldn’t last forever.

When a trio of arrows brought down one of the gunners, Daro’Vasora realized she had a clear shot towards the rear suit, whose back was turned towards her. The limbs kept cracking the ice, which was immediately recoated with more magic, and it was clear that it was going to be a battle of attrition. Taking a deep breath and tossing the stick in her mouth aside, the Khajiit scrambled out of concealment, hopping over a Dwemer body and hoping that the Dwemer were too distracted to notice her, or care overly much, about a singular figure who wasn’t actively trying to murder them. When her claws hit metal, an all-too familiar alloy pressing against the pads of her hands, the Khajiit quickly found some foot and handholds in the suit’s armour; a surprising amount, largely due to the flexibility the monstrosity needed to just move around. She hoped that something wouldn’t shift and crush her hands, or that a spinning gear or gyro wouldn’t pull her into the machine. 

With a few long reaches and well-honed climbing skill, Daro’Vasora was on top of the suit, riding it like the most comically unsuited knight on the most improbable steed. Now it was time to really get to work; she quickly studied around the headpiece, trying to find some kind of release lever or similar mechanism that would unseal the pilot’s head, and she ended up finding a keg-shaped bar near the suit’s “chin”. Reaching to grab it, the head turned to look directly at her, giving her a bit of a chill given the cold and emotionless stare carved into the Dwemer design. She yanked the keg towards her, and she heard the turning of gears within along with a more vertical direction of travel; the helm was loose. 

As ice loudly started cracking around her, the Dwemer inside struggling to get free to kill her, Daro’Vasora grabbed the pry bar she had secured to her belt and shoved it under the opening by the release mechanism and grabbed the head by the brow and pulled it backwards, the entire assembly pivoting backwards towards her as it gave way, nearly causing the Khajiit to lose her balance. When she grabbed hold of the shoulder, she was face to face with the grey-brown skin, dark curly hair and golden eyes of a Dwemer; the sight was too weird as her brain scrambled to rationalize that it was just a very sick Dunmer rather than a historical relic that very-much wanted her dead that she’d been studying for years. She made out a few of the rather hateful words that seemed weird to hear allowed. Instead, she grinned and waved at the face that was sticking out of the mechanical monster and said, “[I]Bõlü![/I]”

Before the exchange could have gone any further, Daro’Vasora grabbed the prybar tightly in her hand and jabbed the pointed end into the Dwemer’s eyesocket, jerking it up and down to ensure that the death came quickly and hopefully relatively painlessly, since she’d seen all too well what a less-than-stellar hit with a mace could do, leaving someone to die slowly of brain trauma and a collapsed skull. The head slumped forward, blood leaking out of the destroyed socket as she pulled her tool free, and the suit came to a stop. Daro’Vasora didn’t like killing, especially when she made a special effort to just maim to get away, but Zegol’s death still was fresh in her mind. “Welcome back to Tamriel, asshole.” she spat scornfully.

[I]”LOOKOUT! “[/I] came a cry from in front, and the first of the frost staffs had lost their charge and the lead power suit was beginning to break free of its prison. With a massive spiked axe for a hand that had gone free, the arm swung into a group that had ventured too close and disemboweled two Rangers with the massive bladed weapon, and impaling another with the meter-long spike between the dual blade. The Khajiit grimaced; she wasn’t likely going to be able to pull the same trick. 

Shock spells rang out, causing temporary shorts that didn’t do too much to fry the Dwemer suits’ armour so much as make it look like a spastic and jerky beast with a neurological disorder that screwed with its limbs. Its massive arm gun was freed next and it fired randomly, three shots digging into the earth and causing a thick tree trunk to splinter, the collapse causing some of the Rangers to have to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed. Gregor was among them and stopped for a second to catch his breath, the adrenaline surging through his veins causing him to marvel at his close brush with death instead of recoiling in fear. He’d never fought in a war before and he had to admit this was some of the hairiest combat he’d ever seen. Reorienting himself, Gregor realized he had moved too far away from the mages and returned to their side.

Pollux called out, “Aim for the basket on its chest! The soul gem is likely inside there! We need to shatter it.” A thunderbolt escaped his fingertips, the crack so deafening it caused Daro’Vasora’s ears to ring. 

After his brief fight with the Dwemer soldier, Jaraleet had taken advantage of the chaos of battle to retreat back towards the trees were some of the Rangers were still in. His forte wasn’t in open combat and, as such, he retreated back to the shadows of the trees so as to not be spotted by his next victim. An opportunity presented itself when he noticed one of the riflemen taking aim towards a Khajiit woman who was holding onto the other Dwemeri suit, one that she had disarmed single handedly from what he had seen. 

Jaraleet took advantage of the concentration of the riflemen and made his way towards the Dwemer, his focus briefly shifting towards the remaining Dwemer suit when it freed itself before returning to his new target. The concentration displayed by the Dwemer marksman proved to be advantageous to Jaraleet, as the Mer didn’t took notice of his presence until the Saxhleel’s sword was starting to be embedded in its gut. The Dwemer tried to resist, but the Haj-Eix put a quick end to that by driving his swordbreaker into it’s throat. However, before he had time to contemplate anything else, Pollux gave the order to attack the basked in the suit’s chest. 

In this, Jaraleet was at a disadvantage. Sword and dagger would be of no use against the suit, nor would his poisons have any effect against it since he had no way to expose the Mer piloting the suit to them. With little to no option left, Jaraleet did the only thing that seemed logical and picked the rifle dropped by the recently deceased Dwemer; the only things that the Argonian assassin could identify were the obvious Dwemer design on the weapon itself and it’s crossbow-like trigger at the bottom of the strange weapon. Still, Jaraleet had no other recourse except try and use the strange Dwemeri weapon if he wanted to contribute and, as such, he tried to remember what the other riflemen had done before letting loose their weapons deadly payload. Taking aim towards the basket on the suit’s chest, and once more going through what the riflemen had done in his mind, Jaraleet pressed the crossbow-like trigger and hoped for the best. 

The singular shot deflected off of the thick armour plating of the suit’s left shoulder and imbedded itself into the gearwork that allowed locomotion of the arm, preventing a full range of motion of the ranged weapons as the mechanical suit tried to turn to face its aggressors, the mages and the Argonian that had turned the weapon on it. It would likely take dozens more well-placed shots to disable the joints of the suit; the armour was simply too thick. 

The shock magic, however, seemed to be doing a bit more damage, but the suit itself was protecting the user. It remained to be seen if anyone could get to the soul gem encased on its chest; it seemed to be the best bet of how to stop it in its tracks. 

Drinks-Many-Rivers smashed his kanabo into the shield of one of the heavier Dwemer escorts, his immense strength driving the Dwemer back into a defensive stance that was struggling to keep his shield up under the barrage of blows. The Argonian bruiser changed tactics when he grabbed the side of the shield, pulling it towards him as the Dwemer stumbled, attempting a feeble thrust to attempt a quick incapacitation of his foe; it was simply too awkward of an angle and too slow, and with one hand, the kanabo smashed behind the Dwemer’s knee, the sound of bones snapping filling the air along with a blood curdling shriek. Another blow came down on the sword wrist, maiming it horribly as Drinks finished the job by smashing the heavy blunt weapon repeatedly into the faceplate before him, buckling it in with finite brutality. It was probably for the best that it concealed the damage.

The large axe of the suit was halted by a precise shock spell from Pollux, causing it to drop before it gained momentum enough to impale the Argonian, who looked at the face of the power armour contemptuously. He shouted towards Jaraleet, “Brother, I need to to take care of the soul gem’s cover. I’ll keep this thing’s gaze. I need frost magic on the limbs, now!”

As if abiding by his willpower, what remaining mages who still had frost charges returned to the original tactics of trying to immobilize the limbs, which was still far less effective this time around. Still, it was enough; the alloys and the weaker metals under the framework began to buckle and crack under the blows of Drinks’ studded club, which broke through the ice and began to cause some minor structural damage; the weapons, at least, weren’t going to be nearly as effective. 

“Go!” he yelled. 

Jaraleet cursed as his shot failed to hit it’s intended target but, at the very least, he had done some damage to the Dwemer’s contraption. However, the assassin didn’t have much time to ponder his failures as the suit turned in his direction and that of the mages that had been hitting it with shock spells. Jaraleet was poised to retreat into the treeline once more and pick another target when Drinks-Many-Rivers voice brought him out of that particular line of thought with his orders. 

Nodding, Jaraleet began to follow after Drinks at the same time as the mages resumed their barrage of ice spells. The Saxhleel assassin quickly closed the gap between himself and the dwemer suit while Drinks was keeping the pilot of the suit distracted by attacking it’s limbs; once he had closed the distance, Jaraleet quickly found out that, through the course of the battle, the cover of the soul gem had come loose enough that it seemed poised to fall off if enough force was applied. In fact, the cover was wobbling slightly with each movement of the suit and this caused the lid to slightly open; taking advantage of this fact, Jaraleet thrust his swordbreaker into the opening and began to use his dagger as an impromptu crowbar in an effort to pry loose the cover in its entirety. 

The piece of metal seemed to come more and more loose the more strength that Jaraleet applied, and it was only a matter of time until he pried it loose on his own. However, time was a luxury that none in the Rangers could afford and, as such, Jaraleet scanned around himself to find help so as to expose the soul gem powering the suit of armor faster. His eyes landed on Daro’Vasora and, using his free hand, the Saxhleel pointed at her “You there! I need your help to get this loose!” The Argonian shouted over the din of battle, motioning from Daro’Vasora to the metal cover on the suit and then back to her. The Argonian only hoped that the Khajiit understood what he meant as he once more turned his efforts and undivided attention towards prying loose the metal cover. 

The Khajiit had already managed to scramble to the ground and away from prying sharpshooter’s eyes when the Argonian shouted. Looking around to see who he was calling for, it dawned on her that he meant [I]her[/I].

“Wonderful. Now I’m the honourary super suit killer.” she muttered under her breath, sprinting over to the very much unrestrained set of piloted machinery that she’d seen murder more than a few of her compatriots. It was not a tantalizing prospect.

Rather than risk getting her hand caught, she grabbed onto a plate as the machine bucked around and she reached out, grabbing the Argonian’s wrist to pull her the rest of the way up onto the thing’s chestplate. She could see the glow a soulgem through the slit that was pried open thus far. As she prepped her pry bar, she looked the Argonian in the eyes. “Did you think to look for a release lever? They have to change these things somehow.” she remarked tersely, shoving the prybar as far down along the seam as she could manage. “Just make sure I don’t fall. I don’t fancy getting crushed today.” 

Bracing her feet against the flat surface and grabbing the bar with both hands, Daro’Vasora began to pry back with as much strength as she could muster, the basket straining against its restraining latches against the mechanical force. With a defiant and loud yell of exertion, the basket suddenly came free, but without anything to support her, the Khajiit fell back and hit the ground hard, winding herself in the process, her vision blurring as stars danced around her eye.

However, the gem was exposed, but the mech was still moving. One step in the wrong direction and Daro’Vasora would be crushed.

Jaraleet ignored the terse words from the Khajiit, the battlefield was no place for complaints or critiques even if they were true. If they both survived unscathed, then he’d take the time to listen to Daro’Vasora’s complaints, but for now the sole focus of the Saxhleel was in getting that soul gem out of the armored suit. Giving the Khajiit a nod, Jaraleet observed as the nimble Cathay pried open the basket in which the suit’s source of power was held. 

Unfortunately, with the basket coming loose, Daro’Vasora had nothing to support her and she fell to the ground. Doubly unfortunate for her was the fact that Jaraleet wasn’t bothered by this fact, as his focus had shifted onto the soul gem once the basket had fallen away. With the power source now unprotected, Jaraleet reached with his hand towards the soul gem and, with a rather brusque yank, he pulled it free from where it lay in the mechanisms of the armored suit. With the threat of the second Dwemer suit neutralized, Jaraleet turned his gaze towards the fallen Khajiit. 

She had seemingly hit her head when falling to the ground and so Jaraleet doubted she could get back to safety on her own. Crouching down, the Argonian easily picked up Daro’Vasora and slung her over his shoulder before he hurried back towards the, relative, safety of the area where the mages, and the lone warrior who had remained behind to protect them, were. Once there he lightly deposited Vasora to the ground and turned to look at the gathered mages, “If anyone has any skill in restoration take a look at her, I’m going back to the fight.” He said, motioning to the Cathay. 

Gregor, who had extensively dueled before finally cutting down another one of the Dwemer infantry while the Argonian and the Khajiit had wrestled with the power armor, heard the question and quickly made his way over -- the fight was nearing its end, but the mages had exhausted themselves against the suits of power armor while Gregor’s magicka supply was still fresh and untouched. “I’ll take care of her. Go!” he said encouragingly as he sank down on his knees next to Daro’Vasora, hands already glowing with the golden light of Restoration magic.

Jaraleet looked over as the warrior approached him, saying that he’d take care of Daro’Vasora.”Then I’ll leave her in your hands.” He said to the Imperial, nodding towards him. Without another word, the Saxhleel returned to the battlefield once again to help defeat what few enemy soldiers remained.

The fuzz began to fade from Daro’Vasora’s vision and she was vaguely aware of being manhandled away from the mechanical suit, but it wasn’t until she heard a voice calling for a restoration mage that Daro’Vasora came to her senses. She was placed against a tree, and reaching behind her head, she was pleasantly surprised it didn’t come back damp. At least she didn’t hit anything hard on the way down. She watched the Argonian step away before rubbing her temples. “My hero.” she remarked sarcastically to herself, staring daggers at the departing Argonian.

Gregor had propped her up against the tree when he realized that she wasn’t bleeding all over the place, but head injuries could be insidious. Fortunately, she came to pretty quickly, and Gregor leaned forward so that she could see him. “Welcome back. How’s your head?” he asked and put on his most reassuring smile while he intently watched her pupils react to the flashing lights of the battle behind him. 

“Like the morning after payday,” she groaned, rubbing the back of her head. “I’ll live. Just had the wind knocked out of me, is all.” she replied, finally taking in the face of the man who had come to her aid. His smile was disarming, and she sat up straighter out of reflex. “I’m guessing everything went according to plan?” she asked.

"I think so,” Gregor replied. Her eyes pupils looked normal and she seemed lucid. “You're good to go. Give me a shout if that headache gets any worse. My name is Gregor.” He straightened up and offered a hand to pull Daro’Vasora to her feet. 

The fight seemed to be more or less over, both suits were out of commission (only one seemed to be well intact, however) and there was shouting as the last of the surviving Dwemer were being hunted down by the victorious survivors. She got to her feet, standing still for a few moments to make sure she wasn’t faint, and past a dull throbbing headache, Daro’Vasora wasn’t any worse for wear. 

She returned to where she fell and found her prybar quickly enough, along with the soul gem that the Argonian had pried loose after her fall. Scooping it up, she noticed the size of it; it was big enough that it required both hands to carry comfortably. More discerningly, it had a very distinctive black tinge to it. 

She was carrying the soul of some person whose body had tied presumably not all that long ago. Disgusted, she dropped it into the dirt again and decided to step away before she decided to do something stupid with it. Her thoughts turned to the encampment ahead. How were the others making out?

Behind her, Gregor silently knelt down and slipped the black soul gem into his rucksack. His eyes bored into Vasora’s back as she walked away.


[center]~~~[/center]


A commotion came from the woods to the West, and a bright light shone through the trees, causing the Dwemer sentries to take notice, visibly preparing for something. Brutus knew it was his turn to shine.

“Rangers, it’s time! Secure the ships, secure the ruin’s entrance! Let’s show the Deep Elves a warm welcome back from the dead! [I]DEATH![/I]” The Imperial cried, and a chorus of warcries filled the treeline. Arrows and ranged spells shot out in volleys, connecting with the closest of the Dwemer, felling a pair of them who weren’t armoured enough to withstand the vital shots that hit them. The sole remaining power suit took defensive position and a roar of shots escaped from its right gauntlet, biting into the treeline where the Rangers were positioned. The shots were near misses, thanks in part to the darkness that shrouded them, but as the Rangers hit the ruins themselves, the only protection they’d have would be the ancient granite that made up the ruins. 

Kylian cried out, “Hit the suit with shock spells, hurry! We don’t need that one to survive!”

The twang of crossbows and rifle fire filled the air, cutting down several of the Rangers who were caught in the open. A rifleman popped above his cover, being rewarded from an accurately placed arrow in his unprotected face. The Dwemer fell dead, leaving the young scout to continue providing covering shots for his comrades. Despite how terrifying their enemy was, he couldn’t shake how strange the sensation of fighting [I]Dwemer[/I] felt.

Concealed amongst the shrubbery and trees, and in the dark crooks of the ruins, mechanical scuttling came to life, and a series of spider and sphere automata sprang to life to greet their foes in the field. The sphere seemed to have a difficult time moving through the vegetation filled terrain, so stayed to defend the ruins themselves while the spiders raced towards their prey without hindrance.

Latro had pressed himself tight against the ground as if he was trying to squeeze himself through it. The odd cracks and zings that came when the Dwemer used their thunderstaffs still set Latro on edge. You could see regular magic coming towards you, as terrifying as that still was, but with these staffs, you couldn’t tell anything but the sound of it.

Still, as proof that the staffs killed with something more than sound, stinging puffs of dirt and splinters of trees showered onto him during the first volley. The Rangers barely had time to breathe and ready themselves before scuttling spider automata burst forth from the edge of the tree line, leaping into their prey. The man Latro had chosen to stand shoulder to shoulder with let out a high scream as a pair of spiders went to work on his head. He turned to see Ronimo ten paces in front of him with his throwing axes readied. Latro cringed, shielding his face and ducking as Ronimo sent one spinning towards him.

When he regained his composure, he looked up to see Ronimo with an amused smirk, holding out a hand to him. Latro rose on his own and pushed Ronimo, who stumbled a few chuckling steps back while pointing behind Latro. He fancied a look where Ronimo pointed and not five paces from him, a Dwemer spider struggled across the forest floor with only its two legs. Latro put it all together, but still frowned at Ronimo. Together, the two rushed ahead towards the outer edges of the ruin, taking cover behind a felled pillar.

The sound of Dwemeri was close. Peeking his eyes above the ruined pillar, he caught sight of two Dwemer huddled behind their own cover, not unlike his and Ronimo’s- a tumbledown granite wall, rather than a pillar though, but not more than ten paces away. Latro looked to Ronimo and they both nodded grimly, the other eerily in tune with the bloody work at hand. No automata, no soul gem, just flesh and blood.

Ronimo and Latro worked their way around the Dwemer, who were pre-occupied at suppressing whoever was still in the tree-line and completely unaware of what the next few moments would bring on them. Ronimo struck from the shadows quick as a viper with Latro shoulder to shoulder with him. Almost in-sync, they were upon the Dwemer. Ronimo had no difficulty in pouncing on the mer like a panther, the head of his axe biting deep in the unarmored neck of the mer, snipping his ties to the mortal realm in a choking death.

Latro was upon his own mer, having wrestled the mer to the ground but as he looked into the frightened eyes of the elf, he couldn’t bring himself to chop into his face with his axe. No matter the anger and pain he’d felt that these elves had killed so many, his friends among them, he could not take this life. As if a punishment for his weakness, the Dwemer cuffed him in the head and he found himself on the opposite side of the advantage- his axe-hand pinned by a boot as a thunderstaff was leveled in his face.

Before the consequences of his weakness were brought to fruition and his head turned to jelly, Ronimo kicked the staff to the side, Latro closing his eyes and flinching as dirt stung his face, ears ringing painfully and head swimming. He felt his collar grow tight in a fist and he was hauled to his feet, Ronimo’s eyes full with anger, “Pull yourself together! I won’t be killed because you lack the bones in you to do what has to be done, you cur!”

Latro drooped, looking to the two dead mer. He bent down dejectedly and grabbed up his axe. Ronimo was already moving, uncaring whether Latro was with him or not and probably thoroughly disappointed that Latro’s red words of vengeance held no weight anymore. Latro felt no different. He swallowed and shook his head, taking a breath and trying to close the distance Ronimo had put between them. Next encounter might not be so fortunate for him if he couldn’t even defend his own life, much less take another. Shame crept up his spine and swallowed his thoughts. Anger soon after, he would not be the weak Reachman he once was. Or he would be dead.

Brynja cut her way through the flurry of spider automata, sending a swift punt into one of the machines where it spiraled high into the air, and came crashing down topside, crushing its inner mechanisms, legs twitching before all movement ceased. She was long gone by then, working her way across the open field before reaching the outer wall.

Solandil had no idea what had gotten into him lately. 

As soon as he, Anifaire and Durantel had [i]finally[/i] arrived at Skingrad, they'd been met with a refugee camp filled with desperate folk who were just as hungry as he was. And yet, when reunited with a great number of their original group - of which Solandil had been filled with relief, but yet again, failed to understand why -  he had joined several of them in the attempt to take back Imperial City. He had no love for the capital, nor it's people, nor the country it represented. He had no real desire to go back and fight the Dwemer, for he had seen how easily the guards had been cut down when he fled with his fellow Altmers. And yet here he was, travelling with Brynja, Daro'Vasora, and a group of people he had never met to save an entire city.

Part of him insisted that he'd gone mad from the fatigue of his journey (Even though he'd traveled longer and more grueling distances in far more hostile environments), and another part of him reasoned that he had to leave the camp due to the presence of the Thalmor (Even though the camp was large enough to avoid them entirely). Technically speaking, Solandil was a deserter of the Altmer Army, and therefore a traitor to his people. But they had been eager to be rid of him, and the only person who hated him enough to even bother pursuing him was his bitch of a sister. Even then, she did a piss poor job of it. Hadn't even hired a respectable assassin group to get the job done. Still, if this quest was as suicidal as he thought it was, then his sister's wish would finally come true.

The first encounter with the Dwemer didn't do much to instill any hope of victory in Sol's heart, but he remained with the group regardless. He looked out for himself, but fleeing now would be an action too cowardly for him to live with. 

As soon as their leaders started barking out orders, Sol had decided which part of the attack he'd be most - and least - effective in. Having absolutely no magic to his name (A high embarrassment for an Altmer, as if his albinism wasn't enough), he'd resigned himself to ensuring the airships were captured, and any Dwemer that got in his way were cut down. It seemed the Nord warrioress had the same idea, and Sol found himself side by side with Brynja momentarily before she met the spider abominations on the field. Solandil was not far behind her, swords having been drawn at the ready long before they were brought down viciously on the dwemer machines. Even with his lack of magic and blunt weapons, the sheer brute force of his action cracked the metal frame of the spider and shattered it’s soul gem. The next to scuttle towards him met its end upon the heel of his boot.

Shaking the remnants of metal spider guts from his boot, Sol sprinted to catch up with Brynja, pressing himself against the sun-bleached stone in hopes of not being noticed by more of the automata. Brynja glanced at the sudden appearance of Solandil alongside her, eyebrows raised, both in surprise and relief.

“Well I’ll be.” She said, a small smile spreading across her lips. “I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine.” 

“Of course.” He replied with a grim nod, catching her eye and briefly wondering about her surprise. Perhaps due to his “closeness” to Durantel, she had been given the impression that he shared the same xenophobic thoughts as the older Altmer? Gods knew he was alien enough in his homeland to dislike other races. “Let us move on. The last thing we need is one of those bastards getting to the airships before us.” An airship getting away meant the almost certain possibility of said escapee bringing back more reinforcements. 

“Right.” She said, and took several deep breaths to steel her nerves. She regretted not refilling her flask before setting out with the Rangers, she could use a stiff drink right about now.

Scanning his surroundings for anymore offensive machines, Sol had only taken a few steps towards the ships when he noticed a very large golden blur in the distance doing the same. It was a Dwemer, making a beeline for the airships and cutting down Rangers as he went. Even with Solandil’s awful long-distance vision, he could gauge the size of the mer. And the size of his weapon. 

Realising how close he was, Sol brandished one of his swords in the direction of his target, so that Brynja knew to follow him. Hopefully she had noticed the motion, as he was tearing across the field in no time, raring to kill. That dwemer couldn’t get close to those ships, no matter the cost. Brynja followed close behind him, two giants closing in on their target.

Despite how effective Solandil and Brynja’s size had been before against the spiders, it seemed their next foe was far better suited to fight them. Easily standing at their height or perhaps even more, the armour the Dwemer donned was as thick as a wall. Sol wondered how on Mundas this fellow was carrying such weight, but quickly abandoned all distracting thoughts as he only just missed a swipe of the Dwemer’s greatsword. Even with the size of him, he was quick.

Parrying the next swipe with a snarl, Sol spun away from the offending weapon, bringing his own down heavily on the shoulder joint of the heavy armour. However, failing to find the gap, his blades clanged off the metal heavily, leaving only a small dent and jarring both of Sol’s shoulders. Hissing in annoyance, Sol steadied himself and made for another attack… only to be surprised by the Dwemer’s speed once more and barely saving himself from a vicious strike by the greatsword. The sheer power behind it actually sliced through the straps of his iron chest plate, and just by the sheer luck of stumbling and falling on his arse, suffered only a painful slice to his now unprotected chest. It stung like hell, but was better than the fatal alternative.

Not bothering to even check himself, Sol swung his right longsword into the knee of his foe with a roar, and finally receiving a roar of pain in return. At last, one of his hits had landed.

She couldn’t let Solandil take too much of the fighting brunt, he was injured, and she had to step in. 

“Hey buckethead!” She roared, even though the Dwemer now suffered a knee wound, he still turned to face Brynja just as she brought her long sword down, their swords locked for just a few seconds before she forced his blade to the side, swinging again. The Dwemer fended off the blow, but how long could he fend off the two of them? It was swing after swing from Brynja, and each time their blades parried. Losing her footing, she slipped, and the greatsword clipped the back between her armor, slicing into her bicep. She swore loudly  and rolled away from the next blow, this time scrambling to her feet. She had to take a chance, on her next swing, Brynja rushed the Dwemer, and put her shoulder into him, causing him to teeter unsteadily on his feet.

“Solandil!” She cried out, “Finish him!” 

Still lying low on the floor as he hastily tied his broken straps together, Sol watched on as he saw Brynja take their attacked head on without fear. He’d certainly never met a woman like this before, and it was refreshing to see such a brutal force on the battleground. He was certainly glad she was on his side.

Crouching at the ready, Sol brought his blade back across the Dwemer’s legs, cutting deep behind the knee as he staggered and severing the tendons there. A muffled shriek could be heard from within the helmet, though it didn’t last long as Sol drove his other sword through the eye slats, the metal being weaker between the eyes and giving way to his thrust. Yanking out his blade, it was accompanied by a few spurts of blood as the Dwemer twitched, and fell to the floor.

“Nicely done.” He panted to Brynja, wiping blood and brain matter onto the grass beneath him before standing up with a wince.

She nodded, sweat stinging her eyes, “Aye.” Her gaze traveled to his chest, and gestured, “How bad is it?”

He replied with a light shrug. “I’ve suffered far worse. I’ll live.” There was no point in whining about how it stung to Oblivion - the pain wasn’t enough to distract him from the job at hand, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was enough to distract him for the moment. The cut would need some form of medical attention sooner or later though. Sol looked to Brynja, eyes travelling her face and body to see if any of the blood splatter present was hers. A stream of crimson seemed to come from her arm, and he gestured towards it. “Yourself?”

“Just a flesh wound.” She turned her arm up, and grimaced. 

“I’ll bandage you up after this. Last thing you need is an infection.” Brynja gestured at the airship. “We need to get that secured first.”

The offer of first-aid was a surprising one, though certainly appropriate. He was no fool to think that just because the wound wasn’t deep, it couldn’t eventually be fatal. He wouldn’t put it past the Dwemer to poison their blades. “Secure it, or bring the blasted thing down.” The alternative he offered would certainly be a cathartic one to anyone on his side of the fight, in his opinion.

There was a temporary path laid before them, nearly all other Dwemer and Rangers were locked in combat, leaving a clear path for them, but they had to act quickly. Brynja led the charge on the airship, only when she reached the airship did she see a flash of metal. Spiders! Four of them had crawled out of Gods know where, and descended on her. 

An axe cut through the air and pinged off of the hard shell of one of the spiders loudly before another one found its mark and sheared the two front legs off of the same spider. A girthy Bosmer tumbled into the fray, smashing the wounded spider with the head of another axe and scooping up the one he’d thrown. He stood at the ready with Brynja, fierce eyes flashing. Another Ranger joined them, white-knuckle gripping the haft of his hand-axe, long locks billowing out of his hood in the wind. A leaping spider was met with the heel of the Ranger’s hand, metal pinging as if hit by stone. A fierce stomp ended the thing and the threat had vanished as soon as it appeared. The hooded Ranger with fists of stone stood opposite Brynja and Sol. His hooded head cocked as the Bosmer fell in with him. 

“I know you.” The shadows of the Ranger’s hood might have concealed his eyes, but it did nothing for the near-beaming grin he now wore. Brynja’s eyes narrowed, the voice sounded familiar. Almost as if it… 

“Latro?!” Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small “o” shape.

Having barely recovered from their fray with the dwemer giant, Sol had had barely any time to react as the spiders descended upon Brynja. Thankfully help was on hand to tear the beasts away from her before she was further injured, and Sol felt deep relief as the last one died - finding himself searching Brynja’s face and body for injury again, and feeling further relief in finding none. Turning to the Rangers, Sol focused on the more dainty of the two. It took him a few moments even after Brynja’s realisation to recall Latro from the Dwemer expedition.

Latro removed his hood, revealing his smiling face completely. The sight of Brynja lifted at least a small amount of weight from his shoulders. “Who else but?” He chuckled.

He didn’t have a chance to fend her off. She swept him into a crushing embrace, lifting him off the ground, forgetting about the wound, laughing with joy. Sol winced in the background, wondering if it was common for Nords to show such personal - and pulverising - contact in reunions. “We thought you were dead! By the Gods… we’ll need to talk later. Vasora will be happy to see you! And the others.” She set him back down on his feet, and gripped his shoulder.

“We’ve got an airship to destroy.”