As the idyllic countryside lifted their spirits and they resumed talking amongst themselves, there was one among them who remained silent until they reached Anvil.

Gregor had escaped death narrowly, fighting his way out of the Dwemer counter-ambush back to back with the Argonian, Jaraleet -- the pair had encountered each other in the frantic melee by coincidence and, being both experienced in small unit tactics, stuck together instinctively. It had been extremely hairy and Gregor owed his survival to the fact that his will to live had been firing on all cylinders, allowing him to resist the mortal terror that overwhelmed so many of the other Rangers amongst the carnage. He had seen Tiber die. The young lad had screamed for help while he tried to push his guts back into his abdomen. Gregor had locked eyes with the dying boy for a split second but he could not go back for him without risking being cut down himself… so the Pale Reaper had left Tiber for dead. By the time Gregor and Jaraleet had put enough distance between them and the Dwemer not to have to fear for their lives anymore, Gregor found that he was positively [i]covered[/i] in Dwemeri blood. It was… shocking. He’d seen and done horrible things but this simply stunned him into silence. 

After a day of walking and thinking since their reunion with the other survivors, Gregor realized it wasn’t because it had been particularly gruesome or brutal. It had been, of course, but the Imperial necromancer was desensitized to violence and death by now. No, it was something else: the fact that he had [i]lost.[/i] Unambiguous, total defeat. That was new. Gregor didn’t care for it at all. He still hadn’t been able to take a Dwemer’s soul and the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn’t want the soul of a simple footsoldier anyway. He had expected the Dwemer to rely on their automatons entirely, to think combat beneath all of them, but that wasn’t true. There were ordinary Dwemer too. If his offering to the Ideal Masters was going to impress them at all, Gregor wanted the soul of a [i]real[/i] Dwemer -- the tinkerers and metaphysical architects that had lingered in Tamrielic legend for so long.

But that seemed to be a pipe dream now. Gregor’s time walking was spent between worrying about his family now, as it seemed there was nothing to spare them from the wrath of the Deep Elves if their army moved further south, and agonizing over how the hell he was going to achieve his goal. Gregor had never backed down from any part of his quest ever since he had embarked on it ten years ago, but he had to admit that the full might of the Dwemer was an enemy he could not fight. It made sense to retreat to safety but at the same time they were walking away from what Gregor needed most: a dying Dwemer lord with a soul to steal. Still, the sight of Anvil in the afternoon sun was a welcome reprieve and Gregor swiftly made his way into the city after pausing to observe the falling out between Daro’Vasora and Rhea. He didn’t know the latter but the Khajiit’s words were venomous enough to make him immediately wary of the Imperial woman. Once inside, Gregor cleared his mind and set out to deal with the most immediate issue: the state of his clothes. He, too, visited the bathhouse and the annex where he could wash his clothes -- he spent two hours scrubbing all the elven blood out of his cloak and cleaning his armor until it shone again. It was good to have something to occupy his hands with and the physical labor calmed him down a little, helping him regain his focus. After he had washed himself and redressed he found he had made his choice. He would continue to pursue the soul of a Dwemer, but not by returning to the front and simply trying the same thing again, like Brutus wanted to. Gregor sought him out and politely resigned from the Rangers, pretending to be too shell-shocked to continue fighting, and Brutus dismissed him after a disapproving glare and a heavy sigh. 

No, Gregor needed help. He had to be smart about his. Prepare, research, recuperate, regroup. Who could he turn to, however? He wandered through the city, his eyes barely taking in the sights, his mind twisting and turning this way and that. Sometimes people grasped him by the arm, asking what news he brought, but Gregor shook himself loose from their grasp and carried on without a word. He wasn’t going to spend his time on these people. There were more important things to do.