[h3][i]One Day Earlier…[/i][/h3] [i]Afternoon, 22nd of Last Seed, 4E2408 The Flowing Bowl, Anvil[/i] “Good,” Hector Sibassius said. Gregor, merely a child, smiled at the compliment. “But mind your footwork.” Marcus smirked. They were training in the yard. It was summer and the air smelled of flowers. Gregor looked down to find a wooden sword in his hands. He ran a finger across the edge and thought he could feel the rough, blunt material -- it always used to leave splinters in his fingers. Marcus stood opposite him, much younger and shorter but always more determined, more dedicated. Gregor did not always win their sparring bouts. He had no real talent for swordfighting, nor the motivation to excel. He looked up and saw his mother looking down on them from the master bedroom’s window. She waved at him. “What did you do?” a breathless voice asked. Hector had disappeared and Hannibal stood in his place. A large claymore protruded from his chest and blood as black as the night pooled beneath his feet. Gregor opened his mouth to speak, to protest; he had done nothing wrong! His footwork needed improvement, but that wasn’t so bad, was it? But no sound came and his jaw worked uselessly. “I’m scared,” Marcus whispered, half his face missing and the other half rotting with decay. Gregor looked up at the bedroom window again. Inside he saw Briar swaying from a noose. He gasped for breath and jolted upright -- suddenly and without warning he found himself inside an unfamiliar bedroom, the bed sheets soaked with cold sweat. He was old now. His vision swam and his fingers trembled as he slowly came back to his senses. It had been another nightmare. He was in Anvil, he remembered now. He shivered and coughed as he climbed out of bed, peeking through the curtains with squinting eyes. It was late. He had slept through most of the day. Anvil appeared to still be in one piece, so the Dwemer hadn’t caught up to them yet. Relieved, Gregor freshened up and got dressed. Despite being inside the walls of the city, he could not shake his old habits and found himself dressed in full battle attire when he was finished. He laughed at himself and shook his head. He descended the stairs and entered the [i]Flowing Bowl’s[/i] common room to find it mostly deserted. It was an odd time of day, between lunch and dinnertime, and most of the establishment’s regulars would be at work or otherwise preoccupied. That meant that Gregor’s eyes immediately fell on the most interesting thing left inside the place: Jaraleet, the Argonian, eating by himself. Gregor hadn’t seen him since they arrived at Anvil and he had been too obsessed with his own thoughts during their travels to have talked to him, but the Imperial figured he owed him a heartfelt gesture of gratitude -- it had been Jaraleet who had fought back-to-back with him during their escape from the accursed Dwemer. When the situation had been especially dire and Gregor had almost resorted to necromancy to save himself, the Argonian had appeared, seemingly from thin air, and the two had been able to slice their way out the old-fashioned way. Gregor approached and placed a hand on Jaraleet’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you,” he said and smiled -- it was a sincere, emphatic smile that lit up his whole face, for while the experience had left a sour taste in Gregor’s mouth, that had most definitely not been Jaraleet’s fault. Even Gregor’s eyes exuded warmth. “I never got to thank you for what you did back there. So… thanks, Jaraleet. You saved my life.” “Ah, Gregor, it is good to see you as well.” Jaraleet said when the Imperial man talked to him, turning his head to look at the man and smiled back at him. “It is I who should thank you, my friend,” the Haj-Eix said, motioning for Gregor to take a seat in front of him. “If it hadn’t been for you, I doubt I’d have made it out of that ambush alive either.” The Argonian replied honestly once Gregor had taken a seat. After he was done talking, it suddenly dawned on the Argonian that he had been eating when Gregor talked to him something which caused him to let out a soft chuckle. “Pardon my bad manners, would you like something to eat? It seems rude that I be the only one eating.” He asked the Imperial man. “Or at least let me buy you a drink, if you don’t wish to eat anything.” The assassin added after a few seconds of thought. “I’m not hungry just yet, but I’ll take a drink, thank you,” Gregor said and sat down opposite the Argonian. “Something non-alcoholic though, I just woke up.” As if to emphasize the point, Gregor yawned behind his fist and rubbed his eyes. He stared into the middle distance for a few seconds before is gaze shifted back into focus and he looked inquisitively at Jaraleet. “Where did you learn how to fight like that?” The Argonian nodded, motioning for the barmaid to come before Gregor’s words shifted the Argonian’s gaze towards the Imperial yet again. “Ah, that's a complicated answer.” He began to speak, chuckling softly. “I'd have to say that my first instructions, as it were, came from my father, he was a hunter for a living in my childhood and, well, the plan was for me to follow in his footsteps. So he taught me mostly about tracking prey, a skill that would come most useful in the future.” The Argonian lied easily enough, taking a second to allow Gregor to order what he wanted when the barmaid came to the table they were sitting on. “Do you have… apple juice?” Gregor asked, looking up at the maid. She nodded with a smile. “Only the finest, sir.” He nodded and returned her smile, and off she went. “But, as to my training proper,” he began once again once Gregor had made his order. “Well, that comes from my time in Argonia’s armies. I admittedly started as a mere town guard, but I was drafted into the army proper due to skirmishes with the Dunmer of Morrowind. That's where I cut my teeth, so to speak.” “It’s always our fathers, isn’t it,” Gregor said and chuckled. “I learned from him too. He was a Legionnaire before he became a merchant. But the Dunmer of Morrowind, eh? They’re quite a foe, as I understand it. What brings you all the way out here?” “The answer to that is less complicated.” Jaraleet began, taking a sip of his own drink before he continued. “I was fighting against the Dunmer for quite some time and...well, the pressure of the situation kept mounting up,” He began explaining, shaking his head slightly. “Eventually I couldn't take it anymore. I reached my breaking point when, in my last battle, most of the unit I was part of was decimated.” The Argonian continued, letting out a sigh. “Our commander had walked us straight into an ambush, the arrogant fool. Only he and I survived and I….well, I broke.” He admitted, looking down for a brief second. “I murdered him in my rage and then fled to Helstrom once I came to my senses.” Jaraleet said, pausing for a second to let Gregor absorb what he had just said. “After that, I realized that I would be tried as a traitor, and justly so, and so I fled to here where I plied my trade as a mercenary.” He finished, letting out a sigh. “I'm not proud of what I did, but it's the reason as to why I'm here.” The Imperial was surprised that Jaraleet had been so honest and forward about his past. Gregor took a big swig of juice (the maid had returned with his beverage while Jaraleet had been talking) and shrugged. “I won’t judge you for your past,” he said. “Bad things happen to good people. You already proved to me that you’re one of the good ones. How…” He paused, unsure of how to phrase his next question. He decided not to beat around the bush and be direct. Jaraleet seemed like the kind of person that could handle that. “Are you happy here?” “Do you mean if I'm happy living here, in Cyrodiil?” Jaraleet asked, taking a few seconds to think before he spoke again. “I won't lie, there are times where I miss Argonia...or where I miss my family.” He started, shaking his head slightly. “But, I'm happy enough living here. Aside from the current situation with the Dwemer, I've led a good enough life here in Cyrodiil.” The Haj-Eix said, smiling slightly. “Why do you ask, Gregor?” “Curiosity,” Gregor said before he smiled sheepishly. “And because I want to know if my homeland has been treating you well,” he admitted. “I spent a long time away from home but I always loved it here. The people, the food, the culture, the architecture, even the forests and the fields… it’s idyllic, isn’t it? They call Cyrodiil the Starry Heart of Nirn and I’m inclined to agree with them. There’s a reason that history has always centered directly around White-Gold Tower, and the… Imperial City…” He trailed off and sighed, melancholy suddenly writ upon his face, and Gregor pushed his glass of juice aside with his fingers. “They destroyed it, didn’t they?” Gregor asked softly. There was genuine sadness in his eyes. “They did.” Jaraleet replied solemnly, unable to meet Gregor’s gaze. “It was a sudden attack, the Dwemer didn’t make any demands nor any proclamations of any sort. They just….dropped their troops into the city and started butchering everyone.” He said quietly, the memories of the invasion, and subsequent conquest, of the Imperial City still all too fresh in the Argonian’s memory. “It...it was a travesty. Such carnage, and for what?” The assassin continued, surprised that he felt real sorrow for the fall of the Imperial City now. “I can’t say that I was always treated right, not many look upon us Argonians as anything more than mere beasts who learned to walk upright and talk, but I have fond memories of Cyrodiil as well, and I had acquaintances that I lost during the sacking.” He said mournfully, shaking his head slightly. “All that is left for us now is to make the bastards pay, I guess.” That was more like it. Daro’Vasora had been frustratingly pragmatic about her role in the war to come and the conversation that had ensued to try and convince her to keep fighting the Dwemer had seen Gregor reveal more about himself than he would have liked. Jaraleet, on the other hand, was evidently intrinsically motivated and needed no further convincing. Gregor wasn’t surprised -- the Argonian had been a soldier before, after all. It was good to see that he cared. In a brief moment of self-awareness, Gregor felt like a horrible hypocrite. The feeling passed almost immediately. [i]His[/i] preoccupation with his own goals was justified. “I’m glad to hear that,” Gregor said and smiled. “Not everyone from our party is so determined to see the Dwemer being taken down a notch, much to my disappointment. I want to keep fighting them but we need to be smarter about it and for that we’re going to need all the capable folks we can get. Can I count on you, Jaraleet?” The Imperial leaned forward to emphasize his words and looked Jaraleet in the eyes, mahogany against amber, neither knowing the truth about the other. Jaraleet nodded alongside to Gregor’s words. The sudden change in the Imperial man’s mood hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Haj-Eix and instincts honed throughout years working in the shadows, both of Argonia and Cyrodiil, told him that Gregor was a dangerous man, more so than what his considerable skills in fighting showed. The gaze with which the man regarded him with was the main clue for the assassin, it was a gaze that he had seen in his comrades and it made the Argonian wary of Gregor to a certain extent. “Of course you might, I am ready to fight to the bitter end if needed be.” He replied after a second, smiling towards his Imperial comrade. “Excellent,” Gregor said with a grin and downed the rest of his apple juice. “You’re a good man.” His stomach growled and Gregor winced -- now that he was awake, his hunger had caught up to him. “Time for me to find some dinner. I know you offered, and I mean no offense, but I’m looking for something different today.” He got to his feet, shook Jaraleet’s hand and gave him a comradely nod. “See you around, Jaraleet.” And with that, he was off.