[h3][i]New Beginnings[/i][/h3]

When Gregor had thought the situation in Cyrodiil could not possibly become any more dire, the Aldmeri Dominion decided to prove him wrong. The sudden and violent assault on Anvil sent Gregor and Raelynn scrambling to get dressed, rudely interrupting their equally violent [i]activities[/i] after their chance encounter at Dibella’s chapel earlier that morning. Gregor made his way to the docks with his electric claymore in hand, Raelynn following right behind him -- a good thing, too, since he had to cut down two of the Aldmeri infiltrators that were wreaking havoc in the streets. The truth was that Gregor hadn’t really taken to Daro’Vasora’s proposal but lack of a better plan had driven him not to decline. That decision was now fully vindicated, and he was profoundly grateful for his place on the [i]Intrepid[/i]. The blond Breton captain, Roux, had the looks of a snake charmer about him, but Gregor found him to be perfectly affable when he personally thanked him for their rescue. As they set sail and escaped from Anvil’s harbor and out onto the open sea Gregor sank down on the damp wooden deck, his back against a barrel, and stared at the sky for what felt like hours. 

They were going to Hammerfell. He was leaving his home, his family and the Dwemer and their souls even further behind. The Gods [i]were[/i] cruel, Gregor thought bitterly. The Redguards were a notoriously narrow-minded people when it came to the arcane arts: Hammerfell was possibly the absolute [i]last[/i] place he’d think to go when it came to his quest to become an undead lich. On the other hand, they were fantastically capable warriors, having been the only (former) province of the Empire to bring the Aldmeri Dominion to its knees during the Great War, so if the Dwemer decided to expand their conquest westwards Gregor expected the people of Hammerfell to put up a hell of a fight. That was still a potential opportunity for him to get what he wanted: the soul of a powerful Dwemer. The perfect offering for the Ideal Masters of the Soul Cairn. 

The six days they spent sailing on the [i]Intrepid[/i] passed by agonizingly slowly. Much like during their journey to Anvil, Gregor spent most of this time processing what had happened and planning ahead. He was, if nothing else, a methodical, deliberate and cunning man. Still, he had his weaknesses, and one of them was walking aboard the same ship the whole time. Whenever they thought nobody was looking, Gregor and Raelynn gave each other furtive looks to confirm that their, ah, business in Anvil had not yet been concluded. The ship provided no privacy to continue their session, however, so nothing came of it. In fact, they didn’t even talk to one another, [i]at most[/i] acknowledging each other during a larger conversation or in passing. But that wasn’t unique to Raelynn; Gregor kept to himself mostly anyway. His only friends on board were the aforementioned Breton seductress, the young Nord lad Calen and the Argonian soldier Jaraleet. Brynja’s death-stare when Gregor gave the obviously distraught Rhona a look of concern was a warning that Gregor heeded without having to be told twice, so he avoided both of them. He had talked to Daro’Vasora before, of course, but she appeared to be taking on the responsibilities of a leader and looked too busy for further conversation. It was during this time that Gregor learned that most of the group had been together for many weeks now, that they had met during a Dwemer ruin excavation gone wrong and that Rhea Valerius, the woman Daro’Vasora had so venomously insulted outside the gates of Anvil, had been their employer initially. Even after Elenglynn, Skingrad and Anvil, Gregor still felt like an outside to these people, and he wondered if he would ever feel truly at home with them. Did he even want to?

All of these thoughts were abruptly and irrevocably cast aside when they arrived in Gilane. Gregor watched the conversation between the three Dwemer customs officers, Roux and Daro’Vasora from the high vantage point of the quarterdeck. His nails dug into the wooden railing with such force that it hurt. A tempest of conflicted emotions roared through his heart at the sight. Every single one of Gregor’s expectations had been defied by the very [i]idea[/i] that Hammerfell was occupied by the Dwemer already. How had the Redguards, of all people, let this happen? Had there been such a ferocious slaughter, like the Imperial City, that they had surrendered? Or had the Dwemer gone about it differently? Gregor cast his gaze across Gilane’s skyline and saw no signs, not one, of a siege. In fact, the city looked positively vibrant, shimmering as it did in the golden sunlight. His pride as an Imperial balked at the fact that he was going to have to submit to the authority of these gray-skinned, knife-eared, fancy-robed bastards. During the ship’s inspection one of the Dwemer came right up to him, a practiced eye going over Gregor’s weapons, and he had to stop himself from lunging at the elf and ripping his head off. The rational part of him slowly took over and calmed him down when they were allowed to disembark. They followed Roux through Gilane’s bazaar and Gregor saw Dwemer mingling with and apparently living peacefully alongside the locals. A thought occurred to him.

The Deep Elves were [i]everywhere.[/i] Their souls were practically waiting to be harvested. 

Gregor’s prejudice and the cold, calculating reaper that lived inside his mind prevented him from seeing the Dwemer as people and his inscrutable gaze seized them up as targets. From the mother whose child stumbled into Daro’Vasora to the armed guards that patrolled through the city, Gregor evaluated the potential worth of their soul. His gaze fell on the child as it spoke… he blinked and looked away, disgusted with himself. Children were children. Out of the question. Shaken from his predatory reverie, Gregor decided to focus on where Roux was leading them instead. That turned out to be the [i]Three Crowns Hotel[/i] and Gregor mouthed a silent ‘aha’ when Roux offered a passphrase and they were brought face to face with an older Redguard. He had vaguely caught wind of what Roux had said to Daro’Vasora and he had been wondering when they were going to discover what the Breton captain had in store for them. This, he thought as he looked around the luxuriously decorated room, was a pleasant surprise. 

He listened attentively to what the Poncy Man had to say and Gregor found his words more than agreeable. An armed resistance against the Dwemer occupation? He could hardly think of a more advantageous position from which to place himself in a situation where would be able to reap the soul of a Dwemer. He immediately thought of Governor Rourken, the new ruler of occupied Gilane, whose name Roux had mentioned, and smiled to himself. He was signing up alright. After Brynja had assigned them each to one of the rooms, Gregor turned to Calen and gave him a genuine smile. Alim he did not know, but Gregor was pleased to share a room with the bard. He would have one friend by his side, at least. He followed the guards to the room and immediately gravitated to the bed that was closest to the doors that led to the balcony outside -- the heat was oppressive and Gregor longed for a breeze at night to soothe him while he slept. He immediately began to strip out of his armor and his cloak and let out a contented sigh after he was down to his black clothes. He stored his belongings in the chest by the foot of his bed. Still, this outfit wasn’t suitable for Hammerfell’s climate, and Gregor was still sweating. Since they had the evening to themselves, the first order of business would be to acquire more sensible clothes. He looked at Alim and took note of the half-blood’s breezy, linen ensemble. “That looks comfortable,” he said to Alim and laughed. “It seems like I need to go shopping. Excuse me, gentlemen.” 

While he left his armor at the hotel, Gregor kept his weapons strapped to his person when he stepped outside and made his way back to the bazaar, drinking in the sights more carefully this time. He noticed that a lot of the local Redguards and the Dwemer looked at him more intensely and longer than he was used to, or, admittedly, comfortable with. They must have heard what happened to the Imperial City. Were they worried that the heavily-armed Imperial was going to do something stupid? Gregor kept his hands clasped behind his back and adopted a slow, sauntering pace, doing his best to keep the expression on his face light and pleasant. It worked -- the Dwemer patrols averted their gaze after a second or two and he noticed less of the Redguards staring at him as he walked by. He found a vendor stall that sold the style of clothes he had seen on Alim and, after some haggling and retreating to the long house behind the stall to try on his new clothes away from prying eyes that might judge his tattoos harshly, Gregor emerged refreshed and redressed. His black, high-collared tunic had been replaced by a baggy, white, low-cut, buttoned-up linen shirt with loose sleeves, and his equally black pants were swapped out for tan breeches that were held up by suspenders. Gregor admired himself in the mirror that the Redguard merchant attentively provided and laughed. He looked like a pirate, or a swashbuckler from the sappy novels his sister used to read when they were younger. He thanked the vendor for his business and found himself stood in the bazaar, looking around. What now? The Poncy Man had made it obvious that there would be no further talk of the resistance’s mission until the next day. He thought about seeking out Raelynn but he wasn’t sure where she was, which made the most logical place to start looking the room she shared with some of the other ladies… his status as a gentleman caller would be immediately obvious to the others if he knocked on that door, and he didn’t want to cross that boundary. Their affair had remained a secret so far and that suited him just fine. 

For lack of anything better to do, a drink seemed in order. The sun had dropped low in the sky by the time Gregor had finished obtaining his new clothes and the local population dispersed from their workplaces into the taverns and tea-houses that were scattered throughout Gilane. Gregor followed the crowds with the same leisurely gait as before until he came upon a large, white tent, shaped like a starfish, with a circular bar at its center. Tables and chairs were arranged in the shade and seats were quickly filling up. Gregor had traveled enough to know that if you wanted to find a fine establishment you should look for a place where the locals gathered, and he saw many weathered, dark-skinned faces here. Satisfied, Gregor sat down on a stool at the bar and immediately found himself looking up at the stern (but not unkind) face of an older, bald Redguard with a salt-and-pepper beard. 

“What’ll it be?” the barman asked. His voice was deep and gravely, like the croaking of tanned leather. 

“I just arrived in Gilane today,” Gregor replied as he leaned forward on his elbows, peering at the rows of bottles that were on display. “First time in Hammerfell. What do you recommend?” 

The Redguard grunted and reached for a bottle containing a mahogany-colored liquid without answering. He poured Gregor a shot glass and put it down on the counter with a note of finality. “Try it,” he said, and the Imperial thought he could see a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

Not without some measure of trepidation, Gregor brought the glass up to his lips and took a measured sip. His eyes went wide and he had to suppress a coughing fit as he swallowed, covering his mouth behind his fist, and the barman chuckled. 

“Stros M’kai rum,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You like it?” 

Gregor thought about it, staring down at the dark swill, and realized that he did. “Strong stuff, but it’s good.” He steeled himself and threw back the rest of the rum. This time he managed to keep his composure. The barman nodded in approval. 

“What brings you here, Imperial?” the Redguard asked as he poured Gregor another shot. 

“War,” Gregor answered without thinking. He sighed and looked the barman up and down for a second -- the older man looked like he would have been alive back when Hammerfell was still part of the Empire. Perhaps he still had some measure of fondness for the old days. “My name is Gregor, by the way. Pleased to meet you. I assume you heard about the Imperial City?” 

“Karrod. Likewise. I did.” He looked at Gregor with an inscrutable expression, as if he was waiting to see how the Imperial was going to react. It was a familiar look by now. 

“The Dwemer drove us south, towards Skingrad,” Gregor continued. “We had to leave there when the Dominion showed up. They infiltrated the city and installed a puppet Dark Elf as count. We traveled to Anvil next, but the Dominion followed us and attacked the city. That was… six days ago. Me and my associates were able to flee aboard a merchant vessel.” 

Karrod grimaced. “So the rumors are true.” He rapped his fingers on the bar and stroked his beard with his free hand. “Sounds like the Empire is in deep shit, Gregor. I’m… sorry to hear that.” 

So he was right. Gregor smiled a sad smile and shrugged. “It is what it is. I’m here now. Say, Karrod--” 

Before he could finish his question, a Dwemer woman sat down at the bar two stools over. Gregor closed his mouth and stared at her. Unlike the mother from before, this woman’s hair was braided in the same style he had seen on the customs officers that had boarded the [i]Intrepid.[/i] She wore a long, unassuming dress that was the same color as the ubiquitous Hammerfell sand, and a purple sash wrapped itself around her waist. She was… beautiful, in a way, Gregor realized. He flinched and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw that she was looking at him now with a sheepish smile. Gregor could practically [i]hear[/i] Karrod roll his eyes and the barman walked over to service the Dwemer woman. “He’s new. Kamdida, Gregor. Gregor, Kamdida.” 

Now properly introduced, Kamdida nodded at him in a polite greeting, and Gregor responded in kind. It was satisfying to see that she had the common decency to be awkward around him, as if she was aware that she was part of an invading force that had destroyed the capital city of his country. Gregor opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. The truth was that he had a thousand questions for the Dwemer (Where did you come from? Why are you here? How did your species survive a total and sudden disappearance?) but Roux’s words of warning echoed in the back of his mind. Lay low, pretend to like them, and you’ll be fine. He downed his second glass of rum instead. Meanwhile, Kamdida ordered tea. 

“You don’t look like a Redguard, Gregor,” Kamdida said. She was still smiling.

Gregor, who had averted his gaze, looked up at her again. This was surreal -- was he really about to have a conversation with a [i]Dwemer?[/i] He cleared his throat and regrouped himself. “I’m an Imperial. From Cyrodiil, you see.” 

Kamdida nodded slowly. “Ah,” she said softly. She held his gaze but there was something in her eyes that made Gregor think she would rather look away. What was it? Shame? Guilt? Pity? He couldn’t tell. 

“What do you think of the sacking of the Imperial City?” Gregor blurted out. 

Karrod, who had been cleaning the bar, froze. 

“It was your city. What do you think?” Kamdida replied and took a sip of her tea. 

[i]It was your people,[/i] Gregor thought and almost said so out loud when a sudden realization struck him. It had been staring him in the face ever since he arrived in Gilane but he hadn’t put two and two together until now. The prevalence of purple, the different methods of subjugation, even the shape of the weapons and armor of the customs officers… it reminded Gregor of the difference between the Altmer of Alinor and the High Elves that had grown up within the Empire’s borders. Same race, different people. 

These weren’t the same Dwemer that had invaded Cyrodiil. 

“An… unnecessary tragedy,” Gregor said, thinking quickly. “This is much better.” He gestured around him at the entirety of Gilane and, presumably, Hammerfell. “Peaceful coexistence should be possible, right? As long as everyone works together.”

Kamdida nodded again, more enthusiastically this time, and smiled warmly. “I agree, and it pleases me to hear you say so. You will do just fine here in Volenfell. Welcome.” 

Karrod breathed out slowly and continued to clean.

That was it -- Gregor’s tolerance for absurdity had just been reached. He flashed a grin, reached for his septims, paid for his rum and got to his feet. “Thank you for the hospitality, Karrod. Kamdida, it was… nice to meet you. Good evening,” he said and bowed slightly towards both of them before turning on the spot and walking back the way he came, to the [i]Three Crowns[/i] hotel. He needed to be somewhere the Dwemer weren’t.