[h3]To Be Nord[/h3]
[sup]Thanks to the lovely [@MacabreFox] for her help![/sup][hr]

[i]Anvil, 24th of Second Seed[/i]

When the word traveled among the group that there was a new job to be had elsewhere, Daro’Vasora having been the one who had found and brusquely informed him of the plans. Though he found it curious that someone so new to this ensemble of odd ducks would be so casually sought out - he didn’t think himself to be of any significant importance to any one person of the group, but maybe he left some kind of impression. What it may have been, he did not know, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity for work, especially if that opened up the possibility for more travel. He set out initially to see more of Tamriel, so perhaps he was with the right people in order to do that. So he did what he could to help. He’d wake up the next few mornings, bright and early, and help move some crates and stuff onto the ship. It was no chore he wasn’t already familiar with. Despite his inexperience with ships, he always woke up early in the morning to take care of the family’s stables and all the horses first thing in the morning, followed by pitching hay bales over a fence. Those who thought less of him at first might have been pleasantly surprised to learn that he was still a fit young man who kid keep pace with the other dock workers once he got the hang of it.

Being up bright and early every morning also meant that he was there when they first started ringing the bells. He was there when the Dominion ships crawled over the line of the horizon. He was there, running through the streets, when chaos in Anvil broke out.

He was lucky enough to avoid the Dominion agents -- most of them. When it became obvious that he was sprinting towards the city gates, looking as though he was going to escape the city, a bound weapon was conjured in an elf’s hand, but was quickly caught by one of the guards next to the city gate while the other one sunk their blade into the infiltrator.

[i]“Go!”[/i] One of them yelled.

...

The memory of the last few minutes were on replay in Calen’s mind even as he collected as many things as he could from the wagon he had left in his stable. He packed as many things as he could into an overstuffed backpack, and then he stuffed what he could into Danish’s saddlebags. The essentials should come - septims, obviously, for if he was going to leave so much behind, he’d need every single one to recover what he lost once they landed at their destination. Soap? Can’t go sailing anywhere while smelling like a beggar. He packed his food too; half of it was left as well was a half-filled bottle of Solitude’s spiced wine. Khenarthi’s Breath, good as a backup, also has sentimental value. His books - his journal… [i]his journal.[/i] There was no way he was going to leave without it. No way in Oblivion.

When he felt he had everything he needed, Calen jumped down from the wagon, landing on the straw covered ground with a crunch. He was just strapping Danish’s saddle on which he stopped for a moment, noticing that the sound of the crunching hay continued. The bard looked curiously around the other side of the wagon to see a familiar looking goat munching on the hay that he had set for Danish earlier in the morning. That was Rhona’s goat. Why was it here of all places? Gods, he didn’t have time for this.

“Here, here…” He whispered to the animal. As he beckoned the animal closer, the goat hopped, and ran towards him with its head low - the damn thing was charging at his knee again! The bard jumped over the goat - “Aha!” - but his cocky victory was rudely interrupted as the goat spun back around and headbutted behind Calen’s knee as he landed. He fell over and landed on the soft hay, looking up at the goat with frustration as the thing began sniffing through his pockets. Danish turned around and whinnied, his flank now facing the opening of the barn.

[i]‘Farm animals are the worst!’

“I think he’s over here.”[/i]

Calen was immediately alert at the sound of a stranger’s voice. The sound of two pairs of footsteps were just outside the stable, two pairs of boots rustling through the grass and pounding against the dirt were coming ever closer. He immediately jumped to his feet in the crouched position and grabbed the wooden cudgel he had hanging from Danish’s saddlebag. Hiding behind Danish, who was nuzzling his face as some kind of way to extrapolate some treats from the Nord, he watched two shadows stretch across the stable.

[i]“Well there’s his horse.”[/i] Said a different voice. It sounded distinct. Not Nordic, but not quite Imperial either. He heard a dialect like it before… in Bruma. These men weren’t elves.

Calen popped his head up from behind Danish and was relieved to see the face of two men, Quintus and Pavo. They were both at Skingrad like many of the other refugees. He sighed with relief as he looped the leather strap of his cudgel around his belt and began walking towards them.

“Thank goodness it’s just you two! I’m glad you’re safe.” He said, but then he looked to them thoughtfully. “What are you guys doing out here? Don’t you know what’s happening?”

The two men were both equal in height and girth, each being quite stout and burly. The one called Quintus took a step forward, his hand traveling to the shortsword buckled at his waist, he lifted the sword just enough out of the sheath, saying, “Well, Cezare wants to have a word with you. And he won’t take no for an answer. So why don’t you come along quietly with us?”

“Bad time for a chit chat, don’t you think?” Calen commented incredulously. “The city’s under siege -- can’t it wait?”

“Afraid not, lad.” Pavo said, mirroring his companion’s behaviour, “He’s paid us gold to bring you to him. And he’s not too happy with you.”

Calen rolled his eyes. That Cezare guy was starting to be a major pain in the ass. Didn’t he shake him off Rhona’s trail back in Skingrad? There shouldn’t be any problems. He rested his hand on his hips, “I can’t imagine why. I only helped him escape the Imperial City when [i]that city[/i] was [i]also[/i] under siege.”

The bard turned around and continued to fasten the buckles and straps of Danish’s saddle as he continued, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I’m worth enough gold to somebody for you two fellows to even bother, but…”

“You mean, you don’t know--”

“Shut the fuck up, course he don’t know.” Quintus elbowed Pavo in the ribs, “Look lad, Cezare has his wife back. We’re done asking nicely.” He drew his shortsword and brandished it towards him, Pavo drawing his own blade.

Calen remained still, the only sign of a reaction from him was the squeaking of the saddle’s leather as his grip tightened. He took a deep breath, though a little shaky, he calmly and slowly faced the two men with his hands above his head. He eyes darted between the two armed men. He knew them well enough that both of them were individually stronger and better at fighting than Calen ever was, but he was still wracking his brain to try finding a way out of this situation. Then he could try finding her.

“Is Rhona safe?” Calen simply asked. He hoped that they still had enough honor left to be honest with him.

Quintus laughed as he mocked him, “[i]Is Rhona safe?[/i] Sounds like you’re a bit soft on her. She’s where she belongs. Cezare wants you alive to kill you himself, in front of her. Teach her a lesson.” He glanced at Pavo and nodded. His companion planted the sole of his boot against the side of a water barrel, and kicked it over.

“Really?” Calen replied, sounding pleasantly surprised. “So that means I’ve got nothing to worry about from you two, right?”

“Oh no, Cezare didn’t say we couldn’t hurt you, just wants you alive for himself.” 

“You think you can do that?” Calen bluffed. “Haven’t you ever dealt with a Nord before?”

“My mother’s a Nord. [i]Boy.[/i]” Pavo retorted.

“[i]But you’re a Colovian.[/i] There’s a difference.”

“And what’s that?”

Calen, with both of his hands up, gave him a cheeky smile and slapped Danish’s flank as hard as he could, causing the pony to whinny and immediately buck his hind legs out. Two hooves were firmly planted into Pavo’s chest as he was sent flying back several feet. The sudden catapulting of his friend caught Quintus off guard, giving Calen enough time to draw his cudgel and hammer it against the side of the Imperial’s head with an effeminate yelp as his battle-cry, who instantly dropped to the ground with all of his senses dazed. Though Quintus tried to reach for his weapon, his hand only inched weakly in a random direction until his dizziness got the better of him and finally drifted away into unconsciousness. 

Calen didn’t wait to even calm his pony down. He slid his cudgel back through his belt, hopped onto the saddle, and pulled on Danish’s reins to whip him around where he was able to get a good look at Rhona’s goat. It was pissing in its own mouth and spitting it on top of the still conscious Pavo who was -- now very likely wincing and spitting in disgust -- clutching what was probably a broken sternum. Calen threw up in his mouth a little bit but was able to coax it back down. What did Rhona call that thing? Tobias?

[i]‘Farm animals are the worst.’[/i]

The bard growled to himself -- he should probably bring the damn thing along anyways. If it meant anything to Rhona, then “Tobias” was worth the energy. With a quick whip of the reins, kicking Danish’s flanks, and Calen clicking his tongue a few times, the pony spurred to action with surprising alacrity. As Danish dashed out of the barn, Calen slid partly out of his saddle and reached down to grab the goat by its horns. The momentum generated by Danish was enough to allow Calen to rock Tobias on top of Danish’s back and set him down in front of the saddle where he leaned forward and pinned the struggling goat down with his body.

With this unlikely A-Team, they were able to work together to escape the clutches of the dreaded Cezare. Though peril still awaited them behind the gates of Anvil, they were able to navigate through the chaos through luck and pluck until they were able to reach the docks where he saw some of the crew rushing onto the gangplank of [i]The Intrepid[/i]. Among them was Rhona, being escorted by Daro’Vasora. Even in the chaos of Anvil, he could feel the tension in his body finally relax.

[hr]

[i]The Intrepid | Hilane, Hammerfell, 30th of Second Seed[/i]

The trip to Hammerfell was tense. Danish would be kept below deck, safe and sound, and Tobias was likely going to go wherever he pleased. Calen himself felt miserable. He didn’t have experience with ocean travel, and the swaying of the boat made him sick to his stomach - and the [i]heat[/i]. It was worse than what it was in Anvil! Though they escaped one danger, it became clear that Rhona didn’t escape without harm. Perhaps it wasn’t visible, but she was shaken terribly and Calen wanted to comfort her. He really did want to, but he could read a situation well enough. Things were already complicated and he didn’t want to complicate things even further, and Brynja’s death glares to anyone who even thought about getting close was enough to dissuade him from even attempting. It was a few days of spending as much time as he could away from the harsh sun when it was actually Brynja herself who urged Calen to talk to Rhona, but by then, Dilane was already in sight. With no one knowing what was in store for them, they agreed that the talk should wait. This wouldn’t be the time to get distracted.

When they finally reached Dilane, they discovered that they may have made the right decision. The Dwemer were already here.

But they weren’t at all what Calen suspected. They were cordial and pleasant, and Calen followed the cue of the ship’s captain and the company’s own fearless leader. He cooperated with them, allow them to inspect his belongings, his pony downstairs, to appreciate the artisan craftsmanship of his cudgel, chatting them up quite happily -- he could’ve fooled the sharpest of them. It wasn’t hard to be amiable, but secretly Calen wondered how long this supposed peace would last. He realized that recording history was going to be far more complicated than he thought. The implications of the occupation were unsettling. It was easy enough to write down the worst of the Dwemer’s atrocities, but also the best? Their culture? Their music? How could soldiers effectively fight a war if they couldn’t effectively dehumanize them? Calen realized he had his work cut out for him and that the only way he was going to get out of this was with an open mind.

Fortunately, he apparently made enough of an impression on the Dwemer that one of them helped direct him to the stables where he could give Danish proper shelter. The pony was irritable and spooky after several days of ocean travel and all of the stress and anxiety that came with it, and the heat of Hammerfell is something that would take getting used to. He just had to make sure the pony got plenty of rest and water in the meantime. Calen himself? He felt about as exhausted as Danish did. He followed the group to Three Crowns, found the room he would be sharing with Gregor and Alim (he didn’t have time to consider all the [i]fun[/i] he would have with Gregor and his new soon-to-be friend), and threw himself onto a bed where he fell fast asleep.