[i]1st of Midyear, 4e208
Gilane, Hammerfell
Conference Hall, Three Crowns Hotel

A short while after the debriefings...[/i]

The meeting room was left empty save for two men, both of which had not spoken to each other the entire duration of their presence being shared. The only sound among them were the flowing silk curtains covering the windows that would dance with each soft breeze. Occasionally, a seagull’s call would travel from the nearby harbor to Latro, but not a word was among the ambience. One of two, the more lithe of them, sat with the portrait of the Dwemer Magistrate in his hands, committing every wrinkle and hair to memory. It was not the first time he had been given a task like this. At least he wasn’t the one responsible for his death though. Latro sighed, taking a second to look about the chamber and give his eyes a rest from staring at something for so long. With his attention taken away from the portrait, his mind drifted elsewhere. He hadn’t been among the Redguard people in their homeland since… since Pale-Feather died some time ago and Latro walked away in his footsteps. He shook those memories away and took a nervous sip of his lemon water.

He chanced a glance at the other man in the room. He was an imposing presence, that much was already known. He held a kindness to him, but his eyes told of things anything but. He looked back at the portrait and placed it on the table, every crinkle of the parchment sounding like cracks of thunder in the near-pregnant silence of the hall. Reaching over, he grabbed up his cup of lemon water and drank the last of it, placing it as softly as he could back on the tabletop- that movement too seemed almost unbearably loud. Latro pushed his chair back onto its hind legs and propped his bare feet on the table. So far, Hammerfell’s dry and bright weather had brought him some amount of solace through the ill feelings being back in Hammerfell brought him; he could finally go about shirtless and shoeless once again. The long journey here and lack of time alone had also seen to it that he’d sprouted a jaw of good-length stubble, but only time and necessity would tell if he would keep it. He figured the ability to look like anyone of any gender was more important than trying at new fashion.

No matter how much he tried to relax, he felt as if he was being quietly judged, although his and the other man’s eyes never met in the stolen glances Latro had of him. A silly thought Latro threw over his shoulder and sent a peach rolling towards him with a forefinger, catching it as it dropped off the edge of the table. He grew tired of the silence and finally cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ve had a proper chance to talk before… well, [i]this[/i] all happened.” He frowned, “Latro, if it’s slipped your memory. Gregor?”

The Imperial’s reverie was broken by the sound of Latro’s voice and he looked up to meet the Breton’s expressive eyes, the color of copper, accentuated by the golden afternoon sunlight that illuminated the room. [i]Latro.[/i] A dainty name for a dainty man, Gregor thought. The young man’s appearance was so strikingly androgynous that Gregor hadn’t been sure of his gender until he had seen him shirtless. He suspected, however, that that belied a more dangerous man than first impressions would have him believe. There was a grace and purpose to Latro’s movements that reminded Gregor of people like Jaraleet -- trained killers that had such control over their body that no energy was wasted. Gregor had seen him fight and been impressed by the hand-to-hand style the Breton employed.

“Yes, I’m Gregor. Pleased to properly make your acquiantance, Latro.” He smiled the warmest smile he could muster. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. I’ve been lost in thought,” Gregor added and then gestured towards the parchment that held the artist’s impression of the Dwemer’s appearance. “What did you make of him?”

Latro pursed his lips and thought a bit on it. Finally, he had his answer after a few moments, “He’s like any master of people. Extremely polarizing,” Latro nodded, “some loves him, others wanted him dead. Truth be told, I don’t entirely trust our Merchant Guild hosts. Everything is profit and loss, but at the hands of the Dwemer, I’ve known only the latter. This Mer’s no different, he’s a war-dog, like the rest of them. Calm, polite- lovable, even.” He snapped his fingers, “As soon as the Governor wills it, though.”

He left the rest unsaid, knowing that Gregor could catch his meaning. He looked about the room, fully knowing that each of his and his companions’ movements could be watched from anywhere. They were strangers in this land, and if Hammerfell’s warriors could collude with the Dwemer, who was to say he and his companions couldn’t in the distrusting eyes of the Poncy Man and his benefactors? “One thing’s to be said, though. He’s dead now, and not at the hands of the Poncy Man’s trusted people, but strangers.” Latro shook his head.

“I’ve no love for the Dwemer after the things I’ve seen them do. Hammerfell’s merchants aren’t in my favor either, though. What do you make of the Poncy Man?”

Gregor was right. There was a sharp side to Latro. His words were wise and showed that he was perceptive and appreciated the political game that was being played over their heads. “You're right about the Dwemer. I met the Governor earlier with Daro'Vasora and Raelynn and she was very… impressive. Gave a long speech about her best intentions but she made it perfectly clear that they will do whatever is necessary to ensure their 'survival’. Which is to say, their sovereignty.” That was an emotion that Gregor understood all too well. He was willing to kill and condemn for the sake of his own life and that of his family. It wasn't strange to think that Rourken would do the same for her people. But that didn't mean the Redguards had to sit back and let it happen. Gregor fully expected that his victims fought back. Rourken needed to maintain that mindset if she wanted to survive.

“As for this Poncy Man, I consider him a useful ally. He and I share the same goals. We can develop a working relationship, I feel,” Gregor said in response to Latro’s question. He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling of the room, eyes searching for something that wasn't there. “But he shouldn't try to be too clever with us.” 

Latro shook his head at the last bit, the easy smile on his lips, “No.”

With that, he let his chair go back onto all fours, standing and stretching his hands toward the grand painted ceiling. All of this was so opulent for a place to harbor fugitives of the Dwemer. “But one thing at a time, like you said. The Poncy Man hasn’t wronged me yet, it’s the Dwemer who have.” He grasped up his lute, the very same one Daro’Vasora had given him what seemed like another life ago, and strummed out a few soft notes as he sat back down on the table itself, ”What does a simple traveling busker care for the machinations of tyrants and insurgencies?”

He chuckled good-naturedly. “So, if I may ask, where do you and your big sword hail from?”

“Cyrodiil. Bravil, to be precise. Well, to be even more precise, the sword actually hails from Bruma, but I am from Bravil,” Gregor said and absent-mindedly lifted his right hand over his shoulder to finger the claymore’s pommel. “My family owns a business there. I haven’t been home in more than ten years, though.” He smiled again but there was a weariness to him now, and for a moment he looked like he wanted nothing more than to simply stay seated and never get up from that chair again. But the moment passed as he regained his composure and now it was his turn for his eyes to twinkle inquisitively. “What about you, Latro?”

Latro had to stop strumming when Gregor’s face drooped so. The feeling of empathy gripped his full attention and for a moment, it was as if he was an empath to Gregor. He hadn’t seen his own family for about that same stretch of hard, grating years. It didn’t help that the ostracizing was done by both parties. He’d alienated himself from them for too long and come back to them a stranger. He noticed he was doing a bit of drooping himself and set himself back to playing, “Camlorn in High Rock. We were well off and I set out to see what the world had to show me. I wasn’t content to sit on my arse and chew on sweetmeats my entire life. I never imagined this would be one of those things.” Latro frowned a bit before finding his easy smile once more, “First time in Hammerfell?”

Gregor laughed. Latro's story was the same as the fake tale he spun to curious travelers to explain his own departure from a life of comfort and security. Was there more to the nimble Breton than he was letting on? Gregor couldn't blame him, if so, for keeping his cards close to his chest. It was often the wisest thing to do in this world. He thought of Raelynn; her eyes, her lips, her hands on him -- but more importantly, he thought of how she'd clawed the truth out of him. Having been lost in thought again for a second, Gregor focused his gaze on Latro and saw a kinder, warmer look in his eyes than he expected to see there. Was he… sympathetic? Perhaps the two of them were more alike than Gregor knew.

“Yes, first time in Hammerfell,” he said at length and ran his hand through his beard. “Never thought I'd find myself here. I've always lived and worked within the borders of the Empire until now. This world we're in now…” he sighed. “What's your life on the road been like?” Gregor asked, changing the subject. 

“Not always easy.” Latro shook his head, effortlessly juggling between the conversation and his playing of Wayward in Wayrest, a favorite ever since Sora gifted him the lute, “No. But I’ve made my way and kept it through everything. That’s what matters isn’t it? I’ve been blown by the winds here and there and now I’ve found a little piece of home in these people we travel with.”

“I’ve no shame in saying that I’ve missed that feeling ever since my mentor and I parted ways. There’s a peace in it, isn’t there?” He shrugged.

The Breton’s words rang true within Gregor and he nodded slowly in agreement, looking away and out the window at nothing in particular. “Yes, there is,” he said and combed through his beard again with his fingers. Their escape from the Dwemeri counter-ambush had been harrowing and Gregor feared for his family, whom he had never felt further away from than now, but the daunting task that he had worked to fulfil for the past decade felt a little easier now that he had Raelynn. Nblec was just the beginning. He wasn’t alone anymore. While he mused on that, Gregor found that he enjoyed Latro’s music and his company and decided that, even if the young man wasn’t a warrior, he was something of a kindred spirit after all. 

“Who among us do you feel closest to?” Gregor suddenly asked and his gaze returned to Latro at last. His eyes, so often hard as iron, had softened and there was something vulnerable about him now that they were broaching more personal matters.

Latro set his lute down on the table, leaning back and propping himself up on a hand, taking a bite out of the pear he’d set next to himself earlier. He chewed thoughtfully for a second, how they’d jumped right to this subject. There was really only one sure answer for him and his mind drifted back to her and the memory of Anvil. Her softness, her purring voice, those eyes that saw everything good in him. If there was one thing he’d learned in his albeit short amount of years so far, it was to never let go of a good thing once you have it. You might never find anything like it again once it’s lost.

“Sora.” He answered surely, looking off at the cityscape beyond the curtains with wistful eyes. “Daro’Vasora. If it weren’t for her, you and I would never have been able to have this conversation. I owe her my life.”

He nodded, before adding, “And, well, also the fact that I’ve also saved hers once means I wouldn’t take kindly to those who have a notion of taking it away from her.” He chuckled, “What of you, friend?”

The Khajiit? That was a surprise. Gregor had only ever seen her be standoffish and even vitriolic before, so the fact that she had grown close with someone as soft-spoken and gentle as Latro was… unlikely. War really did bring the strangest people together. 

“Well, Jaraleet and I had to cut our way out of the Dwemer ambush back in Cyrodiil together. He’s just as dedicated to the cause as I am. And Calen and I already met once before in Skyrim, before all of this happened, and in Anvil he composed a song in my honor,” Gregor said and smiled sheepishly at the thought. Then he realized he was doing it again -- lying, hiding, only telling half-truths. Why did he always feel like that was necessary? Daro’Vasora had noticed that he and Raelynn had… a thing, so the secret, insofar as it was one, was bound to come out sooner rather than later. He took a deep breath and added: “But the truth is that Raelynn and I have grown very fond of each other. You know, the Breton healer?”

“I know her.” Latro nodded. “She’s a good sort. A good heart. I can tell.”

Latro continued playing without words for a few moments, letting the music be the only thing that filled the ambience of the room. It broke through the tension that was first there, along with the conversation, of course. But one could rarely feel awkward in the presence of a song, he found. Finally, he finished through the notes of the song, letting the last remnants of sound from his lute slowly fade and give over to the soft flapping of the silk curtains that had come before it. How many times had he played that song, he wondered. In taverns from Falkreath to Bravil this song had run through his fingers, memories upon memories connected to it but now, only one. A bedroom in the upstairs of a trinket shop in the Imperial city, a Khajiit watching him play it with eyes that saw all the good in him. He smiled at that and put his lute to rest beside him.

He took a breath and let it out, “She must see good in you, Gregor.” Latro said, at last, “Keep that close. Sometimes, it takes others seeing it before we do.”

Gregor did not immediately reply. A small smile played around his lips, gradually growing until he was practically grinning, and he clasped his hands together over his stomach -- for all the world to see, he looked like a man amused at a joke. “I’m not sure what she sees,” he said tactfully, his mind wandering back to his and Raelynn’s sexual encounters: violent, passionate, destructive. And how she had encouraged him when he sacrificed the soul of Nblec Mrazac. “Either way, it appears that she and I are compatible. It is definitely good to not feel so… lonely.” That part was sincere, at least. “To be appreciated,” he added. Gregor’s gaze focused on Latro again and he frowned almost imperceptibly. 

“What makes you say that she has a good heart?” 

“She’s a healer.” Latro said simply, as if that was enough. He continued, with eyes that might betray a little piece of the man he once was. Or child, more like, “It is incredibly easy to do violence upon another living thing. A selfish thing to do, to take from someone everything they are, and everything they will be for any reason that would make Mara frown in her heavens.” He chewed on his bite of pear slowly, before making his point, “To heal someone from the violence done takes a better person.”

“Or an opportunist,” Gregor countered and smiled languidly. “Someone who knows that they have no talent for combat and instead realize that they stand to profit greatly from healing the wounds of those that do. And I disagree with your notion that all manner of violence is inherently selfish. Boys who march to war beneath the banners of their countries, risking their lives to keep their homeland safe, certainly don’t cut down their enemies for any selfish reason that I can see. Except staying alive, perhaps.” The Imperial cleared his throat and recited, more than sang (for he had no talent for it), a song that his father had taught him. 

[i]”O Land of Cyrodiil how glorious the sight,
When millions of freemen rise up in their might,
To battle for Empire and Liberty's cause
And aid in the defending thy time-honor'd laws;
The Empire it must and shall be preserved
So we say, let traitors decide what they will,
The flag of Cyrodiil shall float o'er us still
Shall float o'er us still, shall float o'er us still,
The flag of Cyrodiil shall float o'er us still.”[/i] 

Once he was finished, he paused for a few seconds out of respect for the tradition of his forefathers before speaking again. “We fight against the Dwemer to preserve our way of life, our safety and our liberty. The Dwemer fight to take lands that aren’t theirs. I know which side I think to be selfish and which side I don’t.” He sighed and laced his fingers together. “Nblec’s death was a grave mistake, though. Don’t get me wrong.”

“For any reason that would make Mara frown in her heavens,” Latro re-stated, “Too many think the meaning of being good is having no claws. A wolf loose amongst the sheep should be killed. Murderers and rapists are hanged or beheaded, it is the law and what morality tells us to do. A thin line between murder and justice.”

Latro sighed, “It was a mistake. I had my part in endorsing it all, I won’t discount that. Not only may the Poncy Man distrust us that much more, but the Dwemer don’t forgive easily. We are the wolves to their sheep now.” He shook his head, “The very symbol of Dwemer benevolence kidnapped and killed. The propaganda makes itself.”

“That is true,” Gregor replied thoughtfully and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t understand why Nblec died, though. I was there the whole time. I saw what Jaraleet did. It wasn’t that severe. I blamed the torture when asked about it because I can’t think of any other reason, but… honestly, it looked like his heart betrayed him. His eyes rolled back into his head and he just went limp in that chair. I tried to save him but I’m not an expert. Raelynn could have done it, but… well…” Gregor left the sentence unfinished and looked away uncomfortably as the sight of Calen in a pool of his own blood flashed through his mind’s eye. He glanced back at Latro quickly, however. He wanted to see how the Breton reacted to his lies. 

He only nodded, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Gregor didn’t look the type to do anything to foil the group’s mission, but neither did Jaraleet. No matter the startling revelation that the Argonian had much more to him that Latro first thought, ironic coming from his own thoughts, being what he was. Even so, the Dwemer didn’t look too old or frail to crack under the pressure of anything less than a knife in his neck. 

He shook his head, “Whatever it was, it wasn’t what they wanted to happen. I’m sure Jaraleet will say the same as you. I wouldn’t think any of us to be liars.” He said, the easy smile back on his lips as he continued, “Hiding something, maybe. But aren’t we all?”

Gregor breathed out slowly and mirrored Latro’s pleasant expression. It looked like the Breton had bought it. That was a relief. “Probably,” Gregor replied. “I’ve done things that I’m not proud of. Based on what I’ve seen you do, there’s also more to you than meets the eye. And we both know that Jaraleet isn’t just who he says he is. I agree with you, though. We all have the same goal. We all regret what happened. Gods, I know I do,” he continued and laughed. “If only I had studied Restoration more, I could have saved him, and others before him. But it’s no use thinking like that. What’s done is done. We can only focus on the way forward.” 

[i]Forward. Ever forward.[/i] Snow fell around him and Gregor looked down on the pentagram he had drawn on the forest floor, each star-tip crowned with a black soul gem -- the souls of the innocent hunters he had killed in a mistaken rage, years ago. [i]You can only go forward.[/i] 

He blinked and shook himself from his memories. “Daro’Vasora will be furious, I assume.”

“A pleasant thought.” Latro chuckled, putting his feet on the table, legs crossed. Sora, he wondered just how she faired. She looked to already be in a foul mood when he saw her in glancing as they walked the halls to the debriefings for their respective missions. “I’m sure she’ll come to each one of us with questions. It’ll be as mysterious and infuriating to her as it is to us.”

An interrogation from the Khajiit… that wasn’t something Gregor was looking forward to. He had accidentally given her reasons to suspect him back when they first talked in Anvil. “Even more so, I should think. She wasn’t there.” He gave Latro a sympathetic smile and got to his feet. “I think it’s time I get some rest. You should, as well. We’re going to need our strength for the challenges head,” the Imperial said and gave the Breton a slight bow.