[h3][I]Shifting Sands[/I][/h3]

[I]Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, 9th Midyear, 4E208…[/I]

It had been a disastrous week, with numerous setbacks. The Poncy Man sat in his study, idly spinning a globe on his desk, a single streak of sunlight illuminating the Northern hemisphere of the globe. Idly, he thought of it like a cleansing fire of Satakal purifying the world of those who would do it ill, namely the Dwemer that had chased much of his people back into the sands and had forced them from their cities. The Alik’r were still active, somewhere, across Hammerfell’s vast landscape, which only gave refuge to those who understood its secrets and consumed those whom did not. The Dwemer were crafty, to be sure, and the Redguard alone could not withstand their machines of war, but the sands did not care how elaborate and well-tuned your machine was; it would fail all the same, as heat baked the alloys like a forge and sand would clog the clockwork gears. About the only thing that had any hope of success were the airships, but sandstorms would render their visibility moot and get into sensitive works of the machinery, an unwelcome result if one were several dozen meters from the ground. 

And so, the Dwemer were content to call the cities their prize and proclaim the province as their own, but if stone walls and comfortable ports were the brain of Hammerfell, the sands and desert was the heart and capillaries. The Redguard understood it as a part of their own souls; it was something the damned Deep Elves would never understand. 

He huffed in annoyance, turning his dark eyes to a stack of parchments, reports from the various cells under his watch. He was but one of a dozen leaders in the Alik’r Insurgency, and the representative of the Merchant’s Guild, and under him six cells had flourished, and the seventh… it was too new to know. Initially, Samara cell seemed like a sure bet; a bunch of companions who had prior operational experience and encounters with the Dwemer that had both the motivation and the incentive to get involved. Roux had vouched for his partner, Daro’Vasora, and finding available help was becoming increasingly difficult as the weeks drove on. Losses simply couldn’t be replaced.

After a pair of somewhat disastrous assignments, the Poncy Man wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake or not. Supervision was required, that much was certain, which was why he’d activated Hassan and Nadeen to keep tabs on the group, although Hassan had been pulled off to deal with renegade elements that made up Irranhu Cell and had been unable to rendezvous with Samara Cell in the meantime, which he had ideally made more pliable and trusting after putting considerable expense into sponsoring a party for the group. Daro’Vasora had made a fairly sound argument that none of her group had any experience in the sort of work that was asked of them, and that they’d been constantly on the run for weeks. Perhaps they needed to be eased into it, be given some assistance from those with field experience in Gilane. It was a part of why Hassan was going to make contact and help orchestrate their next assignment, but it had been three days since his last report, and Nadeen was growing ever more suspicious of Gregor and Raelynn. 

Picking through a few of the reports, numbers flowed across his vision as he tried to keep tallies of everything that had occurred the past two weeks. Twelve members of the insurency across all cells had been killed or captured, eighteen Dwemer soldiers were killed, one of the Dwemer administrators that Samara cell was supposed to capture, eight city guards, and three of the foreigners for the Ministry of Order. Rations were spread thin with disrupted supply lines, the [I]Intrepid[/I] was lost with all hands, and the war chest wasn’t breaking even. They’d need to make a move to secure finances. Perhaps with those uniforms Samara cell acquired, they’d be able to infiltrate a storehouse…

The face of his wife appeared in the doorway through the curtain. “Pardon me, Darak, but Hassan is here. He looks grim.” she said, looking somewhat embarrassed to have interrupted. He smiled at her, his precious Laimi, and couldn’t imagine ever feeling inconvenienced by her. “Well, I best not keep him waiting, then. Could I bother you to prepare a pot of tea for us?” he asked politely. 

[hr]

Hassan closed the door behind him and removed the sword from his belt, placing it beside him as he sat at the Poncy Man’s desk. There was nothing but silence as he poured himself a cup of tea, taking his first sip before sighing. He took a second to appreciate the tastes and undertones of the tea, eyes closed. It was a few more moments of silence before Hassan opened his mouth, “I’m very much not fucking pleased with Samara Cell.” He said, he placed his cup down gently before continuing, “I met with Farukh in Irranhu Cell, their leader after Samir was put in the pits and well… died. He acted as if getting back into line and following orders was akin to agreeing to forty lashes. Now I want to give him fifty.”

The Poncy Man drank thoughtfully from his own cup, electing to hold it and the saucer delicately. “No, I would imagine not, and I am of the same heart. Did you decide to give him his fifty lashes?” he inquired.

“No, as much as I wanted to.” He shook his head, “I gave him a warning that I would come back if he didn’t toe the line again. We are in a sea alone, surrounded by sharks. We need to step carefully and step all at once with each other or not at all.”

“This cell system seems to make them think the Insurgency is all their own, in their own little worlds, rather than just a way for us to keep each cell from selling out the other.” He sipped at his tea, “Just give me the word and I’ll go back there and give them a reason to promote a new leader.”

“At your leisure.” The Poncy Man said, setting his cup and saucer down with care. “You may be right, but it also is the only way to ensure that if one cell is compromised, the others do not follow suit. What news is there of Samara cell?”

“Romantics. There are a few of them involved with each other.” Hassan spoke. “Nadeen has noticed an Ohmes-Raht around the Three Crowns more than once. Latro and Daro’Vasora returned to the Three Crowns after curfew followed by someone. A few days later, Latro was tailed by someone who looked like Redguard or some Mer.”

“Samara Cell ended their party and Nadeen was on watch, she noticed another person who may be the same one who had tailed Latro leaving as the party died down.” He shrugged, “Too many to be coincidence. I suggest we watch Latro closer.”

“Interesting…” The Poncy Man mused, knowing that the Ministry of Order was certainly making their moves. Could this Ohmes-raht be a part of Major Kerztar’s group? All of the agents that had been encountered in the field had been foreigners; it all seemed like too much of a coincidence. The romantic angle didn’t surprise him; they were not a professional army, and danger had a way of bringing people closer together. He quietly wished them good health and fortune, but so long as it didn’t interfere with their mission. Hopefully the party had helped loosen their trepidation towards him. “Agreed. When you approach them, I shall have Nadeen keep an eye  from the shadows. You will see the hand they offer, she will see what is hidden behind their backs.”

A voice came out of the doorframe. “There’s trouble. Daro’Vasora and Latro have been captured by the Ministry, the Cathay with the axes. They were just marched through the streets to the palace; the girl was injured, arm broken. I was unable to ascertain where they had been apprehended.” Nadeen stepped through the curtain, stepping beside Hassan, her face ever impassive. “I do not know what their intentions with the prisoners are, but it is unclear what information they could divulge under interrogation.”   

The Poncy Man made a steeple gesture with his fingers, staring past them as he contemplated the news. “Then we need to move quickly; do you feel Samara cell is capable without guidance, Hassan?”

“I do.” He nodded, “Above all else, they have a loyalty to each other. Let us wait to see what they do.”

Nadeen shuffled almost imperceptibly. It was the most subtle of signs she had something else on her mind.

“Speak, Nadeen.”

“It’s the Imperial, Gregor, and Raelynn. I suspect they’re up to something… unsavory. They’ve been sneaking off on their own, and not just for pleasure. I have my suspicions, but they conceal their tracks well. I would like to continue to pursue this avenue of approach.” Nadeen replied, a suspicious glint in her eyes.

“Very well. Hassan, I need you to make haste to Samara cell. They must be made aware of what has transpired; we must make a counter blow and soon. Irranhu Cell can wait. Let us hope they are not foolish as to attempt something brash. Nadeen, please exercise caution and continue your vigil. I count on you in ways that I could never entrust to another.” The Poncy Man said, standing. “Is there anything else?” he asked.

“Nothing of note.” Hassan bowed, “I’ll make my way to Samara’s dorms, get them to the conference room and we’ll plan something.”

“Very well. Safe travels, my friends. We know the path forward, just not the obstacles that may lay ahead.” With a nod, Hassam and Nadeen filed out of the room, leaving the Poncy Man to his study. He sat in quiet contemplation for several moments before pulling open a drawer, revealing a 40 year old vintage bottle of Stros M’Kai rum that he had intended to save for victory over the Dwemer. [I]Sentiment is overrated.[/I] he thought, pulling out the cork and topping up his tea cup with the dark amber liquor.

If the Governor was intent on playing the game more violently, then he would return the favour. Pulling out a quill and inkpot, he began to write down the next steps to be relayed to his other cells. Gilane’s streets would run red with traitor and Dwemer blood alike, and the palace would become a burning beacon to inspire the Alik’r for leagues to take up arms against the occupiers. The long game could no longer wait, he decided, unrolling another parchment and reading its contents with destain. Bahia cell lost a full half of its members in a surprise attack two nights prior at an ambush in the docks, and the insurgency wasn’t replacing its numbers like it should have. He sighed, pouring himself another drink, wondering how many parties he’d need to host to keep morale up. Daro’Vasora had been onto something there, and then she’d been stupid enough to get herself captured shortly afterwards. 

The Poncy Man drank deeply from the cup, emptying of the rum in a single go. There would be repercussions for this, he decided. The Governor would not go unanswered.

If only he could reign in the problematic cells and make something work in his favour. The people needed a victory, not a rabble of self-minded idiots committing inconsequential acts that were detrimental to the cause, like Irranhu cell. He’d hoped Hassan made his point very clear to them; they could ill afford another misstep.

[hr]

[I]Gilane Streets…[/I]

“For the record, I think this is a stupid idea. You’re overreacting, sir.” Marassa said, walking alongside the Thalmor emissary with her sword resting upon her pauldron and her amber eyes scanning the gathered crowd for threats.  It was a strange city, and the demand to have the two murdered [I]Indrik[/I] sailors receive a proper burial in the city and the argument that their ship was no longer a safe haven after the brazen attack, Erincaro had decided to petition the Governor for protection in the palace. It simply reflected badly to have political dignitaries to your city assassinated by rogue elements, and the [I]Indrik[/I] simply wasn’t ready to make the voyage due to lack of supplies due to shortages caused by both the occupation and the insurgency. The Dominion was effectively trapped in harbour, and there was no real time frame for making it out to sea.

“You are the one who wished to get off of the ship and see the city, captain. “ The Altmer retorted playfully with a sly grin. “Besides, if your childhood crush is as dangerous as you claim and wanting to hang me from my intestinal tract from a lamp post because of something my father did long ago, I’d much prefer to take matters into my own hands before he discovers how flammable timber in the shape of a sea vessel really is. I’m versed in the school of Destruction, captain; I don’t fancy my odds of repelling flames that suffocate the air out of a hull.”

“As you wish, sir. Just know you’re making my job absolutely miserable. You know most of the local populace wants us dead for the Great War, right?” The Khajiit replied tersely.

“I recall it was I who personally taught you our history.” 

“Well, let’s say I don’t fancy reenacting it.” Marassa said with a resigned sigh, deciding to change tacts. “The climate is agreeable, to say the least. Reminds me of Anequina, assuming someone actually decided to build cities instead of living largely as nomads.” 

“Speaking of which, why is it you never earned an honourific like most of your race? It’s occurred to me from time to time you don’t really talk about the Confederacy very often nor Senchal. Everything has always been so immediate and I felt it inappropriate to ask something that might be constituted as indelicate.” Erincaro asked, his hands folded neatly behind his back as he marched at the head of the column. Marassa knew him too well to argue with how irresponsible it was.

“I was young when you saved me from that shithole of a city and I never much cared for looking back. Considering most of my compatriots since then have been elves, my birth culture never really had a chance to leave an impression. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve had moon sugar, or considered my people’s gods. It’s all been Auri-el this, Magnus that.” she said impassively, her eye catching something in the shadows of a building up ahead. “Hold up. I think-”

The arrow whizzed by her head, missing it by half a meter. “Ambush!” She shouted, and the Dominion soldiers began to form ranks around Erincaro as chaos erupted. Two of the Dominion soldiers were brought down as arrows found their mark, which prompted the mages in the outfit to retaliate with destruction spells from anything deemed to be where the archers were located, flames splashing across building faces as the alarmed crowds screamed in alarm. The shields caught a few more of the arrows, likely from only a small handful of archers, and only from a 180 degree field of fire. The attack was sprung early, Marassa decided.

Several loud yells and screams came from all sides, and several masked warriors with swords and spears charged at the Dominion soldiers, only wearing meager armour as to blend in with the populace. Marassa grunted and held her sword at the ready; she hated being right all of the time.

Bodies crashed into shield, and the disciplined soldiers of the Dominion held against the onslaught, the heavy armour many of the company wore shrugging off the glancing blows of the blades and spears while many of their blades found their marks; Erincaro, although unarmoured, was a masterful mage and the precision of the ice spikes between his soldiers was something commendable. Marassa grappled a spear away from her body and drove her head into the face of a spearman, staggering him enough for her to drive her blade into his guts, pulling through to catch another sword in a brief lock that she side-stepped out of, bringing her blade’s momentum behind her back and into an overhead strike that the fighter managed to catch. Another approached behind her, forcing her to disengage with the first fighter and igniting a magelight in the face of the second to blind the Redguard enough that he didn’t see the large blade come horizontally to decapitate him in a single strike of the blade. The first man’s sword scraped down her backplate, prompting a snarled curse and and thrown elbow that nearly connected with the man’s face. Her hand coalesced the blinding white light again, distracting the fighter enough that her gauntleted fist struck him across the face holding the greatsword, which she pivoted and drove the blade back into the man’s abdomen with both hands. He fell limp on her blade.

“Sergeant, find us an opening!” she shouted towards a Bosmer who favoured twin blades and Ferin, the Wood Elf quite at home in the middle of a mass skirmish.

“Aye, captain!” Came the reply as one of her daggers plunged into the eye socket of one of the men in front of her as the Khajiit soldier beside her was brought down with a spear to the neck. She cursed in her mother tongue and stabbed the murderer several times before the spear was able to free itself of her compatriot. Of the twelve guards, 5 were already dead to the 9 attackers, largely thanks to the assistance of magic and armour that the mostly Redguard force was bringing on them; had they been a regular Alik’r formation, the ambush would have likely been far more efficient and their warriors unmatched. This felt like rabble.

“The way we came, back alley, make us an entrance, J’Razri!” Ferin ordered the Cathay-raht in the ranks, who carried an impressively large maul and at over 2 meters in height was a force to be reckoned with. 

“J’Razri will make a way!” he replied, driving his maul down on one of the warriors who foolishly tried to block the heavy weapon with the haft of his spear, but the weight and strength behind the blow knocked it aside and crushed his shoulder. The massive Khajiit grabbed the screaming man by the face and tossed him aside casually as he worked his way forward, a landslide made flesh. Now away from the formation, he was free to use the full range of motion of his weapon, and when it struck, it was sickening. 

“Back him up! I’m with the Emissary!” Marassa ordered as her team moved into formation, two more of her unit killed in the process; one to the sharpshooter that Erincaro slayed a few moments later, and one of the mages was brought down by a trio of swordsmen. Marassa let out a war cry to engage, throwing her hand out and one of the fighter’s hands were encased in hard ash and the other found a shoulder driven into them to make space while the greatsword was brought up in a diagonal slash towards the third. Mercuran, an Altmer shieldman who fought with both spear and sword and showed very little magical aptitude across his life, bashed the ash-shelled fighter across the face with his shield and drove his spear into the chest of the wounded swordsman that Marassa had managed to wound with her sword. With two dead, Marassa drove her pommel into the man’s temple before turning her blade over and driving it up through the man’s neck; the strength of the blow and the width of the blade severed the spinal column and the head was retained only by sinews of flesh.

The big Khajiit had managed to secure a passage to the alleyway, but arrows were sticking out of him; he was not holding his maul as proudly as he  could have been. “Shit.” Marassa hissed, grabbing Erincaro by the shoulder and leading him to the opening J’Razri had secured. Only Erincaro, Ferin, Mercuran, and herself made it to the opening, the rest of the unit had been slain in the streets. The only consolation was that they had taken down far more than they had lost, but even the loss of a single one of her soldiers in what was supposed to be peace time was unacceptable in Marassa’s eyes. “Well done, J’Razri. We need to go, now.”

“This one is not going anywhere.” The Cathay-raht had said, his breath heavy and blood was soaking through his armour plating. “Go, captain. Take the Emissary and live.” he nodded to the smaller Khajiit with a grin. “It was always J’Razri’s honour. May your roads lead you to warm sands, captain Marassa.”

“Walk the moonpath, brother.” she clasped him by the arm for a moment, meeting his gaze for a few moments before ushering the survivors away. J’Razri pulled his helm off, an impressive braid falling loose behind his head as he spat a glob of blood from his lips. He looked at the encroaching enemies with fierce determination. “You will go no further,” he challenged, slipping his helm back over his head. “The five of you verses a mortally wounded J’Razri? You should haven taken this one’s arm to make it fair. Come, kill me if you can.” He said, finding the vigor to hold his maul with a sense of determination. The enemy charged, and be brought his hammer down to meet them.