[h3]Live Together; Die Alone[/h3] [i]The strongest of all warriors are these two —time and patience.[/i] [indent][indent][i] — Tolstoy[/i][/indent][/indent] [hr] “Tell me Slayer,” gurgled the soldier in a grizzled voice, his mouth full of liquid, and the words obscured. He spat the mouthful of blood into the face of the fiend sat on him, but the Stormcloak did not flinch. “Thin’ yer’ll be granted Sovngarde affa allothis?” Unable to raise a hand, he twitched his fingers in the direction of the bodies strewn and littered throughout the belly of the keep. The contemptuous blue eyes of the butcher sat astride him did not look, offering only a singular chilling utterance. [i]“No.”[/i] His glacial eyes were devoid of any emotion that might indicate regret or fear - there was only rage. Unfiltered fury. The Stormcloak wrapped his hands around the handle of the hammer at either side, slamming the mid-section of it into the Imperial’s mouth with enough strength behind it to break through his teeth. He pulled back, and brought it down again and again [i]and again[/i]. Until only a lifeless corpse was left beneath him, jaw slack with separation. In the darkness, he rose prodigiously to his haunches amongst his slain dead. A huge and imposing figure breathless and drenched. As he made his way to the exit, one whom he assumed had been finished began to move as though to crawl to an escape. With a quiet motion, the Slayer picked up a fallen axe and tossed it with such an unholy force that it split the head of the Imperial from his crown through to his gullet. In one last desperate wheeze of exhalation, his life was expunged from his body. The bodies were for someone else to find and a slow, hollow laugh sounded from the pit of his chest. He brought a hand there - expecting to feel the racing beat of his heart, fueled by the adrenaline of his merciless slaughter. Instead, there was nothing. No sound and no feeling. His had been a slow and purposeful erasure of love and a slower still spiral to depravity. This act of brutality had been as habitual as business as usual, and there was only a faint corner of his fragmented mind that functioned. The Slayer took to his steed and stole away like a phantom in the moonlight. The blues of his warrior garb had turned black from blood and so too was his face streaked with menacing evidence. His figure began to evaporate slowly against the rising dust beneath the hooves of his ashen mount until he simply became the colour of the night he escaped into. [hr] [hr] “Oh Kynareth, Goddess of the Heavens…” began the soft and humble voice of Fjolte, a different man to the spectre of his memories. He positioned himself into a comfortable sitting position upon his ledge, stretching forwards to place his palms flat on the ground. The thumb and forefinger of each hand pressed together to form a triangle. He held himself there, the sensation of the stretch from his neck to the base of his spine a curious reminder that he was still out of shape, or carrying a terrible weight. It was time to allow whatever was troubling him rise to the surface. He closed his eyes... How easy it was to tune into the drumbeat of a battleground. Years had passed, and yet the pounding still could be brought to the forefront of his mind as if it were still real, as if upon opening one's eyes, one would be stood again in a crowded line up - packed in crowded rows, ready to fight. [i]Impatient.[/i] So quick and easy it was to find that memory and be in it once more. The smell of rain was fresh, the very same shade of grey dulling the sky. The very same silhouette of a dragon behind the clouds soaring high above them like a God of the sky. He appeared with every roll of thunder and flash of lightning, gone again when darkness fell in the moments between. The grey stone and dirt filled sleet of Windhelm had been no defence against such a beast. The Dovahkiin took to hunting down Ulfric Stormcloak, while his men rallied against the charges outside. A wall of them dressed in their colours and mottled with blood of those they had already slain. Breastplates dented from insignificant blows. Whatever they were dared to bring to Windhelm was amusement to them, as evidenced by the battlecries of their mounted cavalry, and then again by the archers who loosed their arrows across the sky. The air whistled and screeched until the rain of fire came down to target, throwing men from their horses - the horses screaming as they too were shot down into the snow, staining it crimson. In the face of loss like this, the Slayer forgot his need and thirst for abhorrent violence and a thought struck him as if it were an arrow from the heavens — that War was endless and would endure over anything else in this life. War was a God and here he was at the Chapel, worshipping at the Altar with his head bowed in prayer. When War was done with him, it would reap the next generation of sons and daughters and crush the land underfoot. Memories like this should never— [i]could never,[/i] be forgotten. [hr] Meanwhile on the outskirts of the camp in the Druadach mountains, sat a small and unassuming tent, filled with all manner of trinkets that seemed to have no place in any of the other tents. Pots, pans, odd weapons, storage barrels, and emptied glass vials. A communal storage space, a dumping ground. The rug with which things were swept under, covered in a sheet of canvas that had started to dip in the centre. Whomever pitched this one had been absent-minded in their task. In that dipped centre, there was even a tear in the fabric just big enough to allow a fraction of sunlight to be fed through. Still, the tent was dark and dingy - and they had been lucky so far that the rainfall hadn’t split the tear further and drenched the items deemed inconsequential. Everything was haphazardly piled in jumbled stacks, and anything that had been useful - be it in terms of comfort or safety, had been promptly pilfered. Perhaps that was why there were a few sad items that had just fallen to their sides into the dirt. If those items appeared careworn, then the woman sat underneath the tear was anything but. Even dressed in shades of grey and black, she appeared resplendent. She knew how to dress, and even in a monochromatic scheme of colours, she knew just where to add her flashes of colour. Today, it was the silken plum ascott fastened around her neck in the most delicate and feminine knot. It was tucked neatly into the cloak, and she sat as dainty as a heron, holding in her hands the chromatic Dwemer Lexicon. This tent was so far removed from the treasure room of her father’s apartment in Gilane, and yet even in such a lacklustre place she was every bit the image of a living and breathing representation of High Rock nobility. Between her fingers was a brush, carefully and gracefully she brushed away at the etchings set into the chrome. Such patterns meant very little to her - but engaging in such an activity made her feel as though what she was doing was useful. Between the near-silent scratching sounds of the bristles pushing away at the grains of sand, and the crackling flames of the candles - the tent had a certain relaxing ambience that was far different to the one outside. She could make out the sounds of cooking and quiet chattering from beyond the loose canvas. But inside this tent, she had found herself a sanctuary. She would not be bothered here. [hr] Far now from the flaming maw of the great Odahviing, the future was looking less bleak and wartorn. Instead, blue eyes gazed into the flickering flames of a campfire. Such a thing was contained, it didn’t spread over rock and turn fallen snow to scorching steam… This was the comforting centre of a camp of friends. Mirth and camaraderie flowed like the wine that was being passed around. Far from the lifeless stare of a moonlight phantom, were the warm and inviting eyes of a rogue merely observing his friends as they celebrated through the night. The same moon that had been the witness to massacre lit the camp now with a serene glow that was betrayed by the ruckus of misfits. Fjolte’s eyes landed on the round shield of one of his friends. She had left it propped up against a log and it’s centre was glowing orange with the blurred reflection of the flames. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the owner of the shield laughing. Probably at something ridiculously stupid. So lost in thought was the Nord, that the soft thump beside him caught him off guard. His fellow Nord - Rowan, had elected to make his way to bring wine to his illustrious leader. He was short for a Nord. Almost [i]too[/i] short. It wasn’t uncommon for him to be mistaken from behind as an extraordinarily plump female child. He had long hair you see, ginger and wild and kissed by fire. His overly long beard was the same shade, only streaked through with silver now. Much to his chagrin. “Lookin’ me age but I dinnae feel it Fjolte,” he said with a merry chuckle. Handing the horn of wine to his (much taller) Nord brother. “Ha!” Fjolte sounded out, slapping one of his hands against the thigh of Rowan. He felt it jiggle after too, which only made him do it again for good measure. “Women love an old rogue, and we’ve women a’plenty tonight!” “Tha’ we do friend, tha’ we do,” Rowan replied taken a noisy gulp from his own horn. The wine trickled from either side of the rim and down the corners of his mouth, into his wiry beard. “I ken who you’ve your baby blues on though lad,” he teased with a loud belch. The Monk turned to face him with an expression of faux disbelief, giving him a tough nudge to the ribs with his elbow. “You’ll keep it to yourself though…” He wagged a finger in front of his brother, playfully raising an eyebrow. “If you know what’s good for you of course.” Rowan blew an obnoxiously loud raspberry in Fjolte’s direction, but they both began to laugh soon after. “You young’uns. Cannae keep up with you all. So go on then Mr Fabler, you gonna regale me with one of your famous tales or what then?” Suddenly, Rowan’s expression had grown from joyful, to impatiently expectant, and a Khajiit who had been in the vicinity of the conversation also appeared as if from nowhere. “N’yes, this one would like to hear a story too.” She perched on the log beside the shield, leaning forward with her chin held in hands, eyes aglow with curiosity and the heat of the flames. Never one to let down an audience, no matter the size, Fjolte puffed out his chest and held a breath, his eyes tracked upwards to the stars while he was in thought of just which tale to pull from his repertoire tonight. “Well my friends… Everything I know, I know because of love...” [hr] While fiddling with the Lexicon, Raelynn’s thoughts drifted to Daggerfall. To the sounds of merchants setting up their carriages for the day, the scents of the lavender that grew in her parents garden wafting in through open windows on spring days. The sound of her mother's voice - thick and pleasant. Womanly. “Raelynn, get your head out of those books and come join us for tea,” she would shout down the hallway, her words rounding the corner into the study where Raelynn would have been sitting on the floor, her eyes fighting the losing battle of sleep as she poured over pages and pages of books. That was how she had spent her days, reading. People thought she must have been raised with a silver spoon, and maids to answer to her every whim but that was far from the truth of it. She had always been a quiet bookworm, absorbing the knowledge of those far more clever than she was from the dog eared pages of books. It occurred to her that the memory was so alive, when she had been a child reading her precious books, she had paid little mind to the scene at hand and had never expected it to make an impression upon her now. To recall such details left a taste of sentiment on her tongue. The Breton arrived in the hallway of her family home. On one side, paintings hung on the wall of her family, of her. Her mother’s favourite was a painting that had been commissioned of a younger Raelynn on horseback. That had been a [i]very[/i] long day. On the other side of the hall was a long pole fixed into the brick, and [i]so[/i] many garments hung from it. Each with a slip of paper attached with a name and address. Sometimes they were ball gowns, sometimes simple shirts and jackets, and every now and again some rich noble would ask for clothes for a child. It made her wonder what would decorate the house that Gregor had said they would build, and suddenly she found herself away from home, away from the Reach and in a barren manor. Would they have a four poster bed, lined with thick curtains and covered in throw pillows and furs? Would it be settled by a hearthfire and facing a floor to ceiling window - with a balcony? Perhaps there would be some taxidermy on the walls, a shelf of books, a dressing table and chair. In the summer she could open the window and a breeze would roll in and flutter the curtain. Maybe birds would congregate on the railing of their balcony. Each item she imagined in her thoughts appeared in the home, exuding a warmth so real she felt as though she could reach out and touch everything, take hold of it all and appear there in reality. They would have need for a nursery, wouldn’t they? The Reach could not provide a nursery. There was only danger here and soon the thoughts of a peaceful home were flooded and the roots of fear began to take hold and creep through in the silence of that tent. The picture of serenity she was painting was linked so deeply to her wounds, as if it ran alongside them. Everything became fragile, and in that silence came a quiet cry of grief. It was so far beyond her reach. The length until they reached their dream was imperceptible, and doubly so by she who was longing so desperately for it. Would it be tomorrow? Was it weeks away or months? Would they ever get there? The flutters of distress and endless string of questions set about crafting a dangerous idea in her mind. The lines between reality and the workings of her mind had been sufficiently blurred. [hr] Fjolte opened his eyes once more. He let the harsh light of the day sink in, that blinding white that seemed to break through the grey of overhead clouds like rays of judgement - or the clear light of hope. Who knew? He’d done his due diligence and prayed to his Divine, emptied his soul and walked back across the path he rarely would tread. Painful as it was, the reminders of his past were all he had to keep him steadfast on his current journey. Still, he also wondered why in prayer his mind had recalled that campfire evening in particular as the postlude to his violent invocations. It hadn’t been so memorable at all, but revisiting time with his friends had touched him enough to let warmth filter back through, and rejuvenate him from lonely weariness. Slowly, in time with his breaths he brought himself back up to sitting and looked out over the lines and clusters of trees that made up the forests of the Druadach mountains. He’d walked this range before, but every time it felt new. Everything was always changing, wasn't it? The wind and rain would pelt the rock face and carve new shapes, lines, and stories. Trees would grow and stretch or fail to thrive and be uprooted by wind. Adventurers would wear down the ground, and the paths that were less travelled by became the paths most travelled by - others then would be overgrown. The Reach was alive and had as much air in its lungs as the Nord did. From his vantage point he could appreciate the veins of the mountains. He could feel the pulse and heartbeat. So attuned to everything - so clear of mind, balance restored. [hr] This was no place for her to be pregnant. Lying on solid ground was becoming unbearable, and hiding her sickness was even more so. This lawless land… She still had inn rooms retained. She would retreat to the nearest. Raelynn refused to be looked at like a pretty little thing ruined and ravished by darkness, like a poor and unfortunate soul. The Breton would not be the one to hold them back from their mission with this. With her burden. But of course it was not a burden to her, and she chided herself for having such a selfish thought… All the woman wished, was to take proper chamber in comfort and safety. Her joy and secret was just that, her own. A secret, she had tread carefully to avoid flaunting a smile in the open, and instead had tried to make herself useful and all that had served to do was bring her to the place where all the lost things seemed to be. Everything in this tent was simply dead weight. Stripped of all things useful, and this was where she had chosen to spend her day… She could be hours gone before anyone noticed her absence. That was a good enough head start. Raelynn traced a finger over her chest before kneeling forwards to write. Her quill ran across the parchment with haste but her cursive was not indelicate for it. The only consequence of such swift writing were the splashes of ink that dripped and bled into the letter, and that for several of her words the tip ran dry and so said words were mere scratches. She wrote apologetically and with love, even if there was no apology in her heart for what she planned to do. [centre][i]“My beloved,”[/i][/centre] It would soon be left on her bedroll for Gregor to find. He would not retreat to their tent until night, and by then she’d be but dust in the wind with the speed of the horse beneath her. He would understand, wouldn’t he? It felt that there was so little she could do to bring him from his sadness, how could she stay here and be another reason for his worry once the truth had to come out? The best she could think to do, was to run. To run and find civilisation enough to bring their son, or their daughter, safely into the world away from the quest of the group. It was all she could think about. It was a paralysing pain that rang in her ears. To steal a horse would be no easy feat, but perhaps the absolute absurdity of Raelynn leading one of them through the forest was just strange enough to go unnoticed after all. To hide in plain sight. Her father had always taught her that “one must be cunning and wicked in this world.” While such a lesson had carried her this far in her life, her current decision was less one of cunning, and more of desperation and a fierce instinct urging her to safety. An unnatural feeling that unsettled her to the point of sudden paranoia. Who would take a horse in order to escape in broad daylight, in front of everyone? It would only be an absolute fool, or a genius. Now that was cunning. [hr] With a filled sack of herbs under one arm, the Nord began to make his way down the vertical slope of the cliff he’d climbed to retrieve them, and as sometimes happened, he pressed his weight to a rock that came loose in the impact. It sent him sliding down against the surface - the sharp edges gnawed at his arm and chewed through the flesh until he could catch his footing again. Such slips didn’t give him cause for fear, and once he’d stopped, he took a tighter grip in his free hand to ensure it wasn’t about to happen again. He could feel the hot sting of an open wound through, and he gasped out in pain as he took a look at it. “Fuck me…” he groaned as he finished his dangerous climb. It didn’t take him too long to arrive back at camp, and he was pleased to see the others had made it back, and the spoils were already ceremoniously on display. He beamed at the sight. “That’s my girls,” he said, dropping the bag of herbs beside it. If he so pleased, Jaraleet could have a rummage through it. For now, he needed to find Raelynn. And there she was, as pretty as ever but there was something wrong. The Nord’s brows knitted together with concern as he observed her walking in a trance-like state to her tent, muttering under her breath. He watched for a moment longer, before the bleeding had become quite a bit too much. (It was spilling onto the fabric of his shorts now). “Raelynn,” he said softly as he approached, placing his hand carefully onto her shoulder so as not to frighten or startle her, and he tried his best to smile when she turned around to face him, but between the stinging of his arm and the worry it was a difficult feat. “Y’alright?” He asked tenderly. Immediately the letter in her hand was tucked behind her back and she smiled at the Nord, squinting at his wound, ‘er, yes. Yes… I am,” she lied. The darting movement of her eyes was the tell. “You don’t look so grand though,” she added smoothing down a hair and tucking it nervously behind her ear. “Oh you know me, just took a tumble after doing seven backflips to escape a rabid wolf back in the forest. Cos you know, I don't like to batter animals.” He shrugged and laughed aloud. Even if a friend was distressed, he couldn’t help but crease himself up, it seemed to set her at ease too at least. “Think you could… Y’know?” “Sounds like a new record then,” she replied knowingly with a giggle before shooing him away with her hand. “I’ll fix you, go find someplace to sit… Give me a moment?” Her eyes continued to dart and avoid his, but there was something timid and sweet about it, as opposed to a woman who was lying. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up before shuffling away from the bustle of the camp. Almost as quickly as her turn of madness had come about, she found herself snapped back to reality, by the abrupt touch of Fjolte no less. The sight of his damned bloodied arm. Raelynn was here to help people, [i]she was of use[/i] in this mission. She remembered herself soon enough. Raelynn ran her thumb across the parchment in her hand, a wave of guilt washed over her for even having thought of doing something so terribly reckless, and she tucked it away in her journal. Hiding the shame of it between notes on potion making and other mundane things. In time, this fleeting moment of madness would be yesterday's news. After a moment or two of steady breathing, she followed Fjolte to the spot he’d chosen. A saying found its way to the forefront of her mind; that it required a village to raise a child, and as her eyes scanned over the camp, she realised that for whatever reason, this was [i]her[/i] village. They needed her, and she needed them too. She would need all the reminders of that she could get.