[h3]Please Comply[/h3] Greenie, Tricks and Dervs slam jam [hr] [I]15th Sun’s Height - Morning The Durehahdddach mountains…[/i] [hr] A sharp elbow dug into Zaveed’s flank followed by a low [I]Shhh[/I], pulling the Cathay fully into consciousness. Whatever cocktail had been inside of the dart had begun to run its course and for a long while he had drifted in and out of consciousness. Even now, with his eyes finally electing to stay open, his limbs felt like dead weight and his breathing was laboured. What the hell had hit him? Zaveed took a moment to get his orientation; the landmarks and region meant nothing to him, but they still appeared to be in the mountains, so that likely meant they hadn’t been taken far. It wasn’t easy to move two dead-weight prisoners around, so there was a good chance they were simply waiting for transportation. But who had taken him and Megana, he wondered. There were no fires, no lights, no sound.  However, with his feline eyes, he could make out figures moving about the area and he caught the scent of prepared food. There were figures wearing long cloaks, foliage woven within the fabric for concealment, and mesh veils that covered their heads and features. The Dwemeri weapons they carried were scuffed and painted to reduce the sheen of the metal, foliage and netting wrapped about the barrels to conceal the profile. They were strange devices, unlike the weapons he was familiar with, these rifles had what looked like large pressure chambers on the side, and about the figures’ belts were several cylinders and vials. Perhaps the ammunition? “Is that you, Megana?” Zaveed asked, his tone low that she’d strain to hear his words. He didn’t want to alert these figures he was awake. "Aye," Meg replied, her own voice low enough that it was almost as if she had breathed the word out. It was really hard for her to decipher time and location while they had been travelling- she had forced herself to keep her eyes shut most of the forced journey so as not to levy any suspicion that she wasn't actually knocked out like Zaveed. After what had seemed almost an eternity to the Nord, the two were finally set on the ground. Even then Meg was much too cautious to simply begin her struggle to free herself. It had been dark, but that didn't mean her other senses weren't functioning. She could feel, she could smell, and most importantly, hear. She had waited until there was no nearby sound discernable before opening her eyes. Her hands had been bound behind her back, but Meg had expected that even when she'd fallen in the forest, after which she'd plucked the elven dagger from Zaveed and stuffed it beneath the tightly cinched cloth sash she had wrapped around her waist. A little hand wriggling while on her side and she had managed to reach below the sash, feeling a slight sting as her finger was nicked by the sharp edge of the dagger's blade. The pain had caused her to smile... she had what she wanted. It had taken a little patience and perseverance to slowly and carefully cut through the ropes without arousing suspicion, and more than once Meg had forced herself to pause, feeling her hand cramp up. Still, the joy she felt when the bonds around her wrists loosened was worth the pain. "I'm free," she added, voice still remaining lower than ever, though she trusted Zaveed's sharp ears to catch her words more easily than she had caught his. "I got yer dagger on me..." She paused in her words, listening for footsteps before slowly shuffling a little closer to the Khajiit man. "Lemme cut those damn ropes off ya." “Wait.” Zaveed urged, shaking his head slowly. “My limbs still feel like weights and I cannot feel my feet. If they discover the bindings gone before I can move, we’re done for. Besides, we’re in a good spot to try and learn a few things, no?” he asked, letting out an inaudible sigh, blinking rapidly to try and clear the sleep out of his system.  He looked around once more slowly, trying to regard some things that were harder to discern out of the corner of his eye; at night, paradoxically, it was easier to make sense of an object if you weren’t looking directly at it. He counted a dozen figures, although all of them had their features concealed beneath netting, except for the ones who were dining. There was something oddly efficient about them; much of this camp seemed temporary and exceptionally well-concealed. Unless someone happened upon it, they would have likely never spotted any of this at a distance.  Even those who moved around seemed to be slow and methodical, careful with their footfalls to avoid disturbing anything like a twig or dried leaves that would make a sound. He smelled oil or some kind of lubricant; at least one of them had their weapon apart and was almost silently reassembling the device. Zaveed was good, but he realized that the soldiers or mercenaries who had captured Megana and himself were exceptionally well-trained in this environment and took great pains to be as silent as possible.  Suddenly, the camp seemed to spring to attention, and the soldiers all stood vigilant. A torchlight approached, and Zaveed felt sorry for the poor bastard who was likely about to die without even having a chance to draw his sword. But none of the soldiers moved; instead they almost seemed to be standing at attention for a VIP. Zaveed rolled his jaw. This wasn’t likely to bode well for him or Megana. “Looks like we’re about to be very popular.” He murmured.  Two women approached the clearing, an escort of six heavily armoured soldiers who were at odds with the commandos that were within the camp. The first was a Dwemer woman with cold, calculating grey-blue eyes and a schoolmarm’s disposition and impossibly perfect posture.  She dressed practically, blue trousers with red piping tucked neatly into knee-high boots with a pair of straps and buckles to secure them to her feet, and her torso was adorned with a brown thigh-length overcoat, fashioned with a red waist sash. The telltale bronze sheen of dwemeri metal shone through the opening around her collar, suggesting at least a mail or scale shirt of armour beneath the coat.  Her grey-brown hair was short and loose, pinned back with decorative pins and stopping at the nape of her neck, and her face certainly did not have the same charm or youthful presence as Razlinc Rourken; crowsfeet were under the woman’s eyes, and her cheeks were gaunt, showing the impression of her skull beneath in some areas, giving her a particularly severe appearance under the torchlight. If any feature of her could have been considered cute or attractive, it was her pert and small nose that seemed to defy the almost Morrowind-like topography of her face.  And she approached the two prisoners with a butcher’s gaze. At her side was a small, by comparison, breton mage seemingly her robes weighed against her aging shoulders. Long wispy white hair neatly brushed into a bun at the base of her head, leaning against an oak staff for support. Her faintly yellow adept robes were covered in patches, burn marks and oil stains. A leather apron tied at her waist. Round cheeks with lines of wrinkles crinkling over softened dimples, a pair of brown eyes endlessly fuelled by curiosity, scanning over the pair of prisoners. Her hands were spotted with scars, while a distinctly familiar ruby red ring - polished and shiny, it was snug (refitted over the years) on her ring finger. By comparison once more, the breton looked as if she was pulled out elbow deep from a project by the Dwemer official to join them.  “Caught us some rascals eh?” the mage commented, not without a playful air about her despite how serious the Dwemeri were around her, “I suppose it’s better you two are here than out there, the world’s a real mess.” Squinting at their faces, studying them, “Now why am I being pulled away from the work? I was reaching a breakthrough, delicate pieces I’ve been working with as you know.” She said, scolding in tone but lacking in any real weight. The Dwemeri were not so likened to her attitude on good days. The Dwemer didn’t react to the petulant protest, instead approaching Megana, taking her by the jaw to inspect either side of her face before doing the same for Zaveed. “Because, sweet Leonora, we are trying to finish the catalog. These two will do.” she announced definitively, waving one of her escorts over. “We will bring these two back to Markarth with us. The last batch was… defective. Perhaps you need to tone down your methods?” she asked her companion idly.  The Dwemer resumed her rod-straight posture, looking down upon Megana like she was peering down from an imposing tower. “Perhaps you could enlighten us of what you two were doing in these woods, and so close to Markarth. Cooperate and your next few weeks will be decidedly more pleasant. Do not, and you will find my patience is very thin and I have other ways of extracting what I need. Understood?” Her tone suggested only the thinnest veil of malice; it was simply a statement of fact, not an idle threat.  Leonora shrugged one shoulder, “As I said, delicate. They look like survivors, we will see when they’re on the table.”  It was hard to erase the fear that build up in Meg, and she had to fight against all instincts so that she didn't cringe nor pull away when the dwemer woman held her face. Mind awhirl with all the various nefarious ends that could have possibly been planned for her and Zaveed, Meg found it rather difficult to even think of what exactly she could do to escape the precarious situation they found themselves in. She was also very afraid of what consequences might befall her if they discovered the ropes they had used to bind her hands with were cut. Yet there was a sudden sense of indignation at the dwemer woman's words, and her pride flared up like kindling added to a dying fire, allowing her to put words together and finally speak up. "I- I'mma Nord!" she spat out, her eyes narrowing as her hands clenched tightly behind her back. "This's m'home! [i]I'm[/i] s'posed t'be roun' these parts, not [i]you[/i]." So what if she wasn't actually from the Reach? She could go wherever she pleased in Skyrim, and this place was more hers than either of [i]these[/i] two! "Ah yes, senseless nationalism, a favourite of mine. It pairs well with racial supremacy and unchecked egotism." The Dwemer replied dryly. She crouched in front of Meg, regarding her with storm-coloured eyes. "My dear child, these lands you call Skyrim and Morrowind belonged to the Dwemer far before men crossed the Sea of Ghosts from Atmora and made a right mess of everything they touched. "We predate Atmorans, Dunmer, Nords… you are but children in our eyes and to presume you have any claim to these forests, plains, and mountains is laughably inadequate. Our structures endured as monuments of our eternal presence, our beacons that would one day herald our return home." She said slowly, deliberately. The Dwemer's face shifted into a sneer. "Imagine my disgust when vermin moved into my home when I was away. Imagine my disappointment when the streets of Markarth that I used to play in as a youth were overrun by uncultured brutes who cannot even begin to imagine the depths of the gifts we left behind."  The Dwemer sighed, steepling her fingers delicately before her. "I am aware six hundred years is many lifetimes for something that lives as long as a dog lives for you, but we elves are blessed with a long life… and a longer memory. Accept we are reclaiming our homes and step aside of the march of progress, or feel free to be trampled underfoot. The choice is yours." Meg's eyes remained narrowed with anger and frustration, but she stayed silent, listening to the Dwemer as the woman spoke, teeth grinding against each other so violently she was sure those present could hear it. When the woman quieted, Meg finally lifted her eyes to glare at the Dwemer, blatantly challenging her. "So wha'? Y'think y'can jus' come back an' take everythin', push people away jus' like tha' 'cause [i]you[/i] went missin' for Mara knows how long? This’s [i]our[/i] home too. Y’can’ just shove people away!" An angry huff of a breath escaped her, and her green eyes shifted between the elf and the Breton. It was so tempting to burst out that she had seen their handiwork, how the dwemer in Cyrodill were the real brutes with their wanton violence, how poor children like Zahir had their parents stolen from them...   But she couldn't lose her temper, not now. Who knew what might happen to her and Zaveed? And what if they discovered there was a whole group of them out there? The last thing Meg wanted was for those she cared about to get her because of her carelessness. More importantly, what in Oblivion were they planning on doing to the two of them? "Why're y'takin' us t'Markarth?" she demanded.  The Dwemer simply smiled ruefully back. "We cannot take our home back?" She asked, a mirthful tone to her voice. "We can. And we will. Your petty squabbling won't change what is an all but certain fact." "I think she wants to teach us about how wonderful her culture is." Zaveed remarked dryly to Megana, his eyes narrowed into slits at this Dwemer. "Oh, good. The beast talks." The Dwemer replied, suddenly grabbing Zaveed under the jaw with remarkable strength and with a flash, her other hand drove something into Zaveed's neck. A silver-coloured syringe was buried into Zaveed's neck, and she carefully extracted the sample before slapping a bandage pad over it. Leonora pulled a face at her companion, thankfully distracted by the sample to notice her expression.  She regarded the sample with curiosity, "Thank you for your contribution, Khajiit. It will prove invaluable for my research." The Dwemer said, carefully depositing the syringe into a leather pouch. "You may find it stings and impairs your ability to speak properly for a few hours, but I've little patience for those of your temperament." Zaveed pressed at his neck by burying it into his shoulder, wheezing from the sudden sharp pain of the invasive hole in his neck and windpipe, as well as the crushing sensation of her hand on his jaw. No more defiant words managed to escape from his mouth. Glancing at Megana she said, "I am not one to explain the minutiae of my thoughts to strangers, let alone subjects. If you require a further demonstration, by all means." She said, standing and idly dusting her hands off. "I reiterate; cooperate and you may have a place in our society. Show defiance and know that you are utterly expendable. Do I make myself understood?" It irked Meg to no degree that her khajiit companion was called a 'beast', and the need to do [i]something[/i], perhaps involving a sharp blade, boiled within her, tempered only by the stinging she felt as the nails of her clenched fists dug into her palms. Her eyes swerved to look at Zaveed, and the boiling rage lowered to a simmer, unwilling to risk their lives.  She said nothing, lips tight and eyes dark with withheld tears, but there was a visible nod to be seen. “I certainly do not mind explaining the whys and hows.” Leonora spoke up, “Look, there’s something bigger going on here with the Dwemer return than just invasion. We’ve got a future to look forward to with the Elves from the Deep, the more open we are to examine the things that make us different,” Brushing down the length of her apron, idly lifting the metal shavings and oils from it with a flick of her wrist - precise magicka control to telepathically remove project crumbs as she had come to affectionately refer to it as, “And the things that make us the same, we’ve got a chance. Sometimes, you gotta kidnap an odd pair like yourselves to get things done.” Hoping to smooth over the menace of her companion, Leonora felt herself to be like a bridge between Tameriel and the Dwemer, a much needed familiar face to help the subjects relax, “The world is a terrible place out there, here we’re building the future. You’re apart of that now.” Clapping her hands together the project crumbs sprinkled at her feet, “You can trust me to monitor your conditions closely, since my arrival to the project subjects have been far more comfortable and their rate of survival has been boosted.” The breton mage spoke with conviction, but she winked at their expressions, “I may not be a restoration mage but checking vitals with the magicka equivalent of life sign’s spyglass warrants a gentler approach.” “Please keep the bigger picture in mind; this is not to be taken personally.” the Breton concluded thoughtfully, as if her earlier threats if harm never occurred. Meg didn't quite know what to make of what the Breton woman was saying. She certainly seemed a little less hostile than the Dwemer, showing an affable expression as she spoke, but even so her words were flying up above Meg's head like birds in the sky. Frowning, she forced herself to analyze what she said in the light of recent events. Necromancy maybe? She knew that was something the Dwemer took part in as well after the episode in Gilane. But this woman seemed anything but... then again, who suspected Gregor until it was out in the open.  Meg knew she herself was a terrible judge of people- her feelings for J'raij and then Jaraleet had proved that. Her eyes shifted momentarily to Zaveed before returning to the Breton. How she wished he could speak! He knew how to talk and what words to say so much better than [i]she[/i] did. "So wha'... yer gonna cut us open or somethin'?" she wondered, bringing up the worst possible idea up front. She had seen abandoned necromancer lairs previously, though now she did recall Jaraleet mentioning the dwemer he'd seen in the Gilane prison was much... cleaner or something.  “That depends on you.” The Dwemer said bluntly. “Be useful to us, and we will be useful to you. It is a simple transaction, but make no mistake; you are at our mercy… and our curiosity. Sergeant,” she said, turning to one of her attendants. “Go see to it the transportation is prepared. I want these two ready to depart in ten minutes.” she glanced at Zaveed pressing his throat, blood dripping from his lips. “Hmm. Perhaps fifteen. It’s a burden when one of your quarry has a difficult time breathing.”  “Right away, Head Researcher Nhelzis.” the Dwemer said, hurrying off. “Now, you two behave, or this will be the longest time in your life… and the shortest.” she said darkly, turning on her heel and walking away with her hand at the small of her back. Faintly, someone offered her a cup of cold tea, which she waved off. Leonora looked down to the small puddle of blood with resignation, she sighed through her nose following behind Nhelzis. There would be plenty of time spent with the new subjects soon enough. Zaveed coughed and spat up bloody spittle. “Oh, she’s fun.” he croaked, the effort to speak barely audible. When the guards seemed to be out of earshot, he nudged Megana. “When I said wait, I was…” he coughed; more red saliva flung from his lips. He grunted, more annoyed than anything. “Okay. We go. Please.” A sniffle escaped Meg- she was finding it hard not to feel [i]terrible[/i] at the state her companion was in- and then she nodded, brow furrowing as she too looked at their surroundings, reaching back and pulling out the hidden dagger. She winced, her arms stiff and a little aching from being tense while she had forced herself to look bound while the Dwemer and mage were there.  "Righ'," she muttered under her breath, ignoring her feeble pain as she shifted closer to Zaveed. Once more she cast covert glances to see if there was anyone looking in there direction. Perhaps Stendarr was paying attention to her silent pleas, because for the time being there seemed to be no intrusion coming her way. Without further ado Meg sliced at the ropes binding his hands together, careful not to knick the Khajiit in the process. As it turned out, Megana was handy with a knife. “You hold knife. Can’t fight.” Zaveed uttered, quickly rubbing his wrists. “Lead away. I follow.” he said, testing his movement carefully, not wishing to betray movement. His head still throbbed, but he had sensation in his limbs, so it was good enough. He stepped carefully away from where they had been bound, slinking into the brush before anyone noticed. Meg blinked at Zaveed for a second before giving him a quick nod, realizing indecision at this point was terrible. Gripping the dagger tightly, she peeked in the direction of the guards once more before quickly making her way out of the open and into the coverage of the foliage. Fear was replaced with a rush, a sense of victory even. They thought they'd had her and Zaveed, but they were [i]wrong[/i].  Chewing on her lip in concentration, Meg hurriedly attempted to figure out the direction in which they had been brought before deciding that was stupid. The Dwemer woman would expect that, and Meg didn't want her friends hurt, no matter how badly she wanted to be by their side again. Besides, it was much too dark for her to see precisely where she was going, and she didn't want to give Zaveed the task of looking out when he was already in pain. In her opinion, it was best to simply get the fuck away from this camp and settle down until she could see properly once more. Pleased and relieved that most of her apparel helped her blend in quite nicely among the leaves, Meg looked to Zaveed and gave him a small nod. "A'righ', follow me." Nhelzis returned a few minutes later, regarding the pile of cut ropes with a mixture of mild amusement and disdain. The captain was sputtering some excuse as to why the prisoners weren’t been more closely watched, but it hardly mattered. There was no shortage of Nords in these lands, and even the small amount of blood and tissue she had extracted from the Khajiit would prove to be useful. This was but one of several stops the Head Researcher had to make this evening; her commandos had snared four other groups of prisoners this evening, and who was to say they wouldn’t also prove to be of use? She turned back to the captain, “Warm up the tea for me, would you?” she asked. “What of the prisoners? I can send out the hunter teams to track them down.” the Dwemer officer pressed urgently. Nhelzis waved him off. “A hunter doesn’t chase his prey through the woods when it’s wounded; it just runs harder. Let them tire, think they’re safe. The sense of fear that we could be anywhere will keep them modest, and if they have friends, perhaps they’ll expose them, too." Nhelzis instructed evenly, glancing at the captain with cool eyes. "Resume your duties as ghosts, captain; if you’re expected, you aren’t doing your jobs properly. Now, tell me where our next destination is.” she said, regarding the ropes with the faintest of smiles before turning her back on them. She was never one to linger on lost opportunities; the world was an abundant resource of new ones, after all.