---

---

A title, one that seemed long forgotten now, even after so short a span as it had been. It rang in Kiffar's ears, and brought ice blue eyes quickly to Captain Renault's face. It was such a simple request, and he couldn't decide if she meant to flatter him into compliance, or insult him into it. For a long moment, he simply stared, ears perked high and tail lashing, whiplike, behind him. For all his air headed behavior, those eyes were sharp as augers, uncomfortable for any unfortunate soul without a stalwart disposition and a spine like daedric steel. But then, surely, the Captain of the Blades had both.

Slowly, he decided she could not have meant insult by her words. Her duty was akin to his own, true, but he could not expect her to understand the depth of his shame, the shame of all the Manesguard, in the failure of their duties. Still, it would not do to let her carry on under the pretense that such claims were acceptable. He stooped low, bringing himself almost nose to nose with the Captain, voice low and words measured, a care given to sound... Proper, in this foreign tongue.

"Kiffar.... Is Manesguard no longer. This one remembers Captain Renault. She is proud, and capable, and Kiffar's Once-Kin, his... Fellows, spoke highly of her company in the negotiations. But she will not call this one Manesguard again. Kiffar is Unbound, forever, and always, and he deserves no better. But he will do this thing for you, for the fair hand her Mane-of-Men, her Emperor, dealt Kiffar's kind, however loaded the dice."

With a heavy sniff, he straightened, seeming content to have set the matter straight. Still, there was a set to his shoulders, now, something more ready than before, a more watchful feel to his wandering gaze. He awaited the others to come to readiness- And of course, when their things caught up, he was among the first to rummage through the chests of gear to fetch what had been taken. Heavy blades were returned to their places at his belt, weights and plates returned to wrists and legs. He seemed vaguely disappointed to find one item missing, rifling through the chests a little longer in search of it, though its apparent loss earned only an irate snort in the end.

"Silly man-things, taking Kiffar's sugars. No fun at all."

---

The first thing that struck Antonius when he woke up was the smell, a kind of staleness in the air mixing with sweat and a hint of blood. He picked himself up off the ground slowly, a string of saliva dangling from his mouth only to be wiped away by his sleeve a moment later. Sitting up now and leaning against the wall, he took in his surroundings and the people in the cell with him. A mountain of a Khajiit, two Argonians, a Bosmer, a Dunmer, a few Nords and Bretons and Orcs - quite a lot of people crammed into one tiny cell. He tried his best to get his bearings again, reaching up to rub the welt on his forehead only to wince and hiss in pain at the touch.

Antonius was only awake for a minute or two when an entourage arrived at the cell, a group of Blades escorting... Oh Talos, that's the Emperor. He had to be dreaming. But the headache reminded him that no, this was not a dream, and he began to feel like he was in way over his head. One of the Blades told them that they were pardoned for their crimes, Antonius wondering for a moment just exactly what crime he had committed considering he got knocked out as soon as the fight began, and that they were free to head up the stairs or follow them through the tunnel that had been opened within their cell. Either way, they'd be facing opposition.

Quickly, people began to pile through the tunnel, the Blades leading the Emperor up front and followed close behind by the rest of this ragtag group of lowlifes. The group traveled through the tunnel which gave way to a cistern with different tunnels stretching below the Imperial City. The Captain of the Blades went to speak to the giant Khajiit and Antonius couldn't quite pick up the details of their conversation. What he did pick up as the rest followed in behind them was that their belongings had arrived, and he quickly made his way over to secure his sword and bow. He fastened the quiver to his hip and stored the bow and sword on his back, giving a sigh of relief that his gear was unharmed.

Antonius looked around for a moment before speaking to himself out loud for anyone nearby to hear: "Not exactly how I pictured my day going..."

The stone beneath Yarmira’s feet was dead. No breath of the Green in these walls, no root nor creeping vine, only the cold weight of rock pressing down from above, lifeless and still. There were caves in her homeland, but no Bosmer delved their depths. Her elders spoke of such places in hushed voices, crevices forsaken by The Great Spinner, places where malevolent spirits prowled. Languishing in the absence of the Green, waiting in the dark and still air for their next victims. To steal the breath from their lungs, the flesh from their bones, and walk again in the daylight as shambling mockeries of life, like crude puppets.

The stories crept into her mind like shadows, dark and unsettling. The weight of them pressed on her chest, urging her to move faster, to dash through the cold corridors before the spirits of the cave caught up.

Her feet itched to run, but Yarmira stayed in step. She found her confidence in the familiar bone grip of the daggers in either hand, the familiar weight of the bow slung across her chest. Surrounded on either side by similarly armed men and women, most who towered above her, the young Bosmer silently dared the twisted cave spirits or crimson demons to test their mettle. She prowled low and quiet through the tight caverns, one ear listening intently for the anguished howls of lost spirits and the other caching snippets of her companion's conversations. The Bosmer dropped back in the pack, a desperate attempt to avoid the veritable duststorm stirred up by Kiffar-Nirthal.

A voice cut through the dim. "Not exactly how I pictured my day going..."

Her head swiveled like an owl's and she fixed her gaze on the speaker, a cellmate who had gone unnoticed until now. Tall, bronzed skin, and with those same alien, rounded ears that seemed common in these parts. He carried what looked to her like a giant, two-handed dagger, with a strange bow slung across his back. Unfamiliar attire, but the bow marked him as a fellow hunter. She fell in step with him, staring up at the Imperial inquisitively before speaking.

"It would be a dull life if you knew the shape of your story before it was sung," she said, voice high and piping, black eyes bright with a kind of incipient good will. "Y’ffre delights in twists and turns. A tale without surprise is like a hunt where the prey falls willingly into your jaws."

Her gaze kept returning to his bow. It was familiar in shape, yet foreign in spirit. She knew bows of sinew and bone, carved from the gifts of the hunt. Shaped by careful hands and honored in use. But this was something else entirely. She couldn’t help but feel a twist of discomfort in her throat as she studied it. Yarmira tried to move past the feeling.

"I've found many such creatures in this strange country, who might give up their life without a chase," Yarmira continued her previous thought. "Great, lowing beasts, some with horns atop their huge heads this long," she spread her arms wide. "They they live in herds, but will walk right up to a hunter, no fear in their eyes. As if they've forgotten they are prey."

Yarmira addressed the companions nearest to her, hoping to gain some insight into the things that pursued them. "Tell me friends, have any of you encountered these red demons before? Are they Mer or beast? A hunter must know their quarry."

---

As Antonius readjusted his gear he heard the Bosmer speak to him. A little chuckle escaped his lips as she mentioned how Y'ffre enjoyed the unexpected detours that life loved to throw at people. "I suppose one must also learn to love it, but I'm not quite sure I can enjoy this turn." He looked at the Emperor for a moment, a feeling of unease gripping him. Something bad was happening right now, that was for certain. He only hoped that the Blades and even this group of misfits could protect the Emperor from whoever was after him.

The wood elf continued to speak, describing... Some kind of beast. Minotaurs, maybe? He hadn't had the displeasure of running into one in his travels. But no, minotaurs are territorial and dangerous beasts, nothing like what she's describing. He kept racking his mind trying to figure out what creatures she had seen when it hit him: cows. She was talking about cows. "... Those are farm animals."

---

---

Allowing himself a snort as the Khajiit made his opinions on the state of the tunnels known, Caddach nonetheless kept his mouth shut as he walked, giving the Emperor and his Blades a respectably wide berth, opting instead to watch the flanks. Knowing full well that Kiffar still stood far, far above his station in their ramshackle band of misfits, even 'Unbound' as he was... and also that Elara Renault of the Blades didn't appreciate his presence at the best of times, so now was hardly the time to rock the boat by cracking a joke. What with the Emperor present, assassins on their asses and the Imperial Prison behind them under active attack by lunatics in funny robes and spooky armour, and all that.

...Well, maybe the lad could allow himself just a bit of humor, as long as it was helpful.

<"Places like this— beneath the Imperial City and it's surrounding islands— have been built up and over, layer by layer since the days of the Ayleids and the Alessian Empire, friend."> Caddach explained in Ta'agra so that maybe Renault wouldn't give him the business about it, his accent and dialect more akin to what you'd find among Khajiit growing up in the Imperial City markets than anything out of Elsweyr. <"And if these tunnels connect to what's beneath the main island itself? You could get lost down here for months and never see the light of day even once... if something very old and very angry doesn't get ya first. You'd need a small army of us 'clean-makers' to scrub it properly, and a whole lotta soldiers to watch our backs.">

Turning his head to face the Cathay-Raht, he then adds with a little shrug;

<"...And having that many eyes down here kinda defeats the point of having a secret tunnel, dunnit?">

Carrying on ahead before Renault could scold him for talking too much, Caddach allowed his hand to rest on the hilt of the sword Glenroy had managed to get for him— standard legion issue, good steel but nothing extravagant— feeling the familiar weight of a weapon on his belt with just a tiny hint of resigned incredulity. Growing up as he did, in a Breton family of such strong Knightly tradition, he was no stranger to weapons, despite his best efforts. It was... almost hilarious at this point how, try as he might to do literally anything else in life— joining the Arcane University, becoming a groundskeeper at the palace— the lad always somehow wound up with a fucking sword in his hand. Even before today, when the Palace Guards and the occasional Noble would hear his surname and ask to spar when he was off-duty. So Caddach was... confident he could defend himself at least if those robed bastards caught up with them and was more than willing to throw down if it kept the Emperor safe, but, well... there was just a bit of trepidation there in the back of his mind; As comfortable as he was holding a blade, Caddach had never actually killed another person before. And with the way his day was going, that was likely going to be something he'd have to deal with in the very uncomfortably immediate future.

Frowning a little and shaking his head a bit to clear that unpleasant dread from his mind, our lad Caddach instead allowed himself to be distracted by the exchange between the Imperial and the wild Bosmer, pulling his lips up into a little smirk as the smaller figure expressed her confusion about what sounded an awful lot like cows. Before turning his head slightly towards the Imperial and calmly interjecting;

"I... don't think they have farms where she's from, mate." He said with a slight shake of his head, before facing the Bosmer and adding. "The creatures you speak of are not... 'prey' as you'd know them; We raise them ourselves for their meat, hides and milk. But we take care of them, so they tend not to fear us, more often than not."

Cocking his head to the side slightly and taking a step closer, he fixed the Bosmer with a curious gaze before continuing;

"And I mean no offense by it, but I'm curious... how did someone who follows the Green Pact so strictly wind up here, anyway?" He asks, his brow raising slightly. "Those like yourself usually don't bother coming to Cyrodiil, Never mind the Imperial City."

Kharne followed Kiffar, the Blades, and the Emperor but he kept a modest distance. Honestly he kept away from most everyone subconsciously, despite being currently unarmed he was used to having to measure his distance with people. Thankfully his distance got him to stay out of the cannon that was Kiffar's faces range when he sneezed. Granted soon enough their gear was finally brought and he locked onto his stuff immediately. His weapons were unique, aside from the dagger, and despite the amount of stuff he carried his pack was small. He made sure all of his things were present, namely his money. He had heard guards would help themselves if there was a significant amount after all. Or maybe that was just dark elf guards in Morrowind? Didn't matter he had all of his stuff and money.

He shifted and stretched, making sure his gear settled properly, before drawing the heavy cleaver-like weapon. "So, any idea how many people might know about this place...? Or blueprints for it?" He questioned, looking at the guards and the Emperor. It seemed he only had vague notions of the Emperor, and the man didn't seem to stand too much on ceremony. He leaned a little, looking to the Redguard-Altmer halfbreed, Khaliya, and the other Argonian, Veeza. "Think we'll actually get any fighting outside of vermin?" He questioned, his voice low. He wasn't always in the mood for a fight but he was feeling kind of antsy today. Probably because of all the secrecy and mystery.

He vaguely listened to another cluster of the group, the Bosmer questioning about livestock. Specifically a cow and how docile it was. He kind of wondered himself about how that came to be, same with how gaurs and silt striders became beasts of burden as well. What primitive person thought of stuff like this? Food for thought later.

Calal moved through the tunnel carefully, each step deliberate and quiet. The damp stone underfoot was slick with the remnants of water dripping from the jagged ceiling above. His eyes flicked back and forth, adjusting to the dim light.

"Just like any other hunt," he muttered quietly to himself, his lips barely moving. His voice was steady, but there was a tightness in it, a thin veil over the nerves crawling up his spine. This was familiar. It was what he knew best, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.

Though he seemed a bit confused, as the group ahead talked about cows and cattle. As if they had been in such a situation before... or maybe it was him who was far too nervous... calm? What was it he felt right now? Calal realized there was a slight bit of nerves. But he did just get freed from a prison. "We really have dug ourselves a hole haven't we?" Calal would joke out loud trying to ease his own tension.

While he was joking he was trying to focus as well. He wanted to treat this like a hunt, that's how he could get out of this. That's how he could get home to see his wife and kids. With each passing moment—he could feel the slight brush of the cold air against his skin, hear every small scrape of stone, each shift that wasn’t quite natural. He knew that if something was coming, it would give itself away somehow. He just had to be ready. For whatever, or whoever, was ahead of them—or behind.

Isai Sutor-Armaseptus

_{@Sir Lurksalot@Quest Abandoner@Simple Unicycle}

---

At last, the horses were off to the races, as it were. A journal and feather quill in hand, compatriots in tow, and the Emperor and his trusted blades chomping at the bit and leading the charge, they descended beneath the belly of the Empire. With the ruinous bones that the heart of Tamriel was built upon, it was no surprise that there would be underground passages, either built or found or repurposed, though it may have been a surprise that one of its entrances was in a prison cell… though he must credit the thinking, for he doubted anybody would have suspected that one such passage would be found in a prison. Surely the Emperor had escaped his assailants and will live many more years.

Isai found himself near the front after some polite pushing past some bodies, allowing some more of the combatively inclined to take point, but still close enough in earshot of Captain Renault, Blades Baurus and Glenroy, and the Emperor to record any word they might have said. There seemed to be little that they shared with one another, as if psychically linked in their understanding of their duties and trust in each other’s competence, so more often than not, he was recording dialogue shared between them and the prisoners.

Hm.

Though the Blades were diligent in their duties to the Empire, the magnitudinous weight of the prisoner’s lives and presence forced their attention away to address them – always from one, while the other two remained alert – but I feared that even a moment of distraction may spell disaster should they come upon their enemy.

As he wordlessly scribed, he found words from other conversations floated into his ears, prompting him to accidentally write an unintentional word or two that he’d be forced to cross out. Former inmates getting to know one another or their homelands, as if this evacuation was a meet-cute. He raised the end of his quill to his mouth in thought when he heard mention of Y’ffre or the Green Pact, perking his ear up a bit. He first heard of such things from his mother, so he may have had a bias for such things, even if in the grand scheme of Tamriel’s cosmology, he found it less likely than other explanations. Still, there were records of the bosmer’s strange abilities in certain times of distress, and the names and explanations for common belief may differ from more conventional academia, but the common belief persists nonetheless. Faith in the Earth Bones spread across opposite ends of Tamriel.

Oh, but the prisoners were talking about one another, of course.

“With the world so big, what brings anyone anywhere…” Isai mused, nibbling on the end of the quill, reshaping its writing edge with his teeth before testing it on the margins of his parchment. “Perhaps she’s just curious. They're curious people. My mother was, at least. Having borne witness to the Green in prior ethnographical expeditions, I might add, the hoarvers and giant wasps by their lonesome are sufficient to prompt leave.”

Isai held up his quill, “Stingers as long as yay. Leaving eggs in your body whilst paralyzed, so you can only pray that a dog-sized tick finds you and drains your blood in seconds before the eggs hatch.”

Isai gagged and shivered, as if reliving the memory of seeing those creatures in person, before continuing to write in his journal.

Accompanied by fellow academic. Be sure to record EVERYTHING & publish book before they do. Maybe make him write foreword.

"...Somehow, it's still preferable to Vvardenfell."

---

Verinric walks over to collect his silver dagger, attatching the sheath back onto his belt, hopefully things will not get so desperate he has to try and use it in combat.
As the others discuss their current location, he thinks of the various historic texts on the matter and speaks up "We shall almost certainly see worse than vermin, even discounting whatever conspiracy has the Emperor's Blades worried these tunnels are ancient and dangerous. There's at least one sizeable Ayleid ruin down here, last mentioned in the Simulacrum, despite their reverance for Meridia such locations inevitably overflow with the undead, furthermore, large sewers often attract goblins and this route clearly hasn't been cleared out recently."
He turns to the Breton, Isai, who is apparently more travelled that he expected, "Plenty can be said about what moves people, there's simple socioeconomics of course, for example I live in the City because that's where the Arcane University is, but from what his Imperial Magesty has said, there is at least one among our number whose path is guided by Prophecy, fitting for a band of Prisoners one supposes."

"Those are farm animals."

"Ah, yes, farm animals." Yarmira paused, chewing the man's answer over in her mind. "What is 'farm animals'?"

The response came from another voice in the dark. She listened eagerly to this newcomer, with the brightness of a child hearing of some marvel. Head tilted, black eyes wide. It seemed to her these strangers had learned the Old Ways, to summon beasts and make them their allies. She waited for the logical conclusion, for the answer to turn toward sense. Instead, her face, already pale as fresh-cut bone, took on the hue of cold ash in the dark, red tattoos the only color left to her, like streaks of gore smeared upon canvas.

What profane bargain have these monsters struck?

To call upon a creatures with the Voice of the Green only to cut it down for its flesh—this was sin enough, a crime that would see a Mer hunted through the jungles of her home. But to breed their young for the slaughter, to strip them of all purpose but the knife—her spine convulsed in a long, cold shunting of vertebrae. She curled her fingers slowly, felt the press of her nails against her palm, her breath quicken.

A perversion of the natural order. Heresy of the highest degree. What the man described so casually, so easily, was an affront to everything she knew. Her way of life, her god, the Pact, everything.

Yarmira suspected it before, but knew then that she had arrived in a backwards land. A land of Apostates, where the Green Pact held no sway over these savage Mer. Surrounded on all sides by enemies. By the Pact's decree, she should have killed them all, burned their bodies in animal fat so that not even their bones could return to the earth, so grievous were their transgressions. But she did not favor her odds in these cramped quarters, even with Kiffar-Nirthal's aid. And what then? Carve a bloody swath through the whole village? She had seen little of the Imperial City, but it was enormous, and would be a hopeless crusade. Besides, she'd already sworn an oath to protect the Emperor-Chieftain against his enemies, and her word was not lightly given.

No.

Y’ffre had brought her here for a reason. His voice had called her from the deep places of sleep, led her through shadows and strange lands. The end of her tale would not be in some tomb beneath the earth, surrounded by the corpses of Pact-Breakers.

She exhaled slowly, as if pushing poison from her lungs, and fought the urge to wretch. Yarmira realized she had not responded to the man's easy explanation of their blasphemy, unless the abject horror and disguised plain on her face counted as a reply.

"Aah, truly?" she managed to eek out, fighting the urge to run and keep running and not stop running until she was far from these alien reaches, until she fell under the familiar and green embrace of the Graht-oak's second sky.

"And I mean no offense by it, but I'm curious... how did someone who follows the Green Pact so strictly wind up here, anyway? Those like yourself usually don't bother coming to Cyrodiil, Never mind the Imperial City."

She pondered this question, perhaps longer than she intended to now that she was on a more comfortable train of thought. Yarmira hadn't been able to tell her tribe why she so longed to leave, and so she vanished like a thief in the night. And yet the answer came easily to this stranger, this Apostate.

"It is no mistake I came to this land. I am here because I was called," she said simply, and judged from the man's expression that this response was not enough. "Y'ffre does not speak plainly; he speaks to us in birdsong, through dry reeds hissing in the wind. He does not send us simple answers. He does not give us clear signs. We must listen with more than our ears."

As Yarmira spoke of the Green, the harshness of her breath softened, clenched fists slowly uncurled. Her high voice took on an almost meditative quality, with the cadence of some ancient litany or prayer.

"But Y'ffre has shown me this place in my dreams, as if seen through waking eyes. The Spinner beckoned me here, showed me the way through birds on the wing and winding rivers. It is not his way to come to us in visions, save when the need is great. Now, I await the next part of his Story. I trust in Y'ffre’s guidance," she concluded. "And in time, his voice will become clearer still, and my feet will walk where he guides."

Yarmira thought she could continue in silence, but it was not her way. Questions welled up in her mind like a river bursting its banks, each one pressing against her chest, demanding release. "Does Y'ffre not speak to your people too?" she asked in a near-whisper, as if to even suggest that the Spinner might not reach out to all Mer was absurd. Perhaps they heard his voice, but interpreted it differently, she told herself.

---

---

At the look of childlike wonder that quickly melted into sheer horror on the Bosmer's face, Caddach's gaze softened slightly as a noticeably awkward smile came to his face; Realizing quite quickly that he might've put his foot in his mouth there, with what little he knew about the intricacies and implications of the Green Pact. Having only read about it in books and heard of it through his grandmother... who herself, only spoke of it so a much younger Caddach would understand the wider context of her own Druidic beliefs. Her question only serving to exacerbate the rather tricky spot he'd dug himself into; While Caddach was about as pious as any other average man in Cyrodiil, he was by no means a Priest of any sort, so the lad wasn't exactly sure he was qualified to give an appropriate answer.

For the moment, however, he cast a sidelong to the verbose gentleman with the very long name and the silver tongue he'd made that joke about earlier, back in the cell. Addressing him first;

"...Sounds a bit like Black Marsh, just with less humidity." He noted with a bit of a lighthearted snort and a shrug. "And as for Vvardenfell? I wouldn't know. My family makes a point of not dealing in slaves or with slavers, so the Great Houses of Morrowind weren't exactly apt to invite us over for dinner when I was growing up."

Adding while glancing between him and his fellow Breton;

"...And I was more trying to find a polite way of saying that most from Valenwood that come up here tend to hail from the cities— like Arenthia or Woodhearth— which our friend here clearly doesn't. Made me a bit curious, is all."

And with those words said, Caddach's gaze then shifted back to the Bosmer as he crossed his arms in contemplation for a moment. Chewing on his lip and furrowing his brow a little before deciding to just... channel a bit of his grandmother for a moment and try to explain things in the same way the Bosmer had just spoken to him.

"Y'ffre speaks to all, friend... but in these lands north of your green home, few realize they're being spoken to and fewer still are bound by his Pact— or even know of it. More than that, these lands carry many more voices than his alone." The young man said after a moment. His voice taking on a slightly softer, yet more serious tone. "Just as the Spinner speaks to us in birdsong and the swaying of trees, so to does Kynareth sing to us through the winds that caress our faces and the rains that water our fields and cool our tempers... and she herself is only one of Nine. Each of whom talk to us in their own way."

Cocking his head to the side slightly and offering a small, disarming smile, he continued. Uncrossing his arms and adopting a more casual stance, with his thumbs looping over his belt slightly.

"The Storyteller's songs are not unknown to all of us however... though his words carry slightly differently in places away from the green of Valenwood; Much like how you may have noticed that the people here speak in a way that you'd find odd back home." Caddach said, indicating towards himself with his thumb. "For example, to the people of my mother's mother, he is known as the Green King, and they— the Druids of the Systres, an island chain far to the west— are charged with the defense of his Earthbones and the maintenance of balance between the people and the nature that surrounds them... though they are not bound by the Pact as you are. It is through her that I learned to take from the wilds only what I need— game, herbs and the like— to leave nothing to waste and to share my bounty with those who need it."

With his piece said— hopefully to the Bosmer's satisfaction— Caddach then stood up a little straighter, casting his eyes towards the Emperor and all the Blades surrounding him. The young man's expression hardening slightly, though that same dry wit from earlier began to bubble back to the surface through the little rueful smirk that came to his face as he stepped away.

"In any case, we should keep moving." He said over his shoulder to the lot of them. "I can tell you from experience that the Captain's got one hell of a temper and a firm backhand; So it probably ain't a good idea to let her think that we're lollygagging or slowing the group down."

Though he added with one final grin towards the Bosmer;

"Besides, if Y'ffre has truly guided you here... then running into the bloody Emperor of all people is probably a good sign he's got something big in store for ya."

---

---

Above, within the Bastion

A pair of heavy wooden chests sat before the pair as chaos roiled around them, shouting voices, the sounds of combat beyond in the courtyard and the ever so distant burning of a city. Yet the pair stood there looking at the contents arrayed before them. Much of it was rather mundane, the expected belongings of those merely out on the town even on a night such as this. A few coinpurses with strings tied to them and labeled with names and times of seizure, some more elaborate and finely crafted wallets with much the same identifying marks. There were pouches and bags, a few suspect items here and there, and of course a small sack of white powder that had been placed in a separate lockup. "Say, as a priest…" The Imperial Allian began, a sidelong glance to the not so clean-shaven half-orc beside him. "You uh… Think this warrants a conversation with the divines?" To his credit, Yashar contemplated the merits of doing so, though the both of them knew that the Nine did not interfere in the trivial matters of mortals.

"Perhaps." He said at last, rubbing a hand across his chin as the two considered the bandolier and belt before them sleeved with what had to be at least a dozen assorted daggers. "What does someone even do with this many knives? I understand the Emperor himself has pardoned those of us caught in the riots, but…" The two men shut the chests one after the other, each taking one in both hands and starting the rather awkward route back down into the cells. "Though only the divines may know the answer to such a question, Allian, I think it only right and fair that they be returned all the same." Yashar returned, careful to not sound too judgmental on the subject at hand, though also avoiding going into a sermon just yet. "Perhaps our friend the Argonian shadowscale has his reasons, and be they combat or collecting it is his right as a free citizen of the Empire to do so." One step after the other, they dodged other Legionnaires moving through the Bastion and the occasional Blade executing the orders of the Septims still alive on the island. "That aside…" He continued, sharing a glance downwards at the red-robed body slumped over a chair. "I think we could do with a few more blades in the hands of allies."

---

Meanwhile,

Outwardly the captain of the Blades stared down the Cathay-Raht even as he leaned in to look her directly in the eyes, remaining stoic in her duty to protect her Emperor no matter the cost to herself or those around her. Perhaps it was a poor choice on her part to remind him of his failure even unintentionally so, but she was firm in showing that her intention was only to try and show him the respect she felt he deserved. "Very well then, Kiffar the Unbound." Renault said at last, giving him a slow nod to show she understood well his intentions. And though she went immediately back to directing the Blades under her command… Internally there was still that moment of wondering if she had very nearly died right then and there. She couldn't deny the rather distinct panic welling up in the moment of being that close to a very incensed Cathay-Raht, and the also very distinct understanding that he did not need weapons to rend steel. Thankfully for her nerves, there were two points of interest to draw her attention and that of Kiffar.

Off to the side Yashar al-Rihad the half-Orsimer priest and the officer of the watch had returned with both strongboxes loaded with the belongings of the prisoners. They were sure to see that the appropriate items were returned to their rightful owners, and she did note the distinct midnight-blue color of the Shadowscale shifting off to the side and inspecting his weapons. Another Argonian of a much greener shade was similarly heavily armed, and quite quickly the ragtag group of rioters seemed more akin to a collection of adventurers gathered within the aging passageway. Renault did her best not to openly sneer at the thought of having to rely upon these people, but she was pragmatic enough to recognize that her squad alone may not be able to get their charge safely out of the city on their own. So far these cultists, these assassins to be had shown quite the planning and cunning to have gone so far. Much of it had apparently been achieved by the presence of at least one among the higher echelons of Imperial society, and she had to begrudgingly accept that it was Caddach Thraigyr of all people who had brought it to the attention of the Blades.

Helped of course by exceeding incompetence, arrogance or both on the account of the would-be assassin. Though as the group coalesced into smaller groups of minor conversation, she looked towards the next moves for herself and the Blades under her command. Just down the stairs nearby, the depths of the Imperial sewer system loomed and offered both the idea of safety at the end of a series of tunnels, but also the danger of such a neglected passage.

"Baurus, Glenroy." She began, moving up with the Emperor at her side and just behind her. "Forward advance and clear the way." There was the shuffling of heavy armor and blades drawn as the two men moved to effect her command, making their way down the stairs and cautiously advancing into the next room. Next was her and the Emperor with the remaining masked Blades behind them. Only a sidelong glance towards Kiffar to see if he was to follow was left, her concerns for the rioters ending with the pardons and leaving them in the Cathay-Raht's care. If they followed, they followed and if not then not. Though there was that ever looming sensation that something was off. As if eyes in the dark were watching over their every move and preparing an assault.

---

---

For the Captain's acceptance of his correction, he had only a firm nod as he settled his things back where they belonged. It felt... right, to have the weights back on his wrists, the plates on his legs. A familiar, comforting heft, as good as walking around with a heavy blanket for the warrior-cat. By the time he had returned his dagger- really an over-heavy short sword in any other hands- to its sheath and settled his larger sword atop his shoulder, ready for use, there came a fresh and far more pleasant surprise. The familiar tongue of his home. Tainted by the city, surely, spoken like a cat who had never stepped out of the Imperial Cities, but recognizable all the same. He perked up, straightening and peering down at Caddach with no small measure of surprise evident on his face, with ears high and eyes wide. He replied in kind, of course, his own Ta'agra unsurprisingly flawless, though he spoke slowly- aware of that city accent, considerate to it.

<"You speak the tongue well, for city-kin, Breton. Yet, I see your meaning; It would be unreasonable to expect such ancient things clean. Perhaps I should not tease your mane so. Though I admit, I look forward to seeing what old, angry things these secret places hide. I have been long without a challenge- It would not do for my muscles to grow soft guarding caravans and breaking up brawls. Your company will be pleasant, as well, should you continue to surprise me. I will call you friend, for your surprises, and for your stones. Most would not correct me.">

And then again came the distractions- As others gathered up their things, armed and armored themselves, and talked of things that interested him little. He took to checking the edge of his sword, dragging a claw along it with a faint, rasping hiss, eyes squinted as if he were sure it might have acquired some nicks or lost its sheen of oil in the careless handling of prison guards. Only the near panic from his new favorite elfling drew his attention away, a frown tugging at his features as he struggled to catch up to the conversation he had half-ignored. Once he managed, it was with a heavy snort, the sword once again settled on his shoulder, free hand reaching out to pat and squeeze Yarmira's shoulder in what was surely meant to be a comforting gesture. It was a bit too akin to being caught in a death grip, but the intention was clearly good, at least.

"Be calm, Elfling. Breathe, yes? The silly man-things do not know your ways. Come, we will march along and slay the things that lurk and scurry in these halls, and it will make the Elfling feel better. The cultured Breton-thing assures Kiffar that there are old and angry things here for us to hunt. Exciting, yes? Old and angry bones make fine flutes."

He looked up as Baurus and Glenroy were told to take the lead, beginning the group's trek deeper into the forgotten passages. A low, pleased rumble- frightening growl to some, and the nearest thing a big cat could get to a purr to those more familiar- were sign enough of his eagerness to be away. He spared a moment to ruffle Yarmira's hair as one might a wily child's, before stepping off after the Blades with a nod to the Captain.

"Come, come, man-things, elflings, witches and lizards! The Mane-of-Men has need of all arms, and Kiffar smells hunts and adventure this way. This one thinks the many-things will make good company, so get not lost. Big orange backsides are easy to follow, yes? Let the fun begin, and may our foes be many and strong!"

---

^{Direct Mention: @Stormyx}

When Isai pushed his way closer towards the Emperor and the Blades, producing quill to record the unfolding events, Verena knew to give him space. While normally bound at the hip due to her manner of employment, years of working as assistant to the castle administrator in Cheydinhal taught her when to give others space as they worked.

And so, she collected what little belongings she had, slinging the satchel of essentials over her shoulder. One slender hand slipped under the leather lip of the satchel, confirming with a simple touch that her herbal pouch, and her personal pouch were all in order. Not that she had anything of value for the guards to pilfer.

Her steps had slowed, bumping into those beside her as she muttered an empty-hearted apology in return. Pale green eyes swept over everyone, perhaps lingering too long to the point one might accuse her of staring. Verena had a habit of this, a nameless habit, but a habit nonetheless. One where she could tune out the world around her, the sounds muffling, staring but not seeing.

That was until Deia spoke, her very words raising the hair on her forearms, like a whisper that had been blown over her skin.

“We are not alone.”

Here, Verena blinked, breaking that trance-like state she had entered, and focused her attention upon the woman beside her. Her pink tongue slid over her lips as she wet them, eyes lingering on Deia’s own lips before trailing up to gaze into her dull grey eyes.

“There is something… in the shadows?” Verena breathed, her words difficult to determine if she asked a question or made a statement. Her hand brushed against Deia as she shifted her weight. There it was again. That jolt of sensation that ran up her spine, almost making her toes curl.

---

---

As her brother returned to the group and allowed everyone to collect their belongings, Khaliya slipped in between some of the others to presumably get her own things. Though really as her hands moved in the box as if searching, she was just leaving the few items she had among the rest. A mostly empty coinpurse among them, as well as a worn leather wallet and some smaller things that may or may not have belonged to her fellow rioters. Part of her felt a little bad for taking advantage of the violence earlier, especially for the part that her sister played in it. Though some of the others from the bar had seemed all too ready to indulge in the brawl.

Her part in things done, she stepped back and adjusted her clothes a little as it seemed the Blades were getting ready to move and some of the others as well. She could also feel a bit of the lingering tension, the looming sense that something was wrong and about to get even worse. It was in the air, in the cold of the stone and among her with the others as they too felt the shift. Idle conversation that had been a little more casual started to shift towards the dark of the stairway before them and the next chamber. Some mild tension among them as their varied cultures and beliefs started to grind against each other. And that was when Yashar stepped in as he tended to do, always being a guiding voice for herself and those around him through their adventures since leaving home.

"Talos willing, we will see the light of day soon enough" He began, taking hold of his amulet of the Nine with his right hand and looking towards the departing Blades. "I understand your desire to fight, the need for challenge but take care of those around us who may not be as keen, or capable. The Nine will provide for us and the Emperor, so long as we hold true." A hand came to rest on the shoulder of both Argonians in turn, though as he turned to the Shadowscale still fussing with his daggers, Yashar paused and just gave a slow solemn nod to the strange lizard.

"Well, I certainly don't mind a bit more of a boring walk out of here." Khaliya stepped in to take the place of her brother as he walked over to speak with the masked Blades and offer a prayer to the Nine with them. "I think a few of us got more than enough excitement out of the bar than expected… Weren't you in the arena fight earlier too?" Again those silver eyes flashed up at the Argonian she had spent probably at least an hour pestering in the cell, her curiosity clear as a woman out of the desert and now among the green and stone of Cyrodiil. "Getting out of here without trouble, you could always say now that you fought alongside the Blades and protected the Emperor himself. I'm sure a lot of people would be very interested in that, yes?"

---

Without anything to retrieve from the lockbox, Roshanara was left mostly alone with her thoughts of before and what was to come. The musty cold sunk into her bones through the poor insulation of cloth, a gruff displeasure showing that she was one of those who did not take kindly to being trapped underground either. It didn't seem anyone else was keen on speaking with her for now though, as they mostly milled about each other with their casual conversations that she feigned her own disinterest in. Not that she blamed them of course, she had been one of the more aggressive parties in the brawl likely to have caused a fair few injuries among those present and most assuredly one very badly beaten Altmer. She had been used to such things by now, so she quietly worked to still the brewing rage always just under the surface. Calm, slow breathing. In and out. It helped that for now everyone was focused more on the darkness ahead of them, a potential battle at hand and the danger to the Emperor.

That drew her attention to the man himself. Such a frail and old human, not the image she had always pictured of one of the Septims. The man looked as if he was a breath away from death already, even with how closely his guards stuck to him. Out in the far wilds of the provinces and the less civilized regions of Tamriel such a man would not have lived for long, but with the benefits of Cyrodillic life and the protections of such a station there was little danger under normal circumstances. These not being normal circumstances didn't escape her, nor did the danger that her sister and these others had been unknowingly pressed into. She shifted from her position nearing the edges of the group and looked towards the others for a moment, doing her best to see where she should be in case a battle broke out in these cramped quarters. The Blades were close to their Emperor and their captain staying within the center of the group unwilling to move them as of yet, with two of their number having already moved to head down the stairs.

The Cathay-Raht loomed over many of their group, but seemed eager to get stuck in all the same. His enthusiasm was almost contagious, and for a moment she could feel the war-wind stirring within her chest as if relishing the chance to spill blood and shatter bones. All it took was a glance back towards the others and seeing Khaliya staying close to the Argonians to know that she was in a safer position in the case of an ambush, so instead she lingered more towards the front and alongside the larger Khajiit. A strange sensation to have to look up to another, but she gave the man a slow nod as she adjusted the shackles still on her wrists, the chains dangling and already she could see how they could be used in combat. With the two of them at the front and the Argonians at the back, there would be little risk to the others of their group, and at least for her it meant a greater chance at being able to properly let loose.

Unnoticed by the other prisoners, an Imperial had knelt, face and features hidden inside a long white cloak, in a dark corner of the cell in complete silence. His involvement in the brawl had been minimal, having no desire to get swept up in the mistakes of drunkards and rioters, but something had told him not to resist the the city guards when they had swept through the tavern -- the same impulse that had brought him to the Imperial City and its festivities that day in the first place, and to the fight in the Arena before that. The Imperial had come quietly and spoken not a single word during his arrest. He had filed into the cell with his head bowed and wrists crossed in submission. After the creaky cell door had shut behind them and the others around him had begun talking amongst themselves as soon as the guards were gone, he sank to his knees in the furthest corner and ever since merely remained where he was.

Not the entrance of the gigantic Khajiit, the conversations between the half-Redguard and the Argonians, the confrontation between the wild woman and the foppish scholar, nor the jokes and stories of the groundskeeper had roused him from his apparent reverie. In the shadows of his cowl, unseen to all, his lips had been slowly moving silently, mouthing prayers that only the Eight and One could hear, while practiced ears caught snatches of dialogue from all around him and filtered it for useful information. None provided itself. These were truly an unruly bunch. And yet, the man sensed something imminent. Something important. For years, years of hard work, peril, and great personal sacrifice, he had been watching a vague and disparate pattern of shadows like a hawk, unable to make sense of the shapeless clues and formless warnings. Now it was as if the sun had nearly finished its agonizingly slow crawl across the heavens to reach the right place, and a crystal clear umbral lattice was on the cusp of revealing itself. The city above him was tearing itself to pieces, the rule of law unraveling while the Septims were present in great numbers for the engagement of one of their own. Surely, there was a purpose? If everything was happening over his head, why did he feel so strongly that he was meant to be down here?

Then... it happened. Sounds of combat and shouting came down the corridor. The Imperial's lips suddenly froze and he stirred slightly, raising his head to peek between the throng to see what was happening with eyes as bright as sea ice. Underneath plate and mail, his heart quickened, and adrenaline flooded his body. This was it. This was it. The Enemy was about to reveal itself. It was pity that he was unarmed, but he would make do. He always did. The gods were with him. He tensed and prepared himself for combat.

To his absolute and undivided astonishment, several Blades appeared in the tochlight's half-shadow instead. Legendary dragonkillers and bodyguards of the Emperor Himself. At the sound of Captain Renauld's voice and the sight of her distinctive Akaviri armor, the Imperial rose to his feet. He had been uncertain of what to expect, or what it was exactly that he had been hunting in Cyrodiil, but this was something else. Subconsciously, he was holding his breath, for if the Blades were here, that could only mean one thing.

Emperor Uriel Septim revealed himself. Not unlike several other prisoners, some of whom fully prostrated themselves, the Imperial instinctively sank to one knee and bowed his head at the sight of his Emperor. His thoughts raced, barely hearing what Renault, Glenroy and Baurus were saying, but he arrived at the only logical conclusion nonetheless: they were trying to kill the Emperor, whoever they were. Were these the machinations of Mehrunes Dagon, that the astrologers had seen in the stars? It seemed logical. Everything was falling into place. The Imperial had seen the robed and armored man in the hallway, and he recognized a Daedric cultist when he saw one. The stench of conjured armor still lingered in the air.

"Your Emperor and his Blades is in need of moving through your cell, and in his benevolence is bestowing a pardon of all crimes to each of you, but either move up the stairs or down the tunnel. Make your choice, but know there is danger no matter which direction you go," came the voice of Baurus. The choice was immediately made. The Imperial man fell in line with the others that departed from the prison cell, still choosing to keep his counsel and say nothing yet. He briefly made eye contact with the Emperor and wondered, as the rest of the prisoners probably did... was it his face that the old monarch had seen in his dreams?

Then came the tunnel, and the priest and the guardsman returned with the lockboxes carrying all their belongings. The Imperial waited for most of the others to have grabbed their things, then walked forwards and rearmed himself -- dagger, shield, hammer, claymore. They were all there. He wrapped the sling of the claymore's scabbard and the shield around his torso, carrying them on his back, while the hammer was returned to his belt loop and the dagger was sheathed on his other hip. With his weapons on his person again, the man felt complete. Lastly, he bent over and picked up his greathelm from the chest, looking at the steel visage for a moment before hanging it on another belt hook. He might have need of it later.

Slowly, Hector Sibassius reached up and threw back his hood, revealing his face, and the very air around him suddenly seemed heavy with his presence. His golden hair shimmered in the sharp light cast by the magelight, and his sapphire eyes reflected the light brightly, a resolute expression on his features. With a few gentle touches and whispered apologies, he moved to the front of the group, close to Kiffar, gaze fixed on the backs of the two Blades that were advancing into the sewer complex ahead of them.

Then, for the first time, he spoke, in a voice that carried across all the seas. "Oh sacred Talos," he intoned, words echoing sharply off the encramped space. "We give thanks unto you for the graces you have given us. Chosen amongst all men and destined for power, you realized the Empire. By your will alone was Cyrodiil restored. Great Talos, guide the Emperor along the road of righteousness. Show mercy to the just and show vengeance to the wicked. Oh Lord of Cyrodiil, whose eyes are likened unto the sky, grant peace of your kingdom and favor to her rulers."

Hector drew his weapons, the steel warhammer sliding into his hand and the shield being lifted from his back. "Glory be Thine Forever." He looked aside, at the witch-woman Deia, and nodded his assent. Whatever she had sensed, through whatever means, he was sure that she was right. "They are coming," he said gravely.

_{ft. Deia, Hector, Isai, Verena, Kiffar}

Deia let go of the tension in her wrist and relaxed, taking a step closer to Verena, settling her ritual-marked hand upon the woman’s shoulder. “Don’t tremble, dove,” she whispered from behind her smile, eyes casting a sidelong glance to the paladin who had piped up from his silent meditations. The hum of his Aedra-bound soul grated like a sunlit hymn in the dark underbelly of Nirn. Of course, she thought to herself. The front of the class always wants to lead the flock…

Air shifted around Deia, prickled and thinned as she let a careful and contained hush fall. Tiny flecks of static flaked upwards from her robes. Slithering like incense from her - illuminating the dark with the hum of her magicka as her excitement teased forward.

“They’re playing statues,” she said in a low murmur that took the melodic tone of a coo in its depth. Her blade swung in her free hand like a pendulum. That faint violet glow pulsed through her skin again, like candlelight beneath a burial shroud. Her pale eyes flashed with colour briefly and she stared beyond again.

As the group still ushered forward, a flicker of her storm rushed through the blade of her knife, flashing through the carved runes, tracing and travelling them until it crackled away into the dark. “Bark and stone shan’t obscure them much longer, dove. My teeth await.”

Hector observed the display of power from Deia and weighed the options, a professional assessment forming in his mind. It was important to determine as soon as possible if there were any of the Daedric cultists amongst their own, waiting for an opportune moment to sabotage their defense of the Emperor. He recognized her mannerisms and magical tradition as being Reachmen in nature, though she seemed to be dressed to hide this fact, and he had seen what sort of unsavory worship those people got up to before. But somehow the picture didn't add up. Like she was something else too. Being suspicious of her seemed obvious.

That said, a quick mental comparison of her and the cultist that had come barreling down the prison staircase in pursuit of the Emperor showed that they could not have been more different. They were not being hunted by a coven of wild witches. This was something else. Hector smiled faintly and simply said to her: “Do try not to scare the poor girl, would you?”

“She is not a poor girl,” Deia replied quickly like a warning; a truth.

The fine hair along Verena’s forearms stood on end at the surprising assertion on Deia’s part, a hint of a blush colouring her cheeks, albeit difficult to see in the dim light. A chill twisted into a writhing knot in the pit of her stomach, a result of the perplexity in which she found herself. She wanted to ask questions, but she knew better than to open her mouth; so her lips remained sealed, yet her eyes dared to linger upon the Imperial with his white cloak and tabard. An imposing figure.

Hector glanced at Verena. The young woman was not a fighter. For a moment he imagined his own daughter standing there, shuffling along the sewer-dark, liable to be ambushed by bloodthirsty maniacs at any moment. His stomach tied himself into a knot at the thought, and he looked away, back to the shadows ahead of them. Hector had followed in his father's footsteps, but he differed from his old man in one major way -- he never wished his own life for his daughter. Sara was safer at arm's length, and this Verena girl was in terrible danger for being so close at hand.

“Be that as it may, you know what I mean,” he said firmly as he returned his gaze to Deia. “Save your strength for the Enemy.” And spare the rest of us your sordid witchcraft, he thought to himself, but thought better of antagonising her so directly given the circumstances.

The sounds of hurried etching from putting a quill to paper had come to a sudden halt and a thump, as if impatiently set down. No warrior himself, Isai was likely beneath the notice of the martially minded in this world of might making right, so it was as if his voice emerged from an unbeknownst crevice from the center of the formation and his voice was indeed laced with impatience that hid a bone-deep trepidation.

Under the baleful shadow of assassination attempts, the casual conversations, prayers, and bickering were distracting noises that frayed his nerves and drowned out any attempts to divine potential sources of danger.

“Perhaps it would behoove us all to remain focused on our own well-being,” Isai sighed, his eyes wandering the group before it landed on Deia for a moment longer, and lastly on Hector. On him, his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, but after a moment of contemplation, seemed to have disregarded whatever notion that had come to him before continuing his previous thought.

“An appreciable sentiment, ser.” He said to introduce himself with his hand outstretched. “Isai — Isai Tegulatoris Sutor-Armaseptus da Leyawiin, Esquire. Though if the enemy’s quarry is what lies in His Majesty’s heart, then our fair lady should be preserved from harm, for now… and should no person delusion the Blades’ loyalty be to any person but the Emperor himself, if conceiving the threat of being held hostage as leverage.

“He would slay me in twain with the cur, wouldn’t he?” Isai chimed with a glance to the Blade, Glenroy, whose cryptic and resentful silence was all but confirmation that nothing would stand between him and his duties. Isai responded with a smirk that seemed satisfied with his assessment, but not necessarily happy — rather, calmly reassured in no real reassuring sense that no one would save him today, like a man walking to the gallows and planning his own escape. He took a deep, self-soothing breath.

“Nevertheless,” he continued with an air of finality, “my dearest Verena Luscinia is a steadfast, reliable companion. No soldier, maybe, but equally resolute, loyal… and dare I say unequivocally useful.”

Verena dare not let any notable expression linger too long upon her features. Oh yes, useful indeed. How many times had she improvised in hare-brained situations gone awry with Isai? Perhaps too many to count given the short length of time employed by Isai. Nevertheless, Verena gave a perfected polite smile. Her words were not needed in the moment, better for her eyes to wander elsewhere.

As Isai’s voice once more had filled the quiet space, Deia gave a slight roll of her eyes before speaking too. “The way in which you chew your words…” she said in words scorched with sudden boredom. She blinked, slow and cold. The traces of magicka that were left curled back inward like smoke drawn back to flame.

She made no sound as she turned, stepping closer to the esquire himself. A gloved hand lifted, a single finger hovering above his lips - not a touch, just the warning of one, which was met with a grimace. She took one more look from behind the shadows at Verena; she too was guilty of speaking for the woman. For and about her.

”Be that as it may…” she murmured, her gaze cutting toward Hector, as if to finally let her eyes trace over him, head to toe and back again. Her mouth twitched. “As you wish.” She drew out her words, lined her voice with trickles of eerie amusement. “I’ll save my strength.”

She moved forward, stepping on into the dark ahead. Her attention flickered even with her eyes forward; she focused on the corners and the edges, where movement pretended to be stillness, she was ready.

Hector did not flinch or shirk beneath her gaze, meeting it levelly as she inspected him -- and judged him, no doubt. He was used to it. Deia was wild and dangerous, to be sure, but Hector did not esteem her to be evil. He had faced scrutiny from worse creatures. He simply smiled and nodded when she gave her assent and strode on ahead, mockery and all. “Thank you.”

Then he turned to Isai and took the proffered hand in his gauntlet with a strong but modest grip -- he did not seek to crush the author's hand and ruin his penmanship. “Hector Sibassius,” he said simply. The use of titles and honorifics was not his way. “The pleasure is all mine. Yes, I believe you are right about the Blades. Our lives are all but forfeit when compared to that of a Dragonborn Emperor. But this is only just! If we may lay down our lives in His Majesty's defense, it will be an act of the utmost patriotism.” Hector smiled warmly and clapped a hand to Isai’s shoulder. “Ah, but I'm sure it won't come to that. The Blades are here, and then there is our admittedly eclectic but undoubtedly dangerous ensemble.”

At that, he glanced back to Verena and inclined his head in her direction. “My apologies, by the way. I meant no offense to your valiant assistant. Between you and me,” he continued and lowered his voice, “I was just trying to get the witch woman from satiating the atmosphere with witchcraft even before the first clash of blades. It was getting on my nerves.”

‘Witch woman…’ Verena’s face wrinkled at the way in which the paladin had uttered that phrase in particular. Men of the cloth never changed, did they?

He stepped back and reached for his weapons again, testing the weight of the hammer in his hand, the heavy steel head making a dull wooshing sound as it displaced the air. “Say, are you a writer?” Hector asked casually and gestured towards the quill and journal in Isai's hands. “Sutor-Armaseptus,” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. “Ever publish anything? Something I would know?”

Isai gave a face with his brows furrowed, eyes widened, and chin retreating into his neck that so obviously showed a clear level of insult that his prior qualms with conversations and assassination attempts retreated from his mind. Even if he put his hand up to his chest to dramatically emphasize the inflicted wound as though it were a joke, his reaction came too fast to preclude genuine indignation. “Good ser,” he squawked, “you wound me! Well, I suppose that would depend on your preferenced genre, wouldn’t it? I have covered quite a, ahem, wide berth from the literary to the academic and philosophical. You seem… well, maybe of likeness to When Spirits Conspire: Reconstituting the Gods in a Post-Genesis Nirn… but, oh goodness, nevermind, that is a thick read even by my standards!”

Isai trailed the suggestion with a laugh that was a little too loud in the absence of a real joke. “Oh, and the layered abstractions are positively impenetrable, nevermind the dreadfully languid pacing, ugh.”

In truth, he just realized he recommended a holy man a book in which he challenged the neutered power of the disincorporated et-Ada, who created a world to be interfaced with and habituated by Daedric lords of substance. He distracted with a shiny smile, “How about Scamps of Avignaue?”

“You must excuse any offense I have caused by failing to recognize your name, good ser,” Hector said and raised up his hands with a smile. “I spend more time on the road than I do in bookstores of repute, even though I do like reading from time to time. I am sure the fault does not lie with your fame or authorship.”

He let the man’s rambling comments, and immediate self-contradiction about his own book recommendations, pass by without comment, and simply shrugged -- even though the title sounded improper to him. The gods were constituted just fine, in his opinion.

“Very well, if you don’t think the first book you mentioned was a good fit for me, you shall have to tell me more about this Scamps novel. But I must warn you,” he said sternly, his brow suddenly furrowed, and a pointed finger raised in admonition, “I do not take kindly to Daedra apologism. These ‘scamps’ better not be the real thing.”

There was a twinkling in his eye, however, and a half-suppressed grin flittered across his face before he turned away to face the darkness once more. “But I meant what I said. Save it for later. You hold onto that quill and journal for now, young master. History will be written here soon.”

As Isai engaged with Hector, Verena’s attention wandered elsewhere. Once more, her gaze traveled to Deia where she admired her wild mane of hair, much like her own mess that she tried to tame. She shifted from one foot to the other, her feet beginning to ache as her simple slippers provided little comfort. She gave an exasperated sigh, much in the way of pouting like a child whose mother told her no they couldn’t have sweets before dinner as her lips puckered together, “What are we waiting for? Why are we all just lingering here? How much longer until we get out of here?”

Chatter. Chatter and noise from the cavern, when Kiffar had been so eager to get going. He found himself lingering near the next tunnel, glancing after the Blades and back to the rest of the group, his cheery invitation to them all to go and face the dark apparently unheard. Much like any housecat, this presented him with a problem. He couldn’t leave the group behind; Like kittens, they needed herding, and he had been asked to handle it. Yet, he couldn’t lose sight of the Blades, either, for he had promised his assistance there, too. So he was strung between the two, ice blue eyes flickering back and forth, ears slowly descending to lay flat, tail a nervous lash in his wake. They lingered, and lingered, until Kiffar found himself pressing tongue to fangs, whistling sharply in the dim caverns, a hand extended, pointing, towards the Blades, eyes on the group as a whole.

”ADVENTURE, Many-Things. It awaits. Come, come, before the Mane-of-Men’s Guard have all the fun without us, yes? Kiffar does not wish to miss the fun, he has been locked away too long. This one’s arms will grow soft without something to do.”

There was, in that commanding statement, more a tone of pleading than of ordering. It would not do to throw orders about in a group of strong independence, after all, but he was remiss to lose out on even a scrap of the fighting- And that there would be fighting was a certainty he could feel in his bones. So he stood, and pointed, practically bouncing on his claws in his eagerness to be away, a vastly overgrown and excitable murderfloof if ever there was one.

”Quite right, quite right,” Hector said after he had finished wincing at the sudden piercing whistling sound. ”Just making some acquaintances and trying not to get in the way of the Blades, my good fellow. But let us be off. Our Emperor will need us before long, I’m sure of it.”

And with that, he set off in pursuit of Uriel Septim and his bodyguard, drawing level with Kiffar -- as much as the cramped sewer tunnels allowed it, anyway -- eyes and ears focused on the darkness ahead. Isai returned to his own post safely at the center to record events as they transpired with Verena close at hand, and Deia, eyes fixated on the darkness beyond the torchlit penumbra.

Kharne nodded as Veeza seemed to be as raring to go as him for a good fight. He double checked the belts and buckles of his gear, making sure everything was tight as other groups seemed to be winding down and getting ready to actually move through these dusty ancient tunnels and corridors. Veeza seemed impressed with his polearm, getting a grin. "Custom made, only one like it. I'll eventually get a better material but this works. Unfortunately with so many others and tight quarters it'll not be used much" He rumbled out his reply. Polearms like his needed swing space, underground tunnels were not the right area.

That was why he had his cleaver, a nice hefty monster of a one handed blade that looked like it could smash through a cuirass. Granted the wedge on the spine was a good indicator that Kharne liked being prepared for enemies of various flavors. He had it unsheathed, clenching and unclenching his hand around its curved handle, adjusting how it sat in his hand for optimum comfort of use.

His attention was taken for a moment by the priestly one, Yashar. "They have plenty of allies around them judging by how many of use are weapon oriented." He stated, the vast majority of the people here were armed and armored, and those with lighter armor had ranged weapons. In fact was anyone even unarmed? Khaliya spoke up, saying she wouldn't mind just a boring old walk out of here and that some had more than enough excitement for the day. "I've yet to lie about my adventures and experiences. If there is no fighting I can't exactly have fought beside the Emperors bodyguards now can I?" He questioned, a slight grin on his reptilian face.

Still it looked to be time to be moving since the Blades and Emperor were moving out. So he waited a moment to give space and to move with Veeza and Khaliya if they were going to be a 'party' within the group of miscreants.