In time, the name Molag Bal will be forgotten! In time, all of Tamriel will bow down before me! Soon, the God of Schemes will have a new name: Mannimarco!

-The King of Worms

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They say in Highrock, the common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. The kings may play their game of thrones, their knights are stalwart, the very best in Tamriel, but it is not violence that wins the day. The province is a realm of merchants and diplomats, inclined to learning and negotiation. The pen is mightier than the sword, many Bretons say.

These illusions burned, as all else did, when the Oblivion gates opened.

Clad in black plate, Dremora and worse things streamed forth from the Deadlands at the bidding of Mehrunes Dagon's will. Once peaceful villages were reduced to ash, the farmlands of Wayrest and Westmark were scorched to nothing. Entire woodlands had disappeared overnight, and the verdant fields and quaint villages where children pretended their sticks were swords of steel, were assailed by the very legions of what the old Alessian order called hell. The Knightly Orders were summoned forth to defend the realm as peasant levies were assembled for the first time in centuries. The Hands of Balfiera were slaughtered to a knight, holding the Dremora and their imp servants off at Helmahlod Stepp. Daggerfall's Knights of the Dragon checked the horde at Chesterwark, Knight-Captain Gabriel d'Angeac gaining a feifdom after the crisis for daring and courage. The remnants of Alcaire's Knights of the Flame ran down a makeshift army of bandits that had marched of Baelorcroft Manor. The Knights of Pelin took heavy losses, but managed to route an army of daedric beasts near Forsdakar. All the while the common bretons defended their homes, and marched when they could be spared. What imperial legions had been stationed in Highrock acquitted themselves honorably, but many non-Bretons deserted, returning home to protect their own families.

When the gates were closed, and the flames were put out, the Frostfall plague swept in. Some whispered it was of daedric origin, a final gift from the prince of destruction. Others believed it was created by unseen, jealous hands; an evil craft made to topple what little civilization was left. It was likely just from the cold and lack of food.

Still, Highrock had not suffered as hard as many provinces. Say what you will about the fuedal system, but it does well in a crisis of arms. Without a central chain of command, the kings, dukes, and barons sent their knights where they saw fit, and could operate independently without the crutch of a central bureaucracy. The hills and mountains that swathed the land were ideal chokepoints, and the once cordoned off kingdom, ideal for aristocratic feuds, was evidently purpose built to hold off invasions from every direction. It was Highrock's fractitious politics and geography that saved the day, but the province had been set back decades, if not centuries in terms of infrastructure. Only now, nine years after the last gate was closed, has the provincial imperial governor, Tidus Alonius, returned to find Highrock limping along, licking its wounds...

"Alright, we get it!" Amal snapped, blinking his eyes in the sun. The cart lurched from a hole in the road, the horses knickering as they cantered through the idyllic spring landscape. He realized the incessant banging in his dreams had been the crashing wheels of the wagon, which meant the thrum that had lengthened his headache must have been this fool!

"Oh, was I speaking aloud again? Apologies, it helps me write." The high elf said, having the decency to be mildly sheepish in countenance. They had been on the road together since Amal had landed at Steelheart Bay. Truth be told, he liked Aenarion, but the altmer did not know when to stop talking. Two years ago he might have simply slit his throat and be done with it. He might do it now. The mer had known Amal was hungover, and still he was trying to write the Pocket Guide to the Empire, V4. Aenarion gave a soft smile to him. "Well, at least you're finally awake. We should be there in a matter of minutes. The driver said as much."

The redguard pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a few moments to clear his senses before he massaged his forehead. Groaning gently, he sat up fully as the rickety wheels bounced beneath him. The straw had been itchy, but not a bad bed compared to the stone and dirt he was used to. All in all, they had been lucky. Two weeks on the road, and the worst they had come across was a sign of banditry Amal had recognized, cautioning them to take a different road, and a minotaur the driver, Maurice, had managed to outrun. It had helped the Breton was returning home, his cargo-laden wagon having been replaced with a small coin pouch. He had been happy to bring Amal along, one look at his callused hands and the iron saber he kept at his belt swathed about his slim waist had seen to that. The elf, he said, was welcome in case they ran into any magical problems. Aenarion had professed later he had very little training in arcane matters, but he was not going to announce that small fact.

"Ah, you can smell Edeth's mulberry pies!" Maurice exclaimed, breathing in deeply. Amal's nose twitched. Now that the driver had mentioned it, he could too. It did smell nice.

With the greenery enclosing the road and the sun high in the sky, and the most life-threatening beast in a week having been deer bounding across the road, this was hardly the hellscape Aenarion had called it. Hells, even if they found their destination was cooking people rather than pies, Amal would still find it a leg up from where he was in Hammerfell. Only in northern Hammerfell were there songbirds. Here? They sang a tune that seemed to infect the land with peace day by day. He half expect an arrow to fly out of the treeline, but none did. Instead, they rolled out of the Aned Thicket, right into Koegria. When the landscape opened up, the first they saw was a slim light house overlooking the bay, drawing their eyes to a handful of tradeships docked for the night. Their elevation was somewhat lofty, a few meter above sea level, they could not see the entirety of the town. The road winded past a motley assortment of townhouses and moss covered tors, flecked with healthy trees that stood vigilant over the trodden streets. As they rolled under the welcome sign, they passed a large statue of Dibella with various offerings beneath her feet.

"The lady watches over us." Maurice joked, chuckling privately.

Amal grinned, elbowing Aenarion. "I believe I will like it here. They worship the goddess of tits and love."

For his part, the elf seemed too preoccupied with the emblems and the heraldry displayed on the doors and shops. Crossing their path, a man in plate armor Amal only assumed was a knight rode passed. He looked purposeful and ornate, good on the battlefield but lousy in the woods, off his steed. He gave Amal a look of disgust before corralling his horse away, and Amal only smirked. Past a seamstress shop and the local weaponsmith, Maurice pulled the cart over. He sighed from a trip safely traveled, but groaned getting out of his seat. "Alright you two louts, hop out. Enjoy Koegria, but keep out of trouble. There's been enough chaos in these parts to last an age..."

And the day had started off so well. Delphine tried to curl her body into a ball, but it didnt save her from another kick to her ribs. She tried to suck in air but her lungs were not responsive save for a burning agony that served as their declaration that they disapproved of being kicked with heavy leather boots. Another kick caught her across the temple and the pain was indescribable. She rolled onto her back only to have the booted foot stomp down on her sternum and she found that she could describe the previous pain as ‘not as bad as the stomp on my sternum’. This now found linguistic clarity did not comfort her.

“You gettin’ off light!” Ragan Three Fingers snarled. Delphine respectfully disagreed as she lay on the floor of the alley, wheezing for breath and trying to draw the first breath in what was now an alarmingly long time. She said something witty like ‘oooowwww’ and promptly vomited, forcing Ragan to step back in disgust.

“You took our money Delapore, and if I don’t get the interest by the end of the week it wont be just us girls right?” Ragan told her in a town that would be reasonable coming from someone who hadn’t just broken two of your ribs.

“You’ll get it, pinky swear,” Delphine replied, and was rewarded for this witisim by another kick to the head and a swirling plunge into blackness. An indeterminate but short, judging by the shadows on the alley wall, time later she came too. Her head and ribs immediately screamed that it had been better when she had been unconscious, but to hell with them. Sobbing and drooling with pain she forced herself up into a sitting position. With some effort she was able to draw shallow breaths. Talking was too much effort, that effort being devoted to the unglamorous but completely necessary task of breathing but she mouthed the words of the incantation. A cool sensation flowed over her as the restorative energies went to work. She vomited again as her ribs reset, helpfully aiming the ejecta away from herself to preserve her dignity. It took a few minutes but eventually she was able to stand and stagger over to a horse trough. She thrust her head into it purging her mouth of the taste of vomit and steadying herself. Withdrawing her dripping head she looked down at her reflection. The wavering form of a pretty brown haired Breton stared back at her, with a ‘don’t look at me you got yourself into this’ type of expression which fairly typified how things were going. Delphine touched her satchel and found she hadn’t been robbed, her sword and bow were still across her back too. You had to give it to the Thieves Guild, they might have you beaten to a pulp, but at least they weren’t going to rob you while they were at it.

“Daedra and Divines,” she muttered, and pulled her clothing into some semblance of order. She was starting to think the Guild really meant it this time.

At least one Guild really meant it. Delphine thought when, an hour later she stood in an office in the Mages Guild. Bristar Marlowe sat behind a desk peering at a scroll through a pair of improbably large oculars. His office, like most rooms in the Guild here in Koegira was ringed with shelves, on which were piled books, scrolls, manuscripts, and other arcane paraphernalia. Private offices like this were particularly treasure troves. Since the Necromantic Schism had erupted, senior mages had taken to hoarding vast swathes of the library to prevent disaffected mages from simply taking their toys and going home. That is if they could escape the jeers and curses of the crowds that seemed to constantly lurk outside the Guild these days. Suspicion and fear of the Guild had not ended with the Oblivion Crisis. Worse still the hemorrhage of members, and more importantly of membership dues, forced the Guild to ever more extortionate measures. To whit…

“You are a talented student Delphine, particularly in alchemy, but your lack of commitment to the guild troubles me. Three years and you are still only an associate member?” he said, or at least his lips said, what he really meant was somewhat more like : where is my bribe, I must have my bribe!

“I’m sorry Master, since my family's lands were destroyed when the gates opened I’m afraid my means are limited…”

Marlow silenced her with a wave of his hand, dropping the scroll onto the desk with disdain.

“Miss Delapore, the associate membership is meant for new students who dabble, you have dabbled sufficiently. I am afraid if you do not move up to full membership in the next month or so I shall have to consider suspending your membership in this body. Do I make myself clear?” his voice asked. ‘Get me my money or else’ his eyes underscored.

“Two months,” Delphine agreed, immediately seizing the best case scenario before he could get more specific. Marlow opened his mouth to correct her but thought the better of it.

“I have an important paper on the Ethics of Necromancy to complete,” he informed her. Delphine took her cue and ducked out of the room. Neatly slipping one of the leather bound volumes beneath her cloak as she went. She hope it was something she could use, or at the very least something she could sell, between that and the potions she had brewing maybe she could square the Thieves Guild and Marlow. And maybe after that a handsome prince would ride in and make her Queen of Daggerfall and Junior Empress while he was at it, or perhaps a meteor would strike Koegira mysteriously destroying the entire Thieves Guild in a single blow. A girl could hope.

The apartments and businesses were almost all two storied, roofs thatched and the walls made of local timber. They were jettied, where timber-frame buildings are built in the manner which an upper floor projects beyond the dimensions of the floor below. This has the advantage of increasing the available space in the building without obstructing the street, and also discourages would-be thieves and squirrels from climbing to the roof. They were little obstacles to Amal; in fact he found these buildings particularly easy to climb. Support beams, plenty of windows, no nets to halt progress. As the redguard shoved the last of his third piece of stolen vanilla custard pie into his mouth, he felt he could get used to Highrock. A land so quaint felt quite comfortable.

The town wasn't very large for a port town, but in all fairness, Amal was inclined to stick closer to more populated cities in Hammerfell and Cyrodiil for unscrupulous reasons. Even so, by his trained eye, he could tell only half of the people walking the streets were locals. Keogria had not entirely escaped the crisis and the plague. Immigrants like Amal had filled up some of the gaps, but this town could hold a few thousand more people if it had the occasion.

He had taken a stroll around town, visited the docks for a short peek, moving past the central fountain in the square and jogging down the overgrown grass in the empty lot next to 'Southhill Seams' and 'Gorlan's Flagon.' The tavern was nearly barren save for a few regulars, but barmaids went back and forth cleaning tables and gathering more chairs for the stream of attendees likely to pour in once the lunchbell rang. Amal had kept to himself mostly. He was so used to being chased, he wasn't about to start off in Highrock poorly. Except when he began to get peckish, and realized he had precious few coins on which to purchase. Hoonding advised the Yokudans of old to overcome and persevere, and he would not need to worry about his reputation here as long as he did not get caught, right?

He watched from behind the awning of a window atop the tallest apartment he could find, spectating the town coming alive. The low trickle of bretons and imperials became a torrent of both local and foreign faces. A gaggle of khajit skulked together to set up shop near the square, looking around as if expecting someone to stop them. An orc and a nord carried barrels of mead from the docks to Gorlan's Flagon, nearly crushing a bosmer fellow who had been scampering across the cobblestones for some unknown task. Squinting, Amal spied with his keen eyes a board at the back of the square, with various pieces of used parchment nailed to its breadth. Bounties, he thought. Perhaps that could lead to some work.

"You! Did you take my pie!?" Amal heard distantly. He popped his head up and whirled, pushing off the sloped roof to silently traverse himself to the opposite side. Below a hanging clothesline, he saw the plump Dunmer baker, and Amal never knew an elf could be plump! The one he had stolen from, both the tips and the pie. His crimson eyes blazed with suspicion as Amal watched him accost a pretty young Breton, though on second look, he realized she was armed for travel. The dunmer clenched his jaw, advancing on her, a carving knife in his hand. The girl bit her lip nervously.

"I'm sure your pies are delicious, but I only just got here." The woman protested, but as the Dunmer approached, taller than her, she seemed to shrink in defeat. "_{I can take out a loan?}"

Before the Dunmer could speak, the second half of his missing pie fell atop him from a three story fall. The Breton woman blanched at the last moment, jumping back to keep herself clean. For a brief moment, her eyes met Amal's, but the thief ducked back as the wet slap of pie hit the baker, and the Breton woman scurried away while the dark elf exploded in rage, obviously just as confused as mortified. Amal chuckled to himself, hurriedly sliding down the opposite side of the building to land nimbly into an alleyway, wiping off what little crumbs might have stayed on him. Beyond the shadows at the outside bistro, he heard two voices, one very familiar.

"Have you heard of the High Elves?" an elderly gentlemen asked.

"Erm, I'm actually one of them, so yes."

It seemed Aenarion was having a fruitful experience in town. Amal would speak to him, but instead he slipped into a different road, approaching the bustling crowd and cries of bread and cheese from a different direction to dispel suspicion. He sucked in his breath and strode with confidence, having the air of a hired sword as he approached the bounty board. A poor sellsword perhaps, with no armor or companions, but the way one carried themselves counted for a lot. He slipped past an Imperial playing the lute, trying to earn coin from sailors and locals with a mediocre tune, though his voice carried well, Amal had to give him credit. He clutched his purse when a nord passed by, a bit too near his person, and stepped over a passing Argonian woman's tail to check the bounty board. Odd, he thought. Most of these were simply announcements from the local baron. News that carried from distant baronies and duchies. One creased writ said Daggerfall had recently celebrated the marriage of their son Camaron to Lady Kelmena, the daughter of Duke Senhyn of Camlorn, suggesting a possible unified kingdom along the western coast of Tamriel. Well, he wasn't interested in geopolitics. There was another spelling out the various businesses in town, and a letter to the people by the Knights of Faraven, responding to their pleas for help in their mines.

It spoke of an uprising of goblins in the east, giving the town their humblest apologies. Another pamphlet spoke of three warriors having gone missing in the mines. He found it all more than intriguing, and lo and behind, below that was a writ on bounties, and a clearance of the Koeglin Mine!

"Four hundred septims?" Amal breathed, whistling suggestively. "And more for each bandit ear brought to the Alderman..."

He glanced around, wondering if anyone was taking notice. It was his usual paranoia playing tricks on him, he thought. Until the pretty girl he had seen not minutes ago caught his eye again, approaching from across the square. Thinking she meant to speak to him about the pie, he grinned.

Delphine was glad to disentangle herself from the Dunmer as well as intrigued by the falling pie. She had heard of mana from heaven though the muck that was left in the muddy street didn’t exactly fit the bill. Although the Dunmer momentarily thought she was innocent she decided that she had best make herself scarce before he figured that a fine from a guard would spend just as well no matter who paid it. The square was busy in the early evening and the smell of roasting meat was thick on the air. The pie had reminded her that she had violently ejected the contents of her stomach a few hours ago and that she should probably replace that, preferably with something cheap. Tomorrow she could head out into the wilds, try to gather some ingredients and whip up a few potions for sale, while she was out of the city she could hunt for her food and that would save her a few pennies. Delphine paused as a trio of drunken Imperial soldiers passed, half staggering against each other. The woman in the lead wore an armband and seemed to be marginally less inebriated, dissading her companions from the random acts of drunken debauchery they were discussing.

“Daedra lover!” a panchy man snarled as she passed. Even in magically tolerant Breton society the backlash against mages omnipresent.

“I tried it but they were all too busy pleasuring your mother,” Delphine responded pleasantly. The man undulated to his feet but Delphine was already passed him, slipping across the street ahead of a wagon that was loaded down with dry goods. She was considering the Hound and Badger fro ale and stew when she noticed what she would swear was the man who had dropped the pie back in Flour Lane. She crossed to him and was met with an insouciant grin. She grinned back bemused. Briefly she wondered if he was Thieves Guild, petty crime like stealing food wasn’t something they policied, but he looked like he could handle himself. Most Redgards could, though stereotypes werent everything as her encounter with Paunchy Shitforbrains had just demonstrated.

“Well good to see you again,” she greeted as she got close.

“I’m pleased to see that you are taking care of our street level streets as well,” she quipped. She opened her mouth to continue but her eyes were drawn to the bounty board behind him by the almost glowing figure of four hundred septims. That amount of money would come very close to clearing what she owed the guild, then her eyes went down to the next notice.

“Jaque, Delbrae and Squeak,” she said with a sad sigh. She had known all three of them, local fighters trying to prove they had what it took to join the guild. She had hired on to a caravan with them taking goods to Knightsbridge once and on another occasion tried for a bounty on a rouge bear that had been killing travellers. That had proved to be nothing more than wandering around the woods for a few days with nothing to show at the end. Well not quite nothing, she had managed a good source of duskbells when Delbrae had tumbled down that gully. It was a shame to hear that they had died, though the bastards might have asked her to come along and share the bounty as skint as she was. Realisng she had lapsed into silence she turned her attention back to the Redguard.

“Delphine Delapore,” she said, thrusting out a hand in the fashion of Hammerfell.

“Thanks for not letting me take the fall for the great pastry heist, or letting the great pastry heist fall on me.”

Amal had made enemies in two provinces, he would rather not get someone imprisoned on a third. At least not on his first day without travel. He did not wish to admit that, though, nor that he partially did it because she was pretty. Instead he shrugged. "He wanted the pie back so badly, I felt a bit guilty." He joked, taking her hand in his and shaking it. "But you're welcome." The redguard had immensely strong hands. It was easy to feel, even if he did not grip her own tightly.

"Amal of Rihad, I am... well, let's say I have need of money and wish to use my blade to get it." He said, not even pretending to be deceptive in his tone when he spoke of himself. He added: "For the most part."

"Now, if you've been good, Wayshrines of Dibella may bless you so you can grow up big and beautiful," a mother Breton told her little girl, wagging her finger to the troublemaking little one. Amal glanced to the right, seeing the girl pout, but she relented with a nod and they walked away. The noise of chatter and laughter grew more prominent as others strode by.

"No, you fool. Nobody goes into the mountains but hunters and thieves on the lam. Food and shelter is hard to come by." A local workman said, speaking louder than he believed, to a traveler asking questions of the region.

"I take it you're not simply here to talk pastries." Amal leaned forward conspiratorially, before he placed his forearm against his mouth to stifle a small burp. "-As good as they are. If you're wanting the reward, you'll either have to join me or race me for it. Usually I am accommodating to ladies, but I am in need of money, and I do not know your skills..." He took the opportunity to study her more closely, though before a moment passed, he frowned lightly. Did he recognize her? She looked familiar, he thought. Oh well, no matter.

At that, he pulled back and gave a wide smile. "So, would you like to go somewhere more private and discuss, or will we be rivals on the road?"

He wondered what magic she wielded. Redguards did not trust illusion magic. They did not like the idea of someone manipulating someone else's thoughts. Though Amal was not a typical redguard, one might say.

---

Outside of Keogria, on the hilltop overlooking the bay, Maurice drove his cart up the best. Loud as ever, he was confident no one would follow him. He had been a merchant here since before the gates opened. Children had grown up around him, and the townsfolk asked him for news and advice everytime he returned. The sun was slightly past its zenith, the perfect time to make himself scarce as the bretons and foreigners mingled and ate and supped in their midday break. On the road, he drove by the old Martinne Guimard statue, now overgrown with foliage. She had once been beautiful, the statue. Now it was chipped and weathered, a far-cry from the fabled enchanting countess the lady had once been. Martinne was remembered as the leader of a consortium of coin-barons that purchased the Systres archipelago from the Colovian kings, supposedly shrewd and cunning in all matters she put her mind to. He hoped she would feel this work was necessary.

He drove his cart over the last rise, and the horse pulled them to the great oak tree that dominated the small hill, almost leaning over the cliff face as if to peek down at the waters below. Maurice goaded his horse to a stop, and hopped out to grab his pitchfork from the back of the cart. He took the implement in his hands, but nearly jumped out of his trousers when he saw the figure of Glen striding from the tree. What on Nirn was he doing here? Had he been napping by the oak like a lout?

"Maurice?" Glen asked. He was a breton about Maurice's age, though his hair had gone white prematurely. He was a friend; a nice man, always quick to smile and ready to talk. Maurice had no time to talk, at the moment.

"Glen! How are you?" The merchant asked, trying to appear unfazed.

"Oh, just came up to see the view. Wanted to..." Glen trailed off, failing to not appear thoughtful. Maurice sighed, knowing his reasons. Glen had told him the story of his father before, how the sailor had left when Glen was a small boy, had promised to come home. Even though he had a family now, Maurice could understand. Still, at lunch time? "Anyway, what are you doing up here?"

"Glen, it's dangerous to leave the town alone. I got my horse, but you can't be wandering out here." Maurice cautioned, trying to hide his apprehension.

"I know, I know... I just... I haven't been here for years. Wanted to come up and think awhile." He explained, shaking his head. Glen glanced back at the tree, a sense of concern passing over his face, before he pulled himself back to the present. "I was just going, anyway. But you got some work up here? I could help you out, we can ride back together." He remarked jovially.

Maurice froze for a brief moment, before he smiled sadly, and he shook his head. "Sorry, Glen. I truly am." He remarked.

"Oh, it's-" Glen began, unable to finish his sentence before Maurice shoved the sharpened pitchfork into his chest. Glen's lips mouthed 'okay' to finish his thought, before the blood began to seep out in a small trickle. Maurice drove the iron in deeper, pain on his face just as Glen's twisted in pain, and a few moments later, he let Glen fall to the dirt. The act wasn't pretty, especially under a cloudless sky. He'd felt the iron hit bone, but he knew he found his friend's heart too.

"Aw Glen," Maurice lamented. "I was hoping to save you and the family, at least. You'd been through enough. But you had to be all nosey."

“And then they made me their chief,” Delphine concluded as they trudged northwards from the city in the bright morning sunlit. They had hitched a ride on a peddler’s wagon at dawn, the old man happy for the company of a pretty Breton, happiness which had soured to world weary contemplation when she had belatedly added that Amal would also be coming along. They had made good time eastward until they reached the fork which lead up into the foothills towards the mind. Delphine had stopped briefly to pray at the wayshine of Dibella, offering a handful of her best rose petals in exchange for taking a small bottle that had served as a vase for flowers which had long since withered. The road was quiet with the trouble at the mine and so they climbed the gently rolling hills, forest periodically bordered the road when the landscape flattened but rarely for more than a mile or so. The air was redolent with the scent of pine and with the many wildflowers that grew beside the road, flanking them with gold and crimson. From time to time, and to Amal’s apparent annoyance, Delphine made frequent trips into the flowery verge, occasionally plucking this flower or that and stuffing them into a pouch which hung from her belt.

“I take it not for your skill with the sword?” Amal asked, more to keep the conversation going than from any real interest if Delphine was any judge. He was a bit of a mystery to her. The previous night had been spent at the hound and badger, drinking wine and planning their excursion to the mine. That had really not been all that much of a help, as their plan essentially boiled down to ‘go to the mine, see what is happening’ which to Delphine’s mind was more of a strategy or a mission statement. She had made some effort to talk with locals and had been rewarded with such dazzling insights as ‘it is overrun by daedra’ and ‘the spriggans attacked to reclaim the timbers, you mark my words’ which, while colorful, provided limited tactical insight. One of the regulars, an old drunk by the name of Gert, had been a miner before he lost a hand in an accident a few years before. For the cost of a flagon of ale he had been willing to describe the basic outline of the workings ‘back in his day’ which Delphine had dutifully transcribed onto a blank piece of parchment at the rear of the book she had stolen. That tome appeared to be on the conjuration of various kinds of Daedra, a fact that she had kept completely to herself. With luck Marlowe wouldn’t miss it, or at the very least wouldn’t connect it’s disappearance with her.

Delphine snorted at Amal’s remark and drew her sword, swishing it experimentally through the air. It was a Breton design, a longsword with the extended hilt of a hand and half, designed for spellswords so that it could be wielded one handed to leave the left hand free for spell work, or gripped with both to raise a better defense. Family legend held that it had been passed down through the generations, though it seemed just as likely Delphine’s mother had picked it up from some random armorer during her time in Wayrest. The blade was marked with a delicate spiderweb of enchantments, something Delphine had added during her studies of that subject. It was difficult in her current circumstances to keep the thing charged, though it held a faint shimmer yet. Some of her hard earned coin had gone to training with the weapon, though she didn’t kid herself that she was anything beyond an apprentice with the blade, magic had always been her skill but skills didn’t always pay bills.

“I do alright, I’m still alive,” she said a little defensively before sliding the weapon back into her baldric. They crested a rise and suddenly found themselves looking down into a gently sloping valley. The pristine quality of the countryside was marred on the far side by a sprawling complex of sheds and shale roofed bungalows. A brisk stream ran down the center of the valley, crossed by a stone bridge beside which a saw mill stood, it’s blade turning in slow rotation against the gurgling current. The place looked abandoned, no smoke rose from the chimneys and the small forge which must have served to smelt raw ore into ingots stood idle, its tailings of crushed rock and slag already penetrated by weeds and greenery. The centerpiece of the tableau was the shaft itself, a gaping wound in the side of the valley supported by three vast oaken beams.

“Looks deserted,” Delphine observed. She whispered a cantrip and her vision abruptly sharpened as she felt her eyes tingle with magicka. The only thing the closer look revealed was that the symbol of Zenithar had been carved into the cross beam with considerable skill.

“What do you think?”

________________
Marlowe shivered. The crypt was below the water and cold even at midday. The rock was below the waterline of the harbor and a steady trickle of precipitation sweated from the hand carved bas reliefs that covered the walls. Strange photoluminescent fungus grew from cracks in the ancient stone, seeming to stretch towards the wizard. The familiar smell of old death and bonemeal filled his nostrils along with the sporulated funk of the mushrooms. It had been many years since he had been down here. He had never expected to come here again, not until he had awoken sweating from his dream.

“Marelow…” a sepulchral voice hissed in the darkness. The wizard whirled, the torch in his hand sputtering in the damp air. The voice came from no human throat; it seemed to come from the carvings on the far wall behind a curtain of draping roots. Marlow pulled them aside, uncomfortably reminded of the entrails it had been his job to remove when he first began his apprenticeship in the dark arts. Those were the days before the Gates opened, when such things were, if not practiced openly, at least politely ignored by the guild. He hadn’t cringed then, but now…

“Hello?” he called, pleased to hear that his voice was steady as he pulled away handfuls of roots to reveal the carvings beneath. They were utterly unlike the other carvings of the crypt, gone were the restful motifs of the Gods and their worship. This carving had worship, but of an all together darker sorts. Men and Mer were depicted in positions of abject humiliation and debauchery. Daedra were also depicted, seeming somehow unfinished and yet the suggestions in the carving were more horrifying than forensic detail could have rendered them. Marelow felt his mouth go dry. He had seen such scenes before, not on stone but on the night thirty years ago when his Master had inducted him fully into the mysteries. His eyes tracked to the center of the panel, and the figure who sat atop of throne of twisted bodies. Marelow sank to his knees as he met the figure's eyes. They were black pits bored into the stone, but it wasn’t the eyes that made the wizard tremble. It was the smile.

On closer inspection, they had found a few more signs of habitation. Sizeable bones were left in a small pile behind a mound of earth, and inside the tonsil of the mine, skulls hung on threads of thick hair, swaying gently in the wind. Beside each of the three pillars holding up the entrance, human skulls were placed on sharp stakes shoved into the ground. The Breton girl had been right, however. A carving of Zenithar was well etched into the left support beam. Amal was surprised it had not been defaced or covered in excrement. That would have ruled out goblins or wayward orcs, if it hadn't been for the putrid smell that wafted out of the mines themselves. Delphine knelt down, picking a small assortment of somnalius and monkshood flowers, stuffing them into her pack.

"Well, looks like I'll be going in first." Amal said, drawing his saber. A curved dagger appeared in his offhand as if plucked out of thin air. He could see her face, and shook his head. "We'll go in together," he placated her, using a tone as if they had been in this argument for decades rather than having just met. "But we each have different strengths, yes? You got us the cart, I'll get us inside the real mine."

He gave her a wink, and ducked into the shadows as if he were born to them.

Amal had borrowed the map, checking it frequently on the short ride into the wilderness. He had a fair memory and good sense of direction, it wouldn't be too hard to find his way down there once they entered. Of course, they would need to be just as cautious about triggering a cave-in as they would getting jumped. Luckily, the mine still appeared to be sturdy. Every careful step was met with naught but silence, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he was happy to say he found no traps yet either. The mine sloped gently downwards, the support beams dilapidated but steady. The only light he could perceive was very faint, but that suited him just fine. Soon he found a small archway to the left, and knelt beside it, just out of view.

He heard scrabbling, and heavy breathing. Even to someone like him, it was unsettling for a brief moment. He waited a few moments, trying to notice patterns in the sounds or accompanying footsteps, but he heard nothing else of note. Gradually he peeked out, to see a larger area of the mineshaft crisscrossed with further support beams, and gutted stone to the left, showing signs of miners favoring that side during their time here. In the center of the room was a creature, inhuman and not of the mer. Its dusky green skin looked slimely, and its small screeches of indolent displeasure exposed itself as a goblin as much as the back of its head did. It seemed to be eating something off a large bone. Squinting, Amal's eyes went right. In the corner was a pile of tattered garments and a broken skeleton, picked clean of meat.

Well, so much for the missing warriors. This had to be one of them, but Amal wasn't sure which. Either way, it didn't change Amal's goals.

The Goblin was dead before his next heartbeat.

Amal caught the bone and helped the body fall gently, before pulling it into the entrance tunnel. He then stalked through the larger chamber, and found a cracked, dirt caked urn with a few shiny coins in it. He glanced behind him as if Delphine was there watching, and reached his long arm into it, scraping the coins out and slipping them into his pocket. Once his greed was momentarily satisfied, he skulked into the next tunnel, traversing twelve meters of darkness before he found the source of the distant light. There was a firepit at the center of what appeared to be the main chamber. To the right, the ground sloped up. At the corner was a chest, and above the firepit, further down the rise, walked a goblin shaman. He could tell because it was adorned in feathers and carrying a staff that crackled gently. Three more goblins moved about the area, two dragging carcasses, one a man, the other a large rat. A third squatted in the corner, and Amal left before he observed what had to be a fascinating bowel movement. As he doubled back, he noted he saw three different exists to the chamber, something corroborated in the map.

Let's go tell my partner the news, he thought.

Delphine stared at the staked skull in a daze. It seemed literally impossible that she could have missed such grizzly trophies and signs of habitation. Was she insane? Had she been struck blind by some enchantment? It didn’t make sense, especially when she had specifically used a spell to enhance her vision. Was anything real? She reached out and prodded the skull with her finger tip, finding it real enough for all that. She wondered if the bonemeal of invisible skulls might have some strange alchemical properties, perhaps related to some kind of invisibility. Tentatively she reached out for it before pulling her hand back, she could always take it on the way out. Or could she? What if it vanished again?

Shaking her head to clear it she unslung her sword and flexed her fingers on the grip, feeling the enchantment wake to life. They badly needed to be recharged but she had no budget for soul gems and she hadn’t found any at the various wayshrines she had visited. Perhaps with part of the reward she might buy a few. For an insane moment she considered taking out the tome she had stolen and looking through it but she thrust the notion away. It wouldn’t exactly be a grand end to her adventuring career if something cut her throat while she was reading. The thought occurred to her that Amal might have been killed by whatever was squatting in the mine. How long should she wait? Should she go in after him or give it up for a bad bargain and head back towards town. She made a quick prayer to Dibella to watch over her and then mouthed another incantation. The world brightened around her and suddenly she could see much better into the gloom of the mineshaft. She was just about to enter it when a creature staggered out of one of the abandoned sheds. It was greenish and horribly gnarled with a hunched back knotted muscles. In one hand it held a deflated wine skin, evidently the source of it’s current confusion. Delphine laid her sword down and strung her bow, carefully knocking an arrow. The beast turned towards the mine and staggered towards her drooling dark wine stained drool. The arrow flashed the thirty feet that separated them in a blur and buried itself into the creature's chest. It stood looking down dumbly at the shaft, then looked up at her. Dropping the wine skin it took a step towards her then toppled over in a lifeless heap.

Delphine felt a surge of triumph and then nearly wet herself as Amal appeared beside her as silently as he had left her. Her heart made a good faith effort to burst out of her chest but she calmed herself and picked up her sword with a scowl.

“I guess this one was up late and passed out before it could get back into the mine,” she said, “More in there?” She skipped down to the dead goblin and ran it through in the unlikely event that the creature was shaming, then carefully worked her arrow out of its chest. Good arrows were expensive, and she didn’t want to lose one if she didn’t have to.

Amal didn’t comment on the goblin she had killed, which was a little annoying but she tried to play it cool. It probably wouldn’t have gone over very well with her prospective partner if she explained it was the first greenskin she had ever killed. She followed him back into the mind marveling at how he seemed to vanish into the shadows. She tried to follow in his footsteps attempting to ape the way he moved though she felt clumsy and noisy beside him. They moved deeper underground, the temperature dropping steadily as they moved. It was incredible that all this earth had been moved with pick and shovel and then carried out with wicker panniers. Here and there there were little alcoves which had been carved into the stone to provide storage or simply a place for miners to rest.

The firelight ahead was very bright in the gloom and was given an odd greenish cast by the spell she had cast. She crumbled it immediately as she realised that there was another spell caster in there, not wanting to give them away. Silently as death the crept to the edge of the chamber and peered in. It appeared to be a natural cave, something the miners had cut into rather than excavated themselves; Delphine could make out tunnels leading off from the far walls. Four goblins and a feather crested shaman were feasting on a corpse. The shaman gripped the rib cage and pulled it apart before shoveling gobbets of flesh into its mouth. The others were feeding on the scraps with evident relish. The fire gave the place a hellish ambiance and the stink was almost enough to make you gag. Delphine felt her stomach churn as she realised the corpse being devoured was probably one of the men she had known: Jaque, her mind informed her out of some impulse to torment her. Amal put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back down the passageway. When they had gone a sufficient distance she put her lip to his ear.

“I’ll take the shaman if you keep the others occupied,” she said, no more than breathing into his ear canal.

Amal almost shuddered. Usually a woman's breath in his ears was a welcome thing, but he was not expecting it and was too preoccupied with the very near future of having to fight for his life. He turned to her, his nose brushing hers. They both flinched a moment, Amal smiling at the situation.

"I get four scalps, you get one?" He asked breathily. "More for me then."

"Uh uh, shaman counts for more than one!" She protested, as loud as she dared.

"But does the bounty office know that?" He asked with a smirk.

"Well, what if I make it worth your while?" She said playfully, before turning off the charm and elbowing him. "By not shooting you in the ass."

Amal gave a silent boyish laugh, shaking his head to show her he was toying with her. "Don't worry," he whispered and held his hand out as she had at the town square. "I will do my part. And whatever happens in there, we split the earnings down the middle."

She eyed him speculatively, as if wondering just how convivial his company really was. However, she took his hand in hers and shook it. Amal gave his trademark grin. "We have an accord." He pronounced, and then gestured with his head to follow him to the tunnel.

Amal found the goblins more or less where they had been a minute previously. The Shaman had skulked off back to the high ground with its meal, while the others huddled around the corpse, taking the scraps the shaman deemed unsavory enough not to take. Amal silently gauged the situation. Perhaps it might be easier for himself to move and kill the shaman before the others were alerted, but no. This was his chance to see just what the Breton girl could do. If it killed her, more treasure for him, and if not, he had a competent partner. Of course he preferred the latter, but Amal was sanguine about almost any situation.

He slipped into the room as the primitives stripped the bones clean and bickered amongst each other. The shaman seemed too intent on their own meal to look up, but Amal still moved carefully, using the shadows and keeping out of the firelight. It helped there were old barrels and crates nestled near the walls. He stepped over a discarded stool, before he froze, noticing one of the goblins turning around to hack a guttural cough. It was only seconds before it saw him, he knew. He simply knew. Hundreds of situations like that had informed him of that eventuality. And so Amal did the best thing he could.

He grabbed the stool, and chucked it at the coughing Goblin.

It's yellow eyes lifted as it saw Amal pick the heavy wooden implement up, and as it coughed, it hadn't the breath the scream before it was hit in the head. The stool and the goblin hit a second goblin in the side, both going down as Amal charged with his twin blades, driving his saber into the side of the third goblin that had witnessed the stool with a dumbfounded expression. It wheezed in pain, chittering as blood pumped out of its torso. A knife in the eye ended its animalistic squeals, and he spun to the other three. One was down, groggy. The other had only a glancing blow, while the fourth goblin, one with a scar on its left eye, was unharmed. It leaped on Amal, as the other had the frame of mind and rage to charge at Amal with a thigh bone.

The bandit bounded back, too close to the other, getting a bruise from the first swing, but too full of adrenaline to feel it. As he began to furiously defend himself against both goblins, he felt just as much as heard the crackle of lightning from the shaman. He hoped he had not annoyed Delphine too much with his jokes.

Delphine waited in a crouch while Amal advanced. The nauseous vapors of the place were now mixing with adrenaline and her stomach roiled. The pressure grew in her belly and bladder and there was a cold coppery taste in her mouth. She had her sword in her hand, the space was too close to use her bow easily and there would be no time to draw it if anything went wrong. Amal’s throne chair was her queue. Despite the fear that she would freeze her body sprang into action, carrying her halfway across the room before the shaman could turn. The creature spun around, throwing up a magical shield in panic. A disgusting smell seemed to vent from it and its lips pulled back across its rotted teeth in a snarl. Delphine smashed her sword against the shield and it shattered in a spray of sparks, the impact jarring her wrist. The goblin skipped back, the shield slowing the blade just long enough to avoid having its head cleaved in two. It lifted both its hands, lightning wreathing them from elbow to wrist. Delphine screamed her own spell, feeling confidence fill her as the magicka flowed, then drove her fist into the shaman’s paunchy belly. The spell crackled out of the touch and the goblin’s chant cut off as its lungs and chest were frozen in paralysis, its lips worked soundlessly and its eyes widened in shock as Delpine thrust the tip of her sword through its sternum with a satisfying crunch. Remembering to twist her blade she withdrew it, the feeling of triumph momentarily tainted by the gurgling gush of foul smelling blood. The greenskin stood still in shock, looking down at the gore spreading across its rounded paunch. Delphine hacked into the goblin’s neck, partially severing it and sending the body sprawling, there was no point taking chances when it came to mages, before whirling and lifting her blade in a guard.

Amal was holding his own against the surviving two goblins. She lifted her left hand and thrust her palm forward chanting rapidly. A pale pink orb leaped from her palm and stuck the back of the nearest goblin, there was an acrid scent and the goblin screamed, dropped its bone, and leaped onto its companion, tearing and biting in blind magicka fueled frenzy. Delphine kept her distance, unwilling to risk another spell with Amal so closely engaged and unwilling to crowd the Redguard’s blade in narrow quarters. She fought to keep her breathing under control, exhilaration burning through her in place of her earlier fear. Most of her fighting had been done on the practice field or sparring with her friends, and the few times she had drawn her blade in earnest had been settled peacefully. This was the real thing though, and she thought she had acquitted herself well so far.

Well, he could tell she was reluctant, but Amal also began to form the opinion she was a natural. When push came to shove and it was fight or flight, she fought like hell. He would congratulate her, but he had some goblins to worry about.

The left goblin lunged with its shortsword, swinging in a low arc. Amal parried with his saber, redirecting the swing to fly wide before he leapt over the bone wielding greenskin. It howled in anger and tried to bite at him, only managing to scratch his knee when Amal shove it into the goblin's face, breaking teeth. The other one did not relent however, causing Amal to curse. He sincerely wished to finish one of them off. Luckily, with the broken toothed goblin dazed, he began to break down the defenses of the goblin with the notched short sword, nicking its neck and cutting its arm. It screeched in rage, attacking with abandon. Amal blocked and dodged, enjoying the practice and the danger, despite his obvious reach advantage.

A small handful of debris fell from the crux of ones of the pillars, dusting flitting as Amal felt he was just about to finish this Goblin, before it was hit by something made of pink incandescent light, and screeches exploded out of its mouth. It leaped onto its rising companion, and Amal laughed at what Delphine had done. "Not bad!" He called to her with a wink. The un-beglamoured goblin decided in its pea-brain that it might just lose this fight, with both Amal and its companion now wanting its life. It shrieked in dismay and scrabbled away as more debris began to fall, this time on the opposite side of the chamber. Amal's smile disappeared, his mind finally realizing these might not be ideal signs...

"Amal!" Delphine cried, reaching for him as a chunk of stone the size of his torso plummeted to his position. Amal had the frame of mind to leap out of the way, but the damage had been done. When it struck the ground he had been standing on not a moment before, a crack rolled across the center of the floor, ending at the Shaman's rise in the ground, a seemingly separate bedrock. Delphine, thinking quickly, thrust her hand into her pack to grab a rope, but it was too late. The ground broke beneath Amal, and every goblin, alive and dead, fell into the abyss of darkness with him.

The immense noise polluted the air as much as the plethora of dust and debris. It was like an avalanche in confined quarters, the very ground shaking, even in Delphine's more stable area.

For Amal's part, it seemed to last far too long. It wasn't pleasant, and the situation was very fatuous, but then again he often found himself in such scenarios. Ostensibly his death, he thought, but thankfully the nine divines and the old yokudan gods saw fit that he was not going to lose all of his luck today. He found himself seeing a sliver of light, and began elbowing his way out of the darkness, feeling hard, coarse rock poking into him uncomfortably. Finally, he burst out of the pile of rocks and breathed in air that was only moderately full of stuffy particulars. Unfortunately, he also breathed in an odious stench that he briefly feared was a dangerous gas, before he found his fear was replaced by another.

He had fallen into a lower chamber, larger than the one above, and filled with skeletons and excrement, and what appeared to be a roughly crafted cooking fire. The fire was made out of small logs, and the denizen that had crafted it huffed in annoyance from across the ruined ground. It rose up, and up, and Amal sighed as he realized the thing was not a goblin, or even an Orc. It was an ogre, more pale of skin, with upturned tusks and small, evil eyes. The ogre was easily over eight feet in height, its head moving forward and back in small thrusts, almost like an iguana. It opened its toothed maw and grabbed a huge rock, as large as the one that nearly crushed Amal earlier.

Beneath the ogre, a goblin tried to crawl out of the debris, but the larger monstrosity stepped on it, crushing its skull like a popped melon. Using the step, it reared back its simian arms and chucked the stone at Amal. The redguard cursed and ducked back into the hole he crawled out of, the boulder rolling off the rest of the debris onto the more even ground. Amal yanked himself out after, glad to still have his dagger but lamenting he had lost the saber in the fall.

"Come on, bat dung!" Amal cried at it. From above, Delphine had the best seat in the house. She could help at range, or slide down to join him.

The noise and dust were enormous and Delphine threw an arm up to shield her mouth and nose. Her sinuses flared and her eyes burned with the grit that swirled around her like a whirlpool. Rocks ground together and tumbled in an avalanche, eating away the floor of the cavern like water on a sandcastle. Delphine scrambled backwards putting her back to the wall of the cavern and bracing herself to fall. Nothing happened and as the dust began to clear she could see the jagged edge of the rock had left a ledge of about three feet. Cursing, she made a circular gesture with her hand and conjured water into the air. The dust fell from the air in a shower of muddy rain that spattered across the cavern below. Her eyes widened as she saw the ogre and her bladder tightened in yet another unnecessary suggestion that she relieve herself. The creature lumbered forward roaring out a cone shaped spray of spittle as it swiped at the thief. Amal ducked under the blow and gashed it with his knife, skittering away to the side. Delphine was momentarily frozen as she tried to decide how she could help. It seemed unlikely that her bow would pierce the hide of such a beast, or reach anything vital if it did. Perhaps throw her sword down to the Redguard? Chancy if he didn’t catch it, or if he went for it and it gave the ogre the opening to smash him to jelly.

“Julianos if you are in your Heaven…” she muttered, then lifted her left hand and chanted. A fist sized rock lifted from the pile and flew across the chamber to smash into the ogre’s back, then another, then another. With her free hand Delphine pulled a bottle from her satchel, uncorked it with her teeth and drained the contents. It tasted like pine tar and seaweed, neither of which was an ingredient, but she choked it down with the practiced skill of an alchemist. Energy surged and dozens of rocks volleyed into the ogre's back, some bigger than her head. The brute howled and turned to swat at this unseen assailant only to be struck in the face and neck by the torrent of flying stones. One stuck it on the nose was a crack that was audible even over the cacophony of crashing rock and splattered blood on the cavern wall. One hit the things knee with a splintering of bone and the beast howled so loudly Delphine worried it might start a second cave in. Triumph surged in Delphine even though the spell was rapidly draining her reserves of power. She fumbled for another potion but before she could unstopper it, the ogre lifted one hand to shield its face, a gesture reminiscent of someone shading their eyes against a bright light. One of its eyes was leaking jelly where a rock had shattered the orbit, but that didn't stop the ogre from plucking a boulder the size of an ale barrel from the air and then hurling it at Delphine. The mage’s eyes widened and she lifted her hand changing the spell to form a shield in front of herself, if she could just… The rock hit her with the strength of a charging horse and smashed her from her feet, her shield disintegrating under the impact. The cavern wall smashed into her back and she fell on her stomach gasping in lungfuls of dust which was less than helpful. Another rock shattered above her but she was out of the line of sight. Something was broken in her chest and everything tasted of blood but she managed to mouth the words of a restorative spell. She screamed as something snapped back into place inside of her then spewed blood all over the wall to clear it from her lungs. Very ladylike, very demure. Unsteadily she forced herself to her feet and peeked down. Amazingly, Amal was still worrying the thing with his dagger, darting in to strike at hamstrings and groin before leaping back before the brute could backhand him into oblivion. It was clear that the knife, pun very much intended, was not cutting it, the thick hide turning most of the blows aside. Amal could probably have stabbed it with the point, but risked losing his knife and only doing superficial damage.

“The sword!” Delphine shouted, the effort hurting her lungs despite the restorative spells best efforts. She pointed to where the sabre lay, its hilt uncovered by her impromptu rockstorm. Amal’s eyes flicked to it and he tried to circle, but the ogre must have seen it too and smashed a fist down to prevent the redguard from running for it. Great, they had to run into the only genius level ogre in High Rock. A distraction was needed, but Delphine’s reserve of magicka was spent. Perhaps she could throw lantern oil down on it, but then how would she light it? Burning cloth in the bottle neck? There was no time for arts and crafts. There was no time for anything. Before fear could freeze her up Delphine reversed her grip on her sword, took a deep breath, and leaped into the hole. There was a moment of buyers remorse and then she was plunging downwards, her lips screaming what she hoped was an impressive warcry and not a screech of abject terror. The point of the blade hit the ogre just left of the spine and Delphine triggered the enchantment. With her entire weight behind it, the steel plunged into the things back, burying itself crossguard deep. Delphine slapped against the warty back of the thing, holding onto the sword for dear life. The creature reared back, swatting and grabbing but unable to quite reach her as it shook its shoulders like a dog trying to dislodge a tick. Pain exploded in her shoulders as she was wrenched this way and that and her hands went white with the force of her grip as she desperately held on, hoping that Amal was making the most of her insane distraction.

Have you heard of the insane Bretons?

Amal had not, but he was glad he had befriended one. He wasn't sure if the ogre would die on its own that way, but it was likely to crush Delphine in the meantime if he did not work fast. He was not one for fair play, but he decided to curb the urge to be devious by taking advantage of the Ogre in pain rather than letting Delphine bite it. Amal ducked under a swinging arm, and pivoted his foot, launching himself at a debris pile and using it as a spring board to fly to the saber. He hit the ground in a roll, roughly grabbing for the hilt.

"AH-AH-AH-MA-AH-AHL!" Delphine cried as she was thrown back and forth.

The Ogre finally stopped anw drew in a lungful of air, preparing to back up to crush her against the wall. He threw himself back, Delphine wisely letting go. It gasped as the sword was shoved deeper into its torso. The monster was not dead, grasping at its back in pain. The thief slid under a heavy hand and scrambled up the ogre's body like a rabid cat. Just as the ogre managed to grab onto Amal and squeeze, he drew his saber around and opened the brute's throat with a heavy slash. Blood bubbled out of the wound, and the ogre tossed Amal into the debris, hitting the stones like a doll. He theorized a few parts of him were broken as he rolled to the floor, but his survival instinct kept his eyes opened. He saw the ogre gripping its neck, wheezing and stumbling like a drunk. It barely missed Delphine with its steps, but the giant brute began to teeter over her.

"Dibella's tits!" Amal cursed, picking himself up, bearing the pain as he reached his feet. The ogre whimpered like a dog, before it began to fall like an axed tree. Delphine was feebly crawling away just as its shadow descended upon her. Thankfully, the redguard had long, strong arms, and he grabbed her hand, yanking her out from under the eight hundred point bulk. As Amal pulled her free, it hit the floor with a resounding 'boom,' cracking the stone beneath it.

Amal saw Delphine look up and squint at him, surprised. Amal gave her another grin, however it lost some of its vivacity from Amal's free hand holding his stomach, blood in his hand. He breathed in weakly, but managed to say. "I bet the ogre must be at least thirty." He remarked.

In the deep, they heard a screeching echo. It was as if the very darkness had come alive to end their lives. It was a wordless scream, and the footfalls of something human-sized grew closer. "Jacks promised!" The shriek echoed in the tunnels. It filled their ears, bouncing into the upper levels. "Jacks promised totem!"

Out of the darkness, a large goblin stepped out of the abyssal black tunnel. Its sloped forehead and oversized teeth, along with its iron armor, betrayed its status as chief of the clan. In its clawed hand was an iron axe, and its head was clad in a steel helm with curled horns adorning its form.

Amal coughed out dust, and tried to drag himself to his feet. It was excruciating and slow, but he did it. He rolled his shoulder and bent his neck, before offering a hand to Delphine. "Kill this Tobr'a together?" He asked nonchalantly.

“Yeah, no problem,” Delphine croaked as she pulled herself to her feet the pain in her ribs firmly informing her they would really rather she didn’t. The goblin’s words seemed like insane gibberish. Jaque was dead wasn’t he? Unless the goblin meant someone else, and how many Jaques was a goblin warlord likely to know? Placing aside such academic concerns she moved on to the practical ones which were, unfortunately, numerous. Her sword was still lodged between the ogre’s shoulder blades and driven so deeply into the beast that it would take a veritable sacred king to retrieve it. She still had her bow but her arrows had been scattered from the quiver at some point in her ogre inspired gymnastics. Her magicka too was sadly depleted and she reached into her pouch to withdraw her last mana potion. The shards of glass cut her fingers and she jerked her hand back, finding it bleeding from new cuts and covered with spilled potion.

“Oh come on!” she whined the unfairness of it all seeming momentarily worse than the deadly peril. She touched her hand to Amal’s back and incanted, forcing the last dregs of her power to restore his body and energy, her fingertips sparking as the spell fizzled and died after a few seconds. The goblin threw back its head and charged iron axe held high. Amal stepped to the side to meet it and Delphine drew her knife. It wasn’t a weapon for fighting, just a simple knife for cutting herbs. As a weapon it ranked pathetic which was still a considerable improvement on nothing. She ducked and the fist of the goblin as it reached her and drove the blade down into its thigh between greave and hip, the dull point biting only a few inches. The goblin kicked her in the stomach driving the wind from her and sending her tumbling across the room to hit the corpse of the ogre, covering her in a mix of its spreading blood and dust in the process. She could hear the sound of weapons clashing, although it was possible it was just the ringing in her ears. It would be so very nice just to lay down here and catch her breath she thought but the sight of her spilled arrows a few feet away convinced her to dig deep and crawl over to the pile of fletched staves. She unslung her bow and knocked an arrow turning to see Amal’s saber flashing as he battered away the axe, weaving a complex web of steel with his blade. Delphine’s hands trembled with pain and exhaustion as she drew back the bow. Praying to Dibella that she didn’t hit Amal she didn’t so much loose the shot as lose control of her fingers. The arrow arced across the cavern and hit, bouncing off the iron currais with an audible but very unedifying click. Amal feinted and made a savage cut, the goblin screamed as green fingers flew from the goblins off hand. The beast headbutted the redguard and sent him staggering back against the cavern wall. Wailing with homicidal glee it followed, catching Amal by the throat. The redguard lifted his boot and kicked down hard, driving the sole into the hilt of Delphine’s knife with a horrible squelching sound. The goblin howled and staggered backwards, letting Amal go and dropping its axe. It tore the knife free but blood was gouting from the wound, pouring down its leg.

“Jaque! Curse you!” it screamed, then pitched forward onto its face in the dirt, the knife clattering free of it’s hand to roll across the stone floor. Delphine’s arrow hit it in the side of the head, though the corpse didn’t so much as flinch.

“Still counts,” Delphine said before falling onto her ass in utter exhaustion.

When the dust settled, Amal got back to his feet, though he nearly fell over from the effort. If another goblin decided to poke its ugly hide in the mine at this point, he doubted he or Delphine could defend themselves. Luckily, there seemed to be no more greenskins, nor ogres. If there had been anymore, they had fled long ago to the deeper reaches of the mine. Amal attempted to stretch, but this time it hurt like oblivion, and so he decided to merely shamble, as it were.

"Can you stand?" He asked Delphine. The Breton raised a hand in a thumbs up, but did not remove herself from her prone position, or even lift her head. At least until she gave herself a good moment to collect her senses.

Within half an hour, both of them were up and about, albeit exceedingly bruised, tired, and borderline broken. Amal appraised the body of the ogre, shaking his head. They should have brought poison, he thought. Ogres were always weak to poison, even compared to other humanoids. It slowed them down more, distracted them beyond the norm. Perhaps it was their wide stomachs, he did not know. What he did know was that their teeth were valuable, and he reached for his knife to pick them out. As he reached for it, Delphine plucked it out of his sheathe.

"Sorry," she said without much spirit in the platitude, her predilection for saying whatever got her out of immediate trouble giving Amal a devilish respect for her. It showed just how tired he was that he'd let his guard down to such a point. She had taken his idea and began popping off the ogre's teeth with what strength she still had. Amal decided to check the remainder of the room he hadn't the time to look at before, and to his delight found a flawed amethyst and an old dunmeri ring of ebony in the various piles of filth and refuse. Delphine tossed him his knife back, grinning at how nimbly he caught it, and he used it to cut the ear off the goblin chieftain as proof.

The two crawled tiredly up the rubble incline, not too interested in delving deeper for the chieftain's den just in case they found other foes.

Topside, Amal and Delphine scavenged a few choice items they placed in the closest chamber to the exit, where they built a small campfire for the night. Amal placed the ring and the amethyst on the floor, next to two potions of healing, an orcish short sword, twenty seven septims, some roasted mutton, a silver dagger, the shaman's staff, and a scroll of conjuration. Not to mention all of the ears and teeth in a knapsack.

Amal and Delphine unanimously decided to drink the potions so there was no lasting damage, but that did not slake their hunger, thirst, or rejuvenate their stamina. Nor did it give them warmth, but the fire began to grow larger thanks to Delphine gathering a shrub called Lunaswood, telling Amal to stoke the fire. Amal gave a suggestive whistle at how large the fire grew from the simple addition.

Her legs crossed, Delphine examined the flaw Amethyst in the light with apparent erudation. Amal only allowed himself a small glance at the curve of her legs, before he took on a ruminative look, adopting an amused smile. He rolled one of the septims over his fingers, the twisting coin casting an entrancing glint in the luminous flames. "So," he began without caution. "-what exactly was it that drove you to risk your life for gold with the likes of me?"