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The fire crackled and spat as they ate up the driftwood Velyn had gathered along the shoreline. In the predawn light the flames danced in multicoloured hues, the salt stained fuel turning the simple campfire into a riot of blues, greens and violets. The waves lapped against the white sands of the beach, flotsam from burning wrecks that still smouldered on the southern horizon washing in with the tide.

The old mer was half stripped of his armour, his faded tattoos on his torso bared as he tried to redo the bandaging around his right shoulder, a trickle of fresh blood leaking out the soiled wrappings. He had pulled the splinter that had lodged itself in there as the ship had exploded by hand, almost passing out from the pain as he did so, before washing the wound out with saltwater. His shoulder had already been tender from the lingering injury he had acquired before he took passage on the Arslan’s Fortune, but now it was a dull throbbing ache that troubled him each and every time he moved it, as if the joint was filled with broken glass.

He lined up his supplies in the sand beside the fire, a pair of healing draughts and a bottle of sour comberry brandy. He weighed up the value of using them, and reluctantly swigged from one of the potion vials. It would help for now, but he still needed to find a proper healer somewhere on this island. Drinking the brandy was an easier decision.

If this was Stros M’Kai, which he thought it was, there would be people on this island - nearby too, if the presence of the beacon he had seen was anything to go by. The sun would rise before too long, and people would be out this way to investigate the wrecks and its grim cargo it was depositing up and down the coast here. But for now, he was alone on the deserted beach.

He unstrapped the lute from the side of his pack and cradled it in his lap, tucking his sword to the side, and strummed experimentally. The waves had gotten at the instrument as he had waded his way through the breakers, and salt water was not good for the wood or the strings for that matter. By ear it did not sound like it had warped at all, but he wanted to make sure, so despite the pain he was in, Velyn retuned the instrument and began plucking the simple melody of a Netchman’s folk song, thinking of other shores, only accessible across the ocean called memory.



Out in the shallows, the surf lifted Leaves in slow, deliberate swells. Only the top of his head broke the surface now and then, his nostrils and eyes briefly clearing the water before the next rise carried him under. Here, the sea had settled into a quieter rhythm, far from the sinking carcass of the ship now lost beyond sight. Through the dim grey of early light he noticed movement along the shore.

At this distance the figure was little more than a shape against the sand, a darker silhouette beside a low fire. Smoke drifted inland with the breeze. The Argonian remained still in the water for several moments, watching.

Too far to make clearly.

Not a fisherman. The posture was wrong for it. The shape bent and straightened, hands moving around something held close to the body. No nets. No lines cast toward the water.

Leaves-No-Wake let the swell carry him lower again, salt washing over his eyes before he surfaced once more. The sound of the surf dulled what little noise the figure might have made. Whatever they were doing, it was careful work. He waited a moment longer, studying the shoreline one final time before turning away.

Rather than approach directly, he angled down the coast and swam with steady strokes, letting the current carry him farther along the beach before moving in. The saltwater gnawed deeper at the skin between his scales, the constant brine a dull irritation after so long in it. The Marsh did not sting like this.

As his feet found sand in the shallows, Leaves rose from the water. The surf broke quietly around his legs as he stepped onto the beach, water streaming from his leather armour and dripping steadily from the bow still slung across his back. He paused only long enough to adjust the grip of the stave against his shoulder, ensuring the string remained protected where it rested against his side.

Starting forward, the fire became clearer as he approached, along with the figure beside it.

Dunmer.

The Marsh had long memories of their kind. The mer sat near the flames with armour partially removed, shoulders angled awkwardly as he worked at fresh bandaging. A dark stain spread slowly through the wrappings where blood had begun to seep again. A deep wound, by the look of it.

Shipwreck survivor?

Leaves-No-Wake slowed his approach but did not attempt concealment. At this distance the Dunmer would hear the quiet shift of sand beneath his feet soon enough, if he hadn’t already. Stopping a few steps from the fire he allowed the old mer to finish adjusting the instrument. Then he spoke, his voice low and even.

“You were on ship.”

Not a question. His gaze panned briefly toward the shoreline beyond the fire, scanning the unfamiliar coast.

“Where are we?”

The old Dunmer’s crimson eyes glanced up at the Argonian’s voice, but he made no move to get to his feet or grab ahold of the sword saying in the sand at his side. He just continued to fiddle with the tuning pegs on the head of the stringed instrument.

“Stros M’kai, if I am not mistaken. Perhaps one the isles of the Chain if we blew far enough off course.” His voice was the ash scarred rasp of a true Dunmer of Morrrowind, a tone acquired through growing up in the ash wastes, inflected with the lilt of a native speaker of Dunmeris.

He started strumming another song, the tune a little faster than before, the notes coming fast and thick. A dancing song, one that had once played in Gnsis, for the Feast of St. Rilms, when the town would gather in the temple forecourt and stamp down the dust with bare feet. Though there were few living who would remember that now.

“I was on the ship.” He spoke as he played. “Didn’t see you though.”

The old mer glanced back up at the Argonian, a sly look in his eyes, taking stock of him. There was a tension about the both of them, one stood stock still above the waves, the other at feigned ease. Both of them, no doubt, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. The tension held as the mer strummed away at his instrument, not looking down once at the notes he was playing, his eyes reserved only for the Argonian.

And then the song was finished, and he looked away.

“You one of them? Pirate? I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, but I would advise you to refrain from attempting to rob and kill me, sera, for both our sakes. Come, take a seat, have a drink.” He gestured to the sand opposite him, and held up the bottle of Comberry Brandy in his good hand.

Leaves-No-Wake listened in silence as the Dunmer spoke.

Stros M’kai.

The name meant little to him, but the rest settled easily into place. The second vessel, the boarding, the pirates. His eyes drifted briefly toward the sea, where the last smoke of the wreck had long since thinned into the horizon. Fortunate that the old mer did not seem inclined to blame him for it.

When the Dunmer’s crimson eyes lifted again and fixed upon him, Leaves felt the familiar tightening beneath his scales. A faint prickle crawled along his arms, the quiet discomfort that always came with being watched too closely. He had spent most of his life avoiding the weight of another’s study. Standing in it now, exposed on open sand, set his muscles subtly on edge.

Though he did not shift away. Nor did he make any sudden movement when the accusation came.

Instead, his hand moved slowly to rest against the bow at his shoulder, fingers settling loosely along the wood. Not quite a threat. Not quite a reassurance either. Simply habit, the quiet instinct of someone accustomed to violence arriving without warning.

"No pirate,” he said evenly. “Pirate captive. Escaped now.”

The lie came easily enough. Whether the Dunmer believed it or not mattered little.

“Need to return to the Marsh.”

As the mer had raised his drink in invitation, Leaves’ head cocked to the side. The taste of the brandy lingered faintly on the wind, sharp and unfamiliar against the salt of the sea. Foreign swill. Nothing in it stirred any interest in him. Only the Hist carried a flavor worth seeking.

He was already preparing the refusal when something changed. Leaves lifted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he tasted the air.

Salt. Smoke.

And beneath it, sweat, leather, metal.

It hung thick in the air, too much for one creature. His gaze slid inland toward the pale rise of dunes where the mounded sand gave way to thicker grasses. The wind grew again, bringing a smell with greater clarity, carried low and steady across the shore.

Movement.

Leaves’ eyes flicked once to the fire, once to the Dunmer and the instrument resting loosely in his hands.

Beacon.

Careless. He should have accounted for it sooner. Firelight burning against the dim shore. Music drifting across open sand. Enough to draw attention from far beyond the beach.

The Argonian’s focus returned briefly to the dunes as the wind carried the approaching scents, stronger again. Whoever was coming had not yet reached the sand, but they were close enough.

Too close.

The open beach offered little cover. Standing here much longer would leave him exposed to any eyes cresting the mounds. Without another word, he drew a thin thread of magicka inward and let it spread across his skin. The air around him bent and softened as the spell took hold, his outline fading into the shifting light and shadow cast by the fire. Then he moved.

Leaves slipped sideways from the fire and ran low across the sand toward the nearest rise of dunes. His feet barely disturbed the surface as he moved, each step light and controlled. Behind him his tail swept through the softer sand, brushing over the shallow impressions left by his passage.

A moment later he disappeared behind the crest of the dune.

As he did so, a patrol of guards emerged from the scrub beyond the beach, and made their way across the sands, armour glinting in the first light of the dawn. Seven men, redguard warriors all, dressed in chainmail and half-plate, part covered by traditional sashes, their pointed helmets wrapped in linens. Their round shields were painted with a symbol, crossed swords in crimson beneath a single ruby star.

They filed onto the beach in a half crouch, their curved swords drawn as they advanced on the guttering flames of the campfire. They were on alert, agitated, ready for a fight clearly. But as they surrounded the fire, one by one, they sheathed their swords.

For there was no one there to be seen.

The old Dunmer with his pack and his lute and his bottle of wine had disappeared somewhere too, vanishing with the coming of the dawn like some kind of strange spectre from the ghost stories that are told around fires like one he has just vacated.

The guards looked around the immediate vicinity of the fire, a few walked to the water’s edge and back to look down along the length of the beach, but none of them fanned out wide enough to begin searching all the hummocks and hollows of the surrounding dunes. After a while they satisfied themselves that there was no one here, just an abandoned campfire that someone had not extinguished fully before they had departed. The patrol regrouped, and marched off of the beach, back the way they came.

Watching from the crest of the dune, lying only feet away from the Argonian, the Dumer sipped at the bottle in his hand once more, and chuckled to himself.

“Prisoner eh? Must have been unlucky to get caught with moves like that, you’re sneakier than I am.”

Leaves remained still until the patrol had fully disappeared beyond the scrub. His eyes followed the last glint of steel through the grass, ensuring they did not circle back. Only when the taste of sweat and metal had faded did he allow the tension in his muscles to ease.

The Argonian turned his head slightly, studying the Dunmer lying only a few feet away with bottle still in hand. For a moment he simply watched the mer as he spoke. The old man had reached the dune without sound, avoiding stirring so much as a whisper of sand. Age had not slowed him as much as it first appeared. That, more than the words, held Leaves’ attention.

When the Dunmer finished speaking, the Argonian’s eyes lingered on him another moment before shifting on his stomach back toward the beach below. The patrol had come quickly, which meant more were across the island.

Leaves exhaled slowly through his nostrils and shook his head once.

“Many questions,” he said quietly as his gaze slid away from the Dunmer. “Wrong questions.”

He gestured faintly toward the open shoreline, where the sea stretched pale and empty in the growing light.

“Need focus. Find port.”

The Argonian shifted his weight in the sand and rose into a low crouch, eyes already moving across the dunes and the grasses beyond as he searched for the safest path inland.

“Ship,” he continued simply. “Marsh.”

Then he looked back at the Dunmer.

“Town. City. You seen any?”

The old mer rolled onto his back and kicked his feet up into the air, standing in one fluid move. He pulled open his pack to stow his brandy and began shrugging into a mossy coloured robe that would cover his bare torso. The bandages of his wounded shoulder, the scars and faded tattoos that told of whoever it was he used to be, disappeared from view once more. Though this time the sword stayed out, sheathed in its lacquered bonemold scabbard, hanging from the belt he clinched around his narrow waist.

“There’s a beacon to the Northeast,” he said, pointing with his free hand inland as he did so. “Saw it on my way into shore. Could be a port, or at least a village. I’ll come with you, sera, was planning on heading that way myself.”

The sun had risen by this point, the lapping waves of the wreckage strewn coast shimmered and sparkled in the morning light. A flock of gulls wheeled overhead, roused by the dawn, they let forth a chorus of shrieking calls. One landed, and began to pick at a pale bloated thing, emerging out of the retreating surf, a thing that had once bore the soul of a man.

“Might I at least get a name for my travelling companion? Or is that a wrong question too?”

Leaves watched as the Dunmer rose, his movements smooth despite the injury. There was no hesitation, no stiffness beyond what the wound demanded. Another demonstration. Whatever the old mer had once been, he had not yet lost it.

A beacon. Northeast.

The Argonian almost smiled. That gave direction, and direction was enough. He gave a small, single nod and turned inland, aligning the Dunmer’s gesture with the rising sun and the shape of the land.

When Velyn asked for his name, Leaves stilled, not outwardly, but in the quieter, internal way that came with translation. Names among his kind were not sounds shaped for other tongues, but meaning carried in thought and memory, drawn from a language that did not sit cleanly in the mouths of outsiders. What others used for him had always been approximations, close enough to suffice, never exact.

For a moment, his focus slipped. His hands tightened slightly at his sides, claws pressing faintly into his palms as he turned the meaning over, fitting it into something that could be spoken here.

“No. Acceptable. I Leaves…” A slight pause formed between the parts, its shape imperfect. “No-Wake.”

A faint tension lingered along his spine, a prickle beneath the scales at the back of his neck. Too much attention. Too direct. It settled there, not enough to move him, but enough to be felt. The name hung between them, thinner in this tongue, stripped of the depth it carried in its true form. Though, Leaves did not elaborate.

Instead, he returned his attention to the Dunmer, his tone steady once more.

“You saw beacon. You lead.”

“Very well,” the Dunmer assented, shifting his pack up onto his good shoulder. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Leaves-No-Wake, Serjo Redoran Velyn Virith, at your service.”

---

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Eldayon felt like he had died but was he truly? Was this what Aetherius felt like? But how did he die? A better question would be when. His mind was still hazy but he forced himself to remember. It had to be at Ska’vyn. That battle was bloody. He remembered how he was at the left wing of Lady Arannelya’s army. How the legionaries battered their flank at a desperate attempt to break them. They held but only just barely. He couldn't have died there though. He remembered the retreat that followed. The endless lines of carriages and soldiers walking back south towards Taneth. Didn't he become a Justiciar after that war? Yes he did. He became a damn good one too. He was sent to Cyrodiil too, wasn't he? Yes, he even rose through the ranks and became the head Justiciar. He remembered how that miffed his seniors. That a relatively young mer received the position before they did. So it had to be at Cyrodiil. He tried his best to remember. To peer back to the padt. There was that scuffle at Anvil. That little fight he had with the drunken Nord sellsword. The man nearly cut his neck if he hadn't dodged fast enough. But he had survived that encounter. He made it back to the Imperial city to write a report on the whole ordeal.

It must have been… Wait. His thoughts became fixated with the city of Anvil. He was missing a clue and the city seemed to be important. Something happened there. What could it be? Was it the fish? The Fighter’s Guild? The Argonians? Those damnable lizards always did hang about at the docks, making such a scenic place so repulsive. Wait. The docks. Ships. Yes he boarded a ship there. Arslan's Fortune, wasn't it? He was having a sip of wine when they hit a spot of bad weather. Then there were pirates. Pirates below deck. Pirates above. He was fighting them. Then there was an explosion.

Suddenly the events just before he was knocked out came rushing into his head. He wasn't dead but he was still in danger. He quickly opened his eyes, gasped deeply for air and clenched his hand. By some miracle his sword was next to him and he quickly grabbed it. He pointed the thing straight in front of himself and prepared to parry a blow. Only there was nothing to parry. Eldayon took a minute or so to calm down once he realized he was alone. There was nothing here but sand and a thick jungle in front of him. He stood up, which was quite the struggle seeing as every article of clothing he had was soaked. Finally he looked down at his feet and realized he had arrived at the beach by riding on a sizable wreckage of the ship. The gods had heard his prayers. He was delivered from his perils and found himself on this desolate shore. There was nothing there but the rolling waves on the sands and a few seemingly tattered tents further east up along the coast. Eldayon decided to walk up towards the structures as he saw nothing in either direction.

Eldayon’s body was sore. He felt like he was punched all over. He knew he had a bruise somewhere on his abdomen. Every step he took made his midriff hurt. His thoughts once again lingered on that damnable captain of the ship. Eldayon swore that if he ever found the scoundrel again, he would make him pay for all the troubles he’s been put through so far. Not to mention all the valuables he lost. He had a chest with at least 4,000 septims and a beautiful painting of a Breton woman he was going to display in his summer home outside of Firsthold. Such an elegant piece of art would have made Vorandilin choke with envy. Vorandilin Elsinfaere is a rival of his father. He was completely smitten by his mother and resented the fact that she was married to his father, the son of a Mythic Dawn cultist. Since Vorandilin couldn’t touch his father, he did his damn best to make Eldayon’s life in the Thalmor as difficult as possible. However Eldayon always did prove more crafty than his wits could manage. Eldayon made it a personal mission to miff Vorandilin, his superior in the Thalmor, every chance he could take.

However Eldayon’s train of thoughts about his missing possessions and petty revenge was abruptly ended when he finally came up the tents. It was as he feared. They seemed abandoned and for some time now too. They were all tattered and beyond repair. He saw a small fishing boat at the edge of the camp. It was half buried and had a hole the size of his fist on its side. Just a little bit beyond the tents was a barely standing rack where freshly caught fish would be salted and dried. Of course there weren't any fish here nor people. At least it was a shelter from the overbearing sun. His hood and robes could only do so much to protect his golden skin.

Eldayon sat on a stool inside of the tents. There were multiple holes in this tent but it did enough to keep up the sun. Once seated, he tried to contemplate where he was. This place looked like Elswyr but that didn’t make any sense. They should have passed it by now. In fact they should be past Valenwood. Did they get turned around? Did that foolheaded captain sail around the storm? Did he sail around to try and lose the pirates? If he was in Elswyr though, then he should hunker though here in this tent until a Dominion patrol or ship found him. That was when he noticed a chest next to his stool. It was probably full of moon sugar. If there were khajeet around, then their vices followed. His abdomen did still ache and a shard of moon sugar would greatly help with that.

Eldayon opened the chest only to be confused. There wasn’t any moon sugar or skooma in it. However he did find clothing. He took it out and laid them down on the sand. First there was a simple linen tunic. Then there were linen trousers. The next thing he pulled from the chest seemed very familiar. A linen hood that had a long scarf that one could throw over their shoulders to cover up their neck and face. That was curious. The last time he had seen that fashion was when he was serving Lady Arannelya in Hammerfell. Were the Khajiit copying Redguard customs now?

That was when the realization finally dawned on Eldayon. His eyes stared at the scarf like it was some grotesque icon to the Daedric lords. His heart sank. He started to take in short and shallow breaths. He wasn’t shored on Elswyr, not on Valenwood and not in Cyrodiil. It was far, far worse. The gods hadn’t delivered him to safety, they landed him in a fate far worse than death. He was stranded in a place where he would be flayed alive and drowned if he was caught and that was at their most merciful. He panicked even more at the thought of him being recognized. They would already hate him for being an altmer, they would despise him for being a thalmor but if they found out his name, they would surely send him Hegalthe on a pike.

‘Think of a plan. Think of a plan.’ Eldayon repeated over and over in his head.

He forced himself to calm down. He took in deep, slow breaths and he was able to recover somewhat. He wasn’t caught yet. In fact he had the fortune of finding some shelter and he still had his weapon with him. He should get rid of his clothes though. His black cloak was an open invitation to anyone he came across to stab him. He grabbed the tunic and measured it over himself. Eldayon cursed himself silently. It would only barely fit him. However it was better than nothing. The mer took off his waterlogged robes begrudgingly. If any other Thalmor official found out about this, he wouldn’t hear the end of it. However it was better to be mocked than beheaded.

---

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He had endured a dizzying sleep, but when Brinlaith had woken him up, it had been the worst sort of torture to rise. It was as if the Elder Scrolls themselves had foretold he should sleep forever, and that removing him was akin to breaking reality. Kings would have killed for less.

Of course, he was being dramatic, but fuck was he still exhausted. Still, he rose regardless. He knew she needed some sleep as well, and so he sat there and allowed her time to rest. He might have dozed off here or there, but he always jolted awake after a few short minutes and slapped himself multiple times. However, he seemed to get over it, and after struggling, he did actually manage to remain vigilant for a few hours, until he heard her dreaming. She moaned softly, and he even heard a whimper. He wondered if it would be wise to wake her, but he realized it was best to do so. She had slept for a fair time, and he would grant her this mercy and pull her from whatever dream was tormenting her.

Rul-Aman knelt inside the small makeshift tent and gently shook her awake.

"Brinlaith... Brin..." He said, softly but loud enough to be heard. "It's me! Wake up."

Her eyes shot open the second time Rul-Aman shook her, and Brinlaith sat half upright, a fire spell igniting in her palm and held at the ready. She locked her gaze on his for a moment, vicious and lethal and not scared in the slightest, despite the nightmare she'd seemingly been trapped in. A second later, she registered her surroundings, blinking and returning to the present, snuffing out the fire in her palm. Her expression softened significantly.

"Sorry," she managed, clearing her throat. "I should've warned you not to do that."

She remembered what she did aboard the Arslan's Fortune, the ruin her fire spell had made of that pirate, and thought about how only a split-second of restraint had saved Rul-Aman from having his own eyes burned out. Probably best not to do that. He's more useful with his eyes intact.

"If it happens again, it's probably best to wake me from a distance," she warned, getting to her feet and pulling on her boots. Her clothes all felt uncomfortably stiff from her adventure in the sea. "We should get moving. If there's civilization on this island, I'd like to find it while we still have light."

Rul-Aman, to his credit, did not cower back when he saw the flame. He likely seemed brave, though in truth he merely thought ah, so this is how it ends. Figures a pretty woman would kill me. However, when the flame disappeared, he was relieved. He gave her a smile and a small breathy chuckle, the kind you can hardly hear, and nodded. However, after a moment he opened his mouth to question on how he would awake her from afar. Throw something?

"We should get moving," he agreed, and stepped out of the tent, placing a hand on his collarbone as he stretched his neck. "I say find a river and follow it. We'll have drinking water and it will lead to people."

Rul-Aman crossed his arms, satisfied at his cleverness.

Brinlaith conceded that it was a good strategy. Her experience surviving in the wilderness was limited to the temperate forests and rolling hills of Cyrodiil, and while the heart of the Empire had dangers of its own, she knew this jungle island would prove far more treacherous. At least she had a more capable companion this time, and a more amusing one at that.

Her thoughts wandered to the dream she'd been forced from, sounds and sights and smells buried deep in her mind that climbed back to the surface in her sleep. It was always a risk, letting others see her with her walls down like that, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

As they cleared the treeline, it became apparent that they'd washed ashore on a very small island just off the larger landmass, separated by shallows they could likely wade through if they wanted to risk the slaughterfish. They did not, instead keeping to the small dirt path that bent around a stone obelisk at the island's center. It likely had some religious significance, but Brinlaith knew not what kind, nor did she care. It was another sign of civilization.

Across the strip of water to the east they could see the ruins of some kind of manor near the opposite shore, long uninhabited by the looks of things. Abandoned camps, abandoned manors, and dense jungle beyond. Brinlaith kept her eyes on the treeline, focused and alert, giving no effort to make conversation.

A thin barrier of dirt connected their little island to rest, and they crossed it quickly, following the path until it split in two directions, north and south. To the north, it looked to bend around the coast of the island, while the south would bring them by that manor, and eventually she expected into the jungle itself, between the two large hills in the distance. She might've called them mountains, but she was a Nord. They were barely bumps in the road compared to her homeland.

"South seems more likely to find a stream, no?" she asked, the first thing she'd said since they started walking. "Bound to be something flowing into the valley between these hills."

Well, this place reminded him of home for another unflattering reason. All of the abandoned ruins were old friends to his tired eyes. Generally he would be happy to see them. They provided rich ground for long forgotten treasures and shelter from the elements, but Rul-Aman was more interested in shelters that were inhabited at this time, which was ironic. At least there would be plenty of places to sleep again, if it came to that. He turned from north to south, gauging the potential roads. The tomb diver rubbed his fine chin, feeling the slightest bit of itch from the black hairs now growing after going a few days without bothering to groom himself.

"South, I think. You're quite right, and judging by the geography, even if we're wrong it won't take long to double back." He reasoned.

The trek was not too hard on their feet, despite the exhaustion. Rul relayed a few larger than life tales of nearly dying during a few of his escapades at home, keeping his voice down so only Brinlaith could hear (he hoped). He did it to help pass the time, crossing the narrow strip of water by the worryingly small dirt path. Rul-Aman slid his hand behind his neck and brushed the tangled mane of his long, black hair out of his clothes to whip in the wind. He was slightly concerned about Brinlaith's dreams, if his hypothesis was correct. Whatever was bothering her, he could not help unless she asked, and she would not, so he did his best to entertain her at least.

"And then the safe..." He slammed his left fist into his right palm. "slid shut, trapping Souk-Mafir and his henchmen in the darkness forever, and I escaped the dungeon with... well, admittedly lost my trousers, but I had the bloody gold!" He did not want to elaborate on it being stolen out of his hands the next day. It made for a poor ending. They began to turn south just as he started another quick tale, this time of bandits on the road and convincing them he was a princeling from Skaven.

Quite the adventurer, isn't he? Brinlaith thought to herself, only half-listening. They followed the path south along the coast, bypassing the ruined manor, as it was in complete disarray and far too exposed to be of use. Anything valuable inside, for survival or otherwise, would've long been picked clean. The sun overhead beat down on the two of them, and Brin was well aware she needed to get to the cover of the jungle soon if she wanted to prevent her pale skin turning redder than her hair. The climate of this place was going to take some getting used to.

"See that?" she asked, interrupting Rul-Aman near the end of his next story. She pointed up and ahead, where two long bridges of stone connected one hill in front of them to the other, pillars descending into the valley below at regular intervals. "Maybe we should be going up the hill rather than around it."

She thought for a moment about the extra effort that would require. "Forget I said anything. Water first, search for people later."

They started forward into the valley, towards the jungle. It would slow their progress, no doubt, but Brinlaith would take needing to cut through vegetation for some cover from the sun right now. Especially if Rul-Aman was the one doing the cutting.

As it turned out, fate wished for them to find people first, as it wasn't long before Brinlaith heard and then saw humanoid shapes descending the hill. The overhead sun made it nearly impossible to get a clear look at them, but they were heading directly towards the two of them.

"Shit," she cursed. "We've been spotted. We should hide. Get a better look at them before we decide to fight, talk, or flee." They didn't have long to debate if they wanted a decent chance to conceal themselves, so Brinlaith already started moving towards the trees.

Brinlaith was mere steps away from a leaning palm when the fronds suddenly rustled, a low rattling groan immediately coming from behind them. There was a rustling of foliage as a figure suddenly lurched into view, nearly toppling forward. Its human-like silhouette warped and unsteady in the dappled light that encased it. This stranger that had practically materialized looked to be a male due to the broad shoulders, wide chest, and long arms. He walked in an awkward, heavy gait that was like that of a drunkard or an addict. There was a second low, miserable moan, without a doubt coming from this shadowy figure. His head hung low as he took tottery steps away from the tree and toward Brinlaith and Rul.

As he stepped closer to them, Brinlaith and Rul could see that the man was a Redguard. His skin a dusky brown tone and his coarse, curly hair tied into a tight bun atop his head. His tattered white clothes and worn, salt crusted boots were those of a fisherman. He slowly raised his head, showing the young Nord woman and her companion a ghoulish face that came right from a nightmare. His eyes were sunk deep into his head, his lips cracked and “peeled back” revealing sickly colored gums and rotting teeth, and every bone in his face pressed against wrinkled, leathery flesh. His slowly raised his arms which were covered in dark, veiny blots. His hands were shriveled with much of the skin having fallen away revealing bone and tendons crusted with blood.

The ghastly man’s mouth stretched wide, a tooth falling free, and gave a third, wailing moan as he rushed forward - reaching for Brinlaith.

Rul-Aman tensed, his story already growing less noisesome from the more sombre surroundings. He was a slight blowhard, and a thief, and more cowardly than most warriors, but at the end of the day, he was an experienced adventurer. This was his element, as loathe as he was to acknowledge that fact. He settled into an easy few steps, his hands resting on the hilt of his twin sword as Brinlaith warned him of the shapes. He saw them too, and he felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. He steadied his breathing as best he could. It was time to be the man in the situation.

"I agree, let's-" He turned, before the low groan struck him like a bolt of lightning, and he was frozen until the abberation surged out of the brush.

"Abah!" He cursed in his native tongue, seeing the wretched thing displaying its sickening visage with an almost malevolent glee. He saw it reaching for Brinlaith, who tried to step out of its range. Whether he was a Redguard or not would mean very little to Rul-Aman even if the thing were alive. There was enough in-fighting between the crowns and forebears for killing his people to be a non-issue for him. However, he still felt his foreheard burn and his breath come in quick gasps, but regardless he moved swiftly. Rul-Aman's swords materialized in his hands as if they had always been, and before Brinlaith could blink, the leading leg was amputated by Rul's right, a mere heartbeat before its head was separated from its shoulders by his left in a practiced pirouette. The monstrous thing fell in a heap, but Rul looked no less concerned about the state of their safety.

"Are you alright?" He asked, but halfway through any confirmation, he would already be taking her hand and guiding her into the brush, out of the eyesight of the approaching ghouls. "Come on!"

He was lucky he took Brinlaith's right hand, as the fire had already returned to her left, ready to blast the undead man up until Rul-Aman hacked it to pieces in a flash. She looked at the dismembered corpse at the Redguard's feet with distaste, soon realizing that the figures moving down the hill towards them were more of the same.

"I'm—ugh!" Every part of her being screamed out at her to wrench her hand away when he grabbed it and started guiding her into the jungle, but she managed just enough restraint to resist. She could keep up easily, and there were more important things to be concerned with. If Rul wanted to play the dashing hero, Brinlaith saw no reason not to let him.

Their thoughts seemed to be aligned on the situation: break line of sight to these creatures, and put some distance between them. It would be a waste of effort and an unnecessary risk to fight them all, and if either of them became diseased as a result... well, it would probably call Brinlaith's claim of being a healer by trade into question.

Best to avoid that, along with the zombies.

The moans of the undead came from all around. Rotting, grotesque corpses - raised by dark magic - that moved with a shared, dreadful purpose: to catch and devour the two castaways who had wandered into their domain. More of the walking dead emerged from the surrounding foliage, their clouded eyes staring blankly, their shriveled skin traced with faint, swirling patterns of arcane energy. They groaned and wailed as they shuffled forward, closing in from nearly every direction. The brush rustled and parted as more figures forced their way through, drawn by the same unseen call. Each of the reanimated ghouls was a horror of their own. Some had mauled faces with eyes that hung from the sockets, some dragged mangled legs behind them. One was little more than the stump of a torso with a blood-red skull atop it, walking on it’s two hands. The air thickened with the stench of decay, heavy and suffocating.

After they passed the treeline and had the cover of a line of brush, Rul-Aman let go of Brinlaith's hand, but he kept running with her with him as more and more of the undead came into view. A number burst from the ferns just ahead of them, and the redguard skidded to a halt, cursing in his tongue. If he was not so pumped with adrenaline, he might have vomited, or at least thought about it. However, with danger so close, he was still moving on instinct. He lurched back as a monster reached for him, nearly bumping into Brin, before pivoting on his foot and cutting the legs out from under the thing with two swift chops.

He groaned, an almost feral sound. "South! We need to cut around them!" He yelled over the din of incessant, low moaning and the shambling of dead weight against the foliage.

Brinlaith didn't respond, her focus locked on keeping pace with Rul-Aman, and avoiding the grasp of the seemingly multiplying undead shambling or crawling towards them. It was possible they were just running into more of them, but there was no time to make careful considerations now.

The burning in her palm itched to be set free, to set rotting flesh aflame and let the horrid stench cover the entire island, but Brin smothered the instinct. Survival was all that mattered now.

---

---

The undead moved in from nearly every direction. With their path back to the beach quickly cut off by shambling corpses descending the mountainsides, Rul and Brinlaith had only one option; straight forward, into the sand-choked canyon. The nearest of the undead were closing fast, hemming Rul and Brinlaith from behind and both flanks. It would mean a long sprint across open ground with no cover, but there was no other way. The rocky walls rose steeply on either side, broken by narrow ledges and sharp outcroppings. There were no caves or trails anywhere along the face of the stone, nowhere to hide. The canyon’s great maw yawned ahead, a jagged wound in the earth that seemed to be ominously beckoning toward the Redguard and his Nord companion.

Without a doubt, the only reason they were still alive was the merciful fact that the shambling undead did not move very quickly, even surrounding them as they so did. Rul-Aman would like to boast he had survived worse things than this, and it was an arguable fact, but this was certainly the most frightening in a long while.

Then again, an exploding ship in the middle of the sea was a strong contender, so maybe they would get lucky here as well.

He swiped at any corpse that lurched into range, but thankfully, most of the closest ones were dozens of meters away. Still, if one of them tripped, it might be all over. As the canyon's sides loomed over them, and though it gave him a bit of claustrophobia, he was glad to have some barriers that kept the monstrosities from coming in from the sides and front. "Just a bit further and we'll have lost them!"

Brinlaith wished she shared Rul's optimism. Just a bit further was going to be about as much as she could manage at this pace. She was no long-distance runner at the best of times, let alone operating off a few hours' sleep in the sweltering heat of some isle in the Abecean. If the whole island is overrun with this rot, then we are well and truly fucked...

She couldn't resist any longer. She used the breath she might've spent on a reply to snarl instead, as she unleashed a bolt of magical flame from her hand. It was aimed for center mass of the nearest undead, bursting through the creature's rotting ribcage and sending bits of decayed bone and festering innards scattering among the underbrush. It collapsed in a heap, and Brinlaith found herself fighting the urge to smile.

Whoosh.

An arrow suddenly whistled through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the sunlight before it plunged downward. It sailed just over Brinlaith and Rul, striking the sandy earth with a soft thud a few paces ahead. Its ragged, brine-stained feathers fluttered in the breeze. The arrow had not come from behind but rather from high above.

In their frantic flight from the undead, Rul and Brinlaith had passed beneath the two colossal stone bridges that spanned the canyon. Along the easternmost structure, barely visible in the distance, stood at least a dozen figures spaced evenly across the length of the bridge. Despite looking up into the blinding midday sun, Rul and Brinlaith could just see the distant figures raising drawn bows. Two more arrows whisked through the air; one skimming the ground while the other buried itself deep into the sand, having narrowly missed Rul. Over the droning of the undead the distant twang of bows could be heard as the attackers on the bridge took their shots.

"Mother fucker!"

Normally he would never be so vulgar around a lady, but this was a rare time when he felt completely justified. He stumbled from the exhaustion, before using his momentum to fall into a roll to dodge the arrows, temporarily forgetting of Brinlaith. He's done his best but he's not a bloody hero!

Despite that acknowledgement, however, he did glance back at Brinlaith, and seeing the arrows still streaking forward, decided to rip off his cloak and surge to his feet, weaving the cloak before him to catch any arrows that sailed too close to their position. "I don't suppose you have any magic to help in this situation?" He deadpanned.

"Just don't get shot in the head!" Brinlaith shouted back, visibly irritated, though more at their predicament than at Rul specifically. "So long as we're not corpses I can fix us up."

It was starting to look more likely they'd be joining the ranks of the dead soon, however. Having archers shooting down at them from on high was the last thing they needed right now, and Brinlaith found an indignant fury bubbling up within her chest that they were shooting at her rather than the undead in pursuit. Despite all the tumultuous events of her life, she wasn't all that experienced with being shot at. She found that the novelty wore off very quickly.

"We're friendly!" She cried up at her attackers, hoping they could hear her, understand her, and actually listen. "We mean no harm!"

Hoping for the best, Brinlaith still cowered behind Rul-Aman as much as she could, the speed of their flight slowed now that they were both trying to keep their heads down.

Brinlaith and Rul had already put a wide distance between themselves and the undead, yet arrows continued to surge down from the bridge above. The attackers showed no sign of stopping, forcing the pair to twist and dodge with every shot. Behind them, the moans of the zombified people began to fade, replaced by the steady thump of arrows striking the sand. The end of the canyon was now visible in the distance - but it was still a long run.

It was a miracle by HoonDing they had yet to be skewered. He wished for once he was more armored. It was one of the few times he felt his weaving and dodging wasn't effective enough to keep himself alive. He started to think their best bet would to simply run forward and hope for the best, and when that thought solidified in his mind, he glanced back at Brinlaith still cowering behind him. He felt like everything he did was the wrong move in her eyes, but maybe he was simply being a fool.

"Stick close to my back, or I'll have to take your hand again, we need to move." He told her, more of a warning than anything. At any confirmation from her end, he would start moving forward, running fast enough to shield Brinlaith, while simultaneously trying to shroud himself with his cloak. Sep guide him, because this was fucked.

"Just go!" was Brinlaith's confirmation. She was tired, but more than capable of digging deep and not being left behind, at least for the next short stretch. All the while the rage continued to build in her, and she began to imagine suitable fates for these assholes emptying their quivers at them.

There must have been a class or two at the University that would've taught her something more useful for this situation. Maybe if she hadn't been so preoccupied with her own pursuits she wouldn't be forced to rely on a stranger and the grace of the gods.

Dust and heat shimmered at the canyon’s mouth as Brinlaith and Rul neared the brink, the walls of stone ending at the expanse of the blazing desert ahead. - Which offered no salvation. For a heartbeat the world around Rul and Brinlaith seemed to slow as what was surely their doom drew near. But instead, the desert gave it’s answer. Or perhaps it was the gods, seeing fit to offer some reprieve to the wayward man and woman. Or maybe just a change of fortune. A rolling thunder rose from just ahead, deep and growing louder by the moment. Out of the shimmering horizon, eight horsemen erupted like a sandstorm given form, their silhouettes cutting through the haze with frightening speed. Sunlight blazed across their half plate armor and spiked helms. Their raised scimitars caught the light resembling shining crescents, a sight both beautiful and deadly. They did not slow as they charged, their single line formation flawless as they beared down on the canyon as if summoned by the chaos. At the last possible instant, two of the riders sheathed their blades and leaned dangerously low in their saddles, arms outstretched toward Rul and Brinlaith.

Rul-Aman held his hand out, but not to take. He held it out to halt Brinlaith in her mad flight, protectively. He found he was prepared to cut down the horsemen, or do his best to. Yet, when he noticed their hands were outstretched to aid them, Rul made the knee jerk reaction to accept. He knew if these turned out to be enemies, they had no chance surviving, and if they turned out to be allies, they were saved. He was a gambler, and they needed to gamble to live.

"Alright," he said, more to himself than Brinlaith. He took the man's hand in his own, and gave Brinlaith a look that was as devil-may-care as any he had previously given.

Brinlaith had much the same thought process. Armed with just a knife and insufficient fire magic, she was no match for a charging line of cavalry. If they were hostile, then honestly, Brinlaith felt honored. Shambling undead, archers from on high, and mounted swordsmen, all to kill a ragged little Nord healer and the Redguard still willing to defend her in the face of their imminent destruction. Perhaps the world was simply tired of letting her get away with it. Fair enough.

But they extended hands rather than blades, and Brinlaith took the one that was offered without a second thought, pulling herself up into the saddle behind the unfamiliar rider and holding on for dear life.

It seemed, at least for one more day, she could keep getting away with it.

Rul-Aman rode behind one of the armored Redguard horsemen, his hands gripping tightly to the warrior’s leather bandolier as instructed as their shared mount surged across the sands of Stros M’Kai. Brinlaith was several yards over clinging to the back of another of the riders, her red hair whipping wildly behind her in the wind. The afternoon sun hung heavy and ominous in the clear blue sky. No one spoke during the first stretch of the flight from the western side of the island due to a shared suspicion between the two castaways and their rescuers. Not to mention the lingering unease at what had just transpired back at the canyon. Eight armored Redguard riders surrounded the pair in a disciplined formation, their curved swords, armor and round shields flashing beneath the golden light above. Their horses carried them swiftly over the rolling yellow dunes that stretched across the island. Every so often one of the cowled riders would glance suspiciously toward Rul or Brinlaith before turning his attention back toward the eastern horizon.

The riders pressed on for several hours, only slowing their pace after they were certain they had left the horde of undead far behind them. And even then they did not stop their horses once. Beyond the dunes, the terrain gradually changed into tangled jungle brush threaded with narrow streams and patches of thick green undergrowth. Brightly colored birds burst from the trees as the horses forced their way through curtains of hanging vines and broad jungle leaves. Sweat soaked through the clothing and armor of the riders, though none of the Redguards uttered a single complaint.

When Rul and Brinlaith asked where the horsemen were taking them the leader of the group answered curtly that the coastal settlements were safer than the island interior. Rul and Brinlaith’s encounter with the zombies and the grim tone of the leader of these armored men suggested that safety on Stros M’Kai had perhaps become very uncertain. Near the island’s center, the patrol crossed the first of three abandoned farms.

The first homestead stood beside a dry field overgrown with tall yellow weeds that swayed endlessly in the breeze. Vines crawled across the walls of the farmhouse, and the nearby well was coated in sand and looked parched. Farming tools lay abandoned beneath a rickety awning. There was no sign of recent habitation anywhere nearby. Several miles later the group passed a second farmstead half consumed by dense jungle growth and shoulder high grass. The third rested beside a narrow ravine, most notable by a field of tomatoes and eggplants that had been left to insects and decay - as if the farmer had more pressing matters to attend than his source of livelihood. Every abandoned property deepened the unease among the riders who kept their hands close to their sword hilts as they traveled on. Even the horses seemed nervous whenever the patrol neared the silent ruins of the deserted farms.

Later in the afternoon, after their group had passed through the heart of Stros M’Kai, the leader asked with a dark expression where Rul and Brinlaith had come from. The two quickly explained that the ship they had bought passage aboard had sunk and they were left adrift at sea, adding that they had washed ashore early that morning and while searching for life on the island had stumbled upon the horde of undead in the valley. The armored men all exchanged wary glances among themselves as they listened to the short story. At last the leader nodded slowly and admitted that shipwrecks were common enough during the summer trade season. He introduced himself as Ghufran and revealed that the eight riders served directly beneath the Grandee of Stros M’Kai. According to Ghufran, they had been sent across the island to investigate a growing number of strange and dangerous incidents. He explained that undead creatures had begun appearing in number across the island in recent weeks, though he added that he and his men had seen nothing like the massive host of reanimated fiends they had all just escaped.

The undead were not the only problem at hand either. Travelers were reportedly vanishing along roads without a trace. Stray rumors spoke of figures wandering near old ruins at night before disappearing into the darkness before dawn. Several riders quietly muttered prayers beneath their breath as Ghufran mentioned the sightings.

As the jungle finally began to recede, the distant scent of saltwater and smoke became stronger on the air. By the early evening hours, the patrol emerged from the wilderness and looked down upon the sprawling harbor city of Port Hunding. The crown jewel of Stros M’kai, Port Hunding spread across the coastline in gleaming layers of pale stone walls, crowded docks, and towering watchtowers overlooking the sea. Even from a great distance the city gates bustled with merchants, dockworkers, caravan guards, and streams of shouting travelers moving in beneath the walls. Ghufran halted the patrol near the outskirts of the city and ordered his riders to prepare to depart once more.
He warned Rul and Brinlaith to enter the city quickly and remain within its walls for their own safety until the island’s troubles were better understood. With that, the eight riders turned away from Port Hunding and disappeared over the ridge back toward the wilderness, leaving Rul-Aman and Brinlaith standing alone before the great city of legend.