DearTrickster

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Kyne’s Tear
@Spoopy Scary & @DearTrickster Feat. @MacabreFox

---

It was clear immediately where Sevine’s attention pulled while the conjurer’s was elsewhere. Getting clear of the spectacular wreckage that was formerly The Golden Slug raining down around them, Maj ducked among the prone corpses of the dreughs her head popping up after the swift rush of air of chains breaking free whipped by. The ship rocked from force to Maj's luck she steadied herself against the dreugh body and the railing final great waves splashing across the deck and taking unlucky few with it into the water. Some recovered far more quickly than others, Sevine namely quick to jump to her lover's aid.

Maj looked to Sevine next pausing at the edge of the deck, she reached out. “Hold on-!”

Sevine dived in, Maj made a dash for the starboard side eyes peered into the water for the eventual resurfacing of the Nord. She relaxed feeling a chill come over her at the deep waters, unaware of it’s sudden grip. Strapped to the side of the Kyne’s Tear was the rowboats. Securely fastened, surviving the attack. She would need another pair of hands to lower it into the water to rescue others. Bodies bobbed close by, time was of the essence.

She joined her voice to the other sailors, “Man overboard! Starboard side!”

“Port side!”

Other calls shouted out.

Maj scanned behind her seeing the Bosmer priestess finding her composure after managing to stay aboard the ship.

She stepped around bodies, minding the dead. Others were clearly preoccupied pairing up - executing their own rescue operations. Wylendriel was on her feet, to Maj she counted as able bodied as anyone unaware of the injuries she suffered before.

“Priestess, Wylendriel! I need your hands, we’re going to lower a boat into the water!” Maj shouted making her way over. “I can’t do it alone.”

The priestess’ head whipped around to look the mage with wild eyes, panting with deep, heavy breaths. Only moments ago she had dropped her arms from exhaustion after particularly intense restoration magic, which in turn was only moments after she was nearly burned alive. Her robes were in tatters, and the stinging cold rain slightly soothed the subtle burn scarring which had remained on her back. What remained of the black wool top underneath was likely the only thing protecting her modesty. Her eyes darted side to side on the boat as she was still trying to process what was happening. Ashna’s screams were still playing on repeat in her head. People were diving off of the ship. One was the huntress, Sevine. One of the argonians was helping too - not Tsleeixth. Unexpectedly, the older khajiit had also dived off the ship. Overwhelmed, it was only now that Maj’s words began to reach her. She nodded and looked to her hands.

Gods, she felt exhausted. Her magicka was drained too. She had maybe one spell left in her. A small one. She summoned what was left of her magicka to fortify her stamina - a faint, weak glow traveled up the veins in her wrist and she took a deep breath, giving herself a moment to let it course through her body. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough to keep her moving for now.

Wy looked back at Maj. She still had a job to do - she still had people relying on her. Her voice was shaking somewhat, but determined. “Lead the way… show me what to do.”

Maj nodded tracking back to the rowboats getting to work on the knots. Loosening the rope she tugged roughly, the rowboat shifted on one side. “Wylendriel, hold this rope while I undo the otherside and prepare it.” The bosmer priestess looked in far worse shape up close than Maj originally assumed. A twinge of guilt because she asked for her help when she looked ready to collapse into a bed. Emergencies happened when you were least prepared. Maj decided there would be time to make it up to her later.

To her credit, the priestess didn’t hesitate in following Maj’s direction. When she had a good grip, Maj went to the other side and repeated the process. The rowboat came loose, the last bit of rope Maj unknotted righted the boat right side up ready to be lowered into the water.

“On my count! We’ll lower ‘er into the water, steady now.” Maj said holding firm.

“Understood!” Wy rasped.

Together they slowly let the boat down, Maj kept an eye on the boat and on Wylendriel, worried she might lose her grip but she held. When the boat cradled into the water, Sevine and the older khajiit were swimming back to the ship with Do’Karth in hand. Dar’Jzo helped her carry her companion as he climbed onto the rowboat, grabbing Do’Karth by the scruff of his neck and haphazardly dropping him on one end before helping Sevine climb on top as well. The waves of the post-storm ocean were battering those who fell overboard and jumped in voluntarily, perhaps so much that they didn’t notice the splashing just beside the ship. Though the dark waters hid who it was, a minor break in the cloud cover casted just enough moonlight for Wy to catch a glimpse of a familiar dunmer face from her bird’s eye view.

“Niernen!” She cried. She looked to Maj in a look of panic, and back towards the mage who was struggling to stay afloat with her disability. Another wave washed over her, slamming her against the hull of the Tear, and suddenly the splashing had stopped. Without a second thought, Wy began tearing her way out of her tattered robes. The tangled mess of burnt and shredded wool and leather gave way to a Bosmer woman mostly bare aside from the tight black undergarments covering her torso and upper thighs as she started to climb atop the railing.

Maj snapped, “Are you crazy-!” She quickly stepped between Wylendriel and the railing, arms out. Behind her she yelled, “Someone grab Niernen! We’ll keep the boat steady!” She turned to Wy, brow furrowed. “Adrenaline and a quick stamina spell isn’t going to last long enough for you to grab Niernen and swim back. Think! That icy water’ll sap you of any strength you have!”

Though Wylendriel pushed against Maj at first, it was long after meeting resistance that she felt her energy beginning to fade out. Her arms weakly reached out to where she last saw Niernen sink beneath the water’s surface, barely enough strength to keep it up as her wide-eyed stare darted between there and the rowboat they dropped. The older khajiit seemed to have heard Maj call out for Niernen to be saved and jumped into the water once again with a dagger in one hand and a length of rope in the other with Sevine on the other end. Maj’s words were beginning to reach her. She was right about not lasting a second in that water. Still, she was fearful. What if they had failed? Her panting fell into a long sigh as she helplessly leaned into Maj and buried her face into her shoulder. At this point, she felt like nothing more than dead weight.

“She’ll be fine, we’ve got a pair of able bodied swimmers put to task.” Maj gently pat Wy’s shoulder, attempting some reassurance. Her eyes shifted down, the long terrible scars visible across her body and back. It set Maj’s imagination ablaze, what could have done this? How in Oblivion did she survive? Most importantly, did she even want to know the details? Everyone had their scars to display or hide away.

The tattoo however drew her eye, the strong lines depicting Kynareth’s wings clearly marked genuinely of her priesthood. Reminding her of her mother’s own tattoos. Maj averted her eyes, feeling as if she were invading Wy’s privacy. She checked the waters again, Sevine helped Niernen into the boat followed by Dar’Jzo pulling himself in. They were ready to come back up.

“Wylendriel, they’re ready to return to the deck. One last push and then we can rest.” She said quietly, green eyes looking anywhere else.

There was an audible sigh of relief and the tension in the Bosmer’s body seemed to have relaxed a bit before she stepped away from Maj. There was a bit of stagger in her step, but she squeezed her hands into fists and kicked her heels into the deck as a sort of way to summon her strength back. She took a deep breath, as she did in her exercises many times before. Her eyes fell back on Maj and she nodded, before locking her eyes on the rope. Perhaps it was out of habit, since she had just spoken high sacrilege only minutes ago, but part of her feared speaking in case the breath she was holding would escape her.

Maj nodded returning to her side, grasping the ropes again - Wylendriel did the same, leaping up and using her weight to do most of the work for her, taking in new breaths as she did. Together they pulled the boat back up, below Sevine and Dar’Jzo did the same - the full weight on neither party. The injured were carried safely aboard and rushed away to warm cabins. Maj watched them go, feeling the adrenaline beginning to edge away lack of a proper sleep catching up with her. She ran an eye down Wylendriel, the sag in her shoulders and deeply drawn bags under her eyes told the conjurer she could always be worse off. A healer in need of a healer was a sad sight.

“Go on, Priestess. You’re done out here for today.” Maj said scooping up her clothing and passing the mess of robes back to her. “Thank you for your help, your healing spell was masterfully well timed for those who will live to see another day.” The apparent waterlogged cadavers punctuating her point.

“My name is Maj, Maj Noor by the by.”

“Wylendriel Greensky.” She answered. Ashna’s screams still echoed in her head. “Thank you, I… I ah… well, thank you. I regret that I couldn’t do more.”

Wy’s eyes followed after the old khajiit and Sevine who hurried the bodies of Niernen and Do’Karth into the cabins. She turned back to Maj and said, “I beg your pardon… I have to go. Thank you again.”

Maj watched her go next crossing her arms, inevitably her eyes settled on her retreating back. Warriors rarely had scars as bad. Survivors, however often did. Lucky as the remaining crew was to survive the encounter with the Golden Slug. She quickly summoned a familiar, appearing as a goblin shade she gave it commands to start pulling bodies free of debris, shiny small specks of gold glittered across the deck as she moved. The familiar was nearly distracted by it, she slapped it’s hands away as she scooped up the bit of gold. Hiring a crew was an expensive endeavour, every little bit helped. Even as she came across mangled bodies, the distinct image of Wylendriel radiating light burned into her mind’s eye.

With the messy bundle of torn-up, wet fabric in arms, Wylendriel shuffled her way after Niernen and her rescuers. The dimly lit interior made it hard to see, but they were lined up next to the other injured. Sevine was wet and shivering, yet remained fussy over the condition of Do’Karth. The older khajiit was already bundled up in a wool coat and his cold fur was already shaken and bristled, evidently very unhappy with his current condition.

“If you cannot help the cub, then you should get warm.” He told her

“I’m not leaving his side, I’m fine.” Sevine protested.

The khajiit answered with a sharp exhale through his nose. Then his cold eyes fell on Wylendriel.

“Dar’Jzo hates water. Especially cold water.”

“That’s surprising for such a strong swimmer.” Wy commented.

“Mm... regretfully this one was already wet from the rain. Look to the darkskin and the cub. This one and the fussy one knows not how to revive them properly.”

The priestess sighed heavily, dropping the wet bundle of clothes and staggered over to Niernen and straddled the dunmer woman’s waist. The Bosmer gave a tired look over towards Sevine and told her, “Do as I do and he will be fine, okay?”

She held her hand flat against Niernen’s sternum and placed her other hand over it and began a series chest compressions. After a few moments, she tilted back Niernen’s head and listened for any signs of breath. When there weren’t anything, she pinched her nose shut and breathed air into the Dunmer’s lungs. Almost immediately she began spitting up water and rolled on her side. It wasn’t long until Sevine’s procedure revived Do’Karth as well. However, they were also immersed in the ice cold ocean and took in a lot of water. Their response was a short lived relief, as they quickly fell back into unconsciousness. Still, they were breathing now.

Sevine was far beyond exhausted from her time spent in the water, but Do’Karth was alive and that was all that mattered to her. She held him close, her fingers smoothing the fur on his face into place.

The priestess got off of her and sat beside Niernen as she slept. There was bruising and abrasions along the side of her head where she was knocked against the side of the ship. Wy winced as the scene replayed itself on her head. Maybe she could do something for her. Maybe she had enough magicka left to help her.

Wy reached out and set her hand on Niernen’s head and tried to perform one more healing spell. A light faintly flickered around her hand -- which then immediately whipped back in front of her mouth as her chest heaved in a massive coughing fit. The cabin around her started spinning, Dar’Jzo’s and Sevine’s voices were faint in her ears. She tried to look at her hand. It seemed like there was four of them phasing in and out of each other, but she caught a glimpse of blood staining the palm of her hand. The weight of her eyelids were becoming too much.

It wasn’t peaceful, but she eventually allowed herself to drift asleep.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Morning - Sunrise, 31st of Second Seed, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell
_{@Father Hank, @MacabreFox, @Stormflyx, @Dervish}

---

Sunlight slivered through a pair of heavy set curtains leading a line of light down the space between the beds. The first to stir was the red scaled argonian, Judena. She sat up pushing up against the soft bed digging the heel of her hand at the dry grit in her eyes. She squinted around a hand automatically patting, searching for her logbook. She counted the sleeping forms of Daro’Vasora, Rhona and.... Orc. There was an orc. The air was dry and they weren’t out in the open, confusion swept over her as it always did every morning.

She blinked then looked down at her pages leaning to the light to read, no mention of orcs or new people joining as of her last log. A light hiss she leaned over grasping for her spear, using it to pull herself up out of the bed muscles stretching out. She trudged over to the respective bed and space of the unknown new member then proceeded to lightly poked her shoulder with the butt of it.

Mazrah nearly jumped out of her skin the very second that Judena’s spear touched her and she shot up straight, eyes wide, throwing her hands up in a defensive posture, ready to fight for her life. Sleeping out in the wilderness as often as she did meant that she had to be ready to rumble every hour of every day.

“I do not care how you found yourself in here but strangers are not welcome. Please leave, now.” Judena rumbled, her ‘beard’ inflating with irritation. “Go on.”

Remembering where she was and what she’d done the night before, Mazrah breathed out slowly and dropped her hands. “Hey, lizard lady,” Mazrah hissed, trying to keep her voice down. “I came with the Khajiit, alright? The one over there.” She pointed to the sleeping form of the treasure hunter. “Daro’Vasora. We beat up some Redguard asshole that groped one of my friends and she helped me escape the guards. Then she told me about you people and that you could use someone like me.” Mazrah took another deep breath and exhaled. “Don’t touch me again when I’m sleeping, okay? Next time you might be dead before I wake up properly.”

“My name is Judena Callisar. I do not rightfully like seeing strangers here, Rhea would not have allowed you to simply waltz in here in the middle of the night and Daro’Vasora should not have assumed others here would be as welcoming as she.” She replied, not appreciating the mild death threat. She looked to Daro’Vasora stalking over poking her next.

“Daro’Vasora, wake up. Where is Rhea? Rhea would not have let a stranger inside our sleeping quarters in the middle of the night. We are sorting this out right now. Wake up.” Judena kneeled down shaking her shoulder. “What were you thinking?”

“I’m awake, I just don’t care.” Daro’Vasora replied, half-truthfully. She opened a singular eye to glance back at Judena, and then Mazrah. She sighed, sitting up in the bed, pulling her knees up with her arms. “You should check your journals when you have a moment, but Rhea didn’t make it, Judena. It’s been over a week, and we are no longer in Anvil.” the Khajiit replied, glancing back to the Orc. “I was thinking we needed allies and she need a place to stay, and waking you lot up in the middle of the night invites daggers to the gut, so I elected to follow the philosophy of begging for forgiveness opposed to asking for permission.”

Getting up from the bed, and still dressed as she was the night before, Daro’Vasora found a pitcher of water, and relieved, found it still had some in the container before pouring herself a goblet. “And for the record? Rhea literally picked a few of the people in our group along the way. Rhona, Calen, Gregor, all of them? She wasn’t the kind of person to think things through, but she had a good heart. You’re going to fault me for doing the same?” she asked, drinking back the goblet in a single go.

Mazrah watched the exchange between Judena and Daro’Vasora with growing confusion. Orsimer seldom lived long enough to experience dementia and their skulls were so thick that brain injuries were rare. She’d never seen someone with memory loss like this. Nor did she know who Rhea was.

“My name is Mazrah gra-Durash. I’m friendly, I swear,” she interjected, looking at Judena while she talked. “Don’t be mad.”

Judena backed away from Daro’Vasora, her ‘beard’ deflated shriveling back against her neck. She looked between the pair, dropping her spear. “A-A week? I-I did not read past the last log, I am - a thousand apologies Mazrah gra-Durash. I am very embarrassed for this.” She went back to her bed groping for her logbook, slight panic clear in her expression.

Pressing the heel of her hand to her head, reading the day count since Rhea’s death on the previous page. She read back further on what happened, her notes dwindled in severity but the first day after had a few pages of detailed feelings.

“I am not mad. I spoke without thought nor proper consultation. I need time after I first wake to get the need-to-know events read. I truly did not remember her death.” She said quietly, “Apologies, again.”

Now Mazrah understood. She’d sat up straight while the Khajiit and the Argonian talked, resting her elbows on her knees, and she looked at Judena with pity. “Don’t worry about it,” she said quietly. The way Judena leafed through her journal to find her notes on the death of her friend, or at least comrade… it was one the saddest things Mazrah had ever seen.

Daro’Vasora didn’t react, at least not visibly. She knew that Judena didn’t need to be pitied for what she endured, but needed to be respected for what she could do. It required patience and thought, but the Argonian was a capable woman and someone who preserved despite being held back in such a tragic way. Still, it made the Khajiit’s heart ache to have to go through this routine every day for the past week where Judena would have to relearn the news of Rhea’s death; it never got easier for Judena, it seemed, and the worst part was there was nothing anyone could to do ease the impact.

“It’s okay, Judena. I would have told you and the others sooner, but it was a rather spontaneous choice. To me, this fancy palace of a hotel is only a better smelling and providing version of the refugee camp. This space isn’t really ours, it’s borrowed, and we have a job to do if we wish to keep staying here.” Daro’Vasora explained, pulling the curtains more to the side to allow a better view at the city below. Topping up the goblet again, she stepped out onto the balcony, sitting on the edge of the stone railing as she looked back inside. “I would not have invited Mazrah back if I suspected for a moment she had any ounce of deception or ill-intent within her. We need people who can do things that we cannot, and I don’t know about you, but I am not exactly the most physically robust of people. There’s going to be a fight or two in the days ahead, and I’d rather we have someone better at it than they do.”

Judena slowly nodded, reading quickly. “Hammerfell that is why the air is so dry, the city is occupied by the Dwemer. They have their own government, even brought families with them.” Gold eyes filling now with curiosity. “Mazrah,” She penned a new line in the next day writing her name. “You look very strong.”

Making a light joke, hoping to move on from her blunder, “Robust may be an understatement, my friend.” She said to Daro’Vasora, hissing out a chuckle.

She stood from her bed, hand out now, “I am an alteration mage and historical item appraiser. Thank you for your patience.”

Mazrah also got to her feet and noticed, much to her amazement, that Judena matched her own height. She grinned and shook the Argonian’s hand. “Thank you, Judena. I’m a hunter and a warrior from Orsinium. A mage, eh? I haven’t met a lot of mages before. Some of the Wise Women know magic, but not much, and you know what the Redguards are like when it comes to magic. What can you do?” she asked, curious.

Judena smiled finally, genuinely, “I would love to discuss over breakfast, I am quite the fisher as well.” She looked around once again eyes tracking to the bedding and decorations, “This is a far more posh establishment than what we are used to sleeping in I believe.” She whispered loudly to Sora. “Are we getting paid or paid with food and board…?” She shook her head. “I will continue reading, I will find out.”

“Where is Raelynn? She seems to be missing from her bed.”

The moment that the Argonian asked her question, was the moment that the Breton walked in. “I am here,” she said abruptly, eyes immediately on the Orsimer newcomer. “The curfew… I had to stay with my father last night.” She could barely concentrate on what she was saying to Judena, she was too busy gawking at the Orsimer - who had seemed to make herself at home already. Typical! was her first thought. Suddenly she didn't feel like sticking around much longer. She sauntered to her lockbox and plucked out her journal, a quill, ink, and an apple which she tossed gently over to Judena. “If you ladies don't mind, I must do some writing.” Truthfully she didn't give a shit what they thought, and as she left out the balcony door - she gave an annoyed sigh and closed it behind her.

Seeing Raelynn return and pout her way towards the balcony, Daro’Vasora headed back inside, offering the Breton a knowing wink as she passed and the door shut behind her. Looking to Judena, she shrugged. “I don’t know if compensation is even on the table, it’s some ideological thing. That said, we have a roof over our heads. Hopefully they elect to feed us, too.”

“Good morning, Raelynn!” Judena waved as she walked by, watching her flee to the balcony. She really did value her privacy! She shined the apple against her sleeve.

Rhona stirred instantly, somehow she had managed to sleep through the chat for the most part until Jude bid Raelynn good morning. She opened her eyes, and found herself staring at Judena, Daro’Vasora and a… impressive Orsimer woman. Rhona rubbed at her eyes, and sat up with a groan, she didn’t want to wake up just yet. Her eyes were red from sleep, look a bit disoriented and confused even.

Mazrah looked at Rhona with a small frown as the Breton woman slowly woke up. She wouldn’t appreciate another admonishment and hoped that Judena hadn’t started a trend with the way she’d woken up. It would be nice if people could just be welcoming. Fortunately, it looked like Rhona was more confused and groggy than anything else, and Mazrah put on the most affable smile she could muster. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Mazrah gra-Durash, a hunter and warrior from Orsinium. Daro’Vasora brought me here last night after she helped me beat up a Redguard man that molested one of my friends. What’s your name?”

Rhona’s brows furrowed at the newcomer, she identified herself and offered a seemingly wild explanation on why she was there, she didn’t question it.

“Good morning, uh… Mazrah.” She slowed herself to make sure she pronounced her name to the best of her ability, “Rhona. I’m Rhona.” She slipped out of bed and moved to the water pitcher on her nightstand, where she poured herself a glass of water. She downed the tankard in one go before she returned her bed, taking a seat on the edge.

“‘Beat up’ seems like such an inelegant way of saying we broke a few bones.” The Khajiit shrugged, lazily slumping down on her bed, adjusting the pillows so she could lean up against the wall. “Rhona is much more proficient at that sort of thing.” She mused, glancing over at the mousy woman.

Her brows raised at Daro’Vasora’s mention, “I… did what I had to do.” She said, casting her eyes down to the floor.

“Personally, I’m proud of you. From what I’ve picked up on the road since you joined us, the creep deserved it. You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who ripped wings off of butterflies for kicks as a kid, so going from ‘I don’t hurt people’ to turning some piece of shit into a tenderized piece of beef isn’t something that you seem like you’re used to. You’ve been haunted since you did that, so I can tell you aren’t used to this yet. Most of us had practice the past several years, it gets easier. You’ll probably have to do it again, just to let you know.” Daro’Vasora replied to Rhona, picking up her pack and rummaging through it.

Casting her gaze between Daro’Vasora and Rhona as they talked, she grew increasingly more curious about what the two were discussing -- it sounded like Rhona had taught a lesson to a creep of her own. In total disregard (and, truthfully, ignorance) of social decorum, Mazrah spoke up. “What are you girls talking about? What did you do, Rhona?”

She lifted her gaze, meeting the Orc woman’s golden eyes, “I… killed my husband.”

Tilting her head and putting one hand on her hip, Mazrah looked at Rhona in a new light, her eyes twinkling with… what, exactly? Admiration? Approval? “Did you? Based on what our furry friend said, I assume he got it coming.” She smiled warmly. “Good job.”

“He was a worthless piece of shit. Alcoholic. Gambler. Abusive. I ran away from him two years ago. But he found me after all this time in Skingrad. He threatened someone I love, and I had to protect him. So I made a bloody mess of his face.” Rhona said through a terse sigh.

Even sat outside, on the balcony from behind the closed door, Raelynn could hear every word being spoken. Murder? Molesting? Disgusting topics of conversation to be having this early in the day. What were they thinking. Her lips curled into an unimpressed snarl and she sighed, heaving herself from the chair, hands slamming on the table. She burst through the door, her patience at its end. “Can you all please cease this horrendous din?” the words came out just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I can hear you from out there and it’s turning my stomach over…” She rolled her eyes, standing in the doorway, lips pursed. “Please,” she began again, a slight hint of exasperation in her voice, “we’re women and you all sound like drunkards in a tavern…”

“Are you saying that women can’t be drunkards in a tavern?” Daro’Vasora remarked with a smirk. “My, aren’t we entrenched in gender roles.” she said, pulling out her practice lock and a set of picks to keep her hands occupied as she glanced back towards the woman at the balcony.

Mazrah stared at Raelynn, incredulous at what she was hearing. She hadn’t encountered this level of snobbiness since her short trip to High Rock. Then again, looking Raelynn up and down, she saw that the woman was Breton through and through. Still, there were no excuses for behavior like this. “We’re having a moment here,” Mazrah said. “Please leave.”

She thought momentarily about engaging Daro’Vasora, but she realised that the Khajiit was just leaving bait for her to attack. It was too risky to test the Khajiit - not right now. Not after last night. The Orsimer, however, was fair game. “Leave my own room?” her eyes narrowed, and she let herself lean against the frame of the door. “Well, why don’t I just give you the clothes from my back too? It looks like you could use them.”

“I don’t fit in children’s clothes,” Mazrah said and smirked. She was used to comments about her outfit, as bare-skinned as she was, and she knew that the other races didn’t understand the pride she took in the tattoos and ritual scars she bore on her body. There was no point in trying to explain.

That prompted a muffled snurk of a choked laugh from the Khajiit before she regained her composure. “Technically, it isn’t our room, either. It’s a loan for doing the dirty work for some Redguard fellow. I didn’t pay for this room, did you? She’s here for the same cause we are, so she’s welcome here as far as I’m concerned.”

Raelynn clenched her jaw. Thinking of the ways she could bite back at both of them, but now wasn’t the time. “Well then, if it’s for the cause Daro’Vasora, I shall just disregard all of this talk of murder altogether. All I ask, is you keep it down. I have work that I wish to do, I’m sure we can keep each other content in this situation…” Behind her eyes were daggers, aimed at her Khajiit companion. She ignored the loutish Orsimer completely.

Daro’Vasora winked at Raelynn. “Well, better company than before you interrupted. You must have a lot of work about your story of a young butcher boy to put to parchment.”

Rhona wasn’t prepared for this much sass and spitfire so early in the morning, she raised her brows in surprise as her gaze shifted between Raelynn to Daro’Vasora and Mazrah. She didn’t even know what to say at this point, “Well, we have a meeting in half an hour. We should make ourselves proper, at least.”

Jude bit into her apple watching the conversation with a grin, meeting new people - especially after introductions was an experience she never tired of nor truly remembered. She considered the apple, fresh as this exchange. “Youth is so energetic first thing in the morning.”

The Elder Scrolls: Fruits of Contention - Chapter 2 (Completed)

Meanwhile Maj is all, @POOHEAD189

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Cast

The Witch-Mother’s Charge

Compass Round

_{Part 3}

Time: Evening - 10:00 PM - One Day After Satellite Attacks
Location: Cotting-Smith Assembly House – Salem, Massachusetts.

---

”Mab,” Marie concisely requested, looking to Odette for confirmation, who eagerly nodded her approval. ”The former Faerie Queene is of special interest to the Ambassador and I. Before I aid you in renewing your pact with Salem’s sacred Land, we’ll need everything you can give us on Mab and her involvement with Andover.”

“Very well,” Maryann conceded, visually pleased by the rather simple negotiation. “All it will take is time. I’ll look through our records and see what I can find. As I’m sure you’ve been told, I am also an heir to Mary Eastey, her several times great granddaughter and one of the only biological heirs to Salem’s former coven. If all else fails, I’ll conjure her spirit and gather her recollection of events. In the meantime . . .”

Maryann turned to her assembled witches.

“Victoria, ready the space on Gallows Hill. Form the compass as you’ve been taught, and scatter any would be viewers who might linger in the trees. We don’t need an audience.”

Victoria nodded, patting Marie’s shoulder before seeing to her duties elsewhere.

“Jordan,” Maryann continued, “gather the vessels and the braziers. And remember, it’s nine braziers, Jordan, not six.”

Jordan nodded, mumbling something under his breath that made Maryann playfully swat him as he passed her by.

“Alexander-”

“Have my familiars conjure the corners and collect the herbs,” Alexander interrupted, nodding as he left the room.

“It’s three parts foxglove to one part mugwort!” Maryann called after him, “we don’t want Jordan passing out again!”

Maryann shook her head, letting out a deep sigh.

“I swear, they never appreciate the work I do,” she smiled, turning back to Odette and Marie.

“While they prepare the ritual, I’ll away to the town’s library. All of our records are hidden among more mundane volumes, some are even on display. They’re all locked, of course, but they certainly lend an air of mysticism to the town’s atmosphere. Meet me there in an hour’s time. I should have everything you need by then. Talk amongst yourself, tour the town, whatever you please.”

Maryann sped off, heels clacking on the hardwood floor, echoing off the high walls of the ballroom.

Holt let down his ethereal cloak, floating about the room as a jet-black raven, the faint glow of ephemeral light lingering on his wings. He once again took to banners draped over historical displays, perhaps trying to place them. Were they familiar? He had once served a witch in New England not far from the trials in Andover; she was his master before Joseph Mathers, whom he served for nearly three centuries. Was it nostalgia that caught his eye, or grief?

Marie left her familiar to his own devices, taking a seat at the center table, pouring herself a glass of water. She was beginning to feel the wine she’d had both at dinner with her parents, and in her meeting of Salem’s finest. But it wasn’t the time to be caught in alcohol induced delirium. Marie needed to remain sharp.

”What are you hoping to gain from Maryann?” Marie posed the question to Odette, filling the silence that had come over them after the other witches’ departure. ”Seems like as close a link to Gwyneth as we’re likely to find, and I trust your judgement, but I’m betting you’re not interested in history alone.”

Odette relaxed into the chair eating more on her plate, standing up getting more fruit on her plate. “Anything really. I need clues, I need hints, last whereabouts - anything I can learn. You are right, history isn’t all that interests me.” Odette agreed, spearing a slice of kiwi. “While I am sure the connection to Mab is relevant for Gwyneth, other connections to her do not concern you, Marie. Rest assured knowing that Mab’s connection to Gwyneth is my priority.” She fluttered her hand at Marie, dismissing the question. Eating more fruit, breads and sipping on the wine. Unlike Marie, Odette’s tolerance for it was far higher. It was all fuel for her spells.

“Take the moment to breathe and eat. We haven’t had a proper meal tonight, I am unsure what toll your witchcraft takes upon you but mine requires calories. I prefer the silence to eat and think.” She said texting with one hand and spearing a cherry tomato with the other.

”Fine,” Marie sighed, plating a handful of strawberries and a croissant that was strangely still warm, ”keep playing the mystery game for now. But if you won’t talk to me about Mab, what about you?”

Marie positioned herself directly across from Odette, moving a few of the serving trays so that her vision wasn’t obscured.

”I’ve had limited interaction with the supposedly famed Ambassador of the Fair Folk, yet I keep hearing about your numerous accomplishments from strange corners of the world. Who is she, the Ambassador? What’s her story? And before you try to dodge the question, you literally know my life’s story at this point, both of them. I think it’s only fair.”

Odette gave the witch a withering look, chewing through more vegetables. Bach shrugged behind her, refusing to comment. Odette knew how he felt about oversharing. In reality it was just sharing, period. She finished her text, placing her phone facing down. Marie wanted a resume, intentional or not attempt to open Odette up to list off her accomplishments - an appeal to her ego. “Everything you have heard of me is true. I earned the title of Ambassador of the Fair Folk a handful of years ago. I have connections in every seasonal court, I have favours and alliances built from the isolated fair folk that make their nests in nightmares to nobility that lounge upon beautiful thrones made of bones. I have treated with duchies of light, luck and chaos.”

Leveling a curious gaze at Marie, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I scrapped every ounce of my influence and power from scratch. As I’m sure you have no doubt noticed, I take great pride in my work. It has taken significant time, but-”

“Petit a petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.” She pinched her fingers around a cube of cheese. “Not to mention my own vestments outside of the needs and wants of the fair folk.”

Vague still, Odette hoped this would give Marie plenty to think on and allow Odette back to her own thoughts and food.

Marie chuckled. She expected as much from Odette, always working an angle, keeping something hidden, wording her sentences just so. Marie was familiar with the practice of secrecy, of holding one’s tongue, it was a necessary part of her job at The Red Devil, and something she’d picked up from the fey who frequented.

”How about this then,” Marie responded, not letting silence settle for too long. ”immortality. That’s Gwyneth’s aim, or something vaguely similar. Have you thought about what might happen once I achieve my goal, assuming I still mean to? Were you offered the same opportunity when we last spoke?”

Odette sighed shortly through her nose. “Gwyneth clearly found some success in preserving her soul, if this entire quest is not the very definition of conditional immortality then,” She shrugged, dropping the cheese to the plate. “I would not be interested in it, our agreement was alliance in exchange for helping you regain your memories-” Odette slipped, intentionally pushing to blur the line further between Marie and Gwyneth. “I mean Gwyneth’s memories. Mutual immunity from the other, as you already know.”

“I believe…” She began slowly. “The more I learn of Gwyneth and yourself I believe she would be capable of crafting unconditional immortality for herself. I do not know the theory or ideas she has but I believe it is within her capacity.”

”Myself,” Marie whispered in response, shaking her head to let loose any reservations. ”Myself,” she said louder, ”It is within my capacity, something I can craft for myself. There’s no longer any sense in trying to separate the two of us. I am Gwyneth, just short a few memories. Amnesia, essentially. So thank you for the vote of confidence, I appreciate it, but that’s not quite what I asked.”

Odette counted a point in her favour at that.

Marie leaned in closer.

”What happens to you once I’m back on the track of immortality? Mutual immunity is all well and good, but from everything you’ve told me and everything I’ve heard, that’s not nearly enough for you. To have Gwyneth Owens as an ally would be a great boon. And at the risk of sounding overly confident, I think you’ll need me, especially when it comes time to deal with that little prophecy of yours. Achieving immortality for yourself might change things for you. Apparently I was searching for it to live in peace and escape persecution, but for you, it might be the difference between your survival, or your destruction.”

Marie leaned back, pulling apart her croissant and taking a bite. Odette’s eyes flicked down at the pastry.

”Just something to think about,” she added.

Odette squinted at Marie, recognizing this tactic. “You are trying to use the same leverage I had used back at the grocery store. I am well aware of the advantage I would gain from unconditional immortality. I certainly do not need you to tell me what I need and what I stand to gain.” She pressed her forefinger on the back of her phone.

“If you managed to figure out immortality, offer or not the cost would be high. I do not put all of my eggs into one basket thinly pinning my hopes of surviving the prophecy onto a singular thing.” She sipped her wine, “As if I haven’t already been searching for a way to immortalize myself.”

”So you search for Mab, the long lost Faerie Queene who, coincidentally, is somehow involved with my past, which is all the better for you because, and this is only a guess, I get the feeling you’re trying to expand your reach. Ties to the seasonal courts is fine and all, but a former Queen, one who, if I’m not mistaken, is a member of the oldest tribe of Fey in existence. The Tuatha, right?”

Marie took a sip of water. Holt grew ever conscious of Marie’s overextension. It was unlike her, but in truth, Holt wasn’t entirely sure who or what Marie was anymore.

”If you were on their good side,” Marie continued, ”well, then you could dodge just about anything, couldn’t you? Reach greater acclaim than is possible through the courts, have you name and image truly immortalized. Am I close?”

Marie held up a hand.

”And before you try to be dismissive and let that famous paranoia dictate your answer, know that I’m not playing any games, despite what you might think. There are no tactics here, nothing other than sheer curiosity. Convince yourself otherwise if it helps, but I stand to gain nothing from knowing, other than to offer you a little peace of mind, as I’m sure, in your line of work, that’s hard to come by. I can’t have my ally plagued by worries that could jeopardize our mission. I’ve let go of my baggage, now it’s your turn.”

Odette leaned forward about to retort with a barb of her own, then sat back. As she was Odette was appalled at Marie’s attempts to dig for more information curiosity or not, good intentions or otherwise - Odette hated that Marie thought herself to understand her. No amount of empathy could help.

She folded her hands on the table, unaware of the way she gnawed on the inside of her cheek. “As if, I would allow something as useless as ‘baggage’ to hold me back from completing anything. It’s about as useless as being told to just - let it go.” She scoffed at the idea of it. “If you truly understood why I feel the need to keep details to myself we would not be having this conversation. It may not seem like you gain anything from knowing more but I know information, no matter it’s form or method of collection - is power. A healthy dose of paranoia has kept me alive for years.”

“You say I can trust these details to you and perhaps I can, but until you have gained all of your power and memories you are just as vulnerable,” She said, “Vulnerable to anyone attempting to mine for information by manipulation or forcefully cracking that head of yours open to find out everything you know. The Former Faerie Queen Mab may just do that and you are right she is Tuatha.”

She continued, standing - the control she was exerting over her tone to remain even was extreme. Marie’s prying aggravated Odette, severely. “I would very much like Former Queen Mab to be my ally but facing her is a daunting task, even for one such as myself. I have an ego, yes. I have a string of accomplishments that have built my status but I know exactly what I am capable of and I understand the Fair Folk. You act as if my baggage is volatile when right now I am looking at the most unstable witch in salem.”

“Do not, I repeat - do not assume to know or understand why I act as I do.” She warned, the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

Marie couldn’t place the emotions she felt after hearing Odette’s rant. It wasn’t fear, they were both past that. Was it shame for having potentially alienated an ally, sorrow? Or was it amusement at having pushed someone, exploiting a weakness or exposing their limitations? Should she frown and apologize, or grin and remain silent?

”Alright,” Marie finally responded in a softened tone, ”I might have overstepped, I’m sorry. This is . . . new for me. I’ve never done well in teams, and now that I have a partner . . . I’ll leave this alone.”

Marie pulled out her phone to check the time. Nearly an hour had passed; Maryann was likely waiting for them.

Standing up, Marie hailed Holt with a hand and began walking toward the exit.

”It’s just about time,” Marie called back to Odette. Before the two had left the assembly house, Marie turned back around, only a few paces from Odette and Bach.

”I’ll be civil moving forward,” Marie spoke in a hushed tone, ”But let’s not pretend that threatening me does you any favors. I can’t hurt you, you can’t hurt me. That’s the deal you made.”

Gradually the temperature climbed back to normal as Odette pulled back. She averted her gaze. It reminded her of what Silence once said, did she want pawns or partners? Odette felt that memory wash over her. She wanted her boundaries to remain intact but Marie was climbing over them. For the first time, Marie was finally standing her ground against Odette but not as enemy.

She clenched a fist then let it relax. “That is the deal I made and as this is new to you, it is new to me.”

She felt Bach’s eyes burrow into the back of her head. “I have more than enough puppets and-” She gestured to Marie. “Not enough partners.”

That was about as close to an apology Marie was going to hear for the day. She made eye contact, nodding.

---

Location: Salem Public Library
Time: 11:00 p.m.

---

It was a short walk to Salem’s library, only a few paces down and across Essex Street, the red-bricked building signaled by a simple street sign in the colonial style. A few windows were lit up, possibly by emergency lights that kept the building filled with a dull luminescence. It was certainly well after the building’s hours, but Salem’s witches seemed to care little for the city’s boundaries or regulations. In fact, they were likely the ones who set such rules in place.

A slender woman sat at the front desk, nodding to Odette and Marie as they passed, expecting them. She moved around the counter and handed Marie a keycard to the third floor.

“Ms. Douglas is waiting for you in a private room upstairs,” the woman directed, “third floor, second door on the right, just behind a small memorial statue.”

They nodded, following the stairs up to the third floor to search for Maryann.

Upstairs, the interior was as much as would could expect from a public library. Rows upon rows of books separated by subject, title, author, etc. Dotted around the space were tables and booths for quiet study, as well as small rooms here and there for quiet escapes. Between particularly wide rows were the odd map of Salem, globe, or raised placard. Eventually, the pair found the memorial mentioned by the librarian downstairs, a small, carved figure of Tituba made by a local artist. Behind it were a set of doors, the second of which held the same number as the keycard.

Marie swiped the card, unlocking the door and revealing Maryann seated at a desk with a collection of books, journals, worn parchment, and a variety of witching tools strewn about every imaginable surface.

“Ah,” she said as she looked up at them. “Good, you’re here. I’ve come up with a few mentions across various texts. I hope it’s what you’re looking for. Just ask a question and I’ll see if I have an answer.”

Odette already knew some questions she needed to be answered, “What are the last recorded memories of Mab’s whereabouts?”

“Even if your ancestor did not see her last, even her account of where or when she last saw her is a clue.” Odette said.

“I have no need to recall Mary Eastey’s memories,” Maryann replied, “at least not yet. There is an account, although brief, from a witch named Peter Marberg in 1699. As acting head of the Essex Wyrd prior to the turn of the century, Peter’s personal journal has been kept in near perfect condition.

“During the Samhain ritual carried about by the four covens and Tituba on October 31, 1699, Peter recounts witnessing a female figure dressed in silken robes the color of freshly turned soil. He describes the spirit as having fair skin covered in a fine powder that shimmered in the moonlight, wearing the head of an owl, and sporting large, moth-like wings that held a golden iridescence. Peter’s description matches those of witches from Andover prior to the Salem trials. However, he reports having only seen her for a moment, ‘risen from brittle leaves’, before she vanished.”

Maryann shook her head.

“There is no other mention of Mab in the colonies after that night. It was assumed in later years that she returned to the Isles, but as you know, that’s never been confirmed.”

Odette nodded affirming that point. “Otherwise we would not be here asking.” She pulled her phone free, thumbs typing her own notes. “What exactly was Mab doing prior to her departure? She clearly helped the witches settle but are there hints of projects, goals, anything that could possibly bring her back to Andover or even Salem?”

“Capricious in nature but fair folk nobility always have something to occupy their attention.”

Maryann took a second glance through a selection of loose pieces of parchment, all stacked haphazardly on the study room’s central table. Odette and Marie could make out vague images of Mab’s description on a few of the pages, likely taken from a grimoire years prior.

“This is heavy speculation,” Maryann qualified, “but from what I’ve gathered, it seems that Mab was acting on behalf of her sister, or whom the witches of Andover assumed was her sister. Nicnevin, the Witch Queen of Scotland.”

”Nicnevin and Mab are sisters?” Marie questioned, slightly in awe. She’d heard plenty of tales of the witches midnight flights with Nicnevin in her early studies, and her name was mentioned a number of times in various trials from Scotland.

Maryann nodded.

“Apparently, although I’ve seen no other records that confirm that suspicion. Either way, it seems that Mab was keen to reposition herself after her departure from the Summer Court only a century prior. Perhaps she hoped to regain her power and position through the witches in Andover; take a portion of the New World to act as her throne.”

“Making roots in the new world is seemingly difficult then as it is now.” Odette said, “Others, many others still cling to the ‘old world’. Mab was well ahead of her time. As to be expected. . .” She trailed off in thought, Nicnevin was a mysterious figure to be involved in this in any capacity. Should they prepare for a powerful witch’s meddling as well? Mab was inevitably who Odette would focus on but she thought to put Marie on preparing for the Witch Queen. Powerful players waltzing onto the board was trickier to predict. “Naturally, she was seen on Halloween. We are still off from any major turn of the season, celestial events, save for a full moon. I wonder if The Land can give us some impressions of Mab… A spirit such as her would surely leave her mark centuries later.”

“While the Veil is still firmly in place I have no issue pushing through if need be.”

“I have something else that might interest you,” Maryann added.

Gently moving the other books aside, she brought out a large wooden carving depicting multiple scenes, along with pages taken from an illuminated manuscript that Marie and Odette assumed would explain the carvings.

“These pages,” Maryann explained, “are from a 13th century dictionary of spirits. I have no record of when they came into the Essex Wyrd’s possession, but, quite fortunately, they describe Mab in further detail, including a sort of prophecy regarding the birth of five distinct children.”

The first scene in the carvings showed a woman, not far from Peter Marberg’s description, cradling a small goat. A second scene presented Mab, or whom Marie and Odette assumed to be Mab, aiming a bow at a great stag. Another found Mab planting a seed, which sprouted roots upon touching the soil. Next, Mab lifted a child from, or perhaps lowered it into, a raging fire. Finally, Mab was seen dancing under a bright moon, drinking from a cup in the shape of a horn.

“How interesting,” Maryann noted, “pieces of the manuscript switch between Latin and a strange fey dialect. One that I unfortunately cannot read. The Latin, however, is roughly as follows: ‘Five borne from Malice, a jealous wife. The first a babe from Hell was brought, to offend her paramour, a good Christian was he. The second babe masked by cruel treachery, a regal beast turned wild in death. The third babe carried by cursed winds, borne of a mother’s weeping to the Earth’s fertile womb. The fourth babe turned ash, called back to the place where day and night yet linger. The fifth and last is both gift and curse, borne in celebration and jest with poisons unseen.’”

Maryann shook her head.

“I’m not sure I can elaborate much further. I’ve personally never known Mab to have any children, but I suppose it is one of the many facets of her being that remains a mystery. You’ll have to find more on your own, or ask the Land when the time comes.”

Odette leaned closer examining the piece, the carving. Five distinct creatures born of Mab, it rang a very distinct bell making the hair on her arms rise in a instinctive chill. “I would like to take pictures to tag along with my notes. This is very interesting for reasons outside of our current focus on Mab. I would love to study this carving in depth.” Odette said raising her phone up taking several pictures in portrait and landscape, flash off of course. Bach illuminated a soft light giving Odette crisp, highly detailed pictures.

She flicked through them, a knowing curl to her lips. She typed away her notes. This may prove to be an actual one up in information, uncommon knowledge. Maryann hadn’t an idea. Marie however, only needed a hint. “Isn’t that right White Witch? When we have a moment we could study this, together.”

”Sure . . .” Marie replied, her mind trailing off, conjuring up a memory, a recent conversation. At first she hadn’t caught on to Odette’s fascination with the carvings, believing them to be scholarly, something useful in finding Mab. That wasn’t far from the truth. There was a twinge of something there, a subtle shift in her tone, inflection that felt out of place without reason. But not a moment later, Marie knew.

”Right,” she responded a second time with more enthusiasm. ”It should lend itself to an unrelated endeavor. Thank you, Maryann.”

Maryann nodded, tidying up the small room while speaking.

“Is there anything else? Midnight is nearly upon us. If you’ve any other questions, be swift.”

“I believe my questions have been sufficiently answered with the resources at hand. We have context now.” the sorceress said, differing to Marie once again. “Yourself?”

Marie shook her head.

”We have everything we need for now. It should be enough to ask the Land for greater insight.”

“Well if that’s it,” Maryann replied, “I’ll show you girls to Gallows Hill. I imagine everything will be in place by now.”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Kind Words for Kind Friends

Morning, 23rd of Last Seed, 4E08
_{@Dervish & @DearTrickster}

---

Anvil had done very well by its citizens and visitors, easing peaceful night sleeps with the security of the Legion, offering comfort in more ways than Judena was aware of. Taking what she could haggle, spare gold she was holding onto since their departure of Jerell Mountains, Jude had replaced her mage robes. She bought a warm bed and a few meals she had no help in cooking, restocking her fresh fruit and fishing for fresh meat - drying and preserving what she could.

Even having enough time to scrub away the road, treating herself to floral oils. Her scales shined unlike they have had for a handful of weeks. Refreshed of mind and body, Judena left the inn behind to go for a morning walk down to the markets. While some of the merchants gave her a glare or ignored her inquiries it only took a brief reading reminder as to why they were as cold as they were. Much to Judena’s dismay.

Over the crowds she spotted a vaguely familiar Khajiit head perusing the stalls as well. She turned her head and Judena saw a stick poking out of her mouth, recognizing her immediately. She waved enthusiastically at Daro’Vasora.

“Daro’Vasora!” She said moving her way forward, gently excusing herself past other shoppers.

An ear pivoted in the direction of the voice, followed by the turning of a head. Despite herself, Daro’Vasora smiled, setting down a bracelet she had been looking at on the same velvet pad that the vendor had presented it on. “Judena, glad to see you’re well. You’re looking quite youthful this morning.” She gestured to the Argonian’s attire. “The outfit suits you.”

Smiling as well Judena replied, “You are too kind, my friend. I feel refreshed as if I have found a center. A small sliver of stability has profoundly positive effects for me.”

“Speaking of which. How has Anvil treated you? It has been a little while since we have had a chance to speak.” She paused, adding, “According to my logs, of course.”

“I have reported my findings and submitted my reference guide for Dwemeri artifacts to the Legionnaires. It has… been difficult to come to terms with simply stepping back.” She admitted.

“It’s been a couple days since we last spoke,” Daro’Vasora confirmed with a nod. “I always enjoyed the city; I cleaned the grime of the road away, purchased a new outfit to replace those tattered rags I was in before, even had a friendly chat with Gregor and Latro. Have you spoken to any of the others?” The Khajiit asked, giving Judena ample time to check her notes. She knew her friend’s condition well, and as such knew the system that she used to give herself the most normal life she could. Daro’Vasora wasn’t overly patient with many people, but she respected and appreciated Judena, and the slower pace of their interactions often gave her time to reflect. It was an appreciated change of pace some days.

“Mm…” Judena did just that - referring to the past few days, she hummed in thought while she read. “Yes, I have spoken with Jaraleet - my protective fellow Argonian and helped appraise a sword for the…” She flipped the page, “Nanine, the young breton woman, fascinating family history. We have-” She gestured vaguely searching for the right word to describe them generally.

The patience Daro’Vasora showed Judena was not lost on the Argonian. She wholly appreciated it, every little bit of understanding Judena received from others was more than she could ever hope knowing how her mind carried a burden for those around her. Especially those who choose to do more than tolerate.

Dodging a shopper’s basket. A glare followed by the shopper. “If you do not mind, my young friend could we possibly move away from the market?”

She leaned down to whisper, “I- erm… Caused a bit of a scene here the other day and some of the merchants here do not appreciate my presence.”

That prompted a surprised blink. “You’ve never been one for mischief.” Daro’Vasora replied quickly, looking for a quick way out of market stalls and somewhere quieter. “Might I ask what you did?” she asked, placing a gentle hand on Judena’s shoulder and helping guide her through the route she had mentally picked out.

Judena winced with embarrassment, allowing Daro’Vasora’s guidance. “Oof. I humiliated myself by getting into a very heated argument with a merchant, he was attempting to sell very fake dwemer pieces recovered from the Imperial City. I saw through it immediately, naturally. It turned into a spectacle that I had to walk away from, defeated.”

Jude sighed patting her chest, “I blame my sour mood and temper getting the better of me. The stress of travelling from one disaster to the next had finally taken a toll on me.”

“If people want momentos for other people’s suffering, let them be swindled.” The Khajiit replied, deciding that they were out of the scornful gaze of the merchants that weren’t overly fond of Judena. “Passions can run high, I understand, truly. We’ve been through a lot, and it’s not like those idiots will matter to us in a few days from now. Besides, the way things are going, very real pieces will be hitting the market in overwhelming supply in a few months. How do you think people are going to react when they find out they spent a month’s worth of savings on knock off crap they didn’t verify?” Daro’Vasora reasoned, offering a wink. “Way I see it, if you’re buying priceless artifacts from a street vendor, you don’t deserve the coin you’re spending.”

“That is very solid reasoning and it lightens the embarrassment two fold. Thank you, Daro’Vasora. They should not concern me as they have had.” Judena said warmly, perspective shifting once again. “You always know just what to say.”

They walked on, comfortably enjoying the other’s company. “I have something I wanted to discuss truthfully, and I understand the nature of our friendship has never been one to pry into our respective lives or pasts.” Judena began, “You and I share that common thread of keeping attention away from our hurts.”

She paused thoughtfully, “If I am wrong you are free to say so, my friend. I would never want to jeopardize our friendship.”

It was one way to look at it, the Khajiit supposed. “It’s more you don’t have pain if you move away from what hurts you. What’s this about?” she asked, not sure if she liked where this was going.

Digging into her shirt she pulled free the wedding band she wore as a necklace, it was silver with a topaz gem. She held it up for Daro’Vasora to see, “In light of running from one disaster to the next it has put some old hurts into perspective. Caring about those who are not here.”

“I am... Confused. I have been travelling with decades worth of letters written by my ex wife. I have not read a single one and never considered to read them until now. If we wake up tomorrow to our final day, I would die wondering what my ex-wife had to say.” Judena said with a small amount of wonder. “Would it be apologies? Anger? Hurt? Celebrating her new life with someone else? I have…” She said hesitated patting her chest where her logbook was. “Spent many sleepless nights wondering those very things.”

“I want… I want to know but I also do not. Does that make any sense?” She clenched the ring in her fist holding it close. “I carry with me a heavy weight.”

Daro’Vasora stepped closer to Judena, reaching out to put her hands over Judena’s, feeling the leathery scales beneath her own. Such different bodies on the outside, but very relatable fears and guilt on the inside. “If you never know, you control the narrative that suits how you wish to feel. If you wish to have courage, she left you kind words. If you wish to feel validated in your separation, they’re cruel. But as soon as you open the letters, you secede control. But you said it yourself; you may be at the end of the path, and you wish to know before your run out of time. You need closure, now more than ever. Pain fades, but even with your affliction, you need to reach an end.”

Judena closed her eyes, “I-” She nodded furiously. She wanted to close it. Shed it away like an old skin. It was old, it was tired, it was painful. “Daro’Vasora - thank you. I knew my ex wife before -” she tapped her head. “Before this, with many other memories she remains there sharp and clear. It is a terrible tear to remember and to not. Split down the middle. It feels like being trapped in a pocket of time.”

She nodded furiously again, “I hope, I truly hope the letters will release that - that...” She searched for the word. “Tangled line, the knot.” She gestured at her chest.

Daro’Vasora’s heart broke listening to Judena’s moment of vulnerability; she rarely considered the everlasting toll her memory must have extracted, and Judena’s perpetual kind and endearing nature were for others’ benefit. She was strong and selfless, and the Khajiit felt a pang of remorse for her own behaviour in contrast to Judena. Still, she pulled the older woman in an embrace. “You aren’t alone, and I’m not going to leave you without a friend. Do you want me there when you open them?” she asked quietly.

“You would do that for me?” Replied, quiet as well, she returned the hug. “I would not know how to repay you for such a thing, my friend.” She held Daro’Vasora for a few moments before disengaging holding her out at arms length. “Anvil is not our little group’s final resting place but perhaps in the down time while we are on the road I will ask for your company while I read them. It gives me soaring comfort knowing I will not be alone.”

“Comfort is coming from such strange places as of late, even Durantel back in Skingrad offered his own... version of support. I find myself rereading that day in an effort to understand the dreary Altmer.” Noting the look of confusion in Daro’Vasora’s expression, Judena clarified. “Durantel offered to help Meg and I in gathering food and we had a very strange but respectful conversation.”

She chuckled lightly, “With further hindsight, simply calling it strange is quite the understatement.”

The tale was dubious, to say the least. Judena was no fool, but she also seemed to give everyone the benefit of the doubt when none was merited. Durantel was about as trustworthy as a deal with Sheogorath and with none of the charm. He didn’t just “help” people, that was for damn sure.

“Look, it’s nothing, Judena. You’d have offered to do the same for me long ago if our positions were reversed… but Durantel doesn’t just offer to help people, especially when he’s a racial purist. What did he say?” Daro’Vasora asked.

She held up a talon, flipping knowingly back to Skingrad. “Well, I am glad I mentioned this to you because it is puzzling. Durantel especially is very difficult to read.”

“We began to speak of religion, as you know quite well I am a staunch believer in the Hist. I was surprised he brought it up at all, possibly to help time pass while I fished. He volunteered to be my spotter while Meg - as we agreed - was quick of foot to continue searching for food while I waded into the spring.” She read from the page, finger following the lines of her neat and clean handwriting. “He kept referring to me as ‘Scaled-One’ which I suppose was not nearly as offensive to what he would be far more inclined to use.” Judena shrugged. “I mentioned my ex wife and he asked if I missed her.”

She hummed at her previous decision at opening up about it to Durantel. “I said I missed the memory of her. He told me he missed someone dearly whom he assumed she thought he was dead.”

“The conversation crept into stranger territory he asked how much my affliction weighed on me. He inferred that I did not want to live anymore with it. Suggesting that… An afterlife would be free of it. Then asked what my purpose was.” She said, there were notes of how shameful she felt at the time being asked that. “I wrote how ashamed I was to even consider his words. Then answered I would carry on as a river carries us all. He said, ‘I will not endeavor to cause you any further strife.’ Before offering his hand to shake, in which I did.” Judena said, “I am condensing the conversation down quite a bit, my notes observed my feelings and some of my thoughts naturally but the confusion still stands as to why Durantel spoke with me of such things in the first place.”

She shrugged slightly, closing the log. “Your thoughts?”

A chill ran down Daro’Vasora’s spine as she weighed the new information. The entire exchange was morbid and there was a sinister overtone to it, but Judena either seemed at peace with it or oblivious to the subtext of Durantel telling her that death would solve her issues. She didn’t want to upset her friend more than she already was, but she certainly didn’t want the Argonian to be caught alone with the Altmer again. “Don’t spend any more time alone with him, alright? Durantel is dangerous and I’m pretty sure he’s a fanatic, people like him don’t associate with people like us out of the goodness of their hearts.” Daro’Vasora cautioned, feeling quite uneasy. “I don’t think he would hesitate to harm you if he felt he could get away with it.”

Judena stood a little straighter, nodding solemnly at Sora’s warning. “I will, my friend. I will employ my mage armour and remain cautious. He has been avoiding me as of late I would be led to believe he does not want to be alone with me again either.” She patted her chest, pursing her lips. “I am not a warrior but I can defend myself if need be from sword and spell. Not a frail leathery sack quite yet.” Judena joked elbowing Sora gently.

“Even when I do eventually lose my stride you will have to argue tooth and nail to convince me otherwise. Ha!” She laughed feeling the lingering indecision dissipate, realization striking her once again. “Daro’Vasora, you have been kind to listen to me today. The same is offered to you, I would understand if you needed to ease your conscious or unbottle certain things. Some of the best secrets are kept with someone who cannot remember them.” She offered in return, “It would not be the first I have offered as much to others.”

Oh, you know how it is, you have a friendly chat with the ancestors and learn that you don’t know what you’re doing with your life, I’m having an identity crisis, and I have this fantastic ability to hurt people I actually care about while burning bridges between people who mean well so thoroughly that it ensures I can never count on anyone for support. Not a big deal, I always figure things out. Nothing to ruffle your frills over, my Argonian friend. Daro’Vasora thought while shrugging impassively.

“Oh, you know me. Nothing keeps me down for long, moving forward constantly means you don’t look back. I’m fine.” she lied, her impassive face as disinterested as ever. If there was one thing Daro’Vasora was good at that didn’t come out of a book, dodging deadly situations and picking just about every lock ever conceived, it was keeping her emotional state well concealed from the world when she didn’t want to appear vulnerable. Judena was sweet, but she also didn’t need to worry about the problems of a young and troubled women who made it extremely difficult to approach her earnestly. Daro’Vasora was an island, and she certainly didn’t keep the port open for long for others to reach her. She just learned how to deal with the isolation and bitterness that came with it.

You need to do better. Was this not exactly what you were told to change? she thought, finding herself smiling at the Argonian.

The words were caught in her throat, and never leaving.

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Judena shared a thoughtful gaze, she hoped Daro’Vasora would always be faster than her problems. Could she truly outrun them?

“I will be here when you are ready.”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Afternoon, 21st of Last Seed, 4E208
Docks Marketplace, Anvil
_{@Mortarion & @DearTrickster Collab}

---

Jaraleet had been wandering throughout the streets of Anvil when a commotion at what seemed to be a nearby marketplace drew him in. The main reason that the commotion had caught the attention of the assassin had been because he had heard mutters about the Imperial City and its fall at the hands of the Dwemer. Pushing his way past the crowd of onlookers that had gathered, Jaraleet was surprised to find that Judena Callisar was at the center of the heated discussion. Without so much as a word, the Haj-Eix made his way towards where the elder Argonian was and placed a hand on one of her shoulder.

“What’s the matter Judena?” He asked after a split second, turning his face to look at the man in front of his companion. “I heard some mutterings about the Imperial City and the raid amongst the crowd that gathered so I came to check what was going on, but I didn’t imagine you’d be at the center.”

Judena’s argument with Brant had escalated, more yelling more insults thrown around. Her focus was on him still, the fake dwemer remains of a mace being tugged back and forth between them. She hardly paid Jaraleet’s arrival much attention.

“Horrible! You should feel horrible for tricking people!” She shouted at Brant, she pulled harder on the mace.

Brant snarled, “Fine! Then you can have the piece of junk! Get out of my sight you swamp heathen!” He abruptly let it go watching Judena stumble backwards directly into Jaraleet. He caught and balanced her.

She threw the mace to the ground, “Call me swamp anything again, sir, and I will-”

Jaraleet had watched as the argument between Judena and Brant, his words to the elder Argonian seemingly unheard by the latter as her focus seemed entirely turned towards her discussion with the merchant. As the argument continued to grow in intensity, Jaraleet’s anger began to grow in tandem with Jude’s own temper and the hands of the Haj-Eix quietly hovered towards the pommel of his sword.

However, when Judena stumbled backwards any thought of his weapons were gone as Jaraleet reacted instinctively and catched the other Saxhleel before she could fall to the ground. He held Judena until he was sure that she wouldn’t fall and then let go of her, his eyes turning to the merchant. “I’d recommend that you apologize to her.” The assassin said in a low, cold, tone of voice to the Imperial man in front of him, taking a step away from Judena and towards Brant. “And in case you thought anything else, that’s not really a suggestion…”

Brant crossed his arms and sniffed, “No.” Conveying a deeply troubling amount of condescension in a singular word. Had Judena not been as angry as she was, it’s a quirk she would have admired. It was an impressive feat.

However, taking the extra beat to acknowledge Jaraleet. Her fellow argonian travelling companion was taking this far more seriously than she expected. He was a proud and far more traditionally minded argonian warrior than Judena ever considered herself, warrior or not. They had spent time a little time relishing the chance to converse in Jel. She spoke Jel to him now, “He is selling fake dwemer pieces he claims he salvaged from the Imperial City! It’s absolutely horrendous, I hate how he’s muddied the market and when everyone is in certain need to understand the dwemer now more than ever. This garbage is slowing down genuine examination of our foes!” She threw a hand at Brant who scowled, Jude’s ‘beard’ had begun to deflate some, speaking with Jaraleet.

“Speak the common tongue you beast!”

Her ‘beard’ expanded again, darkening as she grew angry once more, she hissed in Brant’s face. “Quiet! I am not leaving until you pack up your shop and leave!”

“You and the other lizard are going to make me do nothing!”

“I am sure the guards would love to hear of your extortion!” She declared. The crowd of shoppers rumbled in agreement. The merchants scoffed.

Jaraleet nodded in response to what Jude had said to him in Jel before turning to look at Brant once again. “I wouldn’t call us beasts again, unless you want to see me truly angry merchant.” The Haj-Eix said, his tone venomous, as he took yet another step towards the merchant.

He fell silent as Jude began talking to the merchant once again, but let out a smirk when his fellow Argonian mentioned the guards. “Oh yes, I’m quite certain that the guards would be happy to hear all about where you got these.” The assassin said, gesturing towards the stand where Brant was peddling his Dwemer ‘artifacts’. “Think about it, what do you think will happen if the guards hear about this? They’ll either want to hear where, and how, you got all of your so-called artifacts. After all, I think the guards, and indeed the Imperial Legions themselves, would love to be able to get their hands on dwemeri artifacts.” He continued on, taking yet another step towards the merchant.

“And what do you think will happen once they learn that you are just a two-bit charlatan peddling junk, huh? Give you a pat in the back and let you go after a night in the prison cells? Now that the Empire is at war with the Dwemer?” The assassin asked again, crossing his arms and glaring at Brant. “Tell me merchant, what do you think will happen?”

“They won’t believe your word over mine, lizard. I’ve been selling in these markets for years, like they’ll believe some filthy refugees over good ole Brant. I dare you.” He pointed to the guards. “I’ll do you one better for making these threats, I’ll call them over myself and get the pair of you hauled right out the front gates!”

The crowd around them quieted even the shoppers looked nervous, some dispersing at the first hearsay of guards being brought in. The merchants around Brant patted him on the back. Judena deflated a bit at that.

Brant smugly aware of how the mood shifted so easily.

“It is wrong.” She said, patting Jaraleet a silent signal to take a step back. Her ‘beard’ deflated further - as upset as she was. “If you are willing to get us kicked out of the city instead of seeing reason then… this will be where this ends.” Rolling over the words a small measure of bitterness.

“Word of mouth, regardless of reputation will see to the end of your terrible business.” She warned solemnly. “Mark my words.” Judena no longer saw logic in escalating further at risk of getting booted out of the city over something of this nature. While the Empire aimed to fairly rule and peacefully coexist with other Tamrielic provinces, Argonians often fought a losing battle to be taken seriously in the eyes of the Imperial Legion. Evidence apparent or not.

In Jel she said, “A firm reminder our voices don’t matter outside Argonia, whatever the case may be. I don’t want to gamble.”

Jaraleet did as Jude signaled when she patted his back, falling silent as the elder Argonian spoke. He let out a soft sigh when she said that this would be were their discussion would end. “You are right Jude. There’s no sense in continuing this discussion, hopefully your words will come true and this pig will get his comeuppance eventually.” The Haj-Eix replied in their native tongue, glaring at Brant before he turned back to Judena. “Let's leave this place.” He said softly, switching back to Cyrodiilic, and began walking out of the marketplace, sure that Jude would follow him.

She shot one nasty glare over her shoulder at Brant then left, she trudged behind him. Feeling drained now more than ever. The journey truly had taken it’s toll on her, so rarely did she lose her temper over anything. Would she have gained more had she been reasonable instead of lashing out? Could she have quietly gone to the guards and made her case? Oh, it was such a regrettable choice to make. Nothing came of it.

In Jel she lamented. Her ‘beard’ now flat against her neck. “Oh Jaraleet, I have truly made a fool of myself with that display. I can’t remember what I was thinking, what drove me to pick a fight like that. Please don’t think less of me for such a terrible decision.”

“I can debate with the worst of the closed minded mages and historians but never have I lost my temper like that. Not for a very long time.” She shook her head, “Thank you for supporting my stance, as ridiculous as it was.”

“There’s no need to apologize, nor lament, for what you did Jude.” Jaraleet responded softly in response to the elder Argonian’s words, turning to face her as he spoke. “You did the right thing by calling attention to that….that rat’s attempt at profiting from this crisis. Mark my words, he will eventually pay for his crime, be it at the hands of the populace or at the hands of the drykillers he was so sure would side with him..” The assassin said, shaking his head before letting a soft sigh.

“Why are the humans like this….” The younger Argonian said, shaking his head slightly. “I know not all humans are like this merchant, but I can’t help but bristle at the sight of such behavior. Things like these wouldn’t happen in our home.”

Judena regarded him, rubbing the receding paint between her fingers. It pushed her own thoughts into something more substantial, larger. In a way, Jude - like so many Argonians before her, including Jaraleet - had a difficult time understand what others saw in them as a people, as a species. “Ah, my youthful companion. You are letting your homesickness colour your bias. We might have a voice in Argonia but we aren’t that different from men and mer.” She gently chided. “Which is why the divide is frustrating. We are seen as ‘lesser’ but culture and history shows we have far more in common.”

“I suppose that is the truth, we are more alike to them than they’d like to admit.” Jaraleet replied with a sigh. “And yet, I can’t help but feel that behavior such as that one wouldn’t happen in our homeland. During a crisis such as this one the Hist would have united us against our common foe, as it did during the Oblivion Crisis. I doubt that one of our own would be making a fortune off of the rest of us in a situation like this one, but maybe I’m just being an idealistic fool.” He said, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle at his last remark.

Gently squeezing his shoulder Judena said, trying to comfort, “It’s never foolish to hope for better, to have expectations for better. We as a people will face these challenges well past the time you and I have lived and died. We must deal with these conflicts as the water does. Change and move past these obstacles whether it be a tree or a rock.” She swept a hand past the horizon, mimicking the flow of water. The sunlight reflecting in her golden eyes, warming the dullness of her ruby scales. “We change as is the nature of which we are born, Jaraleet. From the pools at the base of the Hist we are born and destined to return to.”

That thought alone helped ground the likes of Judena, center her perspective in the grander scheme of their situation. They simply had to move. “Unlike so many others, we know where we stand.”

“Please, for me, do not lose that foolish hope. This is only one day of many.” She came to a stop standing in front of Jaraleet, hands on his shoulders, looking him in the eye.

“Your words carry great wisdom Judena, it is easy to forget that we know where we stand while the other races of Tamriel do not.” The assassin said, feeling guilt welling up in his chest as Jude asked him to not lose his foolish hope and his throat tightening with it. “I...I won’t, I promise Jude.” He replied after a few seconds of silence, taking Judena’s hands and giving them a light squeeze so as to reassure her.

Giving him a big gum smile, she felt the sourness of the argument earlier begin to dissipate. She switched knowingly back to Cyrodilic, “If I do not remember then this will.” She patted her shirt where her logbook sat, snug and secure. “It is wisdom that I need to remind myself of. It is easy to believe you are the rock when really we are just apart of the stream.”

Taking a deep breath in through her nose, puffing up her chest, she held it for a few seconds before exhaling.

“Once again, your words carry great wisdom Judena.” Jaraleet said, bowing his head slightly in deference to the older Argonian. “It is all too easy to believe oneself the center of things when we are merely just another part of a great whole.” He continued on, smiling back towards Jude. “Thank you for reminding me of that.” The assassin said.

“Come, let us leave this place, what do you say?” Jaraleet asked, motioning for them to continue walking away from the marketplace.

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

@Liseran ThistleYee alls you gotta do is ask @nitemare shape

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

@Tenma Tendo Love the power idea! Very unique and really creative, can’t wait to see what you’ve got cooked up.

@Liseran Thistle we eagarly await your bombastic return and blow the rest of us slowpokes out of the water. <3

Create-A-Hero: A Superhero RPG Season 2- New Horizons (Closed)

Cast

The Witch-Mother’s Charge

Compass Round

_{Part 2}

Time: Evening - 8:00 PM - One Day After Satellite Attacks
Location: Salem, Massachusetts.

The spooky tourist destination was alive with its nightlife. Guided tours, bar crawls, street vendors out, the energy was infectious. Magical or lively otherwise. A muggy sea breeze rolled off the bay after a rather hot day. The pavement was still hot to the touch.

In the receding shadows of a church, briefly bright light casted shadows up the brick wall. Across the street, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s statue stood proudly, posed thoughtfully staring into the distance. When Marie and Holt crossed through the portal, Odette quickly shut the door, the portal disappearing. They looked around checking for witnesses, but something fell over the pair of them.

Odette felt a tingling in the tips of her toes, sharing the odd look with Marie confirming she felt something strange as well.

“Do you-!” A force beneath their feet sprung up, easily shooting them up into the air soaring past birds in flight. Their shrieks of surprise followed them through the air, having no control - flailing. Force and momentum sending them head over heels. They arced over the city covering significant distance, crossing the town border before making a relatively soft landing with magical assistance. They tumbled to a stop, Odette rolled to her back staring up. Covered in grass stains.

“It seems to me they have a sense of humour.”She said drily. Sitting up she brushed her sleeves free of grass clippings. Frowning at the green marks on her elbows and shoulders.

”What the hell was that?” Marie exclaimed, dusting off her robe and sheer gown, noticing a slight tear in the fabric caused by their abrupt removal. The dress wasn’t hers, but she felt poorly at having ripped Odette’s clothing, even if it wasn’t explicitly her fault.

”Holt?” Marie turned to find her familiar collecting her bags from the dust, wispy black tendrils closing around the collection of duffels, pulling them in and arranging them on the back of his saddle. A strange sight, Marie thought, for a horse to do something so unnatural; one that would certainly unsettle any unfortunate onlookers.

”I might have known,’ Holt responded dryly, trotting up to Marie and helping her steady herself. ”I should have warned you, my lady. The witches of New England are rather territorial. Their roots run deep, especially those who lay claim to Salem. I should have expected protective measures to be in place.”

Marie rubbed her hand gently across his muzzle before moving closer to the street leading into the city. Staying just out of sight, she tried moving forward only to find a force barring her entry.

”That’s one hell of a ward . . .” Marie commented, looking for the tell-tale signs of witchery or cunning craft. Sure enough, overhead Marie noticed wooden and iron talismans dangling from far reaching branches. In the dirt, obscured by brush and fallen leaves, she found pieces of magical squares and palindrome formulae, along with what she assumed were names of spirits written in a script she couldn’t make out.

Bach offered a hand to help Odette stand. She took it gratefully. While Marie found witchy wards in the trees and the ground, Odette saw mounds of earth with the tell tale sign of fae in neat little circles of mushrooms. Fairy Rings.

“Not without help from Good Neighbours.”She commented approaching one of the nearby fairy rings, a tiny adorable sign in blocky text read

MIND THE MUSHROOMS

A crude little happy face was below the words.

Bach whispered, “Sidhe. They do make for fantastic gatekeepers.”

Odette turned to Marie, “One moment, I’ll speak to Salem’s Good Neighbours. See if they can let us in.”

Odette crouched down, clearing her throat. Speaking in Common Fey, “Good folk of the Mound, if one has interest in speaking with me I can offer generous amounts of bone meal for your time.”

There was silence, Odette waited patiently.

Slowly, the soil shifted, the white capped mushrooms were sucked back into the ground - one at a time. Silence stretched then a pair of eyes gazed up from within the mound, regarding Odette with scrutiny.

“Hello, my name is The Ambassador of the Fair Folk.”

They closed.

The soil shifted more as a head pushed up from the Earth, a bark wooden hand shot out pushing on the solid ground, then another hand. Shoulders, a torso, and finally legs stepping out of the soil. Standing fully in a long wispy sheer dress a woman with fiery red curly hair idly brushed dirt from her arm. She offered Odette a hand to help stand. She took it, coming to her feet, a few inches shorter than the Sidhe. Her hands were maple wood.

“Ambassador of the Fair Folk, Bach of the Yew.” She said in common fey, Bach bowed his head in acknowledgment. Maple Sidhe a cousin to his Yew clan. “If I heard right, you attempted to gain entrance to Salem without permission.”

“That’s correct. We mean no ill intentions.”

She stared at Odette with pitch eyes - no visible white could be seen. “What of your friend?” She turned her heavy gaze onto Marie.

Marie could make out more of their conversation than she would originally have believed possible. Perhaps her proficiency in Faerie languages was returning along with her other memories? Regardless, Marie knew she was being talked about and would need to answer for herself.

Without asking for confirmation from Holt, Marie removed the pouch of tokens from her bags atop Holt’s saddle, presenting it the Maple Sidhe as a sort of badge of office, ensuring that the labyrinthian wheel on the front was visible.

”I am The White Witch of Maine,” Marie introduced herself in English, knowing the Sidhe could understand her even if she weren’t inclined to respond in the same tongue. ”sent by Genevieve Lachance of the Lachance coven on behalf of the Regent of Las Vegas, Lydia Velis, and other witching lines. I come in response to recent attacks by the Hounds of Humanity, bearing tokens of the Regent’s design to the four recognized covens of Salem.”

The fey loved politeness and tradition, especially those hailing from Europe and the Isles. Marie felt a little silly, giving in to the formality of her introduction, but she knew it would be well received.

Holt simply bowed his head, not feeling the need to announce himself.

The Sidhe said, switching to English as well. “I recognize those names, White Witch of Maine. If you are here for business allow me a moment to deliberate your access to Salem.”

She bowed her head disappearing back into the mound of Earth.

“I didn’t know you could understand common fey. ” Odette said. “She is probably bringing a message to the other witch covens.”

”I was vaguely familiar with it and other fey dialects, but I guess Gwyneth knew them fluently.” Marie replied, putting away the pouch and pulling out the small journal given to her by Genevieve. She flipped to the pages detailing the four covens of Salem. Just as in El Paso, their summaries did little to inform Marie of anything beyond their numbers and locations. Luckily, she was familiar enough with Salem’s unwritten history to make a few inferences.

Marie recalled questions she’d posed to Puck regarding Salem, as well as the witness accounts she’d read, those that weren’t submitted in trial, and those from witches unaffiliated with the trails altogether. According to her sources, the trials in Salem were politically motivated, as evidenced by their abrupt end after the accusation of the governor’s wife. However, though only two real witches were executed in Salem, Mary Eastey and Bridget Bishop, there were dozens who went unknown to the judges and townsfolk of Salem Village.

”Maryann Douglas,” Marie read aloud from the journal, ”heir to Mary Eastey, head of the Essex Wyrd in Salem; Jordan Merritt, head of the Pewter Wyrd; Alexander Gavil, head of the White Willow Wyrd; and Victoria South, head of the Gallow Wyrd.” she looked up at Odette.

”These witches are members of some of the oldest living traditions in the states,” Marie remarked with awe. ”The coven in Andover is the oldest. If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was also the first to form in the colonies.”

Marie looked to Holt for confirmation, who nodded in agreement.

“What does that tell us? They are likely to be very proud, they may be rightfully upset at our intrusion.” Odette said thinking out loud, she squinted at Salem beyond its city limits. “We will have to see the verdict when the Sidhe returns.”

The Sidhe returned after twenty minutes, Odette checked her phone -twenty-one minutes had passed since she left. The Sidhe appeared from her mound as she did before. She pointed at long barked hand at Marie.

“You have permission to enter Salem, your business reasons were verified. However. . .”

Odette raised an eyebrow at the pause then realized why.

“The Ambassador of the Fair Folk is not permitted to enter without a toll. You infamously carry chaos with you wherever you roam - especially with your portal sorcery, the witches do not feel comfortable allowing you into Salem without a price. You understand, yes?” She said turning her attention to the sorceress. “Regardless of your connection to the White Witch of Maine you are not permitted to follow her.”

Odette pursed her lips, then relaxed. “What is your price?”

The Sidhe levelled her heavy gaze upon her once again.

“It is safe of me to presume the witches left that decision to you? Name your price, I will pay.” Odette offered, boldly. “You know I am good for it.” They could haggle, but really a toll to get into a city would not be much to expect.

The Sidhe paused then gave the Ambassador a wicked grin. “I am pleased you asked, Ambassador.” Rough bark-like hands caressed Odette’s cheeks. She never broke eye contact.

“Name it.” Odette’s gaze held then shifted to Marie’s. There was always give and take in dealings with the Fey. Hoping she understood what she could learn from seeing this first hand.

Take note, Marie. She thought. Her eyes glided back to the Sidhe.

Her voice lowered, her touch became gentle the bark softened as leaves grew from her palms. “A kiss, I want to draw on a memory. Word travels fast, a unique individual such as yourself is bound to have a satisfying memory to share with me. Close your eyes, think of a lost love while we kiss and I will be able to see it.” She explained. “It will, humbly, be my secret and mine alone to keep.” She tilted Odette’s face up.

See all that I give to faerie, Marie. It has never been simple. She thought closing her eyes.

“A kiss and a memory to pay for my toll into Salem. It’s a deal.”

The Sidhe nodded solemnly, leaning in she pressed her lips to Odette. Odette thought of a lost love, a woman’s face fleeting across her mind’s eye - spots of paint on her chin, hair tied up in a messy bun. The fiery hair of the Sidhe reminded her of the dark auburn. Her stomach twisted into a knot, remembering how cold and angry she had been the last time she saw her. She held the Sidhe’s hands, fingers curling over the bark. The moment stretched then ended abruptly with a bite and flinch. The Sidhe drew blood from Odette’s lip then let her go. The Ambassador took several steps away patting her lip seeing the blood on her fingertips.

Marie watched with no shortage of fascination. She had experience with the fey, yes, but only in passing. She’d witnessed plenty of deals with Faerie, or their aftermath, but to see such a strange ritual unfold before her . . . there was something familiar in it. A kiss to seal a deal, well documented in lore and replicated in many a magical transaction, including in the exchanging of vows and initiatory rites of several witching traditions. It was both a horror and an honor.

Satisfied, the Sidhe drew out a long sigh, “Very good Ambassador. The toll has been paid, allow me to be your guide to Salem.”

---

Location: Cotting-Smith Assembly House – Salem, MA
Time: 9:00 p.m.

---

Marie and Odette, led by the invisible Maple Sidhe, climbed up the steps of the Assembly House, a well maintained federal style building, and one of many historic sites in Salem. Generally, the House served as a tourist spot for those looking to delve into the city’s non-witch related history. As a communal place for balls and feasts, the hall could be rented for entertainment purposes; though it was most often home to church groups and religious conventions. Perhaps unbeknownst to Salem’s denizens, it was also the center of the witches’ gatherings.

Inside, the pair were greeted by high walls filled with paintings of the city and its founders, along with general patriotic memorabilia and obligatory scenes form the witch trials. Its rooms were divided among several floors, all but the main assembly room, or ballroom in some instances, were littered with busts and displays set out for tourists. All of Salem’s old buildings had been turned into museums.

The assembly hall, however, was far less busy. As Marie and Odette wandered in, they found all monuments to the past covered by large banners, four in total, bearing esoteric symbols representative of the four reigning covens. Atop a slightly elevated platform sat four menacing figures, their presence imposing not because of their physical appearance, but because they were perhaps the most important men and women in Salem, and without question the most powerful.

Maryann Douglas stood from her high-backed chair, turning her gaze to her surprise guests. She was a tall woman dressed in an expensive suit, her dark hair draped over her left shoulder, the thick, raven curls contrasting with the white of her attire. Her face was gaunt, cheekbones high, lips full and tinted crimson red. Marie thought she could see the subtle signs of age on her face, lines on the forehead, wrinkles by the eyes, but none were visible. Maryann carried herself as a wise woman, someone well learned and aged, yet her outer appearance was eerily youthful.

“Welcome,” she greeted the duo, her voice low and melodic.

The Maple Sidhe gave Maryann a slight bow before disappearing, returning to her post outside the city.

“So,” Maryann continued, “our saviors have come at last, have they?”

The assembled witches laughed in unison, not mockingly, in fact their intent was unclear. Perhaps jovial?

“Maryann Douglas,” she gestured to herself, “but I’m guessing Lydia already gave you our names?”

She caught a glimpse of the pouch at Marie’s side, waving her forward with its contents.

Marie could feel the weight of Maryann’s words, as if everything that escaped her lips was dripping with witchcraft, bathed in magic. She’d never put much stock in auras, but there was an unmistakable field of power around this woman that sent shivers down her spine, like a static field that enveloped the four of them.

”Tokens,” Marie said sheepishly as she retrieved four bewitched coins from the pouch. She cleared her throat before speaking again, finding her voice in the silence.

”Tokens from Lydia Velis, pieces of a blessed vessel. They’ll provide protection from your enemies, or so I’ve been told.”

Maryann gingerly plucked the relics from Marie’s timid hand, briefly running a finger over her palm before turning and passing the tokens to her allies.

“Interesting,” she mumbled to herself.

“We do not pretend to understand what form Madame Velis’ protection will take, delivering the tokens was the favour White Witch took upon herself.” The Ambassador spoke, “We truly hope Salem has been spared from the Hounds of Humanity’s sorid violence. We have seen a fair share of blood spilled in the streets of Las Vegas.” A good first impression was The Ambassador’s goal of showing solidarity.

“Our Good Neighbours have had a large red target painted on their backs, as well. There have been major plays being made quietly.” She said, speaking comfortably from each witch to the next. “Fortunately, the metahumans of Lost Haven have struck a rather devastating blow against them as of yesterday.”Her gaze settled on Maryann, admiring her appearance.

She was completely correct in her first assumption of the Salem witches. While Marie felt an aura of power, Odette saw their pride. Old, traditional - pride. Odette found herself admiring that as well. They rightly earned to hold themselves in high regard and did well to show for it.

“How very poised and polite,” a man on the platform spoke up. He was a few heads shorter than Maryann, more pale, with a fiery red beard and messy red hair swept all to one side. He too held Maryann’s look of invigoration. “The Ambassador of the Fair Folk, I take it? I’m Alexander Gavil. The Sidhe and their kin speak of your exploits elsewhere in the states. You’ve done well for yourself, so I hear.”

“And The White Witch of Maine,” the other woman on the platform added. She was darkly complected, stouter than Maryann and a little shorter, dressed in fine silks and hair arranged in thick braids that fell elegantly over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were almost completely white, making her the most visually stunning of the lot.

“Or is it Chinatown more specifically? Seen you on the news couple months back. Touched by the Witch-Father’s hand, I can feel it. Victoria South,” she introduced herself, nodding to Marie, “it’s a pleasure.”

“Seems our dear Regent has the gift of foresight,” the final witch spoke up, a man visually older than his companions, with short, greying hair and more chiseled features, weather worn, yet still vibrant and youthful despite the signs of age. “How fortuitous. I’m Jordan Merritt.”

“And now that we’re all acquainted,” Maryann interrupted, turning to Odette, “Salem’s been marked by the Hounds before, but trust me dear, the enemy we face, the one these trinkets help protect against, is much older. But right now, they’re the least of our concerns.”

That caught Odette’s attention and curiosity. What were they hinting at?

Maryann turned to speak with the assembled witches, their hushed tones filling the ballroom for several minutes before silence set back in. Returning attention to Marie and Odette, Maryann motioned for the two to join her on the platform, having two seats brought up by workers they’d only now realized were stationed in the corners of the room. The seats were arranged in a circle with a large table at its center, atop which were tea cups, mugs of coffee, a pitcher of water, two bottles of wine and three of champagne, baked treats, finger foods, and fresh fruit, to name a few.

“Help yourselves to anything on the table,” Maryann graciously offered while taking her seat.

Marie took her place, seated next to Victoria, who poured a glass of wine and offered it to Marie. The lifestyle these witches led, Marie noted, was a far cry from that of the witches in El Paso, more akin to those of the London witches from her memories. It was both comforting and unnerving to Marie, perhaps because such hospitality was always preceded by tragedy, at least in her experience.

Odette supposed they were destined for appetizers for the evening, she did just that taking a share of fruit with a glass of red wine. Tucking some slices of fresh bread alongside some cheese. Waiting for the hosts to take the first bite, she sat in her chair. The little snacks and meals would not count well if she needed to complete heavy spell casting later but it was certainly better than operating on an empty stomach. Bach stood behind her, fully aware that he could not skulk around at his leisure. His eyes were focusing elsewhere.

“Thank you. It is curious that the Hounds of Humanity are not on your list of priorities.”

“What is taking precedence?” She asked, “Especially to involve the pair of us, happening to pass by at an opportune time?” Puzzling out why they weren’t simply sent on their way after giving the tokens. Pleasantries aside.

“Coincidences don’t exist in our world.”

Maryann smiled, taking a sip of wine before leaning forward on the table and clasping her hands together, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers.

“They have been a bit of an inconvenience, truth be told. Set in motion something dangerous that our gifted Regent has apparently picked up on. But before I unleash all our woes onto you girls, how much do the two of you know about Salem’s history, its true history? The reason why there are witches here in such abundance. Care to guess?”

Marie was honestly stumped. She often wondered, in the early days of her tenure at The Red Devil, why witches in the colonies mobilized at such a turbulent time in history, why they migrated from Andover to Salem instead of heading further inland to a yet uncolonized portion of the country. She had plenty of guesses, none of which she cared to voice. The most likely reason, in Marie’s mind, was the aftermath of the trials, how the public, years later, became so ensorcelled by the mystery and intrigue of Salem’s sordid history.

Odette thought while she chewed through some cheese and bread. Did someone important in their inner circle die? Was a sacred space desecrated by the Hounds? Why did witch families decidedly stay in a town after the locals put them to trial generations ago? There must be something more important tying them to the land. Truthfully, Odette knew little about Salem and its witches; she erred away from such places. Witches were an entity she rarely tangled with, her time with Marie being the first.

She sipped the wine washing down the cheese, “Personally, I know very little. What I can infer is that someone very important was killed by the Hounds or they tainted some sacred grounds? They have made a habit of salting the Earth wherever they show up.”

Maryann nodded.

“Christian May, dubbed the Official Warlock of Salem. Though not technically one of ours, he was well respected within our communities, a member of an Inner Court tradition of British Traditional Witchcraft, or Wicca, as most know it. He was our . . . public relations affiliate. He owned two shops in town, one that catered to tourists and general practitioners, and another that acted as a safe haven for many of our kind. Christian was well respected by the Land, and his untimely death, while tragic, is overshadowed by a need within our collective covens to renew a pact made centuries ago.”

Maryann could see the confusion on Odette and Marie’s faces. There were holes missing in this story, pieces of the puzzle that had yet to fall into place.

“Our ancestors, not those whose magic we covet, but those whose blood we trace in our own, arrived in this country with a simple goal in mind: to live freely, separate from the confinements and corruption of the Old World, hungry for the boundless riches of the New. The spirits who followed, the witches who carried and communed with the unseen world, were no different. Long had they been made to toil under the boot of the Catholic world, pushed to the very edges of society where they could thrive, yes, but under constant threat. So they flocked to the New World, hoping to take a place for themselves, a country all their own. They hoped to find their Eden.”

Maryann paused, calling Odette and Marie’s attention to an old map of Massachusetts just visible through the heavy banners that covered the walls. Aside from Salem, marked by a star, the only other city visibly indicated on the map was Andover, a short distance northwest of Salem. It was marked with an “x”.

“Their mission began in Andover,” Maryann continued, her smile never fading as she recounted the tale she must have told a hundred times over, almost as if she’d been alive to witness past events. “There were solitary practitioners scattered throughout the colonies, but the first coven, the first true gathering of witches in the New World began in Andover. They were a cunning bunch, powerful, and in great numbers. Witches almost outnumbered the common folk in Andover. What records we possess tell us that Mab acted as patron to these witches. The Faerie Queene took special interest in their goals. United were they under Her rule, but they were too ambitious, too open in their schemes. When the trials began, cunning craft was turned against their witchery; they were undone.

“For reasons unknown, Mab fled shortly thereafter, perhaps weakened by the town’s efforts to be rid of her influence. Witches in her service, those who survived that is, heard of the arrival of a powerful witch in Salem, hoping to secure a place for themselves further south.”

Mab was in Andover? Would the witches here have a clue of where she was last spotted? Odette’s interest was renewed tenfold, she shared a knowing look with Bach, his face remained neutral but his eyes mirrored her own. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a waste of time.

Marie was also intrigued, having remembered Odette’s brief mention of Mab and Oberon. Apparently, Gwyneth was at least partially acquainted with them during their reign in the late 15th century. Perhaps Mab would also be the key to discovering another of Gwyneth’s lost artifacts, assuming any remnant of her yet remained in New England.

“Having learned from their mistakes in Andover, Maryann continued, “Salem’s witches were more prepared. In fact, they used an inevitable trial to their favor. While there are no records beyond a few obscure sightings omitted by the court, we know that Elizabeth Parris, wife of the reverend Samuel Parris, was the impetus for the trials. She and her husband’s house slave, Tituba, having pledged herself to the Witch-Father at some point prior to her arrival in Salem, bewitched Samuel’s young daughter and niece, bidding them accuse innocents of the crime of witchcraft. With the trial under their control, Elizabeth, Tituba, and their coven could operate in secrecy just beyond the trial’s reach.”

Maryann, Jordan, Alexander, and Victoria put on a wicked smile, marvelling at Elizabeth and Tituba’s stroke of magical genius.

“Unfortunately, two of the coven’s own, Bridget Bishop and Mary Eastey, were hanged as the hex ran its course, but their sacrifice wasn't for naught. Better that two should hang before twenty burn. The trial came to a rather abrupt end the following year, much to Elizabeth and Tituba’s surprise. However, the accusation of the governor’s wife was to their advantage. Folks began to question whether or not Samuel and his friends in the court coaxed the girls into accusing important members of Puritan society, hoping that by the trial’s conclusion, they would hold an elevated station. Witchcraft was no longer a concern, which, ironically, allowed the witches to take control of the city.

“After Elizabeth’s mysterious disappearance and her husband’s departure from Salem, Tituba led the coven as a free woman. In an effort to consolidate power and ensure her hold over the city, she entered into a pact with the Land itself, a feat no foreign witch had yet achieved. Tituba asked for protection from the world of man, that Salem would never again fall to petty squabbles, that she and her followers would hold dominion, that they would possess great powers in exchange for their loyalty and devotion. In exchange, the Land wished only for the power, after a period of time, be returned, a cyclical ebb and flow of magic.

“Tituba agreed, separating the town’s witches into four separate covens, acting as the ambassador to each. She and four prominent members of each coven performed the ritual that would grant them the Land’s blessing. It offered protection from the elements, from foreign invaders, both mundane and magical, and taught them its secrets. As the witches grew stronger, however, the Land grew weak. At the height of the witches’ powers, they had to return it so the Land could renew itself. Years later, we uphold this tradition, and in doing so, have been granted great power and position within Salem. I, for example, have a seat on the city council and act as chairwoman to the city’s preservation society. We have the mayor in our pocket and the governor’s ear, all to ensure that our needs are met.”

Maryann sighed deeply, leaning back, eyes pointed down, burdened.

“We have a responsibility to Salem. The Land conjures lost spirits far more efficiently than we, it stirs old magic that keeps the city afloat. Tituba gave us our throne, provided us the means to have a place all our own in this country. Our pact allows both us and Salem to thrive. And in a moment of weakness, we allowed ourselves to become complacent.”

“In conclusion, Christian May was the key to renewing the pact. Like phases of the moon, your pact with the land cycles through peaks and wanes of power.” She fluttered her hand up and down, “The problem lies in May having no heir or successor to his position to renew the pact or speak on the behalf of the Earth for you?”

She gestured to Marie, “Where does the White Witch and myself fit into this tidy narrative? You wouldn’t go to these lengths to tell your histories to strangers.” Odette paused on that thought, adding - not unkindly, “As interesting as they are, I like a good story as much as the next. We have our own business to carry on with, including delivering the blessed vessels.”

As far as Odette was concerned her interest was firmly on Andover now. Knowing old covens, they obviously had a good deal to offer in return for helping with the pact. Obviously they needed outside help. Business was business, Odette never worked for free. She didn’t expect the witches to assume they would.

“Of course if you can make it worth our time to potentially be of help here. We’re open minded. Something as important as renewing the pact must be handled carefully.”

Maryann chuckled, leaning in, switching her gaze between Odette and Marie.

“Yes, there is a reason why we’ve kept you. Not just any witch can act as the fifth in the renewal of our pact. Christian was truly a pillar of our community. I doubt even he knew the weight his word carried. In being named Salem’s official Warlock, he gained the Land’s respect, earned its favor. May was our mouthpiece, our conduit and negotiator. If we thought any of our coven mates capable, we wouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

Maryann stared square at Marie.

“But you aren’t an ordinary witch, my dear. I felt it when you walked in the room, we all did.”

“Old magic,” Victoria interjected, taking Marie’s hand in hers, “old magic runs through your veins, a kind we rarely see naturally in the states. If you wanted, you could bend the Land’s ear. You share a common past, whether you know it or not. The cunning-flame burns brightly in you.”

“And we would gladly reward you for your time,” Maryann added.

Marie turned to Holt, who, for the entirety of the conversation had been pacing around the room as a black hare, stopping before each banner as if to pay respect or conjure some memory. Now, he looked to Marie, silent and stoic as ever. She could tell he was intrigued by the offer, but as always, his stance advised caution.

She then looked to Odette, who wore a heavier look of intrigue despite herself. Perhaps this was the push they needed to find Gwyneth’s next artifact.

”If I do this,” Marie spoke up, her tone unsteady. ”Won’t I be connected to the Land like the rest of you? Will I need to come back every few years?”

Maryann stood up and walked to Marie’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“No, my dear,” she assured Marie, “you see, the fifth, our conduit, acts as a focal point for our collective power, the one who restores it to the Land. Not only this, they are our ambassador, our mediator, the one who defines the terms of our agreement. Tituba gave this role to herself, and May always had Salem’s best interests at heart. It is a vital position, yes, but it is more symbolic than our roles in the pact. However, if you become involved, the Land will surely reward you. So long as we receive the same benefits we do now, I care not what favor you would ask from us or the Land in return.”

Marie stood up, tapping Odette’s shoulder.

”Can we discuss this a moment?” she addressed Maryann but looked at Odette.

Maryann nodded.

“Of course, come to whatever consensus you must,” she replied, taking her seat and chatting idly with her allies. They all seemed confident that Marie and Odette would agree.

Marie called Odette to a corner of the ballroom, bidding Holt join.

”What do we think?” Marie questioned in a low voice, obviously excited by the prospect of aiding Salem’s finest, but unsure of the most fitting reward.

“I think we stand to gain something significant. Power from the land, knowledge from the witches could reveal Gwyneth’s next item for us. That alone, however seems a small ask.” Thoughts of reward churned in Odette’s mind. Would it be appropriate to gain more clues on Mab’s whereabouts? It would certainly reveal her interest of the former Faerie Queen but not what Odette meant to do with it.

“I want to know more of Queen Mab, no one has seen nor heard of her in centuries. It’s interesting that she personally helped the witches in Andover. I believe information will be our reward.”

“Are you up to the task? This sounds like it will be a rather draining ritual, White Witch.” She spoke quietly as well, seeing faerie out the corner of her eye. They paid attention to the pair.

Marie wasn’t entirely surprised by Odette’s interest in Mab. As Ambassador of the Fair Folk, knowing about current and former Faerie nobility seemed like part of the job, and establishing a connection with a long lost queen would certainly be a powerful display of influence, commanding great respect from any unaffiliated factions of fey. In truth, Marie was curious herself. If she had truly known the former queen, perhaps she could shed light on Gwyneth’s life.

”I’ve pushed myself over the past several days,” Marie responded with determination. ”I can handle whatever’s in store.”

Holt leapt atop Marie’s shoulder, shifting into raven. He wasn’t sure how to take Marie’s new brazen attitude. She was so shy when they first met, so reserved. Powerful as she was, Marie wasn’t one to take up opportunities for fear of being noticed. Now, however, she couldn’t stop, jumping headfirst into dangerous ventures seemingly for the fun of it. She was motivated by her need to remember, sure, but there was a strange joy that filled her eyes, perhaps the joy of rebellious revelry that all witches came to know. Whatever the case, Holt couldn’t help but feel proud, if such a thing were possible.

Odette didn’t quite believe it herself, another good reason why Marie should be working with Odette. The sorceress had power to spare. Unconvinced she replied, “Very well. We need some context before we can tap into the Land’s power through the ritual. We ask Maryann for some details right now as payment in advance. Perhaps Mab is our connection to the next item, Gwyneth’s affiliation with the former Queen and Fey cannot go unexamined. Each item does not simply have passing significance, they all have some deeper meaning to your past life.”

“Maryann is a descendant of Mary, is it by blood or by tradition? If it’s by blood she can tap into her ancestor’s memory by scrying.”The witches here having connection to Andover and their time spent with Queen Mab directly.” She casted a critical eye over the witches. “I safely assume they’re capable of a simple spell like that.”

She continued, “Maryann could provide us with some details of what her ancestor remembers of Queen Mab. Perhaps the Land can illuminate further…” She said trailing off, unsure of what exactly to expect from the ‘Land’ was it the collective spirit of the souls resting here or a branch of world?

“Qui vivra verra.” She shrugged. “We will have to see.”

”I am in total agreement,” Marie replied, happy that the two were able to come to a consensus so quickly. It was nice, Marie thought, being on the same page as someone. With her former group, she was always worried, worried that her goals and ideals would clash with the people she was meant to care for. With the heroes, Marie had to be present, yet scarce so as not to get wrapped up into other feats of heroism. With Odette, Marie knew that, even though their motives weren’t always one and the same, they were working toward a common, mutually beneficial goal; and Odette didn’t care how they arrived.

She and Odette walked back up to the table in the center of the room to find Maryann and the others completely silent, all eyes firmly on Marie, awaiting her response.

“Well then,” Maryann spoke softly, “what have you girls decided?”

Marie turned to Odette before turning back to Maryann, a smile forming on her face.

”I’ll do it. I help you with the ritual. But we’ll need something from you first.”

Maryann grinned wickedly, sporting a fierce smile that could rival Puck’s own.

“Name it and it’s yours.”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Anvil - 21st of Second Seed, Midday

---

Judena realized a few things over the course of their travels to Anvil. Uncertainty reigned everyday and unlike before where it would burn away with the morning sun, it lingered for the entirety of the day. The lack of routine to her days was beginning to wear, the need for certainty growing. Perhaps for the first time in a decade did she feel a tug of homesickness, for Soulrest.

Genuinely she appreciated the company but their quiet suffering was suffocating. Judena’s empathy soaking up the various forms of misery - a little from some and a lot from others. Perhaps - perhaps some time to herself in the new city would clear these cloudy thoughts. The new faces of Rhona, Calen, Gregor, Jaraleet, and Nanine took some time to learn, mixing up their names and their faces often. It was usually easier to learn one or two at a time not five. Jaraleet in particular took an interest in keeping close, learning quickly of Judena’s memory. His acute attention pulled away upon arrival to Anvil.

Judena pulled away from the group, quietly. Not announcing her departure, knowing some on reflex now try to pull her back to the group. That reflex served them well while they travelled but Judena was confident in her abilities to move around in a city on her own. Things were uniform and unchanging.

She got lost nonetheless.

She gave up on trying to track her movements in her notes, stopping every few feet to write notes on a city she was never bound to remember let alone be in again - it seemed a waste of time and paper. If it was important her feet would remember. She wound up several times by the docks, always pulled to the sound of water. Drawn to the sound of the open market, merchants trying to sell their goods to travellers and sailors. She peeled open her satchel, some tradable goods held on from Skingrad, things she could potentially haggle for but she’d have to search beyond the vendors here to sell her finds.

Her clothing suffered various patch work and while dips into water and scrubbing away grease stains helped, she looked undeniably shabby. Her scales dull, flakey skin peeling up in need for a decent molt or her bristly brush left behind at the Arcane University. Her ‘beard’ felt itchy, however the humidity was working a magic of its own for her. Perhaps a midnight swim in the bay would help. The salty waters always felt better for her skin than ponds and rivers.

Daro’Vasora aired one sentiment she agreed with when she yelled at Rhea. It would have been nice to get paid. The young Khajiit always so vocal. Being on the road allowed for so little certainty. Truthfully their brush with the Dominion was terrifying, the Thalmor infamous for cruel torture. Judena knew she would not be spared if they were caught. Rhea was at the end of her rope, she felt the imperial woman’s cloying guilt. It made the elder argonian uncomfortable.

A bright spot of light shined on her eyes making her squint moving out of it. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of a vendor selling what appeared to be various bright coppery gold dwemer pieces, unmistakable to her sharp eyes. A strange place for them to set up shop, she reasoned they hoped to snag some curious travellers. Re-adjusting her bag behind her, she approached the booth. The middle aged imperial man counting septims as he addressed her. Curly brown hair and a full moustache grew on his upper lip, dark green eyes shrewdly going over Judena.

She did a small wave, “Hello, good sir-”

“Brant.” He said, he stuck out his hand. “Interested in taking a closer look at some dwemer pieces. Missus-”

“Callisar.” Judena supplied, “Yes I am! May I see what you have on display?”

Brant smiled, “Of course, Madame Callisar.” The tell tale twinkle of a future sale in his eye. “Authentic pieces scavenged from the Imperial City, gathered at a great cost and peril to my personal safety but here we are! A little piece of the bastards themselves.”

She reached for one piece, looking like a severed piece of a gyro, he scrambled patting her hand. “Please be careful, ma’am. It is very heavy-”

Lifting it far more easily than she expected she straightened with it in her hands. “Worry not, I am an expert. This is quite a bit lighter than I expected but perhaps it is because it is only partially intact.” She used both hands weighing it with more scrutiny. Instincts telling her something wasn’t right.

Brant’s eyes widened at the mention of expert he reached again to pull it out of her hands, “Really I must insist.”

Judena let him have it but as his back turned to carefully replace it she scooped up another bit of plate metal. It was far too light. This time she held it out of his reach. She examined her fingertips, brushed copper paint gathering under her nails. Her eyes narrowed, searching around it for more signs of authenticity.

“Madame, please. You are pawing away it’s value from Imperial City.”

Judena said quietly, “Did you know that a great deal of Dwemer material can be dated by its direct proximity the piece was discovered to the Falmer and how deep it was found? Soil samples, temperature, and marks delivered by Falmer weaponry lend well to telling scholars when exactly it existed and on closer inspection based on the metal work we can discover when it was created.” She peered up underneath the plate, purposefully rubbing her thumb leaving a streak exposing the true metal beneath it - iron. “Details that are the building blocks to a story.”

Brant’s initial excited faded into panic, he pushed up on the tip of his toes to reach for Judena.

“Ah ha!” She said bringing the phoney piece back down and dropping it to the ground. It caught on the merchant’s foot. He howled jumping away holding his foot.

“Absolutely fake!” She declared, going through his stock on display. He scrambled behind her as she scowled at more fake pieces, “This is truly disgraceful, taking money and scamming people for cheaply disguised hunks of metal.” She pushed through the display knocking more to the ground with klangs! “What if a Legionnaire happened by your booth and bought any of your so-called pieces to examine? What good would that do? Hmm?”

Brant angrily snapped, “It’s none of your business you nosy lizard! Now leave before I call the guards to haul you back to the swamp you crawled out of!” He grasped at broken mace in Jude’s hands, using his bit of strength to tug it from her.

She held strong, “It is wrong! You are capitalizing on a tragedy for easy coin! I will not stand by and let this go!”

Other merchants were looking on out of curiosity. They argued on, Brant demanding Judena to leave. Jude insisting to pay the coin back out to his previous customers. She didn’t know what had come over her, anger and unease boiling over directly at Brant. Her beard expanded. Their ruckus drawing more attention. Other shoppers wagging a finger and taking Judena’s side while some of the neighboring merchants defended Brant.

“Gods be damned, lizard!”