Hank

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

The Sea Meets the Darkness

_{A Hank and Dervish Collab}

Afternoon, 9th of Midyear, 4E208
Somewhere in Gilane, Hammerfell

It had been sloppy carnage, an attack based on desperation and an overconfidence that tended to come from either fanatics or those who would not grow old enough to have experience. To Zaveed, those were often the same people. He walked among the skirmish site, local garrison forces having long gathered the bodies of Dominion soldiers and insurgents alike, the latter of which were reputed to have died to a man, although a few claims of one or two escaping into the streets made the rounds. More often than not, they were simply tales conjured up by the wild imaginations of ordinary people who loved a good gossip and folk tale, the thought of some danger lurking in the streets that sent shivers down their spines without any real sense of risk.

The Khajiit felt a growing sense of loathing towards the crowds, with their vacant, gawking eyes. They were creating a spectacle out of what was very nearly an attempt on his sister’s life, a sister he hadn’t seen for over six years, and even then, briefly. The fact she was here and now felt like an impossible coincidence, but Sevari was certain, and given everything that’s happened since he came marching back into Zaveed’s life, the privateer was all but certain that the divines were mocking him by giving him the two things he wanted most in life, but keeping them so far away they might as well been the moons.

No sense being rueful, you have work to do. he reminded himself, and so began an hour of questioning the guards stationed in the area and questioning witnesses. Enough of them seemed to confirm that a Khajiit with a greatsword and an important looking Altmer managed to escape with two of their men, and it seemed they headed to the Northeast section of the city. It wasn’t much, but it was something to go off of.

There were tens of thousands of people in Gilane and countless buildings and places to hide, it was going to be an impossible task, but it would only remain that way if he gave up when he was this close. If anything, Zaveed of Senchal was remarkably talented at tracking people down. It was only a matter of changing his tactics for terrorists to someone he actually cared for.

That took away far too many options.

And so, heading in the direction provided, he set off, trying to comb his memories for habits his sister and himself had shared to survive Senchal’s streets so many years ago and hoped that Dominion indoctrination didn’t take away the part of Marassa that Zaveed would recognize.

---

Word of the attack against the Dominion envoy had reached Gregor as well; the innkeeper had been slipped an extra few septims to keep the Imperial apprised of any major disturbances in the city, and this qualified. He knew the Dwemer would undoubtedly investigate, and who better to send than their auxiliaries that could blend into the crowds? There was a chance that Zaveed would be there, or someone that worked with him, and despite the fact that it was broad daylight, Gregor gathered his equipment and set out through the labyrinthine underbelly of Gilane towards the scene of the attack. He did not tell Raelynn where he was going and had spun up some excuse of recovering some of his belongings from the hotel. There was no time to lose. If he was to ever find the elusive agent that had captured her not just once, but twice, he had to follow up every lead and he did not want her to worry or, worse, follow him. His path took him through the back alleys and narrow paths that he knew the city guard didn’t patrol, and when he did have to cross a street, he made sure to wait until nobody was looking his way.

Halfway there, he stopped dead in his tracks and instinctively reached for his weapons as soon as he saw the Khajiit on the other end of the alley. Why? Something about him set Gregor on edge immediately. The look in his eyes, the tension on his body -- there was a cruelty to him, a depth of malice that Gregor had seen before, but only very rarely. Could it be? Perhaps this Khajiit was just one of the Dominion’s agents, or nobody at all. He wanted to let go of the pommel of his claymore and apologize for his overreaction; until proven otherwise they were only two private citizens walking through the alleys of Gilane, after all, but something stopped him. Finely honed instincts told him that he was in danger.

“My, my… isn’t this a surprise? I must admit I am less prepared for this occasion than I would have preferred, but I can still give you a proper greeting.” Zaveed said from the alleyway, stepping closer, his posture loose, hands on the axes, but an underlying tension to his musculature. He stared at Gregor with a predator’s eyes, feeling a tinge of resentment that one of his quarry should happen to stumble into him in such a way when he was hunting for something much more personal. This would distract from that, but it would do much to soothe his frustrations. After all, one of the terrorists who had been responsible for trying to kill Marassa stood right before him, and this time, there would be no games.

“I’ve been looking for you, Gregor. Raelynn told me so much about you, and I quite enjoyed my time with her. A sweet girl, truly magnificent, surely you agree?” The Khajiit said, his smooth voice filled with an underlying maelstrom of malice and venom. His eyes narrowed and a cruel grin crossed his countenance, his claws tapping against the Dwemeri alloy of his axes. “Ah yes, and here you are, one in the same. Imagine my embarrassment if I had the wrong man, but forgive me for saying, a bearded Imperial man in dark garb and a fucking claymore paint quite the distinctive profile. She played her part; here you are, out of your hole, seething with rage. Nothing incentivizes a man quite like reminding him how impotent he is at protecting the one thing he actually cares about.” Zaveed stepped closer yet, the tapping growing louder. “Or maybe you wished to compliment me on my work?”

“Zaveed,” Gregor said softly, as much to himself as to the Khajiit, and drew his claymore from its sheath. The alleyway was narrower than he would have liked for the size of his weapon, but his skill with the longsword left something to be desired. He felt more comfortable this way. He inhaled slowly, trying to control his heartbeat and the simmering wrath that threatened to burst through the surface. He had no idea how good of a fighter Zaveed was, but the sight of the twin pair of axes did nothing to reassure Gregor. It was imperative that he remained calm. But this was him, Raelynn’s tormentor, the monster that had seen her unhinged and terrified, the beast that had carved up his sweetheart, and sheer good fortune now brought them face to face. This was his chance to make good on his promise to her.

It was obvious that the Khajiit wanted a conversation. Gregor wasn’t interested. He only wanted revenge. He dashed forward, mustering all the explosive speed his body could muster, and angled his claymore for a well-practiced thrust that would skewer Zaveed like a kebab if it connected.

The axes were out of their hoops in a flash, the bull charge telegraphed so far in advance Zaveed felt he could have been half asleep and still had time to sidestep and redirect the sword with his left axe while punching towards Gregor’s chest with his right axe held just beneath the head, clanging off of the armour beneath the heavy cloak as Gregor’s momentum slowed, giving the Khajiit a chance to land a hard kick to the Imperial’s flank.

“Look at that thing, you treat it like a spear, maybe if you actually took advantage of its weight… oh, right. You can’t, can you? Pesky walls, always getting in the way.” The Khajiit taunted, readjusting his blades with a flourish. Closing the distance, he bought one blade down into a cleave towards Gregor’s neck, an obvious but dangerous attack meant to occupy the sword as the spiked end of the other axe made for Gregor’s arm.

Gregor knew immediately that he was outmatched. He saw what Zaveed was doing with the two-pronged attack but did not have the skill necessary to avoid falling into the Khajiit’s trap; he deflected the axe that came for his neck with the flat of his claymore’s blade and sucked his teeth as the other axe’s spike grazed his arm. He twisted his body away as fast as he could after saving his head, sparing the flesh of his arm the worst of the spike. Zaveed was right. The walls were problematic. Buying himself time and space, Gregor turned the momentum of his pirouette into a kick and backed away a few feet, brandishing the claymore in an upright position. Even if the walls reduced his horizontal reach, there was no ceiling. He wanted to go on the offensive, but--

The kick connected, hitting Zaveed in the hip and forcing him to back peddle a few steps to retain his stance, but the effect had worked; it bought Gregor a bit more space to work with. Still, it wasn’t enough to keep him at bay for long; soon the Khajiit descended upon Gregor again, a flurry of axe blows coming from different angles as the nimble fighter’s footwork resembled more of a boxer than a berserker, weaving in and out at different angles and always keeping the claymore occupied as he struck shallow blows, often grazing the armour and occasionally tasting flesh. When he had an opening, Zaveed slammed his shoulder into Gregor’s chest and drove him into a wall, his axes coming down in a cross that Gregor managed to catch as it became a contest of strength and will to see who could drive their blades further.

“You will die here, gutted in this alley. And next time, I will not let her leave.” Zaveed snarled between gritted teeth. The mirth in his expression was gone, just a lust for battle and to dismantle the foolish man before him who was keeping him from his personal mission.

That did it. Gregor angled his claymore so that Zaveed’s axes slid off to one side as a terrible wrath came over his face, and his left hand suddenly shot up to Zaveed’s throat. His rage gave him strength and his fingers dug deep into his enemy’s windpipe, pulling Zaveed closer, and instead of saying something -- he was beyond speech -- Gregor looked at him wide-eyed and insane, murder in his gaze, jaw clenched and nostrils flared. The Pale Reaper had come.

Even if Zaveed wanted to, no sound could escape his throat, the deathgrip was far too tight; Gregor was incredibly strong, that much was certain. However, it also left the Imperial exposed himself, and in a controlled, but desperate move, Zaveed drove the spike of his axe into Gregor’s flank, burying it deep. The sudden pain of the axe loosened the grip; the other axe was brought down over the forearm, the hook of the underside of the blade pulling Gregor’s arm down enough that the Khajiit brought his head smashing into Gregor’s forehead, prompting the man to release him.

Zaveed coughed and wheezed, forcing himself to stand by driving his axe into the ground and raising to his feet, wiping spittle from his muzzle with the back of his arm. A feral grin bared his teeth as the arm returned to his sides, the axes hanging low and ready. “That’s more like it.”

With a growl, Zaveed took off at Gregor again, this time the weight of his blows came crashing down like a hammer striking an anvil, his momentum leading to heavy strikes and slashes that would certainly maim if they connected. A nasty cut bit into Gregor’s support arm, and the other axe hooked behind the crossguard of the sword, and with a savage kick to the gut, Zaveed pried the sword from Gregor’s hand, sending it scattering across the cobblestone behind him.

“So weak, so pathetic. You let me lead you like a bull by its nose ring, and the wound that is Raelynn was just so easy to rip and tear into; just who the fuck did you think you were dealing with?” Zaveed snarled, stepping closer, his axe twirling in hand to fling Gregor’s blood free of it. “One by one, you will all die. How do you think they’ll stand, these friends of yours, now their leader is gone and their healer is a despondent mess? Take comfort in knowing that you won’t be around to witness their suffering. All the pity.”

With that, he brought his axe down overhead and prepared to deliver the killing blow. “Death is too good for you, fool.”

The axe descended.

Like a flash of mercury, Gregor’s longsword came up to meet it. He deflected the coup de grace and stumbled backwards to his feet. The injuries that Zaveed had inflicted on him in a matter of seconds -- Gregor had seen a dozen men crumble in his position, yielding to their opponent and begging for mercy. But not him. He would never. Raelynn’s face flashed in his mind’s eye, the way she looked at him when they were alone, and he grit his teeth as he raised his free hand. The pain was almost unbearable. Magic coalesced in his palm and a stream of crimson light drained out of Zaveed and into Gregor. Almost immediately, relief was visible on his face and he straightened up, strength flowing back into his limbs as his wounds knit themselves back together. A healer would have to look at them later, if he made it out of this alive, but it was enough to stem the bleeding and keep him in the fight.

Shit, Gregor was a mage. The armour and the sword had made profiling him easy, albeit inaccurate. The drain health spell came unexpectedly after the sword deflected the blow, and Zaveed stumbled backwards, feeling his vitality weaken and a wave of nausea hit him. A torrent of vomit erupted from Zaveed’s mouth, who turned to grin at the feisty Imperial. “Do you always suck a man dry on the first date?” he mocked, steadying himself even though he felt somewhat faint, but regaining his senses.

“Shut up,” Gregor spat, his longsword in his right hand and a shimmering ward in the other. He attacked, the silver blade bursting into flames as he slashed at Zaveed, the air resistance triggering its enchantment, and he raised the ward to defend against the inevitable counter-attack.

Fire didn’t scare Zaveed, he’d known the pyromancer known as Felicia Hargrave for years and nearly been torched by her as many times, so the sword that was likely going to lose its integrity from the enchantment did little to deter the Khajiit. He allowed Gregor to get on the offensive, a flurry of flaming thrusts and swipes deflected and parried by the two axes that were so ingrained his his muscle memory, it was almost a game. A few times, the flames scorched at his bare arms, but minor burns didn’t bother Zaveed all that much; he’d endured so much worse.

Suddenly, his right axe pulled the sword across Gregor’s chest and a balled fist smashed Gregor across the face, stumbling the man as the axes slide down to rest upon the top of Zaveed’s hands as he began to pummel into Gregor’s chest, arms, and attempts at the face with precision blows that would keep the Imperial on the defensive. Ward and sword alike kept an admirable job at warding off most of the attacks, but the axes could still hook limbs and weapons out of the way to allow the other to make purchase, and Zaveed was much faster. An axe landed down into Gregor’s collarbone like a woodcutting axe, biting deep through bone and tissue, and it brought the men face to face.

“I tire of this. Enough games.” Zaveed snarled, putting his weight into the weapon to have it bite deeper.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, and the sound of bone being crushed beneath the axe was enough to churn Gregor’s stomach. He gasped and nearly dropped the longsword with trembling fingers; the ward extinguished, his concentration broken. Zaveed was simply better, there was no denying it. Gregor could not do this alone. He had never resorted to his darkest powers inside a city before and he knew the risks were immense, but it was obvious that Zaveed was going to kill him within the next few seconds if he did not act. The strain was so great that tears sprang in his eyes, but he summoned his iron will and managed to prepare another spell. A flash of purple light appeared behind Zaveed.

The Wrathman stepped forth from the portal. It was a towering, skeletal, undead warrior, ethereal energy swirling around its limbs and dark plate armor covering it from head to toe. Two bright, soulless eyes, infinite like stars, stared out from beneath a grim, horned helmet and in its hands was a dragonbone battleaxe large enough to split a bear in half. It raised its weapon overhead and brought it down on Zaveed -- it was a blow that he would undoubtedly not survive.

“What in Mundus…” Zaveed managed when he caught the pale glow off of Gregor’s skin and the sound of something behind him. The hulking undead monstrosity towered over the Khajiit and bared down on him with lethal intent. He was forced to release his axe, still buried in Gregor, and he managed to jump and roll out of the way in time to avoid being cleaved in two. Sliding his remaining axe back in its hoop, Zaveed drew the two pistols from his chest harness and took aim at both targets, gritting his teeth wided-eyed as he pulled the trigger; the deafening report of the discharge of soul gem energy to propel the iron bearing at both of his targets causing his ears to pull back in pain as the sound echoed off of the walls.

Gregor yanked the axe out of his collarbone and he almost fainted, leaning heavily against one of the alley’s walls. He wanted to drain Zaveed’s vitality again to restore himself but he could barely see through the agony. Instead, he swiftly placed his free hand on the grievous wound and enveloped it in the golden glow of Restoration magic, trusting the Wrathman to buy himself enough time for this. The broken bone was beyond his skill to heal, but much like before he could at least mend the skin. He looked up and made to move back into position precisely when Zaveed fired his Dwemeri pistols -- the bullet grazed his upper arm and he flinched, once again beset by pain. It felt like he had been burned. The Wrathman was hit square in the chest and Gregor watched with wide eyes, unsure of what would happen next.

It growled and seemed unfazed. Gregor exhaled a shuddering breath in relief. Now it was time to turn the tables. He threw Zaveed’s axe behind him and bent over to pick up his claymore; luck would have it that their deadly dance through the alley had brought him back to his favored weapon. Zaveed was trapped between himself and the Wrathman, and master and servant moved in to attack simultaneously.

The pistols went back in their hoops and Zaveed’s hands went for the remaining weapons on his person, his axe and the elven dagger at the small of his back. He was pressured on both sides, fighting with two vastly different weapons. The claymore was back in hand, and it took all of Zaveed’s strength to keep that monstrosity at bay while avoiding being run through by the heavy sword. The Wrathman beared down on him, swinging the axe without much finesse, but the dagger bit and tore into whatever was holding the undead together without much success, and he knew that he’d have to kill the master to free himself of the creature.

For the first time in a long while, Zaveed felt the panic in his heart that his life might actually be in danger, and he might lose.

“Damn you all!” He snarled, turning suddenly against Gregor and pressing the attack, hoping the monster at his back would hesitate to do anything that would endanger its master. The axe kept the greatsword at bay as the knife went in for slashing at vulnerable areas… but he was getting tired. His attacks were slower and less precise. He needed a moment to breathe, but neither of his foes would afford him a chance.

He needed his axe back.

Tossing his knife into a reverse grip, Zaveed made a plunge for Gregor’s neck, knowing the man would likely throw his weight out of the way, and he shoved him aside, scrambling to pick up the weapon he’d had discarded. It was stupidly risky; his back was exposed to both of his foes. It was a risk he needed to take, the battle was not going in his favour, despite how badly he had tore into Gregor already.

An overwhelming, exhilarating sensation came over Gregor when he saw the fear in Zaveed’s eyes and despite himself, despite his exhaustion and despite the fact that the Khajiit fought on like a man possessed, the Pale Reaper laughed when Zaveed dove for his axe. It was a cruel, terrible peal and it was followed by a gurgling, blood-curdling noise; the Wrathman was laughing too. Gregor mustered all the remaining strength he had left and flew after Zaveed, mentally directing the Wrathman to do the same. As the Khajiit’s fingers grasped around the hilt of his second axe, Gregor’s claymore, the blade arcing with lightning, drove into his back and dug in deep. On the other side of Zaveed, the Wrathman swung his battleaxe with hideous strength and struck Zaveed in the chest, the dragonbone edge splitting his armor and tasting blood.

The pain was excruciating, but the shock of it all kept anything but a surprised gasp from slipping through Zaveed’s lips as his trembling hands caught sight of the blood that coated his chest crimson; the axe had slashed through his armour and exposed his chest. An unbearable pain came from his back and his muscles were tensed up from the electrical current that was running through his body; it simply refused to respond. He was on his knees, at the mercy of a man without any, and tears began to well up in his eyes; there was nothing else his body could do as he waited for death.

I can’t… not yet he thought, pleadingly, to anything that dared listen to a damned man.

It was done. Gregor's breathing came fast and hard and the blood-soaked hands that were still wrapped around the hilt of his claymore shook with the sudden realization. In fact, it took every ounce of willpower he had not to collapse to his knees right now: Zaveed was, without a doubt, the most dangerous enemy that Gregor had ever fought. But instead of sinking low, Gregor rose to his full height, calming his shuddering breaths, as a sick and twisted expression of utter triumph unfolded on his face. He had kept his promise to Raelynn. Here Zaveed was, her demon laid low at Gregor’s hands, just like he said. Zaveed’s words from before rang falsely now: Gregor could protect what was his. There was nothing left but to carry out the Khajiit’s final punishment. He had originally planned to use Zaveed for a much simpler, base purpose, but Gregor had to admit that he was… worthy. Zaveed's soul was drenched in blood; it had to be. Rather than wasting the soul gem on an enchantment, Gregor realized that he would make a very valuable sacrifice. The willpower, tenacity and strength that Zaveed had displayed all but guaranteed it. Gregor let go of his sword with one hand and, with the very last dredges of his magicka, willed one final spell into being.

The soultrap wrapped its ice-cold snare around Zaveed's heart.

It felt like something intangible, yet so very vital, like an organ that encompassed his whole body was being pulled and beginning to tear from his very soul. It was then that Zaveed realized was was happening; he was being soul trapped, and he was powerless to stop it. An overwhelming fear encompassed him, unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and he struggled to fight it, to stay alive, anything to prevent such a cruel and twisted fate from befalling him, but he was weak, and with every heartbeat, he grew fainter.

“No…” he breathed, barely an utterance that faltered like a candle in a strong breeze. He accepted long ago he was never going to have a happy ending to his life, but not like this.

Anything but this.

Gregor smiled. “The long dark is coming,” he whispered forcefully. “I know you can feel it. You almost broke her, you know that? She was good and you broke her so bad I thought she was gone. Nobody does that to me. This is the price. I hope it was worth it.” Suddenly, pain dug into Gregor’s cleaved shoulder, and he noticed the thin hilt of a throwing knife sticking out of it. From the rooftops, a cloaked figure descended, from the billowing snakeskin fabric a short spear was produced, driving through the back of the Wrathman’s skull and riding the undead into the cobblestone. As she stood, the creature began to dematerialize, its bonds to Mundus severed.

The Redguard stood, almost like a pale wraith, staring at Gregor with cold yellow eyes. “Monster.” she said, a statement without malice, a simple utterance of fact. She descended upon him swiftly, past Zaveed, her spear angled for Gregor’s heart.

Too dumbfounded by the interruption to say anything, Gregor stared at the Redguard, eyes wide and slack-jawed. What the hell was this? He was so close. As his overpowering instinct of self-preservation kicked in, Gregor became aware of several things at once. The dagger in his shoulder hurt far more than it should, and the pain quickly escalated into something vile and seething: poison. Simultaneously, something clicked in his head and he saw himself kneeling before the Ideal Master again in the abandoned warehouse with Raelynn by his side.

A gift.

With unwieldy strength, a huge black steed emerged from a portal that coalesced into being on the far end of the alley. Thinking fast, Gregor pulled his claymore free from Zaveed's flesh and grabbed the reins of the thundering warhorse as it came charging through. Its eyes burned with the same pale, ghostly light as the now-vanquished Wrathman, and its skin clung to the apparition’s hulking frame with fragmented desperation. Gregor could see some of its ribs poking through. With the last of his energy, he swung himself into the saddle of the undead horse and out of the path of the Redguard’s spear. The black rider fled, cloak billowing behind him, bursting out onto the streets of Gilane at full gallop, much to the alarm of the citizenry, and retreated to where he came from. It was his turn to fear for his life. Unyielding venom coursed through his veins and he could feel it, the seething burn of it, seeking his heart. Panic threatened to overtake him. He had to find Raelynn. Only she could save him now.

Nadeen stared at the ghastly apparition taking away her quarry with buried disgust. So Samara cell was harbouring a necromancer… they would all have to be expunged.

But first, there was something she needed to do. She wasn’t a woman without mercy.

“I will end your suffering. Go in peace, Khajiit.” she said, turning to face the dying cat.

The alleyway was empty, with only a splatter of blood and ethereal energy to hint at what had occurred here. Zaveed was gone, and one could only wonder where he could have gone to.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

a dream

A strong wind was howling through the trees outside. Gregor could see the branches swaying and bowing to the force of Kynareth’s breath, but he heard nothing through the uneven, rippling windows to their bedroom. He looked down to find himself sitting on the edge of the bed and his eyes traced the lines of the stitchings in the fabric of the bedsheets, which were as blue as an early summer morning sky. It was her favorite color. He remembered now. It had seemed so long ago… but here he was again. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the subtle fragrance of flowers in the air. There was a fresh bouquet on his nightstand.

“Did you sleep well?” a woman’s voice asked from behind him. Gregor turned his head and rolled over on his side until he was face to face with her. She smiled at him and her nose crinkled and a lock of black hair spilled over her face before it was quickly tucked away behind her ear.

“Yes,” Gregor said, and he could hear that his voice was soft and tender and full of love. “I had a dream, of foreign lands and strange people, and it felt so real…”

She touched his face, the slightest brush of her fingers against his cheek. “I’m glad it was just a dream. I trust you’re not planning on going somewhere?” she asked and looked up at him with teasing eyes in which the sea went on forever.

He chuckled and shook his head. “No. There is nowhere I’d rather be than here with you, my love.”

And he felt that it was true.

The world fell out from beneath him and he fell too, a thousand yards and more, until he landed roughly on the dead leaves and splintered branches of the ground. Fear shot through his limbs like a surge of electricity and he scrambled to his feet, disoriented and dizzy, until his eyes focused on his surroundings and the pulses of his heart ceased to gallop in his ears. He was dressed in his armor and he was old again -- he could feel the weight of his age and of the past decade pressing down on him; a physical presence that had made its perch on his shoulders and refused to ever take wing.

He was in the dark forest again. The trees had grown so tightly together that he could barely see more than thirty feet in either direction and the night air was thick and heavy with anticipation. Gregor’s mouth fell open and his eyes went wide as his gaze followed one of the tree trunks up and into the canopy. Something, some creature, had left slash marks in the bark as high up as a house, and the branches had been forcefully ripped off. A small sound behind him made him whirl around on the spot and draw his claymore.

Suspended twenty feet above the ground, impaled on the broken branches, hung Briar’s corpse. Her guts dangled beneath her like a macabre rope.

“Why did you leave me?” it asked through split lips and shattered teeth.

Gregor wanted to speak, to explain, but he couldn’t. He opened his mouth and no sound came out.

That’s when he saw it. Behind her, behind the tree: a shape, looming, towering, ancient and vast. Darkness clung to it like a cloak. Gregor backed away, unsteady feet seeking sanctuary behind him, while his mind refused to work. He could only stare.

It moved. The tree snapped like a twig and smashed down into the forest floor, flinging Briar hard against the ground where she scattered into three pieces and none of them looked like a human anymore. Gregor turned tail and ran, terrified of the thunderous roar of the creature and the heavy hoofbeats of its pursuit. A terrible urge to look over his shoulder threatened to overtake him but he resisted. He did not want to see it. He ran, zigzagging between the trees, searching desperately for a way out, some sign of the way out, or a light, but there were none. He could hear more trees being splintered and destroyed, and it roared again -- a terrible, overwhelming sound that he could feel in every fiber of his being. It was getting closer. It was so large.

He tripped and fell and before he even had a chance to get back on his feet, it was upon him. Gregor groaned in pain as two massive hooves pressed into his shoulder blades and pinned him to the ground.

“Gregor,” it muttered, its voice warped and shuddering. Two hands, black as soot and impossibly long, appeared on either side of him and grabbed his head.

Gregor screamed.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Opinions on the members of Samara Cell according to Gregor Sibassius, 4E208

Brynja: She's a soldier. Dutiful, protective, capable, but I've seldom met a more blunt and unsociable woman. You know, now that I think about it, we've never exchanged more than a few words, if that. But that's not a requirement for a dependable ally and considering her... well, size, and skill with Restoration magic and the blade, I'll be glad to have her by my side in combat. You'll have to ask someone else if you want to know what she's like as a friend, I can't help you there. Sorry.

Megana: Ah, yes, Megana. Sometimes I think the poor girl is way out of her depth with us. I believe she was the one who accidentally freed the prisoners during the infiltration, right? Yes, well, that was unfortunate. But her heart is in the right place and she has a strong sense of justice, naive as it may be. She tried to have words with me over Nblec's death, if you catch my drift, and I think by the end of our conversation she was even less sure of herself than before. I took no pleasure in doing that but it was necessary to set the record straight. Aside from that, I have no qualms with her whatsoever. She's perfectly lovely. I like that she's trying to be there as a friend for Jaraleet. He could use friends. Gods know he's had a difficult life. The support of someone still relatively innocent and noble shall do him good. As for myself, Megana is too young and too inexperienced to really be friends with. When I was a young man, then perhaps, but now I've seen and done so much that separates us that we just have... very little in common. But, like I said, perfectly lovely.

Calen: I said this to Raelynn before but I really think Calen is the best of us. I realize that, having said this, my next few words will make me sound like I'm full of myself, but Calen reminds me of when I was a young man. Beauty, friendship, love, wonder... these were the things that I cherished most. Calen keeps these qualities alive through song and charm and action and I admire him for it. He composed a song for me, did you know that? It was very touching. It saddens me that I cannot be more like the man he thinks I am, and it nags at my conscience that he almost died for nothing. A man like him should not have to be caught up in a war like this. It’s tragic, really.

Raelynn: I think you already know what my feelings for Raelynn are. Words cannot describe how grateful I am that she is a part of my life now. She… understands me in ways that I cannot expect from anybody else. No, I won’t tell you how exactly, those are my secrets to keep. Just know that I love her, all of her, and that I will do everything in my power to keep her safe and happy. Anyone who interferes with that will surely perish. That’s the oath I’ve sworn to her and it’s one I intend to keep.

Latro: An interesting man. There is much more to him than meets the eye. I think he has had a rough life but his capacity for empathy and tenderness is… admirable. He’s got a sound mind and while he looks like more of a soft-hearted man than Calen, he can be hard and ruthless when the situation calls for it. I like him, I think. Perhaps I shall learn more about him, one day. I won’t pretend to understand what he sees in the Khajiit but I wish them all the happiness in the world.

Rhona: I have not spoken to her, nor do I know what she’s capable of. Truthfully, I have no opinion about this woman.

Nanine: Very perceptive. Too perceptive, I think, for her own good. She’s a soldier as well, like Brynja, but fortunately not quite as brusque. From what I’ve heard about her combat prowess as a battlemage, I shall be glad to have her on our side when things inevitably go to shit. She keeps to herself mostly and that is fine by me.

Alim: Hmph. Yes. Alim. What’s the nice way to say this? He’s a free spirit, if you will. Look, I don’t think he’s a bad man or anything, but he gets on my nerves. I don’t care for his flippant attitude or his flirtatious behavior towards women who are quite clearly spoken for. I wonder if there’s anything of substance behind all that glib charm. So far, I have not been convinced that there is.

Shakti: I don’t know anything about her and I’ve only ever seen her at the party the other day. She looks young, and after she’d been drinking with Daro’Vasora and Mazrah she looked quite drunk. I don’t know what else to say.

Solandil: Who?

Anifaire: Another elf I am not acquainted with, but I have seen the way she looks and walks. Very timid. I’m not sure what she’s doing here with us, truth be told. I think she might be good friends with Alim, or something more, but I don’t know and I don’t care to know.

Mazrah: Gregor laughs. Right, Mazrah. I’ll never forget the way she and Raelynn were giggling on the floor during the party after they ingested too much moonsugar. I think she was quite nice. Said I was a lucky man for being with Raelynn, which is an astute observation. The whole… you know, tribal Orc look, half-naked and tattooed from tip to toe is a little much for civilized society, perhaps, but who am I to judge. I’ve heard that she’s a terrific warrior and I’m inclined to believe it, with a body like that.

Judena: I’m sure she’s very nice, but… I don’t want to talk about it.

Jaraleet: Quite possibly the single most useful member of our group of misfits. I didn’t like throwing him under the wagon for what happened to Nblec. I’m quite fond of Jaraleet, actually. We have a professional, mutual understanding, and I respect his ability to approach things with an objective and pragmatic point of view. I think it would be good for his personal growth to leave Argonia behind and become an independent mercenary or something of that ilk, but that seems unlikely. He has been entirely forged and moulded by his country and his service… until recently, anyway. Either way, long story short, he’s dependable, capable and reasonable. I like him.

Daro’Vasora: We don’t agree on everything, I suppose, and she’s struggling with the burden of responsibility that she shouldered after Rhea Valerius died, but I have no qualms with her. She’s doing what she thinks is best for herself and for us and I can respect that. Her relationship with Latro strikes me as… unusual. I guess it’s true what they say; war brings the strangest people together. I’m not inclined to become close friends with her, however. I think she would react quite poorly to some of my, ah, habits. Just a tad judgemental, you see.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Drowned by the Darkness

Night, 6th of Midyear, 4E208
Warehouse district, Gilane

The Pale Reaper retreated further and further into the back of Gregor’s mind the closer he got to Raelynn -- fear and love where the strongest antidotes against the cruel alter-ego’s presence, and Gregor was feeling it in spades. It was past the curfew by now and the dusk had turned into night proper. Despite the stifling quality of his clothes and cloak, Gregor was glad for the fact that they were all-black, and he moved through the streets of Gilane unseen by his enemies. The knowledge that Salasoix had sent her into the Khajiit’s trap with a plan was some comfort to him after all, even if he didn’t trust Raelynn’s father as far as he could throw him. There was reason to hope that he would find her alive.

The warehouse district was close to the sea and the lapping waves against the docks and the beach was all the sound that Gregor heard, occasionally interspersed by the marching boots of the city guards in the distance. That is, until he heard a strange but very familiar sound: the keening howl of a wolf. That was weird. There were no wolves in Hammerfell, as far as he knew, and certainly not inside Gilane. Whatever other business was taking place inside the occupied city at night, Gregor knew that none of it would be so weird as this, except… Raelynn. For some reason, the sound of the wolf reminded him of her, and his heart skipped a beat. He followed the alleys and courtyards towards the sources of the sound, skirting along the outer walls of several fine, clearly well-used warehouses, not the dilapidated structures that Salasoix had spoken of.

He rounded the corner as he neared the edge of the district and there it was, sitting outside of the entrance to a particularly run-down warehouse, howling up at the moon; an ethereal wolf, clearly a familiar of some kind. Gregor suddenly remembered that all Bretons had the innate ability to summon one of these and he practically sprinted towards it, his left hand on the pommel of his shortsword. Upon arriving by the familiar’s side, it continued to ignore him, and Gregor looked past it and into the warehouse through the half-open door. Did he hear… sobbing?

Without even being aware of having moved, Gregor suddenly found himself in the warehouse, blood throbbing in his ears and his breathing haggard and uneven. His eyes darted through the gloom, seeing corpses; he almost sank to his knees as fear threatened to overtake him until he realized that they were all men. Three dead Dwemer and… Roux. The captain of the Intrepid. What had happened here? The sobbing was louder and Gregor followed the source of the sound with his gaze until he saw her at last, sitting at the foot of the steps that lead up to the platform around which the Dwemer lay splayed.

“Raelynn!” he gasped and dashed towards her, sinking on his knees and cradling her in his arms. She looked utterly destroyed, but alive. “Are you hurt? What happened? Did you do this?” he asked, his voice muffled as his face was pressed into the nape of her neck and his strong arms pulled her in the tightest embrace of his life.

It had been naught but silence until he had arrived here. The sound of his footsteps and his breathing - his deep voice resonant and familiar, but not at all familiar at the same time. It wasn't until his arms had found their way to wrap themselves around her that she realised it was Gregor. She mouthed his name as if to tell herself so. Raelynn's head naturally found its way to his chest and she placed her head where she could hear his thunderous heartbeat - it was like the galloping of a wild stallion. It may have been a turbulent echo inside of his chest, but she could hear it and feel it - feel him. Constricted in his tight grip, she felt so small and frail in his arms and the feeling teetered on the line of comfort and discomfort.

She didn't answer him while she composed herself, the last of her sobs now falling quietly, steadily. Her hand gripped at his clothing tightly, bunching the material of his cloak between her fingers as she twisted at it desperately, breaths shakily fell from her open mouth. Her eyes flickered over the room frantically until she locked on to the lifeless bodies of the Dwemer and all she could do was nod against Gregor's chest - part ashamed, part proud. Him being here… She felt bold enough to know she did the right thing and as soon as she let those thoughts in she realised that standing up there with her spell had made her feel… Powerful.

“He took Sora away,” she whispered finally, consternation was wrapped around her usual honeyed voice and was strangling it, defeating it.

“He made her choose…” Raelynn rounded off with a quietly hollow snigger, before pulling herself together to look upon her darling Gregor’s face. There was so much worry buried there in the lines around his eyes and immediately she was sorry for it. The trouble she had caused him, how distraught he had been - she found it in his eyes - he had been seething. The exasperation, the dread, the darkness. What had he done to find her here? Was she even worth it? She reached up, releasing his cloak from her hand and let her fingers carefully and gently brush away the hair that had fallen loose during his mission to find her.

“Daro’Vasora? She was here too?” Gregor mumbled, following Raelynn’s gaze around the room. That explained why Roux was here. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place as Gregor realized what had happened; Zaveed had captured the three of them and forced the tomb raider to choose between Roux and Raelynn. Gregor grimaced and muttered a curse beneath his breath. It was cruelty just for the sake of it, without a greater purpose or goal, and it disgusted him. His eyes lingered on the corpses of the Dwemer guards again, watching how wisps of steam continued to rise above them like the swirling, ethereal energy of Nblec’s soul had done. “I had no idea you could do this,” he said, approval in his voice, as he gestured towards the dead and cupped Raelynn’s cheek with his other hand. “Come on, let’s get you out of
here.” He got to his feet and helped her up as well. “Everything will be alright. I’m here now. I’m sorry I was so late -- your father did not cooperate as fast as he should have.”

“Just a scroll. I can’t… I don’t know how to use destruction magic… He took Sora away.” Her voice was confused, addled, and distant. Raelynn, when standing, pulled away from Gregor and swayed over to Roux before leaning down over him, “I will send someone for you, friend…” she squeezed his hand one last time and placed it over his chest, moving the other hand on top of it gracefully so that he looked dignified again. Her head turned to look over her shoulder at Gregor as she rose back up. “It matters not if you’re early, on time, or late now…”

She ran a hand over her head, where Zaveed had planted the pommel of his dagger and winced. Head injuries were unpleasant but she continued over to Gregor, her strides meek and small.

The sight of Raelynn once again reduced to shambles reignited the flames of wrath that burned in Gregor’s heart and he found himself clenching his fists, fingernails digging deep lines into his palms. “It does matter,” he said with the seething restraint of a man trying very hard not to break something. “If I had been faster to discover your whereabouts, I could have killed him. Zaveed. But your father thought he knew best. He said he had it all planned out. I’m sure the Khajiit thought the same thing. Well, everybody has a plan until they get stabbed in the chest,” he continued and took Raelynn’s hands in his own when she reached him. He ignored Raelynn’s comment about Sora’s kidnapping again -- she was not his concern right now, nor his responsibility. “The wolf outside, the familiar; was that yours?”

“My father? Gregor…? What of him? No— never mind...” Her brows furrowed - it was the second comment he’d made regarding Salosoix. She pulled away from his grip, frustration seeping in, agitation crawling across her skin and digging deep at it. She wanted to scream - whatever restraint Gregor had right now, she did not. “The wolf? Yes. I… My summoning, my familiar. It attacked the guards - a distraction,” she was pacing the platform back and forth, thoughts and answers to his questions, back and forth, her head was spinning. She held her hands out in front of her and her fingers curled like claws at the air. Her breathing grew rapid - as if she couldn’t breathe.

“Zaveed. Zaveed of Senchal, he’s not the fucking problem-“ it happened, she snapped and at the end of her words her hands clasped at the underside of the table and she flung it away, over the platform in a quick burst of rage that she surprised herself with. “He’s nothing, he’s just a creature sent to do her bidding. She’s the Mastermind.” She was talking about Rourken and in the moment she thought back to having been sat with her in her Palace and it turned her stomach to picture her smug face. “It doesn’t matter Gregor,” her rage had distilled as quickly as it had come on, and all that was left was a shattered table, and a wry half smile on the Breton’s face. “They’re going to kill us all one by one…” She laughed, a dry laugh that came accompanied by tears of absolute horror.

Gregor visibly flinched when Raelynn flipped the table over and it smashed itself to pieces on the floor of the warehouse. He had seen monsters and fiends of all kinds during his life, from the walking corpses of the undead to the otherworldly warriors of the Daedra, and none had scared him like this. He could only stare as Raelynn spiraled out of control, wide-eyed and powerless. His sweet, tender, loving companion had disappeared and been replaced by a grime-covered, pale spectre, an omen of death, erratic and unpredictable. He clasped a hand over his mouth and looked away, his vision blurred by tears of his own. Why did the world have to take everything away from him? Was this the gods’ way of punishing him? Unable to stand, Gregor sank down on his haunches and stabilized himself by placing a hand on the floor, suddenly revolted by the cold touch of the still water that had acted as the conduit of death between Raelynn’s victims. He was too late after all. Was she gone? His stomach turned.

Rage pacified, she slipped like liquid to the floor, “I’m sorry,” she uttered softly, turning her head to him, he wasn’t looking at her. How could he? She couldn’t understand how this had happened. Only days ago she had been happy. “I don’t know myself. Between the nightmares, Nblec, Calen… this, again.” She had positioned herself onto her knees, hands on the floor, eyes closed. “I don’t want this place of trauma to be where I live now… I’ve seen this before and thought it was just cowardice. Maybe it is,” she paused, and looked at Gregor once again. She had brought him to the ground - he did not belong on the ground and she was not going to let him remain there. Raelynn looked at Gregor intensely and held a fixed gaze on him in the silence. “Something must come of this, my…” she wanted to call him her love - but not here, not now. She focussed onto something that might bring a smile to them both, even if inappropriate; “my handsome prince.” She tried her best to smile in his direction, it may not have been the smile she had given him at the party - and there may have been sadness behind it but she was trying, after all he was here and he had come for her. There was solace in that.

That broke through Gregor’s horror and he laughed, the tears that had hung suspended from his eyelashes finally breaking free and running down his cheeks as if to disappear from sight as fast as possible. Not all was lost, it seemed. She was stronger than he had thought. Gregor forced himself up and beckoned for Raelynn to join him. “We really should leave,” he said. “This is a cursed place now and we shouldn’t be here. Leave the dead to their haunts. And believe me when I say that something will come of this. Zaveed might be nothing more than a symptom of the problem but that doesn’t change anything. I’ll start with him and then maybe follow the cancer that has taken roots in this city back to its source. But he still needs to die for what he’s done to you. Now come, Raelynn. Please.”

He was right, they couldn't stay here and so she pulled herself up to her feet, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. She walked to Gregor again and placed her hand on his chest gently, “thank you for coming for me.” It should have been the first thing she had said to him, “I didn't know what was going to happen to me but I… I'm glad you found me.” She wanted to embrace him, to be held be him but they couldn't spend another minute here, it was dangerous and grim. Death was choking the air. She settled for wrapping her fingers around his tightly instead.

“Of course I came for you,” Gregor whispered and squeezed her hand right back. He led the way out of the warehouse, his free hand resting on the pommel of his sword, eyes sharp on the lookout for trouble. They had no way of knowing when Zaveed or his masters would have sent for Raelynn, or when the Dwemer guards were supposed to be rotated at the end of their shifts. They were fortunate, however, as nothing but the distant sound of the sea and the strange calls of the local birds greeted them. It was still deep into the night and the district, which was purely industrial and commercial, was devoid of people. Gregor understood why Zaveed had chosen this location to carry out his wicked plans. In fact, he suddenly realized, they were not at all far from the abandoned building where Gregor and Raelynn had sacrificed the soul of Nblec to the Ideal Masters. The idea that he shared a similar line of thinking to the Khajiiti torturer made him feel… unclean.

Just in case their escape was being watched after all, and because Gregor felt like Raelynn needed some time and space away from the others to heal and recover, he did not take her back to the Three Crowns hotel. Instead, they returned to the same inn they had frequented before and a very groggy innkeeper was able to confirm that the same room was available. Upon entering, Gregor closed the door behind them and leaned against it. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, letting the tension and the adrenaline leave his body.

“Right,” he said, his voice distant as his gaze slowly fixed itself on Raelynn. “You could probably use a bath.”

He was right. A soak, and time to think and relax would do her good - except there was to be no relaxing. Her mind was rattled with thoughts, Gregor had been stripped of something tonight and it was because of her. Because she had found herself in the hands of a maniac once more. Her father’s hand had been forced into putting her in that situation, Sora had been taken, Roux killed, and Gregor had been on the warpath all night. All because of her - because she was too weak to fight back and an easy target. She bit down on her lip, facing away from him as she drew the bath by the hearthfire in their room. It was beginning to feel like a sanctuary away from the events outside of the door. It was safe in here.

She stripped down to nothing and climbed into the hot water which gave her instant relief as she sat into it and let herself sink completely under the surface. Her mind full of incessant chatter. She couldn’t look at him right now - as much as she longed for his touch, his embrace, and his kiss… She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve his love right now. She broke the surface for breath, caressed her skin with the washcloth - wiping away the blood from her knees and knuckles, massaging her temples with Healing Hands. She would be okay, physically.

She glanced over her shoulder at Gregor, he had been silent the whole time. She wasn’t even sure if he’d stolen a glance at her form - it was unlike him. She yearned for the Gregor she had met in Anvil. The one whom she had made feel youthful and desired - the one who had smiled at her with such a fervour. Will we ever be that way again? she thought with a long, and drawn out sigh - the rage once again burning inside of her. She couldn’t speak to Gregor right now, but perhaps… The other side of him, the darkness - the storm that lay within him. If she could wake him then maybe she would get what she wanted.

The violent hurricane of emotions that had ripped at Gregor’s chest all night and the enormous willpower and discipline it had taken to keep them under control left the Imperial exhausted, and he merely sat on one of the room’s comfortable, cream-colored couches and stared ahead. His eyes were fixed on a point so much farther away than the walls of their room that he saw nothing at all. In the wake left by his passion and humanity, there was nothing left but a sullen silence. Raelynn’s suspicion was correct; he did not even look at her.

Slowly and quietly, a thought formed in his mind until it began to nag at him and it suddenly dawned on him that he had forgotten something. “Oh, by the way,” he said, still staring ahead, “your father is fine. I did not hurt him. I had to threaten him, though. He won’t be happy about that.”

That was surprising, “you did?” She began, shock in her tone and she sat upright in the bath. She didn’t really know how to react. Part of her wanted to laugh, part wanted to admonish him - but she hadn’t the energy for either of those options and so she settled in the middle, “I’ll talk to him, he’ll understand… I should go and see him soon. I have a few words of my own for him, anyway. He’s gotten himself into some terrible things.” How her father could not have told her about his alliance with Rourken had given her a cause for concern, he’d had every opportunity to discuss it with her. He’s still hiding something, another trick up his sleeve. A poor justification, but it would have to do. It was all that was keeping her from wanting to hurt him herself - that there was a bigger reason for all of this. “He can be difficult to deal with. He’s stubborn,” she laughed as she once more ran the washcloth over her skin, enjoying the heat of the water and in a way forgetting the situation at hand for a fleeting moment.

The pleasant sound of Raelynn’s laughter helped to pull Gregor back from the void inside of him and he finally turned his head to look at her, a sheepish grimace on his face. “You don’t understand, Raelynn. I may have gone too far. I… lost control. Surrendered it, to be absolutely honest. Does that make sense? He -- that is to say, I, took out my dagger and a soul gem and put it on Salasoix’s desk when I grew tired of his song and dance. He hid his fear well, to his credit, but the cat’s out of the bag now. I’m sorry.”

Raelynn inhaled sharply at his confession - not out of fear for her father - but for concern that Gregor had gotten so torn up over her absence that he had resorted to it in the first place. It explained everything, his mood and aura. His entire current state of being. She would have some explaining to do to her father about this, but it was nothing that the two of them couldn’t talk through. How to make Gregor see that? “Gregor, I’m so sorry that you had to do that. He plays games. The cat may be out o the bag, but you saved me - you found me, and I have chosen you. He will not tell anyone. He may reprimand me, and try to have me sent away from you, but I will not leave you, and he will see and he will understand.” Her arms were propped on the rim of the bathtub as she stared over to Gregor in the shadows, she could make out his silhouette in the chair - how troubled he was. She hoped that this reassurance she had given him would ease him. “Besides, the stupid fool is playing double agent for Governor Razlinc Rourken,” she shook her head in disbelief when she said it, still unable to fathom why he was doing this - and what it meant for the entire situation at hand. “So there goes another cat free from it’s bag…”

Gregor looked like he had been slapped in the face. “Great gods of nowhere,” he hissed and something clicked in his head that had been bothering him ever since he and Jaraleet took down the mercenaries. “The men he had me kill... one of them said something about ‘standing up to the Dwemer’ right before he died, but I had other things on my mind. I forgot about it. Mara’s mercy, it’s a good thing we burned the bodies. If anyone discovers that we killed enemies of the Dwemer -- new recruits for the Poncy Man, I assume -- we’re well and truly fucked.” Despite himself, Gregor laughed at Salasoix’s sheer audacity. “It seems I underestimated your father,” he mumbled and rubbed his eyes. “Remind me not to do so again.”

She closed her eyes and tried to put herself in her father’s shoes - to think of why he would send Gregor and Jaraleet on such a mission. It took a while before it clicked. “He wanted to even the score. It’s… fucked up, but he might have helped us all. He gave the Governor some blood back for the mess we all made on our missions… You and Jaraleet may well have kept them from a more serious attack on our group at large. It seems a truly backwards way of helping, but it did.” She let herself sink back slightly into the bath again, chuckling slightly at Gregor, “you may think that, but he’s made plenty of mistakes in his life too. He’s just a man after all.”

He was silent for a while before responding. “I have justified my own actions and mistakes with that mantra before. ‘For the greater good’ and all that. It’s still a bitter pill to swallow that I butchered innocent men and used their corpses to kill their friends while I was thinking that I was carrying out justice against criminals that sold their services to the Dwemer.” He exhaled deeply through clenched teeth. “I don’t like being used.”

“Innocence is nothing but a concept in dark days like this. You don’t know that they weren’t criminals selling their service for The Poncy Man. There’s something not right about him, there’s something insidious about him Gregor… Are his motivations for his rebellion pure? Or to serve his own interests?” The water was beginning to grow cold, but she did not stir, and instead continued to soak there as she and Gregor spoke. They had never really had a conversation like this before - it was honest and calm despite the subject matter, and the emotions they both were experiencing. “He should have been honest, he should have. I cannot excuse him…” She combed her fingers through her hair, unwind the braids that had been there until they were all loose, the strands wavy and held down with the water. “We do what we must to survive in times like this Gregor, you and I know that very well.”

“Hm.” He sank back into his seat and appeared to deflate. His indignation had already passed. “At least you are safe,” Gregor said softly and looked at Raelynn again, taking a moment to enjoy how she looked with her hair down like this. “That’s what’s most important to me.”

As Raelynn played with her hair, she noticed that Gregor had finally looked her way and his relaxed pose soothed even her. She was glad that they had been able to talk their way to this point. She remained like that for a while, but in the quiet her fearful thoughts returned and so she turned around in the bath, passing it off as a sensual twirl for his eyes - with her back to him her face fell to sorrow, to confusion, to anger, and to nothing so quickly. The Breton slowly stood up, knowing that Gregor was watching - especially so now that he had become more content and composed. Her legs slipped out from the tub one at a time teasingly, her feet slowly finding the floorboards to take soft, near silent footsteps over to her lover.

She moved towards him, unhurried by anything - a smirk tugging at her lips, hips swaying hypnotically. She hadn’t bothered to pull on the robe, and so the light of the flames in the fireplace lit her body and the droplets of water glisten like diamonds on her glowing skin. She walked with seductive purpose to Gregor, “I’m safe here with you,” she smiled as she climbed onto his lap, placing her arms on his shoulders, “I’m scared that it won’t last.” What she had wanted to tell him and what her heart wanted to tell him, was that she loved him - and that she loved him so deeply. But it still wasn’t right, it wouldn’t get her what she really wanted and what she needed to feel safe. It was a conflicting feeling that she buried deep down as she bit her lip and closed her eyes, drawing closer to Gregor. The wet bare skin of her chest clinging to his shirt as she sighed against his neck before pulling away to look him in the eyes.

With Governor Rourken continuing to have her minions stalk, kidnap and brutalise them, she would never feel safe. She had to communicate this to him, to the part of him that would understand. She pressed herself to him, thighs either side of his own and her nose pressed against his nose. “As long as Rourken is in power, people like Zaveed of Senchal get to roam the streets and do as they please to people like me and say it’s for the good of Hammerfell…”

Raelynn slowly pulled away, she had his attention now and she straightened up, moving a hand under his chin, her thumb running across his strong jawline tenderly. “I want to do what must be done to ensure you get what you deserve from her.” She knew that the very insinuation of a Dwemer soul would bring darkness and excitement to him all at once, and she smiled calmly awaiting it. “I want us to be the last thing she sees. Only then will I feel safe…”

Like a predator emerging from the shadows, the Pale Reaper returned and the air became charged with the weight of his presence. The feeling of Raelynn’s wet body against his and the nature of her words were reflected in the unnatural hunger that swirled in the bottomless pits of Gregor’s black eyes, and his hands moved slowly, languidly, over her legs, her hips and her back. “Rourken will die,” he breathed against Raelynn’s lips as his fingernails dug into her skin. “You will be safe, and I will be eternal. We will make it so. Together.”

Finally she had gotten what she wanted, a spoken pledge of violence. His presence was so powerful and commanding now that the fire died down to embers. Against his lips she moaned softly in pleasure and pain while his fingernails worked their way into her skin. Her arms wrapped around him and she whispered into his ear, “make me feel alive again.”

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

One Way Or Another

_{a Father Hank and Stormflyx production}

Evening, 6th of Midyear, 4E208
Gilane, Hammerfell

She hadn’t returned.

Gregor had armed and armored himself, cursing up a storm as he did, and left the hotel, heart thundering in his chest. That cat-bastard had her again, he could feel it in his guts. He never should have let her go on her father’s errand alone. Terrified and enraged in equal measure, Gregor hardly knew what to do with himself as the black knight stalked the bowels of Gilane, and even less where to begin his search. He did not know what the Khajiit looked like or what his name was, let alone where he made his lair, and the idea that Gregor would somehow chance upon him was ridiculous -- and yet his mind was so overwhelmed with emotion that he could not think clearly enough to come up with an alternative. It was a pleasant, balmy evening, not as warm as the previous days, and by all rights Gregor should have been enjoying it, spending his hard-earned cash on something nice. But no, here he was, scaring the beggars and thieves that he passed in the alleyways with his bloodthirsty gaze, long strides and veritable armory that he carried on his person.

After an hour, Gregor realized he was merely pacing the length of Gilane, eyes darting fruitlessly from shadow to shadow but seeing nothing. He stopped just a few yards shy of one of the bazaar’s main streets, staring at the crowds from the gloom that shrouded him as dusk fell across the shimmering city. His breathing was heavy and his fingers were trembling. He took a deep breath and forced himself to think, pushing his feelings back into Pandora’s box with all the discipline he could muster. There was nothing else for it; Gregor was not equipped to handle this situation. He closed his eyes and wilfully summoned his dark companion. When his eyes opened again, a different person looked out over the streets, and a small smile played around his lips.

The Pale Reaper had an idea.

He turned on his heels and marched back the way he came, head held high and face inscrutable. By the time he reached his destination, having made sure that the street was devoid of Dwemer patrols before showing up and knocking on the door, there was no trace left of the trembling and incoherent Gregor, and he looked for all the world to see like a gentleman warrior merely calling on an acquaintance. He stepped back and waited, hands clasped behind his back.

For once, it would not be the towering Redguard who answered the door. Instead, the Hawkford Patriach. This evening, he was dressed in a light robe and slippers. Comforting. He needed it. On his desk was a crystalline bottle of rum, and beside it a short glass. He shuffled over to the door - he already knew who was on the other side. His intuition. Ever since Zaveed had pulled the rug from under him and changed the plans, he knew there would be some… setbacks.
He hesitated over the handle for a moment, taking in a deep breath. He knew that Gregor was on the other side - but how would the man be? He didn’t know him well enough. He put himself into the shoes of the Imperial. He thought about how he would act if his Roxada went missing. The only real reaction to that would be to burn down cities until she was found. That however, was Roxada, his wife. Raelynn was merely a companion to Gregor.

He opened the door, a cold expression would meet Gregor’s eyes from behind the spectacles. “Mr Sibassius, do what do I owe the pleasure?” Ignorance would be his method, at least for now.

“Your daughter is missing,” Gregor said, his voice sharp as a knife, and swept past Salasoix without asking permission. His gaze lingered on the bottle of rum as he stepped into the older man’s office and he smiled knowingly. He turned his head to look back at Salasoix and the look in his eyes was unmistakable -- something dark and terribly dangerous lurked in there, inexorable and unstoppable. He would not be denied. “Sit,” he said and gestured towards the chair that Salasoix had just vacated to open the door. “We will speak now.”

Salosoix let him have his moment, it reminded him ever so slightly of a child building to a tantrum. He uttered nothing but a breathy chuckle as he moved past him with such an aura that it caused his robe to flutter in the breeze he caused. He closed the door, his eyes falling to the floor with guilt. She was missing after all, it had been his doing. But it was to save her, and he knew that she would be alright. He had ensured this. He had to maintain a brave composure now, to continue to protect her. She was not out of the woods yet, he knew it.

“Is she now?” he began in an arrogant and lackadaisical tone, almost melodic, “is she missing, or is she exactly where she should be?” He turned back to face Gregor - his presence had brought a heaviness to the room that couldn’t be avoided. He made his way over to the desk in a relaxed fashion, almost deliberately taking his time, testing his guest’s patience. “When did you last see my dear Raelynn today?”

The Breton’s laconic behavior all but confirmed that which Gregor had suspected; Salasoix knew something. “Just before she left after you summoned her,” he replied, playing along for now, and took a seat without waiting for his host to do so first. He would not allow Salasoix to control the conversation entirely. He clasped his hands in his lap and tilted his head. “She did not come back. You know what that means, Salasoix. You’re not stupid.”

“Yes, I do know what that means. She’s where she needs to be right now.” He did not take his seat - and instead made his way to a cabinet on the furthest wall from the desk and removed a glass from inside. It matched the one that he had been drinking from. “She has been missing for some hours now, I ask you to think of how many hours. I would then ask you to imagine how far away from Gilane a ship can get on it’s voyage back to High Rock in those same hours. She’s where she needs to be, Gregor.” He appeared behind Gregor, leaning over him to place the empty glass down, before moving around to his seat at last.

He said nothing, and made no eye contact with the man and instead poured them both a glass of the rum. “Do you really think I would allow her to remain here?” His hand hovered over his glass, and he pondered momentarily on whether to follow up his question. He chose not to - lifting his head to look Gregor directly in his eyes - they repulsed him with their dangerous vacancy and his lip visibly curled - something in there wasn’t right. Something about this man was off and he’d known it from the instant he’d met him only days prior.

Nothing visibly changed but Gregor’s face still took on an inexplicably chilling expression, like the suspended blade of a guillotine, and he leaned forwards in his chair. “You insult my intelligence,” he said softly. “What you allow is irrelevant. You have no power over Raelynn. She is not on her way back to High Rock. She’s here, in Gilane, in the claws of that fucking Khajiit, and yet here you are, sipping your rum and lounging in your bathrobe. You have resources, wealth, influence -- a man like you should be out there, organizing the search party, petitioning to the Governor, spending monstrous sums of cash to get your daughter back. The only reason that you’re not is because you know something.”

He let his words hang in the pregnant silence of the room for a few seconds, staring daggers into Salasoix’s eyes. “I want to know what you know.”

Once again the Breton let Gregor do what he needed to do. Pointless and futile to interrupt a man like this, and yet something about him completely hit a nerve in Salosoix. There was an unmistakable tenebrosity about him that only made him doubt his own daughter’s judgement. He had to take a sip from the glass just to restrain himself. His jaw clenched. The nerve of him. “Gregor, the only resource a man ever needs,” once again his crooked smile flickered over his thin lips as he reclined in the chair - knowing that his blase attitude in the situation was stoking the flames within the Imperial. It was a game he probably shouldn’t be playing, and yet he was doing it anyway. Poking the bear with a rather sharp stick - and right where it hurt too. He lifted his hand, pointing his finger towards his head before gently knocking against his skull, “is this one.”

He cleared his throat, ready to go for another poke so soon. He too leaned forward until his face was inches from Gregor’s. The iron in his eyes was the opposite of the calming blues of his own, it made his skin crawl to look them so dead on, and yet he was hypnotised by them too. “Of course I fucking know where she is. She’s where she needs to be, I told you.” He pushed Gregor’s glass closer to him, inviting him to drink. “Indulge me. Tell me how you plan to save her from the claws of the Khajiit.”

Gregor pointedly ignored the glass. His anger was threatening to rise to the surface and make him do something stupid, but the Pale Reaper silenced it, overcoming his base impulses through sheer willpower. “If I told you that, I would have to kill you too,” he said flatly. “You don’t know the first thing about me and, for your own sake, it’s better if it stays that way. Tell me what you know.” He hadn’t moved an inch since he started talking and the air was charged with the superhuman restraint that was necessary to stop Gregor from flying at Salasoix and beating the truth out of him.

“The reason that I do not use any other resources, the reason that I am not tearing my hair out right now is because my daughter, like me, is resourceful. She found her way out of his clutches once. She will do it again. I made sure of it.” He knew better than to engage Gregor in conversation regarding himself. His threats were palpable and real and that was enough to slow Salosoix down on pressing those particular nerves any more. He closed his eyes and sighed, bringing his elbows to the table, his hands together, as if in prayer.

“I plan everything. I always have, and I always will. You are a man of great strength and no doubt you have physical prowess. I know this to be true because you and the Argonian took down several men with little difficulty. I was not blessed with such talents - nor was I ever interested enough to pursue them.” Salosoix opened his eyes again, locking onto Gregor’s once more - only this time, a fierce fire brewed in his own. He blinked slowly and let his fingers interlock together. “I was blessed with the gift of an amazing mind, it has served me well. Everything I have is because I am smart, patient, and because I plan for every eventuality. I knew that you would be here this evening, and here I am, buying my daughter more time because I planned it that way.” Once he had said the words, he sat back in his seat - tired of being so close to the Imperial, his eerie stare had rattled him enough now.

“If I had told you about any of this, you would have ran in there like a wild animal and put Raelynn in more danger, admit it.” The Breton placed his hands in his lap and looked down at them, waiting for Gregor’s response. There was still time to fill.

Gregor was a mage. Sometimes, in times of great duress, things happened around mages that they could not explain or control. As the iron mask finally broke and a loathsome scowl crept over Gregor’s face, the temperature in the room dropped perceptibly and the rum in Gregor’s glass froze solid. He opened his mouth to speak but it was as if he could not find his voice, so great was his fury, and his knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists. “You let this happen,” he said at length, hissing through his teeth. He wanted to scream at him and gouge out his eyes for his arrogance and his insolence, but once again the Pale Reaper’s indomitable will took control and Gregor’s face froze into a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. With slow, deliberate movements, he freed his dagger from its sheath and pulled a small, opaque, purple gem out of one of his pouches before placing both items on the desk in front of him.

“Speak,” he said, voice hoarse and cold. It was clear that he would not repeat himself one more time.

He had let it happen. He had been given no choice - it was a choice that he had very little time to make, with his daughter’s life on the line in both. He had chosen the lesser of the two evils. It didn’t make what he had done any less evil. He had been sitting with it in his gut like a boulder ever since. It was only the knowledge that he had done everything he could to ensure her safety, and a safe escape for her afterwards that was holding him together. He looked at the gem on the desk like a man defeated, his eyes watering underneath. Nobody had known about this - not even Zhaib. Nobody had known that he had played a part in this - he had been carrying it on his shoulders, a heavy burden to carry. And yet, he would not be threatened like this in his home, over his daughter. Over his Raelynn, not after what he had done to protect her, what he had been forced to expose her to.

He stood up abruptly from his seat, his lips pursed and face hot with an anger of his own. If Gregor did this to him, took his soul - then so be it! But he would not, he felt a semblance of safety - even if it was a thin ice that he was now dancing on. “She is my daughter, my only daughter. I had no choice,” the Breton emphasised every syllable he spoke now as his fingers grasped at the mahogany of the desk. He looked down. “She is alright, she is safe, Gregor. She was bait - that’s all.”

He shook his head - eyes still pointed at the floor. After a moment, he returned to an upright position and took his glass in hand once more. Inhaling the scent of the rum before finishing the last of it from the glass. “The warehouse district, the outskirts of it - the dilapidated ones,” Salosoix said softly, almost a whisper. “She’ll be making her escape now, she’ll need you.” For the last time, Salosoix looked into Gregor’s eyes - severity etched across his face. The look that only a parent could give. “She’ll need you. She won’t need this,” his hand washed over the gem and dagger. It was a warning, as much as he could muster. What the fuck is she thinking? were his thoughts. It was his only thought. For the first time in his life, he felt… a divide.

Somewhere deep inside Gregor, he was moved by the display and admired Salasoix’s bravery and defiance in the face of a fate worse than death. But the Pale Reaper was in his element now and he was not yet satisfied. Raelynn’s safety was what Gregor wanted -- but he wanted a blood-price. He got to his feet and casually returned to the dagger and soul gem to where they came from, but he did not leave.

“That’s not good enough,” he began, hunger evident on his face and an insufferable sing-song tone to his voice. “The Khajiit. Tell me his name. Tell me who he is.”

“He is a piece of lowlife scum whose name is Zaveed.” He took no time in speaking his name, it rolled off his tongue and he was delighted to say it. He still held pause, thinking it over. He had no regrets - the Khajiit deserved to be killed. It probably should be Gregor to do it. Something was still wrong, still there was a lingering thought in his mind ticking away, agitating him. Of course - “Gregor,” coldly, the second name was said as he addressed his guest one last time, “this is not my story, it is not yours. It is hers. You must let her tell you his name.” He hoped the man understood, and at last Salosoix sat back down in his chair with a wistful sigh and his head in his hands.

Gregor walked over to Salasoix’s side and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. It was almost comforting, were it not for the strength of his grip, and he bent over until his mouth was level with Salasoix’s ear. The Breton wasn’t looking at him and did not see the crimson that flashed in his eyes. “Everything is mine,” the Pale Reaper whispered. He remained still for a few seconds more before he suddenly, like an arrow loosed from a bow, turned around and flew out of the room, the house and onto the streets.

“That’s what I’m afraid of…” whispered Salosoix as he gazed out at the open door and upon the desolate streets of Gilane.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

A Dance of Deception

Evening, 2nd of Midyear, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, Hammerfell

Featuring the magnificent @Mortarion

Swilling the contents of his glass slowly, Gregor stared out over the sprawling city below. He lay reclined on one of the comfortable sofas that stood outside on the balcony of the room he shared with Jaraleet, Calen and Alim and had just finished dinner. The scene was reminiscent of his confrontation with Alim a few days before; even the food was the same. Local seafood, freshly caught in the sea. Gregor was acquiring a real taste for it. He knew he was a wanted man now and had kept his head down so far, but he was itching to do something. The successful murder of Nblec and subsequent sacrifice of his soul to the Ideal Master that acted as his patron deity made Gregor feel empowered and excited. He was much closer to his goal now, with still more than a decade ahead of him to finish his task. His father, Hector, had succumbed to the family curse when he was fifty-six. Gregor was thirty-eight. The quest that had seemed impossible when he embarked on it ten years ago had actually become feasible now.

Of course, that had come at a cost. Gregor’s personal success came at the expense of the resistance, and him and his allies in particular. Gregor had thrown Jaraleet under the wagon and blamed the Argonian’s torture methods for Nblec’s death (he had claimed to anyone that asked that his best guess had been stress-induced heart failure) and not spoken to him since. It was a cold, cruel thing to do, but necessary. Gregor thought back to the penultimate moments inside the safe house, before Nblec’s death. Jaraleet had been cold and cruel too. Perhaps the Argonian was pragmatic and calculating enough to understand why Gregor did what he did, if he ever learned the truth.

Yeah, right, Gregor thought to himself and took another sip.

As if summoned by Gregor’s very thoughts, it was at that moment that Jaraleet had decided to return to the room that they shared with the Argonian quickly spotting the Imperial man. “Ah, Gregor, just the man that I wanted to see!” The Haj-Eix exclaimed out loud as he began making his way towards the balcony where the man sat. “I hope that you don’t mind if I join you? It has been too long since we last chatted, hasn’t it?” He said once he finally reached where Gregor was, regarding the Imperial with a friendly smile that, he hoped, would put him at ease.

There were many things that Jaraleet wished to discuss with Gregor, and it would do him no good to get the Imperial man nervous or hostile towards him. Especially when he had directly blamed him for Nblec’s death.

Gregor watched Jaraleet’s movements and facial expression intently, but quickly realized he had no idea how to read an Argonian’s body language. “It has,” he said affably and motioned for Jaraleet to sit with him. “I’m sorry we haven’t spoken sooner. It’s been quite an… enervating time, however. You understand.” He paused for a second and inhaled sharply before continuing. “Listen. I know what you want to talk about. Let me start by saying that I only blamed Nblec’s death on your interrogation because I can’t think of any other reason for him to have suddenly died like he did. I told Latro the same thing yesterday; it’s like his heart just betrayed him. Stress can do that to a man, and presumably to an elf as well.” Gregor felt a pang of shame for a moment at his bald-faced lies. Just a moment, though.

“Yes, yes, it has been quite an enervating time like you said.” Jaraleet replied as he took a seat in front of Gregor. He listened in silence as Gregor talked about the reason why he had blamed him for Nblec’s death and the shame that the man felt was palpable. “It happened, there’s no use in dwelling on that fact.” He replied, shaking his head slightly. He knew too well his craft to have done such an amateurish mistake as putting enough stress on Nblec’s body so as to cause him a heart attack, but Gregor didn’t knew that. “Maybe if you feel too bad you wouldn’t mind sharing that bottle of wine you have there my friend?” The Argonian joked, chuckling softly.

Gregor felt relief at Jaraleet’s apparent willingness to let bygones be bygones, and flashed the Argonian a sincere smile. “Not at all,” he said and handed him the bottle. “Help yourself. Gods know you’ve earned a drink. So,” he continued and cleared his throat. “How… did the others react? Have you talked to anyone?”

“Ah, thank you my friend.” The Argonian replied, taking the bottle and taking a swig from its contents. “Hmmmm, well, Sora wasn’t too happy….said something about me being a malignant tumor or something along those lines.” He replied, pausing for a slight second. “Meg was….confused, and hurt. But I don’t think she holds any ill-will towards me.” He replied, his stomach briefly knotting with guilt as he remembered the conversation that he had had with the Nord woman earlier on the day. “Aside from that, I haven’t talked with anyone else. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they hold a similar mindset to Sora, well except for Raelynn and Latro since they were there.” He said, taking another swig from the bottle before offering it to Gregor.

Gracefully refusing the bottle and raising his glass to show that he was still well-equipped to keep drinking, Gregor sighed as Jaraleet recounted Daro’Vasora’s words. “Do you remember how Daro’Vasora fell out against Rhea when we first arrived in Anvil? I think she often speaks in anger and says things that she does not mean. She’s upset, she’s stressed… I would be too, in her shoes. To assume leadership over this group of people is an enormous responsibility. I’m sure it was unpleasant, to say the least, to hear her call you a ‘malignant tumor’, but try not to let it get to you too much,” he said and took a sip of wine, his dark eyes observing Jaraleet over the edge of his glass.

“You were more than just a soldier, weren’t you?” Gregor asked suddenly, tilting his head slightly.

“I do not mind, and I do not let it get to me. What I did was a necessary evil, and someone has to stain their hands with blood.” He replied when Gregor told him to try to not get Daro’Vasora’s words to get to him. “But I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless, thank you my friend.” He added, smiling at the Imperial. He drummed his fingers against the table when Gregor half-stated and half-asked that he was more than a regular soldier. The silence stretched for a few more moments before Jaraleet decided to speak again. “Yes, I was more than a mere soldier. I started as one, but by the end of my….tenure amongst the armies of the An-Xileel I was more than that.” He lied easily, taking another swig from the bottle of wine. “I could say the same to you my friend. Not many people, including professional soldiers, can stand to see an interrogation in progress without flinching.”

That made Gregor laugh. “No, you’re right. My younger self would have been dismayed at my composure today. I used to be a soft-hearted romantic, but… life has jaded me, much like your wars have done to you. I spent a long time in Skyrim with a group of Vigilants of Stendarr. We dismantled several covens of witches, put necromancers to the sword and eradicated vampire nests. I’ve seen things during that time… well,” he said and rubbed his eyes, “I still think war is probably the worst thing in the world, and I don’t mean to imply that the things I’ve done are comparable to what I imagine you have had to do, but there are plenty of horrors in the dark corners of the world that are a worse sight than an interrogation. Let me put it like that.”

It was easy to lie like this -- everything Gregor had said was true, and it was simply a matter of omitting the parts he did not want Jaraleet to know. “I tried to save Nblec, you know,” Gregor added, looking sidelong at his friend. “But I don’t have Raelynn’s skills. And we both know what she had her hands full with.”

“Ah, yes, poor Calen. It is a shame that he was wounded like he was, and for nothing as he turned out with Nblec’s death. Still, I thank you for trying to save Nblec’s life.” The Argonian replied, smiling at Gregor before he took yet another swig for the bottle. It was an odd comment to drop all of a sudden, and it raised Jaraleet’s suspicions. “Still, I can’t help but feel a bit frustrated. I was so sure that I had been careful enough to ensure that Nblec would survive…” The Argonian said, rapping his knuckles against the wood of the table. “But I guess that’s what happens when you deal with a race that hasn’t been on Nirn for the last hundred centuries. The unexpected happens, doesn’t it?”

There it was. Jaraleet didn’t buy Gregor’s story after all. He wasn’t surprised -- if anyone would know that he was lying, it would be the expert interrogator himself. Gregor smiled and looked away, thinking of what to say next. It unsettled him that he had no idea what Jaraleet was thinking by simply looking at him. As far as he could tell, his reptilian ally experienced a permanent sense of indifference. “Maybe that’s why the Dwemer made those automatons of theirs,” he offered, smiling sheepishly -- he knew that what he was saying was nonsense, but he thought it was best to play dumb now. “Their bodies aren’t made to endure the stress of combat or confrontation like that. Who knows?”

“Perhaps, mer bodies are very sensitive. Did you know that?” The Argonian replied without missing a beat, still smiling at Gregor but the suspicions in his mind were mounting up. “Much like Argonian bodies in fact. But I’ve seen mer survive techniques that can only be applied in Argonia, and ones that are much more violent than merely pulling out nails. So I doubt that a Dwemer would die to something so simple.” He continued on, taking another swig from his bottle as he waited for what Gregor would say next.

Gregor opened his mouth to say something but closed it again. He did not want to think of the type of torture methods that Black Marsh produced. Based on what he knew of the place, it was something absolutely abhorrent. “Well, I didn’t kill him,” Gregor said at length. “What else can it have been?” He took another sip of a wine, a bigger one this time, and hoped that Jaraleet would drop the subject.

The last time Gregor had tried a stunt like this, he had killed all of the witnesses. I really have to be more careful, he thought to himself.

“I never said you did my friend, I was merely airing out my frustrations.” The Argonian replied with a mirthless smile, something that Gregor probably wouldn’t be able to tell. “As for what it could have been, I can think of a number of reasons. Some unknown Dwemer technology or magic, there’s so much we don’t know about them after all, or it could have very well been an act of internal sabotage. But I prefer not to consider the latter option.” He said, taking another swig from the bottle of wine, his suspicions about Gregor all but confirmed now.

“Me neither,” Gregor was quick to add. “But… if you were to consider the possibility,” he continued, looking down into his glass, “who would you suspect?”

“Hmmm, in such a theoretical scenario I’d naturally consider the culprit to be the last person who was with the person being interrogated. But that couldn’t have been you, right my friend?” The Argonian said, taking a long swig from the bottle to hide the smirk on his face as he waited for Gregor’s reaction.

Oh, to hell with this.

“A necessary evil,” Gregor said, repeating Jaraleet. His voice had changed; it was deeper, more deliberate, and there was a touch of iron to the eyes that bore into Jaraleet’s from above the rim of his glass. “You used those words earlier. Perhaps what happened to Nblec was just that. A necessary evil.”

“Is that so?” The Argonian asked, his amber eyes staring back at Gregor’s without a hint of fear in them. “I find it curious that you'd say something like that...do you know something that the rest of us don't Gregor? It's hard to describe something like a heart attack as a ‘necessary evil’, that is unless one of your Divines decided to strike Nblec down right then and there. But, if that's the case, well, one would hardly could justify describing that as an evil, no?”

Jaraleet’s unblinking gaze -- that Gregor could read. “You know what happened,” he said softly and set the glass of wine aside. “I can see it in your eyes. And it doesn’t scare you. You're fearless," Gregor continued as he leaned forwards. "Cold, calculating, ruthless. That's your strength. But you don't know fear.” He paused and his dark eyes were like a black pool, its depth immeasurable. “I'm very, very afraid. That makes me more dangerous than you could ever be. I have my reasons, Jaraleet. Nblec’s death was a necessary evil. For your sake… don't get in my way.”

Jaraleet remained silent for a few seconds before he started laughing, albeit there was no mirth whatsoever to the sound. When the Argonian finally stopped, he regarded Gregor with the same cold eyes that he had regarded Nblec Mrazac with as he had interrogated the Dwemer. “Yes, a man who is afraid is very dangerous indeed.” The assassin began speaking icily, staring directly at Gregor’s eyes. “But a man who is afraid is also reckless, prone to stupid decisions.” He hissed, motioning towards the streets of Gilane with one free hand. “Look at what's happening out there, the Dwemer will hunt us in full force and your little act has turned us into a liability in the eyes of the Poncy Man.” Jaraleet said, pausing for a second before continuing. “I don't know why you murdered Nblec, but I doubt you'll be able to reap whatever rewards you might obtain from such an act if our gracious host suddenly poisons you, and the rest of us as well, because we've become too great a risk.” He finished, shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, and Gregor? Before threatening me, consider the following.” Jaraleet added, pausing for a brief second to let the Imperial process what he had said previously. “What do you think could cause a man to lose the ability to fear? I've seen and done things that would even make you aghast, and I've survived more than you might think. For your sake, hope that we don't find ourselves on opposing sides.”

“I know all of that,” Gregor bit back, visibly aggravated. “But you have no idea who I am, or what’s on my heels. I had to do it. You wouldn’t understand.” He fell silent again, staring at Jaraleet with a grim expression, wondering about how much danger he was in. “All I ask is that you don’t tell the rest of the group about this. In turn, I promise that I will be less… reckless, in the future, and I will never betray your trust again.”

A thought came to him and he smiled. “You’re like me, though, aren’t you? This war we’re in… we both have ulterior motives. A man like you, with skills like that, never truly leaves his war. Argonia versus the world. I refuse to believe that you truly care about this land or what happens to it. You’re too cold, too far gone for that. I believe you when you say that you have gone through terrible things… for your country, right? You remind me of my father, in that way. He never truly believed the Great War was over. I could see it in his eyes.”

Gregor leaned forward and continued in a low voice. “We don’t have to be at odds, you and I. If we are both honest with each other about who we are and what we want… I think we can help one another. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, that is a very real possibility.” The Argonian replied at Gregor’s suggestion that they might be able to help each other. “You are correct in saying that I have no idea of who you are, or in what situation you are, and in at, much like you, I have ulterior motives as well.” He said, pausing for a second to ponder what to say next. “I would have no problems helping you achieve your goals truth be told, as long as we avoid a situation like the one we are at present. Does that seems like a good compromise to you?”

“And, yes, I am very much like you Gregor. My war, as you put it, won't be over until the day I die, and I can't, won't, leave it, for the sake of my country and my people.” Jaraleet added, taking the bottle of wine again and taking a swig of its contents as he waited for Gregor to reply.

“I understand that,” Gregor said and nodded slowly. “I know it doesn’t make sense right now, but I did what I did for my family’s sake as much as my own. Yes, that is an acceptable compromise. Honestly, with the aid of someone like you, I won’t have to sabotage the group like that again. Believe me, I took no pleasure in creating a situation in which Calen could possibly have died for nothing. I haven’t even been able to muster the courage to visit him,” he added and sighed. He was so weary. The weight of his mission and his suppressed conscience was sometimes almost too much to bear. He wished he could be like Jaraleet; calm, detached, rational. But he couldn’t. His emotions drove him forward. They were at the core of his very being.

Convinced that the imminent danger of being outed as a murderer had passed, Gregor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You gave me quite a fright there, Jaraleet,” the Imperial admitted and grinned sheepishly. “If we hadn’t been able to come to an understanding just now, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Probably something that would have put either of us in quite a complicated situation. Luckily we managed to achieve a satisfying compromise.” The Argonian replied with a chuckle, drinking from the bottle once again. A thought suddenly occurred to him and he raised the bottle in Gregor’s direction, smirking slightly. “To a successful partnership, my friend.” Jaraleet said, taking another drink from the bottle.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

Stone and Sand

_{featuring the lovely @Amaranth}

Afternoon, 1st of Midyear, 4E208
The Three Crowns Hotel, Gilane, Hammerfell

Mazrah had ditched the (now bloodied and torn) robe that Nanine made her wear in an alleyway long before they even reached the Three Crowns Hotel again, and proudly sashayed into the refuge of Gilane’s resistance with her tattoos once again on display. Nanine tended to her injuries while Brynja saw that Judena was taken care of, and after that Mazrah was left to rest and recover. Someone had fetched a bed for her and placed it in the room that she shared with Brynja, Rhona, Raelynn and Daro’Vasora. It had felt beyond satisfying to finally bring the fight to the Dwemer, even if it was in such a covert (read: cowardly) manner and she slept soundly.

Her mind wandered the next day and she found herself thinking of the Redguard girl that had escaped with them. Mazrah had noticed that she had been capable of holding her own once she got ahold of a sword, but she still felt an almost sisterly urge to seek her out and make sure she was okay. There was no way that the girl should have been alone on that prisoner cart. It was wrong, and she spat a curse in the Dwemer’s names because of it.

Asking around for the whereabouts of the girl, Mazrah learned that she was staying in her own accomodation on the hotel’s grounds and she set off to find the Redguard there. “Hello?” she asked upon arriving and knocked on the door. “Is anyone there?”

Shakti opened the thin door to the small room (it was more like a closet) that the owners had allowed her to use for the time being. Apparently it was where the maids stayed. The door revealed the Orsimer woman who had played some part in her rescue from the wagon. Only she was nearly nude. It’s not like her own clothes were in better shape, her robe was missing its sleeve now thanks to the chop to the forearm she had received a day(ish) ago. Shakti did her best not to judge or to stare as she tossed her replacement sword (which she was cleaning) onto her bedroll. “Greetings to you, Orc. You have my eternal gratitude for helping to free me.” She followed her thanking with a short bow. Satisfied with what her Father would see, she moved on, “So, anything you need?”

Flashing a grin and waving her hand dismissively, Mazrah chuckled. “Don’t mention it! Being afforded the opportunity to stab a few Dwemer in the throat was reward enough for me. And I don’t need anything from you, really. I just came to see if you were…” She paused, a little awkward, and shrugged. “Well, if you were okay, you know? I’ve seen that you can handle yourself in a fight, but it still doesn’t seem right that a girl your age was stuck on a prisoner transport like that. My name is Mazrah, by the way. What’s yours?”

Shakti grinned at her grin, although she was not sure what was so funny. “That is kind of you to do. I am not that young though.” She brushed some of her messy hair with her fingers so that it stood up. “My name is… well you can call me Shakti. I have other names but you might find them hard to pronounce. It is good to meet you Mazrah, and other than this-“ She shook her lacerated forearm and slightly winced, “-I am fine.”

“Hm.” Mazrah narrowed her eyes as she seized up Shakti again, trying to get a feel for what kind of young woman she was dealing with. “Maybe you look younger than you are. Either way, good to see that you’re still in one piece. You should visit us sometime soon and get that looked at,” she added and pointed at Shakti’s injured arm. “There are a few healers with us that could patch that up in seconds.” Mazrah put her hands on her hips, laughed to herself and shook her head. “Okay, I can’t resist asking: why are you in Gilane all alone? How did you end up on that transport?”

Shakti winced and smiled an embarrassed smile. “Well…” She began, aware of the absurdity of the next sentence, “I’m looking for someone. And I sooort of got into a duel with the wrong person. And his two friends. I almost beat them too. I ran when the guards showed up, but they ended up catching me.” She shook her wounded arm limply. “Lucky shot.” She smiled more fully this time. “About those healers though, could you point me in their direction? This hurts worse than it looks, I promise.”

“Come with me, I'll take you to them,” Mazrah said and gestured for Shakti to fall in line next to her. “Who are you looking for? Must be someone important, if you're willing to take on three people by yourself to find them,” she added, blissfully unaware that her prying questions were probably very personal. “I don't mean to imply that you're weak, but it looks to me like you could use some help.”

The Redguard girl cheerfully took up a place next to the Orcish woman and matched her pace. “I appreciate all of the kindness you have shown me. If there’s anything I can do to help, er, you or anyone around. Just ask. As for who I am searching for…” She brushed her right hand through her messy, windswept hair again, her mind racing through half-calculations of what-ifs and should-Is. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to tell you. You seem trustworthy enough.” She gave a light shrug as a final punctuation to her decision. “I am looking for the man who killed my father. He was a knight, in Sentinel to the north. Both my father and his killer. Whoever it was betrayed my father. The man I fought was a former knight of the same order. He has something to do with it, though I don’t know much more than that. That’s why I am in Gilane. I had my father’s sword with me, but it was taken from me when I was imprisoned.” Shakti opened her mouth to say more but suddenly thought differently and closed it again.

Murdered. That was bad. There was a distinct difference in Orcish culture between murdered and merely killed; one was an act of cowardice, and the other was simply being victorious in a fair fight. Acts of cowardice were intolerable. And to lose a family heirloom as well! Mazrah couldn’t bear the thought of having her mother’s spear taken from her. “That’s rough,” the Orsimer said and shot Shakti a sympathetic smile. “It’s good that you are hunting down your father’s murderer. Vengeance is a sacred duty in matters such as these.” She paused and then added: “At least, it is where I came from. As for your sword… the transport you were on came from the prison. We had another team that infiltrated the prison around the same time we hit the transport. Perhaps one of my allies found your blade. Is it… special? Remarkable, in any way?”

Shakti thought about it for a moment. She supposed her task did boil down to vengeance, though she was loath to think of it that way. It was a matter of honour, not simple vengeance. She was the eldest, the blade of her family fell to her, she had to restore honour to her family by avenging the murder of her father. Perhaps there was more to her task than she had thought previously. Shakti nodded along to the Orcish woman’s comment. It was indeed rough. The sword though, she had not considered the possibility of someone picking it up. It was not overly special. It was only made of steel, not moonstone or orichalcum or ebony. It was finely made but Shakti estimated that it could hardly be called a masterwork. Of course, none of that mattered to her, it was perhaps, her prized possession. “No... I… It is special to me, but I do not think it is particularly remarkable. Except for maybe the curve of the blade. It is straighter and longer than the average Redguard hel but not as straight as a blade of the Cyrods. It has been in my family for generations. Last I saw it, it was lying in a pile of other weapons, I would be surprised if your friends picked it out and took it.” She waved her good hand dismissively. “I will go back to the prison later to look, but first I need to bandage my arm.” Shakti tried to add a confident tone to the first clause as she spoke. She must seem remarkably stupid to Mazrah to want to go back to the place she had just escaped from for a sword.

“Back to the prison?” Mazrah asked and raised an eyebrow. “I understand that you want to get your father’s sword back, don’t get me wrong, but the guards will be crawling all over that place now that my allies have struck there. I wouldn’t go back just yet.” She saw an opportunity here, though. She was the newest member of the cell and it probably wasn’t even her job to recruit new people, but she figured it couldn’t hurt. “Tell you what: if you join us, I’ll help you find your father’s sword and his killer. You’ve seen what we do. We’re resistance fighters. You believe in a free Hammerfell, right?”

The question was something Shakti hadn’t thought a lot about. The answer was pretty obvious, of course she did, but so far her travels had been solely concerned with her own personal journey. The run-ins with the law and Dwemer were just consequences of doing what she had to do in the name of honour. She thought back to Israhal. He would want her to join this cause. He had practically already tried to get her to join his group. She kind of did join too. Temporarily is what she had told herself. She did a few jobs for them, that’s all.

Shakti had seen how things were here. The curfews, the detainments. She had seen the patrols in the desert harassing other tribes. And if they were allowing traitor-knights like the one from the inn into the ranks of the guard… Perhaps it was time she stood up for her country.

“Joining a noble cause such as yours is the right thing to do. I’ll do it.” She nodded as a final affirmation of her words. “Don’t worry about the sword though. I have an idea.” Shakti winked and grinned at the Orc impishly.

“Finally,” Mazrah said and returned Shakti’s grin, “a Redguard that doesn’t hesitate to defend her own country! I have to say, I was disappointed when the Dwemer first invaded and just… won, you know? Ah well, we’re taking the fight to them now, even if it is all cloak-and-dagger. Welcome to Samara cell. You’ll have to be introduced to the Poncy Man, our leader, but that can wait. What’s this idea you have about your sword?” she asked. Their feet were taking them towards the wing of the hotel reserved for the resistance; even if Brynja, Raelynn or Nanine were busy, there were other healers around who could help with Shakti’s wounded arm.

“They haven’t won!” Shakti exclaimed, her defensive tone surprising even herself. Perhaps she cared more than she knew. “The desert sands would tear themselves apart before they submitted to the yoke of another empire. We resisted the Aldmeri and we will resist the Dwemeri just the same!” She let out her breath to calm down. “Sorry, I just… Hammerfell is more than just the cities and the Dwemer have barely scratched the surface of the great Alik’r.”

Mazrah threw her head back and laughed. “That’s the spirit! Okay, you’re right, I take back what I said. But you have to admit that the Dwemer achieved more than the Dominion ever did,” the Orsimer said with a wink. “Don’t worry, we’ll kick them out soon enough. But you still haven’t told me what your idea was.”

Shakti shrugged, “Perhaps.” She didn’t really know how far the Aldmeri had made it. She wasn’t alive back then, but she had heard the stories a thousand times before. “I know exactly where the sword was. I can picture it in my mind. All I need to do is get back into the building and I can be in and out before they know what happened. It will be easy.”

“Easy? You got captured once before, young lady,” Mazrah said, both amused and chiding. “But if that’s what you want to do, I won’t stop you. Just be careful. This way,” she said and started climbing the stairs that would take them to to the floor of the hotel that housed the resistance. The hotel was obviously made for a slightly shorter race than the Orsimer, and Mazrah had to crouch slightly to prevent the tip of her spear from poking holes in the ceiling as she cleared the steps. “What about the rest of your family? Mother, siblings? How are they?”

“I was wounded! This time I’ll be as fresh as unwalked sand!” Shakti declared, her confidence embellished slightly for Maz’s amusement. The Redguard girl made note of the way they had gone to get to this part of the hotel, having never been up to the second floor. The question of her family brought a tinge of sadness to her breast. “I have not seen them for a year or more. My mother leads the tribe. I have a younger sister and younger brother, I’m the oldest. I hope to see them again someday, hopefully successfully.”

Mazrah smiled and shook her head in mock derision at Shakti’s words. She liked the girl; the Redguard was sympathetic and strong-willed. The Orsimer resolved to keep an eye out for her and to keep her promise to Shakti. “Your mother leads the tribe,” Mazrah repeated and the approval was evident in her voice. “She must be strong. I miss my mother too, sometimes,” she said, taking note of the sadness on Shakti’s face. “She taught me everything I know. Greatest hunter Orsinium has ever seen. I have no doubt that we will both return home with tales of glory and victory one day, to impress our mothers with.” Mazrah gave Shakti a playful elbow bump before strutting down the corridor and knocking on the doors. “Hello?” she called out, wilfully insensitive to the private matters people might be attending to inside. “Is there a healer here? We need a healer!”

One of the doors opened and a middle-aged Redguard woman shuffled out while wrapping her robes around herself, looking at Mazrah with suspicion. Mazrah hadn’t seen her before, but realized she must be one of the other resistance members holed up at the hotel. “What is it?”

Mazrah pointed at Shakti’s arm. “The girl needs healing. She just joined our cause.”

The woman’s face lit up with a mixture of excitement and concern. “Oh, excellent! Not that you are wounded, my dear, but -- well, you know what I mean. Come, I will fix that arm of yours,” she said and beckoned for Shakti to follow.

Mazrah put a hand on her hips and smiled. “I’ll see you around, Shakti.”

The younger girl liked that idea. Coming home to impress her mother with how she righted the family’s honour and saved Hammerfell in the process. Perhaps she would go and visit Maz’s mother as well. “Thank you Maz, I hope to chat again soon!” Shakti turned back to the other Redguard as Mazrah departed the room. “It isn’t bad, but it does hurt,” she said to the healer as she held up her lacerated forearm, wincing.

“Child, where did you go and get this? Any deeper and you would have hit bone!”

“I am not a child! A sword did that, it cut clean through my bracer.” Shakti answered the matron sullenly.

The older woman clicked her tongue, “Well just hold still.”

Shakti held her arm up and the Redguard healer held her hand over the wound, warm light radiating from the palm. The hair on Shakti’s arm stood up and she looked away from the wound. Magic was uncommon amongst her tribe and she still wasn’t totally comfortable being around it. Regardless, the tingling feeling wasn’t altogether unpleasant and when she looked back at her arm all that remained was a nasty scar.

“Whoa! How did you do that?” The genuine surprise in the girl’s words made the matron laugh. “Child, haven’t you seen a healing spell before?” Shakti flushed a slightly redder shade of brown, “Well… no not before now.” The older woman laughed again, “Come back if you need more healing and if you’d like, I’ll teach you a basic healing spell. Could save your life in the field!”

Shakti bowed to the older woman and rubbed her arm in disbelief. “I am in your debt, no shira.”

Shakti was off practically before she had finished her bow. She darted down the stairs towards whence she came, stopping only at her room to grab her Dwemer shortblade and fasten it to the back of her belt. Out and down through the hallways again out into the courtyard of the Three Crowns, finally slowing down as she hit the streets and only because it would draw unwelcome attention. First things first. Get back her sword.

The Elder Scrolls: Vengeance of the Deep

THE RITUAL

_{featuring @Stormflyx}

---

The first thing Gregor did after they returned to the hotel was stuffing the black soul gem that held Nblec Mazrac’s soul in the chest by the foot of his bed and covering it beneath the bulk of his armor and cloak. He would have to get rid of that thing as soon as possible. Sacrificing it to the Ideal Masters would destroy it, which was convenient, but that wasn’t something he could do straight away. First things first. Relieved to be free of the stifling warmth of his black gear, Gregor took the bloodstained clothes to the bathroom and washed both himself and his belongings thoroughly until there was no longer a trace of the day’s gruesome combat to be found anywhere anymore, and then dressed himself in the linen tunic and breeches he had bought yesterday.

It wasn’t until then, after stepping back into the chamber he shared with Alim and Calen and seeing the latter’s bed empty, that it really sank in that the Nord bard he liked so much had almost died. And for what? Disregarding Gregor’s own blatant sabotage of the mission, it had been doomed from the start. Nblec knew nothing. The Dwemer could hold no secrets from him anymore after he’d held the dead elf’s soul in the palm of his hands, and Gregor had sensed that Nblec had not told a lie in the final moments before his death. The righteous anger and indignation that had animated him still resonated within the black, crystalline gem. Gregor sighed and rubbed his face, feeling an all-too familiar exhaustion behind his eyes. The weight of the precarious path he was on pressed on him from all directions. There would be questions, suspicious, accusations… he sank down onto his bed and closed his eyes for a second. After that, he would --

---

-- take care of the… take care of what? Gregor looked down and searched his pockets, but they were empty. He couldn’t remember what he was going to do. In fact, he couldn’t remember what he had been doing either, or what had brought him to this place.

He was in a forest. It was dark and foreboding, like the old woods of Skyrim at night, and Gregor could not see the sky above the opaque ceiling of the canopy above him. The air was still and Gregor noticed that he couldn’t hear anything. Where were all the birds? Not even the wind rustled the trees. It was like time had frozen, save for the specks of dust that slowly drifted to the forest floor, visible in the few, dim rays of light that filtered in through the treetops.

Gregor exhaled slowly and his breath steamed in the air. It sounded deafeningly loud in the unnatural hush.

That’s when he heard it. Behind him, far away -- something large and heavy was on the move. Gregor whipped his head around and reached for his claymore in pure reflex, relieved to find it sheathed across his back. He drew the sword and backed away from the noise in the forest -- it sounded like trees bending and branches snapping, and heavy footfalls reverberated through the ground. And was that… snorting? Grunting? It reminded Gregor of a bear. No, bigger. A mammoth? But mammoths weren’t that fast. Whatever it was sounded like it was circling him at a distance, moving through the forest at the speed of a galloping horse. So fast… He swallowed hard and almost leapt out of his skin when he backed away into a tree. Something, some terrible feeling, was creeping into his throat from a pit in his stomach and he felt like he was being strangled. He had to get away. The entity sounded like it was getting closer. The ground trembled with every step it took now. He had to get away.

More than ever before, Gregor was afraid.

---

He awoke with a start, his skin covered in a sheen of glistening sweat, breath ragged and uneven, heart thundering in his ears. Gregor still saw the vivid vision of the dark forest for a few seconds before it began to waver and disappear, and was slowly replaced by his room in the hotel.

“What in Oblivion,” he stammered, wide-eyed and out of breath. He was no stranger to nightmares but it had been a long, long time since he had been so terrified by one. Gregor slipped out of bed and stepped out onto the balcony, relieved to feel a comfortably cool early-morning breeze on his face. The sun had not risen just yet. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, calming himself down with one of the breathing exercises the Vigilants had taught him.

He had to find Raelynn -- he had to see that she was well again, after her collapse upon their return to the hotel. Keeping Calen alive had taken so much out of her. He wanted to see Calen, too, but that could wait. The boy needed rest anyway.

She must have slipped back to sleep, for just a moment. The light in the room was brighter now, and warm too. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and through her hair before gazing up at the ceiling. At least the nightmares had stopped, and she felt somewhat rejuvenated after yet more rest. The teacup on the stand beside her bed was a reminder that she had made a floral tea. Her muscles felt less tense. Still, there was a headache behind her eyes that had yet to subside, and she felt like the mission was still embedded into her, soaked into her skin. Perhaps a hot bath would bring her back around to some normality.

She rose from the bed, her feet on the ground was a strange sensation - like before then she had been floating on some form of post-magicka cloud. Her feet on the ground let reality continue to sink in. Nblec was dead, and she knew why. She knew what had happened. Knowing it weighed heavily on her shoulders and her heart, but there was something else resting alongside it - a sense of comfort that the Dwemer had received his comeuppance. She smirked.

She had been right, the bath had soothed her and made her feel better. Scrubbing her skin clean of Calen’s blood eased her worries. She did think of him, the sight of him pale and limp in her arms, his blood flowing from the wound in an almost constant stream. Which was more disturbing? When he writhed in pain or when he fell silent. Perhaps both in equal measure. No amount of rest or bathing would ever rinse those images and the heavy feelings that came with them. As she climbed out of the bath she dried herself off and wrapped a simple dress around her willowy waist and let her hair tumble in curls over her shoulders. She could no longer smell the violence that had tainted her the night before, instead lavender and sharp berries. She, for the moment, felt like herself again.

She imagined that soon she would be called to speak with The Poncy Man and wondered whether or not the others had already. Surely not, there were more pressing issues. Would they be called to speak individually? Quickly her face turned to a scowl as she imagined the look on Daro’Vasora’s mug. She would be in such a foul mood, who would she be most likely to take it out on? A sigh escaped her lips, she knew it would be herself or Gregor. “Gregor…” she whispered out as she walked back through the main hall of The Three Crowns. She wanted to see him, time with him would help her to move through the emotions she was currently experiencing.

“There you are,” he said from behind her, as if on cue. Gregor had left his room to search for Raelynn and fortune had it that their paths crossed in the foyer. His hair and beard were back to their well-groomed usual state, having recovered from being deliberately left disheveled the day before, and the sincere smile on his face lessened the prominence of the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked well, all in all. “I was just looking for you.” He approached her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders -- he wanted to pull her into an embrace, but did not know if she would appreciate it. A lot had happened. “Are you alright?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

She turned on her heel, her cold eyes sparkled as they caught his and she found herself moving into him with her hands innocently finding their way to his chest - caressing him, and yet fleetingly grasping over him too. “I,” she began, eyes travelling to watch her fingers as they traced over the fabric of his shirt, “yes. I am rested, my energy is restored.” There was something distant about the way she said it, as if she knew that confessing to him that she wasn't alright might deter him from her. It couldn't be said here, anyway. “Are you?” She looked up into his eyes, finding a comforting warmth in them, she placed her hand on his cheek as if it had been drawn there. Something about him today was new. She felt emboldened to act this way - even in the foyer. She didn't let her touch linger for too long though, and she let her hand drop to her side once more.

Gregor was glad that she was well and that she was immediately unafraid to be close to him. The touch of her fingers against his cheek was a reassuring delight and he wrapped his arms around her in a tender embrace before planting a kiss on her forehead. “Oh yes, I’m fine,” he said and took a step back, looking her up and down. “It was you that I was worried about. And Calen, of course.” His face fell a little. He did not have to fake that -- Gregor really did feel disturbed about his grievous injury, and it was bittersweet that Calen was so wounded because he took a bullet for Latro. Gregor felt… inadequate, almost, by comparison. Gregor’s own success in this mission could hardly be described as so noble, even if it was for his family’s sake too. He put those thoughts aside and leaned in close, whispering in Raelynn’s ear. “But enough about that. You know what… happened, don’t you?”

Raelynn shivered as he whispered in her ear, his breath against her neck and his body pressed to hers. Of course I do she thought as she let his words ruminate. She could sense it on him, his stance, the way he had smiled at her - but mostly it was in his eyes. She had known from looking at them that he had gotten what he wanted. And yet, when he spoke of Calen they displayed an earnest sadness. She pulled away from him, letting a playful simper run from her lips to her eyes. “We can’t discuss this here - it's not safe,” she barely spoke the words and practically mouthed them. She didn't know who would be listening. “Come, let's find somewhere quiet to enjoy Gilane’s beautiful morning hours. Slip away with me…” The Breton let her coy look simmer away to one more leisurely and relaxed - as if they were simply two lovers wishing to spend time in each other's company.

After swinging by Gregor’s room so that he could collect the necessary items, the pair set off into the streets of Gilane. It was still very early and the patrols hadn’t fully started in earnest yet, and it was less than a day after their disastrous abduction of Nblec. Gregor did not expect them to be wanted figures just yet, though he feared that would become a concern later on. Still, they stuck to the shadows and the alleys as much as they could. Better safe than sorry. They eventually found an abandoned building by the city’s outer wall that looked like it might have been used as a warehouse before and silently slipped inside. It was cool and quiet in the vaulted space and Gregor swiftly judged it to be perfectly suitable for his purposes.

“I wanted you to see this,” Gregor said to Raelynn as he sank down on his knees and began to draw a pentagram on the ground with bonemeal that he pulled from one of his pouches. “To be here when it happens.” He looked up at her with a mixture of emotions on his face; excitement, mostly, but trepidation too, and a dash of affection. “What do you know of the Ideal Masters and the Soul Cairn?”

Raelynn looked down on him, licking her lower lip slowly as he made the pentagram, thinking of his question. The Soul Cairn was a mystery to her - and not something she had given much thought to. Still, she wanted to have an answer for him. She ran a hand through her hair, starting at the crown of her head, her eyes stared upwards and to her right, as they often did when she was recalling information. “The Soul Cairn, a plane of Oblivion, inhabited by the undead and by souls,” as she spoke, she let her hands tangle up in the lengths of her hair, blinking slowly. “A truly dark and wondrous place I'd wager. The Ideal Masters, they are the Lords and Rulers of that plane, are they not?” Her head turned and her eyes shot back to Gregor with a glimmer of eagerness.

“Quite right,” Gregor said with a smile. “I’ve never been so I can’t tell you what it’s like, but you are correct that the souls of the damned are sent there. Damned, specifically, by this,” he continued and held up one of the two filled black soul gems he had -- the one he had lifted from the battlefield at Elenglynn and the one that contained the soul of Nblec, of course. “The black soul gems created by the ritual of the Shade of the Revenant are the only soul gems capable of storing the souls of the sentient mortal races, and after the soul is used it goes to the Cairn. Using it saps it of some of its power, however, so the Ideal Masters prefer them to be offered… directly.” He paused and looked at the gem in his hand, feeling the sickly warmth that emanated from it. There was a certain reverence to his voice when he spoke again. “Nobody knows what the Ideal Masters do with the souls that they collect, but it is well established that they are willing to barter. The Ideal Masters offer power in exchange for souls. I am not after power for its own sake, unlike so many other other necromancers, who are selfish monsters that I despise and spent years putting to the sword back in Skyrim. I want… one thing in particular,” Gregor said and his voice wavered. Never, not once, not even to Briar or his family, had he admitted what he was about to say. In a bizarre twist of fate, Daro’Vasora knew more of the truth than anyone else. “I seek the immortality of undeath. My family is… cursed. My father, and his father before him, and his father’s father, and so on and so forth, all succumbed to a degenerative condition that befell them in middle age and affected their minds. I watched it happen to my father. He began to forget things, little things at first, but within a few weeks he sometimes couldn’t remember who I was.”

Gregor swallowed hard and blinked a few times. “He was gone within months. He died without dignity, afraid and in pain, soiling himself in his final moments.” His voice was bitter now and the hard edge of the Pale Reaper crept back into him. “It was repulsive and unworthy and unacceptable. Documents and journals my father left to me when he died revealed that he had known of this condition for years, but not before me or my siblings were born. He had spent more than a decade trying to find a cure. There isn’t any. Neither alchemy nor Restoration was capable of stopping it. My brother, my sister and myself are all in danger. None of us will live to be sixty… unless I do something about it,” he said with a note of finality and sighed. The indignation and defiance he had displayed ebbed away and left a tired, haunted man in their wake, and Gregor looked Raelynn in the eye while he rolled up his sleeves, pointing at the seven tally marks on his lower arm. “That is why I have sacrificed seven people’s souls so far, and are about to add two more. Once the souls are sent to the Soul Cairn there is no escape, denying them whatever afterlife was waiting for them otherwise, and sentencing them to an eternity of suffering. It is the most cruel thing I can imagine doing to anyone, and still I must. When the choice is between my family and the unworthy, like criminals or the Dwemer, I choose my family.”

He continued to watch her, wary and insecure. “Do you understand?”

She held a pause for a while. Once again she heard the tiny voice at the back of her mind telling her to run. Sacrificing souls was dangerous and borderline demonic and would only end in one way... But with her thumbnail pressed between her lips she finally sighed, giving herself over to what she wanted. He was doing this for preservation, for his family. It was almost noble - even if it wasn't, Gregor certainly thought it was. There was malice in him, but there more than that too. Resolve, and willpower - a hidden strength built on torment and pain that he kept buried beneath his polite facade. She would never have known… Raelynn stepped over to Gregor and stood over him, a foot at either side of his legs as he knelt. Her hands began to run through his hair slowly, to console him and ease the insecurity that was so obviously painted in his face. Right now, he was entirely transparent and vulnerable. He had presented his own soul to her, for reasons she could not understand. They were bound to each other now.

She placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head upwards so that their eyes were locked - her pale blue eyes like stone to his which were the colour of ebony. “I don't, Gregor…”

She held him there, before her voice continued - resonant in the stillness of the building, “I don’t understand your life. I have no sibling, no grandparents… Just my father, my mother, and me. I had no friends or companions for my entire childhood. Even now as an adult, I seldom think of anyone besides myself.” Her grip on his chin lessened and she began to slowly sink down upon him, never leaving his eyes - never breaking contact with them. She wanted him to feel her words, she owed him that much. “But my family Gregor - though we are small, I protect and carry their legacy with me, always. I love them deeply and would walk through fire to protect them and keep them safe. So that, I do understand. I can't comprehend the deaths of my parents, misery and pain has never fallen on our shoulders, and I plan to keep it that way.” Her hand fell over his heart, she grasped him there. “In my life, you see, I choose my family too.”

“I am the last Hawkford now.” She almost laughed at how the words sounded, so dramatic and cliche but it was true. “It's up to me to protect our name. It's a heavy burden to bare. To carry this weight - my father's work. I'm just a woman, but my ambitions Gregor… I would do anything to protect this.” She stopped. Her forehead touching his, she could feel his breath against her once more. “Everything I do is to protect them, to protect myself, and to build a legacy. So in that regard, I understand you…”

She exhaled softly, lessening her grip on his chest as she became aware of how intense she had become while speaking. “I think that Nblec got what he deserved… How can I think you are wrong? How can I… tell you this is wrong, when I myself do not think it to be so?” her eyes narrowed and she smirked in a bewitching manner, “now I want to see you get something that you deserve…”

With her fingers in his hair, her body against his and her soothing words in his hear, all of Gregor’s hesitation and fear melted away. He grabbed her tightly and kissed her, burning with passion. It was a relief to receive absolute, definitive proof that he had judged her character correctly and found a kindred spirit. Through their shared ruthlessness, they could be closer to each other than to anyone else. It was twisted and counter-intuitive, but undeniable, and Gregor was immensely grateful for it. He was not alone in his quest anymore. “Let’s get to it,” he said with a grin and picked Raelynn up before putting her down next to him. It was time.

Gregor had brought his dagger and used it to make a small incision in his arm, spreading his blood across the bone-powder pentagram, before taking the soul gem from Elenglynn (which merely contained the lesser soul of one of the Dwemer’s hapless victims) and shattered it against the floor in the center of the arcane symbol. Like a reverse soultrap, tendrils of light burst forth from the broken gem and hung suspended in the air. The aurora was accompanied by the arrival of a vast, incorporeal presence, one that Gregor was familiar with now but that would undoubtedly unnerve Raelynn, that pressed against the edge of his mind. Once again, Gregor was struck by the impression that he was communicating with a slumbering storm that hovered ominously on the horizon, and as he stared into the ghastly light that floated over their heads he felt like he could see much further than the ceiling of the warehouse would allow.

She felt herself freeze on the spot, suspended within a moment upon witnessing the beginnings of Gregor's ritual. The atmosphere changes immediately and to her, everything fell silent - uncomfortably so. Time slowed down around her and being before this presence made her breaths laboured. She felt heavy.

You bring more, the Ideal Master conveyed. It wasn’t a voice, more of an idea, and yet it drowned out everything else. The monumental superiority of the entity’s consciousness simply demanded absolute sensory focus.

“Yes,” Gregor said. He took the gem with Nblec Mrazac’s soul and gingerly placed it in the center of the pentagram. Now that the bridge had been formed, he wanted the Ideal Master to see for itself what the real sacrifice was. “Not just more. I bring something very special. The soul of a Dwemer, a race that has not been seen in the mortal realms for thousands of years.” Gregor leaned back and found himself grabbing Raelynn’s hand.

Gregor’s firm touch snapped her out of the fearful daze, the way his fingers entwined with hers anchored her, and she resumed breathing as normal, warmth rising to her cheeks. His words -- the very mention of the Dwemer. Her heart began to tighten, but the knots that had been in her stomach since waking unfurled themselves as if one by one. She squeezed his hand.

The soul-light, which had been lazily drifting, froze and seemed to sharpen, and Gregor felt the undivided attention of the Ideal Master upon him now. It was uncomfortably similar to the feeling of being hunted, like in his nightmare earlier. The soul gem shifted in place before cracks appeared on its surface, and the vital essence of everything the Dwemer magistrate had been leaked out and spiraled upwards to join the other soul. It was almost as if Gregor could hear Nblec’s death rattle again.

A deep rumble filled Gregor’s mind and he smiled, ecstatic. He knew that… sound, for lack of a better word. He had heard it before, but not nearly this intensely. It meant approval. Or even delight in this case, if Gregor was not mistaken. “For your glory, master, I offer this to you. I only hope that you remember our bargain.”

Yes.

Gregor waited. He did not know why, but it seemed like the Ideal Master was thinking.

You are close. Bring more of this, mortal.

“O-of course, master,” Gregor said, momentarily stammering in his mixture of excitement and disappointment. Part of him had hoped that one Dwemer soul would be enough, but another part of him had already known that such hope was idle. The Ideal Masters were nothing if not greedy.

Take this, the Ideal Master hummed. Was that… amusement, Gregor sensed? He had received a gift from the Master once before, which turned out to be the ability to summon one of the undead horrors of the Soul Cairn, and the familiar sensation of being imparted with knowledge he did not immediately understand rang through his mind again. The Ideal Masters were so alien and far removed from mortal life that it was almost impossible for them to be readily understood, if they even wanted to.

The aurora of light and the weight of the Ideal Master's presence disappeared. “That went well, I think,” Gregor said and grinned.

As everything faded away, what had been playing on Raelynn’s heart had moved to the surface. Feeling the Ideal Master take the soul of Nblec… Her eyelids welled with tears and she was silent except for a gasp at the end of it, causing a single tear to roll down her cheek. It had been incredible, and in a strange way she had enjoyed it - the thought of his soul being tortured for eternity… There was beauty in it.

He was so full of happiness and on a high while all she could do was continue to stare at where it had all happened. “It doesn't make…” her eyes fell to the floor, the tears spilled out now, “it doesn't take it back… but it helps.” She was talking about Calen, what had happened to him - because of Nblec, because of the Dwemer.

Gregor was surprised to see Raelynn cry and turned his entire body to face her, grabbing her hands in his own. “Doesn't take what back?” he asked, confused. He was too caught up in his own achievement to catch onto what she meant.

His hands on hers caused her to look at them. Her hands. She could see the blood there again. She had been up to her elbows in it at the time. Thick, dark blood. The kind of blood that ushers in violent death. She pulled her hands from Gregor's gently and they began to tremble. “The blood. I've seen so much of it before. I've seen so much worse and yet…” her voice trailed off as she kept staring at her open palms, the lines across them - every detail that she hadn't noticed before.

“Am I softened now?” she asked aloud, not expecting an answer, she just wanted to say the words. “He's not much younger than me and he is good. Even I can see it.” She placed her shaking hands against Gregor's lap, though her eyes were still facing the floor. She felt incredibly vulnerable - despite having shared such a deep and passionate moment of connection earlier. Talking about feelings like this was… New, to say the least.

“You must think me a fool…” she continued in a subdued voice, a small voice. “I've seen so many things, but I've always been able to be detached from it. I told you that I had so few friends.” Calen wasn't even her friend. She couldn't recall ever having spoken to him save for a comment here and there. It was the same with the rest of the group. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she lifted her head once more, “there was a moment, where he almost died. His heart was so frail, like a newborn bird. I saw the light leave his eyes - I swear it.” Raelynn seized Gregor’s hands in hers to steady herself from crying. She wouldn't let it happen again, she wouldn't look so weak in front of him, her bottom lip quivered and she bit down on it, closing her eyes as she took in a deep breath before she spoke again.

“If he had died… I don't know what I would have done. I have… never felt such a feeling of guilt and responsibility.” What exactly did she expect Gregor to do? Nothing. He didn't have to do anything, maybe him showing her the ritual and sending Nblec to the Soul Cairn would be enough solace for her in time. Her head tilted to the side and she let her lip go, trying to smile at him - she felt so small now, where she had felt powerful and in control earlier she now felt like Gregor could take this moment to stick her where it would hurt, or perhaps he would comfort her - maybe even nothing. All that mattered was suddenly she felt free of a weight that had been holding her down. Her hands steadied and she loosened her grip. “I…” she almost laughed, placing a hand over her mouth, letting her hair fall around her face to hide it “I never really do that, I'm sorry.” Raelynn placed her hands flat on the floor in front of her, lowering her head - almost as if she was bowing to him alongside her apology.

“Probably all that magic…” she muttered, even now trying to downplay with humour.

“Don't be sorry,” Gregor said and tucked a finger under her chin to lift her face back up so he could look her in the eye. “He did not die. You did not allow it. You saw the light leave his eyes and you brought it back. You're right about him. Calen is the best of us all, I think. What you did was… amazing, frankly,” Gregor said and dried her cheeks with his thumb. “I can send people far beyond,” he added and gestured to the pentagram, “but you can bring them back from the brink. That is a far greater power.”

Her emotions surprised him. To be honest, Gregor hadn't thought her capable. It was deeply endearing and admirable that she felt so strongly about Calen's near-death experience, and Gregor could feel himself falling for her even more. There was goodness in her too. “Calen reminds me of the man I could have been, had things been different. I was a romantic and a tender lover once.” Now it was his turn to laugh. “Probably seems hard to believe now. But my point is that I think I understand how you feel. For Calen to die because of this mission, that ultimately benefited nobody but me… it would have been a real tragedy. He deserves better. Fortunately, you were there.”

Honest words of affirmation. It took her by surprise to hear them, and it felt good to hear them from Gregor. She was unable to remember the last time someone had said something like that to her, something meaningful, save for Alim in Anvil. Spending so little time with people had meant she had never gotten a chance to hear such words. She never allowed people to get close enough to her. It lifted her spirits and Raelynn found herself hanging on his words, nothing else in the room mattered as he spoke. Their connection had deepened even more now, it was an unfamiliar feeling for her - but a gratifying one.

“For all we know it is those very things which draw us to each other. You take life, I give it… We are powerful in our own ways - there’s magnetism there, and now our fates are entwined. I feel it, and I felt it the first time I saw you…” As she felt herself rambling over the point she cut herself off. She didn’t want to make it overly saccharine, she wanted to keep the moment as it was. Nothing more needed to be said, nor could she think of anything else to say to him now.

Her usual inviting smirk flickered back over her lips and replaced the morose expression that had been there, her hands ran over Gregor’s arm, fingers brushing over his tally marks. She knew what came next, her eyes flashed with mischief and deviousness. “I dare say it’s time to add your next tally, don’t you think?”

Gregor looked down at her fingers as they traced over the ink on his skin and he nodded slowly. Adding to the tally marks was a solemn and almost religious experience for him. Even if he were to live forever, he would not allow himself to forget what it had cost. “The hardest choices require the strongest wills,” he mumbled to himself, quoting the Dagoth Ur character from the play The Life and Times of the Nerevarine. He pulled the black ink and the tattooing instrument (a sharpened and enchanted bamboo rod) from his backpack and handed them to Raelynn, a determined expression on his face.

“I want you to do it,” he said softly. “Two marks, right there.”

She bit down on her lip and sidled closer to him, taking the bamboo from his hands. This was special. As he requested, she dipped the tip of the rod into the ink using a quick tap of her finger to let the excess off. “Right here?” she asked, her voice sultry, her fingers next to his touching softly where he had asked her to. As she sat beside him like this, she kissed his shoulder lovingly, brushing her cheek against it to rest her head as she readied the rod. As she pressed it where he had asked her too, she felt it pierce the skin, but she did not stop, and dragged it just enough to make the first mark.

The pain did not make him flinch. He had felt it seven times before. It was part of the experience; a minor atonement for sins committed, one might say. Gregor looked at Raelynn instead, the way her head rested on his shoulder. He planted a kiss on the crown of her head in turn and took a deep breath with his eyes closed, just drinking in her scent. Flowery and pleasant, as always. “That’s right,” he muttered as she finished the first of the two marks. “One more.” What they were doing was undeniably grim, and yet Gregor could not help but feel warm and loved in this moment instead. He had not felt so perfectly and intimately understood and accepted by anyone ever since he left his wife… and maybe, just maybe, Raelynn understood him better than Briar ever had. “I…” he began, but closed his mouth again. Had he really almost just said that? “Thank you,” Gregor said instead, but he poured as much of his affection and appreciation into those two words as he could.

Once more she dipped the rod into the ink. With her head against his shoulder like this, him kissing her - his affection… She felt at peace. She didn't want the feeling to end. It was blissful and everything else melted away as she placed the mark for Nblec against his skin now. It brought her immense satisfaction and she knew every observation of it thereafter would bring her a twisted joy. Confident in her work, she looked at it in adoration, and then up at Gregor. The chemistry sizzling between the two of them. “No, thank you,” she purred before placing the rod down planting a number of kisses up his arm, to his shoulder, to his neck - she stopped at his ear “we will do this together… I want to help you.”

Playfully, she nibbled at his earlobe after her offer to him, one hand stroking his back, the other placed on top of his hand. She sighed contentedly, how quickly he had told her so much of himself, how quickly they had fallen together like this. She felt almost invincible with it all.

“You want to… help?” he asked, eyebrows raised. She really was full of surprises. That feeling quickly made way for a deep sense of joy, however, when he realized that she was sincere. He took her in his arms, kissed her and held her close. “That means more than you could possibly know,” Gregor said in her ear, voice almost breaking with emotion, one of his hands running through her hair and the other wrapped around her waist. The pragmatic, reasonable part of him could not abandon him entirely, however, and he pulled out of the embrace to look her in the eyes, mind immediately working through the possibilities. “Your father. He has an agenda here as well, correct? I want you to put me in touch with him if there’s anything I can do that benefits us both. You know what I’m after, so it depends on him.”

“He will be in touch with you. That's why I saw him, he wanted names of those most capable…” she paused momentarily, biting down on her lip again, “he knows about us. He had me followed that night…” She smiled awkwardly about it, unsure of how Gregor would react to such information. “He has a job for you, he will be sending someone to you when the time is right.” She began to get to her feet at last, it felt like they'd been here for too long already. “We should leave no trace of this, and I should go to Calen. I want to see him.” Ever since Anvil, she hated having to split from Gregor, but for their safety it was for the best not to be seen together too much. At least not until everything had blown over. She looked down at the pentagram on the ground, the site of such dark energy. It would make the perfect spot to lay with him… She did think to suggest it. No. Not now, not this time. It brought a wicked expression to her face to even think of it, she was somewhat glad Gregor couldn't see it. Composing herself she turned back to him with her head tilted to the side, “how do we clean this?”

Sending someone ‘when the time is right’ wasn’t expedient enough for Gregor’s tastes, but he knew he wasn’t in a position to demand things from Salasoix Hawkford… especially now that the man knew of the relationship between Gregor and his daughter. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, and decided to leave the topic alone for now. “Very well,” he said before turning his attention to the pentagram. “Clean it?” he asked and furrowed his brow. “I’ve never cleaned it up before, but I only ever performed the ritual out in the wilderness back in Skyrim. I don’t feel inclined to get rid of this at all.” He got to his feet and his gaze alternated between Raelynn and the pentagram. “I… want them to find it. They should be scared. But, you’re probably right, better safe than sorry,” he consented and gathered up the soul gem fragments. He would have to dispose of them some other way. The pentagram had been drawn on the dusty floor of the warehouse and a few well-placed sweeping motions with his boot was enough to dismantle the pentagram’s shape into an unrecognizable smudge. “There, that should do it.”

He stopped to look at Raelynn again and sighed. He longed for the day when they could just openly be together. “If Calen is awake, give him my best wishes,” Gregor said.

She could sense his dismay at erasing the evidence of the ritual, but the dead Dwemer Administrator had been sacrificed to the Soul Cairn here. It was too risky to have left it, she wanted to make him feel better about it and so she stepped back into him and shot a flirtatious glance up at him as she begin to speak, “next time we’ll leave it, how about we add our own flavour to the ritual next time. What if we were to --" she pushed herself up on her tiptoes, whispering sweet nothings for only him into his ear. Hell, if she had to feel that way then so did he.

She pulled back with a seductive chuckle and began to lead him out and back to The Three Crowns at last, their secret now nothing but dust.

The Elder Scrolls: Chapter's Dues

PROLOGUE

1st of Frostfall, 4E206
Whitehall, The Great Forest, Cyrodiil
Home of the Chapter

Autumn had arrived in full force this year. The rains across Cyrodiil had been almost continuous ever since halfway through the month of Hearthfire, and today was no exception. The sprawling headquarters of the Chapter, a compound known as Whitehall, lay supplicant beneath the swaying canopy of the Great Forest and the sheets of rainfall that buffeted its rooftops, walls and windows relentlessly. It consisted of several buildings and designated open spaces encircled by defensive fortifications; walls taller than the tallest Altmer and watchtowers every five-hundred paces created an unyielding sense of security and shelter, and a moat wide enough to fit a sailing vessel between its embankments surrounded the entirety of Whitehall. Some called it excessive, but Gaius Nero had insisted. He was a veteran of the Great War and had seen things that ‘younger folks can only dream of’. He wanted to be prepared for anything.

“Prepared we are,” Snow Clever-Cat mused as he stared out of the window, his eyes alternating between following the paths of droplets across the uneven surface of the glass pane and fixing themselves onto the middle distance, at nothing in particular. He liked rain. Especially if he didn’t have to go outside. It made for the perfect environment to reflect and decompress. He was inclined across one of the comfortable sofas that were placed by the windows of the banquet hall’s mezzanine for this exact purpose, and when he looked around the elevated platform that encircled the great feasting space below, he saw that he was not alone in this activity. Duatheryn encouraged it among all members of the Chapter. And right now, Snow had plenty to think about.

It was afternoon, though Snow only knew this because of the timepiece ticking away on the salon table next to him. It had been equally dark and dreary throughout the whole day. Tonight, after dinner, he was to meet the members of his new field team for the first time. They were either new recruits or newly promoted to Operations, and Snow had not been entirely happy with the idea. It would be easier for him to adapt to his new role as field team leader if he was working with experienced veterans who knew how to follow orders and when to give advice, but that was not the Chapter’s way. They did not break up previously established teams just to give someone else a shot at command. No, Snow was going to have to prove himself by turning a bunch of greenhorns into an effective and cohesive unit that covered each other’s backs. It was… somewhat daunting.

Time passed and Snow eventually heard the unmistakable sounds of the banquet hall filling up with hungry mercenaries and laborers below him. He sighed, got to his feet and blew out the candle that had been lighting his spot. He tried not to worry himself too much. There was also much cause for excitement. If he succeeded at command, there was a good chance he would be able to forge a real place for himself within the Chapter’s hierarchy. But first, food.

---

After dinner, Snow walked quickly across the banquet hall’s forecourt with his snout behind the upturned collar of his robes and his paws in his pockets -- it was still raining something fierce, and the featureless, gloomy sky above him gave no indication that it was going to stop anytime soon. He made his way to the administrative building that was known affectionately as the Labyrinth for its complicated interior layout, filled with tiny corridors, rooms and archives. Snow had been handed a note by one of the Chapter’s couriers that informed him of which room he and his team were supposed to meet in. A5. He knew where that room was; fortunately, it was close to the entrance, and he found it without much trouble.

He was a little early. It was a small space (but big enough), about the size of an ordinary living room, with a few pieces of mismatched furniture scattered about and a large blackboard suspended on one of the walls. It reminded Snow strongly of a classroom, he realized as he hung his torch up in one of the sconces. It was to be the base of operations of his team; their briefing room, as it were. All of the field teams had one inside the Labyrinth, where they could discuss the details of their upcoming missions away from prying eyes. Snow could tell by the layer of dust that coated everything in the room that this one hadn’t been used in a while. No matter. It didn’t have to be comfortable, just functional. They all slept in the barracks anyway. Snow set about to rearranging the furniture in a semicircle that faced the blackboard when the door of the room opened and the first member of his team stepped inside.

“Good evening,” greeted a gentle, feminine voice. Upon turning around, Snow was met with a shorter Breton woman, hair wet with rain and sticking to her face and water dripping from her armor. As she walked inside, she looked around the room curiously, almost as if she was lost. The room was mostly dark, mostly barren, and dirty, so she did a second take of the room number labeled on the door and said to herself, “ah, maybe I’ve the wrong room...”

Then she did a double take on Snow himself, her eyes falling on the khajiit’s hands on the furniture. Her eyes brightened a bit before saying, “Oh, pardon me, please allow me to help you,” as she hurriedly paced over and gripped one of the heavier chairs.

“Where would you like this?”

“Over there,” Snow said and pointed to the end of the budding semicircle. This must be Marlene Antony. Snow had been given a list of names, races and specializations and familiarized himself with it immediately. He looked her up and down for a second, taking in her chainmail armour, before humming in approval. “And you're in the right place. You are Marlene Antony, yes? My name is Snow Clever-Cat. Welcome.” He offered one of his paws for her to shake. It would be tedious to greet all of the new arrivals individually like this, but he wanted to make a good first impression.

“Oh, so you’re Snow!” She greeted with a humored smile, reaching over and grabbing the khajiit’s paw for a firm shake. “I wasn’t sure who to expect! I didn’t realize that the Snow I was looking for had the surname Clever-Cat. That would’ve made it much easier, yes? Please, call me Mary.”

The Altmer made his way toward the door with purpose. This was to be his first meeting with the field team whom he would be travelling and working with. He was positively beaming. He hadn’t had much time to change accordingly after preparing the dinner, he still had the aroma of citrus and wood garlic imbued into his fingers. Not an unpleasant smell, but surprising - and a clear giveaway of his line of work. His fingertips were peppered too with the juices of blackberries and redcurrants. Not an easy stain to remove. Still, it did not affect his mood. He paced towards the door, slowing down quite considerably as he approached the doorway and took care to lower his head to stoop under it.

He had heard the light sound of chatter, and was glad to put faces to those voices that he had heard. He was the second to arrive. “Good evening my friends,” he began in his breezy tone of voice. “It’s my absolute pleasure to be here. I am Faerion Charmerious…” he continued to walk as he spoke, a modest mistake as he managed to catch his foot on a slightly raised floorboard, which propelled him forwards with a jolt, but he at least did not fall over. “Oh dear,” he remarked while scratching his head awkwardly.

Mary stifled some lighthearted laughter, failing to hide her amused smile behind the back of her hand, then resumed pushing the furniture into place. Snow raised an eyebrow and immediately questioned Faerion’s usefulness, but decided to keep his tongue as the door swung open again.

Faerion’s attention was immediately drawn to the young woman who was laughing at his mishap. She had tried to hide it, but she hadn’t done so well enough. At least I made a pretty lady smile… were his thoughts after that, it made him feel less sheepish over it. The Khajiit however, had not found it amusing.

The next to arrive was a large statured Nord who strode in with confident and authoritative presence, his face commandeered with a broad smile and outstretched arms. “My friends, it looks like I arrived just in time.” Jormun Fireborn boomed with a jolly laugh. He took a few moments to survey the room to gain a sense of what was the assigned task and he set to it, easily picking up a desk as if it were a toy to add it to the arrangements. As he passed the Altmer, he picked up the scent of garlic as he walked by. He set down the table and asked, “Were you one of the chefs? It was simply exquisite, worthy of Sovngarde! If every meal is like this, I may never leave Whitehall.” He said enthusiastically with a wide grin. He carried on the assigned task, looking over to the Khajiit, who was small but carried himself well with an air of authority; his white fur would have felt right at home in the Tundras of Northern Skyrim, and he struck Jormun as an individual who was well-travelled and experienced in the matters of the company. “Greetings! I presume you are our commander? I look forward to serving with honour with your leadership.” He bashed his fist into his chest in a respectful salute.

“Quite right,” Snow said and noticed that he had to crane his neck back a little to look Jormun in the eye. He couldn’t even begin to top Faerion’s incredible height, however. “Jormun Fireborn, correct? I believe we are waiting on one more individual and then we shall proceed with proper introductions,” the Khajiit said. He changed his mind -- shaking everyone’s hands was far too much fuss for his liking. That said, he certainly liked the look of Jormund as a warrior and he appreciated that the Nord was immediately willing to show proper deference to him as the field team leader. A part of him had been afraid that Jormun was going to be a ‘true son of Skyrim’, which is to say a xenophobic knucklehead, but it seemed that wasn’t the case. Snow gestured to the now-complete formation of furniture, inviting everyone to sit down, and turned his attention to the blackboard. He gingerly picked up a piece of chalk and wrote one word in big letters: TALIN.

The door swung open one final time. Entering through it, just short enough not to have to duck under the door frame, was a massive orc. She was short by Orsimer standards, yet her build was wide and strong. Her skin was a dark emerald green; she liked to think it was the brightest she’d ever seen on an orc. Her long dark hair was pulled out of the way into tight braids. She wore a grin on her face that screamed ‘ready for anything you can throw.’

She took in the scene before her, the rest of the team already seated and the Khajiit beginning to write on the board. She shrugged in a gesture that wasn’t quite demure enough to be considered sheepish, the orc walked over to take her own seat, the clanking of her boots echoing in the room. It had been years since she’d been late to anything; she thought the Legion had trained that sort of thing out of her.

“Good evening, everyone,” she grumbled, smiling lopsidedly at each of her companions. She didn’t recognize any except the Altmer from the past couple of days she’d spent in the area. She thought she recalled seeing him in the kitchen, but, that couldn’t be right, could it?

Snow turned around just in time to see Lamzarakha arrive and acknowledged her greeting with a nod. Now that they were all here, it was time.

“Greetings one and all, and welcome to the Chapter. Specifically, welcome to field team Talin,” he said and gestured to the word written on the blackboard behind him. “The Chapter names its field teams after prominent figures, places or events in Tamrielic history. For those of you who don’t know,” Snow said and glanced between Lamzarakha and Jormun while he talked, “Talin, also known as the Eternal Champion, was the hero that saved the Empire in the Third Era by defeating the imposter emperor Jagar Tharn and rescuing Uriel VII from imprisonment. It is quite an honor to have our team bear the name of such an illustrious individual, so I hope that you will live up to the name.” He had his paws clasped behind his back and looked everyone in turn in the eye while he talked in an attempt to make them all feel included and spoken to. He might have been the second-smallest person in the room, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him from appearing as authoritative as possible.

He swept his gaze across the four people sitting before him and cleared his throat. “Once again, my name is Snow Clever-Cat. I have been with the Chapter for a few years now.” He considered being honest and telling them that this was his first foray in field command, but decided against it. “Faerion is no stranger to the organization either, but he has been transferred from Logistics to Operations only recently. The rest of you are new. I’m sure the rules and expectations have been explained to you during your recruitment already so I won’t bore you with those again, but I have my own rules, too. I am open to advice and suggestions while we are undertaking our missions but if we are in a dangerous situation and I give an order, I expect you to follow it. There can be no arguing while our lives are on the line. Now, I have read your files and I know your strengths, but it would be prudent for everyone to know these things about each other as well. Therefore, I propose a small round of introductions,” he continued, looking somewhat annoyed to those who could tell such things about Khajiit.

He had always hated stuff like this but now that it was his turn to lead, he suddenly understood why it was a necessary evil. “For example, I am a spellsword with supplementary alchemical and enchanting skills. I have received education in the magical schools of Destruction, Alteration and Illusion and I’m reasonably capable with this.” Snow patted the pommel of the steel sword sheathed by his waist. “I was raised in Bruma by a Nord couple. Hence the name. Alright? Who wants to go first?”

Springing to his feet, Jormun stood tall and erect, his fists on his hips to exaggerate his already hulking physique. “I am Jormun Fireborn, an adventurer for hire who spend many years guarding caravans and hunting down bandits who would prey upon Tamriel’s innocents. I’m not as learned as our illustrious leader, and spells are beyond me, but I can imagine you probably see that my strength lays elsewhere.” Suddenly smashing a fist into a meaty palm, he exclaimed. “I have a hammer and the strength to kill just about anything that will get in the way, nothing complicated or fancy. I will protect those who need a bit more… space to do their work and take on our foes without fear or hesitation. Potions help in that regard, and healers are certainly welcome companions in my case. It is an honour to stand by your side, friends.” He bowed, and sat down with aplum, looking look a school boy excited for his first day of class, one that probably involved copious amounts of opportunity to smash some unfortunate bandits or necromancers. Mary was sitting wordlessly, but with a wide smile on her face and she gave a little clap for Jormun as he found his seat once more.

Spurred on by the Lady’s reaction to his Nord colleague, Faerion wanted to go next - to impress and receive the same reaction from her. “Our illustrious leader Snow is correct, I have been with the Chapter for some time working in Logistics. I, yes, spend some time in the kitchens that is true…” his tone fell nonchalant as he spoke about his actual work so far. He didn’t want them to see him as a Chef - today he became a field team member - of team Talin no less! He wanted them to take him seriously. “I am a Ranger, I was trained in Valenwood with the Bosmer for many, many years and after that I have spent much of my life travelling Cyrodiil with mercenaries and the like.” He deliberately embellished his story, weaving a tale to big himself up in front of his new friends. “I do also possess a little bit of restorative magic which can come in handy in a pinch, it is as you say Jormun, an honour to stand by your side.” Faerion bowed his head ever so and made his way to a seat beside the Nord.

“Why that sounds wonderful!” Mary commented. “I’ve always wanted to visit Valenwood and see the graht trees for myself, and you know, I’m woefully poor at cooking. You must treat us some time!”

Trained in the culinary or the ranging arts? Snow asked himself as he looked at Faerion while the Altmer talked. He could not help but feel that the elf was simply too tall and gangly to possess the grace and dexterity necessary to be a capable archer and scout. It was hard to tell through Faerion’s elegant robes what strength his limbs possessed. If he was strong at all, his great height would mean that the draw strength of his bow could be very significant, at least. Thoughts like this constantly ran through Snow’s mind; evaluation, preparation, risk-assessment. It was his mind that kept him alive, he always said.

That said, he was not one to pass up an opportunity to poke fun at someone. “Yes, Faerion, please do so,” Snow said languidly and his ears flicked in amusement. It was obvious that the elf did not want to be considered the chef of the group. “It will be wonderful to have a real chef among us when we are out in the field.” He did not wait for Faerion to react but looked now to the Breton woman instead. “What about you, Mary?”

The Altmer’s smile dwindled from his lips. He got the very distinct impression that Snow had already made a decision about him, and that he was to be on the receiving end of jibes. He placed his hands together and twiddled his fingers quietly and let the Khajiit carry on, perking up at the mention of Mary, he leaned forward in his seat to listen to what she had to say.

Jormund leaned over and whispered to Faerion, “Do not fret, my friend. Your talents will be wonderous for morale.” he said sincerely.

Mary’s eyes lit up for a moment, then nodded and calmly stood up, sliding her still wet hair behind her ear. She clasped her hands behind her back and looked around at her new associates. The smile didn’t leave her face, but it did dim slightly. “My name is Marlene Antony,” she began, “you may call me Mary. I am from Jehanna, in High Rock. I began my training to become a templar at…”

The Breton woman’s smile faded and her eyes seemed to grow distant as she began recounting her memories. She finished her thought, saying, “...twelve years old. My temple released me into the field after eight years and I have been purging the countrysides of monsters ever since.”

Faerion couldn't believe his ears! A beautiful Maiden like that, training at such a young age - why, he was enthralled in her story, so much so that a dreamy sigh escaped his thin lips as he listened to her talk.

As if to prove her point, she untied her pouch of trophies from her belt and rattled it around in her hand before gently setting it on the small table in the center of the semicircle formation of their chairs. Mary continued, “I have a well rounded martial skillset and I can support you all with restoration magic and some mysticism.”

“Mysticism?” Snow echoed, eyes narrowed in curiosity and disbelief in equal measure. He stepped over and leered down into the bag Mary had provided, immediately identifying several trophies that he knew as rare alchemical ingredients. She was telling the truth about her work and achievements, at least. He looked up at her again, the skepticism in his expression diminished, and asked: “Where did you learn that?”

“From my temple! It was attended by a chapter from the School of Julianos.” Mary eagerly explained. “They taught us about the flow of magical energies and how to control them, but mostly for the purpose of negating and dispelling its effects. I believe you might be familiar with some of its spellcraft already since you’re an alteration mage, like the ability to detect life forces?”

The Khajiit nodded slowly. “Familiar, yes, but I don't know that particular piece of magic myself. Khajiit can see in the dark.”

“But not through walls.” Mary jokingly quipped with a humored grin.

He chuckled in response, a low purring sound that reverberated in his chest. “That is true. Either way, I did not know Mysticism was still taught as a school of magic anywhere.” Snow frowned, thinking hard, before remembering that this was partially because of a shift in prioritization in how magic was treated over the last two hundred years. Lingering spells were left by the wayside mostly in favour of powerful bursts and there had come a great focus, even academically, on spells that were immediately and self-evidently useful in combat. Too much war. “It is good to know that this knowledge has not been forgotten by all.”

That left only the Orc, who had been quiet ever since she arrived. “Tell us about yourself,” Snow said to her, unwilling to try and pronounce her name again without some practice. They were going to have to find a way to shorten that.

“I’m Lamzarakha gra-Khozorn,” she began, turning to face her companions. She grinned. “I was born in a stronghold, so I’m a blacksmith, as could be expected. But more importantly, I was a Legionnaire.” A slightly twinge prickled her heart as she said it, but she refused to show it. The orc pondered the loss of her discipline in the past few years in the back of her mind. Am I as dependable as I once was? She embraced her most exuberant side and continued. “I’m trained in spears, swords of all sized, shields, sidearms…” She grinned. “But mostly you’ll find me in the middle of the fight with this lady.” She tapped the greatsword on her back’s pommel. “And I look forward to working with all of you.” Though she had her doubts about the Altmer, it still wasn’t a lie; he seemed like he may be entertainment.

“I could not ask for a better companion to stand by my side as we vanquish evil, face to face.” Jormun said to the Orsimer warmly. “Your blade is magnificently kept, even though it has seen some hard use. I can tell that you have quite a few tales to tell; I should like to hear them!”

He stood from his chair and walked over to Mary’s trophies, inspecting them out of curiosity and a half smile on his face. He knew all about that sort of thing; pulling the dragon tooth from about his neck he handed it to Mary for her to look at. “It would seem we have a hobby in common. You’ve had some interesting encounters from your collection alone, this is the only one I felt I couldn't pass up so far.”

Pulling up his right sleeve somewhat, Jormun’s forearm showcased an impressive display of tattoos, beasts and men intertwined in Nordic hammer-style tattooing. “Most of my adventures I left upon my body so I will always have them with me.”

He rolled his sleeve down and returned to his seat, intending to collect the tooth after. He was mighty proud of it. Mary, who was previously captivated by the orc’s introduction even if she was trying to figure out the pronunciation of her name, had accepted the Nord’s offer to ogle at his treasured keepsake with starstruck eyes, darted between the sleeve of tattoos on Jormun’s arm and back to the tooth. Handing it back to the Nord, she replied with a smile and laugh, “You’re quite the overqualified veteran. I hope I’ll be able to keep up with you to have an honorable mention in your songs and legends!”

Taking back the tooth and putting it back around his neck, Jormum offered the Breton a toothy grin. “They would not just be my songs and legends, it will be all of ours. Nothing overqualified about me; I just stepped in when lives were on the line. The only difference between a raider and a dragon is one happens to be much larger and spits fire and ice, while the other spits insults. Both have hard heads, I’ve found.”

Snow allowed himself a smile at the exchange. It would not be as difficult to gel this group together as he feared, it seemed, and he relaxed a little. “Still, it will be good to have someone with us with such heroic tendencies,” the Khajiit purred, leaving the intended nature of his comment (compliment or jab?) up in the air. “I think that will suffice for now.”

He cleared his throat and straightened to his full height (unremarkable as that may have been). “Our first mission is straightforward. The Chapter has received word that one of the abandoned watchtowers of Cyrodiil has become haunted. The restless spirits of the dead are harassing travelers on the nearby road, but the matter was escalated when two hunters disappeared while they were ranging in the tower’s vicinity. Locals believe that they were taken by the ghosts. It will be our mission to discover what has prompted these spirits to become aggressive and to put them back to rest. We leave tomorrow, so take the rest of the night for yourselves to rest and prepare. Thank you all for coming. Dismissed.”

Warhammer 40k: Platoon (Back to Basics) - An Only War/ Imperial Guard RP [CLOSED!]

Name: Lydia "Sparky" Braggs.
Age: 25.
Gender: Female.
Former Profession: Construction worker.
Rank: Private.
Specialisation: Flame trooper.